This One Has Photos!

The happy drugs are at work, so here I am, going on midnight, typing by the light of the Christmas tree we erected over the weekend.  I’m wrapped in one of my prayer shawls and the wrap I used several weeks ago in my iHop experiment.  It’s still cold here — the dog’s water froze in his bowl outside today — but at least the winds have died down.  This weekend was the first time I’ve seen whitecaps coming from the east, across the bay, since we’ve lived here.

The cold didn’t stop the hummingbirds though.  Matter of fact, we saw two new ones over the weekend — female Annas.  They look to be in need of fattening up.

Today was a day to celebrate for some very important people in my life, my father and my daughter. My daughter entered teenhood today, and I don’t believe it was coincidence that she was born on her grandfather’s birthday. I swear she purposely stalled labor so she could be his birthday present 13 years ago.  Today was a happy day for her; my thanks go to those of you who contributed a page for her scrapbook. It turned out beautifully. And tonight, her celebratory dinner downtown ended with a waiter playing a lively version of “Happy Birthday” on the harmonica, which brought applause from the roomful of diners. Made me wish I could be 13 again.  (Well, for 10 minutes or so, anyway.)

But this is for you, Dad:  Happy Birthday!
I’d play it on my harmonica, but I don’t think you’d leave me a tip for my performance.

Of course, today also happens to be Pearl Harbor Day, an auspicious day for someone with the last name of Yamamoto. The Admiral really didn’t think it a good idea to send the bombs. Too bad the emperor’s advisers didn’t listen.  But because they didn’t, I now have hanging in my house two thick chains of colorful origami paper cranes — silver, yellow, green, blue pink, orange, gold — hand-folded by my dear friends in Japan. These are the first two installments of the total 1000 they are working on. It is their way of sending good thoughts and wishes to me, in the same way the chains of cranes are folded for the memorials in Hiroshima to bring peace and healing. I look at them and know that I am loved.

The Popsicle Report:  Last week, since the doc wasn’t available on Monday for my usual time slot, I had to make another trip to his office on Friday. Since he needs to review the blood counts, I had to wait while the lab ran the tests on the sample they drew from my port. (You see where this is going, don’t you??)  Yes, indeed. TWO popsicles in the same week.  This one, strawberry-orange. I tried it again today to give it a second chance. Not as good as the ones with lemon, but I ain’t complainin’.

The white cell count last Monday was 15.7, but by Friday it dropped to 3.7, so I went ahead with a Neupogen shot, even though the doc said I could wait till this week.  I am determined to stay on schedule, and if a cell count can drop 12 points in 5 days, I’ll do what I can to stop it.  The red cells continue to climb (hurrah!), up from a hemoglobin of 8.7 on Monday to 9 on Friday.  Still low, but better. Must be those B vitamins.  I’ve been released from physical therapy with a set of exercises to do at home. The discomfort under the arm continues but I anticipate a change once I’m off the Taxol. I’m starting to have some neuropathy in my fingers (drat!) — a burning sensation down the backs of a couple yesterday, and tenderness at the tops of the nail beds. It’s intermittent so far, and I’ve managed to get almost to the end of infusions before it showed up, but I’ll be wearing gloves now when I work in the kitchen.

Nothing special on the iPod today. Matter of fact, I was getting annoyed at the shuffle function. Those same darn 817 songs, over and over again. The best today was Los Lobos performing the Monkey Song from Disney’s Jungle Book (“Oooh, ooh, oooh, I wanna be just like you…”).  I assigned this song to one of my students last spring for a short research project in my English 102 class. Poor kids; I assigned each of them a tune off my iPod to do a quick presentation — artist, type of music, meaning, history, etc. — so they got an earful of the music I’ve mentioned here, including Nina Simone and the Gregorian chant.

And in return, they got to choose one of the tunes off their gadget to present later on.  So (in revenge?), I got an earful of Coldplay, the Plain White T’s, and more rap than I care to hear.  One student, though, played Pink Floyd’s “Money.”  He thought music from the 70’s was pretty cool.

