Holiday Greetings

There is always a lot of stress at the holidays. The cooking, the baking, the decorating, not me, just watching other people. As for me, I am just grateful to be alive and on my way to a healthy new year, but I had my own stress. How can you buy gifts for everyone that expresses gratitude for support above and beyond, all on a shoestring budget? I had one day to shop and this is what I discovered, you can't. So I got what I could and just left it at that.

The support I have gotten this year has been unbelievable. There are those who express little faith in the goodness of mankind, but I have found otherwise. More people than not have offered or given me kindness, assistance, friendship, and more. I thought I was a fairly good person, but these people have shown me what goodness really is. Just reading this blog gives me a boost.

So as the next year approaches I offer to you all my love, my gratitude and my hope for your happiness. And to all, great eyebrows.

Radiation

I am on the last phase of my treatment for breast cancer ... radiation. Unlike chemo, it doesn't leave me nauseous or hairless, but it is every day. My normal time is 9:30 a.m. and the procedure involves lying on a platform that moves me up and about to get into the right position. It is very high tech and yet to further adjust me they pull the plain white sheet underneath to get my body in the perfect trajectory. Then they place a piece of rolled up bubble wrap under my breast. It is my own special piece that even has my name on it.

This week the system has been down on three different occasions and there were multiple phone calls as the team tried to reshuffle everyone. My mother expressed concern that if the machine was so inefficient how could I be sure it was working correctly on me. In other words was there a chance I was getting so much radiation that they could use me to light up the neighborhood for Christmas? So today, when I saw the radiologist I asked her, and she assured me that if anything was wrong, it just shut down. Besides, she further explained, it wasn't the radiation machine that kept breaking down, it was the computer. Isn't it always.

What Would Francis Do?

As a part of my spiritual growth, some years ago I became a Third Order Franciscan. One of the tenets of the group is to espouse Simplicity of Living. For me this means no lusting over Coach handbags. However, one way to measure your success at keeping it simple is to move from a two bedroom-two bath condo to a single bedroom. A very large bedroom, and I do have space in other rooms, but not enough to transfer all my goods intact from one place to another.

I decided to be ruthless and get rid of everything that was of no use or value and would cost lots of money to store. So I parted with my sofa, discarded souvenirs, and emptied shelves of medieval history books (it was a phase I went through in the 90's). But then there were other objects that I found impossible to part with. A potholder my niece made me as a wedding gift. A mug my nephew assembled that said Aunts are Great. And how could I part with music from bands that no longer exist like Rusted Root? How could I throw away my Muddy Waters cassette tapes? I couldn't. So they came along with the important stuff like my Jane Austen action figure, my shrimp deveiner, and my Dead Sea Salt foot scrub.

If I didn't know before having cancer, I know for sure now what matters. My friends, my family, my eyebrows, and I can take those things with me wherever I go. I don't even have to pay for storage.

Treatment: The Final Phase

This week I started radiation. After completing chemo and surgery, radiation is the last phase in my treatment plan. I go daily (excluding weekends) until January 5th. I was a little depressed when I found that the treatments go beyond the end of the year. I had fantasized that by 12/31/10 I would be through and ready to start rebuilding my life. Fortunately, my sister reminded me that we're Episcopalians and as such celebrate Epiphany, which is January 6th, so my new life will begin with Epiphany.

I don't know yet what to expect from radiation. There are side effects but some people never experience them. The way my life has gone it is likely that I will invent some new side effects never before seen on another human being. Hey, when your mother AND your oncologist tells you that you're weird, you got to expect the unexpected.

Cancer Part 2

Now that I am officially a survivor, it is time to start the second part of the "cancer experience," recovery. There are the physical aspects which means still more treatment (radiation) neuropathy issues, and hair regrowth. Not to mention the ability to stay awake all day.

Then there are the emotional issues which involves running away from a bad mortgage with all my belongings, and returning to a workplace that has become vaguely unfamiliar. For over six months, whether I wanted them to or not, people have labeled and defined me as a cancer victim. How will they identify me now? How will I think of myself?

When you've gone through something as overwhelming as cancer, it's hard to just pop back into life, to take up where you left off. Everything and everybody looks different. But even more significantly, I am not the person I was. The problem is, I haven't yet figured out who I am and where my new place in the cosmos falls. Whoever the woman I turn out to be is, I hope she has a great head of hair.

I'm a Survivor

Last Thursday my oncologist presented me with the pathology report from my surgery and announced that I was now officially a cancer survivor. Yeah! My cancer has been eradicated by months of chemo, surgery and to make sure it is really dead I am still facing 5 weeks of radiation.

My life is now moving to a new phase as I work to regain physical strength, peace of mind, and hair. The biggest disadvantage of getting cured that I see is I will have to start shaving my legs again.

All the issues that I could put aside now have to be dealt with. No more using the cancer card as an excuse for not participating in life. I have remnants of the experience that are still hanging on, some will be with me for months to come, others for a lifetime, but I am now on a different path. I don't know where I am heading but I know this, my eyebrows are safe.

Recovering or Just Wasting Time

I talked to my boss the other day asking if there was something I should be doing while I'm at home. "Uh, recovering from surgery and chemo," she responded. I suppose that's an option. But somehow reading crime novels, sleeping, and watching mostly sitcoms on TV seems like a waste of my time. I should be working, or writing journal articles, or at least writing my own great American novel, but truth be told, I haven't felt like it.

And that bothers me.

It seems like I have been given this "gift" of all the free time I want, and all I want to do is rest and make my hair grow back by continuously rubbing my fingers through my head in search of new signs of fuzz. After her comment, however, it dawned on me that when you have chunks of your body removed maybe you need to recuperate. So I am trying to embrace the concept of recovery and convince myself that it is a legitimate pasttime in itself. I would write more, but it's time for repeats of "Everybody Loves Raymond." Sigh.

Post Surgery

I made it. I made it with flying colors. It was just how I wanted it to be. I went to sleep and woke wide awake in recovery. Pain has been minimal. No nausea. No extended stay in the hospital. Everything went well.

My sister was with me the whole time. She even spent the night with me in the hospital on a roll-away bed stuffed up in a corner of my room. Tomorrow she goes back to Tennessee and turns over my care to our mother. It has been nice having a personal nurse and companion, but she has a job, children, home in Chattanooga so I have to let her go. Unfortunately, I can't afford to pay her a salary and it's against the law to chain her in the basement. I am left with a caring mother and loads of friends who support me through every step. Not too bad.

Fear of the Unknown

I've never had surgery before unless you count the wisdom teeth that were removed 20 years ago, and I don't. Next Monday I am going to have the lymph nodes cut from my left arm and frankly I am scared. I know thousands of people have this surgery every year and it is probably routine but it doesn't stop me from feeling afraid. I have even had graphic nightmares.

