Don Quixote Is A Scary Guy

I spent my entire day yesterday dealing with Don, the hurt guy. It started with a phone conversation in which he told me the insurance company had denied his claim and that he didn't understand why his foreman, his manager and I have "turned against him." I chose not to comment about either of those issues. He then wanted me to read to him the First Report of Injury he filled out the day he came to the office. Um, no. I told him that I've sent two copies and, if he didn't receive either of them in the next couple of days, we should make arrangements for him to come by and pick it up. Of course, that's the last thing I want to happen. I think registered mail is the answer here.

Don assured me that the injury was work related and that he just has a really, really, really high tolerance for pain. Well, if you say so, Don. Again, I chose not to comment. He disputed the date of injury as established by his foreman. Don's certain that only three days elapsed between hand fracture and noticing something was dreadfully wrong with that appendage. I pointed out numerous times that my only role in injury cases is to fill out the paperwork. That's not exactly true, but I don't feel impelled to be completely honest with Mr. Quixote.

Don ended the phone call by informing me that he's going to contact an attorney. Fine with me. I told him that it's certainly his right to do so. I wonder if he truly thought that threat would change anything. There's an established process by which one contests the insurance company's decision. Litigation isn't included in the options. Not for a while, anyway. Don will discover that soon enough.

I chewed through a lot of time filling out the interminable paperwork, writing letters and making copies for Don Quixote and the insurance company. I talked with the insurance rep several times and Hemorrhoid Guy a couple of times. We established that, since the job is completed, everyone (including Don) would be officially laid off as of yesterday afternoon. H Guy wanted to know if we should just let the union inform him of the change in his employment status. I advised that a phone call would be preferable and less likely to inflame an already tense situation.

It was then that the real news cropped up. When Don started working for our company a couple of months ago, he thought it wise to share with H Guy that he didn't voluntarily leave the state in which he formerly resided. The prosecutor in his home town told Don that, if he left the state and never came back, they'd drop all of the numerous domestic violence charges against him. Now why would you share that with a new employer? That Don, what a master of office politics.

Having lived 18 years in a very violent household, this news got my attention in a big way. Remember that Don has actually met me. If he's going to be violent with anyone, it will be me. Men who hurt women generally aren't brave enough to try to have physical confrontations with other men.

It strikes even me as a little much to fear retaliation against me. On the other hand, I've seen enough guys showing up at their former places of employment with a butt load of armaments to make me anxious. I issued an alert that Don must not be allowed in the building. I'm being more cautious when I arrive before the sun is up. I'm exercising more caution generally, for the time being. As silly as that seems.

Of course, some people do get hurt (and sometimes badly) through no fault of their own. I would never dispute those claims. However, it's worth noting that in the past ten years of worker's compensation duty, every time someone has told me how long they've worked in the industry, it's been followed by a very long and very expensive recuperative sojourn on the sofa.

All of this makes the pending nipple torture a lot more palatable. The conundrum of the day: Which is worse, dealing with Don or facing another episode of slice and dice? I'm in a quandary.

Important note: The full moon this month is known as "The Wolf Moon." That has to be a good omen, right?

The Festive Sausage Returneth

The pie making season is officially over and what a blessing that is. The first (Thanksgiving) pie was fabulous, but the Christmas pie disappointed. I haven't been interested in baking in many years, so I'm a little puzzled by my enthusiasm for it this year. The oven can now take a well-deserved rest until Easter.

Nipple reconstruction is scheduled for January 10. It's an out patient procedure, using a local anesthetic. I know they will tattoo the aureole to match the other girl. When I first read about that technique, after I had tattoos for radiation, I was anxious about having it done. I didn't know then that the new girl would be completely numb.

As for the nipple itself, that tissue sometimes comes from the inner thigh area, sometimes from the labia. Either way, it doesn't sound like much fun to me. On the other hand, there's nothing they could do to me that would hurt worse than the things they've already done to me. I try not to think about it. Ignorance is bliss.

My physical therapist is impressed with the progress I've made in muscle strength and flexibility. I've been doing the exercises she gave me as homework and I changed my yoga routine to include more stretching in the tummy area. The goal is to tear the scar tissue under my skin. Yes, as a matter of fact, that does hurt. It all hurts.

My mom convinced me to stop riding my bike because of my constant fatigue. That's a typical problem for someone who's had chemo, radiation and multiple surgeries. Fatigue plagues many people for years after their treatment. I go to bed exhausted and I wake up exhausted. As a matter of fact, I started falling asleep on the sofa at 3:00 p.m. yesterday and kept drifting off all evening. Once I fell asleep in the middle of one of Hubby's sentences. I tried to pretend that I hadn't, but I failed to respond appropriately to his comment, so I'd be surprised if he didn't notice.

My physical therapist encouraged me to get back into my bike routine and to integrate some other types of cardio exercise into my daily workouts. I have many dance aerobic dvd's and the thought of being able to do them again makes me happy. I may try one of them today and see how it goes. I'm certain I won't be able to make it all the way through the workout the first time, but maybe soon.

