Mandatory Waiting Period

In Crazy Land, there is a mandatory 48 hour waiting period whenever you need information from Mr. Moneybags. Sometimes the waiting period is longer, but it's never shorter. I have two tasks to complete which require data from him. So I'm waiting.

At Last. The Nipple Report

I was told not to wear jewelry, but I didn't think that meant rings because I don't need any nipples on my fingers. Brenda, the nurse, made me take off my rings and jeans, then attached a pad to my back to ground me. I wasn't sure I heard her correctly, so I asked her again why I needed the pad. I still have no idea why I had to be grounded, but removing all metal from my body prevented me from being burned in those places.

Jennifer, his PA, came in and asked me if they'd given me any nipples to try. I know. Go ahead and laugh. She handed me a plastic nipple and told me to put it where I wanted the new one located. Well heck, I didn't know. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to find the right place. I turned around and asked everyone (Brenda, Jennifer and one of Dr. Kronowitz's fellows) what they thought. They reached a consensus opinion and helped me to move it to a better site. When Dr. Kronowitz came in, he didn't think much of the placement and moved it to where he thought it should be. Couldn't we have just waited for him?

The room had a chair much like a dentist's chair, but much more comfy. After they reclined the chair, Brenda put a cool, damp cloth over my eyes and turned on some "new age" music. It was all very calming. Then Dr. K. went to work. He double checked to make sure I couldn't feel anything.

He was in high spirits and we all had a fabulous time. He made me laugh almost the entire hour and a half that it took to create the new nipple. There were a couple of places that hurt, but Dr. Kronowitz gave me some local anesthesia immediately. The fact that it hurt is great news. That means the nerves are forming new connections. Someday I may actually have sensation in the new girl.

It's a little like breast origami; Dr. Kroniwitz cut some of the existing skin and twisted and turned it until it looked like a nipple. They asked me, after he left to report to my mom, if I wanted to see it. Of course I did. They asked if I was sure. I have to say it wasn't pretty.

Jennifer put a piece of foam over the new nipple. It's 2 inches in diameter and about 1.5 inches tall, with a hole cut in the middle like a donut. That will prevent the new nipple from being compressed and potentially dying.

I'll wear my dressings for the next two weeks, then in 3 months, I'll go back for the tattoo. Maybe no more nerves will have reconnected by then. Three months after that, I'll have my final surgery. The end is in sight.

Size 2 Is Not Fabulous

I broke down and bought some new (on sale) pants for work this weekend. It's official. I'm now down to a size 2. I see women on t.v. diet commercials, enthused about reaching that size. I'm not thrilled.

Even I can see how tiny I am now. All of my doctors have commented, as did my physical therapist. I only note that my jeans are baggy and all of my old clothes (sizes 6 and 8) hang off of me.

My mom thinks I'm not eating enough. She's started bringing food over and checking my menu items. I'm eating enough. As a matter of fact, I just consumed 3 Shrimp en Brochette, fries and a very large piece of cheesecake.

As you can see, I'm working on it.

Permanently Monday

Why did I not see this coming? Today is Monday. Guess who isn't here. Crazy Employee. Guess why she isn't here. That's right, the puppy.

Crazy's old dog (a Lab) and the new puppy "hate each other." She has to figure out a way to keep them "permanently separated" before she can come to work. I guess that means we'll see her sometime in May.

Puppy Moved From One Crazy Land to Another

One of our office neighbors is a woman named Lillian. Lillian does not understand the concept of birth control. She's had several children in the past ten years. All were immediately rescued by Child Protective Services. She's also , by one means or another, come into possession of three or four litters of puppies. Lillian is no more capable of taking care of little dogs than she is of little humans. I've personally rescued (sometimes with Owner's help) three litters. Around nine weeks ago, the latest litter showed up.

They're rowdy puppies and they all weigh around twenty pounds. I listened to them while they played or cried for mom and, every once in a while, I'd stand up and look out my window to watch. I tried not to get emotionally involved while I waited for the inevitable moment when they'd crawl under our privacy fence in search of food. A couple of weeks ago, I heard one crying. I was annoyed that Lillian wasn't checking on the puppy; it was a cold, rainy day. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I looked out my window but couldn't see anything. Then I crawled up on my desk and, when I looked down, there was a chubby little dog caught under the privacy fence. She was too fat to get under.

She and another of her litter mates managed to crawl into our patio area. I grabbed them and Owner called the vet. I delivered them to the vet where they had some food and water, then lay down to take a nap. Unfortunately, not all of the dogs made it over; there was one left. I knew how lonely it must be without her sisters, but my attempts to entice her to my side of the fence were failures.