Last Monday I had my pre-op visit and a colleague had hinted that due to my pulmonary embolisms that they might be reluctant to put me under and instead do a local or even postpone. I was livid. I had a schedule and postponement did not fit into my plans. And oh yeah, I really want to sleep through the whole thing. However, though they did question me thoroughly, I was approved apparently based on three factors: my EKG, the ability to open my mouth really wide, and the ability to walk around the mall. As luck would have it I went shoe shopping on Saturday, at the mall. I knew buying shoes was the ultimate in mental health, now apparently it has been proven to address physical health as well.

MRI

On Friday I had my second MRI since this whole thing began. It was at a different facility than my previous one and the experience was just as bizarre. Even more so. The MRI was in a trailer out back which you got to by a lift in a big cement warehouse. Then to get to the machine you had to climb a step ladder and maneuver your breasts into a basket while stretching your arms forward. You also had to go into the machine feet first. At least this one had music coming through the fairly useless headphones.

Towards the end of the test when my nerves were just about shot from the banging and the straining not to move, they played Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C Sharp Minor. The prelude has a special meaning for me. During my youth, I tried for years to master the piece until I finally acknowledged that my fingers were just not long enough. In this instance I was transported back to my piano and imagined struggling with each of the notes that, unlike my feeble attempts, were played so expertly in the headphones that did little to block the crashing sounds of the MRI.

The tech's who had administered the test pulled me out and praised me for my patience and fortitude. I didn't want to admit that it wasn't me but Rachmaninoff and his prelude.

My fantasy

Ever since becoming sick, I've had one fantasy. Hanging out at the beach. The location changes but the fantasy is the same. I am in a good hotel room, not the usual dive I stay in when I've gone to the beach. It is cool weather and my window is open while I plow through a bag of books, mostly trashy mystery novels with a Jane Austen thrown in just for funsies.

Later, just as the sun goes down I stroll down the beach before enjoying a dinner at a 4-star beachfront restaurant or some dive that has grouper sandwiches. Then I go back to my room and read some more. In the morning it all starts over again. I realize I could sit in my condo and do almost the same thing, but something about the smell and sand of the ocean brings back happy times and the ultimate in relaxation.

I was born and raised in Florida, and special times with family and friends frequently included the beach. Maybe that is what ignited my longing for a time before mortgages and career disappointments and cancer. Or maybe it's just that deep down all I've ever really wanted to be was a beach bum. And I would do it in a heartbeat too, if being a beach bum had a medical plan. I guess once you've had cancer reality is hard to escape. Bummer dude.

Being sick

I don't know how to be sick. This is the result of having grown up with a mother who refused to let illness, surgeries, major catastrophes, anything stop her from her daily tasks. Instead of resting, I just feel like I'm being lazy.

This weekend, I finally gave in, somewhat. I sat in bed and read and slept and watched Law and Order and felt really guilty. So today, I insisted that I would change my bed linens. I got halfway through when my mother intervened. I would have made it, eventually, but it was nice to have help.

Tomorrow I will attempt to go back to work and probably make it 4 or 5 hours. And I will feel just as guilty about not doing a full day's work. But I also feel lucky. I have an employer who does not punish me or dock my pay and still gives me health insurance. I wish, however, I knew how be sick and not feel guilty. Oh well, I just asked my mother to make me a grilled cheese sandwich, maybe I am getting the hang of this after all.

Chemo Brain

Today I finished part I of my cancer treatment. The chemo part. I am convinced it is the worst part. After this surgery and radiation will be a piece of cake. That is what I'm telling myself, and I'm sticking to it.

Of all the side effects, I think ultimately the most frustrating one is chemo brain. Not thinking straight, not being able to remember conversations, instructions, warnings, puts you in an awkward situation. Doing my job is way more of a challenge than it should be. I prepared for nausea, pain, etc., but chemo brain wasn't really in the guide books, or if it was I forgot.

So hopefully, once I recover from this last bout of chemo I will remember what you say to me. I will do my job with a new intellectual vigor. I will read James Joyce. OK, I'm not doing that last one, but I will quote the Jabberwocky to anyone who wants to listen.

Breakdown

I consider myself the queen of sarcasm, the mistress of mirth, the diva of ... well you get the point. Since being diagnosed with cancer, I can count on one hand the number of times I've broken down. Friday was one of those times.

I met with the surgeon, and the good news is, as of right now, I am not having my entire breast removed. However, I am having surgery that will impact the rest of my life. Not in some horrific ways, but in little ways meaning that once I am "cancer free", my body will always carry reminders that I had cancer.

After breaking down I felt ridiculous. I know that there are people whose lives are changed by cancer in ways that will severely impact their ability to live a normal life, and I told the doctor that. His response was this: I have been hit by a bomb, some other person was hit by an atomic bomb, but there is still damage and still a bomb to deal with.

And so I had my breakdown, it is over, and am now looking forward to a time when this is all over, and I will move on to the next challenge. Will I continue highlighting my hair once it grows back? You know, the really important stuff.

Daddy's Home

After six weeks of incarceration, uh hospitalization, my father is finally home from the hospital. For the last month it has just been my mom and I, so now there is a new dynamic. While I want to do for myself because he has way more needs than I, it is still difficult for me to do lots of simple things, like change my sheets, take a bath, or decide which flavor of Crystal Light to make today. But that will change. One day I will be strong and well and somehow figure out how I am going to repay all my friends, family, and colleagues for the amazing kindnesses they have shown me during this time.

It is still difficult for me to accept that I am not well. I keep thinking I should just burst from my bed each morning with boundless energy and go about my day. But the pain, the breathing, the bald head all remind me that things are not quite what they should be. So every week I have to learn to be patient all over again. But one day it will be different. This weekend I realized that one day, not sure when, I won't be sick anymore, and I will have to learn how not to think of myself as a sick person. I will take on a new persona then, anyone I want. I will be kind and helpful and hard working and take care of my mom and dad everyday. Oh who am I kidding. I will go to the beach and bury my head in trashy mystery novels for a month, then I will think about all those other things.

The Bare Necessities

I have a two bedroom, two bath condo that is filled with my stuff. Walls of books, cabinets full of shampoo, lotions, potions, and eyebrow enhancers. Photos, knick knacks, cooking gear, everyday plates and china, I could go on. Two weeks ago I moved into a bedroom at my parent's home. There is lots of room but not everything from my condo will fit in here so we have been bringing over the bare necessities. Computers (yes plural), underwear, makeup, medicine, clothes. Ultimately, there is little that I need to survive. (Though I would like all my Jane Austen books nearby just for comfort, but I am learning to cope especially since Price and Prejudice is on my iPod.)

So my question is how much stuff do we really need? There is a lot of sentiment attached to many of the items, but does that make me forget the person who gave it to me? Do I really need 8,000 books that I may read someday? A number of years ago after getting divorced I put most of my stuff in storage for a year while I lived with my parents. After that time, I identified what I really missed and what I had forgotten that I even owned. Unfortunately, I began to acquire new and different stuff.

Now I have to make another choice about what stuff needs to be eliminated or saved. Do I really need a left breast? I've heard the reasons for taking it or leaving it but ultimately the choice is mine. Let's face it, I won't be nursing infants or competing in swimsuit competitions, so is it important that it stays? We grow attached to stuff like books, photos, and body parts. I saved the eyebrows, but may have lost the battle for the ta-ta.

