Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
'Tis the Season
Permit a tardy Deep Christmas Thought:
One of the primary lessons I've learned through the military life of moving around, changing jobs, changing churches, changing ministries, changing roles, changing changing changing--one of the lessons of this is that life happens in seasons.
For instance, our normal Ponce Family Policy is that the children don't watch many movies throughout the week. (We don't have television, so it's easy to count just how much DVD time they get.)
Then I did chemotherapy and suddenly we were in a new season: A time whence Gemma and Josh got out of bed, got their own breakfast and put a movie in to watch until Mommy managed to get out of bed herself.
I have been thinking about Mary's seasons of motherhood. It must have been a hard adjustment for her when baby #2 came along and was a sinner, unlike his big Brother. . .
But in general, that time between His birth and His public ministry starting about 30 years later must have been a joyful season. Not without its trials and difficulties (she did, probably, lose her husband at some point). Not without its similarities to the work of all mothers everywhere. But also, not without its joys at seeing such a marvelous Boy grow to manhood.
Then came that dark day. And a dark 3 days following. Throughout these, we should always remember, those who loved Jesus had no hope at all that they would ever see Him again before they themselves died. They had no expectation that He would resurrect. They had only their grief and dispair and whatever other ache their hearts held.
Multiplied by a hundred in the case of His mother, I would expect.
Then He appeared. And everything changed forever.
This Christmas, I was thinking about how Mary knew a joyful season of motherhood, and only after that crucible of grief--indeed, only out of its event--came a new and glorious season.
This is what the living Savior does. He makes the season new. He turns a dark hour into a dawn.
My own marathon proceeds. A lot of radiation left. Then surgery. And though I'd expected to be of very light heart by this time--the worst is behind us, no?--there's more sadness now than ever before. Even so, I know this is just a season.
And I do sense that there is something glorious ahead. The darker this season seems to me, the brighter, I believe, will be His triumph.
One of the primary lessons I've learned through the military life of moving around, changing jobs, changing churches, changing ministries, changing roles, changing changing changing--one of the lessons of this is that life happens in seasons.
For instance, our normal Ponce Family Policy is that the children don't watch many movies throughout the week. (We don't have television, so it's easy to count just how much DVD time they get.)
Then I did chemotherapy and suddenly we were in a new season: A time whence Gemma and Josh got out of bed, got their own breakfast and put a movie in to watch until Mommy managed to get out of bed herself.
I have been thinking about Mary's seasons of motherhood. It must have been a hard adjustment for her when baby #2 came along and was a sinner, unlike his big Brother. . .
But in general, that time between His birth and His public ministry starting about 30 years later must have been a joyful season. Not without its trials and difficulties (she did, probably, lose her husband at some point). Not without its similarities to the work of all mothers everywhere. But also, not without its joys at seeing such a marvelous Boy grow to manhood.
Then came that dark day. And a dark 3 days following. Throughout these, we should always remember, those who loved Jesus had no hope at all that they would ever see Him again before they themselves died. They had no expectation that He would resurrect. They had only their grief and dispair and whatever other ache their hearts held.
Multiplied by a hundred in the case of His mother, I would expect.
Then He appeared. And everything changed forever.
This Christmas, I was thinking about how Mary knew a joyful season of motherhood, and only after that crucible of grief--indeed, only out of its event--came a new and glorious season.
This is what the living Savior does. He makes the season new. He turns a dark hour into a dawn.
My own marathon proceeds. A lot of radiation left. Then surgery. And though I'd expected to be of very light heart by this time--the worst is behind us, no?--there's more sadness now than ever before. Even so, I know this is just a season.
And I do sense that there is something glorious ahead. The darker this season seems to me, the brighter, I believe, will be His triumph.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Radiation Update
BTW,
Three pieces of good news to report:
1. While I still get a touch nauseous from treatments, it's milder than before and I don't need to medicate for it.
2. The standard reaction is for the skin to burn red first, then turn into a tan. I had some itchiness, but mostly, the skin is going straight to a tan. A little weird, I admit, to be tanned by radiation, but I'm thankful I'm not suffering a skin burn right now.
3. So far, no lymphedema has been triggered in my arm, which happens about a quarter of the time during radiation. Please keep praying that side effect would be warded off now and forever! (I met a woman in the chemo barn whose lymphedema was triggered 12 years into remission. . .)
Three pieces of good news to report:
1. While I still get a touch nauseous from treatments, it's milder than before and I don't need to medicate for it.
2. The standard reaction is for the skin to burn red first, then turn into a tan. I had some itchiness, but mostly, the skin is going straight to a tan. A little weird, I admit, to be tanned by radiation, but I'm thankful I'm not suffering a skin burn right now.
3. So far, no lymphedema has been triggered in my arm, which happens about a quarter of the time during radiation. Please keep praying that side effect would be warded off now and forever! (I met a woman in the chemo barn whose lymphedema was triggered 12 years into remission. . .)
The New Name Game
Well, well, well.
My oncologist's name triggered the original Name Game, whence we identified over 200 male names used in popular music.
Perhaps my radiologist's name has triggered another past time for us. I asked if you knew any doctors' names that were oddly appropriate/inappropriate/ironic or otherwise apt. And a few of you have already ponied up.
One of you, in fact, Ben of Germany, gave us two names, which is a 200% increase over his contribution to our first Name Game.
That is, he told us of a German dentist whose name is a homonym for the German word that translates into "scream." Hence: Dr. Scream.
And there was also the doctor who was instrumental in saving his life (following appendicitis, if I remember his mother's story correctly), Dr. Luc, pronounced "Luck."
Not that it was "luck" that did the saving.
Sister #2 gave us a Dr. Clutts, surgeon extraordinaire who managed to botch a vasectomy. A mistake that became clear only after a child was sired. This is particularly amazing to me. . . I mean, how much is going on down there that something can be cut, and yet have no detectable effect?
She also gave us Dr. Awesome, from Milwaukee, whose name at least sounds that way, and who makes the name oddly appropriate because, if we are to believer her testimony, he was a good-looking guy.
So:
(Listed by phonetic spelling if different from actual spelling)
1. Dr. Scream
2. Dr. Luck
3. Dr. Clutts
4. Dr. Awesome
I cannot wait to bring these into Dr. Tanner. I'd love a list of, say, 20. It could be your Christmas gift to me. . .
My oncologist's name triggered the original Name Game, whence we identified over 200 male names used in popular music.
Perhaps my radiologist's name has triggered another past time for us. I asked if you knew any doctors' names that were oddly appropriate/inappropriate/ironic or otherwise apt. And a few of you have already ponied up.
One of you, in fact, Ben of Germany, gave us two names, which is a 200% increase over his contribution to our first Name Game.
That is, he told us of a German dentist whose name is a homonym for the German word that translates into "scream." Hence: Dr. Scream.
And there was also the doctor who was instrumental in saving his life (following appendicitis, if I remember his mother's story correctly), Dr. Luc, pronounced "Luck."
Not that it was "luck" that did the saving.
Sister #2 gave us a Dr. Clutts, surgeon extraordinaire who managed to botch a vasectomy. A mistake that became clear only after a child was sired. This is particularly amazing to me. . . I mean, how much is going on down there that something can be cut, and yet have no detectable effect?
She also gave us Dr. Awesome, from Milwaukee, whose name at least sounds that way, and who makes the name oddly appropriate because, if we are to believer her testimony, he was a good-looking guy.
So:
(Listed by phonetic spelling if different from actual spelling)
1. Dr. Scream
2. Dr. Luck
3. Dr. Clutts
4. Dr. Awesome
I cannot wait to bring these into Dr. Tanner. I'd love a list of, say, 20. It could be your Christmas gift to me. . .
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Another Big Reveal
I've been calling him Dr. X-Ray.
This is because I wasn't sure if I'd end up liking him, given that accessibility blip from the first week. And I didn't want to disparage someone's real name. "____ Who Shall Remain Nameless" has already been used here.
But I know for sure that I like him now. We had our Wednesday appointment, and in doctor-patient terms, the only thing we talked about is that I don't yet have a skin reaction. (Thank You, God.) A reaction in the second week is usually bad news for the remainder of treatment, because the skin just gets worse. What's typical is that late 3rd or early 4th week, a slight burn shows up, and that this turns to a tan.
As we had nothing medical beyond this to discuss, we just chatted for about 15 minutes. I got the impression he wouldn't have minded staying there for another hour.
What did we talk about? My probing questions for him:
"Why did you become a radiology in oncology? Isn't this kind of sad work to be drawn to?"
Answer:
He likes the technology of it. He'd been an engineer for IBM before med school, and decided he didn't want to do that for the rest of his life and "Be such a nerd," pause, bashful dip of the head, "Of course, I'm still kind of a nerd."
And this isn't really the same kind of oncology as doctors like Markus sign up for. Dr. X-Ray's "really just a consultant for those guys"--gestured to other half of the cancer center--"I see patients for a short time, usually after they're already well into treatment. They're done with me before they go back to the other side and then really decline--" he looked up, as though remembering his bedside manner, and said, "Of course, you'll be fine."
Then he told the story of when he worked in Hinsdale, and he referred a 12 year old girl (who lived nearby) with a brain tumor down to Children's in Chicago. They saw her and then sent her back to Dr. X-Ray. He told them he didn't want to treat her, he wasn't a pediatric radiologist, she should be with specialists.
They told him she wasn't going to make it, but she might be able to get 6 more months, and it would be a shame if she had to spend them commuting 80 miles round trip every day for radiation. So he treated her. She made it for 3 more months. And he said then that he never wanted another case like this.
"But she did make it to Disneyworld, or Hawaii or somewhere. . .one of those Make a Wish trips." He went on to say that he now tells terminal patients who are thinking of taking a trip somewhere to "Go now, not later."
So. He's tasted this sadness before and wants no more of it. I don't blame him one bit. But it makes the Drs. like Markus shine as that much more heroic, doesn't it?
I asked Dr. X-Ray if he believes, as posters all over the cancer center and billboards all over Colorado proclaim, that "Love Heals." (That is, this is the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center's ad campaign that is quite ubiquitous: Love Heals.)
He shrugged and said, "Sure. There are studies that show terminal people will die just after a big even like a graduation or wedding and not right before." It says something when a person responds to a "what do you believe?" question with a citation of a scientific study.
Finally, I asked him a probing question when he first entered the room. The first question, reported here last of all:
"So, Dr. Tanner," because that is his name, "Do patients often comment on the appropriateness of your name?"
He laughed as though this was the first time he's heard the suggestion. No, they don't. But he's heard of other doctors with either ironic or oddly appropriate names. Right in that moment, he couldn't think of one.
And neither could I.
Isn't that annoying? When you know you've heard examples of a thing, but cannot recall them for the right moment?
I'd like to go back to him in 2 weeks (because Dr. Tanner will be working on his own tan on vacation next week) with a bunch of examples for him.
And I'm sure you know of some. . .
This is because I wasn't sure if I'd end up liking him, given that accessibility blip from the first week. And I didn't want to disparage someone's real name. "____ Who Shall Remain Nameless" has already been used here.
But I know for sure that I like him now. We had our Wednesday appointment, and in doctor-patient terms, the only thing we talked about is that I don't yet have a skin reaction. (Thank You, God.) A reaction in the second week is usually bad news for the remainder of treatment, because the skin just gets worse. What's typical is that late 3rd or early 4th week, a slight burn shows up, and that this turns to a tan.
As we had nothing medical beyond this to discuss, we just chatted for about 15 minutes. I got the impression he wouldn't have minded staying there for another hour.
What did we talk about? My probing questions for him:
"Why did you become a radiology in oncology? Isn't this kind of sad work to be drawn to?"
Answer:
He likes the technology of it. He'd been an engineer for IBM before med school, and decided he didn't want to do that for the rest of his life and "Be such a nerd," pause, bashful dip of the head, "Of course, I'm still kind of a nerd."
And this isn't really the same kind of oncology as doctors like Markus sign up for. Dr. X-Ray's "really just a consultant for those guys"--gestured to other half of the cancer center--"I see patients for a short time, usually after they're already well into treatment. They're done with me before they go back to the other side and then really decline--" he looked up, as though remembering his bedside manner, and said, "Of course, you'll be fine."
Then he told the story of when he worked in Hinsdale, and he referred a 12 year old girl (who lived nearby) with a brain tumor down to Children's in Chicago. They saw her and then sent her back to Dr. X-Ray. He told them he didn't want to treat her, he wasn't a pediatric radiologist, she should be with specialists.
They told him she wasn't going to make it, but she might be able to get 6 more months, and it would be a shame if she had to spend them commuting 80 miles round trip every day for radiation. So he treated her. She made it for 3 more months. And he said then that he never wanted another case like this.
"But she did make it to Disneyworld, or Hawaii or somewhere. . .one of those Make a Wish trips." He went on to say that he now tells terminal patients who are thinking of taking a trip somewhere to "Go now, not later."
So. He's tasted this sadness before and wants no more of it. I don't blame him one bit. But it makes the Drs. like Markus shine as that much more heroic, doesn't it?
I asked Dr. X-Ray if he believes, as posters all over the cancer center and billboards all over Colorado proclaim, that "Love Heals." (That is, this is the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center's ad campaign that is quite ubiquitous: Love Heals.)
He shrugged and said, "Sure. There are studies that show terminal people will die just after a big even like a graduation or wedding and not right before." It says something when a person responds to a "what do you believe?" question with a citation of a scientific study.
Finally, I asked him a probing question when he first entered the room. The first question, reported here last of all:
"So, Dr. Tanner," because that is his name, "Do patients often comment on the appropriateness of your name?"
He laughed as though this was the first time he's heard the suggestion. No, they don't. But he's heard of other doctors with either ironic or oddly appropriate names. Right in that moment, he couldn't think of one.
And neither could I.
Isn't that annoying? When you know you've heard examples of a thing, but cannot recall them for the right moment?
I'd like to go back to him in 2 weeks (because Dr. Tanner will be working on his own tan on vacation next week) with a bunch of examples for him.
And I'm sure you know of some. . .
Thursday, December 17, 2009
B, G and J Day: GingerDucks!
B:
In general, men have a much harder time than women hearing about and talking about my cancer. Lots of reasons for this. I suspect it would not be so if my cancer were in a body part that they have, too, for instance.
But I also suspect it's because a man personalizes it by wondering, "What if that were my wife?" And the thought scares the crap out him. Not just because of the body part involved, but because he recognizes as we all do that cancer is not an outside invader that can be dispatched with a home defense weapon.
He sees that there's practically nothing he can do to save his wife's life. This kind of helplessness, or even the possibility of it, rattles men.
Here's the good news for these men regarding the body part issue, if we were to gauge from Bryan's experience: When you are told that your wife is going to lose her breasts, the very last thing you care about is whether your wife will have breasts a year into the future. The only thing you care about is that your wife is alive one year, and many years, into the future.
Truly. It's amazing how unimportant breasts become.
As for the bigger concern, the helpless-in-the-face-of-a-killer concern, it's difficult. The part Bryan hated the most was seeing the styes in my eyes after each round of chemo because they looked so painful. The styes and all the rest of it--all just a crappy physical experience for me that he couldn't spare me from. He really hated it.
Which brings me to my homeschool co-op Christmas party this past Wednesday. I hosted it, taught a poetry lesson, and then we all decorated gingerbread train.
Gingerbread trains? Oh yes. One engine for each family (7 of them), and one open box car for each child (16 of those). Gingerbread pieces that were designed and baked by Bryan himself.
For a whole week, he was a gingerbread fool. He made 12 batches of dough. Rolled and cut and baked and trimmed and bagged and then started rolling again.
The night before, I made the icing and assembled the trains, which was a 4 hour job in all. Nothing compared to the 20 hours he spent on the baking.
Why would we do this? I did it because
a) I love a good party
b) I love decorate gingerbread structures
c) I love to see children decorate gingerbread structures
d) I love the women in my co-op and so enjoy talking with them and
e) I LOVE when our house is filled with people and we actually use all these square feet of shelter.
Normally, the living we do could happen comfortably in half the space we own. But at a gingerbread train decorating party, with 23 people present and a project going full-blast, we use a lot of space.
And he did it because of points a through e.
A terrific time was had by all. And all helped clean up such that my house was in better shape than when the crowd arrived. I did have to take a 2 hour nap after everyone left, but it was a good kind of exhaustion.
We collapsed into bed on Tuesday night, after the last of the baking and assembly, with the party ahead of me, and Bryan, for the first time since June, looked. . . satisfied. Peaceful. Un-Anxious.
"Well, Babe," I said to him, "You couldn't go through my chemotherapy, but you could bake a crapload of gingerbread for me!"
He smiled the smile that says I got it exactly right.
G:
Gemma made something for Bryan's birthday last week, a set of 4 stars, 2 big, 2 small, all glued together by their side points. She drew smiling faces on them. Star people!
"This one's Daddy, this one's you, this one's me and this one's Josh!" she explained to me before wrapping it up.
I said, "But my star doesn't have any hair drawn on top like the others."
