Introducing to you all, Mrs. Queeney. She introduces herself as Mary Lou Queeney, but because she was one of the Moms in the neighborhood where I grew up, I'll only ever be able to call her by her proper name.
Mr. Queeney--who is most memorable in the Ferrone household for having been the one to banish my brother from the Queeney property for seven years, naughty, naughty brother!--recently passed away after his own cancer battle. In the wake of this grief, Mrs. Queeney heard about our news and wrote me a very encouraging note that ended with, "Fight like a girl!"
To date, I think Mrs. Queeney is the only member of NOW whom I personally know, so this meant quite a lot to me.
She has shared a few other experiences from her own road and I'd like to share them with you:
MLQ:
Did I miss it, or did you really forget "Louie, Louie"?
If you backdate from the 50s, you can add "...from the tables down at Morry's (clearly a nickname for Maurice) to the place where Louie dwells...". For you young punk kids, that's the Whiffenpoof Song; the Yale anthem.
AP!: Got Louie on the list now, and I must be a young punk at 34 because I have no idea what "Whiffenpoof" refers to.
MLQ:
Regarding the composer of your own personal song although he spelled it "Amie": Craig Fuller of Pure Prairie League and Little Feat also thinks this area is a great place to live and now he plays the local music scene with his son, Patrick.
AP!: Oh, that song! Do me a favor, Mrs. Queeney, next time you see Craig and Patrick at the coffee house at open mic night. . .ask him whether he hates women.
I Quote:
Aime, what you want to do?
I think I could stay with you
For a while, maybe longer
If I do, I'll be falling in and out of love with you
No thanks, Craig. Move along. I'll wait on a better offer.
MLQ:
Sounds like all the chemo suites came from the same perverted designer, with some local modifications.
At the local hospital, they are curtained off individually, but the visitor only gets the hard chair. Each patient has his/her own TV on a pole. We would bring stacks of business magazines to leave on the racks. Otherwise it was old Good Housekeeping and Family Circle and lots of AARP and Reader's Digest.
AP!: Yes! What is with Family Circle? Do they send their subscriptions for free to these places? They are all over!
MLQ:
In fairness, the "chemo-barn" at the local hospital is sunny and open and kind of a social center in that it's full of well-intentioned volunteers who walk around offering drinks, snacks, old magazines and prayer partners.
Some really social patients used chemo time for coffee klatching. On those days the ambient noise included giggling. The social workers dropped in on their captive potential clients to offer support groups and uplifting reading. Anyone who wanted to catch a nap was out of luck.
AP!: No such people at my chemo-barn. Not that I'm missing them. I think I just need to get used to be a cancer patient so that when I find myself surrounded by other cancer patients, I will not feel so sad.
MLQ:
I committed a crime on one of our last trips. We were leaving the parking lot and Jack was tired and crabby, so when I misjudged how much space I needed to turn our SUV and bumped a little Chevy and wanted to get out and check for damage, he said no, don't bother, he wanted to go straight home.
I obeyed. (Illness does strange things to normal behavior.)
We live about ten minutes away, so we were barely inside and settled when Officer Friendly drives up and asked if I just left the Cancer Center. It seems our GMC Envoy crunched the little Chevy's bumper like a cockroach in full view of the staff and Chevy driver thanks to the open and sunny wall of windows.
I explained that I was only following orders. The cop was very apologetic and said he wouldn't arrest me for leaving the scene of an accident although I clearly deserved it.
At this point Jack walked outside to check out the action. Officer Friendly asked him if he was the co-conspirator, at which point Jack leaned against the squad car with his hands on the roof in the traditional search position.
The upshot is that our insurance paid about $900 and my ticket for unsafe movement was dismissed and I have a good story to tell about the kindness of Pinehurst Police.
AP!:
I love the image of Mr. Queeney assuming the position! What a great sense of humor, and what a great memory to share. Thank you so much, Mrs. Queeney! :-)
And, apparently, we should all plan to retire to Pinehurst, North Carolina.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
The Name Game: BIG GAINS!
Wow, team! Way to look lively out there!
Many have posted men's names in the comments sections, and many have e-mailed me with more. Today's the day I collect them all and see what our list looks like. A lot of work to do, people. Let's get started.
Do you remember who your phone-a-friends were going to be?
You know. Back when "Millionaire" was all the rage and you had the mental list of the people you'd have handy to contact when your time came?
One of mine was Nick Lewandowski. I don't know anyone who knows more about pop music than he does. And if he was qualified to win me a million dollars one day, then he's qualified to be part of The Big "C" panel of judges on this particular question. So, then, let's check in with Nick on a recent submission from Carlo, my brother-in-law, who gave us names from a New Edition song:
NICK:
"As much I, like you, appreciate Carlo's enthusiasm regarding the New Edition song that name-checks the members of the band (er, vocal group) -- including that seems to create a slippery slope. A huge percentage of hip-hop/rap artists name-check themselves in nearly all of their songs. I think that if we allow that to count, the whole purpose will have been defeated."
AP!:
Let me stop you a little bit sooner, Nick, with the possibility of "hip-hop/rap" artists creeping into this humble blog. No, no and no. I agree with you: the slippery slope must be un-slipped and de-slopped.
No name-checks permitted.
Sorry, Carlo. I'm afraid that Ronnie, Bobby, Rickie and Mike are now off the list.
HOWEVER, Nick also submits the song "Hey Ricky" by Melissa Manchester. So "Ricky" is back on the list through a different avenue.
There must be a "Bobby" out there somewhere, too. Anybody?
Back to NICK:
"Another point. I thought I saw that you mentioned a limitation regarding American pop music -- or something to that effect. I assume -- and indeed this must be case -- that you are including songs by non-Americans that have some influence/following among American consumers -- thus qualifying under a loose definition of "pop." As such, non-Americans like Van Morrison and Elton John would be included. I think this would allow inclusion of country music as well."
AP!: Yes, time to be more clear about this. We're looking for songs that are familiar to the widespread American audience, regardless of who sings them. By "widespread," I mean, 'Anyone who knows me."
How very handy that our judge includes country music, because I have the following submissions from Dr. Matthew Mayfield, the famed Texan:
Willie
Whelan
These are both from the same country song, though I don't have the title because I was really just a little surprised that after the "How did Chemo go?" conversation was over he had launched into men's names he'd thought of.
Stunning? Indeed. Am I TOTALLY proud that I've got my surgeon spending idle moments thinking about this? You betcha.
I DID ask him, "Does anyone outside of Texas know that Whelan is a guy's name?"
Also, he submits
Elvis
Luke
Charlie
From "Who's Going to Fill Their Shoes" or somesuch. These 3 names happened to be repeated from other submissions, in case you're skittish about how loose I'm being with the details.
Speaking of that lingering Mayfield suggestion of "Ben" from the Michael Jackson song about a rat (?) Kathryn Queeney came up with Benny and the Jets. So the pressure is off Jacko and his promoters to make good on that name.
Also from Kathryn, we've got
Luke
Chester
from "They Weight" performed by The Band, commonly known as "Take a Load off Fanny."
Paul --from the Beatles e.g. "The walrus was Paul" and
Tom --from David Bowie's Major Tom.
Kathryn's mother, Mary Lou Queeney--these are friends from my 'hood, everyone, and you'll be hearing from Mrs. Queeney tomorrow when I post some of her e-mail--shocks us all with the obvious
Louie from Louie, Louie DUH! But let's not beat ourselves up over the obvious.
Rachel has come up with multiple submissions--love that dogged perseverance!--and given us
Daniel --from the Elton John song
Eddie --from Billy Joel's Scenes from an Italian Restaurant
Anthony --from Movin' Out by the same
Jude --from the Beatles
Sister #3 hit a jackpot with Paul's Simon's 50 Ways to Leave your Lover
Stan
Gus
Roy
Lee
Too bad that song didn't include 50 guys' names! Are there more in there? That's for someone else to do a lyrics search on--I can't do everything around here.
This is a very strong hint to someone to look up We Didn't Start the Fire by Billy Joel. Lots of names in there. Some of them might be first names. Who's gonna' get on this?
Speaking of jackpots, Bryan hit one, too. REM's "Man on the Moon" yields
Andy
Fred
Elvis
Moses
Charles
Peter
Ka-BAM!
Janice suggested Amadeus. The judges have been considering. And I think it stands. A middle name, sure. But middle names are just first names that get second place. It's not Amadeus' fault that Mozart's parents preferred Wolfgang.
Sister #2, Mary Jean, wrote in with "Jessie's Girl"--aha! Of course! She also points out that the singer, Rick Springfield, was a doctor on General Hospital before this one-hit-wonder and that she preferred him as a doctor over a rock star. Sorry, we're not going to open up a sub-list of Songs Sung by Soap Opera Stars. But the important thing is that we've captured the name "Jessie."
