Rack 'em up!

Let's talk about racks. There are coat racks. Hat racks. Rib racks (yum!). Clothes racks. Pool racks. Towel racks. Deer racks. Bike racks. Ski racks. Rack rates. And racks of lamb (yum again!).

Merriam Webster provides this definition of rack (among others):

     Main Entry: ³rack

     Function: noun

     Etymology: Middle English

     2: An instrument of torture on which a body is stretched.

Anyone who's gone through breast reconstruction would probably agree with at least the torture part of this definition. Yes, I'm talking about THE rack ... you know the one. It's had dozens of websites dedicated to it ... none of which can be published here (just type "rack" into Google and you'll find them ...). 

For the thousands of women who've gone through mastectomy and reconstruction, it takes on a whole new level of meaning. Not everyone chooses reconstruction. It's a very personal thing. I remember sitting in my surgeon's office for my pre-op appointment before my bilateral (double) mastectomy. There was a much older woman in a chair near mine, and she had just taken up a conversation with the patient next to her.

"My second husband left me," she said, "when I agreed to the mastectomy and decided against reconstruction. He couldn't see past my boobs to the rest of me."

I shuddered and chuckled to myself. It was sad and hilarious at the same time. She had so much spunk and was so confident in her decision. Fortunately I knew my husband loved me for me, rack or not. So the decision to undergo reconstruction was 100% mine.

Now I had never been particularly well-endowed. At most I filled a B-cup (except when I was nursing, but that doesn't count). Then of course after nursing I shrank down to barely an A-cup, like many of us do (that does count). Not being a big fan of plastic surgery for vanity's sake, I had resigned myself to live out my days sans-cleavage. Then breast cancer came along.

Opting for the mastectomy was a slam-dunk decision for me. I wanted to be as aggressive as possible. I knew I had two different kinds of cancer in one breast. One of those types (lobular carcinoma) made me predisposed to cancer in the other breast. Then there was the radiation I received to my entire chest area 25 years earlier. Yeah. Just take 'em both. My decision was a good one as I ended up showing cancer in both breasts. Phew. Bullet dodged ...

But back to racks. Having never really had one, and knowing I had a ridiculously flat blank slate and could pretty much do whatever I wanted, I began to stare at women's breasts. Awkward, I know, but productive. If I've been forced into doing it, I may as well get the rack I want ... that will make me feel not only whole, but also (dare I say) sexy?

One afternoon while sitting outside at a restaurant in Carlsbad, I noticed the waitress. She looked great in her mini skirt and fitted t-shirt. "I like hers," I said to my friend, Jen. Having been on this journey with me every step of the way, Jen knew exactly what I meant. But while staring wasn't a problem, I had not yet addressed the challenge of asking these women how big they were ... "I can't," I said with exasperation. "Ugh."

Then off to the bathroom I went. Arriving back at the table, Jen said "Full C." That's my girl ... she asked while I was gone. "Full C, huh?" I replied. "Never thought I'd be vain enough to do it, but that's what I want. Done."

And so I once again have a rack ... a new and improved, bigger and better rack. Lovely shape. Looks great in a tanktop. My headlights aren't too bright due to all of that radiation I had back when, but that's another story for another post.

My pal Susan, who's also in the last stages of reconstruction and will be walking in the 3-Day with me in October, sent this note on Saturday after her first training walk ...

So I walk out of the door with my pedometer attached to my shorts, my ipod with a great playlist attached, a hat, sunscren, my pink bracelet and promise ring on ... you know the deal ... I'm going to walk 5 miles because Page told me to. The weather was great. I was singing to Katy Perry at the top of my lungs, feeling good, when I came across a male jogger. He held out his hand and gave me a high five! THEN he said, "Nice rack!" Normally I would have been offended, but under the circumstances I laughed out loud, gave the girls a squeeze, and walked even faster with a spring in my step."

Therein lies the difference between those that do it for vanity and those who do it to become whole again. Those in search of external approval want to be noticed because they look different ... somehow better than everyone else. Those of us forced into it as a matter of survival and wholeness do it so no one notices how different we really are.

Rack 'em up!

It's been nearly a year ...

... since I've written in this blog. Why, I don't know. I have thoughts all the time about things I should write about, but just haven't had the time or inclination to sit down and get it done.

Now I'm inspired. I had wanted to send out a Christmas card, but the holidays came and went. Then it was a New Year's card. Followed by Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, and even Easter. Still didn't happen. When I got an email from a friend asking me to just confirm that I was OK, I realized I'd better get something out to the world. So here it is ... the Donovan Family Spring Greeting. Enjoy!

Another digital slideshow by Smilebox

Three-Peat!

Third time's a charm, right? Well I figure if I've beaten cancer three times, I may as well celebrate by walking 60 MILES three times! But I'm going to mix it up a bit, and will be doing this in Seattle with two of my best friends in the whole world. How lucky am I?

I did the walk for the first time in 2003, after my 40-year old cousin, Karen, died from breast cancer and left behind three little girls. Bill and I did it together the next year, and it was wonderful to share such an emotional experience.

This year, I have a whole new reason to walk. I used to joke that just being a cancer survivor wasn't good enough for the 3 Day walk and that to get the "pink shirt" you had to be a breast cancer survivor. Well, be careful what you wish for but I'm finally going to get that pink shirt!

And so I will walk. For my three daughters, that they may know a world without cancer of any kind. For my mother, who beat breast cancer only to lose her courageous battle against lung cancer in November. For all of my girlfriends ... because they were there for me every step of the way and if I can walk a few steps for them so they don't have to endure this disease, then I will walk miles. For the numerous family members who have battled and won, and battled and last. Because even though The 3Day is all about raising funds for breast cancer research, the truth is that the research done for breast cancer will inevitably have a huge impact on other types of cancers as well.

And I walk for myself. To get in shape, to set and achieve a goal, and to show myself that I can do it, in spite of the continuing pain that results from my chemotherapy.

I know times are tough, but I hope you will support me in this journey. No amount is too small, and the payoff will be so big.

Click the link below to go to my personal Web page.


Thank you!

Moms Rock!

My 1st grade daughter gave me a hand-made card today, along with a hand-painted pot with a tiny seedling sprouting in it. The card said "Thanks for being so helpfol. YOU ROCK! Yore ono an omilion. Waht wood I do with out you. Yore so cool." (She's in a Spanish immersion program so is still working on spelling in English, but how sweet!).



Last night, on my pillow, was a card from my 10 year-old. "Mom, thanks 4 always being there for me."



My oldest daughter made a beautiful card with similar sentiments that can't be shared publicly.



I am so blessed, and yet today is bittersweet. For the first time in 44 years I can't look into my own mother's eyes and say "Thanks, mom." I can't hear her sweet voice, saying "Hi Page" with sincere endearment as she always would when I would call. As my oldest daughter moves into adolescence, I can't pick up the phone and ask "Did I do this? How on earth did you deal with it?"



But what I can do is pass on her memory to my own girls. We talk often about things grandma loved, especially as we've been moving my dad into his new home here in San Diego. Every single thing in every one of those seemed-like-a-million boxes has a memory attached.



What I can do is rely on my many friends and family who are mothers themselves. We really are a special club ... we share the joys, the pride, the frustation, the how-tos of every facet of motherhood. In many cases we become second mothers to each other's children - extending the network of support and providing such wonderful examples for our own children to learn from. Motherhood is friendship. Friendship is motherhood.



