I've heard from many of you that you want an update - how am I doing? How are things now? The short answer is, I am well. The cancer hasn't recurred. My sense of self has come back, for the most part. But, especially at this time of year, I feel echoes of three years ago.
Three years ago this morning, I woke up knowing that in just a few hours I would be caught up in the medical machinery of surgery - the gowns and IVs, the businesslike bravery expected of patients, the paperwork and formal rituals of permission. And I knew that the next time I woke up would be in recovery, with bags of saline where my breasts had been. My memories are faded now, with certain moments standing in to represent the day.
I remember waking in my bedroom, it was still dark, and chilly. I sat up, and the reality of it all - the cancer, the surgery, the changes - all hit me at once. In a moment, though, the inevitability of it all settled in, and I brushed those quick tears away.
I remember seeing myself whole for the last time, in the shower. I wasn't worried about losing my breasts and looking normal as much as I was just...attached to a part of me. Those tears went with the water, and I hardly felt them.
I remember being in the car in front of the hospital, in the moment before committing - once I opened my door, the process would take over. My mother had reminded me the night before that by the end of this day, I wouldn't have cancer anymore. I concentrated on her words, her voice as she said them - the hope, and the excitement - and opened the door.
I remember the funny busy-ness of the prep, all of which felt so unreal. I remember Dr. S's cool hands on my chest as she marked out the territory with a Sharpie. I remember fighting with the nurses to let me keep my wedding ring on while I was in surgery - a way to hold love in my hand, and a way to not be completely naked and unprotected.
I remember the last few minutes, alone with Zack, before they wheeled me off, a space of safety carved out of a frightening day.
I remember waking up, groggy, feeling like I'd done a zillion chest presses before being wrapped in an iron band. It hurt to breathe, nausea and tightness and pain all inextricable, and too much for my drug-fogged mind to tease apart.
I remember my parents, standing in the doorway of my room, lit from behind by the light of the hall. They just wanted to see me - to assure themselves that no matter what had happened to me, I remained.
Many of these feelings rstay with me, even now. In quiet moments, I'll sometimes be startled by the enormity of it all - the loss, and the fear, and the hurt - but the routines of everyday life soon damp it back down and I go on. I'll sometimes pause, wishing I could just have a little more time to come to grips with things, but I know that a day will pass in 24 hours, no matter what happens in that day. And I can do anything for 24 hours. I still find myself reaching for strength, for support, and my choice to finish my doctorate - and the isolation that requires - sometimes resonates with the sense of overwhelming aloneness and vulnerability cancer treatment could create.
The treatment I am on now - the hormone therapy to keep any residual cancer at bay - is easy, relative to the chemo, surgery, and radiation I went through three years ago. At the same time, it is difficult in a different way. It is constant, and permanent, and irritating, and must be integrated with my regular life. The medicine accelerates the processes of age - wrinkling, aches and pains, insomnia, difficulty putting on muscle mass, etc. The inevitable emotional transition from being a young, desirable woman to being a middle aged, invisible woman is inextricably linked in my mind to the cancer and surgical de-sexing that I went through. Veterinarians call it "altering", and I do feel, in many ways, altered. I know that this is where I should say something enlightened about creating my own sense of sexy youth, that femininity is inside not outside, and that cancer survivors can be cancer vixens, too. But even this, that I know what the "proper" response is but can't seem to make myself have it, in some ways complicates my feelings about the whole matter. Besides, I have never liked pink.
The transition from patient-to-person has been hard (though, it is an extraordinarily nice problem to have). I'm often skeptical of good things - that they will last, or that there isn't a nasty surprise buried inside. I'm easily tired, I ache, and have physical limitations that I need to work around, all of which can be frustrating. I find myself feeling alone and isolated. And, I am very, very tired of trying to find shirts that fit.
But here I am, in 2010, past the halfway mark on the journey to 5-year survival. That I'll be OK, that I will *live*, gets more real with every milestone. In many ways, the troubles I've had are all repurcussions of taking on the mantle of an everyday, ordinary life in all its unpredicatable joy.
So, again, in short, I am well. I am working at a job I enjoy. I am finishing a dissertation that...I will finish. I have family and friends to love. Zack is happy in his new profession. Mostly, I get up every day and do what needs doing, look for joy where I can, and make things work. Like anyone does. Because a post-cancer life is an ordinary life, with everything that means. If you would think of me today, do so by remembering what you live for, and what gives you joy.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Year One
I just received flowers celebrating the one-year anniversary of being cancer-free. Thank you.
It has been a long, crazy year. Of course, I was still having radiation and more surgeries until May, so it hasn't all been a vacation. Looking back at my experience of the year, it hasn't been a smooth recovery either physically or emotionally. But, adjusting to - ahem - a mortality concern feels a lot like learning any other new skill or way of thinking. At first it was overwhelming, and everything I did I perceived through that filter. Then it was frustrating. I couldn't escape, and I still had (have) residual physical pain. Now I am working at integrating my new experiences with what came before. By the way, I can tell you from insider experience that those people who say their lives completely change after cancer and nothing from the past matters? They must have better drugs than me because in my experience, the things from the past just get colored by the new reality, not erased. (If you find out what those drugs are, please ship a box to my address. Next day air.)
The most positive part of this year has been the huge changes in my family dynamic, particularly around cancer. My siblings and cousins are being tested for the gene that made me so vulnerable to cancer, making sure that my generation won't get sucker-punched again. This has already paid huge dividends. My mom is recovering from a double mastectomy to remove a very early stage cancer, one that would have been found in a few years - and have been much more advanced - under normal screening procedures. My cancer was the size of a lime, hers the size of a grain of rice. She needs no chemo, no radiation, and we never have to worry again about her dying of breast cancer.
I've noticed that many people with cancer struggle with the purpose of it. Is it punishment? A test? A lesson? A trial? Lots of people look to a divinity, or to the universe, for answers. But I already see the payoff of my experience in my mom's diagnosis and my relatives' testing and screening. I can't have children, but I have given something precious to the next generation: knowledge. My mom will see her grandchildren grow up, and they will get her love and presence as part of the bedrock of their world. Caty, Jim, my cousins, they all will know for certain whether they have the mutation and will get access to the screening and prevention they need to protect themselves. More than this, though, we talk to each other a lot. We call, and message, and email, and send pictures, and generally stay in touch. We're not just related, we're family.
On the more negative side, though, I'm still feeling a stew of uncertainty, physical pain, emotional exhaustion, and a dollop of regret. As my horizon creeps forward, I must make choices and plans but all of my prior bases for decision have been blown away. In some ways, I have already done the most important thing I will ever do - I protected my friends and loved ones by being an example. What do I do now?