Meanwhile, my weight is still an issue. I've been on an eating rampage during the holidays, but I still haven't gained any weight. That's good and bad, you know. It's bad because all of my clothes hang on me. It's good because I'm always balancing precariously on the edge of an eating disorder and thinner always means better to me. Even when it isn't better. My (psychological) therapist suggested that I think of gaining weight as a means to building strength. I'm good with that and heaven knows I've been the festal sausage for over a month now. When I weigh myself (infrequently), the numbers never change.

I hope the coming year is a lot less painful than the past two. I hope I regain some of my lost stamina. I hope I find sources of greater joy. I hope the next pie I make is better than the last.

Veggie Platter Has Been Located

Apparently, veggie platter was lost in the refrigerator. It has been located and people are now eating it. I guess that means I'll have to bring something next time. I guess that means I won't be spitting in it, either. It's a mixed blessing, really.

Why My Dad Made The Decision, Part 2

"I believe that more unhappiness comes from this source than from any other--I mean from the attempt to prolong family connections unduly and to make people hang together artificially who would never naturally do so." ~ Samuel Butler

I didn't see my dad for about a year before he died. He'd been married before he met my mom and had a son from that marriage. They never had a relationship while his son (Shannon) was growing up. My father liked to cry and feel sorry for himself about it every once in a while.

I spoke with my parents for an hour every day after I moved out of their house. A year before Dad checked out, he started calling me a couple of times every day, haranguing me to get in touch with Shannon. It was critical to the development of their relationship. My father had always made me feel that he'd sacrificed having a boy to provide financially for me. When I was a little girl, I believed it was my fault. It made me angry. It bruised my soul.

I've never had any interest in getting to know Shannon. I resented him, the Golden Child left behind. I do not feel connected to him. For me, sharing a genetic link doesn't imply a relationship, although it's likely that Shannon is possessed by the same madness that infected my father and everyone else in his family. Why would I invite that into my life? It's a terrifying possibility.

Furthermore, I thought my father used his blossoming relationship with his son to carry on with his first wife. Before he started nagging me about it, my father had gone to the state where his son and ex lived (and where virtually all of my father's family lived) for a visit. He stayed at his ex-wife's house and my mom stayed at my aunt's house. When I found out about that, I was enraged. I didn't want to do anything that would encourage that kind of behavior.

My dad didn't have a lot of good things to say about Shannon, most notably, that he had a drinking problem. I've had a rule since I was a teenager: I don't have relationships with addicts who aren't in recovery. I was very ill at the time and the thought of receiving some of those 3:00 a.m. phone calls that alcoholics like to make ratcheted up my already-high anxiety level.

Nonetheless, I finally gave in. I called Shannon and left a message.

I Am The Snake

This is my Chinese astrological sign. No, I am not vengeful.

Birthday
Tuesday, November 03, 1953

Sign
Snake

Element
Water

Chinese Name
SHE

Lunar Years of the Sign
1917 1929 1941 1953 1965 1977 1989

Description of the Sign Personality
Depth and charisma make the Snake a formidable presence. What you see is not what you get. The Snake's many interests and insatiable thirst for knowledge result in an increasingly complex persona. Furthermore, with the Snake's penchant for secrecy, they're not likely to let us see how much there is to know about them. More than any other sign, the Snake knows how to present itself, when it wants, in the most favorable light. The downside of this is that the Snake is likely to tire of and discard us lesser mortals. An even bigger danger is the Snake believes in revenge; so, don't cross them. Like the Dragon, the Snake is a karmic sign and likely to experience lots of extreme highs and lows in their lives.

Description of the Sign-Element Personality
More than any other sign the Water Snake has intuitive abilities. You are not only a keen judge of character and observer of humanity, but you tend to just "know" things. You can wow us almost as much with your witty conversation as with your charisma. As a member of the more flexible and easy going variety of the species, you make wonderful companions and partners--- if we can win your respect. You are a deep thinker who is articulate and persuasive. You have a philosophical nature and may appear to be wise beyond your years.

Description of Home Life
The secretive nature of the Snake makes their home one of subtle surprise. Your furnishings are usually of the highest quality while leaving detail to be discovered. We have to be careful how we tread through your household as we might unknowingly offend and become subject to your occasionally revengeful nature. Ah, but the ambiance and luxury is well worth the risk.

Hours Ruled by the Sign
9am - 11am

To find out about your own Chinese astrological sign, go to Firepig

Reasons Why He Made The Decision, Part 1

"I believe that we are solely responsible for our choices, and we have to accept the consequences of every deed, word, and thought throughout our lifetime." ~ Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

Ten years before my father's suicide, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He had watched the disease ravage one of his brothers, ultimately leaving him paralyzed and at the mercy of other people whom he'd mistreated for years. My uncle's family apparently repaid him in kind and his long deterioration was accompanied by cruelty, I've been told.

My father was successfully treated for his cancer, but he was never able or willing to let go of the fear that he, too, would one day find himself unable to move, unable to think and completely dependent on others. No one, not the oncologists, not my mother, not I could make him see past his delusion. Of course, when my Mom had thyroid cancer, my dad was convinced she would die, too. Ever the optimist, my dad.

This was the beginning of the end for him.

Better and Worse

"The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love and to be greater than our suffering." ~ Ben Okri

Better today. I took a nap yesterday and got 6 hours of sleep last night. It's stopped raining, the sun is shining. Though it's certainly not as frigid as my photograph would indicate, it feels that cold to me. I think the temperature is somewhere around 45 degrees. Anything under 60 degrees is cold to me.

