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.

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.

Could We Get Along Without It?

"I have traversed many kinds of health, and keep traversing them...And as far as sickness: are we not almost tempted to ask whether we could get along without it? Only great pain is the ultimate liberator of the spirit." ~ Nietzsche

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.

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?

The Sound of Looniness

Craziness abounds, even over and above my daily sojourn in Crazy Land. Crazy Land continues to spin, though, and I'm definitely caught in its many manifestations of nuttiness-inspired stress. My anxiety about getting everything accomplished before my Wednesday departure is significantly diminished. Nonetheless I'm always aware of the endless shiver of anxiety burrowed under the level of my daily consciousness.

In the middle of conversations, I suddenly notice the lunacy in my voice. The more I try to tame it, the loonier I sound. Very disconcerting. I wish I could preface every interaction with an explanation that I'm soon having my fourth surgery in two years and that I'm therefore virtually unable to think clearly. As a matter of fact, I'm virtually unable to function.

Now and again, it strikes me that, since everyone around me seems to expect me to continue on as usual, I should most certainly be able to do that. Maybe I should be able to, but my mind periodically goes blank. The brain keeps track of pain and it will not be distracted from another imminent physical insult.

"How can you possibly expect me to do anything more than arrive at work and stay there for 8 hours," I think. Actually accomplishing things is simply completely out of the question.

Sometimes there's no choice. I've had the infamous "roll out" to orchestrate, a major coup considering the daunting amount of information not available. It's been a struggle to simply find out how many sites each manager services and how many employees are at each site. Is it any wonder my mind goes blank from time to time? It's a little like a cultural adaptation in this case. Everyone else is in some information-deprived haze. I'm just doing my part to fit in. Now there's a good excuse.

When it rains workers comp claims, it pours. Unfortunately, lately it's been pouring guys who've chosen to not report their work-related injuries for a week or so. The amount of paperwork alone that has to be generated and disseminated wears me out, even when reporting is prompt. When our employees wait to illuminate anyone about their hurties, my work becomes even more time-critial and positively stuffed with paper to be printed, faxed, copied, printed again and mailed to several people.

Last but certainly not least, I've been having serious issues with my dermatologist's office. When I visited, at their insistence, to discuss my diagnosis and treatment, the nurse practitioner was completely useless. No need for treatment, or maybe there is, who knows? Nonetheless, they called to make a six-week follow up visit. I also have an appointment with the doctor herself on Tuesday. To top it all off, I've been unable to have biopsy results successfully sent to Dr. Ross.

See? This is another moment when the mind goes absolutely blank. I have no idea what to do now. The nurse tells me to call the Pathology Lab and arrange it myself. They might have shared that with me when I called last week specifically to have them do that. I can't. The new hill of endless paperwork seems too big to climb at the moment.The noise you hear is my head as I beat it against the wall.

Things You Can Be Sure Of

"Everything Must Change" recorded by virtually everyone, my favorite of whom is Nina Simone.

Everything must change
Nothing stays the same
Everyone must change
No one stays the same

The young become the old
And mysteries do unfold
Cause that's the way of time
Nothing and no one goes unchanged

There are not many things in life
You can be sure of
Except rain comes from the clouds
Sun lights up the sky
And hummingbirds do fly

Winter turns to spring
A wounded heart will heal
But never much too soon
Yes everything must change

The young become the old
And mysteries do unfold
Cause that's the way of time
Nothing and no one goes unchanged

There are not many things in life
You can be sure of
Except rain comes from the clouds
Sun lights up the sky
And butterflies do fly

Rain comes from the clouds
Sun lights up the sky
And music
And music
Makes me cry

"Everything Must Change," Bernard Ighner

Time is limited these days. I'm trying to clean up a workers comp mess left by Loathsome, "roll out" a new workers comp insurance program and forestall the complete rewriting of the employee manual. Patience is also limited. So is emotional stability.

I cry at least four times a day every day. Today has actually been a really good day. It's 2:00 p.m. and I've only cried once. Crying is impromptu, it's always a surprise. Just thinking about crying can make me cry. I'm loads of fun to be with.

Every once in a while, the thought breaks through, "I'm having surgery on the 29th." That's when things really start to get out of hand. Every surgery is cause for new terror, if only because every surgery still hurts. I never cry when I see it coming. I do, however, freeze for a moment or two and wish there were some way to escape this life I've been assigned. The thought of another surgery is dumbfounding.

I'm out of sorts these days. Everything seems bleak. The future seems not worth living. I wonder why I tried so hard to stay alive. What exactly did I have in mind? Did I believe things will someday improve in my life in any meaningful way? If that's what I thought, I can't imagine why I believed it.

I'm angry at the universe. I keep thinking back, wondering what it was exactly that I did to deserve my impossibly difficult life. It's not just the breast cancer. It's the years and years of physical, emotional and sexual abuse. It's the rape. It's the suicide. It's the job I hate that just won't stop. No matter what, I have to be here. All of those things seem beyond the boundaries of good taste when heaped upon one small person who's made a lifetime career of not passing along the violence and pain.