Gemma leaned in close and said, as though she were breaking bad news, "That's because you're bald."
Yes. 7 weeks after the last round of chemo went in: still bald. I'll keep you posted on the hairfront.
J:
He's reached that amazing stage of verbal acquisition and explosion. He's now doing more than just communicating the concrete and the basics. For instance:
Last night he said from the stairs, at a time when he should have been in bed, "Mommy, I have to whisper you a question."
I recognized this as a ploy to get downstairs where he'd probably ask for gingerbread or candy and said, "You can ask me from right there. You don't need to whisper it."
"But I want to whisper it."
"No. Just say it out loud. Right there."
"But I want to whisper it!"
"Joshua, either ask me right now or go back to bed."
"Well now I can't find it."
"You 'can't find' your question?"
"No, I lost it. Now I'm looking for it."
Another example:
We needed to leave the house by 8:40 today and though I'd asked Josh to get his shoes on a few times, he was still dawdling.
I finally said, sternly, loudly, though it was not yelling, "Get your shoes on now!"
"Whoah," he said, "That was a huge voice!"
This made me laugh. And he did, finally, get his shoes on.
In general, men have a much harder time than women hearing about and talking about my cancer. Lots of reasons for this. I suspect it would not be so if my cancer were in a body part that they have, too, for instance.
But I also suspect it's because a man personalizes it by wondering, "What if that were my wife?" And the thought scares the crap out him. Not just because of the body part involved, but because he recognizes as we all do that cancer is not an outside invader that can be dispatched with a home defense weapon.
He sees that there's practically nothing he can do to save his wife's life. This kind of helplessness, or even the possibility of it, rattles men.
Here's the good news for these men regarding the body part issue, if we were to gauge from Bryan's experience: When you are told that your wife is going to lose her breasts, the very last thing you care about is whether your wife will have breasts a year into the future. The only thing you care about is that your wife is alive one year, and many years, into the future.
Truly. It's amazing how unimportant breasts become.
As for the bigger concern, the helpless-in-the-face-of-a-killer concern, it's difficult. The part Bryan hated the most was seeing the styes in my eyes after each round of chemo because they looked so painful. The styes and all the rest of it--all just a crappy physical experience for me that he couldn't spare me from. He really hated it.
Which brings me to my homeschool co-op Christmas party this past Wednesday. I hosted it, taught a poetry lesson, and then we all decorated gingerbread train.
Gingerbread trains? Oh yes. One engine for each family (7 of them), and one open box car for each child (16 of those). Gingerbread pieces that were designed and baked by Bryan himself.
For a whole week, he was a gingerbread fool. He made 12 batches of dough. Rolled and cut and baked and trimmed and bagged and then started rolling again.
The night before, I made the icing and assembled the trains, which was a 4 hour job in all. Nothing compared to the 20 hours he spent on the baking.
Why would we do this? I did it because
a) I love a good party
b) I love decorate gingerbread structures
c) I love to see children decorate gingerbread structures
d) I love the women in my co-op and so enjoy talking with them and
e) I LOVE when our house is filled with people and we actually use all these square feet of shelter.
Normally, the living we do could happen comfortably in half the space we own. But at a gingerbread train decorating party, with 23 people present and a project going full-blast, we use a lot of space.
And he did it because of points a through e.
A terrific time was had by all. And all helped clean up such that my house was in better shape than when the crowd arrived. I did have to take a 2 hour nap after everyone left, but it was a good kind of exhaustion.
We collapsed into bed on Tuesday night, after the last of the baking and assembly, with the party ahead of me, and Bryan, for the first time since June, looked. . . satisfied. Peaceful. Un-Anxious.
"Well, Babe," I said to him, "You couldn't go through my chemotherapy, but you could bake a crapload of gingerbread for me!"
He smiled the smile that says I got it exactly right.
G:
Gemma made something for Bryan's birthday last week, a set of 4 stars, 2 big, 2 small, all glued together by their side points. She drew smiling faces on them. Star people!
"This one's Daddy, this one's you, this one's me and this one's Josh!" she explained to me before wrapping it up.
I said, "But my star doesn't have any hair drawn on top like the others."
Gemma leaned in close and said, as though she were breaking bad news, "That's because you're bald."
Yes. 7 weeks after the last round of chemo went in: still bald. I'll keep you posted on the hairfront.
J:
He's reached that amazing stage of verbal acquisition and explosion. He's now doing more than just communicating the concrete and the basics. For instance:
Last night he said from the stairs, at a time when he should have been in bed, "Mommy, I have to whisper you a question."
I recognized this as a ploy to get downstairs where he'd probably ask for gingerbread or candy and said, "You can ask me from right there. You don't need to whisper it."
"But I want to whisper it."
"No. Just say it out loud. Right there."
"But I want to whisper it!"
"Joshua, either ask me right now or go back to bed."
"Well now I can't find it."
"You 'can't find' your question?"
"No, I lost it. Now I'm looking for it."
Another example:
We needed to leave the house by 8:40 today and though I'd asked Josh to get his shoes on a few times, he was still dawdling.
I finally said, sternly, loudly, though it was not yelling, "Get your shoes on now!"
"Whoah," he said, "That was a huge voice!"
This made me laugh. And he did, finally, get his shoes on.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
The Art of Radiation
Sun Tsu has written a few pieces of advice. I didn't heed them because he was writing on the art of war, and, as I've explained before, I have a hard time thinking of the cancer thing as a battle.
Sun Tsu's recommendation is that one should not underestimate one's enemy.
I underestimated radiation. I had my eye on the end-of-chemo-date as the prize, thinking that the next Big Thing in cancer treatment would not be much of a big thing at all. I thought it'd be a breeze.
Turns out that a "breeze" in the middle of December in Colorado is pretty uncomfortable. It would have been better if I went into radiation expecting a nightmare. Just think of how pleasantly surprised I'd have been!
So the Mayfield sympathizers among you are thinking, "See, Amy? You would have done well to be a little more martial in your approach. The war metaphor would have served you effectively here."
But is radiation really my enemy? No, no. It's my friend. At least, my enemy is cancer (this much we agree on) and the enemy of cancer is radiation, and Sun Tsu did say that the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
I'm pretty sure he didn't have anything to say about under or over estimation of a friend's ability to burn out living tissue by means of relentless application.
So, again, we find the military metaphor coming up short.
In any case, I am over the shock of the realities of radiation. 1 week down, 6 weeks to go.
That first week was also accompanied by a snow storm and single-digit temperatures, all of which does not impress my Chicagoland readers as being all that terrible, but I have gone soft, friends. And it was miserable to drive in. And, don't forget, I'm also bald, which turns all things "cold" into things that are "awful damn cold."
But the sun came out today! We reached mid-50's! The snow is melted from the streets and I can look forward to my commute to the cancer center as 40 minutes of me-time.
I even checked out a book on CD for my own edification. Titled Manhunt, it's the story of the 12 day search for John Wilkes Boothe. Educational, interesting and yet completely irrelevant to my actual life. It's the trifecta of reading material.
So, then, just a few remarks to follow up on what I've reported from the first week:
1. I asked about the hole in the ceiling panel. Shared my observation that it didn't look very official. The tech--and they are all very nice women, these techs who zap me--shrugged and said, "We just needed a hole."
Then the other pointed out that the two side laser machines were housed in cabinets, the doors of which had been carved through as well. "It makes it so much nicer in here!" she said, meaning that it was "nicer" for these two machines to be covered instead of exposed.
I gestured at the enormous radiation machined in the middle of the room with the movable slab below it and said, "Yeah, those cabinets really make a difference. . ."
2. I offered to bring them a pack of washable markers. "I could get 8 of them for you for a mere 3 bucks! My treat!"
But, no. They have to use FDA approved surgical markers that cost $8 a piece and can only be used on one patient (that I understand). They write the patient's name on her marker and then stick it into a specially-designed marker-holder that, I'm guessing, cost about a hundred bucks.
3. Side effects: I have the expected ones. . . fatigue in that arm, a soreness in the treated area. But it's a soreness that feels like a lactic acid burn that comes after working out an un-worked muscle, so it's not too bad. And I stretch often.
The unexpected effect: nausea.
Following the first treatment, I felt yucky throughout the day and it built up until, by 6PM, I was very close to throwing up. Dr. X-Ray hadn't given me a number to call after hours, so I called Dr. Science, who, again, was completely generous with his time as I started out with, "So sorry to disturb you. . ."
I was to take the same medications I took to control the nausea from chemo. I did, and they worked.
Tuesday I felt fine. Wed through Fri, I took the meds again.
I find it all pretty disappointing, as I was really liking not being on any medications. But. Well. We'll see. . . I will try on Monday to go without, and see just how bad it actually gets.
I mentioned all this to Dr. X-Ray on Wednesday, of course. And asked, "Are you sure they are pointing that thing at the right place?"
He said, "I hope so." And then explained that the beam follows the light, and that the techs see the light on the closed-circuit TV. So they'd know if it was pointed at my stomach.
Turns out some people are just very sensitive to radiation, and I'm one of them. Not too surprising, because I get nauseous very easily. I can't even watch my kids jump on a trampoline without needing to toss the ole cookies.
4. Speaking of Dr. X-Ray. . . After having to call Dr. Science on Monday night, I went in to the Radiation dept on Tuesday in search of their after-hours-call number. I asked the RN who works in a booth right inside the department's door. I explained what had happened. In the future, what number should I call?
She asked, "When did you need to call?"
I said, "6 PM."
"Oh," said the nurse-in-a-booth, "That's after hours."
"Yeah," I said.
"Dr. X-Ray doesn't give out his number for outside office hours."
"Well," I said, "Shame on him."
She looked back at me with big eyes. This was an exciting development in her day.
I went on, "My surgeon gave me his number when I was in his care. My oncologist gave me his number. Seems to me that my radiologist should give me his. I'm in his care, am I not?"
Her eyes were still big. "People just call their oncologist if they have a problem."
Well. Fine. These guys are part of the same practice, and if that's their deal, fine. But mark my words: I'm going to mention this to Dr. Science.
You're thinking, "Mention it to Dr. X-Ray, too! I dare you!"
And I was going to. But then he walked in on Wednesday and we got down to the important business of the day--e.g. pictures of Amy! decapitated--and. . . I just like him a lot. He's very down to earth. Easy going. I didn't have the heart to read him a riot act about accessibility. It's not like it's a problem to call Dr. Science, after all.
Maybe I bring up the subject before the 7 weeks are up. As I tell you all about it, I realize that I'm pretty curious to know what he'd say. I've got just 6 weeks to find out. . .
Sun Tsu's recommendation is that one should not underestimate one's enemy.
I underestimated radiation. I had my eye on the end-of-chemo-date as the prize, thinking that the next Big Thing in cancer treatment would not be much of a big thing at all. I thought it'd be a breeze.
Turns out that a "breeze" in the middle of December in Colorado is pretty uncomfortable. It would have been better if I went into radiation expecting a nightmare. Just think of how pleasantly surprised I'd have been!
So the Mayfield sympathizers among you are thinking, "See, Amy? You would have done well to be a little more martial in your approach. The war metaphor would have served you effectively here."
But is radiation really my enemy? No, no. It's my friend. At least, my enemy is cancer (this much we agree on) and the enemy of cancer is radiation, and Sun Tsu did say that the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
I'm pretty sure he didn't have anything to say about under or over estimation of a friend's ability to burn out living tissue by means of relentless application.
So, again, we find the military metaphor coming up short.
In any case, I am over the shock of the realities of radiation. 1 week down, 6 weeks to go.
That first week was also accompanied by a snow storm and single-digit temperatures, all of which does not impress my Chicagoland readers as being all that terrible, but I have gone soft, friends. And it was miserable to drive in. And, don't forget, I'm also bald, which turns all things "cold" into things that are "awful damn cold."
But the sun came out today! We reached mid-50's! The snow is melted from the streets and I can look forward to my commute to the cancer center as 40 minutes of me-time.
I even checked out a book on CD for my own edification. Titled Manhunt, it's the story of the 12 day search for John Wilkes Boothe. Educational, interesting and yet completely irrelevant to my actual life. It's the trifecta of reading material.
So, then, just a few remarks to follow up on what I've reported from the first week:
1. I asked about the hole in the ceiling panel. Shared my observation that it didn't look very official. The tech--and they are all very nice women, these techs who zap me--shrugged and said, "We just needed a hole."
Then the other pointed out that the two side laser machines were housed in cabinets, the doors of which had been carved through as well. "It makes it so much nicer in here!" she said, meaning that it was "nicer" for these two machines to be covered instead of exposed.
I gestured at the enormous radiation machined in the middle of the room with the movable slab below it and said, "Yeah, those cabinets really make a difference. . ."
2. I offered to bring them a pack of washable markers. "I could get 8 of them for you for a mere 3 bucks! My treat!"
But, no. They have to use FDA approved surgical markers that cost $8 a piece and can only be used on one patient (that I understand). They write the patient's name on her marker and then stick it into a specially-designed marker-holder that, I'm guessing, cost about a hundred bucks.
3. Side effects: I have the expected ones. . . fatigue in that arm, a soreness in the treated area. But it's a soreness that feels like a lactic acid burn that comes after working out an un-worked muscle, so it's not too bad. And I stretch often.
The unexpected effect: nausea.
Following the first treatment, I felt yucky throughout the day and it built up until, by 6PM, I was very close to throwing up. Dr. X-Ray hadn't given me a number to call after hours, so I called Dr. Science, who, again, was completely generous with his time as I started out with, "So sorry to disturb you. . ."
I was to take the same medications I took to control the nausea from chemo. I did, and they worked.
Tuesday I felt fine. Wed through Fri, I took the meds again.
I find it all pretty disappointing, as I was really liking not being on any medications. But. Well. We'll see. . . I will try on Monday to go without, and see just how bad it actually gets.
I mentioned all this to Dr. X-Ray on Wednesday, of course. And asked, "Are you sure they are pointing that thing at the right place?"
He said, "I hope so." And then explained that the beam follows the light, and that the techs see the light on the closed-circuit TV. So they'd know if it was pointed at my stomach.
Turns out some people are just very sensitive to radiation, and I'm one of them. Not too surprising, because I get nauseous very easily. I can't even watch my kids jump on a trampoline without needing to toss the ole cookies.
4. Speaking of Dr. X-Ray. . . After having to call Dr. Science on Monday night, I went in to the Radiation dept on Tuesday in search of their after-hours-call number. I asked the RN who works in a booth right inside the department's door. I explained what had happened. In the future, what number should I call?
She asked, "When did you need to call?"
I said, "6 PM."
"Oh," said the nurse-in-a-booth, "That's after hours."
"Yeah," I said.
"Dr. X-Ray doesn't give out his number for outside office hours."
"Well," I said, "Shame on him."
She looked back at me with big eyes. This was an exciting development in her day.
I went on, "My surgeon gave me his number when I was in his care. My oncologist gave me his number. Seems to me that my radiologist should give me his. I'm in his care, am I not?"
Her eyes were still big. "People just call their oncologist if they have a problem."
Well. Fine. These guys are part of the same practice, and if that's their deal, fine. But mark my words: I'm going to mention this to Dr. Science.
You're thinking, "Mention it to Dr. X-Ray, too! I dare you!"
And I was going to. But then he walked in on Wednesday and we got down to the important business of the day--e.g. pictures of Amy! decapitated--and. . . I just like him a lot. He's very down to earth. Easy going. I didn't have the heart to read him a riot act about accessibility. It's not like it's a problem to call Dr. Science, after all.
Maybe I bring up the subject before the 7 weeks are up. As I tell you all about it, I realize that I'm pretty curious to know what he'd say. I've got just 6 weeks to find out. . .
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Radiation
4 treatments down. 31 to go.
This is why I haven't been in a big hurry to describe the process of radiation. What? Am I going to forget what treatment #1 is like? No problem. It was the same as treatment #18 or #23 or #31 will be.
But first, there were "work ups." Two different appointments in which a bunch of medical folks did a bunch of stuff that would be used to treat me in the right place at the right strength. At the time, I didn't know too much beyond the term "stuff," either. Bryan asked me, after the first appointment, "What did they do, exactly?" and I said, "Come to think of it. . .I don't know."
This is because these medical folks whisked me to and fro. Go in there and change. Come out here for me to take your photo to put on your file. Go in there for the "simulation" (simulation?). Lie down on that table. . .
And then this part happened slowly for me: the gown came off in a freezing cold room and I was shaking all over from the cold, which is not permitted for whatever "simulation" they'd be doing.
So the nurse--at least she claimed to be a nurse, but you be the judge from the following anecdote--put a warmed blanket on me and they waited for me to stop shaking.
During this wait, she commented, "You're a young person."
"Yep." And in the silence, I got to thinking of the advantage to this in the cancer center. The techs are always able to pick me out of the crowd waiting in the lobby or the barn as they know from my file that I'm 34 years old and they can see with their own eyes that there's only one woman sitting there who's under age 50.
"Hmm," the "nurse" went on. This "nurse," who was the very one to take my gown off. . .