Crazy Employee wanted one of the rescued puppies. Kind of. She vacillates about everything, including the dogs. She made an appointment to pick up one of them last Saturday, but she didn't show up. These puppies are incredibly cute. They didn't make it past Monday. Loving humans saw them at the vet's office and took them home. Crazy Employee was out of luck and a little miffed.

Yesterday, my first day back from Houston, Crazy came to my office the minute she arrived. She complained about not getting the puppy and noted, at length, how abused she felt.

"Let's go get the other puppy," I said.

"It's too scary," she said.

People at my office believe Lillian is a crack dealer or a prostitute or both. They're ridiculously nervous about interacting with her. I rolled my eyes. Crazy said she'd get some cash at lunch and we'd attempt a buy when she got back.

While Crazy was still at lunch, Mr. Moneybags' daughter banged on my door and yelled that the remaining puppy and mom were out in our parking lot. Moneybags told her to let me know. I didn't pause to put on a coat. I raced down the stair and out the door. I saw the puppy headed towards Lillian's house. I kept running. Just as I got to her driveway, the puppy sat down on the porch in front of the door. I was almost certain I'd be able to grab the little wiggly thing.

Just at that moment, though, a red PT Cruiser backed into the driveway. It was Lillian. We have no idea where the car came from; she's never had one and we didn't even know she could drive. There was nothing to do but face the music.

"Hi Lillian!" I smiled. I waved and smiled some more. "I saw the puppy out in the street and I was afraid it was going to get run over so I was trying to make sure it got back in the fence." I smiled some more.

She got out of the car and I walked over, hoping to be disarming.

"You know, I'm so glad you're here. I have a co-worker whose daughter just had a birthday and we saw how cute your puppies are and she was hoping maybe you'd sell one of them to her." Yes, I was talking fast, barely taking a breath.

"Aren't you the person who climbed over my fence?" Sometime before breast cancer, I'd noticed that the adult male dog was tied up and unable to get to water, so I climbed over the fence and, just as I got the dog untangled, Lillian came out the back door.

"Only once," I said apologetically. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

She told me it was okay and we resumed negotiations. She wanted to know how much money my coworker would be prepared to offer.

"I don't know. She's at lunch right now, but if you're going to be here for a little while, I'll bring her over when she gets back."

"Have her call me." She gave me her phone number and I went back to the office.

As I was recounting my adventure to my mom on the phone, Crazy Employee arrived. I got off the phone and caught Crazy up on what happened and suggested she give Lillian a call. Crazy was scared.

"Oh Jesus. Come on, Crazy. What's she going to do? Say no? Just call her." It's at moments like this that I start to wonder if maybe I'm being a little pushy. Crazy was too ashamed not to call. No one answered. The entire office was involved in this escapade by now. The Information Superhighway suggested we go back over there. Everyone else agreed. I allowed public opinion to influence me and we went back over. Of course, Crazy didn't want to go, but there was no way I was going to do all the heavy lifting (in a manner of speaking) alone.

I told Crazy I thought she should start the negotiations low and work our way up to $20, which was her limit. She had ten ones and a twenty, so I told her to give me the $20. I put it in my back pocket. No need to let Lillian know we had thirty dollars. I figured that, if need be, I could offer up my part of the cash as a "loan."

We walked over and I knocked on the door. I waited. Meanwhile, Crazy Employee wandered around the side of the house to where I had previously scaled the fence several years ago. I didn't see any puppy, but I didn't want Crazy over there.

"Don't you dare get that puppy, Crazy. Get away from the fence. We can't take the puppy after I've had this conversation with Lillian...."

"May I help you?"

I turned around to see a pale, emaciated white woman in a jogging suit. She had sores on her face. Meth Head. Great. Caught in another difficult situation. Crazy stood there, speechless.

"Oh hi! I was just talking to Lillian about maybe buying one of her puppies. Crazy here has a daughter and I was going to show them to her." I smiled and tried to look nonthreatening. Meth Head told me Lillian had gone to the store and would be right back. I thanked her and we walked back to the office.

As we walked in the door, Superhighway told me the PT Cruiser was back. Lillian was home, so we headed back over. Once again, I knocked on the door. This time, a man looking suspiciously like a pimp answered the door.

"Oh hi! I was just talking to Lillian about her puppies...." I smiled a big, stupid middle aged white woman smile. I wondered whether I might have to play the breast cancer card. This guy actually did look a little scary. He turned and went back inside. Crazy and I looked at each other. Then, the door opened and he started to come back out, but instead, he turned around and shut the door again. Another couple of seconds passed, then Lillian and Pimp came back out with the dog.