I'm a good person, a gentle person, a person with enormous compassion. As if that counts for anything. I'm sure there's some purpose to all of this accumulated suffering, but lately I'll be damned if I can see what it might be. Oh. I know. I've been sent the plague of my existence to create the possibility for gentleness and compassion. It's a mighty big price tag and one that I don't feel much inclined these days to continue to pay.

Last night, I watched a program on the travel channel called "Jeff Irwin Inside Alaska," or something like that. The vast, primeval spaces reminded me of why I don't matter. As I watched bears tearing apart salmon they'd just caught in the river, I kept thinking, "Something dies so that something else may live." That seemed comforting somehow.

Over the weekend, I though a lot about the gift of seeing the end in advance. My life seems broken beyond repair, my body wounded forever, my mind diminished. The changes are irrevocable. It's the coming attractions, folks.

Unless we've somehow managed to find a quick end, death invites us to leave in tiny increments. We lose a little of ourselves, a little of our joy (assuming we ever had any) moment by moment. Alaskan brown bears die because they have cavities in their teeth. They suffer, dying bit by bit. We do, too. Right now it's not so much the leaving that bothers me as the slow, painful journey to get there.

Day after day. I get up and come to work. My body hurts. I "roll out" workers comp insurance. I cry about the pathos of the universe. I fill out forms reporting an injury. I rage against the injustice of the universe. I proofread invoices and wonder when my damn copies are going to be ready to be picked up at the local FedEx Kinko's.

When I look at it that way, it makes me laugh. I'm feeling dramatic today. It's nothing a good surgery won't cure, though.

I've Given Birth Today To Several Dancing Stars

"You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star."~ Nietszche

There simply is not enough time in the day to catalog all of the crappy things going on with me. Most of those things are work-related and I'm sure I'll get around to complaining about them in depth at a later date. For now I'll just hit the high points.

I saw my dermatologist's Physician's Assistant yesterday in the vain hope of finding out the meaning of my diagnosis and potential treatments. I think that's why they called me in the first place. "Come in and discuss the diagnosis and treatment options." So I did.

The PA couldn't even see the affected area. That's interesting because my physical therapist saw it immediately. I was aggravated yesterday and, when my PT person saw it today, I got irritated all over again. Dermatologist PA gazed at my file for a while, repeated the diagnosis of morphea and looked a little confused.

That's it? That's what you have for me? You're just going to tell me the name again and then tell me you can't even see it? Oh my god. This is exactly the kind of thing that made me stop trusting medical professionals in the first place. I spent over 20 years rolling my eyes when people tried to make me see a doctor. Were it not for an abundance of excellent health care experiences the past couple of years, I'm sure I'd be right back to refusing to see any more medical experts after this.

This is exactly the argument I had with Dr. Ross' nurse the last time I was at M.D. Anderson. I was complaining that they'd taken my oncologist away and replaced him with a physician's assistant. "Oh, I've seen them catch things the doctors haven't," she confided.

Really? I've seen them miss things the doctor has already seen and I've heard them give me incorrect information. This latest experience doesn't increase my level of confidence.

I've decided to file this anxiety away somewhere in my brain and restrict further access until I see Dr. Ross. I just refuse to think about it. Luckily, I have lots of things going on at work to take up my precious brain power.

Surprise! We're "rolling out" a new workers' compensation program on September 1. The insurance rep showed up today with a notebook which purports to tell me how to "roll" it out. The upshot is this. If I'm working with a client and break my ankle, I'll need to let my foreman know. My foreman will make me fill out three or four forms and acknowledgments. My foreman will then call ggirl at the office and find out who's close by that I can see. No. I may not go to the hospital. Well, maybe I can. Only if it's an emergency, though. Of course, nowhere is there any definition of "emergency" to be found in any of the "roll out" materials.

I have no idea whether I have to continue to report things to the state in a new way or the old way or any way at all. Tomorrow, after I clean up the mess created by one of our foremen (that's right...it's Loathsome) , I'll have to try to track down the information on the state website. You know that will be easy. After I figure all of this out, I have from now until September 1 to get materials disseminated to four different sites.

I just took a break to have a 45 minute conversation with the Foot Lady about the issue of drug testing after injuries. Now it's almost time to go home. I'm not picking up that damn phone again for the next ten minutes.

Diagnosis A or B: Pick One

There are two possibilities for what's wrong with me. Either I have morphea (a rare type of scleroderma) or I have morpheaform basal cell cancer. Obviously, I'm hoping for the latter. Unfortunately, from all of the credible sources I've found on the Web, neither of them match my symptoms. We've got a biopsy, though.

Morphea is an extremely rare type of scleroderma, occurring in approximately 25 in one million people per year. It's characterized by red or purple splotches that gradually turn whitish. I assure you that if I'd had red or purple splotches running down either side of my spine, I would definitely have noticed. Unlike generalized scleroderma, it will not kill me. That's a plus. No one knows what causes it. It's not hereditary.

