Good News, Bad News

I got back from M.D. Anderson several hours ago. The good news: hotel was fine, water was hot, no one suggested that I might be feeble minded. The other up side: I saw my beloved Dr. Ross. One of my online friends asks what's special about my surgeon. Excellent question, which I'll answer later.

The mammogram process was terrifying. We did the usual four x-rays, they sent me to wait in a little room to make sure they hadn't missed an area. I was the only person there. After a period of time, they came to get me again. No big deal, I thought. We just missed something; that's not unusual at all.

Oh no. We had to do a different kind of mammogram because they needed to take a closer look (they being the radiologist and person who did the mammogram) at something. Hand crank makes a comeback. I was sent to sit in the little room again. Alone. Time passed and passed and passed.

Finally, after about 15-20 minutes of waiting, the mammogram person came to get me to take even more x-rays. Now I'm really afraid. That's how it started the last time. Picture, pictures, wait, wait, then bad, bad news. "This must be making you really afraid," the mammogram person said. "Yes," I answered. No response. She put the x-rays on a light board, told me to come over and pointed out several areas they were concerned about. Great. That also happened the last time.

More hand crank action and some highly unusual poses that I had to hold, without breathing of course. Back to the tiny room. As I waited, I became more and more afraid. I was almost ready to cry when she came back and said they looked okay. Too late. That's what the radiologist told me two years ago. Then I showed up at my local surgeon's office where I found out that things weren't fine, after all.

I was still terrified while I waited for Dr. Ross. He came in and asked about any problems, then reassured me about the right breast. I could relax enough to tell him they took my oncologist away from me. I asked him if he was going away, too. "I'll do anything you want me to do." Okay. I was feeling better enough to think, "Oh, really? How about I move in with you and we spend the rest of our lives together?" Instead, I said, "Please don't go away. You're my guy. I trust you. I know you're going to take care of me."

Dr. Ross then started examining the new girl and found a hard place where I had a lot of radiation last summer. He was concerned about it and wants to have a better look. A mammogram? Ultra sound? I don't know. "See?" I said, "You're my guy. I know you'll take care of me."

We scheduled another visit in a month, I think. Or in August. When your oncology surgeon registers concern, there's a part of your brain that shuts down. Or at least that's my experience. Off he went to fetch his appointment schedule. He wrote me down for whatever date it is and gave me a hug He's a very, very compassionate man.

Now, on to why he's so special. He saved my life. I had an unusual form of breast cancer that manifested itself in unusual ways. He found it. He told me. Then Dr. Ross took care of me. He's the best surgeon in one of the best cancer hospitals in the world. He's very gentle and cares about all of his patients as individual human beings who deserve kindness and support. He gave me hugs. Dr. Ross knows how terrifying any kind of cancer diagnosis is (he also specializes in skin cancer surgery).

Here's the final and saddest reason why I have such a huge crush. He's the first man I've ever known who's taken care of me. I can count on him. That's remarkably special.

Thanks for all of the prayers and good wishes. They help, you know, both emotionally and physically. That helps to take care of me, too. I have to rest now. See you on Monday.

The Hand Crank Is Better Than A Day In Crazy Land

Okay, here's the deal. Tomorrow morning, I will take my little Andy to be boarded, then I'm going to drive four hours to get to Houston. Thursday, I have a bone scan and a mammogram. The bone scan is no big deal. There's no pain involved in that.

As for the mammogram, my insurance company should be pleased that I am receiving the best screening possible. They manage to scrunch all of the skin and muscle from my neck to my bellybutton in between what I think of as the jaws of death. We spend a good twenty or thirty minutes getting me all lined up and making the plates capture the skin and muscle. Then, my friends, the hand crank comes into play. All of that bodily mass will eventually be compressed into a quarter of an inch. I swear.

After all of that, I'll be sitting around waiting for my beloved oncology surgeon. At least 45 minutes at best will be spent sitting in a hospital gown three times my size in a tiny, freezing little room. Given the size issue, I don't even know why they give me the gown thing. It's fastened in front and, having only two ties, I'm virtually naked from the waist up. I used to expend a considerable amount of energy trying to keep myself covered up in case one of the many nurses or Fellows or assistants show up. Going down the hall to the bathroom was always interesting. I'm shameless at this point. So many absolute strangers have not only looked, but touched extremely private parts of my body that I don't bother with modesty.

On mammogram days, I usually get back to my hotel room around 9:00 p.m., exhausted and starving. They make it impossible to actually eat anything substantial in a day always positively action-packed with waiting. In spite of all of this, it seems infinitely preferable to another day in Crazy Land. I know it will still be there waiting for me on Monday. But for the following three days, I can occupy my thoughts with more important things than back-stabbing attempts by co-workers, random rage attacks by others and my own weariness with it all. Bring on the hand crank. What a relief it will be. See you on Monday.

Perhaps You'd Like To Suggest A Nickname

One of my online friends recently asked me (in a perfectly humorous and non-offensive way) how my co-workers might describe me. I've given that a lot of thought. I've noted in previous posts that they might well describe me as "Crazy Cat Lady" or "Useless Too." Oh yeah, there's always "Psychobitch. That's one of my favorites.

Another that came to mind is "Who The Hell Is This Woman Anyway." Better yet, "Mysterious Co-worker." I wonder if it ever occurs to them how little they know about me. Some of them know me better than others, of course. I've known Owner for over 3 decades now. I'm not such a mystery to him. Superhighway knows me better than anyone else other than Owner.

