Good Doesn't Mean It's Gone

I thank all of you who have been concerned about my results. I promised that I would write about it on Monday, but I didn't ... you may have noticed. I just don't feel like it. I'm in a funk. But, all the results were stellar. Glucose, White Blood Cell Count, Creatinine, Potassium, Sodium, Calcium, Albumin, Lueteinizing Hormone, Follicle Stimulating Hormone, CA 27-29, et cetera, et cetera ad nauseum ... all perfect.

I'm healthy ... and I'm kind of displeased about it. Strange, right? It's not that I want to go another round with cancer, but I feel very ill at ease. The recent bloodwork shows that-among all of the other numbers-there is actually a decrease in my tumor marker. This is good news; it's just not as good as I thought.

I was under the misconception that the tumor marker was a definitive test. I thought that it was sort of like a cancer screen. You know, if the number doesn't spike, then you're healthy. Just to confirm this theory, I asked my oncologist as he was breezing out the door:

ME: "So, what we're looking for as a red flag is the tumor marker, right?"

HIM: "Well, not exactly. Your tumor marker is at 18, which is great. But, it could be 4 and you could have cancer. Usually, it spikes when there is a recurrence, but not always."

ME: "Then, how do we know that I'm healthy?"

HIM: "It's a combination of your symptoms, your blood work and your scans. There is no blood test that will tell us for sure, but the CA 27-29 is the closest that we have."

ME: "Okay. When do I have another PET scan?"

HIM: "We will do another one in a year. Seventy percent of people who develop cancer again do so within the first two years. You're almost to one year, so you can feel happy about that."

ME: Disappointed and sad ... which is the opposite of happy.

If there were something wrong, we could act on it. We could put together a plan and fight. But there isn't anything wrong ... that we have found. As you may recall, it took six months to diagnose the cancer the first time, and then there was uncertainty about the margins after the surgery.

So, I'm not super hip on waiting and hoping. I don't like hoping. I'm an analytical, left-brained person. I like knowing. And what I would like to know is that I can breathe a sigh of relief. I would like to be able to do some sort of procedure that would produce concrete, irrefutable evidence that there is no cancer in this body ... and I would like to do that test every week.

The News Is Good ...

but I have to get back to The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, so I can't elaborate.

More tomorrow.

Life is Good

I'm sitting on an airplane typing this ... I guess that is the perk of having a husband who travels so much. Well, the free internet and the free bottle of wine that I just guzzled. I have never had wine on a plane, before. I have also never been on a plane that is so fuzzy and blurry. Strange.

Anyway, I'm here ... taking a break from watching Harry Potter ... on my way to meet my handsome husband in Arizona for our first get-away since D-Day on February 3rd.

I'm pretty excited. We have plans to go to my favorite pizza spot in the United States, read books, sit by the pool, go see the new Harry Potter movie and go hiking. Oh, and sleep. We have plans to sleep.

Because I'm a nut for security, I'm not scheduling this post to go live until we return - just so that no creepers can read it and take the opportunity to loot our house ... again.

But, even taking that into account, I still have a few hours to ask for your prayers. Earlier this week, I went to my least favorite place, Minnesota Oncology, for some blood work. I get the results of those tests on Monday. I'm hoping that the cancer has taken my eviction notice seriously and that there are no attempts to re-infiltrate my body. Please pray for the same.

I'll update after I see the doctor.

You guys are the best.

Liz

Dear ... Everyone Who Wants Me To Do Things

Dear Everyone,

I am tired.

I am very tired.

And I am tired during almost every minute of the day in which I am not asleep.

I try to do my job without yawning and although mornings are often blurry, I don't let my children leave the house with syrup smeared across their faces. But still ... I nap at least three times a week and have contemplated whether or not it would be a misuse of sick time to go home and sleep during the work day.

Supposedly, going under general anesthesia results in several months of fatigue. I went under three times. Menopause causes hot flashes, night sweats and insomnia. Anxiety and depression are known to hinder a good night's sleep. And Tamixofen, the cancer drug that I will take for five years, has tiredness as a side effect. So, I guess this shouldn't be shocking to me.

But it's been eight and a half months! I am a zombie.

Also, I'm sad. And pretending all day that I'm not is exhausting.

To those of you who are wondering if I'm okay, I am. I'm healthy. I don't have cancer. I'm not undergoing any horrific treatments and don't have any surgeries scheduled. But in case you were unsure, it is not very helpful to say: "Are you all right? You don't look good." You can all just stop that. No one wants to hear that they look like crap.

Plus, the next time someone says that to me, I will either cry or smack them. I'm not saying which ... it's a surprise.

Pink Glove Dance - The Sequel

If you haven't seen this video, yet, you should. Click on the link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTyIhMLp3FA

Minnesota even has a couple of cameos.

Wishful Thinking

My friend is sick with the stomach flu. Her husband is off on a business trip to a tropical island, which isn't fair in the best of times, but is especially unjust when the one left home isn't well.

In an attempt to repay a tiny amount of the kindness shown to me when I needed it, I took her two exceptional children for the day so that she could sleep.

While I'm sorry that she doesn't feel well, I must confess that I'm delighted to have a chance to have some extra little ones around. I got out the high chair and the pack-and-play and the Baby Bjorn. We pulled out the rattles and rubber blocks. Every room of our house is littered with dolls and markers and toys of every kind. It's very colorful.

All afternoon, the girls have been playing together beautifully. I got to feed the baby a bottle and rock him to sleep in my arms. And it just about broke my heart when I snuck back upstairs and saw two doors closed, each one keeping quiet a room for a sleeping boy.

As I type this, there are squeals of laughter from the three older kids in the playroom -punctuated by an occasional argument - and there is a delicious squawking noise coming from the baby as he crawls around and drools on the floor. I wish that they could stay forever. And as Scott pointed out, if their parents were true friends, they would allow it. After all, he argued, "they can always make more and we can't."

So, I ask you: why did God feel that it was okay to take away my ovaries? I'm really good at being a mother. I could have done it a few more times, quite happily.

No fair.

A Challenge

Do you remember the movie "Roxanne?" It stars Steve Martin as a fire chief with an extraordinarily large nose. There is a scene in the film, in which a guy in a bar insults Martin by calling him "Big Nose." Steve, of course, is offended ... that his attacker wasted such a wonderful opportunity with this lame and wholly uncreative slur. He says that he can think of something better, which he does. 20 somethings better, in fact, including: "You must love the little birdies to give them this to perch on" and "would you mind not bobbing your head, the orchestra keeps changing tempo." If you want to see the clip and hear the other 18 somethings better, here is the You Tube link.

Does this cinematic reference seem obscure and totally unrelated to cancer? Well, it isn't. Here's why: I, too, have an unfortunately large body part (and no, it's not my boobs. Those are quite pleasantly large, thank you.) It's my squishy belly ... well, and my butt and thighs. Now, I'm not talking about a little too many mini donuts at the State Fair. I'm talking about 10 pounds of excess Liz in the very parts that I want to be thin. It's menopause. I know it, because one of the symptoms is "loss of waist." Super. But, I don't want to lose my waist. As a matter of fact, I like it. I'd like to retain my waist and maybe put the extra pounds in my biceps and calf muscles. But, that isn't what God had in mind for me. I just keep gaining and my pants keep not fitting and then I get depressed and keep wanting a glass of wine to feel better, but then I remember that wine will only make my pants tighter, so I have water. (This is a very disconcerting phenomenon.)

So, cheer me up, why don't you. I'm bulgy and I'm turning into a pear. These are not happy occurrences. Let's think of a few "somethings better" about my unstoppable weight gain. I'll get you started:

• With the hot flashes and the extra pounds, I won't need to buy any sweaters this winter. Instead, I can save that money and use it to buy carrots and rice cakes.
• Denim leggings are in vogue this year, which is lucky, because all of my jeans look like they've shrunk a couple of sizes ... well, the ones I can still zip.

