We were inspired to pose, too--as a happy cactus family:
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| Dippy arms |
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| Walk like a saguaro.... |
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| no arms |
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| right arm up |
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| both arms up |
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| arms up with fists! did this cactus just finish a race? |
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Monday, May 16, 2011
In the Desert
We were fortunate during our Tucson visit to see the cacti in bloom at Saguaro National Park. The iconic saguaro (sa-wore-oh) cactus posed, as if it were a bridesmaid, white bouquets of flowers in its upraised arms.
We were inspired to pose, too--as a happy cactus family:
We were inspired to pose, too--as a happy cactus family:
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Six Things My Mom Taught Me
Katherine O'Brien has a terrific blog (ihatebreastcancer) which you should check out, especially if you love breast cancer rage that is clever, funny, well informed and devastatingly accurate. Her latest post, Six Things My Mom Taught Me is a humorous, thoughtful reminiscence of growing up with six siblings under the tutelage of her mother, who died of inflammatory breast cancer when Katherine was a teenager.
In the time honored tradition of the Internet, I amcopying, stealing, appropriating, emulating her idea with my own six lessons from my mom.
1. "Eat your vegetables--they'll grow hair on your chest." Being a girl, this was a confusing message. Did I really want hair on my chest? If so, was it worth eating the mushy vegetables (see Vegetables). Or did my mom mean I needed those traits of courage, defiance and pluck that are more commonly associated with hairy heroic men?
2. "Your homework is your job." We never had assigned weekly chores, like doing the dishes or taking out the garbage, because the household was my mother's realm, but we were expected to excel in school. My father was a college professor and books, newspapers and magazines were plentiful at our house. I loved to read and one Christmas devoured the pile of books I got before the vacation was over--everything from Kateri Tekakwitha, Indian Girl to The Mighty Soo (Sault Ste Marie Canal) to Anne of Green Gables.
My bedroom was right off the living room, so I was expected to keep it presentable, but most chores involved outside projects--everybody out to shovel the snow or rake the leaves. (My father took sole responsibility for mowing the lawn and annually burning it with too much fertilizer)
3. "God punished you." No, Mom wasn't a fierce Puritan from the 17th century, constantly invoking the vengeful creator, but she was a strong Catholic who believed that you were accountable for your actions and you'd better be good. She exemplified this, reaching out to family, friends and especially our ancient neighbors. I dreaded to hear these phrases:
Mrs. S. was our older neighbor who was a constant source of embarrassment for me. We would go to J.M. Fields, my mother's favorite discount store and Mrs. S. would "help" in picking out my clothes, rummaging through tables of underwear and then yelling over to us--"Rita, I found these for Ginny," holding up an enormous pair of plain, white cotton underpants that we could both fit in.
Mr. W. was our other older neighbor who conned us into coming over to watch the Wonderful World of Disney show when he told my mom he had a new color TV. His living room was dark and stuffy and he sat in a chair clicking his false teeth together, while my mom, brother and I watched a black and white TV that had a colored piece of plastic taped over it. I sat tapping my feet in unconscious rhythm to the teeth clicking metronome, wondering if Hayley Mills with a red face, blue middle and green feet would look better if we turned the plastic upside down and gave her a green face, blue middle and red feet. God did punish us sometimes!
4. "Laugh before supper, cry before bed." This was another doozy. It was appropriate if a kid was hysterically overtired and you knew he was headed for a meltdown, but as words to live by? The Irish are not known for effusive emotions and growing up during the Depression and World War 2 impressed a certain gravity on our parents' generation. Sometimes you wondered if the message was never be too happy because sadness was just around the corner.
In the time honored tradition of the Internet, I am
1. "Eat your vegetables--they'll grow hair on your chest." Being a girl, this was a confusing message. Did I really want hair on my chest? If so, was it worth eating the mushy vegetables (see Vegetables). Or did my mom mean I needed those traits of courage, defiance and pluck that are more commonly associated with hairy heroic men?
2. "Your homework is your job." We never had assigned weekly chores, like doing the dishes or taking out the garbage, because the household was my mother's realm, but we were expected to excel in school. My father was a college professor and books, newspapers and magazines were plentiful at our house. I loved to read and one Christmas devoured the pile of books I got before the vacation was over--everything from Kateri Tekakwitha, Indian Girl to The Mighty Soo (Sault Ste Marie Canal) to Anne of Green Gables.