"What kind of cancer do you have?"
I thought: Please tell me that you're only responsible for making coffee. And I looked at her with great panic.
Then the "simulation" guy came back in and got down to business. In retrospect, it's possible--I hope!--that this "nurse" meant, "Which kind of breast cancer do you have?" In which case, I might have said, "What difference does it make?"
The blanket came down and I was told to hold onto two handle bars above my head. Half-naked. Thoroughly cold. Gripping bars. Various people in the room who's function--and intelligence--is questionable to me. Just another humiliating moment in a year so far quite full of them.
And these medical folks, for as nice and professional and kind as they were, tottered about their business as they do all day, all week, all year long. When you're running a simulation, it turns out, you're really just mapping out whatever body happens to be lying on the slab.
After the scan, the "nurse" put big marks on my belly and each side of my ribs. Then, within these marks, she tattooed me. 3 little marks, each the size of a big freckle, but with black ink, so they don't look like freckles. They look like big ink dots.
The first one, on my belly, hardly hurt. That's because the nerve connecting that skin to my brain was severed during my surgery. Same with the dot on my right.
Then she did the dot on my left and I yelped from the pain--like a dog whose tail gets stepped on. It was exactly that noise. One dot! Owie owie owie!!!
Who submits to a series of these painful dots in order to get a full-blown tattoo? It really, really hurts!
The second work-up appointment happened on the table that's actually used to administer the radiation. Two techs worked together to take various x-rays of me. The machine hovered and swung around me much as the one in the dentist's office does, only this was was huge and the techs left the room and operated it by remote.
The part of the machine that actually fires the radiation, in various forms, does so through a glass plate. In it, I could see my reflection when it was stationed right above me. Huh. I'd never seen myself from that angle before, let alone while being naked. Then the light show began.
Green laser lights shone from various directions, demarcating the section of my body that would be treated. I could see them shining on me, gerrymandering my chest arm and neck into tidy portions. I felt like I was in the beginning of a production of the 6 Billion Dollar Woman whence high-tech gadgetry would perfect the bionic creature on the table.
The tech later used a marker to draw along these very lines so they could take a digital photo for the file. She said, "It's OK to wash all this off."
"OK," yes. But not possible, it seems. 7 days and 7 showers later, the marker is still there.
But the following was the most surprising part of the day: That machine moved out of my line of site and then I was staring up at the ceiling in the darkened room as the x-rays continued. And lo! There was a gadget above the ceiling, some kind of important equipment--perhaps even a source of one of the laser beams--shining down through a neat "X" that had been carved out of the ceiling panel.
But don't picture a panel that was specifically made for this radiation room. No. It was a regular floating ceiling, the kind that movie characters fall through when they're trying to escape by climbing out through the ventilation screens, and it looked like the "X" had been cut by a janitor armed with a saws-awl.
I mean, fine. If that's what gets the job done, OK. The equipment working all right? Good.
But in a country where the FDA requires surgeons to use a $100 crochet hook for a varicose vein procedure instead of a $1.50 crochet hook from Wal-Mart, I was kind of surprised that the radiation room wasn't simply built with a higher ceiling.
It's not like the lower ceiling was helping to keep the room heated.
(BTW--the crochet hook thing is something Mayfield told me about. But I don't remember if I mentioned it here already.)
And then, Monday, radiation began. This is the routine, to be repeated 5 days a week for 7 weeks:
I arrive, go straight back to the radiation department instead of checking in with the Center's secretaries, pull out a key card from a small, plastic organizer, and then zap it under one of those. . . zapper things.
Then I get changed into a gown.
Within minutes, the techs, alerted to my presence from my key card zap, take me back to the radiation room. I lie on the table. Gown comes down. Arms up to the handle bars. Head turned to the left. They put a rubber band on my feet to keep my legs from shifting during treatment. (This, I recommend, is very comfortable if you sleep on your back.) I lie on a sheet on the table so they can use the sheet to slide me a bit this way or that in order to make my 3 tattoos line up the same place each time.
Then they leave the room and the lights go down and the machines start whirring and hovering and moving about. Every now and then a signal beeps loudly and this means the waves are sent forth.
They say you can't feel it.
I think I feel it. That first day, especially. It felt like a deep, deep quivering in my muscle. I think, anyway. Because of the beep, I know when it's happening, so there's no telling what I've imagined.
After about 3 minutes, it's over with. I get dressed. That first day, they put my initials on a piece of tape and stuck it to a cubby hole in the changing room. I'm to stow my gown there instead of using a new one each day. And this was, up to that moment in my radiation experience, probably the most depressing condition for me to think about.
Who wants to have her own cubby in a radiation unit?
But it got worse.
On Wednesdays, patients see Dr. X-Ray after treatment to discuss any concerns or side effects. This was my first time seeing him following the "simulation," and at long last, he showed me what that procedure was all about and what my treatment would be.
He brought up a series of images produced by that CAT scan. These images were murky to me--various forms in various shades of gray or black, and though he explained which angles they reflect, I was never very good at those spacial reasoning questions that ask you to assemble shapes in your head. That is, I had no idea, really, what he was showing me. Kind of like when I saw the ultra-sounds of my babies in the early months. "That's a heart? OK. I believe you" and instead of worrying about it, I got lost in the wonder of it.
This time, it was more like, "Those are lungs? We're sure we aren't frying them, right?"
Then Dr. X-Ray said, "Oh, here we go--" and brought up a final image for me.
Following all the nakedness in cold rooms, and handle bars to grip, and lying on a slab and seeing myself sliced up by green beams and then drawn on with marker that doesn't wash off and having my own personal space reserved in the radiation dressing room, I looked at this image:
It was of my body with peach-tone skin computer-painted on. One breast. One scar. The body ended right above my lips and, on the bottom of the picture, right above my belly button and there, where the body was cut off, I could see my organs and a little white core of my spine.
So.
Now I know what I look like decapitated. As sometimes happens to meat on a slab.
All of which could be taken to be a little sad. A real bummer, right? But I am sure to look at one other section in the radiation room each time I go in, which is once a day, 5 days a week for 7 weeks. This is the shelf that holds a dozen white mesh head masks, each one labeled for the patient it's been molded to.
And I'm reminded that the kind of cancer I have is, in fact, just breast cancer and that it has not, it seems, spread elsewhere.
This is why I haven't been in a big hurry to describe the process of radiation. What? Am I going to forget what treatment #1 is like? No problem. It was the same as treatment #18 or #23 or #31 will be.
But first, there were "work ups." Two different appointments in which a bunch of medical folks did a bunch of stuff that would be used to treat me in the right place at the right strength. At the time, I didn't know too much beyond the term "stuff," either. Bryan asked me, after the first appointment, "What did they do, exactly?" and I said, "Come to think of it. . .I don't know."
This is because these medical folks whisked me to and fro. Go in there and change. Come out here for me to take your photo to put on your file. Go in there for the "simulation" (simulation?). Lie down on that table. . .
And then this part happened slowly for me: the gown came off in a freezing cold room and I was shaking all over from the cold, which is not permitted for whatever "simulation" they'd be doing.
So the nurse--at least she claimed to be a nurse, but you be the judge from the following anecdote--put a warmed blanket on me and they waited for me to stop shaking.
During this wait, she commented, "You're a young person."
"Yep." And in the silence, I got to thinking of the advantage to this in the cancer center. The techs are always able to pick me out of the crowd waiting in the lobby or the barn as they know from my file that I'm 34 years old and they can see with their own eyes that there's only one woman sitting there who's under age 50.
"Hmm," the "nurse" went on. This "nurse," who was the very one to take my gown off. . .
"What kind of cancer do you have?"
I thought: Please tell me that you're only responsible for making coffee. And I looked at her with great panic.
Then the "simulation" guy came back in and got down to business. In retrospect, it's possible--I hope!--that this "nurse" meant, "Which kind of breast cancer do you have?" In which case, I might have said, "What difference does it make?"
The blanket came down and I was told to hold onto two handle bars above my head. Half-naked. Thoroughly cold. Gripping bars. Various people in the room who's function--and intelligence--is questionable to me. Just another humiliating moment in a year so far quite full of them.
And these medical folks, for as nice and professional and kind as they were, tottered about their business as they do all day, all week, all year long. When you're running a simulation, it turns out, you're really just mapping out whatever body happens to be lying on the slab.
After the scan, the "nurse" put big marks on my belly and each side of my ribs. Then, within these marks, she tattooed me. 3 little marks, each the size of a big freckle, but with black ink, so they don't look like freckles. They look like big ink dots.
The first one, on my belly, hardly hurt. That's because the nerve connecting that skin to my brain was severed during my surgery. Same with the dot on my right.
Then she did the dot on my left and I yelped from the pain--like a dog whose tail gets stepped on. It was exactly that noise. One dot! Owie owie owie!!!
Who submits to a series of these painful dots in order to get a full-blown tattoo? It really, really hurts!
The second work-up appointment happened on the table that's actually used to administer the radiation. Two techs worked together to take various x-rays of me. The machine hovered and swung around me much as the one in the dentist's office does, only this was was huge and the techs left the room and operated it by remote.
The part of the machine that actually fires the radiation, in various forms, does so through a glass plate. In it, I could see my reflection when it was stationed right above me. Huh. I'd never seen myself from that angle before, let alone while being naked. Then the light show began.
Green laser lights shone from various directions, demarcating the section of my body that would be treated. I could see them shining on me, gerrymandering my chest arm and neck into tidy portions. I felt like I was in the beginning of a production of the 6 Billion Dollar Woman whence high-tech gadgetry would perfect the bionic creature on the table.
The tech later used a marker to draw along these very lines so they could take a digital photo for the file. She said, "It's OK to wash all this off."
"OK," yes. But not possible, it seems. 7 days and 7 showers later, the marker is still there.
But the following was the most surprising part of the day: That machine moved out of my line of site and then I was staring up at the ceiling in the darkened room as the x-rays continued. And lo! There was a gadget above the ceiling, some kind of important equipment--perhaps even a source of one of the laser beams--shining down through a neat "X" that had been carved out of the ceiling panel.
But don't picture a panel that was specifically made for this radiation room. No. It was a regular floating ceiling, the kind that movie characters fall through when they're trying to escape by climbing out through the ventilation screens, and it looked like the "X" had been cut by a janitor armed with a saws-awl.
I mean, fine. If that's what gets the job done, OK. The equipment working all right? Good.
But in a country where the FDA requires surgeons to use a $100 crochet hook for a varicose vein procedure instead of a $1.50 crochet hook from Wal-Mart, I was kind of surprised that the radiation room wasn't simply built with a higher ceiling.
It's not like the lower ceiling was helping to keep the room heated.
(BTW--the crochet hook thing is something Mayfield told me about. But I don't remember if I mentioned it here already.)
And then, Monday, radiation began. This is the routine, to be repeated 5 days a week for 7 weeks:
I arrive, go straight back to the radiation department instead of checking in with the Center's secretaries, pull out a key card from a small, plastic organizer, and then zap it under one of those. . . zapper things.
Then I get changed into a gown.
Within minutes, the techs, alerted to my presence from my key card zap, take me back to the radiation room. I lie on the table. Gown comes down. Arms up to the handle bars. Head turned to the left. They put a rubber band on my feet to keep my legs from shifting during treatment. (This, I recommend, is very comfortable if you sleep on your back.) I lie on a sheet on the table so they can use the sheet to slide me a bit this way or that in order to make my 3 tattoos line up the same place each time.
Then they leave the room and the lights go down and the machines start whirring and hovering and moving about. Every now and then a signal beeps loudly and this means the waves are sent forth.
They say you can't feel it.
I think I feel it. That first day, especially. It felt like a deep, deep quivering in my muscle. I think, anyway. Because of the beep, I know when it's happening, so there's no telling what I've imagined.
After about 3 minutes, it's over with. I get dressed. That first day, they put my initials on a piece of tape and stuck it to a cubby hole in the changing room. I'm to stow my gown there instead of using a new one each day. And this was, up to that moment in my radiation experience, probably the most depressing condition for me to think about.
Who wants to have her own cubby in a radiation unit?
But it got worse.
On Wednesdays, patients see Dr. X-Ray after treatment to discuss any concerns or side effects. This was my first time seeing him following the "simulation," and at long last, he showed me what that procedure was all about and what my treatment would be.
He brought up a series of images produced by that CAT scan. These images were murky to me--various forms in various shades of gray or black, and though he explained which angles they reflect, I was never very good at those spacial reasoning questions that ask you to assemble shapes in your head. That is, I had no idea, really, what he was showing me. Kind of like when I saw the ultra-sounds of my babies in the early months. "That's a heart? OK. I believe you" and instead of worrying about it, I got lost in the wonder of it.
This time, it was more like, "Those are lungs? We're sure we aren't frying them, right?"
Then Dr. X-Ray said, "Oh, here we go--" and brought up a final image for me.
Following all the nakedness in cold rooms, and handle bars to grip, and lying on a slab and seeing myself sliced up by green beams and then drawn on with marker that doesn't wash off and having my own personal space reserved in the radiation dressing room, I looked at this image:
It was of my body with peach-tone skin computer-painted on. One breast. One scar. The body ended right above my lips and, on the bottom of the picture, right above my belly button and there, where the body was cut off, I could see my organs and a little white core of my spine.
So.
Now I know what I look like decapitated. As sometimes happens to meat on a slab.
All of which could be taken to be a little sad. A real bummer, right? But I am sure to look at one other section in the radiation room each time I go in, which is once a day, 5 days a week for 7 weeks. This is the shelf that holds a dozen white mesh head masks, each one labeled for the patient it's been molded to.
And I'm reminded that the kind of cancer I have is, in fact, just breast cancer and that it has not, it seems, spread elsewhere.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Half Time Remarks: Part 3 of 3
The Big "C"
It's time for the Big Reveal. If The Big "C" is not about cancer, then what is the Big "C"?
Well, cancer is a little "c." It's just a circumstance. It has posed some challenges. But it has also been the vehicle of great blessings--and I'm not even done with it yet.
The Big "C" is Christ, the Name above all names, the One who can make and keep cancer a little "c" in my life, in anyone's life.
Many have remarked in the comments, through e-mail, and in person upon "Amy's faith." Something along the lines of "It's so strong. . ."
I know that, universally, all of these comments are meant to encourage and support, and I do receive them gratefully as love. But now it's half-time, and I want to clarify something:
There is nothing about me that has created this faith, that is responsible for this faith, that should be admired for this faith.
There is nothing I know about God that you cannot know.
Nothing I experience with or in God that you cannot experience.
God loves you as much as God loves me, and His desire is for you to know and experience that love.
Some of you already know God and have a relationship with Him such that you've been able to relate to a lot of what I've written.
Some of you are simply not interested. You've got your reasons. Fine.
But some of you, I do believe, are interested. There's curiosity there. Maybe some wonder, some yearning. Maybe there's some pain that could really use the kindness of a Savior. This Half Time post is for you.
*********
The message is this:
God created a perfect world. Then sin entered the world through the sin of one man, and all of creation suffered the consequences. There's no point in being annoyed with that first man because we all know that if he hadn't messed it up, we would have. All fall short of the glory of God--we're all imperfect creatures walking around in an imperfect world.
The worst part about our fallen state is one that we're not even naturally aware of--that our sin interrupts our relationship with God. We can't have unity with a perfect God on this side of Heaven if we are imperfect, and we can't be unified with a perfect God on the other side, either, if we are imperfect.
Cut off from our Creator. Forever. The wage of sin is death, and you and I earn that wage every day.
But there is a free gift offered by God: eternal life through Jesus Christ.
How's that?
Way back, just moments after that first sin, God promised to send a Savior through Whom people could be restored to a relationship with God.
The Bible, among other things, is a series of stories of how God worked in people's lives to communicate His love, and these stories, again and again, presented symbols and pictures of the coming Savior.
God delivered His people out of Egypt, and the symbol He used was lamb's blood.
He gave a ritual law to His people in which He described what their yearly animal sacrifice should look like--to atone for their sins, they were to shed the blood of an innocent lamb. This was a symbol of what Jesus would become.
He spoke through His prophets with specific descriptions of who, what and where the Savior would be.
Then Jesus was born. He lived a quiet life until the age of about 30. He had a public ministry of preaching and miracle working for about 3 years. Then He was crucified by Roman decree and when He died, He completed an earthly life during which He had not sinned. He was that innocent lamb. He was buried in a tomb. Then His body resurrected from the grave and He appeared--to various women, then to His other friends, then to whole crowds of people.
And now there can be "eternal life through Jesus Christ." That is, if you believe that Jesus' death on the cross was the atoning sacrifice for your sins--that He paid the price for your sins with His death--and you believe that God resurrected Him from the dead, then God no longer sees you as an imperfect sinner.
Instead, God sees you as someone whose sins have all been covered, have all been paid for by Jesus' sacrifice. And you can have unity with Him--here on Earth, and after you die, in Heaven, too.
I write all this out because I don't want to assume that everyone knows the basic Christian Gospel. If you are one of those who is interested in the "God stuff," well, there it is. I hope I said enough to lay out the basic story, and I hope I have not said too much. . .
