Lady with a Brown Paper Bag

THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE POSTED ON NOVEMBER 9TH, 2012

I have to say that I am glad that no one saw me the other day, at least not that I know of.  I must have looked a tad crazy to the woman at Famous Liquors.  I limped in, having hip pain from the latest chemo.  It was last Thursday and Greg and I spent a very very long day with Dr. S., a radiologist at Northwestern.  The end result of meeting with him; radiation is not needed.  In a day and age when doctors need to be ever cautious of what they say for fear of being sued, when he told us this we felt relief beyond words.  I am done.

CHEMO IS OVER AND RADIATION IS NOT NEEDED!!!!

Greg left and went back to work.  I drove home and as I parked my car into the garage I realized that it was something we needed to celebrate.  I decided to walk to the local liquor store and get a split of champagne. As I left the liquor store, carrying a brown paper bag, walking with a limp and wearing a head cover, I realized I must have been some kind of sight and probably looked a tad drunk, walking down Madison Avenue with my special brown paper bag of champagne, having to walk slowly and deliberately due to the neuropathy in my legs.  It caused me to laugh, and silently pray that none of my neighbors were looking out their windows at the particular time of me walking down the street.

There is still allot to do, many doctors to see and of course, getting back to where I was before all of this started, actually I want and need to be better health wise than I was and I know that it will take time.  But, I am motivated.

The best news, I am considered to be in permanent remission.  I will need to see my oncologist every three months for blood work and check ups but, the road ahead looks sunny.

Six Down... Two to Go!!!

I have now completed half of the last phase of chemo.  Last Wednesday I spent the day at the oncologists office getting loaded up with Taxel.  I was told that this would be easier than the lovely cocktail that I got the first four visits.  I am not sure what scale anyone uses but I am finding this to be actually more difficult.

As before, I go to the office, visit with my amazing doctor and them go to the chemo room.  I get all the same anti-nausea meds that I usually get.  Taxel is different from the cocktail though in that it is not water soluble.  It gets put into a medium that apparently many people have allergic reactions too.  I was given Benadryl the first time and Natalie, one of the amazing nurses at the office stayed with me for 15 minutes to watch for any allergic reactions.  Thankfully, I did not have any.  The first visit was about six hours long and the second was no shorter.  The drug has to go into the body so much slower.

I go back to the oncologists the following day so that I can get my bone marrow shot.  I think I have stated in the past that it boosts my hip bones to pump up the production of both red and white blood cells.  I was told that one of the symptoms could be bone pain.  The word pain does not adequately describe what I felt.  I could feel my heartbeat throughout my hips and legs.  It was excruciating.  I was given the same pain meds that helped when I had the surgery.  Taking a double dose doesn't do anything to make the pain subside this time. The pain was so bad the first time that sleep was not possible.  I tried to take a warm soak in the bath. I love baths, they are always so comforting to me but, not this time.  Again, every heartbeat was exaggerated by the warmth of the water.  My legs felt like they had weights on them.   Again, probably the worst pain I have ever felt. It took a good four to five days to where I was able to  move comfortably.  

This second visit I feel like I am more prepared.  As soon as I wake, I take a dose of Motrin.  I have the pain meds when I come home for the evening and take the steroid in the morning for six days versus the usual three.  I am in some pain now, very achy but it is manageable at this point.  

On Wednesday when I finished my chemo the offices were already closed so when I went for my bone marrow shot the next day I made my next chemo appointment two weeks from now.  They usually do not  allow you to make more than one in advance.  I asked if I could also schedule my last one, explaining that I would really like to get it on my calendar.  They smiled at me and said that I could.  So, October 18th is my seventh and my last chemotherapy appointment is scheduled for November 1st.  

It feels good to say that I am toward the end of this part of the journey. It has been a long and difficult road.  But, I see the end coming toward me and it feels good.

Armande's Voice

When I was younger and in college, I had a favorite pink angora sweater.  I loved this sweater.   It was the color of a ballerinas leotard and oh so soft.  I used to love to wear it with my ivory tweed pants and beige boots and belt.  A high school friend was in one of my afternoon classes and when I walked in and took my seat next to him he laughed and shaking his head said, "I knew it".  When I questioned him, Rob said every guy on campus has been talking about the girl in the pink sweater.  I liked to be looked at then. 

It's a different story now.  Before the chemo, you could not tell that I was sick.  But chemo, having made me lose my hair, has changed that.  I do not go out without a scarf or a head cover.  Now, as people stare, it is not a good feeling.  Being a mother of two girls who always asked a hundred different questions a day when they were little, I can understand when I walk past a child and hear her ask her mother, "what is on that ladies head?", or "it doesn't look like that lady has any hair".  But, I do not understand the unpleasant stares that I have received from others.  Some stares are obviously those of pity.  But, I do not want pity.  I want courtesy.  We teach our children not to stare, why do we, as adults, not listen to those same words.

