Cancer: It sucks! I think I have a hat that says that.
Yes, I do have a hat that says, “Cancer sucks;” it’s in the bag with all of the other cancer hats in my closet. I really try not to dwell on cancer, though it does come up often. I can’t get past my own cancer even though I started my tour with it in February, 2007. I was at one of my happiest life moments when I discovered the (large) lump in my breast. That tends to make you afraid to ever feel truly happy again, lest you should find another lump somewhere. I know that perhaps demonstrates a belief in Karma or fatalism or a lack of belief in God; but it’s not planned and thought-out…it just is. As Laura would say, “It is what it is.” She’d probably also say, “Get over it.” I can’t get past the experiences of people I know: friend’s husband (brain cancer, seven months to die), friend’s daughter (breast cancer; drug induced menopause due to cancer/hormone connection), another’s husband (brain cancer, died quickly), teacher’s oral cancer (She’s tough; she’ll beat it), teacher’s 15-year old daughter (Ana Plastic Largecell Non Hotchkins Lymphoma; that’s just not right!), recently, my neighbor who had a stroke and was discovered to have a couple of tumors in her brain and one or two in her chest; and just last night one of my adult students said he was going to withdraw from the course and re-register in the fall because his mother is going through treatments for breast cancer. Surely, there is something environmental. What the f… is it? Are the researchers looking at environmental issues? As a senior citizen, I know life was not always what it is today. Everything we eat is so full of preservatives. Ever looked at an expiration date on a can of soup? It’s good for like forever. What goes into that soup to make it good forever? Is it the deodorant you wear? The lotion? The perfume? Maybe it’s the soap you use. The hair products? Maybe it’s in your clothes or in your car. Maybe it’s in the products that get made in Vietnam, made in China, made in Timbuktu, etc. Some think it’s in our phones…all the wireless stuff and so on. Hopefully, researchers are close to finding the all-important link. Until then, no one is safe; that’s clear from the list above. Each person was going through life, enjoying whatever it was they were enjoying. Mostly, out of nowhere came cancer. A long time ago I wrote about life spinning on a dime. Oh, yeah, that’s true for sure. I’m not complaining; as far as I know I’m all right; and I’m extremely grateful for that. Others are not all right; whether they have/had the cancer themselves or not, their lives are irrevocably changed forever by the experience.

Aye, Aye, Matey! The Port Has Sailed!
O.K., The port has been removed, and it wasn’t all that bad. I registered at the hospital the day before. I had been told that my appointment was at 8:00 for the next day. Awhile after leaving the hospital, I received a phone message confirming my 8:00 appointment with a 7:00 arrival. Oh, well, what’s one hour earlier? One less hour to be up without food or coffee so there’s a bright side. Krista drove me to the hospital, and Kathi met us there. We signed in at Radiology and then went to the main waiting room. They called me in shortly. I asked my escort if anyone ever ended up in another department (like Intensive Care) from having this procedure. She assured me that this would be very easy. Problem was she thought I was having a port placement. When I said it was a port removal, she said it would be even easier. The next lady showed me my assigned bed, took out a drawstring bag and had me spell my last name as she wrote it on the bag. She led me to a large restroom (this was all very familiar, been there, done that), gave me a pair of hospital socks with the ribbing on the bottom and a johnny shirt, and told me to take everything off, put my clothes in the bag, and put those on. I mentioned that they were going to be working on my arm. She reiterated to take everything off. I said, “You really want me to remove my underwear? You know they’re working on my arm?” She replied in the affirmative and said that I would be spending one hour in the Recovery Room following the procedure and should I need to use a bed pan, it would be hard for someone else to operate my underwear. I had not worn a bra anyway, and I wasn’t planning on using a bed pan so I kept the rest of my underwear on. I went out to my assigned bed. She took my vitals, wrote them on the sheet, said the bag with my belongings would be under the bed, and left. The next nurse came by. When she noted that my blood pressure was one-hundred-ninety-something over 102, she said we might not be doing this today. Fine by me, get the bag out from under the bed; and if I leave, I’m not coming back. No, I didn’t say those words out loud; but I certainly thought them loud. The nurse said she would call the doctor and see what he had to say. Someone had come by and placed a blanket on my bed. I ignored it. I am woman! Hear me roar! I don’t need a damn blanket. She called the doctor who said to start me on an IV with medication to lower the blood pressure, and the plan for removal was still in place. Another nurse came by. Someone put the blanket over me, and it was Heaven, nice and warm. What was I thinking to ignore this luxury of a heated blanket? As I continued to ask the first nurse questions, the second one directed my attention to her as she said she would be going into the procedure with me. I said she was my new best friend. I told her I was a big baby and very scared and nervous. She might have guessed that, given the blood pressure reading. She said she would give me something when we got inside. Now, she truly was my newest bestest friend ever. Here we go, rolling bed to the cubby I remember where they take care of ports. The