Okay, what have you got?

Seriously, I need a good laugh.

Honestly. If I don't get any witty comments, I'm going to have to assume that you are all embarrassed by my girth and are too shy to mention it. And, then, I'll be sad ... and mad ... and not at all glad. Do you want to be responsible for that?

I DO NOT HAVE CANCER!

I called to get my test results, yesterday, figuring that they wouldn't be able to tell me anything over the phone. But, I was wrong!

The oncology nurse said, and I quote ... "your results are normal."

Did you see that? Normal! I haven't received any normal results since I was "No Scar Mommy."

Fittingly, I was at work when I got this happy news, just as I was on February third when I got the life-changing news. When I was diagnosed, I told everyone. My whole office knew, of course, because I was reduced to a crumpled and blubbering pile of patient on my cube floor. They had to help me finish talking to my surgeon, hang up the phone, make sense of the words that had just shattered me and walk across the hall to a private room, from where I called my whole family.

Interestingly, when I got good news, yesterday, I didn't tell anyone. I got off the phone and continued working, filling in spread sheets and calling vendors of trolleys, golf balls and post-it notes. I didn't tell my co-workers during our staff meeting and I didn't call any of my friends. About two hours later, I realized that I should probably send a message to Scott and my mom, which I did ... to great fanfare.

Later, after Scott and I had put the kids to bed and were well into a celebratory bottle of wine, I asked him how he felt about the clear scan. Six months ago, he was - as we all were - shocked to hear that I had cancer. He was even more shocked to learn that it was a pretty big deal and that the recommended course of action was a double mastectomy. Last night, he confessed that he was surprised to hear the good news. After so much disappointment, and so many setbacks, we were both expecting to hear the worst. We hadn't talked about it, but silently and stoically, we were bracing for the impact which, thankfully - this time - did not come.

It's about time.

Suck it, cancer. You have no home here.

Waiting ... and Drinking

I tried to post these photos yesterday morning, but I was reprimanded by the nurse. The PET/CT is such a sensitive test, that playing on my phone 45 minutes beforehand would mess up the results.

WHAT? SERIOUSLY?

Yeah, that's what I said, too. Apparently, yes. She told me that not only would my neck muscles be contracting and show up on the scans, but my brain would get too much activity and flare up on the images, too. So, no blogging. No phone. No solitaire. No music. I didn't tell her that my superior neuron-firing skills were likely to throw off the image, anyway, even in the absence of any external stimuli.

I guess the joke will be on them, when the results come back ... except that I took an Ativan in preparation for the claustrophobia. So, maybe my head will look like a giant empty space, instead. Oh, dear. This could be embarrassing.

So, the day goes like this:

• Go in and get a blood sugar test. If the result isn't low enough, you have to go home and try again another day. So, that's why the no breath mints and no ... anything delicious ... for 24 hours prior.
• If you pass, then you are invited to break your fast with half of this yummy bottle of barium sulfate suspension. It's scrumptious. Not really. It's kind of gross. But, they did give me the luscious pina colada flavor. It was palatable, but I'd rather just have the real thing.
• Five minutes later, the I.V. with radioactive chemical goes in. The medication is housed in a separate room and is delivered in a tungsten pipe, so as to protect everyone from the substance that I freely accepted into my veins. Does this seem wrong to anyone else?
• Then comes the fun. Not only does the Ativan begin to kick in, but the chair in the room is a recliner and they wrap you in warm blankets and turn off the light.
• For fifteen minutes, you wait and try not to think. For some unknown reason, I got a totally annoying song stuck in my head. I can't remember it now, but I think it was something not awesome like "I'm Walking on Sunshine."
• Once you finally relax, the timer goes off, which is your cue to drink the rest of the pina colada liquid chalk.
• Then, you wait for another thirty minutes.
• Finally, you go in and are greeted by this:

I am glad that I was sedated ... or anti-anxietied. I do not like small, enclosed spaces. I have an irrational fear of tunnels and crowded elevators and DEFINITELY tube cameras like this or an MRI scanner. Ick.

As it was, though, the entire experience was kind of pleasant. I remember resting on the table and being vaguely aware of time passing quite slowly, but I didn't really mind. Plus, when it was all over, I came home and slept for four hours.

I understand that, as Wikipedia tells me, Ativan "is a high potency benzodiazepine drug which has all five intrinsic benzodiazepine effects: anxiolytic, amnesic, sedative/hypnotic, anticonvulsant and muscle relaxant" and that there are a whole slew of side effects, "including anxiety, insomnia, seizures, psychosis, anterograde amnesia and depression." (Okay, I don't really understand all of that, but I can make out most of it.) However, I thoroughly enjoyed it. I'm going to start requesting it before all of my medical procedures.

"What? You're going to have to check my white count? Okay, but I'm probably going to need an Ativan. I'm pretty terrified of needles."

"OMG! You want to do a throat culture? I hate those horrid stick-swabs. I won't do it ... unless you have an Ativan."

"Okay, fine. You may brush my teeth. But that pick of yours makes me think of I Know What You Did Last Summer. It looks like a miniature ice-pick or a scaled down version of Captain Hook's right hand. I'm paralyzed with fear. Do you have anything for that?

Preparing for Your PET

Tomorrow morning, I need to start the diet for Wednesday's PET scan. It's pretty intense. Observe:

All patients should follow a low carbohydrate diet twenty four hours prior to scanning. Examples of foods to avoid:

• sugars and carbohydrates
• fruit/fruit juice/jelly
• bread/rolls/cakes/tortillas
• rice/pasta
• soft drinks/coffee
• yogurt/cereal/oatmeal
• chips/crackers/popcorn
• alcoholic beverages/beer/wine
• desserts/candy
• pizza dough/breading on fried foods
• potatoes/corn/onions/carrots

No excessive workouts twenty-four hours prior to scanning.

You will be asked to remove your dentures, glasses, and hearing aids once you arrive.

Do not chew gum or use breath mints.

Do not brush your teeth on the day of your scan.

Failure to adhere to these preparations may necessitate postponing or canceling the PET scan.

This is a lot of pressure. I hope I don't louse it up. Do you think it's irrational to have a bowl full of Doritos and a couple of Take Five candy bars at 10:30 at night?

Chart Notes

So, here's the thing. I haven't been writing very often. Perhaps you've noticed? Perhaps you've missed the updates and the too-much-information humor? I just don't feel like it, anymore. Partly because there isn't a whole lot of cancer news and partly because the news that there is is disturbing to me and no fun to document.

I'm sorry if my literary absence has deprived you of a healthy dose of distraction and you've subsequently been forced to do productive things like work. It's all so tragic.

So, here goes. I'm going to hammer out all of the boring and depressing details.

Oncology:

I haven't seen Dr. Petryk in many months. I go in for a PET scan and blood work next week. This test is a precautionary measure requested by me, the hyper-anxious patient, and granted by him, the acquiescent physician. The assumption is that everything will come back negative. I'll feel much more complete in the healing process when I see that there aren't any lingering devil cells.

Gynecology:

I have no ovaries. I have no cervix. I have no uterus. The wounds have healed. The scars are tiny, comparatively speaking. There are no more cramps. I have not had a period since March. I found a pad in a seldom used purse this weekend and ceremoniously heaved it into the trash. Good riddance.

I'm sweating profusely, but who isn't? It's 86 degrees out with 70% humidity. It's gross. We woke up this morning to find condensation on some of the windows and the storm door in the kitchen. Even the house is sweating.