"Hi Lillian. This is Crazy, the lady I work with that I was telling you about."

Lillian held the puppy and told us she had named her Pitiful because she cries so much. She went on a bit about how much she loves Pitiful. I told her that she didn't have to worry; Pitiful would be going to a home where she would be loved and she'd have kids to play with....

"Do you think I don't love my dogs?" Uh oh. I backpedalled furiously.

"Oh no! Of course I know you love your dogs! I just meant..." I'd lost her. She got back to negotiations. Crazy asked her how much she might want and Lillian countered by asking how much she was prepared to offer.

"Ten dollars?"

"Ten dollars?! No. That dog chewed up my going to church shoes last week and those cost me $23. If I could get my $23, I'd be willing to let go of her." Lillian abruptly turned around and walked inside the house, leaving Crazy holding the dog and me trying to think of some friendly banter to make with Pimp. She came back a minute later, holding up some shoes.

"Oh no! Bad puppy," I said. "You know, I think I have some extra money." I felt around in my jeans pockets and came up with the $20. Finally, Crazy did the right thing.

"Are you sure you don't mind," she asked. I assured her it would be my pleasure. Money and puppy changed hands. I thanked Lillian several times and, just for good measure, thanked Pimp, too.

Crazy and I took the dog to the office where everyone immediately fell in love. I needed to leave soon because I was exhausted, but I had some trouble getting Crazy into her van and on the road to the vet's office. Puppy needed de-worming, flea treatment, vaccinations. Finally I got her into the van and we delivered the dog. Crazy's picking her up at 4:00 today.

I am so tired. And I haven't even told you about the nipple. I guess that will have to wait until Monday.

Sandbox Redux

"Finish every day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense. This day is all that is good and fair. It is too dear, with its hopes and invitations, to waste a moment on the yesterdays." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thirty minutes of intense pedaling on the stationery bike relieved me of all my fury last night. My legs are still tired this morning, but my mind is calm. I emailed a note to Dr. Cristofanilli's scheduler to see if I could manage to work in a trip to the lab next Tuesday (nipple day revisited). I conceded that I might not be able to see Lisa (his nurse practitioner) that day, but we can always discuss the report via telephone. (Usually one sees the doctor/PA/ nurse the same day as the tests.) Though it's highly unlikely that anything unusual will turn up, not checking makes me crazy and scared.

Dr. Sandbox gave me a little lecture about the limits of technology and how, even if there were some early signs of cancer, a blood test might not be subtle and sophisticated enough to spot it this early. True enough. No question about it. It's not "predictive," he pointed out. There is another reason to take a look at what's going on, though. It's important to have a clear idea of whether the level of Tamoxifen is adequate. I'm not as clueless as he seems to believe. Furthermore, if the National Cancer Institute recommends it, shouldn't we do it if only to ease my troubled mind?

Sandbox reminds me of why I used to hate doctors, specifically male doctors. It's the arrogance, the utter lack of interest in the patient's questions and concerns. Yes, you've been to medical school, but so has my ex sister-in-law. Believe me, I'm not that impressed. I, on the other hand, have lived in this body 54 years now. I'd like to live in it another 20 years or so, long enough to take up smoking again. (I've promised myself that, if I make it to 70 or 72 depending on my mood at the moment, I can throw all caution to the wind. Thank you, Frank Sinatra, for the inspiration). Sandbox and all of his ilk should listen more and talk less.

I was momentarily called away from my relentless Sandbox bashing to do a little freelance computer assistance for my friend the Superhighway. What blind faith they have in The Sausage. Fortunately, she had a question I could answer and I even remembered the exact process without fumbling around the way I do most of the time. I always find my way eventually, but I hate making my faithful friends wait while I noodle around endlessly.

I've belabored Sandbox enough, anyway.

It's a cold, gray, rainy start to the weekend. I had to go downstairs a little while ago to fetch my yogurt from the refrigerator. The atrium is always chilly, so Sausage ran upstairs. The wooden stairs creaked mightily as I did my best to sprint. As a matter of fact, it sounded to me like the entire building shook. I'm reminded of the proverbial herd of buffalo. Can I blame this on the boots? Wait. Maybe Sandbox is somehow responsible.

Dr. Sandbox

Warning: Ggirl is furious. Bad language will be used. If this offends you, move on to another post.

I just got back from seeing Dr. Sandbox. He is now being called by that name because he is one of the most narcissistic people I have ever met. And that's saying a lot. My dad pretty much had the market cornered on that quality.