I don't even want to talk about morpheaform basal cell cancer. Will that kill me? Oh yeah. You can see why I'd prefer the first diagnosis.

I've been searching for information, obsessing, being absolutely crazy about it. Everyone assures me they would be, too, given my breast cancer diagnosis. Originally, my dermatologist had scheduled an appointment for me on August 21 to discuss the diagnosis and treatment options. This is after they rather frantically tracked me down to tell me the doctor wished to see me. It's not like I didn't make myself very available. There are two numbers where I can be reached and both have voice mail options.

I'm supposed to see Dr. Ross on the 23rd of August, so I contacted him and I'm having biopsy slides sent for his review. I started to think that was a really stupid idea and that I should just cancel the message I left asking for instructions on how to do that. My mother, my therapist, my co-workers all insisted that I shouldn't have to wait that long to find out what's going on. Furthermore, if biopsy results aren't examined by a pathologist at M.D. Anderson in advance, Dr. Ross will have no ability to make a reliable diagnosis. You know how I trust this man, so even if it's totally crazy and stupid, it will at least ease my mind to have his opinion.

Meanwhile, physical therapy continues. There are numerous places on my body, both inside and outside that have scar tissue build-up that we're trying to break down. I was surprised to find out that I even have scar tissue running from my groin to my new girl from the drainage tubes I had to have after reconstruction. Obviously, my upcoming surgery will only create more scar tissue.

Breaking up scar tissue is painful. Now there's a surprise. Has anything in the past two years not been painful? Hell no. It's all relative, though, and it's far less painful than the needles-in-the-breast episode and the whole reconstruction (so far) ordeal.

I have exercises to do every night to get my lymphatic system up and running. Then I have to use a hand-held massager to work away at that scar tissue. That's in addition to the twice weekly manual manipulation with the physical therapist.

It feels like virtually every working moment is dedicated to some sort of body maintenance or bodily healing or trying to get my records sent here and there or trying to get an earlier appointment. I could go on and on.

But I won't. I spend so much time now in my weblogs cataloging the latest events that I never get around to how I'm feeling inside these days. I guess there's not much point in examining it. I'm emotionally ragged and exhausted. I'm so stressed out that I'm barely functional. Maybe tomorrow I can think about that a little more and feel it a little more.

Right now, I'm going home to eat something and work out to manage my stress level. Manage. There's a laugh. There's no managing to be done; I'm just trying to get through this. I don't think that counts as actually coming to terms with anything.

With any luck, I'll have enough time tomorrow in between resolving more medical issues to chronicle the latest emotional debacle.

Things Can Always Get Worse. Or Better. Or About The Same.

I had an appointment with my radiation oncologist on Thursday morning. He diagnosed the pain and swelling as localized lymphedema. I'd considered that possibility before, but my several sources of information only mentioned swelling down the arm, not under the arm. I don't understand why sometimes it's localized and sometimes it isn't. He said that physical therapy might be very helpful and referred me to a clinic here in town. They're supposed to contact me sometime this week. I'm enormously relieved that it's nothing more serious, although lymphedema, untreated, can produce disastrous results. It's also really unattractive.

Thursday evening I fell four times. Four times. That's excessive, even for me. I'm not sure why I fell the first two times, although I think all of them may have been a result of having my eyes dilated earlier in the day. I had an opthamologist check the progress of my macular degeneration. (It didn't get any worse--Yay!) It's possible that, even though it seemed my vision was back to normal, there may have been some depth perception distortion.

Anyway, the first couple of times I fell I was just walking around in my house. I didn't sustain any injuries. The third time, I misjudged the two steps down from my bedroom into the living room, slipped and sprained my ankle. Within about an hour, I was going through the den to let Andy the Demon Dog outside, fell and bruised my knee. Both the huskies' crates are in the den, but his is close to the path to the back door. I usually keep the crate door cracked so he can go in if he wishes. I've had disastrous encounters before with the wide-open crate door and I'm actually a quick study when it comes to ways to prevent collisions. I've had a lifetime of practice.

I guess Hubby left the crate door wide open and I didn't turn the lights on in the den. Too much time and trouble to turn on lights, you know. I slammed into the door with my knee and just collapsed on the floor. Luckily, the knee wasn't sprained, too.

Earlier in the evening, I accidentally whacked my head against a cabinet door. I have a bruise on my nose and forehead. They're not bad; they just look like maybe I'm not the most fastidious person in the world. My husband thinks I'm trying to get him arrested for assault. (Note I did not say "domestic assault." I think it minimizes the crime.) The most amazing news? I did not go to work. I always go to work with sprained ankles. Yes, I have them rather frequently. I think it runs in the family; my mom's ankles collapse for no apparent reason.

Today, I had my annual skin cancer check with my dermatologist. She found an area on my lower back that looked a little weird. It wasn't a mole or anything like that; it was a gray area that spread across my hips. We did a biopsy; results expected within 3 to 5 days. I'll have to have stitches taken out in a couple of weeks.

