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Happy cancerversary to me

11 Feb

Me, pre-diagnosis (Nov 2010)

So today is my one year “cancerversary”. One year ago today, I got a phone call from the radiologist (aka Dr. Debbie Downer), the woman who initially found the three masses in my chest via ultrasound and then performed the biopsy on those (and a fourth one she discovered at the time) a few days later.

Needless to say, the phone call did not go well. For starters, she used the word “positive” which for anyone NOT waiting to hear back about a cancer diagnosis is a perfectly fine word. If you happen to be waiting to hear whether you’re going to maybe die or lose some of your body parts, though, “positive” isn’t all that, well, positive. And as it turned out, I was a very positive patient, with all four of the masses in my two breasts coming up roses for invasive lobular carcinoma, otherwise known as ILC, or “evil cancer” as my breast cancer surgeon likes to call it.

I still have the notes from that horrible conversation, slip-cased in a plastic sleeve and stuffed into a giant three-ring binder. In fact, I have everything from this past year stuffed into that binder  — scribbled notes from phone calls with nurses, social workers and breast cancer survivors; MRI reports where they talk about my “unremarkable uterus” and my “grossly normal bowel”; pages and pages of printouts of upcoming doctors’ appointments; get well cards from friends and colleagues and my wonderful nieces and nephews (I still love 9-year-old Charlie’s post-surgery card the best: “Doctors are dumb,” he wrote. “You are so not sick. Also you have a lot of sex in you!”).

Me, post-surgery, pre chemo, May 2011. WTF, indeed.

Somewhere amidst all of the pathology reports and medical handouts and hospital bracelets (yep, I saved those, too), I even have a lint roller sheet covered with the last vestiges of my dearly departed blonde hair. After shaving my head, my scalp itched like crazy so my wig guy said to just take the rest off with masking tape. Somewhere in a closet, I even have one of my drains and the port they took out of my body three months ago (both completely scrubbed up and sterilized, of course).

I’m not sure why I’ve saved all of this stuff, but it just seemed important at the time. I guess I wanted some kind of record of my awful year — my annus horribilis — and at present, this notebook, these odd bits of breast cancer detritus, are it. Now that I’m three months out of treatment, I have very few things to save in my notebook. Instead, I’m finding myself taking things out and reading through them, trying to decipher what the hell, exactly, happened to me over the course of these last 12 months.

While I was living it — those first tearful appointments with the surgeon, the indignity of the drains following the double mastectomy, my three months of chemo and then those long six plus weeks of radiation — I remember telling myself that I would never forget a single moment of the torture I was going through. That the anger, the shame, the pain, the fear, the weakness, the “otherness” (with my bald head and flattened chest I felt like a space alien half the time) would be seared into my brain as deeply as the radiation burns seared my chest.

Greetings from Planet Chemo (and obviously, radiation). October 2011

But the memories have already begun to fade — either due to medication or stress or chemo brain or the body’s miraculous ability to do what it needs to do to heal itself. Truth be told, there are probably some things I shouldn’t remember. Although if I want to, all I have to do is open my notebook (or close my eyes and begin to type) and a lot of it comes flooding back.  

Not that I’m anywhere near done with my great breast cancer adventure. Reconstruction — in some form — still looms ahead. One day, maybe even some day this summer, my flattened gnarled chest will no longer look like one of the talking trees from The Wizard of Oz or that old WWII cartoon, Kilroy Was Here, whenever I lean forward. Instead, I’ll have boobs and cleavage and fat covering my very visible ribcage. If there’s a god, I may even get some feeling back in my skin and nipples. Or finally be able to get rid of the weird constricting pain in my chest and armpits that comes from scar tissue and adhesions, pain that I and other breast cancer survivors use nicknames to describe:  Gulliver chest, rubber band pits, twang arm.

