Mad Eye Moody and Survivorship

The last stretch of our week of fine weather today — sunny and in the low 50s.  Tomorrow comes the rain. Meanwhile, back in Ohio, my parents report that the icicle hanging over their front porch is 14 feet long.

Along with many other people around the world, we’ve been spending a lot of time before the TV, watching the Olympics.  My son has developed a fascination with curling, which he now thinks is more interesting than skiing.  (His sister groans and disagrees.)  But he’s not the only one.  It seems Marge and Homer Simpson  have also discovered their own hidden talents:  http://www.hulu.com/watch/125173/the-simpsons-boy-meets-curl

The mystery of the anonymous Valentine’s roses has been solved. No one ’fessed up (though several people said they *wished* it had been them), so I was forced to call the company to divulge the sender’s identity.  Sorry to say, I have no secret admirer.  The flowers were sent by a store that sells pens at a mall near Seattle.  We shopped there a couple weeks ago for my husband’s birthday present, and I had forgotten about the form they had me fill out for a free order of flowers.

OK, so it was a commercial set-up, but they’re still pretty.

Last week’s radiation visits went routinely.  The skin is getting redder and itchy, so I’m supplementing the aloe lotion with hydrocortisone cream. When I saw Dr. H on Thursday, he said everything is going well. That was after he pet me on the head. He said he really likes the way the new hair feels — so soft — when it comes back in.  He and my daughter have the same inclinations — pet and marvel at the new hair.  Rather like people putting their hand on a pregnant woman’s stomach.  I don’t mind being pet on the head (depending on who’s doing the petting), but I *never* wanted anyone touching my pregnant belly.

The week also brought more changes related to the chemotherapy.  My fingernails still look bad, but the aching and stiffness in the hips has diminished.  My belly skin has gotten rough, and I continue to be more susceptible to cold temperatures. My eyebrows no longer need supplementing.  I looked in the mirror one day and thought, wow, what are these grey shadows above my eyes?  Oh!  Those are my eyebrows — they’ve come back!  I now have less of that bald chemotherapy look, am wearing hats less often, and I begin to recognize my former self  re-emerging.

Today was a double-header at the oncology center: a visit to the infusion center and the daily rendezvous with the linac.

The Zap Count: 23 down, 10 to go.

I went to the infusion center at 8 a.m. for a blood count, port flush, and a visit with my medical oncologist (“med onc“ as compared to “rad onc“).  I was the only patient there at that hour, though the nurses were already busy.  Since I was there for legitimate business, I indulged myself with my usual “infusion breakfast.”

The Popsicle Report: Two boxes of popsicles in the freezer, but not my favorites.  These were regular, average color-on-a-stick varieties.  I chose purple.  It went well with the green tea.

The blood numbers are not quite normal (white count 3.4  — normal is 4-11; hemoglobin 10.9 — normal is 11.6 -15.5),  but it’s too soon for them to have recovered totally. Dr. L says things look good, and I can have the port taken out any time I’m ready.  Since the other side of my chest is currently under assault from radiation, I think I’ll wait a little longer. And there’s the readiness to take the mental step.  If you’re going to take out the port, you’ve got to sign on to the idea that the cancer is really gone.

We also talked about the recent report of the possible benefits of aspirin in preventing recurrence  (http://www.cancer.org/docroot/NWS/content/NWS_1_1x_Can_Aspirin_Reduce_the_Risk_of_Breast_Cancer_Recurrence.asp).  The numbers are almost too good to be true — 50% lower risk of recurrence and death — but they shine the spotlight once again on the lowly aspirin, which I figured I’d eventually be taking given the family history of heart disease.  Dr. L pointed out that I’m nearing that age when taking a daily aspirin might be a good idea anyway.  (Hey, wait — in earlier appointments he’s called me a “young woman”!) I’ll see what the  naturopath has to say about it. In earlier appointments, he’s talked about preventing inflammation as a way to help prevent cancer, and there does seem to be a link between the two.  Maybe these findings strengthen that link.  The article indicates that NSAIDs like ibuprofen also seemed to be helpful, but not Tylenol.

The next time I see Dr. L is 3 months from now. No follow-up scans, no routine blood tests. None of these are helpful, scans being too costly and radiation-dense for the scant results, and tumor markers in the blood are unreliable for breast cancer. We assume the chemotherapy wiped out what was there, but there’s no window into the body to peek through to make sure everything’s still clear. So you go through the days keeping watch.  “Constant vigiliance!“ as Mad-Eye Moody shouts at Harry Potter and his fellow students.  “Constant vigilance!“ Between check-ups, and continuously for the foreseeable future, it’s up to me to sense if something is amiss.

As I mentioned before, if it’s going to spread, breast cancer usually heads for the bones, liver or lungs.  So the best I can do is educate myself about what to watch for, and Dr. L spelled it out.  Loss of appetite or weight (indicating liver involvement), a dry, persistent cough (lungs). Bone pain that becomes constant and progresses.  (Thanks to those Neupogen shots, I actually know what bone pain feels like.)  But, he said, the cancer doesn’t go for joints and, for some inexplicable reason, usually doesn’t show up below the knees and elbows.  “Everything else,” he said, “is fair game.”  He told me that 80% of recurrences are found by the patient. So this will be a test of how intimately I know my own body.  I feel as though I’ve just been put out to sail a three-masted schooner when all I’ve ever commanded is a rowboat.   All hands on deck!

Dr. L did not pet me on the head.  He said he likes the hair when it’s just starting to come in, like a newborn’s, and I’m past that point.  “So, what,” I responded, “You’re saying I need a haircut?”