He entered the examining room and I said, "Hi, Dr. Sandbox. How are you?" I'm a southern girl. I have southern manners. We always ask.

"I'm here," he says.

Oh really. Well I'm fucking fine, too, asshole. I'm thrilled to be here. At least you're getting paid.

He makes me take my clothes off and pokes around on my breasts. It's not like I don't have millions of guys doing that. Seriously. I do not need my oncologist to feel. It is a massive waste of my time and it makes me cold sitting on that stupid table.

"Are we doing blood work today?" I ask.

He launches into a lecture about how blood work doesn't really tell you anything. Again, oh really? Then why does the National Cancer Institute recommend one every six months. Am I at six months? Hell yes.

So we did not do blood work. That scares me. If we're not doing blood work, then I'm wasting my time. Seriously. There is absolutely no reason for me to be there if all he's going to do is poke around on my breasts. Even I do that. An extra pair of hands is NOT NECESSARY.

Then I broach the question, once again of BRCA1 and BRCA2. I noted that the last time I saw him, he thought I should do one. He said that after I mentioned it, though. So.

"If you think I should have the test, then I'll have one. Don't do it because you're humoring me, though. I don't have any vested interest in having one, but if you think that's what I should do, then I'll do it."

Again another lecture that has little bearing on the issue at hand. Finally he said he thought we should pursue it. Okay. So we're doing genetic testing but we are not doing blood work. This makes complete sense to me.

BRCA1 and BRCA2 are indicators of whether it's likely breast cancer will develop in the other breast and whether it seems likely ovarian cancer is a risk. Fine. We'll test, but I am NOT having anything cut off. I am not having ovaries removed. I am sick to death of surgery.

On the other hand, I don't want to wake up two years from now and find out I need to do more chemo. (Again, another important reason for BLOOD WORK.) I will not do chemo. I don't care what that means. I WILL NOT DO MORE CHEMO.

So here's tomorrow's agenda. I will call M.D. Anderson and see if I can schedule and appointment with my oncologist's nurse practitioner and see if she will do blood work. Then I will cease the procrastination and find a local oncologist I don't hate.

Dr. Sandbox. What an asshole.

Terrified by O'Henry

It's time for more blood work (I've really started to love the sound of that), so I'm seeing my oncologist today. I can't stand that guy, but what with the rescheduling of the rescheduled scheduled nipple reconstruction, I haven't gotten around to finding a new one. Okay. It was also because I always, always avoid thinking about breast cancer, if at all possible. So I've procrastinated.

Before I was diagnosed, I never procrastinated. It's not a thing that comes naturally to me and it used to make me anxious. In the past two years, I have become a pro. I am a world class procrastinator. Make a hotel reservation in Houston? I wait until the week before the appointment, even if the Houston Live Stock Show and Rodeo are imminent. Talk with M.D. Anderson about changing physician notification? I've been "meaning" to do it for about six months now. That, my friends, is an accomplishment. I find I've topped myself. Not locating a palatable oncologist wins me the gold (thanks, Mitt) in the Olympic Procrastination event.

I've been coping with my anxiety by being giddy all day. I've been a source of great amusement to all of the denizens of Crazy Land. They wish I could have Oncology Day every day. Hilarity abounds. We had a birthday celebration today and I was absolutely manic. Not to take credit or anything, but I laughed at everyone's jokes, encouraged their camaraderie and spread love as if it were high grade margarine. It was a remarkably festive event. Oh for the days of Little Miss Sunshine, when I was willing to put in that kind of effort every day.

Yesterday, Crazy Employee and I rescued a couple of puppies from our next door neighbor. Lillian has allowed her two dogs to repopulate the entire neighborhood and she's been doing a mighty fine job of reproducing herself. Luckily, other people rescue her human offspring. The puppies and I had an immediate Love Connection the likes of which even Chuck Woolery would be impressed.

I'd love to share with you why I'm so exhausted. I've started keeping track of my physical fitness work every day. Yesterday, after reviewing all the work I've done in the past three days, it was clear to me why I drag myself out of bed every morning feeling like I've been run over.

I've had a dream two nights in a row. I've just started the new year in high school, have been assigned a homeroom and a locker. I've also been assigned the topic for my senior honors English class thesis. It's O'Henry...I think. I get sick after the first day of school and I'm absent a long time. When I go back, I'm anxious about finding my homeroom again. The worst part is that I can't remember if it's actually O'Henry who's supposed to be the subject of this enormous project. I frantically try to write a paper in an hour that was supposed to take all semester. While I'm writing it, though, I'm thinking, "Why O'Henry? I hate O'Henry. Surely that can't be right." I wake up drenched in sweat.