 "Don't you dare pity me", is exclaimed by Judy Dench as she plays Armande in one of my favorite movies, Chocolat.  She spits it out angrily to Vianne when Vianne shows her pity when it is discovered she has diabetes.  Admittedly, I myself have wanted to say this to a few gawkers who have stopped, stared or given me a look of pity as I have passed them.  I   wanted to say something allot more graphic to one woman as I walked in to my local Trader Joe's the other day who not only stopped and stared but had a look of what I can only describe as disgust on her face.

I have not looked at this chapter in my life with pity, despair or sadness.  I have not had a pity party or really ever broke down and cried.  I do not have time for it.  I am fighting for my life and the life of my family.  I am a fighter.  I am a survivor.  I have a badge of courage that I wear proudly as it has shown me the strength I didn't know I had.  So, as Armande said, don't pity me.

Chemo - Round 1 and 2

There is a scene in the movie, "As Good As It Gets", where Carol [Helen Hunt] uses allot of expletives to complain to the doctor that Melvin [Jack Nicholson] sent to take care of her son, about her insurance company.  Her mother shushes her for using this particular language and the doctor says, "It's okay, actually I think that's their technical name".

I would not go so far as to use this type of language to talk about my insurance company but a couple weeks ago, after my first chemo treatment, had I been capable of yelling or screaming, one might have heard me.  As Greg, Ali and I were being given lessons on chemo, what to expect and what to do, I overheard my nurse, Amanda, [not my daughter as she was at ROTC], say as she got off the phone, I didn't know --- was one of the insurance companies that did this".  When she came over I asked if there was a problem, she said no, that I would be getting two anti-nausea meds and the chemo cocktail  as ordered.

I have to say that I was not nervous.  We met with Dr. T and she assured me that all would be done to assist me and that the nurses in the chemo room were wonderful.  She was right.  They were kind, caring and very supportive.  I walked into the room prepared to fight for my life and knew that this was the way to do it.

It was uneventful to tell you the truth.  It was decided that even though I had drank all the water and more that was asked of me the day before that I would need a port-a-cath since my right arm cannot be used anymore for blood draws and IV's [due to nodes being taken out of my arm during surgery].  They were able to get a needle in and the meds started going in.  After two hours of assorted drugs I was sent home.  Not more than four hours later it started.  A sickness I have never known before.  Everything came up as fast as it went in. I was violently ill.  I could only sit in bed and not move a muscle.  I was so ill I couldn't even take one of the anti-nausea meds, to swallow with water meant it came right back up.  The chemo treatment was on Friday and by Sunday Greg was calling into the service to see if we needed to go to the ER.  The concern was dehydration but thankfully, with all that I had before the treatment it didn't seem to be a problem.  Greg, as ever, was wonderful in caring for me.  He told me that even if this is the way it was going to have to be for these first four treatments, I would get through it and live. He gave me warm sponge baths and told me all the things I would live to see: graduations, weddings, grandchildren.  But, by Monday I was headed to the Oncologist again.

Ali drove me and my mother-in-law met us at the door to help get me out of the car.  I was incoherent and barely able to move.  After bags of IV fluids and more anti-nausea for hours the staff wanted to put me into the hospital.  I wanted to go home.  I wanted to sleep.  They agreed and allowed me to go home on the condition that I called in the morning.  I was able to sleep semi-comfortably and even made an attempt to go to work the next morning.  By Wednesday, I felt a bit like myself again and by Thursday even more so.

Now, to say that I was apprehensive this time, for my second round of chemo,  would be an understatement.  I had an appointment in the morning for a port-a-cath to be put in.  Once fully awake and watched for an hour to show that all was okay, Ali and Amanda [yay, she's home!] wheeled me over across the street to my Oncologists office.

The good news?  Getting so ill allowed me to get the third protocol that the doctor ordered for the type of chemo cocktail I am on.  The insurance company approved me to get it this time, they had not the first.  Dr. T was not happy that I had to go through what I went through.  She was very professional but clearly upset.  I was taken into the Chemo room and as the radiologist had kept an access in the port-a-cath it was easy for the meds to go in.  Actually, I don't even remember getting the meds.  With the "twilight" meds that I was given for the port and another to help me relax, I fell asleep almost immediately and didn't wake up until it was over.

I did not get sick, I have a small appetite and am able to sleep.  I am tired and stop to rest when I feel the wave of exhaustion but that is fine by me. 

Two more of this cocktail in and two more to go and then onto the next drug. 

Touchstone

Almost 25 years ago, I married my best friend.  Literally.  It's a long story and a good one but it is for another time.  Suffice it to say, I not only married my best friend, I married someone who has been a rock for me all these years.  He has been my anchor when things go wrong.  Does his optimism drive me crazy at times?  Absolutely.  But, if you know Greg, you know that he knows things.  We, his family, friends and business partners, are always driven crazy by the comment, "I know things", but, ultimately he is right. [I can't believe that I put that in writing].

