Today, after much anticipation and moments of disbelief, it happened. I earned the privilege of being a bell ringer.
Ok, for those of you gutter minded folks....cleaning it up. My parents read this blog for crying out loud.....
You see, there's a tradition at Swedish- and maybe other cancer treatment places for that matter- where upon completion of chemo and radiation treatments you get to ring the coveted brass bell on the wall. Unfortunately I was denied that chance with the completion of chemo, given that 1) I didn't get to finish my last treatment because 2) my lungs were crapping out on me...oh well...
But this time- today, in fact, I got to ring the bell as it was my very last day for radiation. And ring it I did. I was told by my awesome radiation team, Brea and Win, to not be shy or timid. As crazy as it may sound...I was a little shy as I approached the bell. I didn't want the entire facility to hear me.....what if it came off as gloating? But no....they wouldn't give me a pass. They walked me over to the bell, stepped back and said "Go for it." And well, I did.
What followed both comforted and surprised me. I cried. Finally. No, no....none of that nutty out of control boo-hooing......but I was seriously choked up and know there is more to come. In ringing the bell, I announced to the cancer community, myself and to cancer itself, that we were done- at least for now. Cancer never became a friend. But it was a companion for the past seven months. And even in the role of crappy companion, I know I need to take some time to say goodbye.
I also reflected on the amazing abundance of love and support coming from so many places around the world. I now know without a doubt that my true friends want better for me than even I can imagine for myself. Thank you.
As I bid a farewell and a little bit of an F.U. to 2012, I am proud to know that somewhere, somehow, I earned my angel wings because I got to ring that damn bell.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Sunday, December 16, 2012
CANCER: Mindful Presents
Yesterday I bit the head off of one of my friends. No....I'm not even talking about that kinda cool, preying mantis kind of way......More like that amazing-frog-swallows-a-fly kind of way. I was so annoyed and it happened so quickly I almost missed his, gentle, insistent apology that immediately followed. His transgression? He asked if radiation therapy was better than chemotherapy. Innocent question for someone who hasn't ever undergone treatment for cancer. But for me....the cancer patient....it's like asking which is preferred: Waterboarding or electrocution. The right answer- despite the commercials telling you otherwise- is that all cancer treatment sucks. And as I've warned you before, I am weary, weary, weary of it all....
I'm 14 treatments into my 17 treatment radiation therapy regime....That's right...three more to go. I finish up on December 19. And, yep I cannot wait. But wait....there's also something sad about that too. This stuff has taken up a huge presence in my life. And it's all coming to an end. No- I won't miss the indigestion, the bloated stomach or the scratchy throat. Duh! But I will miss the wonderful people who I see on a daily basis....The breast cancer patient who is really committed to getting that jigsaw puzzle put together. The kind elderly man who was learning how to text on his cell phone. And that really old dude who ALWAYS flirts with me. Love that guy.....And let's not forget about the amazing group of professionals who have been there, cared and joked with me; and also kicked me into the right frame of mind when my spirit dared to lag. The rhythm of my life is about to change again. And apparently the timing couldn't be better according to the Mayan calendar.
Many people have asked me what is next. And the one thing that comes to mind is that cancer ain't like a cold. No....A cold makes you feel like shit for 3-5 days. And once it's all over you get back to taste buds, clear nasal passages...back to your life.
With cancer, it's not the same thing. Sure, the front line treatment part is coming to an end. But like a dreaded monkey on my back, I have to look out for a blown thyroid, busted up lungs and an infected heart- all on the horizon in about eight to twelve weeks. And really...despite my blogging and blah, blah, blah-ing about this....it really isn't taking a up a lot of space in my life. Really.
But what is taking up a lot of space is the realization that coming out of this, I am not the same chick I was going into this thing. What I want, more than anything, is to regain a sense of normal. But I'm far from that, now aren't I? And really....when was I EVER normal?
Another friend pointed out to me that I'm angry. He's right; but, not the same raging way that he may think. Sure, I'll bite a head off from time to time. But I did that even before cancer. What I'm mad about is simple: I didn't ask for this detour. And I certainly didn't ask for it as a single lady with two young kids. But obviously this happened. I rallied. I got rewarded a "golden ticket." And now I'm left trying to put shit back together again- with the awareness that it can all fall apart again just as easily. And I'm puzzled and frustrated in the same way I get when putting Ikea furniture together. The nice thing about Ikea furniture is that I can actually HIRE people to do it for me. Unfortunately this isn't an option for my actual life. Stupid torvig.........
So, what to do? Another friend pointed out that I am in a state of "involution" a rolling up or folding in upon itself - (that's the scientific definition, which makes sense because she's a doctor...)My reply to that was: "Oh, there's a fancy word for being a selfish, self absorbed a**hole? Nice!" So, I'm gonna make good use it.
I'm rolling it up, folks. Folding it in. And figuring it out. And to make the transition that much better, I'm going to go platinum and bought a nice white bikini to go with the new do. Hopefully all of this will be well received on the beaches of Maui.....That's right...I think better on the beach. Don't you?
The blog WILL continue- and no the title won't change. When I started it- I used the word "got" in the sense of "have." Like I HAVE cancer.....Now I'm deploying the slang iteration of the word "got" in that, "UH-huh, I kicked yer ass- I GOT you, kinda way." So let's roll with it, shall we?
I'm 14 treatments into my 17 treatment radiation therapy regime....That's right...three more to go. I finish up on December 19. And, yep I cannot wait. But wait....there's also something sad about that too. This stuff has taken up a huge presence in my life. And it's all coming to an end. No- I won't miss the indigestion, the bloated stomach or the scratchy throat. Duh! But I will miss the wonderful people who I see on a daily basis....The breast cancer patient who is really committed to getting that jigsaw puzzle put together. The kind elderly man who was learning how to text on his cell phone. And that really old dude who ALWAYS flirts with me. Love that guy.....And let's not forget about the amazing group of professionals who have been there, cared and joked with me; and also kicked me into the right frame of mind when my spirit dared to lag. The rhythm of my life is about to change again. And apparently the timing couldn't be better according to the Mayan calendar.
Many people have asked me what is next. And the one thing that comes to mind is that cancer ain't like a cold. No....A cold makes you feel like shit for 3-5 days. And once it's all over you get back to taste buds, clear nasal passages...back to your life.
With cancer, it's not the same thing. Sure, the front line treatment part is coming to an end. But like a dreaded monkey on my back, I have to look out for a blown thyroid, busted up lungs and an infected heart- all on the horizon in about eight to twelve weeks. And really...despite my blogging and blah, blah, blah-ing about this....it really isn't taking a up a lot of space in my life. Really.
But what is taking up a lot of space is the realization that coming out of this, I am not the same chick I was going into this thing. What I want, more than anything, is to regain a sense of normal. But I'm far from that, now aren't I? And really....when was I EVER normal?
Another friend pointed out to me that I'm angry. He's right; but, not the same raging way that he may think. Sure, I'll bite a head off from time to time. But I did that even before cancer. What I'm mad about is simple: I didn't ask for this detour. And I certainly didn't ask for it as a single lady with two young kids. But obviously this happened. I rallied. I got rewarded a "golden ticket." And now I'm left trying to put shit back together again- with the awareness that it can all fall apart again just as easily. And I'm puzzled and frustrated in the same way I get when putting Ikea furniture together. The nice thing about Ikea furniture is that I can actually HIRE people to do it for me. Unfortunately this isn't an option for my actual life. Stupid torvig.........
So, what to do? Another friend pointed out that I am in a state of "involution" a rolling up or folding in upon itself - (that's the scientific definition, which makes sense because she's a doctor...)My reply to that was: "Oh, there's a fancy word for being a selfish, self absorbed a**hole? Nice!" So, I'm gonna make good use it.
I'm rolling it up, folks. Folding it in. And figuring it out. And to make the transition that much better, I'm going to go platinum and bought a nice white bikini to go with the new do. Hopefully all of this will be well received on the beaches of Maui.....That's right...I think better on the beach. Don't you?
The blog WILL continue- and no the title won't change. When I started it- I used the word "got" in the sense of "have." Like I HAVE cancer.....Now I'm deploying the slang iteration of the word "got" in that, "UH-huh, I kicked yer ass- I GOT you, kinda way." So let's roll with it, shall we?
Monday, December 3, 2012
CANCER: The Come Back Kid
I met a man this weekend. He asked me about my cancer. He told me he had lost his wife two years ago to breast cancer. Her name was Marilyn. And according to him she was a fearless and graceful fighter. He said to me: "You know....I'm going to find you in six months to check in. My guess is you're going to be amazing." And for a second, I believed him. And today, right now....I want to believe him.
It's no secret that my 2012 has been one massive shit sandwich, served with a side of fermented potato salad. And I don't know if it's the end of year reflection, the sixth of 17 radiation treatments, my upcoming move, or the return of my pubic hair that is causing me to reflect....but reflect I am...And with all this reflecting, I have some pretty big feelings attached. Like, big, scary, want to kill everyone in my path emotions...Seriously, you should have seen me stare down this nutty woman at Nordstrom the other day. Her transgression? Trying to cut me off as I approached the escalator. I mean, I hate that. Don't you? She replied: " You know, I should expect behavior like this during the holidays." It took every fiber of my being not to reach over and punch her in the face. And by punch, I mean Quentin Tarantino style with nice kick to the nose just to finish the job right.
No. I'm not making Santa's "nice" list this year. Fortunately I have a thing for coal.....
I realized that for the past seven months I've been in this weird automated state- not really feeling anything- but moving efficiently from one task to another, not missing a damn beat; appearing to the unsuspecting onlooker, like I was kicking ass and taking names. But guess what? The lights WERE on and I was NOT home. (And, yes I DID kick ass but neglected to write down any names except for a couple...YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE...)
That is a crazy realization. And my re-entry into "Feelings" world has been anything but pleasant. I think this is due in part to the change in my perspective. I'm horribly impatient and wildly intolerant of just about everything....why yes, I AM the life of the party. And if you think I had trouble holding my tongue before, honey just ask my baby daddy how well his second butthole is healing...But the other big thing that has happened is that my skin is really thin....No, not just physically, like due to the medication. More like, I feel things physically and emotionally more acutely than before. I'm so sensitive to things around me that my TEETH even hurt....
Now the practical gal in me did the smart thing- for the physical discomfort, I bought tons of cashmere to wrap my wounded, sore and healing body up in. That was GENIUS! I freaking LOVE that stuff to the extent that I even sleep in it....But you know, there really isn't any kind of emotional cashmere out there to wrap up all these crazy ass feelings. I mean, I even looked into a yoga/spiritual retreat center in Hawaii. And I quickly realized it probably wouldn't be a good fit as some dumb ass would say something to me about opening my third eye or breathing through my eyelids and then all hell would break loose...Also, all of the food was raw. What the HELL?
So what to do? Turn to Lance Armstrong for advice? See how well that turned out for him..... I do have some dreaded inner voice droning in the background that I should seek out some sort of cancer therapy group. But, really? First off, I suck at group therapy. And secondly, Lymphoma doesn't even have a ribbon like all the other cool cancers.
I'm stuck wondering- is there some group out there for me? Or do I just hang out and wait for this prophet-like dude to show up in six months and declare me amazing? My guess is there's a third, unexplored option. But honestly, maybe I just need the right country western song would come along with the answer. I mean, there is just so much insight into those things....
It's no secret that my 2012 has been one massive shit sandwich, served with a side of fermented potato salad. And I don't know if it's the end of year reflection, the sixth of 17 radiation treatments, my upcoming move, or the return of my pubic hair that is causing me to reflect....but reflect I am...And with all this reflecting, I have some pretty big feelings attached. Like, big, scary, want to kill everyone in my path emotions...Seriously, you should have seen me stare down this nutty woman at Nordstrom the other day. Her transgression? Trying to cut me off as I approached the escalator. I mean, I hate that. Don't you? She replied: " You know, I should expect behavior like this during the holidays." It took every fiber of my being not to reach over and punch her in the face. And by punch, I mean Quentin Tarantino style with nice kick to the nose just to finish the job right.
No. I'm not making Santa's "nice" list this year. Fortunately I have a thing for coal.....
I realized that for the past seven months I've been in this weird automated state- not really feeling anything- but moving efficiently from one task to another, not missing a damn beat; appearing to the unsuspecting onlooker, like I was kicking ass and taking names. But guess what? The lights WERE on and I was NOT home. (And, yes I DID kick ass but neglected to write down any names except for a couple...YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE...)
That is a crazy realization. And my re-entry into "Feelings" world has been anything but pleasant. I think this is due in part to the change in my perspective. I'm horribly impatient and wildly intolerant of just about everything....why yes, I AM the life of the party. And if you think I had trouble holding my tongue before, honey just ask my baby daddy how well his second butthole is healing...But the other big thing that has happened is that my skin is really thin....No, not just physically, like due to the medication. More like, I feel things physically and emotionally more acutely than before. I'm so sensitive to things around me that my TEETH even hurt....