The best place for you to begin from here--for us all to begin, actually--is with 2 steps.
1. Talk to God. The only prayers He listens to are the honest ones. So if your prayer starts with, "I don't even know whether I believe in you or what I believe about you . . ." then that's the prayer to say.
2. Read the Bible. If you don't have one, you can read online at www.biblegateway.com , or you can stop by a bookstore, or you can e-mail me and I'll send you one.
You can start at the beginning and read straight through if you're feeling ambitious.
Or you can start with one of the biographies of Jesus' life: These are Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
If you really like a lot of symbols and poetic language, start with John. If you want a straight-forward, nuts and bolts, Life of Jesus, start with Mark. If you want the accounts that have most of the famous stories of Jesus, including His amazing Sermon on the Mount and most of His parables, read Matthew and Luke.
And as you do these 2 things, be ready to see how God grows faith in you. Be ready to hear His voice. Be ready to get to know your Creator.
It's time for the Big Reveal. If The Big "C" is not about cancer, then what is the Big "C"?
Well, cancer is a little "c." It's just a circumstance. It has posed some challenges. But it has also been the vehicle of great blessings--and I'm not even done with it yet.
The Big "C" is Christ, the Name above all names, the One who can make and keep cancer a little "c" in my life, in anyone's life.
Many have remarked in the comments, through e-mail, and in person upon "Amy's faith." Something along the lines of "It's so strong. . ."
I know that, universally, all of these comments are meant to encourage and support, and I do receive them gratefully as love. But now it's half-time, and I want to clarify something:
There is nothing about me that has created this faith, that is responsible for this faith, that should be admired for this faith.
There is nothing I know about God that you cannot know.
Nothing I experience with or in God that you cannot experience.
God loves you as much as God loves me, and His desire is for you to know and experience that love.
Some of you already know God and have a relationship with Him such that you've been able to relate to a lot of what I've written.
Some of you are simply not interested. You've got your reasons. Fine.
But some of you, I do believe, are interested. There's curiosity there. Maybe some wonder, some yearning. Maybe there's some pain that could really use the kindness of a Savior. This Half Time post is for you.
*********
The message is this:
God created a perfect world. Then sin entered the world through the sin of one man, and all of creation suffered the consequences. There's no point in being annoyed with that first man because we all know that if he hadn't messed it up, we would have. All fall short of the glory of God--we're all imperfect creatures walking around in an imperfect world.
The worst part about our fallen state is one that we're not even naturally aware of--that our sin interrupts our relationship with God. We can't have unity with a perfect God on this side of Heaven if we are imperfect, and we can't be unified with a perfect God on the other side, either, if we are imperfect.
Cut off from our Creator. Forever. The wage of sin is death, and you and I earn that wage every day.
But there is a free gift offered by God: eternal life through Jesus Christ.
How's that?
Way back, just moments after that first sin, God promised to send a Savior through Whom people could be restored to a relationship with God.
The Bible, among other things, is a series of stories of how God worked in people's lives to communicate His love, and these stories, again and again, presented symbols and pictures of the coming Savior.
God delivered His people out of Egypt, and the symbol He used was lamb's blood.
He gave a ritual law to His people in which He described what their yearly animal sacrifice should look like--to atone for their sins, they were to shed the blood of an innocent lamb. This was a symbol of what Jesus would become.
He spoke through His prophets with specific descriptions of who, what and where the Savior would be.
Then Jesus was born. He lived a quiet life until the age of about 30. He had a public ministry of preaching and miracle working for about 3 years. Then He was crucified by Roman decree and when He died, He completed an earthly life during which He had not sinned. He was that innocent lamb. He was buried in a tomb. Then His body resurrected from the grave and He appeared--to various women, then to His other friends, then to whole crowds of people.
And now there can be "eternal life through Jesus Christ." That is, if you believe that Jesus' death on the cross was the atoning sacrifice for your sins--that He paid the price for your sins with His death--and you believe that God resurrected Him from the dead, then God no longer sees you as an imperfect sinner.
Instead, God sees you as someone whose sins have all been covered, have all been paid for by Jesus' sacrifice. And you can have unity with Him--here on Earth, and after you die, in Heaven, too.
I write all this out because I don't want to assume that everyone knows the basic Christian Gospel. If you are one of those who is interested in the "God stuff," well, there it is. I hope I said enough to lay out the basic story, and I hope I have not said too much. . .
The best place for you to begin from here--for us all to begin, actually--is with 2 steps.
1. Talk to God. The only prayers He listens to are the honest ones. So if your prayer starts with, "I don't even know whether I believe in you or what I believe about you . . ." then that's the prayer to say.
2. Read the Bible. If you don't have one, you can read online at www.biblegateway.com , or you can stop by a bookstore, or you can e-mail me and I'll send you one.
You can start at the beginning and read straight through if you're feeling ambitious.
Or you can start with one of the biographies of Jesus' life: These are Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
If you really like a lot of symbols and poetic language, start with John. If you want a straight-forward, nuts and bolts, Life of Jesus, start with Mark. If you want the accounts that have most of the famous stories of Jesus, including His amazing Sermon on the Mount and most of His parables, read Matthew and Luke.
And as you do these 2 things, be ready to see how God grows faith in you. Be ready to hear His voice. Be ready to get to know your Creator.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Half Time Remarks: Part 2 of 3
The Difficult Parts
I haven't written too much about the tough spots of this experience because
a) my parents are reading this and the whole thing is hard enough for them already and
b) complaining doesn't make for good art.
But I'm writing a bit about them now because
a) they are part of the experience and I don't want to lose them and
b) you've all been assuming that this has been hard, so why not fill in the details?
1. Chemotherapy
Dr. Science told me, on that first day of chemotherapy, "It's not that bad."
I've seen for myself and can now judge: This is like the OBGYN who tells women that labor doesn't hurt "that much."
I'm going to suggest a different statement for his use. "The physical toll of chemotherapy is not that bad." It's not. I had a drug to manage all the physical side effects with the exception of the hair loss and the styes. (One of which I still have.)
But the hair loss is not a big deal to me, and the styes are not too much to bear.
The difficult part of chemotherapy is the emotional toll. It sent me into menopause, which wrecked havoc with my hormones and my sleep cycle, so already I wasn't going to be managing the emotional content with a whole lot of sanity.
Given all this, undergoing chemotherapy itself was just a sad, sad thing. I have a feeling it's a feminine response to feel this way. The men under 50 in the chemo barn had a completely different countenance about them. They'd sit with their laptops, working away, checking their pagers and cell phones and watches, coming off their drips with a chipper step, on their way back to work as though a stop through the chemo barn was nothing more than an extra-long stop at the Barber shop.
Was it just a brave front for them? Or is this just how men meet the physical challenge?
Because, to me, it mostly felt like a physical assault. And I'd just try to distract myself from what was happening in the chemo barn, and how it left me in the days afterwards.
2. Physical Deformity
I've written a lot about this thus far. On the one hand, it's not a big deal. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't impair any function. If I dress a certain way, no one need even know about it.
But Bryan and I know about it. And there's no escaping that intrusion.
3. A Husband's Helplessness
I've said nearly nothing about Bryan's handling of his wife's cancer. This is partly because he decided to handle it by being stalwart throughout. I would ask him now and again how he was doing and he'd say, with great sincerity, something very reasonable and calm and supportive.
And on those many, many moments when I'd cry at the end of a day, he'd hug me and say, "It won't always be like this." That was always a great comfort to me.
The struggle, for him, leaked out in little ways, harmless ones: He's been doing many projects around the house ever since the diagnosis, and in the last 4 months, he has purchased 3 firearms. . .
This past week, that season for being stalwart ended. Something about the chemo being over with has signaled to us both that the worst parts are finished. And he finally let loose with all he's held onto. We both just cried and cried and cried together. He hates that he wasn't able to "do" anything to save me from these worst parts.
I told him, of course, that his love and support for me and help with the kids was all I needed. That I did not need to be saved from, just helped through. He can believe me with his head, but the man in him can't really believe that in his heart. And that's just his own grief to bear.
Here's the part where a lot of people would say that their marriage is stronger because of the struggle, or somesuch. How the chief Good Thing to come out of the cancer walk is new-found love or commitment or realization of love. I completely believe how that is true of many people's experiences.
But Bryan and I are kind of like, "Eh, we could have done without this."
The chief Good Thing to come out of this cancer walk, I do believe, will be in a different department.
4. The End of Chemotherapy
In all the little booklets about How to do Chemo, no one ever mentioned the deep sadness that comes when it's all over.
But there's grief here, all right.
Something about. . . the excitement waning. Since early June, I have been She Who Has Cancer, and now I'm not. You might think I'm jumping the gun, after all, there's radiation ahead and we wouldn't do that if I didn't have cancer.
But, I really sense somehow that I'm not sick anymore. And we're doing the radiation, in my mind, because it's standard course and I'm a good patient.
So it's time to get back to our life. I cancelled our account with the Merry Maids and we all cleaned our house together yesterday. I had to ask Bryan the other day, "What did I used to do with my time before I was diagnosed?"--because since then, my time has been spent at medical appointments or in recovery or in a state of fatigue.
What does normal feel like?
It's an adjustment. And there were several days there when I felt like I didn't want to go back to being Amy Ponce!, superhero of the Every Day.
God has been showing me what our new old life should look like. It's exciting to have new plans. By the time my hair grows back in, I'm sure I'll be just fine with the Every Day.
I haven't written too much about the tough spots of this experience because
a) my parents are reading this and the whole thing is hard enough for them already and
b) complaining doesn't make for good art.
But I'm writing a bit about them now because
a) they are part of the experience and I don't want to lose them and
b) you've all been assuming that this has been hard, so why not fill in the details?
1. Chemotherapy
Dr. Science told me, on that first day of chemotherapy, "It's not that bad."
I've seen for myself and can now judge: This is like the OBGYN who tells women that labor doesn't hurt "that much."
I'm going to suggest a different statement for his use. "The physical toll of chemotherapy is not that bad." It's not. I had a drug to manage all the physical side effects with the exception of the hair loss and the styes. (One of which I still have.)
But the hair loss is not a big deal to me, and the styes are not too much to bear.
The difficult part of chemotherapy is the emotional toll. It sent me into menopause, which wrecked havoc with my hormones and my sleep cycle, so already I wasn't going to be managing the emotional content with a whole lot of sanity.
Given all this, undergoing chemotherapy itself was just a sad, sad thing. I have a feeling it's a feminine response to feel this way. The men under 50 in the chemo barn had a completely different countenance about them. They'd sit with their laptops, working away, checking their pagers and cell phones and watches, coming off their drips with a chipper step, on their way back to work as though a stop through the chemo barn was nothing more than an extra-long stop at the Barber shop.
Was it just a brave front for them? Or is this just how men meet the physical challenge?
Because, to me, it mostly felt like a physical assault. And I'd just try to distract myself from what was happening in the chemo barn, and how it left me in the days afterwards.
2. Physical Deformity
I've written a lot about this thus far. On the one hand, it's not a big deal. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't impair any function. If I dress a certain way, no one need even know about it.
But Bryan and I know about it. And there's no escaping that intrusion.
3. A Husband's Helplessness
I've said nearly nothing about Bryan's handling of his wife's cancer. This is partly because he decided to handle it by being stalwart throughout. I would ask him now and again how he was doing and he'd say, with great sincerity, something very reasonable and calm and supportive.
And on those many, many moments when I'd cry at the end of a day, he'd hug me and say, "It won't always be like this." That was always a great comfort to me.
The struggle, for him, leaked out in little ways, harmless ones: He's been doing many projects around the house ever since the diagnosis, and in the last 4 months, he has purchased 3 firearms. . .
This past week, that season for being stalwart ended. Something about the chemo being over with has signaled to us both that the worst parts are finished. And he finally let loose with all he's held onto. We both just cried and cried and cried together. He hates that he wasn't able to "do" anything to save me from these worst parts.
I told him, of course, that his love and support for me and help with the kids was all I needed. That I did not need to be saved from, just helped through. He can believe me with his head, but the man in him can't really believe that in his heart. And that's just his own grief to bear.
Here's the part where a lot of people would say that their marriage is stronger because of the struggle, or somesuch. How the chief Good Thing to come out of the cancer walk is new-found love or commitment or realization of love. I completely believe how that is true of many people's experiences.
But Bryan and I are kind of like, "Eh, we could have done without this."
The chief Good Thing to come out of this cancer walk, I do believe, will be in a different department.
4. The End of Chemotherapy
In all the little booklets about How to do Chemo, no one ever mentioned the deep sadness that comes when it's all over.
But there's grief here, all right.
Something about. . . the excitement waning. Since early June, I have been She Who Has Cancer, and now I'm not. You might think I'm jumping the gun, after all, there's radiation ahead and we wouldn't do that if I didn't have cancer.
But, I really sense somehow that I'm not sick anymore. And we're doing the radiation, in my mind, because it's standard course and I'm a good patient.
So it's time to get back to our life. I cancelled our account with the Merry Maids and we all cleaned our house together yesterday. I had to ask Bryan the other day, "What did I used to do with my time before I was diagnosed?"--because since then, my time has been spent at medical appointments or in recovery or in a state of fatigue.
What does normal feel like?
It's an adjustment. And there were several days there when I felt like I didn't want to go back to being Amy Ponce!, superhero of the Every Day.
God has been showing me what our new old life should look like. It's exciting to have new plans. By the time my hair grows back in, I'm sure I'll be just fine with the Every Day.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Half Time Remarks: Part 1 of 3
"Half Time" as in "Chemotherapy is over, Radiation ahead" -- and I might just come to think of subsequent surgeries at Over Time.
Part 1 is some bits and pieces:
1. After Half Time remarks, the nature of this blog will be a bit different. I plan to keep the record of the radiation experience, because you're all desperate to know what that's all about, right? But I won't try to post something each day.
The change in the nature of the blog is due to the change in the nature of my little adventure. In the past months, there was a lot going on--medically, physically, spiritually and emotionally. Writing about all of it was a terrific way for me to process all of that while bearing the additional fruit of the record of my experience.
But now, it seems like there's less to process. So there's less to write about. So there'll be less writing.
2. Many of you have sent along various items relating to Mammogate, e.g. that government task force recommendation regarding mammograms and when women should get them AND, in an extra-brilliant addition, whether doctors should teach women about self-exams.
There's nothing I can say about this that you probably have not already said for yourselves.
Except for this, which you might not know about: The American Cancer Society, for their part, notes that under the House health care bill, this task force recommendation would make pre-50 years mammograms a Class C preventative measure, and proposed insurance requirements would cover only Class A and B preventative measures, so officials looking to calm the storm my suggesting that this task force's work is meaningless are being a bit disingenuous.
While Leslie was here, we were in Wal-greens, scouting for a lip liner that had been discontinued--and we found 3 of them in the discount basket! Not sure what Leslie will do after those are used up, but I feel her pain, as Clinique discontinued a lipstick that was the perfect color for me and I've yet--8 years later!--to find another that suits me as well.
There we were, rummaging for lip liner, when a woman said to me, "Do you have breast cancer?"
Well. I was bald and wearing my pink "Chicks Fly" hat that Aunt Jill bought me. And I think it's my age that tips people towards guessing cancer of the breast. . .
"Yes," I told her, "And I recognize you from the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center, right?"
Conversation ensued. It was the day after Mammogate broke open and we soon were talking about it. I registered in just a few seconds: This woman was taking it personally.
So was another women I talked with in the chemo barn the following week. So was my Dad, who brought it up over the phone and got so upset I had to tell him, "OK, take a deep breath. . ."
So do I. I'm mostly annoyed over the comments on self-examination. Granted, I'm one of 0.5% of breast cancer patients--those of us under 40 with no family history of it. If we don't find it ourselves, it will kill us, because mammograms don't start until you're 40 under current recommendations.
And, as one of the 0.5% of breast cancer patients--a statistical blip to a bureaucrat--who is alive today directly because of all the awareness programs and professionals who've made self-examination as commonplace and teeth brushing--I pretty much feel like telling this task force, "Fuck you."
A larger point is that, as 1 in 10 women develop breast cancer, everyone knows someone with it. And therefore, nearly everyone takes this personally, especially the half of the population that both knows someone with breast cancer and who has breasts of her own.
Makes me wonder about the timing of these recommendations, given that the public reaction was entirely predictable. I'd almost say that this whole thing was a plot by the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy to plague Obamacare, except that I don't think there are currently any Republicans with the power and enough cleverness to have engineered it. . .
3. Speaking of Leslie's visit, we had a delightful time. Something about Rounds 5 and 6 were a lot more comfortable than 1-4. I had no GI discomfort at all. The fatigue was a little worse, but my body felt generally better.
So, whereas during Round 3 when Laura was here, I mostly just sat there and watched her cook copious amounts of food for our freezer (which lasted right through to round 6!), I was able to do a bit more with Leslie, and that was fun.
