The Muse Is Alive

The Muse Is Alive

I know it's been more than a year since my last blog. In part, it's due to the fact that I fell so far behind, I didn't know where to pick up. But the Muse is beginning to twist and turn inside me, so I'll just give it a go.

First of all, an update on "the relationship," which has now become a formal engagement, complete with a diamond ring. Looking back, it feels as if we've been together for years, instead of a little over a year and a half. David and I have become very much a part of each other - and of each others' lives. We're still living in our own homes - still discussing alternatives - and dreading the thought of having to sort through more than a combined century's worth of accumulated marital "stuff." We spend approximately three days a week apart, and then share the remainder of each week at either his home or mine. It works - even tho' it's sort of a pain to be living out of suitcases.

I'm not at all enthusiastic about becoming legally married. I mean, I feel as if I couldn't be any more married with a wedding certificate. And it seems kind of silly to consider marrying at this stage of our lives. I don't want all the legal complexities, save for a medical Power of Attorney in the event that something should happen to one of us if we were traveling in Siberia. David has two adult children; I have three. I also have a Living Will - keep forgetting to ask him if he does. Our kids can and should speak for us. They know what we want.

In the meantime, we're having fun - doing some traveling, going out for dinners and entertainment, or just being comfortable in front of the TV with my dog in David's lap. (She absolutely adores him!) Right now, we're caught up in graduation schedules, with four grandchildren achieving this milestone within one four-week period.

And the love just keeps getting stronger and nicer. We keep joking, saying, "Who knew?" It's a source of constant awe and happiness.

And so, the seasons pass, all too quickly, and we keep plugging along. The after-effects of my cancer treatment, albeit subtle, still rear their ugly heads every now and then. I'm beginning to doubt my energy level will ever return to what it used to be - and my "chemo brain" leaves me searching frantically in my memory at times for names of things and people. I've often thought that we've kind of been fed a bill of goods by the medical community. You go and get treated for cancer - mine was pretty typical treatment: surgery, chemo, radiation - and you think, "Well, that's it. I'm 'fixed,' and life can return to normal." Considering that I had what I'd call a "mild case," this was my expectation - and it turns out that I was wrong on so many levels. Two o'clock hits every day, and my body screams for sleep - an hour's nap, maybe 90 minutes. I'll also forget what I was going to say in mid-sentence. Duh! The doctor keeps reassuring me, saying it takes about two years for "chemo brain" to subside. I'll reach the two-year mark in one more month to the day - I'll keep you posted. And I also have days when I just feel "off." Nothing dramatic - not really ill - just "off" - and other survivors tell me this is to be expected.  Small consolation - and very frustrating - but as my late husband used to say, "It beats the alternative." And I never know what to chalk these things up to: chemo or aging. Both are possible.

In the meantime, I've had to bid a final farewell to more friends than I want to count, plus one nephew and one cousin-in-law taken from us entirely too soon - I've had the joy of seeing all of my grandchildren at least once - and, of course, the twins are a constant source of amusement and delight. (They're SO bright, and SO funny!) I've continued to sing - but had to miss out on the spring concert when I succumbed to Influenza Type A, not covered by the flu shot. And there is much to look forward to in the summer months.

So that pretty much brings things up to speed. This sort of reads like a "catch-up" letter to an old friend - but that's the way I feel about those of you who have continued to beg me to write. You are my dear friends, and I so appreciate your interest and caring. I'm off to bed, perchance to dream, and my wish for all of you is lots of love and good days to follow. Good night.

Happy New Year - Good-Bye 2015

I find it difficult to believe that, as my daughter says, "Mom, you've GOT to write! People are waiting, and you haven't written anything since you were half-way through chemo." Alright. Alright.
I keep trying to convince her that there is more going on in the world than Linda Parry's treatment for breast cancer combined with her long and difficult recovery from widowhood. I really don't want to start every sentence with "I."

