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.

Which Tarot Card Are You?

You Are The Lovers

You represent ideal love: innocence, trust, exhilaration and joy. You demonstrate the harmony of opposites, two sides coming together. At times, you also represent the struggle between what is right and what is tempting. Control is an issue for you, especially when you don't know your reasons for choosing something. Your fortune: You have an important choice you need to make about love, and it will be a difficult choice to make. You are likely struggling between the love you crave and the love that is right. In the end, you will choose what you crave, even if it's bad for you. Because without what you crave, you will feel empty and incomplete.

What Tarot Card Are You?

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, Part 57

Note: I attempted to post this yesterday, but it disappeared into cyberspace.

I got back from physical therapy a few minutes ago to find a message from my dermatologist's office. You know, I'd already decided that everything was fine and I'd just have stitches from the biopsy taken out text week and be on my way. Wrong again. Something is wrong. The message said they'd been trying to get in touch with me and want to set up an appointment to discuss my "diagnosis and treatment."

You know they're not going to tell me anything over the phone. They never tell you anything over the phone. I don't think it's skin cancer because I've never heard of skin cancer manifesting that way before.

Nonetheless. Things can always get worse. Can I put that on my headstone? I'd prefer to be cremated, but maybe they could just put a headstone in some random, unfilled corner of a cemetery. It wouldn't have to be big, obviously.

If not "Things can always get worse," then I'm considering just "Fuck you."

Keep you posted on the fun new developments.

What Now

I don't know what's wrong with me. On Monday, I had to go home because I was nauseated and finally threw up. Yesterday I was all better. Today I'm feeling nauseated again. I've eaten a cup of yogurt and some hot tea.

I'm afraid to eat anything else because if I get sick, I may never be able to eat that again. That's how it is for me. Once I'm sick after eating something, I never want to be within a mile of it again. On the other hand, I really need to eat something.

Well so much for that. I just had to make a trip to the restroom...sick again.

Bitch Bitch Bitch

I am, among other things, what used to be referred to as "a woman of a certain age." I'm over 50 and I'm good with that. Fifty is a very liberating age, even if you don't have breast cancer to remind you of whom you truly are. Be happy with you, because you're great just the way you are.

Nonetheless, I've been in a general quandary about what's appropriate (or not) for women my age to wear. To help enlighten myself and avoid embarrassing fashion faux pas, I subscribed to a magazine aimed directly at my demographic.

I've come to dread its bi-monthly arrival. The magazine is filled with articles about women who've quit their unsatisfying, soul-killing but lucrative careers to pursue their personal career bliss. Without fail, these women have somehow managed to find the work they love that puts food on the table and pays the monthly mortgage. Imagine my distress.

I'm stuck here in Crazy Land, doing things that I generally don't like to do...or doing nothing at all (unless you count weblog activity as work-related). I'm the primary wage earner in the family, I have breast cancer, personal debt in addition to a mortgage payment and, of course, the rising costs of fuel, food and medication. Stuck.

I resent the beaming faces and glowing testimonials to branching out on your own, opening a knitting store, a cozy bed and breakfast, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Looking at them makes me feel like a failure and a coward. I am a failure because, even when my job here was highly demanding, it was without question nothing that I ever liked and always underutilized my brain power and creativity.

Next, the age-appropriate fashion. How many of us can afford a "bargain" $300 dress for work? Or a $150 pair of jeans, paired with a $200 pair of espadrilles and a $150 shirt? Even if I could afford it, I wouldn't. Clothing costs make me absolutely crazy. I like clothes. A lot. I don't indulge my desires as much as I used to; the changes breast cancer makes to one's body doesn't inspire a great body image.

I shop at sales. I mean 80% off sales. Even at that discount, I still couldn't afford anything like the prices cited as "reasonable" in any magazine that features knock-offs of high fashion looks. I don't want to look like Meryl Streep; I just want to look classy and elegant. People generally say I do. I think that has to do with the way I (used to) carry myself and the fact that I was genetically blessed with a tall, slender frame. We all know I work out like a maniac when I'm capable (in between breast cancer tortures). I try to eat right. So I look okay, without spending lunatic amounts of money.

Nonetheless, I'm sick of being made to feel like a disappointment to my generation for not achieving enough, looking good enough, being healthy enough, not climbing a mountain, not raising a perfect family while having an enriching career.

