Grand Finale

The week heading into surgery, I prayed that God would do one last Big Thing. Something that'd make for a real bang-up last post. You know. End with fireworks.



But I didn't have any visions of Heaven while in the ether. And, as I've told you, my hospital stay wasn't great. I spent the weekend in a real funk, which I thought was due to the emotional expense of the surgery. Then, after posting on Sunday with those notes and updates, and signing off that night with such resignation, then God showed me that all of what had happened in the hospital and the days that followed was my last Big Story.



I used a phrase in that Sunday post: "frustration that one of my medical requests had been ignored," and left it at this because I didn't want any of you to think Mayfield was a jerk. Seriously. He has been the ultimate agent of God's grace and mercy in our lives, I didn't want one small thing from the end of this road to cloud anyone's estimation of him. I love him and so should you!



Now I see that probably the bigger reason I didn't elaborate is because I was the total jerk. And who wants to be a jerk at the end of her own blog?



Well. Without further delay, here is the story, starting at the place where Bryan, Amy, the surgical nurse, pre-op nurse, surgeon and nurse anesthetist were all huddled in the pre-op bay.



I was talking with the surgical nurse. She had the standard list of questions to ask and then I asked one myself: Will you be inserting a catheter?



Yes. It would be a longer operation because of the two procedures, so, yes.



With great forethought, I recalled my first major surgery in July, my ankle surgery from 2 years ago and my baby deliveries following the epidurals and said, "You know, I can never urinate following anesthesia, and I really hate being awake when they put a catheter in to relieve me, so can we just leave this one in until tomorrow morning?"



And she said yes. No problem.



Fade to black.



Wake up, as I've reported, way too early. Feel them holding me up so they can wrap my chest and immediately realize just what's happened up top. Do my best to scooch myself over to the bed even though the pain is screaming from two places. Recall why my abs might be hurting and feel even worse.



And then. And then. Feel a bit of pressure in my bladder. I murmured, from my haze, "Is my catheter still in?"



The recovery nurse checked. Nope.



"They said they'd leave it in."



She checked again. Nope. She said she was surprised, too.



An intense wave of anxiety swept into me. My mind raced--still foggy, of course--as I flashed back to what it's like to be post-anesthesia with no catheter to help me. It was sheer irritation to try to urinate when you know you're full and yet you just can't. And so humiliating to have to have a nurse walk you to the toilet before you're ready to walk only to sit down and not do anything while she's standing there, waiting on you. It just sucks.



Mayfield walked in at this very moment. Now. I'm going to report this conversation to the best of my recollection. But remember that I was still foggy, and what you're about to read is a blend of what was actually said mixed with heavy amounts of what I perceived about the tone.



I'm pretty sure I started it. "You took my catheter out." It was an accusation.



He said, "Yes. . ."



"I said I wanted it in. How am I supposed to urinate?" Still accusatory.



"You're allowed to get up as soon as we get you to your room." His tone seemed flippant to me. Like: no big deal. Just pee.



"I can't just walk around right after anesthesia." The pulse monitor starting beeping a bit faster.

"You should be trying to walk around as soon as you can. You're supposed to be walking around."

"You've been pumping me full of IV fluids for how many hours? And I'm not going to have to urinate before I'm ready to walk around?"

"You can use a bedpan."


Use a bedpan? Idiot man! Stupid, insensitive, idiot man who has no idea what it's like to have a woman's equipment!

I flashed back to the ankle surgery when I didn't know I could ask for a catheter and no one offered one and, given that I had a broken ankle, I wasn't allowed to try to get the toilet myself in the middle of the night. So, all night long, once the urine actually started to flow following several painful hours, I used a bedpan.


And it was disgusting. Urine doesn't actually go into the pan. It spreads out all over such that I had not only to ring the nurse every 30 minutes to ask for it to be emptied, but I had to do a big wipe-up as well, and then try to sleep in the dampness of my own urine.


I hate bedpans. Which is why I said, "Bedpans don't work."


And then he scoffed. Or laughed. Or some other non-taking-that-comment-as-truth sort of reaction. I said, "I'd have to call the nurses to ask them to empty it." This was only a shadow of the problem. But the haze of ether, alas, the haze. . .


He said, "Amy, that's their job." And at this point, I didn't recognize his tone, my brain just couldn't track with it. But in the moment, I took it as sheer argument. This guy was arguing with me. I'd just had several girlie-parts removed and I felt like crap and I'd just thrown up in dry heaves from the anesthesia and he was arguing with me?


Poor customer service, people. And, like you, poor customer service has the power to enrage. The pulse monitor beeped yet faster.

He probably noticed this. He said, "Amy, I'm not the bad guy here. I'm trying to take care of you the best I can."

Such confusion here. He thought I was accusing him of being a bad guy? How could he think that I'd ever think he was the bad guy? Being a jerk about this catheter thing, yes. But it made me even angrier that he'd say this. It felt like condescension.

Yet, with the haze of ether. . . I was in no shape to explain it to him coherently. I just said, as my voice got louder, "This whole thing is just an extra layer of humiliation I don't need in my world right now!"

He said, "The catheter presents an extra layer of infection you might not want, either." Cheeky bastard!! "But if you want to buy into that risk, you can. . ."

And this felt like manipulation. The pulse monitor sounded like a bomb timer right before it explodes. "I just want to be able to urinate and it doesn't even matter if I can walk around yet!"

"Well I wouldn't want to have that thing hanging down between my legs while I was trying to walk around, either."

And that was it. That was the end. I shouted at him, and I mean,
I shouted, "Mayfield, you're not the f****ing patient!"

Oh yes I did.

The recovery nurse, witness to all thus far, stiffened. Who else was in recovery? Anyone awake and in that giant room heard me.

My pulse, I would learn later, was at 163, which is around my maximum target heart rate for a cardio workout. And yet it got there through sheer emotion.

I'm not sure what he said. I think he came towards me, from the foot of my bed where he'd been. And I screamed at him again to "Get out of my space!" Which is a total Mommy thing to say. . .

He left.

The nurse decided I was well enough to go upstairs to a room. I cried a lot. Listened to her hand-off instructions that described mostly the catheter issue. The recovery nurse said, "Amy and Dr. Mayfield. . .disagreed. . . They had a. . . disagreement. . ."

Bryan came in soon after. His face was full of pity. I told him I was so glad to see him, I had been so lonely and upset in recovery. He nodded.

Then I asked, "Did you see Mayfield?"

Uh, yeah. "Did he. . .quote me? Directly?"

Bryan kind of smirked. "Yeah. . ."

I got the full report. Mayfield told Bryan the main issue, and then quoted the final moments, said I could have a catheter if I was willing to take on the risk of infection from it, that this was my choice.

This still didn't make sense to me. We didn't have the whole risk-of-infection talk/concern last time. The nurse just put one in after it was clear I couldn't go on my own.

I asked Byran--can you believe I asked this? this is how mad I was at Mayfield--"And was he laughing when he told you? Did he think it was just hilarious?"

Bryan said, no, "He looked really sad, Amy."

Oh.

The afternoon passed. It included two trips to the bathroom that were both unsuccessful and that both happened in front of my roommate's freakish visitors. I just couldn't get past my frustration. The feeling that all this could have been avoided if he'd just listened to me.

The nurse did a bladder scan. Detected that I was nearly at capacity, and started a catheter. There was no discussion about "Mr. Wink" this time, I can be thankful to say. But it took two nurses, one of the most humiliating positions you can imagine, and 3 attempts. Seriously, they opened 3 different catheter kits before getting it.

What relief, though! Whew!

The early hours of the evening passed and as I felt better and better physically, I felt worse and worse in my heart. The whole day, I commented to every nurse who came in--and surely they all knew about the incident because gossip must surely travel quickly in a hospital--"He might have been wrong about this, but Dr. Mayfield really is terrific. I love the guy. This was just one small mistake. . ."

Each one nodded and smiled and said something like, "Yes, he's the greatest."

I told Mayfield this much later, that he was very popular with all the staff and he said, "That's because I don't steal food out of their break room."

He came into my room at about 7 PM, and he looked really terrible. I mean. . .just really down and sad and disheartened.

I said, "Mayfield, I'm so sorry I cussed at you. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm so sorry."

He came and squatted at the side of my bed so he'd be at head level and said, "I'm glad to hear you say that because that really hurt my feelings."

I cried at this. My pulse went back up to 130. He was teary-eyed, too. And he went on to say that he accepted my apology, and it was all OK, I'd had a really rough time, I had been through a lot, it was OK that I'd gotten so upset. He said that he'd had a really long day, too, following my surgery. And he looked like it.

Which is why I said, "We don't have to talk about it now, but. . .you said some things that were not very cool either."