She cooked for us, too. But without the mission of freezing meals for us, she made the kind of meals that require stove top cookware instead of a crock pot and stock pot. All of which is to say that she cooked one meal in my house and then declared that I had to buy new pans.
We were off to the TJ Maxx Home Goods store where she picked out two pans for us, and then she was very happy to use them all week.
She's gone. The pans remain and guess what: It is a delight to cook with terrific cookware! I don't know what it is, but using these pans that are genuinly non-stick and that heat so evenly has changed the very meaning of cooking for me. I love to use them! I look forward to cooking now!
Who knew? Seriously. Who among you knew this and never told me?
4. While Leslie and I sat in the chemo barn awaiting my last neulastin shot (woo hoo!), we chatted with this gal across from us. She had a helper dog with her, and you know how dogs are great for stating conversations.
(Note on the chemo barn: Several patients bring their dogs. I've seen at least 3 little ones and 1 big one and this lady's animal was the only certified helper dog among them.)
She was a beautiful woman. Mid-50's, with a brain tumor that had spread into her neck. She soldiers on.
She learned that Leslie was my sister and then said, "Oh, sisters!" She had to spend 2 months in the hospital to get a stem cell transplant and her sister took a leave of absence from her job in Boston, flew to Denver and stayed in the hospital with her. "There's nothing like a sister," she said.
Leslie and I were both crying.
Very true. There's nothing like a sister.
Part 1 is some bits and pieces:
1. After Half Time remarks, the nature of this blog will be a bit different. I plan to keep the record of the radiation experience, because you're all desperate to know what that's all about, right? But I won't try to post something each day.
The change in the nature of the blog is due to the change in the nature of my little adventure. In the past months, there was a lot going on--medically, physically, spiritually and emotionally. Writing about all of it was a terrific way for me to process all of that while bearing the additional fruit of the record of my experience.
But now, it seems like there's less to process. So there's less to write about. So there'll be less writing.
2. Many of you have sent along various items relating to Mammogate, e.g. that government task force recommendation regarding mammograms and when women should get them AND, in an extra-brilliant addition, whether doctors should teach women about self-exams.
There's nothing I can say about this that you probably have not already said for yourselves.
Except for this, which you might not know about: The American Cancer Society, for their part, notes that under the House health care bill, this task force recommendation would make pre-50 years mammograms a Class C preventative measure, and proposed insurance requirements would cover only Class A and B preventative measures, so officials looking to calm the storm my suggesting that this task force's work is meaningless are being a bit disingenuous.
While Leslie was here, we were in Wal-greens, scouting for a lip liner that had been discontinued--and we found 3 of them in the discount basket! Not sure what Leslie will do after those are used up, but I feel her pain, as Clinique discontinued a lipstick that was the perfect color for me and I've yet--8 years later!--to find another that suits me as well.
There we were, rummaging for lip liner, when a woman said to me, "Do you have breast cancer?"
Well. I was bald and wearing my pink "Chicks Fly" hat that Aunt Jill bought me. And I think it's my age that tips people towards guessing cancer of the breast. . .
"Yes," I told her, "And I recognize you from the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center, right?"
Conversation ensued. It was the day after Mammogate broke open and we soon were talking about it. I registered in just a few seconds: This woman was taking it personally.
So was another women I talked with in the chemo barn the following week. So was my Dad, who brought it up over the phone and got so upset I had to tell him, "OK, take a deep breath. . ."
So do I. I'm mostly annoyed over the comments on self-examination. Granted, I'm one of 0.5% of breast cancer patients--those of us under 40 with no family history of it. If we don't find it ourselves, it will kill us, because mammograms don't start until you're 40 under current recommendations.
And, as one of the 0.5% of breast cancer patients--a statistical blip to a bureaucrat--who is alive today directly because of all the awareness programs and professionals who've made self-examination as commonplace and teeth brushing--I pretty much feel like telling this task force, "Fuck you."
A larger point is that, as 1 in 10 women develop breast cancer, everyone knows someone with it. And therefore, nearly everyone takes this personally, especially the half of the population that both knows someone with breast cancer and who has breasts of her own.
Makes me wonder about the timing of these recommendations, given that the public reaction was entirely predictable. I'd almost say that this whole thing was a plot by the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy to plague Obamacare, except that I don't think there are currently any Republicans with the power and enough cleverness to have engineered it. . .
3. Speaking of Leslie's visit, we had a delightful time. Something about Rounds 5 and 6 were a lot more comfortable than 1-4. I had no GI discomfort at all. The fatigue was a little worse, but my body felt generally better.
So, whereas during Round 3 when Laura was here, I mostly just sat there and watched her cook copious amounts of food for our freezer (which lasted right through to round 6!), I was able to do a bit more with Leslie, and that was fun.
She cooked for us, too. But without the mission of freezing meals for us, she made the kind of meals that require stove top cookware instead of a crock pot and stock pot. All of which is to say that she cooked one meal in my house and then declared that I had to buy new pans.
We were off to the TJ Maxx Home Goods store where she picked out two pans for us, and then she was very happy to use them all week.
She's gone. The pans remain and guess what: It is a delight to cook with terrific cookware! I don't know what it is, but using these pans that are genuinly non-stick and that heat so evenly has changed the very meaning of cooking for me. I love to use them! I look forward to cooking now!
Who knew? Seriously. Who among you knew this and never told me?
4. While Leslie and I sat in the chemo barn awaiting my last neulastin shot (woo hoo!), we chatted with this gal across from us. She had a helper dog with her, and you know how dogs are great for stating conversations.
(Note on the chemo barn: Several patients bring their dogs. I've seen at least 3 little ones and 1 big one and this lady's animal was the only certified helper dog among them.)
She was a beautiful woman. Mid-50's, with a brain tumor that had spread into her neck. She soldiers on.
She learned that Leslie was my sister and then said, "Oh, sisters!" She had to spend 2 months in the hospital to get a stem cell transplant and her sister took a leave of absence from her job in Boston, flew to Denver and stayed in the hospital with her. "There's nothing like a sister," she said.
Leslie and I were both crying.
Very true. There's nothing like a sister.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Some Pink I Actually Liked
Copied from an e-mail Sister #2 sent me:
Pink Glove Dance for Breast Cancer Awareness
" Our daughter-in-law, Emily (MacInnes) Somers, created,
directed and choreographed this in Portland last week
for her Medline glove division as a fundraiser for breast
cancer awareness. This was all her idea to help promote their new pink gloves.
I don't know how she got so many employees, doctors and patients to participate, but it started to really catch on and they all had a lot of fun doing it.
"When the video gets 1 million hits, Medline will be making a huge
contribution to the hospital, as well as offering free mammograms for the community. Please check it out. It's an easy and great way to donate to
a wonderful cause."
Ap!: It made me laugh, and then cry and cry and cry. But that might just be the standard after-effect of a chemo-round. . .
If it doesn't buffer well, you can find it at this link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OEdVfyt-mLw
And I'm not certain if watching it on this blog will count towards the 1 million hit donation. . .
Pink Glove Dance for Breast Cancer Awareness
" Our daughter-in-law, Emily (MacInnes) Somers, created,
directed and choreographed this in Portland last week
for her Medline glove division as a fundraiser for breast
cancer awareness. This was all her idea to help promote their new pink gloves.
I don't know how she got so many employees, doctors and patients to participate, but it started to really catch on and they all had a lot of fun doing it.
"When the video gets 1 million hits, Medline will be making a huge
contribution to the hospital, as well as offering free mammograms for the community. Please check it out. It's an easy and great way to donate to
a wonderful cause."
Ap!: It made me laugh, and then cry and cry and cry. But that might just be the standard after-effect of a chemo-round. . .
If it doesn't buffer well, you can find it at this link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OEdVfyt-mLw
And I'm not certain if watching it on this blog will count towards the 1 million hit donation. . .
Monday, November 23, 2009
Radi-elation
I'm glad to be looking at radiation because it means chemotherapy is behind us. Here's what the approach of radiation has looked like:
Plan A: When Dr. Science mentioned radiation at my first appointment with him, I swear he said "3 weeks." I figured I'd knock it out soon after chemo and be done by the new year. Plan A lasted until Chemo Round 5, when Plan B was unveiled.
Plan B: 5 weeks of radiation, 5 days a week. He swears he never said 3 weeks. . . So. I figured I'd rest up after chemo, spend 2 weeks over Christmas with Bryan and the kids in Florida, by his parents, then come back and start the radiation in January.
I had gotten pretty keen on Plan B. I liked the idea of being recovered from chemotherapy, and of having a nice break from treatment, and of enjoying the whole month of December without having to use any cancer words.
Then Leslie and I went to my appointment with Dr. X-Ray.
He has a real name. But he is a radiologist. Am I supposed to resist giving him a name with a bit of jazz?
We both liked him. Very down-to-earth guy. Grew up on Long Island. Lived in Hinsdale, IL for many years before relocating to the Springs. We talked suburbs for a while. Very personable fellow.
When he told me the radiation would likely be 7 weeks long, I did not like him any less.
I posed Plan B to him, e.g. waiting until the new year, and his first response was to say that we have no data on how waiting 6-7 weeks affects the outcome. But, he said, if I really wanted to wait. . .
No, no. I'm not here to make medical history. Staying within normal parameters seems like a fine idea, and that means starting within 3-4 weeks of the last chemo treatment. And that means starting 7 December or so. And that makes for Plan C: 7 weeks, 5 days a week, starting early December.
We hope to get down to Florida in late January.
Other notes from the Dr. X-Ray visit: he noted that I am "thin."
I finally said out loud, instead of just writing about it, "I love it when doctors tell me I'm thin."
He laughed at this. But he's got a wife and a daughter, so he knows the score.
He mentioned the side effects of treatment: fatigue, possibility of lymphedemia, sun burn on the skin that will turn into a tan.
About the fatigue--I am hoping it will be of a different sort than what chemo produces. It comes from the body's efforts to rebuild cells, and that seems friendlier than the body's efforts to process poison and all the drugs taken along with them to control side effects.
About the lymphedemia--25 - 30% chance that radiation will trigger it. Let's pray against this. As you all know, it's the one thing I really want to avoid.
About the skin issues -- Dr. X-Ray concluded the description of burn into tan by saying, "So, it will end up looking pretty good."
"You mean, aside from the missing breast and scar running across my chest."
This made him laugh a little, too. "Yeah, aside from that" and then went on to describe what radiation of 20 years ago did to the skin. Ugh. Once again, I am so thankful for the technology that has come before me.
So there is your scoop. To paraphrase the Ghostbusters, shortly before they cross beams and nuke the StayPuff man: "Plan C. I like this plan and I'm excited to be a part of it."
Plan A: When Dr. Science mentioned radiation at my first appointment with him, I swear he said "3 weeks." I figured I'd knock it out soon after chemo and be done by the new year. Plan A lasted until Chemo Round 5, when Plan B was unveiled.
Plan B: 5 weeks of radiation, 5 days a week. He swears he never said 3 weeks. . . So. I figured I'd rest up after chemo, spend 2 weeks over Christmas with Bryan and the kids in Florida, by his parents, then come back and start the radiation in January.
I had gotten pretty keen on Plan B. I liked the idea of being recovered from chemotherapy, and of having a nice break from treatment, and of enjoying the whole month of December without having to use any cancer words.
Then Leslie and I went to my appointment with Dr. X-Ray.
He has a real name. But he is a radiologist. Am I supposed to resist giving him a name with a bit of jazz?
We both liked him. Very down-to-earth guy. Grew up on Long Island. Lived in Hinsdale, IL for many years before relocating to the Springs. We talked suburbs for a while. Very personable fellow.
When he told me the radiation would likely be 7 weeks long, I did not like him any less.
I posed Plan B to him, e.g. waiting until the new year, and his first response was to say that we have no data on how waiting 6-7 weeks affects the outcome. But, he said, if I really wanted to wait. . .
No, no. I'm not here to make medical history. Staying within normal parameters seems like a fine idea, and that means starting within 3-4 weeks of the last chemo treatment. And that means starting 7 December or so. And that makes for Plan C: 7 weeks, 5 days a week, starting early December.
We hope to get down to Florida in late January.
Other notes from the Dr. X-Ray visit: he noted that I am "thin."
I finally said out loud, instead of just writing about it, "I love it when doctors tell me I'm thin."
He laughed at this. But he's got a wife and a daughter, so he knows the score.
He mentioned the side effects of treatment: fatigue, possibility of lymphedemia, sun burn on the skin that will turn into a tan.
About the fatigue--I am hoping it will be of a different sort than what chemo produces. It comes from the body's efforts to rebuild cells, and that seems friendlier than the body's efforts to process poison and all the drugs taken along with them to control side effects.
About the lymphedemia--25 - 30% chance that radiation will trigger it. Let's pray against this. As you all know, it's the one thing I really want to avoid.
About the skin issues -- Dr. X-Ray concluded the description of burn into tan by saying, "So, it will end up looking pretty good."
"You mean, aside from the missing breast and scar running across my chest."
This made him laugh a little, too. "Yeah, aside from that" and then went on to describe what radiation of 20 years ago did to the skin. Ugh. Once again, I am so thankful for the technology that has come before me.
So there is your scoop. To paraphrase the Ghostbusters, shortly before they cross beams and nuke the StayPuff man: "Plan C. I like this plan and I'm excited to be a part of it."
The Last Round
A week ago, Sister #3, Leslie, and I went to the chemo barn for Round 6.
Before the chemotherapy comes a blood draw from my port and then an appointment with Dr. Science to talk about the lab work and any other issues.
Sister #1 didn't get to meet Dr. Markus during her visit because I had a substitute doctor that day. This is only relevant to the extent that Laura, sister #1, is. . .very. . .normal. She behaves normally. She quite reliably doesn't say or do anything outside of normal parameters of American middle class society. So even if she had met Dr. Markus, I don't know that there'd have been anything to report.
Leslie is normal, too. No, really. She is. But sometimes, just to have a little fun in her day, she chooses to take half a step outside of normal and just let it ride. Just see what happens. Because it's fun. Because it's entertaining. Because, why not?
You're wondering: Like what? I don't know. It's hard to describe. She just has these. . .feminine wiles that distract and charm most men, causing them to get idiot looks on their faces.
And she's reading this blog. I don't think I'm saying anything that's not making her smile right now.
Going into my appt with Dr. Science, I couldn't help thinking, "Is this going to be one of those slightly-outside-the-envelope kind of moments for her? Could she reduce this brilliant man to an idiot look?"
He came in, I made the introductions, we got to talking about Round 5 and how I was feeling fine. He and I high-fived over starting the last round. All very normal.
I sat up on the exam table so he could listen to the heart, lungs, etc. . . I asked him a) how long after radiation one had to wait before having surgery and b) whether I could have surgery while taking the protein treatment, Herceptin.
A) 4 weeks
B) Yes
So, Leslie, who was sitting on the side chair as Dr. Markus and I were by the exam table, started doing calculations. 4 weeks this, radiation lasts that long, then this, then that--running these numbers, Dr. Science and I just staring at her, waiting for her point to emerge.
"So by early April, Aim," she concluded, "Poonph!!" and she motioned her hands by her breasts, making small ones into big ones.
Dr. Markus and I turned from her to look at each other.
He, not quite with an idiot look but at least one that was a bit bemused, and I with a half smile and a shrug.
I told this story to others, in front of Leslie, and she said, "I totally toned it down, you have no idea."
And for this, the good doctor and I are thankful.
As for the medical portion of the appointment. . . what next?
Radiation, which I shall explain tomorrow.
And then the big question: How do we know for certain that the heebie jeebie cancer is gone/has not come back?
1. I'll continue to go every 3 weeks for herceptin through August, at which times, they'll do a full blood count and monitor my blood chemistry. Sometimes, cancer in the system will register in those numbers.
2. I'll keep track of my own body, and if something feels different or seems to hurt or seems off, I'll tell him about it and have a scan of some sort.
"That's kind of intimidating," I told him. Having such a serious consequence predicated on my own judgement? Yeesh.
But he explained, of course, that I'm the best judge of my own body and that I "am not a whiner" so when I tell him about something he'll "believe me."
Not a whiner?
"Well, sometimes people come in with a long list of ailments and it's hard to know what has to be addressed. You're not like that, so if you complain about something, we'll know we have to look into it."
Here that, everyone? I'm not a whiner! I'll take that as the day's compliment. Though I note here that Dr. Markus is the one physician attending me so far who has yet to tell me that I'm thin. . .
Finally, unrelated to my own condition, is Dr. Science's, the day we saw him. I noted that he'd gotten some sun. He pulled out his finisher's medal from the San Antonio marathon. 26.9 miles. "This is why I'm walking funny," he said.
We congratulated him, wanted to hear all about it. And had his family gone with the for the weekend to cheer him on? No. He'd told his wife he was leaving for a medical conference.
What?
She doesn't like for him to do stupid things, he explained.
But how did he train without her knowing?
"I'd go out for a run and come back 3 1/2 hours later. . . But I do so many stupid things, this hardly registered with her."