technician in that room was all about business. Good cop, bad cop. I liked the other one who brought me down there better. They asked me to slide over onto the table. You know that table is about six inches wide; I wasn’t sure where the rest of me was supposed to go. I asked if I would have to lie completely flat as I was on the table. Bad cop said they would put a pillow under my knees so I could bend them. Good cop immediately slid a pillow under my head. Good cop said I’ll give you something now. Love her. The other one, all about business, was on the other side, preparing my arm. Good cop asked if I was feeling anything yet. When I responded no, she said she’d give me more. Love her more. After awhile, I became aware of bad cop working on my arm. It didn’t hurt (that’s what everyone had told me), but I certainly knew someone was doing something to my arm, like pulling on that area. Finally, we were done; and I was rolling to Recovery. It was mostly uninteresting there. The guy next to me (thankfully, I couldn’t see him) said he had to pee. They handed him something and said he’d have to use that or the bed pan. Fortunately, I didn’t need to, so after an hour I was getting dressed and ready to go. Krista and Kathi met me, and we went out to the car. In no time, we were eating a glorious breakfast at Hash House a go go. The paper they gave me at the hospital said to: follow all directions, if bathing the next day to cover the bandage so it wouldn’t get wet, and to take the bandage off the day after that. Two days later the bruising was extending from where the port had been (midway between my underarm and my elbow) all the way down to the crease opposite my elbow. I called the hospital. I got Good Cop on the phone. I could tell it was her because she had a recognizable accent. She asked if I had any pain? No. Any fever? No. Any swelling? No. Then, not to worry. I kept it covered with a band-aid for way longer than need be because I didn’t want to look at it. I don’t feel any different. I don’t feel as if it was a milestone in my cancer career. I just feel that the cardiologist scared me about having a foreign body in my arm; and now it’s gone, and that’s one less worry. Honestly, it’s hard to believe that all of this started for me in February, 2007; and here it is three years later. Upcoming is a mammogram and a visit with the oncologist. Hope all things medical continue to be uneventful. So, anyone with a port, don’t be a big baby like me. Talk to your oncologist, and do what he recommends; and know that it’s a piece of cake to walk in the park.

Best Words I’ve Ever Heard…

I love you with all of my heart. Till death do us part. In sickness and in health. I will. I do. You’re the love of my life. Grow old along with me; the best is yet to be. Will you marry me? It’s a girl; she’s perfect. It’s a boy; he’s perfect. Ten fingers and ten toes. There’s another baby in there. The surgery went fine. The results of the tests were good. Yours is the winning lottery ticket. Hello, we’re from Publisher’s Clearing House! You’re being promoted. You’re getting a raise. Found your keys. Found your wallet. Found your purse. You came in first place. You’re receiving the Most Valuable Player award. You’re in the pageant. You’re the soloist. You won the lead. Your manuscript has been accepted for publication. Yeah, Baby! Heard some of these? I’ve heard a few. Make you smile? Make you feel good? Me, too, but none of those top the best words I’ve ever heard as of last fall. Straight from my oncologist (I love Dr. Manno): “You’re doing great.” It just doesn’t get any better than that! Since that time, there has been sad news at school as a teacher’s husband died from brain cancer within a very short time of being diagnosed. Now, another teacher has been diagnosed with cancer. One thing we know for sure; cancer is an equal opportunity employer (attacker). Most of the time, I feel lucky and blessed that I got off as easy as I did. If you’ve read any of this before, you know I didn’t think it was easy at the time. You never really get beyond cancer. Well, probably some people do, but I’m not one of them. Now, I’m facing up to having the port removed. I’m scared. I’m scared of hospitals. I scared of procedures. I’ve asked about the situation in that I’ve had a broken collarbone in between the port and my heart, but the oncology nurse and Kathi’s friend, who is a P.A., both said if that was going to be a problem, it would have been one a long time ago. O.K., that’s good. The nurse and Donna both told me that I’ll be awake through the whole thing; that’s not happy. They will watch a heart monitor to make sure my heart doesn’t go crazy when they start pulling the tubing out. Great! Then they will continue to watch to make sure I’m good to go. Simple. Fifteen minutes. I don’t believe in elective surgery. Sounds like an oxymoron to me. So, I always think the worst…glass half empty, hexes, bad karma, etc. I need Krista to go with me. She saw me through so many other situations in which I was a big baby, I think she’s the woman for the job. I hope Kathi comes, too. If anything goes wrong, Krista’s going to need her. Here I go again…strike that hex. I had to choose the day carefully. I can’t do it on the 12th because my mother died on the 12th in 1997. I can’t do it on the 13th because that’s just plain unlucky; triskaidekaphobia folks get that. Then the 15th is my mother’s birthday, can’t do it then…so the 14th is what it is. The procedure to insert the port was a walk in the park, a piece of cake. I hope I’ll be walking in the park and eating a piece of cake after the 14th. If all goes well, I’ll report back so that other cancer survivors won’t be scared like me to have their ports removed. It if doesn’t go well, then someone else can walk in the park while eating a piece of cake.