We had sad news yesterday in Crazy Land. Crazy Employee's mom died of a heart attack Friday night. My co-worker and her youngest daughter were visiting her mom for the weekend. They'd had dinner together, along with some other family members in town for the Rose Festival weekend. I hate to refer to her as "Crazy Employee" under these circumstances, but that's the name I always use. She was really close to her mom and I know these are terrible days for her. Please say a prayer or keep a good thought for her and her family.

I wonder if my long-term sleep deprivation is related to the anniversary of my dad's death. That occurred to me a couple of weeks ago, but we're inching up to that black day, so I guess I'll find out soon. This morning I was thinking about the months and months when not a thought passed through my head. The mind was still. The only thing I had to focus on was the most immense pain I've ever experienced. An hour could seem like six. I was stuck, waiting for the pain to become more bearable. I had to wait a very, very long time.

I didn't mean to veer off into sadness and, as a matter of fact, I thought of an entertaining cluster of Crazy Land stories to share. The sunlight shining through my windows reminded me of that time. For the moment, I'm flooded with memories.

It must be time to work on my database. I'll try to get back to Crazy Land nonsense a little later today when I'm more settled.

No Sleep Kaleidoscope Fun

"There will be sleeping enough in the grave." ~ Benjamin Franklin

I'm still not sleeping through the night. I woke up at 3:00 this morning and never went back to sleep. Since all of this began about three weeks ago, I've been able to get a normal amount of sleep over the weekends, but this weekend was different. On Friday night, I slept 7 1/2 hours, but Saturday night brought only four hours of sleep. I have no idea what's causing this.

There's a cold front blowing through today. I woke up this morning to the sound of rain. The temperature is dropping and the wind has picked up speed. I hate winter.

I'd love to say more, but the brain is barely functioning. In lieu of content, I offer the following link where you can build your own online kaleidoscope. Go there. It's amazingly fun.
Kaleidoscope Fun

Lonely

" The most I ever did for you was to outlive you. But that is much." ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

For almost a year after my father killed himself, images repeatedly flashed in my head of myself pointing a pistol at my temple. They're back. My father's weapon of choice was a shotgun. I guess my brain can't wrap itself around that vision. After all, I have long legs, but short arms. I could have shot myself with my feet, maybe, but toe dexterity would have probably been insufficient to the task.
I don't find the images as disturbing as I once did, but I'm cataloging the advent of the ten year anniversary of his death. So here it is.

I've been struggling to find some good memories, something positive in our relationship. It seems more critical this year than any other. I always come up empty. My therapist wonders why it's so important to me, why I'm so queasy about admitting to the "hate" part of my love-hate feelings about him. The answer is simple: I wish there were something positive, I long for the simplicity of love without dire complexity.

I have compassion for him, forgiveness in some large measure, I pity him for his desperate childhood and his desolate mental illnesses. But then I have those flashbacks and all I can feel is rage, contempt and despair. How might my life have been had his been different?

It would certainly have been less labyrinthine. I have the ability to see every side to every issue, to find goodness in people when it's buried under layer upon layer of hatred and anger. These are good things, right? On the whole, I think they are, but they leave me perpetually sitting on the fence, unable to find clarity about people and events. It's all complicated to me.

And I'm a very complex, very hidden person. If you don't know the events that shaped me, how can you understand my beliefs and behavior? How can you understand my choice of solitude at all costs? I choose to keep my secrets. They're fantastical. They're incomprehensible. They're an open invitation to judge me and where I came from. They make me very lonely.








Crazy Employee and Memories of My Father.

Update 0n Crazy Employee. No, she did not get fired. She's still not a salaried employee, though. She told Information Superhighway (who, by the way, is a friend of mine) that she thought Superhighway is "mean" to her and "picks on her." Hello? Are you five? In her defense, the Superhighway is probably the most rational and fair person in Crazy Land.

Not only was she not fired, but she retained her vacation and sick leave time, despite missing more than her allotted days for the year. I've missed an enormous amount of time, too, so there's not much I can say about that except that it seems to me she's been rewarded in a sense for being psycho. Ah, Crazy Land.

Memories keep on coming. This morning, out of the blue, I remembered my father running away from home. His wife (two years older than I) had finally had enough of his abuse and escaped, leaving their daughter behind. My dad, whom had never admitted to me that, (a) they were married and (b) the child was his daughter, had to confess.

He called me into his bedroom. That, in itself, was a surprise. All big news, punishment, and a fair amount of the verbal abuse that he inflicted on me was meted out in the bathroom. His entire family had a thing about bathrooms (which I've mentioned in much earlier posts). The confession was delivered as he sat on his bed, getting ready to leave.

My father told me he had to hold onto his child and that he was going on the run. That meant, of course, back to his Mom who could be counted on to support all of her adult male children no matter what. (She had a major preference for boys.) Had he not been so self-absorbed, he might have noticed the rage and contempt on my face. I think my (appropriate) fear of him kept me from saying much. Besides, I was focused on how much I hated him at that moment. I not only hated him for the destruction all of this had wreaked on my life, but also the fact that he thought I was stupid enough not to know what was going on. They were sleeping in the same bed, for God's sake.

