The Vet Probably Thinks I'm Crazy

i just got back from the vet's office. Mr. T.'s glucose level was very high. we checked it in the morning a couple of times and it was much lower; the vet doesn't know why, but she suspects i'm not doing it right. i did drop the insulin a couple of nights ago, so maybe that's the problem. i don't know, but i do know that i seem alarmingly anxious-- even to me.

i hate that. it's just that it's been such a frustrating week and things seem to be going downhill. he won't eat any dogfood. none. nada. give me the hamburger, please, because that's all i'm going to eat. of course, on the up side, Sheba won't eat canned dogfood, either. nothing like picky pets. the vet suggested i give him the ground beef, but add some stuff to it to make it more nutriitous. my entire life right now is consumed by this husky. next week he's going to spend the day at the vet's so they can monitor his glucose level periodically and to get an ultrasound done. maybe we can figure out what's wrong with my guy so we can make him feel better.

i've been attempting to work on creating a database all day. fascinating stuff. i'm being ironic, of course.i don't know. i've been ratcheted up since last night. maybe it's just the cumulative stress over Mr. T. maybe it's menopause. what the fuck.

here's the quote of the day:
"Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea." ~ Robert A. Heinlein

america held hostage day 1830
bushism of the day:
"I appreciate that question because I, in the state of Texas, had heard a lot of discussion about a faith-based initiative eroding the important bridge between church and state."website of the day; Anarchy and Game Theoryhttp://www.spunk.org/texts/misc/sp000161.txt

The Anasthesia of Everyday Life

driving back to work from lunch today, i drifted off into a reverie of the past. there was a time when everything was vivid, when every passing moment was intensely experienced. i think that's what everyone seeks in high school reunions or just reunions with old friends. it's what i seek when i recall the girl i once was. that girl had considerably more pain than i have to deal with on a daily basis. she wasn't sure she would make it to 50. she certainly wasn't sure whether she wished to.

these days, though i try to remain present in the moment, i frequently drift off into an anesthetized routine. i'm a little numb to it, so i try to reach back and rouse emotion or, at the very least, to break free momentarily from the drudgery of my life. every day it's the same. wake up, think about how sore i am from working out. try to summon some interest in what i'm going to wear to work. lately i just put on whatever's easiest. i shower, wake my husband up with coffee in bed and finish getting dressed. i take care of the dogs, then i drive the same streets to the same job i've had for at least 12 years now, but who's counting? i hang around work, go to lunch, come home at the end of the day. i have dinner with my husband, go home, work out and do a little reading. sometimes i meditate. then bedtime and i get up the next day to do it all over again. it's so unbearably tedious.

my therapist would probably say that one of the reasons i have such a numbed response to my life is because there are so many emotions i keep at bay. at the heart of it all is an attempt to hold at arm's length the recognition that i simply haven't been very important to anyone in life. in all of the relationships i've ever had, i immediately move to the bottom of the list of priorities. i don't understand why that's so. when parents can find so many other things to care about than their child, maybe one simply gets accustomed to this profound aloneness. i don't think i'm capable of confronting that black hole hidden at the very center of my being. whenever i catch glimpses of it, the pain is unbearable. it's so much easier to just go through the day like every other day. the sameness of my days may even be just a little heartening. i'm no longer living in a chaotic environment where unanticipated dangers loom behind every passing second. anesthesia is thus somehow comforting.

nonetheless, i miss the girl who was so vibrantly present even to that terror and pain. i think she just got very tired. maybe that's just what middle age feels like to everyone. monotony. comforting in its predictability, but ultimately, maybe deadly to all feeling. we are unimpressed, thank you very much. we've seen the blue sky and the sunset a thousand times before. we've met new people and found them to be, at best, predictable and, at worst, just the same old demands in new packages. we've married our heart's desires and found them to be surly and unshaven in the morning. romance is an old wive's tale. it's just all the same, every last second.

here's the quote of the day:
"There's no such thing as old age, there is only sorrow." ~ Edith Wharton

america held hostage day 1829
bushism of the day:
"They want the federal government controlling Social Security like it's some kind of federal program."wesite of the day: National Institute for Discovery Sciencehttp://www.nidsci.org/index2.htmlYou gotta love this shit.