He nodded at this and said he had plenty to learn and that he was open to getting better in any way that he could.

And that was the end of that part of the discussion. We went on to discuss my condition and medical needs. And then we three talked for a bit longer about general things.

But right here is where I have to put that asterisk. Right at that moment when I declared, basically, that I still held something against him. He didn't take it that way, and I didn't mean it that way, but as the weekend ensued, it became clear that this was happening.

All of Friday, Saturday and Sunday, my heart just ached. I attributed this to the loss. Right? I mean, of course I'd be feeling sad.

But it was more than this. When I wrote that post on Sunday, I wanted badly to be able to share a Good Word from God, to tell how the light was still shining in that dark moment. But throughout the whole history of The Big "C," I've never allowed myself to fake it. I've never put a braver or happier or more joyful face on the truth than what I was honestly experiencing.

So, Sunday as I wrapped up that post, I did what God asks His children to do: When we're not feeling the God-juice, so to speak, we don't pout and we don't doubt, we just need to bank on Scripture.

In those low moments--indeed, following a whole weekend of not being able to see God or sense His joy--we need to say, "That which is true is true, regardless of what I can perceive at this moment. And what I know is true is God's Word."

In this case, God's Word says that I might be pressed, but not crushed, might be persecuted, but not abandoned, might be struck down, but not destroyed. And God's Word says that I am blessed beyond a curse--even the curse of cancer and breastlessness and early menopause--because it's His promise that endures, not my circumstances.

And I thought that was the end of it, friends. I thought, "Well, no really great story. Only a horrible moment with my surgeon that I'd rather no one know about. . ."

Sunday night, I couldn't get to sleep. My heart was still aching. And it made no sense. Grief, yes. But grief that lasted over so many days? For this? This was the end of the cancer marathon! There should be at least as much relief and gladness as there was sadness. But I couldn't shake that sadness.

There's one thing you can do when you get to this point--when something is wrong, and you know it, but you can't put your finger on it.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for the kingdom of Heaven is theirs."

That doesn't sound helpful, but that's kind of because it's in code. A helpful paraphrase of it is this: "You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you, there is more of God and His rule."

So I prayed that simple prayer. God, I'm hopeless on my own. I can't do anything right for myself apart from You. Search my heart. Show me what I'm missing.

This Scripture came to mind immediately: Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

And that was my problem, wasn't it? That after so many months of seeing God's Hand so clearly, day after day, at the very end of the trial, I just couldn't.

If you're pure in heart, you'll see God. If you're not seeing God, you must not be pure of heart. Simple modus pollens logic.

I asked God to show me what was wrong with my heart, and like a movie, the entire scene from the day of my surgery replayed. Only this time, it didn't look as I've described it to you. God somehow let me see it out of the haze of ether.

In this new version, Mayfield is the doctor who came to check on me in recovery only to find a patient mad as a hornet, and he was completely bewildered. And flummoxed. This wasn't a situation that escalated because of his presence, it was already an impossible situation when he walked in. An ambush, really.

In this new version, I saw how I hadn't had the catheter discussion with Mayfield, I'd had it with the surgical nurse, who makes no decisions in the OR. She knew of my preference, he did not.

And in this new version, I was holding something against him. "I apologize, but. . ." and it wasn't OK to walk away from that with the conclusion that he'd messed up, but in the grand scheme it didn't matter.

If he had messed up, then that would have been fine. Granted, he shouldn't suggest that a woman use a bedpan. But other than this, I saw clearly that he hadn't been wrong.

I played a hypothetical situation out. Suppose I had told him about the catheter thing instead of the nurse. He would have said, "I see your point, but catheters present an additional risk of infection. So it might be better to go without, try to urinate on your own. And then if that doesn't work again, we can always put one back in."

I'd have accepted that. That sounds completely reasonable. And following this realization, as I lie awake not able to sleep, God showed me that the core offense is that I did not trust this doctor's motives for me. I should have. Instead of insisting on how right I was, I should have just asked, "Why?" with a belief that he'd had a good reason.

This isn't advice I'd give to many other patients. I think we're all better off being our own best advocates. But after this guy had done so much for us, had gone so far beyond the call of duty and even beyond the call of excellence. Really. That deserves a measure of trust.

I fell asleep soon after figuring all this out.

We saw Mayfield the next morning, and I shared it all with him. That I was sorry for more than just the yelling and the cussing, but for not trusting him when he'd more than earned it.

He said I didn't have to apologize, and it was all OK, that, yes, he'd only been concerned about infection. That this is the kind of thing surgeons have to answer for if something does go wrong. That having a port in made the possibility that much more risky, because the bacteria would have circulated through it and built up there into a real poison. That--and he kind of let this slip--one of his colleagues (not from this hospital) had just lost a patient to port infection resulting from a catheter infection. And that he'd been "petrified" of any infection in me.

At this point, we were both teary-eyed again and Bryan was looking at us with his little smile. He said later, "I think it's cute how you both find something to cry about at every appointment." Cry-babies, we are. Absolutely.

He also mentioned that he'd love to take a class where they teach him how to talk to patients as they come out of anesthesia. But I'm pretty sure that class doesn't exist because there's as many ways to do it as there are patients. And in my instance, there's probably not a single thing he could have said that would have penetrated the frenzy I'd worked myself into.

And all of this makes for a grand Grand Finale, why?

Because this whole cancer journey has born a lot of fruit. It's been good and big for Bryan, for our children, for our friends and family. It's been the Hand of God reaching down to Earth in ways that we can see and enjoy, and I've been glad to share openly what that all looks like.

But chiefly, it has not been about other people. It's been about me. It's been for me. This cancer and the treatment of it has been a gift meant to bless me. And at the last moment, when I was looking for one last great God moment to wrap it all up, He gave me one.

He used Scripture to show me the sin in my own heart and the cure for it and how to love someone better having learned the lesson. It was a microcosm of God's bigger project in my life. An example of what it means to have a relationship with Him, what it means to live with the Holy Spirit alive within me. And that's what this whole cancer thing has been mostly about: The God of the Universe is bigger than whatever circumstances come my way.

Thank you for being used by Him to encourage me. You have been His instruments of blessing.


There's a lingering question from The Big "C," isn't there? The question: What shall we call people like me if we don't call them "warriors"?

And the end of the marathon, as we left Mayfield's office following the post-op check-up and tube withdrawal, he said, simply, "You're a champion."

Yes. That's it, isn't it?

Penultimate

Tomorrow is the last post for The Big "C." The Grand Finale. The End.

In about a month, I'll re-archive the whole thing so that a newcomer can read the first post and scroll straight down to get the whole story. This won't be the end of Amy Ponce!, blogger. I have started a new one, http://www.poncefamilysuperheroes.blogspot.com/, to chronicle our new life.

Because we're done with cancer, baby. And that whole marvelous, blessed, beautiful, exciting, love-fill, joy-beggetting story had a beginning and middle. Tomorrow, I'll tell you about its end.

Preview: At one point, I screamed at Mayfield and may or may not have dropped an f-bomb on him. You'll definitely want to tune in.

Until then, many notes to offer:

I mentioned making a whole post on the reconstruction decision. But, eh, it's not worth a whole post. The point is that there are 3 options for reconstruction of "breasts."

But you're not really reconstructing breasts. You are creating appendages of flesh that are shaped and tattooed like breasts, sure. But you can't feel anything in them. So there goes a substantial portion of their function, no?

None of the 3 options were too attractive to me once I looked into them. The "cadillac" option, the one that yields the best cosmetic results, requires taking ab muscles out from one place and rolling them up into the new construction.

Um. Riiiiight. . . I just really want as much of my body to be as God made it.

Option 2 involves cutting a "flap" of skin from one part of your body and sewing it to your chest, only to later implant saline--or whatnot--into it.

I just can't wrap my mind around this one either.

Option 3 involves inserting tissue expanders in your chest. They are kind of like spring-loaded clamps that constantly push out and your body--for 6 months--constantly makes more and more tissue to accommodate them until you are stretched out enough to hold saline implants.

I talked to a woman who was at the end of her tissue-expanding period and she said she'd been in a state of grimace the whole time. On painkillers the whole time. And yet still in pain.

My tissue had to expand just a little to accommodate my port and I tell you, for the week it took to adjust, I couldn't sleep, could hardly move. . . It was a mess.

All 3 of these options require at least 3 surgeries, the last one at least 5, and none of this is considering the risk of complications through infections which are very, very common.

It's a lot to go through and right now, I feel really done going through stuff.

Bryan is part of the equation, of course. If this were something he could snap his fingers to make happen, he'd do it. We both would. But the reality is an idea he hates. He'd be supportive if I wanted to, but beyond this, he has said, "Don't do it for my sake. . ."