The great news here is that if it turns out to be something scary, my beloved Dr. Ross is an accomplished skin cancer surgeon. As a matter of fact, he consults throughout the country on difficult cases. Lucky me. Have I mentioned lately how much I love him?

Last Wednesday was Hubby's birthday. I was confused. I thought it was Thursday. Good move. I don't know--I was confused about the date all last week. Who am I kidding? I never know what day it is. I mean I'm not even sure if it's Tuesday or Thursday. It's either the monotony of daily life or the lingering effects of chemotherapy. I like the latter explanation later.

I'd already bought a gift for Hubby, so I was clear on that count. However, I didn't wish him a happy birthday until he pointed out to me that I should have. I noted that he forgot our wedding anniversary last year. We're even now.

Aside from giving you a blow by blow account of the numbers of loads of laundry I did this weekend, that about wraps it up. How timely. It's only about ten minutes before I get to go home. I'm working on being much more entertaining in the days to come, so don't give up on me now.

Distraction and Solace

"Her mind lives tidily, apart From cold and noise and pain, And bolts the door against her heart, Out wailing in the rain." ~ Dorothy Parker

I just ate an apple without washing it. Do you suppose it will kill me? Big ironic smile here. My dark sense of humor has grown much darker the past couple of years.

I finally broke down and called the radiation oncology office yesterday. They were busy, of course, and the recording suggested I leave my name, number and what hell I was calling about. I did that. Have I heard anything? Hell no. With the help and encouragement of my online friends, I overcame my fear of seeming like a crazy hypochondriac and called. Thanks so much for getting right back with me about the pain and swelling, cancer guys. I guess they figure those two things don't necessarily mean anything that will result in imminent death, so no rush.

I can't recall whether the oncology office recording said they'd get back to me within 24 business hours. That's the usual standard these days. It's been 24 business hours now. Maybe I'll have to call back, just to check. I don't want to miss the opportunity to give people an enormous amount of trouble about breaking the 24 hour rule.I'm generally such an empathetic personality that I'm willing to cut people an enormous amount of slack. However, woe be to those who overestimate my level of good will. Ask the folks at Holiday Inn. They can attest to that fact.

As far as I can tell, I'm not overcome with anxiety anymore. God only knows what's going on beneath the level of ordinary consciousness, though. Nothing like having a brain that walls itself off automatically to protect against unwanted emotion. Generally speaking, though, it requires that I put some active effort into it.

There are all kinds of thoughts and fears that I examine, then put aside into little individual compartments in my head. "I'll just get back to this later," I think. It's highly conducive to the ability to function, no matter what. Thank you, crappy childhood. Of course, it's not the most mentally healthy way to deal with things, I've been told.

From time to time, when I talk about moving problems over to their own little room in my head, my therapist asks me how I do that. I have no idea. I do know that there have been times when keeping things in those compartments requires visualizing many locks and an occasional barricade. I've been able to count on the locks and barricades when it's absolutely necessary.

All of that is a clearly pragmatic decision to put things aside until later. As I mentioned before, sometimes my brain kindly moves fear and anxiety directly to secret places without any effort whatsoever on my part. Sooner or later, though, the gates somehow open and I'm flooded with the memories, thoughts or emotions that have been hidden from me. The surprise is invariably unpleasant.

I think everyone does that to some extent. There are all kinds of nasty things floating around in what Freud would have called the unconscious. I'm not a big fan of Freud's view of the world, but when he's right, he's right. Carl Jung (among others) agreed. He's much more palatable to me.

For instance, I suspect that each of us harbors ill-will towards others, even though we may never perceive it. We might vehemently deny it, as a matter of fact. When I clearly see into what Zen Buddhists call "Hatred Mind," I always find some previously buried hatred, resentment or anger. It requires "opening the hand of thought" to find Hatred Mind and what lies within it. I try to be benevolent towards everyone, but I'm not seduced by that desire.

Freud would say there are shameful desires, primeval fear, unassailable rage that we're incapable of confronting because they pose unspeakable danger to our psychic wholeness. It's sort of like the mind-splintering direct encounter with the divine, alluded to in every spiritual tradition of which I'm aware. The infinite, though blindingly loving, is too much for us to bear. Wholeness can lead to madness just as surely.

Notice how I veered off into theoretical exploration? That's my brain offering up distraction and solace. Every once in a while, I can see it as it happens. It no longer matters to me, at this moment, whether the sacred 24 hour rule has been violated. I'm still stuck on the idea of hatred mind and the mystical meeting of humanity with infinite love.

Anguished

"I've been trying to get as far away from myself as I can," "Things Have Changed," Bob Dylan

I tried calling in sick to Life. "Hello, Life? I'm not myself today, so I won't be coming in. I'm sure I'll be back tomorrow." Life does not accept those kinds of calls. I'm reduced to living on the outskirts of consciousness, tamping everything down and floating around the edges where nothing serious lives.