Not that things are all that bad. As I sit here typing and ruminating on the dark days that are behind me, I can definitely see progress. I seldom cry when I talk about the cancer or my lost girls anymore. I’m no longer a chemo invalid, hobbling around my apartment, hanging on to chairs for support and using a wrench to open water bottles. I no longer have to slather Aquaphor healing ointment onto a lobster red chest or pop Vicadin for the deep burning pain that comes with radiation. These days, I’m back out running and swing dancing and tap dancing and doing everything I did before (including making poor food choices — still need to work on that). These days, I’m no longer a bald space alien — I’ve got at least an inch worth of hair on my head and a pixie “haircut” that looks almost intentional. Granted, my hair’s a completely different color and a completely different texture than it was before (it’s much more gray, for instance), but it’s a start. Most importantly, it’s not going to start coming out in handfuls the way it did 10 days after that first dose of taxotere and cytoxan.

Me, in recovery. December 2011. Where's the frigging champagne?

The bottom line is I’m still here. And the cancer’s not. At least it wasn’t the last time I had my tumor markers checked. The doctors won’t tell me I’m cured or cancer-free (at least not for a few more years), but I can say that I’ve made it a year past diagnosis, which is more than I expected when the phone call from that oh-so-grim radiologist came in, 12 months ago today. And while breast cancer’s hardly something to celebrate, getting through the diagnosis, the surgery, the chemo, the radiation and yes, even the “recovery” process, most definitely is.

So even though it’s only 10 a.m., I’m tempted to pop the cork on one of the champagne bottles in my fridge. Or perhaps make myself a martini or Manhattan or mimosa (anything but a chemo cocktail).

I’ve made it a year, folks. I’ve made it a year.

Chuckles, the cancer clown

7 Jan

It’s a gray, muzzy Saturday here in Seattle and I have to say the external weather and my internal mood are perfectly matched.

I’m not sure what happened. Last night, I went out with a slew of journalistic types — smart, snarky sorts with more quips up their sleeves than tattoos (which is saying something for Seattle) — and I had a perfectly lovely time meeting new people and yammering with old buds. One of those buds was a colleague I hadn’t seen in more than a year, which meant we had a lot of catching up to do.

In other words, there was a lot of cancer talk.

As usual when I’m out with a group of people who know about my situation, I became Chuckles, the Cancer Clown, cracking wise about the double mastectomy, the chemo, the hair loss, the radiation, the daily doses of tamoxifen — the whole nine yards. Listening to me talk about my breast cancer experience, you’d think it was all a big hoot. You’d think I wasn’t a bit fazed by the loss of my beautiful breasts and the fact that my chest now looks like a 10-year-old boy’s that’s been badly ironed.

Sure, my nipples are crooked and there are wrinkles and folds where there used to be lovely feminine mounds. But so what? I’ve got fabulous new fake boobs, given to me by a friend of a friend who got them at Nordstrom for $300 each. “I call them my gummi boobs!” I tell my editor buddy. “Aren’t they great? I can just hand them to some guy if he wants to feel me up and I’m not into it. And when I get tired of ’em, I can just tuck ’em away in a drawer!”

Watching me laugh and joke about my wig — made from my own hair which I had to shave to save (one of the hardest decisions of my life) — you’d never imagine me pounding my bathroom mirror, sobbing “Come back! Come back! Oh god, please come back!” at my patchy bald pate during those horrible long months following chemo.

I hide the pain, the anguish, the grief, the whole horrible mindfuck that is cancer treatment quite well. At least when I’m out with friends.

Once I’m home, though, things are different. Chuckles slips away and I’m left with Cancer Chick, the girl who winces as she pulls off the wig (the double stick tape is attached to new growth now and takes out a chunk of hair with each wear). After the wig is gone, Cancer Chick then changes into a nightgown and diligently rubs castor oil all over her chest — or what’s left of it — hoping it will soak into the skin and the muscle beneath and make it possible for the skin to stretch enough to hold tissue expanders and eventually implants. Hopefully, not implants that will encapsulate or explode once they’re inside.

