Uncategorized

x

On October 1, 2014, Annie M, my friend and PA, tearfully said (or what I believe she said through ugly-crying snottiness), “You have breast cancer.”

I’ve never been one to wear pink ribbons, sit in drum circles, walk arm-in-arm with my un-boobed and uni-boobed friends for Breast Cancer Awareness. It’s not my jam. It’s not wrong; some people need that. But I am definitely not one of those people. I’m one of those “well… that happened. What’s for dinner?” kind of people.

Until Now. After 10-years of blood draws, MRIs, mammograms, biopsies, waiting, and worrying- I will be one of those people. Sort of.

I took the day off work to celebrate still being around to micromanage my boys, my Jim, and those handful of jellybeans brave enough to stick around. And to share with you what I’ve learned over the past 10 years:

Remission doesn’t mean cured. Don’t let anyone; rather any doctor, tell you to celebrate being cured because it’s not true. Remission means that the cancer cells aren’t showing up on scans, not that they’re gone. Instead, celebrate milestones, celebrate life. L’CHAIM!

Good friends are like jellybeans- there’s one or two great flavors; the rest aren’t worth the calories. Having a few best friends who are only phone call away, makes being alone never feel lonely.

The grass IS greener on the other side. In the 17^th century, green lawns were the ultimate symbol of wealth and power, along with pineapples and mirrors. Even though I’m a few centuries late to that party, I can proudly say I own multiple mirrors and at least one fruit-fly-infested pineapple. As for my lawn? Let’s just say I’m starting a new trend: dogs and patchy brown grass are the new “other side.”

Money doesn’t make you happy (but it definitely helps). Being broke sucks. No one is going to say otherwise. Money won’t buy happiness but it will buy a little less stress and a refrigerator full of food.

Donuts don’t care if you have cellulite. Enough said.

You don’t have to be liked but you do have to be respected. Nice: Pleasing, Agreeable or Polite, Kind: Of a sympathetic or helpful nature. (Merriam-Webster, 2024). I have a lot of strengths (sarcasm, biting wit, focused ignoring), but “nice” is not one of them. I am, however, kind, compassionate, and graceful (as in full of grace). “Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. I am kind to everyone, but when someone is unkind to me, weak is not what you are going to remember about me.” (Al Capone)

If you don’t have trust, you don’t have anything. I grew up with “Do as I say, not as I do”, but I am not that mom. Barring a huge emergency, “a said is a said” (I said it. I’ll do it). This goes back to the nice-vs-kind thing. I am a mom of my word, which is the kindest thing you can do for your children.

You are your own strongest advocate. You are important. You matter. You deserve eye contact. You deserve to be heard. Visiting a medical professional should offer a sense of relief; a peace of mind. If you leave feeling more upset, more scared, more frustrated, disregarded, ignored, and disrespected, then your doctor has failed you. Find another one. It’s not you. It’s them.

You are going to get old. No amount of filling, lifting, tucking, and toning is going to change that. So embrace it. Celebrate it.

Uncategorized

GASOLINE and a MATCH

While waiting for the physician assistant to the oncologist, I’m pretty confident I heard this happening in the hallway just outside the exam room door. Medical professionals don’t like me. I know this, and I am A-okay with it. It’s not a popularity contest, it’s my life.

Making beeline for the chair, so he can sit facing the computer, the PA says, “Hello Ms. Phillips. Your blood work looks great. Your most recent mammogram was fine. Let’s take a listen to your lungs… deep breath… fine.fine.fine.good.good.good… Okay, so let’s get you on the schedule for 6-months from now.”

Then it was my turn.

“Are you going to ask me how I’m feeling?” And “Can I get a copy of the blood work?”… waiting… printing… printing… waiting… and then… “I notice over the past three months a trend of elevating neutrophils percentage, lymphocyte count, calcium, and LDH (Lactate dehydrogenase). Today’s blood test shows Alkaline Phosphatase is also elevated.”

And then it was his turn.

He wasn’t listening; he was thinking of the next thing to say. “It’s clear you have Fatty Liver Disease. Ms. Phillips, I have other patients waiting. You’ll need to see a general practitioner about your liver.”

What he didn’t say out loud but the message was heard loud and clear: I know you just spent 45- minutes waiting for me, but after our 7-minute visit, I’m done talking at you.

In his medical notes from our “visit”, the PA wrote that “[The] patient expresses a great deal of anxiety and concerns about her labs…” and “She does not report anything specific other than a very unwell feeling…” And in then “…patient became increasingly upset and was not pleased with the care I provided.”

What he didn’t write in his medical notes, what he conveniently ‘forgot’ to include was that all my other liver enzymes were fantastic, that the Murphy’s sign (test for gall bladder inflammation) was negative, and that I had no other physical symptoms of liver disorder. He also chose to omit that he constantly and consistently talked over me, cut me off, and ignored my questions.

MEDICAL GASLIGHTING is when healthcare professionals downplay or blow off symptoms you know you’re feeling. Instead, they insist the symptoms are psychosomatic, such as anxiety, depression, or hormones. There’s still this pervasive belief in the medical community that anytime a woman complains about her health, it’s either related to her hormones or all in her head. As recent as 2023, research shows that women get diagnosed with cancer 2 ½ YEARS later than men. But that’s not all- this same study discovered that women were diagnosed later than men in more than 700 diseases.

Let’s review the facts.

I wrote a letter to the founder of the New Mexico Cancer Center, who happens to be a woman. No, I have not heard back (yet), but the letter was more for me than for her. The final sentence really said it all:

Visiting a medical professional is supposed to offer a sense of relief, a peace of mind. If your patients leave feeling more upset, more scared, more frustrated, disregarded, ignored, and disrespected, then New Mexico Cancer Center- you have failed us. You have failed me.

I will not stop advocating for myself because I am not a hypochondriac and neither are you.

Breast Cancer, breast cancer recurrance, Chemotherapy, Coping with Cancer, expander, Lymphovascular Invasion, mastectomy, moms and cancer, Moores Cancer Institute, Oncotype, reconstructive surgery, Tamoxifen, Uncategorized

How Do You Want to be Remembered?

Do not wubba me or I will wubba you
Monster in the Mirror, Grover

When I pass by a mirror I often don’t recognize the old lady staring back at me- how’d I get so old, so quickly?

“Oh! You’re not that old.” (voice going up octaves).

I am nearly 51 years old- how did that even happen??? Because Father Time wears a Timex (“Takes a Licking and Keeps on Ticking“).

It’s funny… you’d think that Mother Nature might have a little empathy… you know… one mother to another. Maybe she’d cut us a break once in a while?

Nope. From minute we realize that the “curse” is going to happen EVERY. SINGLE. MONTH unless we spend nine months glowing with pregnancy (#bloated&oily), until we hit the magic of middle age.

Once menopause sets in you think “It’s time to CELEBRATE GOOD TIMES, COME ONE!” Nope. Get ready to wave goodbye to that feminine hourglass figure, and hello to chin and nipple hair.

But with our new hirsute physique, comes wisdom (and arthritis, gray hairs, wrinkles…).

When you die no one will remember that 20-extra pounds of baby weight you’ve been trying to lose for how many years? No one will remember the mystery smell that took weeks to find (#youdon’tevenwanttoknow). No one will remember all the money and all the stuff. Because no one cares.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLUkgRAy_Vo

My kids won’t remember that we were always broke (#teacher’slife), but they will remember our homemade, back porch movie theater. They won’t remember my post-menopause (#hirsuitmom) body, but they will remember when we brought the water gun battle indoors. They won’t remember the dust tumbleweeds (actually… they might remember that one), but they will remember that we had: 4 dogs, 2 rats, 3 frogs, 2 geckos, and piles of fish.

They will remember skipping school to play in the snow, having hoverboard races, going on crazy adventures, and fireworks (I’ll leave it at that).

I’m not saying to choose a “Lord of The Flies” lifestyle because no matter how hard we try there are some non-negotiables or as I like to call them “mom-negotiables” (#momjokes). For me those non-negotiables include getting clothes off the floor, having a house that doesn’t smell weird, and making sure nothing is sticky.

So, how do you want to be remembered?

Uncategorized

The Sweet Spot

Nearly three decades ago, I started my teaching career in a Baltimore City middle school, ready to change the world. My “bright-eyes” are now obscured by readers and my bushy tail has a few more grays but, just like my witticisms, my dedication to equality in education has been honed to a razor-sharp professional point.

But now, I find myself in the sweet spot. Too old to be hired. Too young to retire. At 50 years old, I’m considered outdated, over-educated and nearly obsolete.

