How Would You Like To Be Remembered?

Before he died of cancer, one of my heroes (Leroy Sievers) asked his readers to tell him how they'd like to be remembered. I watched a bit of his memorial service yesterday and thought some more about it.

I'd like people to remember all the times when I could have judged, but didn't. I'd like them to remember my warmth. I'd like them to remember the times I made them laugh or shared with them one of those random facts no one else would know.

I wish there were someone who could share, when the time comes, how hard my life has been and how I rose above it, time and time again. That's really the greatest accomplishment of my life. I have thrived in an environment that could have destroyed me. My cousins survived, but I triumphed over bad genes and dismal nurturing.

I hope they remember how brave I've been. Not because I've lived through breast cancer. Not because I lived through my dad's suicide. I've been courageous by refusing let go of compassion, no matter what. It's a work in progress, letting go of anger and resentment, but I continue to put one foot in front of the other.

When all is said and done, there aren't many choices to make in life. You're born into certain circumstances and, as terrible as things eventually may get, all you can do is keep going. As I've said before, no one gets to call in sick to life. We wake up every day and try to get through it, no matter what. That's all we can do.

Getting up and going on doesn't require courage. Maintaining humor, gentleness, compassion and integrity--for those qualities I've had to reach deep inside. I have had to bring my attention back day after day. They've tested my mettle.

I wish people would remember that about me. How would you like to be remembered?

Do I Look Like An Accountant?

Do I look like an accountant to you? Okay, that's a rhetorical question since I've never posted a photo anywhere. The answer is, no I do not.

I spent virtually all day yesterday doing Bags' job. We need to cultivate new business and have an opportunity to work 0n a project in New York. The problem is, in order to do that, we have to know the potential costs to factor into billing rates. I did my part of the investigation--I found tax information and instructions on registering as a foreign corporation. I generally handle all of the activities required to get us going in a new state.

I attempted to give the tax rates to Bags, but he had no interest in pursuing it. I tried to give it to him twice. Owner decided I should give it to him. That set off a flurry of copying and highlighting and flagging. I have to tell you, I am incapable of understanding a lot of it, having never filed franchise taxes before. Again, not an accountant.

Meanwhile, the Superhighway decided to retrieve the mail from the post office and I was inundated with bills that have to be entered into the Famous Endless Database. Furthermore, Hemorrhoid Guy and I have been planning to change the purchase order process for one of our clients. That means I need to find out how to establish access privileges so Our Man On The Scene doesn't accidentally delete all of the records for the past year. Once they're gone, they are most definitely gone, unless he calls our IT Boy to recover the records. Do I trust him to do that? Well, no.

Finally, Owner decided it was imperative to get some specific information regarding a workers' comp accident that occurred two years ago. There have been lots of injured bodies under the bridge since then, so more scrambling about to compile the relevant data.

After that, home to do yoga and cook red snapper for dinner. I've been trying to finish a novel for the past three weeks, but after my day yesterday, I started to fall asleep at around 8:00 as I read.

Last rhetorical question: Do I look like a superwoman? I think you know the answer to that.

Not So Brave

I haven't been reading comments or emails lately. I've been sharing difficult material and, frankly, sometimes I lack the courage to read responses. Please continue to comment and know that, whenever I'm brave enough, I'll read and respond.

Thank you for caring enough to say what's on your mind. I may be scared of that that is, but I'm grateful you join me in my explorations of pain.

Snitch in a Snit

So what, you ask, is going on in Crazy Land? Everything is still in an uproar. Owner isn't speaking to Bags. This is a permanent situation. I have to say, it's really peculiar when the Owner and the Comptroller aren't speaking. If we had a process, things would be slowed down considerably. Luckily, we have no processes.

I had my own frustrating series of conversations with Bags. Last week, our guy in the out of state office called me and asked me to do some research on the costs of doing business in New York. He's been hounded by some project managers to submit a bid and, of course, in order to do that, we need to know the upfront costs. Out Of State wanted to know if Bags had asked me to do research. Um, no.