So off he went with child in tow. I was glad. I never wanted him to come back. My mom and I continued to live in the house for about a week until one night when his wife, her sister and brother showed up in the middle of the night. They broke into our house. It was the only moment in my life when I've felt capable of killing someone. If my dad's gun had been handy, I might still be in prison because I most surely would have killed this person whom I felt had ruined my life. I was only 18 at the time. As an adult, I'm very clear about who ruined my life and it was not she.

My mother and I left, went to the police station and were treated like scum. I suppose we must have seemed like it when we informed them that all of us were still living together: my dad, his wife and kid, my mom and me. We were told to go away.

When we returned home the next day, the contents of the house were all gone. My bedroom furniture, my books (my books!), all gone. I was devastated and enraged. Once again, my father's actions had stripped me of something else. Specifically, they had taken my intellectual identity, which was really the only identity I was allowed to develop and hold onto.

After that, they showed up at my high school for a couple of weeks, waiting for me to come out. They surrounded me and verbally assaulted me and threatened me with violence. I'm sure my dad knew about it, because he spoke with my mom regularly. Did he give a damn? Well, no.

I'm not up for recounting the rest of the story today...and it's mind-numbingly long. The memory spoke to why my father killed himself. He always solved his problems by running away from them. The only real difference was that last time, he decided to run away forever.

Having Watched the River Flow

"You must love the crust of the earth on which you dwell more than the sweet crust of any bread or cake. You must be able to extract nutriment out of a sand-heap. You must have so good an appetite as this, else you will live in vain." ~ Henry David Thoreau

"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?" ~ Kahlil Gibran

The three days away were absolutely blissful. The sound of the Guadalupe River, high and fast-moving these days, soothed my soul. Time away from Crazy Land and from the hurtful hands of medical professionals was a joyous reminder of how things could be.

Then, on Saturday, a major water main break left us without water until Sunday at 5:00 p.m. It's funny how attached you become to bathing regularly. Fortunately, my mom is generous with her shower.

Aside from that, we're rapidly approaching the ten year anniversary of my dad's suicide. He decided to check out nine days before my birthday. I've always wondered how he could have done that to me. Oh wait, silly me.

My father was a deeply disturbed man who spread misery of all kinds wherever he went. Physical, emotional, spiritual: It was all fair game for him. He saved a large measure of it for me. Nonetheless, he was my one and only father. I loved him, even though I didn't like him, and his suicide was devastating.

These days, memories come unbidden as I watch television or do the dishes or any of a thousand mundane acts. Sometimes, it's as simple as the word "Daddy" echoing in my head. The ironic thing about that is that I stopped referring to him by that name when I was very, very young. The horrors of my very own childhood concentration camp washed that name out of my vocabulary. I guess it's those tiny-child memories that take hold deep within our subconscious, springing up to surprise us when our guards are down. Shortly after his suicide, I remember sitting in the bathtub, with my head absolutely empty of thoughts, which were blasted away by the holocaust of his gun shot. "My daddy's gone." It felt unbearable. The silence that preceded and followed that thought stretched on like nuclear winter for what seemed an eternity.

Ten years later, I've come to terms with it, as much as one ever can. The reality of his self-murder, the anguish of not being able to penetrate his self-destructiveness and delusion have been tempered by time. I'm angry with him still. I pity him still. I still wish he had been capable of love. I still live with the wounds he inflicted on me, before his death and after. I'll continue to talk about his death as the month grinds on, because that's what I do, that's all that I can do.

Life seems to be an intricate maze in search of reconciliation between the child I was, the adult I thought I might become, the person I am and the one I'm becoming. I'm trying to recreate the inner narrative by which I define myself. The stories we tell ourselves about ourselves are critical to human beings; they are, in essence, that which denotes our individuality. I'm a composite of events, cataloged and assigned personal symbolic meaning, separate and apart from others' remembrance of the personality they once knew or their perception of me now.

We are all many things to many different people in this journey. Our brains hold our histories, keeping track of songs long-since forgotten, tiny moments that are unavailable to us in conscious memory. I struggle to meld together the things I remember all too clearly and the puzzle of what comes now, allowing those deep, hidden roots of memory to nourish me in silence and darkness.

It's not an altogether dark exploration, though. The Guadalupe River is high. There's a squirrel napping on a limb outside my window. The mystery of the cosmos takes my breath away.

Watching the River Flow

Annual physical. Check.
Dentist. Check.

Until next week, I'm finished with people in white coats. What a relief. Next week, another dentist appointment and an appointment to discuss genetic testing, which I'm going to cancel. With any luck, that will wrap up all of my medical commitments until December. I'm breathing easier already.

I don't know if this is an industry-wide change, but my primary care physician has a brand new way to do pap smears. Guess what? It involves more pain.

For ten years, I refused to have a pap smear. I had had one of the best ob-gyns in town, a man. From the first time I ever had one, they always evoked memories of my sexual abuse as a child. In my late thirties, I found a woman general practitioner whom I trusted. Since that time, they've all been bearable, until last year. My regular doctor was out, so I had a nurse practitioner do my annual physical. I thought the painful pap smear was because she was a stranger. Maybe the new, improved pap smear methodology was implemented last year. Welcome back to childhood.