I went for a regular visit to the cardiologist, who has never received any awards for bedside manner. My blood pressure was sky-high on my leg so he took it with a cuff on my right wrist. It was better but still high. When I explained about the blood pressure on the leg…lymph nodes removed on one side, port on the other, he asked what I was using the port for. I said not for anything at the moment, but having had cancer, you never know when you might need it again. I said I had planned to ask him what he thought about leaving it in. He said, “Well, it could be a problem, if you got an infection. It is a foreign body in your arm.” He added, “It could be a problem if a blood clot went from it to your chest.” Needless to say, that was very helpful information, scary, too. A couple of weeks later when I went to the Cancer Institute for a port irrigation (flush), I asked the nurse her opinion. She said that whatever you do, anything is a risk. Now, that’s my point. Isn’t it a risk for another surgical procedure? My oncologist never made it sound risky to leave the port in. I asked the nurse what most people do. She said that people usually have them removed about six months after the end of treatment. It’s been nine for me. Then I did recall that when I had a broken collarbone, the P.A.’s first action was to send me to the hospital for an ultrasound to make sure I didn’t have a blood clot. I have been looking forward to my next appointment with my oncologist to once again ask his opinion. I think I’ll have the port removed, but it will be scary to undergo another procedure. Hopefully, it will be preferable to a blood clot in my chest. The cardiologist said to check back with him after I’ve seen the other doctor, to send him copies of any test results, and then schedule a heart echo. He also mentioned a stress test. I’ve already failed that once, and it caused me to have an angiogram. Quite sure I still can’t pass a stress test, don’t even want to try.

Déjà vu; nothing new under the sun; what goes around, comes around; the more things change, the more they stay the same…Joe is back…A couple of weeks ago he had a seizure…strange first time event for a man his age. Anyway, it seemed the right thing to do to let him come here. He was already looking for a different place to live, other than with our oldest son and his family. He was coming from looking at a place when he had the seizure, seemingly at a red light. A bicyclist came by and called 911. Susan took care of everything. It was quite the timing for my life because it was my last night of summer school after teaching daily back-to-back classes for five weeks following working all day as an assistant principal. He had all the necessary medical tests and was released from the hospital on a Friday. I guess we will work at getting along. (Teresa, note I didn’t say try to get along, or I’m just saying). Since he’s on seizure medication, he can’t drink; and so far he hasn’t. Of course, he’s not supposed to drive either, but that’s another story. He hasn’t yet been to a neurologist, so it will be interesting to see what an expert says about the results of all the tests. Since I started this, he’s been to the neurologist who had nothing of value to add to the puzzle. He said Joe might have had a trans something or other instead of a seizure. The doctor told him to taper off the seizure medication so now he’s back to normal with CB. Anyway, he’s with me; and things are okay. What to do with the only man you ever loved, and you met him when you were 18 years old. It seems right that we should be together. So far, he’s been very helpful. He is his normal self, with the same short-term memory. I’m assuming that’s allowed when you’re 73. I told him if he had wanted to come back, he could have just asked instead of going to all that trouble with EMTs, hospital stay, myriad of tests, and doctor visits. Maybe I would have responded in the affirmative anyway.