I recall shortly after my mother's passing, I was sitting in my office at work. I overheard a coworker talking on the phone, and she abruptly said "Mom, I gotta go," then hung up. I then heard her say "Oh my gosh, my mom's going to drive me crazy! She calls me at work all the time!"



Then another coworker chimed in. "I know, mine does too and I can never get her off the phone."



I couldn't resist chiming in myself. "Ladies, take a deep breath and remember how lucky you are to be able to have those conversations. Cherish them."



Happy Mother's Day!

A Hair Braising Experience

So I spent last weekend in Northern California with my dad and my brother. Dad had a cataract surgery on Thursday and wasn't able to drive, so Jim and I spent the weekend with him, cleaning out some of mom's things, and helping plan dad's move to San Diego.

On Sunday afternoon Jim and I left Bodega Bay to head for the Oakland Airport. On the way we planned to stop at Jim's new bachelor pad in San Leandro. The weather was horrible. Pouring down rain, loads of wind, and cold.

Jim's pad is perfect for him. Just the right size with enough room to live but not too much to take care of. It took about 5 minutes to complete the grand tour. I mentioned I was cold so Jim turned on the tall, narrow wall heater.

Because of the dampness in the air I was still cold. While Jim was at his computer I wandered over to the heater and turned my back to it. I stood there for a couple of minutes enjoying the warmth as it took the chill off. Then I felt a strange sensation on my head.

"What was that?" I wondered, reaching my hand back to touch the back of my head.

"Uh oh. Oh no. I did not just do that!" I yelled.

My brother came running. "What's wrong?"

"I don't believe it," I said, then showed him what I was talking about.

I pulled it off my head and turned it around to look at the frizzie strands. The only thing missing was the unforgettable smell of singed human hair. The flyer had said "Heat is your only enemy." Oh no.

Yep. It's true. I melted my $300 wig!

"Bummer," Jim said, in that "Oh geez I don't know what to say to that" tone that only a big brother with a little sister can have.

So what happens to a wig when it melts, you ask?

It shrivels. It frizzes. It sort of explodes. In my case, the front, top and sides were still perfectly (and thankfully) intact. The upper part of the back, however ... not so much. It was shrivelled. I immediately grabbed my special wig brush, thinking I could brush away the mess. Not so much. All I succeeded in doing was amplifying the frizz factor.

And now I had to get on an airplane. As if I weren't already self conscious enough. Ugh!

We headed to the car and I immediately opened my suitcase and grabbed one of my handmade, bamboo yarn beanie hats (thank you Carol!). I put it on over my wig, pulling it over the back of my head to hide the telltale signs of wig meltage. I felt like a dork but it did the trick.

But it was H-O-T! Especially while sitting on the plane waiting for the doors to close. You know, the time when there's NO air and a LOT of body heat? Oy!

So what does one do with a melted wig? Well, if one has a place called A Greater Hope (the most wonderful place in the world if you're a cancer patient), she calls the owner Ofelia and says HELP! Of course this was Monday morning of President's Day, and of course Ofelia wasn't open on a holiday, but I booked an appointment with her for today at noon.

I had been thinking of having my wig trimmed anyway. The long locks in the back tend to tangle and are kind of a pain. I figure this little incident is the universe's way of kicking me in the behind to get it done.

I arrived at Ofelia's place at noon, wig secure inside my quart-size ziplock bag.

"Let's see it," she said knowingly.

No sooner was it halfway out of the bag than she said "What on earth did you DO?"

I humbly recited the entire story, then muttered "Please tell me you can fix it ..."

Let's see what we can do. She took the wig and disappeared into the other room. After about ten minutes I had run out of things to do on my Blackberry so went in search of her to see the magic behind the curtain. There she sat, with my wig on a stand in front of her, using a curling iron and a steamer!

"But ... but ... Heat is the enemy!" I said.

"Only if you don't know how to use it," she replied with a smug confidence.

And so my hero, Ofelia, smoothed my wig. It didn't look perfect, but it was so much better.

"Let's trim it a bit and it'll be good as new," Ofelia said.

Who knew you could give a wig a haircut? Is that like giving a pig a pancake?

And so I was seated in the comfy stylist chair, adorned with my black smock, and Ofelia worked her magic. She snipped. She thinned. She trimmed. And then she took the wig off my head and disappeared again.

Once again I followed her, eager to see what new tricks were up her sleeve. Turns out they weren't tricks at all, just a teflon-coated curling iron. She used it to give some shape to the blunt ends she had just cut. Then, Ouila! A perfectly coiffed head of hair.

And the moral of the story? Heat is the enemy. Ofelia is the ally. And the universe? And the universe will still never cease to amaze me.

Putting a Halt to the Hiatus

Here I sit. Staring at the screen. My last post was November 28, 2008. It seems a lifetime ago. Since then, I've survived the holidays, completed my last chemotherapy treatment, returned to work full-time, and continued to grieve the loss of my mother. It wasn't that I didn't want to write. I just got busy, living my life. That's a good thing. So many of you have expressed concern that I haven't written, and have even said you missed reading my entries. I've missed writing them. Rest assured my health is fine. All reports are excellent from my oncologist and I'm enjoying some doctor-free time for another month or so. In early March I'll begin the reconstruction process, which will take a few months, and a couple more surgeries, as I understand it.

Not a day has passed where I haven't paused and thought, "I should write about that." I've made a mental list of all of the topics I want to cover. Some are happy. Some are sad. Some are hilarious. I'll be posting and dating some of these things retroactively in order to keep the chronology in sequence. I do hope someday to parlay this little blog into a book so want to keep it as organized as possible. So, be sure and check for new entries ... they may not always be at the top.

10 Things I'll Miss About Chemotherapy

1. Not having to do my hair


2. Not having to shave


3. Not having to wax (there's a trend here)


4. Wonderful head rubs from my 6 year old with yummy smelling lotion and soft little hands


5. An excuse for naps. Every day.


6. A valid excuse to be lazy. And selfish.


7. Knowing that I was launching a full "Shock and Awe" assault on the cancer. There's something unnerving about laying down arms.


8. Being spoiled and pampered by everyone.


9. Feeling young, vibrant and healthy compared to the other patients.


10. Hearing from dear friends, old and new. I've promised myself I'll keep the contact going.

The Chemo Finale

December 4, 2009. My last chemo treatment. My best high school friend had flown down to be with me and keep the house running. The kids were on winter break. Thankfully my friend stayed with the girls so that Bill could be with me.

We arrived right on time, as usual. It was rush hour in the infusion suite, as usual. I seemed to be on the same schedule with the same group of patients. One woman, in particular, was there every single time I was. She was quite a bit older than me and only spoke Spanish. Her wig was horrible. Most days it was crooked and helmet-like. We exchanged glances and knowing smiles. I wondered if today was her last day too.

I'd been lucky with my first two treatments. The infusion "suite" was full and there were no available seats. So I got a private room. That was a good thing. It was the same barcalounger chair with the TV in front of it, but there was something very comforting about not having to make eye contact with any of the other patients. It made it easier to stay in my own little bubble, not think about mom, or what could wait for me in my future.