So, okay. Treatment is behind me. It wasn't one-tenth as awful as I'd thought it would be - and aside from a little lingering fatigue, there isn't much more to tell. My entire family was with me for the ceremonial bell-ringing signifying the end of chemo - and the radiation treatments were almost a non-event, save for one amusing incident. One afternoon, the radiation machine broke down half-way through my treatment. All kinds of techs and nurses were scrambling around and electronic mayhem was going on. I was still on the table, daring not to move. I didn't want my liver fried, or my pancreas radiated. And everyone just told me to hold still. Then one of the techs said, "Don't worry. We have three physicists who will be in and out working on things, but you're covered up." To which I replied, "It's not my body I'm worried about showing off - just put a blanket over my face!"  Lotsa hilarious laughing in the radiation room, including the physicists.

I finished up on June 23rd - spent the summer hiding from the sun - and learning various techniques for tying scarves around my head while I waited for my hair to grow in.

Sadness hit at the end of August when my sister lost her darling husband to end-stage Parkinson's Disease - and I hopped a plane to California to be with her for the memorial service and a little time after. I decided I couldn't go out there looking like someone's cleaning lady, so took myself off to a "secret" little wig shop in Annapolis. The wig fitting took all of 7 minutes. The owner took one look at me, went over to a mannequin, grabbed a wig and plopped it on my head, and VOILA! The old Linda was back! Even my own sister didn't realize I was wearing a wig until I told her a few days after I'd arrived. Amazing!

My life began to take shape again with the onset of fall - back to regular church attendance, chorale practice, and attending some of the many fall festivals held here annually. I'd already had bronchitis once in the summer, (chemo leaves you with NO immunity for awhile) - and that thing called "chemo brain," I'm told, should gradually subside over the course of the next 18 months or so.

And one day - either in October or November, (still can't remember), I came home to a phone message from David, an old high school classmate of my late husband's. Charles and I always gravitated toward David, and his wife Sarah, at class reunions, because they were fun, interesting people, and not part of the hard-drinking, rowdy crowd. Turns out David was living about an hour away from me, and had himself become widowed two years earlier when Sarah succumbed to a particularly vicious form of brain cancer after a 13-month battle.

Our conversation was light and friendly - and we ended with, "Let's get together one of these days." The opportunity presented itself about two weeks later when I saw a thing in the paper about a singer friend of mine who was doing an entire evening of Irving Berlin. I know David is musical, so called and invited him to the evening of song. We went out for a quick dinner first and then off to the show. A quick peck on the cheek at the end of the evening - and promises to be in touch. Then it was to be Downrigging Weekend here - so I invited him to join the crowd, which included daughter Vanessa, husband, and the almost-three-year-old twins. It was a good fit. Everyone liked him - peck on the cheek good-bye - and further promises to be in touch soon. He called to invite me to a production of "The Book of Mormon" a few weeks hence - and I promptly came down with bronchitis again, which turned into pneumonia in a few days. My first priority was to get well in time to sing for our Christmas concert - and it took three full weeks, a change in antibiotics, and a course of Prednisone to get me back to good health. I had to pass on the Broadway show and a couple of other things, rebounding JUST in time to sing. David came for our evening concert, then came along with a group of us to a local watering hole.

He mentioned that we'd only had a couple of pecks on the cheek - and I assured him that there was no particular rush - all the while thinking that while I was enjoying his company, it was a damned shame that there seemed to be no chemistry.

A few more dates later, including Thanksgiving dinner with our family, I don't remember exactly when - the whole situation flip-flopped for me, with a REAL kiss good-night. Holy Cow! I have no reasonable explanation for this, except to say that this is a very gentle, tender man who just sort of opened my lonely heart and soul with the sweetness of a kiss - and I suddenly became this moony-eyed, swoony being who just adored him. Sort of takes my breath away to even write about it.

Lest anyone think that this experience wipes out 47 years of memories of a very special marriage to the love of my life, let me hasten to reassure you that it doesn't. But at the same time, there is an element of "coming home" with David.  I feel safe, secure, trusting - and oh-so-comfortable with this man's arms around me.