My bedroom was right off the living room, so I was expected to keep it presentable, but most chores involved outside projects--everybody out to shovel the snow or rake the leaves. (My father took sole responsibility for mowing the lawn and annually burning it with too much fertilizer)
3. "God punished you." No, Mom wasn't a fierce Puritan from the 17th century, constantly invoking the vengeful creator, but she was a strong Catholic who believed that you were accountable for your actions and you'd better be good. She exemplified this, reaching out to family, friends and especially our ancient neighbors. I dreaded to hear these phrases:
- Tell Mrs.Schoeffler we're ready to go shopping and
- Time to go next door to Mr. Willard's.
Mrs. S. was our older neighbor who was a constant source of embarrassment for me. We would go to J.M. Fields, my mother's favorite discount store and Mrs. S. would "help" in picking out my clothes, rummaging through tables of underwear and then yelling over to us--"Rita, I found these for Ginny," holding up an enormous pair of plain, white cotton underpants that we could both fit in.
Mr. W. was our other older neighbor who conned us into coming over to watch the Wonderful World of Disney show when he told my mom he had a new color TV. His living room was dark and stuffy and he sat in a chair clicking his false teeth together, while my mom, brother and I watched a black and white TV that had a colored piece of plastic taped over it. I sat tapping my feet in unconscious rhythm to the teeth clicking metronome, wondering if Hayley Mills with a red face, blue middle and green feet would look better if we turned the plastic upside down and gave her a green face, blue middle and red feet. God did punish us sometimes!
4. "Laugh before supper, cry before bed." This was another doozy. It was appropriate if a kid was hysterically overtired and you knew he was headed for a meltdown, but as words to live by? The Irish are not known for effusive emotions and growing up during the Depression and World War 2 impressed a certain gravity on our parents' generation. Sometimes you wondered if the message was never be too happy because sadness was just around the corner.
5. "Love, love, love -- that's a lot of crap." Now I don't mean to paint my Mom as a crusty old bag who didn't believe in love and was never happy with anything. Not at all. She was fun and loved people, but she didn't put up with nonsense and those hippies shouting love, love, love were way off the mark. Mom believed that actions speak louder than words. You never had to say "I love you" because you lived it every day. It got to the point where saying the "L" word was just being a big phony, definitely suspect.
6. "Be good to your mother all year, not just one day." Mom always said Mother's Day was a Hallmark holiday, designed to sell cards, flowers and candy. When I became a mother, she said not to worry about her, because this was now my day, too. Well, my brothers and I took her advice at face value and one year she spent Mother's Day sitting alone on a park bench down the shore. A woman joined her and said, "No children?" Mom replied: "Four." The woman gave her a pitying look and patted her hand. That's the last year we didn't visit her on Mother's Day!
In honor of my mother, I sincerely wish all mothers and grandmothers lots of "L" word and a very happy day. (because you never know what tomorrow will bring.)
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| Mom cooking up those soggy veggies! |
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| The family |
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Omens
Today is my anniversary - two years since my stage IV diagnosis and still stable and on the same treatment regimen! YAY! I almost hate to type that out--don't want to jinx myself. Not that I believe in omens...
When I went for my first Catscan and nuclear bone scan two years ago, I was happy it was my niece's birthday--that had to be a good omen. Unfortunately, not so. I remember the technician coming back in and saying he needed one more view on the side and I took that as a bad sign. Yes, it was, but most likely it would have been a bad scan with or without that final side view.
Totally irrational to believe in good luck, omens, superstitions, and yet.. we all at least give them lip service. Do you have that lucky shirt, penny, charm, number, four leaf clover, rabbit's foot? Do you avoid black cats, the number 13, walking under ladders?
Is belief in omens just another thing we can blame on our parents? How many times did I hear the following when I was growing up:
and my all time favorites:
When I went for my first Catscan and nuclear bone scan two years ago, I was happy it was my niece's birthday--that had to be a good omen. Unfortunately, not so. I remember the technician coming back in and saying he needed one more view on the side and I took that as a bad sign. Yes, it was, but most likely it would have been a bad scan with or without that final side view.
Totally irrational to believe in good luck, omens, superstitions, and yet.. we all at least give them lip service. Do you have that lucky shirt, penny, charm, number, four leaf clover, rabbit's foot? Do you avoid black cats, the number 13, walking under ladders?
Is belief in omens just another thing we can blame on our parents? How many times did I hear the following when I was growing up:
- happy the bride the sun shines on; happy the corpse the rain falls on
- hat on a table means a fight
- two forks means a fight
- itchy nose means a fight (hmm, seem to be a lot on fighting)
- two spoons--honeymoon soon
- dropped silverware means unexpected company is coming
- if the palm of your hand itches you will be coming into money.
- If your ear itches and it is red and hot, someone is speaking bad of you.