For all intents and purposes, I have been unemployed for two years (save for a few part-time contractual jobs). Every day I check my inbox, apply to jobs that fit my skill-set, click “send”, and wait for the “thanks but no-thanks” response. Of course, it’s way more diplomatic than that. Here are two of the recent euphemistic emails:

“We have been very fortunate to have received a large number of very highly qualified candidates, and after reviewing them, we’d like to inform you that we will not be moving you forward to the next stage of the selection process.”

And…

“Although you were not selected as one of the candidates chosen to be moved forward in the recruitment for this position, we would like to thank you for your time and interest.”

With each job vacancy, LinkedIn gives me the opportunity to see how I compare to the other 431 applicants. Because of these overwhelming responses, prospective employers choose interview candidates based on an automated data search for specific buzz words or targeted jargon. It takes the guesswork out of finding the best candidate. Except when it doesn’t.

I am very good at what I do. I make virtual teaching into an exciting learning experience. I turn students into problem solvers and critical thinkers. I advocate for those who can’t advocate for themselves. And I teach teachers how to be someone’s favorite memory. My curriculum vitae doesn’t showcase this.

It doesn’t explain how I took my middle school students to a homeless shelter to pass out presents during Christmas. It doesn’t explain how I attended a high school graduation party of one of my newly minted teacher graduates. It doesn’t explain how I stay in contact with many of prior students to help them when the pressures of teaching become overwhelming. And it doesn’t explain how I help parents in my community find resources for their children with exceptionalities.

So, if you’re looking for an expert with a doctorate in online instructional pedagogical and andragogical design with an extensive background in social emotional intelligence and dedication to serving the needs to exceptional students- look no further while digging just a little deeper because my CV barely scratches the surface of this educator to exceptional children and their teachers, community advocate, and fearless mother of teenage boys.

Phils and Cytos

I never had a secret language with a best friend, but if I did, I image it might look something like this: wbc rbc hgb hct mvc mchc neut lymph mono eos baso. And then, with a handy dandy secret decoder ring, we could interpret the message:

A cancer patient walks into a bar, sits down next to another cancer patient, and says: “Hey baby, are you a white blood cell? Because I can’t get enough of you!”

Those of us diagnosed with breast cancer belong to the “Breast Cancer Jargon Speaking Society of Jargon Speakers“. We say things like HER +? No, – , you? Got lucky! PR/ER +. And like “How’s your WBC looking?” WBC you say? White & Blue Coat? Wine By Cats? What aBout Carl?

A quick look in the potty can tell you a lot about your health from the inside out. (Potty talk welcome here!) Your White Blood Cell (WBC) count, like poop, also offers insight into your insides. But, unlike poop, you’re going to need more than a quick lookie-loo. And more than a decoding ring.

TOILET decoder ring

WHITE BLOOD CELLS (WBC) defend your body against “invaders.” But only if it was that easy. There are several different types of white blood cells: you have your cytes and phils. The suffix phil is the tendency towards something (like a cell). Clear as mud yet? Let me paint a clearer picture:

Basophil, Neutrophil, Eosinophil White Blood Cells surround and kill inflammation and infection. NEUTROPHILS

BASOPHIL

EOSINOPHILS

… and the suffix cyto relates to all things cell. Lymphocytes and Monocytes carry signals between cells to kick your immune system into gear.

MONOCYTES

Lymphocytes

So now that we’ve covered white blood cells, what about the other ‘stuff’? The Electrolytes, Liver Function, Immunoassay, and Thyroid Panel? Well friends- that’s for another post!

BLOOD PRESSURE FUNNY

Uncategorized

The winnowing fork

I wrote my future self a letter, exactly five years ago, with the intention of reading it when I crossed the five-year survivor finish line:

“I wanted this day to be my day not to have cancer, not to struggle to breath, not to work, not to be mommymommmymommymommy, not to clean, not to do laundry

and …not to do anything except feel good and normal.

But none of those things happened.

Since 8am… I’ve done two loads of laundry, smoothed over a temper tantrum, cleaned the house, worked, and played with Nathan who didn’t take nap but really needed one”.

“Now, at 10:30pm, …I’m hungry and trying not to have a pity party for one. I just wanted today to be not like every other day. I wanted to unwrap special gifts that were planned with care. I wanted to be doted on and over. More than anything, I wanted to feel beautiful again.”

Today. Exactly five-years later, to my younger self, I write: Don’t give up.

Even though it may seem like it– it’s not forever, it’s just right now. “Jo aaj hai vo kal nahi hoga or jo kal hoga vo aaj nahi hai” You will lose some battles; you will lose nearly everything. But in the end, you will win the war.

It doesn’t get easier, but it does get better.

Like chaff that wind blows away, you will feel lighter and freer with each passing mile, New Mexico bound. The friends who matter most will understand your decisions. No explanation needed. With winnowing fork, the chaff from the wheat separate.

You will have a house full of children (don’t worry- only two are yours!) who play in your backyard: bouncing on a giant trampoline, picking home-grown fruits and vegetables, and chasing way too many dogs (living under your roof). All while being scolded by a kitchen full of moms who don’t care what other people think and don’t mind yelling at other people’s children.

You will discover your story.

You will exhaust your emotional, mental, physical, and monetary reserves moving to New Mexico- and regret nothing. You will say goodbye to the beach and hello to snow-topped mountains.

You will find your penguin. And you will fall madly, deeply, hopelessly in love. It won’t be easy, but trust me- it will be worth it.

You will find your happy.

Will you marry me

Uncategorized

Don’t Skimp on the Happy.

It’s been six long months since I’ve written a post. I mean “long” in the sense that “holy cow. Are you even kidding me with this?” Here’s what I have to look back on: Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Looking back is counterproductive. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Heck- of course I will! Then I’ll dip it in milk chocolate and add a bit more sugar coating… Cancer sucks. It bites the big one. It looms in the air… just waiting, like monsters under the bed and in the closet after the lights are turned off. While most of us get used to the dark, that niggling fear of “what if…” never really goes away.

So I’ve decided to write a whole new book called “SUMMER 2018: Looking Ahead”. It has everything you want in a great summer romance: a suspenseful plot packed with fear, excitement and rrrrrrrrromance (imagine this as a trilled “r” ).

Chapter 1: SURGERY. No, really this time. Last. One.

After many irregular MRIs (didn’t I tell you there was going to be suspense?!?), I am finally eligible for one last surgery. Lefty simply isn’t being cooperative and has decided to take up residence close to my armpit.

Chapter 2: TATTOO. Every surgery is commemorated with a tattoo, this one will be spectacular.

This is going to be my last tattoo- I have no more space on my right arm. Nathan, who is quite the artist- will be designing it. He has a rough draft and so far it is looking ah-mah-zing.

Chapter 3: MOVING. Anyone have an empty refrigerator box to spare?

Our lease is up August 15th and the landlord is selling the house. Have I found a new place to move with a 7-year old, two dogs and a turtle? Nope. Do I have income to support this move? Not even a little. Have we started the move out process of packing? HA! Am I worried? Meh.

Chapter 4: NATHAN. More “pearls of wisdom” (see: It’s Nathan’s World- 2017)

This kid is hilarious. And amazing. And smart. So incredibly smart. Without ruining any surprises, here is one of many beautiful pearls: “I have the greenest grass.”

Chapter 5: LOVE. Romance is in the air.

“Every relationship has an expiration date.” I loved Andy, who you can read all about in prior blog posts, but Andy only loved our family when it was easy. When the going to tough, Andy got going. It was difficult, but in truth, it was (and is) for the best. He is his best person without us. And for us, well… let’s just say we have started this new Chapter of romance and love with someone who loves us in the good times and less good times, in health and sickness, a sweet and calming soul. Just what the doctor ordered.

Chapter 6: THE FUTURE. Don’t stress it.

Don’t wait until you have enough money or time to do what makes you happy. Don’t regret the past; it’s already happened. Don’t worry about the future; it has yet to come. Bask in the happiness of today and be grateful you are here to enjoy it.

Uncategorized

Saying Goodbye to Righty…

pink road

February 2017

Breast Thermography is a screening tool that identifies abnormal vascular patterns (for more on this…. “But are you sure, sure?”) using infrared technology to detect heat conserving tissue and blood vessels.

After my oncologist assured me that thermography is inaccurate because the FDA said so, I closed that window and opened a door. Namely, a door with a plaque reading “Physician Assistant”. Annie (last name removed because I don’t want to share her with anyone. Ever) considered the abnormal vascular patterns detected by the thermography reason enough to order an MRI (for more on this: “But are you sure, sure?”), which uncovered a 1cm nonspecific internal mammary lymph node that may (or may not) be reactive. Common causes of nonspecific reactive nodes include infections like a common cold, an autoimmune disorder and, cancer. But don’t worry, “I’m cured so it’s nothing”, promised my oncologist, but just to be sure, sure – let’s do another MRI in 3 months…

May 2017

bam pow

As promised. Same Bat Time. Same Bat Station. Same lymph node. Same size. I didn’t see that coming. But don’t worry… It’s probably nothing.