While in the infusion center getting the blood drawn, I asked the nurses how you calculate the length of time you deem yourself a “survivor.”  You’ll hear people say they’re a 12-year or 20-year survivor (I’m aiming for 30, give or take), but I wasn’t sure whether the clock started from the day of diagnosis or the end of treatment.  Eileen, the nurse who presented me with my souvenir T-shirt at the end of chemotherapy, answered promptly, “From the day of diagnosis.”  She said that the term “survivor” (which I believe is now overused, but that’s a topic for another post) has recently been specifically defined by oncology nurses to mean anyone who has received a diagnosis of cancer, from the very day they’ve been diagnosed. So even at the moment you hear the awful news, you’re already a survivor. I’m not sure I agree with that position. How can you survive something you haven’t even been aware of and have not yet been treated for? But by her measure, I am a 9-month “survivor.”  (Nine months on; if I‘m aiming for 30 years, that‘s 360 to come.)

I got news last week that another “survivor” is doing well.  When we went for dinner one night, I encountered the waitress I’d seen months ago at the infusion center when she was tending to her mother, who was being treated for esophageal cancer.  She greeted me with a hug, an acknowledgement of a fellow traveler on the same path.  Her mother, she says, is doing well after 7 rounds of chemotherapy and 35 visits with the radiation equipment.  She was one who had to don one of those white mesh head molds that line the shelves of the linac room. Because she’s claustrophobic, her daughter had to help her on and off the table and talk her through the session.  She got to keep her head mold when her treatment ended, and her daughter is planning to decorate it and hang it above her mother’s bed.  Perhaps the thing will induce nightmares, but maybe its another example of how the human spirit seeks to overcome the dark and frightening.  Large amounts of courage displayed in small but significant ways.

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A Fanfare for the New Year

Happy New Year.

I’m sitting here after lunch on Sunday, before the weekly onslaught of responsibilities and routines begins again tomorrow.  Robin Hood and Flip Flop have come by to dine, and writing seems more appealing than laundry or taking down Christmas decorations. (OK, so now you know I procrastinate too.)

So yes, I spent most of New Year’s Eve day at the oncology center. The first appointment was with the radiation oncologist at 8 a.m. I’d seen her initially last summer, but this was the re-evaluation and imaging to lay the plan. Lots of new information to digest but I’ll save that for another post. The appointment was scheduled for 2 and a half hours but finished earlier, so I had time to drive over to Shari’s for breakfast before the infusion.  I don’t know who Shari is, but she must be related to Denny, who has equally unhealthful breakfast items on the menu. Potato cakes smothered in sour cream and apples, with a side of scrambled fake eggs.

Don’t tell the naturopath.

This week the white cells were 4.1, good enough to get me off the Neupogen even if they dip this week. For good measure and because the count was slightly low last week, I took one shot before traveling, even though Dr. L said it wasn’t necessary. I wore one of those silly paper masks on the plane and seem to have come through the travels just fine, if you don’t count jet lag. The hemoglobin continues to climb — 10.9, less than a point shy of normal. My stamina is slowly increasing, and I’ve tried to be diligent about doing the exercises, even attempting a few yoga sun salutations, before radiation changes the picture again.

So for now, I’ll borrow some lyrics from Bob Marley: “Give thanks and praise to the Lord, and I will feel all right.”

The Popsicle Report:  Of course I went for the blueberry-lemon. Not the last time, though. I have to return to the infusion center once a month to have the port flushed, so I should still be able to nab one then. I’ve had the the last of the steroids though.  It’ll be up to y’all to decide what effect they’ve had on my writing.

For the infusion this time it’s the same pod, even the same chair, and so the same view, including the crystal bee and the steel-gray cloudy sky. Down the row I see the same stocky man with his 1920s motoring cap. Across from me is a woman with a black knit cap doing crossword puzzles with her husband beside her. When I mention to her that it’s my last infusion — I hope forever — she rolls her eyes sadly and responds, “Yeah, that’s what I thought the first time too, but it didn’t work out that way.”

Next to me lies a thin, frail man, napping in the chair and covered with a blanket.  The tube in his nose whistles periodically as it delivers oxygen. At the end of his session, his wife and granddaughter bring in a wheelchair to take him home. They move with great gentleness around him, pausing during his shift to the wheelchair when it’s clear the movement causes him pain. One of the nurses comes to help.  I have the sense, as they wheel him away, that he may not be back many more times.

Georgia, one of the gregarious infusion nurses, comes to say goodbye to me before she goes to lunch. She comments on my headgear — a royal blue cloth with a lighter blue flower and vine motif — and says it looks just like some cloth she bought in Hawaii. “That’s because that’s what it is,” I reply. I picked it up as a “free gift” at Hilo Hattie, Hawaii’s premier souvenir shop, last year. With her comment ensues a discussion with the woman in the black cap about the best places to get cheap Hawaiian goods: not Hilo Hattie or the ABC Store, but the flea markets. Lots of folks from here head out to the islands to escape the dreary winter.

As my infusion wanes, the rest of the nurses come to give me a sendoff:  They sing “Happy Last Chemotherapy Day to You!” while clapping, one nurse blowing bubbles, and they give me a Purple Heart certificate of completion and my very own “Save Second Base” T-shirt. (I’m hoping I don’t have to explain the slogan to my kids.) I couldn’t help but cry. Such a relief to have it finished, but the center wasn’t a bad place to be.  I might even miss my Barcalounger.

Nah.

After a beautiful traditional celebration of Christmas here, we spent a few days with family back in my hometown in Ohio. Thomas Wolfe once said you can’t go home again, but that’s not true. You can go home. And it’s good to be there, where you don’t have to be anyone but your familiar self. You just can’t stay there forever.

