Cowgirl Attitude

I'm a damn lemon

2011-11-28T16:17:00.007-06:00

The truth is, if I was 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

2011-05-09T21:54:00.007-05:00

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...

2011-05-08T10:02:00.017-05:00

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?

2011-04-06T14:35:00.005-05:00

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

2011-01-14T09:31:00.003-06:00

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.

The scars to prove it

2010-12-20T11:20:00.002-06:00

I love my scars. And I have lots of them. I look at them as tree rings, etches that indicate age and experience. And often poor coordination.

I have a scar on my left knee that marks when I had my knee cap realigned. I have scars on both ankles from when I had my ligaments tightened. (The wrong operation, as it turns out. Lesson learned: Get a second opinion.) I have one on my right knee from when I ran through a rose bush at age eight during a game of hide and seek, and another on my left leg from when I executed a tether ball jump shot and got hooked on a nail sticking out of the pole. I have them all over my fingers and hands. I’m a real klutz in the kitchen.

But my favorite scar is the one that slices me straight down the middle, from above my belly button to my … well, let’s just say it’s a seven-inch vertical scar. This is my badge, my purple heart that proves I did battle with stage 3 colon cancer and won. At least so far.

I thought I was weird for loving this particular scar, for wanting to lift my shirt, unzip my pants and show it to my friends and family, especially when it was fresh and cherry red. I also love its partner scar, the one on the upper right side of my chest where doctors slipped in the chemotherapy port and then slipped it back out when my treatments were finished.

It turns out others love their colon cancer scars, too. In fact, there’s a calendar to prove it. The Colonder is “produced by The Colon Club, a New York-based non-profit that educates people about colorectal cancer,” according to the Chicago Tribune, where I learned about the calendar. The 12-month calendar features people—all under 50 (probably why they didn’t ask me to pose!)—who were diagnosed with colon cancer and lived to show off their scars.

I did as my doctor instructed and got my colonoscopy at age 50. Like those in the calendar, I’ve got the scar to prove it.

(Written for Women of the ELCA's blog.)

An attempt at journaling

2010-10-16T11:40:00.007-05:00

I'm sitting in a journaling class and the leader has given us 10 minutes to write: to journal. And since, I have access to the internet, I guess I'll just write a blog. She made suggestions, but they might be too personal, beyond even the discussion of poop. Like what are we upset about now. (I do have a couple of things I don't want to air online.) And how do we feel about our jobs and future. (Well, it's been a hairy month where I work; a lot of people were laid off.) And what were some bad things we did as kids. (That might take too long.)

So I'll just say, I wore a goofy shirt today. I thought, it being Saturday, that everybody would be dressing down. (Did I say I was at a board meeting for my work? So there are about 20 women here who could determine my fate.) But no, people are not dressed casually. There are giant beads. And dressy shirts. And heels. And here I am in a red and black cowgirl shirt.

Heavens, what was I thinking? Well, I think it's cute. And, you know what? It's my birthday and I can do what I want. (Well, tomorrow is really my birthday, but as far as I'm concerned, my birthday starts the first day in October, and ends the last day.)

Since I am working on my birthday weekend, I will wear what I want to. And I did. And now we are being called on to finish our entry.

So I will say goodbye. See you later pardner.

Did I tell you about my teeth?

2010-10-12T10:17:00.008-05:00

Bob just discovered this video on his phone. So I'm posting it. Just beware. The drugs have kicked in.

I'm sorry

2010-10-11T11:30:00.002-05:00

I'll make up for it soon.

I'm healthy except for:
my shoulder
my ankles
my back
my (can't say it out loud)
menopause
old age (soon to be even older (Oct. 17). (send gifts!)
but I am alive. (though just barely it feels like sometimes)
No sign of cancer in CEA levels. And that is good.

Life at work is tough. We're going through a downsizing on this very day and people I care about are losing their jobs.

And that sucks

My beef with healthy eating

2010-05-26T10:28:00.006-05:00

Here’s my beef with healthy eating. I want to do it; I really do. But society makes it difficult.

Take this morning for example. I forgot my breakfast, which lately has consisted of two eggs, scrambled (my cholesterol is just fine, thank you). So I mosey down to our in-building deli and opt for the English muffin sandwich. (Ok, ok, it had egg, ham and cheese on it, sheesh.)

But when I ask for a wheat muffin instead of a WHITE ENRICHED FLOUR muffin, the server shakes her head, “nope, we don’t have those.” And this made me think of my love of pasta. I adore pasta. But I can never walk into a gourmet Italian restaurant (or any other restaurant to my knowledge) and order wheat pasta. Never. I want wheat pasta!

Which then made me think about rice. Oh, how I love Thai and Indian cuisines. But what do they serve with their dishes. Rice. White rice. I always ask for brown rice in my hometown of Chicago (Berwyn, really), but have never once received it.

I was in California recently and stopped by a Thai food restaurant to pick up a quick dinner. The server actually asked me, before I had a chance to ask her, “Brown or white rice.” I asked her to repeat the question, just so I could savor it. Is California heaven? (The opinions are mixed.)

Here’s the thing. I’ve been on a quasi diet since Jan. 3. No white food, especially enriched, processed grains. More vegetables. And no sugar (or no processed sugar; certainly I need my glass of red wine.) I have been trying very, very hard. (Luckily, some of the sugar-free candies and cookies are actually very good.)

But how can I be good if society doesn’t work with me? The media, through the government, is claiming that one-third of us is obese (BMI over 30) and another third is overweight (BMI of 25-30).

Restaurant portion sizes are too big and we’re gobbling up white carbohydrates because the alternatives are not there (at least where I live).

So. My idea is to start a grass-roots initiative. When you go to a restaurant, ask your server what healthy carb choices are available. Let’s put brown rice and wheat pasta on the table!

P.S. Don’t even get me started on vegetables.

(This blog also will be posted [eventually] on the Women of the ELCA blog.)

Lucky Twelve

2010-04-12T09:09:00.016-05:00

Today is the anniversary of my colon resection. Three years ago today, I was in surgery getting seven inches of my gut cut out. It hurt, too, after I was taken off the epidural a few days later.

I know this is my anniversary because my calendar tells me so. And Bob's calendar tells him so.

Last week I was cleaning out my cubicle which had gotten completely out of control. I looked through notebooks and notes, trying to determine which to dump.

That's when I found the notes I took (in red ink because that was the pen nearest my editor's hand) when the surgeon Dr. Brems called me at my office on a Monday morning. The notes say: [Dr. Brems] large tumor--cancer. Descending colon. Thursday (the day he wanted to operate because he had a cancellation.) 4-5 days (how long I would be in the hospital.) take things out. 2 hrs. 3-4 weeks (recuperation from surgery). CAT scan need done. size of golf ball. Tuesday-outpatient 3rd floor (meet with him to discuss).

I remember the conversation, but not much else that went on that day. Kate, my colleague and friend, said she remembers the day vividly. She said we were driving in from our designers that morning and I told her I thought I had cancer. She asked me if I was a doctor, and I said I googled the symptoms, and I just knew it (according to her report). She apparently looked askance.

(Actually, I had no symptoms, but I had my first colonoscopy the week before and they discovered a mass. A mass in your colon is usually a tumor.)

Then when we got into the office I got THE CALL. She said I was crying (I thought I was pretty stoic on the phone, but apparently I cried when I told her.) She asked me if I wanted to go home and tell Bob, and I said yes. She walked me to my car, and came back up to the office. She said when she got back to the office, everybody was looking down or had their headphones on. Of course, everyone heard my conversation with the doctor; we're in cubicles. (Not known for privacy, but at least it's blatant, unlike offices, where you also have no privacy because people can hear through the walls, but you think you do.)

Then she told our executive director that we needed to figure out what to do because I was probably going to be out of the office for a few weeks.

And here I sit, pretty healthy for a decrepit 53.5-year-old. I thumb daily through the What's Your Poo Telling You calendar my sister gave me for Christmas. I'm happy, gainfully employed, and I have health insurance. Thank God.

Others are not so lucky, and I often wonder, very often, why I am so lucky. And I often pray, very often, that my luck holds out.

Life is fun

2010-03-11T13:32:00.010-06:00

Nurse called. CT scan is clear. I am not going to die. Again.

I thought I might die, though, while I was taking these killer antibiotics for the sinus lift I had last Thursday. What's a sinus lift? It's prep for a tooth implant.

There once was a tooth that broke off while eating popcorn in India. Tooth got pulled at an Indian school for dentistry. (That is a GREAT story.) Got an $8 bridge for tooth at same Indian school. It lasted a few years. Then I got a $4,000 American bridge. It lasted a few more years. Then tooth holding one part of the bridge decayed. Bridge cut off. Oh my. No teeth. No bone (because bone goes away if there are no teeth roots stimulating the bone. And that is why people with dentures drop their teeth when they talk. Because the bone and gum on which the fake teeth were formed slowly disintegrate. And that's also why people just trash their dang teeth when they are really old. They don't stay on anyway. They are old. Who cares? Mashed potatoes taste pretty good.)

But I digress. Twice. So a sinus lift is a procedure of drilling a hole in the side of the gum and punching fake bone in so that on down the road, the dentist can drill in an implant stem that on down the road will eventually hold a cap or crown--whatever, another fake tooth. And I need two of those. $11,000 worth.

Anyway, when they drill a hole in the side of your gum, you get three prescriptions. One for antibiotics. One for pain. And one for severe pain. I've taken a lot of antibiotics in my life, and I've never had one that slayed me like this one. For five days, I've felt like a helium balloon. (And worse.) Finally, I called the dentist and said I couldn't take it anymore. And he said, OK. Today is the first day I've felt normal since last Thursday.

So I'm really, really happy that my CT scan was good news. (Bob called me and gave me the message from the nurse. He said he teared up a little. That's sweet.) But I'm really glad I don't feel like do-do anymore.

Tomorrow, I go to the doctor to get the report, give him some blood, and visit the little Asian nurse who called me old and fat. But I'm not quite as fat. Because I haven't been eating carbs or sugar since Jan. 4.

If all of my teeth fall out, I'll have to revisit that carb thing. Most mushy foods are made of carbs.

Despite it all, I still feel healthy (though sometimes decrepit). Thanks Mom for the teeth genes. Thanks Granddad (may he rest in peace) for the cancer genes.

Thanks Mom and Dad for the life. It's really a lot of fun.

It's official

2009-12-29T15:35:00.013-06:00

I am deformed. The way I stand and walk indicates it, but the X-rays confirm it. I have a deformity of the tibia, at the ankle, rare to North Americans, but more common in Asians. (Mom, is there something you haven't told me?)

I do like India a lot. And I love Indian food. And I love Chinese food. And Thai food. Hey. Hey!?

So, my ankle doc (among the best in Chicago and that would be confirmed by the fact that I had an 11:20 appointment today and saw him for 2.5 minutes at about 2) says I'm deformed, and, on top of that, I have arthritis. To fix my deformity, he would need to lift up my ankles on the outsides with a piece of bone from my hip. He's done it a lot; it's called valgus distal tibial osteotomy, but all I can find on the Web about it is written in doctor speak. And that is not my language.

Anybody ever heard of it? Had it? Want to share about it?

Really, this only confirms that my body parts are nothing more than a warped jigsaw puzzle. (See the post about Mr. Potato Head.) Now if I were older, my treatment would be a snap. Fuse the ankles; walk like a Penguin. But heck, I walk like a Penguin now. Ask Bob. My adoring husband who frequently makes fun of my walk (OK, and I his, but what's his excuse?). Now he will need to find a politically correct name for duck-like walk.

Because it's official. I'm deformed. And you can't call anything by it's real name.

(And the good news: my CEA levels are still normal. Not so sure about my DNA, though.)

O Ye Jigs & Juleps! Sacraments

2009-10-18T11:42:00.003-05:00

I'm going to read the book O Ye Jigs & Juleps! that Kate gave me for my birthday. In this installment, I read the first chapter, Sacraments. The book is said to be written by 10-year-old Virginia Cary Hudson. According to the book flap, Virginia was 10 in 1904 when she wrote the essays for a "very understanding teacher" in her Episcopal boarding school. The chapters include Sacraments, Etiquette at Church, Gardening, Education, Everlasting Life, Spring, The Library, Personal Appearance, An Afternoon's Stroll, China and Religion.

Because the book is believed to be written by a Southerner, a Southerner should surely read it.

Catching up

2009-10-16T09:17:00.005-05:00

Tomorrow is my birthday! And really nobody has noticed. I mention it over and over and do get a few takers. Like Kate, my co-worker, who gave me one of her prized possessions, a book: O Ye Jigs & Juleps! by Virginia Cary Hudson, supposedly written in 1904 by a 10-year-old. I have my doubts. But it is still fun. Stay tuned for more later on the book.

Audrey rushed out and bought me a bottle of wine yesterday, which I surely appreciate. And will duly drink this weekend. Bob has something up his sleeve because he has suffered the consequences of ignoring my birthday already. Not a peep from my mom, who usually sends me a card a week in advance. Or my older sister, who never sends her cards on time. Or my younger sister, who I know loves me. Or my two brothers, one who used to send everybody cards but got tired of not getting cards in return, so it's understandable, and another who has bigger fish to fry with kids, grandkids, trips, cabins, and on and on.

I would like to point you to my birthday two years ago when my life was hanging in the limbs, and then to last year, which should have alerted me to what was to come.

But I am not bitter. I would rather be ignored than taking a dirt nap (as Val at work's father calls it).

And this is my quick whiny post and now I have other things to do. I hope you have a great day.

(I was going to catch you up on all I had been doing but I got lost in my own misery.)

Livering it up

2009-09-11T10:56:00.006-05:00

I walked in the the oncologist office today feeling plump, healthy, and happy. The miniature Asian nurse (who takes my vitals, including weight) and I talk about my fat. "Do you exercise?" she asks. "Yes, almost every day." "Do you eat ice cream late at night?" she asks. "Rarely; almost never" (Bob finishes it off before I can get to it). "I do sneak a Bit o' Honey or two" (probably why I have no teeth). "Do you eat pasta?" she asks. Guilty. I'm a carb freak.

"Well, it gets harder as we get older," she proclaims. So within five minutes of my visit, she has called me fat and old. But I forgive her because she's adorable.

The doctor, also miniature, comes in. He's an old grouch, but I think he likes me so he smiles occasionally in my presence. "How do you feel?" he asks. "Terrific!" I answer truthfully. "Except that your nurse just called me fat and old."

He ignores this. As he does most things I say. Pity too because I try so hard.

Then I ask him if a lot of his patients die. "Some do. Some don't," he says. (That ole rascal, such an encourager.)

"But you're doing good," he says. I dismiss the compliment. Really, I'm not doing anything. Just staying alive.

Then I ask him some question about cancer returning, etc., etc. The fear all cancer patients live with, at least in the backs of their minds. I feel so good right now, though, the question was really just a flippant, "How 'bout those Sox?"-type question. Nothing serious.

Then he lays it on me. "Well, you've only got two and a half more years before you're clear. Most cancers return by four and a half, five years." I know this, of course, but still, I was thinking I was already in the clear. Not really, but sort of. And I can't help but remember Leroy Sievers who died recently. He had colon cancer, was fine four years, then got brain cancer.

But my doc says, colon cancer, if it comes back, most likely shows up in the liver, which is, I think, the organ that removes all toxins. And wine, I believe, is a toxin.

Or is it? Could it be, a preservative? I should probably find out before the weekend starts.

Dear Nora Ephron

2009-09-05T10:24:00.008-05:00

I finally read your book about women and aging, I Feel Bad About My Neck. It's really about you and aging, but that's OK, you have the best perspective. Truth be told, I listened to it. Because I commute to work in the stressful city of Chicago about an hour each day. And I go to the gym. So I have time to listen to books while I'm doing other things.

I laughed out loud a few times; it's been a week or more, so I can't remember exactly what made me laugh. Since then, I've re-"read" the first in the series Barchester Chronicles by Anthony Trollope. And started on Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White. And that, by the way, is thanks to you. I frantically scribbled down some of your favorite books when you talked in your book about how you can lose yourself in books. I was actually surprised that Wilkie Collins was a real person. That doesn't speak well of me I guess, but I thought he was fictional. I finished "reading" a long, long book by Dan Simmons called Drood (I picked that up after "reading" Charles Dickens unfinished book The Mystery of Edwin Drood) and Wilkie Collins was the narrator. But I thought, since Drood is a new book, he was fictional. Wilkie even talked about his book, Woman in White, all through Drood. But for some reason, it didn't hit me that it was a real book and he was a real person.

When you said you loved it, I decided to find it on audio book. It wasn't easy, as it is not available at my local library and I do not want to actually buy audio books. But I found it on Librivox, which offers free audio books in the public domain. I figured if I found you funny, then I would like the books you suggested. The other books you liked which I plan to look into are The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing, the collected works of Raymond Chandler, John le Carre's Smiley's People (maybe, I'm not big on spy books) and the one you adored The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon.