Greg, as always, has been my touchstone through all of this that is my life, our life.  He has sat in more hospital waiting rooms for me over the years and he has never failed me.   My daughters told me that in the sixteen hours that they were at the hospital waiting, he did not close his eyes a single time to rest.  He is devoted to me and especially in the last few months, it has brought me more comfort than I could ever describe.

 I expected to be growing more and more anxious yesterday, to not be able to sleep last night and none of that has happened.  I took a bath early in the evening with a good book and sat down to go through emails and look at Facebook and I say Greg's latest post and it has helped me to put a timeline and a victory to this next phase of this cancer battle. 

Greg wrote:

Tomorrow Andrea starts Chemo. Its been a long 3 months but so far things have been going well. Currently Andrea has an excellent chance of never having to deal with cancer again. Along the way family and friends have been great with their support. Words can never express well my deep feelings of gratitude for everyone in our lives. Also along they way we have found grace and beauty... daughters who sleep on a couch to give their mom medicine during the night...neighbors who just cut your grass...sisters who arrange meals from friends...parents who buy you a reclining bed for comfort...parents who are just always there has your safety net and foundation to go on... Drs. and nurses who do not see you has a job but a calling to walk you back to full health. Our experience has just been awe-inspiring. All of this has led me to one conclusion...It is A Wonderful Life we have been given and like George Bailey we sometimes need a harsh example to see clearly the love around us. In the end...that is all that matters. So by the time Christmas comes we will watch the movie Its a Wonderful Life has a family and know the gift we have been given is Andrea's full health. Thanks to all.

So, this Christmas, I plan to sit and watch this wonderful classic movie with Greg, Amanda and Ali surrounding me and be ever mindful that yes, there are bumps and even boulders in the road but, with faith, family and friendship, we can get through anything.

 To my wonderful husband, I love you more than words can say and I look forward to sitting together with you and the girls, when they are home for Christmas break, watching the movie and sharing a big box of tissue.

What Are The Odds?

40%

If I do nothing, the odds of the cancer coming back is 40%.  It seems incredible with all that I have done that it could be this high but alas, cancer is a tricky little bugger.  Greg, Ali and I met with my oncologist at Northwestern last Thursday.  Dr. T is a lovely woman and I am glad that she is the one that was recommended to me.  She is compassionate, intelligent and made us all feel comfortable.

She told us that her job is to get that percentage as close to 0% as possible.  She is going to start me with a cocktail [I wish it was the yummy kind] of two different chemo drugs.  And yes, my hair will fall out, there is no question to that.  There are other not so great side effects but she will try to minimize these as much as possible.

I find it some things funny, and most women I know will easily relate to this;  why is our hair the nicest just before it needs to get cut?  We have periods where we cannot stand our hair, and yet, as soon as the appointment with our hairdresser nears, our hair seems to know and styles and behaves just the way we want it.  I know that within the next three weeks I will begin to lose my hair and as would be the case, my hair has been behaving for me, even in this sweltering humidity we have been having.  

After Ali had taken me to the plastic surgeon for a follow up just a couple days before we met with my oncologist last week, we stopped at a place in Chicago that helps mastectomy patients.  I tried on several wigs and we did find one that we both liked on me.  I hesitated ordering it but now, well, I need to place the call. :O(

There have been so many of you that have emailed, sent cards, Facebook posts and even on here supporting me through the anxiety of meeting with the oncologist and I wish to thank you.  It means allot that you care and are concerned.  Thank you from all of us.

P.S.  Also, just to update you, Amanda is starting her third week at Leadership Training for ROTC and is getting great marks from her Lieutenants.  She was selected to be a color guard for the graduation ceremony that Greg will be attending on the 3rd of August.  She sounds exhausted when we hear from her but she is really enjoying what she is doing and is already planning a six week program at the base in Germany next summer specifically for critical care nursing.

My Daughters Set the Example

As a child I was afraid of the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. She was green, ugly and screeched.  Her pets, those hideous monkeys, were equally as terrifying to me.  It was shown on television every year and my family would sit around the living room after dinner and watch it together.  I feel as if I am aging myself by saying that this was before VCR's, DVD players and such.

Now, as an adult, I am afraid of heights, clowns, severe thunderstorms and, I have come to realize more and more this week, the unknown.  I have caught myself crying as I await my visit with the oncologist for the first time this Thursday.  My mind goes back to when I was a child and my mother had chemo treatments.  The treatments took a beautiful, fun loving and vital woman and turned her into something that people stared at when we went out.  Not the typical stares that she would get before the cancer, but gawking, "what's the matter with her" stares from strangers.

These images have been going through my mind.  Things my mother said as well keep repeating themselves.  I remember my mother sick and telling me that the chemo made her mouth taste like metal.  I remember her having to have her stomach area drained of fluid with insanely long needles and tubes and having to be sent out of the room so I could not see the procedure.  I remember her bad blonde wig that she wore and I remember going out as a family and wanting to scream and yell at the people pointing and staring at her.  

Most importantly though, I remember her dignity.  She would hold her head up high, proud and tall wherever she went.  I cannot imagine that the staring did not bother her.  She was a beautiful woman and the looks that she got when she was sick were not the looks and stares that she was surely used to. 