Now the practical gal in me did the smart thing- for the physical discomfort, I bought tons of cashmere to wrap my wounded, sore and healing body up in. That was GENIUS! I freaking LOVE that stuff to the extent that I even sleep in it....But you know, there really isn't any kind of emotional cashmere out there to wrap up all these crazy ass feelings. I mean, I even looked into a yoga/spiritual retreat center in Hawaii. And I quickly realized it probably wouldn't be a good fit as some dumb ass would say something to me about opening my third eye or breathing through my eyelids and then all hell would break loose...Also, all of the food was raw. What the HELL?
So what to do? Turn to Lance Armstrong for advice? See how well that turned out for him..... I do have some dreaded inner voice droning in the background that I should seek out some sort of cancer therapy group. But, really? First off, I suck at group therapy. And secondly, Lymphoma doesn't even have a ribbon like all the other cool cancers.
I'm stuck wondering- is there some group out there for me? Or do I just hang out and wait for this prophet-like dude to show up in six months and declare me amazing? My guess is there's a third, unexplored option. But honestly, maybe I just need the right country western song would come along with the answer. I mean, there is just so much insight into those things....
Monday, November 26, 2012
CANCER: Why the Caged Bird Sings
Radiation started today. One down, sixteen to go.
Interestingly, last week was the first full week in many, many months when I didn't have even one appointment with someone wearing a white coat. And you know what? I didn't miss any of them or that at all. In fact I reveled in my freedom until it all came to a crashing halt this morning.
Now don't get me wrong- I see and YES, even FEEL the light at the end of this stupid tunnel. However, what journey would be complete without some sort of epiphany? Puh-leeze. Even through the Atavan, I can reflect.
Here's what I learned: those radiologist technicians who refer to that crazy thing they put on my face as a "mask" are liars. It would be more honest, and therefore appreciated to call it a cage. Sure, it's white and it went on all warm and spa like. But things changed quickly once that stupid thing hardened. It is so stinking tight that there's no room to open my eyelids. Breathing? Sure, I can do that. But let's say there's oh, an earthquake? There's no shouting for this sister. While caged, I'm reduced to Elephant Man-like drooling and grunting. And personally, this little dose of humilty is probably good for my karma or some shit like that.
Also, I've been on a wonderful month-long dose of steriods. I happen to really like them, as my lungs are nice and pain free. And the weight gain has been pretty minimal- at least according to my pants. But, my face. Now that's another story. I've always had a little head with pointy cheekbones. Those have been softened (read: fatter) thanks to the drugs. My lovely nephew told me he really liked the new "Cupcake Queen" because I look healthier. And, well....when I was fitted three weeks ago for my cage, my face wasn't as well, full. When they slapped that stupid thing on me today, my throat was constricted. Cheek bones were squeezed up in there like a fat kid in Mini Cooper. It was anything but pretty. And, get this, once the treatment was over, and I was freed I had these crazy ass marks like I was sleeping with a collander on my face. You know, twenty years ago that probably wouldn't have been a problem. I would have been able to, oh I don't know, drink some water and POOF! the marks would disappear. Unfortunately middle-aged me and collagen aren't on the best of terms. I mean, seriously! It takes three hours for the sheet marks to erase from my skin on a daily basis. Can you imagine just how long it's gonna take to get these marks out of my skin?
And, what do I do while in my plastic prison? I'll tell you- I don't spend a second of time worrying about my pocked up skin. Nope. I fall asleep. With lovely Atavan on board, I pop off to slumber land and allow myself to think happy thoughts and hallucinate. Nice.
I mean, what else can be done? Feet bound, head and shoulders screwed to a board for 30 minutes. I KNOW why this caged bird sings. Drugs. Plain and simple.
Interestingly, last week was the first full week in many, many months when I didn't have even one appointment with someone wearing a white coat. And you know what? I didn't miss any of them or that at all. In fact I reveled in my freedom until it all came to a crashing halt this morning.
Now don't get me wrong- I see and YES, even FEEL the light at the end of this stupid tunnel. However, what journey would be complete without some sort of epiphany? Puh-leeze. Even through the Atavan, I can reflect.
Here's what I learned: those radiologist technicians who refer to that crazy thing they put on my face as a "mask" are liars. It would be more honest, and therefore appreciated to call it a cage. Sure, it's white and it went on all warm and spa like. But things changed quickly once that stupid thing hardened. It is so stinking tight that there's no room to open my eyelids. Breathing? Sure, I can do that. But let's say there's oh, an earthquake? There's no shouting for this sister. While caged, I'm reduced to Elephant Man-like drooling and grunting. And personally, this little dose of humilty is probably good for my karma or some shit like that.
Also, I've been on a wonderful month-long dose of steriods. I happen to really like them, as my lungs are nice and pain free. And the weight gain has been pretty minimal- at least according to my pants. But, my face. Now that's another story. I've always had a little head with pointy cheekbones. Those have been softened (read: fatter) thanks to the drugs. My lovely nephew told me he really liked the new "Cupcake Queen" because I look healthier. And, well....when I was fitted three weeks ago for my cage, my face wasn't as well, full. When they slapped that stupid thing on me today, my throat was constricted. Cheek bones were squeezed up in there like a fat kid in Mini Cooper. It was anything but pretty. And, get this, once the treatment was over, and I was freed I had these crazy ass marks like I was sleeping with a collander on my face. You know, twenty years ago that probably wouldn't have been a problem. I would have been able to, oh I don't know, drink some water and POOF! the marks would disappear. Unfortunately middle-aged me and collagen aren't on the best of terms. I mean, seriously! It takes three hours for the sheet marks to erase from my skin on a daily basis. Can you imagine just how long it's gonna take to get these marks out of my skin?
And, what do I do while in my plastic prison? I'll tell you- I don't spend a second of time worrying about my pocked up skin. Nope. I fall asleep. With lovely Atavan on board, I pop off to slumber land and allow myself to think happy thoughts and hallucinate. Nice.
I mean, what else can be done? Feet bound, head and shoulders screwed to a board for 30 minutes. I KNOW why this caged bird sings. Drugs. Plain and simple.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
CANCER: DEE-nied
Why do I bother? Really? I trust. I believe. I MAKE PLANS. And every time, shit ends up going sideways.
Earlier this week, my radiation oncologist nurse, Sharon phoned to lay out the radiation schedule. I was to head over to the clinic Thursday (today) for a my "test run" and then begin radiation on Monday 11/19. The end date was December 12. I marked my calendar. I WROTE IN PEN....
When will I ever learn?
So this morning, while catching my breath from the taxing work of getting my goofy boys ready for school, I got a call from Sharon. She wanted me to come in 30 minutes earlier to meet with Dr. Spiegel. I agreed- I mean, I DID need to get up and shower eventually, right? Now, in my estimation, he was just gonna do that "hrrrmmpph, hrrrmph" thing that doctors do and then send me on my way. I mean Sharon and I had a plan, right? Why change it?
Dr. Spiegel asked me about my stupid lungs. "Yes, they still burn like fire but I'm adjusting nicely." And "The steroids make me grumpy. I'm adjusting nicely...." He then says: "Well you know, I want to give your lungs more time to heal." He then goes on to say, "Let's delay your actual radiation start date to Monday November 26." Damn. I was like- "No, really?" I mean, why? According to Dr. Pappas it doesn't make a bit of difference. And truly, I LOVE the idea of being done with this shit by December 12. Nope. My new end date is Tuesday December 18. URG! Five days before my birthday; three days before my wild children are released from school. I wanted, no needed more DOWN time from all of this. But, just like the entire year, 2012 just keeps on kicking me in the ass. Spiegel even hedged a bit with: "Well, you know we could push this back to December 4 if that sounds better to you."
Right....
Today, I added even more members to Team Moy. My radiologist team consists of the incredibly positive: Brea, Win and Sarah. Honest. If I could bottle their energy and sell it to all the cancer patients, I would be filthy rich.
Let's start with Win. Short for Winfred. He's this 6'2" brother with very, very warm hands. How do I know that? Well, he gave me a foot rub. SWEAR TO GOD!
Brea is his partner in crime. So, so sweet I almost wanted to hit her. Isn't that awful? Let's blame the steroids, shall we?
And Sarah was at lunch.
Win walked me in to the radiation room. And just like all things Swedish Issaquah, no stone was unturned in the design of this suite. It is INCREDIBLE. They did everything in their power to design a place that makes you feel a-ok about getting your head and shoulders screwed down to a table for 20 minutes a stretch. And that's saying A LOT!
They have ambient ceiling lighting with arty stuff embedded in it that changes throughout your procedure. They have music piped in- we listened to Adele, Live in Concert. And I was reassured that if I wasn't completely satisfied with their musical selection I could pick. They really don't mind. And they meant it. So, I'm thinking Beastie Boys, Patsy Cline and perhaps Queen. Why not?
They swathed me in a coveted warm blanket. Win administered a very competent foot rub (seriously....that is the price of admission in my world. So pathetic, I know...) and told me to sit back and relax while he screwed my face mask to the table.
Fortunately I had taken an Atavan 20 minutes prior. So, I was as cool as a cucumber. They poked, prodded, adjusted- I heard the word "akimbo" more times in one day than I have in a whole year. And 15 minutes later I was getting unscrewed. All done.
While the wait continues, I have to say that I think I'm going to nail this radiation thing. Granted, the drugs and decent music take me pretty far on that path. But, I'll take it.
Earlier this week, my radiation oncologist nurse, Sharon phoned to lay out the radiation schedule. I was to head over to the clinic Thursday (today) for a my "test run" and then begin radiation on Monday 11/19. The end date was December 12. I marked my calendar. I WROTE IN PEN....
When will I ever learn?
So this morning, while catching my breath from the taxing work of getting my goofy boys ready for school, I got a call from Sharon. She wanted me to come in 30 minutes earlier to meet with Dr. Spiegel. I agreed- I mean, I DID need to get up and shower eventually, right? Now, in my estimation, he was just gonna do that "hrrrmmpph, hrrrmph" thing that doctors do and then send me on my way. I mean Sharon and I had a plan, right? Why change it?
Dr. Spiegel asked me about my stupid lungs. "Yes, they still burn like fire but I'm adjusting nicely." And "The steroids make me grumpy. I'm adjusting nicely...." He then says: "Well you know, I want to give your lungs more time to heal." He then goes on to say, "Let's delay your actual radiation start date to Monday November 26." Damn. I was like- "No, really?" I mean, why? According to Dr. Pappas it doesn't make a bit of difference. And truly, I LOVE the idea of being done with this shit by December 12. Nope. My new end date is Tuesday December 18. URG! Five days before my birthday; three days before my wild children are released from school. I wanted, no needed more DOWN time from all of this. But, just like the entire year, 2012 just keeps on kicking me in the ass. Spiegel even hedged a bit with: "Well, you know we could push this back to December 4 if that sounds better to you."
Right....
Today, I added even more members to Team Moy. My radiologist team consists of the incredibly positive: Brea, Win and Sarah. Honest. If I could bottle their energy and sell it to all the cancer patients, I would be filthy rich.
Let's start with Win. Short for Winfred. He's this 6'2" brother with very, very warm hands. How do I know that? Well, he gave me a foot rub. SWEAR TO GOD!
Brea is his partner in crime. So, so sweet I almost wanted to hit her. Isn't that awful? Let's blame the steroids, shall we?
And Sarah was at lunch.
Win walked me in to the radiation room. And just like all things Swedish Issaquah, no stone was unturned in the design of this suite. It is INCREDIBLE. They did everything in their power to design a place that makes you feel a-ok about getting your head and shoulders screwed down to a table for 20 minutes a stretch. And that's saying A LOT!
They have ambient ceiling lighting with arty stuff embedded in it that changes throughout your procedure. They have music piped in- we listened to Adele, Live in Concert. And I was reassured that if I wasn't completely satisfied with their musical selection I could pick. They really don't mind. And they meant it. So, I'm thinking Beastie Boys, Patsy Cline and perhaps Queen. Why not?
They swathed me in a coveted warm blanket. Win administered a very competent foot rub (seriously....that is the price of admission in my world. So pathetic, I know...) and told me to sit back and relax while he screwed my face mask to the table.
Fortunately I had taken an Atavan 20 minutes prior. So, I was as cool as a cucumber. They poked, prodded, adjusted- I heard the word "akimbo" more times in one day than I have in a whole year. And 15 minutes later I was getting unscrewed. All done.
While the wait continues, I have to say that I think I'm going to nail this radiation thing. Granted, the drugs and decent music take me pretty far on that path. But, I'll take it.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
CANCER: I love it when you call me George Pappas
Look, as much as I want to take full credit for this installment's awesome title, I can't. Biggie credit goes to my gal, Trinity Alumnae Dignitatae (is that right?), Kelly Quinn. Kelly, you can take the girl outta Bal'more. But you can never, ever take the Bal'more out of the girl. Let's keep it that way....
So last week was a BIG one. I was allowed to became a card-carrying member of the cancer-free, as last Tuesday (election day!) my funky ass port was removed.
