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.