We spent New Year’s Eve and Day following Japanese tradition, and again I realize an advantage of a cross-cultural family. We get to extend our holiday celebration with gusto. There are no grand Buddhist temples to visit nearby, but my husband again arranged for the osechi, specially prepared foods — fish, vegetables, lobster, and other treats — beautifully arranged in a triple-tiered lacquered box. You can see an example and learn some background here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osechi. (I can assure you that he didn’t get ours at 7-Eleven.)

Then we watched the annual TV special on NHK, Japan’s main broadcast network. (Out here you can get TVJapan through the cable company.) The show runs almost 5 hours, has aired since 1951, and is a competition between two teams of singers, the red and the white. The red team is composed of women singers, the white team comprises men. (I don’t know exactly where the performers in drag fit in.) The music is of several varieties:  J-pop (bouncy, popular music), enka (a certain style of singing referred to as “Japanese blues”), and other types, and the performers appear by invitation only. Even though I understand little of the banter that takes place between the acts, it’s great fun to watch the groups perform, some of them in wild costume. You can see one example in the man on the right side of the photo here: http://www9.nhk.or.jp/kouhaku/.

This year’s show featured a couple of surprises:  an appearance by Susan Boyle, the Scottish woman who gained headlines last year with her performance of “I Dreamed a Dream” on “Britain’s Got Talent.” Also making an appearance, albeit vicariously, was Michael Jackson. A Japanese impersonator sang and danced to a backdrop of the most famous of Jackson’s video dance clips. I suspect we’ll see a rise in Jackson impersonators to rival those of Elvis.

But now, with the opening of the New Year, I’m undergoing a mental shift with regard to the cancer and treatment. Of course I rejoice at the completion of chemo, but now I face a whole new set of information to consider with radiation. I can’t know if I’m cured at this point, but I’m definitely focused on preventing a recurrence and figuring out how to live each day with uncertainty. My dad’s advice, based on his own encounters with cancer, is to put it in the back of my mind, and when the worry emerges again, as it will, put it back there again. I’m still searching for the meaning in these events. Reading Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist, has me thinking about what my Personal Legend is and how to identify and read the omens that will take me to it.

One omen appeared a few days ago, when I stopped in a shop downtown. As I was checking out at the counter, a woman to my left spoke to me, and I glanced over to see who she was and figure out what she had said.  To cover my embarrassment at not having understood her, I said, “Hi,” and she asked gently, “Are you in treatment?”  Her tone was not at all aggressive, not at all like the woman in blue in the bathroom. She stood there gazing at me in her blazing red coat with a head full of thick black hair.  When I told her I’d just had the last infusion, she assured me that my hair would come back “just like normal” and we chatted enough for me to know that she had been down an almost identical path, with the same companions — Adriamycin, Taxol and radiation, which she said was “a picnic” compared to chemotherapy.

The funny thing about omens is that you get to decide if they’re real and what they mean.  I’m taking this woman’s appearance to indicate that I too will be where she is.

More photos, more identities:

If you’re a fan of the Addams Family, you know this character.

Here, I’m not quite home on the range.

Riding Hood vanquishes the wolf.

Apologies to Carmen Miranda.

I couldn’t get the grapes to stay on that Hawaiian headdress.

And here’s that Hawaiian headdress again. New Year’s Eve and the champagne and Obama bucks were flowing.

To close, here’s a link to one of my favorite pieces, Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man,” played by the New York Philharmonic, James Levine conducting: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xzf0rvQa4Mc

A fanfare for all of us.
And don’t we deserve it, just for doing what we do every day of our lives.
A fanfare for our New Year.

Stories from the Infusion Center

A gloomy day and week coming up.  From that long freeze and blue sky of last week, we’re now back to typical Northwest grayness and rain, which makes skiers happy because it means snow in the mountains.

Yesterday’s ice and snow had me skiing (figuratively) through the morning much like the beginner I am — frantically trying to stay upright at high speed while the ground slips out and away from me. My daughter thought she had to be at school early and so my husband dropped her off on his way to work. Turns out the weather brought a 2-hour delay at school so I had to fetch her and bring her back. My son was home with a cold, my household assistant was running late, and when it came the real time to take my daughter in, the repairman who’d come to fix the neighbor’s furnace was blocking the driveway, fearing to move forward because his van was sliding downhill on the ice, getting no traction backward to get off it. (I’m reminded of lyrics from a Jethro Tull song:  “Skating away, skating away, skating away on the thin ice of new day….”) By contrast to the events at home, the infusion center, where I arrived almost an hour late, was an oasis of tranquility.

The hummingbirds continue their regular visits, though a hummingbird in the snow appears incongruous to this Midwesterner, where all hummingbirds vacate for the freeze. I discovered that hummingbird food doesn’t freeze, but does make a nice sugary slush. Of course we’ve had to name the two new ones: Tinkerbell and Flip Flop.  This morning, I’m watching another, stranger bird — a float plane — doing low figure 8s over the bay.  Fascinating, but not nearly as gracefuI as Tinkerbell.

This week’s white count, 6.5; hemoglobin, continuing its climb, at 9.4. After the initial burning sensation in my hands last week, there seems to be little neuropathy, but my nails are more spotted and discolored so I’m trying to protect them.  Two more rounds of Taxol to go.