So, I want to thank you for giving me ideas about books to read. I'm always in search.

But I do have a bone to pick with you. You are in your mid 60s and say you weigh 126 pounds. How is that possible? Are you short? Say, 4'6" or thereabouts. Don't you know that women get fat in menopause? I have finally come to accept that I'm not going to lose weight unless I eat about 1,000 calories a day, and I do not want to do that. Chicago may be the most stressful city in America, but it also has the best food.

My question to you is, Did you get liposuction? You must have. God knows, you have the money. But the whole point of your book, I thought, was to live with the cards aging hands you. You claim (I'm pretty sure) that you didn't want to have a face lift because you didn't want to look like stretched leather. You would have liked a neck lift, but you would have had to get a face lift to get a neck lift and you didn't want that. Liposuction seems unhealthy or at least risky. But if you weigh 126, you got it.

You feel bad about your neck?? I feel really bad about my stomach.

I've discovered I'm just a bunch of parts

2009-08-24T07:01:00.031-05:00

Sometime, say in your late 40s, you discover you are made of parts. No longer do you consider your body as one whole piece, like Gumby (but graceful). No, you are more like Mr. Potato Head. With lots of different parts that fracture and break. If you have good health insurance, these parts are replaceable, as are Mr. Potato Head's.

Before 40, more likely in your 20s, you glided. Up stairs, down stairs, through halls and rooms full of other 20-year-olds. You flaunted your wholeness, especially to your elders (the 40 year olds). You felt no pain, no soreness. In the morning, you leaped from the bed and into the shower. And you never had to dry between the rolls of fat.

But, then, as you entered your 40s, and more likely toward the end of those years, parts of your body began to revolt. Your knee would hurt one day, your shoulder another. But they traded off. Never did they attack you on the same day. They still respected your youth.

Then comes your 50s. And the pains begin to orchestrate. They stop being polite, one bowing to the other. They all tune up at once: the knees, the ankles, the shoulders, the back, even the thumbs. The glide you once possessed is now a lumber. You grunt when you stand. Getting up from bed is more of a roll and tumble, then a slow unfurling as you limp toward the bathroom. Toweling off after a shower takes soooo much longer.

I am not in my 60s. Or even close. Bob is, and he's doing mostly OK. I do wonder what the 70s and 80s will bring or, I guess I should say, take away.

By then, I suppose I'll be fragile and easily toppled. Like Legos.

For the Bible tells me so

2009-08-05T16:20:00.018-05:00

What do I know about health care reform? Not much. Probably about as much as the average American citizen. I know what my gut tells me (you could even say my heart), and that is that every U.S. citizen should have access to health care. I know that's controversial; and I know if universal health care is realized, it's going to cost me in taxes. But I also know that Jesus did not discriminate when he healed people; often they were poor, blind, a little crazy, and of a different cultural background or race. And he never once asked for an insurance card, though he did require faith.

Two years ago, I went to the doctor's office to have my routine colonoscopy. I turned 50, and I was doing what my doctor told me to do. The exam revealed I had a golf-ball size tumor. Two weeks later, I was in surgery getting seven inches of my descending colon removed. A month after that, I began a six-month regimen of chemotherapy because my tumor was at Stage III; the cancer had seeped into my lymph nodes.

OK, say I lost my job (it's been heard of in this country) and I had no health care. (In reality, I am offered excellent health care through Women of the ELCA.) I would not have known I had cancer until it was far too late because I would not have had a doctor telling me it was time for my colonoscopy. I would have waited until I was doubled over in pain, and then I would have gone to the emergency ward where the hospital would have to treat me at great expense. The financial administrators could try to force me to pay; I could go into deep debt, mortgaging my house, selling my car, forking over my children's college tuition if I had any saved. But in the end, when I just couldn't come up with the $100,000 for surgery and the $22,000 a month for chemotherapy, the hospital is going to pass the expense onto those with insurance. And they are going to pay the bills of the uninsured through higher deductibles or reduced health benefits.

Sen. Teddy Kennedy of Massachusettes, who is wealthy as we all know, wrote a recent Newsweek article about how he has been fighting for universal health care since the 60s. Battling a malignant brain tumor, Kennedy acknowledges that he enjoys the best medical care money and health insurance can buy, but he believes it should be open to everybody. "Quality care shouldn't depend on your financial resources, or the type of job you have, or the medical condition you face. Every American should be able to get the same treatment that U.S. senators are entitled to," he writes in the article.

We, those of us with insurance now, are going to pay anyway. Why not pay up front? The Christian way?

For the Bible tells me so.

(This blog was first posted on the Women of the ELCA blog site.)

Boo hiss on the blahs

2009-07-29T10:24:00.011-05:00

I'm restless. I feel like my life is sitting at a stop light as all other traffic moves around me, rushing and swerving and turning. Going someplace.

It's the end of July and what have I done of consequence this summer? This year? Last year? In 2007, I survived. And I guess, in a sense, I continue to do so. But why do I feel so inert? Is it menopause?

Does menopause manifest itself in malaise just as it shows up as thickness of body?

I'm a fairly happy person, mostly. I looked forward to our recent trip to Milwaukee and Madison. And then it came and went. And my routine returned. Up at six or so, putter till time to leave, drive to work, work at work, drive home from work, go to the gym or ride my bike downstairs or take a walk with the dogs. Off to bed, and it starts all over.

(My blog just posted before I had finished; at least blogger is not inert. Or maybe it was sick of my whining.)

I read this interesting LifeHacker post recently about finding your life's purpose in 20 minutes. A nice drive-through solution. A quick fix for the blahs. I'm sure I'll shake out of this. We all go through this at times; wishing for a more meaningful life, a higher purpose.

I should just be happy with life, period. At least I have it.

(Funny, I just googled blahs and found this: Banish the Blahs. I haven't looked at it, so don't hold me accountable.)

I'm famous with the Asbestos people

2009-06-23T10:48:00.011-05:00

I don't know who or what Asbestos News is, but I'm very proud to be mentioned on their site as one of the top 50 cancer blogs. I wouldn't have known if Dennis, who commented on the previous post hadn't told me. I'm number 10, not a prime number, which I would prefer, but I guess it's a better position than number 11 (or anything after that).

Ironic too because I haven't posted much lately. I hate to just talk and talk without anything to say. I know too many people who do that (and I won't name names, but you probably have some ideas).

I can tell you a couple of things, one related to cancer and the other not.

I had my blood tested earlier this month and my CEA levels are great! (According to my doctor; don't look on the Web to figure out if your CEA levels are good because if you punch your numbers and CEA levels into a search engine, the news may be frightening. The acceptable levels are so different for different types of cancer. I'm just trusting my doc. So far, he's done right by me.)

The other thing is: I'm desperate for a hair cut. I like my hair nice and short. It's so thick that it takes forever to dry, so short hair is best for me. Plus, I acquired a new curl after chemo. One asymmetrical curl--only on one side of my head. So I need short, short, short hair (even with my ears). Whenever I see women with short hair, I think, "Don't they look so cute." Long hair after 40 is out anyway, according to fashion designer Carolina Herrera. If I grew my hair out, I would look a little like a bowling ball. Which has its advantages if you're attracted to bowlers.

Didn't I promise not to ramble? Heavens.

Requiem for a Blue Spruce

2009-05-10T19:27:00.003-05:00

This post has nothing to do with cancer or poop, but it does have something to do with death (not that those all go hand in hand). Earlier this spring, we had to cut down a Blue Spruce, and we were very sad about it. I video taped it, but then my camera died and I couldn't get it to my computer. Thanks to a colleague at work (and also the fact that Canon repaired my camera for free), I now have completed my Tree Funeral video. And here it is.

Oink Off

2009-04-30T18:13:00.012-05:00

Here's what I think about this (milquetoast) swine flu business:

At this writing, according to the Centers for Disease Control, the swine flu has killed one American and sickened 109. (By the time you read this, the numbers might have increased or decreased).

Guess what? Figures from the American Cancer Society say that in 2008, about 1,437,180 U.S. citizens were expected to get cancer; and more than half a million of those (565,650) were expected to die.

That's 1,500 people a day.

"Cancer is the second most common cause of death in the U.S., exceeded only by heart disease. In the US, cancer accounts for 1 of every 4 deaths." (ACS)

And some other insights? The older you get, the more likely it is that you could develop cancer.

"Anyone can develop cancer. Since the risk of being diagnosed with cancer increases as individuals age, most cases occur in adults who are middle-aged or older. About 77% of all cancers are diagnosed in persons 55 and older."

And if you don't have insurance (like 46 million Americans and that figure is rising steadily because of this crappy economy), you will likely die.

The National Institutes of Health estimate overall costs of cancer in 2007 at $219.2 billion. (How many bail outs is this, I wonder.)

Come on people. Why don't we start harping on the real issues instead of this swine flu silliness?

To the media who are taking us for a ride: Oink Off!

My resurrection

2009-04-12T09:24:00.007-05:00

I just got a Google calendar reminder that my surgery for colon cancer was starting on 4-12-2007. Two years ago today, I had seven inches of my large intestine (or my descending colon; are those the same?) cut out. I didn't know what I was in for, really, at that time. I just knew my doctor said it had to be done.

I was due at the hospital around five or six that morning. When I went to the basement to let the dogs out, Louie had pooped all over the floor. Not a good solid poop either. Was this foreshadowing? Bob and I spent valuable time mopping the basement floor. Not a good start.

Surgery happened, and after, the nurses stuck a needle in my spine for the epidural that would dispense pain relief. For a couple of days, any time I was in pain, I just pushed a button and it went away. But eventually they took that needle away. I thought I had a high pain threshold, so I didn't ask for drugs when I felt a little pain. But then it got worse. When the doctors made their rounds to see me one morning (I say doctors because I was in a teaching hospital), I was wailing.

Man, it hurt. Tears still spring to my eyes when I think about it. I don’t really even remember where the pain was. I just remember it was most definitely there. The nurses gave me something. Morphine? And told me not to wait so long next time. After a few seconds, I felt better.

One day, I got out of the hospital bed and walked. The following day, I knew I needed a shower. Then, I pooped, the function necessary for my release. Finally I went home.

Every Easter from now until my death, I will remember what it feels like to be resurrected.

CAT call

2009-03-06T15:28:00.012-06:00

In an effort to be more healthy, I've been eating a lot more fiber lately. In the form of whole grains, vegetables, and fruits. I think we all know what turmoil fiber causes in the gut. I have been having that turmoil. Sharp pains that eventually manifest themselves into various gasses and solids. But not quite quickly enough in my opinion. The week has been rough. This morning I doubled over briefly when a short pang shot through me.

Couple these pains with some of the blogs I've been reading lately about people with Stage III colon cancer and the result is ANXIETY. When you've had cancer, all pain is potentially cancer. A cold is lung cancer; a sore shoulder is bone cancer; fatigue or night sweats mean lymphoma. No matter where the pain is, no matter if there is absolutely no correlation. It *is* cancer. It just is.

So I have been slightly nervous about my upcoming CAT scan. Worried about what it would reveal. But I was also glad to have it, just to get it over with, so I would know and could get on with my life. (Or not.) This morning I had my CAT scan. I drank the murky white liquid at home, the murky berry liquid at the hospital. I think it must be also made of fiber because the results were much the same as if I had eaten a bowl of spinach and nuts.

CAT scans are not painful. I did think carefully about what I would wear. Because they make you strip down to shoes and socks if you have metal on your pants. And unless you wear polyester pull ups, you probably do. So I wore sweat pants and took my work pants, happy that I wouldn't freeze to death in the little waiting room with my black socks and shoes on (and paper-thin hospital gown). But they told me to strip anyway. I pulled up my shirt, showing the nurse I had on sweat pants. She just pointed and said, "Grommet."

Poo. I had thought about my outfit several times during the night when I should have been sleeping.

I figured I wouldn't hear about my CAT scan results until next week during my doctor's appointment. If you get a phone call from the nurse or doctor, it causes fear and trembling.

I got that phone call this afternoon.

The nurse, Pam, said my CAT scan was all clear.

I am not dying, after all.

Apocalypse now

2009-02-18T13:19:00.002-06:00

I have a new apocalypse theory, and here it goes. The world is not going to go out with a big bang, flooded waters, or as a salt lick. We’re going out slowly and painfully. And the downturned economy is going to be our demise. We are going to get poor, then poorer, and finally so deprived that we have nothing. Then we’re going to start killing people for their cars, or their houses, or their wide-screen TVs. Maybe their food. Eventually.

It is the privileged who are going to suffer the most. Just like Jesus said. Camel and eye of needle stuff. They aren’t going to handle being poor very well at all. They won’t be able to afford gas for their airplanes and helicopters, so they can't fly to their vacation homes in the south of France. They’ll have to sell their cabin resorts all together. And their boats. And their third Humvees. They are going to be in a sorry state.

The middle class, like me, also will suffer. No more eating out. We won’t be able to afford the symphony or opera anymore (yea!!!). No more buying that second pair of LL Bean wide-leg jeans. Or maybe even the first. Movies are out. Netflix too. Red meat and organic vegetables will be history. In fact, we might have to grow our own food.

It is the poor who will be blessed. The 800 million people in the world who already suffer from hunger and malnutrition. The ones who have never even felt their foot on the gas pedal of a vehicle. Who have never owned a TV. Or a radio. Who wouldn't have the electricity to run them if they found them in a dump. They will barely feel the apocalypse. They’ve been living it all their lives.

Just a thought that came to me in the night.

Happy 80th Dad!

2009-01-30T08:50:00.006-06:00

Today is my dad's 80th birthday. A mile-marker I hope to reach and exceed. For his birthday, all of us kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids got together to make him a birthday video. Well, we didn't get together, but everybody sent clips to me and I put it together. In lieu of us not getting to converge on him in his Florida home, which he would most surely hate, though my mother would most surely love. But it is his birthday after all. Not hers.

The full video is far too big to post to You Tube, this blog, Facebook, or any of the other free social media tools. But I can give you a preview. Featuring, of course, me!

Here you go.

Hunger pangs

2009-01-06T16:07:00.014-06:00

The new year is here and I vow to live a healthier life. No. Really. Last year I ate anything I wanted because I was so relieved I could taste. Chemo clouds taste buds. This year I must watch what I put into my mouth. Considering. Some "foods" could even be dangerous for me.

I have a bunch of candy-loving colleagues. But we are all going to do better. In mid-month, my fellow employees and I are going to begin studying the book, Your Whole Life, ("Don't think thin, think whole . . .") and learn how to live healthily and happily. Certainly we can do both.

I know a big cookie or giant candy bar can be happiness food. But not healthy. A big slab of char-broiled red meat makes me happy, but not healthy. Cheese makes me dance with delight. Wine makes me dance, period. But I'm getting old. And I gotta watch what I put in my mouth. It slides straight down to my hips and thighs. I know living right is about more than just my weight and gait (placing one foot in front of the other instead of lumbering side to side). "Don't think thin, think whole..."

I have been going to the gym since 1993, so I'm doing my exercises. But I can't pop a miniature Three Musketeers bar in my mouth when my brain starts crying, "Chocolate. Chocolate!" And when I'm hungry, I need to reach for something healthy (what!?), not sugary, or cheesy, or wine-y.

I just read an article on Cafe about breaking bad habits. It takes 28 days. (That seems like a long time to crave a Three Musketeers.) I read somewhere else, and I can't remember where, that you just have to have hunger pangs for awhile. Three days maybe. Before your stomach figures out it is not getting food everytime it screams for it.

It is now time to climb into bed and I want food. My head hurts 'cause I feel hungry. But I must think of all the starving children in China. And Sudan. And Darfur. And India, And East Tennessee and downtown Chicago. And be glad I have a bed. A refrigerator. A house. And wait three days until the hunger pangs subside.

Snore blog

2008-12-23T13:12:00.008-06:00

It's 1:12 p.m. on Tuesday, Dec. 22, and we've been told to go home because of the terrible weather. So sad. I took public transportation, so I'm about to pull on my snow boots and walk to the Blue Line, then transfer to the Metra and go home! I might have a nap, read a book, celebrate my upcoming holiday.

We have plans to go to Nashville and see family for a couple of days, not long, just enough time for some hugs. I hope the snow doesn't sabotage our plans. Travel seems precarious in Chicago.

Now, it's 7:46 p.m., and I ain't done nothing. I made it home by about 4. Threw some salt on our sidewalks and took a video so you could see the snow. Now you see why I don't blog much anymore.

Boring. Snoring. Worth ignoring. Speaking of snoring. I had snorers beside me both on my commute to and from work. Loud snorers. Men of course. But there was also a honker. A young woman. Who honked and honked and honked. I began to think she was a Candid Camera plant, her honking and blowing went on for so long. But when I finally looked back at her, she did look pitiful and in a lot of pain. She probably should have stayed home. Her seat mate was staring out the window, trying to look as though he did not belong to her.