I told him I'd get right on it and, by the end of the day, I had some pretty good information on which to make some decisions. This being really Bags' bailiwick, I sallied forth to tell him I'd gathered the information. Would he like a copy?

"Out of State thinks this is magic," he replied.

Hmmm...what exactly am I to make of that response? I had no idea what to say and decided to give it another try in a day or two. When I did, the answer was the same. Now normally, I'd take my little papers and throw them in the trash. This time was different. We need to expand the business and this was a personal invitation to grow.

I did the thing I try most to avoid. I had a conversation with Owner about my quandary. Bags clearly doesn't want to go down this path and I clearly think we should. I recounted my encounters with the Comptroller and posed the same question to him as I have to you. What am I supposed to make of that?

"The answer is that Bags has a serious attitude that's going to get his ass fired if it doesn't change soon." He glowered. "Give the information to me."

I told him I'd highlight the critical information and get it to him. The little voice inside my head is screaming, "snitch! snitch!" If that's what I am, then so be it, I guess. Would I like for people to continue to be employed (especially me)? Oh yeah.

I can't wait for this particular poop to hit the fan. I'm going to be the most unpopular kid on the block with a whole group of my co-workers. Of course, I'll be a hero to most of the others. Either way, life's a bitch and this is the least of my problems.

Signing off now. Your friend, the snitch.

Holding My Breath

The migraine raged on all afternoon, all night and was there to greet me first thing this morning. I didn't cook dinner last night. I stuck it out at work until it was time to go home. When I got there, I actually went to bed and put a cloth over my eyes. Even in the midst of chemo, I rarely hung around in bed.

Hubby made dinner: turkey burgers. He did a great job, but I may never be able to stand the smell of turkey burgers again. I wonder if, because of chemo, I developed an overly acute sense of smell. There are so many things I can't stand to smell anymore. Raw beef. Turkey. Chicken (unless it's heavily disguised by spices). I'm still good with fish. I hate the smell of coffee cake and barbecue (these are definitely related to chemo). Enough of that.

I lived 19 years on the Gulf Coast of Texas. I'm accustomed to hurricanes, the anxiety of whether the path is true and it will eventually find its way to your home. I've lived through the endless rain, the high winds, tornadoes, the endless endless rain in an area not too far above sea level.

Today, I'm worried about all of the people who took (and continue to take) such great care of me at M.D. Anderson. I hope they're safe and that their homes are spared. I know Dr. Ross will be at the hospital, sleeping on a cot, taking care of the people who are so sick they can't go home. It's probably one of the safest places to be in Houston.

I remember every last one of them, from the people who park my car to the nurses who helped me get out of bed or stop bleeding, the medical techs who x-rayed me or ct scanned me to the doctors who saved my life. I can't know how they'll fare.

I'm holding my breath a little bit and saying prayers for all beings living on the Coast. But especially all of those people to whom I'll always be grateful.

The Migraine Rules

I awoke this morning with a migraine and aching hips. These are clear indications that a front is coming through, but that knowledge doesn't make the pain go away.

I was going to write about my difficulty in standing up for myself, being assertive with people I don't know well. I'm not sure why it hadn't dawned on me sooner that I'm fearless in confrontations at work or when I need to protect someone I love. I have endless amounts of courage when I need to protect animals or I wouldn't have braved The Pimp, The Meth-head and Lillian in order to rescue some puppies. For me? Not so much. I have to practice and hope that my tendency to lapse into enthusiastic politeness won't overcome me when I'm face to face with a situation in which I need to take care of myself.

That's it, though. No more about that. The migraine rules and it declared that I don't have the intellectual or emotional stamina to rummage through that enormous pile of problems. The more critical issue: My mp3 player died. At least it made it through my last M.D. Anderson marathon.

Nonetheless. What a cruel universe to leave me songless.

Did Someone Say Lose Weight?

Lisa, the only M.D. Anderson employee I dislike, pointed out that I've lost weight since my last visit. She attributed that to the Ritalin, but since I haven't taken it in a month, I don't think that's the cause.