I suppose that is a question for year two.
Thank you again for everything. I couldn't be here without you.
It has been a long, crazy year. Of course, I was still having radiation and more surgeries until May, so it hasn't all been a vacation. Looking back at my experience of the year, it hasn't been a smooth recovery either physically or emotionally. But, adjusting to - ahem - a mortality concern feels a lot like learning any other new skill or way of thinking. At first it was overwhelming, and everything I did I perceived through that filter. Then it was frustrating. I couldn't escape, and I still had (have) residual physical pain. Now I am working at integrating my new experiences with what came before. By the way, I can tell you from insider experience that those people who say their lives completely change after cancer and nothing from the past matters? They must have better drugs than me because in my experience, the things from the past just get colored by the new reality, not erased. (If you find out what those drugs are, please ship a box to my address. Next day air.)
The most positive part of this year has been the huge changes in my family dynamic, particularly around cancer. My siblings and cousins are being tested for the gene that made me so vulnerable to cancer, making sure that my generation won't get sucker-punched again. This has already paid huge dividends. My mom is recovering from a double mastectomy to remove a very early stage cancer, one that would have been found in a few years - and have been much more advanced - under normal screening procedures. My cancer was the size of a lime, hers the size of a grain of rice. She needs no chemo, no radiation, and we never have to worry again about her dying of breast cancer.
I've noticed that many people with cancer struggle with the purpose of it. Is it punishment? A test? A lesson? A trial? Lots of people look to a divinity, or to the universe, for answers. But I already see the payoff of my experience in my mom's diagnosis and my relatives' testing and screening. I can't have children, but I have given something precious to the next generation: knowledge. My mom will see her grandchildren grow up, and they will get her love and presence as part of the bedrock of their world. Caty, Jim, my cousins, they all will know for certain whether they have the mutation and will get access to the screening and prevention they need to protect themselves. More than this, though, we talk to each other a lot. We call, and message, and email, and send pictures, and generally stay in touch. We're not just related, we're family.
On the more negative side, though, I'm still feeling a stew of uncertainty, physical pain, emotional exhaustion, and a dollop of regret. As my horizon creeps forward, I must make choices and plans but all of my prior bases for decision have been blown away. In some ways, I have already done the most important thing I will ever do - I protected my friends and loved ones by being an example. What do I do now?
I suppose that is a question for year two.
Thank you again for everything. I couldn't be here without you.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Alter Egos, Mixed Feelings (or, Cancer, Leave Us Alone)
First: I remain free of evidence of any new cancer.
The world, though, seems to be covered in pink and cancer keeps coming up as a topic everywhere. I just can't get away from it.
Is it fair that I love the incredible community action around breast cancer, but absolutely hate going to the grocery store in October? Bags, mugs, shirts, hair things, yogurt, soup...if I wanted I could go a month wearing, using, and eating nothing but pink be-ribboned products. I am passionate about breast cancer awareness, early mammograms for everyone, gene testing for families with a history of cancer, and comprehensive prevention. But, jeez, leave me alone for a week! When a bored checker at Jewel asked if I wanted to donate, nodding to a construction paper-wrapped soup can next to the credit card machine, I nearly replied that I'd already given two 34Cs to the cause, but bit my tongue just in time. And the radio ads - gah! And a political advertisement that made me incandescently angry, so angry I voted against the candidate. The photo on the front of the card showed a father in a tux walking a faded-out bride down the aisle. The text read something like (in my fury, I shredded it), 'A father's dream is to walk his daughter down the aisle. But what if breast cancer took her before he could? Candidate X voted against funding mammograms...vote for me instead'. If my father had received that card! Thoughtless, cheap, emotional manipulation. Grump, grump, mutter, mutter.
We had appointments at a new dentist this week, which meant I faced the inevitable new patient paperwork. I dutifully checked all of the new boxes - yes to cancer, yes to surgeries (how many was it, Zack, 4? No, 5, there was the port surgery. Right, I had nearly managed to forget that moment where I came out of the anaesthetic-induced memory loss and remembered I had CANCER, I am so glad the dentist appointment reminded me of that), yes to radiation, write in chemo, list the meds. Not fun, but I expected that little, prickly reminder of my fabulous year of fun and prizes. During the appointment, though, the dentist asked if the cancer was genetic (nod), because it runs in his family and he is worried about his daughters but they refuse to be tested. Well, doc, (scrape, swish, Mr. Thirsty), if it runs in your family, you could be tested first. If you are negative, they can't have it either. (Turn your head, please. Perfect.) If you are positive, they will know exactly which mutation to look for, making the test about a tenth the cost. (Just a little polishing now.) The dentist vowed to get tested at his next doctor's appointment, and I knew I had done a good thing. "Way to go, Cancer Girl," offered Zack, hanging a name on what we'd both noticed as my alter ego.
Over the weekend, we saw a play with friends. A sub-plot involved a little boy dying of consumption. (Ever notice how many movies and TV shows have cancer as a plot point? A crapload.) At the end, the townspeople gathered by the grave, and the main character gave a speech. Let us remember this death, to remind us to be good, to be kind, even if we go out into the world and do great things let us always remember this moment of fellow-feeling. It went on for ten minutes, while the cute children looked misty before they clasped hands and walked off into the fade-to-black. But what about the kid? I wanted to stand up and yell. How nice for you, to have your lives transformed by this catalyst, to go out in the world and be better for knowing him. Ilyushin is still dead! What did he get out of this deal? What if I don't want to be Cancer Girl? I wanted a kid, and a career, and a long future with my beloved, and instead I get to inspire dentists to get BRCA tests!
And, now, we come to the real reason I am so overwhelmed. Two weeks ago, Zack and I went with his cousin to the Mayo Clinic as support troops while she had her mastectomy. N did great - she was up and lively by the first evening, in great spirits, and is healing well. What got me was her roommate - double mastectomy with axillary dissection staged at 3C. She looked so...broken. So fragile, and sick, and hurting. So tired. She was obviously well-loved and well-supported, she had constant visitors. In a quiet moment, I introduced myself. "Will I be as skinny as you, when I finish?" she asked, wistfully. "Not everyone gets fat from the chemo", I replied. (I carefully avoided discussing bucket days). "How are you, now?" she finally asked. I held out my arms and smiled for her inspection, saying, "I was in that bed a year ago". "I can't believe it," she breathed. Neither can I. But the world doesn't seem to want me to forget it, either.
The world, though, seems to be covered in pink and cancer keeps coming up as a topic everywhere. I just can't get away from it.