Finally, back to Nick:
Vincent by Don McClean (sp?)
Joey by Concrete Blond
Livin' on a Prayer by Bon Jovi (can't remember the dude's name -- Billy?)
If you can't remember the dude's name, then his name isn't on the list. BUT, Springsteen sings a couple songs with "Billy" in it, including "Gave it a Name," and "Rockaway the Nights." So Billy is on the list. But now I see that we already had it on the list. AND that I had, in error, given a space to Bill and to Billy. But forms of the name get only one spot.
Time to hit the sub-total button people:
1. Micky
2. Bill(y)
3. Maurice
4. Jack
5. Ben(nie)
6. Louie
7. Gene
8. Fred
9. Buddy
10. Henry
11. John(ny)
12. Ricky
13. Willie
14. Whelan
15. Elvis
16. Luke
17. Charles(Charlie)
18. Chester
19. Paul
20. Tom(my)
21. Daniel
22. Eddie
23. Anthony
24. Jude
25. Stan
26. Gus
27. Roy
28. Lee
29. Andy
30. Fred
31. Moses
32. Peter
33. Amadeus
34. Jessie
35. Vincent
36. Joey
36 guys' names??? Are you kidding me? How high is this going to go, people? One for every hair on my head?
Can we crank it through 50? What would happen if we broke 50? I feel like I'm on a runaway stage coach. So exhilarating, so fun, no way to know when the horses will peter out.
Keep 'em coming. 36 is no place to stop.
Many have posted men's names in the comments sections, and many have e-mailed me with more. Today's the day I collect them all and see what our list looks like. A lot of work to do, people. Let's get started.
Do you remember who your phone-a-friends were going to be?
You know. Back when "Millionaire" was all the rage and you had the mental list of the people you'd have handy to contact when your time came?
One of mine was Nick Lewandowski. I don't know anyone who knows more about pop music than he does. And if he was qualified to win me a million dollars one day, then he's qualified to be part of The Big "C" panel of judges on this particular question. So, then, let's check in with Nick on a recent submission from Carlo, my brother-in-law, who gave us names from a New Edition song:
NICK:
"As much I, like you, appreciate Carlo's enthusiasm regarding the New Edition song that name-checks the members of the band (er, vocal group) -- including that seems to create a slippery slope. A huge percentage of hip-hop/rap artists name-check themselves in nearly all of their songs. I think that if we allow that to count, the whole purpose will have been defeated."
AP!:
Let me stop you a little bit sooner, Nick, with the possibility of "hip-hop/rap" artists creeping into this humble blog. No, no and no. I agree with you: the slippery slope must be un-slipped and de-slopped.
No name-checks permitted.
Sorry, Carlo. I'm afraid that Ronnie, Bobby, Rickie and Mike are now off the list.
HOWEVER, Nick also submits the song "Hey Ricky" by Melissa Manchester. So "Ricky" is back on the list through a different avenue.
There must be a "Bobby" out there somewhere, too. Anybody?
Back to NICK:
"Another point. I thought I saw that you mentioned a limitation regarding American pop music -- or something to that effect. I assume -- and indeed this must be case -- that you are including songs by non-Americans that have some influence/following among American consumers -- thus qualifying under a loose definition of "pop." As such, non-Americans like Van Morrison and Elton John would be included. I think this would allow inclusion of country music as well."
AP!: Yes, time to be more clear about this. We're looking for songs that are familiar to the widespread American audience, regardless of who sings them. By "widespread," I mean, 'Anyone who knows me."
How very handy that our judge includes country music, because I have the following submissions from Dr. Matthew Mayfield, the famed Texan:
Willie
Whelan
These are both from the same country song, though I don't have the title because I was really just a little surprised that after the "How did Chemo go?" conversation was over he had launched into men's names he'd thought of.
Stunning? Indeed. Am I TOTALLY proud that I've got my surgeon spending idle moments thinking about this? You betcha.
I DID ask him, "Does anyone outside of Texas know that Whelan is a guy's name?"
Also, he submits
Elvis
Luke
Charlie
From "Who's Going to Fill Their Shoes" or somesuch. These 3 names happened to be repeated from other submissions, in case you're skittish about how loose I'm being with the details.
Speaking of that lingering Mayfield suggestion of "Ben" from the Michael Jackson song about a rat (?) Kathryn Queeney came up with Benny and the Jets. So the pressure is off Jacko and his promoters to make good on that name.
Also from Kathryn, we've got
Luke
Chester
from "They Weight" performed by The Band, commonly known as "Take a Load off Fanny."
Paul --from the Beatles e.g. "The walrus was Paul" and
Tom --from David Bowie's Major Tom.
Kathryn's mother, Mary Lou Queeney--these are friends from my 'hood, everyone, and you'll be hearing from Mrs. Queeney tomorrow when I post some of her e-mail--shocks us all with the obvious
Louie from Louie, Louie DUH! But let's not beat ourselves up over the obvious.
Rachel has come up with multiple submissions--love that dogged perseverance!--and given us
Daniel --from the Elton John song
Eddie --from Billy Joel's Scenes from an Italian Restaurant
Anthony --from Movin' Out by the same
Jude --from the Beatles
Sister #3 hit a jackpot with Paul's Simon's 50 Ways to Leave your Lover
Stan
Gus
Roy
Lee
Too bad that song didn't include 50 guys' names! Are there more in there? That's for someone else to do a lyrics search on--I can't do everything around here.
This is a very strong hint to someone to look up We Didn't Start the Fire by Billy Joel. Lots of names in there. Some of them might be first names. Who's gonna' get on this?
Speaking of jackpots, Bryan hit one, too. REM's "Man on the Moon" yields
Andy
Fred
Elvis
Moses
Charles
Peter
Ka-BAM!
Janice suggested Amadeus. The judges have been considering. And I think it stands. A middle name, sure. But middle names are just first names that get second place. It's not Amadeus' fault that Mozart's parents preferred Wolfgang.
Sister #2, Mary Jean, wrote in with "Jessie's Girl"--aha! Of course! She also points out that the singer, Rick Springfield, was a doctor on General Hospital before this one-hit-wonder and that she preferred him as a doctor over a rock star. Sorry, we're not going to open up a sub-list of Songs Sung by Soap Opera Stars. But the important thing is that we've captured the name "Jessie."
Finally, back to Nick:
Vincent by Don McClean (sp?)
Joey by Concrete Blond
Livin' on a Prayer by Bon Jovi (can't remember the dude's name -- Billy?)
If you can't remember the dude's name, then his name isn't on the list. BUT, Springsteen sings a couple songs with "Billy" in it, including "Gave it a Name," and "Rockaway the Nights." So Billy is on the list. But now I see that we already had it on the list. AND that I had, in error, given a space to Bill and to Billy. But forms of the name get only one spot.
Time to hit the sub-total button people:
1. Micky
2. Bill(y)
3. Maurice
4. Jack
5. Ben(nie)
6. Louie
7. Gene
8. Fred
9. Buddy
10. Henry
11. John(ny)
12. Ricky
13. Willie
14. Whelan
15. Elvis
16. Luke
17. Charles(Charlie)
18. Chester
19. Paul
20. Tom(my)
21. Daniel
22. Eddie
23. Anthony
24. Jude
25. Stan
26. Gus
27. Roy
28. Lee
29. Andy
30. Fred
31. Moses
32. Peter
33. Amadeus
34. Jessie
35. Vincent
36. Joey
36 guys' names??? Are you kidding me? How high is this going to go, people? One for every hair on my head?
Can we crank it through 50? What would happen if we broke 50? I feel like I'm on a runaway stage coach. So exhilarating, so fun, no way to know when the horses will peter out.
Keep 'em coming. 36 is no place to stop.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Wellness Update
Yesterday, at about 3:30, which was 48 hours after the drugs had stopped dripping, a switch flipped off and the curtains came down. Fatigue. A Giant Wall of Fatigue.
It was amazing and weird and increasing for several hours, as though someone were draping 1 pound weights on me steadily throughout the evening.
Bryan came home and took over, got the kids packed up and put to bed for Betsy to come collect them in the morning. At 3 AM, Josh crawled into our bed, and at 4 AM, Bryan noticed that he was burning up. Ack!!! Fever!!! 101.5!
On the one hand, I wanted to cuddle him up and help him feel better. But you know what won out: Get this SICKO away from me!
Poor kid. I DID get him something to drink while Bryan dosed him with Tylenol. He woke up without a fever. And I've been washing my hands copiously.
So the kids are at Betsy's until after work on Friday. I'm going to hang out here and treat this like a little stay-cation.
And I'm thankful for the fatigue. If the TCH is making all my good cells feel like this, it must surely be killing off the bad ones. Search and destroy, guys. Search. And destroy.
It was amazing and weird and increasing for several hours, as though someone were draping 1 pound weights on me steadily throughout the evening.