There are times in our lives when we get scared.  My family did not know that I sat in the shower and cried for a half hour yesterday morning.  When Greg came back from church yesterday, all he had to do was say the word, "chemo", and I started to cry.  I told him I did not want to talk about it, I then told him and Ali of the growing anxiety I was having over Thursday's appointment and the fear of the unknown.  We all talked and got it out in the open, Greg assuring me that even if I were to get sick, would it really matter in the scheme of life, our future and the girls future?  No!  

Our oldest daughter Amanda is currently at Fort Knox in Kentucky undergoing Leadership Training for the ROTC.  She is studying nursing and wants to be an Army nurse.  In this age of technology, the ROTC has made live video feeds and photos available of the journey that she has undertaken.   She is part of Echo Company and we could not be more proud of what she has chosen to undertake.  The night before she left there were tears and anxiety; she was scared of the unknown.  But, she got on the plane in the morning without looking back and has jumped in.

Ali will be heading to Haverford College in August.  It is right outside Philadelphia and is 13 hours away.  When Ali started applying to schools we had many conversations about the schools that she was choosing as there were none close to home and she was already getting nervous about the idea of being so far away.  Greg and I brought up Northwestern several times as an option but she is very wise.  She told us that she did not want to apply there.  Not that Northwestern wasn't an excellent school but that it would not challenge her to go out and conquer the fears that she had of leaving home and truly being on her own for the first time.

So, this morning, as I watched a live video feed of what another company is doing and what Amanda will be doing very soon, I started to cry.  I cry with pride for her and what she is doing but also for the realization that came to me.  I need simply to look at my two most amazing daughters for the strength that I need to continue this journey that I am forced to undertake. Not only to be there and someday sit in the "dreaded front pew" at Old St. Pat's as my husband calls it [the pew that the brides parents sit in], but, to watch them, go forth and conquer their own fears of what lies ahead. They have done so willingly and with their head held high.  I must follow the example that my daughters have both set for me. 

Two Weeks and Two Days

I had every intention to write on this blog through the worst part of my surgery and recuperation.  I also had every intention of reading all the books that I have wanted to read, you know, that stack of novels by the bed, while recuperating.  I have done neither.

My surgery was 16 days ago.  My husband, the girls and I drove to Prentice on Monday the 11th.  We got to spend some time together in a pre-op room where I was poked and prodded by the nicest people.  We met my anesthesiologist and I was given two shots of radioactive material by a tech from nuclear medicine that would help my first surgeon map where the cancer may have gone into the lymph nodes. 

Both of my surgeons came into my room and "mapped" what they planned on doing.  They told my family that they would be informing them of everything in two hour windows.  I felt a touch of sadness for my family when we were told that the surgery was probably going to last a couple hours longer than we had initially thought.  The first surgeon would be operating approximately three hours and then the other would be working on me for another 9-10 hours.

The anesthesiologist told me that my part was easy.  He was going to give me some meds that would cause me to probably not even remember leaving the very room I was in.  He could not have been more right.  I don't even recall them putting anything into my drip.  I closed my eyes and the next thing I knew I was in a dark room with my family and they were to the right of me.  I recall Greg saying it was late, that they were going to leave and then I remember hearing and seeing Ali give me a thumbs up, I got the TRAM flap procedure that I wanted.  All had gone well.

What I didn't know was that it was so much later.  I was told by Greg and the girls that when my surgery was finally over at approximately 7:30 the evening of the 11th, they were able to be with me for two hours in recovery.  Since I needed to be watched by the Plastics team, my family went with me as I was wheeled down to the basement of Prentice and underground, under the parking structure and into the Feinberg building two blocks away. It was about 10:30 in the evening.

I recall later being in the ICU and the main goal of the three nurses was to get me up and sitting.  My bed was electric and it was made into a chair, the foot position becoming a chair seat.  I heard apology after apology and was assured that the first move was the worst.  God, they were right!  Getting me to stand had me crying out in pain.  When I finally got to the chair and looked at the position of the bed, it looked like some kind of torture chamber.

I spent the day in ICU, with family all around.  They were going to take me to another room later on the 12th but there was a concern for a hematoma in my chest and the resident assigned to me felt it better that I stay in the ICU where the nurses were right there with me.

After two days of the ICU, I was placed on the 12th floor and recuperated there for several more days. I was told that I would probably go home on Saturday morning.  Sadly, the Plastic Resident came in, Dr. E, took one look at me and said no.  I was extremely nauseous and not feeling well.  The good thing; they decided to change my blood thinner.  I was getting a shot every six hours and it was excruciating and burned so much.  It was given in the thigh and by now, with so many days, my thighs were all beaten and bruised.  I would get anxious just thinking about the shot.

On Sunday morning, Dr. E came in again and said I could go home.  I texted my husband, who was in church for Fathers Day with the girls, that they could come and get me after mass.  By 1:30 I was at home and recuperating with my family. 