I had a accident with my puppy (who weighs 50 pounds) on Sunday, when he rammed his hard, pointy little head into the bottom of my chin. There was a lot of blood (mine) and I was afraid I'd loosened a tooth from the force of his head against my jaw. My dentist says I'm fine.

It's been a tough couple of weeks, so I'm taking a break from work (and maybe the computer) for the rest of the week. Tomorrow, my mom and I are going to have lunch at a little restaurant about 30 miles from here. It's in an old grist mill, with decks perched among the trees, along the banks of the river. You can hear the river rushing beneath the tree canopies. It's one of my favorite things to do and something my mom and I did every year until I was diagnosed. We've been deprived of the fun for the past two years. I was determined to find a way to do it this year, so my colleagues in Crazy Land believe I'm on my way out of town to see more doctors.

I don't even remember when I last had a day completely devoted to relaxing and doing something I enjoy. It's finally here.

I may be away from the computer until next week; I'll have to see how it goes. Until then, I invite everyone to take a day for themselves and remember what's important in life.

The Leaves Fall Early This Autumn

"The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind. The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the West garden; They hurt me. I grow older." ~ Ezra Pound

It's shaping up to be a fabulous day. I saw my new medical oncologist yesterday and I'm not sure I like him. He spent a lot of time talking about the history of breast cancer treatment, dictated notes to be sent to my g.p., and made a book recommendation to my mom. He noted that I'm hypertensive, even though the exact opposite is true. My blood pressure usually hovers somewhere around 106/70. I'm almost certain he used that word. I managed to catch little snippets of information while he was doing the dictation, but he was talking so fast I couldn't understand much.

Here's a thought: Ask me. I think virtually everyone's blood pressure gets a little elevated when they visit a doctor. Maybe the doctor doesn't have time to ask me (although he could have worked it in if he hadn't been giving that long book report to my mom), but his nurse should have. I actually did tell the nurse, but I guess she didn't feel it worthy of writing down. I was also running a temperature. If my temperature is 98.6, I'm really sick. I constantly try to point this out to my phalanx of medical professionals and, across the board, they all ignore me.

On the osteoporosis front, I'm 1/2 inch shorter than I used to be. The rapid diminishment in height is a direct result of chemotherapy. Prior to breast cancer, I already had osteopenia (the early and less serious form of osteoporesis), but I had no idea how much my bone density had fallen victim to breast cancer treatment. Great. Now I only have one real breast, tissue necrosis, scars everywhere and I'm now bitty. Things are definitely looking up.

Dr. Sandbach (new M.O.) ordered a chest x-ray, which I'll have to pay for. Hubby has sucked virtually all of the money out of the Breast Cancer Slush Fund, so that won't be as easy as it has been in the past. This puts me in a simply marvelous mood. I have to admit that it's been a bad day right from the get-go (as we like to say here in Texas) and it's only 9:25 a.m.

Autumn is here. I got a few glimpses this morning of my steadfast squirrel friend; the leaves are already thinning enough to make it easier to find him. Autumn is never good. I've just passed the 3 year anniversary of my best friend's death and, in October, the ten year anniversary of my dad's suicide is coming up. Two years ago, right around this time, I was trying to prepare myself psychologically to get through my mastectomy.

Then there are all those awful memories from childhood that carpet the season. Flashbacks happen any time of year, but fall invokes a pall that is too rich, too complex in pain to be able to tease out the specific memories. It's always been this way and maybe the lack of distinct recall is a good thing, anyway.

I'm physiologically highly attuned to changes of season. The advent of autumn is the beginning of dying for so many things. My little squirrel soon will come to be very visible; all of the leaves on his playground of trees will have died.

The skies are overcast today. I've gotten to work on my seasonal affective disorder right away. Why waste time when you can get started now?

It's all pretty amusing, if I look at it in the correct context. I'm sitting here in Crazy Land, eating dry cereal and feeling like hell, contemplating the cycle of life. I'm stressed out over the continuing medical events and still in pain (especially my colon). For a little over 3 weeks, I've worn a girdle 24 hours a day, 7 days a week (because of the liposuction in the donor site), which is extremely uncomfortable, though significantly less so than how it feels without the girdle. Of course this is how I'm spending my morning. Otherwise, it wouldn't fit into the overall paradigm of my life. My entire life would lack consistency. As it is, in all of its soul-specific absurdity, this morning is further proof that God's in His heaven and all is right with the world.

The Solitude of Childhood

"How is it possible not to feel that there is communication between our solitude as a dreamer and the solitudes of childhood? And it is no accident that, in a tranquil reverie, we often follow the slope which returns us to our childhood solitudes." ~ Gaston Bachelard

I have a dear friend (Hello, C!) who recently suggested to me that two years of breast cancer treatment and reconstruction surgery triggered a recurrence of many Post Traumatic Disorder symptoms. She's a very wise person.

I saw my psychiatrist yesterday, armed with a list of my issues: crying (and crying and crying), nightmares so horrifying that I'm afraid to go to sleep, nearly invisible self esteem, a staggering inability to concentrate, colon pain (the return of IBS). I'm just hitting the high points here; there's no need to enumerate them all. I'm certain you get my point.