So-ooo - I almost can't believe I'm writing this! I. am. in. love. And he with me. And we fit together so well. No, we're not going to get married. No, we're not going to move in with each other. And we jokingly say we'll tell everyone we're "going steady." (Friend Elaine is aghast at this expression. She says, "You're in a relationship." She doesn't get our silly sense of humor.)

A year ago this time, I was in a daze of apprehension and fear of the unknown. Today, I have so much to be grateful for. So much. And I feel so blessed, so grateful. A second chance at life. A second chance at love. Doesn't get any better than this.

And I know-know-know deep down in my heart of hearts that none of this would have been possible without the love and support and encouragement and prayers you all have provided for the past year. Thank you, all - family, friends, acquaintances. For the first time since 2010, I'm feeling truly alive again - and happy for each new day.

Half-Way There

       Half-way through the chemo game, and daughter Vanessa's up and down my back about blogging, so will give it my best shot. First of all, I want to explain that my purpose for blogging is two-fold: 1. It's somewhat therapeutic for me; 2. I want to be of help to anyone else facing this journey. I have no wish to sound like the only woman in the world who has ever been treated for breast cancer, because I'm not - but at the same time, maybe I'll be able to help clear away some of the misunderstanding, worry, and paralyzing fear that sometimes comes hand-in-hand with the word, "cancer."

      Quite honestly, this word has dominated my life since the three days before Christmas when I was given the confirmed diagnosis. I've not been terrified, but I have been apprehensive - and my greatest help has been the grapevine of survivors who have so generously shared their experiences with me.

      It kind of went like this. I got the diagnosis. Then I put on a brave face and got through Christmas. (The whole time, some menacing inner voice kept whispering, "You've got cancer, you've got cancer, you've got cancer...") I prayed fervently to the God of my understanding to shut the voice off, realizing I was just obsessing over something for which I had no easy-fix. And then, oh, God, I went through the medical maelstrom of information on top of information on top of information! Doctors' voices, books, pamphlets, the internet. I turned to my friend survivors, who were comforting and sometimes even more informative than the medicos. So many decisions to make, so many recommendations to listen to. Good Lord! I think there are times when we get too much information.

     A very wise woman told me many years ago, "Linda, when you're too jammed-up, sometimes it's best to make a decision and murder the alternatives." Bingo! And that wonderful advice helped to clear the mental and emotional fog, to a degree.

     So I chose the surgeon, recommended by my family doctor. Didn't know her from a green tree, but his recommendation was good enough for me. I liked the fact that she is a female, she is considered to be one of the GREAT breast cancer surgeons around these parts, and any doubts I might have had were quickly dispelled in our first meeting. She's a straight-shooter, has a sense of humor, and she was honest with me. (She also happens to be an experienced sailor, which I didn't know at the time, but that news only added to my confidence level.) Based on what she shared with me, I opted for lumpectomy, no re-construction of any kind, and then I'd tell her what form of treatment I wanted.

     Then it was on to the choice of an oncologist - and I followed the direction of other survivors. Once again, she is another female who is exclusively a breast cancer doctor. Younger than my younger daughter, she's adorable, brainy, and fun, and extremely forthright. Really, really liked her - and liked the fact that she didn't 'push' for what may have been her first choices. I saved my second opinion for an academic at Johns-Hopkins, who had also been a colleague of hers at the University of Pennsylvania. He's an M.D. with a Ph.D in breast cancer studies - exceptionally bright and respectful, and not at all threatened by a woman with strong opinions, (who, me?)  In fact, he even agreed with me when I said I'd always felt chemo-therapy was a form of overkill. "You're absolutely right," he smiled at me, "and unfortunately, we still don't have enough definitive data to set or cut back limits. We're still operating with what seems to have the best success rate, and each case is individual."   Jeeze, Louise! No patronizing, no condescension, no nose-out-of-joint. Just plain old honesty. I felt an instant kinship and a sense of almost-comfort.