Teresa has inspired me! In her latest blog entry she has promised to blog once a week. So, I’m inspired and here goes…I’m boring! Thanks be to God! I love being boring. Nothing broken, no treatments for anything…Boring! If only this could continue. By the way, I loved Teresa’s next-to-last blog entry with that scary baby. I’ve heard about Twitter, too. I’m not going there. I recently tried Face Book; and once I signed up, there were so many questions to set up a profile I gave up. J.J.’s been spending time with me, and there are always a couple of great stories to tell about him…reminds me of his Uncle John…now there are the stories! Along with J.J.’s other talents (reading, math, sports), he’s also into chess. Two Saturday nights when he was spending the night with me, he wanted to go to Chess Club. Both nights he got a first place trophy. I said Saturday must be his lucky night, because he often plays on Friday night; but he gave the credit to me. He said it must be that Grandma’s good luck. I’ll happily take the credit. His latest interest at my house is playing Yahtzee. I taught him to play, and the first Yahtzee he ever got was with ones. So every time he rolls a couple of ones, he goes for ones. I know he thinks he’s going to get another Yahtzee. Actually, a Yahtzee strategy is to never go for ones and hold it open if you have to take a zero. His other favorite thing to do is roll for an inside straight. He’ll look at a two, two, four, four, and five roll and decide to roll for a three for a small straight. I don’t even bother to tell him anymore that that’s not a great strategy, because without fail, he rolls the three. If I have four of a kind and go for a Yahtzee, right before I dump the dice out, he says, “Yahtzee!” I know that’s his version of what his father would call a hex. J.J. knows it, and I know it. He’s a real riot! Being a grandmother is a great thing. He just gets undivided attention with me. I don’t have to do laundry, clean the house, Heaven forbid cook anything so I can basically play Yahtzee all day. I had a successful, no problems mammogram; that was good. I originally started this blog because of cancer. Right now, being boring and all, I don’t have a lot to say about cancer; and that’s why I don’t blog that often. I do go to the Cancer Institute every few weeks and have my port flushed, which by the way, I’m going to change that terminology to port irrigated. That sounds much better. I am so disappointed though. In March when I went, Mona (you know who was once my least favorite oncology nurse and became my favorite) wasn’t there; they said she took the day off for her birthday. This week when I went, Mona was gone…like resigned and gone. I can’t believe it. The next day I went to have my taxes done, and the lady who’s been doing them for years had died. At least when I called for my appointment, and they said Pam wasn’t there anymore, they could have explained that Pam really wasn’t there anymore. I feel as if I lost two friends. O.K., a little about cancer…well, really about the port. Some people can’t wait to have the port removed. I believe some people think of it as a celebration…cancer’s gone, check; port’s gone; check, check; cancer must really be gone. Then there are people who don’t want to have the port removed. That would be me. I don’t believe elective surgery is a phrase I want in my vocabulary. I don’t want another surgical procedure. Do you think that deeply and darkly I really think that I might again need the port someday and I don’t want to have one removed only to have another implanted. That’s a question I ask myself probably every time I drive the 20 miles for the port irrigation. I don’t know the answer. I do remember that at my last visit with Dr. Manno, he said if you make it through two years, the likelihood of cancer returning goes down. What I hope to clarify with him the next time I see him is…two years from when…the surgery? the first chemo? the last chemo? We’ll see what his answer is. Oh, I forgot the most important thing. Today I went blonde! Ever since my hair started growing back in a year and a half ago, I’ve been grey/white, whatever; but today I’m blonde again. I hope my hair doesn’t fall out, but what the heck, been there, done that! I still have wigs and a great collection of hats!

I took off from work the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. I had planned to take Monday as well but offered to trade it for the Monday after Thanksgiving because the principal was going to be out of the building. On Tuesday, I got going early and while in the car decided to take my car to a dealership to have a service done. On the phone a few days earlier the girl had said there was no appointment necessary, and it would take about 45 minutes. That was so beyond the truth. She said to just say I wanted “maintenance,” and they would know that I meant a routine service for a reasonable price. Several times that morning, I asked myself why I did this today, what was I thinking, nothing is ever as easy it sounds. It’s a long story about the rep trying to talk me into a six hundred dollar service, spending so long there I finally walked to a Wendy’s for lunch, and ending with needing a 500 dollar brake job. From there, I went to the grocery store to get stuff Teresa and Elliott like. Then I went home and finished preparations for my 7:00 university class. After class I got home just in time to grab something to eat and then go to the airport to pick up the Goodwins. When we got home, we just sat and talked for awhile and eventually went to bed. I read for awhile, getting into the Twilight series. When I decided to go to sleep, I remember feeling a cramp coming on in one leg, and, worse yet, a Charlie Horse in the other. I thought, I have to stand up; that’s