June 2017

Neurosis** and I, walking hand in hand, went to see the general practitioner. Because I could only describe my symptoms as a “general malaise,” the next five months(ish) were filled with visits to various specialist, each requiring their own referral, their own consultation, their own tests, and their own brand of fun.

7/19 Pulmonary Function Test- normal … shocker.

8/08 Chest scan with contrast – nothing… shocker.

10/30– Routine Oncology visit: “take more calcium”

** (a mental and emotional disorder that … is accompanied by various physical, physiological, and mental disturbances such as psychosomatic symptoms, anxieties, or phobias)

November 2017

I decided the only way to get something done, but for reals this time, was to go see the Wizard of Covered California, again.

“I want the breast implant removed,” I told Annie, and “I figure while the surgeon is in there removing stuff, he might find other stuff. But not the good kind of stuff like the stuff in the middle of an Oreo cookie. Unless it’s an evil Oreo. You come across those once in a while.

A consult with the plastic surgeon was scheduled for March 29th, a short four months away. Because the squeaky wheel gets the MRI, I called and called and called until the patient liaison called me back suggesting that “we” just go ahead with the MRI. Which We did. However, it is the plastic surgeon’s job to ONLY remove the implant (not to notice/ find/ remove anything suspicious- that’s the general surgeon’s job) so the plan for surgery looked something like this:

rise and repeat

Nope.

No thank you.

I’m all done here.

I’d like to order just one zipping and unzipping Happy Meal please and thankyouverymuch.

I’ve decided to skip ahead, right over the plastic surgeon’s head to general surgery. And wait.

We wait for the general surgeon’s scheduler to call to make an appointment.

We wait for our appointment with the general surgeon.

We wait for all the preliminary work-up to be completed.

We wait for the next appointment to review the preliminary work-up

and then we wait to be rolled down the ‘green mile’…. into the surgery room… where it begins again.

December 2017

Just nine short months after beginning our adventure down the pink brick road, the MRI results were in. And now, here we are, back in the saddle again. Except I already know the drill. And the routine. What to expect when you’re expecting… less. But this time I’m passing on the obligatory Happy Boobday celebration with a “Tits Your Birthday!” cake.

Instead, It’ll be just me, the newest member of the Itty Bitty No Titty Committee. No righty. No lefty. And a few less lymph nodes eaten by the dryer monster.

Breast Cancer, breast cancer recurrance, Chemotherapy, Coping with Cancer, expander, Lymphovascular Invasion, mastectomy, moms and cancer, Tamoxifen, Uncategorized

It’s Nathan’s World

I worked throughout my entire pregnancy. I worked while I was in the hospital with an epidural. I worked with a brand new baby in tow. I worked after dropping Nathan off at his first day of full-day preschool when he was 18 months old. I worked a lot.

And then I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

The day I returned to my job after taking FMLA (Family Medical Leave of Absence), I was let go from my position as an “at will” employee. Since that time, I have looked for work, worked part-time jobs, contractual jobs and adjunct teaching jobs while Nathan went to kindergarten.

And then, bam pow the school year was over.

Nathan and I would be spending a lot of time together. 72 days together. 1008 waking hours ‘mano a mano’. I admit it, I’ve learned a lot from my son. His pearls of wisdom, so profound, that I had to write each one down as to not forget.

Lesson 1: Don’t make empty threats: While out driving somewhere (probably the 99 cent store- my favorite place on earth), Nathan was, as usual, pressing my buttons.

Me: I’m going to turn this car right around!

Nathan: No you’re not. There’s a “No U Turn” sign.

Lesson 2: Dad knows everyone: The best part about having a loose tooth is the money. After all it’s all about the Benjamin’s, right?

Nathan: Mom! I have a loose tooth! How much will the Tooth Fairy give me?

Me: I don’t know. Ask your dad. He’s installing her garbage disposal today.

Nathan: Really? No. Wait. Yeah. That makes sense. Dad knows pretty much everyone.

Lesson 3: Don’t mess with Santa: After losing his second tooth, Nathan found a check to cash, from the Tooth Fairy, under his pillow the next morning. Later that day, the following conversation ensued:

Nathan: Mom, I know the Tooth Fairy isn’t real because magic isn’t real. It’s you and dad.

Me: Huh. So then what about the Easter Bunny?

Nathan: Not real.

Me: Santa?

Nathan: All those presents? Like you and dad would ever buy all that stuff. Yeah. Right. Santa is totally real.

Lesson 4: There’s never too much of a good thing: I have always taught Nathan to be proud of his body, and to use the right words for each part. During another average day, Nathan declared:

“I love my penis. You know why? It is so unique!”

Lesson 5: “If you just listen, you’ll catch the early worm” (A direct quote from the dad): I find myself using a lot of idioms that I end up having to also explain. Once, when Nathan was much younger I said “… and then we’ll go from there.” It took me forever to explain that “from there” was not a real place. Now that he is older (a whopping 6-years old), Nathan also uses idioms.

“Dad, are you leaving (his truck was running) because you’re wasting daylight on your truck!”

“Think before you leap!”

and… “It’s a blister outside!”

Lesson 6: Hello Tree. Hello Apple: I can’t say I’m surprised (and secretly very pleased).

Me: Nathan, slide over (in booth)

Nathan: I can’t. I have an invisible fat friend sitting there.

and…

Me: Which way do you want to go (pointing left and right)?

Nathan: Apple.

and …

Me: Can I cuddle with you a little longer?

Nathan: You can cuddle with me as long as you want. Until I’m dead. Then that would be weird.

Lesson 8: Write it down. Write it all down: Keep a journal, blog, photo diary – but document it. I want everyone to appreciate this little boy as much as I do. Because he is truly amazing and funny and witty. And compassionate:

“Mom, I’m sorry your sad. I wish we were rich. Not to get stuff but just so you don’t have to work anymore.”

and smart.

Very, VERY smart: “Some people have a big brain but don’t know a thing”

IMG_20170817_162509

But are you sure, sure?

Silv, my grandmother, basically hitchhiked across the country in the 1930s because women weren’t supposed do that kind of thing. Until the ripe old age of 93, at 4′ 10″ – no one questioned Silv. You wanted her in your corner, not looking across the ring at you. So when you start to doubt yourself, (Inner dialogue… “It’s not you. It’s me.”) repeat after me “WWSD” (What Would Silv Do?)

I recently had an ultrasound following a mammogram. Totally routine visit. Nothing to panic about. You know me well enough to know that there is always an ‘except’, ‘but’ or ‘however’… so this should come as no surprise. Since a mammogram can only be done on the right side, I assumed that the ultrasound would focus on my left side and remaining lymph nodes. You know what happens when we ass-u-me…

After leaving the radiology center- I called my oncologist who said that she only ordered an ultrasound on the right side because there is nothing to see on the left side. “You’re going to have to trust me. I’m your doctor.” You’re cured!” she declared.

OHHHHH!!!!! I get it now! The surgeon was able to get every single solitary microscopic cancer cell that had already invaded my vascular system. Got it! So there is NO POSSIBLE way one of those little buggers could have gotten lose and wandered off. Right-o! No need to worry! Check and check!

sheathed sheathed too

Delving into the bottomless pit of despair (AKA the Internet) – I was guided to Thermography Screening? Ever hear of a mood ring? It’s sort of like that but bigger! Here’s how it works: when your body is cooled down in a temperature-controlled room, normal blood vessels constrict to conserve heat. Blood vessels that are fighting infection or multiplying like bunnies are working so hard that they create their own heat source.

Our ‘ladies’ are teaming with estrogen fed, law-abiding breast cells that follow their own vascular rules and patterns. The Bales Thermal Image Processor camera’s job is to screen for any no goodniks before they recruit other no goodniks and form the No Goodnik Gang of No Goodniks.

lVI PARTY

The WISE AND POWERFUL FDA has not yet approved this type of voodoo witchcraft, so I decided to pay out of pocket and give it a go. I was guided into a really REALLY cold room and told to disrobe from the waist up. Next, the thermographer put an ice pack on my back to make me even colder. Maybe the FDA was right… “We” were now ready for the next step where the Bales TIP (thermal camera) was used to take pictures of my ladies (who were at full attention). Thankfully this only took about 15 minutes, after which time I was allowed to chip the icicles from my disrobed torso. Now all I had to do was wait for the doctor to call with the results in two to three days.