     Based on our 2+ hours of conversation, I'd already come to the conclusion that what I wanted was what I jokingly call, "Chemo Light." I could've gone for the "heavy-gun" stuff, which is eight rounds of chemo treatments spaced two weeks apart, and contains one more ingredient than the "light" stuff - but since my cancer was Stage I, very small, slow-growing, and self-contained, and since I'm in my early 70s, I opted for what seemed like a gentler protocol.

     The whole point of chemo, I've learned, especially with my form of breast cancer, (ductalary carcinoma), is to prevent a recurrence, not to "cure" cancer. The cancer is essentially removed with the surgeon's scalpel - the chemo sets up a process of sort of capturing and killing off any "rogue" cancer cells that may have escaped. My understanding is that it's the white blood cells that glom onto any rogue cells and strangles them, which necessitates lots of blood work and tracking blood cell levels. All the docs throw a life-expectancy of 10 years around this procedure, which may or may not include radiation as a finale. Decision is mine.  So, hey, if I get to live to be 82, that's fine by me. I'm not out to win some longevity contest. I have no particular desire to survive breast cancer to ultimately die of something caused by chemo or radiation. My jury's still out on the radiation issue, and I still have weeks to make that decision.

        And if you've been following this blog, you already know that the breast surgery was almost a non-event. Had all of my kids with me - lots of laughter - little or no pain - and all in all, the finished product doesn't look bad. I joke about my career as an exotic dancer's being over - and I've been advised that "Sammy the Tattoo Man" in Philadelphia has made an entire career/art of tattooing nipples on de-nuded breasts - and some women disguise the scar with tattoos of humming-birds - but no thanks, Folks. What you see is what you get, and that's that.

       So, the next LOOMING thing was the actual first chemo treatment. During my surgery, I'd had a "port" installed, which is an under-the-skin conduit for administering the chemo liquids, rather than having to have an IV line put in each time. I was given some numbing cream to put on the connection site, and was started on a regimen of high-powered pills loaded with cortisone for two days before the procedure. I was told I could feel very "wired" or bitchy with this medication, so I took it with a lot of nervous determination. I promptly fell sound asleep for two hours, and continued to feel sleepy throughout the pill-taking-pre-chemo days.

     And finally, THE day arrived,  daughter Katie and I met one more time with the oncologist before reporting to the "Infusion Dept." There are 39 sort of cubicle thingies, each centered with a recliner. I was tucked into the chair, and surrounded myself with all my good luck charms: a picture of my late husband, a teddy bear from Sue, a heart-shaped pillow from Sue and Lois. I hooked up my laptop,  got organized with the wi-fi, turned on the cable TV - and then more pre-chemo medications were administered. Tummy pills, Benadryl, another dose of the cortisone stuff - and by the time my sweet young nurse attached me to the chemo, I was half-asleep already! The whole two-hour chemo part was a drowsy experience - punctuated by a visit from a darling therapy dog, a performance by a traveling harpist, and a classical guitarist. The guitarist was also hooked up to a chemo machine, and she played the most beautiful, soft music, it was hard not to sleep. Then lunch was served by a young man with a rolling cart - yummy sandwiches, chips and drinks. And before I knew it, it was over. 

     I felt so clear-headed and refreshed, my daughter suggested I drive home, which I did! I was absolutely amazed! I'd had no idea of what to expect, and I'd imagined feeling terribly ill, or head-achey, dizzy,  or something. To the contrary, I felt fine, and home we came. The next 24 hours were un-eventful. I'd been told I'd feel tired, which I did, so I napped when I felt like it, and slept well at night.

     I decided to take the bull by the horns and had my daughter shave my head. Everyone said I was going to lose my hair, and all said it was far easier emotionally to just bite the bullet and DO it, rather than waking up in the morning with my hair all over the bed, or clogging the shower drain. I've always held the philosophy that "hair is just hair," so the experience was un-traumatic for me, and my daughter and I laughed most of the time. We had fun "playing" with some hair pieces, hats, and scarves I'd pre-ordered on-line. She took pictures and posted them on Facebook, and the reactions started rolling in.

