Oh, so much has happened since last week, chiquitas! I bought a rebounder, went to Vancouver with my brood for a laser-fast trip, made a decision on my return to work date and slept on my side for a whole 30 minutes. Cue the angels singing.
First the mini-trampoline. I've been coveting one for as long as I've been hanging out with the c-dawg, but boobies, then hacked-off boobies kept getting in the way of realizing my dream of bouncing my way to nirvana. You see, rebounding (as they say in the biz) is damn near the best form of exercise known to girl-kind (and boy-kind for that matter). It's easy on the fake hip, you can do it while you're yelling at the kids and it gets all the good juices moving in the right direction in the old goddess pod. And when you're trying to dog the lymphadema monster (and ultimately the return of the c-monster), it gives your lymphatic system something to pee its pants over. In a word, it's the bestest.
After a seemingly jet-set stop at a fitness depot in good ol' Langford last week after having lunch with Stella and my parents, I spotted the perfect rebounder, marked down from $80 to $30. Sold. And sold again to my Ma, who has become my biggest fan (heck, she always has been). The thing is now set up in my sun room and I've been tentatively bouncing on it whenever I pass by. It feels mucho strange with my mini-boulders bouncing and yet not bouncing along with me, so I'm easing into it, but it feels good. Like fun and invigorating and calming all at the same time. Yay for me.
Then there's the big V. We decided to take the kids for an overnighter on Friday to visit Pete's mom and get a few visits into the deal. It was half lovely and half excruciating with baby doll Frances along for the ride. She was in turns darling and brutal and far from being a trooper when shoved out of her element. I love that bean of mine, but man, is she ever three.
And work? I decided that by the first week of May, my bod should be in good working order (or good enough) to get me on the communications forklift again. This has been a tough decision. When I left work last year I was feeling like I was at an all-time high professionally but an all-time low personally. There have been a lot of discussions with Pete and ruminations with myself over the past several months about what work should look like, what I want, what's possible, what my long-term plans are (long-term being one year, cuz I can't think beyond that any more). I've changed some of my cellular structure over the past nine months, but I'm still the ambitious, driven gal I was b.c. The only thing that's different is that I feel a greater clarity about what's important and how I want to manage my work and life. That's a very small sentence for some pretty big changes inside of moi.
But really, the most important thing of all is that the other day I was finally able to roll onto my right side and sleep on it for an entire half hour. Miracles are possible, people. They really are.
Have an action packed couple of cancer weeks ahead. Heart scan, Herceptin, regroup with Dr. A, my onc, GP visit, and hopefully a rehab rehash to see what I can do to get to the point of lifting midgets with my withered arms.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
And take it to the left, and hold....
Four weeks in and I'm getting tired of not being able to reach for or lift shit. I know six weeks is the magic number for getting some decent mobility back, but the whole "stretch, but not 'til it hurts!" instructions are frustratingly vague.
I can almost reach up (way up!) with my right arm - enough to shave, get a salad bowl, fetch the bag of Hallowe'en treats still lingering in my linen closet. My left is another story. Because one of the "areas highly suspicious for invasive ductal carcinoma" was on the outer edge, they took so much skin on that side that I've got this bat-wing thing going on (goodbye armpit modeling career). I can reach about half as far as my right and it burns, baby.
The numbness is going away on my chest but it's still there on the back and underside of my left arm. The doc says it might always be there, which is less distressing than I thought it would be. It feels funny/painful when I brush my pony out in the morning or when someone grabs me by the arm while I'm trying to shoplift at the Bay, but no biggie. Cancer vs. numbness. We know who the clear winner is there.
Things I'm rather sad about are not being able to do yoga, sleep on my side or lift/carry my girls. Frances has reworded her daily ask from "can you carry me?" to "can you hold me and walk?", thinking I might get fooled, but as cherubic as face is, I know I'd rather wait than risk permanent damage.
I'm doing my exersausages every day, but may end up calling a physio or signing up for rehab at the six-week mark so I can take everything to the next level. I gots marathons to run, people!
I can almost reach up (way up!) with my right arm - enough to shave, get a salad bowl, fetch the bag of Hallowe'en treats still lingering in my linen closet. My left is another story. Because one of the "areas highly suspicious for invasive ductal carcinoma" was on the outer edge, they took so much skin on that side that I've got this bat-wing thing going on (goodbye armpit modeling career). I can reach about half as far as my right and it burns, baby.
The numbness is going away on my chest but it's still there on the back and underside of my left arm. The doc says it might always be there, which is less distressing than I thought it would be. It feels funny/painful when I brush my pony out in the morning or when someone grabs me by the arm while I'm trying to shoplift at the Bay, but no biggie. Cancer vs. numbness. We know who the clear winner is there.
Things I'm rather sad about are not being able to do yoga, sleep on my side or lift/carry my girls. Frances has reworded her daily ask from "can you carry me?" to "can you hold me and walk?", thinking I might get fooled, but as cherubic as face is, I know I'd rather wait than risk permanent damage.
I'm doing my exersausages every day, but may end up calling a physio or signing up for rehab at the six-week mark so I can take everything to the next level. I gots marathons to run, people!
Monday, March 21, 2011
The good ol' vegan baking try
Now that I've got my juice on and we've transformed our grocery bills into 90 per cent raw fruit and veg (yes, my children hate me), I've decided to make another leap in the kitchen to see if I can't make my cancer go away forever through top-notch nutrition = vegan baking.
Oh, don't think the mention of me baking all things sans eggs and butter, mostly gluten-free and sugar-free didn't strike fear in Pete's heart. Like me, he believes in indulging in the real thing rather than shoving strange substitutes down your gullet. And shit, man, if you haven't checked out the "alterna" sections of your local grocery haunt lately, it's stuffed to the gills with soy this and soy that - products made to look like something else. I've even tried some of this crap over the past several months. The latest being tapioca cheese. Don't ask.
So I'm still determined to seek out whole foods, not the methadone substitutes to get me through the shakes. But it's been difficult. Eating out is mostly a disaster. Not only do we have to look out for food that might be laden with the mighty peanut so Stella doesn't collapse in closed-throat agony, but trying to get a decent baked good that isn't butter, sugar and egg happy is bloody impossible. So, hell, I love to bake, and my wretched reaching and lifting abilities won't be compromised with mere measuring cups and spoons, so here I go.