This day, however, I was not so lucky. The suite was a busy place. The private rooms were all taken, by patients already hooked up to their IV pole with the telling bags of chemical cocktails hanging in order of delivery. The red ones were the worst. Adriamyacin. They gave me that one when I had Hodgkin's so many years ago. I nicknamed it "The Red Death." It made me sick as a dog, burned as it went in, made me pee red, and did a number on my heart. After just two cycles, the oncologist changed my regimen as he didn't like the affect The Red Death had on my heart. Today I wonder if that was the cause of the mitral valve regurgitation for which I take a daily pill.

Back to the suite. The nurse had me sit in an uncomfortable chair to start. I was hopeful that this was my "on deck" chair and that I would move to one of the more comfortable loungers before they started my drip, which took 3+ hours start to finish. Bill had to stand.

While in the on-deck chair I got my IV hooked up. Thankfully the oncology nurses know their way around needles and veins. Most often it took just one stick, thankfully. Have I mentioned I'm not a big fan of the whole needle thing? Sometimes when getting blood drawn it will take 3 and 4 tries. I've gotten pretty good at being able to tell which ones will have a problem. It's a confidence thing. Plus the size of the needle. I've gotten very adept at saying "please use a butterfly. I've got chemo-fried veins."

Not long after an elderly gentleman in the big green lounger to my right got up to leave, and I was ushered to his chair. There was a chair for Bill too. We both settled in. Me watching All My Children on the TV above my head (in such a group setting there wasn't really an option of changing the channel), and Bill opened his school books.

John, the Nurse Practitioner and guy-in-charge-of-chemo, came over to chat. "How are you feeling?" he said. We exchanged pleasantries then he connected the bag of my first cocktail. The Happy Juice. And thank God for it. Keeps the nausea at bay amazingly well. I'm happy to report that I did not vomit once as a result of my chemotherapy. Happy juice. Rock on!



Next came the Taxotere. Derived from the French Yew tree (not to be confused with Taxol, my mother's cocktail of choice, which was derived from the North American Yew tree). Soonafter he came back on hung the next "on deck" bag. This one was Cytoxan. Derived from who knows what or where.



Bill and I both settled in. The chemo didn't hurt going in. I didn't feel any different. Modern medicine had come a very long way in the 24 years since my last chemotherapy experience. In fact, it was almost boring. I alternated staring at the TV, reading my book, and dozing in the big comfy chair.



Prior to my first treatment I hadn't eaten anything for fear I was going to be nauseous right away. After a couple of hours Bill was hungry and went to grab a sandwich. He came back with a tuna sandwich and a smoothie. "Do you want some?" He said. At first I thought "No, I shouldn't just in case." But as I watched him eat, and I smelled the tuna, I thought "That smells really good." And so began our chemo tradition. A lunch date featuring tuna salad sandwiches and a smoothie. Today was no different, so Bill set out for Henry's Market, and came back with our lunch, which we both enjoyed.



Before too long John came and switched the IV over to the Cytoxan. One more hour to go. One more hour before I could say "It's all moving forward from here." "The worst is over." "I can get on with my life."

"I need to call mom and tell her," I thought to myself. "Oh yeah, I can't." Bill was there, holding my hand and studying his books. "I so want to talk to my mom," I said. As John came over and removed the IV, he began to review all of the things that would happen next. Follow-up appointments, blood work, etc., etc., etc. All I could think of was my mom, and how much she would have reveled in celebrating this milestone with me. So I cried, alone. Another one down. Another chapter nearly finished. I was assuming at this point that the reconstruction process would begin a new chapter, for this marks the end (we hope) of yet another illness. The rest is just window dressing.

As my mom always said, "this too shall pass." And so it did. Next?

Giving Thanks

Some may think that it would be difficult for my family and I to find things to be thankful for this particular year. Quite the contrary. Even my mother, in her final days, was thankful and acknowledged how very blessed she was. Yesterday we had a lovely day filled with great food, loving family, and shared memories of those not with us. We ended our evening with karaoke. Sofia and I sang "our song," The Wind Beneath my Wings.

I am thankful for my family. These last few months have brought us closer than ever. The time spent with my mom, dad, and brother during the last days of mom's life was excruciatingly painful, but also brought with it an unbridled intimacy that comes only through shared tragedy, but will endure for our lifetime.

I am thankful for my father. His indomitable spirit and will to go on are an inspiration. I am thankful he has his health, and I look forward to welcoming him to San Diego as a permanent resident. I am thankful that my girls will know him as Grandpa, who makes coins appear out of ears, can ace any geography quiz, and is an amazing musician.

I am thankful for my brother, who I've grown to know as a fine man, a goofy uncle, and a terrific dad. I am thankful that I can now call him not only my brother, but also my friend.

I am thankful for my husband, who loves me unconditionally, with or without hair, or breasts, or energy. He's my biggest fan and largest supporter. He sits with me at chemo, encourages me to rest when I'm resisting. Has endless patience in managing the household and the girls on the days when I'm just not up to it. He's also a fine man, and my best friend.

I am thankful for my beautiful girls, who have embraced my experience as their own. Who encourage me to shed the wig to be comfortable. Who like to rub the peach fuzz on my bald head, sometimes even with wonderful smelling lotion. (More on that in a future post, The Benefits of Baldness.) Who proudly keep their friends up to date on the latest with mom. Who aren't afraid to say "Mom, why are you frustrated right now?" Then will listen intently as I share my feelings and return to the happy place.

I am thankful for my amazing friends, who really are an extension of my family. The thoughtful phone calls, endless meals, late night pep talks, shared tears, and love for my children are remarkable, unforgettable, and genuine.

There is so much more to be thankful for, but in the end it is the people we love, not the things we have. I am thankful because I know I am not alone, and will never be. I have my family and, by extension, my friends. I know now, more than ever, that in the end, at the end, family and friends are really all you've got. I am thankful, though bittersweet, to have learned this lesson early enough in life to cherish the important things and gain perspective on the rest.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

H.O.P.E.

This past weekend was the Susan G. Komen 3 Day Walk, described best by a friend who participated. "It was like a combo Bay to Breakers, Club Med, and a big street party. Fun, outrageous, inspiring and heart melting."

I know this is true as I've done the walk twice in years past. First in 2003, then again with Bill in 2004. My neighbor, co-Troop Leader, and dear friend Arlene did the walk this year. Four weeks prior, our Girl Scout Troop hosted our own "walk," at a Saturday Brownie encampment. Arlene and the girls, unbeknownst to me, created the theme "Walking for H.O.P.E." as the activity we would lead that day. The girls write the below.

Health ... Walkers have less incidence of cancer, heart disease, stroke, diabetes, and other killer diseases. Increase your heart rate by walking regularly for 20 or more minutes seversal times a week and you'll do wonders for your heart's health.

Opportunity is a chance you have. Everyday we are given the opportunity to live. We should live our life to the fullest by making the most of each day with people we love and care about.

Page. We are doing this walk for someone very special. She started our Girl Scout roop 5902. Her name is Mrs. Page. She takes our troop on outings and helps us be good citizens for our community. We thank her for bringing our troop together and everything that she does for us.

Energy. It's not so much the energy that you have, but the energy you give off. Making people aware is simply giving off energy. There are all types of energy, like health energy, or simply being positive about your health, and possibly your cancer. Energy is passed on from person to person, bringing awareness for the cure.

