Take Your Poison

It's new year's eve.
The automated message on the other end of the phone reminded me that chemo begins in exactly one week.
So much for celebrating.

Truth be told, chemo is never really far from my mind.
But I'm a big girl.
I'll take my poison, and I'll complain about it...to you.

Deciding I needed a game plan,
(and obviously a change of attitude)
I opened my book of quotes to find Walter Elliot's:
"Perseverance is not a long race, it is many short races one after another".

Okay, so that's the goal.
And as my girlfriend Renee often says, "It's good to have goals."

Happy 2010 Everyone!

FOR SALE: Gently Used Blow Dryer

I have a lot of hair care products.
Heck, I have a lot of hair,
thick hair,
at least for now.

When I have a salon appointment, I usually carry my flat iron; wide-tooth comb; and blow dryer with comb attachment. The round brush works, but only if the person blowing my hair wants a bicep workout too.

The last time I saw my hairstylist,
he mentioned that I needed to buy a new one.








I'm about to start chemo.
Think I should post it on Craig's List?

Ten Days and Counting

The countdown begins today.

In ten days, I'll start chemo treatment.
For at least the next 20 weeks I expect to be sick, tired and bald.

But when I'm done,
I expect to be healthy, energetic and
...hairy.

Bra Burning

At least a dozen are piled on the bedroom floor.
I don't have the heart to throw them out...yet.

Earlier today I searched my lingerie drawer and removed all under wires:
Good-bye Vanity Fair;
So long Victoria's Secret;
Ciao Wonderbra. "I don't need you anymore."

Thus the (symbolic) bra burning has begun.
This time it isn't political.
It's practical.

Good thing too.
After doing a little research, I've learned that wearing under wire can be bad for my health.
Did you know that wearing metallic under wire bras, which attract and conduct electricity, can put you at risk of burning or death during electrical storms and lightening strikes?

Okay, so it wasn't really research.
Unless you believe everything you read on Wikipedia.

Merry Christmas from Old St. Noah

Dear Santa the Clause,

I just want you to have a great trip to

deliver the presents.

By Noah

I love Santa the Clause!

Noah penned this in a card and included it in the boxed gift he left "the Clause."

Noah felt that cookies alone were not enough since Santa brought gifts for everyone else.

Noah thought that Santa should receive a gift too.

Apparently Noah thinks more about Santa that most of us.

Merry Christmas!

D's Favorite Things 2009

Each year "Oprah's Favorite Things" episode sparks a frenzy among audience members.

Occassionally, I've asked for things on the list,

like Origins White Tea Body Cream (2002) or

The Discovery Channel's Planet Earth DVD box set (2007).

With Lady O slowly inching her way toward retirement,

I thought I should come up with my own favorite things list.

Follow my logic:

We're both black, female, TV personalities with a Baltimore connection.

The similarities stop there.

So if you're expecting an LG HDTV Refrigerator or HD Progressive Camcorder,

forget about it.

I don't have Oprah's clout or money.

Favorite Things 2009:

The "Cheers" bottle opener is both festive and functional. Purchased from Lucy and Ethel's in Historic Savage Mill, it's the perfect start to get your drink on.

Another one of my favorites, for a third year runing is Trader Joe's Dark Chocolate Sea Salt Caramels. Ladies, you know what time it is when you need your chocolate and salt in one snack. Check these out.

Don't laugh, but I purchased several of these pink Snuggies for the breast cancer survivor and non-breast cancer survivors in my life. A portion of the proceeds are donated to breast cancer research. Kinda makes you feel warm all over.

Finally, my favorite things list would not be complete without Longhorn gear. And with UT heading to the BCS National Championship in January, I had to spread a little burnt orange love.

Swing Thoughts of My Own

I received a book entitled, "Swing Thoughts for The Cancer Club."
It is a collection of wonderful quotes by well-known people.
One of them currently hangs on my refrigerator, between the school menus and the shopping list.

"I know God will not give me anything I can't handle.
I just wish He didn't trust me so much." Mother Teresa

It's a good one.
That's where I am,
right there.

Inspired, I came up with my own:
Faith is something you must exercise, to make stronger.
Unfortunately, I don't always feel like working out.

Nineteen Hours, Thirty Minutes Ago

The call came at 12:38 a.m.
It couldn't be good.

It wasn't.

Jeff talked. I listened to him to talk.
He hung up.

"What happened?" I asked.
"Your father...911...heart attack...hospital."

We began to pray.
My mind wandered back a week, back to Houston.
I remembered kissing my dad on the cheek and saying "good-bye" three days ago.


Today, he's lying in an ICU bed, intubated, with IVs in both arms.
We've since learned it was arrhythmia, not a heart attack that caused his collapse.
We'll know the rest when he's extubated, a couple of days from now.

It's going to be a long 48 hours.

Pig Pen

Sister Weekend/Day Two.

Football: the sport of men,
as evidenced each weekend across the country.
Stephanie and I attended a Houston Texans' football game,
tickets courtesy of a friend.

All of the players, most of the fans and a majority of the tailgaters were male.

So it was no surprise that I as I stood in line,
waiting to buy a Blue Moon,
the two people ahead of me and the one behind me were all male.
(Could it be that men use football as an escape from women?)

But not so fast...

