Archive | April, 2012

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to

15 Apr

So I had quite the party last night. There was music, there was wine and there was me, curled up on the couch with a heating pad, an old timey quilt and an ever-diminishing box of chocolate cookies. Yes, as you’ve probably guessed, I was the guest of honor at a good old-fashioned pity party last night, brought to you (or me, rather) by Living with Cancer and My Bad Attitude Productions.  

I’m still not sure what exactly happened or why it decided to happen on what must have been the most gorgeously vibrant spring day in Seattle history. I woke feeling a little under the weather, with fever, chills and a bit of a sore throat and for some reason couldn’t convince myself that going out for a run would be the thing to lift my spirits and clear my head. Instead, I pointedly ignored my running shoes (and the running laptop) and started watching Sex and the City (the movie), which didn’t exactly help my mood. (How could Big do that to Carrie? Why is Carrie reacting like such a dork? And what the hell is with that bird on her head?)

Before I knew it, morning had blended into early afternoon, which then coasted slowly towards late afternoon. And I still hadn’t left the house. I’m not even sure I ate anything, although I did take my medication: the anti-anxiety pill, the tamoxifen, the two tabs of Vitamin D and one tab of Vitamin B12, all chased down by a fish oil tab the size of my little finger. I take all of this crap every day (and more on days when I have bad chest pain or a migraine or can’t sleep), although the only pill that really counts is the tamoxifen, which acts like a hawk-eyed chaperone at a seventh grade dance, perpetually shouldering its way between those two old lovebirds — estrogen and cancer — so they can’t hook up and produce a slew of baby tumors.

And that, I believe, is what was … or is … at the heart of my funk (truth be told, I haven’t quite kicked it yet).

Not that I have any reason to be in a funk. Last Wednesday, I had a stellar one-year follow-up with my breast cancer surgeon, who told me that my left side had healed so well she couldn’t even tell that I’d had radiation there. Plus I’m working as much as I was pre-diagnosis; I just got back from a trip to Arizona and Texas; and spring has finally sprung in Seattle, chasing the constant drizzle and gray away with glorious sunshine and days that stretch on forever (or at least until 8 p.m.).

And yet yesterday (and even Wednesday while talking to my doc), all I could think about was the dreaded R-word: recurrence.

Obviously, with no more “mamm” to gram, that particular method of breast cancer screening is off the table. And in the year since my surgery, I haven’t received an ultrasound or MRI to see if any new tumors have sprouted in my chest. I also haven’t received  any assurances or guarantees that I’m completely out the woods and that I’ll never again have to climb onto the bad carnival ride that is cancer treatment. Instead, I’ve been living in Limbo Land, where ever ache and pain is ripe for a new kind of dark, desperate scrutiny.

My BC surgeon said that a physical examination — which she performed while we chatted about reconstruction, swing dancing and whether or not I could take up boxing — was the best way to determine if I was developing anything hinky in my chest. But what about all the other areas of my body? My liver, my lungs, my bones, my brain — all those places where breast cancer likes to pop up and wreak havoc like a bitter, inebriated ex-boyfriend at your first major book launch.

That’s where things get a little muzzy. According to my oncologist — who’s gone over my recurrence rates with me on more than one occasion — I need to tell her if I start “feeling bad” or suddenly develop a weird persistent pain. Or, I imagine, I end up with a broken rib after getting a hug or a have a seizure while grocery shopping.

Do fever and chills and a sore throat fit within the “feeling bad” category, I wondered yesterday, watching bright sunshine blur into gray dusk. (Or was the fever not a symptom of a cold at all, but one of those infamous hot flashes I was told I’d get as tamoxifen hip-checks me into menopause?) And while we’re on the topic of hinky things developing, what about that sore spot under what used to be my left breast. Was that a tumor starting to sprout or had I knocked myself with the vacuum cleaner handle yet again?

Oh the places you go when you’ve had cancer.

And the things you say. Friday night over drinks with a girlfriend, I casually mentioned that I knew I wasn’t going to live all that long.

“Once you have cancer, you tend to get it again,” I told her, sipping my martini and grazing on a goat cheese, mint and bacon-sprinkled bruschetta. (Might as well live it up, since I’m going to die in ten minutes, ten days, ten years or whatever, right?)

“I’m feeling really blue,” I texted another buddy last night while cancelling plans. “I don’t want to die young and I know I’m going to now.”

Who does that? Who dumps that kind of crap into the laps of their friends? Certainly not me, unless I’m in the throes of a deep emotional funk. Which may or may not be something I should report to my oncologist (Hmmm … I’m normally so upbeat. Perhaps my foul mood is symptomatic of a brain tumor?).