After many failed attempts and a cupboard full of odd ingredients, I've finally narrowed it down to a few whole food substitutes (I apologize to all you seasoned alterna bakers out there, but I had to figure this stuff out myself):
Flour = spelt (I also use brown rice, quinoa and Bob's Red Mill all-purpose gluten-free flours)
Liquid sugar = agave (sweeter than refined sugar but lower GI - there's still controversy about the processing of agave, but until the verdict comes down, I'll continue to squirt it into my baking)
Grainy sugar = coconut sap (expensive but worth it - lower GI and delicious)
Eggs = ground flax or chia with a little water does a fab binding job
Oil/butter = coconut oil (good fat, people) or grapeseed oil (neutral and non-GMO)
Despite all the hype out there that it's really easy to bake with this stuff (I swear most vegans have lost their taste buds or their ability to tell the truth... I look forward to your letters), I've had exactly one vegan recipe turn out so fabulous that I'd be happy to serve to friends and strangers alike - banana bread - but even with this one I lowered the sugar to 1/4 c. Next time I'll lower it even more and add some toasted millet, my new favourite crunch.
I will persevere! Today I bought the babycakes cookbook, which uses a lot of the ingredients I listed, and made some raspberry scones. I didn't have enough spelt flour so used mostly quinoa. They're good, but I think they need a little tweaking before I'd share them.
And I promise - if you come to my house, I'll only serve the America's Test Kitchen version of my baking. Next up is my continued attempt to make the perfect vegan chili (without any of that soy nonsense) so I can establish Sing Your Arse Off Saturdays at the McCart-Taylor household every month and guests full of beans, wine and karaoke. Be very afraid.
Oh, don't think the mention of me baking all things sans eggs and butter, mostly gluten-free and sugar-free didn't strike fear in Pete's heart. Like me, he believes in indulging in the real thing rather than shoving strange substitutes down your gullet. And shit, man, if you haven't checked out the "alterna" sections of your local grocery haunt lately, it's stuffed to the gills with soy this and soy that - products made to look like something else. I've even tried some of this crap over the past several months. The latest being tapioca cheese. Don't ask.
So I'm still determined to seek out whole foods, not the methadone substitutes to get me through the shakes. But it's been difficult. Eating out is mostly a disaster. Not only do we have to look out for food that might be laden with the mighty peanut so Stella doesn't collapse in closed-throat agony, but trying to get a decent baked good that isn't butter, sugar and egg happy is bloody impossible. So, hell, I love to bake, and my wretched reaching and lifting abilities won't be compromised with mere measuring cups and spoons, so here I go.
After many failed attempts and a cupboard full of odd ingredients, I've finally narrowed it down to a few whole food substitutes (I apologize to all you seasoned alterna bakers out there, but I had to figure this stuff out myself):
Flour = spelt (I also use brown rice, quinoa and Bob's Red Mill all-purpose gluten-free flours)
Liquid sugar = agave (sweeter than refined sugar but lower GI - there's still controversy about the processing of agave, but until the verdict comes down, I'll continue to squirt it into my baking)
Grainy sugar = coconut sap (expensive but worth it - lower GI and delicious)
Eggs = ground flax or chia with a little water does a fab binding job
Oil/butter = coconut oil (good fat, people) or grapeseed oil (neutral and non-GMO)
Despite all the hype out there that it's really easy to bake with this stuff (I swear most vegans have lost their taste buds or their ability to tell the truth... I look forward to your letters), I've had exactly one vegan recipe turn out so fabulous that I'd be happy to serve to friends and strangers alike - banana bread - but even with this one I lowered the sugar to 1/4 c. Next time I'll lower it even more and add some toasted millet, my new favourite crunch.
I will persevere! Today I bought the babycakes cookbook, which uses a lot of the ingredients I listed, and made some raspberry scones. I didn't have enough spelt flour so used mostly quinoa. They're good, but I think they need a little tweaking before I'd share them.
And I promise - if you come to my house, I'll only serve the America's Test Kitchen version of my baking. Next up is my continued attempt to make the perfect vegan chili (without any of that soy nonsense) so I can establish Sing Your Arse Off Saturdays at the McCart-Taylor household every month and guests full of beans, wine and karaoke. Be very afraid.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Pretty, pretty pony
Something I've been meaning to get into and finally started doing today is dry brushing myself like the good pony I am. I picked up a $5 natural bristle body brush from Stupidstore and this morning got to work on transforming my dry, circulation-challenged bod into a high-performing, toxin-eliminating, lymphatic superstar.
Dry-brushing has technically been around forever, but apparently around 30 years ago, a doctor from Finland made it de rigeur by prescribing it to his patients to detoxify their skin. Now it's a practice adopted by hippies, naturopath-followers, cancer-survivors and general wellness buffs who swear by its ability to do everything from eliminate cellulite to prevent lymphedema, strengthen your immune system and generally purge any bad stuff that your liver can't do on its own. It was part of the detox program I was on in January, but I didn't get around to adopting it. Now that I've had my lymph nodes hacked off, it's time to get brushing.
I went to a rehab seminar last week that was bullshit, but I took the floor a few times to ask questions of the physio torturing us with her powerpoint presentation. As usual, the focus of this particular cancer talk was about treating problems - e.g. lymphedema - rather than preventing them.
"What about dry brushing or rebounding - things that are supposed to make your lymphatic system work better so you don't get lymphedema in the first place?" I asked.
"I don't know about those things." Full stop. Awesome work staying on top of your field, physio lady.
So like everything else not medication or scalpel-related, I'll do the research myself to see if it really turns me into a show horse or just makes me smell like patchouli and make my own soap.
Besides getting a shiny new bod, I got closer still to starting my new porn career today with a trip to see my plastic man - the first since my operation. I suspected I might get pumped up, but was still a tad shocked to see him drag out a cartoon-sized plunger with a foot-long skinny needle attached to it. After Dr. T. ran some kind of geiger counter over my little mounds to mark up where the tissue expanders were he went in for the kill, with no topical anesthetic. Jab. In went a huge dose of saline into the left. It felt like an alien growing inside my chest.
On the right Dr. T. found a seroma, which I had seen and felt almost since I got out of the hospital but thought it was the expander. He tried to aspirate it after he injected saline on that side but it was too close to the expander. He decided he wasn't worried about leaving it be and even pumped in a little more saline on the right to even things up a bit. So now I have these bigger, nipple-less lumps on my chest that will eventually (in about three months) be transitioned to silicon implants.