Dogs and Suicide

hubby left this morning to visit my stepson and his wife. after taking him to pick up a rental car, i came back and got The Tusk ready for his appointment with the vet. he wouldn't eat much this morning, but enough to give him his insulin injection. he only weight 69 pounds this morning, which i'm assuming is related to his not eating breakfast. his glucose level was down to 316. i had a disagreement with his doctor about the amount of insulin he was supposed to be getting. we had raised him to 25 units, then 27 as of last week. his doctor didn't remember those numbers at all...she thought he was still at 22. i still believe i was correct. i don't just make this stuff up, particularly when it relates to my dogs. he had a couple of hot spots, one on his cheeck and one on his right elbow. we got some spray-on medication for that. we have to go back in on thursday to check the glucose level in the afternoon. next wednesday he'll be there all day so they can do several glucose tests to determine when the insulin level peaks. he'll also undergo an ultrasound in the hope that we can find out whether he has cancer.

i'm just not dealing with that right now. it's all i can do to make sure he's adequately fed and gets his injections. i don't really have enough mental energy to worry about it.as i was driving to work this morning, i saw an overweight guy walking towards the car on the opposite side of the road. it put me in mind of my father. suddenly there was the picture in my head of how he used to be. i spent a few seconds trying to figure out what was prompting those memories, but i managed to curtail that train of thought pretty quickly. there was some television program last night that had a couple of suicides in it. maybe that stuck in my head. to be truthful, though, he's always popping up in my head, sometimes as the person he was before he killed himself and sometimes as the person who inflicted so much pain on me and everyone else with whom he had relationships.

i guess that's just the nature of suicides. it's never really finished business for those left behind. i remember when i first started going to my survivors of suicide group, there was a lady there whose daughter had killed herself over 17 years previously. she showed up every week to offer support for those of us still in the unbearable immediate aftermath of our own losses. every week when i saw her, i wondered how she had managed to keep going for so long. she gave me hope that i would eventually be able to survive my father's death. at the time, i wasn't so sure i was ever going to be okay again. i'll always be grateful for her presence and the calm way she talked about her daughter's suicide. the story is burned into my memory.

i sometimes think about going back to the meetings just to provide hope for others just embarking on their own journeys. i never much liked the facilitator and, the minute she started to try to do therapy on me, i stopped going. that's pretty much my pattern. if people attempt to get to close, to see into my very well-barricaded heart, i will immediately and completely withdraw. i get to control when and how and with whom i share my emotions. i had already had some misgivings about her; i thought she responded to one person in a way that may have increased the victim's guilt. that's one thing that no survivor needs. there's enough guilt to drown in it. when she started doing therapy with me, i made the decision that i'd received enough support.enough exploration for the day.

here's the quote of the day:
"Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned." ~ Edna St. Vincent Millayamerica held hostage day 1827 bushism of the day:"We are ready for any unforeseen event which may or may not happen."website of the day: Frugal and Fashionable Living Magainehttp://www.frugalfun.com/frugal.html

I Can Survive Anything

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next." ~ Gilda Radner

I've been catching up with blog friends I haven't been able to read lately. I need to stop for a moment to talk about yesterday. It was a bad, bad day and it took me until late in the afternoon to realize it. Realization should have started when my mom told me a couple of times early in the day to stop beating up on myself.

On the way home, she was talking about the 4th of July and it immediately reminded me that July 6, 2006 was my last day of radiation. Then I recalled that March 28 was my last chemo day. But then I wasn't sure...was it March 26 or March 28? I became obsessed (oh yeah, I never do that ) with verifying the date. Around 7;00 p.m. last night, I finally managed to find some written evidence that the date was correct.

Then it suddenly hit me. A year. As someone on my breast cancer message board told me, I've been through a lot. It made for a sad and somber evening. It's okay...just a part of coming to terms with it all. I allowed myself to grieve for the relinquishment of wholeness. I remembered it all. The diagnosis--in three stages. The mastectomy. The chemo. The radiation. It was all unbearable, so I chose not to bear it.

I haven't only changed physically. I know now, with complete certainty, that I can get through anything. Maybe my father's suicide should have enlightened me on my transcendent abilities. Now I know. It seems to have created a greater reserve in myself, a distancing from the hard events of life. I am inviolable.

It seems I've permanently retreated into myself to shield myself against misfortune and pain. That doesn't mean I'm emotionally unreachable; as a matter of fact, I may be more open to love (in a general, nonspecific way) than ever before. I can survive love and loss. That knowledge liberates me, but it leaves me with an openness to love primarily on a non-specific basis. I have good will towards everyone. Close personal relationships seem even more unreachable. If you care about everyone equally, do you really care about no one? I don't think so. I hope not.