Big love to my dear friend and my love, Patrick Hogan who was my ride and FB updater. He was also the official dude assigned to talk to my mother....God bless that nutty Irish Catholic man who loves denial just as much as my black ass. Sure I wanted to punch his teeth down this throat when he updated my FB status to "ALL FINE" while they were prepping me for the "procedure." Judging from the track marks up and down my right arm, shit was not "all fine." Apparently, as I learned, now that I have had chemotherapy, all of my crappy veins have become even crappier. That's right. Before they used to just roll away-I attributed it to shyness. Now, they just flat out collapse. And here's the thing, I'm right there with them. Let shit collapse, because I too have done the same thing in many, many ways. Nevertheless, six "pokes", two nurses and one "infusion specialist" later I was on my way to blissful slumber. Thank you Dr. Ray- you cutie pie- for being so thorough. And thank you surgical team for not laughing at whatever drug induced confessional I made while lying on that table. I just KNOW I said something insane- as one member of the all male surgical team was really good looking.....Lord in Heaven...
I was told to expect some bruising the next day. And they weren't lying. After sleeping with my upper body at a 30 degree angle- (like I really measured) I woke up a little stiff and very, very purple in the head and neck area. The kids took one look at me and in complete disgust asked just what in the world happened to me last night. I finally looked in the mirror and understood: Obama won and I was attacked by a coven of vampires. Just another day in paradise.
By Thursday everything was pretty much back to normal. And that was the day I was kind of dreading: my appointment with the newest addition to Team Moy: Dr. George Pappas- (http://www.swedish.org/Physicians/George-Pappas#axzz2C99QPIyV) a board certified internal medical, pulmonary medicine, critical care medicine and occupational medicine doctor was on the books. But more importantly, Dr. Pappas was voted "Top Doctor" by Seattle Magazine in 2011 and 2012. And I now know why.
When he entered the room, I was seriously grouchy and miserable. I was terrified he was going to tell me that my lungs were slowly eroding and that I would have to either ask for a new set from Santa or get my affairs in order. Seriously. Instead, he walked in, dressed in a lovely pin stripe navy suit, extended his hand and said "Hi. I'm George Pappas. How are you feeling today?" I replied: "Well, hi George Pappas. I'm Yvette Moy and I feel both terrified and tired." The conversation then flowed into "So why are you here?" ME: "Because I cannot breathe." And then he said, "you know we need to get some data on you." And at 3:30 PM George Pappas told his staff to give me a chest x-ray and a pulmonary lung function test (which, I swear to GOD is truly humiliating. I don't know how the breathing specialists get through those tests with a straight face. I know I wouldn't. Those machines make you feel like you are practicing your blow job technique- in public- and being JUDGED!) And while they were at it, they wanted me to take a six minute walk while measuring my breathing.
Well, I'm happy to say that I passed the walking test- most I've walked in six months. And the chest x-ray showed improvement. My lung function test with the original, funky lung score of 44 jumped to a whopping 66 in two weeks' time. I commented to George that a 66 was still a D. He replied "Yvette, take the D." Whatever...I'm still rocking the mood altering steroids and he wants to see me again in another two weeks. I'm of the mindset that he will make the coveted Moy holiday card list this year....
Today, I got a little over confident, as two things were on my mind: 1) the four oxygen apparati were scheduled to be picked up from my home and 2) I had not ONE MD appointment this week.
God, when will I ever learn?
No sooner was I really feeling content then the damn phone rang- and it was the dreaded Swedish Issaquah Cancer Institute. Sigh! My new nurse- Susan was on the other line to schedule my 20 radiation sessions. SUCKY! So, this week I get to do a dry run radiation session. UGH! Dialing up Atavan as I type. And radiation begins officially on Monday and will take place daily until December 12.
The oxygen DID get picked up though. So, yay?
And recently I felt well enough to reconnect with some amazing friends I've know for over 30 years. Once they learned of my plight, they swore their allegiance, as only a Seattle transplant who hails from Dayton, Ohio can, to see me through this shitty radiation program. Thank you, Scherief brothers. I am so damn glad to have you back in my life again. Yes, the visual doesn't hurt either....and your shit talking will take me miles on my road to recovery.
Speaking of thanks, the list is growing. To my colleagues at the UW's Graduate School- THANK YOU- the flowers, the fund raising bake sale, the membership to Delicious Planet, the gift card to QFC....the gifts keep coming. And, you know what? I NEEDED it all- and probably not for the reasons you may think. (Well, we DO need to eat...) However, at minimum, they reminded me that even though I haven't been around, I haven't been forgotten- totally huge in my estimation. And at most, your thoughtfulness and careful consideration reminds me of just how lucky I am to be surrounded by some of the kindest people the planet ever saw fit to produce.
I am one lucky, lucky lady.
Monday, November 5, 2012
CANCER: So, this is progress?
Tomorrow is supposed to be a "BIG" day for I am to report at 9:00 AM at the Swedish Surgical Center for a 10:00 AM removal of my "power port" (or as I like to call it, the bottle cap under my skin.) What this means is that I am finished with chemo. Finished, I tell ya.
And yet somehow, I don't see this as progress. I wish I could. Really. And yet I can't. I know...such sour, dour grapes.
I know why. I have reached a point of total weariness. Let me tell you why- every F*CKED up side-effect that happens to like less than .02% of the population has happened to me. Let me count the ways:
1) Lung puncture from said port insertion- check! (Surgeon: "It happens in less than 20% of my cases...)
2) Deep vein thrombosis from said port causing my left boob to swell up like something one would find in a circus freak show-check! (Oncologist: It happens in less than 10% of my cases...)
3) Lung damage from chemo- check! ("I see maybe two or three patients a year in my practice with this problem...")
What the HELL universe?
Aparently there's some "small" risk associated with the port removal. I wait with baited breath to see if my lucky number gets called. Though, I think it's only bruising....And really, with enough narcotic pain relief, I can spin that into some incredible, death defying tale.
Seriously though, if I hear from one more person in a white coat, that the side effects- while all very real, are also really rare, I think I'll pull out their hair (mine hasn't grown back yet.) I now have a veritable STABLE of medical professionals. It's not enough to have just ONE oncologist. Nope. I now have a radiation oncologist, medical oncologist AND a pulmonoligist. I did get to say good-bye to the blood clot team though. A small victory.....And each one of these paid professionals has been brought on board to assist me with the wacky side effects of curing cancer....
And here's the kicker- I get to start radiation almost two weeks earlier than originally scheduled. In preparation for radation, on Friday I did a test run. I walked in like a lamb to the slaughter. Really. I was told that I was to be fitted with a mask. Now- I've been to a spa. I have had a mask put on my face. And I foolishly figured I would just relax into it. Ha!
Two members of the medically trained staff had me lay down on this really skinny, hard bed at the mouth of a giant CT machine. Then they slapped this warm crap on my face that had the consistency of pizza dough. They smoothed it over my entire face, scalp and shoulders. And then I heard it- 8 very loud bolt-like clicks- bolting my covered head and shoulders to the table. Then I was told "Hey, we're gonna open the top of your gown a little bit to expose the chest area we're going to zap. Are you comfortable?" Seriously? Was I comfortable? In what universe would ANYONE be comfortable under those conditions? And, get this, the mask is so tight on my face, I couldn't talk. Breathe? sure! Talk? Forget about it. And I wore MAC's Ruby Woo lipstick to the appointment. What a mess....
But wait- there's more.....
They then took my photograph. Not once or twice. Uh, uh....Six or seven times. All the while I'm thinking "What the Hell?" My face is covered in a mask- so that's a saving grace. But, my chest- (and c'mon now, let's be honest, I'm 43 years old and gave birth to two kids- my boobs are the consistency of soup.) is hanging out for the world to see. Dear GOD.
I swore to myself that I would get my hands on as much atavan as the pharmacy will allow. I promise to take it the second I get on I-90. With 20 sessions of radiation I'm staring down, I plan on being as high as a kite the entire month of November and for a good part of December. The wrapping of this year's Christmas gifts will be- um, artistic.....
I'm weary folks. So in preparation for tomorrow's proceedure I did what only a sane woman could do. I got a pedicure and ate cupcakes for lunch. Dinner will be a tub of cream cheese and steak.
Wish me luck.
And yet somehow, I don't see this as progress. I wish I could. Really. And yet I can't. I know...such sour, dour grapes.
I know why. I have reached a point of total weariness. Let me tell you why- every F*CKED up side-effect that happens to like less than .02% of the population has happened to me. Let me count the ways:
1) Lung puncture from said port insertion- check! (Surgeon: "It happens in less than 20% of my cases...)
2) Deep vein thrombosis from said port causing my left boob to swell up like something one would find in a circus freak show-check! (Oncologist: It happens in less than 10% of my cases...)
3) Lung damage from chemo- check! ("I see maybe two or three patients a year in my practice with this problem...")
What the HELL universe?
Aparently there's some "small" risk associated with the port removal. I wait with baited breath to see if my lucky number gets called. Though, I think it's only bruising....And really, with enough narcotic pain relief, I can spin that into some incredible, death defying tale.
Seriously though, if I hear from one more person in a white coat, that the side effects- while all very real, are also really rare, I think I'll pull out their hair (mine hasn't grown back yet.) I now have a veritable STABLE of medical professionals. It's not enough to have just ONE oncologist. Nope. I now have a radiation oncologist, medical oncologist AND a pulmonoligist. I did get to say good-bye to the blood clot team though. A small victory.....And each one of these paid professionals has been brought on board to assist me with the wacky side effects of curing cancer....
And here's the kicker- I get to start radiation almost two weeks earlier than originally scheduled. In preparation for radation, on Friday I did a test run. I walked in like a lamb to the slaughter. Really. I was told that I was to be fitted with a mask. Now- I've been to a spa. I have had a mask put on my face. And I foolishly figured I would just relax into it. Ha!
Two members of the medically trained staff had me lay down on this really skinny, hard bed at the mouth of a giant CT machine. Then they slapped this warm crap on my face that had the consistency of pizza dough. They smoothed it over my entire face, scalp and shoulders. And then I heard it- 8 very loud bolt-like clicks- bolting my covered head and shoulders to the table. Then I was told "Hey, we're gonna open the top of your gown a little bit to expose the chest area we're going to zap. Are you comfortable?" Seriously? Was I comfortable? In what universe would ANYONE be comfortable under those conditions? And, get this, the mask is so tight on my face, I couldn't talk. Breathe? sure! Talk? Forget about it. And I wore MAC's Ruby Woo lipstick to the appointment. What a mess....
But wait- there's more.....
They then took my photograph. Not once or twice. Uh, uh....Six or seven times. All the while I'm thinking "What the Hell?" My face is covered in a mask- so that's a saving grace. But, my chest- (and c'mon now, let's be honest, I'm 43 years old and gave birth to two kids- my boobs are the consistency of soup.) is hanging out for the world to see. Dear GOD.
I swore to myself that I would get my hands on as much atavan as the pharmacy will allow. I promise to take it the second I get on I-90. With 20 sessions of radiation I'm staring down, I plan on being as high as a kite the entire month of November and for a good part of December. The wrapping of this year's Christmas gifts will be- um, artistic.....
I'm weary folks. So in preparation for tomorrow's proceedure I did what only a sane woman could do. I got a pedicure and ate cupcakes for lunch. Dinner will be a tub of cream cheese and steak.
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
CANCER: The Iron Lung
Ok, so last week can be summed up in one word: HELL. What was supposed to be my celebratory lap- final chemo treatment- turned into a four day hospital stay on the dreaded fourth floor of Swedish Issaquah. It was there that I made my peace with my personal Lord and savior. I told Jesus- "F*CK the IRS. Take me now."
Obviously it didn't turn out that way. I'm still here.
So what landed me there? Well let me tell you....Last week I posted that I had a pneumonia diagnosis. That was wrong. Last Monday, coughing, breathless and tired beyond words, I turned up at my oncologist's office and told them very simply: "I cannot take another step." Laurie, the awesome receptionist/scheduler said the most loving thing to me. She said: "Let me get you a wheelchair."
I was wheeled over to nurse Sue who immediately ordered fluids to help with dehydration...I was totally confounded because honestly, I thought I was dying. Nurse Debbie stepped in too, plugged me up to my fluids and sent in the good Dr. Wahl.
Dr. Wahl took one look at me and said the second most loving thing of the day: "I'm admitting you." I weakly lifted my head and said "Bless you." While entertaining thoughts of my impending death, Dr. Wahl explained: "Look there's something going on with these lungs of yours and we need to get to the bottom of it. So, I am ordering a bronchoscopy. You'll undergo the proceedure tomorrow. We'll culture the lung tissue and find out for sure what is going on." Then she said something that filled me with dread: "And because we want a clean biopsy, I cannot give you any drugs today." WHAT THE HELL? I mean, I really wanted morphine. I wanted to entertain hallucinations. I wanted anything that got me out of that awful reality that I was facing. Instead, I got Tylenol.