I'd love to take a vacation from myself. I get that old claustrophobic feeling I had after my last surgery. If only I could rip some part of myself open and step out of this body for a while. Or if I could just scream long enough, maybe all of the anxiety would drain away.

I've written several posts and abandoned them or saved them for some day when I can concentrate. I haven't been visiting my friends online. It feels like half of my brain is dead. Maybe more than half. I spend my Crazy Land days trying to work on the database, but it all seems so complex and unfathomable. I haven't accomplished much.

I've been crying at the smallest of things. Even writing that sentence makes me teary. I become enraged at unpredictable moments. When I'm not enraged, everything irritates me. So, let's see...crying, then being enraged, then being irritated, then back to crying with a little irritation mixed in. I've got my own private Crazy Land going on in my head. No one pays me for showing up every day, though.

My mother seems to call me every 15 minutes. I love my mom, but get off the damn phone already. I had a psychobitch meltdown with Hubby yesterday. I'm sure he'd like to get away from me almost as much as I would. Crazy Land is easy. I'm in my office where I pose no danger to anyone else. If I don't see them, I don't yell at them. I don't crumple up into a little ball and cry at the copier. I don't expect them to understand where I'm living these days.

Most of the time, though, I'm able to keep it together. I chat with people, I read, I listen to music. I do not talk about fear. I try not to engage fear on any level. My inner debate continues: Am I being crazy about the mass under my arm (and the pain and swelling) or does it make complete sense that it terrifies me? The question arises regularly and just as regularly, I push it away.

It's one of those times, I suppose, when no one can help me out of this. Why don't I go to see my radiation oncologist, people ask me. I don't know. I don't want to. That would require that I allow fear a free hand in my consciousness. Maybe I just don't really want to know what's going on. Maybe it's stupid to even think I need to see him. If I see him, won't he just tell me he doesn't know what's causing the problems, that I should give my oncologist a call? Or maybe he'd tell me to get over it. Hell, I can tell myself to get over it without having to shell out the $15 copay. Maybe if I just wait a little while longer and keep the panic corralled, my logical brain can get control over things and I won't have to go at all.

Anguished. That's the word. If I had to sum up everything going on inside me, that would be it. Feeling it is almost more than I can bear. As I type these words, there's a voice inside reminding me that my problems are small compared to most people's. There's a whole lot of suffering going on in the world.

I either need to get some greater perspective on my problems or open my heart and mind to the anguish. I should observe the fear and rage and sadness. I should note how they feel to this physical body. Mindfulness meditation. Maybe I can get around to that later on. Not now, though. Right now, I'm going to summon the energy to push it all away again.

Drug "Discontinuation" Sickness

Yesterday, I was really sick from "discontinuation" (my psychiatrist's term) problems with Effexor. I've been taking it for years and I was supposed to eliminate it beginning this week. It's been a step-down process that's gone relatively well. Four days after I took the last (smallest mg. capsule available), I started to have that weird head thing that tends to happen. No problem. Then I started to have intense colon pain that spread throughout my body. I hurt all over and felt a little nauseated.

The upshot is that I now have to break the capsule open and attempt to divide the medication into two halves. I spent about 20 minutes this morning trying to separate the little grains. I'm not a naturally patient woman, though I've worked really hard through the years to get better. The process of dividing up the contents just about drove me insane. They're unruly and go sliding around everywhere, so I end up having to search for the little grains all over my desk.

I'm going to try that for a week and stop taking it again. I'll just have to see what happens. Otherwise, I guess we'll try to quarter it. Couldn't they just institutionalize me for a while? Oh wait. That would involve hospitals, I think. Never mind.

In addition to my weekly aerobics, yoga and hand weight routine this week I added in a belly dancing tape. I haven't done that since before my first surgery. Hard work. It was fun doing something other than riding my stationery bike, though. I have to proceed slowly; stamina is still hard to come by.

I finally decided to call my radiation oncologist and see if I can drop by for a visit next week. He's in town and, whatever the problem is, it's probably related to radiation treatments from last year. I have another appointment on Tuesday with a different kind of doctor, so I really didn't want to add another one in. It's come down to a choice between sleeping through the night (and just a high rate of anxiety, generally) and subjecting myself to another encounter with a doctor.

Try to imagine how tired I am of doctors--oncologists, general practitioners, opthamologists. I think there are some more in there, but I'd rather not summon the whole list to mind. Some things just can't be helped, I suppose.

I'm going to have to wrap this up. I have therapy today for the first time in two weeks. That means I get to leave Crazy Land early. It's too bad, in a way, because I do have some more work war stories to share. I guess I'll get to that next week or, if I'm feeling really energetic, over the weekend.

Elizabeth Edwards Again and Again and Again

"Consider that thou dost not even understand whether men are doing wrong or not, for many things are done with a certain reference to circumstance. And, in short, a man must learn a great deal to enable him to pass a correct judgment on another man's acts. ~ Marcus Aurelius

Warning: If profanity offends you, stop now.