The stranger news is that the Dr. T. has asked me to be in his new instructional video (or rather my boobies will be in it) so he can show general practitioners around the province how to do their own saline injections. Like a DIY boobs video. Sweet. I see a career in fake ta ta modeling in my future. Who says I don't have a special talent?
The whole shebang gets more surreal by the minute. Which is why I had to take Stella out for brunch after the appointment. After she commented on a woman's seemingly huge pregnant belly I told her a cautionary tale about assuming women were pregnant.
"What if a woman just had a big meal and you came up to her and said, 'oh! how far along are you?!' She'd be pretty upset, I bet."
"Oh," Stella said, thinking for a moment. "Well, what if I just said, 'how's all that food doing in there?'"
The world is righted once again with insane laughter over pancakes. Oh, and did I mention Stella's now watching Xanadu on Netflix? Bliss.
Dry-brushing has technically been around forever, but apparently around 30 years ago, a doctor from Finland made it de rigeur by prescribing it to his patients to detoxify their skin. Now it's a practice adopted by hippies, naturopath-followers, cancer-survivors and general wellness buffs who swear by its ability to do everything from eliminate cellulite to prevent lymphedema, strengthen your immune system and generally purge any bad stuff that your liver can't do on its own. It was part of the detox program I was on in January, but I didn't get around to adopting it. Now that I've had my lymph nodes hacked off, it's time to get brushing.
I went to a rehab seminar last week that was bullshit, but I took the floor a few times to ask questions of the physio torturing us with her powerpoint presentation. As usual, the focus of this particular cancer talk was about treating problems - e.g. lymphedema - rather than preventing them.
"What about dry brushing or rebounding - things that are supposed to make your lymphatic system work better so you don't get lymphedema in the first place?" I asked.
"I don't know about those things." Full stop. Awesome work staying on top of your field, physio lady.
So like everything else not medication or scalpel-related, I'll do the research myself to see if it really turns me into a show horse or just makes me smell like patchouli and make my own soap.
Besides getting a shiny new bod, I got closer still to starting my new porn career today with a trip to see my plastic man - the first since my operation. I suspected I might get pumped up, but was still a tad shocked to see him drag out a cartoon-sized plunger with a foot-long skinny needle attached to it. After Dr. T. ran some kind of geiger counter over my little mounds to mark up where the tissue expanders were he went in for the kill, with no topical anesthetic. Jab. In went a huge dose of saline into the left. It felt like an alien growing inside my chest.
On the right Dr. T. found a seroma, which I had seen and felt almost since I got out of the hospital but thought it was the expander. He tried to aspirate it after he injected saline on that side but it was too close to the expander. He decided he wasn't worried about leaving it be and even pumped in a little more saline on the right to even things up a bit. So now I have these bigger, nipple-less lumps on my chest that will eventually (in about three months) be transitioned to silicon implants.
The stranger news is that the Dr. T. has asked me to be in his new instructional video (or rather my boobies will be in it) so he can show general practitioners around the province how to do their own saline injections. Like a DIY boobs video. Sweet. I see a career in fake ta ta modeling in my future. Who says I don't have a special talent?
The whole shebang gets more surreal by the minute. Which is why I had to take Stella out for brunch after the appointment. After she commented on a woman's seemingly huge pregnant belly I told her a cautionary tale about assuming women were pregnant.
"What if a woman just had a big meal and you came up to her and said, 'oh! how far along are you?!' She'd be pretty upset, I bet."
"Oh," Stella said, thinking for a moment. "Well, what if I just said, 'how's all that food doing in there?'"
The world is righted once again with insane laughter over pancakes. Oh, and did I mention Stella's now watching Xanadu on Netflix? Bliss.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Raise a glass of green juice
I know I've extolled the virtues of drinking the plant blood a gazillion times, but on this day of Irish days, do yourself a gigantic favour and get a juicer so you can raise a glass of green juice with me. Most points programs have the Breville or some other juice-o-matic as a reward option and if you troll your fliers or Amazon or used goods sites, you'll see these babies go on sale often.
If you're the picture of health, juicing will take your bod to the next level of cellular wellness. It's a direct hit - no chewing, no pesky fibrous husks for your guts to process, all sunshiney, enzymey goodness. It'll boost your immune system, help fuck off cancer, give you bucketloads of energy and make your insides superhero material. If you're the picture of health issues, juicing will help you turn a major corner.
The store-bought juice is not good. It's pretty much dead. Sugar in a container. And squeeze the veg more than the fruit (three to one is ideal), with your fruit in the lower glycemic range (granny smiths, pears, grapefruit, berries). Don't be afraid of the time it takes - you develop a routine in no time and I promise that shoving all that goodness down the feed tube will erase any feelings of time guilt. Start it as a weekend ritual and replace your cup of coffee. You'll never look back.
And to those lovelies who have already gone to the green side - my man, my Ma and Pa, my brothers and sisters-in-law, my two gorgeous girl cousins and a certain gentle giant teacher man, my rockin' aunt, my cancer twin S, the ravishing Miss D, E, J, L and M, the champagne peddler, B, and her daughter (if there are more of you, please, please tell me) - you light my fire.
Here's to St. Paddy's Day and viva la juice!!
If you're the picture of health, juicing will take your bod to the next level of cellular wellness. It's a direct hit - no chewing, no pesky fibrous husks for your guts to process, all sunshiney, enzymey goodness. It'll boost your immune system, help fuck off cancer, give you bucketloads of energy and make your insides superhero material. If you're the picture of health issues, juicing will help you turn a major corner.
The store-bought juice is not good. It's pretty much dead. Sugar in a container. And squeeze the veg more than the fruit (three to one is ideal), with your fruit in the lower glycemic range (granny smiths, pears, grapefruit, berries). Don't be afraid of the time it takes - you develop a routine in no time and I promise that shoving all that goodness down the feed tube will erase any feelings of time guilt. Start it as a weekend ritual and replace your cup of coffee. You'll never look back.
And to those lovelies who have already gone to the green side - my man, my Ma and Pa, my brothers and sisters-in-law, my two gorgeous girl cousins and a certain gentle giant teacher man, my rockin' aunt, my cancer twin S, the ravishing Miss D, E, J, L and M, the champagne peddler, B, and her daughter (if there are more of you, please, please tell me) - you light my fire.
Here's to St. Paddy's Day and viva la juice!!
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Bewitched, bothered and bekindled
I met with my beloved surgeon yesterday and once again she deepened my girlcrush. She cuts right through my concerns without me barely having to say a word and gives me the figurative high fives I need without me knowing I needed them.