Where am I going with this? Nowhere. I just had to say. I'm not, repeat not going to read this month's article about gourmet cooking on a $400 a week budget. Furthermore, you don't like what I'm wearing? You think I shouldn't be wearing these shoes because they're too young-looking? As it turns out, I don't really care. Welcome to fifty.

I'm Cambodia

You're Cambodia!

Life's been really rough, but it's slowly improving. You know
way too much about the skeletal structure of humans, mostly from being forced to study
it. This has given you a fear of many things, most especially the color red.
The future has to be more promising though, and your greatest adversary can now
never come back to hurt you any more.


Take the Country Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid

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.

Loathsome Reopens The Jim Bob Hopkins Memorial Film School

"No plan can prevent a stupid person from doing the wrong thing in the wrong place at the wrong time - but a good plan should keep a concentration from forming." ~ Charles Erwin Wilson, 1890-1961

It's another Loathsome story. Who would have guessed? Recall that Loathsome is in charge of a huge project and that he's already made some damn fine progress in screwing it up. The trend continues.

This morning, I opened my intra-office email and found two separate emails from Owner regarding an old Crazy Land employee. The first email informed everyone that Jim Bob Jones (name changed to protect a whole range of people) is ineligible for employment and should not be allowed in the building. The second email contradicted the first--we're hiring him so let him in the building to fill out his paperwork.

I recognized Jim Bob's name immediately and had to stop a phone conversation with my mother because I was so stunned. No wait...surely he means someone else, I thought. Jim Bob worked for us about ten years ago. He suffered a series of minor work-related injuries which, if nothing else, indicates some pretty poor safety habits. Then he shattered some bones in either his leg or his arm. It doesn't matter which. Coincidentally, Jim Bob had been in a bull riding contest over the weekend. Obviously, we had some reason to doubt the cause of the fractures, seeing as how there were no witnesses to the accident at the work site.

Bull riding. What the hell is the deal with that, anyway? I'll never understand it. I've gaged the extraordinary scope of his arrogance and stupidity. It rivals Loathsome's. There is no way that guy could be good enough to make any real money at falling off bulls on a regular basis. However, the list of things that can get permanently injured is endless. Let's start with breaking limbs. I'll bet his genetic heritage is absolutely saturated with stupidity, because he actually told us about the bull riding.

This was a huge, huge workers' comp case. Doctors put Jim Bob on restricted duty for months. I won't bore you with how much that can cost a company or why. Suffice it to say, Crazy Land was in for some major workers' comp problems the next year because of this bull riding pin head. (Note: We don't have any problems with people who are legitimately injured at work, even though they may be off for a significant period of time. Especially if they don't do it repeatedly.) We had no light duty projects to accommodate his particular restrictions. That meant Jim Bob was going to be sitting on his ass at home for the next six months, drinking beer and watching soaps, no doubt. Lost time accidents take a serious toll not only on workers' comp rates, but on our ongoing ability to find and keep customers.

Owner was furious. Jim Bob is arrogant and whiny and snotty. It's a winning combination that doesn't inspire much confidence and certainly not any pity. Owner directed me to give Jim Bob something to do at our office every day for the next six months (or however long the disability lasted).

This is how the Jim Bob Hopkins Memorial Film School was created. I told Jim Bob he'd be watching safety films all day, every day until he was restored to full duty. Just to ensure he wasn't spending his time with us napping or chatting with office employees, he was required to write synopses of each and every safety film. I reviewed them every afternoon. Not only that, but he had to go over to the State Safety Commission, pick up and return his own films each day. I got to approve the list of films. Jim Bob was not going to sneak in repeat films so he could re-use his synopses. All of the reviewing and approving was, to say the least, annoying additions to my then harrowing number of responsibilities.

Jim Bob was eventually released to full duty and resumed his work at our client's site. The next time we were required to make work force reductions at that site, Jim Bob was at the top of the list. Aside from the questionable circumstances of his injury, he had clearly not been working safely for quite some time. Needless to say, the time came when Jim Bob rode his bull into the sunset, falling off all the way.