I think he's pretty much done going through stuff, too.

***

Physically, I'm feeling really great. I'm not taking any drugs for the pain. I have started taking Arimidex, and I will continue--daily--for 5 years. Good thing I bought that weekly pill box. . .

This is the medicine I can take instead of Tomaxifin because I am now officially menopausal and will stay this way. Studies show that Arimidex is a great deal more effective again recurrence than the other. I'm not sure how they can argue this, though. Probably the difference is not the drug, but the fact that women taking Tomaxifin probably still have estrogen coursing through their bodies whereas those of us on Arimidex do not.

Whatever the case, I'm glad to be among those who have a lower rate of recurrence.

***

The kids are doing so well. We picked them up yesterday afternoon and heard all about their fun adventures with the Burches.

I'll tell you something: They have always been precious to me. But this time when I saw them again, knowing that there will not be more babies, I wanted to press the slow-motion button on their lives. And they seemed about 7 times more precious than ever before.

How ridiculous not to have felt all of that before. But there's the truth, and this is one more thing to be thankful for--a renewed perspective of my children.

***

Related to this, Gemma, Josh and Bryan left for Florida for 10 days this morning.

New perspective notwithstanding: wooo hoooo.

***

I plan to use this time to work on and finish up my book about our time in Korea. So if I come to mind and you are wondering how to pray for the woman who has everything, pray that I would be diligent and productive and skilled in my work.

***

I had the drainage tube taken out yesterday at the post-op appointment. It hurt just a smidgeon because this one didn't have to wind all the way up to my armpit. That hole plus the various incisions on my body look great, I'm healing well.

Bryan and I then went to lunch and then to my appointment with Dr. Markus before a dose of herceptin. It was good to see Dr. Science, as always. I brought him a can of kosher macaroons for Passover, which he found very thoughtful.

I told him I had wanted to make him a kosher cake--I have a really great recipe--but then realized that I don't have a kosher kitchen nor a kosher plate to bring it to him.

He poo-pooed all that, said he doesn't keep kosher at anytime, and that his wife wanted to eat a French baguette at their seder but he thought "that might be pushing it."

All of this, he says, made him feel "even more guilty" that he'd completely forgotten about Passover until just the day before.

I've been to a seder before and I loved it. What a beautiful way to eat a meal and celebrate a year of the Lord's work in your life. And we didn't even have canned macaroons at that one!

Who knows? Maybe next year the Ponce!'s will host a seder. . .

***

I'll see you here tomorrow for the final installment. I've got to say: The ending tastes pretty sweet and not bitter at all.

From the Horse Herself

Thank you, Sister #1, for providing updates. Here are a few details to fill in:



My "showtime" was 6:30 AM, and we walked in at about 6:15 to find 4 other patients already there, with no one yet at the desk.



At 6:35, a nurse came out to this waiting room and called my name. As I walked towards her, one of the other patients there said, "Why does she get to go first?"



***



I asked Mayfield about the early start time as it co-ordinated to his rock star morphology. He said by the time it was actually "his turn" to operate, it'd be 9:30. That is, we'd do the oopherectomy first, and it would be in the hands of Dr. Stickley, the OBGYN, as he supervised.



Dr. Stickley. Very nice, very professional. Very young. She can't be a day over 26. I'm glad Mayfield was there.



And "oopherectomy"? Surely I'm making that up, right?



No. That's what the ovary-removal is called. Because the tubes were snipped off, too, it is called a "Salinga oopherectomy." But the best part is the pronunciation of this word:



ooh-ooh-fer-ect-o-my



Yes. Both "o's"--given a long "o" pronunciation.



Said together, "salinga ooh-ooh-pherectomy" sounds like a drink that comes with a little umbrella.



Yet this is how Dr. Stickley and most of the nurses pronounced it.



Ridiculous. We don't say "Look at the animals in the zooh-ooh," do we?



***



The wake-up out of surgery this time was really, really rotten. I think the nurse anesthetist, Chuck, while a very nice man, woke me up too soon.



I was awake for when they wrapped me up. This not only hurt. It was also horrifying.



I was awake when they switched me back to a bed. This both hurt, and it was annoying as they asked me to do the moving. (e.g. "Shift your weight from hips to shoulders as you move across.") Folks! My ab muscles now have incisions in them!



By the time I got the recovery room, my stomach was on fire, my chest wound was on fire, and I was coughing and throwing up (with dry heaves, as I was empty) which made everything hurt that much more.



And, whereas for the first surgery, I had awoken to very good news--that I hadn't lost my muscle, that the cancerous lymph node was gone, too--and to Bryan in the recovery room with me, this time I woke up and was immediately conscious of the sheer sadness of the loss. Bryan wasn't permitted in this time, and I was so lonely, in so much pain, was so frustrated because one of my medical requests had been ignored.



It just all sucked. That whole day was crappy. Possibly the nadir of this entire cancer experience.

So, while on one hand "all went well," and we can be glad about that, on the other hand, what had to happen is not a great thing. The farther I can get from that day, the gladder I will be.

***

I was put upstairs this time, not in the ICU. This meant that I shared a room. I don't know what her condition was, but she complained a lot, all through the night about how nauseous she was. And she kept calling her kids on her cell phone and cussing them out. Something about their having taken her car out when she told them they couldn't. Her husband was in Iraq, and was not equipped with "side plates," which made her cuss a lot more because this endangered him.

All of which I learned by listening to her. But it's not eavesdropping when the other person's head is about 5 feet from yours with only a curtain separating you.

Her kids visited both days. A bunch of teenage boys, one of whom had a mohawk spiked about two feet high. These are people I had to parade past on my way to use the bathroom.

Hmm. Yeah. Well. If I were a more compassionate person, I might have done something--anything--to offer some comfort to her. But I really just wanted to check out as soon as possible.

***

Speaking of Iraq. This time, as I awaited surgery in the pre-op bay, the guy next to me was loud as he briefed his nurse. Bryan and I learned that he was 24 years old, and was having an operation on his shoulder because he'd thrown it out while steering his vehicle wildly to get out of a kill zone while on tour.

Just a little reminder not to refer to me as any kind of warrior.

***

I remembered to bring my own pillow this time. My own super-wonderful Tempurpedic servical-support foam pillow. And I used my bright pink survivor-ribbon pillow case my friend, Kathy, made for me, just to be festive. This made a huge difference. I was very comfortable.

***

What was uncomfortable for several days was the carbon dioxide left in my abdominal cavity from the laperoscopy. They infulated (Mayfield swears this is a word) me so they'd have room to look around and go to work. Then they let the gas out. But it doesn't all leave right away.

Instead, it escaped into my shoulders and made stabbing pains in my muscles. No drugs can help this. It's just a lot of owie owie owie until it finally goes away. Which, for me, was this morning.

***

Speaking of drugs, I'm already off the big ones. I take extra-strength tylenol and antibiotics to ward against any infection, as an infection would be particularly serious for my port to process. As of this morning, I was feeling pretty comfortable all the way around.

***

Met about a dozen nurses this time. It's a busy floor. They were busy men and women. All of them nice. None of them with time to chat with me. No fun stories there.

***

The tube is still in. This is the one Sister #1 mentioned. She should probably stop reading now, because she's easy-queasy. . . This is a drainage tube, left in while the skin is sewn around it. Bryan tends to it every morning and evening for me, and we are on track to have it taken out tomorrow morning at my follow-up.

Other than this tube, I've got ACE bandages wrapped around me a tightly as I can tolerate them. I can tolerate considerably more this time, as I'm no longer also wrapping a breast. Now it's just chest wall, the nerves to which have been cut. So. Wrap away.

***

Betsy tells me the kids are doing well, having lots of fun with the recent snowfall. The other night, Gemma scooched down into her sleeping bag so no one would hear her and started crying and crying because she missed me.

That's one of the saddest images of the past year.

She sounded very happy when I talked with her. Youth bounces back.

***

My right arm did swell up again from the fluid intake. It is also reducing again. I can only hope I can get it reversed in short order, and not over the course of a few months.

***

And here I sit: upright for longer periods of time, awake for most of the day, appetite restoring to normal. I'd be lying if I said I was in a very good place emotionally. Mostly, this is just a very sad time and I don't feel great. I feel absolutely laid low.

But. To paraphrase: I'm afflicted, not crushed; persecuted, not abandoned; struck down but not destroyed; I'm blessed beyond a curse for His promise endures.

And one of His promises is that things won't always be like this.

She's Home..

And trying to get some rest.

She's walking a little slow and the only comfortable position right now is flat on her back so there won't be much communication from Amy on the blog or via email until next week.