Is it fair that I love the incredible community action around breast cancer, but absolutely hate going to the grocery store in October? Bags, mugs, shirts, hair things, yogurt, soup...if I wanted I could go a month wearing, using, and eating nothing but pink be-ribboned products. I am passionate about breast cancer awareness, early mammograms for everyone, gene testing for families with a history of cancer, and comprehensive prevention. But, jeez, leave me alone for a week! When a bored checker at Jewel asked if I wanted to donate, nodding to a construction paper-wrapped soup can next to the credit card machine, I nearly replied that I'd already given two 34Cs to the cause, but bit my tongue just in time. And the radio ads - gah! And a political advertisement that made me incandescently angry, so angry I voted against the candidate. The photo on the front of the card showed a father in a tux walking a faded-out bride down the aisle. The text read something like (in my fury, I shredded it), 'A father's dream is to walk his daughter down the aisle. But what if breast cancer took her before he could? Candidate X voted against funding mammograms...vote for me instead'. If my father had received that card! Thoughtless, cheap, emotional manipulation. Grump, grump, mutter, mutter.
We had appointments at a new dentist this week, which meant I faced the inevitable new patient paperwork. I dutifully checked all of the new boxes - yes to cancer, yes to surgeries (how many was it, Zack, 4? No, 5, there was the port surgery. Right, I had nearly managed to forget that moment where I came out of the anaesthetic-induced memory loss and remembered I had CANCER, I am so glad the dentist appointment reminded me of that), yes to radiation, write in chemo, list the meds. Not fun, but I expected that little, prickly reminder of my fabulous year of fun and prizes. During the appointment, though, the dentist asked if the cancer was genetic (nod), because it runs in his family and he is worried about his daughters but they refuse to be tested. Well, doc, (scrape, swish, Mr. Thirsty), if it runs in your family, you could be tested first. If you are negative, they can't have it either. (Turn your head, please. Perfect.) If you are positive, they will know exactly which mutation to look for, making the test about a tenth the cost. (Just a little polishing now.) The dentist vowed to get tested at his next doctor's appointment, and I knew I had done a good thing. "Way to go, Cancer Girl," offered Zack, hanging a name on what we'd both noticed as my alter ego.
Over the weekend, we saw a play with friends. A sub-plot involved a little boy dying of consumption. (Ever notice how many movies and TV shows have cancer as a plot point? A crapload.) At the end, the townspeople gathered by the grave, and the main character gave a speech. Let us remember this death, to remind us to be good, to be kind, even if we go out into the world and do great things let us always remember this moment of fellow-feeling. It went on for ten minutes, while the cute children looked misty before they clasped hands and walked off into the fade-to-black. But what about the kid? I wanted to stand up and yell. How nice for you, to have your lives transformed by this catalyst, to go out in the world and be better for knowing him. Ilyushin is still dead! What did he get out of this deal? What if I don't want to be Cancer Girl? I wanted a kid, and a career, and a long future with my beloved, and instead I get to inspire dentists to get BRCA tests!
And, now, we come to the real reason I am so overwhelmed. Two weeks ago, Zack and I went with his cousin to the Mayo Clinic as support troops while she had her mastectomy. N did great - she was up and lively by the first evening, in great spirits, and is healing well. What got me was her roommate - double mastectomy with axillary dissection staged at 3C. She looked so...broken. So fragile, and sick, and hurting. So tired. She was obviously well-loved and well-supported, she had constant visitors. In a quiet moment, I introduced myself. "Will I be as skinny as you, when I finish?" she asked, wistfully. "Not everyone gets fat from the chemo", I replied. (I carefully avoided discussing bucket days). "How are you, now?" she finally asked. I held out my arms and smiled for her inspection, saying, "I was in that bed a year ago". "I can't believe it," she breathed. Neither can I. But the world doesn't seem to want me to forget it, either.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Six Months....All Clear
Today I had my first official post-cancer checkup with Dr. B. and I remain NED (no evidence of disease). Go body! I know we said we were done with the blog, but for those of you who still sneak back to see if we maybe said something else, I'll still post about the big medical checkups.
The cancer statistics for recurrence and survival take the 'definitive surgery' as the post-cancer starting point. So even though I feel like my post-cancer journey started in April, after the final surgery, I am officially 6 months out. I really can't imagine how people who do chemo after their mastectomies feel about the starting point - I certainly wouldn't feel 'post-cancer' if I were still bald and having bucket days. I have a hard enough time accepting radiation as cancer free time.
The transition back from my cancer adventure has been much harder than I imagined. This makes me pretty grumpy: since I had 13 days from diagnosis to chemo at the beginning, I feel like it would be fair if I only needed two weeks to transition back. Thank heavens I am an academic and get summer vacation - I have really needed the time to get my head (and heart) around everything that happened to me this year.
An example - I cry instantly, without warning, and seemingly without (specific) cause. Now this could be because a) I spent a year facing my own mortality and am dealing with the emotional aftermath that I didn't have time for while I was busily trying not to die, b) I got hacked into, had bits removed, was irradiated, poisoned, lost 15 pounds, and I have no remaining physical reserves, c) I have no estrogen, and am newly in menopause with all the emotional volatility that implies, d) the medicine I am taking to prevent a recurrence makes my joints hurt which keeps me from sleeping very well, so I am seriously overtired, or e) my joints hurt all the time, and my pectoral muscle adhered to my ribs so moving my arm hurts, and not being able to reach down and put on my own socks gets very frustrating. No matter which explanation - or combination - holds true, I am still pissed off because it is further evidence that I am not better yet, don't have control of my body yet, and because I WON, dammit. The rules are: you win, everyone cheers, and you go home and feel better. I am scared to death that even if the cancer doesn't come back - and, oh yes, I am afraid of it coming back - I am still going to hurt all the time, forever. I can accept that I had to have a mastectomy to get the cancer out, and I can accept that the reconstruction didn't work so I look very different. What I didn't anticipate, and didn't expect, was that the mastectomy site would continue to hurt and that I wouldn't get my full mobility back. Every time I reach for a coffee cup, use a paintbrush, or take a deep breath I can feel the painful stretch across my ribcage. Just a teeny, constant reminder of the cancer. But how do I stomach complaining that I hurt when my chemo-buddy, the woman who showed me the ropes, soothed my fears, and taught me about bravery and grace in the face of cancer, she died while I lived.
Clearly, I haven't put this experience behind me yet. I do know things will get better, but this transition has been difficult. I also haven't lost sight of how unbelievably lucky I continue to be - when the joint pain started we thought it was cancer in my bones. Do I wish I didn't hurt? Absolutely. Would I choose pain over death? Duh. But I still cry at nothing.