The Return of the Blogger

A lot has happened since my last post. Primarily, I was diagnosed with multiple pulmonary embolisms which landed me in the hospital for a week and then 2 weeks at home, actually at my parent's home. Tomorrow I will return to work and try to resume my life.

I also had a birthday and turned 56 years of age. Three weeks ago this was a major point of contention. When I discovered that my inability to breathe was not going away, I called my mom and said I needed her to come take me to the ER. I got dressed and walked down the stairs of my condo. When my mom saw me she decided to call 911. While on the phone with them, they asked my age, "56" my mother said. And as I sat on the steps gasping for air, I corrected her, "55". She was only off by a few weeks, but still ...

Now, I am 56 and fairly able to breathe and ready to start on the rest of my life, and part of the rest of that life means continuing cancer treatment. I think I learned something from this latest episode, I think I learned that getting well is a viable option. There is nothing morally wrong with resting when you need to and asking for help. It goes against the deeply ingrained Calvinist work ethic that I acquired from my workaholic parents, but I think I don't have a choice. It isn't the big lesson that I am still hoping to learn, but it is this week's lesson.

Waiting for Godot

In college I became quite the expert on Samuel Beckett. This was something that I knew would serve me well in career choices later in life along with my expansive knowledge of Victorian literature. Anyway, Beckett's most famous work was a play called Waiting for Godot, the story of two men who spend their lives standing on the side of the road waiting for the appearance of a never seen man named Godot. Each day they leave convinced he will surely come tomorrow.

I woke up thinking about that play this morning. I started a new chemo drug this week which promises different side-effects than my previous drug. So I sit waiting for them to appear. They didn't come yesterday, but surely they would come today and if they don't, they will come tomorrow. Or maybe they will never come or they will be different than what the health care people promised. So I wait.

In the meantime I distract myself with books and computers and worrying about other things like will my eyebrows make it through this next round of chemo? But really, I am waiting for something that may or may not show up. And regardless of the preparation, I won't be ready.

It's the little things

Cancer is a big scary word. We all know someone who has died from it, gotten it, survived it, or operated on it, but it is still a great unknown. That is why I chose to bury my head in the sand. One of my colleagues who survived read every bit of research she could find. I focused my attention on how I could draw in eyebrows should the time come.

So for me, it is not the big scary things that frighten and frustate me it is the little things that occur every day that I can't control. The almost neverevending queasiness, the taste of metal in my mouth, sores, infections, pestilence, plague, and keeping my scarf pulled over my ears. You know, the little things. I thought I had it all under control. I don't.

I am getting ready to start my next round of chemo facing a whole new drug. I made the mistake of looking it up on the world wide internet to find side-effects. What I found were horror stories of nail fungus and neuropathic pain. I can take pain, but nail fungus? As I said, it's all the little things that pile up every day and become this giant mole hill that I get out of bed every day and climb over. But I know I am lucky. I have a good prognosis and the side effects are annoying but not insurmountable. I just spoke with a colleague whose mother has had cancer for seven years and she lost all her body hair, but never her eyebrows. God is good.

Going it alone

Last Saturday my sister went home. She has a job, a home, family, guess I had to let her go, but it wasn't easy. For the last month she has been my companion, my helper and my co-conspirator. But even more importantly, the two of us got to watch Top Chef and Project Runway together.

We planned our evenings around those events. Tonight I have to go it alone. I can do it. We will call and text and email and go over the fine points, but it won't be the same. So this post is not about me, it is about this wonderful woman who I used to torture as a child because she had the bad luck to be my little sister. So thanks kid for not holding it over my head that I could beat you up or banished you to the living room when I had friends.

I miss her more than I can say. But I especially miss her tonight when I will sit alone with a scoop of ice cream (I'm not going to suffer entirely) and watch Top Chef. I hope that she is happy and content and maybe, just a little, misses me too.

Coping

I have coped well. My healthcare providers have encouraged me to take antidepressants and I have asked what for? This last week though tried me almost to the point of tearing the hair out of my wig. All the little annoyances that they said would happen seemed to all hit this week.

On top of that my dad finally made the trek to Gainesville and had the much ballyhooed surgery on his spinal column. Tonight we are all spent from an overload of emotions.

Tomorrow is chemo number 4 and the last one of this cycle. I am telling everyone that the next cycle of 4 will be a piece of cake. (Chocolate I hope, in fact Texas sheet cake at Jimmy Z's Barbecue Bistro to be specific.) But as I was told this week, I am overly optimistic, so I don't really know what will happen. All I know is this, I have beaten the odds, my eyebrows are still intact.

Long time no post

Yes I know I am running behind on posting, but in my defense, I have cancer. Using the cancer card sometimes comes in handy. I broke up with the man I was seeing by telling him I had cancer. There were skid marks on the phone. Then a friend of mine wanted to stop seeing someone so I gave her permission to say, "My friend has cancer and I am spending a lot of time taking care of her." At first she resisted, but finally ... Then there are my sister's homework assignments. Truth is, she really is busy taking care of me and gets behind.

It doesn't work with everything though. Did I mention that I may be losing my home? I got into a bad mortgage and at the time, I wasn't quite told everything which is my fault I never knew I needed a lawyer to read the contract, I thought this was a little more commonplace document. Refinancing isn't an option because currently the value is 1/3 what I owe. So now I am trying to do a short sale to a lovely anonymous friend who will in turn rent it to me. If that doesn't work then my next option is foreclosure. In the meantime, I am no longer paying my mortgage. There is no advantage to my paying it, and I was discretely advised not to. Not to mention that the mortgage company, when I tried to negotiate with them several years ago, told me as long as I was paying my mortgage they wouldn't talk to me. They're talking to me now. They don't really care that I have cancer, but oddly enough I understand. It's their job and if they had a choice I'm sure they would be doing something else.

I have lots of choices. I actually have a good job, good insurance, loving family and friends. So I try to have compassion for the people who cannot find any employment except to call people and demand money they don't have. And I have been polite until one young lady asked me why couldn't my husband pay. I called her impertinent, which I doubt that she understood the meaning (OK now I am being snarky). They will continue to call and I will continue to tell them I have cancer, and it won't matter because the cancer card doesn't work with everyone.

My new look

photo © Rhonda Prince 2010
I don't look the same as I used to, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's not just about the hair, but that's a start. My face looks different, of course steroids have made my round face even rounder, and I am finding that I want to dress differently and even have adjusted my makeup. When I look in the mirror I don't see the same person I used to see and I find it gives me the freedom to be a different person which is definitely not a bad thing, most of the time.

I am becoming more outspoken which is a blessing and a curse. I find myself looking at my life and evaluating the importance, but I still find that I can get obsessed over some of the same old things.

Last Saturday night my friends came over for a lesson in meditation. I have toyed with meditation for a number of years but still struggle with focusing. I try to make it a part of my prayer life because as I was taught by a 90-year old nun what's the use of talking to God if you aren't going to take time to listen to him afterwards. So one of my friends is an experienced meditator and she agreed to come and lead us in a guided meditation.