The follow up is scheduled for Monday, hopefully the tube will be removed (I have no idea what the tube is for and forgot to ask) and she will be a little more mobile.

Bryan is taking Gemma and Josh down to Florida for a week on Tuesday so Amy can get some serious quiet / recovery time.

It's been a tough 9 months. But the scary part is over - let's celebrate the cancer free years to come!

Just heard from Amy

She's on track for heading home this afternoon - easier to get some rest in a quiet house than a noisy hospital. She did, however, decide to stick around for lunch since hospital food is so tasty...

Amy sounded good although disappointed at the return of her lymphodema - hopefully this is due to having fluids pumped into her during surgery and she'll be able to process it out like before.

I'm guessing that there will be a lot of napping over the next couple days and I don't know when she'll feel like getting back to the blog but feel free to continue leaving comments - she'll enjoy reading them when she gets here and I know that she really appreciates all the support and love coming her way!

Sister #1

Update

As noted in Amy's post below, Sister #1 here to relay the update from Bryan.

All is well! The surgeries were completed with no troubles and Amy will be up in her room resting within the hour.

Things got started on time and they finished up in about 4 hours - no complications or unexpected blips so Amy should be home on Friday afternoon.

btw, Dr. Mayfield is a rockstar.

Game Day!

As I write, it's about 9:40 at night. I have to get up tomorrow at 5:00 AM. The "show" time is 6:30 and the surgery is at 7:30.

I'll have to ask Mayfield about this when I see him tomorrow. I distinctly remember his saying that he turns into a "rock star" by 9:30 AM. . .

Judging from some e-mails, there's some unclarity regarding tomorrow's procedure. This is my fault. I'd alluded before to the idea of doing a reconstruction in the same surgery as the removal. We looked into this. And it's definitely not what's going to happen tomorrow.

In fact, right now, we have no intention to pursue reconstruction. That's a post all in itself, though. Maybe one I'll get around during my recovery.

Speaking of which, I'm told I'll likely be allowed home by Friday afternoon. The kids are with Miss Betsy and her family all weekend, so it should be a very peaceful few days.

Bryan will call Sister #1 with an update after he hears from Mayfield post-surgery, and Sister #1 will post said update on this blog when she gets it. This should be up by early afternoon. If it's not, start praying with wild enthusiasm.

Before my first surgery, I remember having to take an ambien just to fall asleep, and it only worked for a few hours. I really feel like I can go drug-free tonight, so it must be better this time around, no?

Well.

Those alive in the Spirit set their minds on things of the Spirit. All flesh will pass away one day anyway. . .

Thank you for your prayers.

That Guy Again

On today's pre-op appointment with Mayfield:

How long are these things, usually? 20 minutes? 30 minutes? We were there for an hour and a half with Mayfield, chatting about all manner of things. Many of them medical, of course. But some of them completely irrelevant to the coming surgery.

Like his dogs. Turns out he has always been an akita man. I told him my akita story, you know, the one where my brother's dog tried to kill me.

I asked him one pressing question, and he says he'll have an answer for me soon: How often does a person come to Evans Community Hospital for one reason, then twist or break her ankle on the piles of rocks dividing out the parking lot sections because no one is actually going to walk all the way down an aisle instead of cutting across the lot to get directly to the door, and need, say, ankle surgery?

I'll be certain to tell you all whatever Mayfield learns from his colleagues about this.

Speaking of follow-up, do you remember Yolanda? She was the quasi-willing participant as proxy in the Name Game. She left a note on Mayfield's desk that read, "I have to leave at 11 today, but please tell Amy Ponce I say 'Hello.'"

The whole dang bunch of them are just so super! I took the note and plan to put it in my scrapbook.

We're counting down to the Big Day on Thursday. There is a lot of sadness in this. Tears come out of the blue, often at inopportune times. The pressure this time is almost as great as it was for the first surgery.

But knowing that God has chosen Mayfield to do the job for us is an immeasurable comfort. We're going to march forward, and get through this, and one day count it as pure joy.

Lymphe-loser

I went in for a lymphedema follow-up appointment this morning. This afternoon, we'll go for our pre-op consult with Mayfield at Ft. Carson. During the interim, we've been running errands like crazy and, look! I have just enough time before leaving to give you some very good news:

The lymphedema has reversed! Wooo hoooo hooooo hoooo hoooooooooooooooooooooo!

Praise God. And thank you for all your prayers. This is a very tender mercy, and it's a very sweet icing on top of a very fancy cake.

How do we know it has reversed? Let me back up a bit.

At my first appointment with Lil, a lymphedema specialist, she measured both arms. To do this, she made marks on my arm every 4 centimeters starting at my main hand knuckle and going all the way up to my shoulder.

Then, at each mark, she used her tape measure to take the circumference of my arm at that mark. She then uses these measurements to calculate the "volume" of my arm in mL.

Lil measured my left arm, the unaffected one, to use a baseline. My right arm started off about 300 mL bigger. That sounds like a lot, but spread over the whole appendage, it was barely detectable.

But I detected it. And treating it right away was pretty key to our success.

As for the treatment, I've described before the manual drainage and compression sleeves. At night, I slept in a special, super-puffy foam sleeve with a waffled texture that left my arm looking like a buffet item each morning.

Each time I've gone back to Lil, my arm was smaller and smaller until today, when it measured the same size as the left. And this is with my having not worn compression sleeves for most of the past week. (I'd been feeling a very sore nerve or tendon or something and began to think that perhaps I was squeezing it too much, so I stopped. . .)

So, hoorah! I now need to wear a sleeve a) when I work out and b) when I fly (on an airplane, when flying to tend to my business as a superhero, it's not necessary).

I am also still taping my first two fingers, which have a teensy bit of swelling left in them.

God Bless Lil and the wonderful work she does! I can tell from my internet reading that a lot of women don't have a resource like her--so knowledgeable, kind and helpful. I'm exceedingly thankful for her.

AND, as she made the marks on my arm today, she commented, "We'll start down here at this little Barbie Doll wrist." Extra credit goes to the person who is FIRST EVER to compare one of my body parts to a Barbie Doll's.

Belated Pink Link!

It's been an uncomfortable week. I haven't sat down to the computer in days because it's extremely painful to sit down. This is because I'm experiencing a stress-related side effect, the details of which I need not share. I'll say only that Preparation-H has been no help.

I missed a Thursday Pink Link. So, Friday's Thursday Pink Link is the following:

We have a tie.

Parin sent me this one.

It epitomizes something. . . Hard to pinpoint what, exactly, irks me about it.

Let's start with this: Wouldn't a ped egg normally be pink? It's a tool mostly used by women. It is stored in the bathroom. It's for maintaining physical beauty. Why wouldn't it be pink?

But, slap a little ribbon on it, and suddenly the pink product becomes a Breast Cancer Awareness product.

I'm annoyed that the color pink has in this way been so totally co-opted. Poor, poor pink. You can't be merely pink anymore.

Sister #1 sent me this one along with the comment, "I'm not sure if all the teams have followed up with this option, but the Chicago Bears seem to have gotten into the jewelry business."

"Business," indeed. Which is why this link earns the award for "Most Obvious and Shameful Attempt to Capitalize on Pink Think."

Note that it's only "a portion" of the proceeds from the profit of bracelet sales will go to "fight against breast cancer." What portion? 5%? 10%? That's making Dick Sporting Goods more money than if they paid for ad space to sell it at a mere 20% off.

And, on a more pragmatic level, Who wants a Chicago Bears-Breast Cancer bracelet? The only person buying this piece of jewelry is the idiot Bears fan who thinks his wife--just because she watches the games with him--would rather have NFL gear on her wrist than, say, diamonds.

Of course, for $17.95, he can't buy her diamonds. So maybe Pink is the cheaper, and therefore better, option. . .

B, G and J Day: High and Tight

B:

I mentioned Bryan's retirement last week. A few of you asked what he'll do after 31 May.

It looks very likely now that he will continue to do the very same work, for the same command, only in civilian attire. He is hoping to move into a GS position when it comes online in a few months, and is right now in negotiations with a defense contracting firm to become a contractor for this command until the GS slot becomes available.

Bryan is very pleased with all of this. He really likes his work and really likes the people he works with and for, so he's happy to stay. We're extremely grateful that it looks like he'll have a smooth transition into the civilian workforce. It's been a wonderful provision from God. And it's nice not to have even more big decisions to make. . .

G:

She was sick all of last week. She had a fever and congestion that moved into her ears, so I actually took her to the doctor. Mostly, she just wanted to lie on the couch, watching PBS kid shows. But partly, she wanted to lie there with me next to her.