Having returned on Friday from a seminar about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, my psychiatrist understood immediately that all of the new breast cancer related physical and emotional trauma reawakened the areas of my brain that store all of my childhood trauma. The brain recognizes the similarity. My friend, C., was right. My PTSD was relatively well-managed for almost ten years (things got out of hand when my dad killed himself), but the symptoms are back with a vengeance.

My ongoing brain fog is at least partly due to that area of my brain that controls cognitive functioning, logical thinking, etc. going on strike, so to speak. I've been attributing it to chemo brain (which I've read can last for up to ten years), but it may have nothing whatsoever to do with chemotherapy.

The nightmares were certainly no mystery. I dream of people chasing me so they can conduct medical experiments on me. I dream of being physically assaulted. (A humorous aside: my most recent assault dream featured some people beating me up with a large wooden penis. I'm guessing that's because my oncology doctors are all men. It wasn't so funny in my dream, though.) Some of the nightmares have clearly hearkened back to specific incidents of childhood abuse, a fact that hadn't occurred to me.

I have new, short-term medication to help me deal with those nightmares. I've been terrified to go to sleep, but last night there were no nightmares.

I've also started taking a very low level of a medication I just weaned myself off of with a great deal of difficulty. It addresses serotonin issues. I'd already guessed that might be part of my problems, but I've been trying hard not to add new medication to my already beleaguered body. If nothing, else, this will address the colon pain. Eliminating any single source of pain can only be helpful at this point. I'll deal with weaning myself from it again when I can. I hope that's in the near future.

Diminished cognitive functioning explains why I've had so much trouble formulating the structure of the database I've been working on forever now. Of course, knowing why doesn't help me be more capable of working faster and thinking clearly. At least I know I haven't gone permanently stupid, though.

Today, I have an appointment with my new medical oncologist/hematologist. No trip to M.D. Anderson this time, which means I won't be quite as tired and stressed as I usually am when regularly scheduled blood tests are required. Had they not taken Dr. Crisofanilli away from me, I would have gone, anyway. The upsurge in patients means they move those of us not actively doing chemo to nurse practitioners. Doesn't it seem like the better solution would be to hire more medical oncologists? Of course, no one asked me.

The saddest part of that situation is that it must mean an upsurge in cancer diagnoses. That means more people, their friends and loved ones will come to understand a new, higher level of suffering than they may have previously known. They will learn to live with a higher level of fear.

As for me, I'm optimistic about my new doctor and about my blood tests. It would be great if I could work in a nap while I wait. I'm trying to work longer hours this week, but today doesn't bode well.

Fabric of the Cosmos

New book: Fabric of the Cosmos: Space, Time and the Texture of Reality, Brian Greene.

Ten (or eleven) dimensions: nine (or ten) or space and one of time. The reality we see and feel isn't reality at all. I don't know. I always read this sort of thing when I'm feeling relentlessly down, physically, mentally and emotionally.

Not for the faint of mental focus, though. I do lots of backtracking.

It Goes On

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on." ~ Mark Twain

It dawned on me a couple of nights ago that things may never be the same. The swelling in the new girl had finally gone down a bit and I was able to feel a ridge running underneath it. It's like having an underwire bra under the skin. That may theoretically seem like a good thing, but it's not.

Everyone I know who's had reconstruction surgery has always told me that, in the end, no one will know that the "breast" I end up with isn't a breast at all. No one, they told me, will even know I had breast cancer unless I choose to tell them. I sort of had my heart set on it. Of course, I also had my heart set on everything being finished a year ago, but this is a lot harder to accept. I've gone through so much to make that outcome possible when it may not be, after all.

The problem is definitely radiation and possibly, to some extent, my body's tendency to create massive amounts of scar tissue. I heal quickly, but thick ridges of scars form almost immediately. Radiation caused a lot of tissue necrosis. There was a lot of radiation because of the wide-spread nature of the cancer (which wasn't a tumor) and the fact that it came so close to the chest wall and my neck. Once tissue is irradiated, it gets very hard.

When I was at M.D. Anderson a couple of weeks ago, I talked with a young woman while we waited to give blood. She had exactly the same conditions as I had and the doctors weren't enthusiastic about even trying to do reconstruction surgery on her. It was the memory of my conversation with her that clarified my own dire straits.

Dr. Kronowitz did an excellent job of cutting some of that necrotic tissue and scar tissue out, but there's still some there. Maybe there always will be. I thought about calling him last week when I had this epiphany, but then I decided that I might not be able to stand the answer. Not yet.

I was devastated last week. Today, I'm emotionally numb. I can only feel that bad for a limited period of time. Plus, I'm still exhausted and in pain from the surgery a couple of weeks ago. This is no time to obsess about visual wholeness.

Next week, a new round of medical appointments begins. I have an appointment with my psychiatrist (whom I'm probably going to try to fire because she's more than I can afford) and a blood check/medical oncologist visit. The next week is my annual physical and a trip to my dentist.

I'm not a human being anymore. I'm just a series of medical events.

I'm Here, But Not Exactly Here

"Our life is always deeper than we know, is always more divine than it seems, and hence we are able to survive degradations and despairs which otherwise must engulf us". ~ William James

"Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will." ~ Mahatma Gandhi

I'm not online much these days because I'm battling post-surgical pain and loss of stamina. Did I mention depression and despair? They have a choke hold on my will to sit in front of a computer and do anything, from catching up on friends to reading email and comments.