The question is, after having been alerted to diminishing weight, why do I think that's a reason to restrict food intake?

Feeling a little nutritionally crazy, teetering on the razor's edge of my long-time eating disorder potential.

On the up side, I'm not weighing myself yet. And yes, I do still own scales.

I Need To See Inside Their Heads

The second night of insomnia. I'm not sure if it's fatigue or maybe the after-effects of surgery or maybe the coming to terms with new diagnoses, but my intuition fails me. Back in Crazy Land, I have conversations but I can't determine the mindset of participants. I hate not being able to read people. I'm frustrated and baffled by my insularity. I need to see inside their heads.

I'm fairly certain that no one else here is attuned to the subtleties of human interaction. Otherwise, they might have noticed the distance in my eyes. They might have heard my voice coming from far away, as if I were standing in an empty room. On the one hand, it's a very good thing: I'm never vulnerable. On the other hand, it's a very lonely experience.

Clearly, I'm not myself. Whomever that may be at this point.

Test Results

The mammogram was fine, except tissue density makes it hard for them to say with certainty that all is well.

I've developed osteoporosis in my hips and spine, thanks to the chemo. That aching pain in my hips is arthritis.

"You've been through a lot," Dr. Ross told me. If he says it, it must be so.

I feel like I'm tired, anxious and depressed. I got to see Dr. Ross, though.

I'd Just Like To Get Some Sleep

Another night of sleeplessness. I've been waking up at 4:00 every morning for about the last three weeks. Too much stress at work, at home and the nagging anxiety about Thursday's tests jolt me awake every night.

I saw Dr. Nuesch, my radiation oncologist this morning, believing we were finally through with each other. After his examination, he said he thought we should keep an eye on the hardness that refuses to go away. It's on the side of my breast and a ridge under my left breast. Generally speaking, I try not to notice. I'll be seeing him again, but I get a break for a year.

While I was waiting, I noticed a photograph of me in my (extensive) patient files. No wonder people cried when they saw me. I looked really sick. I was really sick. Seeing it made me a little sad. I'm not sure why.

Tomorrow, off to Houston.

Unproductive

I'm hiding in my office today, feeling profoundly unproductive. My annual breast cancer check is coming up on Thursday. It's always nerve-wracking, even though I have every reason to believe all is well.

Not much will get done today or tomorrow. Wednesday, I'm off to Houston. Thursday is the marathon day at M.D. Anderson, beginning with blood work at 7:00 a.m. I'll see Dr. Ross at the end of that day. It's something to look forward to.

I won't be able to drive back until Friday, but then I get a non-medical day off on Monday. I just want to get the week over with.

Contents of Tote Bag, For Catherine

I'm unable to escape my sadness, just as I'm unable to escape the paint fumes and the roar of a generator being used to power wash the outside walls of Crazy Land. If I felt like working, it would be a waste of time. The printer/copier was broken by the painters. We've been waiting a day and a half for someone to show up and fix it. I could be working on the ever-expanding database, but frankly, I'm simply not in the mood. Furthermore, I'm still off Ritalin and it's having a negative effect on my ability to concentrate.

As an alternative, I offer this: a review of the contents of my tote bag. A while back, my friend Catherine and I listed for each other the items we carry in our purses. Her inventory was spartan. Mine was a bit less so. I fudged a bit, though, choosing to not reveal the pile of (necessary) flotsam and jetsam I carry around in my enormous tote bag. In my defense, I never had a tote bag before the long days at M.D. Anderson.

Catherine, here's what I lug around with me every day. I hope it makes you laugh a little.

*My breakfast and lunch: two granola bars (the healthy kind), a small piece of cheese, an apple, yogurt and V-8 juice (these last two generally dropped off at the downstairs refrigerator).

*An EpiPen, in case I get stung by another wasp and have an anaphylactic event.

*Tissues.

*A hair brush.

*A small emergency sewing kit.