The Popsicle Report: So as I’m settling in to my pod, glad to be able to just sit and breathe, I notice the man opposite me. He is my compatriot — bald (perhaps by choice since he also has a mustache), fingers in pans of ice water, iPod buds tucked into his ears. And on his feet, over his own white socks, he has a second pair of white socks encasing packs of ice. He said that his first series of chemotherapy (another veteran!) bothered his toenails so this time he was trying ice on his feet too. His tall, dark-haired wife was folded into the chair beside him quietly reading. I went off to get my usual “appetizers” — green tea and a Popsicle (blueberry lemon again). Shortly thereafter, the man’s wife left the pod and returned in a moment with a Popsicle for her husband (strawberry orange).  He said when he saw mine, he thought it would be a good idea. I sure can’t argue with that.

My nurse for the day was Therese, a Swiss woman who has worked at the center for 10 years. She is just one of the many nurses at the center, and all are heartening examples of how serious illness can get incorporated into life without dragging you down. These nurses choose to work among seriously ill patients every day. Therese did admit that it sometimes is hard to watch what happens to patients (the nurses compensate with a lot of black humor during break periods), but she said it is a privilege for her to help each patient along the path, no matter which way it leads. So while they work and educate patients about drugs and side effects, they also talk about everyday things: which is better for roasting turkeys, a regular oven or an electric roaster?  They wear smocks adorned with flowers, butterflies, Disney characters and even Betty Boop.  And when a patient finishes chemo, they gather, clap and sing, much like waiters at a restaurant attending to a birthday guest (though none plays the harmonica), a modified version of the 12 days of Christmas (“two needles poking…”).

Can’t wait for my turn to hear them sing.

This week, as she was working with me in her smock covered with polar bears, Therese turned to the small woman seated in the chair next to mine and spoke to her in German.  I’d seen this woman several times before, in her colorful outfits and fuzzy pink-and-purple hat. Today she wore the hat again, with a yellow T-shirt and a leopard-print scarf wrapped around her neck.  She sat in her full makeup and large glasses, quickly crocheting a bright yellow blanket that was spread across her lap. I decided to forego listening to my iPod in lieu of a conversation with her.

Uta had come to the U.S. from Germany after marrying an American military man. Her husband, John, came and went from the pod as Uta’s infusion took place.  He was a short stocky man, clad in one of those signature black baseball caps embroidered with “U.S. Veteran” and “Vietnam” and he had adorned it with color bars, several American flag pins and one pin of the flag of Germany. Several more flag pins were attached to his vest. He was chatty, referred to himself as a “Warshegonian” in origin, and entered and departed our conversation in the same way he exited and entered the pod frequently.

Over the years in her new country, Uta taught herself English, raised 2 children, worked as a nurse’s aid, ran a restaurant, taught German, and cleaned houses (5 a day at the time she was diagnosed). She has been coming for infusions for 10 years for chronic leukemia, which was discovered by accident when she tried to donate bone marrow at the age of 50. Though her treatments have been more intense in the past, she now comes once a month to the infusion center.

Our conversation ranged across many topics: German food (how to make a good torte and a spinach sauce, and the advantage of a breadmaker to knead dough when you no longer have the strength to do so), how women have harder lives than men (John nodded vigorously at this comment) but she wouldn’t want to be a man. Men may know more but women understand more (John nodded vigorously again). We talked about how it is good to be small (she’s no bigger than I), and I told her a comment someone made to me once upon a time: Little people are like chihuahuas; we make a lot of noise because we’re afraid we’ll get stepped on. She thinks the tradition of naming sons after fathers ridiculous. John agreed that it’s a problem being named after his father. The boy feels he either has to live up to or totally deviate from his dad’s performance to carve out an identity for himself.  But that didn’t stop John from naming his own son after himself. And his grandson is now John the fourth.

Japanese do not have this custom of naming sons after fathers, though they do sometimes number their sons.  Ichiro, a common male name in Japan, is known especially here because of the star player for the Seattle Mariners. But the name Ichiro actually means son number 1.  When my son was born, my former boss, who knows the customs of Japan, teased me that we should name him after his father, with the “junior” appendage.  Well, we know how Indiana Jones took to that idea.

Uta and John brought to mind the neighbors I had when I was teaching down in Laredo, Texas, many years ago. Mario was a Mexican-American man who had served in the Special Forces in Vietnam. (He proudly showed me a map of these operations which were  emblazoned on a black T-shirt he wore one day.) His wife Inge and he had met in Germany when they were both working as spies, he for the Americans, she for the Germans. They both liked to tell me their stories, Mario about military service, Inge about her views of life. She recommended that, if I marry, I choose a man who is good looking, makes good money and has hair.  In her opinion, those features were the only things that make up for the trouble they cause. She took pity on me, a single woman living alone, grading essays late into the evenings, and cooked German food for me. (Though I am of German descent I’d never had sauerbraten before.) In trade I looked after their parrot when they went out of town.

But back to the days at hand.

I’m still poking around on the Web for answers to my questions, but spend less time there because the information becomes repetitive (and discouraging) and there’s nothing new for my situation, though there are some promising agents — PARP inhibitors and two types of growth factors — being tested. I did find an article I should have read when it was published, back in 2007, about dense tissue being a risk factor for breast cancer: http://health.usnews.com/usnews/health/articles/070204/12breast.htm.

Like the woman described in this article, I wish I’d known about the implications of dense tissue sooner. I might have pushed for different screening tests, kept a closer watch. This article appeared 2 years ago, but dense tissue still doesn’t show up on those risk factor lists we see today.

At breakfast on Sunday, my son asked the rest of us what we dreamed about the night before. No one else could remember, but I had dreamt that, on the upcoming trip to visit family for Christmas, no one wanted to be in the same room with me because of my bald head (which is not so bald anymore but resembles a newborn’s with faint, fuzzy hair of indistinguishable color). Then I recalled: we’d watched Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on TV the previous night. Perhaps I was empathizing with Rudolph, fearing no one would let me play reindeer games.

