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.