- if a woman is the first to bring in the New Year, it's bad luck. (I remember my father once walked around the house just after midnight to assure that a male brought in the New Year and he always got on the phone first on New Year's Day to talk to my grandmother)
- if you have turkey or chicken for New Year dinner, you'll be scratching all year. Better to have a nice fatty roast for a prosperous year. (before we worried about cholesterol)
- if you get a chill up your back or goosebumps, it means that someone is walking over your grave.
- it is bad luck to kill a ladybug, let milk boil over, open an umbrella inside the house, or give someone a new wallet or pocketbook with no money inside.
- it is good luck if a bird poops on you, you put your clothes on inside out or you have one of the aforementioned lucky charms
- a wish made upon seeing the first robin in spring will come true - but only if you complete the wish before the robin flies away.
and my all time favorites:
- laugh before supper, cry before bed. (said to a child who was overtired and laughing a little too hysterically, but could also be interpreted as bad luck to be too happy?)
- good luck to see a hay wagon or a carful of nuns --according to my Grandma Connell (not too likely today!)
- good luck if you rubbed my brother's new crewcut haircut according to our laundryman, who bet on pigeon races. (Yes, it was a different era--my mom sent out the shirts and sheets and the laundryman would pick up and deliver)
I took a spin around the internet and found quite a few other interesting ones. Birds are popular in all cultures as good or bad omens:
Arab:
On the way to a business endeavor, find a bird: if bird flies to the right, it is good luck. To the left is bad luck.
Irish:
A crowing hen, a whistling girl, and a black cat are considered very unlucky. Beware of them in a house.
If a rooster comes to your threshold and crows, you may expect visitors.
While on a trip if you see three magpies on your left it is unlucky; but two on the right is a good omen. (this assumes you can identify a magpie--think Hekyl and Jekyl)
If you hear a cuckoo on your right you will have good luck for a year. (I thought they only lived in clocks)
Whoever kills a robin redbreast will never have good luck, even if they lived to be a thousand years old. (that's harsh)
A water wagtail near the house means bad news is on its way to you. (again, get out the Peterson's Guide. hint: a water wagtail is the same as a pied wagtail--does that help?!)
Italian:
Birds in the household are considered bad luck, and certain types of feathers are considered bad luck as well.
Polish:
Constructing of stork nest in a particular household is believed to bring its owner good luck and prosperity. It is also believed to protect a house from thunder strikes.
Russian:
If a bird hits the window, someone will die.
So, I don't know about you, but the next time I need good luck, I'm going to wait until the birds are flying to the right, hope one will poop on me, look for a child with a crewcut, put my shirt on inside out, stick my lucky penny in my pocket and head out to the countryside to find a hay wagon. Yeah, that should cover it for now---until you send me your own prescriptions for good or bad luck.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
I still buy green bananas
I still buy green bananas is a favorite saying in the cancer world -- a positive, hopeful vibe meaning you still enjoy everyday activities, like shopping, and look to the future with hope. But wait a minute, it takes green bananas about a week to ripen, at most, so what kind of message is that? Unless you're on your deathbed, I think most people assume they're going to still be here next week.
So I've upped the ante and have my own new saying: I still buy new furniture....AND badger the salesman about the length of the warranty. Maybe not as colorful or catchy as the green bananas, but it's got potential.
We bought our current family room furniture when Beth was a senior in high school. A dark forest green reclining couch, (recliners on either end), a matching sleeper sofa and a separate plaid recliner (which everyone except me thought was ugly). You be the judge:
"Perfect seating for the four of us," we said. One person can lie on the couch and the other three have their own recliners. "But what about me?" said Beth. I believe we pointed to the middle cushion and said "Well, you ARE going away to college." Sounds kind of harsh in the retelling, but it seemed appropriate at the time.
For the record, the ugly green plaid rocking recliner is still going strong, but the couch recliners have both broken. The handle for the foot rest broke off on one of them and we actually had stuck a screw driver in, as a makeshift handle... That worked for about a day.
The other recliner lulled you into thinking it was fine, but then the foot rest would suddenly plunge downward. Gary had tried to master the delicate balance required--just so much pressure on the feet and a slight weight compensation by shifting yourself backwards would allow the chair to remain in full resting position for as long as a minute, before it collapsed, returning you to an abrupt, upright position. This was unacceptable.
I made the rounds of furniture stores, visiting some former favorites, who I found out were now out of business. Like a true NJ shopper, I was forced to cruise Rt 17, the shopping capital of the world. I found an acceptable reclining couch and love seat, debated the color for a while, but then refused to buy it from the pushy yet indifferent salesman. Luckily it was a chain furniture store, so I ventured to Rt 46 to the same store.