How have I changed? How have I changed? It's a question that's rather haunting and not fully answered still. There's a lot more grieving to be done, a lot more suffering to be worked through. I can survive it, though. I can survive anything.

"Maybe He's Going To Sue Us"

The Comptroller of our company and I just had a conversation about an out-of-state employee who is generally contentious and whether, despite the lack of grounds, he may decide to litigate. Nothing like litigious employees to screw up a Friday morning.

I used to believe (and maybe I still do, to some extent) that people are essentially good. They will, more often than not, do the right thing. The ethical thing. Make the morally positive choice. During the past 20 years, I've certainly seen quite a few people to whom that did not apply. At all. I stubbornly hang onto the belief that, given the opportunity, people will do whatever I perceive to be the correct alternative, nonetheless.

Some people don't care whether they do the wrong thing, even when it's abundantly clear that it's the wrong thing. Why is that? I'm 53, grew up in some very dubious circumstances and I still don't get it. I recognize that there's some seriously evil stuff going on in the world. (Well, actually the word "evil" gives me a problem. It's too Manichean for me; I'm morally neutral on the nature of the universe.) Clearly, choosing things that benefit the common good over things that benefit me personally to the detriment of the common good is one of those things that would keep me up at night.

Apparently it doesn't keep everyone up at night, though. On the other hand, I choose to believe that we are all doing the very best we can at all moments. If we could do something better, we would. There are, however, lots of reasons why we might make a less than desirable choice. The intersection of nature and nurture sometimes create moral blinders. I guess most people would say that idea is amoral or just plain stupid. Maybe that's so, but it just seems pragmatic to me. My therapist and I discuss this on a regular basis and she completely disagrees.

Maybe the employee is going to try to sue us, but if he does, it will be because he doesn't know how to do otherwise. I could argue the case some more, but it's time for...you guessed it: therapy. I guess I'll just have to take it up there.

There's Always An Up Side

Though it may be true that one of my co-workers (let's just call him Loathsome) has come into some unexpected good fortune, all is not lost. In fact, now the fun really begins. All manner of conflict is springing up everywhere. It may not add to my personal bottom line, but it's certainly a boon to the entertainment factor. Bad, bad ggirl.

Devil Dog

I have a one-year old adolescent husky mix dog. We're going through those teenage, rebellious years and it's wearing me down. They're not grown when they're a year old. They're not adults until they're at least 3 years old. I learned that this morning as I desperately searched the Internet for help in correcting behavior problems, specifically biting.

Andy (formerly known as "Wolf") gets overly excited, just like all males. When he's tired and needing to sleep, he goes absolutely crazy. He jumps on the sofa and shoves his head in between the cushions (which he knows is Bad Boy). While he's there, he bites me. A lot. Really hard. It's not so much an aggression thing as a crazy thing. He knows that's Bad Boy, too.

He just started this acting out about a week ago. My hands and arms are covered with cuts (where adolescent dog teeth dug into my flesh) and bruises. I look like an iv drug user or something. I've started to wear long sleeved shirts, even though the weather is decidedly warmer these days. So now I look really weird. I have to wear this vest-like bra which peeks out of virtually all of my shirts and now I can't even wear short sleeves.

This is ruining my reputation as friend to all creatures not human. My mom thinks I deserve it because that's exactly the way I was when I was a baby. I don't think I bit, but I'd do anything to stave off sleep. Of course, that's because my life was terrifying and that made it really hard to sleep, but that's neither here nor there. We don't take that into account. Furthermore, Andy's life is anything but terrifying.

I always thought one of the advantages to having dogs/cats vs. children was the fact that they never rebelled and got tattooed or pierced. As far as I know, Andy hasn't managed to get anyone to do either of those things. But it could happen. I also thought they were cheaper because you don't have to pay for college. I won't be paying for college, but I see some serious puppy-training classes in my future. They're not cheap, folks. Neither are bandages and antiseptic in massive quantities.

I'm re-thinking the whole animal paradigm. Not that it matters because I'm going to have to do whatever it takes to get Andy out of his Steve McQueen phase and into something a little more submissive.

Because He Looks So Good

I've been in the midst of my semi-annual will-i-have-a-job-at-the-end-of-the-month panic. Our primary client is making ridiculous cost-saving (theirs, certainly not ours) demands. Even if we could meet those demands, we'd cease to be a company in probably a matter of hours. I've also been working on my annual accident report for another client and spilling what's left of my Xanax prescription all over my office. Of course, that's another story. See ggirl crawl around on the floor, searching for every single pill.