WCDO, Paul saw me to my room and then had to return to his life of normal breathing. I was jealous beyond words. I didn't call ANYONE. I couldn't talk. Seriously. Between the breathlessness and the coughing, I couldn't get a word out. Not a one. So, thank GOD for texting. And that's just what I did. I texted my parents in Ohio and my sister, Kate- who is the official plug puller in my will. I told them I was being hospitalized. I didn't even try to tell them I was gonna be alright. Because seriously, I wasn't sure that was the truth. And then I fell asleep, praying I wouldn't wake the Hell up.
That's when I heard it- a foot shuffle and a gentle cough. I weakly cracked open an eyelid and saw my savior: Vinny! My awesome nephew. Vinny explained: "Grandpa called and told me you were in the hospital with Paul." That was all he had to say. I handed over my cell phone and put him in charge.
Things kind of moved on from there. Rather than go into a ton of detail, I will tell you this- I have had nothing but amazing experiences with everyone at Swedish Issaquah; that is until I was admitted to the dreaded fourth floor.
Let me just tell you, the fourth floor is a place that should be reserved for kids who talk back to their parents and other unloved family members. Out of the seven nurses, three of them were good. The CNA's must have been hired out of Craig's List- under the stalkers and perv section. For example, while my fever was spiking at 103 post proceedure, my day nurse shouted out loud, in front of Vinny and my very best gal pal, Patty- "She's going septic. I need to pack her in ice." Of course, this scared the shit out of them both. And somehow, I managed to find the strength and energy to crack open an eyelid and croak out: "That's bullshit. I'm not going septic." I was right. And don't even get me started on the male CNA who was really, really in to giving me a sponge bath. I tell ya...there's just too much porn in the world today. Of course, while rocking my oxygen tube, I told him to go the hell away. See? Still kicking.....
Oh- and the results? Right....you're probably wondering what the results were. Well I have none other than Bleomyicin Toxicity of the lungs. No pneumonia. The up side is that I don't have pneumonia, right? The downside is that the toxicity, while not fatal, takes about 6 months to a year to heal. My lungs still hurt like hell. I'm tired. And with the help of really good make-up (thank you, Nars....) I manage to walk around looking somewhat healthy.
So, no victory lap just yet...True- no more chemo. But, this? Well, this I hadn't bargained for.
Obviously it didn't turn out that way. I'm still here.
So what landed me there? Well let me tell you....Last week I posted that I had a pneumonia diagnosis. That was wrong. Last Monday, coughing, breathless and tired beyond words, I turned up at my oncologist's office and told them very simply: "I cannot take another step." Laurie, the awesome receptionist/scheduler said the most loving thing to me. She said: "Let me get you a wheelchair."
I was wheeled over to nurse Sue who immediately ordered fluids to help with dehydration...I was totally confounded because honestly, I thought I was dying. Nurse Debbie stepped in too, plugged me up to my fluids and sent in the good Dr. Wahl.
Dr. Wahl took one look at me and said the second most loving thing of the day: "I'm admitting you." I weakly lifted my head and said "Bless you." While entertaining thoughts of my impending death, Dr. Wahl explained: "Look there's something going on with these lungs of yours and we need to get to the bottom of it. So, I am ordering a bronchoscopy. You'll undergo the proceedure tomorrow. We'll culture the lung tissue and find out for sure what is going on." Then she said something that filled me with dread: "And because we want a clean biopsy, I cannot give you any drugs today." WHAT THE HELL? I mean, I really wanted morphine. I wanted to entertain hallucinations. I wanted anything that got me out of that awful reality that I was facing. Instead, I got Tylenol.
WCDO, Paul saw me to my room and then had to return to his life of normal breathing. I was jealous beyond words. I didn't call ANYONE. I couldn't talk. Seriously. Between the breathlessness and the coughing, I couldn't get a word out. Not a one. So, thank GOD for texting. And that's just what I did. I texted my parents in Ohio and my sister, Kate- who is the official plug puller in my will. I told them I was being hospitalized. I didn't even try to tell them I was gonna be alright. Because seriously, I wasn't sure that was the truth. And then I fell asleep, praying I wouldn't wake the Hell up.
That's when I heard it- a foot shuffle and a gentle cough. I weakly cracked open an eyelid and saw my savior: Vinny! My awesome nephew. Vinny explained: "Grandpa called and told me you were in the hospital with Paul." That was all he had to say. I handed over my cell phone and put him in charge.
Things kind of moved on from there. Rather than go into a ton of detail, I will tell you this- I have had nothing but amazing experiences with everyone at Swedish Issaquah; that is until I was admitted to the dreaded fourth floor.
Let me just tell you, the fourth floor is a place that should be reserved for kids who talk back to their parents and other unloved family members. Out of the seven nurses, three of them were good. The CNA's must have been hired out of Craig's List- under the stalkers and perv section. For example, while my fever was spiking at 103 post proceedure, my day nurse shouted out loud, in front of Vinny and my very best gal pal, Patty- "She's going septic. I need to pack her in ice." Of course, this scared the shit out of them both. And somehow, I managed to find the strength and energy to crack open an eyelid and croak out: "That's bullshit. I'm not going septic." I was right. And don't even get me started on the male CNA who was really, really in to giving me a sponge bath. I tell ya...there's just too much porn in the world today. Of course, while rocking my oxygen tube, I told him to go the hell away. See? Still kicking.....
Oh- and the results? Right....you're probably wondering what the results were. Well I have none other than Bleomyicin Toxicity of the lungs. No pneumonia. The up side is that I don't have pneumonia, right? The downside is that the toxicity, while not fatal, takes about 6 months to a year to heal. My lungs still hurt like hell. I'm tired. And with the help of really good make-up (thank you, Nars....) I manage to walk around looking somewhat healthy.
So, no victory lap just yet...True- no more chemo. But, this? Well, this I hadn't bargained for.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
CANCER: Pneumonia
...now if there's anything at all I've learned from my cancer experience, it is that doctors are not God- or even God-like. And I'd be an ass for thinking otherwise. This isn't to say they aren't good people. No, I'm not implying that. But, really when shit is hitting the fan, they are often just as lost as we are.
So where am I going with this? Well, lemme tell ya. On Wednesday October 3- the evening of the inaugural presidential debate, I found myself sitting in the very posh emergency room of my favorite haunt, Swedish Issaquah. Honest, they really do it well. And here's what was going down- my lungs felt like they were on fire- from the inside. There is simply no other way to describe it. Events leading up to this lovely experience included chemo the previous week as well as a couple of different steroid inhalers offered to me over the phone via my medical oncologist. Now, I am always dubious of any drug prescribed over the phone. It kinda feels like I'm not being heard and I'm getting some shit thrown my way just to quiet me down. Seriously? Like that would work.
Nope- so instead of trotting over to the pharmacy to pick up any number of curious steriods, I demanded to be seen be some person who went to medical school and earned the right to wear the long white coat. So...there I was. In the ER.
Now, here's what was going down: my back and hips were positively SCREAMING from the stupid white blood cell drug. Honest! I almost crawled into bed. And you know what happened? I got sad. Really, really sad. I realized that while yes, my hips hurt like Hell- like childbirth hurt, honest- I was in the ER for something completely separate from that- and wasn't going to be treated for back pain, as that wasn't the primary problem. Nope. I was what I would like to call a "train wreck." Lungs hurting, hips and back screaming out, and my eyebrows looking pathetic. I was a hot mess.
Of course, I was bolstered up by the amazing members of team Moy: Michael Carius and West Coast Director of Operations, Paul. The kids were tag teamed with both Hana- the sitter and baby daddy, Warren.
Michael and I arrived before Paul. So, we settled in. We turned on the awesome flat screen TV in my private ER suite and planned to watch the debate. Paul swept in fresh from happy hour and announced with his white-guy like authority, that there was no way we would be able to watch the debate with him in the room. And, to call Paul animated would be an understatement. At one point he was standing up and shouting- (YES, I didn't know white people did that) SHOUTING at poor Barack that he needed to call Romney a liar. It was at that point when Michael and I conceeded defeat and calmed his ass down with some terrible spaghetti western on none other than the "Western Channel." It worked.
During this, I was wheeled over to the CT scanning room. And, the CT tech was the very same dude I had to do another CT scan of my body. Funny...He didn't remember me. I was like "Um, really? Just how many African American cancer patients do you get up in here?" Seriously! Focus.....
The CT done in under five minutes. I then layed around en suite for another hour or so waiting to find out the results. The kind nurse, Mike was all kinds of an amazing host. He plied me and the team with yummy treats of cheese, crackers and a host of juice options. He also swathed me in those delicious heated blankets. Total silver lining to all this cancer business.....
So, the MD pops in- not the cute one this time- and let's be honest, we were all pretty happy about that....and informs me that I have pneumonia. He hands me 1,000 MGs of antibiotics and tells me to pick up the new steroids and antibiotics the following day. SWEET! Because the alternative to the pneumonia diagnosis was something called "Bleomyicin Toxisity." (Bleomyicin- "Bleo", for short- is one of the four drugs in my chemo regimine.) It can cause permanent and often fatal lung damage if the toxisity isn't caught in time.
But, here's the thing- the dude in the white coat was wrong. It was the bleo. And all I got to show for it was a yeast infection from the antibiotics, that I took for my fake pneumonia.
We finally settled on a proper diagnosis just yesterday, when I met with Dr. Wahl. Because effects of the steroids were working themselves out of my system, my lungs were hurting again and I had a yucky dry cough. (Michael, to his lovely credit, determined that I was feeling sick due to the fact that he was leaving town on Tuesday. RIIIIGGGGHHHHHTTTTT!) Again, Michael DID NOT go to medical school.
WCDO Paul and I chatted after the diagnosis. I complained to him that the cough makes me sound like I'm sick. He replied: "Ah, just tell people it's TB." Lovely.
On the road to recovery now....I'm staring down another 6 - 12 weeks before the lungs are better. I am popping some interesting "beads" to calm the cough and trying on ibuprophen for pain and inflammation management. Radiation will be delayed for a week or so to allow for more time to heal up. Next up- the last chemo treatment on 10/25.
And the wheel in the sky keeps on turning.....
So where am I going with this? Well, lemme tell ya. On Wednesday October 3- the evening of the inaugural presidential debate, I found myself sitting in the very posh emergency room of my favorite haunt, Swedish Issaquah. Honest, they really do it well. And here's what was going down- my lungs felt like they were on fire- from the inside. There is simply no other way to describe it. Events leading up to this lovely experience included chemo the previous week as well as a couple of different steroid inhalers offered to me over the phone via my medical oncologist. Now, I am always dubious of any drug prescribed over the phone. It kinda feels like I'm not being heard and I'm getting some shit thrown my way just to quiet me down. Seriously? Like that would work.
Nope- so instead of trotting over to the pharmacy to pick up any number of curious steriods, I demanded to be seen be some person who went to medical school and earned the right to wear the long white coat. So...there I was. In the ER.
Now, here's what was going down: my back and hips were positively SCREAMING from the stupid white blood cell drug. Honest! I almost crawled into bed. And you know what happened? I got sad. Really, really sad. I realized that while yes, my hips hurt like Hell- like childbirth hurt, honest- I was in the ER for something completely separate from that- and wasn't going to be treated for back pain, as that wasn't the primary problem. Nope. I was what I would like to call a "train wreck." Lungs hurting, hips and back screaming out, and my eyebrows looking pathetic. I was a hot mess.
Of course, I was bolstered up by the amazing members of team Moy: Michael Carius and West Coast Director of Operations, Paul. The kids were tag teamed with both Hana- the sitter and baby daddy, Warren.
Michael and I arrived before Paul. So, we settled in. We turned on the awesome flat screen TV in my private ER suite and planned to watch the debate. Paul swept in fresh from happy hour and announced with his white-guy like authority, that there was no way we would be able to watch the debate with him in the room. And, to call Paul animated would be an understatement. At one point he was standing up and shouting- (YES, I didn't know white people did that) SHOUTING at poor Barack that he needed to call Romney a liar. It was at that point when Michael and I conceeded defeat and calmed his ass down with some terrible spaghetti western on none other than the "Western Channel." It worked.
During this, I was wheeled over to the CT scanning room. And, the CT tech was the very same dude I had to do another CT scan of my body. Funny...He didn't remember me. I was like "Um, really? Just how many African American cancer patients do you get up in here?" Seriously! Focus.....
The CT done in under five minutes. I then layed around en suite for another hour or so waiting to find out the results. The kind nurse, Mike was all kinds of an amazing host. He plied me and the team with yummy treats of cheese, crackers and a host of juice options. He also swathed me in those delicious heated blankets. Total silver lining to all this cancer business.....
So, the MD pops in- not the cute one this time- and let's be honest, we were all pretty happy about that....and informs me that I have pneumonia. He hands me 1,000 MGs of antibiotics and tells me to pick up the new steroids and antibiotics the following day. SWEET! Because the alternative to the pneumonia diagnosis was something called "Bleomyicin Toxisity." (Bleomyicin- "Bleo", for short- is one of the four drugs in my chemo regimine.) It can cause permanent and often fatal lung damage if the toxisity isn't caught in time.
But, here's the thing- the dude in the white coat was wrong. It was the bleo. And all I got to show for it was a yeast infection from the antibiotics, that I took for my fake pneumonia.
