Whoosh. Where did the time go? Already it is January and I'm a month late with an update.
I'll spare the details on our hope for a "less is more" Christmas with the in-laws and say simply that the celebration we had within our family of four was warm and loving. Joe's mom was the missing ingredient to a wonderful holiday; she took a bad fall and spent close to two weeks in the hospital recovering. Nana is back at home and we are trying to provide as much care, in a variety of ways, as we can. There are full-time caregivers and the other family members are all doing their part. The rest will take time.
I am paddling as fast as I can and still unable to pull away from the dock. Really, hold that image for a moment. Now imagine the woman in the canoe, both hands gripping the paddle, a nagging pain growing in her head. Suddenly, CRACK! Poor woman. She manages to float to her dentist who confirms it: the tooth has fractured, there is no saving it. She's swept next door for an immediate extraction. Ahhh! Talk of implants and bridges, sutures and soft foods swirl around and all she really knows is that sometime, months and months from now, instead of the much-needed new fridge, dishwasher and driveway she will get a new tooth. Yes, a measly tooth. Such is my luck. Meanwhile, I'm ever so grateful for a decent dental insurance policy that will pay for half of the procedure, whatever it turns out to be.
Back on the home front, sweet Gracie announced tonight that she no longer wants to be a strict vegetarian. She really missed a few meat items and was it okay if she tried them again? She was delighted when I told her she could be a "flexitarian" like me. Danny heard her proclaim herself with this new label and came to me for clarification. Yes, Danny, there are flexitarians. Perhaps now we'll be able to cook some semblance of meals. And just when the "1,001 Low-Fat Vegetarian Recipes" book I checked out from the library is so overdue they're going to make us buy it.
Am finally hopeful that the latest combination of glove/sleeve might be a winner. We are going to try a Class I sleeve instead of the current Class II and it might reduce the hand swelling. It's only taken two years to get it right!
Looks like it is close to 3:00 am and I need to toss myself into bed. That's it for a long overdue post.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Friday, December 19, 2008
Mission Free
Okay, forget what I said about loving that mission project. After a few hours wielding a hot glue gun and tending to the emotional needs of a stressed out 9-year-old with a project deadline looming over her head I'm ready for some serious fun. Why did I stop drinking? That's right, too much fun. Good thing I saw the light at 26.
This week saw a 6-hour field trip to a nearby mission complete with foot-stomping-in-a-mud-pit to make adobe bricks (brrrrr!); several major tests; two class parties and a class trip to an ice rink; regular class assignments. AND THE DUE DATE OF THE MISSION REPORT! Pity the poor parents who have a few fingers in school activities, prepare for Christmas holidays and try to breathe at the same time. How many days left until Christmas, anyway?
Danny has been listening to a CD called "The Sleep Fairy" at bedtime. I just heard the opening words. "Hi, Sweetie, it's me, the Sleep Fairy." Someday years from now I'm gonna try the phrase on him and see if he konks out.
This week saw a 6-hour field trip to a nearby mission complete with foot-stomping-in-a-mud-pit to make adobe bricks (brrrrr!); several major tests; two class parties and a class trip to an ice rink; regular class assignments. AND THE DUE DATE OF THE MISSION REPORT! Pity the poor parents who have a few fingers in school activities, prepare for Christmas holidays and try to breathe at the same time. How many days left until Christmas, anyway?
Danny has been listening to a CD called "The Sleep Fairy" at bedtime. I just heard the opening words. "Hi, Sweetie, it's me, the Sleep Fairy." Someday years from now I'm gonna try the phrase on him and see if he konks out.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Nothing Wrong with my Brain
According to the MRI, there is nothing wrong with my brain. Wonderful news that is, isn't it?
After Christmas I will head on down the specialist trail to learn the cause of the headaches, cognitive goofiness, balance problems. Anyone dealt with thyroid issues after breast cancer treatment? An endocrinologist may hold the answer.
I'm giving myself the gift of No Worries for Christmas. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go wrap your present. (Hint: I tend to give what I like receiving.)
Love,
Hedgie
After Christmas I will head on down the specialist trail to learn the cause of the headaches, cognitive goofiness, balance problems. Anyone dealt with thyroid issues after breast cancer treatment? An endocrinologist may hold the answer.
I'm giving myself the gift of No Worries for Christmas. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go wrap your present. (Hint: I tend to give what I like receiving.)
