I Turned Right, Not Left.....

Turn left, or turn right, or don't move at all. Go in one direction, and your life becomes one thing; go in another, and, so too, your life changes again.

I wanted to be a doctor when I grew up, but for many reasons, the least of all, my inability to master organic chemistry, I hop-scotched majors until I graduated with the skills to read the newspaper and have a career in retail. I thought about being a lawyer, too, but didn't take any steps beyond imaging myself arguing some brilliant theory before a enthralled jury. That, plus a less than stellar score on the LSAT, made law school an impossible dream.

After college, I worked behind the cosmetic counter, and considered my options. One particular December evening, just a week before Christmas, being mugged at gunpoint in the employee parking lot, made a choice for me: a transfer to another store. And
because of that circumstance, I met my husband, Rich.

Later, I became a nurse, recognizing that a supporting role in medicine, for the moment, was good enough. After some years, some additional study, and more initials following my name, I became a nurse practitioner: now, I was able to play "Doctor," a role, that I had so long ago, abandoned.

Some time passed, and a chance overheard conversation from one of my nursing peers, gave me an entre into being a nursing "expert witness." Now, I got to play "Lawyer," from the back row, as well.

Along with our choices, timing is everything. Rich had a heart attack late last year. Although he seemed fine, he had another acute event, just days later. And because I decided to stay home with him that day, instead of going into my office as planned, he is alive.

For each choice we make, for each arbitrary decision, for each circumstance of random timing, a different outcome, a point of divergence, ensues.  These alternate histories, of what may have happened, are a point of fascination: both of great potential opportunity and success, and, conversely, the  potential for infinite sorrow and loss.  And only after the fact, only after the event, do we step back and attempt to appreciate what was set in motion, and what we could have done to alter our fate. In the end, we can only accept it.

Refine Your "Terroir"

 There's a concept in winemaking called "terroir" wherein all environmental factors (the heat of the sun, the cold of night, the morning dew, the rocky soil) are recognized as having a significant outcome on the final product. We humans are not so different: everything we choose, from where we live, to our life's work, to our emotions and reactions, to the food and drink we consume, create our own self....for better or worse.

 

The fact is, that cancer (those renegade cells going off the reservation) occurs all the time in everyone, but luckily your own cellular SWAT team (wonderfully named "natural killer cells") is smart enough to seek and destroy. And like any other police force, keeping them happy means that they will "serve & protect" that much more efficiently. That means keeping them properly fed, rested and respected, in a calm and peaceful environment. Happy cells means happy terroir....and no weeds taking over the farm.

 

The science is all out there: eating organic precludes getting dosed with pesticides; stay away from big fish as they are tainted with mercury; too much booze will kill you; red wine and dark chocolate are actually good for you; take the sun with protection; particular spices (chemicals) are good for you and others are not; smoking hurts you; sugar is bad but fat, not so much; your own fat is a toxic waste-dump, so lose it; learn how to say "no" and define what you stand for; and above all: remember sitting causes cancer, so keep moving!

 

But sometimes, in some people, for whatever reason, the system fails....and things go very wrong. Bad terroir? Bad farmer? Bad karma? All of the above? Quite possible. So perhaps simple maintenance is the best prevention...and for me, the best post-operative on-going lifetime cure. Green tea, anyone?

 

 

 

Younger

I've discovered the Fountain of Youth! And like all good things, it was there all along, I only had to look inward and see it. I now know that all I have to do....is LIE! I figure that 10-years off is a nice even number and the math won't be so hard to do.

See? I am NOW a member of the Class of 1988. I simply have to remember some new "facts" in order to maintain my cover.  In 1978, my Prom theme was "Nights in White Satin," and as astonishingly morose as that sounds in retrospect, none of us appreciated the irony as we lit up that Disco Inferno. 

In my new pretend 80's existence, I think the Prom's theme was "Get Out of My Dreams, Get Into My Car," or maybe it was "Could've Been" by Tiffany, or was it "Shake Your Love" by Debbie Gibson? The sheer magic of that evening, back in 1988 (right?) makes my memory a little hazy...

And who could forget where they were for the defining moment of my new generation: when Milli Vanilli had to confess that they were lip-synching? The shock and pain are still so real...