I did this often--parked myself on the couch. I was usually reading something as we sat together, but now and then, I'd pay attention to what she was watching. At one point, I tuned in to see a dinosaur character talking to the Wiggles, who are 4 grown men living juvenile lives and singing a few songs about it.

I asked Gemma, "Is that a real dinosaur?" Meaning, of course, "Is that dinosaur a character in the show the way Barney is a character? Or is the character really a person who, for this episode, is wearing a dinosaur costume?"

It is not her fault for not getting my meaning.

She answered, with brow furrowed, "In the show, it's supposed to be a real dinosaur, but I think when we see dinosaurs like that in movies, it's really a person in a costume. I think. I'm not sure. . ."

J:

My hair continues to grow. It has gotten to a length that is as short as short can be while still oddly having a feminine look to it. I really should just show you a photo. . .

But until then, you'll have to trust me. It's still pretty short.

We got Joshua's hair cut this weekend. A high and tight. Adorable. His whole face seems 15 degrees brighter now.

When Bryan dropped him off today at his AWANA room, the teacher said, "You got a hair cut just like Daddy's!"

And Joshua said, "No, like Mommy's."

So. Maybe you don't need a photo to picture it after all. . .

A Strange Embrace

Here's a story for you:

On Sunday, I was checking Joshua out of his classroom at church when Susan tapped me on the shoulder to say hi.

Susan is not really a friend. We don't know each other well at all. The last time I was in the same room with her was a day in September 2008. But I've always liked her, and she's an amazing woman with an amazing story. God is BIG in her life. . .

So I turned to greet her and suddenly found myself hugging her. She hugged me back--it was a really intense embrace, and I started crying. Not out of sadness or grief I just. . .I had no idea why I was hugging this person and why we were both now crying. But there came an overwhelming sense of joy that we cried even more.

It was crazy.

And you all know me! I don't mind a hug, but I'm not A#1 hugger either.

Totally weird.

Eventually, we broke it off and she said I looked great. That she'd been hearing from Christine, a friend we have in common, updates about me.

"You talked with Christine, right?" she asked.

Well, yes, I see Christine every Thursday morning at our Bible study.

We had to hustle along at that moment, and so said good-bye.

A few hours later, I was talking to the very Christine in question and I mentioned how I'd seen Susan for the first time in what seemed like forever.

"Oh!" Christine said, "Did she tell you?"

Tell me what?

"That she was just diagnosed with breast cancer."

Long silence.

Christine went on, "It's at stage 1, and she told me that this is going to be a blessing her life. And I told her, 'You know who else believes that? Amy Ponce!'"

Shortly after their conversation, Susan saw me picking up Joshua from his room at church. So, she knew about her cancer and about my cancer. But I'd had no idea about hers.

But our spirits knew. Amazing. . .

Thursday's Pink Links!

Our winner this week is Amy B, honorary Big Sister to my children, daughter of the oft-mentioned Miss Betsy.

A few others sent me to the pink ribbon shop. But Amy did the leg work of nominating a few products in particular.

There are these. A very good example of attaching pink to something completely unrelated. Do we need more breast cancer awareness "on the golf course." I say: Save these for a more relevant disease. Like testicular cancer.

There is this. An idea I like, actually. Your best friend should be this supportive.

And, finally, these. In case your best friend really is this supportive. I asked Bryan if he would wear them. He said "sure." I'm tempted to call his bluff. . .

The Coming Surgery

I've mentioned that the other breast removal surgery is scheduled for 25 March.

There we were, steaming steadily towards this date with complete peace. Anticipation, almost, as it will be the last Really Big Thing we have to do in this marathon.

Then Dr. Science called at 5:15 PM on last Wednesday evening. He was on his cell phone, we had a terrible connection, and he was saying something about talking with a colleague (?) and then talking with Mayfield (why?) and then, at last: "Something you should consider is having your ovaries removed during your upcoming operation."

The rest of the call was a blur, except that he apologized profusely for having this conversation on the phone and not in person.

Well, why wasn't it in person? I had just seen him 2 weeks earlier, and he went through the whole song and dance about tomaxifin, the drug I'll take for 5 years that will block the estrogen from getting to any remaining cancer cells.

Except that it's "not as effective" as this other drug, which is given only to women who are definitely menopausal. And what is menopause? Medically speaking, he explained, it's terrifically difficult to identify. Even if the cycle has stopped, there may well still be estrogen in the body.

But at no time during this talk did he mention the recommendation to have my oviaries out alltogether.

At one point, I asked, "What is life like without estrogen?"

He said, "You've been living it since September" (e.g. when the chemotherapy threw me into "menopause.")

I said, "I gotta say, I was really looking forward to having estrogen back again."

He slipped into a special doctor tone called, "Help the patient see the big picture," as he said, "Look, I know this sucks. But as an oncologist I will never be able to tell you that there are no cancer cells in your body. There might be just one cell that is hiding, and 10 years from now, it will have grown to be detectable, and it would grow back in a place where you don't want cancer cells to grow. Given the size of your tumor and your young age, your risk for this is very high.

Estrogen coursing through your body is about the most dangerous thing you can have in your body at this point because your cancer is estrogen receptive. It will eat that estrogen and breed."

Sigh.

I told him, obviously, that Bryan and I would talk about it. Pray about it.

Bryan came home towards the end of the conversation and could kind of tell what the content was. When I told him, he cried and cried. We both did.

For him, it was mostly a child thing. We had hoped for a third. But number 3 didn't come along before the diagnosis. And we'd both been making the calculations of treatment schedules and time tables, and he especially carried a small hope that there'd be a window of time just big enough at the end of it all.

For me, it's a little bit of this. But more a grief over more loss. To be such a different person physically than I was a year ago at this time is still shocking. My figure is different, obviously. My hair is coming in gray. And now the chemical of a young woman will be gone from me.

We talked a lot about the recommendation. A clear and logical choice emerged. It's common sense, really. Just one little cell. Just one. It would be enough to kill me before the children we do have leave home.

And we haven't gone through all this treatment and surgery thus far only to stop short of completing a necessary step.

But.

But, but, but. . . This is a pretty big thing to choose. We're smart people, but we're not smart enough to know what is right for my body, my future health, our future family. We just don't have the knowledge we'd need to know for certain.

So we prayed that God would confirm the decision for us. Sometimes, all God gives is our common sense and faculty of reason. If this was all we'd have for this choice, then. . .OK. But we prayed on Wednesday and Thursday that He would let us see His hand on this plan. Or, at the least, that He'd work to stop us if my ovaries are to stay in.

On Friday, I talked to Dr. Markus again. This time it was a clear connection, and I had my questions lined up.

Q: Why had he not mentioned this earlier?

A: Because this is normally a conversation he has with a patient after 5 years of tomaxifin. It's standard protocol.

Q: So why now?

A: Well. . . The director of some big shot national cancer research and oncology project just "happened" to be in town on Tuesday night to give a paper.

Markus went to it, know the guy, and the two met afterwards as old colleagues.

Markus "happened" to mention my case: young woman, huge tumor, estrogen receptive cancer, and this big shot guy said that it is his standard recommendation now to advise that the ovaries come out, especially if there are no plans to have more children. The benefits of not providing the cancer cells a food source far outweigh the downside of not having estrogen.

Then on Wednesday, Mayfield "happened" to call to discuss a few patients they have in common. And Mayfield "happened" to ask if I was having ovaries out as well.

It's peculiar that he had asked this. I talked to Mayfield myself to make the surgery appointment, and he said nothing of it. But since scheduling it, he had been thinking, "Maybe she should think about this. . ." and he wanted to know if Markus had discussed it with me.

Following that conversation, Markus felt really compelled to call me right away about it. Because, after all he "had just had this conversation with the guy at the forefront of this research." Hence the phone call on Wednesday evening as he drove home.

All of this we take to be God's confirmation. No such thing as coincidence, especially not with this kind of timing, following the timing of our prayer.

It's made a huge difference to know that we're not just going with common sense. If it's OK with God that we won't have more children, that's a lot easier to bear than the feeling that cancer has robbed us of something.

Neither of us is crying anymore. Truly. It's all good.

Speaking of which: I "happened" to be studying the following Scripture during the week that this happened. Romans 8:28-39. I won't quote the whole thing here.

But the key part of it in relation to this development is this:

"Whom He foreknew, these He pre-destined to be conformed to the image of His Son"

This has been the greatest comfort of all. It's not my destiny--my purpose--to hold onto my youth for as long as I possibly can. I've been pre-destined to become more like Christ. And if my ovaries have to come out, then God's promise is that He will "use (this) for the good to those who love God, to those called according to His purpose" (8:28).

As for the details:

Mayfield called today to confirm that he found a Gyn to do the procedure with laperoscopy while I'm already under. The surgery stays the same day.