Of course, this may all be for naught. Thanks to radiation — you should hear my stand-up routine on that particular topic — the skin on the left side might not stretch. It might not heal. So I may be forced to have some kind of complicated surgery that harvests a chunk of muscle and tissue from some other part of my body in order to build a boob there.

“I may end up with a butt for a boob,” I told my friend last night and we both howled at the wackiness of that.

I’m sure part of it was the beer. Part of it was the discomfort of having to talk about cancer in a group setting. Part of it was my almost fanatical insistence on making others feel comfortable about the fact that I’ve somehow ended up with this lousy, terrifying disease. And part of it — and this particularly grim blog post, no doubt — is the tamoxifen that has me swinging back and forth like a emotional version of Poe’s Pit and the Pendulum.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think it’s necessarily a good thing to have a stick up your ass about your problems all the time. Black humor is what got me through my warzone of a childhood and it has served me well through this current cancer zone, as well.

But it’s also good to remember — to acknowledge to myself and to others — that sometimes my cancer is not going to be amusing. It’s actually going to make me cry in front of you. Or stay at home curled in a ball under my coffee table. And despite the fact that I’m no longer in treatment, my grand cancer adventure is not over by a long shot.

Although, thankfully, neither is Chuckles’ brave little standup routine.

In search of my new bionic boobs

2 Dec

So today’s a big day for me. In about two hours, I’ll be meeting with my plastic surgeon to see what effect the six plus weeks of radiation had on my left side. I’d say my left breast, but there’s not much breast left. There’s a nipple and skin and scars and scar tissue which has adhered to the muscle wall. Your basic beat-up 10-year-old boy look. But with a lot of luck, I’ll hear today that I’ll soon be getting a breast there, hopefully without too much trouble.

That last is a bit facetious since breast reconstruction is not an easy process, although many people still equate it with cosmetic breast enhancement, which is a much simpler, almost cut-and-dried procedure these days. Reconstruction, however, is much more complicated and can involve multiple surgeries and long recovery times. I’m praying that I’ll be able to get what I call the “easy-peasy” reconstruction method involving tissue expanders and implants.

With this method, you basically get a couple of empty tires surgically implanted behind your chest wall which the plastic surgeon pumps up once a week or so (via some kind of valve) until you have the right size. Then they swap out the full tires for your implants (either saline or silicone – still haven’t decided yet) during surgery. I’ll be doing this with my right side which didn’t go through radiation, but the big question is what will happen with old Lefty.

If radiation has screwed the pooch on my skin there (and according to my radiation oncologist, it does with maybe one third of the women who go through it), the skin won’t be able to stretch enough to hold a tissue expander. Which means they’ll be “borrowing” tissue and muscle from other parts of my body to “build a boob.” (When I first heard this, I immediately pictured them nicking tissue from my butt, my thighs, my right armpit, my left knee and sort of cobbling it all together like a boob hot dog. Such is not the case.)

Instead, they usually borrow tissue from one place, like your belly — especially for women who’ve had kids (instant tummy tuck!). Unfortunately (or not), I haven’t had kids and was told during my first consult that my stomach wasn’t big enough to use for the “build a boob” method, which is officially known as a tram flap. (This is another one of those backhanded cancer compliments, like “You’re so young, you’ll be a great candidate for chemotherapy.” The first time I heard that, I didn’t know whether to cry because of the impending chemo or preen because of the “young” word. At 53, you take what you can get.)

Anyway, since I can’t get a tram flap, they’d be looking elsewhere for that muscle and tissue. On my body, not anyone else’s (I’ve had plenty of sweet offers from friends willing to sacrifice their pot bellies for my new boob but the tissue’s got to come from me).  If I have to go with this method, it’ll mean scrapping my carefully saved (and diligently moisturized) skin and nipple on the left side and replacing it with a hunk of flesh from my latissimus dorsi in a procedure known as a “lat flap.” It’ll also mean multiple surgeries to create a nipple, then tattoo the nipple (and aerola). Plus recovery time for both my front and my back. Plus the loss of muscle on my back, etc. etc. 