I liked my new salesman immediately. Tim was friendly and laid back and I learned all kinds of nice things about his four children, his own idyllic upbringing in, coincidentally, the same town I live in,(what a salesman!), the trauma when his parents divorced, his new stepparents, his mother's current trip to India, his daughter's breast biopsy, his tickets to see Billy Elliott and, yes, even his vasectomy.
Whew! Tim and i were getting close very quickly. He learned equally interesting information from me. "How many people will be using the family room?" he asked. I was never good at lying, but I could hardly admit to Tim that all we really needed were two new La-Z- Boys, (preferably not in plaid) since we already had a nice flat screen tv and good lamp to read by. If we ditched the couches the family room might look too minimalist with all that newly liberated space. What could i say? I created some fictional sons, living at home, age unspecified. I was going to invent some grandchildren, but really didn't want to offend the fertility gods and, besides, do i really look old enough to be a grandmother? Tim might question that immediately.
As we strolled through couch potato land, Tim asked: "How big is everyone in the family?" "Not as big as these massive overstuffed couches," I commented. All this furniture was so ugly and obese looking, I wanted to put it on a diet and get that chair and a half down to a respectable size. Some sectionals even had cupholders! What would Michelle Obama say? Could I at least have a modicum of style: rounded arm, some contrasting piping, some interesting fabric? The leather section was particularly unappealing--dark brown and forbidding. It scared me. Meanwhile I was starting to panic because I didn't see my dusty olive suite that I knew from the other store and wanted to buy. Tim to the rescue. "I bet I have just the thing for you. It's around the corner here." he exclaimed.
Ah yes, my furniture! I feigned surprise (my second lie). I was delighted with the curving arms, patterned gold accent pillows, the ribbed chenille fabric that gave it a warm corduroy look and, gee, the color was great after all. I rejected the matching chair and a half, although maybe the arms would enfold you like Pee Wee Herman's Chairy?
Tim had an inspiration. We rushed to the front of the store and thoughtfully considered two high leg floral prints in a complementary earth toned gold. Either one would put the current plaid rocker to shame. After sitting in each, and walking the chair pillows back and forth to see how they looked with the couches, I decided. Tim beamed and complimented me on my good taste. He would have picked the same thing! We had totally bonded with each other. Bonus: the number of reclining seats for the family room: a magical 5. Just think if we'd had that years ago, Beth may have returned home to live after college!
It had all been so pleasant, but I knew I shouldn't make it that easy for Tim. So I assumed my tough consumer mask. Not so fast there, Mr. Tim. "What about the warranty on the reclining mechanisms?" We poked around the back of the chairs. He showed me the double wood backing, the patented push button technology, the reinforced springs. "You'll be sick of this furniture long before anything breaks," Tim gushed AND I can have it delivered to you by Tuesday! "Tuesday," I hesitated. "Well, we have to move out the existing furniture, which is very heavy and then we have to shovel a path to the deck, since the furniture has to be brought in through the sliding glass doors." I could see Tim wondering why this was a big deal, when two big strapping sons lived at home, but I cleverly back pedaled: "My sons are both away this weekend, and one has to work the following weekend, my husband has a bad back... " I was talking too fast and piling on too many reasons, a fatal mistake in lying. Slow down, breathe, keep it simple and decisive, I thought. "Three weeks out would be better," I said firmly. Tim 's face registered a fleeting look of suspicion, but, being the good salesman that he was, he wanted to close the deal and you don't do that by embarrassing your customer and calling her a liar. He was clearly disappointed and remarked that there were only a few left and then I might have to wait even longer, but I was firm and stuck to my date.
I'm glad I did because we had another snow storm, the plow guy added to the four foot high wall of snow blocking the path to the deck and those old couches turned out to weigh a ton and a half. One couch was salvageable, but the other got deposited at the curb for pickup day.
Three weeks flew by and the furniture was delivered with no problems. Here's the transformed room. Doesn't it look great?
Oh, yeah--back to my theme. I still buy green bananas....I still buy new green furniture?
So I've upped the ante and have my own new saying: I still buy new furniture....AND badger the salesman about the length of the warranty. Maybe not as colorful or catchy as the green bananas, but it's got potential.
We bought our current family room furniture when Beth was a senior in high school. A dark forest green reclining couch, (recliners on either end), a matching sleeper sofa and a separate plaid recliner (which everyone except me thought was ugly). You be the judge:
 |
| Is it ugly or not? |
"Perfect seating for the four of us," we said. One person can lie on the couch and the other three have their own recliners. "But what about me?" said Beth. I believe we pointed to the middle cushion and said "Well, you ARE going away to college." Sounds kind of harsh in the retelling, but it seemed appropriate at the time.