The cancer statistics for recurrence and survival take the 'definitive surgery' as the post-cancer starting point. So even though I feel like my post-cancer journey started in April, after the final surgery, I am officially 6 months out. I really can't imagine how people who do chemo after their mastectomies feel about the starting point - I certainly wouldn't feel 'post-cancer' if I were still bald and having bucket days. I have a hard enough time accepting radiation as cancer free time.
The transition back from my cancer adventure has been much harder than I imagined. This makes me pretty grumpy: since I had 13 days from diagnosis to chemo at the beginning, I feel like it would be fair if I only needed two weeks to transition back. Thank heavens I am an academic and get summer vacation - I have really needed the time to get my head (and heart) around everything that happened to me this year.
An example - I cry instantly, without warning, and seemingly without (specific) cause. Now this could be because a) I spent a year facing my own mortality and am dealing with the emotional aftermath that I didn't have time for while I was busily trying not to die, b) I got hacked into, had bits removed, was irradiated, poisoned, lost 15 pounds, and I have no remaining physical reserves, c) I have no estrogen, and am newly in menopause with all the emotional volatility that implies, d) the medicine I am taking to prevent a recurrence makes my joints hurt which keeps me from sleeping very well, so I am seriously overtired, or e) my joints hurt all the time, and my pectoral muscle adhered to my ribs so moving my arm hurts, and not being able to reach down and put on my own socks gets very frustrating. No matter which explanation - or combination - holds true, I am still pissed off because it is further evidence that I am not better yet, don't have control of my body yet, and because I WON, dammit. The rules are: you win, everyone cheers, and you go home and feel better. I am scared to death that even if the cancer doesn't come back - and, oh yes, I am afraid of it coming back - I am still going to hurt all the time, forever. I can accept that I had to have a mastectomy to get the cancer out, and I can accept that the reconstruction didn't work so I look very different. What I didn't anticipate, and didn't expect, was that the mastectomy site would continue to hurt and that I wouldn't get my full mobility back. Every time I reach for a coffee cup, use a paintbrush, or take a deep breath I can feel the painful stretch across my ribcage. Just a teeny, constant reminder of the cancer. But how do I stomach complaining that I hurt when my chemo-buddy, the woman who showed me the ropes, soothed my fears, and taught me about bravery and grace in the face of cancer, she died while I lived.
Clearly, I haven't put this experience behind me yet. I do know things will get better, but this transition has been difficult. I also haven't lost sight of how unbelievably lucky I continue to be - when the joint pain started we thought it was cancer in my bones. Do I wish I didn't hurt? Absolutely. Would I choose pain over death? Duh. But I still cry at nothing.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Baby's First Haircut
Sometime over the last few weeks, I realized that not just has my hair come back, but it has gotten messy. Messy! And a little curly - practically a Gazley first! Since next week is a big one for me - I've got my "I kicked cancer's ass" Vegas trip and the Avon walk - I want to look my best. So messy hair was right out. My mom came up for the day, and we went to the salon. Mom was there for my very first haircut, so it made sense that she would be there for this one.
I officially have a style now, rather than more or less two inches or so of hair. Amber even showed me how to make it trendy, with product. Getting a haircut felt great. It's a girly thing. A grown-up thing. A regular life thing. I looked in the mirror (once I put my glasses on) and thought, "I could teach in this, I could go out like this, I look GOOD like this!" Put a pair of earrings on, and I look like a girl instead of like my teenage brother.
Most importantly, Mom approves.
I officially have a style now, rather than more or less two inches or so of hair. Amber even showed me how to make it trendy, with product. Getting a haircut felt great. It's a girly thing. A grown-up thing. A regular life thing. I looked in the mirror (once I put my glasses on) and thought, "I could teach in this, I could go out like this, I look GOOD like this!" Put a pair of earrings on, and I look like a girl instead of like my teenage brother.
Most importantly, Mom approves.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Learning (Un)Curve
Zack took me out over the weekend for my first new-shape shopping experience. Cousin Sarah had left "What Not To Wear" for my general edification and enjoyment, and Zack and I carefully studied the "No Boobs" chapter in the car on the way to the store. WNTW suggests halter tops, high necklines, slash necklines, thick sweaters, and tasteful nipple display. (We disagree with nipple display on general principles. One, I don't have any. And two, nipping is rarely tasteful - go ahead and call me old fashioned on this one).
Armed with our new knowledge, we went into the store and picked up short sleeve shirts with every neckline that seemed to fit the guidelines. Our first frightening discovery was that I appear to have moved from a Medium to Extra-Small. Knit tops require a Small, though, because clinging fabric just shows off my ribcage. One of my Thai friends in Bangkok used to tell stories of her US shopping experiences, and the violence of the competition over the coveted XS merchandise. She fought dirty! With elbows! I am in deep trouble.
Zack and I treated this outing as experimental research. I would go in the dressing room, then come out and we'd discuss the merits of each neckline/shirt. Our scholarly debate seemed to amuse various store patrons, but I found (a bit to my surprise) that I just didn't feel like explaining 'I had cancer, a new body shape, etc.' I was having fun.
Overall, we proved the WNTW principles. Halter tops work in theory, as long as I don't care about the port-a-cath scar being flashed (still more tasteful than nipples). Square necks and high crew necks work well, and patterns help disguise the great plain of my chest. Cap sleeves suit well, but 3/4 sleeves emphasize the out-of-proportion chest to waist ratio. V-necks and scoop necks (my entire summer wardrobe)look really silly.
Our discoveries stretched beyond the WNTW coaching. Shirts with little pockets right where boobs go? Surprisingly in. Shirts with darts to accommodate boobs? Out. Way out. Shirts I've NEVER been able to wear - the ones with ruching at a square neck, or ruffles down the front? In. (Though we didn't purchase any. As Zack howled in front of everyone near the fitting room, "it works but it's SO UGLY!" No matter my shape, melon will never be my color.) Those evil shirts with the empire waist and the band across the front? Turns out that it wasn't my boobs that prohibited my wearing them, but my height. Without boobs to hold the shirt in place, the band rode up and sat just under my armpits like an old man's waistband. Hilariously, hugely out.
We did find one shirt that worked beautifully. I even turned a head in the fitting room. Black, mandarin collar, double buttons down the front, linen. Zack cheered when I came out in it. We high-fived at our discovery, then looked at the tags. $80, dry clean only. Sigh. Some things never change.