Bryan came home and took over, got the kids packed up and put to bed for Betsy to come collect them in the morning. At 3 AM, Josh crawled into our bed, and at 4 AM, Bryan noticed that he was burning up. Ack!!! Fever!!! 101.5!
On the one hand, I wanted to cuddle him up and help him feel better. But you know what won out: Get this SICKO away from me!
Poor kid. I DID get him something to drink while Bryan dosed him with Tylenol. He woke up without a fever. And I've been washing my hands copiously.
So the kids are at Betsy's until after work on Friday. I'm going to hang out here and treat this like a little stay-cation.
And I'm thankful for the fatigue. If the TCH is making all my good cells feel like this, it must surely be killing off the bad ones. Search and destroy, guys. Search. And destroy.
Hopes and Dreams
It's Thursday!
Today's theme song is one that never fails to makes me feel bright and hopeful. Friends who know me well are thinking, "I can't believe it took you 3 songs to get to Springsteen,"--but please note, there is no order of ranking on Theme Song Thursdays.
Yes, I could write--in fact, have written--a great deal about Springsteen's song writing. He's the sort who takes the time to develop a metaphor and make the music match the point of the words. There are not too many rock n' roll songs that could stand alone as worthwhile poetry without the music, but a lot of Springsteen's can.
Two things to note about this one:
1. It's a great example of the E Street Band's "wall of sound." So many instruments at work here, all of them perfect.
2. Listen for the band's vocals towards the end. It's not a chorus. Not well-trained enough to sound like one. It's a group of friends crooning. Perfectly.
And it's pretty obvious how I personalize these lyrics.
The first is a better audio recording that someone put up on Youtube with the lyrics.
The second is the recording from The E Street Band's concert in Barcelona. Not as good of an audio, but it's fun to see the band, and at about 4.30 into the song, you can see the crooning I'm talking about.
On this train, dreams will not be thwarted
This train, faith will be rewarded
This train, steels wheels sing
This train, bells of freedom will ring
Today's theme song is one that never fails to makes me feel bright and hopeful. Friends who know me well are thinking, "I can't believe it took you 3 songs to get to Springsteen,"--but please note, there is no order of ranking on Theme Song Thursdays.
Yes, I could write--in fact, have written--a great deal about Springsteen's song writing. He's the sort who takes the time to develop a metaphor and make the music match the point of the words. There are not too many rock n' roll songs that could stand alone as worthwhile poetry without the music, but a lot of Springsteen's can.
Two things to note about this one:
1. It's a great example of the E Street Band's "wall of sound." So many instruments at work here, all of them perfect.
2. Listen for the band's vocals towards the end. It's not a chorus. Not well-trained enough to sound like one. It's a group of friends crooning. Perfectly.
And it's pretty obvious how I personalize these lyrics.
The first is a better audio recording that someone put up on Youtube with the lyrics.
The second is the recording from The E Street Band's concert in Barcelona. Not as good of an audio, but it's fun to see the band, and at about 4.30 into the song, you can see the crooning I'm talking about.
On this train, dreams will not be thwarted
This train, faith will be rewarded
This train, steels wheels sing
This train, bells of freedom will ring
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Quick Wellness Update
Day 3 following chemo!
Still have GI tract uneasiness, but it's not interefering with my appetite. Stomach cramps wake me up in the middle of the night as the drugs for that wear off, and so I've been losing sleep. I think this is why I'm a bit on the tired side. Not sure if there's more fatigue coming, but I'm feeling about 85% of strength.
No adverse reaction a la the glucose chemical binder that got me last time. This is very good news that I hadn't even thought of until one of sisters asked about it.
Mayfield called yesterday to hear how the first Chemo day had gone. He and his wife had prayed for me and this was just a follow-up. What a doctor!
Most of all, there's been a serious mood shift. I don't know whether it's related to the chemicals or if this is just a natural course of adjustment, but I've been very sad and weepy. Not with anxiety or fear. Just. . .sadness.
Finally, there's been some extended discussion about the person I refer to as She Who Shall Not Be Named, and what I really should be calling her. I take these comments to be the strong moral support they are intended to be. :) What loyalty is in these ranks!
But at the risk of coming off sanctimonious, I really don't have a mean name for her. She's a woman who messed up several times, and those mis-steps happened to have directly affected me. But she didn't do it--or not do it--with any malice.
I'm reminded of a time from Forestry where we pulled up to the curb and started to work according to the order that was in front of me. The job was to restore 4 blocks of parkway that had been damaged by snowplows. When I got to one house, I noticed that the owner had already started his own little resto' project but that a) he probably hadn't planted the salt-resistent seed he should have and b) what he had done was going to sink because he hadn't done that right, either.
So we re-did it for him.
Came back the next day to the next house over, and he was outside in a jiffy, in his bathrobe, wanting to know why I'd dumped all over the grass he'd started. We had what I thought was a helpful, professional discussion.
The next week, my boss showed me a letter written by this resident about that restoration project and our little talk about it. According to this guy's description, I hadn't handled things well at all. That is, he had his version, and I had mine.
My boss took my side in this and nothing came of it.
What I remember about the letter is that the resident was very careful to avoid identifying as female the worker he'd talked with. Figuring, rightly, that doing so would be directly fingering me. How many women were doing this job, after all? (The answer for that summer: 1.)
And as annoyed as he was with me, this was still very gracious of him to be that cautious about fingering. There was a sense of relief in knowing that he didn't hold anything against me personally.
This is kind of how I feel about She Who Shall Not Be Named. Who knows why she dropped so many balls? Or whether she had been perfect in all other things, but all her imperfections happened to line up in my case?
And, most importantly, I don't think I'll have too much to do with her again, now that I'm already down the road.
So. It's all good. :)
Still have GI tract uneasiness, but it's not interefering with my appetite. Stomach cramps wake me up in the middle of the night as the drugs for that wear off, and so I've been losing sleep. I think this is why I'm a bit on the tired side. Not sure if there's more fatigue coming, but I'm feeling about 85% of strength.
No adverse reaction a la the glucose chemical binder that got me last time. This is very good news that I hadn't even thought of until one of sisters asked about it.
Mayfield called yesterday to hear how the first Chemo day had gone. He and his wife had prayed for me and this was just a follow-up. What a doctor!
Most of all, there's been a serious mood shift. I don't know whether it's related to the chemicals or if this is just a natural course of adjustment, but I've been very sad and weepy. Not with anxiety or fear. Just. . .sadness.
Finally, there's been some extended discussion about the person I refer to as She Who Shall Not Be Named, and what I really should be calling her. I take these comments to be the strong moral support they are intended to be. :) What loyalty is in these ranks!
But at the risk of coming off sanctimonious, I really don't have a mean name for her. She's a woman who messed up several times, and those mis-steps happened to have directly affected me. But she didn't do it--or not do it--with any malice.
I'm reminded of a time from Forestry where we pulled up to the curb and started to work according to the order that was in front of me. The job was to restore 4 blocks of parkway that had been damaged by snowplows. When I got to one house, I noticed that the owner had already started his own little resto' project but that a) he probably hadn't planted the salt-resistent seed he should have and b) what he had done was going to sink because he hadn't done that right, either.
So we re-did it for him.
Came back the next day to the next house over, and he was outside in a jiffy, in his bathrobe, wanting to know why I'd dumped all over the grass he'd started. We had what I thought was a helpful, professional discussion.
The next week, my boss showed me a letter written by this resident about that restoration project and our little talk about it. According to this guy's description, I hadn't handled things well at all. That is, he had his version, and I had mine.
My boss took my side in this and nothing came of it.
What I remember about the letter is that the resident was very careful to avoid identifying as female the worker he'd talked with. Figuring, rightly, that doing so would be directly fingering me. How many women were doing this job, after all? (The answer for that summer: 1.)
And as annoyed as he was with me, this was still very gracious of him to be that cautious about fingering. There was a sense of relief in knowing that he didn't hold anything against me personally.
This is kind of how I feel about She Who Shall Not Be Named. Who knows why she dropped so many balls? Or whether she had been perfect in all other things, but all her imperfections happened to line up in my case?
And, most importantly, I don't think I'll have too much to do with her again, now that I'm already down the road.
So. It's all good. :)
The Catch
I mentioned that we went to the JFCC-IMD picnic last Friday. Had a terrific time. The weather was perfect. It was held at the Farrish campgrounds which are military-owned and set in the mountains about 40 minutes from here--gorgeous scenery. No insects to bother us. A few moments to share:
1. The reason we had so much fun is that Joshua is now 3. Overnight, it seems, he changed from being a toddler who needed pretty intense supervision, to being a little boy who could run with the Big Dogs. And run he did. There was a little playground next to the picnic pavilion, and because we were so secluded, the kids were free to play here and there with the pack of other children. I so enjoyed not having the responsibility of being right next to a child the entire time.