Later as we discussed the experience, my sister told of a method she'd been taught where you visualize your problems as a river that just go floating away from you. I thought about this image for a while and the next day I called her with an exciting addition. You picture your problems as the person most responsible and as they are swept away by the current they smash their heads against a huge rock, repeatedly, before being swept away. My sister didn't think this was the kind of positive thought process that fit with prayer and meditation, but for a day it really seemed to help.

OK, occasionally I deal with anger and depression issues and am not happy every moment of the day, but then who is, cancer or not. In the meantime I remember the kindness of people, my excellent health insurance, and the fact that I have beaten the odds...my eyebrows are still intact.

The Jericho Road

Today's gospel lesson was on The Good Samaritan. (The old testament reading was about plumblines, which I found highly amusing having grown up with a father who was a builder, but that is not the intent of this missive.) I think most people know the story of The Good Samaritan, though not sure about almost anyone under 35, what they do and don't know ever since I found out my young co-workers don't know Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, but I am going to assume for the sake of expediency, that everyone does know the story.

Anyway, when the priest delivered his sermon, he focused not on the familiar story but on the road where the Samaritan found the injured man, The Jericho Road. The road, as he described it, was 17 miles of desolate wasteland. As he spoke, I realized that I am on my own Jericho Road. However, I am surrounded by Samaritans. My friends, family, and colleagues have rallied and supported me on my journey by ensuring that my every need is attended too even before I ask. I am truly blessed.

Besides my mother, the person who has sacrificed the most to care for me has been my sister. She is a school teacher and a photographer in Chattanooga who gave up her summer to travel to Florida and help out myself and my parents. To do so she gave up teaching summer school and a part of her income. We offered to compensate her for the sum but she refused. So instead we have been buying her things: clothes, shoes, StarBuck's, makeovers. Yesterday was a good day for me, so we went shopping, and I bought her some more things. She started crying at one point overwhelmed by our generosity and said in all seriousness, "I feel like a cancer wh**e" (uh lady of the evening).

The problem with saying things like that or doing nice things for me, you know it's going to end up on my blog, and I warned her. But I didn't know that the sermon today would talk about Samaritans and desolate roads. The priest went on to talk about those that pontificated about the road and those who actually took action, like my friends and family. Unfortunately, I can't provide makeovers for everyone, so all i can do is say thank you for all you've done and all you probably will do until I reach the end of this particular road.

Life as I knew it

I generally like change. New hair-do, opportunities at the office, or new cars. Some changes I don't like. Loss of a loved one, republicans taking office. You know the really bad stuff. After finishing my Ph.D. I wanted a change in my situation. Cancer wasn't what I had in mind, but this week it occurred to me that my life has changed and the chances that it will ever go back to the way it was are slim to none.

Some of the changes are, of course, not so good. When your stomach and bowel habits become a part of your normal conversation, that just can't be something anyone embraces with unadulterated joy. Preventing mouth sores, taking a daily temperature so you can ensure it doesn't reach the magic number of 100.5, drug-induced sleep are just a few of the realities that are now my life. Occasional bouts of grumpiness (OK my sister would probably say they are more than occasional, but I like to pretend that they're not) unleashed on people who obsess over stuff that really just doesn't matter.

There are positive changes as well. I feel free to more openly speak my mind without fearing consequences, of course that can lead to grumpiness (see paragraph above). I have learned about the great kindness of many people, and I have found that I relate to most of my old and new friends and family in different ways that somehow feels deeper and more meaningful. Being somewhat "helpless" and needing people has been difficult, but has shown me that, in the words of Sally Fields, "You like me; you really like me."

I still don't know what I want to do with my life when all this is behind me. As I try to focus on my talents and possibilities, I get distracted by the need for toast. Warm sourdough bread with unsalted butter and a glass of milk to stave off the unmentionable. As I said, there are a few positives.

My father's heroes have always been cowboys

My father loves cowboys. As long as I can remember he has watched every western ever made (though I am still working on getting him to watch Brokeback Mountain) and then watched it again 3 or 4 times for good measure. We started every Saturday morning as kids watching Hopalong, Red Ryder, and Gene Autry before settling down to the more serious fare of Bullwinkle and Underdog. My father still loves cowboys and often plans his week to enable him to watch AMC the day they have cowboy movies all day. I don't know what day that is, but if he enjoys it ...

I mentioned the other day that my father had some difficult choices ahead. To help our family make these choices, my mother made an appointment with Dr. G. Dr. G. has been the neurologist treating my father for 15 years. There is an unusually close bond between my father and Dr. G. and he has come to be the individual who coordinates my father's health needs, just because he seems to care.

On Friday my mother, sister and father went to Dr. G. to lay out the options. After listening to the information and viewing the reports, he compared my father's situation to a couple of cowboys. Specifically, Butch Cassidy and and the Sundance Kid. "Picture it like this," he said, "you're Butch and Sundance standing on the precipice. On one side the law is bearing down and your fate is sealed. Or you can jump off the cliff. Maybe you'll break your neck, but maybe you'll swim away to freedom. At least you're giving yourself a chance." So they decided to take the leap.

Someone told me once that Butch and Sundance not only did survive the leap but went on to establish themselves in Bolivia. I have the internet at my finger tips, I could look this up, but I'd rather make up my own ending and imagine them swimming away from the federales. I suppose this post is about my father and not me, but in our family, we are all connected and when the bell tolls, it tolls for all of us. When he jumps, we'll jump with him, even if it means swimming to Bolivia.

Distractions

In the old days I would panic without a book. That is one of the reason I always carried large purses so I could always have a book on me just in case I was stuck waiting somewhere. On Tuesday when my sister and I went to chemo we carried books, computers, iPods (containing books on tape of course) and Androids. But apparently that isn't enough and now the Android phone has a Kindle application that lets you download books to read. I downloaded a free book "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" which will give me the opportunity to ALWAYS have books with me to read. I need never worry about loading my purse down with books. I have also ordered a cable for my car so that I can play my iPod and listen to books.

Music is OK, especially if I can sing along in my automobile, but I love stories. I love books. I love magazines. I love objects that deliver books and magazines and newspapers to my distracting devices. People have worried about the death of reading with all onslaught of the internet and multiple distracting devices, but now I have more opportunities to read. However, I still enjoy the feel of a book or magazine in my hands and turning pages, while I now have more options to read or listen to books, it will be a long time before I give up on paper.

So when I go to chemo treatments or wait for doctors with too many patients, I am able to lose myself in a book. This is a wonderful distraction that works way better than obsessing over eyebrows or heaven forbid, working. If only I could find a way to have chocolate delivered so efficiently as well, everything would be perfect. Who worries about cancer when you have books.

My new hair

On Monday I modeled my new hair. Tuesday I did a scarf. The scarf was slightly more comfy but the hair wasn't as bad as I thought. I had wanted to get either an Afro or something red, but I settled for something that looked kind of like my real hair.