*A small emergency manicure kit with nail clippers, tweezers, two nail files and a tiny pair of scissors.

*Hand cream.

*A little notebook, presumably there in case I lose my all-important bigger notebook I carry in my purse. You never know when, in a crunch, you won't be able to get to the notebook in the purse and be unable to record some critical information.

*Glasses case. Sometimes I have to take my contacts out. Yes, I also carry a contact lens case.

*A Tide-to-go pen. Again, emergencies abound.

*Band-Aids. I dropped those in the tote bag before I developed my severe allergies to all adhesives. (Note the extra critical nature of the EpiPen in case I forget and slap one on my body.)

*A lint brush. I have two fuzzy dogs. A couple of years ago, I decided that maybe it's not such a good thing to be cavalier about carrying hair remnants on my person all the time. I always thought of the hair as reminders of the creatures I love. Turns out no one else sees it that way.

*Antibacterial moist wipes.

*Post It notes. I have no idea why.

*A large bottle of Accetamine. Very necessary after surgery when you've run out of prescription pain medication.

*A couple of small packages of crackers. Another M.D. Anderson necessity. Ditto the chewing gum.

For my upcoming marathon visit to M.D. Anderson, I will probably add a book and my mp3 player. I don't know why I'll take the book; I can never concentrate enough to read. That knowledge won't stop me from taking one, though. I can always listen to music.

Turns out the list was quite revelatory. I'm clearly constantly in crisis mode. That realization doesn't alter the humor of taking my entire house with me wherever I go. Or at least the medicine cabinet. So laugh with me, Catherine. And love to you.

Before I had breast cancer, I never had heroes. The very concept eluded me. Now I have several--Dr. Ross, Dr. Christafanilli, Dr. Kronowitz, Lance Armstrong and Leroy Sievers. Leroy Sievers died on August 15. He was 53 years old.

Leroy waged a mighty battle against the cancer that eventually took his life. Like Lance Armstrong, he was fearless in his commitment to staying alive. He endured through countless procedures and treatments. One of the last treatments involved injecting glue into his spine. He developed a post-operative infection and almost died from it.

Leroy had many friends on the Internet. He wrote about his illness every day in his blog, "My Cancer," and gave voice to so many of us who've shared the same journey.

I always think that, if cancer reoccurs as it did with Leroy, I won't be willing to go through chemo again. If that means I die, then so be it. Leroy was a stronger, braver person than I. He grabbed onto life and held on, no matter how scary the ride got.

I hope Leroy can hear all of us left behind, saying thank you for the tremendous gift of his spirit.

Thank you, Leroy. I'm going to miss you so much.

Death by Paint Fumes

We're having the reception areas painted in both suites of offices. This is the second day of the project and they're working on the hallway outside my office. I have my doors closed, but the paint fumes are killing me. My eyes are watering, my throat is sore and my nose is running.

If all the craziness around here doesn't kill me, the paint fumes probably will.

Back Again

But does anyone care?

I'm still recovering from the revision of the revision of the reconstruction. I developed an allergy to all of the adhesives they used to tape me back together. Blisters formed under all of the tapes and when I removed it, the tape took the top of the blisters off. I've now discovered a new type of pain. It was actually more painful than the surgery itself. I'm better now, back at work, but you can still see the marks on my face and chest. Now the wounds themselves are the source of my pain.

Meanwhile, back in Crazy Land, accounting department still under siege. Bags and Superhighway furious. Owner even more furious. Golf Pro has been assigned new tasks. He's supposed to be writing reports of some kind. Even Superhighway doesn't have the full story on that. Or she's not sharing it. The latter option seems unlikely, though.

I'd planned to have a little thank-you party for Crazy Land staff to celebrate the final surgery. Everyone offered support and caring during my 3-year journey and I'm grateful. However, since hardly anyone is speaking to anyone else, I don't think it would be much fun. Verbal interaction seems limited to rage attacks. No cake for Crazy Land.

