No. 7 slammed me

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

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 Funeral. 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

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

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

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

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 Hospital (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

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

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

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 Marie 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 Knickerbocker, 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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.

Second chemo infusion yesterday

It's just not that bad. I want to moan and groan and complain to get some sympathy, but I can't legitimately (or morally?) do it. Here's the routine. Go to the Cardinal Bernadine Cancer Center, get blood drawn from my port, go to the doctor, let him check my blood counts, talk to him about any symptoms I'm experiencing, blah blah. Wait to go get chemo. (There'a a lot of waiting between appointments.) I got in at 10 yesterday morning and left at 3:30, so it takes most of the day. (But the hospital does have a wireless connection, a real plus!)

Ok, so I go get hooked up to the chemo machine, which is basically an IV machine you see in all hospial rooms. They infuse me through my new port, and it takes about two hours. (A time in which you meet a lot of interesting people; yesterday I met a woman being treated for Ovarian cancer. She had no hair. And an Italian man, a talker with no teeth but plenty of hair, who asked lots of questions, even my age.)

Before I leave treatment, they hook me up to a device that pumps more chemo into me for the next 48 hours. That's the irritating part, having to walk around with a Top 10 fashion faux pas fanny pack for two days. I sleep with it on, I pee with it on, I eat with it on, I drive with it on. Nasty little requirement. On Sunday, I have it removed. All this takes place every two weeks.

According to the Top 10 fashion faux pas list, Fanny Packs is number nine: “There is nothing important enough that you should be carrying around that merits carrying it around in a fanny pack.”

I guess I could argue with that.

So symptoms are:

Sensitivity to cold - When I wash my hands in cold water, they tingle. When I drink cold water, my mouth feels like I've swallowed dry ice. Duration: two days.

Sensitiviy to acid - Eating a strawberry or tomato or something with acid locks up your jaw in that weird electric feeling you get in your back jaw when you eat certain types of food. That happens in spades with this chemo. Duration: two to four days.

Slight nausea - I can take a nausea pill and eat a cracker and I'm usually fine. Duration: about four days.

Flu-like symptoms, aches chills. One day.

Flushed face - Well, it's flushed right now but I think it's because I went outside to water the plants and forgot to put on sunscreen and a hat as I was instructed. Bad girl.

Fatigue - I need a lot of sleep on the first and second day. I couldn't seem to stay awake during a riveting movie, Letters from Iwo Jima. Possibly because it was in Japanese and subtitled in English. So I had to read the whole thing. And it was dark. And I guess it wasn't all that riveting, despite the reviews.

Constipation -- Severe. Luckily, I learned I can take as many laxatives as I feel I need to to "stay ahead of the game," my nurse said. I always thought constant use of laxatives was a no no, but I guess these are extenuating circumstances. Duration: 12 days. Get regular about the time I have to go back to chemo.

Bummer.

I made my oncologist chuckle

Praise the Lord. I knew I could. It wasn't a belly laugh, but it was something. I told him about the book by Dr. Poo, "What's your Poo Telling You," and he had read about it in the Tribune and laughed. I told him I'd need to buy him and my surgeon a copy. Both of whom have some interest in poop, obviously. Dr. Micetich (hard to pronounce) told me there might be some truth in the book. It was written by a doctor, after all.

For example, Dr. Poo explains "Soft Serve." Synonyms: Jabba the Poo, Play Doo, Cow Pattie, Septic Seepage.

He says soft serve is: "More dense than diarrhea but softer than normal poo, this solid, yet amorphous turd comes out in one, smooth, steady flowing motion. Its easy exit may make you feel like the stool will take a liquid form, but you are pleasantly surprised to see its more cohesive consistency when you are done."

Now who wouldn't want a book like that??? Buy one for yourself and as a gift. Heck, buy one for me!

Cowboy Rudy went to dog heaven

Rudy Wright, 17.5 years old, kicked off his spurs and rode bareback into dog heaven June 10, 2007. Rudy, a little black poodle with a white spot on his chest, had the real cowgirl attitude (boys can have it, too) until the very end.

Louie, our PBGV who is 10, always asks us if there are people in heaven. I don't know for sure, but I bet there are. Somebody has to pick up the poop.