Poops away

2008-11-14T12:52:00.002-06:00

I would like to direct you to a great blog post about poop. Makes me wish I had children!

Crossing over to polyester

2008-10-30T09:49:00.013-05:00

Last year around this time I was headed to Nashville for my big birthday bash. My mother and sisters in law hosted a party for me because they didn't know if I'd be around another year. But here I am, plump and feisty.

Back then, I fit into all my pants, even ones I had stuffed in the bowels of my closet in hopes of someday getting into again (that thing women do), never thinking chemo would be the diet that worked best for me. This year, those pants and a lot more have been moved to the basement, stuffed into black plastic bags on their way to AmVets or the Salvation Army. I am 52, the age of change. THE change. The one that slows your metabolism to a trickle. The one that means apples and green beans go straight to your hips (and your new pooching belly).

I have crossed over to the world of polyester pants. Stretchy material. Elastic waistbands. I now wear sweat pants out in public because they hang loosely around my thighs. Sometimes they even make me feel skinny. Long ago, I quit tucking my shirts into my pants. I had to reassess everything I wore on the top half of my body. I had to give away the bulky, tuckable shirts and buy the fitted untuckable shirts.

Now, I've moved down to the lower part of my body. I'm tossing out the pants that no longer button; the ones that hug my butt and give me a definable crack. I've moved up a size. My older sister, Jennifer, offered me a brilliant solution. If you don't want to be reminded that you've gone up a size, just cut out the tags.

Problem solved.

Let us eat cake

2008-10-13T20:33:00.010-05:00

I had a great time in Florida. I went to an excellent development seminar on planned giving that I really enjoyed. I learned a lot. And I will share. Later. With people who care. I met my sister there who also attended the conference (and told me about it). Then we went down to my Mom & Dad's in Fort Myers.

Mom made me a birthday dinner of roast, potatoes and carrots; what we used to have after church every Sunday. And she made my favorite cake: angel food with Lackey fudge icing. I ate three pieces. And I don't plan to weigh this week.

While I was out of town, I learned Bob and my checking account had been "compromised" so we had to shut down our checking account and all of our credit cards and start all over. Because I do my banking online, that was a bit traumatic for me. We'll be straightening that out for awhile. My advice to you: Check your checking account online regularly. That's how Bob found out something was wrong. He wasn't allowed into his own checking account and the bank made him come to the local branch and shut it down.

But this post is to show you my birthday video, taken with my little camera. There is a difference in my birthday this year and my birthday last year. Last year, they threw me a real birthday round-up, and we had a hootin' tootin' time. This year's birthday party with my parents and one sister was delightful. You can see for yourself. (I even had to start my own song; the camera was rolling and I needed some action.)

Fabulous Fishing Weekend

2008-10-05T20:49:00.006-05:00

Gosh. It's been a month since I posted last. Oh well.

I tried living life like I only have four and a half years to go this past weekend. I went to Kris, Denise, Becky, and Betty's River House for the weekend. Being an introvert and a grump, I find it hard to make myself go places where I will have to be around people I don't know very well for a whole weekend, making nice, smiling, you know. But I went to the River House with seven other people (Denise came up Saturday night); I slept in a tent in a big room with a guy I didn't know well (Oh, he wasn't in the tent; he was safely in another part of the great big room). But he was delightful, everybody was; the trip was a great time, and most importantly, I caught fish! Four. Three little catfish and one junk fish. But, uh. Nobody else did. Deb claims I had the best seat in the boat. OK. Whatever. I'm going to show you the trip, not write about it.

In other news, I have two doctors' appointments on Tuesday, where I will have to weigh. Ack. Then I leave for a conference that evening in Florida. And I will get to see my Mom and Dad and sister, Jennifer. So I better go pack.

Take a look at my videos.

Live it up...sort of

2008-09-03T21:24:00.007-05:00

Thanks to Leroy (see below), I have a new philosophy on life. I've decided people should live as if they have four and a half more years of life. I don't believe in "living like this is your last day" because you would do some pretty terrible stuff. Like spend a lot of money or eat a gallon of Breyer's chocolate mint ice cream (after a dozen hot wings). No, living like you have one more day is not safe.

I also don't think you should give yourself just one more year either (as my sister suggested). Because again, it's likely you would do something radical. Like quit your job and live on your savings. Then if you live for forty or fifty more years, you'd need to find another job and save up the money you just spent.

And I don't think you should give yourself five more years because that number is so banal. It doesn't feel real. It seems ignorable. "I've got five more years to live" doesn't move you like saying you have four years and six months more to spend your days on this earth. Six or seven or ten years is too long. You might remain inert (until you only had four and a half more years).

With four and a half more years (or three and a half if that moves you more), you probably wouldn't quit your job or spend all your money because you still have a ways to go. But you might travel more. Or go out with friends more. You might paint your walls bright colors (or better, pay someone to do it). You could give yourself a break and do nothing. Just stay home and read or watch a movie. You might treat people better. Call your Mom more, tell your partner you love him or her. Take your dog for a walk.

Maybe we should try it. See what happens.

I'm just a little freaked

2008-08-18T11:14:00.003-05:00

Leroy Sievers died over the weekend. You probably haven't heard of him unless you listen to NPR every morning like I do. I haven't heard his voice in a long time. His commentaries were about his cancer and its progression. He also blogged almost daily about his cancer. In fact, now that I think about him, it seems I haven't heard him since before I found out I had cancer. I think I would have paid more attention to his commentaries. Or maybe I didn't know what type of cancer he had.

Nowadays, I always want to know--when I read an obit that says the person died of "cancer"--I want to know exactly what type of cancer killed them. That's far more relevant to me than it was before...

So I looked up Leroy to find out what kind of cancer he had. Turns out he died of cancer in the brain and lung. But guess where it started?

His colon.

He had a "routine colonoscopy" (sound familiar?) and the doctors found cancer. They treated it, and he was cancer-free for four and a half years. Then they discovered cancer in his brain. And two years later he's dead. He was 53.

This scares me.

I am not dead

2008-07-24T08:54:00.003-05:00

Though it may appear so by the amount of blogging I've done lately. I have been busy. I was off to Salt Lake City for a week for work, home to recuperate, and off again next week to Boston and Vermont for vacation. Charles and Nancye Willis, Nashville buddies, are coming to stay at our house and take care of the dogs. It's a great deal for me, and they get a week in Chicago with a car.

I've been trying to diet, and have found a fun (and free) site that lets me count my daily calories. So I've been trying to keep up with what I eat and my exercise. Problem is, just when I get into the groove, I go out of town again where the good food is impossible to resist. I love food so much.

But the point of this blog is to say I am not dead, in fact, I'm quite alive. I visited my oncologist yesterday for a regular check up. And it seems I'm doing G-R-E-A-T. The nurse called me yesterday with my CEA levels, and they are tip-top. Perfect. Which means there is no sign of another lurking tumor. So it looks like I will live.

I never really thought I would die, but then I imagine most people who find out they have cancer don't believe they will die. Humans do seem to have a large capacity for hope. So, why I turned out to be one of the lucky ones, I don't know. My cancer was Stage III, and I think there are only four stages. So I was on the cusp. Do I have some unseen "mission" in life? Now that puts a lot of responsibility on me. But, of course, I could get hit by a car walking across the street. Or in crossfire.

Or of a stroke because of the road rage I get when drivers fail to use their blinkers. Now, that's something I need to offer up. It really is. One of those "Don't fret what you cannot change" things.

Anyway, I see the doctor for four more years. I asked, "How long do I have to come see you?" and he says, "Five years." And I said, "But when did that five years start; not that I don't find you adorable..." And he said, "Five years from when the chemo started." So that's four years. And that's how long I need to make sure I have good health insurance. And even longer, I guess, since I'm only getting older (the result of not dying).

My sister-in-law, the hero

2008-07-04T09:04:00.003-05:00

Mom and Dad were staying at my brother's house a few days. They've been in Nashville a month or so, visiting around with my siblings. They are waiting for a new great-grandson, but he hasn't come yet. So they were planning to head back to Fort Myers on Monday.

Daddy was watching a tennis match at Jimmy and Phyllis' house but wasn't feeling well. He had quadruple bypass surgery a few years ago, so you might think he would know the signs of a heart attack. He and Mom hemmed and hawed about going to the hospital, until Phyllis (who luckily was at home) said, Get in the car, we're going. Dad, like me (or me, like him) is a cheapskate, and will do anything to avoid hospital costs. (Even, incur funeral costs instead, it seems.)

They got to the emergency room, and Phyllis called Jimmy, my brother, from work to come on over. He got there and they all were talking to Dad, doctors in the room, when Jimmy said Daddy jerked and his eyes rolled back in his head. The doctors escorted (shoved) them out of the room quickly. Jimmy said he told Mom, I don't know, I'm not expert, but that might have been it.

A few minutes later, the docs came out and said he's fine and responding well. It seems he flat-lined and they brought him out of it. They said if Dad had been at Jimmy's (who lives very close to the hospital), an ambulance might have been there in time to save him, but chances are he would be "mentally slow" as a result of the loss of oxygen to the brain.

The stars aligned (or however you would like to explain it) and he was in the midst of doctors when he had a heart attack. They took him to the operating room, cleaned out an artery that was filled with "toothpaste-like" substance and put in two stents. And he's OK. Almost good as new.

Jimmy said the first thing Dad said when he woke up out of surgery was: Did I miss the tennis match? And Eric, my nephew, who is expecting a new (Mason) James Lackey at any time, in that very same hospital, wondered aloud if he could sneak the baby's hospital bill onto Daddy's (because their names are nearly the same). A family of cheapskates, God love us.

Thanks Phyllis. Looks like you'll have house guests for a while longer!

(P.S. I'm off to Salt Lake City for the Women of the ELCA's seventh triennial convention and gathering.)

Painful disbelief

2008-06-26T08:58:00.008-05:00

I was distressed greatly by an entry I read on my nephew's blog this morning. From it, I gather that he feels there is no shortage of oil, and that the rise in oil costs is a big game that oil speculators (whoever they are) are playing to . . . what? He doesn't say. Scare Americans? (Can you say Code Orange?) Line their pockets? What?

An articulate writer, my nephew believes that these "artificially inflated" prices will eventually correct themselves, and living in America will be a Utopian experience. (As long as you don't charge anything on your credit cards; he works for the financial counselor Dave Ramsey.)

An actual quote from his blog is: "In the meantime, don't fall victim to the fuel efficient car trap."

I don't know if my nephew has ever driven in Europe where gas is sold by the liter (about a quart) because that makes the prices look lower. You don't see many SUVs in Europe because they've been paying exorbitant fuel costs for years and years. The cars are tiny over there as they should be. I'm sure Europeans would be delighted to learn that when they wake up tomorrow, fuel prices will have plummeted (because the economy has corrected itself).

From a May 2008 Time magazine article:
"Across the European Union, the average cost of a gallon of gas runs to about $8.70 — more than twice what Americans are shelling out to fill up. And Europe's dizzying fuel costs would be even worse if it weren't for the considerable appreciation of the euro and the British pound against the dollar over the past year, which has partially offset the price escalation in dollar-traded oil." [That $8.70 would be about $17 out of our pocket if we visited Europe today.]

I am appalled that anyone would believe that we have an unlimited supply of natural resources on this earth and that we can use them up without regard for future generations. Maybe my nephew believes that Jesus will come again before we have to worry about our fuel supplies, but he has a baby on the way and I can't imagine that he doesn't consider the future of his child.

One of the points he makes is that he doesn't think people should rush out and buy fuel efficient cars just because of the current oil crisis, thereby sustaining new debt. Because he works for Ramsey, I would expect him to say that. Fine, don't rush out and get into debt buying a fuel efficient car. If you don't already own one (and why wouldn't you?), make a small or hybrid or clean diesel car your next purchase. When you buy a new car, buy one that doesn't guzzle this earth's natural resources.

What would Jesus do? He would walk.

Meat and three

2008-06-09T09:54:00.010-05:00

Saturday, Bob and I flew into Nashville for one day to attend St. Ann's 150th anniversary celebration. As a priest that "came out" of that parish, Bob was invited to process. I found a Southwest ticket for $49 each way and decided to go with him. We woke at 4:30 a.m. to make our 7:30 a.m. flight. Got there, rented a car, and just made it in time for the 10 a.m. service. Which was held in a tent on the parking lot. It was hot as hell. At least 95 degrees and sweltering. A normal Nashville day. It was a nostalgic event. We saw a lot of our old friends and reminisced about the 1998 tornado that destroyed the church.

We ate lunch at the Gerst Haus where they serve beer in frozen "fishbowls." Yum, I needed that.

We drove around our old East Nashville neighborhood and by our old house on Russell Street, my dog park, and then headed toward the airport. The Nashville airport has been renovated. You actually wouldn't even have to leave the airport to "see" Nashville. It has a Tootsie's Orchid Lounge and Swett's restaurant--a meat and three.

The whole point of this blog is to show my friends a photo of a meat and three. They just don't seem to understand what a meat and three is. When I tell them what I miss most about Nashville (besides my friends, of course), it is the restaurant that offers a meat and three vegetables (or two or four). You don't even have to get the meat, you can just order the vegetables. And you can add a good ole Southern dessert to that too.

Chicago has no vegetables. You can't walk into a restaurant and sit down for a good home (like) cooked meal. I miss my Southern vegetables. No wonder I never learned to cook. I grew up in Nashville where you could get a great meal for under $5. (It might be about $7 or $8 now.)

Speaking of tornadoes, our flight was diverted because of them. We were expected to be home about 6 p.m., but we didn't make it until 9. Luckily, our neighbor was home when I called her and she gave our dogs a bite to eat.

Click on those photos if you want your mouth to water.

Regardless of what I said in my previous post, you just can't take the Southern out of the gal.

Elevator speech

2008-06-04T09:01:00.000-05:00

I’ve decided today (or really a week or so ago) that my Southern-ness is slowly oozing out of me. When I get in an elevator with just one other person now, I no longer feel that I must carry on a conversation with him/her. I just stand there, staring at the buttons or the door or the floor. If they start the conversation, then I will happily join in. I have no trouble holding my own. But my compulsion toward idle chat seems no longer necessary. At least in an elevator.

Is that good?

Midwesterners, though not Southerners, are actually quite pleasant. I was surprised about that when I moved here. I expected them to be like New Yorkers (or at least like how people say New Yorkers are). I thought that if I asked a silly question (something I’m full of) they would slap me. Or worse: give me that “You’re so stupid” look. So I was thrilled when I found everybody (ok, most everybody) here is very agreeable.

But Southerners are so accommodating. If they meet your eye on the street, they say hello. And they try to meet your eye. They do not look down or up or around just so they don’t have to say hello. They (we) have a cultural rule that if someone doesn’t return your greeting, well that person is just plain rude. Or at best, in a really bad mood.

I guess since I am thinking about finding it unnecessary to chat in an elevator, then I have not quite shaken off my Southern roots. When I no longer think about it, that’s when I’ll be integrated into the new culture. But how I am going to know? If I don’t notice.

Annoying hairs

2008-05-10T10:38:00.004-05:00

Not only have I gained about 10 (to 15) pounds since stopping chemo, which makes my pants very hard to pull up over my thighs and button around my middle, I seem to be growing hairs on my face. I add the weight and the face hair to my growing list of either chemo or age-related side effects, which includes a new and severe curl on the right side of my head.

I have long reveled in the joy of not really having to trim a mustache like my sister (I won't say which one) has to do. She says she has to; I never really see hair growing out of her face, but that's probably because she catches it before it's braid-able. As we age, women have to use magnifying mirrors to put on our makeup, penciling the eyeliner straight across our wrinkly eyelids, hoping the amount of blush we put on does not make people want to honk our noses.

This magnifying mirror comes with many disadvantages. It shows all. I have a large magnifying mirror and a tiny 10X one suctioned to it for the above stated purposes. The large 5X one merely allows me to apply base makeup. The 10X is for details. I had laser surgery (lasik) on my eyeballs several years ago, which makes the seeing up close problem even worse. Blind people can take off their glasses and see fine up close. I, however, am up to about 225 on the reading glasses scale.

This 10X mirror is showing me that I am growing a beard and mustache. Now it's not a heavy black beard, but that's only a matter of time, I'm sure. My biggest fear is when I'm in the nursing home and my long hairs grow and grow because I have no children to diligently pluck them out every week. Having children might have advantages when you reach a certain old age. My other nursing home fear is, of course, about the bathroom. The aides will either set me down and watch and wait, in which case, I'll never be able to go. Or they will leave me there for hours, forgetting about me through breakfast and lunch. I think I would prefer that. At least I would be on the toilet as my diuretics take effect.

Back to the hairs. These hairs are also growing out of my nose. (Am I making myself sound attractive?) I'm plucking and cutting now, but I guess I'll have to move to waxing. Does this mean that I will forever be in the clutches of a waxing parlor, always looking for one when I'm on international trips or long domestic vacations. You've heard of the new Web site for locating bathrooms? I might start one for waxing parlors.