Reproductive Specialists:

I had a brief and very intense few days with these people. What it came down to, you may recall, is that there was a possibility that I could freeze my eggs and do IVF later. Then, it turned out that I couldn't, because I was having a whole hysterectomy, not just an oophrectomy. So, the next plan was surrogacy. My sister valiantly stepped up the to proverbial petri dish, offering her womb. Then, it became clear that preparing for egg harvesting would provide a perfect breeding ground for cancer cells. I never like to give cancer any help, so that was out. So, now I have no need for the reproductive specialists. Perhaps, somewhere down the line, Scott and I will feel that we want to adopt, but for right now, we're blessed and balanced with two.

Mental Health:

My doctor has recently doubled my dose of anti-depressants. It's hard to tell if they are working, because there is a certain amount of sadness and mourning that is inherent in this process, anyway. I haven't gone to see a therapist, even though my doctors and family keep suggesting that I do. I don't think I'm ready. It's strange, because regardless of how surrounded and supported all of you have made me feel, cancer is still very lonely.

Genetics:
As you probably remember, I sent off some of my cancer cells to California to have slicing and staining party at the oncotyping lab. They had a good time. And they reported back that they would be staying there for the remainder of their miserable lives, which was fine with me. They also reported that I am negative for a couple of genetic tests, a different result of which would have necessitated some testing on all of the other females in my family. There are a few other studies that could be done, which might tell us more about why I got cancer. But, those tests cost several thousand dollars of the patient's money ... and I'm not sure I want to know, anyway.

Pharmacology:

You wouldn't think that this category would be part of my treatment plan, but I have spent a lot of time at the pharmacy counter, lately. Many of my prescriptions are on auto-refill, but never at the same time as each other. So, I seem to be at Target about every other day. The down side is that some of my medications are covered in very limited amounts. For example, I have started taking Imitrex for the headaches. You can take it every four hours when a migrane settles into your cranium, attempting to dislodge your gray matter with neurologic jackhammers. The kicker is that I'm only allowed four pills a month. Dumb. Also, my ambien (without which I really cannot sleep) has caused some trouble, necessitating several calls between me, the doctor, the pharmacy and the insurance company. The up side to all of this is that all of my medications are free, now. Not surprisingly, I maxed out our out-of-pocket amount last winter. So, once I finally do get prescriptions to go through the Medica gridlock, I don't have to pay for them, which is good, because then I have more money to spend on useless crap at Target.

Plastic Surgery:

This topic, has recently been the bane of my existence. After the failed nipple reconstruction and the subsequent eight million doctor's visits for dressing changes and debridement of necrotic tissue, I thought we were finished. Unfortunately, when I went to see Dr. Dreyfus on July 8th, I was confronted with a whole other situation for which I had not prepared. His feelings were hurt. We spent a very uncomfortable and wholly inappropriate 45 minutes, during which I cried like an idiot and he discussed his apparent disappointment in my reaction to his artwork. It was so shocking and terrible that I couldn't drive afterward, and had to go back to the building to meet with his office manager, outside on "neutral ground." I would write more about that, but it makes me want to puke, so I won't.

Radiology:

In an effort to buck my personal tradition, I haven't had a mammogram or ultrasound or gamma scan for over four months. Considering that I used to go in about every three hours for one of these procedures, I welcome the change. Besides, can they even do a mammogram on implants? Would they pop? Things that make you go "hmmmm."

Surgery:

I am finished with my breast surgeon. Her work is marked by many scars. There are the expected patchwork areas from the initial surgery. Plus, there is a stab wound from where her scalpel slipped through my breast and a very bumpy, jagged line from when she hauled me back into the operating room seven days after my mastectomy. Although she worked hard to diagnose the cancer and was diligent about being sure that it was all removed, I don't miss her. It was she who called my office on February 3, causing me to slip from my chair and collapse into a trembling mass on the floor of my cube.

That was six months ago, today.

Half a year.

Hip, Hip, Pooray!

Perhaps I'll get a cake.

Sacrifices

I few weeks ago, there was a terrible windstorm in Saint Paul. Luckily for us, it broke one of our trees. We have been waiting for years for that to happen, so that we could get a new garage. We figured that if a tree fell on it - and hopefully at least one of the cars - the insurance settlement would afford us with the perfect opportunity to tear down our structure, which is at least 70 years old, and get a new car ... or maybe two.

Unfortunately, the giant, eight inch tree limb was spared by another tree in it's path. So, instead of crashing through the garage, it just hung there, propped up by another tree that we didn't like, causing no damage at all. So, we took them both down.

Now, we're left with an enormous void in our garden and almost no shade. I guess it's time to get going on that garage.

This morning, Scott was on the computer, sadly sifting through amortization schedules. He was trying to figure out how we will pay for a new garage-mahal, to steal a term coined by our good friends John and Adele. He looked miserable. I thought that I ought to help. So, I offered up a solution.

"If it makes you feel better, I'm going to try not to get cancer, next year."

I suppose that it didn't really solve the problem, but it made him smile. Also, it made me smile because little does he know, trying not to get cancer is kind of an easy job. You just don't take up smoking and do your best not to grow any new ovaries and you're done.

I could have offered to give up eating out or my weekly trip to Caribou, but I didn't want to go overboard.

I Sympathize

You know that song "Wonderful," by Everclear?

The lyrics say:

"Some days I hate everything.

I hate everything.

Everyone and Everything."

I feel like that. It may have something to do with the fact that:

• Owen didn't bother to sleep last night
• And Scott is out of town
• And I didn't have time to do the laundry
• And I didn't have time to write my 15 pages for my class tonight
• And I'm waiting for news from my doctor who last week told me that I "haven't been happy with anything that he has done since the beginning"
• And my pants are tight
• And I have persistently swollen glands that I have been told "not to worry about, because they probably aren't a big deal"
• And I woke up at 2:00 last night and then had to stand in front of the fan and go to the kitchen for an icepack so that I could fall back asleep
• And Laila spent the entire morning drive screaming, because I "don't know anything"
• And I'm at work on my day off to make up for going on vacation last week
• And I had some caffeine to help me cope with all of the above
• And my office computer is in a state of interminable sluggishness

I hate everyone and everything.

Annonymity

We just got back from a week at Madeline Island. It was glorious. It was near perfect - and would have been if our three year-old son hadn't taken it as an opportunity to boycott sleeping. It was the best thing that Scott and I ever accidentally bought at an auction by bidding against each other when we were drinking. Oops.

But, anyway, one day I had an epiphany. I was getting ready to go out for a day at the pool and beach and looked in the mirror. I realized that I never lost my hair. Under the modest cover of a bathing suit, no scars show. I no longer have puncture wounds from needles and bruises from failed attempts at IV placements. I look healthy.

And as I marveled at this, I thought to myself: "None of these people know that I am a cancer survivor."

Did you read that? I said: "CANCER SURVIVOR!"

It just popped into my brain like it belonged there. And it does. I have made it. I finally feel like a cancer survivor. Go me!

My Body Fails Me

Once upon a time, I took Tae Kwon Do with my dad.

Once upon a time, I earned a gold medal by doing a back kick through three boards at my first competition.

Once upon a time, I beat everyone in the gym in a push-up contest, pumping out 52 in just 60 seconds.

This is not that time. I tried to do some push-ups, in an attempt to bust through the layer of blubber that I have added in the last five months. (P.S. it is neither winter, nor am I a whale. There is no beneficial reason for this insulation.) Anyway, I got in push-up position last week and lowered myself down for the first of, hopefully, at least 20 reps. Wrong. Instead, it felt as though all of the muscles in my chest were ripping apart in an inferno of fiber snapping.

I didn't like it.