I may be the only person I've ever known who's found herself terrified by thought of William Sydney Porter.

Sometime before Christmas, I received a call from a (mildly) injured employee, Pattycakes. Pattycakes and I had some trouble finding a suitable doctor who could see her immediately, but we finally tracked one down. She was treated and, afterwards, sent me a Christmas card telling me how grateful she was for my kindness and compassion on the phone with her that day. Yes, I was touched, but something deep inside me mumbled, "Careful."

A couple of weeks later, I received another call from Pattycakes, asking me to compare our corporate insurance benefits/costs to her current provider, the carpenter's union. She told me she'd been abused as a child and needed to get some psychological counseling. (Sound of alarm bell blaring in my head.) Unfortunately, I told Pattycakes, she has no choice. As a carpenter, she must use the union insurance even though it's exorbitantly costly and offers paltry coverage. Again, that voice deep inside me grumbled, a little louder this time, "Careful!"

Today I received three, count them, three separate injury reports from Pattycakes. She included three separate EOB statements from her health insurance provider and a note asking for my help in resolving payment issues with the hospital/radiology clinic/masseuse. Are the injuries work related? She doesn't know, but she thinks so. Why did she submit the bills to her health insurance provider? Beats me. See? Always, always listen to that little voice.

Needy. Pattycakes is needy and talking to Ggirl can be such a comfort. Ggirl, much like mommy, can make it all better and make you laugh. I believe I have a winner. Pattycakes is my first Problem Child of the new year. Don Quixote was scary; that does not constitute Problem Child status. No, the Problem Child will continue to haunt me for months, pleading with me to intercede on her behalf with our workers' comp provider. Pattycakes the Problem Child will be anxious about being fired (which she will not be), she will continue to have hurties (because they're all kind of nebulous and hard to pin down), she will eventually strain my patience to its limits. She will test my patience because what she really wants is emotional comfort. Unfortunately, that's not my job.

I've had at least one (but generally two or three) Problem Children every year for the past ten years. From time to time, one Problem Child is held over for a couple of years, eventually and invariably becoming Hurt Employee Who Will Make Me Wade Through Tons of Paperwork and Attend Countless Hearings. I don't think Pattycakes will become one of those, but it's anybody's guess at this point. As I previously noted, our hurties are nebulous.

I'm a beacon of hope in a hopeless world. I always have been. The hurt, the needy, the merely inconvenienced flock to me in droves. "Let me tell you my problems," they say, "let me grab you around the neck and squeeze so tightly that you can't breathe. Because I need you. Because you're the only person who can help me. You're the only person who understands me." Sometimes, when I can't stand it anymore, they stomp their feet and demand that I dedicate myself to comforting them. I have made a career of solving unsolvable problems, soothing wounded egos, calming the grumpy and agitated. Excellent job choices on my part.

Now why is it again that I have such resistance to interacting with other humans? I'm sure Pattycakes will be a substantive part of this week's therapy.

Requisite up side? I'm wearing new black suede, high heeled ankle boots. Never underestimate the emotional comfort of new boots.

My Favorite Contact Sport

Forget basketball. My favorite contact sport this year is politics. I haven't had this much fun in decades.

I watch every debate, irrespective of party. I've visited all of the candidates' websites, searching for those "plans" they like to talk about. The candidates have a much different understanding of that word than I. Basically, they all say that, if elected President, they will wave their little magic fairy wands and make everything all better.

I'm not letting the paucity of action items get in the way of my enjoyment, though.

Nipple Resecheduled Again

When the Physician's Assistant, Jennifer, came into the examining room, I immediately sensed that something was amiss. She asked several times, "Why didn't I know you were here?" Well, that's hardly a question to ask me. I didn't know. She asked me if I was having any problems or wanted to pursue any revisions to the reconstruction. There is one place under my arm that's still hideous, so I mentioned that, even though I couldn't see that the conversation had much relevance to the reason we were there. Jennifer told me that all revisions must be completed before the nipple construction. Somewhere along the way, I noted that the nipple was my whole raison d'etre for being there. Uh oh.

Gwen, the lady who made my appointment stuck her head in to verify that I'd originally been scheduled for last Thursday. "That's absolutely right. That's what I thought." I was puzzled that they thought there was any way I'd be confused about when to show up.