Love,
Hedgie
Painting the Mission
In some weird moment of teaching wisdom it was decided that scheduling the Big Mission Project of Fourth Grade should occur the uber hectic week before Christmas break. We're on top of it, of course. The model is glued and awaiting paint and things; the almost-final draft has been typed and just needs a final check, the bibliography and TOC; cover page art is percolating in the 9-year-old girl's brain. Hey, it's only Wednesday morning. We have hours to go.
Last night I encouraged Gracie to go on to bed and let me give the foam model a little "wash" of adobe-colored paint. Maybe a test of trim color. Nothing too much, there'd be plenty for her to do. She agreed, perhaps a bit reluctantly. At last, this homework supervision aspect of parenthood is paying dividends. I kept my involvement to a primer coat of custom, creamy brick tempera with darker tan edging on the window and door trims to reflect aging. Added a chocolate brown running strip below the roofline. Will wait to consult with Grace on the roof color.
Umm, really, I held back. She gets off today at 12:30 and we'll work together then. The bells need to be affixed, nests built and swallows attached, cemetery fence painted, grass and trees landscaped, farm critters arranged...
Two hours, thirty minutes and counting. I will not go near the paint, glue or supplies. Need a hobby, need a hobby, need a hobby...
Last night I encouraged Gracie to go on to bed and let me give the foam model a little "wash" of adobe-colored paint. Maybe a test of trim color. Nothing too much, there'd be plenty for her to do. She agreed, perhaps a bit reluctantly. At last, this homework supervision aspect of parenthood is paying dividends. I kept my involvement to a primer coat of custom, creamy brick tempera with darker tan edging on the window and door trims to reflect aging. Added a chocolate brown running strip below the roofline. Will wait to consult with Grace on the roof color.
Umm, really, I held back. She gets off today at 12:30 and we'll work together then. The bells need to be affixed, nests built and swallows attached, cemetery fence painted, grass and trees landscaped, farm critters arranged...
Two hours, thirty minutes and counting. I will not go near the paint, glue or supplies. Need a hobby, need a hobby, need a hobby...
Friday, December 5, 2008
Life is (almost) a Dog Park
I used to think life was a playground. You know, there were bullies in pinstripes and ball hogs in pumps. In a corner would be the fair play buddies, the sunshine sisters smiling in all weather, the go go guys running their sweat-dripping games. No more. Now I really believe life should be a dog park.
We spend 6 or 7 hours a week at a nearby dog park with Puppy Face, "we" being me, son and daughter and Puppy Face being the year old Roscoe, half German Short Hair Pointer and half French Bulldog. People watching has nothing on dog watching. The subtleties of the canine social gathering is an intricate weave: the give and take, nip and bump, bark and growl, tug and push. Roscoe is a regular in the 4-6 pm bunch. He's the happy guy, a runner who delights in being the fastest. He's sleek and beautiful to watch when he races against another sprinter, or glances over his shoulder to see the pack chasing him. A pitbull owner described Roscoe as an undercover bulldog, since he looks mostly pointer but will growl when his boundaries are being encroached. Confident, not arrogant. He never tires and rarely wants to head home. I scoop his 40 pound body up and walk him out, with him riding my hip and mouthing his squishy ball like a pacifier.
The dog park has all kinds. Jake is the shepherd mix who has been known to start fights. He's come a long way, I heard, thanks to the work his owner devoted to him. Roscoe outran Jake's nips and learned quickly to neutralize his aggressive body language; a week ago I saw Roscoe try to get Jake to play tug.
Duke, a 70 pound Rottie a few months younger than Roscoe, is one of his best friends. They greet each other with face licks. Before Roscoe developed a great affection for the squishy ball (he carries it continuously at the park) he used to play tug with Duke. A piece of rope would work, and often Roscoe would be the one to offer an end to Duke. Despite their mismatched sizes, Roscoe held his own; he's 40 pounds of solid bulldog MUSCLE. The complete delight of two dogs testing their strength against each other compels humans to stand still, watch and smile.
Yesterday a new bloodhound showed up. Lucy is a referee. Whenever another dog became a little too pushy or crossed some canine line in the sand she would let loose with a string of deep baying reprimands. Lucy approached the offending dog while talking, loudly; even Jake backed down with a slightly irritated look on his face. Lucy was either irreproachable in her reasoning or simply too annoying to argue with on the matter.