After realizing that I was the only one in line with a purse,
the man ahead of me asked to borrow a pen.
He proudly announced, "Women always carry pens in their purses."

Sensing that he might need to get in touch with his feminine side,
I opened my purse and handed him the pen my son, Chris, gave me:

My Weekend in the Fab Lane

My flight to Houston was longer than expected.

I was trying to visit my sister, when headwinds

and an in-flight emergency got in the way.

The visit was important to me because my younger

sister, Stephanie, had recently been diagnosed with

cancer, again. (Bet you're glad you're not in
my family. It's okay. I understand.).

A lesser woman would have crumbled at the mere
mention of cancer. Not my sister. Again and again,

she has approached cancer with the same fabulousity

in which she pursued everything in life.

Seriously, my sister is a force of nature.

To prove it, we had mani/pedis, lunch and retail

therapy reminiscent of an episode of

"The Real Housewives" Any City, USA:
Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Juicy Couture, and David Yurman.

Why was this woman on a first name basis with Rossi

in the Gucci Salon and Trey at David Yurman's?

Well you know what I did next...
I phoned Big Papa to get pre-approval of my purchase.

Then I handed over the plastic and purchased a

crossover ring, for the day I cross over to the cancer-free

side. Stephanie pulled out her Black Card (Housewives' style)

and purchased an identical ring, now known as our "sister rings."
The deal was sealed with a(nother) flute of sparkling wine.

...and that was just day one!

In the coming months, we will both start chemo.

And there will be times when we wrestle with doubt.

Those are the times when we'll each draw strength from our sister rings and our weekend in the fab lane.

Don't Ya Worry About a Ping, Mon!

I received a copy of physical therapy "axilla" exercises from a friend at church.
I hadn't looked at the papers in my purse when a friend, who is a nurse said,
"You really need physical therapy. I can tell by the way you're holding your left arm."

Since I'm up for a challenge,
cause you know breast cancer in itself isn't enough,
I unfolded the packet of exercises and got to work later that night.
Next day, my arm felt better and the mobility had slightly improved.
I thought - there might be something to this PT stuff!

By day three, I was hooked.
Before my diagnosis, I spent 4-5 days weekly in the gym,
perfecting my Michelle Obama shoulders, biceps and triceps.
So, what's a little physical therapy?

I started the exercises, careful to follow the instructions.
I used my I-phone to time my sessions; I wanted to execute them perfectly.

I was smokin'!
First exercise: Rep 1, Rep 2, Rep 3 - good
Second exercise: Rep 1 - good
Rep 2 - !!!PING!!!
!!!PING!!!? What the heck was !!!PING!!!?
Did something snap loose? Did I pop something?
Was my arm going to fall off later that night?

Without a doctor in the house, I phoned Gina, my nursing friend.
"Are you in Pain?" No
"Can you move your arm?" Yes
"Any swelling in the area?" No
Gina told me to watch it and apply heat if it bothered me.
She also said I should take a break from exercising, at least until Jeff came home from work.

I interpreted Gina's instructions as follows:

1. Make yourself comfortable; relax.
2. Take a Valium.
3. If Valium does not work, try a cocktail.

Now say it with me, in your best Jamaican accent: Don't ya worry about a !!!PING!!!, mon.

Aah...I feel better already!

My Prayer Shawl

Today was a good day, filled with unexpected blessings.
One of my favorite surprises was a shawl
"crafted with prayers for...healing body, mind and spirit".
Except for leaving the house, I have worn it all day.
And I am wearing it now.


It means a lot to me for several reasons:
1) A good friend gave it to me;
2) Her mother (a breast cancer survivor) knitted it, along with a group of women from church;
3) The shawl was blessed by a priest; and
4) When I wear it, I feel as though God's arms surround me.

Jeff's first impression of my shawl was a bit different:
Mobility in my left arm is still somewhat limited, so my arm moves stiffly.
And since I need a little help seeing the expiration dates on coupons, I wore reading glasses.
And don't forget the shawl!

Got the visual?

This is what breast cancer looks like

I often intersect with people, mostly women,
who tell me how good I look.
I think I look the same,
but this is what breast cancer looks like.

Watching last night's rebroadcast of CNN's "Black in America: 2"
reminded me that I wasn't just looking at a three-time, breast cancer survivor.
I was seeing a beautiful soul, with an abundance of grace, courage, and dignity.

To the casual observer, she may have looked like a slightly overweight,
middle-aged woman with sparse, wispy hair.
To me, she was radiant through the pain.
I thought:
This is what breast cancer looks like,
and she's amazing!

One day soon, possibly this month or next, I'll look in the mirror and see a woman,
heavy (from steroids),
bald (from chemo), and who knows what else.
But I also WILL TO SEE something greater than my former self:
a beautiful soul, with an abundance of grace, courage and dignity,
with joy that radiates beyond the disease.

I want others to recognize
This, too, is what breast cancer looks like.

Yesterday

Back to Walter Reed for more tests, doctors' appointments
First stop: Plastic Surgery to get a "refill" on my right side
Next, Nuclear Medicine for a MUGA scan of my heart
Afterwards, downstairs to Radiology for my CT
Drank the water bottle full of contrast
An hour-long wait, occupied with a visit to the oncologist
Chemo talk - traditional, trials, side effects, second opinion

I'm sitting across the desk thinking: I'll do whatever works. I don't want to do this again.