the only way to make this go away. I don’t know what happened after that. A couple of hours later I was standing in my bedroom in horrible pain and going to get Teresa up. The horrifying pain was between my right shoulder and neck. We both eventually fell asleep on couches in the living room. The next morning I called the Cancer Institute, and they granted me an appointment. I could get in the car, but I couldn’t do the seatbelt; and there’s no way I could have driven. In hindsight, always easy, I should have gone to my primary provider or at least an Emergency Room. The PA at the Institute decided there was something wrong with my port, which is in my right arm and probably runs through the area that was in pain and quite bruised by that point. She sent us to Summerlin Hospital Radiology department to get an ultrasound to make sure I didn’t have a blot clot, scary stuff. They said there was no blood clot and made an appointment to remove the port. At first, it was going to be the day after Thanksgiving, but then they moved it to the following Wednesday. I didn’t know how I was going to survive with the pain for seven more days, but I was glad I didn’t have a blood clot. For the next few nights, Teresa slept on one couch, while I slept on the other. I couldn’t have found a pain-free position in bed. The only way I could sleep at all was in the recliner on my couch. I couldn’t lie on either side due to the pain. I got through Thanksgiving by taking the pain pills I’d been prescribed for Shingles. Mostly, I dozed off and on. On Friday, I called the Institute again. They were closed but gave me the doctor on call. I was so completely bruised by then, it wasn’t funny. I kept showing Teresa, look there’s more blue, therefore, new blood around the outline of all the bruising, which completely covered from my collarbone and down and across my whole breast. The Institute doctor said it didn’t sound right, I should go back to Summerlin E.R., it sounded like something needed repairing on the port and then followed up by taking it out. Now, it sounded like I was looking at two separate procedures. We went back to the hospital. Teresa went in with me. Poor Elliott. Too bad this wasn’t the year for them to spend Thanksgiving in Reno, instead of Las Vegas. Anyway, I made a bet with Teresa as to the gender, looks, and age of the doctor I would get. We bet on male, good-looking and young. We got Dr. P., male, good-looking, and somewhere in between age-wise. Two out of three. He wasn’t overjoyed with me because I had nothing to divulge. I hadn’t been in a fight, I don’t walk in my sleep, and I had no memory of what happened to me. The girl came with the portable x-ray machine. Krista came. Susan came. I know how to throw a party. During this time, I kept coming up with the word “clavicle.” Don’t know where it came from, but I said that was what hurt. I even mentioned that I thought if I had a sling for my arm, I would feel better. Dr. P. liked me even less when he came back to say I had a broken clavicle and was I absolutely sure that I had the port implanted at that hospital. My first question was, “Can I go home, now?” Instinctively, I seemed to know that there was no treatment for a broken clavicle. He said I would be going home, but he wanted to take another x-ray to see if there had been a previous injury. My next question was, “Is it cancer?” He said he thought of that and that in his 20 years of practicing medicine, he’d never seen cancer cause a broken collarbone. He said the radiologist had concurred, and there were no signs of whatever they look for in the x-rays that indicate cancer. Right before receiving the results of the next x-ray, I was moved out into the main area to make my room available for someone who needed it more. Dr. P. came by, not happy, saying, “You are completely uninteresting, completely unexciting. Only you will know how you broke your collarbone.” I had asked him earlier, with his frustration, if he thought I was lying, like why would I lie about not knowing what happened. At that point, I thought, “Well, no one will ever know, because I don’t know.” Even in spite of everything, there were some funny moments. When I said my eyes were bothering me (You’d think that would have been a clue he would have jumped on, maybe looked in my eyes, ordered more tests, I don’t know, I’m not a doctor), he asked, “Are you seeing double?” Cute, since he knew Teresa and Krista are twins. At one point when all three daughters were in the room, he asked, “So, what are the relationships, here, daughters, granddaughters?” and off he went. This, I believe was very insulting to Susan, who actually was almost 17 when they were born. She pretty much turned on her heels and left. He made a comment that he knew he riled her. I think, by then, Susan was out in the waiting room, grilling Elliott as to whether she looked old enough to be their mother. Someone outfitted me with a sling, and we were on our way. Elliott returned home on Monday morning, as planned, but Teresa changed her flight and stayed with me two more nights. I really didn’t want to be alone, and accomplishing anything by myself was difficult. I stayed home on sick leave for the next week. When I called my primary physician and explained what had happened the guy on the phone, who was not the doctor, agreed maybe I had had a concussion, but as long as I had no other symptoms besides the collarbone pain, I should be fine and no need to come in. I felt great after talking to him. I forgot to mention that over Thanksgiving we had wondered why I didn’t seem to have any secondary injury. How could I have fallen, broken my collarbone, probably passed out, and not have anything else wrong. I found the bump on my head on Friday. It was on the same side as the broken clavicle and quite large. Then the Cancer Institute called and said I needed to have a bone scan and a brain MRI, just in case; I didn’t want to know just in case what. I said I would need serious drugs to undergo those tests. They prescribed two pills, one to take the night before and one to take one hour before. My son-in-law, Kevin, took on the duty of accompanying me on Friday for those tests. There’s always confusion. We had to be there early to prep and then come back later. We went there and then left for lunch and went back. The confusion was over why didn’t they have me go upstairs to the Infusion Room to access my port for administering the needed drugs. They finally agreed on that. I went upstairs. Mona accessed my port, and we came back later for the test. I took the pill one hour before the bone scan. I was feeling mighty fine when I went