Want to know what offends me? Continuing conversations with my co-workers about Elizabeth Edwards. Not only does it offend me, it enrages me. The owner of my company just called me to advise me again that he doesn't believe Elizabeth Edwards should be out campaigning for her husband.

I muzzled my rage and told him, in a reasonable tone of voice, that I've given her circumstances a great deal of thought. I don't judge other people trying to endure cancer, especially when it's clear that ultimately they will not survive. Even if it seems like they will survive, no one and I mean no one, has the right to make those judgments. Especially when you have not experienced the disease yourself. I don't mean just reading about it or watching documentaries about it or even knowing someone who has it. When you have walked the walk, then and only then, do you have the smallest scintilla of right to criticize others who are just trying to get through the fucking day. How ever they can.

"Well, I just think it's a matter of priorities. They have children, you know." he said.

No. Really? They have children? What would you have her do, sit around her house all day, waiting to die while her children watch her crumble? You don't know. Maybe you would do it differently, but here again, you don't have fucking cancer. So shut up.

What would I do if I knew with certainty that death by cancer was going to severely limit my time with my children? I have no idea. I know I used to have a lot of ideas about how to get through the struggle, even shortly after my diagnosis. You don't know until you get there. I don't know what I would do. How can so many people in my office be so deluded as to think they know? Well, aside from being judgmental assholes, of course.

If you don't like John Edwards, I don't give a fuck. Campaign against him. Vote against him. I don't have a horse in this race. Don't call me up to argue with me about his "arrogant campaign tactics." Allow me to repeat myself: I don't give a happy goddamn about John Edwards. He doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of winning the nomination, in my opinion. People do not contribute to political campaigns out of pity, in my opinion. (This is politics--anyone can have an opinion as to the mechanics and outcomes of political campaigns.) Who the hell are those people? Find some for me, provide me with some reputable sources of information on that score and I might be willing to change my mind. That really isn't the point. Judging someone who's dying of breast cancer, who's going to endure an enormous amount of pain (including the certainty that her children, both young and adult, will have to live their lives without their mother--that's the point.

Furthermore, could you just stop talking to me about this? I'm emotionally ravaged by two years of doing whatever I had to do to get through it, sometimes sixty seconds at a time, because that's all I could manage. I have this weird thing going on under my arm. Everyone here knows that and, even though I don't wander around with a worried look on my face, cut me some fucking slack, could you? I expend an enormous amount of energy every day trying to keep my own internal debate at bay. "Oh of course it's fine. Silly me," alternating with, "Fuck! This is how it happened the first time. Why is there pain and swelling? Why is there that hard mass?" I do not have the extra energy to stuff all of that back down just because my co-workers think it's their right and duty to express their ignorant opinions. To me. If you'd like to talk about it, if you think you must, talk to someone else.

I've asked that people not talk to me about it. I've asked politely and patiently. I've told them it makes me anxious. I've walked away when they ignore me. I sincerely hope that no one here (or anywhere) has to find out what it feels like to actually experience this disease. In these circumstances, I say that with a certain amount of bitterness. When and if my esteemed co-workers wake up to their own cancer diagnosis, they can come to their own conclusions about the behavior of everyone else with the diagnosis.

Until then, fuck off.

Vacation Envy

"To get away from one's working environment is, in a sense, to get away from one's self; and this is often the chief advantage of travel and change." ~ Charles Horton Cooley

Everyone in Crazy Land is either just back from a vacation, planning one or is taking one now. Because of my many years of service here, I have four weeks of vacation and five days of sick leave. I figure I won't really have any of those two until the year 2012. I've been out more than 5 weeks the past couple of years, having surgeries or chemotherapy. I spend a lot of time traveling to places where they torture me for the sake of my health; those get added into the time off tally, too. There will be no vacation for me and, frankly, I'm envious of those who get one. I might, on some days, be said to hate them a little bit.

How callously they talk about the great times they had or will have! I suppose I should be more genuinely celebratory with Crazy Land folks and their vacations, but I'm not. I make the appropriate sounds of appreciation for the things they've seen, note that they look rested. Inside? Surly.

I just had the day off for Independence Day, but days like that are usually spent in recovery from the built-up fatigue from never having a real vacation. Realistically, though, even if I had officially sanctioned vacation time, would I have vacation stamina? No.

In a couple of weeks, my mom is going to a big family reunion with the family I've never met. I was invited, but a four day weekend, surrounded by people I don't know is exhausting to merely contemplate. I'd really like to meet my uncles, aunts and cousins. They are (as far as I can tell) the sane branch of my family. My dad's family is, without exception, really really crazy. I wouldn't hazard a guess as to whether they're clinically insane (DSM-IV doesn't recognize "insane" as a diagnosis, or course), but they're crazy in the way that makes you hope they're never able to track you down.

I'm still not sleeping well, but I'm sure it's related to anxiety about the iffy area under my arm. I double checked the information about lymphedema and determined that it's not the cause of the pain and swelling. It certainly isn't the cause of the hard mass in roughly the same place.