First the news. I had an MRI on my abdomen last week and all was well. The skin abnormality didn't worry Dr. Ross. The surgery (with five, count them, five incisions and liposuction) was successful. Surprise. Plastic surgery is painful. Breast lift, painful. Liposuction, painful, Correction of donor site, painful. More surgery on my relocated navel, painful. I do not recommend plastic surgery. My last, physically devastating surgery gave me unrealistic hope that this round would be relatively easy. It was, in fact, not in the same league as reconstruction. Knives cutting through flesh is nonetheless not without physical consequences. Note to self: Surgery is painful. Now commit that to memory.

Earlier today, I read a review of a book written by a Harvard professor that purports to provide something of a blueprint for increasing personal happiness. Self reflection was right up there at the top of the list. In my opinion, introspection is highly overrated, especially as a strategy to increase happiness.

Here's where introspection leads me: I give up. I don't know anymore whether I can find my inner phoenix and coax it into yet another rebirth. I give up. I don't know what to do anymore to fix anything in my life. I'm overwhelmed and, as my therapist pointed out yesterday, it's most likely related to my pain level. Nonetheless, for right now, I give up. The reason is almost irrelevant.

What if the best that will ever happen in life has already happened? It's a standard mid-life crisis question, one we all face sooner or later, I think. However, when I review the history of my life, the best of my life has been only slightly less than grim. If that was as good as it will ever be, then what?

The answer to the question is obvious: Nazi death camps, Darfur, Katrina, human tragedy on a breathtaking scale. People survive, people triumph over much worse than I've endured. I will endure, too. This month, this week, today, I find nothing particularly inspiring in that understanding. I can endure. I will endure. Endurance isn't triumph, though.

I'm not sure I have the will or the energy anymore to push myself forward into the glorious future. Glorious futures require the vision to create them. They require relentless will, boundless energy and an immeasurable amount of luck or grace. I've experienced grace and luck. I've summoned will and energy. Were those things not true, I would not be here. I'm not sure where they've gone, though.

I have more surgery coming, in approximately three months. It's classified as elective, but that's a lie. I can't stop now. It's like the lie of remission. Remission means nothing to me. I have more blood tests coming, regularly, for the next five years. The next round will be at the end of September.

People at work say to me, with a smile, "You're in remission now, right?" What they do not know is that oncologists don't really like that word. "Not medically evident" is the correct phrase. I'm angry when comfort people comfort themselves or offer it to me in the form of the magical word, "remission." The question isn't if, but when.

I don't deserve this life. I require from myself the spiritual strength to not only accept the cross, but to welcome it. In better days, I've known how well equipped I am to carry my own burdens. Others may not be so blessed and it's always incumbent upon me to be mindful of that fact. These days, though, the burden is too heavy for me, too.

My old friend, the fascist who live within taunts me: Self pity and hanging onto being a victim are unacceptable. That's where I'm living and my inability to break away from this state of mind makes me embarrassed and ashamed.

This is my self reflection for today. I can check that off my list of things to do. Next step on the road to happiness requires that I enumerate the things for which I'm grateful. There are many, but this month, this week, today, gratitude is not enough.

Manifestation of Grace

"The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong." ~ Mahatma Gandhi

I just hugged someone who betrayed me several years ago. I thanked her for stopping by. I'm not sure whether that means I've moved farther down the road to forgiveness or that I'm not brave enough to continue on with my cold indifference. I could say having cancer makes a difference in one's ability to see past human frailty, but I'm not sure that's true.

Every day, I pray for and work towards forgiveness and the abandonment of rage and hatred. In this particular case, hugging was a manifestation of grace in my life. There's still a small part of me keeping track of the things she did. Maybe someday I'll stop remembering. I'm not quite that strong yet.

Surgery countdown: 7 days

Too Much Going On, Including Surgery

M.D. Anderson is clearly in sight now. I'll be leaving Wednesday to ensure I get to an early morning sonogram. Later on, The Beloved Dr. Ross. I'm hoping on this trip, he'll ask me to move in with him so he can take care of me forever. Let's not forget that I have hair and muscle tone now. Anything could happen. (Obviously, I'm hard-pressed to contain my anxiety. Dr. Ross is the perfect antidote.) Friday, I drive back to Austin.

On Monday, I drive back to M.D. Anderson for pre-op consults and an appointment with Dr. Kronowitz early Tuesday morning. Wednesday: Surgery.

I got all new "roll out" materials to their appointed destinations and provided on-site managers with extra copies of required forms. I rock.

For all the lovers of Crazy Land tales, an encounter with Foot Lady for your pleasure. I went downstairs to her office to provide her with the extra forms to take to her supervisors. Guess what we talked about next? Yes! Yes! Her feet! She did not plop her foot on the desk for illustrative purposes, but she did flop it on a nearby chair. Some things simply will not change. Foot Lady's ongoing foot problems is one of them.

The workers' comp company is driving me to distraction. I received a new claim today for an insect bite. I recently allegedly gained the ability to submit claims online. Twice I have tried it, twice it has not worked. I called tech support today, told the guy the problem, and he says, "Well, you got me stumped. I'll have to have someone call you." Great. I've got all the time in the world.