We finally settled on a proper diagnosis just yesterday, when I met with Dr. Wahl. Because effects of the steroids were working themselves out of my system, my lungs were hurting again and I had a yucky dry cough. (Michael, to his lovely credit, determined that I was feeling sick due to the fact that he was leaving town on Tuesday. RIIIIGGGGHHHHHTTTTT!) Again, Michael DID NOT go to medical school.
WCDO Paul and I chatted after the diagnosis. I complained to him that the cough makes me sound like I'm sick. He replied: "Ah, just tell people it's TB." Lovely.
On the road to recovery now....I'm staring down another 6 - 12 weeks before the lungs are better. I am popping some interesting "beads" to calm the cough and trying on ibuprophen for pain and inflammation management. Radiation will be delayed for a week or so to allow for more time to heal up. Next up- the last chemo treatment on 10/25.
And the wheel in the sky keeps on turning.....
Monday, October 1, 2012
CANCER: Rewind
Oops, like all things cancer and doctor related, I shoulda known better.....I just shoulda....
You know how I was told by not one BUT FOUR different medical oncologists that a determination on radiation treatment would be made AFTER my PET scan? HA! Joke's on me....
After meeting my new radiation oncologist- Dr. James F. Spiegel, I learned that radiation was in the game plan from jump. That's right....Apparently when you get diagnosed with Stage II Hodgkin's Lymphoma, Unfavorable (bulky mass) you also get the gift of radiation- GUARANTEED!
Dr. Spiegel broke it down like this: "You most certainly will need radiation. I'm sorry no one told you that from the beginning." Isn't it endearing how doctors apologize but don't really apologize???
Ok, that part didn't exactly take me out at the knees....but what follows did.
Stupid me, I ask- "so how much radiation are we talking about?" Now in my feeble little mind, I'm thinking five days for a week- two weeks MAX. See? Now why do I bother having any thoughts AT ALL? Turns out, the gift behind door number two is: four weeks of radiation, five days a week....Nice. Well done?
And get this- Dr. Spiegel is trying to tell me that "No, radiation isn't nearly as awful as chemo." Really? I'm listening.....
He goes on to say: "Well, you'll feel tired- but not like you do with chemo." Ok, that sounds good.
Then "You may also develop irritation of your throat- kinda like how you feel when you have strep throat. And, well you may not want to eat or drink anything for about two weeks. But don't worry. Once we stop the radiation that pain will go away."
Ok- that sucks....but if I time this thing right, I'll actually LOSE weight during the dreaded holiday season of gorging....silver lining?
And then he says: "And, there's a small chance that the lining of your heart and or lungs may get irritated. In that case, we've got medicine that will fix it up."
Again? How in the HELL is this BETTER than chemo? Right- no more hair loss???
And finally he offers this one-two punch: "And, sometimes radiation can affect your thyroid function- causing you to develop a hypo-thyroid condition. We can fix that with drugs- but you'll need to be on them for the rest of your life."
WHAT THE HELL?
So, by my estimation, with radiation, I get to keep my hair, poop on schedule and get fat.
Again, how in the hell is this better than chemo?
Stay tuned, folks....the fun times begin on 11/26. Last two chemo treatments are lined up for 10/11 and 10/25....And apparently the sexy port in my chest will come out sometime in November, which then gets me off the blood thinners.
Progress???
You know how I was told by not one BUT FOUR different medical oncologists that a determination on radiation treatment would be made AFTER my PET scan? HA! Joke's on me....
After meeting my new radiation oncologist- Dr. James F. Spiegel, I learned that radiation was in the game plan from jump. That's right....Apparently when you get diagnosed with Stage II Hodgkin's Lymphoma, Unfavorable (bulky mass) you also get the gift of radiation- GUARANTEED!
Dr. Spiegel broke it down like this: "You most certainly will need radiation. I'm sorry no one told you that from the beginning." Isn't it endearing how doctors apologize but don't really apologize???
Ok, that part didn't exactly take me out at the knees....but what follows did.
Stupid me, I ask- "so how much radiation are we talking about?" Now in my feeble little mind, I'm thinking five days for a week- two weeks MAX. See? Now why do I bother having any thoughts AT ALL? Turns out, the gift behind door number two is: four weeks of radiation, five days a week....Nice. Well done?
And get this- Dr. Spiegel is trying to tell me that "No, radiation isn't nearly as awful as chemo." Really? I'm listening.....
He goes on to say: "Well, you'll feel tired- but not like you do with chemo." Ok, that sounds good.
Then "You may also develop irritation of your throat- kinda like how you feel when you have strep throat. And, well you may not want to eat or drink anything for about two weeks. But don't worry. Once we stop the radiation that pain will go away."
Ok- that sucks....but if I time this thing right, I'll actually LOSE weight during the dreaded holiday season of gorging....silver lining?
And then he says: "And, there's a small chance that the lining of your heart and or lungs may get irritated. In that case, we've got medicine that will fix it up."
Again? How in the HELL is this BETTER than chemo? Right- no more hair loss???
And finally he offers this one-two punch: "And, sometimes radiation can affect your thyroid function- causing you to develop a hypo-thyroid condition. We can fix that with drugs- but you'll need to be on them for the rest of your life."
WHAT THE HELL?
So, by my estimation, with radiation, I get to keep my hair, poop on schedule and get fat.
Again, how in the hell is this better than chemo?
Stay tuned, folks....the fun times begin on 11/26. Last two chemo treatments are lined up for 10/11 and 10/25....And apparently the sexy port in my chest will come out sometime in November, which then gets me off the blood thinners.
Progress???
Saturday, September 22, 2012
CANCER: You must feel so....
Gentle Readers-
I will readily admit to sort of taking a break from sharing my feelings and thoughts about my current station in life. And, really I think it was in the best interest of all of us that I did so....Here's why-
When I learned that I had in fact been one of the lucky 85% who get cured from this disease from front-line treatment, I heard: "Oh you must feel so relieved."
Now, duh! Of course I am relieved. Having cancer sucks. Getting cured of it is, well awesome. However, I haven't had that experience, that I think many people associate with news like this. No, I didn't fall down and kiss the ground or reconfirm my religious beliefs in God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Sure, I shed a couple of tears. But honestly....I'm still waiting to exhale. (Sorry Terry M...)
And, I think the reason for the wait is because the emotion that is taking up a lot of space in my world is well, anger with a healthy side of annoyed. And, I'm not talking about that crazy, revenge kind of anger, where I'll head to Nordstrom and buy up the shoe department to make myself feel better. Nope. It's something else. Bigger.
While I'm sure I would benefit from a tour on my therapist's couch at $200+ an hour, I don't think I'm all that ready to commit to that plan. Especially since I know she's just going to say: "Yvette, the emotions you are having are normal and you just need to stay present." Instead, I want to work on getting down to the roots of this rage.
And sure, there are plenty of things pissing me off at this present moment- including the little old Orthodox Jewish man at the grocery store who needed to be told not one, not two, but FOUR separate times, how to use his debit card...(Really? Just swipe the damn thing for F*CK's sake.) But, that's really more in alignment with my daily annoyances than my bigger, badder friend- anger....
I think the anger comes from getting cancer in the first f*cking place. I realize that for the past five months, I've been living my life in the "really slow, I might die" lane. And I'm just beginning to figure out how that lane assignment really affected the way I see the world. And even knowing that I'm "cured" from this shit, I still have another 33+ days on my sentence, as I need to finish out this stupid chemo. (But who's counting?)
And, here's the other thing- I feel very guilty for being mad about getting Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Let's be honest, of all the cancers a gal could get, this truly is the best one, right? And, unlike a lot of cancer patients, my experience could be described best as "cancer-lite." So, there's this nutty part of my brain that says: "Look bitch, you really need to get some perspective." It's not like I had stage IV pancreatic cancer, right? But the angry gal inside of me isn't trying to hear that. No. She's not. I'm just pissed that it happened at all.
So, how I'm feeling? Hmm...that's a Pandora's Box. And, let me just say for the record, in advance, I'm truly sorry if on the day you come across my path, and I'm on a rampage. Really. I'm just trying to stay "in the moment."
I will readily admit to sort of taking a break from sharing my feelings and thoughts about my current station in life. And, really I think it was in the best interest of all of us that I did so....Here's why-
When I learned that I had in fact been one of the lucky 85% who get cured from this disease from front-line treatment, I heard: "Oh you must feel so relieved."
Now, duh! Of course I am relieved. Having cancer sucks. Getting cured of it is, well awesome. However, I haven't had that experience, that I think many people associate with news like this. No, I didn't fall down and kiss the ground or reconfirm my religious beliefs in God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Sure, I shed a couple of tears. But honestly....I'm still waiting to exhale. (Sorry Terry M...)
And, I think the reason for the wait is because the emotion that is taking up a lot of space in my world is well, anger with a healthy side of annoyed. And, I'm not talking about that crazy, revenge kind of anger, where I'll head to Nordstrom and buy up the shoe department to make myself feel better. Nope. It's something else. Bigger.
While I'm sure I would benefit from a tour on my therapist's couch at $200+ an hour, I don't think I'm all that ready to commit to that plan. Especially since I know she's just going to say: "Yvette, the emotions you are having are normal and you just need to stay present." Instead, I want to work on getting down to the roots of this rage.
And sure, there are plenty of things pissing me off at this present moment- including the little old Orthodox Jewish man at the grocery store who needed to be told not one, not two, but FOUR separate times, how to use his debit card...(Really? Just swipe the damn thing for F*CK's sake.) But, that's really more in alignment with my daily annoyances than my bigger, badder friend- anger....
I think the anger comes from getting cancer in the first f*cking place. I realize that for the past five months, I've been living my life in the "really slow, I might die" lane. And I'm just beginning to figure out how that lane assignment really affected the way I see the world. And even knowing that I'm "cured" from this shit, I still have another 33+ days on my sentence, as I need to finish out this stupid chemo. (But who's counting?)
And, here's the other thing- I feel very guilty for being mad about getting Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Let's be honest, of all the cancers a gal could get, this truly is the best one, right? And, unlike a lot of cancer patients, my experience could be described best as "cancer-lite." So, there's this nutty part of my brain that says: "Look bitch, you really need to get some perspective." It's not like I had stage IV pancreatic cancer, right? But the angry gal inside of me isn't trying to hear that. No. She's not. I'm just pissed that it happened at all.
So, how I'm feeling? Hmm...that's a Pandora's Box. And, let me just say for the record, in advance, I'm truly sorry if on the day you come across my path, and I'm on a rampage. Really. I'm just trying to stay "in the moment."
Thursday, September 13, 2012
CANCER: And the Winner Is.....
Dear Friends-
The votes have been tallied. The results are in. And the winner of this year's cancer award is: ME!
That's right, I passed the cancer test. I am- from the looks of it, pretty much cancer free. I am....heeeeauullled.
The road before me is still a bit bumpy, as I have three more treatments to go. And the awesome Dr. Wahl wants me to meet with the radiation oncologist, just to make sure I dont need to be zapped a few times for good measure. But folks, your prayers, love, meals, blankets, and yes, even voodoo for you dark souls, did the trick.
Thank you. We did it!
Thursday, September 6, 2012
CANCER: 2B or not 2B? That is the question.
Gentle readers: we've done it. We have scaled the chemo mountain- four rounds under my belt, and we are beginning the descent- two more to go...Blood cells willing, the last chemo infusion should happen on 10/25. Fingers crossed...
Now, if you'll recall back in the spring, I got the diagnosis: Stage II, Hodgkin's Lymphoma. At that time, I was told that the cancer was in the very early stages and that I shouldn't be too concerned. However, I have since learned that the gentle Dr. K, was well...very gentle...not to mention optimistic. Instead, what I now know is that I am actually Stage IIB Unfavorable. That's right they used the word "unfavorable." I was so offended...like there's anything remotely unfavorable about me. But, once I got off my high horse, I was able to dig a little deeper and learn the following:
Stage II is in fact an early stage of cancer in that it is located above my diaphram. The B signifies basically that the cancer is in both sides of my body and the unfavorable part means that I have a particularly aggressive form of this disease. Now aggressive, that's a word I tend to appreciate- except when it applies to my cancer. The folks in the white coats decided that it is an aggressive due to the size of the main tumor. I won't lie. It's big (10 cm). And on the PET scan, it looks a lot like a cat sitting in my ribs. Odd, as I really don't like cats since they do stupid shit, like sit on a person's rib cage....
So, what's next? The plan was and still is that following my fourth round of chemo, I will submit to another PET scan- you remember what that is, right? Positron Emission Test. I get pumped full of some super nuclear chemical stuff and then sit in a machine that sounds like hammers hammering for about 15 minutes.
The PET scan, with respect to Hodgkin's, is a predictor of being cured. With this cancer. There is no remission. You get cured or die and that's it. The vast majority of people live. So, I'm feeling good about the statistics on that one. But just in case, I did buy my boys some blazers and chinos they can wear, should it end badly for me. Girl Scout Motto: Be Prepared. And my motto is: Man, be dressed appropriately. To be considered cured, you want a PET negative result. PET positive means I'm not cured and I have to undergo more treatment- either via radiation or chemical therapy. I'll beat this disease. I am confident of that. However, if I require secondary treatment, I will then more than likely develop a secondary cancer from the cure. Ain't THAT a bitch?