For the record, the ugly green plaid rocking recliner is still going strong, but the couch recliners have both broken. The handle for the foot rest broke off on one of them and we actually had stuck a screw driver in, as a makeshift handle... That worked for about a day.
The other recliner lulled you into thinking it was fine, but then the foot rest would suddenly plunge downward. Gary had tried to master the delicate balance required--just so much pressure on the feet and a slight weight compensation by shifting yourself backwards would allow the chair to remain in full resting position for as long as a minute, before it collapsed, returning you to an abrupt, upright position. This was unacceptable.
I made the rounds of furniture stores, visiting some former favorites, who I found out were now out of business. Like a true NJ shopper, I was forced to cruise Rt 17, the shopping capital of the world. I found an acceptable reclining couch and love seat, debated the color for a while, but then refused to buy it from the pushy yet indifferent salesman. Luckily it was a chain furniture store, so I ventured to Rt 46 to the same store.
I liked my new salesman immediately. Tim was friendly and laid back and I learned all kinds of nice things about his four children, his own idyllic upbringing in, coincidentally, the same town I live in,(what a salesman!), the trauma when his parents divorced, his new stepparents, his mother's current trip to India, his daughter's breast biopsy, his tickets to see Billy Elliott and, yes, even his vasectomy.
Whew! Tim and i were getting close very quickly. He learned equally interesting information from me. "How many people will be using the family room?" he asked. I was never good at lying, but I could hardly admit to Tim that all we really needed were two new La-Z- Boys, (preferably not in plaid) since we already had a nice flat screen tv and good lamp to read by. If we ditched the couches the family room might look too minimalist with all that newly liberated space. What could i say? I created some fictional sons, living at home, age unspecified. I was going to invent some grandchildren, but really didn't want to offend the fertility gods and, besides, do i really look old enough to be a grandmother? Tim might question that immediately.
As we strolled through couch potato land, Tim asked: "How big is everyone in the family?" "Not as big as these massive overstuffed couches," I commented. All this furniture was so ugly and obese looking, I wanted to put it on a diet and get that chair and a half down to a respectable size. Some sectionals even had cupholders! What would Michelle Obama say? Could I at least have a modicum of style: rounded arm, some contrasting piping, some interesting fabric? The leather section was particularly unappealing--dark brown and forbidding. It scared me. Meanwhile I was starting to panic because I didn't see my dusty olive suite that I knew from the other store and wanted to buy. Tim to the rescue. "I bet I have just the thing for you. It's around the corner here." he exclaimed.
Ah yes, my furniture! I feigned surprise (my second lie). I was delighted with the curving arms, patterned gold accent pillows, the ribbed chenille fabric that gave it a warm corduroy look and, gee, the color was great after all. I rejected the matching chair and a half, although maybe the arms would enfold you like Pee Wee Herman's Chairy?
It had all been so pleasant, but I knew I shouldn't make it that easy for Tim. So I assumed my tough consumer mask. Not so fast there, Mr. Tim. "What about the warranty on the reclining mechanisms?" We poked around the back of the chairs. He showed me the double wood backing, the patented push button technology, the reinforced springs. "You'll be sick of this furniture long before anything breaks," Tim gushed AND I can have it delivered to you by Tuesday! "Tuesday," I hesitated. "Well, we have to move out the existing furniture, which is very heavy and then we have to shovel a path to the deck, since the furniture has to be brought in through the sliding glass doors." I could see Tim wondering why this was a big deal, when two big strapping sons lived at home, but I cleverly back pedaled: "My sons are both away this weekend, and one has to work the following weekend, my husband has a bad back... " I was talking too fast and piling on too many reasons, a fatal mistake in lying. Slow down, breathe, keep it simple and decisive, I thought. "Three weeks out would be better," I said firmly. Tim 's face registered a fleeting look of suspicion, but, being the good salesman that he was, he wanted to close the deal and you don't do that by embarrassing your customer and calling her a liar. He was clearly disappointed and remarked that there were only a few left and then I might have to wait even longer, but I was firm and stuck to my date.
I'm glad I did because we had another snow storm, the plow guy added to the four foot high wall of snow blocking the path to the deck and those old couches turned out to weigh a ton and a half. One couch was salvageable, but the other got deposited at the curb for pickup day.
 |
| Moving men relaxing in the afternoon sun |
Three weeks flew by and the furniture was delivered with no problems. Here's the transformed room. Doesn't it look great?
 |
| new furniture, but still old crap on coffee table! |
Oh, yeah--back to my theme. I still buy green bananas....I still buy new green furniture?