I asked if he'd let his kids in on the secret--they are 7 and 6.
He said, no, they'd have blabbed.
"Oh," I commented, "They've got tight shoes."
What's that?
"They're shoes are so tight, it forces the truth out of their mouths." --shout out to Uncle Fe, who brought that expression into our family. . .
At the end of the appointment, with tears, I told him what an excellent physician he was and I thanked him for his compassion and for always making me and Bryan feel like he had all the time in the world to talk with us. I know some people do this cancer thing with doctors whom they don't like and don't trust. I'm so thankful that I am not one of them.
But before the appoinment ended, I asked Dr. Markus a probing question: what percentage of his job was sad work? He's an oncologist. A lot of his appointments probably carry sad news.
His eyes teared up and he said, "Quite a bit of it. We get really attached to our patients."
Did he carry that sadness home with him?
"We have different ways of coping. Some of us run until our legs fall off. . ."
So, a hearty congratulations to Dr. Markus on finishing his marathon. Not a stupid thing, in my estimation, but an heroic one. Especially if it's therapy to aid an heroic work.
Before the chemotherapy comes a blood draw from my port and then an appointment with Dr. Science to talk about the lab work and any other issues.
Sister #1 didn't get to meet Dr. Markus during her visit because I had a substitute doctor that day. This is only relevant to the extent that Laura, sister #1, is. . .very. . .normal. She behaves normally. She quite reliably doesn't say or do anything outside of normal parameters of American middle class society. So even if she had met Dr. Markus, I don't know that there'd have been anything to report.
Leslie is normal, too. No, really. She is. But sometimes, just to have a little fun in her day, she chooses to take half a step outside of normal and just let it ride. Just see what happens. Because it's fun. Because it's entertaining. Because, why not?
You're wondering: Like what? I don't know. It's hard to describe. She just has these. . .feminine wiles that distract and charm most men, causing them to get idiot looks on their faces.
And she's reading this blog. I don't think I'm saying anything that's not making her smile right now.
Going into my appt with Dr. Science, I couldn't help thinking, "Is this going to be one of those slightly-outside-the-envelope kind of moments for her? Could she reduce this brilliant man to an idiot look?"
He came in, I made the introductions, we got to talking about Round 5 and how I was feeling fine. He and I high-fived over starting the last round. All very normal.
I sat up on the exam table so he could listen to the heart, lungs, etc. . . I asked him a) how long after radiation one had to wait before having surgery and b) whether I could have surgery while taking the protein treatment, Herceptin.
A) 4 weeks
B) Yes
So, Leslie, who was sitting on the side chair as Dr. Markus and I were by the exam table, started doing calculations. 4 weeks this, radiation lasts that long, then this, then that--running these numbers, Dr. Science and I just staring at her, waiting for her point to emerge.
"So by early April, Aim," she concluded, "Poonph!!" and she motioned her hands by her breasts, making small ones into big ones.
Dr. Markus and I turned from her to look at each other.
He, not quite with an idiot look but at least one that was a bit bemused, and I with a half smile and a shrug.
I told this story to others, in front of Leslie, and she said, "I totally toned it down, you have no idea."
And for this, the good doctor and I are thankful.
As for the medical portion of the appointment. . . what next?
Radiation, which I shall explain tomorrow.
And then the big question: How do we know for certain that the heebie jeebie cancer is gone/has not come back?
1. I'll continue to go every 3 weeks for herceptin through August, at which times, they'll do a full blood count and monitor my blood chemistry. Sometimes, cancer in the system will register in those numbers.
2. I'll keep track of my own body, and if something feels different or seems to hurt or seems off, I'll tell him about it and have a scan of some sort.
"That's kind of intimidating," I told him. Having such a serious consequence predicated on my own judgement? Yeesh.
But he explained, of course, that I'm the best judge of my own body and that I "am not a whiner" so when I tell him about something he'll "believe me."
Not a whiner?
"Well, sometimes people come in with a long list of ailments and it's hard to know what has to be addressed. You're not like that, so if you complain about something, we'll know we have to look into it."
Here that, everyone? I'm not a whiner! I'll take that as the day's compliment. Though I note here that Dr. Markus is the one physician attending me so far who has yet to tell me that I'm thin. . .
Finally, unrelated to my own condition, is Dr. Science's, the day we saw him. I noted that he'd gotten some sun. He pulled out his finisher's medal from the San Antonio marathon. 26.9 miles. "This is why I'm walking funny," he said.
We congratulated him, wanted to hear all about it. And had his family gone with the for the weekend to cheer him on? No. He'd told his wife he was leaving for a medical conference.
What?
She doesn't like for him to do stupid things, he explained.
But how did he train without her knowing?
"I'd go out for a run and come back 3 1/2 hours later. . . But I do so many stupid things, this hardly registered with her."
I asked if he'd let his kids in on the secret--they are 7 and 6.
He said, no, they'd have blabbed.
"Oh," I commented, "They've got tight shoes."
What's that?
"They're shoes are so tight, it forces the truth out of their mouths." --shout out to Uncle Fe, who brought that expression into our family. . .
At the end of the appointment, with tears, I told him what an excellent physician he was and I thanked him for his compassion and for always making me and Bryan feel like he had all the time in the world to talk with us. I know some people do this cancer thing with doctors whom they don't like and don't trust. I'm so thankful that I am not one of them.
But before the appoinment ended, I asked Dr. Markus a probing question: what percentage of his job was sad work? He's an oncologist. A lot of his appointments probably carry sad news.
His eyes teared up and he said, "Quite a bit of it. We get really attached to our patients."
Did he carry that sadness home with him?
"We have different ways of coping. Some of us run until our legs fall off. . ."
So, a hearty congratulations to Dr. Markus on finishing his marathon. Not a stupid thing, in my estimation, but an heroic one. Especially if it's therapy to aid an heroic work.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Wellness Update
Sunday evening.
Had a terrific visit with Sister #3. Plenty to tell you about her visit, and the impression she made on certain physicians, but not tonight.
I'm such a tease.
I cried a lot this week, every time I thought of how I am done with chemo. It's very surprising how emotional this end has been. I can't think of a good reason for it except to say that I don't think I've ever felt this kind of relief before, and I guess relief produces tears.
The other part, I realized during worship service on Saturday night, is deep, deep gratitude. To all of you. Seriously. Your comments, knowing you were reading this blog, knowing I had so many amazing people in my corner were all a genuine help along the road thus far. You should all very proud of yourselves and even productive.
"What did you do this year of significance?"
"I helped a friend get through chemotherapy!"
And then there was that time of worship with the Lord. My, my. . . I haven't had too many moments as intense as that one.
To be able to come before Him after Round 6 and say, "You promised not to forsake me and You didn't. And You did so much to make those weeks a lot easier than they could have been. . ." it was breath-taking.
There is that famous hymn "all is well with my soul," written by a guy who'd just lost his wife and daughter at sea, and it echoes a theme found often in the Bible and throughout the Christian life--that God is Sovereign, and come what may in personal circumstances, the thing that makes the worst conditions OK is the very character of the Living God--that He's faithful, powerful and good. And because of Who He is, one way or another, the story is going to have an ending that the believer can be thankful for.
I haven't--and we haven't--lived in anything close to the worst of circumstances. On a scale of 1 to 10 of Bad News, I'd say the year so far has been about a 3. But even so, now that I'm on the other side of that rough patch of surgery and treatment, and have experienced--not just been told about--walking with the living Lord of Lord through a narrow passage, I see the point of that hymn.
What a Mighty God.
I have much to tell you about radiation, The Visit, as I mentioned, and the coming Extended Blogger Break I'm planning on. But I'm still tired enough from Round 6 that I turn in early. And I haven't seen my husband in a week, so it'd be nice to talk to him while I'm still conscious. . .
Thank you again, truly, truly. I'm living with an embarrassment of riches.
Had a terrific visit with Sister #3. Plenty to tell you about her visit, and the impression she made on certain physicians, but not tonight.
I'm such a tease.
I cried a lot this week, every time I thought of how I am done with chemo. It's very surprising how emotional this end has been. I can't think of a good reason for it except to say that I don't think I've ever felt this kind of relief before, and I guess relief produces tears.
The other part, I realized during worship service on Saturday night, is deep, deep gratitude. To all of you. Seriously. Your comments, knowing you were reading this blog, knowing I had so many amazing people in my corner were all a genuine help along the road thus far. You should all very proud of yourselves and even productive.
"What did you do this year of significance?"
"I helped a friend get through chemotherapy!"
And then there was that time of worship with the Lord. My, my. . . I haven't had too many moments as intense as that one.
To be able to come before Him after Round 6 and say, "You promised not to forsake me and You didn't. And You did so much to make those weeks a lot easier than they could have been. . ." it was breath-taking.
There is that famous hymn "all is well with my soul," written by a guy who'd just lost his wife and daughter at sea, and it echoes a theme found often in the Bible and throughout the Christian life--that God is Sovereign, and come what may in personal circumstances, the thing that makes the worst conditions OK is the very character of the Living God--that He's faithful, powerful and good. And because of Who He is, one way or another, the story is going to have an ending that the believer can be thankful for.
I haven't--and we haven't--lived in anything close to the worst of circumstances. On a scale of 1 to 10 of Bad News, I'd say the year so far has been about a 3. But even so, now that I'm on the other side of that rough patch of surgery and treatment, and have experienced--not just been told about--walking with the living Lord of Lord through a narrow passage, I see the point of that hymn.
What a Mighty God.
I have much to tell you about radiation, The Visit, as I mentioned, and the coming Extended Blogger Break I'm planning on. But I'm still tired enough from Round 6 that I turn in early. And I haven't seen my husband in a week, so it'd be nice to talk to him while I'm still conscious. . .
Thank you again, truly, truly. I'm living with an embarrassment of riches.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Brief Notes on the Last Round
DONE.
And there's a lot to say about it. For now:
1. My body feels pretty crappy right now. And yet I am so happy! Kind of like: hit me with your best shot, you crazy poison, because it's the last shot you get.
2. And I feel so thankful. Only the really wealthy women of the planet get this medicine, and I did nothing to be an American, thereby being one of those wealthy women.
I got this medicine before the cancer spread to a different part of my body, and that too, had practically nothing to do with my own merit.
I am a picture of grace: undeserved blessing.
3. And not only do I live, but I do so at the end of a yucky portion of road that was swamped with the love and support of so many, including all of you. God used all of you to make this comparatively easy on me.
4. I'm thinking of Song 10:
He is an everlasting God.
He will not faint, He won't grow weary.
Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord.
And there's a lot to say about it. For now:
1. My body feels pretty crappy right now. And yet I am so happy! Kind of like: hit me with your best shot, you crazy poison, because it's the last shot you get.
2. And I feel so thankful. Only the really wealthy women of the planet get this medicine, and I did nothing to be an American, thereby being one of those wealthy women.
I got this medicine before the cancer spread to a different part of my body, and that too, had practically nothing to do with my own merit.
I am a picture of grace: undeserved blessing.
3. And not only do I live, but I do so at the end of a yucky portion of road that was swamped with the love and support of so many, including all of you. God used all of you to make this comparatively easy on me.
4. I'm thinking of Song 10:
He is an everlasting God.
He will not faint, He won't grow weary.
Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Blogger Break
Sister #3 arrives today. Chemo Round #6 of 6 happens Monday. Wooo Hooo!
The kids won't be able to stay with Betsy's family this time, though they will go out with them for a few hours each day. And I expect the side effects of fatigue, cramping and finger numbness to be the most severe so far.
All of which adds up to my not expecting to have a lot of writing time, nor the patience to type with numb fingers. Perhaps I'll get a wellness update posted, but maybe not.
So, I'll see you back here next Sunday, a week into my post-chemotherapy recovery. ;-)
The kids won't be able to stay with Betsy's family this time, though they will go out with them for a few hours each day. And I expect the side effects of fatigue, cramping and finger numbness to be the most severe so far.
All of which adds up to my not expecting to have a lot of writing time, nor the patience to type with numb fingers. Perhaps I'll get a wellness update posted, but maybe not.
So, I'll see you back here next Sunday, a week into my post-chemotherapy recovery. ;-)
Friday, November 13, 2009
B, G and J Day: Guns n' Doggers
B:
I asked Bryan the other day if he had any ideas for Joshua's Christmas present this year. I was stumped.
Bryan suggested, "Some kind of projectile?"
I stared at him.
"You know, like a nerf suction cup dart gun or something."
"Would he like that? When did you get interested in those things?"
He stared back at me. Then said, with a hint of wonder, "For as long as I can remember."
G:
Gemma's birthday party is tomorrow, though the actual birthday is later. She made decorations for her party, crafty type that she is.
Then she made a sign that I will not let her hang up. It says, "No touch please" and features 2 illustrations: One is a hand drawn right up next to a picture of the pinwheel she made with a circle and slash over it. The other illustration is that same hand and same pinwheel, only with an inch of space between them with a circle around it and no slash.
This is the kind of thing that makes a mother smile.
And she can't hang it at her party because it wouldn't be polite.
J:
Bryan took the kids to an auction last Saturday. He packs up our DVD player, a ton of movies and many snacks and the kids camp out with great contentment. Clearly, he's programming them to become auction-goers, thereby further enabling his own hobby for years to come.
As it gives me the entire day to myself, I do not mind.
This time, he permitted Joshua to bring doggers with him. And doggers got left behind.
Bryan had no opportunity to retrieve him until Wednesday, a full 4 days later. Yes, I could have made the trip downtown to get doggers, but I thought Joshua should have to pay the price of waiting for him. I tell him all the time to leave doggers in his bed each morning so that he will not get lost. But he keeps sneaking that thing out. . .
Wednesday, Daddy got doggers and handed it to Josh, who hugged it and cried out, "Doggers has returned to me!"
For 2 mornings in a row now, Josh has left doggers in bed.
I asked Bryan the other day if he had any ideas for Joshua's Christmas present this year. I was stumped.
Bryan suggested, "Some kind of projectile?"
I stared at him.
"You know, like a nerf suction cup dart gun or something."
"Would he like that? When did you get interested in those things?"
He stared back at me. Then said, with a hint of wonder, "For as long as I can remember."
G:
Gemma's birthday party is tomorrow, though the actual birthday is later. She made decorations for her party, crafty type that she is.
Then she made a sign that I will not let her hang up. It says, "No touch please" and features 2 illustrations: One is a hand drawn right up next to a picture of the pinwheel she made with a circle and slash over it. The other illustration is that same hand and same pinwheel, only with an inch of space between them with a circle around it and no slash.
This is the kind of thing that makes a mother smile.
And she can't hang it at her party because it wouldn't be polite.
J:
Bryan took the kids to an auction last Saturday. He packs up our DVD player, a ton of movies and many snacks and the kids camp out with great contentment. Clearly, he's programming them to become auction-goers, thereby further enabling his own hobby for years to come.
As it gives me the entire day to myself, I do not mind.
This time, he permitted Joshua to bring doggers with him. And doggers got left behind.
Bryan had no opportunity to retrieve him until Wednesday, a full 4 days later. Yes, I could have made the trip downtown to get doggers, but I thought Joshua should have to pay the price of waiting for him. I tell him all the time to leave doggers in his bed each morning so that he will not get lost. But he keeps sneaking that thing out. . .
Wednesday, Daddy got doggers and handed it to Josh, who hugged it and cried out, "Doggers has returned to me!"
For 2 mornings in a row now, Josh has left doggers in bed.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Theme Song Thursday: Sweetly Broken
We sang this song last weekend in church. It's so powerful for me.
The best part about it, I think, is that it so clearly states the Christian gospel.
"Christian." "Gospel." "What Christians believe." -- terms that are tossed around often. But if we were put on the spot and ask to define them, I'm not so sure how many could pass the test.
And after expressing the core of the Christian gospel, the song sings out a response to it. It's my response, too. What a song for worship, to be able to sing out to God, "This is what I believe and this what it means to me."
The best part about it, I think, is that it so clearly states the Christian gospel.
"Christian." "Gospel." "What Christians believe." -- terms that are tossed around often. But if we were put on the spot and ask to define them, I'm not so sure how many could pass the test.
And after expressing the core of the Christian gospel, the song sings out a response to it. It's my response, too. What a song for worship, to be able to sing out to God, "This is what I believe and this what it means to me."
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
A Few More HER Moments
Remember those? Take one moment and live as though it is in an entire lifetime? I've had a few of those lately.
For instance, I scheduled Joshua's 3 year well baby appointment for a Monday morning. As though I would be able to keep a Monday medical appointment that was not my own.
Christ suggests that this kind of thing means I'm getting back to regular life, carrying on as usual, and that it's a good sign that I don't hear "Monday" and think "Chemo barn."
I like the positive spin.
And it also works to cover the next HER moment: I wore a turtleneck to my protein appointment this week. As though the nurse wouldn't need to access my port that day. Usually, I wear a V-neck shirt and I just tug it to the side to let her stick me. This week, I was yanking my shirt far over just to give her a peak at the spot.
Next up: I ran some errands with the kids today, got them all buckled in to leave the parking lot of Party City, and discovered that my key was missing.