In short, I don't have a seroma, I need to calm the fuck down because it's T+3 weeks and it'll take awhile for me to heal, and my baby boobies look amazeballz. You have to understand that they don't really look amazeballz. When I glance down my shirt I see these little mounds of my skin, which looks passable, but head on, in the buff, I have sutures, steri-strips, puckered and folded skin, swelling and irregular shaped, very high tiny things stuck on the front of me like a cartoon girl. But from a surgeon's perspective I guess I can kinda see that Dr. R. might be pleased that at least they don't look like a warning picture from a medical journal.
She was also pleased with the pathology. I had to ask her a few times, "good news, right? I should be happy, right?!" and she teased me for being all bothered about it. I felt better when I left, plus she had gently but roughly ripped off my bandages for good so I can finally wear all those tube tops I've been stashing in the closet.
The next step is to see Dr. T, my plastic man, so he can inject a giant needle into my boobs and pump up my Nike air pumps for stage two of the expansion process. Eventually, I'll have to go under the knife again for day surgery to get my porno implants inserted. Oh how I'll be happy to rid myself of hospital visits.
Then it's back to my onc soon to get onto Tamoxifen, which is an estrogen blocker. I'll likely be on that baby for five years to make sure the cancer cells that are in my bod don't gang up on me again with estrogen as their soilent green. Tack onto that a continuing three-week schedule of Herceptin into September.
I feel like I need another break from the cancermobile. My man did much to answer that call yesterday with the gift of a Kindle. Oh my new Kindle!! I can barely contain myself with the thought of all the books I'll be cramming onto that lightweight thing of beauty, toting it around with me wherever I go. Did I mention how lovely Pete is? I'd be rubble without him.
In short, I don't have a seroma, I need to calm the fuck down because it's T+3 weeks and it'll take awhile for me to heal, and my baby boobies look amazeballz. You have to understand that they don't really look amazeballz. When I glance down my shirt I see these little mounds of my skin, which looks passable, but head on, in the buff, I have sutures, steri-strips, puckered and folded skin, swelling and irregular shaped, very high tiny things stuck on the front of me like a cartoon girl. But from a surgeon's perspective I guess I can kinda see that Dr. R. might be pleased that at least they don't look like a warning picture from a medical journal.
She was also pleased with the pathology. I had to ask her a few times, "good news, right? I should be happy, right?!" and she teased me for being all bothered about it. I felt better when I left, plus she had gently but roughly ripped off my bandages for good so I can finally wear all those tube tops I've been stashing in the closet.
The next step is to see Dr. T, my plastic man, so he can inject a giant needle into my boobs and pump up my Nike air pumps for stage two of the expansion process. Eventually, I'll have to go under the knife again for day surgery to get my porno implants inserted. Oh how I'll be happy to rid myself of hospital visits.
Then it's back to my onc soon to get onto Tamoxifen, which is an estrogen blocker. I'll likely be on that baby for five years to make sure the cancer cells that are in my bod don't gang up on me again with estrogen as their soilent green. Tack onto that a continuing three-week schedule of Herceptin into September.
I feel like I need another break from the cancermobile. My man did much to answer that call yesterday with the gift of a Kindle. Oh my new Kindle!! I can barely contain myself with the thought of all the books I'll be cramming onto that lightweight thing of beauty, toting it around with me wherever I go. Did I mention how lovely Pete is? I'd be rubble without him.
Monday, March 14, 2011
M-m-m-my seroma
Since the pathology unfolded before me like a gift from the cancer gods last week, I've felt elated, normal and panicked, and I'll assume such is life from now on.
We had cupcakes before dinner on Thursday and on Friday, Pete and I went to a favourite haunt, the Superior, to get foodied and such. Eating out is definitely a different experience these days. If anyone, it's Pete who makes the extra effort to stay meat-free, but there's always the occasional chicken liver or slice of prosciutto thrown in there to show the animals who's boss.
And drinking isn't nearly as Irish as it used to be. Two glasses of whatever it is is generally the limit for both of us. Makes us sound like nofun-niks, but getting hosed and watching that "50% more likely to see a recurrence" headline floating above your martini makes the abandon of it all a little less desirable. In other words, it's a brave new world, people. I'll have to get my kicks elsewhere.
Two strange things immediately post-report? I found Pete's missing wedding ring and Frances started sleeping through the night again. Any old schlub could chalk these things up to coincidence, but I choose something more. What that is I have no idea.
And then there's Japan. Talk about that thing that makes you realize yet again that your little life is pretty insignificant. I feel privileged to be worrying about anything - to have my life for another day.
It brings me to the bigger thing that's been on my mind the last nine months and especially the last four days. And I ain't the first doofus to think this stuff, but that doesn't make it any less puzzling...
How do you live your life with both immediacy and rationality? Sometimes my instinct is to do everything. Plan the trip, learn the guitar, go skydiving, all that cliched shit that everyone who has had one foot in the grave thinks about. Then how do I plan for my retirement (which still seems ludicrous to me), pay off my mortgage, take care of my kids' needs? How do I live with purpose when I still don't know what that purpose is?
I'm trying to calm my mind about this stuff. It may be amusing for Pete to hear me expound about my blueprint for world domination and hedonistic escape, but it makes me feel pretty fucking scattered. And I'm a practical girl at heart. I have a subscription to Consumer Reports to prove it! But I can no longer be wrapped up in long-term planning. It feels wrong and it feels self-indulgent. It's like when I had a miscarriage with my first pregnancy. Before that it was all about "when I'm ready for a baby I'll have one." After that smack in the face at eight weeks along, it was all "oh, so I'm not totally in charge here."
I want to direct this show as much as possible, but finding a new balance is proving difficult. Something to work on, I guess.
In the meantime, I think I might have one of those dreaded seromas under my arm where the lymph nodes were removed. But I can't tell shit with all the numbness and electric shocks going on under there. So today I see my surgeon, who apparently still hasn't received a copy of my pathology, to get the boobmeisters checked out. The worst? I get ye olde fine needle aspiration and feel a little more pain. I can take it.
We had cupcakes before dinner on Thursday and on Friday, Pete and I went to a favourite haunt, the Superior, to get foodied and such. Eating out is definitely a different experience these days. If anyone, it's Pete who makes the extra effort to stay meat-free, but there's always the occasional chicken liver or slice of prosciutto thrown in there to show the animals who's boss.
