I'm a damn lemon

The truth is, if I were a vehicle, I'd qualify as a lemon under any state's Lemon Law. I'm just plain old put together wrong. Most recently, I've had an ankle repaired. Hope it works, I'm still hobbling around on one crutch. I can now stand up to take a shower, and that's cause for celebration. But I have the other ankle to do. And if I had three ankles, or four or five, I'd probably have to get them all worked on.

The reason is: I was the best damn rebounder on my junior high basketball team. I couldn't shoot. I couldn't dribble. But I could rebound. And frequently, when I came down on those ankles, I'd sprain one, then the other, and again and again. Remember those Chuck Taylor high tops. They didn't offer much by way of (I want to say insulation here, what's the right word?), oh support.

I can remember, in my 40s or so, when I was asked to rate how healthy I was, I'd give myself five stars. Before age 40, I'd never even been in a hospital (except to be born). Even today, when asked that question on medical forms: How would you rate your health?, I have a hard time giving myself a score lower than four stars. True, I'm put together badly. Colon cancer, fibroids, bad ankles, shoulders, etc. But still, despite some of the crotchety pain I feel, I think I'm healthy.

Am I delusional? What does it matter. Delusional people ignore the real world, what's really happening. And that's probably what I need right now as concerns my body parts.

Anyway, I just wanted to post something quickly cause I put a new graphic on my blog. Top left corner. That's a cowgirl. Thanks to William Brown for letting me use it. He has some cool illustrations on his Web site. Take a look.

On a happy note, next April I will meet my five year mark of no recurring cancer. I'm knocking on wood right now. And you keep your fingers crossed. I'm afraid if I cross mine, they'll stick.

The report: I'm good

See post below. Only one little polyp and NO nausea from the anesthesia (which I cannot spell and must look up in spell check every time). This is the first time I have not been sick after going under, even twilight. My day improved at 10 a.m. when I got home from the hospital. I had a long nap, result of anesthesia, ate Triscuits toasted with cheese, Yum, and some edamame, and after 12 hours, the time allowed, had a French martini. (With my fish sticks and green beans.) Then, I fell asleep on the couch watching a BBC production of Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South. I have to say, she's actually better than Jane Austen. In my opinion. Even though I conked out. It wasn't her fault.

So I'm good. And I'm glad.

Tomorrow is my colonoscopy...

and so today I am spending a lot of time feeling sorry for myself. I am a terrible faster. The thought of going without food makes my hands shake and my lips quiver. Bob had his colonoscopy Friday, and breezed through the no-food regimen on Thursday.

He didn't even bother eating the allowed clear foods. I said, "You can have broth and yellow jello and apple juice and see-through popsicles." And he says, "Why bother, that's not even food. I'll just drink water." And he did. While I snuck down to the basement and ate my dinner.

Here I am, at 10:06 a.m.--about 21 hours to go--with a gurgling stomach and thoughts of nachos and cheese and olives and crackers. I've already had a glass of apple juice, and now I'm thinking about brunch, chicken broth. But then what will I have for lunch? Chicken broth, I guess. And a lime popsicle. Dinner? Apple juice, chicken broth, a lime popsicle. Oh and a gallon of (see-through) Gavilyte-G solution. It's purpose: to make me see-through.

But you know what. You know what I blocked out of my mind since my last colonoscopy three years ago? I had to give up anti-inflammatory drugs five days before the procedure. So I have been without my Ibuprofen and Diclofenac Sodium since Wednesday, a staple of my diet. Clearly, I am always doped up because I had no idea so many of my body parts hurt.

But you know what else? I'm alive, by golly. My CT scan in March was clear and if I get away from my procedure tomorrow with only a few polyps snipped off and the dreaded nausea that accompanies any anesthesia I undergo, twilight or total knockout, then I'll feel lucky. Luckier than Bob who had a couple of polyps and a spot that must be biopsied and possibly removed later, which means he'll have to starve himself another day (and drink another gallon of colon cleanser.)

But as for me. Right now, I'm off to have my Mother's Day brunch.

Why me?

This week marks the fourth anniversary of my first colonoscopy when doctors discovered cancer. So far, I'm one of the lucky ones. Last month, I had a CT scan, and it was all clear. Next month, I have my third colonoscopy to see if cancer or polyps are lurking.

When I went to my oncologist for my CT reading and six-month check up, I asked him why some people with Stage III cancer die and others don't.

His inimitable, deadpan (no pun intended) response: "Biology."

"Yeah, well," I grumbled. "Can you give me more?"

"Some people respond to surgery, some people respond chemotherapy; others don't." So I guess it is just biology.

Will to live is certainly not enough. Lots of people with cancer really, really want to live, but just don't. My will to live was never tested; I just never thought I was going to die. But perhaps everybody with cancer believes that, until they rationally cannot.

I do often wonder why I am one of the lucky ones. (Am I?)

It's not like I'm ever going to do anything great in this world: invent Facebook or electricity or the wheel. I just get up every day, drink my coffee with cream and sugar, and go to work. Then I go home, kiss my husband and my dogs and watch television or go to the gym or read.

So why me? I'm not even that nice. I'm not complaining. Just asking.

Baseball bat diet

I'm back on the all-protein diet. That cannot be good for a person with Colon Cancer genes. But if I die, maybe I'll die skinny. (Well, I probably would die skinny if I die of colon cancer.)

Everybody wants to look good in their coffins, don't they? Yet for me, that's kind of a moot point. Since I plan to be cremated. I do not, not, not want to be buried deep within the cold, dark earth. I would rather rest in the cool confines of an urn. On the mantle. Until somebody takes me and spreads me all over the world.

In my will, I plan to request that my ashes be spread in lots of places. Italy (gosh, I love the food there). France (wine, cheese, bread). Mexico (cheap fun). India (cheap fun and good food)! I don't know. Wherever the person who spreads me wants to travel. I figure that will give them a chance to get on a plane and get going. I guess I'll have to leave them a little dough in my will too. So they can afford the travel.

Wait, what happened? I've gone off topic. I just read my first sentence.

So, in about two weeks, I've lost the four pounds I gained over the holidays. At least that's what my scales say today. Tomorrow morning, after I have a couple of glasses of sugar-filled wine tonight, they might register a different number.

It will be soooo nice when I'm soooo old that I don't care about my weight. But when is that? My mother weighs twice a day. And she just turned 80.

Might as well hit yourself in the head with a baseball bat twice a day.