Honesty is a common language in the dog park. A dog might not like another dog; they will communicate that in various ways, in varying degrees, and if they can't avoid each other or resolve the problem they'll escalate it until it is resolved. Few dogs carry around hurt feelings or nurse grudges for long. Not at the dog park. Take me to the dog park.
Will the other dogs play with me, I wonder?
We spend 6 or 7 hours a week at a nearby dog park with Puppy Face, "we" being me, son and daughter and Puppy Face being the year old Roscoe, half German Short Hair Pointer and half French Bulldog. People watching has nothing on dog watching. The subtleties of the canine social gathering is an intricate weave: the give and take, nip and bump, bark and growl, tug and push. Roscoe is a regular in the 4-6 pm bunch. He's the happy guy, a runner who delights in being the fastest. He's sleek and beautiful to watch when he races against another sprinter, or glances over his shoulder to see the pack chasing him. A pitbull owner described Roscoe as an undercover bulldog, since he looks mostly pointer but will growl when his boundaries are being encroached. Confident, not arrogant. He never tires and rarely wants to head home. I scoop his 40 pound body up and walk him out, with him riding my hip and mouthing his squishy ball like a pacifier.
The dog park has all kinds. Jake is the shepherd mix who has been known to start fights. He's come a long way, I heard, thanks to the work his owner devoted to him. Roscoe outran Jake's nips and learned quickly to neutralize his aggressive body language; a week ago I saw Roscoe try to get Jake to play tug.
Duke, a 70 pound Rottie a few months younger than Roscoe, is one of his best friends. They greet each other with face licks. Before Roscoe developed a great affection for the squishy ball (he carries it continuously at the park) he used to play tug with Duke. A piece of rope would work, and often Roscoe would be the one to offer an end to Duke. Despite their mismatched sizes, Roscoe held his own; he's 40 pounds of solid bulldog MUSCLE. The complete delight of two dogs testing their strength against each other compels humans to stand still, watch and smile.
Yesterday a new bloodhound showed up. Lucy is a referee. Whenever another dog became a little too pushy or crossed some canine line in the sand she would let loose with a string of deep baying reprimands. Lucy approached the offending dog while talking, loudly; even Jake backed down with a slightly irritated look on his face. Lucy was either irreproachable in her reasoning or simply too annoying to argue with on the matter.
Honesty is a common language in the dog park. A dog might not like another dog; they will communicate that in various ways, in varying degrees, and if they can't avoid each other or resolve the problem they'll escalate it until it is resolved. Few dogs carry around hurt feelings or nurse grudges for long. Not at the dog park. Take me to the dog park.
Will the other dogs play with me, I wonder?
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Happy Birthday, Mom
November 26, 2008. Today is my mother's birthday. The day is a marker now, as another year has passed without her at the other end of the phone, her melodic voice dancing across the wire.
Our voices are the same. As a teen it was funny how many of her friends launched into phone conversations with me before my giggle alerted them to the fact that they had the daughter, not the woman. Now when I want to hear her voice I can comfort myself by talking, using her cadence, phrases and sighs. What I can't do is replicate her singing voice. Standing next to her at Mass I would feel warmth flow down through my body as I listened to that voice resonating with deep timbre. When a song ended I would look up at her and silently wish, "Please don't stop." Maybe I continued attending Mass to hear her voice; I know that the chords of certain hymns will bring me to tears. Somewhere, imprinted in my heart, she's singing to me.
Mom was only 67 when she died. The cancer was diagnosed mere months after my dad died — from cancer — and she went from a relatively good prognosis at Stage I to spine and brain mets within two years. When I discovered that I, too, had breast cancer I was not surprised. Her father had been diagnosed with breast cancer and later died from prostate cancer. It was a matter of when, not if my turn would come. I did think I'd have more time, though.
By some weird coincidence today is also the day I went to the oncologist to talk about several falls I've had and can't really explain away. Back pain, aching ribs. Headaches when I rarely get them. It's the first time I've gone to the oncologist out of fear. Agent of Doom #2 says he doesn't think the symptoms are cancer-related but he wants to reassure me and in oncology that's with a brain MRI. The date for that test happens to be the day before the anniversary of my mom's passing. Symmetry. I find comfort in that.