     The next day dawned rainy and icy, so we had to cancel a trip back to the medical center for a follow-up injection of Neulasta. The purpose of a Neulasta shot is to build/strengthen blood cells, and it's another of those no-big-deal things as far as the injection itself is concerned. My daughter waited in the car while I ran in and had the shot, and soon we were off to a fabulous home decorating store to browse around. During our 20 minutes there, I noticed my energy beginning to flag and there was sort of a niggling little sharp pain in my right hip joint. Once again, I'd been told that I might experience some bone pain as a result of the shot, but no one said it would be unbearable. Now, I'm no wimp when it comes to physical pain - I've given birth three times, and have endured three other pretty painful surgeries, all with nothing more than maybe one shot of Demerol, followed by doses of Extra-Strength Tylenol. So it wasn't as if I were lying on the floor writhing in agony, or anything. But by the time we got home, the pain, albeit light, was radiating down my thigh bone and into my leg. It turns out that this was what I'd call "preliminary" pain, a preview of what was to come.

    The process at the medical center is to call a Triage Nurse - anytime - if you have a problem, or if anything unusual happens. I called about the pain, and was given instructions about what to take and when. By this time, I'd sent my daughter home (2 hours away), as she was about to celebrate a birthday, and I wanted her home with her family for the occasion. So I was here alone through two nights and one day, with the pain just growing and not responding to anything I was told to do, medication-wise. By the morning of the third day, I was back on the phone begging my daughter to return. Admittedly, I was in a bit of a panic, and that, coupled with the pain, was making me feel icky all over. I didn't know WHAT to expect. I called my survivor friends. No one had experienced the state of pain I was in - and everyone who had had some of it said that the recommended medications and warm heat had helped. I tried, I really did. And the pain kept coming on and on and on. By the evening of the third day, all the heavy bones in my body felt as if they were on fire: my ribs, my spine, the bones in my jaw and my skull! I couldn't decide whether to lie down or stay on my feet. I couldn't find a position to be comfortable. I lost my appetite, but persevered with pushing fluids. Everyone said, "Stay hydrated," so I nearly drowned myself in drinking water and sucking on ice pops.

     Through a snafu in communications, I was unable to reach even my oncologist, so in desperation, I called my family physician on the morning of the fourth day. We discovered I had pain medication from my earlier breast surgery. I hadn't taken it because I hadn't needed it, and when I read the label, the doctor said, "You can have that! TAKE it!" I didn't need to be told twice. I took the blessed pill and was sound asleep within 20 minutes! I slept for a solid two hours and woke up absolutely pain-free for the first time since the shot! If I could have, I would have gotten into the car and gone over to my doctor's office and kissed him square on the lips! (Which would have mortified him - he's basically very shy and proper.)

       The pain began to dissipate over the course of the next three days, and then I was pain and medication-free. I felt like me, and I was once again able to go about my days as usual - driving, running to the post office, popping in at the grocery store - all while wearing a surgical mask over my face. (Advisable, because chemo can pretty well destroy your immunities.) I was able to send my daughter home after the first pain-free day, and life was pretty near normal once again.

      I've now undergone my second of four chemo treatments - just as "dreamy" as the first - only I got two therapy dogs instead of one, and the harpist seemed to be among the missing. The guitarist was there again, practicing for a concert, and she played the entire time - and lunch was once again delicious. Forty-eight hours later, I went back for the dreaded Neulasta shot. The oncologist agreed to cut the dosage in half, and we decided to try some prophylactic non-inflammatory over-the-counter stuff in advance. Once again, my daughter sat in the car. I got my shot, and then we had a glorious time prowling through Trader Joe's and then K-Mart afterward. (!) Can't say I haven't had any pain, but it's 80% reduced in intensity and confined to my right lower leg. And my hair started to fall out that night. I scratched my head, and a shower of silver whiskers cascaded down my face. It was really kind of funny. I had Katie shave my head one more time before she left for home the next day.

     Okay, so that pretty well synopsizes everything, and brings everyone up-to-speed. I told daughter Vanessa, who requested this, that she'd better pour herself a couple of cups of coffee before she sits down to read this one.