You can image my surprise when two short hours later the Dr. Sellens at http://www.mypinkimage.com/called with the results. That’s never a good sign. But it’s okay since it’s just witchcraft after all. The thermography showed that lefty has vascular patterns and heat patterns well outside the normal limits. Righty, tired of being left out, also had ‘atypical vascular patterns’ but still within normal limits.

no goodnick

I called my Physician’s Assistant (PA) to help me navigate my ‘should I panic?’ emotional state. She has been, and continues to be, the only person who doesn’t tell me that anti-anxiety meds will make all my problems magically disappear. She actually… wait for it…

listening ears

She ordered an MRI with contrast and promised to call me as soon as she got the results, which was later that same day. I recently found out that all this happened while she was on vacation. Vacation! What kind of amazing person does this??? I’ll tell you who- Annie (I have to keep her last name secret from all you PA Poachers!).

Are you dying to hear the results? To find out if you should start making a voodoo doll and practicing witchcraft?

Righty has mild background enhancement (laterally) with nonspecific foci. Well that cleared things right up, didn’t it! And… back to the pit. According to the University of Washington (2015), breast cancer survivors whose MRI showed mild to moderate background enhancement were nine times more likely to develop recurring breast cancer than those with minimal to no enhancement. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? What’s one study? Meh. Oh… Wait. The Journal of Radiology (2016) concluded that moderate or marked background enhancement is associated with significantly greater odds of breast cancer. Oh.

Interesting… what about Lefty you ask? No suspicious enhancement (whew!), but there is a 1cm nonspecific internal mammary lymph node ‘situation’ that may be reactive. (In our house we use the word ‘situation’ a lot by the way). Common causes of nonspecific reactive nodes include infections like a common cold, an autoimmune disorder and, cancer. Huh. You don’t say.

So now what? I have another MRI scheduled in three months from now “just to check”, says my oncologist. “It’s probably nothing but we’ll redo the test in three months just to be sure”. Be sure? I thought you were sure? 100% sure to be exact.

In truth, it probably is absolutely nothing but I, on the other hand, am 100% sure that I am Silv’s granddaughter and that you do not want to be looking across the ring at me. Of this I am sure, sure.

Breast Cancer, Chemotherapy, Coping with Cancer, mastectomy, moms and cancer, Oncotype, Uncategorized

Giving Thanks

It has been two years since my breast cancer diagnosis. I am so thankful for advances in modern medicine that allowed me to forgo the most aggressive treatment option- chemo. I am also thankful for my family.

Andy

I am thankful that my loving husband always knows when I need a ‘pick me up’.

…and that without even being asked, he lends a helping hand around the house.

20161121_071634

… And I am thankful that Andy always puts food on the table.

ANDY'S GIANT TUNA.jpg

Nathan

I am thankful that I have an adoring son who is always happy to see his mom.

Mom has the “X”. Dad has the arrow pointing to his head, with the check next to him.

Nathan posted this sign on his bedroom door to keep me out.

Henry and Prudence

I am thankful for Henry and Prudence, who never want me climbing into a cold bed (Even if it is 8:00 in the morning).

The Phunderwoods

If you take 2 Phillips + 1 Underwood = The Phunderwoods. For this I am most thankful.

Breast Cancer, Chemotherapy, Coping with Cancer, expander, Lymphovascular Invasion, mastectomy, moms and cancer, Oncotype, reconstructive surgery, Tamoxifen, Uncategorized

Kid, you’ll move mountains!

Since he was 18 months old, Nathan has been in school. For the majority of this time, he has been in an early childhood public education program. After his graduation ceremony (see earlier blog), I drafted the following letter to the district’s superintendent.

Early childhood education is more than teaching. As the parent of a preschooler, believe me, I know.

The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry ~ Robert Burns

After interviewing at least dozen preschools to find our family’s best fit, I was disheartened. I almost cancelled our last appointment at Child Development Center. Thankfully I didn’t. It was apparent that the director created a different kind of environment. Parents were conversing with ease because teachers were engaged, not just supervising. Nathan and I were welcomed into a place where we immediately felt at home. After concluding the tour, I completing the necessary paperwork to begin school after the Thanksgiving break. I told Nathan it was time to leave, and then the unthinkable happened. He wanted to stay! Nathan wanted to stay with his new friends and listen to the teacher read books. After rearranging schedules our start date was changed. He began his CDC journey that very day.

Change is never easy, especially for preschoolers who require consistency and routine. Over the past two and a half years, Nathan has progressed through multiple classroom environments and adapted to various teaching styles. The school’s director recognizes that pushing children outside of their comfort zone is key to Vygotsky’s Zone of Proximal Development. She guides and encourages social and academic growth by remaining the constant variable through each these transformational milestones. Every morning, she is outside welcoming parents and children by name, making personal connections, and providing an extra set of hands on the playground. This intentional construct fosters independence, encourages community relationships, and builds trust between school and family.

I often find myself exiting the car for afternoon pickup thinking of the laundry list of items on my to-do list for the night. This mindset quickly turns 180^o after passing through the CDC playground gates. The ebullient atmosphere is contagious. Instead of rushing home, parents are on the playground talking with each other while their children continue to play. Nathan asks me if he can stay longer to play with his friends, which gives me a chance to play with the other moms too. This speaks volumes to the climate of neighborhood bonding that is an uncommon trait of today’s working parents.

Kid, you’ll move mountains! ~ Dr. Seuss

I call Nathan my “hummingbird” because he is in constant movement. He is not an easy kid. Learning always involves touching things, and sometimes (oftentimes if we’re being honest here…) breaking them. He requires a lot of patience, redirection and positive reinforcement. The school’s director has genuinely embraced his exuberance. She has placed Nathan with teachers who have a knack for kids with bottomless cups of energy. In this environment he has thrived academically and grown into a compassionate, emotionally conscience little boy.

I am not an easy mom. I am also in constant movement. I too require a lot of patience and positive reinforcement. Never more so than on November 1, 2014. I was diagnosed with grade 3, stage 2 invasive ductal carcinoma. Every mother’s worst nightmare. This is when the true spirit of “family and community support” is put to the test. The director passed with flying colors. She respected my privacy while ensuring there were minimal interruption to my hummingbird’s daily routine; his cup of energy was always brimming with cheerful abandonment. One and a half years later, I am not cured but I am in remission. Without support from the CDC, my road to recovery would have been littered with boulders instead of pebbles. My son now proudly tells people that his mom is cancer free and I proudly tell people that I couldn’t have made it through without the CDC.

He is ready for kindergarten. I’m not… but he is.

Imagination will get you everywhere ~ Albert Einstein

I hope that we continue to encounter teachers like the ones at the CDC who can imagine my little boy’s future of “being the change”. This can only happen with guidance from forward-thinking, innovative leaders who recognize the needs of 21st century learners. Leaders who stoke the flames of imaginary steam engine trains that are brimming with flying machines, friendly monsters and talking dogs. Leaders who make sure to listen with eyes and ears. And leaders who give “one more chance” five more times.

And all the colors I am inside have not been invented yet ~ Shel Silverstein

Of these things I am certain because… for better or worse… I am Nathan’s mom.

2016-05-05 16.57.17

Breast Cancer, Chemotherapy, Coping with Cancer, expander, Lymphovascular Invasion, mastectomy, reconstructive surgery, Tamoxifen, Uncategorized

Turning the Tassel

I never wanted to have children in the first place. While all of my girlfriends were trying to get pregnant, waddling around in the final months of pregnancy, or changing dirty diapers post pregnancy, all I could think was “this is so totally not for me”. Until that fateful day when… it was so totally me. And there I sat an hour early, to secure two front row seats, proudly waiting for the ceremonial tassel turning: camera in one hand and tissue in the other.

20160603_151831

Slowly the hordes of moms, dads, grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends trickled in, armed with balloons and flowers. While waiting for the ceremony to begin I overheard their jokes about how preschool graduation was a great excuse to leave work early. I chose to sit alone, engaged in my own inner dialogue:

I earned this. Nathan earned this. We earned this. Nathan’s bottomless cup of energy was always (mostly) brimming with cheerful abandonment while I worked 80 hours a week to pay for his first year of preschool. And while I endured three bouts of pneumonia during his second year of preschool. And while I underwent five surgeries during his final year of preschool. And through it all, I haven’t complained (much), haven’t lamented (much), and haven’t missed any Christmas, Valentine’s, Easter, or summer solstice school celebrations.

From the front row, I proudly watched Nathan walk across the jungle-gym stage, coast down the curved sliding board aisle and turn his tassel at the end of his descent with grandeur. I was so proud of us.

For the past year and a half, our morning routine included taking Tamoxifen, a life-saving pill that blocks Estrogen from binding to Cancer, and daily reminder that I will always have invasive ductal carcinoma.

pacman cancer

and Plaquenil, the WD-40 of autoimmune disorders. It is used to keep things moving in the right direction. Any direction… As long as it’s moving.

oil can

and finally, I never missed my healthy dose of pain-in-the-neck three times a day, and four times on the days that end with the letter “y”.