"And I'm going to be there for the whole thing to make sure he does it right." Uh. . . OK. "I'm serious, Amy. I am extremely protective when it comes to you and I will be watching every last thing to see that it goes smoothly."

Another great comfort.

We remain as blessed as ever. And more joyful--honestly, seriously: more joyful--than ever before.

B, G and J Day: Sweet Times

B:

Now has less than 2 weeks of work before beginning "Permissive TDY." These are days off the military affords as retirement approaches, ostensibly to all you to get your affairs in order. Bryan plans to use his to take the kids to Florida a few days after my surgery.

He'll come back from that, work a few more weeks, and then begin "Terminal Leave." These are the vacation days he has accrued on the books beyond the number he is allowed to sell back to the military.

How does he liked the idea of retiring? He murmers every now and then, "I can't believe I'm about to start Permissive TDY. . ."

G and J:

The two go together this time. I told them they could have 10 Jelly Belly's after breakfast. This makes for good counting practice.

But soon, the counting turned into giggles. Gemma came to me with her shirt raised, shouting, "I have a Jelly Button!"--she'd lodged one in her belly button.

Josh got into the action for a little bit, but then decided he'd rather eat his. So, as we've seen other times, his candy was gone first.

Gemma carried the bag back to the counter and somehow dropped it, scattering Jelly Bellys all over our tile floor.

She gasped, "Oh no!!!"

and Josh gasped, "Yummmmm!!!!"

And I gasped, "QUIIIICK!! PICK 'EM UP!!!"

and the 3 of us dove to the floor at once, the girls frantically trying to scoop them away from Joshua, who was grabbing them and shoving them into his mouth in one fluid motion.

I was laughing too hard. Gemma screamed every time he got another one. He was flopping his body onto my arms to pin me and launch himself closer to the candy that I was going for.

The affair ended with a good many back in the bag, and a good many inside his cheeks. And a Gemma, standing hands on hips and shaking her head.

The Olympics: Closing Remarks

They are random and short, much like the Olympics themselves.

(Oh, I'm sorry. Do you differ with me on this? Would you like to argue that it's not random to include curling 'athletes' in the same games as distant speed skaters? Or that rifle shooting should be coupled with, say, cross country skiing?)

1. That little Swiss boy who jumps off of mountains, flies a lot farther than anyone else, and then lands properly is too cute. I loved to see him celebrate. He leaped onto that gold medal platform with a holler! And then he told the reporter he intended to "Celebrate long."

I'd have liked to have been in the Olympic Village for that party. He looked like he was out to have fun.

2. Speaking of gold, I remember thinking as a child that if you didn't win gold, you lost. Now I really appreciate what it means for an athlete to medal.

3. Also about gold, I tuned into Yuna Kim's medal ceremony just so I could hear the Korean anthem. At the movie theater on base, they played the Korean anthem (and then the American anthem) before every show. I wondered what memories it would bring back to hear it. Answer: Not too many.

4. But I do recall that Koreans write their family names first. Hence the phrase "Kim Yuna." That's fine. What annoyed was the announcers referring to her as "Kim Yuna" every time, as though they were unsure which name was which.

Hmm. Kim Yuna in figure skating. Park Sung He in short track. And in other sports. . .we see. . .a few other Kims and Parks. . . hmmm. . . how unusual that Olympic athletes from Korea tend to have parents who name their children "Kim" and "Park". . .

5. Shawn White, snowboard king.

I have to come down on this sport as well. Seems to be there just for TV ratings. Notable about this fellow is that, while all others were wearing ski suits, he wore jeans and a flannel shirt.

Rock on, buddy.

6. Ariel ski jumping. What? How do you even practice for this sport?

7. Finally, a moment that reflects on me quite poorly:

We had a lovely Spring day last week, and I sat outside with Mrs. Colorado and the mother of my other neighbor (who had the surgery, which went well--thank you for your prayers). We chatted about the Olympics.

I remarked, "There was a shot of Peggy Flemming. She has not aged well." It was shocking, really. She looked terribly gaunt and hallow.

The Mom said, "Yes. Well. She's been sick."

This made me feel bad. "Oh, shame on me. Sick with what? Do you know?"

"Uh. . . yep. It's cancer."

"Oh, my." Long pause. I knew what was coming. But I asked anyway. "What kind?"

"Breast cancer."

Right. Of course.

A Gold Medal performance in gymnastics, ladies and gentlemen. The kind where the athlete chews on her own foot.

Not Even as Worthy as Hula-Hooping

When the Russian guy landed his quad in figure skating, but got only silver, he complained to his country's press that if the champion of a sport doesn't do a quad--e.g. doesn't advance the sport with a greater physical feat than ever before--then "we're just dancing."

And, uh, "dancing" isn't, you know, a real Olympic sport.

Cheers to you, Plushenko. You've put into a nutshell just why figure skating is a competitive sport, even though it's not a race and cannot be objectively measured, try though they may.

Figure skating is an athletic performance than can be demonstrably improved upon, so it can be a competitive sport. These aren't the only conditions that a sport must meet to be worthy of Olympics, but they are necessary.

So what's with ice dancing? Yes, it's an athletic performance. But notice how the announcers didn't say anything like, "This couple will attempt a triple-flip-throw-toe-loop-axle-angle for the first time in world competition history."

What would "advancement" in this sport look like?

Let's be honest: it's in the Olympics only because it's good for TV ratings. And I was among the masses to watch it. (But I blame Gemma's enthusiasm for this.)

So, about what I saw.

1. How cute that the Americans were neighborhood buddies who've skated together all their lives. Why didn't Jeff Doll and I ever pursue ice dancing together?

2. Three events? Are you kidding me?

3. The Russians and their "aboriginal" number. Oh, my. . . The event was to interpret a piece of ethnic music, and this couple chose a. . . "native" sounding song. They dressed in tan body stockings marked with white "native" paint, and covered their private parts with green leaves.

Then they skated with moves that, if translated into words, would read, roughly, "Ooga Booga!"

I was uncomfortable watching it. This is the generation I am part of in America. On a deep, deep level, I sense the insult and the mockery. Doesn't matter that I'm not "aboriginal." Doesn't matter that their intent was to entertain. My base reaction was singular. I was horrified.

The announcers on one hand steered way clear of saying what I've just said. But they're American. They have this cultural standard woven into them just as I do. What did they say? They struggled to say anything, and came up with, "This dance just wasn't that technically challenging."

Back in Russia, the public was like, "What? What's the problem?" And the skaters themselves were like, "So. . .what if we took a little of the body paint off? Would that help? Because we don't really see the problem here, but if there's something we can do to make you Westerners and Western judges a little less horrified, we'll do it. . ."

All of which is to say: Interesting that Russia doesn't have a line in their culture that they're not to cross, as we do here.

A friend remarked that this may because they don't have aboriginal people.

To which I remarked, "Well, not after the 20th century, anyway."

And maybe part of the puzzle here is that after a people has lived through the horrors that civilization has wrought (upon itself), a little jungle dance really is entertaining and those like me who are "horrified," should take a second look at their history.

As for the dance itself, and what I thought of it. Well. It was dancing on ice. And that shouldn't be an Olympic sport.

Thursday Pink!

I still don't have a good title for this feature. And you all have been of no help to me in this.

But as for submissions. . .

Adriann sent an emblem from Facebook, a ribbon on top of a heart. So, pink has gotten to Facebook, too. No surprise of course. But this saves me the trouble of actually joining Facebook to find out for myself.

Today's winner, however, is Amanda, who sent links united by a theme. Congratulations to Amanda and Brad, by the way, on their beautiful new boy, William. Will he be called Billy Bridges? Love it. This is an Air Force family that also moved across the country from NJ to Washington, and managed to send out birth announcements.

And find a pink link for me. . . OH! That's IT! "THURSDAY'S PINK LINK!"--Love it!

The point being that this is a woman with her hands full who still came up with some good ones. Great effort, Amanda. Much, much appreciated.

And now, for the day's Pink Link:

What is the point of this or this or this?

Do you use them and say, "I am aware that she is bald, but I look pretty damn terrific!"?

Figure Skating: How Do They Figure?

I miss the old days.

Days when figure skaters got a row of scores, nothing higher than a 6. Why 6? This didn't correlate to anything in my life. A 5, yes, because that made it an A through F. But 6?

It was mysterious. And yet easy to understand. 5.9 meant the guy rocked. 5.3 meant he fell once. 5.7 meant it was good enough, but not great. This, anyway, is what the announcers helped us to understand.

I miss how each score had the judge's country above it. I miss how the crowd would boo when the Russian judge gave the American a 5.6 when all the others gave a 5.9. At the time, I was booing, too. Now, I know more, and I'd have thought, "Hey! That woman will be thrown into the gulag if she gives any higher!"