With the Girl Scouts we took groups of girls on a short, 1/2 mile walk. Each then traced their footprint and wrote a message on it. Those footprints were then put on a poster. It was very moving and inspirational.

As we've done every year since 2004, the troop goes out and cheers on the real walkers. This year and last we were able to cheer for one of our own, Miss Arlene. We all had shirts made with the H.O.P.E. story on the back.

The girls made posters, and pins (safety pins with pink and crystal beads, plus a pink ribbon charm) to give away. We also blew bubbles ... "Bubbles for Boobies" was the mantra. It was such fun to see how much the walkers appreciated the girls' efforts, and the fact that we were out there cheering them on. It also had an even more special meaning for the girls, as they are all aware of my own battle.

At one point, a family walked by and they were all wearing the Stand Up to Cancer T-shirts (you may have seen the television fundraiser). I was so inspired by that event that I said"Love your shirts, where'd you get them?"

"Online," was the reply. Then a woman, probably ten years older than me, wearing a "Survivor" shirt, stopped and looked at me. She studied my bright pink bandana, wrapped pirate-style around my head. "Are you a survivor?" she said (because from the day of diagnosis we're all called survivors ... love that!).

"Yes," I replied. "Going through chemo right now." She called to her son, who was in front of her. He came back, and as he opened his fanny pack to retrieve something, the mother said "I've been looking for you for two days. I have something for you. Last year someone gave one to me and I wanted to do the same." With that her son pulled out a T-shirt. Yellow, with the word Survivor emblazoned in red across the front. It was one of the Stand Up to Cancer shirts that the celebrities wore on TV.

At that point, I had to fulfill my urge to hug her, her son, her daughter, and anyone else who would have one. I will save that T-shirt forever. What a testament to the amazing sisterhood that is breast cancer. Actually, strike that, as it's not just a sisterhood. When my family and I returned to cheer the walkers on and walk the last mile with Arlene on Sunday, as we were cheering a very large man in a bright pink shirt with a bright pink hat on also noticed my telltale bandana. "Survivor?" he said?

"Yep, and proud" I replied. At that point he left the stream of walkers, ran over to me, and gave me a giant, loving bear hug. "I'm getting ready to go through it myself," he said, tearfully. Oh yeah, I thought. This is not just a woman's disease.

This year's walk included more than 4,000walkers, each of whom was required to raise a minimum of $2,200. The simple math equates to a minimum of $8 million raised by this race alone. Factor in that this is one of 14 walks this year alone and you've got more than $100 million, all for breast cancer research.

As a benefactor of that research, I am thankful. Having just lost my mother to lung cancer, a woefully underfunded and far more deadly disease, I am envious. In both cases I have, and will always have, hope.

An Anniversary

24 years ago today I had my final chemotherapy treatment for Hodgkin's Disease. As I sit here today, I can't help but think that this is not how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to remain cancer-free for 25 years so I could have the big party and buy myself the diamond ring that I've thought of for so long. I was supposed to celebrate this milestone with my mother, one of the very few who remembered this date, every year, without fail.

Instead as I write this, I am weakened by Thursday's chemotherapy (#3), bald and flat-chested, and heavy with grief. There is no party planned, no diamond ring (yet!). I miss my mother more than I can say, especially when I have down days like today. Yet, while I could easily retreat into my own little pity party, I will instead focus on what the last 24 years have meant to me. For if I did not have an anniversary to celebrate today, I would not be here to celebrate it. My mom would often say "getting old stinks, but it's better than the alternative." Rock on, mom.

When I was battling Hodgkin's, I didn't often acknowledge my own mortality. "I'm too young to die," I would think. "I've never been in love. I've never climbed a mountain. I'm not ready to go." So I muddled through with the intrinsic knowledge that I would overcome and go on. Such is the teenage psyche. My parents knew better. They knew that my battle was hard-fought and that the outcome was far from certain. Yet they never let on. They never showed fear. They always supported me. When I said I wanted to race on the ski team, even while enduring radiation therapy, they said OK. They made special arrangement for me to have early morning treatments so I could get in the car and get to the slopes before lunch. When I met with my current oncologist just a few short months ago, he said "Your Hodgkin's Disease was far more serious than this." News to me. I have my parents to thank for that.

And so I reflect on the last 24 years. I've said many times, of late, that if my current situation is the price for those 24 years then bring it on. I will gladly pay it again and again. The greatest gifts in that time are my husband and children, whose unending support for me has sustained me through the most rockin' pity party there is. Dear Bill, most likely, got a lot more than he bargained for but has been the steadiest of rocks and the best of friends.

When I finished my Hodgkin's treatment my own fertility was highly questioned. We certainly proved that theory wrong and our three daughters are our beacons of light ... keeping us focused on the importance of love, family, and the little every day things. With mom's passing I am even more reminded of these. The traditions. The sayings. The expressions. The tone of voice on the phone. These make up the glue that bonds us together forever and will live on in all of us. Even now the girls and I are designing the gingerbread house to end all gingerbread houses. It will be built in mom's honor, dubbed "Grandma's Castle," and hopefully shellacked and preserved for years to come (as was the one I built the Christmas I spent recovering from surgery in 1981).

And what else of the last 24 years? The travels ... to Europe, Asia, Mexico. The season spent skiing and sowing my oats in Mammoth. The five months spent in Ireland ... proving to myself that I could take on the world all by myself. The education of Page ... both formal and otherwise. The teachings of Descartes and the art of appreciating a fine shot of tequila (or several, at high speed). The philosopy of Blonditude ... it's not just a haircolor, you know. The professional life. Awkward at first but comfortable now under the guidance of a few patient and devoted mentors. Knowing my brother not as a rival, but as a friend. Having a big (90-pounds big) dog.

And then there are the friendships. When the universe casts shadows upon us, the true meaning of friendship rises up out of the darkness. I am so incredibly blessed to be surrounded by so many who love me and my family. Whether sheltering my children from the current storm, supporting my parents through such a difficult time, calling with good wishes and kind thoughts, or dragging me to the nail salon for a much-needed pedicure, each and every one of you have been invaluable. I don't know that I'll ever be able to repay the incredible kindness shown, but I suppose that's what friendship is all about. I hope none of you ever endures a similar situation, but please know I will be there wherever the cards may fall.

Most poignantly right now are my memories of mom these past 24 years. As the beaming mother of the bride at my wedding. As the ever-classy hostess of so many wonderful family holiday gatherings. As a true friend, when in September of 2007 she spent several days with me while Bill and the girls were back east. I learned more about her and her life during those few days than I had known ever before. I promised her I will write it all down, and I will. Mostly, I remember a mom who was so patient, so understanding, and always so concerned about me. When the rest of the world was looking to me to take care of them, mom was always first in line to take care of me. I'm grateful that I was able to return the favor in some small way during the last week of her life, and as I take on the role of ... gulp ... matriarch of the familymoving forward.

And what of the future? Well, there WILL be a party. When all is done and I'm put back together again, we will be having a full-blown luau in the backyard, complete with roasted pig. That will likely be in the spring or early summer.

From today, we move forward, as mom would have wanted (insisted, actually). Life is different and will forever be thus. But we will heal. I will heal. Life will go on.