2. Bryan has only told a handful of people at work what we're dealing with, the handful who are most impacted by his being out of the office at random times. These guys made a point of telling me I'm in their prayers, and offering their help to us. It was very sweet. And here is where I'll point out that I didn't wear my fake boob. Not only do I hate that thing (writing about this is for another day), but I kind of felt like these were people who were already so supportive and already knew about everything. . .what would be the point?
Plus, I didn't want to confuse anyone who had only been hearing scattered details around the work place. "So. . .you did have a surgery?... Or...well. . .I mean, what kind of cancer did you have again?"
3. One guy caught me off to the side and shared this kind of sentiment. Then he told me that he was a two-time survivor himself. At age 35! Both thyroid and "ventricular" cancer, within 2 years of each other. (Bryan had no idea when I told him, as this apparently hasn't been a life-defining experience for Nick. This in itself was encouraging to me.)
Nick had a port both times, and I was glad to ask him whether it ever feels comfortable. Because, almost 2 weeks after the installation, my port is still very uncomfortable. He said he never got used to his.
It felt really good to "talk cancer" with him, possibly because he had been so young, too. There is a peculiar sense of camaraderie there. "Peculiar," I guess, because I hadn't realized that I'm now in a Club. When we were done talking, he gave me a hug and I will never forget the feeling of that much compassion packed into that short a moment.
4. Colonel Putko's wife, the other Colonel Putko, not only has 6 children, she also has a PhD in rocket science. And they're both still active duty Air Force. The Mrs. Colonel Putko brought stuff for the kids to launch rockets using 2 liter soda bottles, water, a launching tri-pod and high-speed air pumps.
The directions, after the rest of the stuff was rigged up, were to pump up to 70 or so and then pull the pin.
Bryan helped Gemma and Josh launch rocket after rocket.
Pretty soon I realized that each launch, the kids would pump for a little bit, then he'd pump after them, but that with each rocket, he'd pump a little longer.
And the bottles blew higher and higher and higher, with Bryan giggling each time a little more, a little more.
He pumped up to 180--180, people!--before breaking the Mrs. Colonel Putko's high speed air pump.
But the Mr. Colonel Putko and Bryan's other boss who was launching rockets with his kids, and who was also competing for height, both laughed and laughed about it.
5. The day, for me, culminated in The Egg Toss.
Do you know this game? I grew up watching the adults play it at the Ferrone Family picnic. Maybe I even played a little myself in the later years. It's just like a water balloon toss--find a partner, throw it back and forth, each time taking one giant step backwards.
Bryan wouldn't play, so I was partners with this guy named Mike. We were doing pretty well. Holding our own. He knew the drill about bringing the egg in for a soft landing, especially once the distance becomes great.
Then he launched the egg to me with what was not such a great throw. It was coming in high and to my right. I reached out, way up, a little behind me and snagged that egg, without breaking it, with what must be one of the Top 10 catches in Egg Toss history.
It was breath-taking.
The other competitors applauded. We went on to win the game. And on the way home, I was like George Costanza revelling in his great parking space.
"Bryan! Did you see that catch? It was incredible! I would still be raving about it even if it had been someone else's! That's how great a catch it was. . . Man. What an amazing catch."
Then I realized: I had caught it with my right arm. My right arm! The arm that I wasn't going to be able to lift above my shoulder! The arm that would still be healing around now if the muscle had come out!
And right there in the car, I teared up. God has been so good to me. He has spared me the worst, and preserved me for a beautiful day to enjoy with my family, and freed me to win the Egg Toss with a spectacular, full-extension catch of the most fragile thing in a fairly harsh circumstance.
1. The reason we had so much fun is that Joshua is now 3. Overnight, it seems, he changed from being a toddler who needed pretty intense supervision, to being a little boy who could run with the Big Dogs. And run he did. There was a little playground next to the picnic pavilion, and because we were so secluded, the kids were free to play here and there with the pack of other children. I so enjoyed not having the responsibility of being right next to a child the entire time.
2. Bryan has only told a handful of people at work what we're dealing with, the handful who are most impacted by his being out of the office at random times. These guys made a point of telling me I'm in their prayers, and offering their help to us. It was very sweet. And here is where I'll point out that I didn't wear my fake boob. Not only do I hate that thing (writing about this is for another day), but I kind of felt like these were people who were already so supportive and already knew about everything. . .what would be the point?
Plus, I didn't want to confuse anyone who had only been hearing scattered details around the work place. "So. . .you did have a surgery?... Or...well. . .I mean, what kind of cancer did you have again?"
3. One guy caught me off to the side and shared this kind of sentiment. Then he told me that he was a two-time survivor himself. At age 35! Both thyroid and "ventricular" cancer, within 2 years of each other. (Bryan had no idea when I told him, as this apparently hasn't been a life-defining experience for Nick. This in itself was encouraging to me.)
Nick had a port both times, and I was glad to ask him whether it ever feels comfortable. Because, almost 2 weeks after the installation, my port is still very uncomfortable. He said he never got used to his.
It felt really good to "talk cancer" with him, possibly because he had been so young, too. There is a peculiar sense of camaraderie there. "Peculiar," I guess, because I hadn't realized that I'm now in a Club. When we were done talking, he gave me a hug and I will never forget the feeling of that much compassion packed into that short a moment.
4. Colonel Putko's wife, the other Colonel Putko, not only has 6 children, she also has a PhD in rocket science. And they're both still active duty Air Force. The Mrs. Colonel Putko brought stuff for the kids to launch rockets using 2 liter soda bottles, water, a launching tri-pod and high-speed air pumps.
The directions, after the rest of the stuff was rigged up, were to pump up to 70 or so and then pull the pin.
Bryan helped Gemma and Josh launch rocket after rocket.
Pretty soon I realized that each launch, the kids would pump for a little bit, then he'd pump after them, but that with each rocket, he'd pump a little longer.
And the bottles blew higher and higher and higher, with Bryan giggling each time a little more, a little more.
He pumped up to 180--180, people!--before breaking the Mrs. Colonel Putko's high speed air pump.
But the Mr. Colonel Putko and Bryan's other boss who was launching rockets with his kids, and who was also competing for height, both laughed and laughed about it.
5. The day, for me, culminated in The Egg Toss.
Do you know this game? I grew up watching the adults play it at the Ferrone Family picnic. Maybe I even played a little myself in the later years. It's just like a water balloon toss--find a partner, throw it back and forth, each time taking one giant step backwards.
Bryan wouldn't play, so I was partners with this guy named Mike. We were doing pretty well. Holding our own. He knew the drill about bringing the egg in for a soft landing, especially once the distance becomes great.
Then he launched the egg to me with what was not such a great throw. It was coming in high and to my right. I reached out, way up, a little behind me and snagged that egg, without breaking it, with what must be one of the Top 10 catches in Egg Toss history.
It was breath-taking.
The other competitors applauded. We went on to win the game. And on the way home, I was like George Costanza revelling in his great parking space.
"Bryan! Did you see that catch? It was incredible! I would still be raving about it even if it had been someone else's! That's how great a catch it was. . . Man. What an amazing catch."
Then I realized: I had caught it with my right arm. My right arm! The arm that I wasn't going to be able to lift above my shoulder! The arm that would still be healing around now if the muscle had come out!
And right there in the car, I teared up. God has been so good to me. He has spared me the worst, and preserved me for a beautiful day to enjoy with my family, and freed me to win the Egg Toss with a spectacular, full-extension catch of the most fragile thing in a fairly harsh circumstance.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Chemotherapy: Day 1
Bryan has used an expression for as long as I've known him. "Goat rope." As in, "Getting that plan approved was such a goat rope," or "Fixing that mess was a real goat rope."
I don't know its etymology. And the best way to define the term is to give an illustrative example of it.
Therefore, I humbly present My First Day of Chemo: The Goat Rope
We left at 8 AM. Dropped the kids of at Betsy's around 8:30. Got to the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center at 9:00 AM because I was told by a certain person to get there early so I could sign necessary paper work.
I'm not going to tell you her name. And I'm not going to tell you about the "Chemo training" I did a week or so ago, nor am I going to include her in today's description because none of it leaves her looking too great. Bryan wants to know when I'm going to "dime her out" on the blog.
I'm going to try not to.
Suffice it to say, there was no paperwork signing.
I was brought to Markus' exam room at the appointment time, 9:20. LOTS to tell you about Dr. Science. He'll get his own blog posting. I got an answer to the name question and--
What's that?
You want to know what that answer is?
But it's part of a sub-story, part of a whole different post.
Really? I have to tell you now?
Fine. Briefly: It's a family name. Great story behind it.
And also, briefly, I really like Dr. Markus. Today was a big day for me in terms of how I was doing with him. More on that later.