The question is: is this all about menopause? My mother can't remember much about it so I have no one to inform me about its perils.

Aren't women lucky? No wonder we ate the damn apple. We deserved it. (And we were Starving!)

It's May Day

2008-05-01T13:25:00.004-05:00

in Chicago, and around the world, for that matter. I'm not sure what May Day means in most places, but in Chicago it means: MAYbe it won't snow anymore after today. Please God, don't let it snow anymore here until November at least. It snowed here earlier this week, on Monday. It didn't stick, of course, but here I was, at work, and I looked out my window and the snow was coming down furiously. I had to write my family about that, since all of them live south of here. It makes them think twice before coming to visit.

Oh. My colonoscopy was clear. Nothing there. I was (sort of) awake and was able to watch for the most part. First time I had one, I was totally out. Maybe they gassed me good when they saw cancer so they could talk about it without me hearing. But this time I watched as they traveled down my colon. I think I heard them trying to find the suture lines from my surgery when my colon was cut apart and stapled back together. But as far as I can tell in my foggy state, they never found it. So I'd say that was good.

And for my fat report: I'm gaining about a pound a day. No matter if I only have soup. Every day, I get on the scale, and I weigh a pound more than the day before. I'm freaking out about that. I've been starving to death lately. Every two hours my stomach trumpets: feed me. Feed me! FEED ME!! And so I do. I drink plenty of water, all day long, so it's not just thirst like some of the fat journals claim. I think it might be a hormonal spike or something menopausal. I'm not sure. I think the hourly hunger pains are beginning to subside. If anyone has any insight, please give it to me. The fun part of cancer was being skinny (relatively speaking) for a while. But that's over and I love food again.

Love, love, love it.

The Cup of Salvation

2008-04-20T18:42:00.004-05:00

I guess the colonoscopy preparation drink really was the cup of salvation for me last year. It was around this time in 2007 that I had my first colonoscopy and discovered I had cancer. But now I'm all better. They're going to look inside my colon Monday to be sure. I'm pretty hungry right now and my test isn't until 11:30 a.m. I'm going to go and have some chicken granules. Yum.

I got my port out today

2008-04-07T19:00:00.005-05:00

Here's the hole it came out of, and here's the port. I asked them if I could bring it home, and they said yes! I'm a little sore. I didn't go under sedation because I really hate that. I usually come out of it hurling, so if I can avoid it, I do.

After I got the port out (about 10:15; I got there at 7 a.m.), Bob and I went to Alexander's where I slugged down three cups of coffee (I would have had more if they would have come by and offered) and ham, hashbrowns and poached eggs.

Then I came home and felt a little sleepy, so I went to bed at about 11:30 and didn't wake up until 1:30. So I guess I was sleepy.

Today is Becky's birthday. Happy birthday to her! And happy port out day to me!

The sun is out in Chicago today

2008-04-02T16:34:00.007-05:00

I walked into the clinic for my doctor's appointment today--the same clinic where I went to get my chemo treatments every two weeks--and had quite an emotional experience. It rushed upon me as soon as I walked through the automatic doors; this is where I spent some very unpleasant Fridays. But it was more than that; it was also that I seemed to have beaten the cancer, and that I was walking through the halls like a survivor. I wouldn't have to go again to that place for chemo treatments. Stooped, bald-headed people were going to appointments, their green-pale faces held the tell-tale signs of chemotherapy. I, too, had that green color once. But friends and family had the grace not to tell me about it until my cheeks turned a normal hue again. Until I again had the body of a plump medieval nymph.

Today the doctor said: You did good. I answered, You did good too. I told him I planned to live to age 86. He chuckled and asked why not longer. That seems long enough, I answered. You know, if you live to be 100, you get a card from the president, he said. Well, I wouldn't want to live until 100 just for that. What if I wouldn't want a card from the president in office. Everybody nodded.

While I waited to get my next appointments--my port removed, my colonoscopy--I saw a daughter walk out of an office where her mother was in with my doctor. She was crying, so I knew the news they got wasn't as good as what I heard.

I asked him about my curls. How did this happen, I didn't lose my hair. Some people get curly hair, he said. But mine didn't fall out, I said. He shrugged. The nurse said later that hers started getting curly with age. And she's about 15 years younger than I am.

So the plan is: colonoscopy within a year of my surgery, which is now. Port removed! Symbolic to me, like the clanging of the bell at the end of a boxing match. The referee has counted to 10 and it's my hand he's holding up. Visits to the doctor every four months for blood work and check ups. CT scan every six to eight months.

I do feel great. I'm a little hungry.

The doc called yesterday

2008-03-27T06:49:00.002-05:00

Well, actually the nurse, but I thought writing the doc called would be more dramatic. I got my CAT scan yesterday, so they were calling to report. Seems to be

ALL CLEAR.

Ha! I don't know the details yet, like if I can get my port out or how often I have to have a CAT scan or do I have to have a colonoscopy every three days for five years; I'll learn that next week when I meet with the doc. But I guess he doesn't get to deliver good news every day and maybe he was excited to get to do that. Or maybe he thought I would be worried about the results and he wanted to ease my mind. (The more likely scenario.) I waited this long; I didn't mind waiting another week, but it's really nice to know.

I think I'll celebrate this weekend. I'm taking Friday off to go to see Othello. We might go downtown early and play around, maybe go to the Art Institute. Depends on the weather, I guess. It was supposed to be sunny and 50, but the weather forecast has changed, and now it looks like it's going to be cold and wet. Quite a turn around.

Anyway, I thought I would give my CAT scan report. I don't know how I got to be one of the lucky survivors. But I'm glad I am. Exclamation mark.

Last year at this time

2008-03-24T13:10:00.003-05:00

I was oblivious to what my upcoming year would hold. Surgery to remove a golf-ball-sized cancerous tumor in my colon; six months of chemo. My discovery fell during Holy Week last year, which happened to be a couple weeks later than it is this year. I had my first colonoscopy on Maundy Thursday 2007 and that's when one doctor proclaimed that whatever was inside of me "was not good." Good Friday was not that great.

So I have an anniversary coming up: April 5, discovery; April 12, surgery. This week I get a CAT scan and next week my oncologist will read it. Hopefully, the spot he discovered on my lung last CAT scan will turn out to be nothing, and I can get this port out of my body. Once the port is gone, I think I will feel like I have conquered. But now that I have written this, have I jinxed myself? No, this post is just to let my friends and family know what's going on. I don't think I'm scared or apprehensive. I just want to enjoy my summer this year (if, indeed, it ever comes), so I would prefer no surprises. I know that doesn't mean I won't get any.

But, really. I'm kind of tired of doctors.

I'm poo-phoric!

2008-03-12T09:37:00.005-05:00

Deb sent me this link today to a Salon story. It almost makes me feel normal. Everybody's talking about Poo. The book I list in the left on my blog, What's Your Poo Telling You, is being discussed. You really need to look at the video for a good smile.

This just makes me so happy. (Kate just sent me another bathroom story today. You just have to read this. It's about a woman who sat on a toilet seat for two years--so long her skin grew around the seat. Kate is the queen of finding bizarre stories.)

On an unrelated note. My hair is sitting on top of my head like Marge Simpson's. I need to just go ahead and get it all cut off. It's gotten really wavy.

My trip to the Chicago dog show

2008-03-03T18:28:00.004-06:00

Here's my video from the dog show, which I went to all by myself. All my friends at work are cat-lovers. One loves guinea pigs. And another--when she was a kid--drowned her pet hamster because she didn't want it anymore. Woof!

There's a sewer

2008-02-22T08:19:00.003-06:00

swirling around in my body. Don't sit next to me. Or do so at your own risk. I'm not sure what's happening. I realize my descending colon is seven inches shorter than it used to be. And that must create activity at a quicker rate. There is less space for the bacteria to bang around like bumper cars, and so the sparks are more frequent and more severe.

I read a story recently in the Chicago Tribune about how to clear a room. You guessed it; a story about flatulence. "Gastroenterologists say most people pass gas about 10 to 20 times a day," according to the story. I exceed that quota by 10 a.m. It also says women "break wind" fewer times a day than men. That may be true, generally, unless you are a woman with a short colon.

I'm at home getting ready for work, so I thought I would post this quick note. I have a long day ahead me, I have to work late. And I'll be irritable because I'll be around people and I'll need to be polite. And being polite means you cannot do anything that might clear the room.

Recently, someone asked me why I haven't been posting lately. Clearly, I have nothing much to say.

I should not read about cancer

2008-01-24T15:55:00.000-06:00

if I don't want to pop an anxiety pill. So here's the way I got to the cancer Web site. An author of a book called Compassionate Caregiving wants our magazine to review her book or let her write an article about caregiving. So I was looking through the book, and the Caregiving Web sites chapter caught my eye. I turned to those pages. There I saw the reference to cancer.org. I logged on and saw Cancer Facts and Figures 2007. Well, of course I'm going to look at that.

I scroll down to the section on colon cancer (naturally). I looked at the survival rate (and the fact that eating a lot of red or processed meats [I AM a member of the SPAM fan club] can cause colon cancer). The one and five year survival rates for colon (and rectal) cancer are 84 percent and 64 percent, respectively. OK, that's respectable. Detected at an early, localized stage, the five year survival rate is 90 percent. Really good. However, when it is discovered in the lymph nodes (me) or adjacent organs, the five-year rate drops back to 68 percent. OK OK, that's better than half, I guess. But if it has a distant metastases (I'm not sure how distant, preferably in a nearby swine), the five-year survival rate drops to 10 percent. Really bad.

You see, an acquaintance in Nashville has just died of colorectal cancer, and she was only 41. I've been keeping up with her on her Caring Bridge Web site. One month, she was back teaching school and the next month (or so) she was dead. I didn't know her well, but her death has really affected me. I don't think it's because she also had colon cancer, but maybe. It's just that she was so loved and seemed to be a happy person. She was not going to let this cancer get her. And yet it did.

I was looking at the photos of her they used at her memorial service and tears came to my eyes. I prayed for her a lot. Lots of people did. Once when I was praying for her complete healing, the question popped into my head (from God?), "But would you trade your life for hers?" And guiltily I must admit, the answer was no.

I'm no Jesus.

What a great holiday

2008-01-02T11:30:00.001-06:00

I spent a wonderful two weeks away from the office. We had a nice Christmas, then my sister and her partner (my sister in law) Jana came to visit. We ate and ate and drank and drank and visited downtown Chicago. They saw the ice skaters and we even got some snow. Jana got to build a snowman. For Decatur, Alabamians, snow is rare.

In addition to their visit, my favorite part of time off was sleeping until 7:30. That's late! Then ambling downstairs to the living room to get my coffee (with a squirt of holiday whip cream in it) and reading the paper. Puttering around the house (learning a new video program) and then taking a nap around 1 or 2. Man, that's the life. I hate to add years to my age, but retirement looks pretty good. A couple of times I got bored, so when I do get to retire, I'll have to have some daily goals, I guess. But for now, I think resting and taking it easy is just fine.

I sure am back to eating. I knew this would happen of course. I can taste food again and it is heaven. We blew our dining budget in December. And the numbers on my scales are rising (I have to put my body on it first, of course). But it's the new year, so I can make some resolutions. Like eating my fruits and vegetables and staying away from all the sweets that tasted so good during chemo. And going back to the gym with a vengeance.

My aunt Margene died over the holidays. She was my mother's younger sister. (She was in her mid 70s.) She got pneumonia and never recovered. Terrible. She was part of the reason I like cowgirls. When I was a kid, I used to visit her family on the "farm" in Oklahoma. That's where I rode (and fell off) my first horse. What was that white horse's name....I can't remember. Anyway, Margene, I hope you're having a great time. It's really cold here.

I'm still racking in the presents. Bob got me a computer, which I didn't expect!, and a DVD recorder, among lots of other things. My friend Teresa from Nashville sent me an unexpected gift she picked up at a yard sale. A Kate Spade cowgirl purse!

The photo above is Bob and me wishing you a happy 2008. We've taken this picture every year since 2000, when it was easy to hold up our fingers. One of us would hold up a two and zero; the other would do two zeros, forming an "O" with our fingers. But as we moved into 2006, we didn't have enough fingers. So we had to move to the Roman numeral system. That's me holding up two "M"s for 2000 and Bob holding up two and three fingers for "eight." That makes 2008, right?

Happy New Year!

We have snow!

2007-12-16T09:04:00.000-06:00

I don't know exactly how much, maybe six to eight inches. It's higher than Spunk. I had to shovel her a path to go out and pee-pee and poop. Louie loves it. He jumps in it. But it's about 22 degrees out so they are happy to come back in.

Last night Bob and I decorated our Christmas tree. We were supposed to go to friends' house for a festive dinner, but Bob had some trouble with his digestive system and was afraid to leave the house (and bathroom). We hated to miss the party, but the snow was coming down furiously so it was more safe being at home.

Every year we debate about the Christmas tree -- real or fake? We say we will go after Christmas to buy a fake tree, but we never make it. So, each year, we end up buying a real tree at the YMCA. Real trees are beautiful and they smell great, but they require a bit of upkeep. Watering, vacuuming up needles, disposing of when Christmas is over. We're getting older and the work required is more difficult. (You have to crouch under the bottom limbs for the daily watering the tree needs.)

The dreaded task of decorating the tree began. For me, it's not very fun. I haven't figured out why; maybe the disorder it creates with boxes and ornaments and lights everywhere. But Bob loves it. We have almost zero storage room at this house so we have to put all our decorations in the garage. Bob trekked back and forth in the snow to bring in the decorations. I stayed at the door for the hand-off so that he didn't track snow in the house. He made us some hot-buttered rums (the fun part) and we set to work.

We finished and were cleaning up, admiring our beautiful newly decorated tree when ... it toppled over, breaking many of our glass ornaments and spilling water all over our wooden floor and area rug. After staring at the mess for a few stunned seconds we sprung into action. Righted the tree, sopped up the water, salvaged the ornaments. (Photo at right of me vacuuming up the broken ornaments.) We got it all fixed and put the ornaments back on, but I think the tree debate is settled.

Fake.

It's not over till it's over I guess

2007-12-12T12:29:00.000-06:00

Well, the doc gave me the results of my CAT scan today. They found a new spot on my lung. It might be nothing, he said. Most of the time, colon cancer navigates its way into the liver first, before reaching the lung. But, I said, if I ask you whether you can give me a definitive answer, you would say "No." Right? Yes, he said, but you can ask me my opinion. Ok, what's your opinion? "It's not cancer," he responded. Even if it is, he said, they can pluck it out at a later date.

So I still wait.

I have another CAT scan in four months; they handed over the bottle of barium today. I will drink it the night before and the morning of. He would not agree to remove my port. We should wait, he said. I wanted it out. Because if it was out, I would think that my waiting period was over. I would think that I was cured if he allowed my port to be taken out.

In eight weeks, I go back to get my port flushed and my blood taken. The port has to be flushed out every eight weeks (another reason I don't want it in my body).

The tingling and numbness in my toes and fingers may last forever, he said, "but you'll get used to it."

What am I learning from this cancer? Is it teaching me patience? I certainly hope so. I could use it. A friend at work said "Look at the news on the bright side. You can play the C-card a little longer."

Hey, I hadn't thought of that. More presents please!

I got my CAT scan yesterday

2007-12-05T13:52:00.001-06:00

which my doctor will read Dec. 12 to tell me if he sees cancer still in my body. I feel pretty good, so my guess is, he won't see it. Let's hope. (I'll hope even if you don't.)

It's been nearly four weeks since my last chemo session and my appetite has returned. I do get hungry and I do like to think about food. I can almost taste it. I'm not quite there yet. But almost. It's not icking me out like it has in the past. I ate a whole jumbo chile today and Fritos and then an apple. In the midst of chemo, I could only eat about half a jumbo chile. A couple of Fritos, and no apple. So the scale should be going up very soon, though I like the weight I am now.

The only real symptoms that remain of the chemo are numb fingers and toes. The tips of my fingers and the tips of my toes are numb. When I get in the shower in the mornings, the numbness moves up my hand, nearly to my wrist. And up my foot into my ankle. But that goes away quickly.

I've googled these symptoms and read that this is common after chemo, but some people say it has lasted for years. Yikes. Hopefully, this is not true.

So my CAT scan went OK. I drank lots of thick gunk. Barium. So even though I couldn't eat solid foods, the thick gunk kept me from being hungry. There was a woman in the waiting room where we were all sitting around wearing our hospital gowns and socks waiting to be called in to get zapped who was little and bent over and talking to herself. She walked in talking to herself, walked into the changing room talking to herself, walked out of the changing room talking to herself. It wasn't a low murmur either. It was a conversation. I was thinking, this is what it would be like to read someone's mind. You could hear them thinking inane, uninteresting thoughts. "Now where'd I put my keys." "What am I going to eat for supper?" "My knees and ankles hurt." It just isn't worth the ability to read someone's mind. Well, maybe sometimes it would be interesting. If they're thinking about you.