Yesterday, Loathsome sent over a list of people he was hiring for the big project. Everyone who does hiring is required to check in with me to ensure they're eligible fore rehire, based on their injury record. A flurry of ruffled feathers swept throughout the building. Virtually everyone knows the story of the Jim Bob Memorial Film School, because I bitched about it endlessly while I was essentially babysitting him. I had already gone home for the day, so someone called Loathsome to tell him that Jim Bob is not eligible for rehire. Loathsome then called Jim Bob and told him he's not eligible for rehire. Another brilliant move by Loathsome. Jim Bob wanted to know if that's because of his work-related injuries. Having screwed up royally, Loathsome then punted to Owner to resolve the problem.

Although our company is well within its rights to refuse to hire someone based on a poor safety record, that wouldn't necessarily prevent Jim Bob from attempting to sue. In this state, all it takes is $250 and a rapacious attorney. Like all companies in that situation, we would be compelled to settle a claim (and maybe hire him, anyway) in order not to spend the next decade litigating at an enormous expense to the company.

I hope I'm here when Jim Bob shows up to fill out his employment paperwork. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to see me again. I won't mention the fact that we now have a film school named after him. That would be the kind of idiotic thing Loathsome would do. I might ask him how the bull riding is going, though, as if he might be having some success with it. In the meantime, I'm getting the break room ready for some more safety film reviews. Welcome home, Jim Bob, your film school is waiting for you.

America held hostage: Endlessly (I gave up counting long ago)

Bushism of the day:

"I've heard he's been called Bush's poodle. He's bigger than that." --George W. Bush, on former British Prime Minister Tony Blair, as quoted by the Sun newspaper, June 27, 200

Find your own gems at http://politicalhumor.about.com/library/blbushisms.htm

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.

News on the Home Front, Crazy Land Avoidance

I think it says something that I've been reduced to taking tests on The Blue Pyramid. And that I seem to be out of the loop in Crazy Land.

Loathsome is back on the project, so I haven't had to try to avoid him. Nonetheless, I'm in my office, avoiding everyone. As if I ever truly seek anyone out. What would be the point of that, other than to irritate me or amuse you?

I need to get some water, but I hear someone at the copier near the water cooler. I'm not going out there. I'll just die of dehydration, thanks.

I don't think I can continue on like this until the test in August. Or maybe I can. It's worth a shot.

The big news is on the home front. Hubby has officially been furloughed from his job as a Tax Examiner at the IRS. Here's how you know it's a government job: They can still fire him. Yes, they can call him up at home (within the next couple of weeks, I think) and terminate his ass. I'd make some snotty comment, but I'm dumbfounded. You'll have to think of your own.

Hubby now has to find another job. Soon. The job search just started and it's already making me crazy. He believes that (iffy) job experience from 20 years ago is viable in the job market. He hopes to make a great salary. Well, I'd like that, too, but I'm grounded in reality. Hubby hasn't been in the traditional job market in so long that it's impossible for him to be pragmatic about it. Guess who has to help him?

Hubby is constitutionally unable to do anything without my help. On Wednesday, he was going to make burgers on my little George Foreman grilling machine. I was wiped out and hanging out on the sofa, attempting to recuperate from my day at Crazy Land.

A couple of minutes after he disappeared into the kitchen, I heard the drawers and cabinets being opened and closed. He couldn't find something. Sigh. I went into the kitchen and asked him what he was searching for. A crucial implement. Unfortunately, Hubby was the last person who used the teflon safe spatula, so I had absolutely no idea where it might be. For all I knew, he might have taken it upstairs to that black hole we call his office. Don't think I haven't found equally weird things up there. I can't tell you how many pieces of silverware I've stumbled across. Wood cleaner that I know he hasn't a clue how to use. We've lost at least two hammers in his office. They've been missing for several years.

Hubby could tell I was annoyed. He told me to go sit down. I did. Then there was silence. I read a couple of pages in my current book and noted there still wasn't a sound emanating from the kitchen. I went back to find him standing in the middle of the kitchen. Standing there. As if the spatula might magically spring out of its hiding place on the strength of his personal magnetism alone.

I started looking for it, even more annoyed than the last time. I found it in the first cabinet I opened. Yes, I suppose he does get some credit for not having taken it upstairs. Not much, though.

I'm A Scorpion

You're a Scorpion!

You really enjoy weapons and like keeping as many of them at hand
as possible, just in case. Most of these weapons are sharp, and you have a small
collection of armor as well. You just can't be too careful these days. Maybe it's
that you've always been small and feel threatened and this has prompted your
elaborate collection to bloom. It's not too surprising that you've become a bit of
a loner, even a hermit, with those tendencies. Or that your favorite actor is The
Rock.