20160604_163144

Was it worth it? You tell me:

2016-06-03 18.42.37

Breast Cancer, Chemotherapy, Coping with Cancer, expander, Lymphovascular Invasion, mastectomy, Oncotype, reconstructive surgery, Tamoxifen, Uncategorized

The Long and Short of it

Yesterday, a friend of mine asked, “Do you regret cutting your hair?” Keep in mind that she has stage 4 breast cancer. She has grown and lost her hair multiple times. She is currently has enough hair, where when she puts on a cap, thinks she looks like (in her words) a hip barista. I’m trying to convince her to dye, what little is left, hot pink. She’s not there yet, but I know with a little more encouragement (read between the lines- nagging), she’ll get there.

But back to the story… I try to never have any regrets in life. Everything is an experience. A lesson.

exit and enterance

My hair and I had a deal: I loved it and it loved me. So much so that I didn’t cut it for almost 10 years. I mean a little snip here and there, and once to dislodge a Hot Wheels, but other than that we had a symbiotic relationship.

While I know the fashion industry dictates that women over 40 shouldn’t have long hair, it was my security blanket. We had been together for such a long time. My hair was my identity… well that and being Nathan’s mom.

But things change.

Not the “Nathan’s mom” part… although some days…

well anyway…

After hearing “Aggressive, Invasive Ductal Carcinoma” I immediately made up my mind that I would donate my hair before watching it get swept off the floor, clog the shower drain, and stay on my pillow long after my head had left it. Even when the doctor said that many people with breast cancer don’t need chemo anymore, I still heard the words Aggressive. Invasive. Carcinoma echo in my head (where brain cells used to be before becoming Nathan’s mom).

So off I went and off it went.

Not a little at a time, to get used to the idea, but the whole kit & kaboodle.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

I immediately looked and felt like a different person.

BEFORE

AFTER

Since “After”, it’s been cut again (and again), bleached and dyed. Things I never would have done “Before”. So to answer her question:

Do I miss my hair? Yes, actually, I miss it a lot.

Will I grow it long? Yes, at 6” a year it’ll take about 4 years.

Do I regret cutting it? No. Because when you get rid of your security blanket, you have nowhere to hide. So here I am world: dyed hair (currently purple), tattooed (7 and counting!), and pierced (ears and nose).

PURPLE!

Hot Pink

The start of something…

Freshly cut

My type of cancer has a fairly reasonable chance of recurrence, and I won’t have the option of ‘opting out’ again. So if I lose all my hair I know I can handle it. I’ll dye something, pierce something, and tattoo something. Who’s with me? Who’s in?

Uncategorized

How the Mighty Have Fallen.

It’s been nearly two years since I last ran. I used to put on my running shoes and head out the door only to return an hour or so later, sweaty and feeling great. One year after my surgery, it’s time to get my shit together. When better than during the holiday season.

6pm: I set my alarm for 5:30am the next morning

10pm: I checked my alarm one more time before going to bed

10:30pm: Yep! Alarm still properly set.

11pm: Still on track to get up at 5:30.

11:30pm: Maybe I’ll just check it one more time.

12:30am: Yep. Still set for 5:30.

1am: Okay nothing’s changed. I’ll be ready to go in 4 ½ hours.

2am: Whew. I haven’t missed it yet.

2:30am: Oh good. I still have 3 hours left to sleep.

3:30am: I thought I heard it. Lucky I can go back to sleep for another 2 hours.

5:15am: The alarm went off early. “MOM! Is it time to get up?”

5:16am: “No! Go back to bed!”

5:20am: “No! It is still not time to get up!”

5:21am: I turned off my alarm.

5:45am: As quite as a mouse, I got dressed.

5:46am: “MOM! You’re up! I wanna be up!”

5:50am: Nathan was settled on the sofa and I was putting on coffee

6am: Through my closed window of opportunity, I watched Andy get ready for work.

8am: Headed to preschool with a preschooler strapped in the backseat, wearing my still freshly laundered running clothes.

Only 8-hours behind schedule I did it. I ran damn it. It wasn’t pretty. But I did it. I made Henry run with me. Not because I wanted a running companion, but rather to draw attention away from me. Hopefully those passerbyes were distracted by my cool new kicks and my badass dog to even bother thinking “Wow…Huh… Maybe she should take up swimming instead.”

2 sneakers

Uncategorized

Dios Del Muertos

I was wheeled into surgery on November 19 2014 to say goodbye to lefty. Through a whirlwind of information, emotions and mental instability, all I knew for certain was that when I woke up I would have a ‘man down’ (or girl down as was the case). And now, here I am, exactly one year later to share what I’ve learned.

Size Matters

There is no real way to break (whispering) The Cancer news to friends and family in a lighthearted way. Believe me. I’ve tried: interpretive dance, Haiku, 20 questions, charades… There is, however, a ‘right way’ and ‘wrong way’ for friends and family to respond.

Here is the right way is:

I’m sorry to hear this news. What can I do?
No, I’m not going to shave my head. What else can I do?
Yes, I will shave your head.
If you twist my arm I’ll fly to San Diego.
and eat junk food with you.

Here is the wrong way to respond:

Do nothing.
Say nothing.
Pretend like the problem doesn’t exist and stop calling.

I’ve whittled down my friends to quality, not quantity. You’ll know you made the cut if you’re reading this on Facebook.

I’m not 18 Anymore

Remember when you were 18 years old? I don’t… it was way too long ago. But I like to pretend. One year and four surgeries later I can admit that:

I am not 18, or 28 or hell… even 38 anymore.
I am not a fast healer.
I am a hard-head who refuses to take it easy
I am shocked when something gets hurt or pulled.
I do need help. Oodles of it. So who’s in?

On My Deathbed

Here are the things I will not be saying on my deathbed:

I wish I spent more time in front of my computer.
I wish I had more things to clean, hang up, dust and wash.
Worrying about what might could possibly happen someday was time well spent.
My friends took great comfort in knowing I cleaned my house to prepare for their visit.
Marrying Andy was a huge mistake.
I wish I yelled at Nathan more and enjoyed his “Nathan-ness” less.
Does this cancer make my butt look fat?

It’s Anxiety. Drink More Water.

Doctors cringe when they see me coming. They don’t even try to hide it. But honestly, it is just a waste of everyone’s time going through the motions of pretending that I don’t know what they’re going to say. Anxiety and Stress are King and Queen in the medical field. Whatever ails you is caused by anxiety, stress and dehydration. But good news… there is an abundance of great drugs that will cure anxiety and stress when taken with 16 ounces of water.

Silv was Right.

(If you’re reading this and you are saying to yourself “Who the heck is Silv?”, check out www.jewishbaltimore.net). If you knew Silv, you’ll know I would never admit she was right about anything unless she was dead (which she is, by the way). This year I learned:

I don’t have to be liked by everyone.
I don’t want to be liked by everyone.
Don’t ask for my opinion if you don’t really want it.
You won’t get what you don’t ask for.
If you want ice cream, eat ice cream.

The Phun in Phunderwood

My comfort is zoned. It has a person maximum, decibel maximum and time limit. This year the zoning regulations have changed. The maximum population is smaller, the decibel ceiling is lower and the time limit is capped. In compliance with these new regulations, our time together is quality, not quantity. Just us. the Phunderwoods.

1 Underwood + 2 Phillips = PHunderwood

Breast Cancer, Chemotherapy, Lymphovascular Invasion, mastectomy, Oncotype, reconstructive surgery, Tamoxifen

I’ve Lost My Marbles

These days breast cancer treatment is like going to In N Out Burger. You can get it tailor-made if you use the secret language. Those in the ‘know’ sound like this:

“I am HER neg, PR/ER positive”

“I found out mine is triple negative”

“What are your staging numbers?”

“PT2CN0.”

“BRACA neg, which is good”

You thought that was confusing? Try navigating through the treatment plan options. If your lymph node biopsy is positive then you do not pass go nor do you collect $200 dollars. That will get you a pass straight to Chemotown. Since I was diagnosed as “node negative” (layman interpretation: the cancer cells enjoyed my ladies so much that they didn’t want to leave), the next step was Oncotype testing. The doctors used this test to decide the rate of exchange between breast cancer recurrence and chemotherapy. Pick a door. Any door.

Door #1-17 Oncotype Score: “Get Out of Town” free pass.

Door #32-100 Oncotype Score: Welcome to Chemotown! Sit back and relax. You’ll be here for a while.

door 1-17 door 32-100

Door #18 – 31 Oncotype Score: Painted an ambiguous gray, behind this door you’ll find a “Complimentary Stay” gift card and a “Get Out of Town” free pass.