Yesterday was chemo treatment number 2. Six more to go. My sister was with me and then last night we had pizza and watched a movie. Uh, we had a four course high-fiber, lowfat dinner, yes that's it. I felt guilty for the time she spent with me waiting, but in fact, it was a treat to have her. Everything went well this time.

One of the technicians promised me some new scarves, but when she couldn't find them she brought me a gift. It was a beautiful hand knitted lap blanket. She asked to read the accompanying prayer card out loud. It was a modification to the serenity prayer, and my sister and I were both teary eyed when she finished. The blanket was a gift from a local church. I didn't really need another blanket but it was a wonderful experience, and it is soft and I clung to it last night sitting in my chair feeling surrounded by love, good wishes, and pizza.

Family Time

Today was not a good day. Not for me, but for my father. My sister and mother drove him to Gainesville where a surgeon gave his opinion and while it wasn't hopeless there are trade-offs that make it seem like Sophie's choice. We were all sad and we all cried. After work, I went to be with them. We talked about the choices and then my mother and sister shaved off the rest of my hair. They actually fought over who was going to get to do it and finally took turns. Then they threatened to take my eyebrows as well, but I do have my limits as to what I will do to make my family happy.

The evening ended like so many of our family evenings. Eating ice cream and making fun of the situation. Soon we were all laughing over the things earlier that seemed so horrible. We may not laugh later, but eventually we will again, because thats what we do.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

The Good - Thursday was chemo number 2 and my little sister was going with me. But first I had a doctor's appointment and since my family and many of my friends don't trust me to ask all the questions they have, she accompanied me to this as well. Which was good because I got confused and the kid did straighten it out later for me. The good news was this, my lymph nodes are reduced in size after one chemo. Additionally, my PET scan showed no other "hot spots" in my body. Just the armpit.

The Bad - The bad news was that my white blood cell count was down and the chemo had to be postponed. I wanted to check it off. Get it over with. I had plans. Places to go, people to see, etc. We will try again next Tuesday.

The Ugly - My hair and I finally parted company. On Friday morning it started falling out and by the end of the day my clothes were covered in hair. So that night my mother and sister trimmed it close to my head. It is still falling out but the chunks aren't quite as large. However, like the little troopers that they are, my eyebrows are still hanging in there. I've always been proud of those fella's.

The kindness of strangers

I don't know this woman. Her name has been mentioned. I may have seen her once, maybe twice. But I don't know her, not really. Tonight I opened my mail and there was a card from her.

The face of the card was a beautiful orchid. For those of you that don't know, I'm an orchid fanatic. The card wasn't just a card, it was a signed print done by the mother of the woman I barely knew.

Inside the card was a rather long letter and this woman I barely know told me she has cancer. This woman has chemo several times a week, and I whine because I have to go twice a month. Her phone number was there and I called her and we talked and compared symptoms. We made plans to meet face to face.

Like me she is single and childless and like me, she has friends and family who come to her aide. She has a different type of cancer from me, and I don't know much about what she has to go through. But we knew the language of cancer, something we both had a crash course in the last few months.

So here is a woman, who is as sick as me, maybe sicker, reaching out offering me help. Cancer is a horrible, ugly disease, but strangers, friends, family have shown such enormous kindness that I know that mankind is not basically evil. I know that there are way too many good people out there just waiting for someone to help or encourage.

OK this is the second post lately that has reported on the kindness of strangers. Maybe it isn't my usual wit, but like Elizabeth Bennett, that which is truly noble and good will always be safe from ridicule by me. I will save my laughter for other objects, like eyebrows.

Accomplishments

Today, I did things. Real things like clean out my refrigerator, straighten my office, buy groceries, and drop off a wig with my hair dresser. My hair dresser is a lovely man who just happens to hail from Saudi Arabia. What makes him even more intriguing is that his wife comes from Peru and so they celebrate Christmas and Ramadan and are raising two beautiful children who speak Arabic, Spanish and English without even thinking about. He has seen a lot of the world, lived all over Europe, speaks multiple languages, but he didn't know how to respond to the wig.

For years we have worked a perfecting a hair style on me that requires no skill to be able to maintain. The wig was a donation through the American Cancer Society and looks like a perfectly fine head of hair, but frankly, it needed an expert touch to get it back into shape, and I knew that wasn't going to be me.

"If I cut it," he says, "it won't grow back." I assured him I was aware, I just wanted it to look nice. He puzzled over it a long moment and then I told him I wasn't expecting it right then, I would come back in a week or so, and he looked visibly relaxed. "OK, call me next week."

I've gone to Aladean for many, many years and all that time he has managed my style, my color, as well as my eyebrows (yes I know, again with the eyebrows, but when my niece comes to town I frequently drag here there to get hers done too, I know, I'm obsessed). But those needs are going away for a while, even my niece is moving to Tennessee so her occasional waxings will be no more.

This was my "farewell" for a while to him. One final style job that will see me through a period of many months. So I left my donated hair in the hands of the man, whom, I realized after I'd gone, I trust more than my surgeon when it comes to cutting things.

Hmmm I forgot, my niece is coming on July 1, maybe one last vicarious waxing.

My teddy guy

WARNING: SAPPY ALERT

I don't feel like blogging tonight, but there are some stories that must be told.

Today was a bad day. I felt sick, again. Stuff happened. The kind of stuff you want to say to the universe, hey I have cancer don't give me this other stuff too, but I am convinced that the universe has a perverse sense of humor. So today was one of those days that when anyone looked at me, I started crying.

Then a friend sent me an email. The friend is a colleague whom I have worked with for 6.5 years. Our relationship has on occasion been rocky and on occasion close allies. But the truth is, we always liked and respected each other. So the friend wants to talk and I go to his office because he has comfy chairs.

The friend, a big bear of man, comes in to the office carrying a small pink and blue and yellow teddy bear and announces that "This is Bear." Over 20 years ago he was having a bad time. Death of close loved ones and a house fire had left him with a bleak outlook. However, friends and neighbors gave him a "house warming" providing him with many of the basics he had lost. One small boy approached him with Bear and said, "here you need this more than I do." So now, after all these years of unjudgmental love from Bear, my friend decided that I needed it more than he did.

My friend attributed all sorts of magical, listening and advising powers to the creature. But to me the magical part was the gift. Someone had given me something precious and special just on the day I probably needed it most. I will cherish Bear, but my greatest wish is that someday I will pass it along to someone who needs it more than I do. Someone who will value the gift behind the gift. The real magic of love and friendship.

Feeling almost normal

When you feel sick, sometimes you think you will never feel normal again. I started chemo last Thursday and it all went well, and all weekend I felt not too bad. I was fully prepared to start the week with a bang. But then Monday morning came and I was sick. Of course I wasn't going to let that stop me.

So I got up at 7 and roamed around. Of course I called mom so she would know and be able to worry about me. My sister sent me a text so I got her in on it. Then I called my friend Pat, who has gone through this before and usually has some advice.