Not my keys. Just my key. The one that turns the car on. It wasn't attached to my ring with all the other keys that, now I realize, I wouldn't have minded losing right then.
It was nowhere. Not in the front seat. Not in the back. Not on the asphalt near my car. Not on the sidewalk. Not in the store where we had tread. How would I get home without a key?
I was so calm about it, I even thought, "Wow, you're being really patient, Amy!" Then I thought, "While you're at it, why don't you live this key-less moment as though it were a whole lifetime?"
Then I looked in the bag of things we'd bought for Gemma's birthday party, and there it was.
Final HER moment to share:
We came home from errands to our home after the Merry Maids had left. That's right. We have maids clean our house. It's almost the first thing I told Bryan after that first medical appointment to check out the "swollen lymph node." I said, "If this is cancer, we're getting a cleaning service."
And it's been wonderful. I've especially appreciated when their day here has fallen during a chemo week.
So, it's like, "Kids, keep this house clean! The Merry Maids were just here!"
Then I told Joshua to make potty.
Asking him if he had to go doesn't usually work. But if we remember to tell him every 2 hours, then he does pretty well. Many times, he'll say he doesn't have any potty and he'll carry himself with slumped shoulders and whining voice--oh the oppression!--to the bathroom. Then we'll hear him whiz for about 25 seconds straight. Yeah. "No potty."
Today, I told him to go. He dropped trou and went without fuss. Then found that his stool was not lined up right in front of the commode. And that the seat was down. So he just let it rip.
All over the wall. And mis-placed stool. And downed seat.
"Joshua!" I yelped when I saw. "The Merry Maids were just here!"
Here's one toy I would not give a 3 year old boy: A bottle with a squirt cap that is full of urine. "Here, son, squeeze this baby 'till it's empty, but only into a toilet, OK?"
But the choice to equip my child with a very similar toy wasn't mine to make.
I mopped up with a towel. Wiped up with a bleach rag. Thought to myself, "I am thankful that this is not my entire lifetime."
For instance, I scheduled Joshua's 3 year well baby appointment for a Monday morning. As though I would be able to keep a Monday medical appointment that was not my own.
Christ suggests that this kind of thing means I'm getting back to regular life, carrying on as usual, and that it's a good sign that I don't hear "Monday" and think "Chemo barn."
I like the positive spin.
And it also works to cover the next HER moment: I wore a turtleneck to my protein appointment this week. As though the nurse wouldn't need to access my port that day. Usually, I wear a V-neck shirt and I just tug it to the side to let her stick me. This week, I was yanking my shirt far over just to give her a peak at the spot.
Next up: I ran some errands with the kids today, got them all buckled in to leave the parking lot of Party City, and discovered that my key was missing.
Not my keys. Just my key. The one that turns the car on. It wasn't attached to my ring with all the other keys that, now I realize, I wouldn't have minded losing right then.
It was nowhere. Not in the front seat. Not in the back. Not on the asphalt near my car. Not on the sidewalk. Not in the store where we had tread. How would I get home without a key?
I was so calm about it, I even thought, "Wow, you're being really patient, Amy!" Then I thought, "While you're at it, why don't you live this key-less moment as though it were a whole lifetime?"
Then I looked in the bag of things we'd bought for Gemma's birthday party, and there it was.
Final HER moment to share:
We came home from errands to our home after the Merry Maids had left. That's right. We have maids clean our house. It's almost the first thing I told Bryan after that first medical appointment to check out the "swollen lymph node." I said, "If this is cancer, we're getting a cleaning service."
And it's been wonderful. I've especially appreciated when their day here has fallen during a chemo week.
So, it's like, "Kids, keep this house clean! The Merry Maids were just here!"
Then I told Joshua to make potty.
Asking him if he had to go doesn't usually work. But if we remember to tell him every 2 hours, then he does pretty well. Many times, he'll say he doesn't have any potty and he'll carry himself with slumped shoulders and whining voice--oh the oppression!--to the bathroom. Then we'll hear him whiz for about 25 seconds straight. Yeah. "No potty."
Today, I told him to go. He dropped trou and went without fuss. Then found that his stool was not lined up right in front of the commode. And that the seat was down. So he just let it rip.
All over the wall. And mis-placed stool. And downed seat.
"Joshua!" I yelped when I saw. "The Merry Maids were just here!"
Here's one toy I would not give a 3 year old boy: A bottle with a squirt cap that is full of urine. "Here, son, squeeze this baby 'till it's empty, but only into a toilet, OK?"
But the choice to equip my child with a very similar toy wasn't mine to make.
I mopped up with a towel. Wiped up with a bleach rag. Thought to myself, "I am thankful that this is not my entire lifetime."
Monday, November 9, 2009
Triumphant or Troubling?
Another protein day at the Chemo Barn!
My friend, Chris, took me, as she has for almost all of my protein appointments. She makes the time pleasant for me, though the Chemo Barn itself is not. And that's the subject of this post.
Flash back to my genetic counseling appointment. That guy offered a few tips about the road ahead of me that have proved more helpful than anything a doctor or nurse has told me. For instance:
He told me not to believe anyone who says that "such and such" caused my cancer--not my deodorant, not my underwire bra, not my laundry soap. There's no science to support any of these urban myths.
He told me to steer clear of the "dark clouds" in my life. e.g. People who will be sad, sad, sad for me and full of fear and pessimism. No dark cloud has come by me all this time, I'm glad to say. But still. Helpful tip.
He told me to beware of the "nuts and berries" friends who would try to be helpful by telling me to pursue all sorts of alternative therapies and avoid the very treatment that has been scientifically demonstrated to work.
He, as I mentioned, told me about how terrific the post-restorative surgery women looked. That was very helpful.
Then I asked him how he liked his job. He was, after all, going through this practical, encouraging spiel when the purpose of the appointment was simply to explain the genetic test I was submitting too. Obviously, he was into talking beyond the requirements.
He said he loved his work because he loved cancer patients. "Only really nice people get cancer. No one nasty or selfish gets it. Only the bright, brave, cheerful, nice people."
What a strange statement.
Flash forward to chemo round 4, I believe, whence I met Shannon, a nurse who was new at the center. She explained that she'd been in the Springs for a while and had been at a different job, waiting and hoping for a position in oncology to open up.
"Really?" I asked. "You want to work in a chemo barn like this?" I don't know what I'd been thinking about the other nurses, why they were there. But the suggestion that someone would seek out the opportunity to spend 40 hours a week around cancerous people getting doped with poison was just. . .far beyond me.
Shannon said that she loved oncology units because she loves cancer patients. We're so "courageous" and "full of life."
Today, Chris, who knows well my own take on the chemo barn, said that she, too, had different opinion of it. She wasn't sitting there with cancer, she said, so maybe that's why she had a different outlook. (But her husband is a "ventricular" cancer survivor from way back, when they were both in their early 20's with 2 young children, so she is allowed to have an opinion on this.)
Chris said she looked around and saw the triumph of the human spirit, and God's grace, and great strength.
Well.
Maybe we should take a poll in the chemo barn and see what other patients feel.
I talked with one a few Mondays ago, Jeannie. She was there my first round of chemo. It was her last one. She watched me get poked 24 times and told me that she'd never seen anyone have that hard a time. Jeannie was there to start more chemo. Stage 4 colon cancer. She'll be doing chemo 'till the end.
I said, "You told me on your way out that first day that it'd get better. And it did. But I still hate this place."
She laughed wryly and said that she did, too.
So we know how she'd vote. And you all know how I think most of the others would vote.
All of which comes to an observation: Those who care for those of us who have cancer see something that we patients do not.
And those of us who have cancer see something that the healthy among us do not.
What I'm interested to see is whether my perspective shifts closer to Chris's after my chemo is over and I'm just going every 3 weeks for the Herceptin. e.g. Once I'm feeling great, will I see what she sees and start seeing a lot less of what I see now?
In the meantime, I'm glad to be cared for by people who are glad to be in the Chemo Barn. Even if I do think they're a little crazy.
My friend, Chris, took me, as she has for almost all of my protein appointments. She makes the time pleasant for me, though the Chemo Barn itself is not. And that's the subject of this post.
Flash back to my genetic counseling appointment. That guy offered a few tips about the road ahead of me that have proved more helpful than anything a doctor or nurse has told me. For instance:
He told me not to believe anyone who says that "such and such" caused my cancer--not my deodorant, not my underwire bra, not my laundry soap. There's no science to support any of these urban myths.
He told me to steer clear of the "dark clouds" in my life. e.g. People who will be sad, sad, sad for me and full of fear and pessimism. No dark cloud has come by me all this time, I'm glad to say. But still. Helpful tip.
He told me to beware of the "nuts and berries" friends who would try to be helpful by telling me to pursue all sorts of alternative therapies and avoid the very treatment that has been scientifically demonstrated to work.
He, as I mentioned, told me about how terrific the post-restorative surgery women looked. That was very helpful.
Then I asked him how he liked his job. He was, after all, going through this practical, encouraging spiel when the purpose of the appointment was simply to explain the genetic test I was submitting too. Obviously, he was into talking beyond the requirements.
He said he loved his work because he loved cancer patients. "Only really nice people get cancer. No one nasty or selfish gets it. Only the bright, brave, cheerful, nice people."
What a strange statement.
Flash forward to chemo round 4, I believe, whence I met Shannon, a nurse who was new at the center. She explained that she'd been in the Springs for a while and had been at a different job, waiting and hoping for a position in oncology to open up.
"Really?" I asked. "You want to work in a chemo barn like this?" I don't know what I'd been thinking about the other nurses, why they were there. But the suggestion that someone would seek out the opportunity to spend 40 hours a week around cancerous people getting doped with poison was just. . .far beyond me.
Shannon said that she loved oncology units because she loves cancer patients. We're so "courageous" and "full of life."
Today, Chris, who knows well my own take on the chemo barn, said that she, too, had different opinion of it. She wasn't sitting there with cancer, she said, so maybe that's why she had a different outlook. (But her husband is a "ventricular" cancer survivor from way back, when they were both in their early 20's with 2 young children, so she is allowed to have an opinion on this.)
Chris said she looked around and saw the triumph of the human spirit, and God's grace, and great strength.
Well.
Maybe we should take a poll in the chemo barn and see what other patients feel.
I talked with one a few Mondays ago, Jeannie. She was there my first round of chemo. It was her last one. She watched me get poked 24 times and told me that she'd never seen anyone have that hard a time. Jeannie was there to start more chemo. Stage 4 colon cancer. She'll be doing chemo 'till the end.
I said, "You told me on your way out that first day that it'd get better. And it did. But I still hate this place."
She laughed wryly and said that she did, too.
So we know how she'd vote. And you all know how I think most of the others would vote.
All of which comes to an observation: Those who care for those of us who have cancer see something that we patients do not.
And those of us who have cancer see something that the healthy among us do not.
What I'm interested to see is whether my perspective shifts closer to Chris's after my chemo is over and I'm just going every 3 weeks for the Herceptin. e.g. Once I'm feeling great, will I see what she sees and start seeing a lot less of what I see now?
In the meantime, I'm glad to be cared for by people who are glad to be in the Chemo Barn. Even if I do think they're a little crazy.
Quick and Dirty on the Cheap and Clean
I made another batch of laundry detergent yesterday. Who makes her own laundry soap?, you ask.
I do. And here's why:
A big part of the job of She Who Does Not Earn Money In Any Kind Of Bread Winning Capacity is controlling the flow of money that goes out. Bryan and I have goals for where and how we want to live. Goals that are sometimes specific and sometimes as vague as "Be available to do what God wants us to do when He wants us to do it."
And one of the most basic determining factors below each of those goals is money. It's not that we're obsessed with making it or keeping it or investing it or spending it. We just want to be good stewards of it.
It's Bryan's job to bring it in. It mostly falls on me to see that it goes out it in honorable ways.
All of which was on my mind about a year ago as I stood in the laundry soap aisle of the commissary, wondering a) how soap could be so expensive and b) why it was blue.
I haven't researched the answers to these questions, but I suspect there's another Proctor & Gamble conspiracy behind it. You know the kind: At one point in American history, homemakers were told they needed a certain product to get along, they started using it, their children only ever saw them using it, and so the culture as a whole forgot that there was ever a time when we didn't need it.
But that day, I just couldn't bring myself to spend the eleven bucks on soap. I don't even spend eleven dollars on soap to wash myself!
And I hated that it was blue. And that it claimed to smell like mountain breezes. I can step outside to get a whiff of a mountain breeze. . .
I found a recipe for making my own and washed my first load with it.
Were the clothes clean? Looked like it.
The test, of course, was the smell. Shirts checked out. Then I sniffed underwear. Hey. This is the test that really counts, right? Checked out just fine.
I washed another load, this time with some clothing that was very dirty from Bryan's yard work.
All clean. So we made the switch.
Let me break down the price comparison:
I can buy (blue) store-bought laundry detergent at a price that comes to 11 cents per load. (And I suspect this is a commissary fantasy-price somewhat lower than what people pay in the real world.)
I can make laundry soap at a price that comes to 1 cent per load.
The batch of laundry soap makes enough for 64 loads, which means that every time I make a batch, I'm saving $6.40. We do a lot of laundry, it feels like. I make about 8 batches in the year, for yearly savings of $51.20. It takes me 15 minutes to make it, so that's a total of 2 hours of work, though not the kind that interrupts my life with my family. $25.60 is not a bad hourly wage for this kind of work.
Just a little snapshot of my philosophy of thrift.
Who, now, is dying to know the recipe?
Ingredients:
Fels Naptha soap (in the laundry aisle, or any other brand of bar laundry soap works)
2 cups Washing Soda
2 cups Borax
2 empty milk gallons
1. Heat about 1 gallon of water (exact amount doesn't matter).
2. Grate 1/3 the bar of Fels Naptha and save the rest for future batches.
3. Dissolve Fels Naptha in hot water.
4. Add washing soda and stir until dissolved.
5. Add Boraz and stir until dissolved.
6. Leave on heat until mixture boils.
7. Pour half into each milk gallon--using a funnel helps a lot.
8. Add warm water from your tap to fill each gallon to the half-way point or a little higher.
9. Shake, shake, shake.
10. Top off each gallon with cold water.
11. Shake, shake, shake.
12. Let sit overnight. It will thicken up to resemble egg whites.
I've made batches that have ended up both thicker and thinner, and it all works the same.
Use 1/2 cup per load. A bit more if it's a full load, or especially dirty.
This soap does not suds up. For this reason, I would think it's fine for high efficiency machines as well, but I haven't talked with anyone who's tried it.
And my soap is not blue.
I do. And here's why:
A big part of the job of She Who Does Not Earn Money In Any Kind Of Bread Winning Capacity is controlling the flow of money that goes out. Bryan and I have goals for where and how we want to live. Goals that are sometimes specific and sometimes as vague as "Be available to do what God wants us to do when He wants us to do it."
And one of the most basic determining factors below each of those goals is money. It's not that we're obsessed with making it or keeping it or investing it or spending it. We just want to be good stewards of it.
It's Bryan's job to bring it in. It mostly falls on me to see that it goes out it in honorable ways.
All of which was on my mind about a year ago as I stood in the laundry soap aisle of the commissary, wondering a) how soap could be so expensive and b) why it was blue.
I haven't researched the answers to these questions, but I suspect there's another Proctor & Gamble conspiracy behind it. You know the kind: At one point in American history, homemakers were told they needed a certain product to get along, they started using it, their children only ever saw them using it, and so the culture as a whole forgot that there was ever a time when we didn't need it.
But that day, I just couldn't bring myself to spend the eleven bucks on soap. I don't even spend eleven dollars on soap to wash myself!
And I hated that it was blue. And that it claimed to smell like mountain breezes. I can step outside to get a whiff of a mountain breeze. . .
I found a recipe for making my own and washed my first load with it.
Were the clothes clean? Looked like it.
The test, of course, was the smell. Shirts checked out. Then I sniffed underwear. Hey. This is the test that really counts, right? Checked out just fine.
I washed another load, this time with some clothing that was very dirty from Bryan's yard work.
All clean. So we made the switch.
Let me break down the price comparison:
I can buy (blue) store-bought laundry detergent at a price that comes to 11 cents per load. (And I suspect this is a commissary fantasy-price somewhat lower than what people pay in the real world.)
I can make laundry soap at a price that comes to 1 cent per load.
The batch of laundry soap makes enough for 64 loads, which means that every time I make a batch, I'm saving $6.40. We do a lot of laundry, it feels like. I make about 8 batches in the year, for yearly savings of $51.20. It takes me 15 minutes to make it, so that's a total of 2 hours of work, though not the kind that interrupts my life with my family. $25.60 is not a bad hourly wage for this kind of work.
Just a little snapshot of my philosophy of thrift.
Who, now, is dying to know the recipe?