For everyone else, I'm pretty much all surface charm, in an impersonal way. I'm known for making people feel important and listened to. I laugh at their jokes, but only when they're funny. No fake laughing. That's an ego boosting thing, too. I listen (if only vaguely) to their difficulties. I'm not so responsive when they're whining about working at Crazy Land. Get with the (crazy) program, folks, or move on. I'm helpful when called upon. What do they know about me? As much as I wish for them to know. That would be not much.

There are a lot of my own qualities of which I'm not so fond. I'm not sure people know what they are, but then, all the better. It's hard to see myself outside the framework of my own perceptions. Yes, I have qualities I think are funny. Unfortunately, because of the way the day started out, I can't remember what they are. I'm more often deadly serious about the ways I fall short. I'll have to get back to you on that.

The things that aren't funny? I have that list I've mentioned before of people who've mistreated me (on a grand scale, not the stuff that's merely irritating). Once you're on it, it's hard to get off. I'm not sure that could be called vengeful, because I have no interest in doing these people harm. I'm simply keeping track. Nonetheless, probably not one of my better characteristics.

I can be highly critical. Oh, you'd already noticed? How about sardonic? (Well, the sardonic thing may actually be something I like. Again, I'll have to get back to you on that.) Another quality I'm certain you've become intimately acquainted with is my staunch belief that everyone should buck up and stop whining about little things. Note to self: develop more compassion.

Even when I've been friends with someone a long time, I have a limit. When the annoying qualities outweigh the good qualities, I can be ruthless in cutting people out of my life. No looking back. I guess that means I'm not overly loyal.

I can be an intellectual snob. Oh how I hate that about myself, so I'd be less than honest if I didn't own up to it. As a matter of fact, I'm embarrassed by it. I'm working on it, though. Of course, I've been working on it for about two decades now. For a really long time there, it didn't strike me as something I should get over. I'm now a lot clearer about the value of intelligence--it's good for entertaining yourself, but not much else. I like people who are clear thinkers, not necessarily people who are highly educated. There is a difference. Feeling is just as valid as thinking, though. It simply depends on the circumstances.

I don't respond well to less than constructive criticism. Better come armed with some objective reasons, in which case I'll take it under advisement. Otherwise, I will cut you off at the knees. Do not fuck with me. Especially if you're a man. Here again, probably not one of my better qualities.

I'm generally disengaged emotionally. That's a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but other people probably find it troubling. See above.

I have issues with men. I can be unfair and capricious about those issues. There's a vast spectrum of behavior I will not tolerate. Never, ever, ever under any circumstances should men betray the slightest inclination to believe themselves better (in any way) than me or any other woman. I should probably lighten up. Been working on that for a long, long time, too. I'm not optimistic about making it go away.

I'm stubborn. I'm not impressed with authority generally. You're a Senator? Big deal. You might want to give me some other reason why I should treat you differently than anyone else.

More? Of course there's more. I'm far more critical of myself than others. How much time do you have?

There's Generally An Up Side To Every Day

Okay, well maybe not an up side. More like random thoughts that aren't quite so glum.

I'm back to some semblance of my old workout schedule. The good news: there really is muscle memory! The butt is making a comeback. The triceps--not so much. They need lots and lots of work. The rest of me is getting more muscular and my stamina improves every day. It was vitally important to get the muscle tone back to some extent so I can resume flirting with my oncology surgeon. That's such an odd concept--trying to flirt with a guy who regularly makes me lie down and then touches my breast (and now the new girl, I suppose). I have hair now, though. That's got to be an advantage. Yes, I will leave my husband. In a heart beat. Or a breast check, whichever.

I had a compliment from one of our contract employees last week. I always call him "The Ladies Man," although he's known by his peers as Killer, a tribute to his lady killer days. I've known him for years now, but he's still a looker. Killer told the Superhighway that I'm looking very sexy. I naturally thought she was making this up as a tonic to my poor physical self-esteem. Now I'm not sure. She looked pretty sincere. That used to be a thing that irritated the hell out of me--I always wished men would pay less attention to how I looked than how the brain worked. Now? It made my week.

I passed the compliment on to Hubby. Interesting how that made him actually see me again. After 30 years, in at least a couple of which I looked like absolute hell, we tend to take each other's positive attributes for granted. I don't care. I'd still leave him for surgeon noted above.

Should there be another post? Yes, I think there should. I write these long, verbose posts and I'm always afraid they're too long. They may become tedious. So next topic. I'm making up for my absence later this week. I can always tell myself that, anyway.

Waking in the Middle of the Night

I've got a trip to M.D. Anderson this week...it's never-ending. Bone scan and a visit with the ever lovely Dr. Ross. Even my great affection for him isn't quite a panacea for the stress extravaganza. I woke up four times last night. It never fails. Even when I'm not thinking about, my brain is working overtime with anxiety.

I think I get the month of July off, except for a visit to check on the progress of my macular degeneration. I fear the news will not be good because the eyesight in my left eye (the one most affected by the disease) has deteriorated. I can still see the grid I use to check md's progress, so that's good news. I'm tired of doctors and I'm tired of bad news.

In August, I have a follow-up with my radiation oncologist. He's here in town, so that's something, I suppose. August 29 is my next (and, I hope final) surgery.

In September, it starts all over again. I'll have to schedule a visit with my medical oncologist. I'll never forget the last visit after chemo ended. I told my doctor that I really like him, but I'd be thrilled to not see him again. Oh no, he told me, you'll be seeing me for the next five years, at least. Four times a year. My heart sank.

There will never be an end to this, unless they find a cure. I have my very own M.D. Anderson page on the web. A dubious distinction. It could be worse, though. As far as we know, there's no cause for concern. The Watcher notes the one-cell rule.