Preparation

It's a blur since they told me about it
How the darkness had taken its toll
And they cut into my skin and they cut into my body
But they will never get a piece of my soul.

I have yet to make it through the song, singing in the car of course.  When I hit these words in the song the reality of the situation blinds me.  It Melissa Etheridge's song, I Run For Life.  It is the verse when she sings of herself and what she is going, or gone, through.

I awoke this morning at 4 after a few hours of actual sleep.  I have washed my hair, taken my two pills with the smallest amount of water possible.  I assured my daughters last night that I would not bother putting make-up on [who needs to be vain when I will be exposed in so many ways] and my bags are packed. I have one for the ICU; a book, notepad and reading glasses, a photo of the girls and a beautiful silver rosary that my high school friend Cheryl made me.  My other includes my own pj's and matching robe, of course.  I also have a few toiletries I am allowed to bring and some flip flops along with a pink blanket that Ali gave me for Mothers Day.

Like Melissa Etheridge, a breast cancer survivor herself, I have lived in a blur; work and activities with family and friends over the last month and a half have kept me busy and it is now my turn for the doctors to take the darkness away.  I have the strength of a wonderful family behind me, Greg, Amanda and Ali, they are my rocks and the reason I start this fight.  My parents are here and I have received so many well wishes from family and friends so I know the support out there is amazing and I am grateful for all of it and every last one of you.

As I prepare to drive downtown to Northwestern, I want to thank you for all you have done for me and my family.  Your words of encouragement, your thoughts and your prayers, have helped me to this point and will carry me through the rest. 

XXX

Wise Words of an Indian Hotel Owner

"Everything will be alright in the end.  If it is not alright, it is not the end."  Sonny Kopoor, the determined young hotel owner, says this to a disgruntled guest in the lovely movie The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.  My daughters and I went to see it yesterday afternoon.  I am not sure if this is a real Indian saying, as claimed, but what a wonderful thought to have in ones mind when there are challenges to be faced.

I was stopped in my tracks earlier this week.  I have since realized it was a blessing in disguise.  When one has surgery scheduled and there is time to stop, think, rethink, and think again, one starts to doubt.  It is natural.  It happens to all of us in our daily lives and regarding so many decisions.  Do we or don't we?  Should we or shouldn't we?  All the what if's come out from under the bed and around the corners and you doubt yourself and the path you are taking.

The sunburn like rash that I developed stopped the world from spinning.  I was told I might have to begin chemo right away;  surgeries canceled until further notice and radiation still a question.  For several days I sat stunned, scared, and in limbo while the tests were done on a tiny piece of tissue.  I was told that I  should hear on Thursday.  The day went on as usual and by late afternoon I was emailing my doctors assistant.  There was no answer and it would be tomorrow before the results would come.  I was working late Thursday night and driving home, I checked my phone.  I had felt the familiar vibration earlier from my jacket pocket but was in a meeting and did not answer.  A call had come in at 8:30 p.m.. I know, I know, not supposed to touch the phone while driving, but in two beeps I heard an already familiar voice.  I pulled over to hear Dr. B tell me that the pathology report came back negative.

WHEW!!!!  I deleted the call, turned the car back on and drove home more determined than ever.  It is not alright  now, but it will be.  Monday, I will begin the long process to be alright, in the end.

P.S.  I highly recommend the movie.  It takes place in India and the scenery makes you want to travel there at once, and stay at this unique hotel with such lovely people as Tom Wilkinson, Judy Dench, Maggie Smith and Bill Nighly. What a fantastic place it would be!

Speed Bumps are Little Moments

You hit speed bumps in your life; little moments that make you step back, take a deep breath as you gain an extra bit of strength and determination that you didn't know was within you; you lean forward in an act of determination and you step out and go again.  I believe we all  have this within us. Most of us have this moment occur in many small ways each day and we may not even realize that it occurs, we are so used to "jumping in" and taking life on that it is second nature to us.  Some instances make us inhale deeper to stop the world from spinning for a moment.  Our breather is longer and deeper and we seem to be suspended in time as that first step moves us forward, in a way that causes our legs to carry us forward while our brain plays catch up.

I was called in to see Dr. B, my breast surgeon, yesterday.  His assistant asked me to come in on his behalf so that he could take a look at the redness that I was describing.  Amanda and Ali came with me and stayed with me.  Dr. B was honest, he didn't like what he saw but wasn't sure if it just happened to be an infection that happened to occur above the mass in my breast or something worse.

He decided to do a punch biopsy on the spot.  I will tell you first that Amanda, my college nursing student, said afterward that it was amazing.  From my vantage point, I would disagree.  I was given a shot of lidocaine and after a minute he performed the procedure.  Amanda will tell you it looked like he used a screw-type device.  I will tell you it felt, and looks, like I have a paper hole punch on the top of my breast.  He is rushing the lab for results and we should know by Thursday.