At Peace

Mom left this world this afternoon around 4 p.m. Dad, Jim and the hospice nurse were with her. She had been unconscious since yesterday, and is now, thankfully, at peace.

As difficult as the last week was, we are all so thankful for the time we had with her to remind each other of our love and to let her know that we will be OK, especially with her watching over us.

Thank you to all of you for your outpouring of love and support for mom and our family.

At Mom's request, a private memorial service will be held in Yosemite, our "church", in the spring. In the meantime, Dad plans to get away for awhile and will spend the holidays with my family here in San Diego.

In lieu of flowers, please make a donation in Mom's name to The Yosemite Fund, http://www.yosemitefund.org/. Our hope is to accumulate enough donations to ensure Mom has a permanent place on the Honor Wall in the Visitor's Center.

I thought it fitting to end this final entry with the poem that mom asked be read at her memorial. It gives me great comfort to know that, when my time comes, Mom will be on the other side saying "Look, here she comes!"

Gone From My Sight

by Henry Van Dyke

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side, spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speckof white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone"

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.

And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone,"there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"

And that is dying...

May peace be with all of you.

Mom

As I sit here at my mother's desk, looking out at the Pacific Ocean while the wind whips the sea grass and a menagerie of small black and brown birds enjoy their morning feeding frenzy outside the window, my mother is in the next room asleep. In a hospital bed. Fighting for every breath. I've never experienced anything like this but it feels like it's all going too fast, and yet I long for her to have peace.

My mom, Carolyn Louise Watson Mericle, was born December 31, 1934 in Atlanta, Georgia. As a young woman she was a Southern belle with all of the trimmings, and exuded the fundamental characteristics of proper southern society. Grace. Presence. Tradition. Caring. A fierce appreciation for right and wrong. Love of family and friends. These traits remain with her today, and are the greatest gift that she has passed along to me, my brother, and her four grandchildren. She will live forever in all of us.

My mother is my best friend. She fixed my skinned knees. Made me feel better when I was sick. She soothed my first broken heart. She mediated the numerous friendship sagas of an adolescent girl. She held the bucket, and my hand, when I was retching from chemotherapy nearly 24 years ago. She came to every volleyball game. She became a friend to my friends. She taught me how to cook. She taught me how to be a good mom. She and my dad have demonstrated the power of love and commitment. She instilled in me the values needed to become a good person, made in her own image. She always believes in me, and puts me, my brother, and my dad first. Thursday night she was mad at us for feeding her before we had eaten ourselves. Even in this, the twilight of her life, she is concerned first for others (and still has that wicked temper!).

While it is easy to reflect on the many difficulties that have befallen our family and attempt to justify them, it is even easier (and far more productive) to recall the many, many moments of joy. The Thanksgivings and Christmases that I long to reproduce, but never quite will. The unbelievable dinner parties with every detail just right. The dozens of gingerbread houses that we've made together (some structurally sound, others not so much, but all filled with laughter, memories, and stomach aches from too much candy). The time she lost a bet in Yosemite and had to "eat her hat" as a result (OK, she ate one thread from the hat). The pleasure and serenity she takes from Yosemite, our "church." The bike rides, hikes, dancing and roughhousing we enjoyed before her body rebelled. The annual shopping trip to San Francisco to buy clothes for the new school year. Lunch at the Mayfair on Maiden Lane. Trips to the theatre. Sunday night tacos. The joy in seeing her children grow up to become students, graduates, spouses and parents.

It is also easy to recall the strength and grace she continues to show in the face of adversity. "This too shall pass," or "Let's get this show on the road," have been mantras of late. While the show is ending differently than we all would have hoped, it is still chock full of dignity, grace, and my mom's inner beauty.

And the show will go on. It will go on unencumbered, in a place of great beauty. Where there is no cancer. Where there is no pain. Where loved ones await. Where she can run through fields of wildflowers. Where she can lead a pony, ridden by giggling "little man" Tommy, through a forest. Where she can watch over all of us, without pain or regret, and organize and play Heavenly hostess to myriad reunions, down to every last detail, as her loved ones join her in eternity.

Tough Day

Today we began the process of transitioning my mother to hospice care. She had a very bad day yesterday and had been so very weak. She was also having difficulty breathing. Tests revealed that the cancer has spread to her other lung. Those of you with access to her CarePage already know more details. I wanted to share this much here because many have commented or been concerned that I wasn't writing much.

I continue to do just fine. I had chemo #2 with little incident, save a couple of punky days and one low-grade fever. I continue my HBO treatments for another two weeks, and am still on track to complete chemotheraphy on 12/4. I've got the wig and the boobs and can now fake it 'til I make it real sometime in the spring. My own situation seems so inconsequential compared to my mother's.

The intertwining of the physical and emotional toll this is all taking is hard to measure. I am not in denial, but I guess a sort of disbelief and yes, a bubbling anger. What god or grand being would put one family through what we continue to go through? How much pain can one family take? What's the great lesson to be learned from this? What is it with my family and this damned disease? I hope with time this will become clear. In the meantime I am chanting the serenity prayer as it seems so fitting.

Please grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change;

courage to change the things I can;

and wisdom to know the difference

We are a strong family, have tremendous love for each other, have an amazing support network, and will get through this together.

We will be OK.

Dandelions

Last Wednesday I awoke at the usual time to get to my 8 a.m. HBO session (Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy for those not keeping up). I noticed a few hairs on the pillow. It was starting. Sigh.

As I ran my fingers through my hair my hand emerged with a handful. If I tugged even a little I could pull out a clump. It had started very slowly two days before, and today was the day I had anticipated it coming out with gusto. I had made an appointment to have my wig fitted later that day, and planned for Bill to shave my head after HBO. I swore after the last time that if I ever had chemotherapy again I would shave it and be done with it, rather than let it wist away one strand at a time.

As I left the parking lot and headed for the HBO center at the hospital, I took my usual route, which involved walking through a short tunnel that concentrated the wind, like a wind tunnel. As I walked through that tunnel, a gust of wind came along and blew threw my hair. I could feel the wind taking my hair with it. I felt like a dandelion that the universe was wishing upon, each golden strand carrying with it the hopes and dreams of not just me, but every cancer patient who's endured this experience.ever lost their hair. The anticipation had made me very emotional, and at this thought my eyes welled with tears. Then of course there was the wishful thinking. Maybe it wouldn't fall out. Maybe the relatively small amount that had already gone would be it. Maybe I would be in that tiny percentage who wouldn't lose their hair. All the while I knew these to be wishful thoughts, but not reality.

After my HBO treatment (#13), I headed home filled with dread. Bill would be waiting and ready to get the job done. What I didn't know was that he had set up his own private barber shop under the palapa in our backyard. This was so perfect it made me cry too ... I've been doing a lot of that. For those of you who don't know, a palapa is a thatch umbrella much like those you find on the beach in the tropics. I desperately wanted one in our backyard and we've had many wonderful memories out there. It seemed very fitting for this event. Bill even had a smock for me to wear. So I sat, sporting my smock, gazing out at the distant ocean view, trying not to think about what was about to happen. With the first pass of the razor I cried. This made it so very very real. But Bill was wonderful. He waited and indulged my need to emote. Then he continued, meticulously. Within 15 minutes it was done. I had a head full of stubble, that would scatter with the wind when rubbed.