I chose the excitement and ambiguity of the gray door and was offered the “Free Stay” and the “Get Outta Town” Pass. Decisions, decisions… what’s a girl to do?

ER/PR POSITIVE: Out of 100 cells tested for cancer, 97 of mine were found to be an unorganized mess of estrogen and progesterone. The cells love me so much instead of dying off and growing, they just wanted to stick around.

NORMAL CELL INVASIVE CARCINOMA

GRADE (0 – 3): The higher the grade, the more disorganized and irregular the cells and quicker they divide. Because there was a party happening, we (me and the ladies!) were given the clear cut “High-Grade, grades 2 and 3”.

STAGE (0 – 4): The higher the number, the bigger the showmanship. Being completely disorganized but enjoying each other’s company, we decided to that moving was too much of a hassle. I had one tumor that was 1.5 centimeters. But because news of the party spread, there was a total of 6.5 centimeters of cancer growth around the initial tumor. My lymph nodes tested negative, but I did have lymphovascular invasion, so I earned a Stage 2.

LVI (Lymphovascular Invasion): These guys know how to do it right! They turn their house party into a block party by making their own network of blood vessels. Just like the game of telephone, my blood vessels created a system of disorganized communication. The good news is that the police came and broke up the party before the phone line reached my lymph nodes. The less good news is that like any good house party, a few quick ones always escape the fun police.

ONCOTYPE DX (1 – 100): As the winners of a score from 18 to 31, the treatment is more of a “go with your gut”. The advice I got was “Your score is pretty low. But it is in the intermediate level. But your lymph nodes are negative. But you do have lymphovascular invasion. But Tamoxifen is a very effective hormone therapy. But it is very harsh on the system. But chemo is even harsher. But it might give you a peace of mind.” Armed with all this helpful information, I was sent home to think about starting chemo or Tamoxifen.

Ever play roulette? Imagine you have a jar with 100 green marbles:

Option 1- Tamoxifen: Now, take 15 out and replace them with red marbles. Next ask a friend, spouse, neighbor or dog to blindfold you. No peeking! Reach your hand into the jar and grab a marble. It’s like the game Operation… careful not to pick red marble or you lose your turn!

Option 2: Chemo and Tamoxifen: Take out three of those little red guys to replace with the green ones. Blindfold. Rinse. Repeat. marbles

I understand we’re not talking about your mother’s chemo. This chemo is a kinder, gentler chemo. But is it worth three extra balls to destroy my entire immune system? Is it worth postponing the ER/PR receptor condom (i.e. Tamoxifen) to first destroy all my cells? Are three more worth the possibility of permanent heart damage? For me it was a no-brainer. Didn’t even have to think about it. Decided right there, with my cancer-buddy in tow. “Thank you very much but no thank you. I’ll pass.” We left Oncology with three lucky green marbles rolling around in my pocket.

Breast Cancer, Coping with Cancer, mastectomy, reconstructive surgery

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

The day of my surgery I was assured there would be no drains, which is fine because I can just relive that experience by reading my earlier blog, no need for a repeat performance. Post-surgery, showering is prohibited for 4342 minutes. After 1440 of those minutes I couldn’t take it anymore. With the grace of a swan and agility of a mountain lion, I sat in 6” of lukewarm water with a washcloth in one hand and a bar of soap in the other. To be honest, everything was going according to plan except I missed one key factor. The blonde, curly-headed wrench in the well-oiled machine. DANG IT! I forgot to lock the door.

Nathan: Mommy! I want to take a bath with you!!!

Me: Nathan. Please close the door.

Nathan: Mommy! Why are you wearing a shirt? That’s so silly!

Me: Nathan. Get out of the bathroom and close the door. Please.

Nathan: (Stripping off his clothes) Put bubbles in Mommy! And more water!!!

Me: Nathan. Stop taking off your clothes. You are not getting in this bath. Get out. Please. Now.

Nathan: (Screaming and fake crying) I’M GOING TO TELL DADDY!!!

Jim Enters.

Jim: Honey. What are you doing? The doctor said you can’t get your stiches wet for 3-days! You’re soaked!

Me: Thank you for that observation.

Nathan: (Still fake crying) MOMMY WON’T LET ME GET IN THE BATH WITH HER!!!

Me: (Sitting in cold dirty water) For crying out loud, will you both PLEASE get out of the bathroom?

Jim: (Ogling like the dirty old man he is) Do you need some help babe?

Nathan: I can help too mommy!!!

Me: I am sitting in dirty bath water, freezing, after surgery less than a day ago. So yes. Clearly I want you to “help” me bathe. That is exactly what l was thinking.

Me: GET OUT OF THE BATHROM. GET OUT. GET OUT. GET! OUT!

Nathan: You don’t have to yell! And Mommy. AND you didn’t say please.

Three days later I revisited the doctor for big reveal. I’m not quite sure what I was expecting; maybe something like this:

She sat patiently, on the exam table as the nurse slowly unwrapped the bandages and removed the gauze. She was anxious, afraid and excited as she averted her eyes. Finally, the nurse declared, “They’re perfect. A work of art. I have never seen such beautiful breasts except on Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.” Finally, looking down, she smiled. It was true. They were perfect in every way: two unblinking eyes, staring straight ahead, youthfully standing at attention.

… And now back to reality…

She sat on the exam table while the nurse said, “What are you waiting for. Go ahead and take off the gauze. You can have some privacy so call me after you’ve put on this paper robe, open in the front.” She shrugged her shoulders and started unwrapping. When it was all said and done, she jumped off the table, walked over and stood in front of the mirror.

Huh. Well then…

The girls looked like Rocky after a barroom brawl with both eyes looking askance in opposite directions, bruised, stitched and swollen. Her hair wasn’t even seductively windblown; it was matted to the side of her head from a three day shampoo vacation. On closer inspection, she noticed her unibrow was filling in nicely to compliment her intricately knotted coiffure.

The nurse soon returned, along with the doctor, who took a cursory glance at her handiwork and declared: “Looks great. Any questions?” …. Uhhhhh…. “Okay great. See you in six weeks.”

Since the initial unveiling, the swelling has gone down and things have shifted and sort of evened out. There is one additional surgery to go. As my doctor says, “We’re about 75% there…” While the idea of another surgery is akin to a day at Chuck E. Cheese, when will I ever have another opportunity to have fat liposuctioned from my hips and stomach and used to sculpt the ladies to near 100%?

I’ve informed Jim that I now have two birthdays that we’ll be celebrating, the day of my actual birth and the day my new ladies were conceived. I’m not quite sure how the “Happy Birthday” song would go but I’ve got some great ideas for cakes:

Uncategorized

All that Glitters is not Gold.

Prior to June 2013, I had never been sick. EVER. I mean a head-cold here and there, but all-in-all, nothing to write home about. Except that time I got chicken pox when I was in 8th grade and Mrs. Drumond wouldn’t let me make up my science final exam… a story for another time.

Then BAM! Like a load of bricks- pneumonia. So that’s not really true. I actually went to the doctor because I was coughing for a good 2 months and pulled my trapezius (upper back) muscle. While I was there, he check my breathing and oxygen level (91%) and said, “Are you kidding me? Do you know you have pneumonia?”

Anyhooooo…..

After finally saying goodbye to the viral “house guest” who refused to leave after three bouts of pneumonia and its good friend pleurisy, I couldn’t seem to get my ‘groove back’. So the girl who has never seen the inside of a doctor’s office started on the road less (never) traveled: to the general practitioner, pulmonologist, cardiologist, neurologist and rheumatologist.

I had my script almost memorized since I’ve said it so often:

“I just don’t feel well. My hands and wrists hurt. My eyes are dry all the time. I feel like I am getting dumber every day. Even after sleeping all night I wake up tired, then I’m tired all day. But not regular mommy-tired… more like “How is it possible to be this tired, tired.” And… just like the effort it takes to lift heavy weights, that is how breathing feels. All. The. Time.”

And here is what I was told:

You have Anxiety: “Yes, I am anxious and twitchy, I am fully aware of that fact. Nothing new there.
You have Asthma: Nope. I had asthma as a kid. And believe you me! I’d know if it was back.
You are under a lot of Stress: Well DUH!
It must be Allergies: “Yes. like everyone else I am allergic to dust and hard work… but still not it”
Clearly you’re Anxious: Still nugatory.
You might have a Pulmonary Embolism: Do I look tinged blue? (don’t answer that!)
Anxiety anyone?: Well now yes. Thank you very much. I am definitely getting there.
It may be Lupus: Thankfully, no.
It may be …. (you better not say f’ing anxiety or I am going to go f’ing ballistic) better to see another doctor.

After visiting the best doctors in San Diego… no wait! In California! No wait! On the West Coast! (It must be true, you’re a doctor after all!) I found a rheumatologist who wasn’t rated by anyone, voted on by a magazine, or won any ‘by popular vote’ but he looked like a nice guy in his brief biography. What the hell. Can’t hurt right….