It snowed in Chicago yesterday and today. What a surprise.

People have asked me

2007-11-21T14:11:00.000-06:00

if I am going to continue this blog since I'm no longer on chemo. The answer is: I don't know. The blog was mostly about keeping friends and families up on what was happening with me without having to detail it out individually. It was a time saver. A voice saver.

Other than cancer and chemo, I guess I live a rather bland life. Like most of you, I go to work, work, come home from work, go to the gym or walk the dogs or ride my stationery bicycle or sit in front of the television and veg out. Then I go to bed and read for a few minutes before I fall asleep holding my book. I might wake up with a jolt with my book in my hands or Bob might nudge me and say, "Terri, you're asleep." How he knows, I'm not sure. But usually I am.

I'm a pretty good sleeper I think. At least I fall asleep easily. Lately in menopause, I wake up more frequently, probably because of the hot flashes. But I don't seem to get night sweats anymore. So perhaps I've graduated to the next level.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Bob and I are going to saunter down (or up) the street to a friend's house who throws a Thanksgiving feast every year for misfits like us who have no where to go. It's always a great party. You never know who might be there. Many of them are wacky, which makes the party even more interesting. We can have a few glasses of wine without worrying about driving. When the party ends, we just get on our feet and stagger home.

Friday, we're going to the circus. Barnum and Bailey. I think this might be the first time I've ever gone to a circus. I don't have any memory of ever having been to one. I guess my parents didn't want to take five kids (already a circus) to a circus. Makes sense.

Anway, the answer is I don't know if I'll keep blogging. We'll see. I should do video blogs. They're kind of fun, but they take forever to load.

It is finished.

2007-11-09T17:48:00.001-06:00

It's all over but the symptoms!

My anxiety is palpable

2007-11-09T10:23:00.000-06:00

I had to walk around the house in circles breathing deeply in and out before I could force myself to walk to the car for my last treatment. Sure, this is the final one, and in two to three weeks, I'm going to be normal, but that doesn't lessen the fear of the symptoms that will surely come.

I didn't take my half Valium, but I probably should. It always calms me down some, but it also makes me ignore the blog. Because the pill makes me feel normal, I don't feel compelled to blog.

I'm sitting in the hall waiting to get my blood drawn. The final stick into my port. Next, I'll visit the doctor and he'll tell me I'm doing great. Congratulate me maybe on making it to the final treatment and let me know what comes next (I hope.) Oops hold on, I'm being called in to get my blood drawn.

OK, that's done. Ouch. The stick hurt a little this time. Probably cause I was sans Valium. The nurse said she always feels like she's driving a nail into somebody's chest when she sticks the needle into the port. Well, that about conjures it I guess.

Next, I see the doctor but I have to wait awhile to make sure the blood work is processed. So I'm looking around the waiting room and I see some of the regulars. An elderly women I went through chemo orientation with. She doesn't remember me, but I have a good memory for faces (not names, unfortunately, but at least I can say Hi to a person I've seen before). There's a lady with a red sequined baseball hat on. She doesn't look like she's lost her hair so maybe it's a fashion statement. I might think so if she didn't have on a royal blue velor sweat suit. There are at least three people in wheelchairs. Wonder why. Theres someone with a mask on. Nobody's really smiling except the woman who just rammed her husband's (or brother or friend's) wheelchair into the side of a chair. And that's more of a crooked, embarrassed smile. Not a happy smile like I should have.

I think I'll upload this later in the day. I'm going to read my Anne Lamott book, Traveling Mercies. It's a St. Helena's book club book and I have to lead the discussion on it. Not quite sure how I'm going to do that; it's sort of a collection of disparate essays. They connect in some ways, but not entirely. It's fantastic though. This will be my second time reading it.

Well, it's 3 p.m.; I've been here since 10:30 and I'm not hooked up to chemo yet. I saw the doctor, who said I wouldn't need another white blood cell shot, but was concerned that my red blood cells were "big." I asked if that meant I had more cancer and he said, "Oh no, it's probably a result of the chemo, but it could mean a vitamin B-12 deficiency." I can live with that. So I was off to get more blood work. I checked in to chemo at about 12:30 and have waited until now to get a pink chair. At least I got most of my book read.

I've taken my nausea medicines, but haven't actually gotten hooked up to my chemo, which takes two hours. I'm ready now. I have to go home and eat nachos and watch a movie. I probably won't get home until 6. Dogs are going to be really hungry. This has taken longer than usual, which probably means I won't get my pump taken out until a little later on Sunday. So the finish line might be later in coming.

I've got my CAT scan appointment Dec. 4 at 7:30. I see the doctor on Dec. 12 and should get the port out shortly after that if my tests all look good. Doc indicated I didn't need another colonoscopy for awhile. He didn't believe it would really show anything. But he said he would "think about it."

So I'm signing off. I'm now hooked up, so I'm going to watch a Netflix movie.

My heart is jumping

2007-11-08T17:58:00.001-06:00

for joy. I go to my last, very last chemo treatment tomorrow. I am just so excited that I'll be able to enjoy the holidays, meaning I can taste my food and I'll feel good and I won't have a chemo pump hooked up to me any more.

I will not miss:
My hairy tongue
My runny nose
My tingly fingers
My thinning eyelashes
My unpredictable pooping
Feeling pooped out
Enjoying only sweets
Getting stuck with a two-inch needle in my port
My port

I will miss:
The concern
The nice nurses
The chemo Fridays off (well not off really, but waking up later and reading the newspaper and drinking coffee)
The ability to eat anything I want knowing I'll be sick enough after chemo to loose the few pounds I gain when I'm feeling good
My pants fitting loosely

Tomorrow is the day. The last day. I'm thrilled. The end really did come.

Thank God.

Oh, I forgot

2007-11-05T13:27:00.001-06:00

to show you a photo of what I would have looked like had my hair fallen out and I needed a wig.

For more cowgirl party pictures, click here.

Score!

2007-11-05T12:01:00.000-06:00

What a great birthday celebration I had in Nashville this past Friday. I scored with some great gifts again. This was really not a landmark birthday. I turned 51. But I think my mother was worried I wouldn't be around for the next birthday, so she thought she would make me feel special. And I did. Two sis-in-laws sponsored the party and my Mom paid for the dinner of ribs, chicken and fixin's. Everybody dressed like a cowboy or cowgirl, and they seemed to really get into it. I did have one nephew and wife come as a redneck cowpoke, but aren't they attractive? (See photo above right.) I actually have a good looking family. Everybody looked pretty darned good in their duds. (Bob is not in many of the photos because he took them.)

It was a terrific weekend in Nashville. The weather was gorgeous. We had a little picnic outside a local winery near my brother's house on Saturday. And Sunday we just lounged around (I skipped church!) and then went to lunch at a Mexican restaurant.

Coming up this Friday is my final chemo treatment. Hallelujah!!! Unless you've been through it, you just can't imagine how thrilled I'm going to be to put an end to all this. (Not a literal end; like I said before, I plan on living quite a few years past my 51st birthday!)

Here's a photo of my four brothers and sisters, my mom and Dad. From left to right: Doug, Jennifer, Daddy, Terri, Becky Jimmy and mom out front. (You can click on the photos to make them a little bigger.)

The unpredictabililty of it all

2007-10-26T09:53:00.000-05:00

Today as I sat at my make-up mirror getting ready to go get my bi-monthly chemo treatment, I noticed blood running out of my left nostril. Why is this happening now? Right before my treatment. I have dealt with the blood in the past, but over the last few weeks, I have had no problem with it. It's the unpredictability of chemo that unravels me. Well, not exactly unravels, but contributes to uncertainty and floundering.

For example, lately I can't predict whether the chemo is going to make me sick on Sunday or Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday or not at all. Will I be tired, practically unable to move, and too sapped to go to the gym or will I feel fine and breeze through my work day and my workout? I just don't know and I just can't predict.

If I knew exactly what was going to transpire after chemo, I could prepare for it, but it's always different it seems. So there is no heading symptoms off at the pass. You just wait for them to happen and deal with them as they come.

Perhaps that's a good life lesson. Don't worry about what has not yet happened. Deal with it as it comes.

Is that even possible?

I'm famous!

2007-10-23T15:02:00.000-05:00

A Baptist church has me on their sign:

Ok, so you can be famous too. Make your own sign.

Want to get regular?

2007-10-22T09:54:00.000-05:00

Watch this ad to find out how.

What a birthday

2007-10-18T10:39:00.000-05:00

Wow! I racked up. I've got to come up with a disease to contract for my next birthday. This was terrific. Bob bought me, in addition to the $50 box of Fannie Mae candies, a VIDEOCAMERA. Zowie. I asked for one for Christmas, but I didn't think I'd get it for my birthday! Now, I'll have to learn how to use it, and especially how to edit what I take. I think that's the most important part of taking videos.

Also, Jennifer got me the cutest sign. Since pictures speak louder than words (really?), I'll just show it to you. Amazing that she found something like this. I just can't believe it.

Mom sent me a check; money is always handy. And Becky and Jana sent me a box of really weird stuff mixed in with good stuff, like two cowgirl shirts and a fleece jacket and a CD by Emmylou Harris called Cowgirl's Prayer that I listened to on the way to work. It's fantastic. Also, a book by Mitch Albom, the Fiv e People You Meet in Heaven. I wonder if she's trying to tell me something.

I got lots of e-cards and some real cards too! (Thanks Susan and Michelle.)

So, not a bad haul at all. (That rhymes too.)

Happy birthday to me

2007-10-17T15:18:00.000-05:00

Great day so far. Bob woke me up with a wrapped present. [He didn't wrap it but it was wrapped!] A big box of Fannie Mae chocolates. Yum. I hadn't told him that I was so starved for sweets (chocolate) that I had to break into the Halloween candy. If I told him that, it would disappear. So now, after I eat a meal that usually tastes metallic, I can wash that taste right away with a piece of Fanne Mae. That rhymed.

So I brought cookies to work this morning to celebrate my birthday. I wanted to bring Hostess Twinkies and Cupcakes and Snowballs, but the store didn't have them so I had to settle for Oreos and Nutter Butters. When I got here there were two presents on my desk from Kate. And a really funny card. (Eva gave me another funny card, both of them sing; one had the Chicken Dance song and Eva's had a country song on it.)

One of Kate's presents was a Cowgirl calendar that I had in fact investigated on the Web yesterday. I almost bought the exact same one. Another was a book, Final Exits, an encyclopedia about the way people die. I'm very interested in strange deaths and wanted to write a book like that myself. Now, I guess I'll have to change tacks, and write a children's book. Maybe called Everyone Dies (like Everyone Poops.)

Then, a little while letter Beth brought in two boxes of assorted bagels for my birthday and after lunch Mary brought in some more treats. So we're all groaning around here. It's been a great day.

I have three boxes waiting for me at home to open and whatever Bob got me. I don't even have a clue about what he got me. I'm going to stop and get some Thai food on the way home so he doesn't have to cook and I don't have to wash dishes. So that's my report for now.

More later.

Cancer is lucrative

2007-10-15T16:44:00.000-05:00

My birthday is coming up (Oct. 17) and cancer seems to be paying off. My brother is sending me a present from Shepler's (see photo at top left of this blog). My mom is throwing me a party in Nashville where everybody has to dress up like a cowboy (or girl). Well, she arranged it, my sister-in-laws are doing all the work I think. Bob says he's bought be a lot of presents. Jennifer sent me a big box in the mail (which I won't open until my birthday). And I just now in the mail today received a package from Becky. Wow, I think people feel kind of sorry for me and so are getting me gifts. Of course, Phyllis' e-vite invitation did say bring gifts to the party, but I don't require them. Really I don't. But I don't mind them either. I bet I get a bunch of new cowgirl stuff. That's great!

I had a white blood cell booster shot this morning. Doc didn't say my count was down, just that he wanted me to have the shot. So, I got it. This time it's making my bones feel 30 years older. And chemo has gotten to me a little yesterday and today. Not terribly. But I've been tired, and food tastes AWFUL. I can just barely stand to eat it today. I have not been hungry since this past treatment. Feeling hungry made me feel kind of normal. I liked it.

I know I only have two more treatments, but it's starting to get to me. I really want this to be over. I don't even care if I get fat now. I just want to be hungry and I want everything to taste good. I want to feel like I have energy. I want my fingers and tongue to quit burning.

I want to be normal again. Please, please, please.

I'm hungry all the time

2007-10-11T09:28:00.001-05:00

Just like old times. I don't understand it. I haven't been hungry since I started chemo in June. (Except when I skipped a week in Germany.) So this is all odd to me. It's almost like life is getting back to normal even though I have three more treatments to go. I can't say I like to be hungry all the time. Because only sweets taste good. And that's fattening. I haven't gotten my taste buds back. I still can't taste anything (especially if it's bland). I know when I'm eating peanut butter because I can sort of smell and taste it. But the fuzziness on my tongue is still there, so food (except for sweet stuff) kind of gags me out. I don't know how to explain it, really.

It's odd. I suppose women who have been pregnant might be able to understand it. I've heard some foods gagged them so much that they could never return to eating them.

The problem with being hungry is that I EAT, despite not being able to taste. Yesterday, sin of all sins, I went to McDonald's and ordered the fish sandwich combo (comes with a drink and fries). I was very excited to be hungry enough to eat it. But I had to force it down finally because something about it irked me. Even the fries (which everyone loves) got to me in the end. The only thing that satisfied was the coke (because it was sweet).

So even though I am hungry, I'm not enjoying the food I eat and I'm gaining weight! Today I weighed a pound more than yesterday and yesterday I weighed a pound more than the day before.

Why is it that pounds are so slow to come off and so fast to go on. I wish Einstein were still alive and I'd ask him. I bet he would have an answer.

I'm listening to Charlotte's Web for my book on tape right now. It's charming. Can't remember if I ever even read it. Probably. Before that was Whose Body by Dorothy Sayers (fun! especially when the reader is great) and before that Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. I highly recommend this book for everybody. Absolutely delightful. At home, I'm reading Only Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins. Now that one is tough. Very hippie like. Should have been an adult in the 60s to enjoy that one. But I was a kid. Oh yeah, and for my book club at church I'm reading The Heart of Christianity by Marcus Borg. A good book that delineates the difference between earlier (distasteful) and emerging (more open minded) Christians. At least that's my take so far.

And that's that for now. Tomorrow is chemo. Joy.

A miracle has occurred

2007-10-04T15:17:00.000-05:00

I haven't had any bad symptoms after this last chemo. I mean, really, nothing to speak of. Not nauseated; not tired. And my white blood cell count was even down. I got the shot Monday (this is Thursday) and have had no ill effects as a result of the shot either. (I was to expect some achy-ness of the bones).

Mary, our new marketing person here, prayed for me while she was in Paris at Chappelle Notre-Dame de la Medaille Miraculeuse (or Chapel of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal). She also brought me a medal to keep with me at all times.

The story goes (loosely) that in the 1830s Sister Catherine (born Zoe Labouré to a middle-class farming family in Burgundy on May 2, 1806) saw three apparitions of the Virgin Mary. In one instance, the Blessed Virgin told her that graces would be poured out on those who prayed at the altar of the chapel. In another, Mary showed St. Catherine a design for the Miraculous Medal (which I hold). On one side of the medal is an image of Mary, surrounded by the prayer, "O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to you." On the other side is the letter "M" with a cross over two hearts, one circled by a crown of thorns, the other pierced with a sword.

Those who carry the medal (me) will receive grace in abundance (especially if they wear it around their necks).

The third apparition was on December 30, 1830. (almost my mother's birthday, but not the year). Catherine was meditating in the chapel when she saw a vision of the medal behind the altar with rays shooting out of it and heard, "These rays are the symbol of the graces that the Blessed Virgin obtains for those who ask them of her."

So perhaps because of Mary's prayer (and others!) I received the grace of no symptoms during this treatment. And maybe because I hold the medal, I'll round the next three treatments with ease and slide into home base free not only of cancer, but of chemo's miserable side effects.

(Sorry for the baseball metaphors; the Cubs are in the playoffs.)

My doctor called last night

2007-09-29T10:45:00.000-05:00

He told me my white blood count was low, and that he might not have given me chemo yesterday if he had had all the test results back. Hmmm. That's why I go in and get my blood drawn early in the morning. Well, all in all, I'm glad I had the chemo. That's one more treatment down (three to go).

However, I have to go in for shot early Monday morning to stimulate creation of white blood cells. They say it may make my bones hurt because marrow is where they are produced (I guess).

Low white blood cells means I am at higher risk of infection (which may be life-threatening, according to my chemo notebook they gave me before I started treatments). Ikes.