in for that. The girl said it would take 25 minutes. I got on the table, closed my eyes, and the next thing I knew she was telling me we were done. Next was the MRI. I went in, and I went out. The pill had pretty much dissipated in its effect. The technician showed me the tunnel, the table on which I would have to lie down, and the helmet thing he would put over my head attached to the sides of the equipment. I said I’d need much more serious drugs to go through that. I couldn’t do it. He said I was among 20% of the population who cannot go through with it. Kevin was a good sport to put up with his ailing mother-in-law on his day off. Surely, he had better things to do. I tried wearing the sling, but it didn’t really help all that much. Let me tell you about a broken collarbone. There are a zillion things you can’t do because there’s little or no range of motion with the involved arm. I had pain from the collarbone all the way down the right side of my chest, moving toward the back; and my right hand and arm were of little use. I couldn’t move anything, carry anything, wash or fix my hair right-handed. Try pouring water into a coffee pot with the affected arm, turning off or on the water in the shower, grocery shopping, or typing on a keyboard. I slept on the couch in the reclining position for the whole next week. Finally, the night before I was going back to work, I told myself I’d better try sleeping in bed, or I was going to end up just dying on my couch. I had to prop up pillows to lie on and have pillows along my left side in case I turned that way in my sleep. When I went back to work, I wore the sling for one day. It just seemed to make matters worse. I learned to shower, get dressed, and drive the car relying on my left side. For weeks I was mostly discombobulated because everything was switched around. I couldn’t put my purse over my right arm, my keys were somewhere else because of carrying everything on my left side. But, here I am to tell about it. I’m mostly off Tylenol, which was the only way I could make it through any day. I don’t have to put the mouse on my lap and type left-handed anymore. It’s been about ten weeks now, and I’m getting there. I can carry groceries in, as long as I still don’t buy too much at a time; and I can take the trash out and throw it up into the dumpster. The last day of school before the holiday break I had to dress up in a Mrs. Claus dress, apron, and hat and walk the whole school with the principal, handing out candy canes. Terry had to help me in and out of the stupid dress; and I actually made it in better shape than the principal, who kept losing the stuffing that made him look like a roly-poly Santa. I believe the estimate for recovery is somewhere around twelve weeks. I know there will be recurring pain in the collarbone area, neck, shoulder, arm, etc., but I’m almost normal again, well, as normal as anyone can be who’s lived the last two years of my life.

Chicken Pox…….Herpes…….Shingles

Around the end of October, everything seemed fine; it wasn’t. I started experiencing pain in a weird spot, sort of in my right hip right under the waistline for about five to six inches up and down to three to four inches horizontally. I was sure it was cancer. I couldn’t figure out what kind of cancer it could be. I didn’t think there were any vital organs there, and I don’t think vital organs hurt anyway. It didn’t seem like it was in my bones, but it was quite painful. I was not about to tell anyone about the pain because it was too scary, and I didn’t want to admit to anyone that I was having a problem. I took a lot of Tylenol and slept fitfully through each night trying to position a heating pad to help with the discomfort. I knew I was going to see Dr. Manno for a routine visit on November 7th, and all I could think about was making it through to that day and then talking to him about the pain. Somehow I got through the week. I had heard someone mention Shingles earlier and wondered if that could be what was wrong with me. I looked it up online, and I looked it up in a medical book that I have. Everything pretty much said that I needed to have an ugly rash to be suffering from the pain of Shingles. I mentioned it at school and got the same reaction…you need a rash to have Shingles. So, I kept quiet, continued the Tylenol and the heating pad and waited to see Dr. Manno. Early in the week of the 7th, the pain started to move toward my right stomach area, and I began to develop a slight rash. My skin hurt. Seriously, I just wanted to hold the fabric of my clothing away from the skin of my stomach that felt like it was on fire. On the 5th I was scheduled for a routine Herceptin treatment late in the day. I went to the Cancer Institute. Believe it or not, I still wasn’t going to say anything. Someone took me in and got me settled with blood pressure, which was high, and other preliminaries. They sat me in Mona’s section. Angie checked on me, but