The funny thing is, I still think I'm about 17, and am horrified, on a daily basis, when I look into a mirror and see my father in drag. And when I attempt to spring out of bed in the morning only to be foiled by a bad back and stiff knees, I think I must have cancer...oh wait, that was true....but you see where I'm going here?

I'm happy to fool the world with dyeing my hair, talking the hip jive with the kids, and wearing clothes that are far too young for me, because I know that my earthly form conceals an  immature soul that is still learning the rules of the game. I'm happy to keep playing.

That's Going to Leave a Mark!

It’s absolutely true. You start as an unscathed and pristine canvas. And then LIFE puts its mark on you.  

When I look at my left hand, there’s a crescent-shaped scar, with 2 small dots above it, over my middle knuckle. It was the Summer of 1968, and I crashed into a parked car on my bike. Yeah…I’m really that klutzy. And the stitches were left in too long, so my father took them out, with a nail clipper, no less. Nothing like a little home-surgery to create lasting memories, huh?

My right knee, still, has a nasty mass of scar from the Autumn of 1972, when my junior-high PE teacher, Mrs. Sharp, told me that the hurdles couldn’t hurt me. My lack of coordination has certainly kept me from a career in the Bolshoi, but crash-test dummy surely beacons?

Of late, I wear a simple 1-inch line, that is still a little pink, mid-point between my armpit and what’s left of my right breast, where a lymph gland, called a sentinel node, no less, was taken away for questioning under bright lights, never to return. And hidden under my falsely-inflated breast, too, is a quite discreet reimagining of a simple skin fold, where age would have naturally caused a bit of sag, but where, in fact, a scalpel has sculpted an access for a future creation.

It all tells a story. And I am happy to be here to spin the tale.

 

My Life in Pictures.....

 



I've always been a movie buff...a film aficionado. I'm forever happy to sit in a darkened room full of strangers and be told a story in pictures and sounds. Over the years, some of those stories have stayed with me, echoing and foreshadowing my own experiences, almost like a Roberta Flack refrain of "strumming my life with his fingers, singing my life with his words."

 

I'm forever amazed at the commonality of emotion that shows up on the silver screen. I'm not saying that I've ever been in prison (as far as most of you know), or hid from the Nazi's (at least until this administration) or battled my father with a light-saber in a galaxy far, far away, but I, like you, have had those feelings, thought those thoughts, cringed or cried or laughed, all enabled by the filmmaker's skillful craft. 

 

By virtue of you, gentle reader, perusing this blog, you likely know me fairly well. And while most of us could easily create a list of our "favorite" movies (Star Wars, duh!), the introspection required to reveal yourself via the cinematic medium is a bit more involved. But I gladly lay myself bare to you....In no particular order, I offer the following list wherein some aspect of the characters, scenes, dialogue and/or thematic challenge has spoken my story aloud...at least to me. Do you know me well? See me, hear me, watch me in....but don't ask me to explain it.

 

-Defending Your Life

-Remains of the Day

-Modern Girls

-The Accidental Tourist

-Rashomon

-Never Let Me Go

-Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

-Stand By Me

-The Truman Show

-Midnight in Paris

-Office Space

-Stranger Than Fiction

-Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House

-Big Fish

-Lost in Translation

-The Ice Storm

-The House of Mirth

-The Age of Innocence

-Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day

-Pleasantville   

 

 

I'll be a Little Short-Handed....

I had a meeting with my Plastics MD the other day, discussing the plan for the new right boob. It will be a simple 1 hour surgery, and then, I get to go home. Easy, huh? What did throw me, though, was her warning that afterwards, for 6 weeks in fact, to ensure that the newly-positioned piece of silicone stays in place, I cannot lift anything more than a few pounds, reach over my head, gesture madly or do Marine push-up's. In other words, I will be like T-Rex...elbows gripped tightly to my sides with my wrists twirling, like attempts at frantic shadow puppets.

Just like T-Rex, I'll be unable to:
1. take a selfie.
2. make the bed.
3.  do anything with my hair...
4.  put on a hat.
5.  do CPR.

Love to all.

At a Loss For Words?