So, I guess I won't be doing many push-us in the near future. I won't be running, either, because it sucks. I probably won't be biking, because my tailbone problem has been acting up again. I may have to resort to dieting, which will be hard, because I really like pop tarts ... and lattes ... and brownies ... and pizza ... and margaritas.

Life is so challenging.

Courage, Strength & Victory

My very talented friend, Andrew D. Huber, wrote this song for me. I guess I'm a little biased, but I think it is the greatest song EVER!

Scott, does not share this bias, having never met Andy (and never having a crush on him as a teenager), but he was impressed enough to be pleased that Andy is happily married and living in another state.

I suggest that you get a couple of kleenex before you hit "play."

Thank you to Andy for this incredible gift.

Thank you to Nate for helping me make it into a video.

Than you to Scott for continually being my rock when all I want to do is crumple up and cry.

Thank you to all of you for supporting me in this quiet war.

Sooo...

Apparently I got bit by something.

And it wasn't even a vampire. (But I did go see Eclipse, today. Go, Jacob!)

Anyway, I noticed this strange mark on my arm two days ago. Being the hypochondriac that I am, I called the doctor. I spoke to the nurse and told her that I have a very odd bite on my arm. I described it in detail. I said that it is three inches long and shaped like an "s." When she didn't seem impressed, I told her that I am in a compromised health situation, due to the fact that I am recovering from cancer. She said that she would check with the doctor and call me back.

Two hours later, she called and said the following: "Doctor says it sounds kind of bizarre, but that she isn't worried about it. Just keep an eye on it."

Right.

It's shaped like an "s." It looks like a parasite bit me and is travelling along my vein. No big deal. So, today, I called back and said that I would just feel better if someone looked at it.

Upon seeing my disfigured arm, my doctor uttered the following words: "Woah. I'm glad you came in. That looks like a tick bite. We'd better put you on some antibiotics. It might be Lyme's disease."

Awesome. I could have told you that. In fact, I think I did ... yesterday. Once again, I have taken my medical well being out of the hands of the professionals and taken charge, myself.

"Just wait a few days and keep an eye on it?!" Don't we pay these people a LOT of money?

Ughhh!

Okay, FINE!

Alright, alright, alright!

I've decided to take everyone's advice and learn to write ... for real. Tonight, I have my first class on memoir writing. I'm pretty excited ... and anxious. I have to produce 15 pages a week, plus other assignments. We'll see how all that goes.

But, I have high hopes. I mean, I used to break boards. I got my master's degree while pregnant and nursing a baby. I'm pretty good at showing cancer where to go.

This should be quite doable, right?

Still, wish me luck.

This is Revolting

I'd like to begin this post with an apology to my husband. I'm going to be making fun of him, but it would be much harder to make my point without doing so. Not impossible, but I don't feel like working too hard. Plus, it's funny. Here goes.

I am not a sweaty person. I mean, I glisten like all girls, but I rarely drip.

The same cannot be said for Scott. "Glistening" is an enormously inadequate word to describe his perspiration situation. Profuse is perhaps better ... also abundant, copious and overflowing. For example, he has a stand for his bike in the basement so that he can use it during the winter. He had to drape towels on both the bar and under the bike to contain the puddles. Ick. A smart wife would avoid that area of the basement for feaf of falling into an unmarked quagmire of sodium chloride. She might even take it a step further and suggest that her darling spouse reserve biking for the warmer months, when he can just drip down the street. But, I love Scott. And for some reason that I totally don't understand, he loves to exercise. So, we do the best we can. Plus, street sweating is barely an improvement on basement puddles, because he will eventually come home. When this occurs, I am faced with a creature that vaguely resembles the one who left a few short hours ago. He's still tall and handsome, of course, except his face and neck are white. I don’t mean white, as in lacking melanin. I mean that he is white, as in coated with an unnatural film of salt that God did not intend. Yeah, I’ll give you a minute to digest that. Eeew.

The point is that I am not like this. Even when I used to do Tae Kwon Do, I stayed moderately dry. Kicking, punching and breaking boards with my bare hands were no match for my pores, which are quite good at retaining water ... like the rest of me.

However, I have recently been giving Scott a run for his money. The days are not so bad, but the evenings are gross. Every 30 minutes or so, I have a hot flash. This results in feeling that my own body is an uninhabitable inferno. In a panic, I rush to get my hair off my neck. Then, I hurry to minimize my clothing. Pant legs get pulled up and socks get tossed aside. In the comfort of my own home, I surrender to the sensation that my limbs are on fire by draping my arms and legs all over furniture, creating odd angles and positions that should only happen if you have broken several body parts and are in traction.

Then, I flail around trying to find my handheld fan. That's right. I have a handheld fan. It's from Brookstone and it's awesome, a little embarrassing, but awesome. I highly recommend it to all my friends ... in 20 years when they go through menopause. I put the fan right in front of my face, so close that I sometimes hit my nose with the "finger safe blades." And then, I sigh.

Since the weather has gotten beautiful, I have added a new move to my routine. I call it the kleenex wipe down. I've started to drip, in rival quantities to my dear husband, and it's disgusting. I could be chilly, cuddled under a blanket while watching a movie and then ... all of a sudden, I start sweating like a pig. I glisten enough that I need to mop off my forehead and some less easily accessible parts of me. Then, two minutes later, I'm cold again.

Luckily, my symptoms are in the moderate range of discomfort. Earlier this week, my doctor asked me if I have night sweats. "Yes," I replied. She asked if they wake me up from sleep. "Yes." Then, she asked if when I wake, my shirt and sheets are soaked through thereby necessitating a bedding and pajama change. Thankfully, I answered: "no."

So, I guess it could be worse. Still, though, I say: "Suck it, menopause."

Behind the Scenes

Good job on the last post! Everyone followed directions. Nicely done!

When I told Scott that I had written that post, he told me that it was kind of a strange idea. But it was fun, wasn't it? It was like I had dozens of ghost-writers. New blog updates every day, and I didn't have to lift a finger. Plus, now we're all friendly with each other.

As a reward for all of your hard work, here are some embarrassing photos of me. I hope that they make you smile ... or laugh out loud ... about how ridiculous this journey has sometimes been.

Thanks for walking the road with me.

This is me before my first surgery. The outfit I'm wearing is called a Bair Paws gown. It's awesome. Designed to help minimize the anxiety felt by patients and to aid in the prevention of surgically induced hypothermia, this gown is like an air conditioner, a furnace and a fashion statement all rolled into one. First, it does not gap in the back like traditional gowns. Thank goodness. ALSO, it has the capability of being hooked up to different machines during the different phases of the hospital stay. For pre-op and post-op care, a Bair Hugger machine blows warm or cool air into the layers of the gown. The patient is given a remote to control the temperature and to keep them distracted from the perils ahead. (I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.) During the surgery, the clinicians can use the different ports of the gown to prevent heat loss from anesthesia, chilly O.R. rooms and surgical site prep. Ingenious ... and cozy. I miss you, Bair Paws.

Hey, I just thought of a new use for this gown ... menopausal women. I would love to dial up a little personal air-conditioning during hot flashes. Arizant Healthcare, here I come.

Remember when I told you that I was like a human craft project?

Yeah, well, here's exhibit C.

Paper templates + permanent markers + plastic surgeon + me = latissimus dorsi removal blueprints.

I'm not sure what that scribble on my lower back is. Sometimes, you just have to color outside the lines, I guess.

Here I am trying to escape the inevitable.

Okay, not really. This is me en route to surgery. They just let me wander around hospitals, now. I'm like a regular. Okay, not really again. I was coming from mammography where they had trouble locating the metal clip in my breast that was placed during my biopsy, ... which the radiologist had trouble locating when putting in the guide wire ... so that the surgeon could properly locate the tumor. Whew. That was a mouthful. It was also a lot of locating ... and I had to direct all of it. It's as though I am the social director of this here cancer party. I bring all the medical personal together to find offensive cells and then we think of ways to slap them into submission. Wait, that sounds like a really bizarre party. Also, the dress code kind of sucks. It's a rather ill-fitting robe, don't you think?