I heard yesterday that we've managed to get a new contract with an equally large company that we did some work for several years ago. Given the fact that I have less than one month's salary in my savings account, you'd think I'd be happy. Oh no. You underestimate me.

The contract was secured by (maybe) my most hated co-worker, whom I will henceforth refer to as "Lothsome." So, mean-spirited bitch that I am, I'm a little unhappy about the whole thing. If nothing else, this proves there is no such thing as karma. Up until this latest employment insult, I've been fabulous. Little Mary Sunshine with breast cancer. Yes, I find all of you adorable, my noble co-workers. Let me feed the homeless kitties. Let me cheer up those who are sad for no reason. What do I get? Not a damned thing. A car that's quickly degenerating into one of those Barney Rubble foot-powered models, among other things.

And Loathsome? The reason I started hating him in the first place is his narcissistic refusal to acknowledge that other people in the office may have contributed to his dumb ass success. And I do not mean me. The man doesn't even understand that to have a complete sentence, there must be a noun and a verb. Only one will not do (unless we're in the stream of consciousness world of my blog). When he sends out intra-office memos or (worse) business correspondence to clients, he refuses to use the word "I." They all sound like communiques from a distressed Batman cartoon. "Must get folders. Have no idea what should be doing. Will massage enormous ego." Know what I'm saying?

So what does this idiot get? A contract. Damn damn damn. I don't know the budget, but I'd be willing to bet it's big. That's just how the universe likes to screw with me. It just loves to point out that I can be as vindictive as everyone else in my office. I don't care. I still can't stand the guy.

Why does he think he got the bid? Because he looks so good. I guess I should give him credit for not thinking it's his overwhelming brain power that gives him the winner's edge. He does think he's a really bright guy, though. I never let him get away with that. I've already forgotten more than he'll ever know. I challenge his assertions, I question his know-how, I mow him down with facts. He rarely engages in intellectual conversation with me now. Wonder why.

Did I say mean-spirited and vindictive? I believe I did.

Oh no. Computer seems to be going inexplicably slowly for some reason. Must go. Save self. Resume quiet seething.

Go Red

Two years ago, I lost my best friend of 30 years to a massive heart attack. The only good news was that she didn't suffer; death came very quickly. Please make sure that your family and friends don't lose you to heart disease.

Go Red For Women

Pain is Inevitable

"Deep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state." ~ George Eliot

Except for the fact that the sun is shining through my office windows and there are lots of foraging birds and squirrels, it's another grim Monday. I'm not even sure at this point exactly what it is that makes me dread another week at work. Really, every day is pretty much like every other day. I've pushed myself physically in order to be here when no one expected me to show up. I don't even have to be here today. Or tomorrow, probably. Office became a haven from whatever form of breast cancer torture I was trying to get through for the past 18 months. Maybe my reluctance to be here is related to actually feeling better.

I lost another kitty this past week. Mom Kitty, the grandmother of all who came after, disappeared several days ago. She was looking shiny and a little tubby, so I thought it would be a while before I had to endure another loss. I have no idea what happened. It's possible that some other kitty in the colony made her leave. She's been having problems with Ring Tail Kitty for a while now. Mom Kitty used to be able to quell any big ideas by doing her incomparable hateful-kitty look. As she got older, hateful-kitty wasn't as effective. She may have been taken by a predator. The problem with being older and a little chubby is that you just can't move as quickly as you once did.

I'm hoping she's not living here anymore, but still dropping by for food after the rush hour when all the other cats are vying for food. Not that there's any food shortage, but the crowd can probably be a little intimidating.

If I've told myself once, I've told myself a million times that this is just how life is. "Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional." The Buddhist approach to life. I guess I'm opting for suffering these days. I still have my beloved Mr. Swagger, the cowardly Black and White Kitty and his improbable pal Ring Tail Kitty. I now have a large grey and white male who's been recuperating from a foot accident here in the relative safety of the patio. Crazy Cat Lady (aka me) made sure he had access to food nearby so he could stay off the foot as much as possible. I have Mom Kitty's Daughter, she of the beautiful blue eyes and the stand-offish attitude. They looked just alike except for Mom Kitty's white tipped tail. I have four baby kitties (that I need to catch and get fixed). I'm face to face with the inevitable lately. The inevitable never gets easier, no matter how many beings abandon me for death.