And drinking isn't nearly as Irish as it used to be. Two glasses of whatever it is is generally the limit for both of us. Makes us sound like nofun-niks, but getting hosed and watching that "50% more likely to see a recurrence" headline floating above your martini makes the abandon of it all a little less desirable. In other words, it's a brave new world, people. I'll have to get my kicks elsewhere.
Two strange things immediately post-report? I found Pete's missing wedding ring and Frances started sleeping through the night again. Any old schlub could chalk these things up to coincidence, but I choose something more. What that is I have no idea.
And then there's Japan. Talk about that thing that makes you realize yet again that your little life is pretty insignificant. I feel privileged to be worrying about anything - to have my life for another day.
It brings me to the bigger thing that's been on my mind the last nine months and especially the last four days. And I ain't the first doofus to think this stuff, but that doesn't make it any less puzzling...
How do you live your life with both immediacy and rationality? Sometimes my instinct is to do everything. Plan the trip, learn the guitar, go skydiving, all that cliched shit that everyone who has had one foot in the grave thinks about. Then how do I plan for my retirement (which still seems ludicrous to me), pay off my mortgage, take care of my kids' needs? How do I live with purpose when I still don't know what that purpose is?
I'm trying to calm my mind about this stuff. It may be amusing for Pete to hear me expound about my blueprint for world domination and hedonistic escape, but it makes me feel pretty fucking scattered. And I'm a practical girl at heart. I have a subscription to Consumer Reports to prove it! But I can no longer be wrapped up in long-term planning. It feels wrong and it feels self-indulgent. It's like when I had a miscarriage with my first pregnancy. Before that it was all about "when I'm ready for a baby I'll have one." After that smack in the face at eight weeks along, it was all "oh, so I'm not totally in charge here."
I want to direct this show as much as possible, but finding a new balance is proving difficult. Something to work on, I guess.
In the meantime, I think I might have one of those dreaded seromas under my arm where the lymph nodes were removed. But I can't tell shit with all the numbness and electric shocks going on under there. So today I see my surgeon, who apparently still hasn't received a copy of my pathology, to get the boobmeisters checked out. The worst? I get ye olde fine needle aspiration and feel a little more pain. I can take it.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Survey says...!
I've been wondering about a lot of shit lately. Do positive vibes really travel? Can other people's prayers have an effect on an atheist like me? How in the hell do I dress these new tiny titties of mine without looking like a pre-teen?
I think I may have the answer to the first two questions in the form of my pathology report, delivered to me hot off the press this morning. I had a seemingly routine onc appt booked with Dr. B, my fave doc at the cancer clinic (who isn't my regular doc), and while he and I were blathering on about estrogen and surgery and cats with tiny hats, I saw a collection of papers in my file that said "final report". Gulp. No electronic record of my pathology yet, but Dr. B had just then received a hard copy and hadn't yet had time to read it.
While he perused and I sweated my ballz off, Pete nervously rubbed my shoulder. The dirt:
Dr. B. said he was very happy with these results, so I am, too. Deliriously happy, in fact. So fucking happy that I stopped by Vanilla bakery on the way home (after calling my parents, of course - relatives before baked goods... for the most part) and purchased a giant pumpkin muffin. Nice to see after these months of juicing and vegetarian/vegan conversion that I can still rock the simple buttery carbs.
So let me be clear about this. It was the love of such a delicious circle of friends and semi-anonymous supporters, from former and current co-workers, bosses, peers, teams of furious worker bees, to school moms, teen idols, old acquaintances and newfound friends, brothers and sisters-in-law, cousins, aunts, uncles, to one helluva husband and parents, children and scruffy ass dog that carved the path to this report. Over the moon grateful. Blissed out. Reveling in every second.
Give me the weekend and I'll be full of shit with plans. Hurrah!!!!!
I think I may have the answer to the first two questions in the form of my pathology report, delivered to me hot off the press this morning. I had a seemingly routine onc appt booked with Dr. B, my fave doc at the cancer clinic (who isn't my regular doc), and while he and I were blathering on about estrogen and surgery and cats with tiny hats, I saw a collection of papers in my file that said "final report". Gulp. No electronic record of my pathology yet, but Dr. B had just then received a hard copy and hadn't yet had time to read it.
While he perused and I sweated my ballz off, Pete nervously rubbed my shoulder. The dirt:
- No cancer in right breast
- 10 lymph nodes removed, no cancer in any of them
- 1 or 2 "foci" (tumours) found in my left breast
- 4 mm margin around the tumour(s)
Dr. B. said he was very happy with these results, so I am, too. Deliriously happy, in fact. So fucking happy that I stopped by Vanilla bakery on the way home (after calling my parents, of course - relatives before baked goods... for the most part) and purchased a giant pumpkin muffin. Nice to see after these months of juicing and vegetarian/vegan conversion that I can still rock the simple buttery carbs.
So let me be clear about this. It was the love of such a delicious circle of friends and semi-anonymous supporters, from former and current co-workers, bosses, peers, teams of furious worker bees, to school moms, teen idols, old acquaintances and newfound friends, brothers and sisters-in-law, cousins, aunts, uncles, to one helluva husband and parents, children and scruffy ass dog that carved the path to this report. Over the moon grateful. Blissed out. Reveling in every second.
Give me the weekend and I'll be full of shit with plans. Hurrah!!!!!
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Pathologus Interruptus
I heard from my surgeon's office last night that my pathology isn't ready yet. This had me temporarily spiraling into a scenario where I imagined the pathologists (are they called that?) peering into their microscopes saying to each other, "damn, this girl is riddled with the c-dawg... how do we spin this into any kind of positive report so she doesn't off herself?"
Of course the conversation is more likely, "upper left and mid-right quadrants indicate overexpression of acute ductal carcinoma with positive surgical borders... blah, blah, blah", but whatevs. The result is still the same.
So I'll wait for the phone call that tells me my report card is in.
Had a surprisingly lovely day with Frances yesterday. She was a model child, despite being sick. She still woke up last night but I was having a shitty sleep anyhow, so by the time Stella called out just before 5 am to tell me she'd had a bad dream, I decided to get up and cozy on in by the fire and my computer. And oh what a girl can get done by the light of the gas flame when everyone else is asleep! Banking, blogging, haircut appointments (sadly, not yet for me), and whether Stella likes it or not, an afternoon art camp next week so I can have a few hours free every day for appointments and such.