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Scanxiety
Don't you just love made-up words? Usually they reflect our new technological society- blogosphere, technocrat, yuppies, IM, texting, sexting... Scanxiety is a combo of scan and anxiety and, as every metastatic breast cancer patient knows, scans, which are usually repeated every three months, are definitely anxiety- inducing exercises.
No matter how much you tell yourself that it's just another test, it's amazing how the anxiety builds up. I couldn't sleep Sunday night, awaiting my first PET scan (alas, nothing to do with Homer or pets). I had been doing CATscans (again, nothing to do with pets, but somehow this strikes me now as sinister) and Nuclear Bone scans. The advantage of the PET was greater sensitivity, measuring metabolic activity, instead of tumor images.You were injected with radioactive glucose, waited quietly for 45 minutes while it spread throughout your body and then were slowly scanned over the course of an hour from your "kneecaps to your eyeballs"(as the tech explained it).
I had heard from a friend that too much activity prior to the scan would cause the PET to light up, giving a false positive. For example, she knew someone who spent her 45 minute quiet time writing Christmas cards and her arm lit up like a Christmas tree on the scan.
My PET scan tech scoffed at this story but I was determined to minimize my movement, just in case. I settled into the chair and carefully used my pinky finger to turn the pages of my book from the bottom, very slowly. What if i got an itch, was annoyed by a pesky fly or had to blow my nose? My stomach rumbled, crying out for food and I wondered how movements along the digestive tract registered? What if I started burbing or got the hiccups? The anxiety meter ticked up a few notches. My eye did start to itch and I had to scratch it- once, twice, three times. Man, I could already see me written up in the medical journals, the only bc patient with weird metastases to the right eyeball.
The scan itself was uneventful, but I didn't drift off to sleep. The pallet seemed a bit narrow and as I was progressively moved into the tube, I had to first hold my arms out like I was flapping them like chicken wings and then put them all the way over my head. The tube ceiling was a pleasant six inches above my head, unlike the Nuclear bone scan which involves a flat panel descending to within an inch of your face. I always used to watch that panel as it slowly dropped, feeling like the character in a Stephen King story who was completely paralyzed but alive, lying on an autopsy table, unable to scream as the pathologist's scalpel descended. At least I would be able to scream if the machine didn't stop. After that moment of sheer terror, I would close my eyes. You had to or you'd go cross-eyed and claustrophobic. Compared to the bone scan, this PETscan was a piece of cake.
When the test was over, the smiling tech sent me off with these parting words: "Don't go near children or pregnant women for the rest of today and drink lots of water to wash out the isotope." Suddenly, I was Homer Simpson leaving the nuclear power plant with a glowing green rod stuck in my back pocket. Did anyone worry about the net effect of all this radiation?! Yes, Virginia, your cancer is under control, but you seem to be developing a third eye and I don't mean the yoga kind.
Now the real anxiety began--waiting for the results to determine if the cancer had spread (bad), was stable (good), decreased (very good) or NED (excellent!)
Ah, the elusive NED. When I first joined the cancer message boards, I was full of admiration for this guy NED. He really got around.
TexasCowGrrl: "Dancing with NED for the last 6 months and it's heavenly."
PinkHotMama: "I've been dancing with NED for 3 months now and couldn't agree more."
Uh oh, was this going to turn into a nasty catfight? Who was this mystery man? He seemed like a bit of a cad--did he think he was as smooth as James Bond, as handsome as George Clooney, as fluid on his feet as Fred Astaire?
MarksGrandma: "Everyone deserves a whirl around the dance floor with NED."
What a guy! But where did MarksGrandpa weigh in on the NED issue? Did he approve?
I finally figured it out when GroovyChica posted:
"My dance with NED ended this week with my latest scan showing progression to the liver."
Damn and it had all seemed so much fun.
A quick Google explained that NED is No Evidence of Disease, but you have to love that carefree image of women celebrating a break in the disease with a swirling, twirling, tangoing around the ballroom floor, their celebrity spin a la Dancing with the Stars.
I've not had the privilege yet of Dancing with NED. I'm still in the trenches--"wrestling the alligator." This one was not so hard to figure out, except i was thrown off because the first post was from GatorGal.
GG: "Had a tough week, wrestling the alligator."