May Rudy's little soul and the souls of all the departed dogs (OK, and cats, oh and horses), through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

We never forget them. I still think about my first Airedale, Ben, who committed suicide under my truck in 1992 because I was about to leave for six months in India. He was the best dog even though he tipped over my trashcan and ate cigarette butts (not mine) and those little red strips that surrounded baloney. (Remember those?)

We love you Rudy!

A prayer for Sandy and Jamie

Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servants Sandy and Jamie. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you , a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive them into the arms of your mercy into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.

May their souls and the souls of all the departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

--The Book of Common Prayer, Episcopal Church

Sandy Broadbent died of ovarian cancer on June 13, 2007.

Jamie Sue Linder Eldridge, 47, a former college buddy, died of melanoma March 17, 2007.

My doctor hugged me today

My general practitioner who has been monitoring my blood pressure since I moved to Chicago hugged me today. He's the doctor who ordered my routine colonoscopy because I turned 50. I haven't seen him since December, since before I learned I had cancer. After I learned the results of my colonoscopy and after my surgery (I think), I called him to thank him for making me get a colonoscopy. It saved my life. Today he told me he orders them all the time for people turning 50, but that they don't follow through. But I've heard a lot of people say their doctors haven't scheduled a colonoscopy for them at age 50 (or their parents).

So anyway, he ordered another CAT scan for me because he saw some "nodes in my lung" from the previous CAT scan. "It's probably nothing," he said, "but I'm taking extra precaution now." I told him about a couple of other aches and pains I've been having, and he ordered a couple of other tests for those, X-Rays for one and blood for the other.

Then, when he was about to leave the examining room, he sort of held his arms out, indicating he wanted to hug me. So I stood from my chair and gave him a hug.

I thought that was very sweet.

"You are about to embark on on a most delightful journey."

I'm looking through the "travel journal" Deb Bogaert gave me a couple of Christmases ago. After I learned I had cancer, I thought it would be appropriate to write down my thoughts in it as I "journey through cancer." Though, as you might read on this blog, I am not much good at keeping journals.

On the entry for Wednesday, April 11, I taped a fortune from a cookie I opened on Tuesday night. It says: "You are about to embark on a most delightful journey." Delightful? I'm not sure . . . maybe. I did learn the Tuesday before (April 10) that the cancer had not spread to my liver. Bob almost cried when the doctor told us. Which of course made me cry. If I see even the hint of a tear in someone else, I cry. It's genetic. From my mother.

But the way people have treated me has been delightful. Everybody has been so nice. During recuperation from surgery, my hospital room and home looked like a funeral parlor (but the flowers were brighter and happier). And I have a huge "Life is Good" bag full of cards. Some people sent two and three cards each. And they still trickle in.

People came to see me; they brought me food (yummy); they called. I found that delightful, even though I am basically a hermit. At the least, I'm an introvert. I have never (except when I was a kid playing sick) sought out a lot of attention. I just need a little assurance you care. That's all. It doesn't take a lot. But this attention was heart-warming. And it made me think I should give it others.

So I'm trying to pay attention to other people's woes. Everybody has their own troubles, and they are so big when they are yours, even if they seem little to others. So I'm trying. I'm not much good at offering symphathy. But now I see how much it matters.

This cancer has been a trip.

Everybody Poops

Except me. At least not lately. Chemo has put a crimp in my crap. Before chemo, and after surgery, I had no problem in that area. In fact, I lost 10 pounds just by pooping away [what must have been years of] stored-up poop.

But since my first chemo treatment on Friday, June 1, I've been "bound up" as we say in the South. Even though I'm actually saying it in the Midwest because I live in Chicago . . .well Berwyn, now. Strangely, people here don't seem to understand what that means. So they give me a quizzical look when I sit down slowly, lowering myself into the chair holding on to both arms, and explain, "Sorry, I'm a little bound up."

Dr. Stool would tell me I've been having Pebble Poo, hard pebbles of poo that are a result of too little fiber. But that's impossible. I've been eating like an elephant lately. Sticks and leaves and drinking trunks full of water. I've been eating Meatamucil cookies and fruit and salads and taking stool softners I got after my surgery. But nothing, nothing is happening.

Well, poo!