Take the Animal Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Don't Eat The Dogs

Click this, please. Do not eat (wo)man's best friend.

www.DogMeatTrade.com

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.

What Classic Movie Are You

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

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.

Non-Binding Peace Accord Reached

I've been completely useless this week. The only thing remotely productive I've done at work was yesterday's conversation with Loathsome. That pretty much speaks for itself.

On the non-productive Crazy Land front, I've had several early morning chats with the Shunner. We've signed a non-binding peace accord and relations have been almost completely normalized. I should be dispatched to solve the Middle East problem; I'd have them talking amiably in two weeks or less. They still might not like each other, but they'd be discussing critical things like home grown tomatoes and soldering tools almost immediately.

Those are the kinds of warm, bonding experiences the Shunner and I have been sharing. He grows organic vegetables for his personal consumption and was kind enough to bring some to Crazy Land. He suggested I partake and I took him up on that offer without hesitation. Therein lay the seeds of the new relationship.

Then the Shunner shared with me his frustration with a soldering tool he used this week in an attempt to repair his beloved riding lawnmower. He has three acres of land on the verge of town and nothing pleases him more than loading up with a beverage, putting on the mp3 player headphones and mowing the hell out of the place.

A couple of belts broke on the mower on Tuesday and, stranded in the middle of the three verdant acres, he "was devastated," he told me. Humor never fails to soften my heart.

The Shunner, being an enterprising guy, got his handy 15 year old soldering tool to replace some wires that got thrown about the lawn when the Kevlar belts broke. (We're talking high-end mower here.) From what I can tell, it's like a self-adjusting heating iron. It heats up to a certain temperature, shuts itself down to cool, then heats up again. I guess one of the advantages here is that sparks don't fly up and cause unsightly burn marks on the user. There's probably some other highly technical reason, but I have no idea what it might be.

Not a patient man, the Shunner, after about 30 minutes of trying fruitlessly to solder the wires together, threw the entire thing into one of his pecan trees. His wife came out to find out if she could help and arrived at just the moment the ancient tool hit a branch. Without a word, she turned around, went back to their backyard deck and resumed reading a book. When the Shunner has reached his emotional limit, you don't want to give him an opportunity to vent. Not that the Shunner has any control over Brenda at all; she will kick his butt without a moment's hesitation. Sometimes it's just too much trouble.

Finally, we dissected the sad state of affairs the weather has wreaked on this area. It's been raining for weeks now with no reprieve in sight. May is the beginning of our usual drought season, so we're all delighted to have an abundance of water, but folks are having to be rescued on a daily basis from the roofs of their houses.

We've had so much rapid development in the past several years that the historical problem of run-off in this area has gotten much worse. Even though we regularly experience long-term drought conditions, we have our own brief spring rainy season. Every year, people are warned not to drive through moving water if it's more than an inch high. If you can't judge how high it is, you should just turn around and go back the way you came. Every year, during heavy rain periods, foolhardy souls fail to heed these warnings and are swept down torrents of fast-moving water. Many of them die.

You can see that the Shunner and I have our conversational hands full with all of this weather-related activity going on.

I'd love to share more with you, but I've managed to kill another day without accomplishing a damn thing. Must be time to go home and regale the family with Crazy Land tales. You'll just have to wait for what promises to be another unproductive day tomorrow.

Loathsome Needs His Receipts, Bitch

Oh jesus. Loathsome is in the office today and we've already been unable to prevent him from coming upstairs. Right off the bat.

I was on my way to Owner's office when I saw him standing in the Information Superhighway's office, forcing Money Man to look for something. (Information Superhighway is out for a couple of weeks.) I took some pleasure in noting Loathsome was already infuriating Money Man. I could see him clenching his teeth, presumably in an effort to keep his head from exploding.

I weighed the odds of being able to make it to Owner's office and back without Loathsome noticing. They weren't good, as always, it was too late to retreat. Sure enough, Loathsome turned around before I could escape into Owner's inner sanctum. I flashed him a smile and said, "Loathsome! How's life?" I gave him the thumbs-up sign as I kept walking. That should have made it abundantly clear that I don't give a rat's ass how he is, but we're talking about Loathsome here.