Hmm, maybe she really was an alligator wrestler? You used to see those signs for authentic Seminole Indian alligator wrestlers at Alligator World somewhere in South Carolina, Georgia or Northern Fla, if you ever took the long Spring Break drive to Fla. But, no, according to the posts, there seemed to be alligator wrestlers all over the country and I didn't think there was a sudden explosion of carny freak shows with the alligator wrestlers next to the bearded lady and the sword swallower.
Yesterday ended well for me: anxiety dispelled, cancer under control, me right in there with the other alligator wrestlers. A sad note: Elizabeth Edwards is at the end of her struggle--not quite 4 years.
No matter how much you tell yourself that it's just another test, it's amazing how the anxiety builds up. I couldn't sleep Sunday night, awaiting my first PET scan (alas, nothing to do with Homer or pets). I had been doing CATscans (again, nothing to do with pets, but somehow this strikes me now as sinister) and Nuclear Bone scans. The advantage of the PET was greater sensitivity, measuring metabolic activity, instead of tumor images.You were injected with radioactive glucose, waited quietly for 45 minutes while it spread throughout your body and then were slowly scanned over the course of an hour from your "kneecaps to your eyeballs"(as the tech explained it).
I had heard from a friend that too much activity prior to the scan would cause the PET to light up, giving a false positive. For example, she knew someone who spent her 45 minute quiet time writing Christmas cards and her arm lit up like a Christmas tree on the scan.
My PET scan tech scoffed at this story but I was determined to minimize my movement, just in case. I settled into the chair and carefully used my pinky finger to turn the pages of my book from the bottom, very slowly. What if i got an itch, was annoyed by a pesky fly or had to blow my nose? My stomach rumbled, crying out for food and I wondered how movements along the digestive tract registered? What if I started burbing or got the hiccups? The anxiety meter ticked up a few notches. My eye did start to itch and I had to scratch it- once, twice, three times. Man, I could already see me written up in the medical journals, the only bc patient with weird metastases to the right eyeball.
The scan itself was uneventful, but I didn't drift off to sleep. The pallet seemed a bit narrow and as I was progressively moved into the tube, I had to first hold my arms out like I was flapping them like chicken wings and then put them all the way over my head. The tube ceiling was a pleasant six inches above my head, unlike the Nuclear bone scan which involves a flat panel descending to within an inch of your face. I always used to watch that panel as it slowly dropped, feeling like the character in a Stephen King story who was completely paralyzed but alive, lying on an autopsy table, unable to scream as the pathologist's scalpel descended. At least I would be able to scream if the machine didn't stop. After that moment of sheer terror, I would close my eyes. You had to or you'd go cross-eyed and claustrophobic. Compared to the bone scan, this PETscan was a piece of cake.
When the test was over, the smiling tech sent me off with these parting words: "Don't go near children or pregnant women for the rest of today and drink lots of water to wash out the isotope." Suddenly, I was Homer Simpson leaving the nuclear power plant with a glowing green rod stuck in my back pocket. Did anyone worry about the net effect of all this radiation?! Yes, Virginia, your cancer is under control, but you seem to be developing a third eye and I don't mean the yoga kind.
Now the real anxiety began--waiting for the results to determine if the cancer had spread (bad), was stable (good), decreased (very good) or NED (excellent!)
Ah, the elusive NED. When I first joined the cancer message boards, I was full of admiration for this guy NED. He really got around.
TexasCowGrrl: "Dancing with NED for the last 6 months and it's heavenly."
PinkHotMama: "I've been dancing with NED for 3 months now and couldn't agree more."
Uh oh, was this going to turn into a nasty catfight? Who was this mystery man? He seemed like a bit of a cad--did he think he was as smooth as James Bond, as handsome as George Clooney, as fluid on his feet as Fred Astaire?
MarksGrandma: "Everyone deserves a whirl around the dance floor with NED."
What a guy! But where did MarksGrandpa weigh in on the NED issue? Did he approve?
I finally figured it out when GroovyChica posted:
"My dance with NED ended this week with my latest scan showing progression to the liver."
Damn and it had all seemed so much fun.
A quick Google explained that NED is No Evidence of Disease, but you have to love that carefree image of women celebrating a break in the disease with a swirling, twirling, tangoing around the ballroom floor, their celebrity spin a la Dancing with the Stars.
I've not had the privilege yet of Dancing with NED. I'm still in the trenches--"wrestling the alligator." This one was not so hard to figure out, except i was thrown off because the first post was from GatorGal.
GG: "Had a tough week, wrestling the alligator."