But there's no opportunity for this anymore, because there's no way of knowing how the judges arrive at that massive number. What does it go up to? Like, 220?? And NBC puts up a helpful little rubric that explains that anything over 170 is "superb."

I don't care what the numbers mean, NBC. I want to know which country's judge is screwing which country's athletes!

And what's this "personal best" or "season's record high score" nonsense? Are we supposed to forget that this is a subjective sport? All the instant replay in the world cannot make figure skating into a science.

I miss the days when the figure skating world gave the rest of the Olympic Village the finger, saying, "We may just barely be a sport, but we're the ones who get the air time, and then the sponsorships, and then the role of whichever hero Disney is casting in its latest ice show."

Instead, they've left this territory to the ice dancers, upon whom I shall comment on Friday.

The Olympics: Short Remarks on Short Track

1. To watch it: pure exhilaration. Where has this sport been hiding? The last time I was jumping up and down, shouting at a television, the Bulls were in a championship game.



2. I'm not the only one who's made a recent discovery of it. How else can we explain the Chinese? The first time a Chinese athlete ever won gold in a winter event of any kind was when a female short track skater took it in Salt Lake City. Only 8 years ago!



This year, Chinese women won gold in all four events. Bam! (Of course, they only got it in the relay because the officials biffed a call that disqualified the South Koreans.)



My question: This is a sport designed for little people. Chinese are little. And they've had the example of South Korea, which has been a powerhouse forever. What took you guys so long to go short?



2B. And why do Chinese men suck at short track?



3. As I say: it's a thrill to watch. So why were there so many empty seats in that stadium?



4. Let's talk uniforms. The US skate team wore, um, let's see here. . .light blue tunics with dark blue legs and arms.



Light blue? What the heck?



5. As for our boy, Apollo Anton Ohno. I'm glad to see a competitor like him do so well. He seems humble enough. Grateful enough. When he gets near a microphone, the overwhelming and solitary impression he makes is that he loves his sport.



His Dad is a cutie.



And watching Ohno skate is like it was to watch Jordan. You know he's going to pull off a winning move under pressure, and you know it's going to be beautiful.



6. But every time Ohno's face showed up on camera--and it was a lot--I would think, "He reminds me of someone. . ." and I'd suffer that nagging feeling of not knowing who. A former student? Someone I went to school with? Who?



The last night, aha!, I put my finger on it: Apollo Ohno bears a striking resemblance to my nephew, Joe. Seriously. If the former didn't have that soul patch going on his chin, the two could be cousins.



Which is odd, given that my nephew has no Asian blood in him. . .

The Olympics: Opening Commentaries

I watched. And I took notes.


Today I present a comments about the Olympics in general.

1. The last winter Olympics I paid attention to were the ones where Bryan Boitano won gold in figure skating. That was, what? '88?

I only watched them this time because of this kids. We went out and got the digital TV converter and antennae just so Gemma and Josh could enjoy them. And they did. We all did.

2. But I didn't enjoy the same sports I remember liking back in 1988. The Olympics. . . just one more thing to lose its luster with age.

2B. Nor did I ever realize how insanely dangerous the Olympic games are. Human bodies, hurling themselves down mountains in a variety of ways. 2 weeks of it. Crazy.

3. The "proud Olympic sponsors" cracked me up. After McDonald's commercials, I'd scoff. Gemma would ask why. I'd tell her, "Because Olympic athletes don't eat McDonald's food."

4. Except for Steve Holcomb, perhaps. The first American to win Bobsled gold. He was also, probably, the tubbiest gold medalist in Vancouver.

Hey. More power to him. And to squeeze himself into that sausage casing/bobsledding onesie took real courage.

5. How did they decide winners of Olympic events before the age of digital timers? When most of the races were decided by tenths of a second--sometimes even hundredths--I marvelled. To time that now, no sweat. How did they do it a hundred years ago?

6. The kids could not watch any sport and remain seated at the same time. They kept getting up and spinning around in our family room, or leaping off of things, or wrestling each other. Their bodies seemed to be inspired by the idea that motion could be harnessed to accomplish greatness.

And when we went sledding on a gorgeous Colorado day with temps in the 50's and a hill full of snow, Gemma shouted, "I'm going to ride this like a bobsled!"--though it was Josh who was the first to master the run and jump and keep sliding form. It look a lot more like skeleton, actually. . .

7. Skeleton? See what I mean? These games are crazy!

8. I enjoyed Bob Costas. He did a great job interviewing the athletes, though he didn't do anyone tough. An interview with Plushenko, the Russian who landed a quad in figure skating, won silver, then whined to the Russian press that he should have won gold because the guy who didn't hadn't done a quad. That's the kind of guy I want to see interviewed.

But I have plenty more comments to offer on the stuff that did actually happen. You can look forward to a few days of them. Because this is what a post-cancer life looks like, friends. These are the things I have the energy to think about now.

The Hollywood Sleeve

Lymphedema Part II: Treatment

There are two steps to reversing lymphedma in its early stages: compression and massage.

As for compression, the theory is simple enough: apply firm resistance to the affected area--in my case at first, an entire limb--and as your muscles expand and contract, they squeeze the lymph against the resistance and push it back up the lymphatic vessels.

So I got this sleeve on, you see, and a really tight glove, and every move I make against these garments is squeezing the lymph out of my arm.

I don't find the garments uncomfortable. I can get them on easily. They're not stylish, of course, but that's because I haven't gotten my hands on the catalog to order myself some leopard print versions. The only annoyance of them is that a day full of ordinary motion really tires my arm. The first few days I wore these garments, I had severe muscle cramping in my arm and hand just from cooking dinner. Stands to reason: there is resistance to every move I make now.

This also means my handwriting has gone to pot. Not that it had far to go. . .

As for massage: The lymphatic vessels are punctuated by one-way valves, which create a kind of suction. A few times a day, I press on the lymph nodes in my neck, right at my collar bone, to clear them out. Once they're empty, they create a suction in the vessels they're connected to. I help my body by gently rubbing my arm from the elbow up to the shoulder several times. This empties those vessels. Then I rub from the wrist up to the shoulder. Then from the fingers on up.

I was doubtful this actually accomplished anything. But I did it often because I'm pretty interested in reversing the condition. Then I took a plane ride down to Florida and felt my arm fill up as the plane descended to sea level. I started emptying and massaging like crazy and after a few minutes of it, felt a decided relief. So now I do it often because I know it works.

And the results? My right arm is now noticeably smaller than my left! I'm not sure what we're squeezing out anymore, but I think it's more than just lymph. More details about results are coming in Part III. But as I've said, the condition is mostly reversed and my arm is looking great.

So great, in fact, that I'm surprised Hollywood has not discovered compression sleeves. These actresses could be squeezing a good 100 - 200 mL of fluid out of their arms right before going onto the red carpet.

Lymphedema At Last

I'm thinking back to my second consult with Dr. Mayfield, the one we had two days before my surgery, to the very moment when I said, "Wait. What's that you just said?"

No, this wasn't in response to his saying, "You are thin."

He had just said, "So what if you have a swollen arm for the rest of your life if you're using it to cheer at your child's graduation?"

This was in his Moment of Truth speech that I suspect he'd thought and prayed long and hard about delivering. The speech that probably got some air time during his residency, because surgeons have to give it often. The speech that, roughly translated into blunt language would sound like this: "The treatment I'm advising will suck, but dying sucks worse."

Hence the phrase "swollen arm" used with the other phrase, "So what?"

But here I am. I went through with the radical surgery that turned out to be less-radical than expected. I did the chemo. I did the radiation. My hair is growing back. My energy has returned. To gauge by all outside appearances and behaviors, I am no longer a cancer patient.

So it's no longer "so what?" if I have a swollen arm. I do, in fact, have a swollen arm and hand, this is not easily disguised and my attitude towards it is pretty straightforward: Lymphedema? Really?

So today's post will be an answer to the question on everyone's mind: What is lymphedema, anyway?

The lymphatic system is the one we did not learn about in Mrs. Saragoosa's seventh grade biology class, though she did very thoroughly cover all the others. I still know the term--check this out!--"Superior vena cava."

Nor did we learn about it in Mrs. Griffin's biology class Freshman year, though we did dissect a frog. (That was also the year Eric Lichtenberger and Sean Nolan teamed up for their science fair project and shot ants up in a model rocket.)

Nor did we learn about it in the same Mrs. Giffin's Human Anatomy course Sophomore year, though I did hang onto the enduring term, "canal of schlem."