I washed my hair. About 30 minutes later I dried it. An hour or so later I styled it. I decided that I didn't need makeup. My mom dropped in to check and promised to return. At 11 a.m. I finally figured out I probably wasn't going to make it to work. By 1 p.m. I was sure.

On Tuesday, I got up again and, fortunately, had something I could do from home. Finally, I made it in at noon. No makeup, but I did fix my hair, while I can. I am low on shampoo, but it seems like a waste to buy any now, but I suppose it would keep.

Today, I went in for a full 7 hours and somewhere in the morning, I noted that I felt fairly normal. This evening, I actually felt like sitting at my computer and posting on this blog and Facebook so maybe I have returned to normal. For 7 days and then it's back to the hospital to start all over again. But I can enjoy those days that I have.

I knew things were better today when I got on the elevator and saw a man that I would have to say was "hot". If I can notice things like that, then I know I have to be better.

Toxicity

For 48 hours after chemo-therapy you are considered toxic. So you take caution and avoid getting body fluids on other people which if you live alone is probably not that difficult. I had thought I would use this time to grow emotionally and spiritually, but instead I have mostly watched TV and read trashy mystery novels and of course Jane Austen. The thing is, I don't know what to do with myself if I'm not working. I could work, I have work to do, but my head really isn't there. There is some fogginess, and some just, not feeling up to doing anything real serious.

It is a rare feeling. After the pressure of writing a dissertation and keeping up with the job, it is odd to just sit back and let things go. And maybe tomorrow I will feel more like returning to doing some work, but I may not. I may learn to make it just a job and not my life. I need something to work towards and some people have suggested that getting well might be the project of a lifetime. I don't know how to do that, since I've never been sick before, but that might be what I have to learn.

So can a compulsive workaholic find happiness not working every moment of the day? I'll let you know, after I start my second job in a few weeks.

One down

Today I had my first chemo treatment. I woke up fearful. What could go wrong now? And then there are the rules that you need to follow. Important things like taking medications, taking care of your mouth, flushing the toilet correctly. It was scary, and after the incident with the chest port, I am not in a trusting kind of mood.

My mom went with me and though I hated for her to take all that time, frankly, like many self-sufficient, independent adults, "I wanted my mommy." But here's the thing, everything went smooth. The port cooperated, my hemoglobin cooperated, and only 30 minutes behind schedule, I was in the chair having chemicals pushed and dripped into my body. And best of all, so far, I'm not throwing up.

So thanks to everyone who helped me get this far and those who will help me go the next steps.

It's a long long road

Since being released from my unfortunate incarceration (hospital) I have celebrated by going to the movies twice and seeing Sex and The City 2, both times. It's not about the plot, it's the clothes, the shoes, and frankly, the men. But it was a little more too. It was about women and friendship. It was about women all over the world facing the same challenges and standing together.

I don't think I knew how true that was until this experience. Between my mother, sister, niece, my girlfriends and, actually, even a couple of male friends too, I am in awe of the support I have received. People I barely knew before have stepped forward to lend an ear, tips, a phone number all sorts of things.

One of my colleagues at work said to me that it is tragic that it takes something like this for us to tell one another of our love and respect and I have to say that is true.

I have a long, long road to get through this, and beyond getting well, I hope that I learn from the experience. I hope I learn to put my job second (sorry boss) and people first and stop sweating the small stuff. I hope I let my loved ones know that they are truly loved and supported by me. And I hope that one day I can ride a camel across the desert with my girlfriends wearing really great clothes. I don't even care if there is no Mr. Big waiting at the end with jewelry, but if there is, I won't complain.

Hopeful

I say this with great caution but I met with my medical oncologist last week and she was amazing. After my experience with Dr. Saint, I am hesitant to praise a new doctor. But when someone looks you in the face and says that with my type of cancer she has had 100% non-recurrence, it is hard not to feel hopeful.

I have an ordeal ahead, no question about it, but I am facing it head on, stiff upper lip and all that. Then they told me that my eyebrows would fall out. I wasn't prepared for that. Exhaustion, hair loss, nausea, etc. but my eyebrows. I've always thought that they were my best feature. I've spent hours on them. I get them waxed regularly. I buy expensive eyebrow cosmetics. Now they are going to fall out. Actually, I shut it out when they said that, but a few days later while having my hair styled, my sister gently mentioned it again. And then came the tears.

I know they will probably grow back and maybe even more lucious and frankly, who cares. But it was just symbolic of this unknown territory that I am facing. Though others have been there before, everyone has a different experience. Mine will be my own. But I have learned that I really don't have to do this alone. Friends and family have rallied to my side and no want has gone unheard. Also, I have a doctor who seems to care and seems positive about my possibilities, now if someone will just recommend a good eyebrow tattoo artist, I'll be set.

Helpless

I am sure by now that my readers (OK reader) have been wondering where I might be. Well friends, I have been in the hospital. Remember Dr. Saint? Dr. Saint made a tiny nick on a vein when inserting my chest port. Unfortunately, the tiny nick caused my right lung to fill with almost 2 litres of blood. So I spent the better part of the week in the hospital with a tube draining my lungs of the remnants. I understand that people make mistakes. What I don't understand is why, even when they know they made them, they don't do everything in their power to rectify them. He knew about the issue. He said it would probably pass, but to call if things got worse. I did, but he was leaving town. I really am not angry about the mistake, I am angry about the lack of care I received afterwards.

Most of the people at the hospital were great and my friends and family ensured that I was surrounded by love and support. But one of the nurses made me feel helpless. It was the night of the tube placement. They had tried another equally horrifying procedure the day before and the tube was the last resort. Besides the pain, breathing was difficult and almost every position hurt. I also had several IVs hanging from my hands and arm. However, none of these were useful at 3 a.m. when I had to have a dose of some mystery medicine. Not only did he question whether he could get it, he was chagrined when I implied that others had had no problem. Later he yelled at another nurse who stopped to help me. I was HIS patient.

I was angry. Later I tried to figure out why. And the answer was because I felt helpless. I had been let down by Dr. Saint. I had had to postpone my chemo treatment. I was lying alone in a hospital bed, and I was scared and in pain, and I needed reassurance. The nurse was a young, male who probably was technically very qualified but didn't know how to deal with middle age ladies who felt helpless. Maybe this needs to be a new class in nursing school, medical school, beauty school, anyplace that touches the most important parts of your body.

The Polite Response

We all know the polite response for every situation.

A gift: "Thank you (for that horrific sweater that I will never wear)."

A dinner party: "Please does anyone else want the last homemade chocolate chip cookie (that I am dying to eat after you've all gone)?"

Interacting with the public: "Excuse me (but you've parked your grocery cart in the middle of the aisle while you peruse the soups and I'm tired of waiting you incredibly, inconsiderate heap of parrot droppings)."

Then there is the most common question on the face of the earth: "How are you?" Everyone asks that, I have discovered. Maybe I just didn't notice it before, but suddenly no matter how small the interaction I have, the other individual asks .... And we all know the polite response: "I'm fine, thank you, how are you?" It is so pervasive that most people even know it when they hear it in other languages: Spanish (Como estas), Southern (How ya'll doing?).