     I hope I've portrayed this journey as accurately and honestly as possible. It has certainly had its highs and its lows, but nothing like what I've heard about over the years. Thank God, modern medicine is REALLY trying to make this as humane as possible!

     Probably THE HUGEST gifts throughout have been everyone's love and concern and prayers. I can actually feel them physically - a strength not my own, a lift to my sometimes-dragging spirit. Contrary to what everyone says, I'm not that tough, and I am so everlastingly grateful for your shared power to ride this out.

     So - it's on to the second half. Only two more chemos to go, and then maybe I can re-enter the human race. Bless you all for not leaving me behind.

   

Home. Sweet. Home.

For those of you who follow Facebook. I won't belabor the subject - but just in case you hadn't heard, the surgery's completed, all went well, and I am at home. Hooray! Gotta say, the care at Easton Memorial is extraordinary - the nurses are kind and compassionate and funny - the anesthesiologist IS funny - and my surgeon is an absolute PEACH. Can't say enough good things about her!

My daughters have posted "lovely" pre-op pictures of me on Facebook looking radiantly happy. The Happy is chemical - light dose of Versed on board. Then for the surgery, they gave me "Michael Jackson Juice," that Propo-whatever-it-is - and the next thing I knew, I was waking up and HUMMING! Whew! I haven't had anything like that stuff in almost 40 years, and felt like I was waking up from a major drinking escapade. Wasn't sickening, but not particularly pleasant, either.

A couple of dear friends made food deliveries while we were gone today - so dinner was scrumptious. Son Skip has gone on his way - can't remember where he said he was overnighting. The girls have good-nighted and kissed me and are off to bed. I'm pillow-propped in my own comfy bed, and the cat is sound asleep beside me.

My only soreness, and not un-bearable, is where the lymph nodes were removed - and if I remember correctly, everything was clear in that dept., and I think someone said that means no radiation. Very wonderfulness!

I am still "floating" on your love, prayers, and caring - and I am so-oooo grateful. I could 'feel' you all with me today, and I knew, going in, that everything would be fine. Even my apprehension magically disappeared.

Thank you, Thank you. Thank you from the bottom, middle and top of my heart.

Good night, dear people and God bless you all.

The Night Before...

By this time tomorrow night, if all goes according to plan, I should be nestled all snug in my own bed with all the surgery behind me. And from what I've been told, I shouldn't be in too much pain - nothing Tylenol can't handle.

Tonight I am surrounded by loves - all three of them - my children. As expected, my daughters are here - and surprise of surprises, my son is, too, much to everyone's delight. Can't remember the last time I had all three children to myself. It's a very comforting feeling.

Have to be at the hospital a little earlier than planned - because I learned today that my booby has to be injected with radioactive stuff to track the path of the carcinoma. When I found out that the plan called for an injection without any numbing stuff, I said unh, unh! NOT gonna do that! The Lidocaine shots for my biopsy were enough to put me through the roof, and I refuse to have another needle stuck in there while I'm awake and feeling. So-oooo, we go in early so that I can sign consent forms and talk to doctors while I'm still conscious. I'm told the anesthesiologist has a great sense of humor - which I'm looking forward to - and then he'll give me the Versed, euphemistically called "conscious sedation." Conscious, hell! It's a lovely sleep.

The lady in the hospital registration office told me the surgery is scheduled to take one hour and 40 minutes. I asked if someone stands over the surgeon with a stopwatch - and if we go overtime, do they just throw me out on the lawn? Or maybe finish the surgery out in the hallway? And if we get finished early, do I get a discount? She was laughing so hard, she nearly dropped the phone!

And now it's time for bed - the waiting is almost over, thank God. I'm going to take my last shower for awhile - a "port" will be installed in my chest, so there will be no swimming or showers until after the port comes out.

I'm going to take everyone's loving messages and prayers and hold them close - and pray God will see all of us through this. I'll get back to the keyboard as soon as humanly possible. Good night and God bless.