This whole dumb cancer thing started in August and kind of snowballed from there. At first, the medical line was "It's just a small lump; we'll do a lumpectomy and that's it." Then it was "Uhh....it's in a couple of different places, let's just wack the whole boob." And in between, no one was ever quite sure if chemo, radiation or both may have been in the future, as that depended on some serious microscope work on the half-rack on a slab in a lab...

 

With that scenario unfolding, I was hesitant to spread any news, as it just seemed to be getting worse with each medical interaction. It's hard enough to start a conversation with "I have cancer;" it's even worse to imagine re-starting that conversation over and over again with each bit of newfound horribleness.

 

So I chose to wait until I knew the whole story, and even then, the sheer numbers of people you want to include are exhausting in and of themselves. The miracle of the internet, Facebook and this blog, have allowed me to tell the story as I have deemed appropriate. Not all the info at once, not to everyone, and with sparing me endless repetition and the potential for teary refrains.

 

And so, in response, many of you have emailed, or sent a card, or better still, sent flowers and chocolate and wine....and it was all graciously welcomed. But some did not. Not a word. Even some of those whom I've always thought were rather close, chose not to communicate. And that's OK...like I said, when my opening line to you is "I have cancer..." an appropriate comeback is a tough thing to muster.

 

I have found a certain strange mirth in those who sent "Get Well" cards: when you don't know that someone will get well, is that politically correct? And what's with the coloring- books, huh? Was that for the potential chemo-hours ahead to get my potential chemo-brain off the potential of chemo-belly? (Just as well, I've never been able to color within the lines anyway.) All well-intentioned, I know...but "I have cancer" and can make these sweeping judgments. 

 

My story is progressing nicely...I'm doing phenomenally-well and will be better than new by the end of March. But, please, keep the emails, and cards, and certainly gifts of all kinds, coming. Because you know, "I have cancer."

 

PS: My husband says I'm not allowed to use that excuse any longer as the surgery "cured" me and chemo is not required. Shit. Would you believe "I miss you?"

 

Love to all.

 



Playing the Cancer Card?

When the events of the world around me are just too horrific to bear, like when a racist misogynistic fascist gets elected supreme US leader, I just turn inward and focus on myself. As I've said before, aside from a right boob that is alternately numb or hypersensitive (was that TMI?) things are really not so bad.

A friend of mine, who has gone through this whole breast-cancer badness gambit, reminded me that there are, in fact, some remarkable advantages to having cancer:

1. Friends give you candy, flowers, books & booze.
2. You get to test-drive all the best narcotics & be on a first-name basis with your pharmacist.
3. You find out who your friends really are (forgive the grammar).
4. You tend not to stress so much about the small shit (and it's all small shit).
5. You can always use "But I have cancer," as an excuse for most anything.

My husband has reminded me that since my surgical interlude, I can't play the cancer card anymore, because now I don't "have" cancer (just a incrementally immense propensity, as opposed to anyone else). But it certainly can come in handy....Not that I would play that hand.

 

A Pisser of a Year

The past 13 months have been pretty horrific:

October 27, 2015 : Rich had a heart attack.
November 3, 2015: Rich had a cardiac arrest  (for which I had to perform CPR). He lives!
January 10, 2016: David Bowie died.
January 18, 2016: Glenn Frey died.
January 28, 2016: The Zika virus outbreak begins.
February 7, 2016:  North Korea launches a long-range rocket into space.
April 21, 2016: Prince died.
August 28, 2016: Gene Wilder died.
September 5, 2016: I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
October 10, 2016: I underwent a mastectomy.
November 8, 2016: America went to hell in a hand-basket.

2017 has got to be better, right?

Love to all.

November 8, 2016: A Dark Day

I'm well aware of my place in the universe. I know that in the grand scheme of things, my entire existence is a transient thing, and whatever small significance I possess will eventually be lost to the cosmic winds.

But even on this tiny blue speck of a planet in the multi-verse, there's always a chance to "do the right thing," and strive to improve, refine, educate and evolve. But not all share my views..... 

On this Election Day 2016, hatred, racism, misogyny, division, isolationism and ignorance were shown to be the prevailing traits of my fellow Americans, as fear, not understanding, ruled their decision-making (or lack thereof). There is a palpable unease of our country's future and a chilling realization that this upcoming administration's decisions will have an impact for generations to come.