If there's a bright spot in all this, it's that juicing is keeping Pete and I wicked healthy, despite living in a TB ward the past few months on little sleep. Pete has had a few sick days to coddle the beginnings of nasty colds, but each time, they disappear into thin air. I've had the occasional sore throat and runny nose, but no cough to speak of and nary anything lasting more than a couple of days. Viva la plant blood, baby.
The latest thing I'm mixing into the daily juice is Vitamineral Green, something I picked up in a PS health food store. I'm getting to be super powered, y'all.
Of course the conversation is more likely, "upper left and mid-right quadrants indicate overexpression of acute ductal carcinoma with positive surgical borders... blah, blah, blah", but whatevs. The result is still the same.
So I'll wait for the phone call that tells me my report card is in.
Had a surprisingly lovely day with Frances yesterday. She was a model child, despite being sick. She still woke up last night but I was having a shitty sleep anyhow, so by the time Stella called out just before 5 am to tell me she'd had a bad dream, I decided to get up and cozy on in by the fire and my computer. And oh what a girl can get done by the light of the gas flame when everyone else is asleep! Banking, blogging, haircut appointments (sadly, not yet for me), and whether Stella likes it or not, an afternoon art camp next week so I can have a few hours free every day for appointments and such.
If there's a bright spot in all this, it's that juicing is keeping Pete and I wicked healthy, despite living in a TB ward the past few months on little sleep. Pete has had a few sick days to coddle the beginnings of nasty colds, but each time, they disappear into thin air. I've had the occasional sore throat and runny nose, but no cough to speak of and nary anything lasting more than a couple of days. Viva la plant blood, baby.
The latest thing I'm mixing into the daily juice is Vitamineral Green, something I picked up in a PS health food store. I'm getting to be super powered, y'all.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Drain removal: not for the faint of heart
Those of you who have had surgery involving drainage tubes will know exactly what I'm talking about when I say the removal of said tubes is an out-of-this-world experience.
After going on my first post-surgical driving excursion and waiting an hour and 15 minutes to see Dr. O, who isn't even my doctor but I was so bloody eager to get the drains out that I didn't care, the waiting room cleared out, the receptionists left the building and I steeled myself to make an argument. You see, you have to wait until the, erm, fluid coming out of your body and into the drains is less than 30 cc in a 24 hour period. No brainer for my right side, but the left, with the axillary node removed, was taking a little longer, and although Sunday equaled 30 cc, technically, it was still over that magic number for a 24 hour period.
I was prepared to get only one removed, but before I could launch into my explanation, Dr. O said that even if both were well under the number, that was no guarantee that I wouldn't get a seroma, which is basically a narsty pocket of fluid that can't drain. He declared that my chest looked like it was healing beautifully and got out his suture scissors to get to work.
And mother fuck. Those drains being pulled out of my body, so casually, was like nothing I've ever felt before. It was like a couple of pythons had eaten their way into my body and wrapped themselves around my internal organs and most sensitive nerves and were then yanked out hard and fast by their tails, making the blasted snakes writhe and painfully wriggle as they came out. Brutal.org. One of those eyes clenched shut moments, please let it be over, please let it be over, please let it be over.
And the problem with me is that my abnormally (but normal for me) low blood pressure mixed with a stupid tendency to overdo it at the worst of times means I would pay for this moment of otherworldly pain later in the evening.
I drove home feeling fairly gleeful that I didn't have the grenades of blood hanging from my body, but realized as I tried to turn my car around a sharp corner that driving was perhaps a bad idea. I made it home though, just in time to prep dinner.
After the girls went to bed (believe you me, I was counting the seconds), I hopped into the shower for the first time in two weeks and had a long hot blast. Heaven. I peeled my latest bandages off so Pete could change them and even got up the nerve to replace one of the steri-strips on my sutures that was looking a bit dodgy. All a bit of a numbingly painful ordeal, if that's possible.
Pete got to work on his complex bandaging process and I started to feel a bit off. I sat on the toilet for a few minutes and watched my face turn grey. The blood kept rushing to my head, though, and I forgot everything my favourite chemo nurse had told me about elevating my legs when I felt faint. I had some water and tried to stand but Pete had to catch me (under my arms, no less) before I fell.
"Oh, not my arms!" I called out and knew I was going down on my knees but couldn't stop myself. And scene.
When I came to, which Pete said was less than a minute later, I was staring into my dog's black scruffy face directly in front of me and wondered where the hell I was. Pete helped me up and we continued the mummification of my chestal. Poor guy. He looked spooked but was completely calm about the whole thing.
After a big bowl of Cheerios and almond milk, I was feeling better and crashed into bed before Frances' first wakeup at 11:30 pm.
I feel fine today, but think I got a nice little reminder yesterday not to overdo it. Today, Frances is home with me so she can nurse her cough. She's being a peach so far, but I asked my mom and dad to come over to take us out for lunch so I can get a bit of a break. See? I can ask for help when I need it.
Tomorrow (hopefully): pathology.
After going on my first post-surgical driving excursion and waiting an hour and 15 minutes to see Dr. O, who isn't even my doctor but I was so bloody eager to get the drains out that I didn't care, the waiting room cleared out, the receptionists left the building and I steeled myself to make an argument. You see, you have to wait until the, erm, fluid coming out of your body and into the drains is less than 30 cc in a 24 hour period. No brainer for my right side, but the left, with the axillary node removed, was taking a little longer, and although Sunday equaled 30 cc, technically, it was still over that magic number for a 24 hour period.
I was prepared to get only one removed, but before I could launch into my explanation, Dr. O said that even if both were well under the number, that was no guarantee that I wouldn't get a seroma, which is basically a narsty pocket of fluid that can't drain. He declared that my chest looked like it was healing beautifully and got out his suture scissors to get to work.
And mother fuck. Those drains being pulled out of my body, so casually, was like nothing I've ever felt before. It was like a couple of pythons had eaten their way into my body and wrapped themselves around my internal organs and most sensitive nerves and were then yanked out hard and fast by their tails, making the blasted snakes writhe and painfully wriggle as they came out. Brutal.org. One of those eyes clenched shut moments, please let it be over, please let it be over, please let it be over.
And the problem with me is that my abnormally (but normal for me) low blood pressure mixed with a stupid tendency to overdo it at the worst of times means I would pay for this moment of otherworldly pain later in the evening.
I drove home feeling fairly gleeful that I didn't have the grenades of blood hanging from my body, but realized as I tried to turn my car around a sharp corner that driving was perhaps a bad idea. I made it home though, just in time to prep dinner.