4 - 3 - 2 - 1


Four days to go and counting....and the pieces are all beginning to come together. First and foremost, the final figures have come in from my biopsy - and I am what the call in the medical "biz," a "triple-negative." In people-speak, this means I have a greater chance of cancer recurrence than if I weren't a triple-negative  - and it also means I won't be able to duck out of either chemo or radiation. Oh, joy!

But there IS a caveat to all of this in that they really won't have all the hard evidence until surgery is completed, and pathology can be done on the entire mass and my sentinel lymph nodes. That is what will tell the WHOLE story.

So in the meantime, I've been making a bazillion phone calls to other survivors - and have lined up appointments with various doctors. I'll see the cardiologist on Monday, just for an update and an EKG. (Chemo carries the possibility of causing congestive heart failure.) At least we'll be prepared with a baseline.

I've saved my second-opinion option for the oncologists. One a female doc, and the other a male - both specialists in breast cancer - just to be sure everybody's on the same page. And once the dosages for chemo are agreed-upon, we'll be off to the races, so to speak.

One of my friends who went through the exact same procedure as mine exactly one year ago (with the same doctors) gave me great encouragement. She said she never suffered a flicker of nausea, and despite being very tired and having a "funny" taste in her mouth, things couldn't have gone more smoothly. She and everyone else have predicted that I will lose my hair, but that's no big deal as far as I'm concerned.

I've been shopping on-line for various hats, scarves and hair pieces. I'd really prefer not to go the wig route, because everyone says they're hot and itchy. I've located a company that makes hair pieces that can be affixed to the insides of hats - and I kind of like that idea. Just put on your hat, and you have hair. Voila!

Also on the advice of a friend currently treating for far more serious cancer than I, I've located an acupuncturist, which many people are using as an addition to healing these days. Although I've never used it before, I AM a believer - and so many of my trusted friends absolutely swear by it.

And so it goes...ooh-blah-dee, ooh-blah-dah. I still don't know how I feel. I am trying very hard to be positive and pro-active. I see no point in becoming a huddled mass of terror and fear - and I'm working very hard on staying in the here and now.  I certainly can't roll the calendar backward, and it's absolutely impossible to leap into the future. The hardest part is thinking about anything ELSE. It's amazing how one word - cancer - can absolutely dominate your life, your thinking, your planning.

I've purposely put myself into a self-imposed quarantine for now - at least until I get through surgery. This damnable flu bug is epidemic around here right now, so I am making every effort to stay out of crowds, supermarkets, even church. I wear gloves when I'm out anywhere - and I pull my neck scarf sort of up over my mouth - and I've got little bottles of Purell stashed in every corner of my life.

And I write - purely for therapy. It feels good to get all these thoughts out of my jumbled brain and onto a page. If it helps anyone, I'll be grateful - but I'm really doing this for me.

I've had lovely messages and promises of prayers from so many people - and for now, I'm just letting myself float on this cushion of love and concern. It's a nice feeling. Makes me feel braver than I think I am.

On that note, it's time for bed, perchance to dream, and tomorrow will be another day.

Good-night, all - and may God's angels watch over all of us.