None of this sounds like a good time to me. If I had my druthers, I wouldn’t have any of it. Not even the tissue expanders embedded in my chest because from what I’ve heard, they can hurt like a son of a bitch as well as feeling like a couple of rocks attached to your chest (can’t wait to see the expression on some swing dance lead’s face when I shove those puppies up next to him).

But the thing is, I want my boobs back — I miss them, I need them, and yeah, I feel like I deserve them, especially after all I’ve been through these last 10 months.

So, yes, I’ll do what I can do get them — endure the pain of the tissue expanders, suffer through multiple surgeries (if necessary) to build a boob out of bits and pieces of my body. And yes, even shamelessly put up a blog post like this, asking all of you to keep your fingers, legs, toes and whatever else crossed for me today.

As always, thanks for the read and for any and all good wishes you can send my way today. Talk to you soon.

Welcome to Limbo Land

17 Nov

“I have a port,” I tell the woman at the front desk of the Cancertown lab, feeling a bit like a character in a spy novel.

“And I have a fine Madeira,” I imagine her replying while surreptitiously handing me some microfilm.

Instead, she tells me to take a seat where I wait dutifully until an oncology nurse fetches me. It’s my first post-treatment check-up and as with all my doctor’s appointments, bloodletting is the first order of business, something easily and efficiently accomplished via the port buried in my skin under my right clavicle.

After leading me back to a small curtained booth, the oncology nurse first flushes the port (instantly filling my mouth and nose with the smell of Liquid Hospital) then begins taking blood, chatting all the while about her twin sister, a radiation oncologist in another city (“She’s Beam-O and I’m Chemo,” she tells me. “Beam-O and Chemo, get it?”).

After she has what she needs, I go back to the main lobby and loiter until yet another oncology nurse comes out and escorts me into the inner sanctum, where I’m weighed, cuffed (blood pressure not hand) and asked questions about everything from my sex life to my bowel movements.

“I’m a little nervous,” I tell her, after the Q & A is over. “This is my first post-treatment appointment and I don’t really know what to expect.”

I’m lying, of course. What I expect is that my oncologist will take one look at me and hand me a Get Out of Cancer Free card. Or maybe a diploma or certificate or testimonial like the Wizard of Oz gave the Tin Woodsman. I’d be equally happy with a report card stating that I’ve just graduated from Cancer U with all A’s (pending my extra credit Reconstruction homework). I want something, though. Something that confirms that the boob loss, the bone pain, the radiation burns and the hair loss — god, the hair loss! — have all been worth it. That I’ve kicked cancer’s ass. That I’m done.

 The look on the nurse’s face indicates that some of these expectations have been spoken aloud. Which is when I start to get the feeling I’m not going to be told “Good job, well done.” In fact, the look on her face makes me wonder if there is such a thing as done.

 “The doctor will be in in a minute,” she says, getting up. “She’ll explain everything.”

A couple of minutes later, my oncologist opens the door and we chitchat until I can’t take it any longer.

“So am I cancer-free or what?” I ask. “Am I cured?”

“We don’t really use the C-word around here,” she says, speaking slowly, like you would to a person with a recent head injury. “You remember when we talked about recurrence? When we went over the statistics?”

I remember. The chemo cocktail I chose — taxotere and cytoxan — offered a recurrence rate of 12%. The other cocktail, the one that contained adriamycin (aka the Red Devil) had a smaller recurrence rate (10%), but upped your risk of heart disease. And as they say in Skagit Valley (where I grew up), my family has bad tickers up the ying yang.

“Some of the breast cancer survivors I talk to on Twitter have mentioned something called NED,” I push. ‘”That whole no evidence of disease thing. Can I at least get an NED?”

She sighs.