It’s probably just the cold (or allergies) taking me to this dark place. Or the spate of friends and former neighbors who’ve recently lost (or are in the process of losing) a parent, grandparent, spouse or beloved pet. Maybe it’s the one-year anniversary of my double mastectomy, which looms on the horizon like a tax deadline. Or hey, maybe it’s the frigging tax deadline itself.

Whatever the case, I’m blue because I hate not knowing what the hell is going on with my body and knowing that I’ll never really know as long as I live, which I hope will be a long, long time, but chances are it won’t because of this crappy disease.  I’m blue because I’m a bit of a control freak and cancer is not something you can control. Or predict. Or prevent, no matter how much sauteed kale you consume (and trust me, I’m consuming a lot these days). I’m blue because recurrence happens; it’s happened to friends and family members and to some of my cancer buddies on Twitter and while some of these people have been able to stay on top of the disease, it’s not always possible to kick cancer to the curb once it starts “traveling from organ to organ like a gypsy caravan,” in the words of the late, great Dave Hodgson.

I’m blue because it’s gorgeous out and I should be out there celebrating the sun and the spring weather and the life I have while I have it, but instead I’m moping around the apartment “giving in to myself,” as my mother used to say. I’m blue because I’m usually the one trying to cheer other people up when they confess these kinds of dark thoughts and for some reason, I’m not quite able to do that for myself.

I’m blue because I’m angry and scared and don’t feel well and because I have to pay a bunch of money in taxes and I gained like four pounds while visiting my sister in Texas. I’m blue because I don’t have a Mr. Big or a body (or budget) like Sarah Jessica Parker and because despite having cancer, I’m just as shallow and self-absorbed as I ever was.

Oddly enough, though, now that I’ve gotten all this crap off my chest, I actually feel a little better. Thanks for the ear, folks and for stopping by my little pity party, which as of this moment, is officially closing down. Time to go run in the sun. Time to stop whining and live.

Flying the friendly skies

7 Apr

The first annual Cancer Treatment Centers of America blogger summit. That's me on the left, looking like I have to go to the bathroom. ; )

I’m back in Seattle after a week-long working vacation that took me first to Phoenix, Arizona, for a blogger summit sponsored by Cancer Treatment Centers of America, and then on to Dallas for a sister summit, sponsored by my big sister Mary.

As you know, I was a little nervous about whether I’d make it through the TSA security checks with my dignity — and my girls — intact, but I managed to breeze through without a hitch (except for the lost bag in Phoenix and the cancelled flight in Dallas). I was especially happy that I didn’t have to go through the new, high-powered X-ray machines, not because I don’t enjoy mouth-breathing strangers looking at my naked body in the most unflattering light known to God or man, but because I’ve had quite enough radiation for one year (or one lifetime), thank you very much.

Unfortunately, not all of my breast cancer sisters have been so lucky with the wand-wielding folks of TSA.

Nancy’s Point sent me a link to a blog post she wrote about the trials and tribs she endured during her vacation in February, which included being threatened with a pat down after explaining to a TSA agent that she might not be able to lift her arms over her head while going through the X-ray machine (anyone who’s had a mastectomy can understand this) and a slight freak-out on the part of a security agent regarding her “scary” lymphedema sleeve (all the terrorists are wearing them this season, apparently).

Also got a note from Amy who pointed out that more fun may await, should I choose to go the tissue expander route when I get my reconstruction. “Those suckers have a magnetic valve for when you get your ‘fills,’” she wrote, “and actually set off the alarm at the metal detector! THAT is a fun one to explain!”

Rocking my chemo curls (and a pretty vintage scarf) in Dallas.

I didn’t set off any alarms with my boobs, but I did experience some alarms (and alarm) in Dallas when a slew of tornadoes (15, to be exact) set down in and around the city just as I was getting ready to leave for the airport on Tuesday. Luckily, no one was killed and none of the twisters came within 10 miles of my sister’s house. But my flight (and hundreds of others) were cancelled, thanks to winds that tossed 18-wheelers around like Tonka toys and hit DFW with hail the size of peas then ping pong balls then baseballs then grapefruit then, I don’t know, the planet Pluto, all within a half hour.

Finally made it out of Dallas late Thursday night with a slew of notes, information, and interviews from the blogger summit. And a rash of mosquito bites from my sister’s back yard, which didn’t bother me all that much since it meant the chemo had finally left my system. (Last August, during my “I’m So Chemover This” party, the mosquitoes that plagued everyone else left me completely alone, thanks to my toxic avenger status).

I’ll be writing more about the blogger summit in days to come, but for now, I’ll share a quick video that one of my new cancer buddies, Catherine of MassKickers.org, shot while I was there. Why do tumors suck? she asked. Oh, let me count the ways!

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