Hmm, maybe she really was an alligator wrestler? You used to see those signs for authentic Seminole Indian alligator wrestlers at Alligator World somewhere in South Carolina, Georgia or Northern Fla, if you ever took the long Spring Break drive to Fla. But, no, according to the posts, there seemed to be alligator wrestlers all over the country and I didn't think there was a sudden explosion of carny freak shows with the alligator wrestlers next to the bearded lady and the sword swallower.
Yesterday ended well for me: anxiety dispelled, cancer under control, me right in there with the other alligator wrestlers. A sad note: Elizabeth Edwards is at the end of her struggle--not quite 4 years.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Memories like the corners of my mind…
Sometimes I start a sentence and I see a word, like a horse in the Kentucky Derby, rounding the far clubhouse turn and pounding the turf to cross the finish the sentence line in time. The mud is flying, other words moving up threatening to obscure the finish and steal the ending for my word. Did you notice I speak in longer sentences these days?
Sticky Notes: little reminders everywhere so I know what I have to do today and checklist for going out the door. The only problem with sticky notes is they proliferate, reminding me of that old commercial for that labeling system with the cute name where you could easily print out labels and actor has them all over his body and face—the label maker…. P-TOUCH! A friend suggested using a notebook instead, so I carry a little book, but sometimes I lose that, too.
Barbra sang it. I live it. Everyday. No, not the poignant, water-colored memories of The Way We Were, but the prosaic, fleeting, forgetful memories of everyday living, a half remembered phrase, someone’s name on the tip of my tongue. A letter usually comes to me—is my mind’s filing cabinet better organized than my cluttered office? Her name was... started with an S and had an L in it? Or did it start with an L and have an S in it? I go through the alphabet, as if doing a crossword. Sally, SaraLee, Selma, Shayla, Shiloh, Sharleen, Shirley. That’s it! Whew! Shirley, Shirley bo-perly, banana fanana fo-perly,fee fi mo-merly. Shirley
Example:
She: It’s a long story, I just don’t like her.
Me: So maybe you don’t like her because of her background; she didn’t come from money, but wants it now. She’s just a ____ ______(hooves are thundering, but still at the final turn). So I improvise: You know, someone who is ambitious, wants more, wants to move up the ladder, join the in crowd, be in society, be a --ta da-- SOCIAL CLIMBER.
I shout it out like I’ve just buzzed into Jeopardy and I’m beating out ___ _______, that little blonde guy who won a million dollars, my mom loved him, he was from Oklahoma, worked in I.T. KEN JENNINGS!
 |
| Won $25.Million and has a blog now, too: http://ken-jennings.com/blog |
It’ s most embarrassing when it’s a simple word that eludes you like plunger or scooter. It gets you thinking about the existential nature of that object. If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, did it make a sound? If you can’t identify a simple plunger, does that diminish the plungerosity of that simple tool? OK, maybe too early in the morning for this discussion.
Misplacing objects is a whole other scenario. My normal multitasking day goes like this: Morning breakfast, reading the paper the old fashioned way, sun coming in the window, enjoying my coffee, nice and relaxed. Then it starts: Where is my phone, my keys, my sunglasses. Track down the usual suspects, phone in handbag, on charging stand, dresser, car or left in the pocket of whatever I wore yesterday. And that was…what? Which jeans, jacket, sweater, gym clothes?
Simplify! If you have less stuff, you’ll lose less stuff and have less stuff to go through to find your lost stuff. So if you see me in the same jeans, sweatshirt and jacket every single day, don’t be alarmed. I’m not homeless, just putting the new system in place.
Sticky Notes: little reminders everywhere so I know what I have to do today and checklist for going out the door. The only problem with sticky notes is they proliferate, reminding me of that old commercial for that labeling system with the cute name where you could easily print out labels and actor has them all over his body and face—the label maker…. P-TOUCH! A friend suggested using a notebook instead, so I carry a little book, but sometimes I lose that, too.The silver lining is I’m not alone in this. Gary and I sometimes play the alphabet litany/jeopardy search game together, piecing together our separate memory fragments to get to the Eureka moment of the right word, place, movie, book or name. I commiserated recently with two good friends over dinner. What had happened to us? I was glad it wasn’t just a side effect of my chemo treatments, aka “chemo brain”. It afflicted us all, so seemed to be more a consequence of “aging”—such a nasty word.
What about our parents’ generation? Did they have this much trouble? Have we been duped into thinking we could really multitask and now our brains are rebelling and paying us back?
Back to basics: what about that game you played as a kid—pat your head and rub your stomach, then switch and rub your head and pat your stomach. It took a lot of concentration and I remember collapsing in laughter.For now I’m limiting my multitasking to walking and chewing gum and that seems to be working. Now let me just find my keys and I'm out the door...
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