“You’re low-risk,” she says at last. “I have other patients I’m a lot more concerned about. But really, what you need to do right now is just focus on healing. You have a lot of emotional healing to do.”

She then starts to tell me the lay of the land. I don’t know it at the time, but the country she describes has a name. Limbo Land.

I listen as she talk about how I’ll be coming in every three months for what sounds like the rest of my life. Just like today, they’ll take my blood to look for tumor markers and such. My job will be to tell her if I develop a weird persistent pain. Or become short of breath. Or start coughing a lot.

Metastatic breast cancer, I know, occurs most often in the brain, the bones, the liver and the lungs. (I’d memorized this my first day of cancer class.)

“Your test results will be back tomorrow,” she says, after spending a few minutes checking out my glowing red chest. “I’ll call you when they come in.”

“Okay,” I say, wiping my eyes. Somewhere during the exam, I’d started crying. I always do when reconstruction comes up. Apparently, I’m still mourning the loss of my girls. And praying that I’ll be able to salvage what’s left of them (i.e., my left nipple and skin) although I’m in Limbo Land there, too. I have no idea if my irradiated skin will hold a tissue expander and implant or if I’ll have to have a series of surgeries to build a new left boob. This will be determined by another doctor, another time.

Right now, though, it’s time to leave. Sans diploma.

I blow my nose and get dressed and make my next follow-up appointment with the receptionist out front. Then I lurch out of the office, trying to remember the important things that were said, only half of which I managed to write down, as usual.  Once I get back to my neighborhood, I duck into my favorite watering hole and practice coping mechanisms for a couple of hours. Then I go home and try my best to keep my head from exploding.

The next morning, my doctor calls and tells me my white cell count looks great. Ditto for the tumor markers.

“They were 12,” she says. “Anything under 40 is normal.”

I thank her giddily (good news, at last!) and try to hang up but she has more to share. Apparently, she’s reviewed my file and noticed that my CT scan from last March showed something funky on one of my lungs.

“You have a 4 millimeter lung nodule,” she says. “It’s probably just scar tissue but I’m going to have you come back for a CT scan in March.”

Okay, I say and put down the phone.

I was hoping for a testimonial. A report card full of A’s. A certificate I could hang on my wall, telling me that this cancer crap was history. That it was all over. That I’d won and was done. Instead, I got a lung nodule and a cold hard glimpse at my future, a future filled with quarterly blood draws and anxiously awaited test results. A future pungent with the aroma of Liquid Hospital and hot fear. A long, endless mindfuck of a future as comfortless and abrasive as the discount tissue dutifully stocked in each and every exam room.

I’d fought my way through surgery and chemo and radiation to get to the other side. But there was no other side, I realized now. There was only Limbo Land, where there were no answers, no gold stars, no C-word (at least not the one my oncologist was referring to) —  not for a very long time.

I stare at the phone thinking about how much I already hate this place, especially the sneaky way it came up behind me, squelching my breathless triumphs with a fat spiteful thumb.

And then I smile. Because it doesn’t matter whether I like this place or not, just like it didn’t matter whether I liked surgery or chemo or radiation or any of the other crap I’ve endured and overcome these last ten months.

Because I’m going to kick Limbo Land’s sorry ass.  I am.  And then I’m coming back for my goddamned diploma.

Just doing a little housekeeping

12 Nov

As Dorothy Parker put it (on her headstone), please pardon my dust.  Just spent the last hour or so bringing all of my breast cancer-related posts over from Single Shot Seattle to DoubleWhammied.com. Apologies to any and all subscribers who may be wondering if I’ve had too much coffee this morning or what. (Hey, I’m a fast writer at times, but nobody’s that fast!).

Anyway, I’d love to bring the comments over, as well, but I’m not sure if I have the WordPress savvy to accomplish that. At least not this morning (at the moment, I’ve got about an hour to shower, wrap my nephew’s birthday gifts and then hoof it to tap dance class).