At this point in the morning, I was feeling really great. Very good mood A "It's a great day to start chemo!" kind of mood. I even joked with the tech who took my vitals. I asked him how he was doing, and he said, "Well. . .it's a Monday."
And I said, "At least you're not started chemotherapy today!"
And he said, "Yeah. That's true."
He took my blood pressure with a stethoscope and pressure cuff. Who does that anymore? I've had my bp taken all over town in the last two months and everywhere I've been, they've used these free-standing auto-bp machines. I could strap myself up, press the button and get the very same reading as one who has a nursing degree!
I said to him, "Are the workers here thinking of unionizing and demanding that you get those machines to take bp? I mean, this is old school."
He didn't say anything to that, either.
After a little consult with Markus, we went to the "Infusion Suite."
Yes, that's what they call it.
I hadn't seen it before that moment. The word "suite" certainly conjured a specific expectation.
I don't know if "infusion suites" are like this all over the country.
And I don't know why they call it a "suite," aside from the fact that this euphemism is probably better for keeping the dread to a minimum in patients like me.
All of which is to say that, while I didn't have high expectations, the expectations I did have were sorely and horribly undercut. Like a punch to the gut, really.
A big room with a vaulted ceiling that let in natural light. Rows of fluorescent lights as well. A strip of inset light bulbs running down both sides. The nurse's rounded, high desktop on one end. Rows of vinyl rocking recliners in either hospital-green or Floridian-motel-flower motifs. Arranged into quadrants so that, in their rows, they face in, with floor space in the middle of each. The longer sides of the quadrants had 3 recliners, the shorter ends, 2. A little, rolling, Formica-fake wood table between each chair.
The same Formica-fake wood book shelves here and there. One stocked with some paperbacks. One full of National Geographic magazines. Lots of other magazines scattered about and available. Individual bathrooms on the nurse's end, and a snack station next to there with juice and pretzels and so forth.
A table with a jigsaw puzzle in progress.
TV screens in the corners, but these were not on, which I was glad about.
And, of course, a lot of cancer patients. All hooked up. A stand with a green box next to each recliner with a bunch of plastic bags suspended at the top. Drugs dripping down. Most of them over 60 or at least looking like it. Several old couples where one was accompanying the other, and the other wasn't looking too great at all. A young man, maybe 20, there with his mother. A young woman--what? 18?--there with two friends. Morbid. Absolutely breath-taking how sad the entirety of that picture was.
There were "private suites" available. These were hospital rooms, with beds, not recliners. And they strongly preferred that I not do one of these for the first time so that the nurses could keep a clear eye out for me in case of a bad reaction.
Bryan and I took a pair of recliners, I at the end and he in the middle. This is key. Why? Because how is a patient supposed to be treated if she's a middle chair???? Where does her stand full of drugs go? Not to her side. Not in back--for how, then, can she get up to go to the bathroom? And not in front, really--for then the cords would be stretched pretty far and there'd be a real risk of obstructing the traffic of other cancer patients wheeling their drugs stands around.
That is, clearly the middle recliners should just be used by the friend or family member who has come with. And most patients had someone.
So when Bryan was out of his chair to go make more appointments for me, and a lady came and sat down in it (when there were LOTS of other seats to be had), I whispered to the nurse at hand, "She's in my husband's chair. . ."
And this nurse said, "She's the patient. She gets to sit where she wants,"
WTF?
This is my first infusion of chemo. And it's a middle chair! You want her on an end seat anyway!
I just. . .was so taken aback, and was so emotional to begin with, I teared up, and the nurse just said, ridiculously and impotently, "Sorry. . .He can pull of one of those chairs." She pointed to the puzzle table.
Yeah. Why don't we ask him to sit in a wooden chair with no arms for the 4 hours of treatment?
I was just about to launch into my case, and it would not have been very gracious or kind or gentle, when the two ladies across from me in my quadrant got up to leave. The one who was there as a friend told the lady next to me that my husband was sitting here, would she mind moving, and she did. So nicely. So graciously. The departing lady put my bag on Bryan's chair to "save" it for him.
And so we learned our first trick for coping in the Chemo Warehouse: Save your seat.
And yes. That's what I'm calling it from here on in. "Suite," my ass.
This kind gesture from the lady leaving, the lady moving--it all made me cry, too. Very touching.
After being in our seats for almost an hour, we learned that the hold-up on the treatment was that they needed to see the chest x-ray that confirmed the port placement. It hadn't been sent to them.
Should the hospital have sent it? Yes. But should my case-worker have checked for this ahead of time, given that 10 days had elapsed since the surgery day when it was taken? Yes. But She Who Shall Not Be Named apparently hadn't gotten on that.
But this same "She" came to me with the paperwork to sign--fine, we were waiting anyway--and said that Mayfield had gotten on the phone himself and the x-ray would arrive in minutes.
Yay Mayfield! It was a bright spot in my morning to hear about him in this way.
And then the hunt-a-port game began. This isn't a valve like you find on a blow-up pool. I kind of thought it would be, but I see the point of having the whole thing sub-epidermal. No, a needle goes through the flesh to get the port.
The day of the surgery, Mayfield described how he'd put it in, and that he'd have to go deeper in because I was "thin" and didn't have much sub-cutaneous fat there. ("I'm sorry, could you say that again?...")
And, he explained that it's a balance between placing it for port access and keeping cosmetics and comfort in mind. (My seat belt goes right across there. For a whole year. So, yeah, deeper is better.)
Then he said that he'd place it so it wouldn't stick out too much and look "all weird." And I said, "Right. Because we don't want my chest to look deformed or anything." This chagrined him a bit.
What I know about the port placement is that it took 4 tries because I "have an unusual anatomy." The vein just wasn't where it was supposed to be, and Mom pointed out that Mayfield was able to reach under my collar bone, which normally doesn't happen either. (The port is on the left side, under the left collar bone.)
ALL of which is to say that when four different nurses tried to access the port, without success, they started to ask "Who placed this?" and, "He should have moved it," and other kinds of snide remarks.
And I, the one lying prone on the extended recliner, having not numbed the area with numbing cream because She Who Shall Not Be Named failed to call in the prescription along with my other meds, who had only sprays from a numbing can to use, and even then could only have two of those lest the stuff burn my skin, yes, I thought to myself, "Uh uh. No one talks badly about Mayfield! Stop complaining, you incompetent heifers, and just get the job done."
This was monstrously unfair of me for several reasons. A) These women were not "heifers" in any sense of the word. B) They were really frustrated, mostly because they could see me wincing and crying from the pain of it--didn't even know I was crying until Bryan used three tissues to mop up the vinyl recliner and C) the whole day, they were very compassionate and professional and kind to me. All of them.
So I'm glad I just thought that bad thought and didn't actually say it.
And when they gave up, 15 minutes into it, one said, "You can go ahead and cuss if you need to." Nope. Not me. I'm good.
The biggest obstacle was probably the swelling that hadn't gone down totally. We iced the spot for about 10 minutes, which helped to numb it somewhat. They had tried most of their attempts with a one inch needle. The upgrade to the 1.5 inch needle helped and, finally, Nurse Kate, yelled, 'I got it!' and then pumped her arms in victory.
I asked her if she'd be here next week, now that she knew the trick of it. (Something about going in on an angle. . .)
After we left the RMCC, Bryan told me, "They perforated you!" He'd watched it all and counted 23 pokes before she got it.
The drugs started. They go in one by one. The nurse warned me about the reactions to watch out for to one of the toxins. I should tell them immediately if I feel this, this or that. Then she said, "You have less than 1% chance of having these reactions, so don't worry."
I said, "I had about a 0.5% chance of developing this particular cancer at age 34. So I might be on a roll."
She looked at me funny.
No particular feeling from any of the drugs. I read for a little bit. Brought a portable DVD player and watched High Fidelity. Chatted with Bryan. Spent a lot of time thinking about what they could--reasonably--do to make the Chemo Warehouse into something that kind of resembled a suite while also allowing the nurses all the access they needed. Note to RMCC: I've got lots of ideas!
Everyone in my quadrant had witnessed the port ordeal. As they finished up and left, one by one, each one said, "It will get better!" or "Good luck with everything!" Very kind. Made me cry.
The lady who moved, got up a few times to stand right in front of me and. . .do her part for my morale, I guess.
I didn't want her to. I didn't want to hear her sad story. (And it's a doozy!) I didn't want to hear her little cliches about how to deal with it (E.g. "day by day," "count your blessings" et al.)
She expounded on how she thought her baldness was "cool," that because of it, she's now "more comfortable with her looks than ever!!!"
You know what? She'd had a lumpectomy. Stage 2 cancer. Little hunk missing. I wanted to say, "Yeah, I've kind of already had the 'looks' conversation with myself," but what was this? A qualifying round for the Olympics of Suffering?
So I didn't mention it. Just thanked her. It was good of her to want to be so supportive.