But in the spirit of Christmas (and fundraising), here’s an idea for those billiard-playing aficionados on your gift list who really do have everything. By purchasing it, you can also support research for triple-negative breast cancer: http://www.shopmcdermottcue.com/McDermott/M88B.html.  Pool cues. Now this is corporate sponsorship I can get excited about. Don’t mind the price; shipping is free!

I’ve attached a few more photos. Despite all my talk about hair and baldness (the only obvious outward sign of my current experience), I’m not one to think my hair is my identity. But I have discovered that its loss opens up an interest in playing with identity and disguise.

In this first photo, taken last summer, I tried out the military look.

Here, like Uta, I am disguised as a colorful fuzzy gumdrop.

Besides my fuzzy head, this is the hat my daughter likes to pet.

Here is the fashion hummingbirds prefer.  This is the scarf that prompted the hummingbird attack last summer.

And here, I’m a Muslim on her way to iHop.

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

—————————————————————–

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.

Life Amid the Treatment

I”m a bit late getting this out. Goodness, December already.  Feels like it outside today, and the mountain is obscured by clouds. Lots of snow up there and the ski resorts opened early this year.

Teapot dropped by for a quick lunch just now, and the Jehovah’s Witness found his way to my door this morning to leave me his message and a couple of Watchtowers to read. I’m slurping down some homemade vegetable soup a gracious neighbor brought, trying to be conscious of eating healthful things, though I must confess I snarfed down some potato chips a couple days ago (salt and vinegar). Good thing I don’t work at the Cleveland Clinic.  An article in the current Newsweek notes that the CEO has banned potato chips from the vending machines there, and he actually refuses to hire people who smoke. At least he’ll keep employees from freezing to death on smoke breaks during those cold Cleveland winters.

The Popsicle Report:  I felt like branching out.  Same brand, different flavor: strawberry lemon.  Pretty darn tasty.

On the iPod, in addition to the regulars, was Cecilia Bartoli singing Bizet songs in her nimble, gorgeous voice; Moby, who’s nimble in a different way; Charlie Barnet and some big band music; Trout Fishing in America, a classically trained duo now playing family music; and Gato Barbieri, an Argentinian tenor saxophone player of free jazz, who had a Muppet fashioned after him.

Speaking of Muppets, they do a grand interpretation of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yVB4kUK6UY8

Beelzebub has a muppet set aside for me.

Infusion #20 down (#8 of the Taxol), 4 more to go. White cell count is above normal at 15, meaning I can probably skip that Neupogen shot this week. The red cells are still quite low at 8.7, but increased from the 8.4 of last week, so the B vitamins must be doing their work. No sign of neuropathy or any new problems beyond what I’ve had so far. My fingernails have more spots, but I haven’t lost any, something the naturopath warned me could happen. I just have to keep on keepin’ on, trying to finish the chemo part of the treatment by the end of the year.  After the New Year comes 6 weeks of radiation, but I’m not able to wrap my brain around what that entails just yet.

The infusion center was quite lively this week.  I was anchored to the Barcalounger in the far back corner. Not much of a view out the window, but a direct line of sight to the large stainless steel box that warms the blankets they put over patients, and the tall stack of colorful fleece blankets someone had donated for the season. In the opposite corner of the room, a man reclined in his chair while talking with the Cancer Society reps. about what it would be like to go up to Seattle for a stem cell transplant, as he would be doing soon. The male rep. described his harrowing experience of several years ago, about how they used the chemotherapy to wipe out his immune system so they could do the transplant, how he was in the hospital for 3 months.  But there he stood, if not hearty, well very much alive, and I was again reminded of how much more some of these patients have had to experience than I have.  President Nixon signed the National Cancer Act into law back in 1971.  Thirty-eight years later, cancer is still with us, but there are numerous veterans of the war still here too.

Next to the man preparing for the stem cell transplant sat an elderly woman hunkered down in her wheelchair, getting ready for her 5-hour session, peering out at the room through large glasses that over-magnified her eyes.  She seemed frail, needing help to go to the bathroom, but she was definitely of strong mind. When another man joined her pod, she asked the nurse if she could be moved elsewhere because her area was too full of men.  I told the nurse that the lady, Jean, could come sit near me, but she had to keep her assigned place since all chairs in my pod were already reserved. The best the nurse could manage was to turn Jean so she could see over into my pod.

As I was waiting for my blood count to come back, a tall thin man with gray hair took a seat in one of the chairs opposite me. He wore a black baseball cap stitched with gold letters spelling out US Army, a dark T-shirt, and jeans. With him came his wife, a small stout woman neatly dressed in subtle shades of brown and cream. As soon as he entered the pod, the man began to joke loudly with the nurse who takes vital signs, saying he didn’t like her new hair color and she ought to change it back from brown to blonde. And so began a conversation about hair (he’d lost his too in the previous 3 years he’d been coming to the center), during which I noticed the man was missing his top front teeth. I asked the man if he knew how much time and money it took for a woman to be a blonde. Indicating himself, he responded, “Well we pay for it, so we should be able to say what color it is!”  His wife sat beside him smiling serenely. Her hair was strawberry blonde.  When he got up to leave after his blood draw, he gently took his wife’s hand as they moved out into the passageway.