After I was back in my office for a couple of minutes, I thought I heard a faint voice coming from Crazy Employee's office saying, "Ggirl. Ggirl." For a second I thought I had lost my mind. I'm relentlessly optimistic. Of course it was Loathsome. Who else would believe it better to mumble my name from the other side of a closed door than to actually knock?

I girded my mental loins and told him to come in.

He asked, "Are you in the loop for paper receipts?"

Now he knows damn well I'm not in that "loop." I'm so far out of it that I had to pause for a minute to figure out what the hell he was talking about. At least he's consistent. I'm immediately baffled every time he opens his mouth. That's just part of his charm.

"No. That would be Crazy Employee. She's not here today," I told him.

He stood in my doorway and explained to me in excruciating detail why he needed some specific receipts immediately.

"She's not here today." Just in case I hadn't made it clear the first time and he hadn't noticed Crazy wasn't wandering around the office, whining. If she's here, that's what she's doing. Well, unless she's futilely attempting to create problems between Owner and me. Either way, Loathsome should have noted we're missing that special something Crazy Employee brings to the office.

Loathsome explained his customer really wanted those receipts and they'd been requesting them for a couple of days. Tough shit, Bud, I guess you should have gotten them a couple of days ago. Besides, I believe we addressed that, possibly more than once.

"Well, can't help you. Crazy will be back tomorrow, though." Maybe if I just wrote it down with a Sharpie on a piece of paper, climbed up on my desk and held it up over my head like that famous scene in "Norma Rae," I could get him the hell out of my doorway.

Three times is never enough with Loathsome. Yes, we went through it again. He seemed to finally comprehend, but didn't budge an inch. I know I always have to stroke his ego one way or another. Call me stubborn. I just don't wish to do it. Ever. So I hold out and, eventually, give in because I know he'll still be standing there at 5:00 o'clock if I don't just get it over with. Oh fuck.

"How's the back? And the wrists? And the ankles?" I hoped to get him to sum everything up for me so I wouldn't be nodding and smiling for the next 45 minutes. Dream on. He told me. It's all bad. Loathsome is a trooper, though, and hangs tough for our collective benefit.

"Yeah. I'm in pain every day, too. You know, I've had so many surgeries." I just said that because I know it irritates him to think about anyone other than Loathsome. I have to get something out of this, you know. That seemed to register briefly on his slack-jawed face.

"I really need those receipts." Back to me, bitch.

It was about as gracious an exit line as you're ever going to get from Loathsome. He had accomplished his objectives--bother the hell out of me, impress upon me the importance of his job, astound me with his capacity for endurance and, finally, to feign interest in someone else.

"I guess you're just going to have to call Crazy Employee on her cellphone."

I'd also accomplished my objective. I smiled at him as I got up, smiled sweetly and closed my door.

It's going to be a long 12 weeks.

What Book Are You?

You're Love in the Time of Cholera!

by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Like Odysseus in a work of Homer, you demonstrate undying loyalty by
sleeping with as many people as you possibly can. But in your heart you never give
consent! This creates a strange quandary of what love really means to you. On the
one hand, you've loved the same person your whole life, but on the other, your actions
barely speak to this fact. Whatever you do, stick to bottled water. The other stuff
could get you killed.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

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.

Awesome

On Saturday, when I went to my local Walgreens to pick up a prescription, I was waited on by a young Pharmacy Technician. I've never quite understood what specific skills are necessary for that job other than the ability to talk (to pharmacists and customers), the ability to alphabetize (the prescription bags) and the ability to run the computer/cash register. On the face of it, that seems easy enough.

I've engaged in transactions with this tech before and all has always gone well. That's saying a lot because I've been "helped" by a number of true numbskulls who needed a lot more Pharmacy Tech education. Mainly in the area of "finding stuff." I hope there's a separate class on that subject, because it's sorely needed. Or, for instance, "Diabetes Drugs--Where To find them in the Pharmacy Refrigerator." That should also be a required class in the Pharmacy Tech curriculum.

This Pharmacy Tech must have had absolutely stellar grades in "finding stuff", because he located my prescription in short order.

"Have you taken this before?" he asked me.

"Yes."

"Have you had any problems with it?"

"No," I said.

His response? "Awesome."