Dr. Kroniwitz finally arrived to tell me that he doesn't do procedures on Tuesday. Gwen (who is generally excellent at her job) scheduled me for the wrong day. Dr. Kronowitz was embarrassed and clearly felt terrible about the expense and inconvenience. He personally went to reschedule my appointment for January 29. He offered to see me next week, but I couldn't do it. I needed a break before the trip, a break from the stress.

"Well, we have to do something, Dr. Kronowitz," I told him. Otherwise my supplemental insurance wouldn't reimburse me for any of the travel and hotel expenses.

"Okay. Let's do some injections," he suggested.

I was cheered up and agreed immediately; he was awed by my enthusiasm. I waited, flat on my back on the exam table for about 15 minutes; it was beginning to hurt by then. Eventually, they arrived to perform the steroid injections on various chelated scars. We did my reconstructed breast. No problem, except for a huge scar underneath the breast. It's not numb and, though the steroids are mixed with lidocaine, the anesthetic didn't have time to prevent pain as he stabbed me several times with the needle. Jennifer commented that the needle was larger than she expected. Then the real fun began.

He began a series of injections in the scars across my lower abdomen. I am not numb there, either. He also injected the two scars on my pelvis where the drains were inserted. Nope, not numb.

I think one of the biggest revelations of my breast cancer journey is the discovery that there are a lot of different kinds of pain. I had no idea pain could take so many forms. (I'm certain that I still haven't experienced all of them.) There's surgery pain and chemo pain (which in itself involves several previously unknown types of physical suffering), there's pain from needles inserted into my breast, pain from having massive amounts of skin and tissue moved from one place to the other. I've also experienced unspeakable psychological pain from simply trying to withstand the process and, after my tram flap, from being dependent on other people to move me from one place to another. Steroid injections into the abdomen and pelvis definitely provided me with yet another novel form of pain.

The steroids are systemic and the revved up feeling reminded me of the way I used to feel the day after chemo. A chilling memory.

There is yet another surgery coming, but I deferred it for six months. I have officially hit the wall. I don't have the mental strength to undergo another surgery any time soon. It took several days to steel myself for the nipple reconstruction. As I sat in the living room on Sunday (the day before I left town), I knew that I've reached the end of my psychological rope. The warrior spirit has been completely depleted.

For the next week and a half, I'll be trying to mentally prepare myself for another round of stress, another visit to a previously unknown type of pain. I can do this. Yes I can.

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?

A Nipple Waiting To Happen

Nipple reconstruction was postponed and I'd actually cheered up, thinking that we might not be able to reschedule it for a month or so. The nurse called me a minute ago to advise me of my new date, next Tuesday. She also advised me regarding what I can expect pre- and post-procedure. It does not sound good. More not bathing, more huge dressings. Great.

Prior to the cancellation of this week's scheduled nipple work, the Inner Fascist had a return engagement to help me cope with my anxiety. It appears that, when distraction finally fails me, self recrimination steps in to take up the slack. I noticed the Fascist voice very quickly this time and told her to stop. Loudly. Once was not enough, but at least I heard the inner taunting relatively soon after it started. Having made the connection between anxiety and the IF while I was in the midst of making myself feel bad was a big step forward. I'll have more time to practice by late Saturday afternoon, I'm sure. By then, distraction will have lost its power to disguise my anxiety.

Don Quixote in Crazy Land

It's a busy week, and a short one, since I'm leaving tomorrow for the land of the new nipple. Something about that strikes me as hilarious. Until I think about what it may entail, then it's not so funny. I'm using my usual coping mechanism of distraction.

Luckily, I have a lot to distract me. Last week, one of our employees (Don Quixote) phoned in with a broken hand. He allegedly broke it the day after Christmas, but didn't realize it was broken until three days later. Is that even possible? I've never had a fracture, but I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be able to feel it when it happens. There were witnesses around all day when Don was loading plywood, but none of them heard even so much as an "owie!" from him.

Hemorrhoid Guy (the unfortunate guy in charge of this slacker) had Don come in and fill out paperwork. I went downstairs to talk with him about the workers' comp process and he wanted to know where he could go to get his blood pressure taken care of. Seems it was a bit high when he noticed the broken hand and went to the hospital. I told him workers compensation doesn't cover high blood pressure. He seemed disappointed. I went through my whole song and dance. I thought we'd come to a meeting of the minds.

An hour after he left, the phone calls began. I spoke with him five times that day and at least twice every day after that. Don calls periodically to argue with me about whether he can use his union's health insurance to pay for things. He wants to know when he'll start getting paid. He's called about that a couple of times. Apparently it takes at least three repetitions of all information before it begins to sink into Don's dense brain. In our last conversation, Don complained that our insurance company was grilling him about the three days he was oblivious to his broken hand. Don is insulted that anyone would question his version of events. Yeah. Go figure.