After the girls went to bed (believe you me, I was counting the seconds), I hopped into the shower for the first time in two weeks and had a long hot blast. Heaven. I peeled my latest bandages off so Pete could change them and even got up the nerve to replace one of the steri-strips on my sutures that was looking a bit dodgy. All a bit of a numbingly painful ordeal, if that's possible.
Pete got to work on his complex bandaging process and I started to feel a bit off. I sat on the toilet for a few minutes and watched my face turn grey. The blood kept rushing to my head, though, and I forgot everything my favourite chemo nurse had told me about elevating my legs when I felt faint. I had some water and tried to stand but Pete had to catch me (under my arms, no less) before I fell.
"Oh, not my arms!" I called out and knew I was going down on my knees but couldn't stop myself. And scene.
When I came to, which Pete said was less than a minute later, I was staring into my dog's black scruffy face directly in front of me and wondered where the hell I was. Pete helped me up and we continued the mummification of my chestal. Poor guy. He looked spooked but was completely calm about the whole thing.
After a big bowl of Cheerios and almond milk, I was feeling better and crashed into bed before Frances' first wakeup at 11:30 pm.
I feel fine today, but think I got a nice little reminder yesterday not to overdo it. Today, Frances is home with me so she can nurse her cough. She's being a peach so far, but I asked my mom and dad to come over to take us out for lunch so I can get a bit of a break. See? I can ask for help when I need it.
Tomorrow (hopefully): pathology.
Monday, March 7, 2011
A Monday kind of love
Some weekends are best forgotten. Everyone sick, juicer broke, nuff said. It's Monday and I'm going to enjoy the solitude, despite being exhausted from last night.
I'm getting my drains removed today - not by my own surgeon, but I couldn't wait another friggin' day. There's a chance the pathology report might be ready, too. Which is good but yikes. I'm thinking there are two possibilities there. "Negative margins" being the best outcome and "we need to go back in to remove more" being the worst. I'm just focusing on an end to sponge baths and washing my hair in the sink and the rebirth of long hot showers.
The pain is much more manageable now. I'm taking extra-strength Tylenol once or twice a day and am forcing myself to get out and about as much as possible. Where I had my sentinel node removed I'm getting these electric shock feelings, which I think is normal. And I'm willing any stray cancer cells to stay the fuck away from my my tiny new boobies.
I'm still getting used to looking down and seeing the Kate Hudsons peering back at me. I feel like a 12-year old girl and the feeling only multiplies with the baggy sweaters I'm wearing to house the drains and the baggy jeans that used to fit on my former frame. As soon as I can pull up my pants without wincing, I'll be getting my arse to the pantaloon store to stock up.
But today I'll enjoy my beautiful green juice pumped out by my spanking new (and bigger!) Breville and couch out for a bit before attempting the drive to the doc's this afternoon.
I'm getting my drains removed today - not by my own surgeon, but I couldn't wait another friggin' day. There's a chance the pathology report might be ready, too. Which is good but yikes. I'm thinking there are two possibilities there. "Negative margins" being the best outcome and "we need to go back in to remove more" being the worst. I'm just focusing on an end to sponge baths and washing my hair in the sink and the rebirth of long hot showers.
The pain is much more manageable now. I'm taking extra-strength Tylenol once or twice a day and am forcing myself to get out and about as much as possible. Where I had my sentinel node removed I'm getting these electric shock feelings, which I think is normal. And I'm willing any stray cancer cells to stay the fuck away from my my tiny new boobies.
I'm still getting used to looking down and seeing the Kate Hudsons peering back at me. I feel like a 12-year old girl and the feeling only multiplies with the baggy sweaters I'm wearing to house the drains and the baggy jeans that used to fit on my former frame. As soon as I can pull up my pants without wincing, I'll be getting my arse to the pantaloon store to stock up.
But today I'll enjoy my beautiful green juice pumped out by my spanking new (and bigger!) Breville and couch out for a bit before attempting the drive to the doc's this afternoon.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Cancer card: rejected
I have this little person who lives in my house and she's been a tad dominating in her shy little way. Sweet Frances Beatrix, with her eyes so blue and her blonde bangs so blunt, has been keeping me awake for almost four years now and last night led to one of many, many moments when I thought I could crack from it all.
You see, the Frances store doesn't accept the cancer card. In the daylight she may act like she's being all careful around mommy and understanding that I can't pick her up and lift her into bed and give her huge hugs of abandon, but when it's nighttime, the fact that I'm less than two weeks past getting my chest hacked off means zero. Zilch. Nada.
I'm the first to admit this is all my fault. She was a bad sleeper from day one and when I should have been Ferberizing her back when she hadn't yet turned one, I was leaping out of bed to soothe her. We had just moved to Victoria, our lives were ass backward, and I didn't want the whole family to suffer from sleep deprivation. I wasn't working, I could handle it better anyhow. Until I went back when she was 8 months old and spent the summer not sleeping and I finally woke up and couldn't move my neck.
"Deal with it now, because it'll be a lot harder to sleep train a three year old than a one year old," the doctor said to me.
So I did it. Or thought I did. It was me and Frances against the world at night and everyone hated us. But she got better. Very slowly. And I caught some stretches of sleep. Since then it's been inconsistent, which isn't unusual for any kid, but we go through multiple nights of really bad times that she saves up just for me. Up every two hours. Like torture. All the mothers of teenagers and adults tsk away and know it passes and of course it fucking does, and of course it breaks my heart to hear Frances tell me at 3 am that she's lonely in her room by herself. And of course I think, if I die from this wretched cancer I'll regret all this bad bedtime blood between us, but it all fits into place when I remember she's a robot sent from another planet to play on my weaknesses and wear me down until I crack so my body can be dismembered by her alien tribe.
It's likely Stella went through this as well at her age. I probably have a stack of "Dealing with your Preschooler's Sleep Issues" books around somewhere. And yes, I've likely forgotten all that because parents forget the bloody pain. But none of that rational, been-there experience helps when you've been screamed awake five times the night before and chased with a shot of invigorating 30 minute meltdown the morning after (her not me).
I'm the only one who hears her at night, you see. And despite the melon-balled chest, I rock my pathetic abs just so to leap out of bed as quickly as possible because I know she'll scream harder if Pete goes to her and I know Stella will be miserable the next evening if I let Frances scream until she pukes. And besides, I'm off work now and can handle the sleep deprivation better than anyone, right?