So how do you respond when you have cancer? Most people aren't actually asking how you really are, they could just as easily be saying, "Hello, I have nothing else to say but I will throw in some vacuous comment because I don't know how to fill the silence that will now exist while I pack your groceries, fill your order, pass you in the hallway, examine you for some possibly serious health condition?"

I know this, but something inside of me rebels against providing the expected, polite response. At first, I just exaggerated: "I'm truly fabulous and couldn't possibly be better. How are you?" But that took too much effort, so now I just respond with a nod then "And how are you?" It seems to do the trick. No one ever takes me to task for not giving them a full and complete answer (except my mother) or even notices that I haven't given them the expected response.

This experience provides back up for my other experiment. I decided that I was wasting too much time signing things so I began to just scribble something quick that had a faint resemblance to my signature. To date, no one has questioned me or asked for something more legible. So I have learned to save time on little tasks so that my energies can be utilized elsewhere, like baking more chocolate chip cookies.

I was wrong ... I can't do it all

I assured my supervisor from the beginning, that though I may be sick and out a few days here and there, I would still keep going. Wrong! This week I had a port placed in my chest and discovered that there are things that can keep me from my appointed rounds. I told her this today, and she commented that she wondered when I would come to that realization. I think everyone knew this but me.

I thought I would be different. I thought I would push through all this nonsense with hardly a break in my stride. That has always been how I operate. But something happened, and I was not able to get up and go to work. I was barely able to cancel the appointments I had.

So I must face the fact that I can't do it all. That there will be times when I am unable to answer the 5 million emails I receive on an average day. There are even times when I am not able to update this blog (in case you haven't noticed).

I will do the best I can to try and keep up to speed, but I think, OK I KNOW, there will be times when I have to stop and rest. Even before I finished my Ph.D., I began looking for my new project. I guess I found it.

The Art of Mindlessness

I don't want to watch movies or read serious books and I even blew off the last opera of the season (though my friends assured me that I didn't miss much). Instead I watch mindless TV. Mostly "Everybody Loves Raymond" and "The Golden Girls", and I read trashy mystery novels. Odd, some people would listen to a concerto or read something inspirational, but give me a serial killer and a smart crack from Sophia and it's better than Xanax.

It doesn't matter if I've seen the shows before; it doesn't even matter if I saw them yesterday, it is the sounds of the voices, the little quips of humor that occasionally penetrate, I can't quite seem to figure it out. Sometimes I wonder if I need a 12-step group. "Hi, my name is Denise and I really do love Raymond."

This may surprise many of my friends who thought I only obsessed about Jane Austen. (Just because the last time I was in NY, I went to a Broadway show simply because one of the leads had starred in Persuasion, and because I spent New Years watching all 6 hours of Pride and Prejudice while knitting a long piece of purple cloth.) But, alas, I have given Miss Jane a break. This is not the time for parlors, courtships, private balls, and gentle laughter. This is a time for getting the bad guys and belly laughs and a time for Hollywood to quit making really bad Jane Austen movies. This is a time for mindlessness.

That dreaded 9 letter word

It hasn't even been a week. Me and everyone else is still adjusting to the fact that I really have breast cancer. As I reported yesterday, I spent Friday afternoon setting up appointments. These are not ordinary appointments. These are the kind that have to be coordinated like air traffic control, or like pairing the perfect meal with just the right diet soda.

It was tricky, but I arranged most of them and thought we had a plan, until those people got involved. Yes, the evil empire, the barbarians of the business world, the i-n-s-u-r-a-n-c-e people. As everyone knows, the goal of insurers is to not spend money or at least delay it until they have reduced you to a heap of jello encrusted with parrot droppings of course by then the patient has a) died, b) been shipped to Iraq, or c) turned to Christian Science. My whole house of cards so carefully arranged came tumbling down.

I actually wasn't even surprised and probably only mildly frustrated. I did decide to call the company myself and ask them why are they doing this to me, but after 5 minutes on hold, I realized the chances of me getting to speak to an actual human being who could actually do something was as remote as... well the insurance company paying claims without requiring your first born child.

So AvMed, Blue Cross, United, whatever, just tell us what we have to do and we'll do it, but PLEASE no more torture by insurance.

Answers

On Friday, May 7th, I was officially told I had breast cancer. The doctor, who is by the way kind of a saint, explained everything in minute detail and mapped out my treatment plan. In less than 2 weeks I will begin 8 treatments of chemotherapy followed by surgery and then we'll go from there.

I got a break for lunch and then spent the afternoon scheduling the multitude of appointments that follow. By the time I got home that evening I was exhausted, so friends, my blog remained quiet for two days. I have wanted this blog to remain light and to see the humor of what I'm going through, but that hasn't been easy, until I did my research.

The subtype of breast cancer I have is called triple-negative, basal something or other. Several of my friends researched this as well, and we all uncovered the same fact, this genetic form of cancer is most frequently seen in pre-menopausal African-American women. I am neither pre-menopausal or African-American. My mother always tells me that I get the weird diseases and when I shared this with Dr. Saint, he concurred.

On Thursday, I said I wanted to know, and now I do and now I have an idea of what I'm facing. There will be moments, maybe even days when I fail to find the humor, so forgive me, but don't say you weren't warned.

Sacco and Vanzetti

Tomorrow I will see the surgeon-oncologist and find out something or nothing. Oddly enough, I am more afraid of the nothing. I can endure many things, but the waiting and not knowing is about to make me explode. It occurred to me that this is part of the process. Kind of like the opera, "Sacco and Vanzetti."

A few years ago, our local opera conductor wrote his magnum opus. A merry, whirlwind ride through the investigation, arrest, trial, conviction and eventual execution of Sacco and Vanzetti. It was long, really long. In the next to last scene, the two accused men and another accomplice were led out, one by one, and as each one disappeared from the stage, there came a flashing of lights indicating they had met their fate in the electric chair. This particular scene was drawn out in painstaking detail (kind of like my description here). My friend's son spoke for us all when he volunteered to go pull the switch himself just to get it over with. The execution scene was then followed by a raucous musical number.

So I am thinking, by the time I go through test after test after test, I will be relieved at whatever diagnosis they throw in my direction. Now it all makes sense. I only have to start rehearsing the raucous musical number that follows.

My new hobby

In times of stress, people often recommend that you take up a hobby. About 10 years ago, I was very burnt out by my job. Knowing that I needed something to do besides fret about work, I decided to get a doctorate degree. I called my advisor on a Tuesday and she told me to come to class on Thursday evening. It was just that simple, really. Then 10 short years later, I had a Ph.D. While I was trying to figure out what to do with it, my body took control of the situation and I was forced to channel my energies in new directions.

There isn't much I can do except fret, but hey, I didn't get a research degree for nothing. So I have been researching my situation in order to diagnose my condition and inform the doctor of my recommendations for treatment. As the date of my appointment grows nearer, my "hobby" has become an obsession. Just this week alone I have decided that I have breast cancer, lymphoma, thyroid cancer, lung cancer, endometrial cancer, and hoof and mouth disease.