After an initial evaluation and oodles of bloodwork. Here is what he said during my follow-up visit, “You may have anxiety and stress but that is not what is causing your health issues.” The clouds parted, the skies cleared, heaven opened and the angles sung.

I almost cried. ALMOST.

According to the Mayo Clinic:

Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS) is an inflammatory condition of the central nervous system that includes severe fatigue. Other symptoms include weakness, impaired memory or concentration, insomnia and joint and muscle pain. Up to half of those diagnosed with CFS may experience dry eyes or mouth, and shortness of breath.

Although there is no findings on the exact cause of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome:

Researchers have found a strong link between CFS and the pneumoniae virus (you know the one responsible for causing pneumonia). Research also indicates that that the triggers for breast cancer may also trigger Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (chicken or egg?).

“A common theme among patients diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome is their exposure to a health-care situation that was demoralizing and demeaning.” I am a mom; hear me roar. Very loud. A lot. Until someone listens. (Plus I’m Silv’s granddaughter which doesn’t hurt either… just sayin’. For more on this visit: jewishbaltimore.net

Uncategorized

It’s a Ewwwww-phamism

Being over 40 years old, a one-and-done mom at age 39 and an on-again-off-again runner has taken its toll on the ladies who stare disconsolately at the floor with downcast eyes. This Mother’s Day is going to be special; gifted with a breast augmentation, or more commonly referred to as a “Boob Job”. But because I’ve had breast cancer, the fun kind that required a mastectomy, my brand-spankin’ new boobs are euphemistically called “Reconstructive Surgery”. But let’s face it; a boob job by any other name have headlights that still shine as bright.

There is one difference, however, between a traditional boob job and reconstruction. In a word: EXPANDER. I’ve had the pleasure of expanding for 170 days or 4080 hours or 244,800 minutes… but who’s counting.

Once the mastectomy is healed, the skin expansion begins until you feel whole again; at which time the above image get replaced with soft, squishy, cuddly implants. Slowly and during multiple visits, the nurse (see earlier blog for more details) fill the expanders with saline until you say “when”. Keep in mind that one person’s whole is another person’s overflow. Whatever cup you choose from whence to drink: coffee, tea, mug or stein; it will be filled to the brim to give the surgeon a little extra working room.

Prior to surgery, I was a 32B. By this I mean that some of me was a 32B. The “some” that filled the bottom of my stretched out tube socks. That part was pretty close to a B; but the rest? Let’s just say… less than a B. As I watched, during each visit, Vince filled the expander a little more until Lefty was large and in charge, my cup runneth over. Way, way over.

While that doesn’t sound too egregious in theory, let’s revisit the expander. This is pretty much what it feels like.

So now, I am fully erect…. No wait… expanded and ready for the reconstruction. Although the idea of going under the knife again sounds less than appealing, I know that in less than a week I’ll (1) have brand new, face forward girls; (2) never have to wear a bra again; (3) get rid of the stepping stone burrowed in my arm pit; and (4) get to celebrate two birthdays for which there will be presents.

Uncategorized

Where else but at the beginning?

Let’s start at the beginning….

;

Okay maybe not that far back….

June 2013

I was diagnosed with pneumonia. After walking around for an entire month coughing, I begrudgingly admitted I may need professional medical care. This was only after pulling a muscle from… well… constant coughing. I was put on antibiotics, which I took until the very end of the cycle (I also floss my teeth every day and come to a complete stop at every stop sign….).

July 2013

The pneumonia came back and brought a friend, pleurisy. For those of you who have never had the pleasure of meeting pleurisy, it is the inside out version of pneumonia, where fluid builds up between the chest wall and the lungs. Pair these guys together and you’ve got yourself quite a party filled with antibiotics, anti-inflammatory drugs and pain-killers.

September 2013

I explain to the doctor that although my house guests left, I still was having a difficult time breathing. Just like George Costanza’s ‘leave behind’, Pneumonia wanted to leave the door open, just a crack, just in case…

September 2013 – September 2014

For the next year, my general practitioner and I became good friends as I visited him often, through various attempts at a diagnosis: anxiety, asthma, stress, allergies, anxiety, pulmonary embolism and anxiety.

I tried to explain:

“Yes, I am anxious and twitchy, I am fully aware of that fact. Nothing new there. No more so than before I couldn’t breathe well.”

“Yes. I do have allergies, like everyone else to dust and hard work but no, it isn’t causing my shortness of breath either.”

“No. I will not step on the scale because really…. What does that have to do with my breathing except to cause me anxiety, which will cause me to have shortness of breath.”

And then the unthinkable happened.

In September 2014

I felt a lump.

I called Annie, the Physician’s Assistant (because anyone who knows the medical community will always go to the nurses and PAs first). I had actually never met her before but was assured that she was very good. From the minute we met, I knew it was a match made in East Coast heaven. She’s someone you want to hate. As in, “Well yea…sure… she’s beautiful but what a bitch.” But noooooooo… On top of being beautiful on the outside, she is even more beautiful on the inside. After getting felt up, she assured me that the lump felt like a fibroadenoma but, for shits and giggles, let’s go ahead and get a mammogram. I thought, “Well sure. Why not? I enjoyed it so much two years ago that I can’t wait to do it again.” Here’s how it went:

Mammogram Day

After some smashing, tugging and pulling the nice Mammography Technician, who was all of 12 years old, said:

“Okay sit tight. I’m going to show these images to the doctor and see if we’re all set.”

“The doctor wants me to take a few more images on the left side and then I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you for being so patient. Just a few more angles and we should be good to go.”

“Do you mind hanging tight for a bit? We’d like to do a quick ultrasound.”

By this time I knew that something was up. But not in the fun way where you suspect a surprise birthday party is being planned or an engagement ring was on the horizon. After some more smashing but this time with the added fun of really cold, slimy jelly, she smiled and said, “The doctor will be right in to talk with you.” Great. As I wrote in an earlier blog, here was our conversation:

Me: Well Doc… you look like you’ve been in the profession for a while, just sayin’. What do you think?

Doctor: I have been practicing for a few years. I’ve seen this size and shape before. It’s usually not good.

Me: I have a giant in my pocket that I just filled with 100 pennies. How many of those pennies are falling out?

Doctor: I’m guessing you might drop about .65 or .70¢ on the ground. Are you going to be okay?

Me: Why wouldn’t I? I have .35¢. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sew a hole and find some dropped change.

After having core needle biopsy, a teary-eyed Annie (my amazing PA) told me that I had breast cancer. A lot. At this point, if you’ve been following my blog and my affinity for Paul Harvey:

expander, mastectomy, Moores Cancer Institute, reconstructive surgery

His friends call him Mike.

Dear Vince,

Let’s begin with a lesson in history and art. Michelangelo’s David is one of the most well-known sculptures in history. But why? What makes him so special (I mean besides… well… you know…).

In the early 1500s, at the ripe old age of 25, Michelangelo decided to try his hand at the same piece of marble abandoned for decades, by two other artists who tried to create a work of art but ultimately left the mammoth stone to be taken to a 16^th century landfill. Along came Mike, I bet that’s what is friends called him. He was always up for a challenge. If someone says “Well… this just isn’t possible”, Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni says “Let’s do this!”

He chipped away at that marble block until David emerged, in all of his perfection, standing ready for battle. Michelangelo took something misshapen and discarded and created David, a symbol of courage and civic duty. David is a cool statue (he’s even kind of old-skool super-hot) but without knowing the back story, you cannot truly be awe-inspired by his accomplishments. Let’s be honest, what were you doing when you were 25-years old?

The three of us have had some good times together, Vince: You, me and Lefty. For the past six months we’ve visited you regularly, even looking forward to it (just a little)… chipping away, little by little, at that proverbial marble slab. You’ve seen us through thick and thin (and thick again), as we’ve been sculpted and molded. But to truly appreciate you, Vince, our readers must know with what you’ve given to work.

I am not the suppleness of clay, I am not pliable balsa wood and I do not soften like heated wax; I am the marble slab. And you, Vince, did not shy away from the challenge. Quite the opposite; like the famous Michelangelo (AKA Mike), you said, “Bring on Lefty and the pain in the ass to whom it used to be attached!” Since coming toe-to-toe with this 17-foot marble impenetrable boulder, you squared your shoulders, sized up the job, chose your tools, rolled up your sleeves and got to work.

Breast Cancer, Coping with Cancer, Uncategorized

Magic Beans and Green Things.

As a mom, when you are diagnosed with breast cancer (or really any kind of cancer), your first thought goes directly to your child(ren). For me it was more logistics than anything else.