And I guess that's the bright side of the Chemo Warehouse--that there's some sort of sharing of the experience. The downside of this shared experience, of course, is that I really don't want to hear about other patients' troubles right now. Maybe a little while into this, I'll have the presence of mind to offer to pray with people, because that's about a billion times more helpful, I think, than the cliches we've already all heard. But today, I just pretty much didn't want to be there and couldn't get past the sneak-up-on-me-grief over this new reality that I am a sick person who needs lots of horrible drugs to be pumped into her body.
This first treatment was extra-long because the H protein had a long first dose and because they started the toxins at a slow rate. It all stopped dripping at 3:40 this afternoon. We were headed out by 4:00.
And as of 9:52 PM Monday night, I'm feeling some GI-track issues, and a bo-bo belly, but no nausea, and nothing else of note.
Day one done. Thank God. And a huge thanks to Betsy and Amy who had the kids all day long! What a blessing that was to know we could stay there as long as we needed to without any worry. : )
I don't know its etymology. And the best way to define the term is to give an illustrative example of it.
Therefore, I humbly present My First Day of Chemo: The Goat Rope
We left at 8 AM. Dropped the kids of at Betsy's around 8:30. Got to the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center at 9:00 AM because I was told by a certain person to get there early so I could sign necessary paper work.
I'm not going to tell you her name. And I'm not going to tell you about the "Chemo training" I did a week or so ago, nor am I going to include her in today's description because none of it leaves her looking too great. Bryan wants to know when I'm going to "dime her out" on the blog.
I'm going to try not to.
Suffice it to say, there was no paperwork signing.
I was brought to Markus' exam room at the appointment time, 9:20. LOTS to tell you about Dr. Science. He'll get his own blog posting. I got an answer to the name question and--
What's that?
You want to know what that answer is?
But it's part of a sub-story, part of a whole different post.
Really? I have to tell you now?
Fine. Briefly: It's a family name. Great story behind it.
And also, briefly, I really like Dr. Markus. Today was a big day for me in terms of how I was doing with him. More on that later.
At this point in the morning, I was feeling really great. Very good mood A "It's a great day to start chemo!" kind of mood. I even joked with the tech who took my vitals. I asked him how he was doing, and he said, "Well. . .it's a Monday."
And I said, "At least you're not started chemotherapy today!"
And he said, "Yeah. That's true."
He took my blood pressure with a stethoscope and pressure cuff. Who does that anymore? I've had my bp taken all over town in the last two months and everywhere I've been, they've used these free-standing auto-bp machines. I could strap myself up, press the button and get the very same reading as one who has a nursing degree!
I said to him, "Are the workers here thinking of unionizing and demanding that you get those machines to take bp? I mean, this is old school."
He didn't say anything to that, either.
After a little consult with Markus, we went to the "Infusion Suite."
Yes, that's what they call it.
I hadn't seen it before that moment. The word "suite" certainly conjured a specific expectation.
I don't know if "infusion suites" are like this all over the country.
And I don't know why they call it a "suite," aside from the fact that this euphemism is probably better for keeping the dread to a minimum in patients like me.
All of which is to say that, while I didn't have high expectations, the expectations I did have were sorely and horribly undercut. Like a punch to the gut, really.
A big room with a vaulted ceiling that let in natural light. Rows of fluorescent lights as well. A strip of inset light bulbs running down both sides. The nurse's rounded, high desktop on one end. Rows of vinyl rocking recliners in either hospital-green or Floridian-motel-flower motifs. Arranged into quadrants so that, in their rows, they face in, with floor space in the middle of each. The longer sides of the quadrants had 3 recliners, the shorter ends, 2. A little, rolling, Formica-fake wood table between each chair.
The same Formica-fake wood book shelves here and there. One stocked with some paperbacks. One full of National Geographic magazines. Lots of other magazines scattered about and available. Individual bathrooms on the nurse's end, and a snack station next to there with juice and pretzels and so forth.
A table with a jigsaw puzzle in progress.
TV screens in the corners, but these were not on, which I was glad about.
And, of course, a lot of cancer patients. All hooked up. A stand with a green box next to each recliner with a bunch of plastic bags suspended at the top. Drugs dripping down. Most of them over 60 or at least looking like it. Several old couples where one was accompanying the other, and the other wasn't looking too great at all. A young man, maybe 20, there with his mother. A young woman--what? 18?--there with two friends. Morbid. Absolutely breath-taking how sad the entirety of that picture was.
There were "private suites" available. These were hospital rooms, with beds, not recliners. And they strongly preferred that I not do one of these for the first time so that the nurses could keep a clear eye out for me in case of a bad reaction.
Bryan and I took a pair of recliners, I at the end and he in the middle. This is key. Why? Because how is a patient supposed to be treated if she's a middle chair???? Where does her stand full of drugs go? Not to her side. Not in back--for how, then, can she get up to go to the bathroom? And not in front, really--for then the cords would be stretched pretty far and there'd be a real risk of obstructing the traffic of other cancer patients wheeling their drugs stands around.
That is, clearly the middle recliners should just be used by the friend or family member who has come with. And most patients had someone.
So when Bryan was out of his chair to go make more appointments for me, and a lady came and sat down in it (when there were LOTS of other seats to be had), I whispered to the nurse at hand, "She's in my husband's chair. . ."
And this nurse said, "She's the patient. She gets to sit where she wants,"
WTF?
This is my first infusion of chemo. And it's a middle chair! You want her on an end seat anyway!
I just. . .was so taken aback, and was so emotional to begin with, I teared up, and the nurse just said, ridiculously and impotently, "Sorry. . .He can pull of one of those chairs." She pointed to the puzzle table.
Yeah. Why don't we ask him to sit in a wooden chair with no arms for the 4 hours of treatment?
I was just about to launch into my case, and it would not have been very gracious or kind or gentle, when the two ladies across from me in my quadrant got up to leave. The one who was there as a friend told the lady next to me that my husband was sitting here, would she mind moving, and she did. So nicely. So graciously. The departing lady put my bag on Bryan's chair to "save" it for him.
And so we learned our first trick for coping in the Chemo Warehouse: Save your seat.
And yes. That's what I'm calling it from here on in. "Suite," my ass.
This kind gesture from the lady leaving, the lady moving--it all made me cry, too. Very touching.
After being in our seats for almost an hour, we learned that the hold-up on the treatment was that they needed to see the chest x-ray that confirmed the port placement. It hadn't been sent to them.
Should the hospital have sent it? Yes. But should my case-worker have checked for this ahead of time, given that 10 days had elapsed since the surgery day when it was taken? Yes. But She Who Shall Not Be Named apparently hadn't gotten on that.
But this same "She" came to me with the paperwork to sign--fine, we were waiting anyway--and said that Mayfield had gotten on the phone himself and the x-ray would arrive in minutes.
Yay Mayfield! It was a bright spot in my morning to hear about him in this way.
And then the hunt-a-port game began. This isn't a valve like you find on a blow-up pool. I kind of thought it would be, but I see the point of having the whole thing sub-epidermal. No, a needle goes through the flesh to get the port.
The day of the surgery, Mayfield described how he'd put it in, and that he'd have to go deeper in because I was "thin" and didn't have much sub-cutaneous fat there. ("I'm sorry, could you say that again?...")
And, he explained that it's a balance between placing it for port access and keeping cosmetics and comfort in mind. (My seat belt goes right across there. For a whole year. So, yeah, deeper is better.)
Then he said that he'd place it so it wouldn't stick out too much and look "all weird." And I said, "Right. Because we don't want my chest to look deformed or anything." This chagrined him a bit.
What I know about the port placement is that it took 4 tries because I "have an unusual anatomy." The vein just wasn't where it was supposed to be, and Mom pointed out that Mayfield was able to reach under my collar bone, which normally doesn't happen either. (The port is on the left side, under the left collar bone.)
ALL of which is to say that when four different nurses tried to access the port, without success, they started to ask "Who placed this?" and, "He should have moved it," and other kinds of snide remarks.
And I, the one lying prone on the extended recliner, having not numbed the area with numbing cream because She Who Shall Not Be Named failed to call in the prescription along with my other meds, who had only sprays from a numbing can to use, and even then could only have two of those lest the stuff burn my skin, yes, I thought to myself, "Uh uh. No one talks badly about Mayfield! Stop complaining, you incompetent heifers, and just get the job done."
This was monstrously unfair of me for several reasons. A) These women were not "heifers" in any sense of the word. B) They were really frustrated, mostly because they could see me wincing and crying from the pain of it--didn't even know I was crying until Bryan used three tissues to mop up the vinyl recliner and C) the whole day, they were very compassionate and professional and kind to me. All of them.
So I'm glad I just thought that bad thought and didn't actually say it.
And when they gave up, 15 minutes into it, one said, "You can go ahead and cuss if you need to." Nope. Not me. I'm good.