I put a scarf on my head and we got in the car and headed to the wig shop. I was still full of anxiety. What if it looked fake, like all those ladies in the chemotherapy infusion suite? Was I going to be self-conscious for the next 6 months? Would I be able to function with any sense of normalcy? Ofelia, the woman at the wig shop, was waiting for us. She very carefully fitted the wig so it was just snug enough. Then she got out her scissors and trimmed it to keep the bangs out of my eyes. When all was done I took a moment to really look at myself in the mirror. Relief. I looked like me. I had hair. I turned to Bill. "Does it look natural? Can you tell it's a wig?"

"It looks lovely," he replied.

It felt weird. As we left the shop, headed for lunch out ... my first public appearance with my new do ... I felt very self-conscious, as if everyone knew my personal secret. She's looking at me ... she knows. Putting on sunglasses was a trick ... if I'm not careful I push the wig off center.

And so began my new look. One I'll be relying on for months to come. With each day I'm more comfortable. I've got some very cozy caps, and am getting pretty good with a scarf. The kids are no longer freaked out if I walk around the house with nothing on my head at all -- a true silver lining on a warm southern California day like today! It's really easy to do my hair and it always looks good. Then there are the added advantages of no tedious shaving, no barbaric waxing, and a strangely enlightening sense of who I am.

I am not my hair. Of this much I'm sure.

Pre-emptive Strike

I vividly remember a few key events from my first go-'round with cancer. One of them stands out above all others. It was the summer of 1984. I was taking a summer school class at the local community college to make up for the class I missed when I was diagnosed with my relapse earlier that year. I had started chemotherapy a few weeks earlier, and was sitting in class taking my final exam. As I sat at the black lab desk, studying the exam, it started.

First it was just a couple of hairs ... sun-bleached blonde against the shiny black of the desk. It took a few moments for me to register what was happening. I had hoped this wouldn't happen. I had been using the "cool cap" they suggested to freeze my hair follicles during chemotherapy so my hair wouldn't fall out. Yet there was the evidence, in black and blonde, right before my eyes. I ran my fingers through my hair and a handful of hair came out.

I finished my exam but didn't do very well. My hair continued to fall out for several days. The cool cap had done a half-baked job, as I never lost all of my hair but it thinned tremendously. I had enough wisps to fake it, with the help of a scarf or hat, at least in my own mind. After that experience I didn't cut my hair for years and years. It was down to my tailbone at one point and I got lots of compliments on it. I've had girlfriends tell me they think my hair's my best feature. I've had boyfriends tell me never to cut it. I guess, sadly, it became a part of how I identified myself.

It is that memory that is at the root of my anxiety over losing my hair. Anxiety that I'll be somewhere undesirable and public when it starts to go. The anxiety that people will stare if I wear a scarf, and know if I'm wearing a wig. The anxiety that my children will be afraid of me because I look so different.

And so, this superficial thing that shouldn't matter has been the subject of much introspection. I knew from the beginning that if I ever had chemotherapy again I would just accept the hair loss and ultimately shave my head. But something about going from very long hair to no hair at all felt traumatic. So, I decided I needed a plan (not a big surprise to those of you who know me well!).

My friend Jen and I have been seeing the same hairdresser for something like 15 years. A year ago she "retired" to be home with her kids, and we've been in mourning ever since (hear that, Pat???). Given the emotion surrounding my current situation I really wanted to get help from someone who knew me well. So Jen tracked down Pat and today I visited her in her home. She was my strike team in giving me a transitional haircut that would ease me into the notion of less hair without abruptly throwing me into no hair. I'm now short and sassy, at least for another week, so when it does fall out there will be less of it to fall.

I must say I was surprised at how good it felt. "I'm still me, it's OK" I thought when I looked in the mirror. "It's actually really cute."

Then Pat, ever the psychotherapist cum hairdresser, said "I don't like the reason that we did this but I gotta tell ya, I've been wanting to see you in short hair for years!" And so I enter a new chapter and may never go back ... we'll see.

I arrived home before Bill and the girls. They knew I was getting my hair cut and Rosie in particular was quite concerned about it. When they knocked on the door, I cracked it open and peered out. Rosie had a very worried look on her face. I then opened the door and her eyes brightened with a huge smile and visible relief. Tess was smiling too. "Mommy, you look beautiful!" Bill said I looked "sophisticated."

Tonight when Sofie called from the east coast I said "Guess who got her hair cut really short?"

"Rosie?" she said.

"Nope."

"Tess?"

"Nope."

"Mom. What did you do!" She was afraid I had gone straight to bald and was a bit panicked at the prospect. When I explained it was a transition she felt better. It will be fun to see the surprise on her face when I pick her up at the airport on Saturday.

And so, I too can join the sisterhood that chants "I am not my hair." I am much more than that. I am a mother. A wife. A daughter. A sister. A friend. A survivor. Who needs hair to do any of those things?

And how was YOUR day yesterday?

Yesterday was not fun, though I suppose it could have been worse. I began with yet another HBO treatment bright and early at 8 a.m. Hurt less than those before, but my blood pressure was still through the roof so somewhere in my psyche I really don't like it. On the up side, my incision is healing exponentially better than it did prior to, and my skin looks great!

From there I made a quick trip home, then it was off to my doctor's office for chemo treatment #1. I was really not looking forward to this for a lot of reasons. The biggest of which was the only reference I had ... how the whole experience went 25 years ago. I won't belabor the details but suffice it to say it sucked.

My memories, ironically, are somewhat vague. I don't remember how long it took. I do remember my nurse's face, but not her name. I remember the desperate attempt to save my hair using a contraption called a "Cool Cap." The theory was that if you froze the hair follicles while the drug was going in, they would temporarily not be "fast growing" and would therefore not be impacte by the chemo. My nurse said I looked like an Ishkibibble, whatever that is. It worked, but only sort of. I think I convinced myself it was working but looking at the only picture I have of myself from that time my hair was pretty darn thin ... not sure I was fooling anyone. Nevertheless, it worked and here I am.

When they called us back (Bill, my every cheerful rock, was with me), they took us back to the "Infusion Suite." This is a room that contains probably 12 barca-loungers ... reminiscent a bit of the TV room in firestations I've seen. Each has a shiny silver IV infusion pump next to it and, when I arrived, nearly all were occupied by very old people. As I surveyed the scene I felt a lump in my throat and the telltale sign of tears sprouting. This was making it all too real. This people are all sick. I'm sick. I refuse to believe that or surrender to it.

Thankfully, as the nurse looked around for a place to put me, her eyes turned to a small room off the suite, also with a lounge chair. "Have a seat in there," she said. Oh thank goodness, I thought.

So Bill and I made ourselves comfy in our private room with our own TV and IV pump. After two sticks they got the IV in. They started with the Happy Juice - the anti-nausea drug that wasn't around 25 years ago but which is now my new best friend. Then came the Taxotere. I asked if it was related to the Taxol my mother is receiving and learned that both are derived from the Yew tree, but Taxol comes from the Pacific Yew tree, and Taxotere comes from the more hoity toity European Yew tree. Finally came the Cytoxan. They all just looked like cloudy saline. No color, thankfully. I vividly rememember the bright red Adriamycin (also known as the red death) I received the first time around.