Cancer was a lot less painful to bear.

Love to all.

Is it Hot in Here?

 

I'm old. I was already under the spell of menopause, and had been enjoying my physician-sanctioned max dose of hormone replacement for a long time. It seemed so easy. "Better living through chemistry" right?

But that's all over now. Estrogen, if you recall, feeds cancer. Sigh....so it's off the table.

And, as a result, the fiery gates of Hell have opened, in the form of the infamous "hot flashes." About every 2 hours or so, it feels as if I have a Grade A sunburn and have just opened the oven door in my face. It lasts about 10 minutes, then, poof, I'm back to my version of normal. My peers have been known to experience a variation which includes sweating like a porcine she-devil, but luckily I've been spared that aspect. And anyway, ladies never sweat, they "glow."

I try to remain focused that in the big picture of things, I'm alive, healing well, and soon will have the tits of a 19-year-old. It could always be worse. But I really miss my estrogen...and sleeping.

Kancer Kalories

When I first received this cancer diagnosis....I have to be honest here....one of my first thoughts was "Awesome: I can eat anything, because I'll need all those extra calories to counteract the demonic CHEMO-monster looming on the horizon." Truly....this was in the back of my mind. The tiniest of silver-linings in that ominous black cloud. Granted, it was not my very first thought (but certainly right behind throwing-up and losing my hair). It made placing that 610-calorie Marie Callender's Chicken Pot Pie in the microwave all the easier. But now, I'm busted.

Although I will be forever grateful to the cosmos for sparing me the rigors of chemotherapy, I now have to (Doctor's orders no less):
1. Exercise (daily, in fact)
2. Eat limited red meat and more vegetables...and go organic on all 
3. Lose 20 pounds
4. Drink water
5. Stand, not sit

In addition, the daily renegade-cancer-cell-killing drug, has, as one of it's many side effects: weight gain! In fact, during these first 5 days that I've taken this stuff, I've gained 3 pounds! Some would say that the celebratory filet mignon, loaded baked potatoes, Halloween cupcakes, nightly popcorn and medicinal Cabernet have been contributing factors...obviously, these are just opinions, and not facts. Just like the "debate" on global warming.

So, to save my life.....I've:
1.  taken away my office chair and installed a standing desk.
2.  made "infused" fruit water and have a glass always at hand.
3.  taken a small loan to buy our all our groceries at Whole Foods.
4.  walked across the street to my gym and pedaled a bike that goes no where.
5.  weighed myself each morning, through tear-stained eyes.

Those of you who already enjoy this new-fangled "active-lifestyle" thing are surely rolling your eyes at my perception of this new trial.......I wonder how many calories that burns?

Love.

Dodging a Bullet?

This Halloween was the happiest I can remember (short of the time that all the people left bowls of candy on their doorsteps, and asked us to take only one...ha!)...but I digress.

Rich & I met with the Oncology Doctor on Halloween (cue the triumphal moving theme), and she agreed with my interpretation of the lab tests: NO CHEMO!!! Done! No radiation......nothing, well, except for reconstructing this slightly deflated boob in the months ahead and taking a daily medication.

Said medication is Arimidex@, which serves to stop estrogen production, that potentially could feed clandestine ninja cancer cells lurking about, and starve the bastards out.  Way too easy, right? One pill, once a day....for FIVE YEARS...maybe TEN, depending on ever-changing long-term studies. But still real good. I'm pleased.

Dodged that bullet.

Love to all.

A Lucky Hand?

Today, I had an appointment with my Plastics MD....and guess what? She had the results of the mysterious OncoType DX test....4 days before my scheduled appointment with the Oncology MD. (Cue ominous music......)

If you recall, these results are read as a number between 1 and 100. If that number is ↓18, then there’s "little to no chemotherapy benefit, as there’s a low risk of distant reoccurrence," and only hormone therapy will entail. If the number is between 18-30, likewise, there is "no substantial chemotherapy benefit," and again, only hormone therapy will be necessary. A number ↑31 means that chemo does have a "significant statistical benefit."

My result?     21......make that "Lucky 21?"