The biggest obstacle was probably the swelling that hadn't gone down totally. We iced the spot for about 10 minutes, which helped to numb it somewhat. They had tried most of their attempts with a one inch needle. The upgrade to the 1.5 inch needle helped and, finally, Nurse Kate, yelled, 'I got it!' and then pumped her arms in victory.
I asked her if she'd be here next week, now that she knew the trick of it. (Something about going in on an angle. . .)
After we left the RMCC, Bryan told me, "They perforated you!" He'd watched it all and counted 23 pokes before she got it.
The drugs started. They go in one by one. The nurse warned me about the reactions to watch out for to one of the toxins. I should tell them immediately if I feel this, this or that. Then she said, "You have less than 1% chance of having these reactions, so don't worry."
I said, "I had about a 0.5% chance of developing this particular cancer at age 34. So I might be on a roll."
She looked at me funny.
No particular feeling from any of the drugs. I read for a little bit. Brought a portable DVD player and watched High Fidelity. Chatted with Bryan. Spent a lot of time thinking about what they could--reasonably--do to make the Chemo Warehouse into something that kind of resembled a suite while also allowing the nurses all the access they needed. Note to RMCC: I've got lots of ideas!
Everyone in my quadrant had witnessed the port ordeal. As they finished up and left, one by one, each one said, "It will get better!" or "Good luck with everything!" Very kind. Made me cry.
The lady who moved, got up a few times to stand right in front of me and. . .do her part for my morale, I guess.
I didn't want her to. I didn't want to hear her sad story. (And it's a doozy!) I didn't want to hear her little cliches about how to deal with it (E.g. "day by day," "count your blessings" et al.)
She expounded on how she thought her baldness was "cool," that because of it, she's now "more comfortable with her looks than ever!!!"
You know what? She'd had a lumpectomy. Stage 2 cancer. Little hunk missing. I wanted to say, "Yeah, I've kind of already had the 'looks' conversation with myself," but what was this? A qualifying round for the Olympics of Suffering?
So I didn't mention it. Just thanked her. It was good of her to want to be so supportive.
And I guess that's the bright side of the Chemo Warehouse--that there's some sort of sharing of the experience. The downside of this shared experience, of course, is that I really don't want to hear about other patients' troubles right now. Maybe a little while into this, I'll have the presence of mind to offer to pray with people, because that's about a billion times more helpful, I think, than the cliches we've already all heard. But today, I just pretty much didn't want to be there and couldn't get past the sneak-up-on-me-grief over this new reality that I am a sick person who needs lots of horrible drugs to be pumped into her body.
This first treatment was extra-long because the H protein had a long first dose and because they started the toxins at a slow rate. It all stopped dripping at 3:40 this afternoon. We were headed out by 4:00.
And as of 9:52 PM Monday night, I'm feeling some GI-track issues, and a bo-bo belly, but no nausea, and nothing else of note.
Day one done. Thank God. And a huge thanks to Betsy and Amy who had the kids all day long! What a blessing that was to know we could stay there as long as we needed to without any worry. : )
Serious Progress
Sister #4 e-mailed me with some very pertinent findings:
Janice:
So what exactly is the criteria for the whole male name in a song thing? Does the song need to be about a man or just reference a male name?
AP!: The song only has to use the male name once, as we find in "The Joker"'s use of "Maurice." And, the reference need not be to a human, as we find in Mayfield's example of that Michael Jackson song that uses Ben, which is a rat.
(Note to Nick L.: You should know what song he's talking about. Any help on this, buddy? I can't imagine what else is going on in Minnesota that you haven't already gotten on this for us. ;)
Back to Janice:
If it's just a reference, Carlo and I just came up with a bunch . . . and while I'd normally ask if you were curious and make you ask for them, I'm sure I'd forget before I could share them.
Anyhoo - Madonna references Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire on Vogue (and maybe others, but those are the two I recall from Carlo's recent rendition).
And then Carlo said there is a song "Cool It Now" by New Edition - one line starts "Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky, and Mike" (apparently these are the guys in New Edition).
And there is also Buddy Holly by Weezer?
AP!: Why is there a quesiton mark here? Is the question over whether there's a song about Buddy Holly, or about who sings it?
Janice:
And what about Danny Boy?
AP!: No. That's an Irish folk song, and our search is limited to American pop tunes from, say, 1955 and forward.
Janice:
Oh, and at the risk of putting the most annoying song in your head, what about Henry the Eighth? If you don't know this song, don't go find it, just trust me, it's a real song and it's been on the radio, and it's one of the worst songs ever.
AP!: Dammit, Janice! Now I've got "Henry the VIII, I am, I am. . ." in my head. But no one ever said this was a secure mission.
Janice:
Carlo is ona quest now to find more songs, so let me know the criteria asap!
Of course as I write this I recall the whole thing started with Dr. Science's first name Maurice and he must be special because how many male names are in songs - so you would think you don't really want to find more male names in songs, but I'm hoping this quest has evolved - after all "Maurice" is a pretty special name in and of itself.
AP!: Hey. It's not about leaving some names in an elite category. It's about the truth. My overall hypothesis is that the number of women's names appearing in American Pop Music far, far out-weighs the number of men's names. If we get to, like, 25 men's names, then we'll have to generate a list of women's names and have to reach, what? 100 names to "far out-weigh" them?
So let's see what we now have.
1. Micky
2. Bill
3. Billy (as in "Billy, Don't Be a Hero" and Van Morison's "It Stoned Me"--but this doesn't count as 2)
4. Maurice
5. Jack
6. Ben
7. Gene
8. Fred
9. Ronnie
10.Bobby
11.Rickie
12.Mike
13.Buddy
14.Henry
What a monster day here at the Big "C." From 6 to a whopping 14 in just one post.
Overall, fine, fine work, Janice. I like the enthusiasm. Love it. And Carlo, I am crazy about how you are hitting this so hard, man. Way to be team players, you two. It's heart and application of available force like this that will make this blog a success. Great, great effort, guys.
Janice:
So what exactly is the criteria for the whole male name in a song thing? Does the song need to be about a man or just reference a male name?
AP!: The song only has to use the male name once, as we find in "The Joker"'s use of "Maurice." And, the reference need not be to a human, as we find in Mayfield's example of that Michael Jackson song that uses Ben, which is a rat.
(Note to Nick L.: You should know what song he's talking about. Any help on this, buddy? I can't imagine what else is going on in Minnesota that you haven't already gotten on this for us. ;)
Back to Janice:
If it's just a reference, Carlo and I just came up with a bunch . . . and while I'd normally ask if you were curious and make you ask for them, I'm sure I'd forget before I could share them.
Anyhoo - Madonna references Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire on Vogue (and maybe others, but those are the two I recall from Carlo's recent rendition).
And then Carlo said there is a song "Cool It Now" by New Edition - one line starts "Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky, and Mike" (apparently these are the guys in New Edition).
And there is also Buddy Holly by Weezer?
AP!: Why is there a quesiton mark here? Is the question over whether there's a song about Buddy Holly, or about who sings it?
Janice:
And what about Danny Boy?
AP!: No. That's an Irish folk song, and our search is limited to American pop tunes from, say, 1955 and forward.
Janice:
Oh, and at the risk of putting the most annoying song in your head, what about Henry the Eighth? If you don't know this song, don't go find it, just trust me, it's a real song and it's been on the radio, and it's one of the worst songs ever.
AP!: Dammit, Janice! Now I've got "Henry the VIII, I am, I am. . ." in my head. But no one ever said this was a secure mission.
Janice:
Carlo is ona quest now to find more songs, so let me know the criteria asap!
Of course as I write this I recall the whole thing started with Dr. Science's first name Maurice and he must be special because how many male names are in songs - so you would think you don't really want to find more male names in songs, but I'm hoping this quest has evolved - after all "Maurice" is a pretty special name in and of itself.
AP!: Hey. It's not about leaving some names in an elite category. It's about the truth. My overall hypothesis is that the number of women's names appearing in American Pop Music far, far out-weighs the number of men's names. If we get to, like, 25 men's names, then we'll have to generate a list of women's names and have to reach, what? 100 names to "far out-weigh" them?
So let's see what we now have.
1. Micky
2. Bill
3. Billy (as in "Billy, Don't Be a Hero" and Van Morison's "It Stoned Me"--but this doesn't count as 2)
4. Maurice
5. Jack
6. Ben
7. Gene
8. Fred
9. Ronnie
10.Bobby
11.Rickie
12.Mike
13.Buddy
14.Henry
What a monster day here at the Big "C." From 6 to a whopping 14 in just one post.
Overall, fine, fine work, Janice. I like the enthusiasm. Love it. And Carlo, I am crazy about how you are hitting this so hard, man. Way to be team players, you two. It's heart and application of available force like this that will make this blog a success. Great, great effort, guys.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
By The Way. . .