I've done what I can for him. All of his paperwork has been submitted and I've spoken to the insurance folks. I also sent everyone an email telling them that, if Don calls, give him our insurance company's phone number. He already has it, but he's used that as an excuse to call me several times. I'd hate for Mr. Quixote to drive my fellow Crazy Land residents even more crazy.

In about 20 minutes, I have to attend a web seminar on terminating employees. Some people actually do get fired at Crazy Land. It just never happens to the people who work on site. I expect the seminar will take up the rest of my day.

The other big news is that the rash-like area on my left leg is spreading still. I saw the doctor again yesterday and she questioned me about ticks. Lyme disease, you know. I'm not aware of any tick contact, but they've been digging up the entire airport across the street and we've had some wild refugees (remember the rat pack?) who've emigrated. I suppose something might have been carrying a tick. I have hard-core antibiotics to kill it (in case that's what I've got). Meanwhile, we've done a biopsy and I'll get the results in a couple of weeks.

I've decided to put off starting the antibiotics until I have the nipple work done. Nipple work. Man, I crack myself up.

Perfect Crunch

I'm just back from physical therapy, feeling like screaming. It happens every time. Massaging scars and pushing my muscular/flexibility limits is very painful.

The up side? My PT says I can cut back to once a week because I consistently work every day at home. She says I'm making progress and I try be content with the small gains I've made so far.

The other wonderful news is that she thinks I have good posture, something I've been trying to mindful of as I go through my day. I got accustomed to slumping a bit after the reconstruction surgery. Time to stand up straight, which helps with energy and stretches out those internal scars where the tubes ran vertically inside my body from both sides of my groin to new breast.

The very best news (and I know this sounds a little silly) is that PT says I have perfect crunch form. The former fitness addict (and perfectionist) in me rejoices at that news. Muscle memory. It's an amazing thing.

It's been a good Friday so far. Well, except for that need to scream.

Next week, I'll report on the saga of the latest injured employee who's driving me crazy.

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.

So Long to a Fellow Survivor

Tyler was my age. Ten years ago, he was diagnosed with a rare form of throat cancer with a high mortality rate. (He never smoked.) Tyler went to my friends at M.D. Anderson, where he received radiation treatment, followed by surgery to remove the tumor. He went about the business of surviving.

Three years ago, after an argument, his wife killed herself. He had spent the night at a hotel and came home the next morning to find her sleeping. He noticed that her head was lying at an odd angle on the pillow, but thought nothing of it. Tyler went out to run some errands and came back to find his wife had shot herself. When the autopsy was completed, he was told that she apparently took an overdose of medication and, waking to find that her suicide attempt was unsuccessful, she pulled a gun out of the bedside table and shot herself.

Tyler struggled to regain his equilibrium the past three years. I'm not sure that he ever really did, though. As a suicide survivor, I know that road is long and treacherous. I can't imagine how it's possible to recover when your wife shoots herself, in your bed, after an argument. He went on and tried to find a new life.

Every year since his surgery, Tyler had to go back to M.D. Anderson to have scar tissue from the surgery removed from his throat. He had his last surgery about three months ago. He left a message on our machine a couple of weeks ago, wanting to hear how I've been doing. It was something Tyler did regularly.

His message sounded almost like he was on a respirator. I could hear his labored breathing in between phrases. There's only so much you can do with scars. Ultimately, removal of scar tissue only creates more scar tissue. For Tyler, the scars finally made it impossible for him to breathe and he died in his sleep.

Here's to you, Tyler, to your long struggle to survive. Here's to your will to endure your wife's death. We walked the same paths, but now you've left me far behind. Would you have guessed that I'd be crying for you? I am, just as I'm celebrating your courage and tenacity.

So long, Tyler. We'll all see each other soon.

The Kielbasa Report

The Crazy Land fete didn't disappoint. Kielbasa suggested that we maintain a charged-up defibrillator for occasions like this. Death food abounded and the Sausage partook heartily, given the fact that she's swaddled in spandex.

In brief, Owner offended many times.

*He corrected one of our foremen when he made the mistake of using "ain't." There was general grumbling from all of us about Owner's need to browbeat. This from the guy who calls me on the intercom regularly to use me as his own personal dictionary and Thesaurus.

*Owner made a snide comment about Kielbasa's hubby (childhood friend). He insinuated that Hubby is bitter about the divorce from 35 years ago. I was baffled and speechless, a rare event. Again, the natives were mightily offended.