This is me during the final stages of prep. All ready. I look pretty cheerful for someone about to enter a procedure reputed to make you "feel like you've been hit by a truck."

Oh, not anymore. Here I am post-op. I have huge re-fillable ice packs on my chest and my hair up like Don King because it was irritating my neck. Unfortunately, I couldn't lift my arms more than a few inches, so every time I moved my head, I had to ask someone to come over and refresh my hairdo. I seem to be displeased by this turn of events.

I was also displeased by these compression boots. They wrap around the legs of sedentary patients, inflating and deflating every few seconds, to help prevent blood clots. They also help induce insanity. After a few hours, they itch and irritate and pretend to be the devil. It's like wearing a blood pressure cuff for 23 hours a day and taking a new reading every minute. Maddening.

See? Here I am showing my general dissatisfaction with my lot in life.

And here I am showing how much better you can feel after a couple pints of fresh blood. Mmmm, being a vampire is so rejuvenating.

But, blood-sucking has nothing on anesthesia. This is me after a few seconds on IV drugs. This is apparently what I look like right before I pass out and get wheeled away toward certain doom, a.k.a. hysterectomy. They are a blissful few seconds. And, if you want a soundtrack of these moments, it goes like this: "Scott, hurry up and take the picture; I won't be able to keep my eyes open much longer!"

Ahhh ... anesthesia and pain meds. How I love you. Let me count the ways:

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six ... blelblahhhh, drool."

Who Are You?

I've been telling you my story for four months, now.

You have been loyally reading and supporting me in quiet and vocal ways. Some of you write things when I post (and I LOVE that!) Some of you tell me in person how you can relate to a situation that I have described. You have sent me cards and brought me presents and covered me with gentle, careful hugs. You have prayed and prayed and prayed. You are the hastily connected community whose love and strength has gotten me this far.

But, you have never met each other. So, let's do some introductions. Who are you? How do you know me? Do you have a cancer story of your own to tell?

Blogger tells me that there are 58 followers of this blog. And I know that there are many others of you who have not registered, as such. You are friends and family and co-workers and family of friends and co-workers of friends of family. It's time to make yourselves known.

ALL OF YOU.

Margie, Harriet, Cathy, Willodean: this means you. Okay, I might have made up Willodean. I don't know anyone by that name. But, I'm not joking about this. Everyone has to respond. It's your job.

I mandate it.

(P.S. If you have never done this, it's easy. Click on the comments link at the bottom of this post. Then, sign in with your google account. If you don't have a google account, just click "anonymous," but make sure to sign your name at the bottom!)

Okay, that's it. Ready, set, meet!

Moving Through the Stages

Dear Readers,

Last night, I found myself repeatedly stabbing a box with a pen. I took great satisfaction in the dents and holes made by the pen tip. STAB, STAB, STAB! Pleasing were the smashing and crunching noises as the cardboard gave way to the plastic and metal. BANG, BANG, BANG! I made swiss cheese out of the top of the box and was having a jolly good time at it, too ... until Scott reminded me that we had sleeping children.

And then he took the pen away.

Why? Why with the holes and the pen and the impaling? I was mad. Not mad enough to take him up on his offer to use him as a punching bag, but mad.

I didn't know what was wrong with me. Then, this morning, a wise woman at work cleared it all up for me. (Thank you, Patty.) She told me that I'm going through the stages of grief. I'm on number two. I'm angry.

Yes, yes. That sounds reasonable. Plus, I googled it. It's in wikipedia, so it must be true. Here's what I learned. In 1969, Swiss psychiatrist Elisabeth Kubler-Ross wrote a book called On Death and Dying. She was a brilliant woman; she published more than two dozen books, received twenty honorary degrees and effectively created the hospice movement from the ground up. She was also a woman whose life was filled with misfortune. Becoming pregnant at the wrong time in her career caused her to lose her place in her pediatric residency program. Then, she had several miscarriages. Eventually, she had two children, but then she got divorced. Later, her house burned down, supposedly from arsonists because she was such an active proponent of care for patients dying from AIDS. Yuck. I'm glad I just had cancer.

Anyway, in this very famous book (whose title I recognize, but which I have never read) she presents the grief process as having stages. First, denial. Then, anger followed by bargaining, depression and acceptance. I admit that I may have dabbled in bargaining. It's possible that I promised God that he could have my hair and all my non-essential internal organs if I could live to see my children grow up to be adults. But, this is kind of embarrassing. It's like begging, right? Lame.

So, anger. This is new to me. I'm familiar with stage number one, denial. I think that I resided there for some time, because everything happened so fast. There wasn't time to process this new warped version of reality. Information was flying at me like golf ball-sized hail. The decisions about which kind of treatment I "wanted" had to be made before I had a moment to catch my breath. Then, I laughed a little. And then, I had surgery and it hurt to breathe.

On to stage four: depression.

I don't know how many of you know this, but I was on antidepressants before my diagnosis. Have I said this, before? Maybe. Who can keep track? (And, no, Nick. I haven't taken my Ambien, yet, tonight.) Anyway, I was having some severe emotional problems/hormonal imbalances at the end of last year. I started seeing a therapist in December. She put me on a heavy dose of vitamin D and told me to stop holding myself accountable to such high expectation levels. She claims that not everyone is as worrisome as I. Who cares if the dishes aren't washed before we leave the house in the morning? Who cares if the kids watch a little t.v., now and then? I'll tell you who ... almost nobody ... and I'm the almost. Apparently, I put a lot of pressure on myself. I'm working on it.

Besides the vitamin D and the therapy, I also started taking a little happy pill. It's awesome. And you'll never guess what my doctor said when she prescribed it. Go ahead. Guess. I'll wait.

No, that's wrong.

She said: "I've seen people become depressed for no obvious reason and then two months later, their husband dies or they lose their job. Sometimes, the body knows something that we don't. But, there's nothing wrong with you. Your hormone levels look good. Your thyroid is fine. You're in perfect shape. Yours is not a body riddled with cancer. Believe me, you couldn't be, with labs like these."

Two months later, I was diagnosed with cancer.

And, now, I'm angry. I'm mad that I've gained weight and that I need new pants and that I have scars and that I'm still finding undissolved stitches on my bleeding breasts and that my hair is falling out and that I can't dig a hole in the garden for the new hydrangea that I bought. Plus, I'm unreasonably angry at things that should make me happy. If I hear one more time about the Cites 97 live broadcast to raise money for breast cancer, I swear that I'm going to smash my radio with my enormous accordion file of medical records. Why? Shouldn't I be pleased that the entire world, seemingly, is rallying to keep other women from going through this? Well, I'm not. I'm furious. I'm seething with rage. I hate everyone who has small problems like what dress to wear for graduation or which playgroup is right for their little athlete of a toddler. I think I might even be angry at the Breast Cancer 3-day people for being able to walk sixty miles when I still need to take a nap most afternoons. That's so ridiculous. I should be grateful. I should be honored.

I'm not. I'm bitter and jealous and resentful. Maybe I should take up Tae Kwon Do, again. I feel like hitting someone.

Still think I'm inspiring and amazing?

Love,

Crabby Liz

Good News!

I'm wearing a bra today. A real, honest to goodness, bought from a store, normal person, non-hospital issue bra.

I have bandages under it, but still.

It's pretty awesome.

Bad News

I went to see the plastic surgeon today. He said that I was healed enough to start exercising again.