My PET is scheduled for Tuesday 9/11- a most auspicious day, no? I get the results on Thursday 9/13. (I can get the results sooner, if I'm dying (my MD's words, not mine) to know sooner.) And here's the thing- I kinda don't want to know the results. Instead, I want to hop a plane to Timbuktu or some other remote corner of the world and hide out. And, this is kinda strange for me. I mean, I'm usually the chick who can "take it like a man." I love direct, honest dialogue. But this...this has me twisted up in knots and doing stuff like internet shopping....I just don't want to know.
And, I'm a little embarrassed to write that. Me, who has been nothing if not brave throughout all of this- I mean how many doctors have I expressed my displeasure with? Seriously. But this..this is the one hurdle I'm having trouble getting over.
The smart and direct Dr. Wahl in her lovely iron fist manner has broken it down for me as follows: "Has anyone talked to you about radiation? Because that mass in your chest is really big." Sigh. Like I didn't know that shit already. And Dr. Kenneth Kraemer (who has the nicest eyebrows of any person I've ever seen) explained that radiation therapy is much gentler than chemo. I was too embarrassed to ask him if I would be able to poop after treatment. I figure there's plenty of time for that.
So, this is it folks. Truth telling time. I can run, hide and shop my ass off. But, the reality is that I have to face the music about this cancer thing. If it's negative, I'll be bawling my head off with relief. If it's positive, well I'll probably do something really dumb, like get married again- something, anything, to make me feel alive and like I have plenty of time in front of me.
While it's true- we know not the day nor the time when we get that last call, cancer changed my life timeline. I don't feel like I have the luxury of putting things off till tomorrow. Don't get me wrong- I have no plans of running any marathons or stuff like that and I still nap. Duh! But, there's something to be said about priorities. I appreciate and love my friends and family like never before. And I am quick to walk away from anyone trying to rain on my parade. I have come to value myself and what I have to offer this world. And really, I'm tired of being a cancer patient. I want a new title. NOW.
It's getting kinda real up in here, isn't it?
Now, if you'll recall back in the spring, I got the diagnosis: Stage II, Hodgkin's Lymphoma. At that time, I was told that the cancer was in the very early stages and that I shouldn't be too concerned. However, I have since learned that the gentle Dr. K, was well...very gentle...not to mention optimistic. Instead, what I now know is that I am actually Stage IIB Unfavorable. That's right they used the word "unfavorable." I was so offended...like there's anything remotely unfavorable about me. But, once I got off my high horse, I was able to dig a little deeper and learn the following:
Stage II is in fact an early stage of cancer in that it is located above my diaphram. The B signifies basically that the cancer is in both sides of my body and the unfavorable part means that I have a particularly aggressive form of this disease. Now aggressive, that's a word I tend to appreciate- except when it applies to my cancer. The folks in the white coats decided that it is an aggressive due to the size of the main tumor. I won't lie. It's big (10 cm). And on the PET scan, it looks a lot like a cat sitting in my ribs. Odd, as I really don't like cats since they do stupid shit, like sit on a person's rib cage....
So, what's next? The plan was and still is that following my fourth round of chemo, I will submit to another PET scan- you remember what that is, right? Positron Emission Test. I get pumped full of some super nuclear chemical stuff and then sit in a machine that sounds like hammers hammering for about 15 minutes.
The PET scan, with respect to Hodgkin's, is a predictor of being cured. With this cancer. There is no remission. You get cured or die and that's it. The vast majority of people live. So, I'm feeling good about the statistics on that one. But just in case, I did buy my boys some blazers and chinos they can wear, should it end badly for me. Girl Scout Motto: Be Prepared. And my motto is: Man, be dressed appropriately. To be considered cured, you want a PET negative result. PET positive means I'm not cured and I have to undergo more treatment- either via radiation or chemical therapy. I'll beat this disease. I am confident of that. However, if I require secondary treatment, I will then more than likely develop a secondary cancer from the cure. Ain't THAT a bitch?
My PET is scheduled for Tuesday 9/11- a most auspicious day, no? I get the results on Thursday 9/13. (I can get the results sooner, if I'm dying (my MD's words, not mine) to know sooner.) And here's the thing- I kinda don't want to know the results. Instead, I want to hop a plane to Timbuktu or some other remote corner of the world and hide out. And, this is kinda strange for me. I mean, I'm usually the chick who can "take it like a man." I love direct, honest dialogue. But this...this has me twisted up in knots and doing stuff like internet shopping....I just don't want to know.
And, I'm a little embarrassed to write that. Me, who has been nothing if not brave throughout all of this- I mean how many doctors have I expressed my displeasure with? Seriously. But this..this is the one hurdle I'm having trouble getting over.
The smart and direct Dr. Wahl in her lovely iron fist manner has broken it down for me as follows: "Has anyone talked to you about radiation? Because that mass in your chest is really big." Sigh. Like I didn't know that shit already. And Dr. Kenneth Kraemer (who has the nicest eyebrows of any person I've ever seen) explained that radiation therapy is much gentler than chemo. I was too embarrassed to ask him if I would be able to poop after treatment. I figure there's plenty of time for that.
So, this is it folks. Truth telling time. I can run, hide and shop my ass off. But, the reality is that I have to face the music about this cancer thing. If it's negative, I'll be bawling my head off with relief. If it's positive, well I'll probably do something really dumb, like get married again- something, anything, to make me feel alive and like I have plenty of time in front of me.
While it's true- we know not the day nor the time when we get that last call, cancer changed my life timeline. I don't feel like I have the luxury of putting things off till tomorrow. Don't get me wrong- I have no plans of running any marathons or stuff like that and I still nap. Duh! But, there's something to be said about priorities. I appreciate and love my friends and family like never before. And I am quick to walk away from anyone trying to rain on my parade. I have come to value myself and what I have to offer this world. And really, I'm tired of being a cancer patient. I want a new title. NOW.
It's getting kinda real up in here, isn't it?
Friday, August 31, 2012
CANCER: Family ties that bind and gag...
You may recall in one or two of my past blogs, I mentioned something like how I was raised by wolves...Of course this can't be true as you all know just how much of an indoor cat I really am. Wolves my ass.
Instead, my family tree looks more like a clump of bushes. There are no linear lines as genetically I'm not related to those I call my family. In some ways there's some pluses- like not inheriting my father's overwhelming hairiness; and minuses- where will I turn should I need something like a kidney or bone marrow? I figure I'll cross that bridge when I get to it though. Probably wise of me, right?
But, growing up with folks I don't look like and can't get bone marrow from, has created in me this sort of dysfunctional concept of family. Basically anyone I meet, I regard as a potential family member- and I mean it.
Having undergone a recent divorce, this life skill has been called into play a great deal. I live 2,000 miles from my parents. My closest sibling is a two hour plane ride away. In other words, I'm out here, on my own for better and for worse. With two kids and a baby daddy in town, I need to stick around these parts for at least another 12 years. In other words, I'm all in. But where does this leave me in the cancer arena?
Sure, I could spend time licking my wounds and feeling sorry for myself. But c'mon you know me better than that. Instead, I decided that while I may not be able to make my marriage work, I can make the relationships with my former in-laws real and permanent. Partly this comes from a place of pragmatism. But the other part comes from real love and respect. I truly love and cherish the family members of my former spouse. Really! And let me tell you why- my sisters-in-law have shown up, uninvited, unannounced bearing trays of food that would seriously feed the inhabitants of a small African village. They don't care. They know what's good for me- even when I don't. And a NO from me is simply not an option. My niece, at 21 years of age and just as lovely as can be, stops by just to say hello and compare jeans and tee-shirts. And I can't help but love her for it.
(Yes, I have hundreds of amazing friends to boot. I have dedicated lots of words and time to you. So you know how much you mean to me. So don't go there!)
But there's something to be said about family- made up, stuck together with tape, full of forgiveness, and stepping up when they know what needs to be done, even when I don't. Thanks! You make me a better person. And don't for a second think I take any of this or you for granted.
The saying goes that you can't pick your family. But guess what? I did. My life (and I hope theirs) is all the better for it.
Instead, my family tree looks more like a clump of bushes. There are no linear lines as genetically I'm not related to those I call my family. In some ways there's some pluses- like not inheriting my father's overwhelming hairiness; and minuses- where will I turn should I need something like a kidney or bone marrow? I figure I'll cross that bridge when I get to it though. Probably wise of me, right?
But, growing up with folks I don't look like and can't get bone marrow from, has created in me this sort of dysfunctional concept of family. Basically anyone I meet, I regard as a potential family member- and I mean it.
Having undergone a recent divorce, this life skill has been called into play a great deal. I live 2,000 miles from my parents. My closest sibling is a two hour plane ride away. In other words, I'm out here, on my own for better and for worse. With two kids and a baby daddy in town, I need to stick around these parts for at least another 12 years. In other words, I'm all in. But where does this leave me in the cancer arena?
Sure, I could spend time licking my wounds and feeling sorry for myself. But c'mon you know me better than that. Instead, I decided that while I may not be able to make my marriage work, I can make the relationships with my former in-laws real and permanent. Partly this comes from a place of pragmatism. But the other part comes from real love and respect. I truly love and cherish the family members of my former spouse. Really! And let me tell you why- my sisters-in-law have shown up, uninvited, unannounced bearing trays of food that would seriously feed the inhabitants of a small African village. They don't care. They know what's good for me- even when I don't. And a NO from me is simply not an option. My niece, at 21 years of age and just as lovely as can be, stops by just to say hello and compare jeans and tee-shirts. And I can't help but love her for it.
(Yes, I have hundreds of amazing friends to boot. I have dedicated lots of words and time to you. So you know how much you mean to me. So don't go there!)
But there's something to be said about family- made up, stuck together with tape, full of forgiveness, and stepping up when they know what needs to be done, even when I don't. Thanks! You make me a better person. And don't for a second think I take any of this or you for granted.
The saying goes that you can't pick your family. But guess what? I did. My life (and I hope theirs) is all the better for it.
Monday, August 20, 2012
CANCER: What doesn't kill you....
Friday night, while hanging with my awesome nephew Vinny, he made the following statement: "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I replied: "Actually Vinny, it has been my experience that what doesn't kill you, doesn't kill you." And yes, I caught him off guard- which is a rare occurance with this bright, bright young man.
But I meant it. Perhaps I'm taking a dive into some potentially choppy water here, but bear with me. So hear me (read?) me when I say this: From this experience I don't want to be stronger. Truthfully, in the past two years I have handled the IRS, a divorce, single parenting, dating, putting my house on the market and now cancer- and my kid STILL made honor roll. Personally, I think I have demonstrated to anyone paying close enough attention, that I am a pretty tough lady. Do I really need to be stonger? Nope, nope, NOPE. Instead, I just want to be alive and have enough friggin' energy to get me back on track to God knows what.
I sincerely appreciate those of you who consider cancer patients heroes. Really. I do. I also appreciate those of you who call us fighters. Sure....But, here's the thing: getting a cancer diagnosis is a lot like playing a really dysfunctional game of tag. Nobody in their right mind wants to be "it." And anyone with a soul wouldn't dare pass it on to someone else. So there you are- an unwitting participant in a game you didn't even choose. I mean, what ever happened to freakin' dodge ball? But being "it" does that make me a hero? Hell no! I would love to be able to rescue someone, leap from tall buildings in a single bound, run??? But that isn't what is going on here- at least not at my house.
And fighter? Well, the image is certainly a sweet one. Me rocking some pretty intimidating head gear and those shiny shorts in a boxing ring...Sure I can see it. But really- my opponent is silent and hits back in ways that no trainer can prepare me for. So instead, every fourteen days, I slap on some clothes along with some killer shoes, plaster on a smile and drag my ass into the "infusion" room where a seven drug cocktail drips into an artery in my heart. Where's the fight in that? I literally sit there and chat up the nurses and various Team Moy supporter for about three hours. Then I pop outta there and sit around alternating between sleeping and praying for my bowels to move- usually four days later. So really, I ain't fighting a damn thing.
Now look- if anyone reading this is a cancer patient and sees things differently, Lance Armstrong is your personal motivator- I say more power to ya! However, that philosophy just doesn't fit me. Besides, I truly believe I could teach Lance a thing or two....
Instead what does fit is the following statement that just about everyone in the United States grew up with: "It doesn't matter if you win or lose, but how you play the game." Now that's a statement I would wear on a t-shirt....
I believe in dignity above all else and grace. Cancer is a shitty life partner- and trust me, I know from.....And I also know that there are plenty of "fighters" out there whose lives are claimed by this crappy disease. So I wanted to take some time to reflect on what other options exist out there in this cancer-mania universe for someone who didn't ask for this fight.