Armed with our new knowledge, we went into the store and picked up short sleeve shirts with every neckline that seemed to fit the guidelines. Our first frightening discovery was that I appear to have moved from a Medium to Extra-Small. Knit tops require a Small, though, because clinging fabric just shows off my ribcage. One of my Thai friends in Bangkok used to tell stories of her US shopping experiences, and the violence of the competition over the coveted XS merchandise. She fought dirty! With elbows! I am in deep trouble.
Zack and I treated this outing as experimental research. I would go in the dressing room, then come out and we'd discuss the merits of each neckline/shirt. Our scholarly debate seemed to amuse various store patrons, but I found (a bit to my surprise) that I just didn't feel like explaining 'I had cancer, a new body shape, etc.' I was having fun.
Overall, we proved the WNTW principles. Halter tops work in theory, as long as I don't care about the port-a-cath scar being flashed (still more tasteful than nipples). Square necks and high crew necks work well, and patterns help disguise the great plain of my chest. Cap sleeves suit well, but 3/4 sleeves emphasize the out-of-proportion chest to waist ratio. V-necks and scoop necks (my entire summer wardrobe)look really silly.
Our discoveries stretched beyond the WNTW coaching. Shirts with little pockets right where boobs go? Surprisingly in. Shirts with darts to accommodate boobs? Out. Way out. Shirts I've NEVER been able to wear - the ones with ruching at a square neck, or ruffles down the front? In. (Though we didn't purchase any. As Zack howled in front of everyone near the fitting room, "it works but it's SO UGLY!" No matter my shape, melon will never be my color.) Those evil shirts with the empire waist and the band across the front? Turns out that it wasn't my boobs that prohibited my wearing them, but my height. Without boobs to hold the shirt in place, the band rode up and sat just under my armpits like an old man's waistband. Hilariously, hugely out.
We did find one shirt that worked beautifully. I even turned a head in the fitting room. Black, mandarin collar, double buttons down the front, linen. Zack cheered when I came out in it. We high-fived at our discovery, then looked at the tags. $80, dry clean only. Sigh. Some things never change.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
On Shirts
I'm grappling with the new truth about my physical self: I don't have breasts anymore. I can put my hands against my chest and feel all of my ribs. When I looked down at my toes in the shower, the ends of my rib cage stuck out farther than any other part of me. It is too strange to be shocking, and too shocking to be scary, and too scary to be sad. I keep finding my hands stealing along my ribs, as if I could find my breasts there by accident. I look incredibly tiny now, with my little pixie hair and just my narrow ribcage. The woman who altered my wedding dress decided I must be English, because I have such big boobs and a narrow little ribcage. Had. My shirts hang straight down, now.
Even after everything I've been through this year, I never hated my breasts. Lots of women with breast cancer say they want them chopped off, or call them the evil twins, or just pour hate into them. I couldn't hate them, because they were a part of me - a visible, tangible, obvious part. Not terribly useful, and with a rotten set of instructions, but mine.
I wore my favorite shirt of all time to the hospital on Thursday. That shirt has been dancing in Chicago and New York, on summer dates with Zack, worn under jackets to work and over tight jeans to parties. It fit my curves just so, and I always felt beautiful when I wore it. It is missing a button, and the edges are frayed, and it doesn't have the same give that it used to. In fact, it has gotten pretty worn out. So, really, no-one would know but me that I look beautiful in that shirt.
I know that in a few days I'll be feeling better, and it will be time to change out of my jammies and into regular clothes. That will probably be when the strangeness starts to creep into the everyday. When nothing fits right, and my reflection in the mirror doesn't match what I imagine it should be. When I look around at other women and see curves in all the right places but don't have them myself.
I just have to remember that I know I am beautiful, even if what everyone else sees is just a ratty old shirt.
Even after everything I've been through this year, I never hated my breasts. Lots of women with breast cancer say they want them chopped off, or call them the evil twins, or just pour hate into them. I couldn't hate them, because they were a part of me - a visible, tangible, obvious part. Not terribly useful, and with a rotten set of instructions, but mine.
I wore my favorite shirt of all time to the hospital on Thursday. That shirt has been dancing in Chicago and New York, on summer dates with Zack, worn under jackets to work and over tight jeans to parties. It fit my curves just so, and I always felt beautiful when I wore it. It is missing a button, and the edges are frayed, and it doesn't have the same give that it used to. In fact, it has gotten pretty worn out. So, really, no-one would know but me that I look beautiful in that shirt.
I know that in a few days I'll be feeling better, and it will be time to change out of my jammies and into regular clothes. That will probably be when the strangeness starts to creep into the everyday. When nothing fits right, and my reflection in the mirror doesn't match what I imagine it should be. When I look around at other women and see curves in all the right places but don't have them myself.
I just have to remember that I know I am beautiful, even if what everyone else sees is just a ratty old shirt.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Crying Uncle
It's official - the implants come out tomorrow. Dr. L thinks that the infection keeps smoldering on the surface of the implant, and that the antibiotics won't touch it. We could take another week and see what happens, but I've reached the end of my tether. I am tired of being sick, and just want to move forward.
So, now I need to deal with another major alteration to my self concept, but at least it will be the last change for a while. I figure one more week in a bathrobe, mostly to accommodate the surgical drains, and then I am on to a full time healing schedule. I keep thinking I should be depressed as hell over the whole thing, but at this point I am just relieved to have an end in sight. Mirror-gazing will be pretty jarring for the next few weeks, but I'll get there.
I should be home by tomorrow night. Casseroles and company welcome! Check out my new streamlined look...
So, now I need to deal with another major alteration to my self concept, but at least it will be the last change for a while. I figure one more week in a bathrobe, mostly to accommodate the surgical drains, and then I am on to a full time healing schedule. I keep thinking I should be depressed as hell over the whole thing, but at this point I am just relieved to have an end in sight. Mirror-gazing will be pretty jarring for the next few weeks, but I'll get there.
I should be home by tomorrow night. Casseroles and company welcome! Check out my new streamlined look...
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Watching and Waiting
Met with Dr. L, who looked at my chest and gave a lovely Gallic shrug. It doesn't look healthy, but it isn't obviously infected. We're going to try another week of antibiotics, to a total of four weeks. I can still cry uncle at anytime and have the implants pulled, but it only hurts a little and I just don't see myself willingly doing the whole process again. "Hmmmm, would I rather go work in my garden, or go have another surgery? Would I rather spend next summer feeling whole and healthy, or sore from expander fills?"
I've also realized that I am very much looking forward to a week where I don't have to go flash a doctor. My breasts didn't get this much attention even when they were real.
I've also realized that I am very much looking forward to a week where I don't have to go flash a doctor. My breasts didn't get this much attention even when they were real.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Evil Has a Name...