she was due to leave. When she asked me how things were, I said, “Fine.” As she turned to walk away and leave for the day, she asked, “Any pain?” I responded, “No.” Mona was very busy, being the nurse who was staying late for the day and having all the late patients in her section. I thought I would like to talk to her about what was bothering me, but the other patients and their escorts are literally only feet away. It’s hard to discuss personal issues/pain when you know others can hear you. Anyway, Mona got my port ready to go and then came back to administer the drug. I said, “Mona, something’s bothering me I better tell you about.” She listened and said let’s step into the private room so you can show me. When I showed her, she agreed it was Shingles and said she’d be right back. She came back with a PA-Physician’s Assistant who had a prescription with her. She also looked at the area and confirmed that I had Shingles. She gave me the prescription for Valtrex and left. Mona said that she had talked to Dr. Manno, and he said I should forgo the Herceptin treatment for that day. If I wouldn’t have been placed in Mona’s section for the day or if she wasn’t the late nurse that day, I’m not sure I would have said anything to anyone else. I was going to see the doctor in two days anyway; probably everything would have been fine. I thanked Mona for taking care of me, but she said all she did was confirm the diagnosis I had already made. So, it turns out that if you’ve had Chicken Pox, you’re over 50, your immune system has been compromised, and you have any stress in your life (nothing like that in my work situation…), you’re probably a prime candidate for Shingles. Actually, I think I got off easy with the Shingles because I’ve heard stories about the difficulties others have had with that disease. When I saw Dr. Manno on the 7th, he came in laughing, “Herpes, huh? Ha, ha, ha.” I said that it wasn’t all that funny and that when I got my prescription (which is basically for Herpes because Chicken Pox/Shingles is a Herpes virus), I went through the drive-through and said, “Just throw it out here; I have SHINGLES!” By the end of the visit, we established that I would have one more Herceptin treatment and be done. I asked about the port removal. Right away, Dr. Manno asked, “Oh, do you want to have it removed?” I replied that actually I didn’t, but I wanted to hear what he had to say about it. He said people go either way with it; and if I kept it, I would just have to go to the Institute once a month to have it flushed. I told him that it was my birthday that day and that last year I celebrated my birthday with my last Chemo treatment. He wished me a Happy Birthday and said I could celebrate this one by knowing I had only one Herceptin treatment left. That evening, celebrating at my birthday dinner with only my children, except for Teresa, when I repeated my Shingles story, two of them said, “Oh yeah, Valtrex, got any on you?” I’ll leave the two to your imagination. All in all, I had a good visit with the doctor, and I felt that I really did get off easy with the Shingles, that is, until my Thanksgiving week experiences…

Random Ramblings…

I went to an all-day meeting a couple of weeks ago. I never look forward to these because in my job I’m always busy, always on the move; the thought of sitting all day is not a happy one. But, there I was. Good part was that Mary was there, and I brought the wedding book to show her. Teresa had a hard-cover book made out of photos from her and Elliott’s wedding, so it was great to share that. After seeing pictures of my son John, Mary gave me her daughter’s business card, just in case they might want to hook up. The lady who started the presentation was a little annoying because she kept referring to her notes in her hand. It seems if you have a prepared (canned) PowerPoint, you should be able to talk from that (if you know your topic well) and not have to refer to notes. Other good thing was Patti was there. I knew between her and Mary I would be able to get through the day. The next lady who presented really annoyed me. She had on black slacks and a black top over which she was wearing a long, sheer dress – it took me awhile to figure out that a dress was what it was. I couldn’t imagine why someone presenting would wear such a long, flowing deal in front of a crowd. The dress was neck to toe and had buttons down the entire middle of it, but none of them were buttoned. The other thing was that down near the bottom a thread had caught on something, and you could easily see the defect it was causing. Anyway, I believe Mary said she wouldn’t be caught dead in such an outfit, but Patti said she would wear something like that, but not if she was as short as that lady. See what I mean about getting through with Mary and Patti? This presenter, too, referred too often to her hand-held notes, just my opinion; but this is my blog. Also, I feel that I can comment on presenters since I do a lot of it myself. I am always conscious of what I am wearing and if anything might be distracting to my audience. During a break, I chatted with Bonnie. She’s reached four years as a survivor. It always makes me feel more sane to talk to someone whom I respect and find out she has some of the same crazy cancer thoughts and fears that I do. There was a third lady with the presenting team. She was along to learn the ropes as earlier noted by the first presenter. During one working session, she circulated around and ended up at our table. I had noticed her earlier and thought that I liked her hair due to the unique style and attractive highlights (see, not all of my opinions are negative). When she sat next to me, I could see grey hair coming out from under her other hair in the back. I asked, “Are you wearing a wig?” She