And boy did I lay it on the line with her at breakfast about how she's safe in her room and bed and that if she's hurt or sick I'll always be there for her but waking mommy up to scratch your back or pull your hair off your sweaty neck is not happening anymore. Oh yeah, I'm positive she got that message loud and clear. And she'll sleep like a bloody log from this day forward because of that brilliant chat over Cheerios.
I seriously need to find a kid's store that takes this fucking cancer card. Maybe a spot of Netflix and a nap will help.
Shit, I need to have a positive thought here...
On our lovely morning walk to school, Stella told me she wants to be an artist/astronaut (she'll do the rocket ship thing when she gets breaks between drawing and painting). Having a six-year old is the best thing in the entire world.
You see, the Frances store doesn't accept the cancer card. In the daylight she may act like she's being all careful around mommy and understanding that I can't pick her up and lift her into bed and give her huge hugs of abandon, but when it's nighttime, the fact that I'm less than two weeks past getting my chest hacked off means zero. Zilch. Nada.
I'm the first to admit this is all my fault. She was a bad sleeper from day one and when I should have been Ferberizing her back when she hadn't yet turned one, I was leaping out of bed to soothe her. We had just moved to Victoria, our lives were ass backward, and I didn't want the whole family to suffer from sleep deprivation. I wasn't working, I could handle it better anyhow. Until I went back when she was 8 months old and spent the summer not sleeping and I finally woke up and couldn't move my neck.
"Deal with it now, because it'll be a lot harder to sleep train a three year old than a one year old," the doctor said to me.
So I did it. Or thought I did. It was me and Frances against the world at night and everyone hated us. But she got better. Very slowly. And I caught some stretches of sleep. Since then it's been inconsistent, which isn't unusual for any kid, but we go through multiple nights of really bad times that she saves up just for me. Up every two hours. Like torture. All the mothers of teenagers and adults tsk away and know it passes and of course it fucking does, and of course it breaks my heart to hear Frances tell me at 3 am that she's lonely in her room by herself. And of course I think, if I die from this wretched cancer I'll regret all this bad bedtime blood between us, but it all fits into place when I remember she's a robot sent from another planet to play on my weaknesses and wear me down until I crack so my body can be dismembered by her alien tribe.
It's likely Stella went through this as well at her age. I probably have a stack of "Dealing with your Preschooler's Sleep Issues" books around somewhere. And yes, I've likely forgotten all that because parents forget the bloody pain. But none of that rational, been-there experience helps when you've been screamed awake five times the night before and chased with a shot of invigorating 30 minute meltdown the morning after (her not me).
I'm the only one who hears her at night, you see. And despite the melon-balled chest, I rock my pathetic abs just so to leap out of bed as quickly as possible because I know she'll scream harder if Pete goes to her and I know Stella will be miserable the next evening if I let Frances scream until she pukes. And besides, I'm off work now and can handle the sleep deprivation better than anyone, right?
And boy did I lay it on the line with her at breakfast about how she's safe in her room and bed and that if she's hurt or sick I'll always be there for her but waking mommy up to scratch your back or pull your hair off your sweaty neck is not happening anymore. Oh yeah, I'm positive she got that message loud and clear. And she'll sleep like a bloody log from this day forward because of that brilliant chat over Cheerios.
I seriously need to find a kid's store that takes this fucking cancer card. Maybe a spot of Netflix and a nap will help.
Shit, I need to have a positive thought here...
On our lovely morning walk to school, Stella told me she wants to be an artist/astronaut (she'll do the rocket ship thing when she gets breaks between drawing and painting). Having a six-year old is the best thing in the entire world.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
All aboard the estrogen train
From the moment they awoke from their glorious childhood slumber, my ovaries have been like a pair of German trains. Always running on time. So why I should be anything but expectant about the return of arts and crafts week at panty camp is a little naive.
Honestly, with the horribly bad skin of late, the lower back pain, the biting the heads off a litter of kittens and the obligatory Ryan-Gosling-turning-into-a-rabbit sex dream, I should have known I'd be boarding the estrogen express sooner rather than later after the end of chemo. Especially after craving that big iron-filled steak last week.
Whether I have to worry about the nasty hormones swimming around in my bod again is unknown. Apparently I'll need to be tested for the presence of specific hormones and shouldn't even count on the fact that my German train will be so, erm, German from now on. If this is all sounding a little Hitler-esque, I don't mean it to. Go to Europe. Compare each country's train schedules. Report back to me. Within the minute, I tell you!
I was hoping I'd become happily menopausal about all this cancer stuff, but...
On the good news front, Frances slept until 5:30 am this morning. Victory! So I'm celebrating with a supremely quiet day at home, willing my drains to stop sucking away and lifting my arms over my head at regular intervals. The big fear is lymphadema, which can happen on the side I've had my lymph nodes removed (the left). I can't lift anything heavier than 5 lbs for several weeks and have to be careful about extreme temps, manicures, infections, needles, blood pressure machines, and the list goes on. If not, I could end up with a big puffy arm and hand, possibly forever. Goody.
Feeling stronger today all around but can't wait until next week when I can drive again. For now, though, I smell Gossip Girl on my PVR...
Honestly, with the horribly bad skin of late, the lower back pain, the biting the heads off a litter of kittens and the obligatory Ryan-Gosling-turning-into-a-rabbit sex dream, I should have known I'd be boarding the estrogen express sooner rather than later after the end of chemo. Especially after craving that big iron-filled steak last week.
Whether I have to worry about the nasty hormones swimming around in my bod again is unknown. Apparently I'll need to be tested for the presence of specific hormones and shouldn't even count on the fact that my German train will be so, erm, German from now on. If this is all sounding a little Hitler-esque, I don't mean it to. Go to Europe. Compare each country's train schedules. Report back to me. Within the minute, I tell you!
I was hoping I'd become happily menopausal about all this cancer stuff, but...
On the good news front, Frances slept until 5:30 am this morning. Victory! So I'm celebrating with a supremely quiet day at home, willing my drains to stop sucking away and lifting my arms over my head at regular intervals. The big fear is lymphadema, which can happen on the side I've had my lymph nodes removed (the left). I can't lift anything heavier than 5 lbs for several weeks and have to be careful about extreme temps, manicures, infections, needles, blood pressure machines, and the list goes on. If not, I could end up with a big puffy arm and hand, possibly forever. Goody.
Feeling stronger today all around but can't wait until next week when I can drive again. For now, though, I smell Gossip Girl on my PVR...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)