It's been really nice to have a doctor's excuse for being a slug.

Humiliation, Cancer Style

Since February 3, I have been the victim of inadvertent humiliation several times. I've become used to it, and am not all that phased by it anymore. But, I'm reading High Fidelity, now. Perhaps you saw the movie with John Cusack and Jack Black? If you didn't, you should. It rocks ... literally. It's about a guy who owns a music store. Anyway, John Cusack's character has an obsession with explaining things in top five list format. For example, worst five breakups, top five Joni Mitchell songs, top five foreign movies of all time.

So, in honor of this hilarious book, I will give you a list of my top five humiliating cancer moments.

ONE - Group Cleaning

After the first surgery, the hospital staff inexplicably found it of the utmost importance that I take a shower. Mind you, I could not walk the six steps to the bathroom. So, I clearly could not shower alone. And why would I even want to? The way that it turned out was so much more cozy. It is also important to remember that I could not lift my arms and that my back and chest were in significant amounts of pain. Also, I had drains pulling out blood and grossness. These drains had to be attended. Also, there was the catheter ... and the iv pole. So, I ended up sitting on a bench built for geriatric home use. While there, my nurse and my mom, who were both fully clothed ... down to their tennis shoes, were in charge of cleaning my swollen and oozing patchwork quilt of a body. Oh, and please don't dawdle ladies. My hemoglobin is dangerously low and I'm at a horrifyingly long distance from my morphine pump. So, let's get this cleansing over with so that I can get back to my narcotic schedule. I like to take a bump every ten minutes ... only because they won' let me take them every four.

TWO - Constipation Relief

I was a little stopped up, after my surgeries. There were two solutions to this, which were delicious, but embarrassing. The first was that my husband and mother-in-law had to take turns making me prune juice smoothies. The second was that my father-in-law brought me Caribou, because the caffeine helped. I appreciate these offerings, but I wish I didn't have to talk to everyone about my bowel habits.

THREE - Sniff, sniff

During one visit to the plastic surgeon, the extent to which my nipples were harboring disgusting infection was up for debate. So, to solve the mystery, my doctor smelled my breasts. No warning. He just leaned in an took a good whiff of each one. Cancer is so humbling.

FOUR - Peep Shows

Modesty is a thing of the past. I have shown my scars to everyone I know. And, because I'm new to this whole surgery and healing thing, I had several questions along the way. Luckily, my mom and aunt both were nurses. Also luckily (or unfortunately for them) we have several friends who are doctors. Because of rashes and dissolvable stitches that didn't dissolve and wounds that didn't heal, I have bared myself to several of Scott's friends, two of whom are the husbands of my friends. Also, one of those times was during dinner. Another was when Scott wasn't home. A third was while I was at work. I'm either desperate for medical opinions or kind of promiscuous.

FIVE - Frostbite

It's all a chain. My cancer is estrogen receptor positive. So, that transforms my ovaries from functioning organs to traitors, aiding and abetting the enemy. In order to minimize the estrogen production and absorption in my body, I am taking medication for the next five years. Also, I opted to have my ovaries removed. In so doing, I have been violently shoved into menopause. As a result of that, I have irritating hot flashes and night sweats. And that is the set-up for number five.

Yesterday, I had a red, angry looking splotch on my cheek. What was it? Sunburn? No. An abrasion from my very active BMX career? Nope. It was frostbite ... in 86 degree weather. How would such a thing happen, you may ask? From sleeping ... naturally. On Saturday night, I had three mojitos, after which the world was much more blurry and spinny than usual. (Thank you, Crows.) I figured that it was probably not a stellar idea to add Ambien to this equation, so I went to bed without it. Bad call. Two hours later, I woke up and COULD NOT fall back asleep, due to the fact that our house was 7 million degrees. (Or 74, but that's about the same thing during a hot flash.) I stripped off the blankets. INFERNO. I moved to the spare bedroom. PUDDLES OF SWEAT. I got an ice pack and moved it around from my head to my back to my neck to my arms for the next year and a half. Eventually, I was cooled down enough to go back to bed. I climbed in, disdainfully kicked the blankets aside and gratefully fell asleep with the ice pack on my head. And that's why I had to put sunscreen on a frostbite.

And that's why it's embarrassing to be me.

Hip, Hip Poray!

I went to see the oncologist, yesterday. He said that I'm officially in remission. My hormone levels are good. My iron is up. My cancer marker is up a little, but we're not going to worry, yet. Three cheers for me:

• Hip, Hip ... Poray!
• Hip, Hip ... Poray!
• Hip, Hip ... Poray!

(My son is a little confused about the "hooray" thing. I don't blame him. People have a tendency to be a little slack with enunciation. I guess Scott and I must guilty. So, in our house, we have a unique celebration sound, "poray.")

Anyway, I'm in remission. The American Cancer Society explains cancer remission as "a period of time when the cancer is responding to treatment or is under control." It doesn't mean that everything is fine and that I can go back to my regularly scheduled pre-cancer life.

The next step is a PET scan in August, which will show any cancerous activity elsewhere in my body. It should be negative, but I pushed for it, anyway. I told my doctor that I would feel better if I had the test. I also told him that I would feel better if I didn't have a claustrophobia attack during it, so he gave me Ativan to take ahead of time.

Since I have a 13% chance of recurrence, I'll be watched and poked and prodded regularly. The most likely time that the cancer could come back is within the next two years. If I make it to ten years, then I'm considered cancer-free.

In the meantime, I'll keep up with my current regimen of "health." Every morning, I get up and shower, so that I can remove the bandages from my chest. I'm supposed to change them every 24 hours, because the blood makes them stick to the wounds. After that, I take my medications. (I realize that it's a little unorthodox to air a list of drugs, but at this point, what does it really matter? You've been reading about my breasts and ovaries for three months. No one will be shocked to learn that I'm enjoying some anti-depressants, right?) So, here goes:

• Calcium twice a day to prevent osteoporosis
• Vitamin D twice a day because I have a deficiency
• Black Cohosh for hot flashes
• Biotin for hair loss
• Zyrtec for allergies
• Multivitamin for being filled with goodness
• Tamoxifen for cancer
• Asprin to prevent heart problems
• Celexa for anxiety and depression
• Ambien to help me sleep and to not stress about all of the above symptoms

Don't I seem the picture of health?

Oh, well. Baby steps. Every day, I'm healing. Every day, I'm getting stronger. Every day, I feel the support of all of you.

Thank you.

Second Opinion

I went to see another plastic surgeon, this week, for a second opinion on the nipple failure. I suppose that it was helpful. He did not say that Dr. Dreyfuss was a hack, so that's good. Sometimes, surgeries just don't have the expected results and I am unfortunately one of those cases, this time. (Thumbs down.) He also didn't say that there is a miracle pill to make my nipples miraculously regenerate, so that's not so good. He did tell me that another surgery down the road may be possible, depending on how I heal from this most recent debacle. (A reconstruction of the reconstruction, if you will.)

I should probably clarify that the debacle to which I am referring has resulted in weeping, open wounds on each breast, where the incisions didn't heal properly. One of my friends described them as "skinned boobs." She said that it is as though I fell while skateboarding ... and I wasn't wearing a shirt. Nice image, yes?

Anyway, in a month or so I should be able to stop wearing aquaphor and two piles of gauze under my bra. Yay. AND, once the scars thicken a little, then we will be able to see if a corrective surgery will be possible. This would require a skin transplant from my legs or stomach. Oh, also, they can't do the transplant in the same location as the first surgery, due to compromised blood flow. So, the nipples would be "about half an inch off from where they should be."

Well, that sounds awesome.

My other option is to skip this step and just go with the original plan of tattooing. Because of the unexpected scarring, though, the tattoos will need to be a little more creative than we thought. The damaged tissue will not accept ink in the same way as the surrounding skin.