was, of course. No one else was in earshot at the time. We were at one end of the table. I asked, “Did you lose your hair?” This began a conversation that led me to find out we were almost on the same schedule with treatments and had had the same chemo regimen and now taking the same drug. She said that her hair had not grown in well, so she was continuing to wear the wig, which she actually liked anyway. I told her about Nioxin which I’ve been using since my hair first started growing back. I don’t know if it helped my hair or not, but she appreciated it and said she would try anything. The most interesting thing she said was that she had not had many challenges in her life. She said she got cancer and she got through it. She added, “But, I don’t want to do it again.” This reminded me of the story my dentist recently told me about his 70+ years old mother who had just gone through breast cancer. I was a captive audience as he cleaned my teeth. He entertained me the whole time with stories about his mother and grandmother. About his mother though, she announced that having finished treatments, she was through with breast cancer. She wasn’t going to put any pink ribbons on her car or anywhere else and she was never again going to say the words “breast cancer.” Before I left the dentist’s office that day, I told him to say “Hello” to his mother for me. He said he would, but he couldn’t mention the other thing. People are pretty funny, aren’t they? Everyone deals with cancer in their own way. By that time in the meeting, Robert had arrived for lunch and the afternoon session. Then each school worked on its own report. The session was scheduled to end at 3:30, which for me would be a half hour early out. That was about the only thing that made the day palatable…early out. At around 2:30, our team was basically done with the report. Robert decided he and I could go back to school, or actually go to school, since I hadn’t been there all day. As we left through the lobby, we thumbed our noses at Mary and George; no one else could see this immature, but funny, behavior. Wait a minute, I got an early out from the meeting, but now was going back to school where I would have to stay until 4:00. I found out the next day that our team got out even earlier than 3:30. What a wrong turn of events that was…So much for thumbing noses.

Miguel…….Scared the Hell…….Outta Me……..Again……..

About six months ago, I came home one night after working in school all day and teaching a university class at night; and I found a message from Miguel at the Cancer Institute. His message was that I should call to make an appointment. It was way past the time the Institute would have closed, so I had to wait until the next day. I had never heard of a Miguel there before, and the thought that I was supposed to make an appointment for I didn’t know what scared the Hell out of me. I conjured up all kinds of thoughts, trying not to reach the hysterical plateau. I called first thing in the morning. He said I needed to schedule a mammogram. I told him how scary it is for a cancer patient to get a phone message like that. He replied that due to whatever privacy laws (I always get the acronym wrong, so I’m not going to attempt it here), he couldn’t say any more than that when leaving a message. The other day I came home again after a long day, after the Cancer Institute would be closed; and there was a message from Miguel to call and schedule an appointment. I had the slightest memory of going through this with him before, but I got all riled up anyway. Here comes Hell again. First of all, Dr. Manno said I didn’t need a mammogram until February so why would Miguel call me for one now. So, I pondered why he must have called. I had a Herceptin treatment the previous week and they took blood for labs. Since that was late in the day on Wednesday, I figured no one did anything with the results until at least Monday or Friday. One of those days Dr. Manno sets aside for research and writing so he probably didn’t see my results on one of those days. Someone probably pointed out something to him yesterday, causing Miguel to call me. Something probably showed up in my blood work. I don’t know what they check my blood for; I thought it was for white blood count, and whatever else. I decided my blood work probably indicated, well, the only thing that made sense was Leukemia. After all, that’s related to blood. I tried not to get too worked up, thinking I was going to need to sleep that night to face another day at Harmon during the first week of students returning for the new year. I dredged up the former memory of Miguel and calmed down, thinking his call was related to a mammogram. I called him as early as possible the next morning. That’s what it was. I told him what the doctor had said and that I remembered the doctor turning to the computer at that time, supposedly entering that information on my electronic chart. I asked Miguel to please call back and let me know either way what the result of his checking was. He didn’t bother. Since he has to be so careful with what he says in a phone message, couldn’t he have said, “Excuse the last message. You were right.” ?? I guess once you’ve had cancer, the thought of it is never out of your consciousness, not that it really could be, given the aftermath of surgery; wearing a prosthetic every day; intermittent pain and discomfort; and on-going preventative treatments, drugs, and lab work. It’s not all that surprising then that a phone call from the Cancer Institute can send you into a swirl of thoughts about what they want, what might be happening to you, and where the cancer may have decided to attack your body. You can try all you want to keep those thoughts away, but they come upon you regardless. This time, I got off easy