All told it took around 4 hours, including my orientation session. Next time will be shorter. I felt fine leaving the office and felt fine for most of last night. Had yummy chicken fajitas for dinner complements of a dear friend who's here every Thursday to make sure we eat well.

This morning I'm a little punky but not too bad. I think I'll be just fine for my 1 p.m. "dive" but I wasn't up to taking Sofie to the airport this morning. Bill took her and she was an absolute champ. For those of you unaware, my oldest daughter Sofia was nominated to attend the Junior National Young Leadership Conference in Washington DC. She'll be met (and spoiled) by Bill's sisters then dropped at the conference in Bethesda tomorrow afternoon. I miss her already but she was so excited and is so ready for this experience.

Next step: hair loss. Probably within the next 10 - 14 days. I'm still wrestling emotionally with the whole thing. It's one of those that you really can't prepare for. I may opt to issue a pre-emptive strike and shave it all off before it starts coming out. Or, I may wait for the first one to fall then rush to the hairdresser. Thankfully I've got my wig waiting for me ... they can't fit it until I don't have hair. That probably deserves a whole blog to itself so I'll leave that for another time.

One down, three to go. I'm counting the days until December 4th when I'll have my final treatment. Thanks to all of you for joining my on the journey.

Not Your Father's HBO

I've tried to learn how to scuba dive twice in my life. Both times the universe intervened and cursed me with a nasty case of bronchitis before I even donned a wetsuit. Now I know that the universe was my friend.

Until this past Monday, the letters H-B-O meant only one thing ... a great first-run movie, some popcorn, a glass of wine, a quiet Friday night. Not any more! No, H-B-O now stands for HyperBaric Oxygen therapy, and what a thrill it is.

So here's the deal. Tissue that's been previously radiated, as mine has, is a completely different animal when it comes to healing. The radiation killed the cancer cells but also did a number on the healthy tissue too. Biggest problem is that the radiation inhibits the ability of blood vessels and arteries to form, hence healing is either slow or stalls completely.

Enter the superhero ... H-B-O. The theory is that by taking my body to an air pressure equivalent to 45 feet below sea level, and having me breathe pure oxygen for three 30-minute segments, we're totally boosting the oxygenation in my blood and body and therefore stimulating all of those little bitty blood vessels to go crazy and grow. Totally makes sense, right?
Now, let me tell you about the reality. First of all, the "treatments" are referred to as "dives," hence the preamble regarding my lack of scuba diving experience. Second, the enviroment is, essentially, a mini submarine (and it's not even yellow!). When I arrive for my treatment I change into surgical scrubs, which allow me to relive my age-old desire to be a famous surgeon. I should point out that the other people there (yes, this is a group activity), are at least 100 years older than I am. I'm definitely the novelty of the group. I can totally sense they're all dying to know why I'm there but are afraid to ask. I don't offer, which is kind of fun in a sneaky kind of way.

I will say they're all very kind people. There's Yousif, the Egyptian man. Unfortunately on day 1 Yousif forgot to lock the door of the changing room. He also forgot to move the sign from "Vacant" to "Occupied" so in I strolled and there he was in all his glory. He had his boxers, t-shirt and sox and shoes on ... we shared a bonding moment and never spoke of it again. Yousif completed his 30th and final dive today. Our conversations revolved around his limited use of the language. On Monday, he shared that "Today is twinty seven." Yesterday, I confirmed "So today is 29?" He smiled. "How many all together? "Tirty," he said. "Tirty." I don't know why he's there but I'm happy that he's healed, and happier that he's done diving.

So decked out in my surgical scrubs I then get my vitals checked. I will have my blood pressure taken around my ankle for the rest of my life ... something to do with the double mastectomy, lymph nodes and lympedema. On the first day, when I thought I was sailing into yet another standard treatment type experience (having been to the rodeo before), my blood pressure was normal for me, (110/90 or so). When I made the appointment the gal on the phone said "You'll go into the chamber and breathe oxygen for two hours." Sounds easy, I thought. "Can I bring a book?" "Sure, she replied. Piece of cake, right?

So armed with that information I went into Monday feeling pretty good and relaxed and my blood pressure was fine. On day two, my blood pressure was 159/99, so that'll tell you something about how day one went!

OK, so there I am in my scrubs, vitals are checked. Next, it's time to don the collar. Think disco futuristic space suit. The collar is the foundation for what will be the large cylindrical clear plastic bubble that goes over my head when it's time to breathe the oxygen. It's a large white plastic circle, probably 14-inches in diameter. It's lined with a lovely billious blue latex insert that is intended to go snug against my neck. It takes two people to put it on, and long hair is problematic (though the techs are far more worried about pulling my hair than I am. You should have seen the looks on their faces when I said "just think how easy this will be when I have NO hair!. Uncomfortable laughs and averted eyes ... it was great!).

Once the collar's on, into the chamber we go. It's a mini submarine, really. Those of you really interested can check out the virtual tour here: http://www.sharp.com/virtualtours/index.cfm?id=9086. I sit in one of the three cushy seats. The chamber can hold up to five patients, three in seats and two in wheelchairs. Most days it's not quite a full house though this morning it was. There's also a "dive attendant," a certified tech or RN who's the equivalent of the HBO cruise director. They give me a foot stool, offer me water, and then the fun really starts.

They close the door (cue dramatic music). Did I mention I'm prone to claustrophobia?

Next, they "take us down." This involves a rather annoying hissing noise as they increase the pressure. The first thing I notice is that it's getting warmer. The more compressed the air is the warmer it gets. The next thing I notice, or should I say it announces itself with a vengeance, is the pressure in my ears. It starts and escalates very quickly. On day one I was in pain in just a few seconds. and they had to stop the dive, increase a couple of feet, then let me equalize before continuing down. Day two was better, and each day's been a bit better since but it's still a painful process. I've never been a good one for the whole pinch your nose and clear your ears thing. It just doesn't work for me. Of course my geriatric shipmates are showing no signs of any difficulty. The occasional yawn or nose pinch is about as far as they need to go. Of course those of you who know me know that I hate rocking the boat, particularly in new situations, so I always let it go just beyond uber-painful before I surrender and say "It hurts!"

So once we've reached our destination at 45 feet below, a little voice from above says "On O2" through a speaker. "On O2, I understand" replies our cruise director. They then attach the clear plastic bubble hood to each of our collars and begin the oxygen flowing. So I'm claustrophic in the first place. I'm inside a small cast iron tube. And now they put the equivalent of a plastic bag over my head. Can you say anxiety?

I pull out my book and if I really focus I can escape into its pages and forget where I am. But then the cruise director comes by and adjust something and brings reality right back. The good news is I'm getting a LOT of reading done because we wear the hood for three thirty minute intervals with five minute breaks in between.

Once we've finished, we head for the surface. Decompression is not painful, but does sound like Snack, Crackle and Pop are having a heckuva party in my ear drums.

I don't know how much longer I'll need to do this, but it is a daily event. I'll see the doctor Friday and find out how many more he thinks I may need. If it's too many they can put tubes in my ears that take care of the pain (and therefore most of the anxiety), for good. We'll see.