Granted, I'm "just a nurse," and must wait for the physician's interpretation and recommendations on Monday. I just hope she concurs with mine.

 

The Randolph Model: The 5 Stages of Grief

Kubler-Ross created 5 Stages of Grief to explain how humans react to profound news of death and dying. Her stages included:

1. Denial: Individuals believe there's an error in DX or info, & cling to a false reality.
2. Anger: Anger ensues after the individual recognizes that their denial cannot continue.
3. Bargaining: An internal negotiation for longer life or lessened consequence, is sought.
4. Depression:  Now, the individual is saddened at the recognition of their mortality.
5. Acceptance: Lastly, individuals embrace their mortality or inevitable future with a calm, retrospective view, and a stable condition of emotions.

Randolph's 5 Stages of Grief, is somewhat parallel, but immensely simplified.
1. Denial: Are you fucking kidding me?
2. Anger: Fuck you, you fucking motherfuckering whore!
3. Bargaining: Fuck that shit!
4. Depression:  Fuck me. 
5. Acceptance: Oh, fuck it!

 

 

The Week of Magical Thinking

“Magical thinking” is defined as the belief that an object, action or circumstance not logically related to a course of events, can influence its outcome.

We are all magical thinkers, to some degree, finding solace and comfort in ritual and belief.

Do you wear a wedding ring? That's magical thinking. Do you hope that karma exists, and your enemies will get what they deserve? That’s magical thinking. Do you ever yell at inanimate objects for the harm they've caused you? That’s magical thinking. Do you believe in luck, fate, kismet? That's magical thinking.....

I'm still awaiting the results for definitive medical treatment of this pesky breast cancer thing, on Halloween, to be exact. Until then, I try to be resolved and patient, and (dare I say it?) hope for the best. It wouldn't hurt to get lucky.....cross your fingers for me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Does Cancer Make You More Profound?

To paraphrase Jane Austin, "It is a truth universally acknowledged," that a woman with breast cancer, must now acclaim deep and poignant wisdom on life and the meaning thereof.  "However little known the feelings or views of such a woman may be on first" being diagnosed, "this truth is so well fixed in the minds" of her surrounding friends, that she is considered a learned sage. (Pride & Prejudice, p. 1)

Now, I understand the connection between having a life-threatening illness and attempting to act as the intermediary between the living and the dead, by trying to solve all of the mysteries of existence....hopefully before your own potential demise. A tall order, indeed, but who knows?  Just because no one else has ever been able to fully complete the task on deadline, there's no saying I can't....right?

Personally, I think I talk some pretty good shit. I'd like to think that most everything I say is riddled with weighty import and should be made into a Hallmark card, or at the very least, a viral meme. In truth, I know that getting hit with the cancer-stick has not made me any more perceptive, but has simply given me a more precise focus and a ready cyber platform, along with a wonderful diversion. And, an overly receptive audience that already loves me. Thanks.

Sleep When You’re Dead

There’s an old adage, that on one’s deathbed,  there are no regrets about not having spent more time at work. The message being that there are more enjoyable pursuits, and that one would never consider “work” as a worthy venture. I beg to differ.   

Although I struggle for legal tender in a variety of means ,  I define myself as an ED Nurse.  And while it’s true that not all my professional time is worthy of a Lifetime movie, there are moments that I’ll always remember as “personal bests, ” and those moments required my physical presence doing the job. I don’t regret the time there. Of course, even the best day in the ED will always get beat by an afternoon on a white sand beach, gazing at the horizon while holding a mai-tai. I’m not completely insane.  

One of my favorite Twilight Zone Episodes places a man in newfound possession of a stopwatch that stops time, giving him unlimited opportunity to do anything. Imagine if time was not a limiting factor in your accomplishments: I could finally learn Spanish (and French and Japanese); learn the guitar (and the ukulele, piano and cello-the Game of Thrones theme is the best); write a breathtaking novel; travel everywhere; study important scientific things (Quantum Physics, comes to mind). As it is…I try to accomplish what I have to, and most everything else gets placed on the back-burner. Boy, if I didn’t have to concern myself with ensuring a supply of clean underwear in this house, I could really be an earth-shaker!  