Next week, I'll be in Houston again. I have annual tests scheduled, one of which is with the beloved Dr. Ross. Thursday starts at 7:00 with blood work and ends in the evening. I'm mired in my usual anxiety. Nonetheless, it's better than Crazy Land.

When I've regained more of my energy and concentration levels, I'll fill you in on Crazy Land.

Loathsome Says It's Classy

The corporate office cost-saving meeting on Friday has the entire staff up in arms. We're all more than a little peeved that Owner chose not to mention Golf Pro's excessive entertainment expenditures, including $2k for college football season tickets.

Everyone has to give up something. Water coolers, a Bags and Highway fave, are going. Plant care services are being canceled. I'm upset about that because I know many of the plants will let die of neglect. When I come in every day, maybe I'll make the rounds to ensure all of them have been watered. No more matching contributions to our 401(k)s. No more birthday cakes. Owner is lucky a small riot didn't erupt when he issued that pronouncement.

After all of the haranguing, the high level of tension, the lay offs and one of our offices being shut down, we have now discovered that we've been making a substantial profit all along. We've even been making a profit at the Houston office. Bags has no interest in letting Owner know that. He rightly suspects that Owner would be even more infuriated than he is now.

On a lighter note, just as I was getting ready to leave on Friday, Loathsome buzzed me on the intercom.

"I brought you and Superhighway some basil from my garden."

"Oh, thank you for thinking of me, but you should let Superhighway have mine because I grew some basil this summer, too," I told him.

"But this is from my garden I put it in a little baggy."

Oh. Well, now that you put it that way, then absolutely bring that basil right on over to my office. It's bound to be superior to anything I could ever hope to grow. I gave up.

"Okay. Well, you need to bring it now because I'm getting ready to leave in exactly two minutes." I can always hope, you know. I was thinking maybe I could sprint out the door before he had a chance to hoist himself out of his chair.

It was a false hope, of course. In a couple of seconds, there he was, with two baggies filled with basil. I took one of them and thanked him ever so much. I stuffed it into my tote bag.

"Wait. Smell it," I glanced over at him and he had his nose buried in the other baggy. "This is such a classy smell."

I dug the bag out, dutifully opened it and sniffed, smiled and nodded in agreement. That is exactly the word I would have chosen. Classy. I don't know if it's classy because he grew it or if all basil is inherently classy. My former daughter-in-law used basil as perfume, though, so maybe I'm not sophisticated enough to make a judgment call here.

Finally, Superhighway told me to expect Repo Man to come by and work on his resume with me. So far, I haven't heard from him and she said he didn't mention it today. I may dodge that bullet, after all.

Thursday, I'll be in Houston for pre-op, then surgery on Monday. Compared to the way things have been going in Crazy Land, surgery seems like the lesser of two evils. I'm positively looking forward to it.

Trying Times

These are trying times. Every day is a test of whether the truths that awakened in me during treatment have been deeply assimilated. I need to embody strength, forgiveness and compassion. I must remember that all of the qualities by which I'm defined are ultimately meaningless. My treatment mantra: I am not my hair, I am not how I look, I am not my intellect, I am not my body.

How am I faring? Intermittently calm, but mostly very stressed. However, I have at least noticed anxiety when it's occurred. I've always had enormous difficulty in recognizing anxiety. During all of my formative years, anxiety was a relentless companion. Of course I never recognized it. Today, I can see it, if even just a little.

Sometimes I'm angry. I'm still mourning the loss of two of my daily friends from Crazy Land.

Fewer people means more encounters with Loathsome. And Golf Pro. And Bags.

Friday morning, we're having a cost-saving initiative meeting, called by Owner. Everyone is supposed to come up with five ideas to cut costs. Owner promises the meeting won't last more than an hour. In Crazy Land time, that will be somewhere around 3 hours, minimum.

I have to share the Loathsome Lexapro anecdote. Unfortunately, once again, I'm too tired for that.

Ingrid Betancourt and The Jungle

A couple of days ago, I saw a Larry King interview with Ingrid Betancourt, one of the freed FARC hostages. I was shaken as I saw the trauma in her eyes and watched her try to manage the memories as they arose.