Final stop: CT Scan of my chest, abdomen and pelvis
Contrast is injected
Why am I itching?
Allergic reaction
Benadryl STAT!
More delays, just in case....
There is no case; nothing happens

It's dark out now, as I wait for Jeff to pull the car around.
I'm sitting in the lobby when my I-Phone plays "The Mannish Boy Song."
It's her.
Her voice is uncharacteristically flat.
She takes a deep breath.
"It's more of the same," she says as she releases the air.
I'm silent, numb.
This wasn't supposed to happen again.

It was supposed to have worked.

Melancholy Blue

For a couple of days, I've pretended that breast cancer wasn't an issue.
And why not?
I felt well, almost normal.
I even thought I'd do a little decorating; get some shopping done; and
hop on the treadmill.
Since my next doctor's appointment isn't until Friday,
I concluded it would be easy to forget.

But sometime yesterday,
a shift occurred.
I'm not sure why it happened.

Was it the loved one I've worried about for more than a week now?
How about the friend who was having a bad day?
My Internet searches for chemo treatment?

Who knows, but a melancholy as heavy as Maryland fog settled over my soul,
smothering my ability to "forget".

Having my surgical drains pulled was bittersweet.
On one side of the equation - freedom
and there, waiting on the other - chemo, as soon as I finished healing.

Now I wait,
heal
and wait so more for the oncologists to call me in,
schedule my poison,
and start what I hope won't be the start of my "Melancholy Blue".

The Secret Service really blew it at Tuesday night's White House state dinner.
By Thursday, we'd learned the names, Tareq and Michaele Salahi, who walked
past initial security checkpoints without invitations, to attend (allbeit partially),
one of the most distinguished events of the year.

How did THAT happen?

The last time I was in proximity to President Obama was November 9th, when he visited Walter Reed Hospital. And let's be honest, I wasn't anywhere near the man! If memory serves me correctly, the Secret Service had the entire hospital so tightly locked down, that my mastectomy was delayed nearly three hours. I guess the Secret Service thought that a single-breasted, partially sedated patient was of greater threat to the President, than an attractive blonde, wearing traditional Indian formal wear.

So how did this "Real Housewives of Washington" wannabe
get a photo opt with Obama?
I had enough trouble just getting my scheduled surgery during his visit!


Not only did they get to meet the President, but they were woopin' it up,
(not really, but try to catch the visual) with:
Vice President, Joe Biden;
Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel (whom they referred to "Ron" on FB);
D.C. Mayor, Adrian Fenty;
Katie Couric; and
Robin Roberts (a fellow survivor), among others.

The Secret Service might want to reassess their "threat" protocol. I'm not suggesting that the Salihis were or were not a threat to the President, the Prime Minister of India or anyone else attending the dinner. It just seems like lately, the Secret Service isn't any better at doing their job than I am.

...and maybe that's the Secret.

Black Friday

Definition:
the day after Thanksgiving, in which retailers make enough sales
to move from the "red" into the "black".
It's after 12:00 p.m., so I don't plan on participating.
Cancer makes you prioritize.
Hey! That's a benefit.

But for those of you who will be enjoying "the Magic of Macy's",
here's a preview of what you else can look forward to:

WAL-MART save money live better (Want to save money? Stay home)
SEARS life well spent (More like money spent)
LOWE'S let's build something together (Build?)
KOHL'S expect great things (Don't!)

Admittedly,
One retailer does pique my interest.
JCPenney Every Day Matters
It sure does!

Thanksgiving Doesn't Care about Cancer

Thanksgiving does not care about my breast cancer.

There was no moratorium on the holiday because of my diagnosis.
Americans did not stay out of the grocery stores,
forgo that visit to grandma's house, or miss their favorite football games.


I could have selfishly thought: what have I got to be thankful for?
No one would've blamed me after explaining how sick I'd been the night before,
or that I just didn't feel like celebrating this year.


INSTEAD
We kept our plans.
Jeff fried a turkey; I made the cranberry sauce.
We enjoyed a wonderful dinner with friends:
running out of beer (after stores were closed);
watching the dogs circle as the ham and turkey were carved;
serving semi-homemade gravy (for fear of lumps);
...and now that I think about it, did Noah eat his vegetables?

Nope, Thanksgiving doesn't care about cancer.
And today, neither did I.

Just becasue you have cancer, There's no reason NOT to look cute

I often say:
"Just because you have cancer, there's no reason NOT to look cute."
It's become my rallying cry.
It's how I feel like my normal self BEFORE breast cancer.
Besides,
I like it when people notice that I put forth a little effort.
And I like it when people recognize me, for me and not the cancer.


Today I didn't put forth much effort.
And today, I learned the opposite of people saying I looked good.
Eyeing me suspiciously, the comments SOUNDED something LIKE:
"You feeling okay? You sure..."
which was completely appropriate since I didn't even try to look cute.


I'll admit it, my hair was pulled back in a bun...a bun!!!
I think at some point, I put on a little lipstick,
but after chewing on my partially, chapped lips
I think we can pretty much agree that I didn't wear make-up.
And I have no idea what I wore beneath my neck.
All I remember is that it was whatever I threw on in the chaos that ensued before walking,
...okay running, the kids to the bus stop.


Although I wouldn't admit it to anyone:
I didn't try to look cute today because I didn't feel well.
I didn't feel well, because I couldn't take my meds.
I couldn't take my meds because I had to drive.


Better to drive un-cute
than to drive under the influence.

My Big Fat Pink Pokeno

I knew that last night's Pokeno would be different, and it was.
I knew that you girls would wear pink, and you did not disappoint.

With raised glasses, we toasted.
I thought, "How sweet. They really care."

But it really wasn't until later, when everyone kept asking:
"Are you okay? Are you getting tired? We can quit playing at any time,"
that I knew you were all more concerned about how I was feeling than I was.
(Hey, a little morphine does that to a girl.)

Thanks for the gifts you generously gave.
Your generosity was completely unexpected.





My presents were:
TOUCHING (two breast cancer bracelets)
FIT-FOR-A DIVA (blinged-out wine glass)
WARM(hand-crafted scarf with matching socks)
MERRY & BRIGHT (Christmas tree with ornaments and lights)
INTOXICATING (Ice Tea Flavored Vodka, Mike's and bottles of wine)
SEMI-EDUCATIONAL (bookmark, without the prerequisite cancer book attached)
INTIMATE(personal care products, including moisturising gloves that I will wear during treatment)
PRACTICAL (camera case; pink ribbon chip clips; cork stoppers (upon first glance, Jeff was a little frightened by the "Rabbit"; plastic drinking glass - yeah, I know a bit of an oxymoron, but blame it on the morphine)

AND COLORFUL (pink, of course)!

Thanks for allowing me to share, even when it was time to go home.
Thank you all for listening.
Thanks for "getting me." I sometimes feel like I am an "acquired" taste.

Thanks for the best BIG FAT PINK POKENO a girl could ever have hoped for.

Mastectomy Fashions 101

I could teach a class.
Since being diagnosed with breast cancer a little more than a month ago,
I have managed to Jerri-rig enough wardrobe separates to "make it work."

My ability to adopt is part necessity,
part wanting to look cute.
Here are five of my mastectomy fashion favorites:

1) The issue of concealing drains (see 10/19 blog), is a temporary
problem, that can last several weeks. I usually put my drains in a
fanny pack for convenience. Since fanny packs are not cute (and that
is the point here), I try to conceal them underneath a long shirt
or in my pants, whenever possible. Be forewarned:
this will NOT work if you are wearing tight pants. (Got the visual?)
However, if you have a pair of "fat" jeans hanging in the back of the
closet, tuck away. Just remember, you don't want others noticing your
"man package." That's just plain weird.

2) Under wire bras from Victoria's Secret are not your friends!
"Ta-ta for now!" (Pun intended.)
I've made the switch to silky camisoles. When I still had one of my original
parts, I wore camis with the shelf bra. But after the second mastectomy,
I switched to the camisoles sans the shelf bra. This eliminates the rubbing
and binding. And let's be honest, my girls aren't going anywhere for the next
80 years.

Which leads me to sleeping.

3) After having a mastectomy, sleeping is tricky, especially following a
bilateral mastectomy. I was left with one option: sleeping on my back. When
even my most delicate pajamas irritated my surgical scars, I got desperate.
My solution was simple: go topless. It's a crowd pleaser...especially to my
husband.

4) Razor-back tees, tank tops, wife-beaters (or whatever you call them)
really work well. But watch out for high contents of Lycra. You don't
wants SPANX smooshing everything in. Love them on my thighs: on my boobs,
not so much.

Finally, in honor of Thanksgiving...

5) If you have a mastectomy on one side, it's okay to admit that your
"new" side may look better than your original parts (see Nov. 5 blog).
Take a page from a Martha Stewart "Living" Magazine and "stuff" that breast.
Bon Appetit!

Mammogram Debate

Whoa!
I just heard a report from an independent task force that stated most
women don't need a mammogram before the age of 50. Unless there is an
increased risk, women should wait until they turn 50 before having a
mammogram, every two years. The point being that mammograms doesn't
save enough lives in younger women.

Seems like I've heard this argument before. Younger breasts are more
dense, and therefore, a mammogram might not detect a lump or it might
give a false positive. In addition, the cumulative affects of radiation
might CAUSE cancer.

If that isn't confusing enough, this same task force is also telling
women not to bother with breast self-exams because they aren't reliable.
The yield is low and the anxiety is high.

The anxiety is high? Really!?!
The yield is low? Seriously!?!
Guess how I found my lump?
Guess how my sister found hers?

(BTW, the American Cancer Society disagrees with the new recommended guidelines.)

So what are you supposed to do?
Ultimately, you may not have a choice when it comes to your mammogram.
The decision will, at some point, be made by your insurance company,
and we all know how much they care about your health.

As far as self-exams, you're in-charge of this one!
Start touching yourself. If you don't roll like that, have your
husband do it; he will love it. (Enough said on that subject.)
The point is: if you find a lump or have a question, contact your
provider immediately. My lump was neither detected by by mammogram
nor ultrasound. It wasn't until after I invited the radiologist to
"cop a feel" that he ordered a breast MRI that finally showed something
suspicious.

Your Breast, Your Health, Your Life.
What's the debate about?

Home Alone

Today was my first day, home alone.
My mother returned home to Houston;
Jeff went back to his patients;
The boys headed off to school.
I worried that I would feel lonely today.

I planned a trip to the Post Office.
Not only to get out the house, but because
There was a package I needed to mail to a friend.
But as quickly as I began to plan my day, I remembered.
I had already consumed my daily drug cocktail.
Since there were no commercials urging me to "take meds; drive responsibly"
I thought it best to skip the driving and stay home.

But I wasn't alone.
My neighbors met me at the bus stop;
A girlfriend phoned from New York;
Another friend stopped by to check-in.
I received emails, one or two cards and a couple more phone calls.
I even received a pair of beautiful Norwegian earrings.

Sometimes being by yourself isn't at all lonely.

A Tale of Two Women

She was a friend.
She was your wife.
She needed you.
Hell, she was even bald from chemotherapy.

What would you be willing to do, to help?

This is a tale of two women from Texas,
One who claimed to have breast cancer,
Another whose cancer tried to claim her life.

There is a woman in Texas;
I'm from Texas.
Who had a tumor removed;
I had three.
She claimed it was breast cancer;
I have breast cancer.
So she held a benefit fundraiser;
I've benefited from help.
Because she'd lost her health insurance,
I have health insurance;
She needed money to pay for her breast implants;
Insurance covers mine.
She thought her breasts weren't good enough;
Pathology reports showed that neither of my breasts was good.

She lied.

The Blessings in Breast Cancer

I have a choice,
Not when it comes to the pain or to my loss.

But I have a choice,
To look beyond those things and see the blessings in breast cancer.

MY BLESSINGS:
I am both strong and weak, at once.
My circle of compassion has expanded.
My desire to help others has not diminished.
Over the past month, I've learned of true friendships.
Because of others, I have experienced the Grace of God.
Parts of this journey must be walked with God and Him alone.

It is easy to prioritize when YOU are at the top of your list.
I have learned that it's okay to ask for help because people WILL.
I not only think that I am loved but I know the people who love me.
When my husband says he loves me, I believe him, if I doubt everything else.
I've been encouraged by friends whom I haven't seen in months, years and decades.
My mother and I have had more "quality" time together this year, than we have in the past five years.

Preliminary pathology confirms that with the exception of the "positive" two lymph nodes that were discovered last month, all other nodes are clear. My right breast that was prophylactically taken had one, small cancerous tumor. That was supposed to be my good breast.

...the blessings in breast cancer.

An Open Letter to the President

Dear Mr. President:

I think it's worthy that you take time out of your busy day to visit our
wounded warriors at Walter Reed. They have sacrificed so much and deserve
the debt of our entire nation.

But please, if it isn't too much trouble, do you think you could have
someone check to see whether I have surgery scheduled during your next
visit? I know all about HIPAA, but you're the President.

...and I have breast cancer.

Without knowing your schedule, my doctors booked surgery to remove
my right breast. I realized someone should have checked with the
White House first, but it wasn't until I was in anesthesiology; sporting
a very comfy IV in my right foot; with regional blocks on both sides
of my spine, that an "emergency" case bumped my surgery.

Mr. President, did you know that breast cancer IS NOT an emergency?

My sedatives wore off as I waited for the critical case to vacate the
operating room. For three hours I was assured that the "emergency"
shouldn't take more than an hour; that it wouldn't be much longer;
and that the OR was being cleaned and prepped for my surgery.
[At 1:00 p.m., I was finally wheeled into the OR, not long after
my 5:30 a.m. arrival time at the hospital.]

So, the next time you plan to visit, and I hope you will soon, would you
please inform the Secret Service that a patient prepped for surgery is
no threat to National Security.

And if you have time, stop by and say "hello" too.

Deneitra Hutchinson
Proud Army Wife

Gone But Not Missed!

I imagine my tissue and lymph nodes stored in airtight jars of formelin,
waiting on trays for a pathologist to slice them up,
smear them onto slides, and
closely examine the specimens under a microscope.

The tissue samples have a story to tell, but so do I.
I wonder if the doctor who looks at them will see me, or only my cancer?
Will s/he know that I love to write; can mix an authentic Margarita; and love to watch Longhorn football on Saturdays?

On some level, my life may have began with cancer.
I was born with the Breast Cancer Gene, but if that's true, then I've changed very little since saying "good-bye" to both my breasts.

So until something REALLY changes,
I will continue to blog with humor, faith and humility; raise my William-Sonoma Margarita glass; and toast to life, all while cheering on the #2-ranked Texas Longhorns.

How can she look beautiful post-op?

It's me again, second string, letting everyone know her status. I have to first apologize because after a five hour start delay I didn't make the necessary calls to keep people from worrying. Someone had the nerve to have an emergency case before.

The real news however is that she did great again. She doesn't remember the way I do how she was last time, but she has much better pain control and much less nausea. We may have found the right combo, keep praying.

My two cents.....when I saw her lying there in post-op I saw the same beautiful woman who first took my breath away in Hawaii.

Deneitra and I thank everyone for the prayers. They are working.

The Good, The Bad & The Padding

In less than 24 hours, I will be back on the operating table
where the surgeons will perform an axillary lymph node dissection
(fancy name for removing lymph nodes underneath the pectoral muscle in the arm)
and to mastectomize (is that a "Don King" word?) my good breast.

I want to keep and remove my good breast, at the same time.
There is no cancer there.
The left one was the bad one.
And it's already been mastectomized.

As I prepared for the taping of Columbia Matters (probably my last one with my own hair), my mind raced through the usual details (hair and make-up, script, jewelry and wardrobe). I did the mirror check before heading out and noticed
my right breast,
my good breast,
hanging a little lower, looking a little sadder, (okay a lot sadder)
than my left breast,
my bad breast.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME? MY BAD BREAST HAD BECOME MY GOOD BREAST???
I HAVE TO PAD MY GOOD BREAST TO LOOK AS GOOD AS MY BAD BREAST?
(Not only that, I have to keep looking down in-between taping to make sure that padding isn't climbing up my neck or sliding down my stomach.)


Now, that's just not right...and neither is cancer.

Thank You

If I could use only one word to describe
what your prayers, scripture, cards and outreach have meant
it would be SUSTAINING

Witnessing your faith and commitment
as you gravel through the darkness with me
means I will find my way out

Your examples
will forever be a debt
that I seek to pay forward

As tears streak my face, and my voice chokes
know that I feel your love
I feel your care
it is eternal
and I am eternally grateful

Build-a-Breast

Women are givers.

Who else shows up at your house with dinner-in-tow just
because she knew you would need to eat, but wouldn't have
the energy to cook?

Recently, some of my close friends unselfishly offered to donate
unwanted body fat to help rebuild my breasts. While I appreciate
the thoughtfulness, I have enough butt fat to spare.
Thank you very much!

At the gym, my two girlfriends and I were all BFs, not "BFF"
just BF: Back Fat, Belly Fat and Butt Fat Girl, respectively.

So what do you think came to mind when I heard the words
"breast reconstruction?"
...butt fat, of course!

I even thought it worth mentioning to Dr. M, my plastic surgeon.
Since my initial surgery included having only one breast removed,
Dr. M. explained that I would be "lopsided" from behind. I
ultimately agreed, but in my defense, I made the suggestion
after Dr. M. commented that I didn't have much back or belly fat
to work with.

Where are my BF girls when I need them?

Remix Halloween 2008

I hadn't put much thought into what I wanted to be for Halloween this year.

It seemed like a waste of time.

Last year, I was Michelle Obama. Jeff and I attended a neighbor's party, where John McCain, Sarah Palin and an inflatable moose all made appearances. We danced, drank and socialized, without having to discuss the economy or war or cancer. It was a fun night.

Then several days later, something truly remarkable happened.

Michelle Obama became our country's First Lady.

I like Mrs. Obama. She is smart, thoughtful, sophisticated, and her arms are ALMOST as fit as mine, which made her an easy choice for 2008.

So what have I chosen to be for Halloween 2009?

D B C

Deneitra Before Cancer (i.e., smart, thoughtful, and sophisticated, with strong arms)

What I will miss

I am trying to imagine whether I'll mourn losing my breasts. I've been so focused on the cancer, I hadn't given it much thought.

So I've decided before losing my second one, I should at least think about it.

My first memory of breasts, weren't of my own.
I was in fifth grade. Our class was released for recess, and my classmates and I went herding down the hill toward the playground. Back then, all kids loved recess. There was this girl in our class who, let's just say was "over developed" for a fifth-grader. As she raced toward the swings, something went terribly wrong. The zipper on her dress split apart; her bra came unsnapped; and one of her breasts came bouncing out. She was flushed with embarrassment.

I felt bad for her. But I laughed anyway because I was ten.

I won't miss her breasts.

My next memory was in grad school.
It was summer and our class converged on Galveston to study shore erosion. I shared a room with two other classmates and was the one who answered the door. Professor B. and I had almost concluded our conversation when, just before shutting the door, one of my girls spilled out. I gasped! He turned beet red, backed away, and never mentioned it again.

I won't miss that.

But what I will miss is feeding my children. For nearly three years (total, not each), I fed Christopher, Cameron and Noah. Cameron was an especially good eater: the only baby I've known to gain weight, instead of losing it, before leaving the hospital. Breastfeeding was more than a way of bonding with my babies. For me, it was the way my breast fulfilled their intended purpose.

Now that both breasts will soon be gone, I suppose that's okay too. They have completed their mission.
I know they will never look the same again.
And I'm sure that one day, I'll try to remember what they used-to look like.

But I also know that one day I won't wince or see anything particularly unsightly about my breasts. I will still feel like a woman.
And one day, I will count my blessings.

There's no way I would miss that.

Apps

There are over 85,000 I-Phone Apps.
Seriously, there should be an app for cancer.

Hey! Eyes down here!

Okay, remember when you were at a college party, you met a guy,
started talking and noticed his eyes drifting down your neck and
stopping at your breasts? If you were like me it only happened a
couple of times. But when it did, you probably said something
like, "Hey! Eyes up here," preferring that he talk to your face, instead
of talking to your breasts.

So now, a year or two later, I have the opposite problem.
My hem/onc doctors are obsessed with my blood, not my boobs. What
does that tell you? (This is the military, so don't ask.)

What does it take to find a doctor whose mission in life is to focus on women's
breasts? Isn't that what men do most of their lives anyway?
Remember: eyes up here.

I don't need Dr. Gregory House (aka Hugh Laurie) on my team.
He's always looking for zebras instead of horses.

No, what I need is a doctor whose "eyes are down here",
just where they should be.

Haiku

prayers rising up

humbled by your thoughfulness

knowing I am loved

The Offense of Pink

A few weeks ago, you might have noticed that the NFL was all decked out in pink, supporting Breast Cancer Awareness. The campaign was called A Crucial Catch. One of its goals was to highlight the importance of annual screening for women over 40.

If you watched football that day, then you would have seen stadiums awash in pale pink; goal posts wrapped in cherry blossom pink; and large, burley players, accustomed to wearing black and purple - sporting the softer, gentler color. Even the refs got in on the action.

So it was no big surprise when a boy, got dressed the next day and pulled on a pair of pink socks. I imagine that he was proud to imitate his football heros, but even more proud of his mother.

A day earlier, he'd watched a football game and wanted to know why everything was pink.

For the first time, since her initial diagnosis 15 years earlier, she told him about breast cancer...her breast cancer.

"Remember all the times I was sick?" she asked, without saying too much.
"Yes," he paused, "but Mother, you've been sick a lot."

So I visibly cringed when I heard that the kid's father looked at the socks he was wearing and told him to turn them inside out because "real men don't wear pink." Would he have said the same to the players who wore pink helmets, gloves and cleats in honor of their mothers and grandmothers, wives and sisters?

Of course not, but
it's good to know that his son is well on his way to becoming a "real" man
and disheartening to know that his father isn't.

TOP TEN REASONS TO HAVE THE BILATERAL MASTECTOMY:


10. I'll have a pair of matching breasts.

9. I'll finally have a tatoo, and no one will have one exactly like mine.

8. This time around, I know to grab the MEDIUM government-issued hospital wear.

7. I already know what to eat and what to avoid eating during my hospital stay.

6. Size DOES matter.

5. You will know that if I return from Mardi Gras, I came by my beads honestly.
(No way I showed 'em!)

4. Plastics have a shelf-life of what? Like 80 years?

3. I will finally have a little something in common with Dolly Parton...very little.

2. My breasts will never sag...but yours might.

And the number one reason to have a bilateral mastectomy is...

1. I can't wait to exact my revenge on cancer and look good while doing it.

Why Do People Like Rollercoasters Anyway?

It's like riding a rollercoaster, but you didn't want the ticket.
I don't like rollercoasters. All that motion makes me sick to my stomach.
Some people are adrenalin junkies who like the thrill of the ride.
Not me. I like rides like the swings that fly through the air.
You know where they are going.
You know what happens next.

But this isn't the swings; this is cancer.
What I thought would happen next is that I would start chemo.
What I thought would happen next is that I would have my hair cut very short
and buy a wig...just in case.
What I thought would happen next is that I would have my breast rebuilt.
You know, "We can rebuild you. We can make you better."

Yesterday I found out what would happen next.
I will have to endure a second surgery to extract more lymph nodes.
The ones previously extracted were cancerous.

Today I found out I will also need radiation.
Today I found out I have the Breast Cancer Gene.
Today and over the next few days, I will consider whether to have my right breast removed as well.

Today the rollercoaster ride begins.
I wish I were flying on the swings.

Better than a cell phone

Yesterday I was sitting on the sofa, when my oldest son, Christopher got home from school. He had grown unaccustomed to seeing me in the family room or the kitchen...the place I used-to be before the cancer. Lately when he returned home from school, I was upstairs and in bed. The simpliest demands of the day seemed to drain me since having surgery. But on this day, yesterday, I was eager to see him. When he turned the corner from the foyer into the kitchen, what I saw shocked even me.

It registered quickly; Christopher realized that I virtually sat before him, instead of being tucked away upstairs. As he looked into my eyes, his countenance rose like the sun appearing over the horizon. The corners of his mouth turned up,"Mom! You're up!"

He could hardly contain his excitement as he ran over to hug me, carefully measuring his grip so he wouldn't hurt my wounds.

I know it wasn't Christmas, but you would have sworn I'd handed him his first cell phone.

Zappos to the Rescue

I tried so hard to write yesterday, but I wound up sick most of the day. Hey, it happens! I have cancer, remember.

But if I had been able to write, here's what I would've written:

I was IMing a good friend on FB last night (Tuesday), discussing my diagnosis. She wanted to know if I was happy with doctors. "All but one," I confided.

"Why don't you like him?" she quizzed.

"He is dismissive and told me that my breast cancer is not an emergency. A gun shot wound is an emergency."

"Does he know who he's dealing with? Does he know you're from Texas?" she asked.

"Not yet, but he will when I get rid of him!" I snapped.

Truth was, I hadn't quite figured out how to do that. Jeff and I had discussed it, but weren't sure how to find the right doctor.

Then I thought - Zappos.
Ladies, we all know about Zappos!
You review a slew of shoes online, in your size, desired color and style. Then you typically order several pairs that might work. Once the shoes arrive, you pick the ones you want, and return the ones you don't. Although every shoe you ordered might meet the criteria, not all shoes will be a good fit.

It's the same with doctors. My "assigned" doctor might have been qualified, but he wasn't a good fit.
Sooooo...
I did what any self-respected lady Texan would do: I pulled out my concealed weapon and fired a warning shot.

I'm kidding of course, I simply found another doctor, who was a better fit.

What time would U like your stripper?

Hey, I'm just quoting the text message I received from my girlfriend, Karen.
She's a nurse, who offered to stop by to "strip" my drains.

I have two of them from my surgery. The drains are attached to a bulb that collects the fluid from the vacated area of the breast. Three times daily, the drains need to be stripped (squeezed out for blood clots) and the fluid inside the bulbs is measured, before being discarded. Once the fluid equals less than 30 cc/day, I can have the drains removed.

So for those of you who read the title and thought, "Will Deneitra make it rain?"
My answer is no; I only make it drain.

Missed the Race

I sensed gratitude this morning, as I awoke to the fleeting sound of rain and a vision of runners/walkers, in a wave of pink, slick from the mist. Then I remembered my friends -running in my honor...the way I had done so many times for my younger sister Stephanie, my Aunt Dorothy, and my 100 year-old grandmother, Katie.


Before learning of my diagnosis, we'd registered to "sleep in for the cure." I didn't really have a reason at the time. I'd actively participated in the Race since the late 90's. Now I understand that it would have been a major undertaking with the drains, bandages and pain ball that cling to my torso.

But now I also understand just how people in my life have truly appreciated my efforts to "race" for them and for others diagnosed with breast cancer.

Today I feel like a winner!

And oh yeah, UT's win over OU yesterday didn't hurt either.
HOOK 'EM!!!

Must be the drugs...

...because at 5 a.m. this morning, I awoke in pain. My night nurse (you know - Jeff), handed me a pill. It worked, but not before I had a dream:

I was being honored at a party that I was unable to attend. With a bird's eye view, I watched as a chocolate cake was wheeled in on a cart and placed in the center of the room. I couldn't determine whether the cake had lit candles because the party guests were so tightly packed around, blocking my view. As the crowd parted, I was finally able to see. The cake was a dome of creamy, milk chocolate fondant. A circle of fudge was piped near the cake's center, and a cherry was positioned in the very middle. (Did I mention the cake was chocolate?)

The party host proudly announced that it was the perfect homage to my left breast,
before taking a cake cutter to it.

I don't know why,
but I thought it was funny.

Or maybe it's just my way of saying thanks for the many ways you have shown your love and support. And of course, guaranteeing that you will never look at chocolate cake in quiet the same way ever again.

Walter Reed Hospital really should have a bar

Today is the first day I really believe I'm sick today. Nausea and a Texas-size
headache (aka migraine) dogged me most of the day. After adjusting my meds,
Jeff finally helped the docs figure out what works for me. Now I am looking forward
to enjoying the latte that Karen brought me a few hours ago. Hey, it's cold, but
coffee is coffee, right?

And since I didn't pass a cocktail bar on the way in, I might as well enjoy my
second drug of choice.

On the road to recovery

Can you believe that I'm in a room with four beds? Phone
doesn't work, neither does the computer keyboard, but I've got enough
beds for a small sleepover.
I guess at some point, someone at Walter Reed thought it
would be a good idea to assign four patients to one room. (seriously?)
Fortunately there are only two of us in this
room, and Jeff is checking on the private room across the hall.
You know me: forever the diva, with or without cancer.

A woman of power

This is Jeff, I am guest editing so don't expect the same quality of writing that comes from Dee.
I will take a dictation later today so you can hear her own words.
She did great. All prayers were felt. She is recovering and her mom will be here today.
Until later, the med student is here and the parade of people coming through is about to start.

M-DAY

I was told to be here at 5:00. When we arrived in the waiting room
there was barely room to sit together. The greeter asked my name.
"Hutchinson" I responded. It's a military thing. You don't give your
first name. Maybe there's too much familiarity in knowing. The greeter
was confused why I was there so early. Half an hour later, I'm still
wondering. The only time my butt has left this chair since sitting down
was to stand in line with all the other prisoners to get my government-issued
gown, robe, and booties. The woman issuing the hospital ensembles looks you
up and down before announcing "LARGE" loud enough for the entire waiting room
to hear. Excuse me...I wear medium, I thought.
Can you really blame a girl for being cranky for having to get out of bed at up 4:15, skip coffee AND be handed oversized pjs?

The Day Before

It took nearly two hours to drive in this morning. A couple of early morning car crashes had tied up traffic. A man lost his life...

at least I was sitting in rush hour traffic, albeit behind an Accord with two Lil Wayne-Wannabes.

Besides that, I had cramps, needed to use the bathroom, and drove up the wrong driveway entrance to the hospital.

And oh yeah, I am losing my left breast tomorrow.

October 6, 2009

"Well...it is cancer."

She wasn't supposed to say that. She wasn't even my doctor.

A week earlier she'd performed the biopsy, removed three tumors.

Now she was back, talking about mastectomy, lymph nodes and reconstruction.

That was Tuesday, October 6.


Friday was Template Day - Total Evaluation and Management PLAnning of your Treatment Experience. What it really means is that I met my radiation oncologist, medical oncologist, plastic surgeon, geneticist, and psychologist, who asked, "how are you doing?" "Fine," I responded, with the crazy-Deneitra look: pinched up nose, Grinch-like eyebrows squeezing together. Before I knew it, the afternoon was over, and I was scheduled for surgery.


Now I have to tell the people that I care about. This is how I'm going to do it.