I finished up Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides yesterday. It took me forever to get through it. For some reason, reading about people almost dying on the side of mountains has seemed more compelling to me. Celebrating survival, I suppose. A week ago or so, I got really committed to finishing Middlesex. It was worth the struggle to concentrate.

Last night, I started reading a biography of Primo Levy. I became familiar with his work, The Periodic Table not too long after my dad died. For several years after that, I became obsessed with suicide. I read everything I could find. (Although that's just another manifestation of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies, to some extent.) I'm not sure how I became aware of Primo Levy, but he fascinated me. He survived Auschwitz, lived another couple of decades and then, inexplicably, threw himself down the stairwell of his apartment building. He did not survive the fall. How could it be that someone could summon the will to get through a concentration camp only to lose the will when life seemed to be on a even keel?

The answer is clear in some ways. Auschwitz doesn't end for survivors. It just keeps on playing in their heads. More than one therapist has told me that my early life was just as difficult to survive as a concentration camp. If that's true, then I know for a fact that it never ends. Even on my best days, when life seemed full of wonderful possibilities, the past nonetheless cast a deep shadow.

That's just my interpretation, though. It doesn't explain Levy's choice necessarily. It's another one of those enormous tomes that will take a while to wade through, but he was a fascinating man in more ways than that which he chose to end his life. Like every other life, there's plenty to celebrate in addition to the sadness.

Now what was it I'm grateful for today? Right. Just being present. The opportunities to love. Those two are enough to get me through a lot of suffering. Which, by the way, is optional.

Weighty Issues

"Keeping off a large weight loss is a phenomenon about as common in American medicine as an impoverished dermatologist." ~ Calvin Trillin

The ggirl you know now has a solid hold on personal style. People point out clothing in catalogs and say, "That's a ggirl dress." This was not always the case.

I always drop about ten pounds whenever I start a new job. It's not like I mean to, it's just a result of stress. I've worked for this company many, many years now and haven't dropped 20 pounds in at least the past ten.

During chemotherapy, I gained about ten pounds, making me the largest ggirl ever. I weighed about 140 pounds. It completely freaked me out, even though my oncologist kept telling me I'd lose the weight after the steroids went away. A couple of weeks into radiation, I had already gotten down to 135. I was trying to get back to my starting weight of 130. By the end, I'd hit my target weight.

After reconstruction surgery, I've lost another ten pounds. I've reverted to the ggirl I used to be. My personal style has taken a back seat to my inability to force myself to eat. During my first serious job, I had the first experience of dropping ten pounds. It was an extremely demanding job and I didn't really notice that I was losing weight.

It began to be apparent in the way my clothes didn't fit me anymore. I'd stand up from a desk and the back zipper of my dress would have migrated around to the side. I was always a little twisted and baggy. I had a co-worker who gave me grief about it constantly. I didn't make very much money, so it wasn't really possible to buy larger clothes. It made me angry, but I couldn't really refute what she was saying. I couldn't regain the weight, either.

I noticed yesterday that I've returned to the Ggirl of the Twisted and Baggy Clothes. (That's a title much like Miss Universe, but with no swimsuit competition.) I'm trying to stop losing weight, but the trend is not looking good. I was really fond of the number 125 and was hoping to hold onto it, but it slipped away sometime in the past week. I just got rid of all my size 6 clothing prior to surgery, thinking that I would never be that size again. Damn. Some of them were really cute clothes, too.

Now I'm worried that I'm going to return to a size 4, which is what I weighed about ten years ago when I was really ill for a couple of years. I tried to weigh more; I just couldn't.

I guess I'm going to go home a motor through the remainder of a large piece of German chocolate cake and see if there's anything else I can stand to eat. I'm just not fond of food right now. I know that's a condition lots of people would like to have, but I'd just like to get back to 125 and find a way to stay there.

In the meantime, I walk around all baggy and twisted like I did when I was 23. Maybe people will have the courtesy of not noticing or, if they do, keeping the jokes among themselves. I just hate being paranoid about where my zipper is located.

Clarity

Last week, one of my co-workers started having duplicate invoice numbers. We have one client that gets billed in several different company names. It's all legal, of course. It's just an added layer of complexity. K. told me about the duplications and so I decided to add an "07" to the front of every invoice number. It made sense to me and seemed to correct the problem.