I am supposed to notify the doctor immediately if I have a fever over 100.5 F. (My normal temperature is about 97.5 so I wonder if that makes a difference). Other symptoms are chills and sweating, sores in throat or mouth. Constant cough, shortness of breath, pain when breathing in. Earache, headache, (had both), changes in vision. Sinus pressure or pain (had some of that).

But we (doc and me) were both surprised counts were low since I felt so good. I still feel pretty good. But Audrey (at work) has shingles and that scares me a little bit. But too late, because we've been in each other's offices (well cubicles) several times within the last week.

So. We'll see. Hope I don't die from an infection. Lots of people are getting colds right about now. And there are several cases of West Nile virus around here.

Wonder if I should climb in a bubble.

I do not want to do this

2007-09-28T11:17:00.000-05:00

I feel so good right now that it took every ounce of gumption in my body to drive to chemo today. The weather is gorgeous; autumn is my time of year. I was strong enough to go to the gym twice this week and walk the dogs when I didn't go. I was getting really close to being able to taste again. I feel so normal that I wanted to cry this morning knowing I have to start feeling bad again.

I thought I would tell my doctor that everybody on a 6-month/12-time regimen of chemo needs a week off, but now I'm not so sure. Feeling so good makes it twice as hard to voluntarily sit calmly for more poison. Especially when you don't even think you need it.

I still have to act normal. I still have to go out with people on the weekends, work in the yard, go to church--all hooked up to my weekend pump. It's embarrassing and inconvenient. All I really want to do is curl up and not talk, drink tepid water (because water with ice burns going down), eat crackers, not real food. If I were alone, that is probably what I would do.

I don't mean to feel sorry for myself because I don't really. I just want to do what I want to do when I feel bad. And maybe I won't feel bad. Who knows. Maybe I'll breeze through this treatment because I had a week's break. Part of the anxiety is in not knowing and anticipating the worse. That is NOT positive thinking, I'm afraid.

I have to keep up appearances, smile while I'm here getting poked, act like this is no big deal. And really it's not compared to what some people go through. There is some hacking going on in this waiting room, people with masks, but mostly everybody looks normal today. No green people. They're all reading or working crossword puzzles. Just waiting to see the doctor or to get hooked up to chemo.

It's so beautiful outside; I can't wait to bask in it, put my face to the sun, squint, sit, sip a beer (or even apple-cranberry juice, which tastes really good.)

Maybe next year.

Chemo Woman (simulates) eating on a plane

2007-09-27T12:38:00.000-05:00

Here is a video of Bob and me eating at a small cafe outside of the Schloss Charlottenburg (Sophie-Charlotte Castle) in Berlin.

I feel great

2007-09-26T13:09:00.000-05:00

We returned from Berlin Monday the 24th. No photos yet cause Bob's still editing them. He took a couple of videos with his camera and I'm going to see if I can get any of them up on this blog. I'm not quite that technically sophisticated yet, so I'll have to do some reading about it. Berlin was great, but I'll wait to get the photos before I post on some of the places we visited.

I really feel almost normal. Yesterday, I went to the gym and it didn't even tire me out. I can taste food and I even get hungry sometimes. I think everybody on a six-month regimen of chemo (12 times every two weeks) should get a week off just to experience normalcy again. Just a little break from the icky-ness of it all.

I'm in a book club at church and our first assignment was The Secret. Now, I am totally against that book. I think it's silly, but one of our members wanted us to read it just to see how silly it really is. The book has been No. 1 on the New York Times bestseller list for weeks, so somebody must get something out of it. Basically, it's a power of positive thinking book. And I do agree that positive thinking is essential to a good life. But this book says that if you just wish hard enough for a million dollars, you'll start getting checks in the mail very soon. Bah humbug. First of all, I don't think people should wish for wealth or a new car or the huge house of their dreams. I think wishing for the perfect job or happiness or a clean bill of health is fine. World peace and no war is even better. But wishing for material things seems a little un-biblical to me, though the author offers Bible verses that claim it is biblical. Bah humbug.

She mixes new age thinking with biblical thinking throughout the book. (The universe vs. God.) So she's working the whole crowd. And it's paying off for her. She must have positively thought about having a best seller and millions of dollars.

The book is a good reminder that we should think positively about our lives and circumstances. I do believe in that. I'm convinced I don't have cancer anymore, but maybe I should think more positively about chemo treatments. Instead of ruing the side effects, I should be glad that one more treatment is over and look toward the end. I feel so good right now that I can imagine the end.

And it feels good.

Off to Berlin

2007-09-17T10:55:00.001-05:00

where I plan to eat boiled potatoes and Bratwurst (or Knackwurst: knock on noggin) and drink a couple of hausbiers (as Audrey instructed). And maybe they have something sweet that will taste good. I don't know nuthin' about Germany. (Though I've heard of Hitler and the trouble he caused.) So this will be an adventure.

I'm pretty much packed. Just need to gather what I want to take on the plane to read and eat. I'm sure I've packed too much stuff, but how do you know until you get there? Can't buy much because the dollar is 1.40 to their 1.00 (Euro) [or is the other way around.] Whatever. It's pitiful. Thanks Georgie for all you've done for our country.

I don't know whether I can post some photos from there. If I can, I will. Bob's taking his computer (of course; though he did talk of not taking it; Right, I thought). So if I can download photos, perhaps I can post a few.

I get to skip a chemo treatment. Hurray! I'll feel good for an extra week. I feel pretty good right now. Hurray!

Gespräch zu dir später (talk to you later).

Auf Wiedersehen

I'm losing my eyelashes

2007-09-12T13:46:00.000-05:00

I just know I am. Everybody says they can't tell. But when I wash my face at night or take a shower, I find stray eyelashes all over my face. I guess I'll take that over losing my hair, which I'm not. Well, maybe I am because I do find a lot of hair in the shower drain in the mornings. So I'm constantly cleaning that out. And I seem to find more strands on the floor after I dry my hair in the mornings. But it's not noticeable because my hair is so thick to begin with. And for that I am thankful.

I'm reading a little book I saw in Sundance catalog called Cowgirl Smarts: How to Rope a Kick-Ass Life, Life Lessons from Cowgirls Who Tamed the West. (How's that for not quite being able to decide on a title.) So far, I haven't really learned anything mind-boggling, life-changing, but it's a cute book and it describes the lives of some real-life (well, they're real-dead now) cowgirls who bucked male hegemony in their day. We do that more these days but probably not enough. It also makes me want to be a real cowgirl and go out West and ride the ponies. Better take some lessons first. The more I read these types of books, the more I think I'm a real cowgirl at heart. For example, she has 17 (why 17? I don't know) Cowgirl Creeds like:
"Dare to be a cowgirl,"
"Buck the rules" (I like that one),
"Stay balanced in the saddle,"
"Ride the trail of adventure,"
"Dress for success--the cowgirl way," (Yes!)
"Give others a leg up,"
"Always get back on the horse,"
"Recharge your cowgirl spirit," and
"Die with your boots on."

I hope I don't die, but if I do, I'll try to do it with my boots on. I felt a little like I was going to die after my last chemo treatment, but I feel pretty good now. So it's over. It's the chemo that gets me. I know in my heart I don't have cancer anymore, it's just this damned "extra insurance" as my doc calls it that's wearing me down. Making me mad. Keeping me from "Riding high in the saddle," (another cowgirl creed).

To make it through my next four treatments (I skip one next week; off to Berlin!), I'll have to pull from the book's Cowgirl Spirit Words and be "determined," "dauntless," and "spirited."

Maybe I should add a Cowgirl Creed:
"Lasso those eyelashes and hang on for dear life."

I'm here

2007-09-07T12:03:00.000-05:00

in chair 11, waiting to get hooked up to chemo. I like this nurse I have today. Bess. She's quick and efficient. The nurses are all different here in the Loyola chemo ward. Some like to chat; some seem preoccupied; some get right down to business. Which is what I like. The sooner I get hooked up, the sooner I get out of here.

Today I was a little anxious about coming in because I know I'll feel icky for a few days. So I took a half-Valium and that seems to have helped. I got these Valium when I moved from Nashville to Chicago. I was stressed to the max. Bob was in India and I was trying to get us all packed up. I had to get rid of a ton of stuff, and I was quitting a job I had had for 18 years. My eyes were as big as saucers. Somebody in my office (Janet) told me to go to the doctor and get some Valium. So I did. Lo and behold he gave them to me. They have served me well lately, when I feel anxious before a chemo appointment. I wish I could get more. Everybody needs a stash of Valium for various reasons. Even to sleep well. Maybe I'll beg a new doctor for some.

I saw the doctor and when he asks about my symptoms, I always seem well. "You're good to go," he says, ushering me out of his office and into the chemo lobby waiting room. "But my nose drips, sometimes blood, and I can't taste anything," I wail. (not really wail). And he says that's common with F5U, one of my treatments. I don't have tingling in my fingers or toes or numbness in my limbs. None of the bad symptoms they look for. So I'm fine, good to go.

This is treatment No. 8 out of 12. I have three weeks until my next treatment because Bob and I are going to Berlin in a couple of weeks, right about the time my 9th treatment is due. So I'm really happy to have a week's reprieve. I might even be able to taste German sausage and potatoes. Won't that be exciting? Well, it will for me.

I meant to bring a camera today so I could take a few pictures of Chair 11 and the nurses, but I forgot.

Chemo fog.

Tomorrow I voluntarily walk into

2007-09-06T13:00:00.000-05:00

the torture chamber. I do not want to do it. I do not want to do it. But I will--calmly. And I will take the poke in my port with a good sense of humor. I'll hold my breath, allow the nurse to poke a three-inch needle into my body, and even smile, and say thank you.

Then I'll visit with the doctor who will tell me I'm doing just great. All my chemo symptoms are normal, to be expected. The drippy nose, the vacillation between constipation and diarrhea, the fact that I can't taste anything I put into my mouth (excepts sweets, which is fun, but not healthy), my extreme tiredness for the first few days after chemo and slight nausea. And I will be cleared to get more poison. To kill what? I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. These are the consequences I must endure if I hope to live a good, long life. And I do. Relatively long. I've always said 86 will be the age I die. That's fine with me. I have no need to make it to 90, especially if my bones only make it to 83 or 84. I want to live only as long as my body wants to live. No longer.

I do not sound much like a cowgirl. But I am. Because tomorrow I will mount my Honda and ride into battle.

Yee Haw.

No. 7 slammed me

2007-08-28T07:49:00.000-05:00

I don't know what was different, but this seventh treatment (who says seven is lucky) has worn me out. By Sunday at noon (Sundays are usually good days), I was flat on my back, napping most of the day. When I did get up, I felt like I was walking through water. I could barely move. I did my laundry, but it was tough. I even forgot the towels, which I never do. Bob took care of those the next day.

We had a guest over the weekend, but he was a delight, no trouble. (Bob took him out touring, so I actually had more time to myself than I would have). He left some lovely gifts for us, in addition to paying for our dinner and appetizers the night before. He left Bob some expensive single malt scotch and me some See's Candy. Oh man, that candy is good and it hits the spot. About the only things I can taste are sweet. I already couldn't taste very well before treatment no. 7, but now I can't taste at all. Bob made me a baked potato and steak last night, but I couldn't eat either. Even the potato, which normally tastes good to me. So the candy and some watermelon are my salvations.

So for my co-workers (and husband), if I'm acting like I'm under water, I am.

But this too shall pass. I will surface and take air.

My sister got upset

2007-08-27T14:26:00.000-05:00

well, her co-worker really, because I haven't yet posted anything about my trip to her house last weekend. Jennifer, my sis, lives in Liberty, Mo., (just outside of Kansas City) in an adorable, old, refurbished home that looks like a bed and breakfast. One night, I took a long, hot bath in her whirlpool tub. (The house is for sale, if you're interested and want to live in Liberty.)

It was Jennifer's 55th birthday! So our goal was to go to movies all
weekend, and we did. We went to three at three different theaters. In one, you could even sit in red leather loungers and drink mixed drinks or beer with your popcorn. Let's see, I'll have to remember what we went to. A documentary on Broadway musicals, the Jane Austen movie, and one called Death at a F uneral. All were great or at least pretty good. Death at a Funeral was pretty light, but funny. I just love to go see movies and rarely get to go at home. So that was a treat.

I got to Jennifer's house late Friday night (her husband Steve was out of town) and stayed until Sunday afternoon. We had a great time of eating, sleeping, movie going and SHOPPING. I bought a few things, yes I did.

I would like to buy a couch from Ethan Allen store where she works if Bob would give me the OK. I know he would like it, but he doesn't always trust my judgment (even though I bought our house without him seeing it and he loves it). He's worried about the stock market right now.

Jennifer made me crispy okra (yummy!) and cut up a lot of watermelon. When I got home, I cut up some watermelon too because she gave me the idea and have been eating it like crazy. It makes me regular. We are pretty good companions because we both like to read, watch movies, go to bed early, and get up early.

Perfect if we ever have to live together in the "home."

Over the hump treatment

2007-08-25T06:43:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I had my seventh treatment. So seven down, five more to go. The day seems so routine now that I don't feel compelled to blog. But I suppose I have some sort of unspoken commitment to blog at least through the end of treatments and occasionally thereafter.

An old, old man in a wheelchair came up to me and ask me questions about my laptop while we were in the waiting room yesterday. He was asking me a lot of questions about wireless connections (duh, I don't know) and wireless cards (duh, again; my computer is equipped). He just bought a new laptop and had set his whole house up with wireless, but wanted to know more about Verizon wireless cards. He wanted to kick himself when he found out Loyola was had a free wireless connection. There were so many things he could have taken care of, he said. He was really old with food all over his clothes. But he was in to computers.

As I looked around in the waiting room yesterday, I noticed a lot of people were green. Not lime or forest, but sort of Martian green. Or the beginnings of Martian green. Not quite as green as a Martian, but beginning to turn. I wonder, does chemo do that to you? Am I green? Or or those the people who are very nearly about to be whisked up to Martian land. No longer to be seen, only to be remembered. Bob said I looked pale. (Pale green?)

Yesterday, I used my Netflix account to watch a free movie (instead of blog). I haven't quite finished it, but what I saw was excellent. I had sort of steered away from the movie because I thought it was science fiction. But it's not. It's fairy tale fiction with real-life Spanish war mixed in. Pan's Labyrinth. I recommend it.

I'm up early this morning. We have a guest and he came in very late last night on Amtrak. He's Bob's new friend, so Bob took care of him while I went to bed. I got a good night sleep so am up to drink coffee and read the paper in peace and quiet. But I had to put on a little make up because I haven't met him.

And I don't want to make a pale green first impression.

Audrey made me a cowgirl quilt

2007-08-16T18:18:00.000-05:00

And it is the cutest, most adorable quilt I've ever seen in my life. I didn't know she cared. And for six weeks (nine months?) she's been birthing this wonderful quilt. I bet she was sad to let it go; she'd been working on it so long.

Kate comes into my cube this morning with a sneaky look in her eyes and begins to beckon my coworkers into my cube. I thought we were all about to meet the new employee, Mary, and I had just eaten a Metamucil cookie, and they really stick to your teeth. So I'm quickly searching for my dental floss, swooshing water around in my mouth, and thinking, "Great, the new girl really is going to think I'm from the country."

Next thing I know, Audrey is presenting me with this bundle, a bed roll, all tied up in ribbon like a Martha Stewart project. I untie the ribbon, (the back side is blue, bandanna print) and look at the front side of the quilt. It is full of cowgirls and boots and horseshoes and sky and stars. It is the most fun cowgirl thing I have! Well, in addition what Polly sent me a couple of weeks ago: the cutest-in-the-world poster which I had framed last week. (You can see it beside the quilt I'm holding. Click on the photos to make them larger.)

I couldn't figure out why, if this was Audrey's project alone, everybody needed to be in my cube for the presentation (besides the fact it was a fantastic quilt). I asked Audrey. She said they wanted to see if I would cry. Now, that's a little low as I have been propelled into menopause by my chemo. I asked Kate later if I did cry, and she said "A little." But I think I just had the sniffles. How could I cry when I was so happy. I would have paid big bucks on Ebay for this quilt. (And I would have bid on it, be assured.)

But instead, I got it for free!

Thanks Audrey. You're a real pal.

Halfway finished

2007-08-10T16:13:00.000-05:00

Gitty up little doggie. Today, I'm halfway finished with chemo treatments. Six down, six more to go. I wasn't nearly so anxious because what I worry about most, in addition to being nauseated and tired for a few days, is how the chemo affects my taste buds. Well, I haven't really tasted anything for the last two weeks, so I didn't get so anxious about that particular symptom.

Generally, I just don't feel like myself and have come to accept that I won't until I get off these treatments. By December, I'll be eating and pooping and drinking and sticking my hands in ice just for the fun of it if I want to. (Which I can't imagine that I will.)