Coagulase negative staphylococcus. (Da da dum!)
The hospital cultured some of the fluid Dr L swabbed from inside the pocket of my right breast (that just sounds weird) and found staph growing in the petri dish. This isn't a surprise, since staph is the most common bacteria found on the outside of our skin. The infection seems to be retreating nicely in the face of the antibiotics that I am taking, so, we aren't very worried. Just good to know for sure. So no-one panic, please, that it is a crazy MRSA flesh eater. Mine appears to be susceptible to at least two classes of antibiotics.
Lynn's Immune System: 1
CNS: 0
The hospital cultured some of the fluid Dr L swabbed from inside the pocket of my right breast (that just sounds weird) and found staph growing in the petri dish. This isn't a surprise, since staph is the most common bacteria found on the outside of our skin. The infection seems to be retreating nicely in the face of the antibiotics that I am taking, so, we aren't very worried. Just good to know for sure. So no-one panic, please, that it is a crazy MRSA flesh eater. Mine appears to be susceptible to at least two classes of antibiotics.
Lynn's Immune System: 1
CNS: 0
Friday, March 21, 2008
Home Again, Home Again!
Jiggety jig!
I am thrilled to be ensconced in my very own chair, in my very own house, in my very own jammies. Zack - the hero driver - navigated us out of the hospital, north to the pharmacy, and home through the foot of snow. Many thanks to Danny next door for shoveling a path for us. We really do have the very best neighbors ever.
Only a minor insurance adventure at the pharmacy. Cigna didn't precertify the oral antibiotics, so the pharmacy wouldn't give them to us unless we pay retail ($2500). Quick calls to the discharge nurse and the amazing Dr. L. Cigna has gone home for the weekend, but LFH discharge nurse thinks she can get them to precertify the drugs on Monday. Pharmacist pulls out his hero badge and GIVES us three days of antibiotics to get us through until the certification. Zack runs out of the pharmacy with a sack full of meds, and whisks me home.
Although I was very well cared for at the hospital, and received lots of well wishes on my way out, I can hardly describe how unbelievably great it feels to be home. And, I'm wearing pants!
I am thrilled to be ensconced in my very own chair, in my very own house, in my very own jammies. Zack - the hero driver - navigated us out of the hospital, north to the pharmacy, and home through the foot of snow. Many thanks to Danny next door for shoveling a path for us. We really do have the very best neighbors ever.
Only a minor insurance adventure at the pharmacy. Cigna didn't precertify the oral antibiotics, so the pharmacy wouldn't give them to us unless we pay retail ($2500). Quick calls to the discharge nurse and the amazing Dr. L. Cigna has gone home for the weekend, but LFH discharge nurse thinks she can get them to precertify the drugs on Monday. Pharmacist pulls out his hero badge and GIVES us three days of antibiotics to get us through until the certification. Zack runs out of the pharmacy with a sack full of meds, and whisks me home.
Although I was very well cared for at the hospital, and received lots of well wishes on my way out, I can hardly describe how unbelievably great it feels to be home. And, I'm wearing pants!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Going Walkies
I took myself for a quick walk around the floor this afternoon, and realized a few things:
Top ten signs you've spent too long in the hospital
1) You can say hello to most of the nurses by name.
2) Staff wave, call you by name, and wonder whether you are "having nice walkies?"
3) You forget you aren't wearing pants
4) Staff point you out as you go by to other patients as "that cute little cancer girl"
5) Jello, or no Jello? Serious deliberation
6) Staff start asking you real questions: "does the cancer hurt? was chemotherapy hard? you are so young, does your mom worry?" (everyone asks about your mom)
7) You run out of veins.
8) The routine begins to make sense.
9) Doctors forget why you were originally admitted.
10) Coming back to the room, you look for your housekeys to open the door.
Top ten signs you've spent too long in the hospital
1) You can say hello to most of the nurses by name.
2) Staff wave, call you by name, and wonder whether you are "having nice walkies?"
3) You forget you aren't wearing pants
4) Staff point you out as you go by to other patients as "that cute little cancer girl"
5) Jello, or no Jello? Serious deliberation
6) Staff start asking you real questions: "does the cancer hurt? was chemotherapy hard? you are so young, does your mom worry?" (everyone asks about your mom)
7) You run out of veins.
8) The routine begins to make sense.
9) Doctors forget why you were originally admitted.
10) Coming back to the room, you look for your housekeys to open the door.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
The Breach, Again
Zack and I are returned from our very rejuvenating vacation in New York. We're still digesting all of our NYC faves (pizza, Chinese, bagels, pretzels, pastrami, and, of course, a black and white cookie). We saw theater, movies, and museums - we are so full of culture we could be yogurt. Our very favorite moment: during the curtain call for Patrick Stewart in Macbeth (just as fantastic as it sounds), a guy to our left yelled "Bravo, Captain Picard!" Yay, trekkies!
So, here we are now at the watershed moment. Tomorrow will either be the first day of the pure prevention phase of my recovery, or it will be the first day of treatment for a new kind of cancer. I'm daunted by both options. On the one hand, I've gotten so used to being a full time patient that it will be strange to start making other sorts of plans. Sortof like being a Chicagoan in February - intrigued by the idea of spring, but skeptical that it could ever really happen. On the other hand, holy crap. Chemo, again. Radiation, again. Bucket day, again. Bald, again.
The craziest part, though, is that whichever way tomorrow goes, I know we can make it. We've got each other, our families, our friends, and a great medical team.
Zack will bring a computer tomorrow, and plans to post once I am out of surgery. If all goes well, I'll be home tomorrow night. For tonight, Zack and I are going out to dinner and celebrating. A little Italian, a little vino, a little fantasizing about the summer...nothing of consequence. Hey, we're still on vacation!
So, here we are now at the watershed moment. Tomorrow will either be the first day of the pure prevention phase of my recovery, or it will be the first day of treatment for a new kind of cancer. I'm daunted by both options. On the one hand, I've gotten so used to being a full time patient that it will be strange to start making other sorts of plans. Sortof like being a Chicagoan in February - intrigued by the idea of spring, but skeptical that it could ever really happen. On the other hand, holy crap. Chemo, again. Radiation, again. Bucket day, again. Bald, again.
The craziest part, though, is that whichever way tomorrow goes, I know we can make it. We've got each other, our families, our friends, and a great medical team.
Zack will bring a computer tomorrow, and plans to post once I am out of surgery. If all goes well, I'll be home tomorrow night. For tonight, Zack and I are going out to dinner and celebrating. A little Italian, a little vino, a little fantasizing about the summer...nothing of consequence. Hey, we're still on vacation!