Ingredients:
Fels Naptha soap (in the laundry aisle, or any other brand of bar laundry soap works)
2 cups Washing Soda
2 cups Borax
2 empty milk gallons
1. Heat about 1 gallon of water (exact amount doesn't matter).
2. Grate 1/3 the bar of Fels Naptha and save the rest for future batches.
3. Dissolve Fels Naptha in hot water.
4. Add washing soda and stir until dissolved.
5. Add Boraz and stir until dissolved.
6. Leave on heat until mixture boils.
7. Pour half into each milk gallon--using a funnel helps a lot.
8. Add warm water from your tap to fill each gallon to the half-way point or a little higher.
9. Shake, shake, shake.
10. Top off each gallon with cold water.
11. Shake, shake, shake.
12. Let sit overnight. It will thicken up to resemble egg whites.
I've made batches that have ended up both thicker and thinner, and it all works the same.
Use 1/2 cup per load. A bit more if it's a full load, or especially dirty.
This soap does not suds up. For this reason, I would think it's fine for high efficiency machines as well, but I haven't talked with anyone who's tried it.
And my soap is not blue.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Comments on Comments: First Week of November
When I threatened to become more extreme than "old ladies who wear purple," Helen asked if I plan to head to a nudist beach in Florida.
I've thought about it. But having gone through one kind of cancer, I can't imagine putting myself at that much greater risk for another. e.g. Skin. Florida sunshine.
Do nudists have a higher rate of skin cancer than the rest of the population? Do they buy sunscreen in bulk? Do they apply it. . .everywhere?
Speaking of sunshine, Amanda testifies to the delight of Colorado sunshine. 300 days of it a year and, I hasten to add, no humidity.
Now that Bryan and I are looking to stay here for the long term, I find that common military-family mechanism of "detachment" sloughing away. As we've moved around so much, I naturally kept a little piece of my heart back from wherever we were, because we were never going to be anywhere very long. I haven't done that with the people I've known in each place, just with the place itself.
There's no holding back now. I am growing to love Colorado Springs. I might even make a weekly feature about it if the rest of my life becomes boring enough, and that feature would begin with the climate.
Gwen posted here about giving an NHS speech at good ole Immaculate Conception. Gwen is married to Larry, my friend who survived "ventricular" cancer, and she was in our graduation class, though Gwen and Larry were not high school sweethearts. (Which I've always thought was sweet--that they connected further down the road. . .)
Hearing from Gwen prompts me to comment on something I've been thinking for a long time now: Part of the fun of having cancer is being in touch with so many people, some of them from way back.
I've gotten many, many e-mails from friends who weren't in my life daily anymore. You know the kind: nothing bad ever happened. There's no water under any bridge. You just fell off each other's radar. Maybe military folks have more of this than others because of the moving around. In any case, it's been really neat and wonderfully encouraging to hear from folks. I'm still working on writing back to everyone, so if you happen to be, say, Beth from Korea, I'm getting there. :-)
Sarah gave a Huzzah to the homemade costume. She mentioned that Babs, her mother, made her son's Swiper costume, which was amazing and adorable.
To which I say: Yes, Hoorah for homemade costumes, but double and triple hoorah's for homemade costumes that GRANDMA puts together.
To whit: My mother was in town helping me as my ankle was broken during the weeks before Halloween last year. I'd had the plan for Gemma and Joshua's costume. Had even gathered most of the materials. And then Anne arrived and actually, you know, made the things.
I've thought about it. But having gone through one kind of cancer, I can't imagine putting myself at that much greater risk for another. e.g. Skin. Florida sunshine.
Do nudists have a higher rate of skin cancer than the rest of the population? Do they buy sunscreen in bulk? Do they apply it. . .everywhere?
Speaking of sunshine, Amanda testifies to the delight of Colorado sunshine. 300 days of it a year and, I hasten to add, no humidity.
Now that Bryan and I are looking to stay here for the long term, I find that common military-family mechanism of "detachment" sloughing away. As we've moved around so much, I naturally kept a little piece of my heart back from wherever we were, because we were never going to be anywhere very long. I haven't done that with the people I've known in each place, just with the place itself.
There's no holding back now. I am growing to love Colorado Springs. I might even make a weekly feature about it if the rest of my life becomes boring enough, and that feature would begin with the climate.
Gwen posted here about giving an NHS speech at good ole Immaculate Conception. Gwen is married to Larry, my friend who survived "ventricular" cancer, and she was in our graduation class, though Gwen and Larry were not high school sweethearts. (Which I've always thought was sweet--that they connected further down the road. . .)
Hearing from Gwen prompts me to comment on something I've been thinking for a long time now: Part of the fun of having cancer is being in touch with so many people, some of them from way back.
I've gotten many, many e-mails from friends who weren't in my life daily anymore. You know the kind: nothing bad ever happened. There's no water under any bridge. You just fell off each other's radar. Maybe military folks have more of this than others because of the moving around. In any case, it's been really neat and wonderfully encouraging to hear from folks. I'm still working on writing back to everyone, so if you happen to be, say, Beth from Korea, I'm getting there. :-)
Sarah gave a Huzzah to the homemade costume. She mentioned that Babs, her mother, made her son's Swiper costume, which was amazing and adorable.
To which I say: Yes, Hoorah for homemade costumes, but double and triple hoorah's for homemade costumes that GRANDMA puts together.
To whit: My mother was in town helping me as my ankle was broken during the weeks before Halloween last year. I'd had the plan for Gemma and Joshua's costume. Had even gathered most of the materials. And then Anne arrived and actually, you know, made the things.
I realize now that my surgery was ill-timed. I should have delayed a few months so the seamstress would have been in residence again.
Finally, more flytrap discussion.
Spiders in Colorado? Yes. We do have a few of those. But I couldn't bring myself to capture one.
a) Spiders eat flys. It seemed an upset of the natural order for a plant that eats flies to eat a bug that eats flys.
b) While I don't like spiders, I respect them. Their amazing little creatures, what with the webs and being able to spell out words above pig stalls. . . No spider deserves the horrible demise of slow digestion inside a flytrap.
Amanda offered to send ladybugs. But ladybugs are among the good guys of the insect world. I couldn't do that to one. And Gemma captured a ladybug this summer and made a pet out of it. We looked up what it needed to survive and she built a little habitat for it. After a few days, she released it into our garden willingly, though it made her sad to do so.
I know there will a come a time when Gemma realizes that I'm not a perfect person who only ever thinks and does the right things. But I don't want that moment to be when I suggest feeding her former pet to a plant.
BUT, the other night, we were playing in our family room when a hapless fly landed on a toy right next to Bryan. He said, "Oh. . .yeah. . ." and swiped it up in his hand!
Then he plunked into one of the terrariums. We gathered around to watch, but the fly hardly moved. It was stunned from its smack-down. And dinner was ready. When we came back to the plant 20 minutes later, there was no fly.
The next morning, one flytrap stood stiff with the sun behind it and there within was the dark outline of the fly.
Flies. They're filthy, disgusting animals. I had no problem participating in that feeding frenzy.
On Friday, Bryan got home early from work and we made a little trip to Green Mountain Falls, a cute little town just up Ute Pass. They have a big pond where we fed the ducks and where the kids played for a while. We ate lunch at a restaurant called the Mucky Duck, which is amusing, because there's a Mucky Duck on Sanibel Island, FL--and what are the chances two places would come up with a name like that?
Our booth was next to a window, and on that window, two flies strutted about. Bryan captured them in an empty plastic bottle. Before I could stop him, he put one into the other plant terrarium. "Stop him" because Gemma and I were conducting an experiment. We wanted to know if the plant that was given protein would do better than the one that had to go without.
Well. So much for that investigation.
Again, we gathered around to watch. This fly was robust and on his feet quickly. Hmm. . . The attraction of sweet nectar in this pink thing here. . . Then SNAP!--only the fly tumbled out and knocked up against the terrarium wall. It seemed disabled and there was goop on the wall where his wing hit. I wonder if the enzyme from the trap was already about its work on him.
All four of us, at the moment of that nap, were like, "Ack!" or "Doh!" or, other reactions common to people who, say, watch football games and react at the moment the amazing catch is almost made.
The fly wouldn't go near the plant again, so we went about our business. Later: no fly.
I mentioned our plants to Mr. Colorado, our neighbor, and he said he used to feed bologna to his.
You know what the most amazing thing about venus flytraps is? That so many people have had one! Amanda, Teresa, the librarian at East Library, Mr. Colorado. . . Here, I thought this would be the kind of thing one had to have a license to own, or something, and I'm finding out they're as common as goldfish.
Well. This is the beauty of comments. I learn so much about you all.
Friday, November 6, 2009
B, G and J Day: Vintage
B:
He has become a Craigslister. This is mostly because of me. Our garage was full, you see, and our basement full and our barn in MO not full, but somewhat filled with stuff.
Too much stuff.
Stuff that Bryan agreed we needed to get rid of. But stuff that was "worth something."
Oh yeah? Fine. I've got a friend, Stephanie, who sells things on Craigslist. I talked with her about selling our stuff for us and I'd share the profit with her.
Then I told Bryan that this friend was on deck to begin the liquidation and he said, "I'll sell it myself!"
Oh yeah? Well, you got through the weekend to get started, pal.
And he did. He began with the 5 ficus trees he bought at an auction 2 months ago, when I asked him to buy me one ficus tree for our master bedroom. But at 2 bucks a piece, how was he going to pass up a whole forest of them?
He sold them for 20 bucks a piece, at which point, he was likin' the Craigs list. . .
Since then, he's sold a lot of stuff at prices a lot better than one would get if yard saled or auctioned. Part of my deal with him is that he can keep his profits in his own "auction fund" to do with as he pleases. I have a dream that his auction-going will become a self-sustaining hobby. . .
So. One of the items he sold was a vintage Coca-Cola cooler. It was metal. Not very thermo-efficient. But classy in that banged-up vintage way.
The buyer first asked Bryan if he'd come down in price, but Bryan said, no, he was pretty sure he could get that much for it.
The buyer still wanted it, and wrote,
"Just to give you a snapshot of this cooler's future life with me: I have a ranch outside Denver and I use my '63 Chevy pick-up to get around. Your cooler will ride in back and have a couple of cold long necks waiting for me at the end of a hot day. Big Red, as I call her, is going to look great with a cooler from her day."
Charming, right?
Bryan read this and didn't want to sell it to him. My husband thinks that such vintage items should be displayed somewhere in a cool, dry place away from direct sunlight. This guy was going to use the cooler? As a cooler???? What was his problem?
My only thought, after reading this "future life" spiel, was that the guy was going to show up and try to dicker down the price again. That he was trying to soften us up with his tender vision.
Bryan arranged for the sale. The guy drove down during the day and I was sure to be wig-less when I answered the door. Who's going to try to dicker the price with a cancer patient?
He turned out to be a very nice, very wealthy man. Signs of wealth:
1. He lived with his wife and newborn son on a horse ranch while working as a lobbyist in DC. I didn't ask what he lobbied for because I didn't want him to tell me something horrible. . .
2. He told me about his '72 Mercedes, of which only 600 were made, and how he kept it completely original, right down to the television set in the back seat.
I received these data points with a polite smile and thought, "I'm glad Bryan didn't come down on the price."
The buyer did say something that will stick with me the rest of my life. He explained how he and his wife really enjoy antiques from all over the world, and that he is just passing through history. As such, he's the care-taker of these items that will belong to a different place, time and person after he's gone.
What a lovely way to think of antiques.
I shared the thought with Bryan, who said, "Yeah, well as caretaker, he probably shouldn't fill the thing with ice!"
G:
The other night, Gemma arranged in the afternoon to have chicken tenders for dinner. It was a pre-emptive request as she realized that I would be preparing big salads for Bryan and myself.
Sure. Chicken tenders. No problem.
As the dinner hour approached, she saw the literature packet regarding my PowerPort--that valve thing implanted in my chest. What was this for? she wanted to know.
I explained. Or tried to. Wasn't sure if I'd done a good job making it clear. I finished the explanation and then asked, "Capice?"
Long pause. She looked at me and then said, "You mean 'chicken tenders.'"
J:
He came into my room one morning, too early. Had his jammies off. His pull-up off. His underpants up around his knees, which is about as far as he can go when dressing his bottom.
"Good morning," I murmured to him as he stood by my bed. "Did you get yourself dressed?"
He nodded and said, "A little bit."
Bonus J story:
We were reading on the couch today, a child on each side of me. He turned towards my ear and said, "What's this?" and started poking his fingers in.
Kids do this when they're 3. They notice that human beings have ears and that ears are full of contours and it's just a major discovery.
So I answered him, "That's my ear."
He glanced at me with a look that kind. . .waived me off. Like of course he knew this was my ear. And he kept fiddling, his brow furrowed.
Then he pulled out the little white cushion that was on my ear bud from the ear phones I wore while working out this morning.
"No, this!" he said.
Oh. That. Yes, that is a real discovery. . .
He has become a Craigslister. This is mostly because of me. Our garage was full, you see, and our basement full and our barn in MO not full, but somewhat filled with stuff.
Too much stuff.
Stuff that Bryan agreed we needed to get rid of. But stuff that was "worth something."
Oh yeah? Fine. I've got a friend, Stephanie, who sells things on Craigslist. I talked with her about selling our stuff for us and I'd share the profit with her.
Then I told Bryan that this friend was on deck to begin the liquidation and he said, "I'll sell it myself!"
Oh yeah? Well, you got through the weekend to get started, pal.
And he did. He began with the 5 ficus trees he bought at an auction 2 months ago, when I asked him to buy me one ficus tree for our master bedroom. But at 2 bucks a piece, how was he going to pass up a whole forest of them?
He sold them for 20 bucks a piece, at which point, he was likin' the Craigs list. . .
Since then, he's sold a lot of stuff at prices a lot better than one would get if yard saled or auctioned. Part of my deal with him is that he can keep his profits in his own "auction fund" to do with as he pleases. I have a dream that his auction-going will become a self-sustaining hobby. . .
So. One of the items he sold was a vintage Coca-Cola cooler. It was metal. Not very thermo-efficient. But classy in that banged-up vintage way.
The buyer first asked Bryan if he'd come down in price, but Bryan said, no, he was pretty sure he could get that much for it.
The buyer still wanted it, and wrote,
"Just to give you a snapshot of this cooler's future life with me: I have a ranch outside Denver and I use my '63 Chevy pick-up to get around. Your cooler will ride in back and have a couple of cold long necks waiting for me at the end of a hot day. Big Red, as I call her, is going to look great with a cooler from her day."
Charming, right?
Bryan read this and didn't want to sell it to him. My husband thinks that such vintage items should be displayed somewhere in a cool, dry place away from direct sunlight. This guy was going to use the cooler? As a cooler???? What was his problem?
My only thought, after reading this "future life" spiel, was that the guy was going to show up and try to dicker down the price again. That he was trying to soften us up with his tender vision.
Bryan arranged for the sale. The guy drove down during the day and I was sure to be wig-less when I answered the door. Who's going to try to dicker the price with a cancer patient?
He turned out to be a very nice, very wealthy man. Signs of wealth:
1. He lived with his wife and newborn son on a horse ranch while working as a lobbyist in DC. I didn't ask what he lobbied for because I didn't want him to tell me something horrible. . .
2. He told me about his '72 Mercedes, of which only 600 were made, and how he kept it completely original, right down to the television set in the back seat.
I received these data points with a polite smile and thought, "I'm glad Bryan didn't come down on the price."
The buyer did say something that will stick with me the rest of my life. He explained how he and his wife really enjoy antiques from all over the world, and that he is just passing through history. As such, he's the care-taker of these items that will belong to a different place, time and person after he's gone.
What a lovely way to think of antiques.
I shared the thought with Bryan, who said, "Yeah, well as caretaker, he probably shouldn't fill the thing with ice!"
G:
The other night, Gemma arranged in the afternoon to have chicken tenders for dinner. It was a pre-emptive request as she realized that I would be preparing big salads for Bryan and myself.
Sure. Chicken tenders. No problem.
As the dinner hour approached, she saw the literature packet regarding my PowerPort--that valve thing implanted in my chest. What was this for? she wanted to know.
I explained. Or tried to. Wasn't sure if I'd done a good job making it clear. I finished the explanation and then asked, "Capice?"
Long pause. She looked at me and then said, "You mean 'chicken tenders.'"
J:
He came into my room one morning, too early. Had his jammies off. His pull-up off. His underpants up around his knees, which is about as far as he can go when dressing his bottom.
"Good morning," I murmured to him as he stood by my bed. "Did you get yourself dressed?"
He nodded and said, "A little bit."
Bonus J story:
We were reading on the couch today, a child on each side of me. He turned towards my ear and said, "What's this?" and started poking his fingers in.
Kids do this when they're 3. They notice that human beings have ears and that ears are full of contours and it's just a major discovery.
So I answered him, "That's my ear."
He glanced at me with a look that kind. . .waived me off. Like of course he knew this was my ear. And he kept fiddling, his brow furrowed.
Then he pulled out the little white cushion that was on my ear bud from the ear phones I wore while working out this morning.
"No, this!" he said.
Oh. That. Yes, that is a real discovery. . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