I'm even boring myself today, coasting along half awake and suffering from vacation envy. Charles Horton Cooley speaks of getting away from one's self. If only. On the up side, the Phil Spector trial is back on this week. My vacation? Criminal prosecution of insane genius music producer who hates women, points guns at everyone and finally kills someone. I can hardly stand the excitement.

Another Cancer Anniversary Celebration

Today is the one year anniversary of the end of radiation treatment. I spent seven weeks, five days a week, lying on a big table in some kind of molded stuff that was supposed to keep me in exactly the same position every day. The molded stuff did not feel good and sometimes it was hard to get my body to fit back into that particular configuration. (When I left every day, they'd label my mold and hang it up, along with lots of other people's molds.)

Then everyone would leave the room and this huge machine would circle around me like a vulture. It would radiate for a while here, move, and radiate in another place. It usually went on for about half an hour. The machine made a lot of noise and, from my vantage point, I could see it internally repositioning itself (by technician-controlled computer) . Blades inside made a whirling sound as they moved. I started to have burns before many days passed. Big deal. I'd just finished up chemo. A few burns meant nothing to me.

As I lay there, I'd sometimes contemplate my radiation oncologist's explanations about the need for precision. If I moved during the radiation treatment (I love that word, "treatment"), it could radiate my lungs and/or heart because of the size of the area and its proximity to those organs. Sometimes I didn't think at all, drifting still in my poisonous haze. I just lay there and felt how much my body hurt. When it was over, I smiled and told the techs I'd see them tomorrow. I'd get dressed and go back to work. It makes me sad to think about that time.

I got unaccountably attached to my radiation techs, a young man and woman. We never talked much. I'd say hello and ask how they were. They'd answer and ask how I was. They knew how I was. I was dazed with pain, beaten down and generally felt like shit. I looked really good, too. It was nice that they asked, anyway.

Those techs were two more strangers I became comfortable with pulling and pushing my body around. At that point, it didn't really seem much like my body anyway. On my last day, the young woman tech rushed out and stood beside the door with a handful of confetti. As I walked out, she threw it up into the air. I actually hugged her. We hadn't had that kind of relationship, but I suppose all cancer treatment relationships become intense, if only for the patient. Actually, I think it's probably a little intense for the care providers, too. However, they need to protect themselves emotionally, of course, in order to survive the jobs they do. When I think about my own two radiation technicians, I'm still grateful and marvel at their gentleness. I would hug them both if I had a chance.

My own personal victory: I did what I could to liberate my fellow cancer patients by not wearing my wig. I was completely bald, of course, because I'd just finished chemo. By the time radiation was over, I was beginning to have a little baby bird fuzz. There was another young woman receiving radiation treatment for breast cancer whose appointment was always just after mine. After seeing me with my naked head for a couple of days, she started showing up without her wig. She told my mom one day, while I lay on that table in the radiation room, that she had never gone anywhere without her wig. Even her husband had never seen her without it. I gave her the courage.

I had begun to feel that, by wearing a wig, I was giving in to a sense of shame, almost. I was bald because I was trying to survive a terrible disease. Why would I hide that? I had lost all pretense to vanity a long time before my hair completely went away. Wearing a wig became more a gesture of protection for other people than for me. And, in fact, when I started coming to work without my wig, people were troubled. I told them that I'd gotten used to it and they would, too. I have no idea if they ever did, of course.

I decided that being bald was a profound symbol of exactly how difficult my life had become. It became a statement of pride. This is how much I can endure. This is how committed I am to staying alive. I not only have enough inner strength to keep going, I have enough strength to let you see how I've suffered. Furthermore, fuck you, cancer.

We all get through it how ever we can, though. I would never, ever judge another cancer patient for making a different decision about it. I think everyone should be as comfortable as they can be, in every possible way. If a scarf or a wig helps a little, then hallelujah. It's important to celebrate your Inner Cancer Survivor somehow, though, if you have enough energy. My way didn't take much of that.

I have my six-month check up with my radiation oncologist soon. We'll be having those little visits for the next five years. Sometimes it feels like all of it will never end, especially as I mark time until the next ultrasound.

Radiation ended, though. A year ago today. Here's to my own Inner Cancer Survivor.

Delicate Balance

Another day of uselessness. Don't think that I'm unaware of what's really going on. It takes a tremendous amount of mental energy to manage that delicate balance between terror and quasi-serenity. The only defense against emotional turbulence and obsessive worry is dedication to minimal synapse firing. In short, I don't work. On the other hand, I haven't had to visit the Ggirl Crying Building in the past couple of days. If I don't accomplish anything other than that, I've already done more than the majority of my co-workers do in a week.