But I meant it. Perhaps I'm taking a dive into some potentially choppy water here, but bear with me. So hear me (read?) me when I say this: From this experience I don't want to be stronger. Truthfully, in the past two years I have handled the IRS, a divorce, single parenting, dating, putting my house on the market and now cancer- and my kid STILL made honor roll. Personally, I think I have demonstrated to anyone paying close enough attention, that I am a pretty tough lady. Do I really need to be stonger? Nope, nope, NOPE. Instead, I just want to be alive and have enough friggin' energy to get me back on track to God knows what.
I sincerely appreciate those of you who consider cancer patients heroes. Really. I do. I also appreciate those of you who call us fighters. Sure....But, here's the thing: getting a cancer diagnosis is a lot like playing a really dysfunctional game of tag. Nobody in their right mind wants to be "it." And anyone with a soul wouldn't dare pass it on to someone else. So there you are- an unwitting participant in a game you didn't even choose. I mean, what ever happened to freakin' dodge ball? But being "it" does that make me a hero? Hell no! I would love to be able to rescue someone, leap from tall buildings in a single bound, run??? But that isn't what is going on here- at least not at my house.
And fighter? Well, the image is certainly a sweet one. Me rocking some pretty intimidating head gear and those shiny shorts in a boxing ring...Sure I can see it. But really- my opponent is silent and hits back in ways that no trainer can prepare me for. So instead, every fourteen days, I slap on some clothes along with some killer shoes, plaster on a smile and drag my ass into the "infusion" room where a seven drug cocktail drips into an artery in my heart. Where's the fight in that? I literally sit there and chat up the nurses and various Team Moy supporter for about three hours. Then I pop outta there and sit around alternating between sleeping and praying for my bowels to move- usually four days later. So really, I ain't fighting a damn thing.
Now look- if anyone reading this is a cancer patient and sees things differently, Lance Armstrong is your personal motivator- I say more power to ya! However, that philosophy just doesn't fit me. Besides, I truly believe I could teach Lance a thing or two....
Instead what does fit is the following statement that just about everyone in the United States grew up with: "It doesn't matter if you win or lose, but how you play the game." Now that's a statement I would wear on a t-shirt....
I believe in dignity above all else and grace. Cancer is a shitty life partner- and trust me, I know from.....And I also know that there are plenty of "fighters" out there whose lives are claimed by this crappy disease. So I wanted to take some time to reflect on what other options exist out there in this cancer-mania universe for someone who didn't ask for this fight.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
CANCER: My emotional rescue....
The other day, while chatting with a few friends, someone asked me if I was participating in any cancer support groups. She stopped herself short by stating: "Yeah, you don't strike me as one of those group joiner types of people." And, you know what, she was right. I will be the very first to confess my absolute joy and pleasure at marching to the beat of my own drum. Seriously. I find the beat to be so soothing, so right, so good, I figure why continue the search? This, of course, probably explains the two divorces I have under my belt...just sayin'....
What I've been told- and all of the cancer literature backs this up- is that I will undergo a bit of emotional rollercoastering. And, you know- I figure that's kinda like normal life right? You have your ups, downs, all while working really hard to keep your lunch down. But my journey hasn't really lived up to that so far. Instead, I have a lot of downs- plenty actually- and am more than happy to share with anyone willing to take any of them on.....But there's no real opportunity for the ups. In cancer-free world, a cancer free person is able to seek out some soothing stuff, like eat a fine meal in a fine dining establishment, exercise, shopping, dating, reality TV, vacationing, etc....Anything to get those endorphins pumping.....But, in my world where sleep is my daily headliner, I have narrowed it down to two things that might do the trick. They are: extreme couponing or cocaine.
Yet, the problem with extreme couponing, as far as I can tell is that there are no grocery stores in Seattle that offer double coupons. And, ya'll KNOW just how much I enjoy my Trader Joe's shopping experiences. Really, coupons just don't apply there.
Additionaly, my mom wisely pointed out that cocaine is illegal. Puh-LEEZE, I saw Blow....In reality, the deal breaker with cocaine actually lies in one of the more fun side effects of chemo. My nose runs like a freakin' faucet. Sure, it's gross and yet possibly endearing to some of you who are particularly close to me. But, seriously trying to get anything up there would require a degree in physics.
So, what is a down chick to do?
Initially I bought shoes. I think I'm up to approximately 20 pairs. But, then I got sad because I realized that this little lady is all dressed up with no place to go....
Then I stopped buying shoes. It really was getting out of hand....
Instead I decided to hang out with friends who make me laugh so hard it makes my side ache. And, you know what? That did the trick. Sure, it ain't no group therapy. Let's be honest, if I attended group therapy, I would spend the entire time making fun of everyone there- and trying to convince them that "no, really! I was just being funny!"
But, to be surrounded by my lovely, no-holds barred friends who say shit like: "Bitch, please....I didn't give your silly ass cancer. Now get up and let's go...." has made all the difference in the world. The friends who swear, SWEAR, that it really isn't a problem that I fall asleep on their sofa's- barefoot, of course- have been godsends. The friends who take the time to bring me dinners lovingly made with only the finest ingredients, including organic this and that, have been priceless.
They have been my emotional rescue. The conclusion I've drawn is that no matter what the outcome, and regardless of my choices in marital partners, I am a really, really talented friend picker. I surround myself with only the highest quality friends and yes, even family members. And I can never, ever thank them enough for putting up with me.
Thank you! This is for you!
What I've been told- and all of the cancer literature backs this up- is that I will undergo a bit of emotional rollercoastering. And, you know- I figure that's kinda like normal life right? You have your ups, downs, all while working really hard to keep your lunch down. But my journey hasn't really lived up to that so far. Instead, I have a lot of downs- plenty actually- and am more than happy to share with anyone willing to take any of them on.....But there's no real opportunity for the ups. In cancer-free world, a cancer free person is able to seek out some soothing stuff, like eat a fine meal in a fine dining establishment, exercise, shopping, dating, reality TV, vacationing, etc....Anything to get those endorphins pumping.....But, in my world where sleep is my daily headliner, I have narrowed it down to two things that might do the trick. They are: extreme couponing or cocaine.
Yet, the problem with extreme couponing, as far as I can tell is that there are no grocery stores in Seattle that offer double coupons. And, ya'll KNOW just how much I enjoy my Trader Joe's shopping experiences. Really, coupons just don't apply there.
Additionaly, my mom wisely pointed out that cocaine is illegal. Puh-LEEZE, I saw Blow....In reality, the deal breaker with cocaine actually lies in one of the more fun side effects of chemo. My nose runs like a freakin' faucet. Sure, it's gross and yet possibly endearing to some of you who are particularly close to me. But, seriously trying to get anything up there would require a degree in physics.
So, what is a down chick to do?
Initially I bought shoes. I think I'm up to approximately 20 pairs. But, then I got sad because I realized that this little lady is all dressed up with no place to go....
Then I stopped buying shoes. It really was getting out of hand....
Instead I decided to hang out with friends who make me laugh so hard it makes my side ache. And, you know what? That did the trick. Sure, it ain't no group therapy. Let's be honest, if I attended group therapy, I would spend the entire time making fun of everyone there- and trying to convince them that "no, really! I was just being funny!"
But, to be surrounded by my lovely, no-holds barred friends who say shit like: "Bitch, please....I didn't give your silly ass cancer. Now get up and let's go...." has made all the difference in the world. The friends who swear, SWEAR, that it really isn't a problem that I fall asleep on their sofa's- barefoot, of course- have been godsends. The friends who take the time to bring me dinners lovingly made with only the finest ingredients, including organic this and that, have been priceless.
They have been my emotional rescue. The conclusion I've drawn is that no matter what the outcome, and regardless of my choices in marital partners, I am a really, really talented friend picker. I surround myself with only the highest quality friends and yes, even family members. And I can never, ever thank them enough for putting up with me.
Thank you! This is for you!
Monday, August 6, 2012
CANCER: She blinded ME with Science....
Here's something I KNOW will get a resounding AMEN from all the ladies in the audience: Possessing "girl parts" frequently makes for a bumpy career path....There is no simple way to say it, single ladies and otherwise, we got it bad! Sure, we all know the statistics- women make $.60 for every $1.00 a dude makes. And, yet instead of staging a revolution by NOT going to work, we get our asses out of bed every day, slip on our work appropriate, non cleavage bearing clothing, and do our very best to make it in what clearly is, for many of us, a man's world.....Now if you think this is a feminist tirade, well you'd be wrong. It is however, an update on what's going on with me in cancer world.
Last Thursday I met my new oncologist, Tanya Wahl. Yep, it's a lady folks. And, with my VAST experience in the medical world, I know one thing really, really well. Lady doctors are tough....That's right- I tend to avoid them like the plague. Where a male doctor can afford to be both compassionate and deferential, my experience with lady doctors is that they are "deciders" and compassion isn't high on their list of survival skills. And, you know what? I get it. I've had many a nurse explain to me the rough road lady doctors have to travel while in medical school. They are forced to shut down all that crap that makes us, well, women. You know, engaging in gab fests about the latest, greatest shoes and the coveted September issue......as well as expressing any kind of emotion when working with delicate, intimate information that patients like me rely on. In other words, lady doctors aren't big on hugging. But they WILL always make eye contact! So, the way I look at lady doctors is akin to the iron fist in the velvet glove; because, well I like to believe they're "trying."
Let me outline my Iron Fist, Velvet Glove experience with the good Dr. W:
She was an hour late for our appointment.
Velvet glove: "Oh I am so very, very sorry for running behind. I hate running late for my patients and it rarely ever happens."
Iron Fist: "So, has anyone spoken to you about your need for radiation? That tumor in your chest is really big. And, you're probably gonna need it."
ME: "What in the Hell are you talking about?"
VG: "Well, I haven't read your file yet. But just from looking at it, I don't want you to be surprised in the next couple of weeks."
ME: "Um, well how 'bout you get some reading done and we'll pick it up at that point?"
IF: "And as far as your menstrual cycle, that shouldn't be a problem for much longer. The chemo puts you in menopause."
ME: "Forever and ever? Well I guess I should have known that, but was under the impression it was a possibility, rather than a fact. However, I'm not using my uterus anymore, so I guess that's alright then....Yay! No hot flashes!!!"
VG: "But, here's the good news! Your trait of sickle cell anemia will prevent you from ever getting malaria."
ME: "Seriously. In the few minutes you've known me, do I strike you as someone who would be caught dead in a place where I could contract malaria?"
VG: "Are you always this funny?"
ME: "Why yes. Yes I am."
She also cleared me to eat just about anything I damn well please. Cushioned that information with: "Well, you know, if you feel "empowered" or something by being on a restricted diet, go for it." I asked her: "Who in the Hell feels empowered by refraining from eating what they want? Seriously- I want to meet that bitch- cuz she's no friend of mine!"
With that she sent me down the hall to chemo and more good times.
This is it folks! We're at the half-way point and boy am I dragging! PET scan is scheduled for Tuesday 9/11- no I'm not kidding....and hopefully the news I get will help make that date a little less gritty.....
Thank you for your support, love, prayers and meals. Keep 'em coming.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
CANCER: Breaking up is hard to do....
Gentle readers, it is with a heavy heart that I write today's blog. That's right- change is afoot. My amazing, lovely, smart oncologist, Dr. Kasra Karamlou is leaving Swedish Issaquah to seek what, I do not know....off in California. This is our last week together.
I do believe that in my time of need, I've become almost gosling like in my amazing ability to imprint myself on my care givers. Often I find myself saying things like: "Well, that's not how Dr. K does it" or "We should check with nurse Debbie because I'm sure she knows what to do." I am unwilling to even fathom following another person's lead- since as far as I'm concerned, I have the best, smartest and really, let's be honest, best looking, cancer team a gal could ask for.
You know, when breakups occur, rarely do I get the chance to really say what's on my mind and in my heart. I mean, in this day and age, people break up via text message or read about it on Facebook in that: "Oh, my boyfriend has listed himself as single. Odd." No, no, I do not mean this about WCDO, Paul. He's still around. Still trying to figure that one out though....really. I mean, I DO have cancer and I'm bald.
So in homage to all things internet, electronic, and nanospeed- this is my send off to you, Dr. K.
Dear Dr. K.
As you prepare for your new life in California, I want you to know you have had a profound impact on my life. And I won't easily forget you. Sure, your life in CA will offer you lots of new patients and "experiences." I get that. We all move on. However I hope our time together was mutually beneficial.
While it's true- we never got mani/pedis together or even shopped for shoes, you did humor me. You chuckled at all of my rantings- (this truly is a smart man.) You were patient when I was losing my mind over my discomfort- both real and possibly imagined. You responded to my emails. And in a true act of trust and courage, you even gave me your personal mobile number with the reassuring words: "Feel free to call me anytime." That was awesome. You used emotocons when I backed you into really, really uncomfortable converstations. I kinda hated that. But you know, it worked.
So thanks man. You went above and beyond the call of care giving. You did it splendidly. And, hopefully my tumors are shrinking that much faster because of it. Your patients in California will be lucky to get you. And I do hope that you end up with a decent roster of cancer patients. You know, the balance tipped towards the ones who will make it. Though I also know, if my prognosis was in the crapper, I would want to hear it from you.