A little while later, Jean’s granddaughter came to sit with her during the infusion. They talked awhile about the confusion of Jean’s transportation that morning (a van had come to pick her up before the granddaughter was scheduled to do so), and then the granddaughter pulled out the Trivial Pursuit game sitting on the shelf nearby.  As she started to read questions from the cards, the men in the pod perked up and began answering, and I chimed in with a few answers as well. (Quick now, the City of Light is ______.  And what was the fate of the three blind mice?).  Jean perked up considerably during the game and fell into conversation with the men about movies they had seen, and a new book that had come out. Maybe she decided men weren’t so bad if they knew answers to trivial questions.

So you see, life goes on even in the midst of serious illness.  And illness incorporates itself into everyday life.  Those of you dealing with chronic illness know this more than I.  Doing a weekly update about my health might indicate that cancer has taken over my life. As a matter of fact, when my internist called back in June to check in with me, she said, “Managing this disease will be a full time job.” (This was one of many times in life my brain consciously refused to believe the words I’d just heard.) It seemed that way at first with the appointments, the surgery, and even now it takes more time to deal with than I like.

But just how much of your life should any chronic illness — or any other life issue — take up?  Initially there are the cycles of grief, loss, anger, bargaining and numbness that you need to go through, and that recur even years later.  Yes, I’m spending a  lot of time reading and thinking about cancer in general and breast cancer specifically. This week, I’m puzzling over the news of a woman winning her lawsuit against the manufacturer of Prempro, that one-time popular hormone replacement therapy. She ended up with breast cancer and the jury has awarded her 3.5 million dollars. And I wonder: what’s the difference between hormone replacement therapy, which is now implicated as a cause of breast cancer, and birth control pills, which don’t appear on the lists of risk factors for getting the illness.

This disease caught me by surprise, sneaking up on me without warning while I was planning for heart disease, osteoporosis, hypertension, or any of those other illnesses that show up in my family tree. But every morning there are the two runs to the bus stop for the kids, managing appointments, mail, and phone calls (even scheduling the plumber and talking with the piano teacher during the infusion session), meals and dishes, cleaning out gutters, supervising newspaper students, preparing for my daughter’s birthday, planning holiday events. The illness has obviously made time for me, but I don’t have time for it. (Oh, go ahead, quote John Lennon if you must.)

But while we’re on the subject of time and seasons —

While putting away our Thanksgiving decorations this week, my son and I were taking down the garlands of shiny fall leaves we’d wrapped around the stair banisters.  The garlands are old and the leaves sparse, and as we worked more leaves fell off, leaving mostly a long shiny string bereft of foliage. I commented to him that maybe we should just get rid of the garlands, since they are so bald now.

He responded, “Not as bald as you, mom!”

Nothing like a 9-year-old to keep things real.

Here’s an inventive musical interpretation to start your Christmas season right:
http://www.metacafe.com/watch/2825215/glass_harp_dance_of_the_sugar_plum_fairy_tchaikovsky/

Too Many Drugs and Mysteries

Started off in a low mood today. It’s grey November. I’ve grown tired of the intrusion of this illness into my life and that sense of just not feeling right.  Nothing wrong on a big scale, but not feeling right either.  The ongoing discomfort under the left arm and the time spent in physical therapy. The dry ticklish cough that comes on at odd times and then mysteriously disappears. The slight ache in my neck and shoulders that comes and goes as well. The continuing anemia that forces the body to slow the pace the mind sets. The oozing blood that clots my nose, and then stops.  As Paul Simon sang it in my ear during infusion:  “I don’t find this stuff amusing anymore.” (That was after Phil Collins, from his Genesis days, singing “I Can’t Dance” and Bette Midler crooning “Am I Blue.”)

And then there’s the burden of all the ancillary drugs to counteract the side effects of the Taxol. For the one cancer drug infusion, there are 4 “pre-emptive” drugs beforehand: Zofran to prevent nausea, Zantac for the tummy, Claritin to prevent allergic reactions, and of course the happy steroids, which I have come to both anticipate, for the lift they provide, and dread, for the later crash.  Then there are the 10 supplements and 2 drugs at home during the week, including Vit. D, fish oil, CoQ10 for energy and the heart, a probiotic supplement for digestion, the glutamine to prevent neuropathy (along with the ice-water finger soaks, it seems to be working), the Neupogen, and the Ativan at night.

When I counted it all out for the naturopath last week, commenting on the supplement-to-Taxol ratio, he grinned widely and said, “That’s the way I like it!”  They may be natural substances, but they can be prescribed just as quickly and heavily as synthetics from the Western practitioners.

This better all be temporary.

My white cell count is a robust 8.7 (normal range, 4-11), but it’s now time to keep an eye on those red cells.  The normal range is 3.8 to 5.2.  My total has been hovering just above 2 (2.25 this week, 2.17 last week).  The key subset  of this count is the hemoglobin, with a normal range of 11.6-18.5.  Today’s number is 8.4, eight being the threshold for a decision to bolster the red cells.  If the hemoglobin drops below 8, they usually recommend supplementing the cells. Used to be they’d use an injection called ProCrit, but a few recent reports have shown a possible connection to recurrence in patients with colon and breast cancer. The alternate method to bolster the cells is with a transfusion.  So I’m trying to race time a bit here.  With 5 more Taxol infusions to go, I’m hoping the red cells hold steady and I can avoid doing anything invasive to support them.  The naturopath has loaded on a few more supplements (Vit. B6, B12, folic acid, and protein powder, rounding out that total of 10) to try to stop the downfall. It might be working.  Last week’s hemoglobin count was 8.2.

BUT, I can still walk at a pace that my children have trouble keeping up with, so, as Tony Bennet and k.d. lang sang in my ear from my iPod:  “I ain’t down yet.” And even though I’m having to supplement my eyebrows with some pencil lines now, I still look (ha!)  MAHvellous. (Especially in my blue fuzzy hat, which gives my head the shape of a gumdrop.  My daughter likes to come pet my head when I wear it.  I can’t understand why dogs like to be pet on the head.)