Only twelve years ago I was holding her hand, telling her in the voice we shared to go, to find peace, hoping she could hear me through the morphine haze. My brother had finally fallen asleep in the hospice bed a few feet away, and my sister had just gone into the bathroom when the labored breathing stopped. While I waited for her to take another breath I held my own. How could she bear any more? Yet I wanted her to open her eyes and be my mom again. I remember the mix of raw emotions flooding through me as I realized my mother had taken her last breath in my presence. By the time I told my brother and sister what had happened I felt the whirl of grief being replaced with sweetness and calm, like the sound of her voice on Sunday morning.
You went first, Mom, and I learned a few things about advocating for the patient. Now the patient is me and I'm doing my best to get the right care, the right tests, the right docs. Thank you for taking some of the fear away.
Love to you, always.
Hedgie
Our voices are the same. As a teen it was funny how many of her friends launched into phone conversations with me before my giggle alerted them to the fact that they had the daughter, not the woman. Now when I want to hear her voice I can comfort myself by talking, using her cadence, phrases and sighs. What I can't do is replicate her singing voice. Standing next to her at Mass I would feel warmth flow down through my body as I listened to that voice resonating with deep timbre. When a song ended I would look up at her and silently wish, "Please don't stop." Maybe I continued attending Mass to hear her voice; I know that the chords of certain hymns will bring me to tears. Somewhere, imprinted in my heart, she's singing to me.
Mom was only 67 when she died. The cancer was diagnosed mere months after my dad died — from cancer — and she went from a relatively good prognosis at Stage I to spine and brain mets within two years. When I discovered that I, too, had breast cancer I was not surprised. Her father had been diagnosed with breast cancer and later died from prostate cancer. It was a matter of when, not if my turn would come. I did think I'd have more time, though.
By some weird coincidence today is also the day I went to the oncologist to talk about several falls I've had and can't really explain away. Back pain, aching ribs. Headaches when I rarely get them. It's the first time I've gone to the oncologist out of fear. Agent of Doom #2 says he doesn't think the symptoms are cancer-related but he wants to reassure me and in oncology that's with a brain MRI. The date for that test happens to be the day before the anniversary of my mom's passing. Symmetry. I find comfort in that.
Only twelve years ago I was holding her hand, telling her in the voice we shared to go, to find peace, hoping she could hear me through the morphine haze. My brother had finally fallen asleep in the hospice bed a few feet away, and my sister had just gone into the bathroom when the labored breathing stopped. While I waited for her to take another breath I held my own. How could she bear any more? Yet I wanted her to open her eyes and be my mom again. I remember the mix of raw emotions flooding through me as I realized my mother had taken her last breath in my presence. By the time I told my brother and sister what had happened I felt the whirl of grief being replaced with sweetness and calm, like the sound of her voice on Sunday morning.
You went first, Mom, and I learned a few things about advocating for the patient. Now the patient is me and I'm doing my best to get the right care, the right tests, the right docs. Thank you for taking some of the fear away.
Love to you, always.
Hedgie
Sunday, October 19, 2008
One More Dip into the O.R. Pool
All is well in post-surgery land. I've learned my lesson and will not take any body-altering procedure lightly in the future. Maybe now I care because for the first time since knowing I would lose my breasts I feel that I've reclaimed me. Yeah, I have those funny scars, numbness here and there, scar tissue too. But I am soft and it is all me. Everything, scars included, is me. I would like to make them look "real" because they are very real to me.
Onward we march to the next oncology visit... in six months. I visited Dr. A last week, without crying, and graduated to the new six month regimen. Doc did not give me grief about my having stopped Arimidex and all endocrine therapies. I asked if he thought I was being foolish and he said no, he thought I recognized and accepted the risk just as any ball player accepts the risks of the game. (Not sure I quite got the analogy there but hey, beats being dismissed as a whacko.) He did say he had never seen me look better and that I was obviously at peace with my decision. Dr. A even apologized for the tough time I had working with the doctors there and he hoped they would do a better job of supporting me in the future. Although, when I discussed the changes I had been making in place of the Arimidex, aka "my program" he didn't really add anything. This occurred to me this morning as I was taking a shower. I do some of my best "ohmygod" thinking under warm water sprays. Dr. S in San Francisco, a previous consult, mentioned that if I couldn't tolerate the AIs he'd recommend a program to replace endocrine therapy. Adding "phone Dr. S for that plan" to my weekly call list.