Yet another suggestion for Pharmacy Technician required training: "Reasons Why 'Awesome' is a Completely Inappropriate Response. To Anything."

While I'm at it, I may as well cover my other pet peeve, one which must certainly define me as a crank. I always thank all waiters, cashiers and sales people. They've provided me with a service, they are fellow human beings and that is my way of acknowledging both of those things. I know the vast majority of people don't understand either one of those truths, are too busy or too irritated to be thankful. Some people probably don't even seen the need to show gratitude because, after all, the service provider is compensated either by the customer or the store owner or both. I get all of that and I'm not proselytizing for my way of doing things. Nothing wrong with those people.

It's not impossible for me to see that maybe people who work in customer service positions are completely unaccustomed to being thanked. Maybe they don't know what to say. Entirely possible.

However, once I've said my "thank you" and smiled at the cashier/waitperson/sales person, they should respond with something along the lines of, "My pleasure." Instead, the majority of service people say, "No problem." Well, I should certainly hope it would not be a problem, since it's your job, after all.

I know, I know. I have had sales jobs, but not waiting tables and not acting solely as a cashier. I have many times worked in malls at Christmas. I'm a war-hardened veteran of harried, bad-tempered customers. I've had many friends who've worked in restaurants. It's a tough to make a living wage and maintain your sanity. I'm entirely sympathetic to their plight or I would never say thank you.

I work in a service industry, though. (I will not bore you with my lecture about how we all are customer providers of one type or another. It's long and could be a bit tedious.) I not only answer to our clients, but to the other denizens of Crazy Land. Crazy Land notwithstanding, I still want to give my internal customers what they need. I will do whatever it takes to make the company's clients happy. I will tell them it's my pleasure to help them and they should let me know immediately if there's a problem or they need more assistance.

Please never, ever tell me "no problem." I don't get my panties in a wad or leave a paltry tip. It's a thing I notice, though. Think of this as just another note from the woman I swore I would never grow up to be. In the words of my co-worker, Loathsome, thank you for your cognizance.

Good News, Bad News

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hand Crank Is Better Than A Day In Crazy Land

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

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

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

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

Perhaps You'd Like To Suggest A Nickname

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There's Generally An Up Side To Every Day

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

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

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

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

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

Waking in the Middle of the Night

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

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

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

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

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

Tagged by the Rat Crips

I've gone back to editing old entries so I can post them on another weblog and, if I'm going to be funny, I'll have to do it now. Any reflection on my early life can only end badly. Some days I can be funny about that, too, but mostly not. And even when I am, you have to wade through all of the horror to find it. I'll spare you.

Besides, I'm really furious. I got this lovely pair of impeccably creased black pants back from the dry cleaner yesterday and, when I glanced down a little while ago, I saw a couple of white marks running across the front of the left leg. Mind you, I have no idea at this point who's responsible for the affront to my tidiness. It could just as likely be me as anyone else.

Wait a minute. It just occurred to me that it could be the work of one of those nefarious rats that seem to hang around in gangs downstairs in the kitchen. One of them probably tagged me and I'm the official property of the Rat Crips now. I'm going to have to get right over to the other side of the building and warn Money Man and his family to avoid the downstairs altogether. My kitties have once again attracted all of the rats fleeing sewer repairs and property development. That damn kitty cabal!

Having noticed the imperfection of my pants, I started searching for my recently acquired Tide pen. It was nowhere to be found, so I tried a damp paper towel. Whatever it is, it's not coming off. This is Kelly Ripa's fault. She convinced me on her wildly annoying commercials to buy one and now look what's happened. I've relied on it and it's missing in action.

I'll just have to remember to keep my right leg crossed over my left for the rest of the day. Maybe I could try to only let people see me from the side. I might be able to sidle in through doorways and then casually drape my left hand over the offending marks on the front of my left thigh. Or right hand. Whichever seems more jaunty at the time.

Of course, that's not to say that I have much interest in how I look at work these days. Lately I don't even use any makeup. I wash my hair and arrive at the office while it's still wet. (Thank you breast cancer that made all my hair fall out and then grow back curly!) Sometimes I put on a little blush and mascara after I get here, but I don't see any point in even doing that. My genial co-workers have gotten accustomed to seeing me in much worse condition than this.