That's right. We had time to learn about the "canal of schlem," but did not have time to learn anything more than the term "lymph node," and the fact that it was part of "the lymphatic system." I'm not being glib about this time issue. Go ahead. Take a look at a simple wikipedia entry on the lymphatic system. Pretty complicated!

The short version is this: Our lymphatic system runs roughly parallel to our circulatory system. It takes fluids to and from tissues and organs. And it's also a big player in our immune system such that when cancer cells form in some tissue, and start breaking off to hit the lymphatic highway and drive to a new organ, the lymph nodes act as little road blocks, trapping those cancer cells. The nodes will often destroy them. But sometimes they can't, or they get overwhelmed by incoming cells, and the nodes become tumorous themselves.

All of my brave little lymph nodes in my right armpit, shoulder and collar bone area that were within the surgeon's reach--including the one that really should have been out of reach--were removed during my surgery.

The radiation, which centered on my chest wall and up into my shoulder, damaged the delicate lymphatic capillaries, and whatever other lymph nodes that remained in the area. We have no way of knowing how much damage was done, or whether my body can or will repair it. We just know that my system stopped draining my right arm as it had been doing.

Lymph is getting to the tissue in my arm, but my body is not draining it out as it should. Left untreated, the whole limb would swell. And swell. And swell. I won't link to photos of this because the worst case scenarios are pretty grim.

Still left untreated, the lymph--a protein liquid--would simply harden. The skin would lose elasticity. The limb would remain permanently swollen.

It's more than a just cosmetic affliction, too. Even mild cases can cause significant pain in the affected joints. My swelling is very slight, and at this point, only remains in my first two fingers and first knuckle. But it's tight, all right. Hard to grasp things with fine motor control, too.

It's also worth noting that lymphedema is not just a breast cancer treatment complication. Sometimes people get it because of a genetic trigger. Or trauma to a limb. It's most common in arms and legs, but it can also afflict parts of the torso.

I think, if I had to choose, I'd want it in an arm. See how nicely that turned out?

I am nowhere near the worst case scenario. I noticed mine while it was just a wee bit past a "pre-clinical" level--meaning it was barely detectable with the naked eye. Now, it is mostly reversed, and I'm still hopeful that we can get rid of this last little bit in my hand. Thank you for your prayers for this.

Tomorrow's post: Treatment.

Alternately Titled: What to Say to People Who Ask Why You're Wearing Pantyhose On Your Arm.

Breast Cancer Survivor Gear Thursday

From now 'till the end of this blog, I'd like to spend Thursdays exploring the wonderful world of pink products. We know all about the key chains and water bottles and pins. What else is out there?

I have a few ideas already. But please, do your part: send me links to any Pink/breast cancer-related product that you find amusing or bizarre or funny or cool.

Big thanks to Julie B for sending me this one. It made me laugh. And laughter, after all, is a primo piece of survival gear.


Oh--and if you can think of a better acronym for this feature, do pass it on.

B, G and J Day: Behaving Badly

B:

Bryan has been checking Craig's List every evening and weekend morning for months, looking for bricks. If ever the phrase "Why buy new when used will do?" applies, it applies to bricks that will be used to make garden pathways.

Sunday morning--BING!--a "load" of bricks for $65. How much is a "load"? Four trips with our Explorer, that's how many. Two trips were that Sunday, and he made another both last night and tonight. The owner is moving, and these are bricks she hauled up from Pueblo when she came upon them as left-overs from some guy's new fence.

(If it's made out of bricks, do we still call it a fence?)

There were a few other pavers in the pile, too. Bryan took 'em.

Tonight he arrived home and pronounced the job finished. "Except for this one square paver. It was frozen to the ground. I couldn't pull it up. I couldn't kick it loose. I tried hammering a piece of wood against it with another brick--nothing!"

I kidded him, "And here I thought you were a man of perseverance."

A naughty grin slipped out. "Well," --uh-oh-- "I even tried warm water on it."

Hmm. As in. . .he knocked on this person's door and asked them for a cup of hot water?

He saw that I was puzzled and said, "It wasn't exactly warm water."

Pause.

Amy: "UGH! I'm putting that in the blog!"



G:

This morning at breakfast, Gemma told me how she spent a little time last night looking out her bedroom window, counting the airplane lights that flew by.

How pleasant. I told her that I used to do that when I was a little girl, too.

Then she said, "Yeah. And I use my binoculars to look into people's houses and see what they're watching on television."


J:

When we grocery shopped last week, each child started the circuit with a small bag of gummy worms for them to enjoy. You know that bribe. It works well for us, too.

It's Joshua's modus operandi to eat his treat one after another. Gemma likes to make hers last and last. This is why, when we got to the last aisle, she still had three gummy worms left and he'd been eyeing them since four aisles ago.

I turned back to the cart with a handful of yogurt to find Joshua kind of on top of her in the little bench seat they shared. And she was kind of. . .groaning, but it wasn't loud. It was muffled and annoyed.

"Josh, sit down," I told him.

He did. With a great big smile and a glistening, red gummy worm on his finger. Just when I realized what he'd done--that is, when I realized that he'd dug this worm out of his sister's mouth--he stuck it into his own.

I was laughing to hard to tell him that this was disgusting. As for Gemma, she sat there, a bit stunned, trying to calculate whether this kind of thing is allowed. On the one hand, she'd never heard an express prohibition against stealing food out of another person's mouth.

On the other hand, it was her gummy worm and she had been sucking on it!

On the other hand, her mother was now bent over from the laughter.

On the other hand, it had been in her mouth. . .

Hair-ful

It's growing back.

I've told you Joshua's observations. First I felt "poky," then "like a caterpillar," then "like a cat." I got home from my family reunion weekend last Monday and he gave me a good pet. I asked him, "What do I feel like now, Josh?"

He said, "Like Mommy."

I know that's really sweet. Believe me, for the first twenty minutes, my heart gushed. But then. Well. Come on, Josh. When has your Mommy's hair ever felt like this? Get real.

(Oh, take it easy! Of course I didn't say this to him!)

It is about half an inch long now. Seems to be as thick as before. I have a solid patch of white hairs right above my forehead, slightly to the left. They were there years ago, but were easy to hide.

When Dr. Markus saw me and remarked on the new growth, I pointed to these white hairs and said, "Do I have you to blame for these?"

Was that mean? Making him think it was a chemo thing? Meh. He didn't seem to care.

He did say, "I think it's very distinctive!"

Oh?

"Yes! Are you a reader of science fiction fantasy?"

What? Do I look like a 15 year old boy? Wait. Don't answer that. . .

"The very powerful are often marked by a streak of white hair. You would be, well, like a sorceress."

Moment of silence. I'm fairly certain I'd never been compared to a sorceress before. What does one say to this? What did I say?

I shrugged and whispered, "Behold!"

He then said, "I've revealed what a nerd I am." I wanted to tell him, "I think being a nerd is very distinctive!"

And one of these days, I will tell him, "I'm glad you are a nerd. I'm a nerd. I'm working hard to turn my children into nerds. This world is a better place because of nerds!"

But his comments do make me think of Rogue from the X-Men. Check out her streak of white hair:

I'd often thought that if I had that much of a concentration, I'd go for it. But my clump makes a streak about a quarter of that size on just one side. Before I lost my hair, I colored just this streak.

Then, just this weekend as I watched the Olympics, I saw a Pantene commercial on which the model--a hair model!--was a dark brunette with a long streak of white hair.

And it wasn't even for the old-lady version of their formula. So maybe, friends. Just maybe. . .

Half an inch seems to be the length that people interpret to be a chosen hairstyle, and not a side effect. I was wearing a hat on the airplane and a woman remarked, "Fantastic hat! Where did you get it?"

I told her and then added, "I saw it, liked it, was bald at the time, so I bought it."

She looked surprised and said, "I was bald once, too!" and we high-fived. (Note to self: Is there a secret Survivor's handshake I should know about for these moments? Google it.)

My point is that she didn't have the "Oh, you've got cancer!" look that I've learned to read pretty quickly.

A 16-17ish old girl in the Commissary stopped me to tell me how "cool" my hairstyle was and how "awesome" it was that I "went for it."

So, I inspired one of our nation's youth this week. What have you done, slackers?

I also have all of my eyebrows back. That was an awkward few weeks, waiting for them to come in. When you have just stubble up there, they look like two smudges, like hobo make-up mis-applied.

And stubbly eyelashes! They looked so icky for a while. But they are back now, too.

All further proof that we are finished with the hard treatment and that my body is getting on with the show.

Speaking of which, a photo below, taken at our reunion. I'd started entering the game room by sliding in front of the entrance a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business (a movie I've never seen, but who hasn't seen that scene?)

Mom, ever the faithful photo-historian, insisted that I do it once for the camera.

Here I am. Take those old records off the shelf. . .