OK, OK, I know you’re all looking for it.

The Popsicle Report: I needed comfort food today.  Blueberry-lemon.

The grand tree outside the infusion center window has surrendered its leaves, and shows only its blanket of moss on the grey bark against the grey sky.  As I waited for the blood counts to come back, I noticed the woman across from me, getting ready to have her chest port accessed for her blood draw.  She took the characteristic pose, hands pulling down her shirt to expose the spot on her chest where the port is implanted.  On me, the port protrudes like an odd rock embedded beneath the skin.  On people, uh, better endowed, like this woman, the patient has to point out for the nurse where the port is located. This woman’s posture brought to mind those church paintings of Christ pointing to his sacred heart that I remember from my childhood. (And the way this port sometimes irritates my chest wall makes me think it’s bound in thorns.)

Then I noticed the tall distinguished man poised over the table where the puzzles are, working the pieces into place. Next to him stood his personal IV machine, which he had wheeled over from his assigned Barcalounger in another pod.  Meanwhile, the nurse worked her way around my pod, bringing her tray of cocktails, those little plastic cups with the pre-emptive meds. I wished mine contained shots of vodka instead of the steroids and Claritin, but then I figured the vodka probably wouldn’t taste right. Not even chocolate tastes right now.

As I sat observing my surroundings, I twirled the end of my pen against my temple, rather like Dumbledore and Snape in the Harry Potter books, when they wanted to remove certain thoughts and memories from their brains to be set aside in the pensieve for later viewing.  Wouldn’t that be a great trick — removing the swirling thoughts that clutter up our brains, to be kept for later or thrown out altogether.  (If you’re a fan of puppets, Harry Potter, rhythmic chant, or just general silliness, take a look at one of the Potter Pal videos on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tx1XIm6q4r4.)

I turned up the volume on the iPod today to drown out the the snarls, moans and beeps of the numerous IV machines.  ‘Twas much more pleasant to listen to The Crusaders, some Brahms liebeslieder waltzes, the Doobie Brothers’ “Takin’ It to the Streets,” Norah Jones, David Byrne (Rei Momo, his Brazilian-inflected album), Angelique Kidjo (African folk singer) backed by Carlos Santana, Nina Simone’s “Four Women”, and — had to get there eventually — the Beatles’ “My Life.”  If you haven’t seen it yet, Chris Bliss does a MAHvelous juggling routine to a Beatles tune: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8f8drk5Urw

In my continuing search for meaning in this whole experience, I’ve been wondering if there’s a difference between cure and healing.  We hear lots about walking, running, racing for “the cure.” Since there are about half a dozen different types of breast cancer, it seems foolish to think there’s only one cure. My docs says we’re aiming to cure my cancer, though I don’t know how you can really be sure you’re cured except in hindsight many years later.

Dictionaries pretty much equate the terms “cure” and “healing” but the self-help literature seems to distinguish the two, with cure referring specifically to the scientific, medical process, and healing to the psychological realm.  Several of the books I’ve encountered take up the mind-body connection and speak of healing as ridding yourself of the mental burdens that led to your illness. In other words, they imply that we are responsible for developing whatever ails us.  Bernie Siegel went so far as to define a “cancer personality” — someone likely to develop cancer because of their inward characteristics and history. Caroline Myss, a “medical intuitive” and healer who wrote the once-bestselling “Anatomy of the Spirit,” goes so far as to say that people develop cancer because of unresolved issues from their lives, and specifically that women develop breast cancer for lack of nurturing themselves. There are a surprising number of people who subscribe to these ways of thinking.  (I believe it’s called “blame the victim.”)

Like those lists of risk factors for breast cancer, these descriptions don’t fit me very well either.  I don’t have psychological baggage left from childhood (unless you count having to eat liver and onions), and have not suffered great traumatic experiences that have crippled me (yes, I am indeed lucky).  If you follow Myss’ logic and look at the numbers of women who develop breast cancer (that popular 1 in 8), it would seem that a whole lot of us women need to be doing a whole lot more to nurture ourselves, and in Asian countries, where women are expected to give up themselves for their families, the rates of breast cancer should be higher than here, when indeed they are lower.

As it turns out, Bernie Siegel later retracted his definition of the cancer personality, and Caroline Myss, who now bills herself a mystic, wrote another book in which she admits that, indeed, no matter what some people try, they don’t heal (and some actually choose not to), and things like genetics and environmental influences do play a role. Her current stance on the matter seems to be — pray.

Nothing terribly mystical about that.

A Little Music and Poetry with that Popsicle

Update #19 —  wow, has it really been that many, this long?  The numbers have begun to escape me, and it was the nurse yesterday who figured out that I’m halfway through the Taxol segment, 3/4 of the way through chemotherapy.  Already? And *still* going on?

The two Anna’s hummingbirds continue to visit. We’ve named the second one Teapot because it’s short and fat, like the vessel in the children’s song, “I’m a Little Teapot.”  So now we have Robin Hood and his sidekick…. Teapot.

Since I felt energetic this morning (still the steroid high) and the rain let up, I did some yardwork, and it felt wonderful to be out there in some sunshine (though I may regret this activity later).  I used to wonder why my mother enjoyed — no, thrived — on yardwork, when as a child I wondered just how many times you had to rake a yard in the fall. (At least we got the reward of roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over the burning piles in the outdoor fireplace, back when you could burn leaves.)  With my situation now, being outdoors has taken on even greater meaning — all that green life out there, and the clear air.  I took off my hat and let the breeze blow through the peach fuzz on my head.