Yesterday, I got an email from the controller telling me that his accounting software won't accept that many numbers. He says I should ignore K, because she doesn't know what she's doing. Today, first thing, I went in the files and removed all the "07's." Controller happy.

Then K. came in and was upset about the change because she said we're still having duplicating invoices. I opened all of the invoice files--Misc. 2006, Misc. 2007, OtherCompanyName2007--and I can't find any duplications. I pointed this out to K., who insisted that a change be made. I told her to go talk to the controller about it. She wouldn't. I'm not changing the invoices again. This is it. Everyone just has to find a way to make it work because this is getting on my last nerve.

Here's the thing. I just don't really give a shit. I enjoy working with databases and I've had a moderately good time creating all of them. It's the process itself that I enjoy. Yes, I would like it all to be easy to use and efficient. Yes, I would like for it to work well for everyone who uses it. It doesn't keep me up at night worrying about it, though, because ultimately I don't give a shit.

I quit caring what goes on in this company a long time ago. Want something? Ask me. Otherwise I'll just be in my office entertaining myself. Not only is there no incentive to do a good job, there is, in fact, plenty of rewards for doing a crappy job. I got it. I finally figured it out after about 10 years. I don't care, folks.

When other people get upset about how things don't work here, they never like the response they get from me. I nod my head, distractedly, and wander off into another office as soon as possible. I do not empathize. "Sometimes I frown slightly and comment, "Hmmm." Sometimes I ask them, "And where do you work?" That's guaranteed to piss people off. But you know. Get with reality, people.

I've just had one of those moments. No one wants to talk directly with anyone else to resolve the problem. Fine. But I'm cutting myself out of the process. I will not act as office translator. Or diplomat. Or liaison or any other stuck-in-the-middle-with-you jobs.

This is one of the great things about having breast cancer--clarity. I'm clear about where the system breaks down and I'm equally clear about what I'm going to do to address it. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I Have Breast Cancer; I'm Not Stupid

I used to care how I looked. I mean, really care. If the humidity was high, I devoted untold amounts of time to getting that very annoying little wave out of the top front of my head. It was very stupid looking, especially since the rest of my hair was fine and, though a little wavy, primarily straight. It would bother me all day long. Every time I glanced at myself in a mirror or reflection in a window, I would immediately set to bending my hair into submission. It never really worked.

When I found out that I was going to have to have chemotherapy, the very first thing I thought was, "no hair.' It was traumatic. Everyone kept reassuring me that it would grow back. That didn't exactly make me feel any better. Then there were sores inside my mouth that made it excruciating to eat anything, even frozen yogurt. There were hideous and painful sores on my hands. My personality virtually disappeared into the constant, all-over pain.

After my mastectomy, it was hard to feel good about my body. Harder still with sores, that classic moon face from the steroids, the extra 15 pounds I gained (also from the steroids), and losing absolutely all of the hair on my body. I started to look at myself only from the neck up. On most days, it was tough to even do that. That was okay, though. I needed all of the energy I could muster just to have the will to go on with the treatments.

By the time I got to radiation, I didn't care so much about the hair. I stopped wearing my wig, wore a ball cap for a while (a tasteful pink Phoenix Suns cap) and, after a while, just went bare-headed. I'd gotten some of my hair back by then and I consoled my co-workers (who were a little nervous about how to deal with mostly bald Ggirl) by telling them, "You'll get used to it. I did." I said it cheerfully.

I started to lose weight when I began radiation and got back to my old pre-steroid size. I got a breast prosthesis that didn't surreptitiously migrate up towards my neck when I wasn't looking. My eyebrows came back. My hair came back, darker and curly.

But I just don't care anymore. If my hair isn't looking good, I go with that. It is, after all, hair. It's completely unruly and I'm good with that. I don't wear makeup. Like after my dad's suicide, I just don't have the energy for it. I can come to work, barefaced, or I can stay home with makeup on. I don't care what I wear. I have this post-reconstruction vest-like bra that's impossible to wear with most of my clothes. My breasts aren't yet symmetrical. I don't care.

One of my co-workers came into my office today and told me she thought my hair is cute today, liked my (turquoise) necklace and heart-shaped earrings. I looked at her blankly. Can't you see I don't care anymore? I know people are trying to be nice when they compliment me. They tell me I look pretty. It's a pity compliment, though. I've got breast cancer, but it did not make me stupid. I say thanks, because that's what one is supposed to do when complimented.