Today I got the special room again. That worries me a little because I always thought the rooms with the beds were reserved for the sickest of the sick, but I've gotten the room two treatments in a row. I love having it. I can take a nap and have a semblance of privacy. I'm not in a pink chair staring at another chemo patient all hooked up. I also decided I would read today instead of take my computer to blog and watch movies. Then I forgot to bring my best reading glasses. (I'm up to 2.25 and my glasses are about 1.75.) So it was tough; I had to hold my reading material out at arm's length and tilt my head back. I looked a bit British, I think. Prudish. (Sorry Caroline.)

Last night I met a woman who had ovarian cancer and knew something about chemo fog. She showed me her Nintendo DS Lite where she plays brain teaser games to keep her mind sharp. She made me do the tutorial. I was not in the best of shape. Had a long day and a margarita before I met her. But still. I scored an F+. I had the mind of a fashion designer. So now I have to get the game just so I can prove I'm not really an F+ mind. (I could blame it on chemo fog and menopause. Love it.) The reason I went back to get my master's was to prove I wasn't a 2.5 GPA; not really. And I did pretty well. Graduated cum laude, maybe magna, but I can't remember (because my mind does not retain information well). 3.8 or so. I worked my butt off on that degree, though. I mean it.

But I digress.

In lieu of having a Nintendo DS Lite, to keep my my sharp, today I tried to work the crossword puzzle and the Suduko puzzle, which I've never even looked at before. I didn't do so well on either.

But I tried. And I'm halfway finished with my chemo treatments.

Yipee!!!

Hmmmmmm

2007-08-04T08:59:00.001-05:00

I haven't posted lately mostly because life has been rather uneventful. Well, except for that little incident where Bob broke his hand. Last Saturday we decided to walk to one of our favorite neighborhood restaurants, La Notte. On the return trip, Bob claims I pointed up and told him to look at something. When he did, he tripped on an uneven sidewalk and fell in what I think was slow motion, though he claims it seemed like it happened fast. He cut his hand and because he is a bleeder (like Louie), we finished our walk home with him dripping blood all along the way. He seemed to fall on every part of his body, but it was his left hand that took the brunt of the fall.

We got home, cleaned the wound, and he sat on the couch and fell asleep, though I tried to encourage him to come up to bed. The next morning (a Sunday, in which he had to perform a baptism and celebrate the Eucharist), his left hand was swollen to the size of a balloon, a purple balloon. Something was wrong.

But he had to go to church and do his job; there was no one to call on such short notice and he wouldn't have called them anyway. So after church, I dropped him by MacNeal Hospit al (a neighborhood facility that we know is quite good), and I went to have my chemo pump removed (something all chemo patients with a fanny pack are eager to get rid of as soon as possible).

When I returned to the hospital, they had X-rayed the hand but knew nothing. We met (through the curtains of the adjoining suites) a sweet, young man who asked us about our accents. Turns out, like Bob, he had grown up in West Tennessee, but had moved here long ago and sounded like a native. We talked for several minutes before I asked him why he was in the emergency room. Because, he said, his leg which had been amputated below the knee a month before, was hurting. Why was it amputated? Because he hurt his ankle on his job with no insurance, ignored the pain, which turned out to be a broken ankle; it got infected and had to be amputated. Don't even get me started on why we need universal health care.

Three hours later after I had taken Bob to the emergency room (it took so long because a wreck with nine people came in), he was released with a cast of sorts and instructions to call an orthopedic doctor because they couldn't tell if the hand was broken. He got an appointment for Wednesday, and the doctor, in three seconds, found he had fractured his hand, and put it in a purple cast.

Lordy. A husband with no left hand is, well, a man with no left hand. You get the picture. The first few days in the cast (and even in the pre-cast), he spent negotiating his disability. At first it was rough (for both of us), but he's beginning to figure things out and is learning to do the little things that you really do, I must admit, need a left hand for. Obviously, mowing the yard and trimming the hedges are out for a while, but even opening a pill bottle is difficult. And, woe upon woe, typing is dang near impossible. And for a man addicted to the a) Internet and b) e-mail, that is quite the tragedy. Though he is hunting and pecking and getting through it. I mean, really, with our special form filler (Roboform) it is not that difficult to purchase over the Internet (both of our weaknesses).

So we will see how life with a cast pans out.

Symptoms
For my own edification, I would like to list my most recent chemo symptoms so I can refer to them later. You can stop reading here. I could put them in my Palm, but I've been having trouble with it lately.

OK, so chemo was Friday, and Friday and Saturday and even Sunday I feel pretty good. Though I get the hair on my tongue and food doesn't really appeal. It sometimes tastes good, but I could go without eating and it wouldn't really bother me. Also, the cold sensitive thing happens. The nurses said I wouldn't even be able to reach into a refrigerator, but I haven't found that to be the case. Though holding a cold can of pop (as they say up here) or a beer (which doesn't appeal), hurts a bit. And I can't drink water with ice in it. Even last night when I drank water with ice in it, I got the dry-ice mouth. A feeling like my mouth is kind of sizzling like dry ice does. Oh, and my fingers (especially the first few days after chemo) feel like numb bananas. Huge and swollen and numbish. Less so today.

But by Monday, I was dead-tired. I felt like I was walking in water. I went to work, of course, but by 2 p.m., my head was hitting my desk. So I went to the car and took a nap, which helps, but leaves me feeling a bit like a zombie for the rest of the day. By the time I got home from work, (around 6 p.m.), I needed another nap. This occurred on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday with slight variations.

On Tuesday, I took my nap at work and at home, but then went to the gym. Possibly a mistake. It was very, very hard. Because in addition to feeling tired, I also feel nauseated and take the nausea pill during this period (sometimes more than one a day) just to feel well enough to actually stand on my feet.

On Wednesday, I didn't go to my car to nap, but to a bench outside my work area where the people who smoke go to smoke. It was kind of an off-smoking time so I was basically alone. I didn't mean to lie down on the bench. I just mean to sit and try to wake up, but I found myself prone within minutes and actually fell asleep. (Kate says she is amazed at how quickly I can fall asleep and how I can do it anywhere; it's true, Bob and I both can. That's why we're married.) The problem with sleeping outside is that there are small varmints (well, ants) out there and they took advantage of me. I have been finding little whelks (this is the correct spelling; we looked it up. I always thought it was whelp.) all over my body. So that was probably not a good idea.

Thursday, I was beginning to feel normal again. Not quite so tired. So that's good. But I didn't go to the gym, nor did I do my physical therapy exercises for my shoulder (for the seventh day in a row: bad, bad, bad).

Friday, better. I worked from home and got a lot done. And we went to see the Color Purple downtown (8 p.m. show) which was absolutely spectacular. Very lively. I actually got hungry before we had dinner. Which was lovely since we paid more than a hundred bucks for our dinner and that was with an NPR member card discount.

Saturday. Today. Feel pretty good. MUST go the gym. Must do my physical therapy. Must do some chores. Must. Must. Must.

Five treatments down; seven to go.

Gracias a Dios

2007-07-27T10:40:00.000-05:00

I feel like I'm wobbling on the precipice of a balance beam. Just before chemo, perhaps a couple of days, and especially as I sit here waiting to go back to Chair 12, I have great anxiety. Will I fall onto the soft blue mat and sustain relatively few side effects after chemo, or will I tumble to the hard wood floor, and feel pain and discomfort for the next two weeks, until I am poisioned again. That is the anxiety, the worry. It is, though, only a balance beam. Not a cliff. I might get hurt, but I won't die.

The good news is that the doctor said I'm doing great. When I recount my side effects, they are few. "Do you have severe sensitivity in your fingers or hands?" Nope, I'm cold sensitive for a few days after chemo and I've noticed my fingers peel some. "Are you nauseated?" Yes, but not severely; a burp might produce a little something, but I have never projectile vomited. "Do you have an appetitite?" Not really, but I take care to eat, and I love sweets. I've noticed that some ginger tea that came in a Get Well basket given to me by Mary and Anantha helps stimulate my appetitite.

I'm watching a thin, frail, bald woman walk toward the exit, using a cane, just finished with chemo. That is not me. Thank God. How did I get so lucky. I have hair, and though I am thinner (an acceptable weight at last for an aging, menopausal woman), I'm not frail. Still working out, though I've decreased my weights, some.

I asked my doctor if I still have cancer, and he said No. But I should think of the chemo as extra insurance, a precaution against getting cancer again. Or getting it in another place. And so I will consider myself cancer free. With another four months of precaution coming my way. That is not a severe burden to bear. Considering what others within my eyesight are going through.

Gracias a Dios.

I can taste it already

2007-07-26T14:22:00.000-05:00

The fuzz that gets on my tongue after chemo. Chemo is tomorrow, less than 24-hours away. The anxiety is creeping near. The sensitivity to cold. The icky feeling in my body. The stupid fanny pack that tethers me to the chemical for two days, until Sunday afternoon. The way food doesn't appeal.

We are having good friends over tomorrow night, Sam and Chris. Bob wants to cook some of his "famous" dry rub ribs and I insist only good friends come over for that. First of all, the ribs are hot as heck and could cause you to pant out loud, and secondly, the black rib particles get stuck in your teeth, so you can't really laugh with your teeth showing. Unless you feel comfortable with the people who are eating them with you.

And thirdly, unrelated to the ribs, I need guests who don't care if I feel crappy. And that would be Sam and Chris.

If I need to excuse myself, they will be content to sip Scotch or Gin & Tonic on the deck with Bob.

We're baaaaack

2007-07-24T10:54:00.000-05:00

from our road trip to Wisconsin/Illinois. I am now officially a cowgirl cheesehead. (right; click on photos for larger view.)

The trip was terrific.

I LOVE Madison, Wisc., and could easily live there if a) I had a job there; b) I had a place to live there; and c) my husband would move there. Alas, I will stay in Chicago (which is a pretty good place to live too). Both cities have horrible winters, but Madison has wonderful biking community. And if you go, stay at the Hotel Ruby Mar ie Bed & Breakfast. It was lovely. Very nice rooms, neat and clean, and a great free breakfast on the weekends. I had poached eggs, ham, toast and fried potatoes. Yummy. And wasn't hungry for a long, long time. We also ate at a very nice Indonesian restaurant. Double yummy. There was a farmer's market street fair going on, which happens every weekend in the summer. They had lots of food: cheese, vegetables, meats, cookies. Holy Moly. I wish my appetite was better (but maybe not).

Milwaukee was so-so, but Mader's (left) was great! The K nickerbocker, I wouldn't recommend. It was quaint, but old and run-down. But the location was good and the price was OK.

We drove down to Monroe to buy cheese and eat at Baumgartner's, a cheese store and tavern, where Bob ordered (and actually ate) a Limburger and braunschweiger sandwich (thickly sliced, I might add). I sampled a smidgen of the Limburger and it tasted like somebody's bad morning breath and a landfill, mixed together. Awful. Terrible. He felt like a real man for eating it (right). I can't describe the aftereffects throughout the evening, even on this blog.

Oh yeah, and we did a Frank Lloyd Wright tour in Spring Green, Wisc., (left). The man was definitely a genius.

We ended up in Galena, Ill., at the Ramada. It was fine, but honestly it is a new hotel without an elevator. (We were on the second floor.) I just couldn't believe it. Not even a service elevator for the cleaning staff. I saw a young woman dragging a 32-gallon trashcan full of wet towels up the stairs. The rooms were nice, though, because they were new. And we sampled the hot tub. We were whipped by then, so the next day we roamed the streets of Galena, but without a lot of shopping enthusiasm. We bought a few things at a French shop, and I found, and I can still hardly believe this, some burlap sacks that I have been looking for in Chicago for three years. There was a coffee shop full of empty burlap sacks. It was closed (though the door was open). The owner was inside and I asked him if he would sell me some sacks. I got six for a dollar each. That was my thrill purchase. (I fill them with cedar and use them for dog beds in the dog houses.)

Oh, and we found the perfect store for me! (See it at right.)

Bob bought some Galena wine, and then we headed home. Since he had driven most of the trip, I drove home so he could see the countryside (I have been through Galena territory twice before), and took a long nap when I got home. Dogs were happy to see us. We were home.

And all is well with my soul.

Heading out

2007-07-19T09:46:00.000-05:00

Bob and I are headed out for a road trip this weekend. First to Milwaukee, Wisc., where I've booked us a hotel at the Knickerbocker, then to Madison, Wisc., where we have a cool room at the Hotel Ruby Marie Bed and Breakfast, then on to Galena, Ill., where we have just a regular old Ramada room. But it looks OK and has a hot tub.

Now, I don't know if the first two rooms are really going to be any good. But we'll see. I don't have a great history of vacation-planning. Like line-standing. I'm always in the worst line at the grocery store (or the Target). It doesn't matter if I'm standing in the longest line, then see the shortest line and move. The shortest line always has a shopper that has 1) forgotten an item after the ringer upper has encoded half his/her products or 2) needs a price check. So I've just given up. And stayed in the line I was in. No matter how long it is. Do NOT follow me when I get in a line.

This driving excursion should be a nice break for us. I've felt a little puny this week, but today I am much better (so far). I've had to go to my car twice this week to take a nap because I was feeling very tired and ill. And yesterday, even after a nap in my car, I took a nap when I got home. So far, no gym this week. And that just ignites my guilt (for reasons I don't fully understand). My wise friend Kate says "Guilt is fruitless. Listen to your body." She's right, I'm sure. So I will.

We're going to buy some cheese in Wisconsin. We're not sure where, yet. (If you have suggestions, put it in the comments.) There was an article in the Tribune (or was it Chicago magazine) recently that named the best places to buy cheese in Wisconsin. Bob cut it out, but we can't find it. Cheese is probably not what I need, with this bound-up side effect of chemo. So, in this case, I don't plan to listen to my body.

In fact, cheese has been my staple lately. Cheese crackers, macaroni and cheese, cheese-flavored nachos. Can you tell I'm eating well? Lordy. I need some turnip greens and okra. Some fried green tomatoes and cream corn. Some real green beans and potatoes.

Comfort food for a cowgirl.

The blog about nothing

2007-07-16T07:32:00.001-05:00

It's difficult to blog when you feel like you felt almost every day before CANCER. Pretty much fine. Normal for a 50-year-old.

This weekend was a chemo weekend, so Bob and I didn't make big plans. We had hoped to go down to Millennium Park Friday night and listen to (one of those B classical composers, Beethoven, Bach, I can't remember) but we didn't make it. Friday or Saturday. I was willing, but I think Bob didn't really want to put out the effort. He had mowed the yard, tended the flowers. I had done a little shopping. Got a big, BIG exercise ball for some physical therapy I'm doing on my shoulder. It seems you have to strengthen your "core" body to get the extremities feeling better. So we just "hung out" on Friday and Saturday night. He cooked for me both nights; he's a good husband. And! I actually got him to watch a silly movie, Music and Lyrics with Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore. No thinking involved.

Next day, Sunday, we did it up. First church of course. Bob's got to be there. He's the priest. After, I went to have my chemo pump removed. That's always a delight. It's difficult to sleep and shower hooked up to a pump (and the nasty fanny pack; read earlier blog). Bob napped while I went to the hospital. Back home, I decided to forgo my nap and we headed off downtown. We drove to the Blue Line and rode the train in. We wanted to go to an art show near the Tribune building. First, though, we ate at a New Orleans style restaurant called RedFish (I had an NPR member coupon). I ordered Cajun shrimp. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. It was hot! I like hot stuff, but with my newfound digestive system, I'm not sure if it likes me. And it didn't really. Serendipitously, I found a cure for constipation. Three Senokot S laxatives, two fiber pills on the previous evening, and Cajun shrimp.

By the time I got home from town, I was running to the bathroom every few minutes. But cleaned out and feeling groovy.

Before though, we did some shopping and drank a beer. It was a nice, normal, uneventful day. But also eventful because I haven't been able to enjoy a day like that in while. And so, this is the blog about nothing.

Remember the Seinfield episode where George and Jerry pitch a show to network officials. It's to be a show about nothing...just like their show. That's what this blog is about.

Nothing.

A poo coup

2007-07-11T09:16:00.000-05:00

Or a better title: Vanity of vanities, a narcissistic sin.

OK, so I put a site meter on my blog to see how many visits I get. It's a horrible vanity. I just want to know if people are reading my blog. There are a few, some people I don't know, but mostly relatives and friends. I see only locations, no names.

But I guffawed (and so did Bob) when I saw that one person who had visited got to my blog by doing a Google search. And guess what she (or he) was searching for? "Hard pebbles stool." I just love it, my blog came out on top of that search. (However, it is no longer on top.) Still, is that not truly a poo coup? That was my biggest excitement of yesterday. I am the poo blog. Perhaps I should change the name of my blog. Of course, the person didn't stay very long when they found out I knew absolutely nothing about "hard pebbles stools," but if they had read down a little further (or is it farther) on my blog, they would have found my favorite book on the subject.