The Popsicle Report:  The Popsicle wizard has been looking out for me this week.  When I peeked in the freezer at the infusion center, I counted FOUR boxes of the tastiest Popsicles, the boxes that harbor my favorite flavor.  This time, I thought I’d be adventurous and try a new flavor: blueberry-strawberry.  Very good, but the blueberry-lemon is still best so far.

The infusion center was a busy place yesterday, with a couple of patients going through their first rounds of chemicals and getting the initiation talk from the nurse and the Cancer Society rep.  Listening to the routine made me feel like a veteran. Already? There are far too many of us traveling this road.

The white cell count is a healthy 6.7 with one shot of the Neupogen last week, so we’ll stick with the routine of one booster a week, which should help keep me swine-flu free. That’s a good thing, since since the vaccine is nowhere to be found here for us regular folk. The red cell count continues its slow downward trend, but I seem to be adjusting OK as long as I don’t do too much.

So while I had my imitation Palmolive finger soak (thankfully no neuropathy as yet), I listened again to my iPod:

  • Jazz duets by Itzhak Perlman and Oscar Peterson
  • The Squirrel Nut Zippers, who hit the charts about a decade ago with their lively swing-style music (good for dancing, in my mind, at least, if I can’t do it while I’m soaking my fingers)
  • The mellow trombone of Tommy Dorsey
  • Some Bruce Hornsby (who gave up basketball for jazz piano)
  • Melissa Etheridge (another survivor of breast cancer who quit the Taxol part of her regimen because of neuropathy. Tough to play a guitar when you can’t feel your fingers.)
  • Just for fun: Elvis’ Blue Suede Shoes, Ricky Martin (also good for dancing), Leon Redbone, Blondie, and the Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo, who also hit the charts about a decade ago with their CD of Gregorian chant.
  • And finally, more Paul Simon, in “Cool, Cool River,” singing this heartbreaking lyric: “Sometimes, even music cannot substitute for tears.”

While I listen to music, some people use visualization during their infusions to help their healing along.  In one of his books, Dr. Bernie Siegel describes images his patients described. One person imagined the white cells as sharks preying on cancer cells.  Others imagined polar bears or laser light, and a little boy said his were white cats pursuing the “cat food” cancer cells. A friend said she was told to think of stomping out the cancer cells with stiletto heels, while someone else imagined the chemo drugs as white knights on horses, doing their heroic battle with the cells (and winning, of course!).

This week, it was hard to miss the news from the government task force that released its guidelines on mammograms, guidelines that starkly contradict the recommendations from the American Cancer Society and practically all other breast cancer organizations (http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20091117/ap_on_he_me/us_med_mammogram_advice).

These guidelines made my blood, and all its resident chemicals, boil.  And then I remembered: the mammograms didn’t work for me anyway, so the new recommendation about starting mammograms at 50 would have made no difference in my case.  It does, however, make a difference for those women whose disease would be caught by mammograms during their 40s, and though the task force doesn’t think this number is significant, I suspect it would make a huge difference to the women whose lives would be affected.  As I’ve commented before, mammograms aren’t always effective, but it’s better than nothing, which is what these guidelines seem to recommend, even saying self-exams are of no use. Gee, nothing like the feeling of being a sitting duck. Given that so many women are affected by breast cancer (the popular statistic says 1 in 8, but that’s over a lifespan of 85 years), you’d think the government could come up with a better recommendation, perhaps even start looking into better methods for early detection.

OK, off my soapbox now.

In my continuing play with headwraps, I tried a public experiment a couple weeks ago. At night, after I’ve donned my pajamas, rather than put on another hat or scarf, I usually take my black shawl and wrap it around my head and shoulders, in the Middle Eastern style of the hijab. It supplies a surprising amount of warmth and privacy, if wrapped well. One morning, I met a friend for breakfast in a very public setting, the local I-Hop, and I decided to wear the hijab, wondering if there would be any reaction since it was the day after the awful shooting at Ft. Hood. In all the time we sat and chatted, not one person stared, commented, or seemed disturbed by my appearance. Who knew that a non-event could be so heartening.

It was also heartening to find a poem that reflects my desire to be in a different situation. Apparently even characters from fiction have that wish:

Fictional Characters, by Danusha Lameris
(published in The Sun magazine, November 2009)

Do they ever want to escape?
Climb out of the curved white pages
and enter our world?

Holden Caulfield slipping in the side door
of the movie theater to catch the two o’clock.
Anna Karenina sitting in the local diner,
reading the paper as the waitress
in a bright green uniform
serves up a cheeseburger and a Coke.

Even Hector, on break from the Iliad,
takes a stroll through the park,
admires a fresh bed of tulips.

Who knows? Maybe
they were growing tired
of the author’s mind,
all its twists and turns,

or they were finally weary
of stumbling around Pamplona,
a bottle in each fist,
eating lotuses on the banks of the Nile.

Perhaps it was just too hot
in the small California town
where they’d been written into
a lifetime of plowing fields.

Whatever the reason, here they are,
content to spend the day
roaming the city streets, rain falling
on their phantasmal shoulders,
enjoying the bustle of the crowd.

Wouldn’t you, if you could?
Step out of your own story
to lean for an afternoon against the doorway
of the five-and-dime, sipping your coffee,

your life somewhere far behind you,
all its heat and toil nothing but a tale
resting in the hands of a stranger,
the dingy sidewalk ahead wet and glistening.

—————————————————————

Though we may not be able to step out of our lives like these characters, we can at least dance. This group, especially the guy with the mop, makes me like the color pink again:


http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=OEdVfyt-mLw