One thing that struck me was that, several times in the interview, she said that "... I think that many things happen in the jungle that we have to leave in the jungle." She may have meant that she doesn't wish to discuss her abuse. She may have meant exactly what she said, that some experiences are better left to the darkness of that place and time.

Though I was not held captive in the jungle for 6 years, I was held captive for 18 years in my own private, solitary jungle without the support of other hostages. This much I know: For her and the other hostages, nothing can be left in the jungle. The jungle is in her head. This is true for everyone: The Gulag, the concentration camp, all of the places where we learn, from personal experience, the extreme cruelty of human beings toward another live on our heads. Watching or hearing other people being tortured never leaves one's consciousness. Our own personal humiliation and deprivation of even the most basic of rights--those minutes and hours live on forever in our minds. Without warning, they reassert themselves and the jungle lives on and you live in it.

It took me a while to recover from the interview. Her words were inadequate to convey the horror and sadness that I recognized in her eyes. I wished that I could wipe it all away for all of those freed hostages, wherever they are.

But the jungle, the Gulag, the concentration camp, the time and locales of extreme child abuse live on forever in our heads. Forever.

Loathsome Conjures Up a Migraine

I was on the phone with my mom yesterday at 8:15 when Loathsome knocked on my door. Not knowing who it was, I said, "Come in." The sight of him standing in my office doorway first thing in the morning was a harbinger of bad things to come. To my surprise, he noted immediately that I was on the phone and left. Loathsome is usually too self absorbed to notice that you're on the phone unless you put the person you're talking to on hold and say, "I'm on the phone. I'll be with you in a minute."

When I finished my conversation, I actually went to see what he wanted. That's exactly the kind of bad judgment call I've been making for weeks now. I can't even remember what the hell I was thinking at the time. I ran into the door jamb on my way out of my office, though. I remember that. I have a bruise on my left hipbone commemorating the event.

"What?" I asked him when I got to his office.

"I need to scan...."

"Give it to me. I'll do it." As always, I was trying to cut to the chase.

"No, I did the scan..." Oh my god. He can actually do something.

"...but when I checked my email to see if I got the copy, it asked for my Roadrunner password," his voice trailed off and he looked for a moment as if the confusion was blocking his airways. "I have to get this to a client. Could you send it?"

Oh god. What I won't do for my company.

"Okay. Scan it again and send it to me." I groaned inwardly, knowing I was probably going to spend the next hour or so dealing with him and his email.

After he scanned it, I opened my email as he hovered over me. He brought a sticky note with the email addresses and watched me type them in as if I might accidentally detonate a bomb in the process.

"Done," I pointed out, in the hopes that would get him out of my office immediately.

"I don't know why it asked me for my password." He's relentless. Loathsome's general approach to life is to keep repeating things endlessly until he gets the response he wants to hear or he drives someone absolutely out of their mind, whichever comes first.

"Did you restart? Restart your computer," I suggested. I know. What a brilliant, out of left field idea, right?

"Okay," he mumbled. "I don't know why it asked for my password."

I told him I didn't know, either, but he should try restarting. I hotfooted it back to my own office. Halfway back, I felt like I'd been stabbed in my left temple with an icepick. The Migraine. It didn't leave me for the rest of the day. Nonetheless, I called Loathsome a little later to check on his progress. I know. I'm a saint.

"So did you restart?" I asked him.

"Yes."

"Well did it work?" Just then I remembered why I should never follow up with Loathsome. Too late....

"Yeah. I don't know why it asked me for a password...."

I felt that icepick in my temple again; it was actually the high point of my day yesterday. Seeing Loathsome first thing in the morning is like walking under a ladder, breaking a mirror, opening an umbrella on the inside and crossing paths with a black cat all at the same time. Things can only get worse from there.

Updated Injury Report

Since my last self-injury post, I struck my head against something. I now have a knot on my forehead.

Somehow I managed to bruise my right forearm.

Luckily, no more burns yet.