The infusion center was quieter this week. Same number of people, but a more somber mood.  Many of the patients have a caretaker with them, and today I noticed a couple of them in tears. One was the wife of a man in my pod. The man looks to be in his 30s and I’ve seen him there many times before. Stocky, fair, with a black 1920s-style motoring cap on his bald head. His sessions are much longer than mine, and he often reaches out to hold his wife’s hand during them. Directly across from me was another man, likely in his 40s, who came in to have the IV site in his arm checked and re-bandaged. He was talkative, cheerful even, and complimented me on my headgear (a warm neck scarf that I bought at Target wrapped around my head; I’ve gotten a reputation at the center for having interesting headwraps). His girlfriend hung over the back of his seat, watching the nurse as she unwrapped, cleaned and rebandaged the area. The man wore a yellow rubber bracelet on his outstretched arm — that Live Strong bracelet designed by Lance Armstrong during his treatment for testicular cancer.

One of the staff people at the center commented that, in reading Armstrong’s book about his experience, she found him arrogant, “a jerk” as she put it.  I haven’t read the book, so I can’t say, but he’s certainly done much to spotlight cancer and push harder for more research.  Perhaps that’s why celebrities get paid the big bucks. They can indeed make a lot of noise for a good cause, when they’re not feeding their own egos, pretending to lose their children in balloons, or crashing White House dinner parties.

Here’s another celebrity of sorts making noise about cancer: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/06/opinion/06kristof.html?emc=eta1

This is Nicholas Kristof, a columnist for the New York Times. This week he talks about the environmental influences that may very well lead to cancer.  As he points out, when a 10-year-old is diagnosed with breast cancer (follow the link in his column for that story), there has to be more going on than what you see on the lists of risk factors. And breast cancer afflicts men too. According to the American Cancer Society, in 2009, “1,910 new cases of invasive breast cancer will be diagnosed among men in the United States…[and] about 440 men will die…”
http://www.cancer.org/docroot/CRI/content/CRI_2_4_1X_What_are_the_key_statistics_for_male_breast_cancer_28.asp

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OK, morning now, and I’m feeling that late night. The lowered steroid dose and the switch to Claritin have lessened the rollercoaster effects of the pre-emptive meds, which is good.  They can’t do much to affect the emotional rollercoaster though. As I stood in the kitchen at 6:15 a.m. two weekends ago, watching my husband and kids go out the door to go skiing, it was hard to choke down the anger and sadness. I manage those feelings as best I can (visualize the seedhead of a dandelion — blow those fears and feelings away to let them go), and on that day I took the dog for a beach walk and had lunch with a friend. Now that we’re past the initial shock, the denial has decreased, but fear still takes hold — fear for myself, fear for my family. And that’s in addition to the usual, everyday fears and emotions we wrestle with. For example, as I watched my daughter celebrate her birthday yesterday, I knew that she is on her way to places and experiences that, as her mom, I cannot (and should not) go.

But I do manage to get free of the mental burden for stretches of time, mostly by attending to daily tasks.  And that’s just the moment, it seems, that something external barges in to remind me. Last week it was a woman in a blue sparkly top in a bathroom.  I was attending the gala fundraiser hosted by the hospital where my husband works.  Every year they auction off gorgeously decorated trees and wreaths to raise funds for equipment and their many services.  I dressed in my fancy clothes (the only time I ever do here in the casual Pacific NW), and had chosen a gold brocade headwrap to complement the green chiffon dress. I was seated at a table among friends and was enjoying the action of the auction. Midway through the event, I went to the restroom and, as I came out of the stall to wash my hands, there stood the woman in her frizzled blonde hair and sparkly top, drying her hands on a paper towel.  She looked up, noticed my headwrap and blurted out, “Do you have cancer?”

Stammering for a polite answer (rather than the retort that came into my head), I said “Well, I’m working on getting rid of it.”

She told me how she watched as both her mother and father went through it and reassured me that I would get through it too, came to give me a hug, and chattered on more, but I wasn’t listening.  I couldn’t hear her words through the angry buzzing in my head that told me I’d just been invaded.  Certainly she meant well, but this was not the bonding experience I’d had with the woman at the gas station several months ago.  And I grew more irritated as she followed me out and down the stairs, stopping me at the bottom to brace my arm and wish me “Godspeed.” At these moments, I’ve come to realize that I am the screen that others project their own experiences and worldviews on.  No point in trying to carve out a conversation; the best thing is to deflect and depart.

On my departing note for this update, I’ve included photos from the journey.  The first is from last year, when I was unaware of what was to come.

The second is the interim haircut as more and more started to come out. My son made the crown for me.

This was after my husband’s expert shave.

And finally, a recent one, me in my royal headgear with my son, my faithful and loyal attendant.

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