Thanks so much to those of you who subscribed to my new blog during its first few hours (my baby’s already got followers!). Looking forward to chatting with you about all things breast cancer in days, weeks, months to come.

Speaking of which, now that I’m all done with radiation (can I get a hallelujah?), the doctor appointments are starting up again. I’ll be meeting with my oncologist on Monday, who will most likely be checking my blood to see whether I have any white cells left at all. And perhaps weigh in on the condition of my skin. After that, I’ll start meeting with my plastic surgeon to discuss my reconstruction options (am praying I have some).

For those interested, my lobster red chest is much better since it’s had a couple of weeks off from the EZ-bake oven (i.e., my daily radiation treatments inside a tomography machine). In fact, I actually went out in a scoop-neck shirt for the first time in ages last night (I’ve had to wear my V-neck shirts backwards for the past month or so because of the radiation burns). The left breast, which continued to get a “boost” of radiation the last week, still looks like somebody ironed it on high. But I’m hoping the skin will return to normal soon, especially the nipple which for some reason has started to lighten (am hoping I don’t have to use a Magic Marker from now on to even ’em up).

Anyway, that’s probably enough boob talk for one morning (hell, it’s probably enough boob talk for a month).  Take care everybody and thanks, as always, for reading!

Burn, witch, burn

12 Nov

Originally published November 3, 2011 on SingleShotSeattle.wordpress.com

I don’t know if it’s the Halloween season or the fact that I’m currently going through radiation treatment (burn, baby, burn, radiation inferno!), but I’ve been feeling a lot like a witch in one of those old Vincent Price movies lately. You know, the ones that feature a variety of tortures for women accused of witchcraft. Or maybe they’re just accused of being women. Or single. It’s hard to keep all that straight.

Anyway, the bottom line is, it’s sometimes difficult to tell the difference between breast cancer treatment and torture.

When I was diagnosed back in February, one of the first things I learned was that I was going to lose my breasts, i.e., in order to get rid of the cancer, they had to take away the most symbolically female parts of my body. Presto chango — no more boobs. If that doesn’t sound like something straight out of the Spanish Inquisition, I don’t know what does.

After that, there was more “good” news. The surgery showed that my tumors qualified me for additional treatment, i.e., chemo and radiation. For those unfamiliar with chemotherapy, it’s basically a concoction of poisons that are pumped into your body through a port.  In my case, the port was surgically placed just under my right clavicle (where it still resides to allow easy access to my blood), a walnut-shaped lump that reminds me at times of an alien eyeball.

A third eye, if you will. Very witchy.

One of the worst side effects of chemo (at least for breast cancer patients) is complete and total hair loss. In other words, you’re shorn of your womanly locks, your crowning glory. That fabulous blonde stuff you flick over your shoulder and fluff whenever an interesting man comes into view suddenly starts to come out by the handful. Just as in the good old days of stocks and imaginary spells that supposedly caused some farmer’s milk cow to dry up, you’re robbed of yet another symbol of your womanhood. (You’re also robbed of your strength, your appetite, your dignity and so many other things during chemo, but we’ll save that for another time).

Losing your hair is the worst, though, probably because for a woman, losing your hair means you’re being punished. You’re a witch, a Nazi sympathizer, a prisoner. As Wikipedia puts it, “prisoners commonly have their heads shaven, often ostensibly to prevent the spread of lice, but clearly also as a demeaning measure.”

Head shaving, it goes on, “can be a punishment prescribed in law, but also something done as ‘mob justice’ – a stark example of which was the thousands of European women who had their heads shaved in front of cheering crowds in the wake of World War II, as punishment for associating with occupying Nazis during the war.”

In other words, when you lose your hair as a woman — not when you shave it yourself during that bad punk rock phase — but when it’s taken away from you without your consent, it ain’t good.  

But wait — there’s more.