My opinion is that this is crap.

My second opinion is that this is crap.

I Have Cancer

I don't feel like a person who has beaten cancer.

I don't feel like a person who fought cancer and won.

I don't feel like a person who had cancer in February and is better, now.

I feel like a person who has cancer.

I feel like a patient.

I feel exhausted and depressed.

Last week, I had six doctor's appointments.

My hair is falling out, even though I didn't have chemo.

My nipple reconstruction failed, even though I have not had radiation.

I had surgery three weeks ago and I'm still bleeding.

I have to wear an ugly hospital bra 24 hours a day to hold my new dressings in place.

My friends are having babies and I won't ever be able to have another one.

I have hot flashes and I'm only 34.

I can't sleep at night, between the anxiety and night sweats, even with my beloved Ambien.

My children want their "no-surgery Mommy" back.

Me too.

Stupid cancer.

Silver Linings - A Series on Cancer Optimism

Number Five

I won't need this stuff, anymore.

So long, tampons.

You won't be missed.

I Love My Husband

If you want to know how to make a grouchy surgeon perk up his bedside manner, I have the answer. All you have to do is bring your husband to the appointment with you. It helps if your beloved can engage said doctor in conversation about his skill and expertise.

It also helps if your husband whips out a camera to document your incisions.

Good work, Scott. You're the best!

Let's Have a Contest

Who had a better afternoon - you or me?

Before you vote, let me tell you what I did. It was SUPER FUN.

I went to the plastic surgeon AGAIN. While there, I sat in the waiting room with two babies, each under two months old. They were fussy and squirmy and adorable and not mine and I closed my eyes, mourning my missing ovaries.

Then, I had a debridement session, in which green, yellow and black necrotic, bacteria ridden tissue was removed from my chest via tweezers and scissors. Gross.

And ugly.

And bloody.

Do I win?

Are You Feeling Litigious?

I am.

I went to see Dr. Dreyfuss again, today. That makes four times since Wednesday. Stupid. He changed the dressings and put hydrogen peroxide on the open wounds and reprimanded me for trying to take a look. "Now, don't be touching everything."

He is admittedly a very gifted surgeon; my breast reconstruction looks fabulous!

And, I'm happy to report that he's not the kind of doctor to do this:

or this

and definitely not this.

However, my complaint is twofold:

1. The surgery sites are still not healing well.
2. Dr. Dreyfuss is being kind of a jack-face.

He doesn't have an especially favorable bedside manor. He isn't particularly adept at explaining the predicted results of surgery and then is not very responsive when I have concerns (like my nipples are turning black or there are open wounds where stitches used to be.) He also seems to be quite skilled at telling me what I'm doing wrong, even though I am following his minimal directions.

I think, Mrs. Glenn, that you are right.

It's time for a second opinion.

I Wish ...

I found an eyelash, just now, and I found myself perplexed. Usually, I wish on eyelashes. I understand that it is a silly superstitious thing to do, but it can't hurt, right?

Anyway, I looked down at the surface of my vanity, and there it was. And do you know what I thought? I thought: "I already have everything I want." Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I know that my daughter has some special plans for me. I'm spending the morning with my wonderful husband and children, going to lunch with my mom and sister, coming home for a nap and then having Sunday dinner. What more could a girl want?

So, I picked up the eyelash and didn't wish for a fancy present. I didn't wish for sunny weather. I didn't even wish away cancer. Instead, I wished that my daughter has a good Mother's Day.

I guess if the happiness of my child trumps everything else, then I'm in a pretty good place.

Happy Mother's Day to all of you moms out there. May you find the peace in your lives that I found tonight.

I'm Sorry to All of Our Doctor and Nurse Friends

But what is it about all the people in medical profession sucking?

I went to the doctor today. This is the third time since my surgery two weeks ago that I have called and requested a same day appointment because of a problem with the incisions. This is the first time that I feel like I have been taken seriously.

I AM NOT healing properly.

It is not normal, as we have learned, to have blackberries or beef jerky as skin. (And, for the record, I have transitioned to jerky. Thumbs down.) It is not normal to have gross yellowish-green ooze pouring out of you. It is not normal to need to put paper towels on your lap to protect your pants from all of the blood coming from your two-week-old surgery sites. But, as we have also learned, nothing goes as planned with cancer.

So, my doctor (I'll call him Dr. Dreyfuss because of his striking similarity to Richard Dreyfuss' character in What About Bob) decided that he should take the gauze and goop changes into his own hands ... FINALLY. Dr. Dreyfuss acknowledged that "there should not be this much blood." Gee, think so? I've been telling you that for two weeks. Also, "it's hard to say if there is any salvageable tissue under all of the scabs." Fantastic.

I'll just add that comment to the list of things that I wish you had never said. Because in case you have forgotten, you have also uttered gems like: "If you told me you wanted to look just like this after [the mastectomy and reconstruction], I wouldn't be able to do that, because you're too small." Also, "after the surgery, you're going to look like you have two penises on your chest." Really? Two male sex organs sticking off my breasts? That sounds lovely. I wonder why you didn't have the courage to tell me this before I was lying in a hospital gown with a net over my hair. It's such a great selling point for your services.

So, now I have waterproof bandages, again. I go in tomorrow for a dressing change. Then, again on Monday and again some other time next week. I'm relieved that my complaints have been recognized and registered. I wish that it hadn't taken this long. But, then again, I wish that it hadn't taken six months of my persistence to get diagnosed in the first place.

Also, I smell like iodine again. Ick.

And, on an unrelated note, Ryan Seacrest is an idiot. I was just subjected to one of his "This ... Is ... American Idol" introductions. I'm sorry that I'm not there in the live studio audience, because I would like to slap him upside the head. I think I'd get a lot of America's votes for that.

Return to the Routine

I'm going to work today. I've only been to work three days since February 12th. Keep your fingers crossed that I don't fall asleep on my keyboard.

And you'd better cross them with authority, because fatigue creeps up on me with the subtlety of a lion attack. Yesterday, for example, we had Owen's birthday party. By 8:15, I was slumped over in a chair drooling while he was still making towers with his new puzzle blocks. He's three.

I guess that's what happens when you plan a party ... and then nap while everyone else cooks and decorates. Sigh.

I'm tired of being Cancer-Liz.

Have You Seen Any Good Movies Lately?

Why, yes, I have. Thank you for asking.

As a matter of fact, I have seen SO many, that I can't remember all of them. But, here is a partial list from the last two months.

• The Blind Side
• An Education
• Shrek
• Snow White
• The Boy in the Striped Pajamas
• The Cutting Edge
• Girl Interrupted
• Little Miss Sunshine
• The Invention of Lying
• Father of the Bride
• Empire Records
• Enchanted
• Mulan
• The Little Mermaid: Ariel's Beginning
• Waking Ned Devine
• Shall We Dance
• Brian Reagan, Standing Up
• Sweet November
• I Love You, Man
• Couples Retreat
• Encino Man
• Keeping the Faith
• Stranger Than Fiction
• Personal Effects
• Did You Hear About the Morgans?
• Bride Wars
• Grey Gardens
• Pheobe in Wonderland
• Up
• Love Actually
• Capote
• Michael Clayton
• The Twilight Saga: New Moon
• The Talented Mr. Ripley
• 21
• The Time Traveler's Wife
• Up in the Air
• Jurassic Park: The Lost World
• Forgetting Sarah Marshall
• Flash of Genius
• Sideways
• Slumdog Millionaire
• The Proposal
• The Good Shepard
• Baby Boom
• Night at the Museum 2
• Funny People
• The Break-Up
• Reign Over Me
• Dreamgirls

I've also read some books.