I spend a lot of time fantasizing about my oncology surgeon. It is so not about how he looks. The men (or boys, really) I dated before I met my husband were all good looking, as is Hubby. I was exactly that shallow. On the other hand, if they couldn't keep up intellectually, they were banished in short order. I didn't care much for emotional accessibility, either. As a matter of fact, expecting me to be loving and open counted as a serious liability. Hubby is the only man with whom I've ever been truly vulnerable.

Back to the object of my desire. He's middle-aged, a little paunchy, seriously balding and he wears very thick glasses. I look around and see men every day who are far more attractive, but arouse absolutely no libidinal interest. It's that ineffable something. It's sexual attraction that arises from a primitive part of my brain. Maybe it's those expensive, heavily starched white shirts. (Although I see a lot of those around, too.) Or maybe it's the profound intimacy that develops when someone cuts off one of your breasts and calls you sweetheart, anyway.

My need to fuel this harmless obsession has resulted in some unpleasant consequences. I googled him, of course. (Of course!) Unfortunately, it led me to an article he published a couple of years ago in a medical journal. It impressed on me the seriousness of my illness. I hate it when I come across things that clarify the dangerous extent of my breast cancer.

A couple of weeks ago, I was editing some old entries from when I was first diagnosed. I thought I'd share them with Hubby, since my online friends are the only people who've ever been privy to the daily grind of that period in my life. The unvarnished truth can be emotionally devastating for loved ones. Hubby already seemed very fragile; helping him get through it would have forced me to really confront my situation. It would also have depleted my own energy reserves critical to survival. (See synapse management above.)

Now, I'd like to offer him the best of my literary self in addition to authenticity. In editing those posts, it became clear I'd forgotten the things my surgeon told me after the sentinel lymph node biopsy. It took my breath away. I have a truly world class ability to deny reality when it's too harrowing.

I try to put those things out of my mind, though. I get right back to obsessing about my surgeon. I know what's important. It's that delicate balance that must be preserved. If he's the necessary vehicle for that, I'll step into it wholeheartedly. I just need to be careful about knowing too much about exactly what he does.

Maybe if I Yahoo him, I'll be able to entertain myself for the rest of my work day. If not, I'll have to simply imagine the beauty of what lays beneath his starched white shirt.

All Shall Be Well

Today I planned to get around to checking in with all of my online blogging friends. I always miss sharing in their daily lives when I have to be gone--usually because of a trip to deal with cancer in one way or another. I may not get around to that, after all.

I'm crying now. In my office. At the mercy of anyone in Crazy Land who happens to knock on my door. I do not wish for them to see me cry. It's too personal to explain and there is no consolation to be found. Certainly not here, anyway. Actually, I'd love to explain it to myself, but crying is only crying. No explanation necessary.

It feels so silly to be afraid. Is there something wrong in the new girl? Probably not. My mom thinks everything is okay. I should just banish the fear and rest in the thought that most likely all is well. Right? I'm almost certain everything is fine. Why would I choose to believe otherwise?

On the other hand, having once been overly optimistic, it's well nigh impossible to exorcise that anxiety gnawing around the edges of my consciousness. Two summers ago, I thought we were just going to have a look around, maybe remove a benign tumor and get on with things. Then I believed Dr. Ross would perform a little lumpectomy or a big lumpectomy and I'd go on my merry way. Obviously, that didn't happen.

Money Man's daughter poked her head in my office a while ago and, though I tried to pull myself together, I'm a messy crier. My eyes get puffy immediately and my nose turns red. Very, very attractive, I assure you. That's when I decided to take a little trip next door and get over myself. At least there I could cry noisily if it came to that. It did. But I'm back now.

A few seconds ago, Crazy Employee, who engaged in some egregious back-stabbing behavior last week, knocked on my door and made some ridiculous excuse for entering my office. If I wanted chocolate donuts, bitch, I would go to the receptionist's desk to get them. I do not wish to share anything with her. I'm insulted that she would think otherwise.

In what's come to be the Official GGirl Crying Building, there is an abandoned plant. I've been trying to get someone to take care of it for a long time and now it's dying. That touched off another round of crying and, as I sit here, tears are welling up again. Goddamn it. I'm going to try to find a way to get some water to the poor thing and, in the meantime, I slanted the blinds so it could get more light. I just need to find a big enough container to take some water to it; it's a very large plant and needs more than a cupful or so.

Back to the matter at hand, be afraid or not? Maybe I don't have any choice and I should just go with whatever the moment brings. Oh yeah. That was supposed to be one of those lessons I learned from having breast cancer. Being in the moment is being completely alive.

I tell everyone that I wish to live until I die. When I'm sitting on the floor next door, crying about a dying plant, that is exactly living until I die. Yesterday I was reminded of a quote from a Medieval mystic named Julian of Norwich. "All things shall be well. And all manner of things shall be well." They shall.

In the meantime, I may be vying for the office nickname, "Crazy Employee." I'll have to think of a new name for her, though. The possibilities are endless. I'm officially taking suggestions, but I have dibs on "Back-stabbing Bitch." I'll get back to debating fear later. I've got my priorities straight, you know, because all things most certainly shall be well.