After that, the witch — excuse me, the breast cancer patient — is burned. Not at the stake, mind  you, but in the bowels of some type of radiation machine. In my case, a new tomography wonder that my professional and attentive rad techs refer to as Tina.  It’s all very clean and technologically impressive. The treatment I receive at their hands is friendly and, yes, even comforting. But the machine still burns you, causing your skin to redden and blister and peel and throb so much that it takes your breath away at times. Sometimes, it causes the skin to harden enough that reconstruction becomes impossible. Or requires additional torture … er, surgery … to achieve.

Again, maybe it’s just the Halloween season. Or the fact that I’m in the last few days of my treatment and I’ve reached critical mass. Who knows, maybe I have a gigantic plastic bug up my ass.

I know that I have a vivid imagination. I know that the people who are treating me are not trying to hurt me, but get rid of this horrific disease so I can live a long and happy life. I know that researchers are desperately trying to come up with better solutions — solutions that don’t require this kind of torture — each and every day. But truly, I can’t help but wonder what the frigging hold-up is. Or whether this tortuous treatment for breast cancer is somehow considered acceptable. Because, after all, we’re just women. And women have been taking this kind of shit for hundreds of years.

But this particular woman — who happens to be feeling particularly witchy (and yes, even bitchy) this particular night — would just like to say, one thing.

I’ve had it. Seriously. I’m done.

In fact, if I have to take any more of this crap, I may just break down and turn somebody into a frog.

Cinderella after the ball

12 Nov

Originally published October 28, 2011 on SingleShotSeattle.wordpress.com

I went out the other night with some friends. We went to hear a swing/lounge type act  and because my girlfriend is glamorous and loves to dress up (much as I do), I put on the dog. Nothing too fancy, mind you, but simple and classic:  black pencil skirt, black V-neck shirt worn backwards to hide my radiation burns and a vintage cream sweater with a fur collar (a gift from a sister, who works in antiques).

Plus fishnets and black patent leather platforms.  Plus fake boobs. Plus a wig. Plus powdered on eyebrows, etc., etc.

And I had a lovely time. Probably drank a little too much (i.e., one and a half martinis), but then I’m in my sixth week of radiation and alcohol helps take the edge off the pain. Right now, my chest – especially the V of my neck — is lobster red and aches and itches and throbs all the time. One of my armpits is also deepening from a lovely tan to a dark brownish red and I’m starting to go about with my left arm a bit crooked all the time, as if I’m a pirate. Or just feeling rather jaunty.

I guess you could say I was feeling jaunty the other night. Loved the music. Loved my friends. Loved the venue, although considering the talent,  it should have been packed (Hey Seattle, what gives?). After the band shut down, I got a lift home from my buds, then got a phone call and spent some time with a recent suitor. Nothing too scandalous. We sat in his car outside my building talking … for the most part. It was a lovely night, a tipsy night, and thankfully, a night when I was able to  forget for five minutes the cancer and the daily radiation blasts and the fact that I’m bald and that my chest looks like somebody dropped a piano on it.

At some point (midnight, perhaps?), I left my suitor in the car and hurried upstairs. Where I took off my wig to reveal my ashy gray stubble. And stripped down to my skivvies, unveiling my flattened red chest. Then I put on a camisole, nothing too fancy since I have to grease up every night with special Eucerin cream that’s made for burn victims. Days back, I’d mistakenly used some of the cream – or my other standby, castor oil – with a lovely black satin nightgown and it had loosened the dye from the cloth so I woke to black smudges all over my sheets. As if I’d cleaned a chimney before bed.

This night,  I looked into the mirror at the end of it all and the glamorous blonde from earlier that evening was gone.  Disappeared — as if by magic. No sexy black silhouette, no halo of blonde hair. No hair at all, except for the wig perched on a white foam head on my dresser. I was the ash and cinder girl again. Complete with chimney stains on her bed sheets.

In some ways, it feels Grimm. In some ways, it feels grim. But for the most part, it feels like my life. And on nights like this, it ain’t no fairy tale.