His concern... that the cancer has gone into my skin.  He said it is unlikely but there is a possibility that I have developed inflammatory breast cancer.  If this test comes back positive, all surgeries will be stopped and I will begin chemotherapy immediately.  It will be about six months until we could then look at the surgery again.  He has started me on a strong antibiotic and we now will wait and see.  In the meantime, Ali was able to do her first art project of the summer.  Dr. B gave us a special marker and Ali traced the redness with a purple marking pen.  If the redness goes past the lines drawn I am to come in immediately, in other words, it is not good.

The fact that the girls were with me was great.  I told them when we got to the elevator that I was glad that were standing there, holding my hands or I would have absolutely lost it.  Greg, my rock, was calm and he quietly listened when we called to tell him and he said it didn't matter.  The end result is to get the cancer out.  This is just a new and different way that it might have to happen.

So, in this world when we hit a speed bump and have our breathe taken away, when we need to step forward and move again, we can either do it alone, or, have the strength of ones family to take the deep breath and holding hands, step forward together.

Waiting to Exhale

The anxiety has been steadily growing.  I still have not had a good night of sleep.  Whether it is the anxiety or the fact that the darn birds start chirping right outside our window about 4:30 every morning, I am not sure.  Maybe, it's a bit of both.

I can say for sure that it started almost immediately after dropping my parents and aunt off at O'Hare on Memorial Day.  They came in to see Ali graduate on the 25th.  I dropped them off at JetBlue in Terminal 3. Before I made it to Mannheim, the main road outside the airport, the anxiety crept up on me. 

I have been going non-stop since the diagnosis.  Work was busy.  Home life was busy.  We were looking forward to many wonderful activities.  The Senior Mother Daughter Luncheon, family coming in, the Honors Convocation, Ali's graduation, her commencement address, and the family reunion party.  And now, with the extended family gone, it is time for me to concentrate on me, something I have never done well.

I cannot breathe.

I have been trying to keep myself busy and not think about next Monday. I need to get allot of things done before the surgery.  Weeding, laundry, organizing at work and at home.  It was a blessing when a friend came into my office and reminded me that our offices get cleaned in the summer.  She told me that someone else would clear my office but I don't want to burden someone else so I am happily adding one more thing on my to do list. The work keeps me focused on something else.

To top it off, I woke up this morning to find that the mass has changed.  When I feel it, it is hard when it was not that way before.  The tissue on top of the mass is red, like I have a sunburn.  It feels heavier if that is possible.  My armpit area is numb and tingles from time to time.  I am trying, with difficulty, not to lose it.

I have an email in to both my surgeon and his assistant but today is their day to do surgeries so I have not received a response back yet.

So, I wait.

Two New Men In My Life

It is a fact that we will meet many people in our lifetime.  People will come in and out of our lives as we come in and out of others.  Some stay briefly, some for years and some forever.  Some come into our lives and their importance may not realized until it is too late, or we understand immediately that they will have a profound impact on who we are and they will change us forever.

I have two of the latter.  These two new men will forever change who I am.  These two men, both incredible in their respective fields, will change me for the better.  The first one, Dr. B., will help save my life.  The second, Dr. D. will assist in making me feel good about myself as a woman.

Dr. B. is  my surgeon.  He met with Greg and I at Prentice a couple weeks ago.  If you have your mammograms done at Prentice you get out of the elevators on the fourth floor and make a left.  I always wondered what would happen if you made a right and now I know.  It is for people like me.  Cancer patients. 

Dr. D. is my plastic surgeon.  He met with Greg and I a short time after we saw Dr. B.  It is strange to go into the plastic surgery area of a hospital. It would be nice to be there for elective surgery, preferable even.  We were given his last appointment of the day so that he could spend as much time with us as we needed.  Greg said he was sure that it also had to do with the fact that it would be difficult to be sitting with people who were having cosmetic changes made whereas I just wanted to stay the way that I am.

My surgery will be the 11th of June.  I need to be at the hospital at 6 a.m. and my surgery will begin at 7:30.  Dr. B. will be operating on me for the first five hours and then Dr. D. will come in and operate the other five.  I will be in the ICU at Prentice for one to two days and then in the hospital for another four to five days after my surgery.  I will then spend another 7-9 weeks recuperating at home.

It still seems unreal to me that this is happening.  I have lost allot of sleep.  I have grown anxious and there are times that I can hear others around me talking and I am sitting in the middle of the life around me, feeling like I am Scrooge.  My life is going on and I am sitting in it watching from the outside.  The sleeplessness makes me feel numb, and I catch myself, saying to myself, "you have cancer".

Ladybugs are flying!

I came home from work to a wonderful sight today.  Ladybugs!!  Some very special friends delivered some absolutely gorgeous hydrangeas, pink of course,  in wonderful turquoise pots to my front door.  They are complete with a welcome sign with a ladybug and darling metal ladybug yard decorations.  To say I am touched cannot even begin to describe how I feel.