For several months, I had an incredibly white, moon face with dark shadows under my eyes. I was bald and had sores on my hands. My fingernails were black and deeply ridged. I weighed 20 pounds more than I'd ever weighed in my life. I only had one breast. Compared to that, I look positively fabulous now. I carry makeup around with me in my cancer tote bag, just in case I feel inspired. I rarely do.

My Meyers-Briggs personality profile notes that I'm strategic thinker. Comes in handy when you've been rat-tagged. I'll let you know what I come up with, you know, in addition to the walking sideways thing.

I'm A Uniter, Not a Divider

I've somehow managed to thoroughly confuse myself. That in itself isn't uncommon, but this was a huge medication error. I take Ambien every night so I can sleep. (It's difficult to sleep through the night when one has post traumatic stress disorder because of hypervigilance.) I've recently begun taking another medication during the day to address chronic depression and anxiety (ptsd, again). Cutting to the chase: I mixed up the two drugs, took the Ambien during the day and the other drug at night. I have no idea how long I've been taking the antidepressant twice a day.

I only slept about two hours last night and I'm pretty revved up now, but my doctor says things should stabilize soon. I suppose that means I'll stabilize soon. I'm a joy to be around right now, being very high on the Perky Scale. I suspect it's a little like being around someone who's had too much to drink; it's great if you're high, too, but annoying if you're not. Being ever so considerate as usual, I have not tested my fellow employees by interacting with them. That's so me.

On the Crazy Land front, Money Man is working his way up to either a massive stroke or coronary event. Since his return from vacation, he's been happily enraged every day. You know how he loves that. It's like mother's milk to him. I can only hope that I've played some part in it because it's important to me to contribute to the happiness of my co-workers, especially Money Man.

If I had to speculate (and you know I do), I'd say he's lumped me in with all the other "idiots" and "morons" (his favorite words) who work here. I think he's been harboring at least a little bit of hatred towards me for years, believing that I'm virtually useless here in Crazy Land. The Kitty Wars have raised my status in that regard. Now I'm totally useless. Of course, as far as Money Man is concerned, it appears the only people he believes aren't useless are him, his daughter and his son. Go figure.

Loathsome will be making a 12-week return engagement soon. The project he's been working on (and I use that term loosely) has been postponed. You know, he offices in my wing of the building. It can only be good news for me, because everything and everyone looks better when they're in close proximity to Loathsome. A little bit of his astoundingly good looks are bound to rub off on me as we pass each other in the hallway.

He's been here from time to time, but Owner has chosen to meet with him downstairs. I don't think there's any way we can make Loathsome stay downstairs for 12 weeks. My solution to the problem? Move Loathsome over to Money Man's wing and, just as a bonus, move Useless One and Shoe Lady over there, too. Or they could all move downstairs. It will be an all-day love fest, five days a week. As an added attraction, I'd be happy to drop by and make Money Man chat with me for an hour or so from time to time.

Much like our President, I'm a uniter, not a divider. And I'm a hell of a problem solver. I've fixed the entire office situation in one fell swoop. Let the love fest begin.

Holding Functional Brain Hostage

Here's a good decision: This morning as I was putting breakfast and lunch items in my tote bag (extra large bagel and 8 prunes for breakfast, apple and yogurt for lunch), it occurred to me that maybe I'm not eating enough. I'm sure that's a correct assumption. (No! Stop throwing stuff at me, people! I admitted I'm wrong!) What's missing here? I know. I'll take some dry-roasted nuts with me in case I need a protein infusion. Do I really want to do that? Once you start eating them, it can be difficult to stop. I was sane enough and awake enough to remember I've compulsively eaten stuff at the office as a means of coping with stress.

I should just measure out an acceptable quantity and take that amount. The thought crossed my mind, but ultimately time was not on my side. I had about 8 minutes to get to work. I live close to my office, so 8 minutes is no big deal. However, there was no way in hell I was going to figure out how to measure the stupid nuts, find a suitable container and stash them in said tote bag in time to make my 7:00 a.m. curtain call. So I just left. I did not bring any extra food with me.

Right about now, as I near the end of the day, the body is feeling terribly misused and has taken the brain hostage. The brain can not work until some sort of acceptable fuel is provided. Crazy Employee next door has M&M's. As a matter of fact, I think virtually everyone here has a chocolate stash. I don't think the body will consider that an adequate ransom to give the functional brain back.