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Left Field
Met with Dr W today (gynecological oncologist). Very sweet gentleman. He referred to my demographic as "ladies". Going into the appointment, Zack and I most wanted to understand a) what the heck is going on, b) what piece of the procedure moved from a laparoscopic surgery to an open surgery and c) is that piece of the procedure worth the additional recovery time and muscle damage.
Turns out, the only part of the procedure that cannot be done laparoscopically would be removing the omentum (a fatty layer over the colon). The omentum tends to be a common site for ovarian cancer to spread. Zack and I decided that since I would only need to have the omentum removed IF they discover ovarian cancer, we could put off that procedure. So we are back to a laparoscopic, day surgery. Drs H & W will remove my ovaries, fallopian tubes, and uterus, and do a series of washes of the peritoneum. Pathologists will then test the organs and the collected fluid for cancerous cells.
Here's where we veer into left field. Our entire assumption of why we are doing this surgery was - well, not off base, exactly, but missing a key component. Up to now, we thought we were doing the oophorectomy to remove the major source of estrogen in order to keep from feeding any colonists from the breast cancer. That remains true. In addition, though, my BRCA2 mutation carries an almost 50% risk of ovarian cancer, and a small risk of peritoneal cancer. So, what Dr W will REALLY be looking for next week is a brand new primary cancer. And, unfortunately, the chemotherapy agents effective against breast cancer don't usually work against ovarian cancer, so it could have been lurking for a while. Given my history, if they find anything even remotely funky, we'll be right back to the beginning. Scans, chemo, radiation, and surgeries.
Strangely, we aren't despairing over this news. I think we are so excited about being able to negotiate back to laparoscopic surgery that we haven't quite processed the other piece. It was definitely an "informed patient" moment. We also are living in such a left field world right now that new, bizarre risks feel pretty inevitable. Right now, the surgery is tentatively scheduled for Monday, March 17 (the day after we return from our vacation in New York).
Turns out, the only part of the procedure that cannot be done laparoscopically would be removing the omentum (a fatty layer over the colon). The omentum tends to be a common site for ovarian cancer to spread. Zack and I decided that since I would only need to have the omentum removed IF they discover ovarian cancer, we could put off that procedure. So we are back to a laparoscopic, day surgery. Drs H & W will remove my ovaries, fallopian tubes, and uterus, and do a series of washes of the peritoneum. Pathologists will then test the organs and the collected fluid for cancerous cells.
Here's where we veer into left field. Our entire assumption of why we are doing this surgery was - well, not off base, exactly, but missing a key component. Up to now, we thought we were doing the oophorectomy to remove the major source of estrogen in order to keep from feeding any colonists from the breast cancer. That remains true. In addition, though, my BRCA2 mutation carries an almost 50% risk of ovarian cancer, and a small risk of peritoneal cancer. So, what Dr W will REALLY be looking for next week is a brand new primary cancer. And, unfortunately, the chemotherapy agents effective against breast cancer don't usually work against ovarian cancer, so it could have been lurking for a while. Given my history, if they find anything even remotely funky, we'll be right back to the beginning. Scans, chemo, radiation, and surgeries.
Strangely, we aren't despairing over this news. I think we are so excited about being able to negotiate back to laparoscopic surgery that we haven't quite processed the other piece. It was definitely an "informed patient" moment. We also are living in such a left field world right now that new, bizarre risks feel pretty inevitable. Right now, the surgery is tentatively scheduled for Monday, March 17 (the day after we return from our vacation in New York).
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Another Day, Another New Wrinkle
So, I got a call from Dr. H today. She's been conferring with a gynecological oncologist (Dr. W) about my case. Turns out, in people with my particular combination of genetics and aggressive cancer, a slightly more complicated surgery is necessary. I'll get more details on Thursday, when I meet with Dr. W. (The advantage to being an 'extremely high risk' case is that docs find time for you.) What we know now, though, is that the surgery will have to be abdominal instead of laproscopic and that my uterus is on the chopping block along with my ovaries.
I'm pretty unhappy about the whole thing. I'd rather not have an abdominal incision - recovery is much harder, and, well, to be honest, I'd rather not gain any more big scars. Not that I intend on showing up in a bikini anytime soon, but still. I'm also disappointed that yet another of my organs has turned into a dangerous sleeper agent that must be removed for my safety. And the timing, frankly, sucks. I'd intended this to be a time of healing and celebrating. Instead, I'm feeling sucker punched.
More details Thursday.
I'm pretty unhappy about the whole thing. I'd rather not have an abdominal incision - recovery is much harder, and, well, to be honest, I'd rather not gain any more big scars. Not that I intend on showing up in a bikini anytime soon, but still. I'm also disappointed that yet another of my organs has turned into a dangerous sleeper agent that must be removed for my safety. And the timing, frankly, sucks. I'd intended this to be a time of healing and celebrating. Instead, I'm feeling sucker punched.
More details Thursday.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Surgery Details
Met with Dr. H yesterday about the next round of surgery. She says it is a very straightforward laproscopic procedure, so the recovery time (pain and movement-wise) should be quite short. She did warn that, particularly with everything else I have been through, I will probably need a good month to recover from the surgical fatigue. More - ahem - exciting will be the instant onset of full-blown menopause. I got a taste of it while on chemotherapy, but the surgery will bring on the real deal. I am not looking forward to it by any means, but it has got to be better than chemo.
Dr. H will coordinate with Dr. B to make sure there isn't anything else she needs to do while we're in there, then get the procedure scheduled for the next few weeks. In some ways, I feel like a car. "Hey, Cooter, ya wanna throw in a new valve cover gasket while you're in there? Save me the price of the labor in 20,000 miles..."
So, to sum up: outpatient surgery, fully anesthetized, laproscopic, month of recovery.
Dr. H will coordinate with Dr. B to make sure there isn't anything else she needs to do while we're in there, then get the procedure scheduled for the next few weeks. In some ways, I feel like a car. "Hey, Cooter, ya wanna throw in a new valve cover gasket while you're in there? Save me the price of the labor in 20,000 miles..."
So, to sum up: outpatient surgery, fully anesthetized, laproscopic, month of recovery.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
From Treatment to Prevention
The appointment went well. The team at Dr. B's office oohed and aahed over my new hair, and were - of course - thrilled to see Zack. I even got to see my chemo-buddy, which was an extra treat. Dr. B says my radiation burns don't look fabulous, but are within the bounds of normal so not to worry.