Christmas 2014

      It's December 28, 2014, and the beginning of 2015 is just around the corner. Is it just because I'm old, or is time REALLY flying by more quickly?
      This past year took me to at least 9 funerals - old, old friends of long standing, two cousins, (one entirely too young), and more sadness than I can ever remember. My feisty late mother-in-law's voice rings in my ears: "Damned little good I can see about growing old!" A winter in Florida was not to be for last year, nor will it be for this coming year. It's as if Key West has been re-discovered, and rentals have gone through the roof - obscenely!
       And it's probably just as well this time. Just six days before Christmas I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Well, Merry Christmas to me! I'd had this "bump" for most of the summer that came on one afternoon as if I'd been bitten by something. I ripped my clothes off and looked - no bug or tick that I could find, but there was this red bump that itched like fire. I'd just had mammography the month before, which came back clear - and I took myself off to my local doctor to have him examine this "bite," or whatever it was, that just lingered and lingered. He sent me off to the ultra-sound dept. of the local hospital, and the report that came back was essentially that it was nothing to worry about. It resembled cellulitis, more than anything else. (I wondered at the time how one develops cellulitis in breast tissue - but I'm not a doctor, so I sort of dismissed it.) Back to the doctor in the early fall for a general check-up, and I told him my "bump" was still there. He gave it another look and said I was to go back for another ultra-sound - and results might as well have been a carbon copy of the last ones. Then my doctor said he wanted me to see a breast surgeon, just for good measure.  And I did, the week before Christmas. She'd already seen my films and read the radiologists' reports - but when she looked at the bump, she pronounced it "odd," and not what she expected - and just to be on the safe side, she said she was going to do a "punch-out" biopsy - and I'd have results in 48 hours. Except that I didn't. Forty-eight hours came and went, and no report. I called her office, and one of her assistants checked and said the results were "pending," but she'd call me before lunchtime the next day. Lunchtime came and went - nothing - and I called the office, only to get that damnable recording: "Our offices are now closed. We will be back in the office at 9 a.m. Monday morning." There were also some additional directions to call the hospital and have the doctor paged, if this were an emergency. So I called the hospital, only to be bawled out by the receptionist: "We can't do THAT," said she. "We're not allowed to page the doctors during the day. We can only page them at night." I told her I was just following the directions on the doctor's answering machine. "Oh, well," she condescended. "I'll see what I can do."
      "Like hell," I thought to myself - and called the office of my local doctor. His nurse was able to hook into the pathology report, and she said that results were still "pending." So I stirred things up a little and asked the nurse to ask my doctor if he could get through to someone to give me some answers. I'm thinking that maybe, "No news is good news," and  hung up the phone. Within the next 10 minutes, the breast surgeon was on the phone to tell me, "No news is NO news." What she could tell me, however, was that I have ductillary carcinoma - Stage 1, Grade 2 - but she was still waiting for prognosticators and protein inhibitors, and she made an appointment to see  me in the morning of the next Tuesday, just three days away.
          With my sister-in-law as my extra pair of listening ears, we trekked to the breast surgeon's office to learn everything there was to know about breast cancer. I was happy to learn that I qualify for a lumpectomy - and the jury is still out on whether it'll be just chemo, just radiation, or a combination of the two. (We're awaiting Herceptin results, whatever the heck that is.) And the surgery will be same-day, under a local - she'll also take three sentinel lymph nodes (no drain these days) - and if the insurance company will let her, she'll also install a port, which makes the chemo process SO much easier. (And if the port turns out not to be necessary, she'll just take it out.) I've managed to talk her into some Versed for the numbing process - that's the same stuff they give you when you go for colonoscopy - because the needles in my breast hurt like all hell - and I'm not brave enough to just grit my teeth. Surgery is scheduled for January 15th.
           There are many other pieces of treatment to be put together when we find out how aggressive treatment will have to be. I'm on the hunt for an oncologist that specializes  in breast cancer treatment - and it will be he or she who sets the dosages and the "protocol."
           How do I feel? Apprehensive, not terrified. My girls will be with me on the day of surgery - and then it's the old one-day-at-a-time approach. I'm likely to lose my hair, and accompanying sickness will be determined by the toxic chemicals. I have several friends and a couple of family members who have gone through this - and the offers of borrowed wigs have been rolling in.
           And, yes, it's at times like these that I miss the warmth of my husband's arms and his encouraging spirit. But I do feel certain he's watching over me, and he's "with" me in the spiritual sense.
          I've bade good-bye to any fantasies of being a tropical dancer - and the word is out that I won't be nursing any babies. (Of course, I haven't nursed a baby since 1970.) I'm counting on a lot of humor to get me through and the strength of a power greater than I, whom I choose to call God.
          So, it's, "Left foot, right foot, breathe - and, "This, too, shall pass." And by this time next year, I should have my hair back and start to feel half-way human.
         I'm just praying 2015 will pass as quickly as 2014 did!