You take care. Stay liberal. Godspeed!
ME
My new partner in cancer care is Dr. Patricia Wahl. Here's what I know so far: She's very, very well respected by every nurse, doctor and care provider I've spoken to. As a matter of fact, she's treated almost reverentially. One nurse whispered "Ohhhh, Dr. Wahl. She's sooooo smart....." I also know she shares my passion for all things bacon maple bar via Voodoo Donuts. And most importantly, she speaks Nordstrom.
Dr. K warned me that she won't give me her email address or phone number though. I told him: "oh, we'll see....." Because let's be honest, we all get excited by the prospect of a new relationship. Pulses quicken, heart rates increase, pupils dilate, dopamine gets a-flowing, palms sweat. All good stuff. Yes, we all enjoy the experience of falling into new relationships- even cancer patients.
I do believe that in my time of need, I've become almost gosling like in my amazing ability to imprint myself on my care givers. Often I find myself saying things like: "Well, that's not how Dr. K does it" or "We should check with nurse Debbie because I'm sure she knows what to do." I am unwilling to even fathom following another person's lead- since as far as I'm concerned, I have the best, smartest and really, let's be honest, best looking, cancer team a gal could ask for.
You know, when breakups occur, rarely do I get the chance to really say what's on my mind and in my heart. I mean, in this day and age, people break up via text message or read about it on Facebook in that: "Oh, my boyfriend has listed himself as single. Odd." No, no, I do not mean this about WCDO, Paul. He's still around. Still trying to figure that one out though....really. I mean, I DO have cancer and I'm bald.
So in homage to all things internet, electronic, and nanospeed- this is my send off to you, Dr. K.
Dear Dr. K.
As you prepare for your new life in California, I want you to know you have had a profound impact on my life. And I won't easily forget you. Sure, your life in CA will offer you lots of new patients and "experiences." I get that. We all move on. However I hope our time together was mutually beneficial.
While it's true- we never got mani/pedis together or even shopped for shoes, you did humor me. You chuckled at all of my rantings- (this truly is a smart man.) You were patient when I was losing my mind over my discomfort- both real and possibly imagined. You responded to my emails. And in a true act of trust and courage, you even gave me your personal mobile number with the reassuring words: "Feel free to call me anytime." That was awesome. You used emotocons when I backed you into really, really uncomfortable converstations. I kinda hated that. But you know, it worked.
So thanks man. You went above and beyond the call of care giving. You did it splendidly. And, hopefully my tumors are shrinking that much faster because of it. Your patients in California will be lucky to get you. And I do hope that you end up with a decent roster of cancer patients. You know, the balance tipped towards the ones who will make it. Though I also know, if my prognosis was in the crapper, I would want to hear it from you.
You take care. Stay liberal. Godspeed!
ME
My new partner in cancer care is Dr. Patricia Wahl. Here's what I know so far: She's very, very well respected by every nurse, doctor and care provider I've spoken to. As a matter of fact, she's treated almost reverentially. One nurse whispered "Ohhhh, Dr. Wahl. She's sooooo smart....." I also know she shares my passion for all things bacon maple bar via Voodoo Donuts. And most importantly, she speaks Nordstrom.
Dr. K warned me that she won't give me her email address or phone number though. I told him: "oh, we'll see....." Because let's be honest, we all get excited by the prospect of a new relationship. Pulses quicken, heart rates increase, pupils dilate, dopamine gets a-flowing, palms sweat. All good stuff. Yes, we all enjoy the experience of falling into new relationships- even cancer patients.
Monday, July 16, 2012
CANCER: The Help
Saturday evening, Bastille day, my four week break from my common life in Seattle ended. It's back to the salt mines for me- solo parenting, cancer treatment, work and basically scotch taping my existence together.
Much like the Sesame Street days of yore, I wish to dedicate this blog to the word "help."
Now the word itself is both a noun and a verb. Louis XVI really got the concept of the word as a noun- in that: "Don't talk that way in front of the HELP" kinda way. And while I hardly wield the power and decidedly opulent lifestyle of Louis, I do understand the need to rely on people regarded as "the help."
In one of my dream career moments, I wanted (and still do, promise Carolyn Chow!) that I wish to return to school to pursue an ARNP degree. What can I say? I'm a people person....However several good friends try to discourage me from my pursuit. They state: "Sweetie, you'll never cut it as a nurse. The doctor's treat you like shit." Now in my paradise known as Seattle, I'm accustomed to empowered nurses, informed receptionists and articulate volunteers. And I think- well who gets treated like that?
While at chemo camp in Ohio, I was exposed to a whole new reality of cancer treatment. It went kinda like this: "Hey, I'm the doctor. I'm in charge. And everyone in the building without the title of Doctor is to be regarded as either wall paper or the help." Oddly enough though, everyone outside of the Doctor circle seemed cool with those arrangements- except me.
I was all, "what do you mean you gotta ask the doctor?" "Just when exactly to you expect him to get to me?" and "Well, go get the doctor for me so I can ask him myself." You know- just being my usual direct and oh so diplomatic self. And in return, I got what I deserved- blank stares and downright glares in that "just who in the Hell does she think she is" kind of way. But really, in my opinion doctors are just people who need to move their bowels just like I do- on a good day, of course.
Whereas, to me, the people that are often regarded as "The Help" are god-like creatures who bring a sense of humanity, care and compassion to those of us in our time of need. Yes, I loved the receptionist who would always wave me in and say: "You don't need to sign in. I got you marked off Ms. More." I really appreciated the lady who walked around in the lobby and passed out donuts (again with the donuts?). And let's not forget Ken, AKA the water-boy who checked in on me with such regularity- offering me treasures of water and yes, more donuts- that I felt like a marathon sprinter.
And let's not forget those kick-ass Dayton nurses: Patty and Deb. I need to give a serious shout out to those ladies who seriously toil under work conditions that to me felt down-right inhumane. Clad in their blue chemo gowns and latex gloves, they worked like busy bees, pollinating each and every one of us with our special concoctions that keep us alive. It's grim work, chemo. Some will make it. Others won't. But these ladies- and all those like them- remind us that we're actually fighters- and we're a team- in it together- for life. They encourage us to keep turning our faces towards the sun and look on the bright side when really all you want to do is curl up in fetal position in a dark sleeper cell cave in Afghanistan. Premium cable be damned.
And what about the verb help? Well, it's not an easy word for me to say out loud. Saying "I need your help" to me is tantamount to admitting I slept with my sister's husband. I have three of 'em. You figure out which one it was...(kidding!) In other words, it's taboo for me. Period. But, I decided that upon my return, invoking all the best speech therapist tricks of the trade, I will practice saying it out loud. First, in private of course. I expect my friends will marvel, mouths agape, as I impress them with my new found skill set.
You've been warned. Once I get really good at this, your phones will blow up. You'll begin treating my emails like I'm a Nigerian prince who only needs you to pony up $1,000 to help me attain my inheritance. And my text messages- ignore them at your peril.
I better end here. I have a date with my bathroom mirror.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
CANCER: It isn't easy being green
So, the other day while talking with a dear friend about his past, err "lady friends" he commented: "You're jealous" or some shit to that effect. Now here's something you need to know, if you don't already. Like little Mowgli in the Jungle Book, I was raised by wolves. That is the basis of my upbringing. However, I also experienced a number of interventions from none other than my paternal grandma, Aline Fields. (Pronounced Ay-leen..Get it right, now.) And here's what you need to know about her- she despised people who would fall prey to petty and self indulgent emotions like jealousy. Her argument was always: "You don't have a damn thing that I can't get for myself. So why should I be jealous?" And she wasn't lying. She had many "man friends" and too many mink coats to count....Now that's pretty awesome coming from an African American woman with barely a high school education. And, I took her rigorous training to heart.
Jealousy is something that I too struggle to accept in my fellow human being. I just don't get it.
Until now.....
Ok, now this isn't going to be a blog about how I have somehow morphed into someone prone to this emotion. No...It's more of an exploration of what I am jealous of. Here it is. Are you ready? I'm jealous of your healthy immune system.
I think in a previous blog I mentioned my desire to kick old, healthy people. I meant it then- and still mean it today. I'm not proud. But there it is. And this week I experienced a little set-back in that I ran out of white blood cells- literally I had none. Those of you who get to take your healthy immune systems for granted do shit like, go to lunch with friends, go to the bathroom and NOT WASH YOUR HANDS (nasty, btw); and eat fresh fruits, vegetables and rotten, stinky cheeses.
As of last Thursday July 5, I have been quarantined. With those big old deer-in-the-headlights eyes, that members of the medical profession have when they tell you some serious business, nurse Deb told me to stay away from all of humanity and to basically bathe in Purell every 15 minutes. Do you know how harsh that stuff is on your skin? Since I also had chemo that day, I figured holing up someplace for a FEW DAYS wouldn't be a problem- especially since I sleep an average of 36 hours a day post treatment.
But wait- here's what happened- My gay, Jewish boyfriend from NYC came for a visit to my hometown AND the sun came out in Seattle. In between my napping sessions, GJBF regaled me with tales of his exciting life in the city. We talked about things like his neighborhood grocery shopping ventures, ordering in food containing mushrooms and the endless Chinese dumplings obtained from what can only be described as the Super Fund site, known as NYC's Chinatown. Seriously, once while visiting there, I watched a little kid take a dump in the gutters; and no one batted an eye.
NYC to an immune compromised person is the equivalent of drinking water from a nuclear power plant.
Now the sun coming out in Seattle is truly something to celebrate. WCDOP, Paul very kindly texted me photos of sun rises and idyllic boat docks. And truly I was happy for him. Honest. I was. But then he started blah-blah-blahing about his great run around Greenlake and his forays to Pike Place Market and to the movies. It was about that time when I entertained the idea of simply, well, choking him. For you see, (Aline, please understand) I was jealous.
While never that chick who ran anywhere- ever (and especially not as a form of exercise????) I took it for granted that I could, if I ever wanted to. And today, right now I would celebrate just being able to touch a public door handle- instead of making one of my kids do it for me. (Though it does evoke images of Queen Elizabeth I)...and don't even get me started on the state of affairs my toenails are in.....
So, there you have it. While I may not be prone to coveting things like say your: man, perfect hair, excellent shoe library, cavity free smile or your ability to write your holiday card in iambic pentameter, I will mow you down for your immune system, Martha Stewart style; for I am not a woman to be trifled with.....
Jealousy is something that I too struggle to accept in my fellow human being. I just don't get it.
Until now.....
Ok, now this isn't going to be a blog about how I have somehow morphed into someone prone to this emotion. No...It's more of an exploration of what I am jealous of. Here it is. Are you ready? I'm jealous of your healthy immune system.
I think in a previous blog I mentioned my desire to kick old, healthy people. I meant it then- and still mean it today. I'm not proud. But there it is. And this week I experienced a little set-back in that I ran out of white blood cells- literally I had none. Those of you who get to take your healthy immune systems for granted do shit like, go to lunch with friends, go to the bathroom and NOT WASH YOUR HANDS (nasty, btw); and eat fresh fruits, vegetables and rotten, stinky cheeses.
As of last Thursday July 5, I have been quarantined. With those big old deer-in-the-headlights eyes, that members of the medical profession have when they tell you some serious business, nurse Deb told me to stay away from all of humanity and to basically bathe in Purell every 15 minutes. Do you know how harsh that stuff is on your skin? Since I also had chemo that day, I figured holing up someplace for a FEW DAYS wouldn't be a problem- especially since I sleep an average of 36 hours a day post treatment.
But wait- here's what happened- My gay, Jewish boyfriend from NYC came for a visit to my hometown AND the sun came out in Seattle. In between my napping sessions, GJBF regaled me with tales of his exciting life in the city. We talked about things like his neighborhood grocery shopping ventures, ordering in food containing mushrooms and the endless Chinese dumplings obtained from what can only be described as the Super Fund site, known as NYC's Chinatown. Seriously, once while visiting there, I watched a little kid take a dump in the gutters; and no one batted an eye.
NYC to an immune compromised person is the equivalent of drinking water from a nuclear power plant.
Now the sun coming out in Seattle is truly something to celebrate. WCDOP, Paul very kindly texted me photos of sun rises and idyllic boat docks. And truly I was happy for him. Honest. I was. But then he started blah-blah-blahing about his great run around Greenlake and his forays to Pike Place Market and to the movies. It was about that time when I entertained the idea of simply, well, choking him. For you see, (Aline, please understand) I was jealous.
While never that chick who ran anywhere- ever (and especially not as a form of exercise????) I took it for granted that I could, if I ever wanted to. And today, right now I would celebrate just being able to touch a public door handle- instead of making one of my kids do it for me. (Though it does evoke images of Queen Elizabeth I)...and don't even get me started on the state of affairs my toenails are in.....
So, there you have it. While I may not be prone to coveting things like say your: man, perfect hair, excellent shoe library, cavity free smile or your ability to write your holiday card in iambic pentameter, I will mow you down for your immune system, Martha Stewart style; for I am not a woman to be trifled with.....
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