Home Sweet Home

Last Thursday afternoon I realized that my surgical pain was worsening, not improving. "I'm just pushing myself too hard," I thought. After all, it went away when I lied down ... every time. Friday morning I felt pretty good, and headed off to school to help with the Mexican Independence Day celebration. By the end of the three hours I was in pain again, so I went home and took it easy. Saturday morning I awoke to make Bill his birthday breakfast of eggs benedict. By the time we had eaten and the dishes were done, I was in pain yet again. "Call your Dr.," Bill said. "He wanted to be kept informed of any changes."

Yeah, I thought. But it's Saturday ... I don't want to bother him ... And besides, we had a sitter for that night and Bill and I were going on a real date. I didn't want anything to spoil that.

Then the little voice spoke up. "That's ridiculous Page, you're in pain and your doctor should know about it." So, I called him. He was very concerned and called in an antibiotic prescription immediately. He also asked me to take a picture of the incision area and email it to him (how very high tech), so I did. I didn't see anything fishy but it's kind of hard to carefully inspect your own chest, isn't it?

A few minutes later the phone rang and it was him. "It looks like an infection," he said. OK, me thinks. I'm taking antibiotics so that should take care of it. But then he kept talking.

"Page, I'm a pretty conservative guy. Because your skin is previously irradiated and we're trying to get you ready for chemo in a week and half, I'd like to admit you to the hospital for some IV antibiotics. They're much stronger and will get to work much more quickly than oral meds."

"Well that's really going to ruin my weekend," I said, but dilligently took down the details of what I needed to do ... go to the ER ... see the Hospitalist on staff ... etc.

"So this will just be an overnight thing, right?"

"Well no. I'd like you to get several doses of two different antibiotics. I'll come in and see you Monday morning and will likely send you home then."

After I hung up I had my own personal mental breakdown. I was mad ... No, I was pissed. I didn't want to go to the hospital. I didn't want to tell my kids that mommy has to go away for a few days. And I didn't want to not be home for Bill's birthday. So I did what all overwhelmed 40-something superwomen do ... I cried. For about three minutes. Then I pulled myself together, wiped my eyes, and got on with it.

I told Bill first. He was, of course, completely understanding and wonderful. Then I gathered the kids. "Mommy has something to tell you guys, can you come here?"

Wrong thing to say. Rosie gave me a terrified look, said "Not something else bad!" and ran upstairs. Tess didn't run away but was crying ... no bawling ... on the couch. "I just want this to be over. I didn't know cancer would take this long. We were going to bake a cake today!"

Rosie came back, also in tears. I, of course, started crying again too. It wasn't pretty ... at all. Bill wisely distracted the girls with thoughts of heading to the annual YMCA luau and each bringing a friend. That redirected everyone to the telephone to see who was available on short notice.

I headed upstairs and packed a few things ... jammies to avoid the humiliation of the hospital gown ... books, knitting, and my computer, to provide entertainment ... and of course, ear plugs in case my roomate snores (learned that lesson the last time around).

I drove myself to the hospital so we wouldn't have to subject the kids to the unknowns of a Chula Vista ER (which turned out to be a good thing. The 91-year old woman in the bed next to me called out "Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" very loudly about every 90 seconds). All things considered, everything went very smoothly. I hardly had to wait before being given a bed, and within just a couple of hours I was heading upstairs to my room.

Bill and the girls arrived just in time. They headed straight to the room to wait for me to be delivered from the ER. Of course hospital policy required that I be wheeled up in a wheelchair. When Rosie saw me, she burst into tears again. I pulled her to me to give her a hug. "Honey, mommy's just fine," I said. "Really."

"Then why can't you walk?" she wailed. Oh the mind of a young child. Apparently before I arrived she had seen a woman walking through the hall using a walker and rolling her IV along with her. Apparently she made quite an impression on Rosie.

I stood up immediately and reiterated "Look, of course I can walk!" but she was inconsolable. Ultimately Bill took her down to the lobby to wait for Sofia and Tess to have a visit before leaving. She refused to come back and see me again, which I understood, but which also cut deeply ... A situation which I cannot control has made my children scared and sad, and there's nothing I can do about it but move forward and try to help them make sense of it. How do you make a six-year-old understand that?

I was discharged this morning and am happy to report the pain is completely gone and the redness has diminished too. I've got three weeks worth of antibiotics to take and will also be receiving hyperbaric oxygen therapy to aid in the healing. We're pulling out all the stops to assure I'm as healed as possible prior to starting chemo.

Certainly wasn't the way I wanted to spend my weekend, but it was yet another step forward in this journey.

Give me a C-H-E-M-O!

So I knew there was a reason that I never got around to updating my blog with my chemo plans. A week ago I saw the oncologist. The news overall was really good. I'm definitely Stage I, which means it's very early. I'm also estrogen/progesterone receptor positive, which is also a good thing even though I have no idea what it means. The best news: he's giving me only four cycles of chemotherapy (rather than the six I anticipated ... yay!). He then scheduled me to begin my TC regimen (Taxotere and Cytoxan) this coming Thursday, and assured me I would do great, feel great, look great. Then he confirmed I would lose my hair.

Today, I saw my general surgeon (whom I love), and she officially released me. I also saw my plastic surgeon, who said things are progressing very nicely. "So far so good," were his exact words. However, when he heard I was scheduled to begin chemotherapy in two days, his tone changed. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that," he said. "Irradiated skin (which I have thanks to my 24-year-old cancer treatment ... I'm sure you've all noticed my glowing personality anyway) heals more slowly than average skin. Plus chemotherapy makes you more susceptible to infection and will cause the wounds to heal even more slowly. I'm going to call your oncologist and see if it's OK to postpone for a couple of weeks."

So he took off my steri-strips, then used dermabond to reinforce the healing incision. "Is that SuperGlue for the skin?" I asked, jokingly?

"Actually, yes. It's the exact same thing but it's been formulated for skin use and obviously sterilized."

Who knew? He then said "I'll be back in a few minutes. You just sit there and let it dry."

OK.

Five minutes later he returned. "I've just talked to Dr. Funnyguy (my oncologist ... name changed to protect the innocent) and he's agreed to postpone your chemo for two weeks."

Whoopee. I was just getting myself all psyched up for it. I already bought a wig - a really cute and sassy one. I've been eating ultra-healthy to shore up my immune system. I've been exercising every day because I should. Two more weeks? They say it takes three weeks to form a habit so maybe these measures will stick. We'll see. Unfortunately that means two more weeks on the back end which means I won't be done by Thanksgiving, but I will be done by Christmas, so there's that.

It also means I can celebrate Bill's birthday (and mine for that matter) and feel good all at the same time. I can also ease back into life ... work ... mom stuff. All that jazz.

All things considered, the news is great. Yeah, I have cancer, but we caught it early and it's of a kind that's got a great success rate. How lucky am I to have had cancer twice in my lifetime, and both times have it be of a form that's one of the "curable" ones (don't tell Dr. Funnyguy I said that ... he'll say "breast cancer is something we don't cure, we manage for the rest of your life.")?

I've thought a lot about my first oncologist lately, comparing him to my present guy and remembering specific moments in time. Like the first time I met him. I was with my mom and dad, and we were ushered into his wood-paneled office. He sat in a big red chair. He didn't say much with me in the room ... (Mom ran blocker for me that time around. Best blocker ever!) What he did say, I remember vividly. "Well, if you have to have cancer, you've got the right kind."

Well I had two bouts of Hodgkin's Disease which makes this my third. Third time's a charm, so this will be it, right?