More realistically, and for the short-term, I’d like to focus on learning  how to:

1. pick a lock.

2. hot-wire a car.

3. Tokyo-drift and spin 180 degrees.

4. flip a butterfly knife.

5. throw knives (pretty much do anything dangerous with knives).

6. wield a light saber.

7. use the power of the Force.

8.  ensure fully-funded education, housing and heath-care for all.

9. create world peace
10, discover the cure for cancer.

 

There are not enough hours in the day to accomplish what I’d like to do.  I’ve always said my motto was “That which does not destroy me, makes me stronger,” but I think I want to change it to “Just get shit done.” You can always sleep when you’re dead.

 

 

It’s a Numbers Game

 

I'm  healing amazing well; my doctors are quite impressed. I'm just a little sore. And after the first of 4 weekly fill'er-up's, my right boob looks just a bit deflated and a tad bruised, but that's all. After the last fill, it will be a mirror image, a matched set, 2 peas in a pod. Astonishing, huh? If that were the end of the story, I'd be doing cartwheels....or some other similar enthusiastic expression of joy within my realistic set of physical abilities.  

But, to go all Shakespearean on you, "alas, my precarious situation, is engendered by a sense of foreboding." In medicine, we refer to it as a "sense of impending doom." You see, my definitive test results (Oncotype DX Breast Reoccurrence Score), along with an appointment with a renowned oncologist, occur on Halloween....10 days away.  These results will ultimately be read as a number between 1 and 100. If that number is ↓18, then there’s "little to no chemotherapy benefit, as there’s a low risk of distant reoccurrence," and only hormone therapy will entail. If the number is between 18-30, likewise, there is "no substantial chemotherapy benefit, "and again, only hormone therapy will be necessary. 

But if the number is ↑31, the studies have shown that chemo does have a "significant statistical benefit."  And then a new nightmare begins.

 

Interestingly, my plastics MD said my ultimate reconstruction wouldn't be until after about 3 months of the last fill...that works out to about Valentine's Day. My surgeon said if it comes down to getting chemo, it would start about 4 weeks after surgery and last about 12 weeks...which works out, again to Valentine's Day. Either way, I'm gonna need a shit-load of chocolate.

 

So, I wait….and everyday I think about the possibilities, and it terrifies me.

 

There is No "Battle"

In recent years, there has been a dramatic personification of one’s reaction to life events: we are expected to “combat” each untoward occurrence, and project our bravery onto the scene. If I had broken my leg, you wouldn’t be rooting for me to “fight” the broken bone, but when I say have I breast cancer, suddenly, I’m expected to “win the battle.”

Valor ensues when a choice is made against one’s own self interest; it could be a life or death situation, worthy of an epic poem, or maybe just standing up to ignorance, prejudice or injustice. That’s being brave.

This whole cancer thing is really more of a hostage situation: there are no real choices, just an escape plan.  

Don’t get me wrong: I greatly appreciate your support, but it’s all just a painful slog through necessary crap to accomplish an end: just like sitting in rush hour traffic on the 405 to finally get home. It's all perspective. In the end, I’ll have remarkable décolletage, along with new awe-inspiring character depth and insight.

So save your pink ribbon crap for someone who needs it. I’m just doing what needs to be done.

Size Matters....

One week after a relatively big-time surgical procedure, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it has.

My surgeon called with the pathology results this afternoon, and the numbers are in: T3, N0, M0. What this translates to is: T3: the size of the assorted bits of cancer badness scattered throughout my right breast was over a space of 6cm; and even though that wasn't a solid bunch of shit, it still counts....The N0 and M0 mean that there's no spread to lymph nodes, or other organ systems (metastasis)....that's good.

So what's next? There's a more precise analysis (Oncotype DX) of my right boob, lying on a slab somewhere, to be done wherein the exact genetic  findings will guide a more individualized approach to potential therapies.....the test won't be back for 2 weeks however, so until then...more waiting....and the existing boob gets incrementally filled-up for the silicone changeover to come.

I'm hoping for a low score (18 or less) which will mean only hormone therapy (oral meds) for the next five years, along with a more perfect right 38C. A higher score?.........That's nothing I want to consider or speak of, just yet. I hope you understand.

love to all