What am I missing? That's been my private nag since childhood when I spent more time in the world of the book I was holding than in the world I was living in. Of course these days it feels like the stakes are pretty high. Instead of having to take some unnecessary science classes in college because I didn't realize I had "clepped" out of the requirement I might actually die a little sooner because I'm not pursuing the right treatment, or seeing the best docs.
One day very soon this blog will be cancer-free, all the time. Really. Most of my life is lived beyond the diagnosis. This little corner of cyberspace is the last place where I can dump the cancer crap and walk away.
Next post, see Hedgie laugh.
Onward we march to the next oncology visit... in six months. I visited Dr. A last week, without crying, and graduated to the new six month regimen. Doc did not give me grief about my having stopped Arimidex and all endocrine therapies. I asked if he thought I was being foolish and he said no, he thought I recognized and accepted the risk just as any ball player accepts the risks of the game. (Not sure I quite got the analogy there but hey, beats being dismissed as a whacko.) He did say he had never seen me look better and that I was obviously at peace with my decision. Dr. A even apologized for the tough time I had working with the doctors there and he hoped they would do a better job of supporting me in the future. Although, when I discussed the changes I had been making in place of the Arimidex, aka "my program" he didn't really add anything. This occurred to me this morning as I was taking a shower. I do some of my best "ohmygod" thinking under warm water sprays. Dr. S in San Francisco, a previous consult, mentioned that if I couldn't tolerate the AIs he'd recommend a program to replace endocrine therapy. Adding "phone Dr. S for that plan" to my weekly call list.
What am I missing? That's been my private nag since childhood when I spent more time in the world of the book I was holding than in the world I was living in. Of course these days it feels like the stakes are pretty high. Instead of having to take some unnecessary science classes in college because I didn't realize I had "clepped" out of the requirement I might actually die a little sooner because I'm not pursuing the right treatment, or seeing the best docs.
One day very soon this blog will be cancer-free, all the time. Really. Most of my life is lived beyond the diagnosis. This little corner of cyberspace is the last place where I can dump the cancer crap and walk away.
Next post, see Hedgie laugh.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Back to Bed, Hedgie
Tuesday was Drain Removal Day. At least, I wanted it so much that I maybe fudged the truth a bit about my output in order to squeak under the "removal maximum" number. Children, never lie to your plastic surgeon. No one suffers but you.
Seromas happen when fluid fills a vacuum inside the body. It is a serious side effect of surgical procedures. Drains prevent seromas by letting the natural draining of blood and really gross liquid and not-so-liquid matter take the fast track outta Dodge. Taking out drains too early means all that fluid pools up somewhere. See where I'm going with this? Even my lovely, biker-type Spanx, the 24-hour-designer-wear prescribed by plastic surgeons following tummy surgeries, couldn't squash the buildup. A solid mass starting poofing out my belly yesterday. Remedy? More NOTHING! Check-in with PS tomorrow, then a real visit on Monday to make sure I haven't done more damage to his work I suppose. Meanwhile I'm trying to get in to the acupuncturist for her help on getting things flowing.
I do believe that the name "Spanx" should be changed to something more descriptive of the product's effect on one's body. So far I've come up with "Sausagettes" and "Poof-a-Roos."
Test Your BC Knowledge and Donate a Buck to Komen
Here's a simple way to contribute a dollar to the cause. You can even do so in honor of someone you love. Mine went to my mom, who lost her life to breast cancer but not her spirit on December 12, 1996. See Purina Cat Chow Pink and do some good.
And last, but not least, that photo way up there is of Roscoe, our crazy Puppy Brain. At last count he's eaten or nibbled on a pair of scissors, the antennae to our cordless phone, rocks, homework folders, a slow-moving squirrel, library books, the back seat of the minivan, pencils and pens galore, several tennis balls, Lego pieces and Finn, a recently deceased goldfish buried under a potted plant. (Please don't tell the kids about Finn.) I'm sure there's more. We should have his stomach x-rayed but really, what's the point?
P.S. See the little "Followers of..." box on the left hand side of this page? I have a follower! You, too, can have your name listed there. Yes, all you devoted Hedgie readers. Oh, you're shy, are you? Well, just send me a note then. It'd be nice to hear from those of you who stop by, read my nattering and run off without a word.
Love to you,
Hedgie
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