Elevator speech

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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.

It's all over but the symptoms!

My anxiety is palpable

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

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

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!

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

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!

A Baptist church has me on their sign:

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

Want to get regular?

Watch this ad to find out how.

What a birthday

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 Five 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

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

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

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

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.)