*He compared the Information Superhighway's older son to a former University of Texas coach not known for his comeliness. Superhighway was furious, having already been irritated by Owner's previous snottiness.

There were a couple of additional offensive comments, but I'm too befuddled by cholesterol-laden food to remember what they were.

The luncheon was further enlivened by the Shunner displaying the stitches in his hand from a recent surgery. Noel, noel!

There was lengthy discussion about Mitt Romney, Mormonism and everyone's dissatisfaction with our choices for President. As you know, these subjects are required fodder for any festive occasion, brimming with opportunities for people to be aggravated. Luckily, no one was choked or beaten about the head.

In a surprising turn of events, death and layoffs were never mentioned. That's how you know it's the holidays.

The Kielbasa jingled from all appendages and was thoroughly amused by Owner. The hand was good, too.

New Weblog

I have a new weblog, but if you don't like poetry, don't bother. (It's not my poetry. Be grateful.)

This So Voiceless Flesh
(from a poem by Kenneth Patchen)

Hark, The Festal Sausage Cometh!

"Humor is the instinct for taking pain playfully." ~ Max Eastman

Today, I'm stuffed into what used to be known as "foundation garments." I remember, as a kid, trying to figure out what the hell those were because, in the olden days, you never saw bras or girdles on television commercials. It was too risque even to offer a definition. It seems so quaint now.

I saw my physical therapist yesterday, which is a tantamount to paying someone to abuse me. All of my scar tissue always hurts (and I have a lot of it, everywhere), but after she finishes massaging and pinching, I'm ready to start confessing to things I've never done. I'll say anything, but please don't torture me anymore.

This morning, I woke up feeling more than a little ragged. I'm exhausted and it seems entirely possible that an army of little demons stabbed me with forks all night long. I am not at my best.

PT told me that, if I wore my special compression bra and girdle (the one I wore 24/7 for three months), I'd have a lot less pain. Damn. I was in no shape to be stubborn about it today, so I'm packed into my underwear like a kielbasa. "Less pain" is the operative phrase here; I have a lot left over, despite my discomfort.

I wore one of my festive shirts today, the one with a reindeer who's holding a martini while he has one hoof perched on a beach ball. It's a little loose, but you can still tell there's something weird going on under there. We're having Owner's birthday party today, so I wanted to amp up the merry for the occasion. Not feeling particularly convivial, I knew special effort would be required to get through the Crazy Land lunch. I'm not sure the shirt's going to help much, but I've done all I can. I'm a kielbasa with a reindeer and jingle bell bracelet, earrings and necklace. Hark, the festal sausage cometh!

PT gave me some new exercises to do, specifically aimed at regaining strength and range of motion in my rotator cup and pectoral muscle. The exercises feel just dandy, too. I've added them to my daily 25 (25!) minutes of stationary bike and 20 minutes of yoga. After I finish with those activities, I have self-massage to do. That takes another 30-40 minutes. In a way, my life is still all about breast cancer. Not that I'm whining. All of this is far more bearable than the chemo and recovery from multiple surgeries. Nonetheless, how annoying. How very un-holiday.

When I got home yesterday from physical therapy, after getting stuck in college basketball game traffic, Hubby was hanging around waiting for me to make dinner. I'd gotten some tamales, so all he had to do was cut a couple of holes in the packaging and stick the damn things in the microwave. The brown rice was microwaveable, as was the refried beans. I'd already mixed the salad. Would any of this be hard to do? If your wife was being tortured, wouldn't you want to microwave the damn dinner for her? Yes, you would.

Not my Hubby. My level of pain made it hard to focus on what exactly needed to be done and in what order. While I wandered around the kitchen, getting things together, Hubby was in another room checking his email. Santa will be delivering a lump of coal for Hubby if he doesn't shape up. During dinner, I mentioned several times how exhausting the pain is after physical therapy. Hubby made a sympathetic face, but I assure you that, if it were he who was suffering, there would be no tamale dinner. There would be plenty of whining, though.

That will be about enough from me, too. Here's hoping for a fun, if not jolly, Crazy Land lunch. Owner's been in a funk the past several days, so he may be entertainingly annoying. Mr. Moneybags is weighing in with some serious crotchety, too. The cake has already arrived. Oh God. I just heard the dulcet tones of Loathsome. Looks like we're headed for some choppy waters. The Kielbasa* will keep you posted on the Crazy Land festivities.

*Finally. I think I've found my very own nickname: Kielbasa. Or Sausage. Hey, Mimi, it's the answer to the question you posed so long ago! I've officially earned my own Crazy Land nom de guerre.