Today I met with a colleague with whom I am going to work on a project to educate men about prostate cancer. So I am in the process of learning more about that particular disease. Thinking about prostate cancer was kind of a relief, that was one I could rule out in my obsession for self diagnosis, I think.

I'm tired

Today I admitted defeat in the battle to keep my sanity. In the words of one of my all time favorite film characters, Lili Von Shtupp, "I tired."

I'm tired of the waiting and not knowing and wondering. I'm tired of facing each day and not having all the answers. I'm tired of keeping up my spirit so others won't think that I'm weak. In order words, I'm tired. And all this emotional roller-coasting has made me, exhausted.

Lili found the answer to her woes in the arms of Sheriff Bart, but my situation is more complex, I need two men, Ben and Jerry. God bless them both.

I am a professional do not try this at home

I picked up my MRI results today including a CD with the actual film and a written report. I can only figure out a few descriptions here and there but that did not stop me from interpreting what I read. I shared it with friends and family though I have no idea if what I was relating was the least bit accurate. There were a few words that made sense. For example, my actual breasts appear to be cancer free. There is a proven malignancy that needs to be surgically removed. There is also a mass in the sternum area that looks different than the nodes in my left axillary, or as I like to say, the armpit.

So in truth, I don't know a whole lot more today than I did yesterday. But at this point, any information that doesn't say, "Sorry miss, you have 2 weeks to live," seems like a good thing.

Limbo

Dante identified Limbo as the first circle of hell. Limbo was for those not quite good enough for heaven (unbaptized infants, pagans who had never heard of Christ) but not quite bad enough to deserve the higher more tortuous circles of hell which were reserved for the real sinners: adulterers, murderers, people who wear white shoes after Labor Day. Dante says there are no real tortures in Limbo, only sadness and despair.

I am in Limbo. Everything I do is tinged with sadness, but even more frustrating is whenever I think of making any kind of decision or plan, I always end it with, I'll decide that after Friday. It's an uncomfortable existence that thousands before and after me face so I know I am not unique, odd, but not unique. I wish all this could have been taken care of in April, I hate tinging a whole new month with this business.

But it could be worse. I could be in another circle of hell, the one where they make you watch football and eat Cheetos. I actually prefer despair.

Almost April No More

In a very short time, April will be over. In some parts of the world, it's already gone. What a relief. Tomorrow is May day and April, the cruelest month, will have ended.

After my meltdown yesterday friends advised that I go home and watch a funny movie. So I watched "Crazy Heart", an upbeat flick about an aging C&W singer whose hard living and drinking has destroyed his career, relationships, and health. Maybe not the lightest fare, but seeing Colin Farrell in a tank top singing country tunes was well worth the price.

As the movie played in the background, I searched the internet for cancer information so that I can determine what exactly is wrong with me, what treatment I'll receive, and how long before all this is over. Upon closer examination I have determined that those doctors are going to be so embarrassed when the discover what a big mistake they made. But I will forgive them, however, a written apology would be nice.

The Straw

Everyone knows of the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. Today was that day. I went over the edge when my boss told me I might have to share an office. I haven't been able to get it out of my mind. As some of you know, I just spent 10 years getting a Ph.D. and other than the nifty diploma on my wall and the really cool hat, it hasn't benefited me a great deal.

I never actually expected it to. The only reason I started a Ph.D. was because I needed a diversion from my job. Now that I finished though, I suppose I want some acknowledgment for all my hard work. A 50 cent raise, a new title, my own mail slot, but that's all a dream I know. So I would settle for just keeping my office. It took me a lot of years to get one, and quitting it is not something I would cherish.

When I came home, I tried to print some papers and my aging computer malfunctioned, and I thought of the loss of my office and then I thought of the cancer and the fact that I have to wait an entire week to find out results and the anger and frustration and fear all converged and the emotions I have kept in check seemed to take control. Tomorrow I will return to my normal life and tuck away the emotions that surfaced today, for a while.

Living Stress Free

Scruffy, the affectionate nickname for my former significant other, told me that he wanted his life to be totally stress free. I told him that if he really wanted to be involved with me, with any woman, there would be stress. It is part of the human condition.

Of course, I do tend to create stress where there should be none. Lately I have been obsessing over vegetables. I become stressed over whether I will be able to cook them before they rot. I could just get frozen vegetables, but they never seem to have ones that I like.

Tonight as I was realizing that I didn't feel like cooking I tried to come up with a plan for preparing everything before it went bad. As I did this, I realized I don't get half as obsessive over the cancer. In fact, most of the time I rarely think about it. This may change when I find out more information, but for right now I am enjoying stressing over tomatoes and asparagus, and two dollars worth of snow peas and broccoli.

Get Smart

I used to love that show. When Maxwell Smart wanted to say something private, he would demand that they lower the cone of silence. Each speaker would then be encapsulated in plexiglass rendering communication between the individuals impossible.

Today I had an MRI and my "cone of silence" involved a set of headphones that didn't quite fit and did little to prevent the pounding and other noises than rang in my head as the machine took thousands of photographs of my breasts that dangled in little baskets, while I faced a mirror that was supposed to show the wall and give me a sense of comfort.

Maybe it's just me. I don't like loud noises unless there is a tune associated and I can sing along. And instead of mirrors showing blank walls, how about photographs. Pictures of Sean Connery come to mind, but then they often do.

The 5 Stages of Grief

When I was 17 I went to nursing school and about half way through determined that my talents lay elsewhere. I'm 55 and not sure where those talents lie yet. Anyway, one of the many, many reasons I left was because of Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. An expert on the process of dying, they drove us in a bus to hear her talk about death and the five stages of grief. I was so inspired that I bought and devoured her book and could hardly wait to deal with my first dying patient.

Unfortunately, my first-and last-experience with death as a student nurse was preparing a body for the morgue. The inspiration of Kübler-Ross went flying out the window when confronted with the reality of a dead body. But I always remembered the five stages. Especially since Bob Fosse used it so cleverly several years later in All That Jazz. But I digress.

I have cancer, and I'm handling it quite well aside from brief moments of utter panic where I worry about the fact that I no longer have any good jewelry to leave my niece, or my insurance company will refuse to pay for my treatment because, let's face it, I'm just not worth the bother, or even worse my parents will be stuck dealing with the upside down mortgage on my condo. Today it dawned on me why I am such a rock. This isn't really happening.

Tomorrow I am having an MRI and they will discover this is all a mistake. For those of you not familiar with the 5 stages, the first stage is denial.

April is the cruelest month

Or so says T.S. Eliot and this April, I heartily concur. So far this month the following has occurred: I got pneumonia, my college with through a grueling accreditation, I broke up with the first man I had been seriously involved with in 15 years, I got diagnosed with cancer, and I shopped for weeks to find the perfect evening dress and when it arrived, it didn't fit. And there's still 5 more days to go.