I am always amazed at my neighbors.  We started a book club over eight years ago and we call ourselves, "The Ashland Avenue Ladies Book Club".  We meet the third Monday of every month and discuss our newest selection.   Sometimes the discussion lasts ten minutes, sometimes much more.  Our husbands joke that we should call ourselves the Wine Club.  I must say, we do like our wine. 

This group of amazing women has always inspired me.  We have donated time and meals to assist ill neighbors in and around our block, given funds for flowers to others for loss or celebration.  We have collected children's books to start a members library when they have started a family.  We have moved from one block party a summer to two for the families to spend time together. 

Each woman is unique in their own way and each brings something different to our gatherings.  We have lawyers, nurses, managers, musicians, and mothers with children of all ages; all of whom I call friends. 

So Susan, Maureen, Teresa, Melissa, Annette, Sarah, Gina, Stacey, Mary Hope, Ann, Molly and Collette, I am not sure who did this wonderful thing for me but, you are so giving and generous and I deeply appreciate all the kindnesses you have bestowed on me.  Your wonderful words of encouragement, offerings of meals, mowing of our front lawn and now coming home to such beautiful flowers, my family and I are forever grateful to each of you.


Melissa, just read your note on FB.  You and Gina are forever in my prayers!!!  THANK YOU!!!!

I need to see a ladybug.

There are days that you mark in history and whether you are aware of it at the time, they change you forever. Some we share with a few persons. Some, like September 11, 2001, we share with the entire world.  Some, are just our own.

 

 I was a few months shy of being 13.  I answered the phone to find out that my mother, who had in essence not been living with us for some time, was not doing well.  I say that she wasn't living with us, not because of a separation between my parents but she had been in the City of Hope Hospital in Duarte California for some time.  My mother had cancer.

 

 I remember some things.  I remember driving with my mother and little sister in the car and I remember a big lump, like a golf ball, on my mothers left arm.  That night, when my mom and dad were talking, was the first time I recall hearing the word cancer.   I remember my mom laying on the couch in our front room.  My mother wanted a fruit salad and we were all preoccupied with our own activities to walk to the market around the corner.  A short time later I answered a knock at the door to find Mrs. Butler, a neighbor at the other end of the block, with a bowl of fresh fruit salad for my mother.  I remember my mother starting to cry and quietly say, "He always knows", when I gave it to her.  It took me a long time to understand what she meant.  

 

I remember July 30th, 1977.  I remember sitting on a swing porch in my Aunt Barbara's backyard with my dad and sister.  I recall hearing the words and wondering why God didn't like me.  I prayed the entire night, crying and begging Him, and He didn't listen.  "She's gone", my father repeated to me.   

I don't recall how it started.  Somehow ladybugs became synonymous with my mother and my need to know she was watching over me.  It started years ago and continues to today.   When my girls were little, I don't recall what was going on, but I was having a really bad day.  I had taken the girls to my local grocery store and was feeling anxious, it had been a bad day.   When we got to the cashier at the front of the store, she looked kindly at the girls and asked me if she could give the girls some stickers.  I said sure and the next thing I knew, I was looking at my daughters and found myself smiling.  The cashier had placed ladybug stickers on their foreheads.  

 

I haven't seen a ladybug yet.  I'm waiting.  I know it will bring me comfort, and for me, it will make me know that my mother is taking care of me.

My joy

I thank God every day for two of the most amazing people in my life.  They are my daughters.  As every  mother surely says,my daughters are my pride and my joy.  I am blessed to have these two in my life.  I became a mother and my life changed forever.  

Amanda and Ali, I love you both more than I can say.  You two make me so proud that I am your mother. I am so lucky to have such a wonderful relationship and bond with you both and I am always amazed by each of you and the direction your lives are going.  


I love you, all the way up to the stars and down to the bottom of the ocean.

Sometimes I hate my phone

As a wife and mother, there are several phone calls that you dread.  The call that something has happened to a parent, the call from your teenager that they have been in a car accident, the call from your daughter six hours away in college crying in pain.  I have received all these calls and they are terrifying.  It is in our innate self of being that we worry for the ones that we love.  But, when I got the call, the call that I somehow knew I was going to get, I was calm, cool and collected, ready to hear and understand all the information that was going to start being thrown at me.

It came two days after my biopsy, as promised, from the very resident that performed the biopsy.  I was walking up my front porch and unlocking the door when my cell started to ring.  Ali, my youngest was following close behind.  When I saw the number on the phone I told her that I had to take the call having recognized the number from the day before when the doctor called to check up on me.  

The doctor calmly waited until I got into the house and as I walked in the door I dropped my keys on my desk in the foyer and grabbed a pen and paper.  I walked over to the kitchen table and sat down, perched on a stool waiting to hear the word.  Malignancy.  It really is an  ugly word.

She told me that she doesn't like to call and give bad news, apologizing for what she was about to tell me.  Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, grade 3.  As I was scribbling this down on the paper I realized that Ali was standing behind me, watching me write the three little words that would change her life as well.  She came around and looked at me with tears in her eyes and went upstairs while I finished the call.  Grade 3, not the grade you want.  Not like an A, more like an F.  3 equals aggressive, fast growing.  