I submitted yet another paper claim, after having wasted a fair amount of time and an enormous amount of patience trying to get the lightening-fast online reporting system to work. I got the letter to the employee printed, but that's as far as I got.

Crazy Land denizens kindly held a Team Ggirl meeting, complete with warm, homemade cookies (of many kinds) and a lovely parting gift. Let us all celebrate my upcoming surgery! My friend the Information Superhighway did lots of shopping and arrived with a whole grab bag of cookies, magazines, crossword puzzles, toiletries...all gifts that were useful and touching. I like to recount the foibles of my co-workers, but my feelings for virtually all of them are quite cordial. Clueless though they may sometimes be, frustrating in the extreme and wildly annoying though they may be, I'm very deeply touched that they care. Not to be cynical, but warm cookies is a Team Ggirl event that's a win-win for everyone and is not necessarily a reflection of how much I've endeared myself to my coworkers.

That completely halted the workers' comp paperwork fiesta, which just means I have to focus on it immediately tomorrow, along with getting my biopsy slides sent to M.D. Anderson. There will be plenty of faxing going on. I got a call on Friday from my dermatologist's office, letting me know they sent the biopsy results, instead of the slides. No one told me that's what they were sending. Nor did they tell me whom to call to arrange it for myself.

I have a late afternoon appointment with the dermatologist tomorrow. I'm sure we'll be covering all of this. That means my last day of Crazy Land will be a short one. That would be great, but my tasks require more time than I may have at my disposal.

I guess that's another antidote to anxiety. Owner asked me today how I got all of the new insurance stuff taken care of. "I worked my ass off." I will be working said ass off again tomorrow. Lots of the workout will be personal, so I don't suppose complaint is order here.

The upshot is that I may be away for a while from my online friends and my own weblog. Rest assured that all is well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well. (Bowing to Julian of Norwich.) I'll see you when it's all over, if not before.

P.S. Sorry for the wholly unimaginative title line. What can I say?

Too Much Going On, Including Surgery

M.D. Anderson is clearly in sight now. I'll be leaving Wednesday to ensure I get to an early morning sonogram. Later on, The Beloved Dr. Ross. I'm hoping on this trip, he'll ask me to move in with him so he can take care of me forever. Let's not forget that I have hair and muscle tone now. Anything could happen. (Obviously, I'm hard-pressed to contain my anxiety. Dr. Ross is the perfect antidote.) Friday, I drive back to Austin.

On Monday, I drive back to M.D. Anderson for pre-op consults and an appointment with Dr. Kronowitz early Tuesday morning. Wednesday: Surgery.

I got all new "roll out" materials to their appointed destinations and provided on-site managers with extra copies of required forms. I rock.

For all the lovers of Crazy Land tales, an encounter with Foot Lady for your pleasure. I went downstairs to her office to provide her with the extra forms to take to her supervisors. Guess what we talked about next? Yes! Yes! Her feet! She did not plop her foot on the desk for illustrative purposes, but she did flop it on a nearby chair. Some things simply will not change. Foot Lady's ongoing foot problems is one of them.

The workers' comp company is driving me to distraction. I received a new claim today for an insect bite. I recently allegedly gained the ability to submit claims online. Twice I have tried it, twice it has not worked. I called tech support today, told the guy the problem, and he says, "Well, you got me stumped. I'll have to have someone call you." Great. I've got all the time in the world.

I submitted yet another paper claim, after having wasted a fair amount of time and an enormous amount of patience trying to get the lightening-fast online reporting system to work. I got the letter to the employee printed, but that's as far as I got.

Crazy Land denizens kindly held a Team Ggirl meeting, complete with warm, homemade cookies (of many kinds) and a lovely parting gift. Let us all celebrate my upcoming surgery! My friend the Information Superhighway did lots of shopping and arrived with a whole grab bag of cookies, magazines, crossword puzzles, toiletries...all gifts that were useful and touching. I like to recount the foibles of my co-workers, but my feelings for virtually all of them are quite cordial. Clueless though they may sometimes be, frustrating in the extreme and wildly annoying though they may be, I'm very deeply touched that they care. Not to be cynical, but warm cookies is a Team Ggirl event that's a win-win for everyone and is not necessarily a reflection of how much I've endeared myself to my coworkers.

That completely halted the workers' comp paperwork fiesta, which just means I have to focus on it immediately tomorrow, along with getting my biopsy slides sent to M.D. Anderson. There will be plenty of faxing going on. I got a call on Friday from my dermatologist's office, letting me know they sent the biopsy results, instead of the slides. No one told me that's what they were sending. Nor did they tell me whom to call to arrange it for myself.

I have a late afternoon appointment with the dermatologist tomorrow. I'm sure we'll be covering all of this. That means my last day of Crazy Land will be a short one. That would be great, but my tasks require more time than I may have at my disposal.

I guess that's another antidote to anxiety. Owner asked me today how I got all of the new insurance stuff taken care of. "I worked my ass off." I will be working said ass off again tomorrow. Lots of the workout will be personal, so I don't suppose complaint is order here.

The upshot is that I may be away for a while from my online friends and my own weblog. Rest assured that all is well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well. (Bowing to Julian of Norwich.) I'll see you when it's all over, if not before.

P.S. Sorry for the wholly unimaginative title line. What can I say?