Another person got to my blog by searching for "cowgirl bars." Now, I love cowgirl bars, and in fact, have always wanted to start one, but it would have to be for early drinkers. 'Cause I can't stay up much past 10. 10:30 at the latest. Or it could be a morning bar, for really early drinkers.

I know of a good cowgirl bar if you're anywhere near Santa Fe. It's a restaurant too. The Cowgirl Hall of Fame. Very cool. Lots of different beers and sweet potato french (or cowgirl) fries.

Maybe they have buffalo pebbles.

Proof Positive

2007-07-07T13:25:00.000-05:00

I have always had a Cowgirl Attitude:

That's me in the middle at my fifth birthday party,
bloody-nose Patty on the left, and best friend
Melody on the right (in my every day clothes).
These were my only two friends, and the only
people I invited to my party. You don't get many
gifts that way, but you don't have to give many
either.

More proof:

Bob and me

And even more proof!

Cowgirl and Indians

(I don't have nearly so much hair now; it's
shrinking, but I haven't gone bald, just cutting it
off more and more...in case.)
See me and friends from work below.

From left: Beth, Kate, Kris, me, Deb
at the company picnic.

I bet the people at my work hate emptying my trash can

2007-07-07T09:41:00.001-05:00

I think they probably do rock, paper, scissors (or paper, rock, scissors, or whatever) to see which one has to empty my can.

I seem to have developed nose-bleed syndrome, which creates a lot of soiled tissues, and is actually ironic. Because I remember as a kid how I had a next-door neighbor (I think it was Patty W.) who used to get nose bleeds all the time. She got attention for it. People rushed to her aid, told her to hold her head back, oooohed and aaaahed until the nose bleed was over. So I recall thinking, You know, I want one of those nose bleeds. It was a time in my life when I wasn't getting much attention. I was the fourth of five children, and Becky had come along when I was four and stolen my last-child status. So I was desperate. [The entry in my baby book written by my mother under Problems of Cooperation says: Baby sister Becky was born during this year. Terri loved her, but could not help being a little jealous of her, since up to now she had been the center of attraction.]

I remember climbing into Becky's crib (she wasn't in it; she was probably being held and dawdled over by my mother, who had forgotten about me by then). So I climbed into her crib and tried to dive nose first onto the floor. I wasn't successful, of course. Instead of a nose bleed, I got a big bump on the noggin. I'm sure my mom doesn't even know this story. She was with Becky, who not only became the last and favorite child, but had red hair to boot.

So nose bleeds during chemo must be the result of thinning blood. (Which is why I can't take Ibuprofen, o rue the day, my drug of choice for all my old-age aches and pains.) The other day I was at church meeting new visitors and talking to old friends. When I got into my car to go home and looked into the rear view mirror (don't we all do that?) I noticed a big, red, dried substance on my left nostril. I had been laughing and talking and feeling generally cool with a bloody booger on my nose.

Will somebody please tell me about this next time?!

I need my own, dedicated, personal bathroom at work

2007-07-03T09:45:00.000-05:00

None of this sharing stuff. None of this possibly someone else could walk in at any time as I'm swaying around, rocking back and forth, and crooning while having a Pebble Poo. (Sorry, Audrey, and all you fancy pants, poo-talk challenged people; this blog is NOT for you.)

I cannot have complete and total freedom while sharing a bathroom with someone else. Or while worrying that I might have to share a bathroom with someone else at any moment. Even when I know Bob's in the house (he has an uncanny ability to need to go to the very bathroom I'm in at the very time I'm in it, despite the fact we have three, yes three, toilets in our smallish, three-story house), I have trouble feeling free to sing and dance on the toilet.

So you can imagine how restricted I feel at work. And feeling restrained leads to being even more bound up. I cannot take this any longer. I used to advocate for a nap room. I think work places should have little catacomb-like spots we could squeeze into and take a 20-minute nap. Then we could get back to work feeling refreshed and creative. Better than strong coffee.

But my desires have altered. Now I want my own personal port-a-potty. (Not like this one in Japan.) But, private and soundproof.

And I want it now!

I'm all hooked up

2007-06-29T12:04:00.000-05:00

Today is the day. Next weekend, Bob wants to celebrate that I'm a quarter of a way through chemo. It won't do much good to celebrate this weekend. Cause I won't have much of an appetite.

I walked into to Cardinal Bernadine Cancer Center at 9 o'clock. First you get your blood drawn, but there was a backlog, a line of patients waiting, so, after a while, they sent me into the chemo ward to get it done. Then back out to wait for two hours until they had a seat for me. I read about half my book while waiting.

They called me about 11:30 to come back into the chemo ward, mauve lounge chairs line the walls and corners and people shuffle in and out for chemo. This place is always crowded, full of people with cancer. The ward has a few beds and private rooms for those who seem to be the worse. If you chance a look, their heads are tilted to the side, eyes half closed, mouths half open. They look pitifully sick, not like me. I look just fine, I think, not sick at all.

When I first learned I had colon cancer, I kind of felt like "a chosen one," a person who was chosen to endure suffering to build character and learn a few things about life. You know the St. Paul philosophy: Romans 5:3-5: ". . . We gladly suffer, because we know that suffering helps us to endure. And endurance builds character, which gives us a hope that will never disappoint us. All of this happens because God has given us the Holy Spirit, who fills our hearts with his love." (CEV)

But once I walk in here, I don't feel quite so chosen anymore. I feel more like a Christian walking into a packed church or an activist at a peace rally or a Democrat in Chicago. I'm just like everybody else. There are lots of us. But here, we look different. Some of us are bald, some of us limp, some of us look pale and pallid, some of us need wheelchairs. The lucky few of us, like me, drive ourselves to the clinic, read, surf the Web, look fine, have hair, then go home.

I do have hope, dreams. The book I'm reading, loaned to me by Anne, makes me want to go to Italy, buy an old convent, and start a bed and breakfast. (But I don't really like people enough for that.) I want to sip cappuccino and sit outside in a chair and watch the sunrise. And the sunset. And read and eat and take naps in between. I want to drink these strange Italian drinks the author talks about, grappa, prosecco, Campari (I guess these are drinks.)

Mostly, I just want to be finished with all this. To feel great again. To be cancer free. (Am I cancer free already? They cut it out of me.) To eat with relish. I do not gladly suffer. I panicked on the drive in because I knew. I knew what was to come.

God, give me character. Sustain my hope.

When people ask how are you, do they really want to know?

2007-06-28T10:31:00.000-05:00

Hmmm. That's an endless debate. How many times have you read in Miss Manners that when people politely ask you, "How are you today?" that they don't really want to know. They want to hear, "Just fine thank you, and you?" It's the American greeting, a long version of "Hello."

But if they know you have cancer, are they really asking how you are? And do they really want to know. "Well, thanks for asking. Today I feel like puking." Or, "I haven't pooped in three days. So I'm slightly angry." Or "I've had a headache for a week, but it's probably just an anticipatory tension headache of my next chemo treatment because I know what will follow."

I am an anticipator. A worrier about pain to come. I didn't really worry if my colonoscopy would hurt, but for months before the procedure, I worried about the day I would have to spend drinking that poop cleanser and not eating. I hate to be hungry. Really really bad. I have food everywhere. I have a 32 quart Rubbermaid container at work stuffed with food and snacks.

And I didn't worry about the surgery where they would slit me open and cut out part of my descending colon, and sew me back up. Because I had nothing to compare it with. So I didn't know what sort of pain to expect. (But now I do; it hurt like hell.) But I healed pretty quickly and was back to work in a few weeks because, generally, I am a healthy person.

But I know what's to come now. And I fear it. Mostly I fear the bad mood I will be in, and consequently being generally disliked. Nobody really likes a sour puss. And it's hard to put on a happy face when you have poison coursing through your body. Is my husband going to get tired of me frowning? Are my colleagues going to rue the day I joined the team? Most of my friends aren't around enough to get tired of me. Many of them live more than 100 miles away. And that's the way I like it. And probably they way they like it, at least over the next few months.

Today, at least, I can say, "I feel good." That usually means I have an appetite, and I feel like getting up and walking to the mail box or the water fountain or the bathroom (washroom in the Midwest). That means when I get home tonight, though I might need a nap, I'll feel like walking Louie and Spunk (if she wants to go).

I have less than 24 hours to enjoy it. By this time tomorrow, I'll be hooked up to the chemo IV.

But I'm fine, thanks.

Today I felt like an ephinany might come

2007-06-26T16:32:00.000-05:00

Have you ever felt like that? Like the "answer" was just around the corner? Like soon you would know exactly what you were to do with the rest of your life? I felt it for most of the day, but it's 4:40 p.m. and nothing's come to me. I've been reading a lot because sometimes answers come to you through other people's words.

I love my job (and co-workers), so it wouldn't be a job ephinany. I mean I don't know many people who wouldn't like to work a little less, a day or two fewer a week. At least at my age. So it must be something else. I'm going to keep on it, and I'll let you know.

Maybe I just need life counseling. Or a nap.

The results of my most recent CAT scan (and not mad at God, for cancer, at least)

2007-06-24T19:42:00.001-05:00

For my family (and friends who care).

The nurse called Friday after my my recent CAT scan to tell me the nodules in my lungs looked normal. They hadn't grown. It's always good when the nurse calls. When the doctor calls, you've probably got trouble. I wasn't worried, but then so far I haven't been that worried.

Bob said he can't imagine why he hasn't been mad at God because I got cancer, and I can't say that I have either. In fact, I haven't even considered being mad at God about getting cancer. I got mad at God today when God made every light I drove through yellow, then red, and I had to stop. As usual, I was late to church, and since I'm the priest's wife, I should get there on time, but so far, I might have been on time once. But when the lights turn red on me, time and time again as I'm rushing to church, I shout at God.

When I shouted at God today, at the 31st red light (all right, maybe the fifth), I thought, "Funny, I'm mad at God for this, but not for giving me cancer." What in the heck could that possibly be about? If anybody has the answer, let me know.

But, back to the lung nodules, which I didn't even know existed until my primary care doctor decided to make me have another CAT scan. From mayoclinic.com:

"Although most lung nodules are noncancerous (benign), some represent early-stage lung cancer.

Lung nodules — small masses of tissue in the lung — are quite common. They appear as round, white shadows on a chest X-ray or computerized tomography (CT) scan.

Your doctor may compare your current chest X-ray or CT scan with a previous one. If the nodule appears in earlier scans and hasn't changed in size, shape or appearance, it's probably noncancerous. Causes of noncancerous lung nodules include histoplasmosis, tuberculosis, lung cysts and vascular abnormalities. Such nodules usually require no treatment.

However, if a nodule is new or has changed in size, shape or appearance, your doctor may recommend further testing — such as a CT scan, positron emission tomography (PET) scan or tissue biopsy — to determine if it is cancerous."

Colon cancer spreads to the liver and lungs first, so I guess it was good to have it checked out.

Thanks God.

We met this guy at a bar last night

2007-06-23T08:33:00.000-05:00

He was a handsome, young man. We stopped by Berghoff's (no longer its name) on the way to see Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

He was standing, and I offered him the empty stool next to me. No, he didn't want it because, in his short history (before Bergoff's Bar changed to 17 West), there were never stools at the bar, and that's the way he liked it. (I argued with him slightly but gave up because he was adamant). A few minutes later, he asked my husband and me, "Where are you from?" Berwyn, we said. And he didn't 't believe us. Ok, Nashville (me) and West Tennessee (Bob), originally. We moved here three years ago.

So in the course of our conversation, this (rather pompous, but cute) Midwesterner lets us know, he's always hated the South (Atlanta is tolerable because it is a large city and cosmopolitan) and that Southern accents are like (or used to be like) fingernails on a chalkboard to him. He has some relatives who grew up in Knoxville, and when he first heard their accents, he just could barely stand to talk to them. But the accents have now "grown on him," and he finds them charming. (Right. Give me a break.)

Now, I wonder, what would possess a person to proclaim his hate for the South (true, it has its sordid history) and his (former) abhorrence of Southern accents to TWO SOUTHERNERS. I can be very undiplomatic myself (ask any of my colleagues and friends), but I don't think, if I met someone, I would proclaim my profound dislike for the whole segment of the country in which they grew up. I would not say, "My god, I hate the North because of New York accents." (I might, however, indicate New York is not a place I would like to live. Too intimidating.)

There is something about the South and people who have Southern accents that allows outright ridicule. People believe they have carte blanche permission to make fun of the general area of the country and the people who currently (or formerly) reside in it. Because we have Southern accents, we automatically have 10 to 20 points taken off our IQs. (Now it might be true of me, but my husband has about a 2,000 IQ and a Ph.D. from Northwestern.) Genteel Southern accents from parts of South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia or Georgia are sometimes charming to these people, but I'm not lucky enough to have one of those.

I run into people like this at work, too. They will mock my Southern accent, but do you think they would ever consider mocking an African American accent? Nope that would be racial discrimination. It wouldn't be tolerated. And I work at a very liberal, politically correct place that provides anti-racism training to all new employees.

My colleagues are tired of my harping on this, but it hasn't been resolved, and I'll keep on it until it is.

Now, it's breakfast time, and I'm fixing to get some vittles.

Potatoes and peas

2007-06-21T16:21:00.000-05:00

The thought of some foods make me gag, but when I received my copy of U.S. Catholic at the office the other day, all I could think about was...that's right, potatoes and peas. So I rushed home and threw a bag of red potatoes in a big pot and I microwaved some Trader Joe's organic peas and had the perfect chemo meal. And had it and had it and had it (for several days). In fact, I have potatoes and peas in a Glad container right now on my desk. Which I need to remember to take home because I won't be here Friday and I bet it'll have a smell by the time I get back into the office.

Dullish white food is good right now. Pasta, potatoes, rice. Some cheese. People are commenting on my butt. They say, "Your butt is a lot smaller than it used to be." Wouldn't you hate to walk behind yourself all day and see exactly what your butt really looks like? So there are good things about chemo and cancer, but certainly there would be an easier way to lose a little weight. And you wouldn't think a bunch of carbohydrates would do it.

If you have any good white-food recipes, let me know.

I don't feel that great

2007-06-20T06:29:00.000-05:00

So I haven't wanted to blog. But that's silly. This is my online journal and I should be able to say whatever I feel like on it without worrying if I sound puny or weak. Yesterday morning I felt so nauseated (Bob says nauseous is incorrect) that tears came out of my eyes. I guess that's crying. I have these nausea pills, but they constipate, and I can't decide what's worse. You see, I like to eat. I like to enjoy my food. I like to look forward to my food. And since the last chemo treatment, I haven't. What's weird is that I have to eat all the time; I have to graze. I can't get too full because it's uncomfortable, but I can't get hungry because I feel nauseated. So I eat all the time. And I've still lost weight. There could be something to that, I think.

I don't really feel like going to the gym and that upsets me. Because going to the gym makes me feel superior to all the people too lazy to go. And now I haven't gone since last Thursday. (This is Wednesday.) Today I woke up at 4:30 and couldn't go back to sleep. I think if I felt OK, I would have just gone to the gym and been finished with it. Since I'm a morning person and hate going when I get home from work. But I was afraid I would need to puke or poop. So not only do I have cancer, and I guess unhealthy as a consequence, I'm weak and have no will power. This is not good for self esteem.

But that's the breaks. I'll get over it. By this weekend, I'll feel great. I'll quit feeling sorry for myself. Other people are far worse off than I am. Some are suffering. Some are dying.

I'm just whining. This is not a proper Cowgirl Attitude.

But my clothes fit.

Both my sisters got their colonoscopies

2007-06-17T09:27:00.000-05:00

And so did a lot of friends and acquaintances. That's good. That's the point. That's why I'm harping and blogging.

My brothers (I have two, Jimmy and Doug) had already gotten theirs, but my sisters, Rebecca, not yet 50, and Jennifer, almost 55, had not. Now Becky wasn't old enough but Jennifer was way past due. She said she didn't want to shove her naked butt into somebody's face. Of course, that's not exactly how it goes. But after they learned of my results, they went for their "procedures" - Becky somewhat reluctantly, Jennifer resignedly, I think.

Becky hated the pre-game warm up. The no eating, the poison drinking that makes you poop. Jennifer rather enjoyed it. She said she mixed her potion with some kind of gator aide drink and loved it. She even enjoyed the chicken soup. Nobody really enjoys the the results of the "oral saline laxative" (though I might right now as I am in my post chemo constipation stage).

What I find interesting are the post-colonoscopy boasts, not of No Polyps or Cancer, but about how "cleaned out" they were. Jennifer tells me her doctor said, "You were really clean as a whistle." (I bet he tells that to all the girls). And Becky said she asked the nurse, "Was I cleaned out?" And the nurse looked at her with mild contempt and said, "I wouldn't know. The doctor didn't mention it."

But both were clean where it matters. No polyps. No cancer. Thank God.

Now if I could just talk my mom (age 76) into getting hers. It was her father who started all this. He was the one who had colon cancer late in life. Which I didn't know until my cancer was found.
So she really should go.