I finished the phone call, and I think I thanked her.  Not for the diagnosis, but for the care she displayed with me for the last three days.  She was genuine and nothing she said felt rehearsed and it was comforting in an odd way.

I called Greg.  He was on a bus coming back from visiting with Amanda, our oldest.  She is finishing her sophomore year in nursing at Case Western.  When he answered, the first thing I said was, "I have cancer".  I think hitting him with a baseball bat might have had less of an impact.  Sadly he spent the next 6 1/2 hours by himself, on a bus, contemplating the future of us.

I went upstairs to check on Ali.  Amazing girl that she is, and it probably explains why she is the Valedictorian of her graduating class, she was sitting on her bed doing her math homework and preparing for the upcoming IB exams.  We talked a few minutes and both vowed that there would be nothing kept hidden, even our tears would be open.  

Several  more calls were made.  My parents were waiting nervously.  It was not an easy thing to say, especially to my father.  I couldn't call Amanda until later as she was working at Cleveland Clinic.  I texted her to call me when she had time.

The funny thing about calling Amanda, the future nurse.  She was the only one that I called and gave the medical terminology.  "I have cancer", was what everyone else heard.  "Invasive Ductal Carcinoma" was what I told her.  Her reply, "so you have cancer?"  It sounded so simple when she said it with her sleepy voice.

So yes, sometimes I hate my phone.  Sometimes it is the bearer of bad news and sometimes it makes me give bad news.  That day, April 19th, it was both.

Remember to check "the girls"!

As women, we are taught in the earlier years to always check our breasts for anything out of the ordinary.  What is out of the ordinary?  No one ever tells you that part.   We are all unique, which means that as such, our breasts, "the girls", are unique to us.  Some of us don't feel anything out of the ordinary.  Some women are "lumpy", if you will.

I was one of those that never feels anything.  I was a good girl last year and went for my yearly diagnostic mammogram at Northwestern.  I have the diagnostic type due to my family history and a previous tense moment about three years back. Nothing was found in April 2011.  When I got to Prentice Hospital and checked in I also scheduled my next mammogram for April 20, 2012.  I canceled that appointment three weeks before I was to go.

On Sunday, March 25th, while I was relaxing in a hot bath, I remembered to do my check.  It isn't easy to remember when to do this.  Most women, the women that routinely check themselves, use their cycle to know when to check.  Being as I don't have cycles from a previous hysterectomy [will get into that at another time] it is sometimes difficult to remember to check.  Or, it is being just plain lazy, who knows.

Usually I check like I was taught, and, usually there is nothing to feel.  But not this time.  I felt a bump, quite big really, by my own standards, and I felt a panic inside.  I didn't say anything, just thought it might be due to stress.  By the next afternoon I was calling my gynecologist to get an appointment.  I got an appointment the next afternoon.  While he checked my breast, he asked if this was what I was feeling as he was in the same area I felt the lump.  I checked where his hand was and was surprised that he had to ask.  It is a big lump.  He told me he was not going to worry.  He is a very upfront man who I have been with since Amanda was born.  His wording threw me and I quietly listened as he told me again that he was not going to worry but that I should get it checked out.  He stated that they would probably also do an ultrasound and likely a biopsy.  He thought that it was probably a fibroadenoma. I, of course, asked him to repeat the word three times so that I could google it when I got home.

 I called Prentice that afternoon and scheduled a mammogram for the 10th of April.  The best thing about Prentice, they don't let you leave.  If there is something of concern that needs further looking, you stay and they take care of you right away.  I guess you could say I had several mammograms that day.  I went in for the usual work up.  I was asked to sit back in the waiting room while the radiologist checked the films and then went in for more, and more, and more, and more.  I was then taken for an ultrasound.

After having an ultrasound on both breasts I was left to wait in the room while the test was checked.  A few minutes later the doctor comes in.  She tells me she is now going to do my ultrasound.  This was when I knew something was wrong.  I am sure that it is normal for a doctor to come in once in awhile, but that womans intuition was in the back of my mind and in the pit of my stomach.  She found the lump right away and then proceeded to talk to me and show me the lump, the inside of my body.

She showed me the lump which presented as a large black mass in the ultrasound.  She then showed me the gray matter that was all around the lump and running inside of it.  Then, she used the word disconcerting.  The mass along with the gray matter running around and through it were disconcerting.  Well, if they were to her, they were terrifying to me!

I went back to Prentice for a ultrasonic core biopsy the following Tuesday.  Surprisingly, I was not nervous.  The staff at Prentice is genuinely caring and it helps to alleviate the worry.  I was directed to the room and laid on the cushioned table.  I was wrapped in warm blankets and given plenty of pillows to prop myself up in a way that was both comfortable for me and helpful to them.

The test was surprisingly painless and in about 45 minutes I was done.

Now, came the wait.  I was told that I would get a call the next day, regardless of results being in, to see how I was and then if they were not in, I would get the results the next day.  And, so I waited.