I don't think I was a shallow person before. Caring about how I looked was just part of my whole gotta-be-perfect take on the world. I look at myself in the mirror now and wonder where my pre-breast cancer prettiness went. Then I remember that I just don't care.

Good to be Needed

I bought three new workout dvds this week. Two of them were Denise Austin videos and one was a yoga video. Oh how it makes me long to get back to working out. Sometimes I even start to believe that, after I leave work, I can go home and at least do some yoga. On my drive home, I always realize I'm not strong enough yet.

I'm still only working three hours a day, at most. I go home and have to lie down for about half an hour or so. That's a new development this week. Usually I just park my butt on the sofa and rest there, but this week has been taking a toll. I get that massive fatigue thing that makes my back, arms and legs ache.

I have been busier this week at work. I answered the phone for a couple of hours one day, since I was the only person here. I've also done some proofreading and updating the database I created. The big energy drain, though, was having to talk with co-workers. That takes enormous energy. I've already spent about an hour this morning, listening to a co-worker. He was funny, but I'm not sure it was humorous enough to justify the energy drain.

One of my colleagues just called to request a database revision. It's good to be needed.

Enough Already

No more Anna Nicole Smith coverage.

No more coverage of Oscar night fashion.

Ditto anything about Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears.

Did I mention Paris Hilton? Stop it.

It's Expensive Being Me

"Grief is depression in proportion to circumstance; depression is grief out of proportion to circumstance. It is tumbleweed distress that thrives on thin air, growing despite its detachment from the nourishing earth. It can be described only in metaphor and allegory...Grief is a humble angel who leaves you with strong, clear thoughts and a sense of your own depth. Depression is a demon who leaves you appalled." ~ Andrew Solomon, The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression

I saw my psychiatrist yesterday to check in with how I'm doing. I came away with a new antidepressant. Good news, bad news. I knew that something had to be done. I've been having significant symptoms of depression since my surgery, though I don't cry as much as I did the first five weeks. I've been unable to concentrate, not interested in food, sad, tired. I've lost about ten pounds since before the surgery. I'm still in some pain and I think that I tend to cry when I'm in that part of the day (after 11:00 a.m.).

On the other hand, my goal is to decrease the amount of medication that I'm on. I will probably never be able to completely stop taking antidepressants. The years and years of repeated, intense trauma have left an indelible mark. There's a genetic tendency for depression in my dad's family. Well, there's a genetic predisposition for just plain crazy in my dad's family.

I'm okay with that. I'd just like to not have a handful of pills to take every day. That won't be happening for a while yet. I just have to work on taking care of myself, physically and emotionally. I have to continue to eat, whether or not I feel like it.

I haven't felt like eating in a very long time. My doctor asked me if there was some way to make food more palatable. The answer is no. I may be hungry and I may be having something I generally like, but once it's in front of me, I completely lose interest. I can't continue to lose weight.

All of these drugs take a toll on my budget, too. To quote another Texas girl, "It's expensive being me." In so many ways.

The Path of Wildness

"We need the tonic of wildness, to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground." ~ Henry David Thoreau

The Good Boy is gone. I came by yesterday a couple of times and he was shockingly thin and lethargic. I petted him for a while and was grateful for the purrs. I had an appointment with my psychiatrist today, so I got up extra early so I could come check on him. I couldn't stand the thought that he might have needed food and wondered where I was. I checked again when I got back from my appointment.

He was strong and gentle. He was courageous and intelligent. His chose the path of wildness and he chose to allow me to help him. I was honored. He would disappear for a few months, a few days or even for a year and then turn up, hungry and vocal. He could have chosen to hang around and be fed. No need to hunt for his own food. He chose the path of wildness.

Since the time he was just a kitten, he would cross the busy street outside my office and head off into a field that surrounded the old airport. He could be a real cat there--hunting prey, beholden to no one. He must have had many adventures, but I know nothing about them. He chose the path of wildness.

After many years, he allowed me to pet him. His demonstration of trust and affection kept me going through some very tough chemo times. He was there for me and I tried to make sure he could always rely on me. We understood each other.

When he started looking really sick, I wished so much to do something for him. But he chose the path of wildness and that path can be hard and lonely. When death came, I'm sure he met it with dignity and courage.

He knew I loved him. I think he loved me. I'm deeply honored that he allowed me to be his friend.

