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.