• A Prayer for Owen Meany
• The Gargoyle
• The Zookeeper's Wife
• Little Earthquakes
• The Bitch in the House
• The Help
• Eat This, Not That
• A Family History
• The Island of the Sequined Love Nun
• The Brightest Star in the Sky
• Someone Like You

Maybe I could get a job as a critic. Do they serve snacks to critics? I like snacks.

Excitement of the Day

I am either experiencing an adverse reaction to Bacitracin or the surgery sites are infected.

Either way, there is a lot of redness.

Either way, it appears to be spreading.

Either way, boo.

I would really like ONE day that is free of medical setbacks.

Things I Learned Today

1. The Pap Smear that they did before my hysterectomy came back today. (I have no reason why it took so long.) It showed abnormal cells. I'm not sure what to make of this information, since I already had my cervix removed, but there it is.

2. If your chest looks like it has two blackberries on it, that is bad. If it looks like it has two pieces of beef jerky on it, that is worse.

This is information I learned from my doctor. I thought it might be of general interest.

Be advised.

I'm Self-Medicating

Well, not really "self." Scott just brought me a beer, to try to cheer me up.

I just spoke with my surgeon ... on a Saturday. Things do not look good with the surgery. It's possible that the nipple reconstruction did not take.

What he said was: "Well, that doesn't sound good. But, if the tissue is dying, there is nothing that we can do to correct it. And it isn't the kind of thing that we can do twice. So, we'll just have to see."

So, although I feel kind of weird saying it and I'm a little bit afraid that it may be totally sacrilegious, I'm still going to ask ...

Please pray for my nipples.

I Didn't Run A Marathon

But, I am bleeding through my shirt as though I did.

Gross.

Also, I went to see the surgeon, this morning. He changed my bandages and said that the stitches "look great." Apparently, his idea of "great" is ... mauled by a shark.

I would use a different word.

I Smell Like Iodine

I'm home. The surgery went fine. I'm bandaged up and waterproofed and (thanks to insensate) woefully undermedicated.

Perhaps I should open a bottle of wine.

Slice Day - Again

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

If you are my brother ... or my boss's husband ... or pretty much any male, I would advise you to skip this post.

I am going to go under the knife again, tomorrow.

Did you listen? Pete? Nick? You're not reading this, are you?

Okay, then. I'm having nipple re-construction. Sounds fun, right? In case you didn't know, I don't have any nipples, right now. They had to take them out, in case they harbored any cancerous cells. Apparently, that's the king of thing that nipples are known to do.

Anyway, tomorrow, my plastic surgeon will cut into the newly healed breast tissue to recreate them. Then, in three months, I can go back in and get them tattooed, so that they look a little more normal. He claims that these procedures are not painful. We'll see.

The skin in question has been transported from my back and all of the nerve endings were destroyed. They call this "insensate." If you want to look it up, you will find that my nipples: "have no sensation, consciousness or sense." They are "foolish."

Yes. Well, be that as it may, I'm still not super excited about it. It sounds like they will be molding me like I am made out of Play-doh.

Bored

I'm bored.

I'm bored with being tired and I'm tired of being bored. It seems that the farther out I get from my latest surgery, the more exhausted I become. I suppose it should make sense, since the kids are home and I'm able to do more, but it seems a little uncalled for, if you ask me.

I'm bored of being not 100%. I'm feeling good, good enough that I sometimes stretch a little too far or move a little too quickly. Then, not so good. Also, I'm starting to acquire some new pains, which I suppose is my body's way of reminding me that I'm still an invalid. (Note to body: I hadn't forgotten. Also, I hate you.) My areas of discomfort are as follows:

• Chest - for obvious reasons
• Abdomen - from the hysterectomy
• Belly Button - from the knives :)
• Back - from the first surgery AND new aches as I learn to compensate for the missing muscles
• Right Wrist - from the fluid leak during an IV attempt
• The Fronts of Both Shoulders - from the chest muscles being re-configured
• Left Leg - inexplicably. Perhaps from lack of stretching? Maybe I should try some couch calisthenics as I watch my next movie.

I'm bored of this "no soy" thing, already. I knew that to avoid the phytoestrogens in soy, I was giving up edamame and soy sauce and tofu and soy milk. But, who cares about soy milk? Does anyone even drink that? (And Jamba Juice doesn't count.) Anyway, as it turns out, I didn't really have any grasp of how widely used an ingredient soy is. For example, soy can be found hiding in the following items:

• Barbecue Sauce
• Twizzlers
• Chocolate
• Salad Dressings
• Cereal
• Oatmeal Raisin Cookies
• Pretty Much All Asian Foods
• Bread
• Peanut Butter
• Pancake Mix
• Pasta Sauce
• Chips
• Granola Bars
• Cous Cous
• Delicious Cheese Powder for Popcorn (and that's just unfair, because I use that powder in place of butter.)

Stupid cancer. I'll get you for this.

Silver Linings - A Series on Cancer Optimism

Number Four

All of this pill counting is keeping my math skills fine tuned. Currently, I take seven pills every morning and six each night. Of course, this could change at any point. I like to keep my brain exercised.

Oh, p.s. did you know that if you accidentally misspell "exercised," Spell Check suggests two options: "exercised" and "exorcized?" I choose the former, because I didn't want to expel my brain by prayers, adjurations and religious rites.

As we have learned, there are many parts of my body that are expendable. I don't think that by brain is one of them.

Things I Do Not Like - An Abbreviated List

1. Lying on my right side. The residual fluid makes me feel like I'm lying on a poorly deflated balloon ... or a big lump of silly putty. Either way, gross.
2. Trying to take a nap only to find out that my stupid brain won't shut the hell up!
3. Going to Victoria's Secret THREE TIMES only to discover that the bras they sold me all those times hurt and make enormous red marks all around my torso.
4. Giving up and going to Nordstroms to find bras. Finding them. Listening to the lady tell me that they will probably be covered by insurance. They aren't. Now, I have no bras.
5. Being a patchwork quilt.
6. When they have to go through three people to put in an IV.
7. When the nurses trying to put in my IV ask me if I'm well hydrated. I'm not. You told me not to eat or drink anything after midnight.
8. When the IV that is placed isn't quite far enough into the vein and a huge bubble of saline forms under the skin and later turns into a disgusting yellow bruise.
9. When the IV that was in fails to work and they send in someone in the middle of the night to replace it ... twice.
10. Hourly hospital vital checks.
11. My belly button. It hurts. My mom says I should stop putting knives in there. Im considering it.
12. When I get an itch on my back and go to scratch it only to remember that I can't feel that part of my back and so scratching it feels vaguely similar to rubbing it lightly with a cotton ball.
13. To regain the ability and clearance to lift, only to lose it again one week later.
14. Having this noticed by my darling son who looks at me with his adorably huge eyes and says: "Mommy, could you just carry me one time?"
15. The Subway Five Dollar Footlong commercial. (Really, it doesn't bother me so much, but I thought it would be funny to get it stuck in all of your heads. Was it?)
    five ... five dollar ... five dollar footlong ...
16. Spending the better part of the night rolling from one side to the other for no discernable reason.
17. This new rule about no soy. Oh, did I tell you I can't eat soy? I can't. It contains phytoestrogens, which is similar to estrogen, which can make my cancer happy. Did you know? Me either. Did you know how many foods contain soy? ... all of them.
18. Fatigue. Physically, I feel pretty good. My new incisions are bothersome, but not awful. But, I'm so darn tired. Yesterday, I had to turn down lunch - a real honest to goodness lunch out at a restaurant with normal, non-cancerous people, because I was too exhausted to do anything by noon. Really? TOO TIRED FOR LUNCH?! What has become of me?