Traveling Shoes

"All God's children need traveling shoes." ~ Maya Angelou

I woke up this morning thinking of my grandmother. One story in particular. My mom said that my grandfather would never allow my grandmother to have shoes. And that when one of my aunts, when she was a teenager, gave her mom some of her own shoes, my grandfather was enraged. The story makes me so sad. My grandfather was never around and so my grandmother had no one to rely upon to feed her enormous brood of kids. They all sharecropped; it's all a woman and kids could do in the 1930's. I can't imagine what picking cotton would be like without shoes. I don't know why I woke up thinking about that. It could be I was dreaming about her, I suppose.

Last night, I had decided to talk about my experience with morphine in the hospital. I was watching a television program about methamphetamine addiction and it reminded me that I thought a lot about addiction during the first couple of days after surgery.

I was a teenager in the 1970's, a time when all kinds of drugs were around in college and when lots of kids used them for a variety of reasons. I don't think I ever knew anyone who had heroin or used heroin, though I can't be sure about people using. I always knew that heroin would be the death of me. I was always hyper vigilant and revved up. The possibility of letting go and relaxing was very inviting. Too inviting.

I never used heroin. After my surgery, though, I had morphine to control the pain. It never controlled the pain, though. I remember thinking, "Why do people like this stuff?" It just made me feel mentally sluggish. I phased in and out of consciousness, making it difficult to carry on a conversation or focus on any activity, including eating. Of course, I'm sure I wasn't using as much morphine as recreational users.

When they made me get up and walk around the nurse's station, I was on a combination of morphine and dilaudid. I kept passing people who commented on how I looked like I was feeling no pain. It really made me angry because I was in excruciating pain. It just wasn't reflected on my face.

I'd get about three-quarters of the way around the circular open hallway, thinking that I was straight in front of my room. It never failed. Then I'd look at the room number and realize I was still a long way from my room. I only made the trip a couple of times before they discharged me.

When the nurses told me I was going to have to get up and walk the third day after surgery, I shook my head at them. I just didn't think that was going to be possible. As nurse after nurse kept insisting I was going to have to do it, I gradually managed to wrap my mind around the reality of the situation. "It'll be okay," I said, "I have a high threshold for pain."

The first day I walked around the nurses station, I encountered the nurse to whom I had made that comment. She looked at me with a lot of compassion in her face, smiled and said, "You're doing good. High threshold of pain." For some reason, that felt very comforting. Far more comforting than the morphine ever was.

Looking for a Panacea

I had a dentist appointment yesterday afternoon and I have an appointment scheduled with my psychiatrist for Monday morning. I'm so tired of seeing doctors. After these appointments, I won't have another until April 17, when I'll go back to see my plastic surgeon. My oncologist is in May and my oncology surgeon is in June. It would be great if I could get all of these appointments jammed in together in one week just to reduce the travel time, but that doesn't seem to be possible.

Recovery is going well. I'm almost all healed in both areas. The tummy incision is still healing on the inside, so I still have to be cautious about what I do. I'm still having some pain, but it's very bearable. My depression seems to be lifting. I've managed to crawl out of the deep, dark hole into a slightly sunnier hole.

I had a conversation this morning with a co-worker who's having some pain issues about how I've dealt with all of this, physically and emotionally. Without using the name, I told him that I practiced mindfulness meditation and that helped me get through most of the past year and a half.

Paying close attention to physical and emotional states definitely helped me get through the frequent anxiety attacks after diagnosis. It was also useful during chemo and radiation therapy. "This is what it feels like..." experience skin, muscles and bones one tiny bit at a time.

"I don't see how that helps," he said.

I told him I don't know how it helps, either. It's a paradox. We all have to find our own way of dealing with intense, ongoing physical and/or psychological pain. It's not magic, unfortunately. I try to stay focused on the moment at hand. Even if it's a really crappy moment. I have to confess, though, that the week after my surgery was not spent in the moment.

A couple of years ago, I would have scurried off to find on the web some techniques for coping with pain and send my co-worker the urls. I'm just not that helpful anymore. This co-worker would like a panacea that requires no work on his part and I think that, if he can't put some effort into it, neither can I.

I don't think I'd offer help under any circumstances. Sometimes you have to know when to take care of yourself. Sometimes that takes all the physical and emotional energy you can muster.

Last Day

Today is the last day I'll be at my trusty computer for a week or so. Maybe longer, depending on how much pain there is. I don't have much to say, anyway, because my mind is very preoccupied with Monday. I'm sure all will be well, but I'm so tired of pain. There's nothing to be done for it, though, other than enduring it. Enduring is something I learned very early. I'm going to be fine.