Surgery:
No major surprises, just some tweaks. The surgery to remove my ovaries needs to happen ASAP, rather than in May as I'd planned. So, we're trying to get it scheduled for the week after we return from vacation. On the positive side, Dr. H can probably do the surgery. Zack is excited to meet her, as he credits her with saving my life. By working her personal contacts, Dr. H bustled me into the offices of Dr. S and Dr. B within a few days of my visit with her. Without her direct intervention, that process could easily have taken a month. A month, it turns out, I didn't have.
Drugs:
I start Tamoxifen tomorrow. I'll take it until the surgery, then switch to an aromatase inhibitor. I also start calcium & vitamin D supplements, since both early menopause and the AIs tend to increase bone loss. So, osteoporosis is the newest item on the list of things to worry about. I figure this gives me all the justification I need to eat Cabot's cheese by the brick and drink lattes all morning. There's calcium in butter, right?
Monitoring:
I'll have checkups every three months to check for any possible cancer recurrence. Any new tumors would be most likely to grow in my bones, liver, chest wall, or lymph nodes. Although the evidence is mixed on their utility, Dr. B and I decided to go ahead and test for blood borne tumor markers. The problem is, the tumor markers often spike without the doctors being able to find an actual tumor anywhere. However, a tumor marker spike does throw up a red flag, and in the best case scenario this could give Dr. B a three month head start finding for a new cancer. Based on the incredible growth rate of the first cancer, Dr. B wants every time advantage she can get, as long as I am willing to live with the potential for unnecessary anxiety that false positive results could bring. (we are.)
Other than that, Dr. B wants to do symptom-triggered scans, rather than have me do CTs every three months. She feels that I will pay close enough attention to know when something feels strange, and she'll do careful checks whenever I see her. She'll use regular bloodwork to check up on liver function and my other organs.
Summary:
We're living in a coin toss world. Think tails!
Surgery:
No major surprises, just some tweaks. The surgery to remove my ovaries needs to happen ASAP, rather than in May as I'd planned. So, we're trying to get it scheduled for the week after we return from vacation. On the positive side, Dr. H can probably do the surgery. Zack is excited to meet her, as he credits her with saving my life. By working her personal contacts, Dr. H bustled me into the offices of Dr. S and Dr. B within a few days of my visit with her. Without her direct intervention, that process could easily have taken a month. A month, it turns out, I didn't have.
Drugs:
I start Tamoxifen tomorrow. I'll take it until the surgery, then switch to an aromatase inhibitor. I also start calcium & vitamin D supplements, since both early menopause and the AIs tend to increase bone loss. So, osteoporosis is the newest item on the list of things to worry about. I figure this gives me all the justification I need to eat Cabot's cheese by the brick and drink lattes all morning. There's calcium in butter, right?
Monitoring:
I'll have checkups every three months to check for any possible cancer recurrence. Any new tumors would be most likely to grow in my bones, liver, chest wall, or lymph nodes. Although the evidence is mixed on their utility, Dr. B and I decided to go ahead and test for blood borne tumor markers. The problem is, the tumor markers often spike without the doctors being able to find an actual tumor anywhere. However, a tumor marker spike does throw up a red flag, and in the best case scenario this could give Dr. B a three month head start finding for a new cancer. Based on the incredible growth rate of the first cancer, Dr. B wants every time advantage she can get, as long as I am willing to live with the potential for unnecessary anxiety that false positive results could bring. (we are.)
Other than that, Dr. B wants to do symptom-triggered scans, rather than have me do CTs every three months. She feels that I will pay close enough attention to know when something feels strange, and she'll do careful checks whenever I see her. She'll use regular bloodwork to check up on liver function and my other organs.
Summary:
We're living in a coin toss world. Think tails!
Nerves and News
So, we leave in a few minutes for my post-radiation "so now what" appointment with my oncologist (the much praised Dr B). Before I came down, I found myself dithering about lipstick, and what to wear. I even tried to brush my hair. (For the record, half an inch is still too short to brush...or even to do that brush it all forward and make the front stand up hairstyle that has been popular among my students. The male ones.) I caught myself doing my nervous routine and laughed. Do I think my prognosis will be better if I look better? That I can somehow get out of the next steps if I just look healthy enough? Ah well, we all need these reminders that human logic doesn't always correspond to cold logic.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Old Friends, New Friends, Good Friends, True Friends
I've finally finished radiation! Although, according to Dr. I, I've 'hit the peak' of the side effects - explaining the splitting, bleeding skin - it should clear up in a week or so. Beyond some strangely placed freckles, some redness, and the bleeding, I'm just plain tired. However, all of this is easily fixed with some quiet time. Emotionally, I am ecstatic to be finished, and am busy reveling in the huge luxury of two whole weeks without a doctor's appointment.
Speaking of revels, the party this weekend was completely, totally, and utterly wonderful. Zack and I had a thoroughly marvelous time. In my favorite moment, I walked into the back room (the room everyone painted for me at the beginning of this saga) and realized that instead of separating into clusters by type (school friends in one corner, Chicago friends in another), people had moved all the chairs and couches into a big circle and were talking together. That could, of course, have a little to do with the incredible food that people had brought and placed on the coffee tables in that part of the room, but I like to think that such great people just naturally gravitate toward each other.
Speaking of revels, the party this weekend was completely, totally, and utterly wonderful. Zack and I had a thoroughly marvelous time. In my favorite moment, I walked into the back room (the room everyone painted for me at the beginning of this saga) and realized that instead of separating into clusters by type (school friends in one corner, Chicago friends in another), people had moved all the chairs and couches into a big circle and were talking together. That could, of course, have a little to do with the incredible food that people had brought and placed on the coffee tables in that part of the room, but I like to think that such great people just naturally gravitate toward each other.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Countdown...5
Five more days of radiation! One small handful of active treatments left and I am graduated to pure prevention activity.
So, of course, the only appropriate response is to THROW A PARTY!
Here's the link for the address & such.
We're opening our doors at 10am for those who'd like to help prep/cook/etc. It's an all day, open house affair, so drop in anytime. Champagne corks pop at noon, if you'd like to be here for the official toasts. Pass the invite on to anyone who might like to participate, anyone you'd like to bring, etc. Families welcome - we'll prep the upstairs bedroom for naptime, just in case.
See you Saturday!
So, of course, the only appropriate response is to THROW A PARTY!
Here's the link for the address & such.
We're opening our doors at 10am for those who'd like to help prep/cook/etc. It's an all day, open house affair, so drop in anytime. Champagne corks pop at noon, if you'd like to be here for the official toasts. Pass the invite on to anyone who might like to participate, anyone you'd like to bring, etc. Families welcome - we'll prep the upstairs bedroom for naptime, just in case.
See you Saturday!
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