Case in Point #1: Magic Beans

Andy picked up Nathan from school so I asked him to please stop at Marshall’s on the way home. As his fourth birthday approaches, Nathan’s butt is barely covered by the same 2Ts we’ve had since he stopped wearing diapers. On arriving home a full hour after being picked up from school (15 minutes away), Nathan ran into the bedroom where I was putting away laundry (my favorite pastime). “Mom! Look what Daddy got me! A new car!”

Fantastic. Just what we needed. Another car. But this one was not just “a new car”, but rather a new car carrier with four cars (if you’re keeping count, that’s actually five new cars). Even better. I left the bedroom in search of the brand spankin’ new big boy underwear. When I couldn’t find them anywhere I asked the boys “so where are the new undies?” Nathan jumped right in, “They didn’t have any at the store but they did have toys. See!”

Case in Point #2: Green Things

Because of an early doctor’s appointment, Andy was taking Nathan to school in the morning. While packing my bag to leave, I look over at my beautiful little boy watching PAW Patrol.

To appreciate PAW Patrol, you have to click “play” at least 20 times in succession:

Here is the conversation with Nathan, exactly as it happened:

Nathan: Mom, Daddy’s taking me to school this morning and not you. And we’re getting donuts!

Me: Are they vegetable donuts?

Nathan: What are vegetable donuts?

Me: They’re made with broccoli and other green things.

Nathan: No. I don’t think we’ll be getting those.

Me: Fantastic.

Case in Point #3: It’s Sampling, Not Stealing

The boys love to go grocery shopping. They think I don’t know, so I pretend like I don’t. But I do. It’s like going to an all you can eat buffet.

Stop 1: Starbucks – After walking through the front doors, the first visit is to Starbucks where whoever is behind the counter gives the charming Mr. Nathan a cake-pop (free.)

Stop 2: Produce – Grapes? Yes please. Strawberries look fresh but best to check to be sure. Oh look! Cherries are in season. Cherry tomatoes? They look just like cherries! I have to taste the difference! Oh, I love sugar so I’m sure I’ll just love those sugar snap peas, I just have to try one!

Stop 3: Bulk snacks– Okay so I have to give them that one. Those are pretty irresistible.

Stop 4: Seafood– After a round of high-fives, Nathan is served a sampler of whatever has been pre-cooked and read to eat such as grilled salmon, ‘sushi’ rolls or crab cakes. By the way, in case you were wondering, Nathan loves crab.

Stop 5: Salad Bar– It should be called a “deli bar” because the boys help themselves to a few bites of ham, a few peperoni slices, a cube or two of turkey and a soup sample to wash it all down.

Stop 6: Bakery – The final stop on the buffet, almost full circle from the cake-pop. While most kids get a free cookie, not Nathan; he’s been known to charm his way to full cupcake or slice of pie. More sugar you say? Fantastic.

Case in Point #4: Old McDonald.

Before taking off for their Bro-Date, I went through the Mom “Don’t Forget” Checklist. Did you remember: Sunscreen (we’re in San Diego, you always need it), something for Nathan to drink in the car, snacks for the car, sunglasses, wallet and car keys. And then went through the Mom “Forbidden” Checklist. Please don’t: give Nathan sugary foods, buy him any more toys, stay out past his naptime and, for the love of G-d, please do not stop for fast food.

The boys came home, all sugared-up, at 3:30; only an hour and a half late. Nathan walked in with his hands behind his back, never a good sign, and then ran into his room laughing like a boy on sugar. The best part of their secret adventure was the unique bouquet that wafted in the air and clung to their clothes. What was that enticing aroma; a mix of sugar, dirt, grease and edible chemicals? I say nothing because I don’t want to know.

But I did know. And the next day, before taking Nathan to school, I had to brush cold French fries off my driver’s seat, throw away an empty Happy Meal box and pick a straw wrapper off the floor. Fantastic.

Final Argument – Nathan loves Andy almost as much as Andy loves Nathan. Two peas in a pod. There is no one in the world I would want to raise my son without me. But if I had to pick someone it would be Andy. Now, who am I going to find to raise Andy without me?

Uncategorized

Tamoxiflu: Side Effects

Why is it so hard to remember Tamoxifen? You want to say Tamoxiflu too, don’t you?

Side Effects: Hot Flashes

Anything below a chilly 70^o requires at least three layers: a tank top, a short-sleeved shirt, and a long-sleeved shirt. Depending on the cloud coverage, maybe a sweater too. The idea of hot flashes doesn’t sound awful. My post-menopausal friends try to convince me otherwise but Mrs. Doubtfire and I are ready for the heat.

Side Effect: Reduced sex drive

I work at least 50-hours a week (as my work wife will confirm). I am the mom of two children (one who just happens to be 50-years old). I am also the maid, the laundress and the school chauffeur. Who has time for sex?

Side Effect: Mood Swings

At any given time my house is filled with the under five crowd jumping off sofa arms and shooting each other with even the most innocuous toy turned into a gun; daddies pretending not to notice for fear of having to toss out some meaningless, empty threat of leaving (I mean it this time!); two dogs barking at falling leaves and the stray gust of wind; and a bottomless cup of coffee that is magnetically charged to my coffee drinkin’ hand. If I did have a mood swing, who would stop moving long enough to notice?

Side Effect: Bone Loss

The human body has 270 bones at birth. By adulthood that total is whittled down to 206 thanks to fusion. Still, 206 is a lot of bones; I mean there are 26 in each foot and 27 per hand. If there was some fat attached to it, I would sacrifice a bone or two. Wouldn’t even miss it.

Side Effect: Irregular periods or spotting

Dictionary.com defines irregular as “not balanced” and “contrary to the rules of normalcy”. Well hell, that’s been a side effect since birth. Nothing new there.

Side Effect: Anxiety

I have learned that when anything, and I mean anything, is wrong and it is not a textbook diagnosis, it has to be anxiety. Unexplained weight loss you say? Anxiety! Difficulty breathing? Anxiety! Covered in hives? Well let’s just step up on the scale for no good reason and call it… anxiety.

Side Effect: weight gain

Doctors and researchers (so you know it must be true!) have found that Tamoxifen does not cause weight gain any more than those given a placebo (which is funny – since you are determining weight gain with a sugar pill). Women who experience weight gain while taking Tamoxifen can credit these extra pounds to… wait for it and say it with me: Anxiety (depression, stress or any other psychosomatic neurosis)

Side Effect: Nausea

Well this just doesn’t seem fair, does it? Weight gain AND nausea. How is that even possible?

To overcome nausea I tend to eat white things like crackers, bread and rice. (Pringles are white, right?) Then, thanks to all those delicious salt-laced carbohydrates, I start gaining weight. The skin around my waist is now embellished with the imprint of my elastic waistband pants, which inevitably causes… (Let’s say it all together now!) anxiety. All of this nervous energy is giving me heartburn… and the vicious cycle continues. Will someone please pass the Pringles!

Side Effect: Constipation

Well duh! What did you think was going to happen with all that salt? But here is a small tidbit of advice from those of us in the know. If you should feel so compelled to visit MOM (Milk of Magnesia – more on this magic elixir in another post), give it at least 12 full hours to work before you decide on a second helping. Believe me (or not… but you probably should), MOM loves you so much you only need to see her once a day.

Uncategorized

Breast of Luck!

When I hear the word “expander”, elastic waistband pants or an extra belt hole comes to mind? Almost right. But sort of more like this:

Without getting too graphic (although who doesn’t love a little blood and gore), once you are snuggled down and knocked out on the surgery table, all the good stuff underneath your boobs is taken out. Some of us kind souls make this part quick and easy for the surgeon. Then the tissue expander (see image above) is inserted into the now vacuous space, with a little saline to get the party started.

This process reminds me of Thanksgiving:

Just look all those turkeys on display at the grocery store; so big, so plump, and too darned many from which to choose. You end up with one that is more than a mouthful, eyeing the “post-expander pants” leftovers regretfully. With the oven preheated, eyes squeezed shut, sleeve rolled past the elbow, the slimy innards emerge in your clenched fist with gag reflex at the ready. Taking a deep breath, you dive back into the gutted cavity with whatever you saw/read/ heard/ Googled to be best stuffing ever. The breast is then tightly sewn together so that the doubled-stuffing, which will definitely improve the original recipe, will safely and securely stay put.

In place of the breasts your first boyfriend fondled like he was kneading bread dough, is an old fashioned water bottle, filled just enough to keep it bloated. When the mastectomy scars are (relatively) healed, the fun begins. It’s time to get to fillin’!. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt a bit; you’ll only feel a little pressure. I’ve learned that regardless of the procedure, of what’s being injected or removed, you’ll only ever feel a little pressure. Oh, and maybe a pinch. I bet that’s what they told the turkey.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: