My hummingbirds are visiting again. Seems they come more on grey, dreary days than on sunny ones. I’m glad to see they haven’t vacated for the season yet. The Mountain is hiding behind clouds today, but we’ve got patches of sun turning up over the water.
The Popsicle Report (and it seems I should have been capitalizing Popsicle all along. Who knew it’s actually a trademarked name?): Another treat yesterday — strawberry-lemon, from that same box the blueberry-lemon one came from. I still prefer the blueberry, but this is a close second. The brand is indeed Dreyers (not Breyers). I hope your local stores carry these if you have a hankering for them.
I’ve got the iPod on as I’m writing, an assortment of tunes ranging from Stan Kenton, to Sting, to some old Chicago and Bonnie Raitt, mixed in with a little reggae (UB40), Brahms Liebeslieder waltzes, Bobby McFerrin, and a new assortment of Celtic women.
We’ve found another household helper to replace our college student from the summer. So now that the kids are finally back into school routines, I’m starting to actually have some blocks of time to do the self-care I’m supposed to be doing. I worked through the exercises the physical therapist gave me with a few yoga poses this morning. About half an hour of that and I’m ready for a nap. I deeply envy those folks I see out riding bikes in what’s left of our good weather, and my rollerblades are looking mighty sad just sitting in the back of the van.
Yesterday was infusion #11 — one more of these and I’ll be halfway through. This infusion went routinely, and the white cell count is staying steady with the two injections of Neupogen during the week. No major side effects at this point — just some ringing in the ears, twitches in my calves at night, and the continuing fatigue. The center was busy yesterday and I shared a “pod” with three older patients, two of them men who seem to be under long-term treatment. They were both reminiscing with the nurse about the old infusion center, with its smaller space and chairs wedged side-by-side, and what it was like to feel the earthquake of 2001 while there.
While the nurse was installing the IV in the man next to me, she was talking about having to do so once for an anesthesiologist and feeling a little nervous about her technique. The man asked her if many doctors had been patients there, saying that he heard doctors make horrible patients. I turned subtly to glance back at my husband, who was seated slightly behind and to my right. There he sat, decorously reading his medical article, and I turned back, smiling slightly to myself. Didn’t think I should get in on that conversation.
I had my own interesting discussion with the same nurse. I’ve started to pay more attention to the many breast cancer organizations out there raising money. The Susan Komen Foundation is probably the best known, especially for their races for the Cure, which my sister and her daughters took part in last week, but there’s probably half a dozen more, all trying to raise funds for the cause. I wondered whether these agencies work in consort or whether they engage in the turf wars other organizations do when they cover the same territory. The nurse stated that they may be separate agencies, but they all channel funds to the institutions doing the research and studies.
Now what percentage of the funds raised by these foundations gets channeled to research is a question for another day, and some people take issue with the corporate connections some agencies have. For a skeptical analysis of the “breast cancer cult,” you can check out Barbara Ehrenreich’s essay from Harper’s magazine in 2001. It’s called “Welcome to Cancerland”:
Ehrenreich mentions several of the problems I’ve noticed, namely the ineffectiveness of mammograms as a screening tool and the social pressure on survivors to always be cheerful and upbeat. She also points out the skewing of media exposure that makes it seem breast cancer is the primary killer of American women, when in fact heart disease, stroke and — among cancers — lung cancer kill more every year. (More women are diagnosed with breast cancer than lung cancer each year, but lung cancer is overall more deadly.)
I couldn’t help but recall — ironically — my discussion with my English 102 students just last spring about the way media skew what we know about the world. For emphasis, I used the symbols of the pink ribbon and the red dress, which the American Heart Association has adopted as its comparable symbol. Every student knew what the pink ribbon stood for. Not one knew what the red dress meant. I chose the dress for comparison because my family has a strong history of heart disease.
Well who’s staring down that pink ribbon now?
Its image follows me like the Cream of Wheat bowl from those TV ads.
I did find that there’s an agency dedicated to women with my specific type of breast cancer: triple negative. Though this type doesn’t get as much attention as those that can be treated with hormones, we do now merit our own website:
If you’d like to support their work, you can certainly do so in my name! This group does work in concert with the Komen foundation, and assigns not one but *3* pink ribbons to their cause.
While I was waiting for the happy drugs (the 12 mg of the steroid) to kick in yesterday, I noticed the tall bookcase along the back wall of the infusion center — 10 shelves packed with thick novels and books — free reading for those who have longer infusions than mine. (I have just enough time to get that popsicle — oops, Popsicle — down and write a journal entry.) On top of the bookshelf is a board on which are glued ribbon loops, the Cancer Awareness Ribbons. Not just pink, but a host of other colors for the various types of cancer:
Cream = stomach
Beige + white stripe = lung
White = skin
Yellow = bone
Half light blue, half pink = male breast cancer (you can read about that here: http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/male-breast-cancer/DS00661)
Mint green = lymph
Dark green = thyroid
Dark blue = prostate
Royal purple = pancreatic
Purple = Hodgkins lymphoma
Orange = testicular
Dark yellow = leukemia
Beige = childhood
Dark brown = colon
Black = melanoma
Gray = brain
Can’t say I’ve seen any other color but pink (women never seem to be able to escape pink). The nurse commented that all the emphasis on breast cancer has meant that research for some of these other cancers has been pushed aside. Ah, the politics of cancer.
Now back to musing about hair. Yesterday, I read an article in the paper about men getting waxes to reduce hair on their backs, chests, ears, nostrils, and other anatomical parts. Seems it’s a popular activity in some places, even the Brazilian style of waxing, and even among construction workers, police officers, firefighters and lawyers. There I sat with my bald head (which has actually sprouted a little fuzz now) thinking how crazy is this??!
Silly humans. Always wanting what we don’t have, not wanting what we do — and willing to go through painful procedures for the sake of vanity.
I miss my hair, though I still have my brows and lashes.
And I’m tired of the taste of baking soda from the mouth rinse.