First round of Chemo is tomorrow at 9:20.
This means I'll get my answer to the "Maurice Question" at about 9:05 AM.
Please pray that the poison will work. Come whatever side effects must come. So long as it's all for the purpose of erradicating every last cancer cell.
This means I'll get my answer to the "Maurice Question" at about 9:05 AM.
Please pray that the poison will work. Come whatever side effects must come. So long as it's all for the purpose of erradicating every last cancer cell.
Kiss and Tell
Try to guess: Who is my favorite person in all the Armed Forces?
No, not Bryan. Too obvious. Plus, I don't think of him as an Armed Forces guy.
No, not Mayfield. He's a contender, to be sure. Easily Top 5.
No, not Mitchell, a name only family friends would recognize as he is a long-time friend through one of my sisters. He was the first military person in my life, and I'll never forget how he picked me up after school one day in his black Camero to the astonishment of my 7th grade peers. I felt very cool that day.
Sorry, Suzanne, not you, either, though if you were still active duty, you would be.
Not Don, though his wife Carlynn is my favorite spouse of an Armed Forces guy. This was the couple that first taught me the use of the word "heifer" in reference to rude people who offend us. Thanks, guys!
All very, very worthy nominees. There are many more I could honorably mention, but this is Sunday Storytime, and I must get down to business.
My favorite person in the Armed Forces is Colonel Putko, Bryan's boss. He's reading this blog, and so he gets the title. Kidding! Kidding! He is most assuredly not reading my blog, and though I am a lot of things, I am not the kind of wife who would so shamelessly kiss up.
He is my favorite because the day Bryan shared the news with him and the other people at work who needed to know, Putko called Bryan into his office and told him, commanding officer to subordinate, that he was under orders to make his family the very top priority. Whatever Bryan needed to do for me and the kids, whatever time away that required, he should do.
And as Bryan took off lots and lots of time over the last 2 months, he felt nothing but support from all the people at work. Putko even went out of his way to tell Bryan last week that though he had been gone a lot of hours, he hadn't "missed a beat" in terms of his productivity and duties and that Putko really appreciated the effort.
Bryan is the kind of guy who needed to hear this from his CO in explicit terms. If he hadn't, he would have felt very torn between two duties. This is just the way he's built, and so this is why I love Colonel Putko. He freed Bryan up to be the husband he wanted to be.
We went to the "company" picnic on Friday. (No, it's not really a company. But my other option was to tell you we went to the JFCC-IMD picnic on Friday. Why be haphazard with the acronyms?) We walked up to him and I asked, "Colonel Putko?" and he stuck his hand out and said, "Chris" (because all these guys are all about first-named-basis with the spouses--no rank here!) and I said, "But you are Colonel Putko, right?"
He nodded and smiled, and I said, "I have to hug you! Thank you so much!" and he hugged me back and said, "Of course, what are you kidding me? Come on!"
Then we took a picture with him.
I'll tell you more about the picnic later this week. But let's go, Amy, get to storytime already!
Today's story is about the first time I met Colonel Putko. It was mid-November. Bryan and I went to the retirement party of the guy Putko replaced. They had all just finished one of their long exercises. These are very elaborate war games, played out through computer simulations, executed all the way to the top as though it were the real deal and, short of a real missile crisis and/or war involving inter-continental missiles, these exercises are as big a deal as it gets.
I submit to you, quite humbly, that Bryan is a very key player in this command come exercise time.
The stage is set then. All the people working at this command have just come off one of these things. It went very, very well. This was the first time the new Colonel in town had seen his new team function.
At this party, Putko came towards our table, and told me, "Turn away! Don't look at this."
So, of course, I looked as he bent down and kissed Bryan. A big one. Right on the neck. Then he shouted, "I can't help it! I love this kid!" And then he walked away.
This was the first time I'd ever seen Bryan blush.
Then it was time for the toasts and talks. After everyone else offered their parting remarks to the honoree, the departing Colonel stood to offer his own. At this kind of thing, the guy who's leaving makes a point of thanking people by name, in public, and so on. . . The retiring Colonel got to Bryan and said, "And Bryan, I just can't say enough about this kid and his work. I just love him--"
At which point Putko shouted out, from the front of the room, "So do I!"
All heads swiveled towards his voice. Then he shouted, "I even kissed him!"
All heads swiveled towards Bryan.
Bryan blushed again.
And since then, it's been our little joke in the house. When Bryan had to go to DC with Putko for some conference, I said, "I think I should go just to chaperon." Or Bryan will mention how he happened to ride the shuttle to the parking lot with Putko and I'll ask, "Did you two make out in the back of the bus?"
It's all good. What can I say? Colonel Putko? I love that kid! I even hugged him!
No, not Bryan. Too obvious. Plus, I don't think of him as an Armed Forces guy.
No, not Mayfield. He's a contender, to be sure. Easily Top 5.
No, not Mitchell, a name only family friends would recognize as he is a long-time friend through one of my sisters. He was the first military person in my life, and I'll never forget how he picked me up after school one day in his black Camero to the astonishment of my 7th grade peers. I felt very cool that day.
Sorry, Suzanne, not you, either, though if you were still active duty, you would be.
Not Don, though his wife Carlynn is my favorite spouse of an Armed Forces guy. This was the couple that first taught me the use of the word "heifer" in reference to rude people who offend us. Thanks, guys!
All very, very worthy nominees. There are many more I could honorably mention, but this is Sunday Storytime, and I must get down to business.
My favorite person in the Armed Forces is Colonel Putko, Bryan's boss. He's reading this blog, and so he gets the title. Kidding! Kidding! He is most assuredly not reading my blog, and though I am a lot of things, I am not the kind of wife who would so shamelessly kiss up.
He is my favorite because the day Bryan shared the news with him and the other people at work who needed to know, Putko called Bryan into his office and told him, commanding officer to subordinate, that he was under orders to make his family the very top priority. Whatever Bryan needed to do for me and the kids, whatever time away that required, he should do.
And as Bryan took off lots and lots of time over the last 2 months, he felt nothing but support from all the people at work. Putko even went out of his way to tell Bryan last week that though he had been gone a lot of hours, he hadn't "missed a beat" in terms of his productivity and duties and that Putko really appreciated the effort.
Bryan is the kind of guy who needed to hear this from his CO in explicit terms. If he hadn't, he would have felt very torn between two duties. This is just the way he's built, and so this is why I love Colonel Putko. He freed Bryan up to be the husband he wanted to be.
We went to the "company" picnic on Friday. (No, it's not really a company. But my other option was to tell you we went to the JFCC-IMD picnic on Friday. Why be haphazard with the acronyms?) We walked up to him and I asked, "Colonel Putko?" and he stuck his hand out and said, "Chris" (because all these guys are all about first-named-basis with the spouses--no rank here!) and I said, "But you are Colonel Putko, right?"
He nodded and smiled, and I said, "I have to hug you! Thank you so much!" and he hugged me back and said, "Of course, what are you kidding me? Come on!"
Then we took a picture with him.
I'll tell you more about the picnic later this week. But let's go, Amy, get to storytime already!
Today's story is about the first time I met Colonel Putko. It was mid-November. Bryan and I went to the retirement party of the guy Putko replaced. They had all just finished one of their long exercises. These are very elaborate war games, played out through computer simulations, executed all the way to the top as though it were the real deal and, short of a real missile crisis and/or war involving inter-continental missiles, these exercises are as big a deal as it gets.
I submit to you, quite humbly, that Bryan is a very key player in this command come exercise time.
The stage is set then. All the people working at this command have just come off one of these things. It went very, very well. This was the first time the new Colonel in town had seen his new team function.
At this party, Putko came towards our table, and told me, "Turn away! Don't look at this."
So, of course, I looked as he bent down and kissed Bryan. A big one. Right on the neck. Then he shouted, "I can't help it! I love this kid!" And then he walked away.
This was the first time I'd ever seen Bryan blush.
Then it was time for the toasts and talks. After everyone else offered their parting remarks to the honoree, the departing Colonel stood to offer his own. At this kind of thing, the guy who's leaving makes a point of thanking people by name, in public, and so on. . . The retiring Colonel got to Bryan and said, "And Bryan, I just can't say enough about this kid and his work. I just love him--"
At which point Putko shouted out, from the front of the room, "So do I!"
All heads swiveled towards his voice. Then he shouted, "I even kissed him!"
All heads swiveled towards Bryan.
Bryan blushed again.
And since then, it's been our little joke in the house. When Bryan had to go to DC with Putko for some conference, I said, "I think I should go just to chaperon." Or Bryan will mention how he happened to ride the shuttle to the parking lot with Putko and I'll ask, "Did you two make out in the back of the bus?"
It's all good. What can I say? Colonel Putko? I love that kid! I even hugged him!
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