A Little Perspective

"Mom, the toilet is overflowing!"

I glanced at the FIOS digital box.
The numbers read 6:17 -
a.m.!

I reached the boys' bathroom to find standing water on the floor.
It had not reached the hallway carpet.
Too bad, I thought. It needs to be replaced anyway.
Nonetheless, there was probably a couple inches of water that needed to be mopped up.

My oldest son blamed his brothers for the plugged toilet,
but he was the one who pulled the trigger.
Armed with a small mountain of towels, disinfectant, plunger and an empty, plastic bathroom trashcan,
I looked like a gladiator plumber, preparing for battle, sans the butt-crack.
Yet despite my best efforts, I was unable to contain the water,
but that's how water is...
it always flows downstream. Unfortunately, downstream in our home meant the kitchen island and floor, located directly below the boys' bathroom. More clean up required - soap, water, Mr. Clean, and you guessed it - more towels.
I phoned Jeff at work.
"Would you bring home a snake?" I began.
He realized pretty quickly that I was not requesting a King Cobra.
I HATE snakes. Christopher hung a "DO NOT USE" sign on the door.

Feeling put-upon,
I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down to watch the news. The lead story was California's weather, complete with a deluge of rainfall, resulting in mudslides; more than four feet of mud; crumpled homes and ruined lives.

It was 7:04.
I stopped complaining.
Sometimes all you need is an armload of towels and a little perspective.

Hair Identity

You might have noticed that my son, Christopher rocks a huge afro.
Not some watered-down millennial 'fro,
but a retro-70's-style do.


It was his idea, and I have to admit, it was a bold move.
Kids in school don't appreciate individuality,
and a "kid with an afro," doesn't exactly scream
I'M ONE OF YOU!!!!

Christopher's hair draws lots of attention wherever he is.
Strangers often ask, "Are you wearing a wig?"
Others want to touch it; sometimes he lets them.


But when it comes to talking about why he grows his hair, Christopher usually remains tight-lipped, especially around his peers.

Why wouldn't he want people to know that he is growing his locks long enough to have them them lopped off and then donated to make wigs for cancer patients?

Maybe it's because Christopher doesn't mind being identified as "AFRO NINJA,"
having his hair ridiculed or looking different,
as long as he isn't labeled as the "kid whose mother had breast cancer."
I don't know whether it's the word (breast) or (cancer) that he objects to,
but after his hair is cut,
(hopefully)
he will never have to fight that identity again.

Stuck

A year ago, I awoke, thinking of of breast cancer.
This morning, I discovered
things hadn't changed very much.

I believed that once chemo and radiation were finished and surgery was a distant memory,
I would securely feel who I once was.
But the truth is,
I may never be as secure in my heath as I was prior to my diagnosis.
My doctors are hopeful, but have stopped short of declaring, "You're cured."
Instead they say - "You don't have cancer."
What they mean is: You don't have cancer...right now.

Each scar and every unanswered pain
are reminders of who I am now and what I've lost.
Every ache, doctors' appointment and story of recurrence moves me closer to edge of confronting my own mortality.

My mortality...
it's always been there, but the difference is that I've never had to stare it down,
without blinking,
but fighting,
the way you do when you hold back the tears as they try to overrun your will not to cry.

Last year I discovered that I am stronger than I ever knew.
This year's challenge is accepting that it may be impossible for me to ever imagine my future without cancer, while remembering what life was like before the disease.

This is my new reality,
I've just got to keep figuring out how to manage it.

So, I spend most of my waking hours, fighting back the negativity of my most private thoughts; trying to keep the door to my fears, firmly shut, chained up and padlocked.

What seeps out, is what I'm left to clean up.

Port A-Choice

If you're reading this, maybe you have been diagnosed with cancer,
hopefully you haven't.
But if you have
fear not, you are not alone...
which is good to know because this a marathon, not a sprint.
And the first thing you will need to do is amass a TEAM to help you make it to finish line. Truth told, from this point on, the finish line will forever be ahead of you.

If you're having chemo (or know someone who is),
you may have been given the option of having a port(a-cath) placed.
A port, is a small, device that is placed underneath your skin that allows the chemo nurses access to your veins. Instead of receiving chemo intraveniously each day, week or month, the port provides easy access, without frying your veins.
I never considered NOT having the port. But the port placement was a consideration.

The doctor or PA will put the port in one of two places: in the chest, above the breast or in the underside of the bicept. Mine was placed in my chest, a disappointment to me because it restricted me from wearing some of the hot summer fashions that I wanted to wear. Having breast cancer did not diminish my sense of style. My plastic surgeon wasn't thrilled with it either. His job is to eventually make my chest look great. After a bilateral mastectomy, he's got his work cut out for him.

The other location suitable for port placement is the arm, which would have been my first choice, had I been given a choice. Unfortunately, my provider decided where to place the port; I didn't. Oncologists also generally prefer that the port be placed in the chest, in case it becomes infected.

Wherever your port is placed, know that it will be with you for a while. Mine was placed January 5, 2010. It was a simply, straight-forward procedure that was slightly complicated by the Fentanyl that I was given as a pain reliever. In addition to discovering yet another narcotic that I am allergic to, my port remained in my chest through chemo, radiation and beyond, until it was finally removed on November 9, 2010.

Removing the port meant the end to monthly flushes (where saline is injected into the port, followed by a flush of Heparin to prevent the port from clotting). But it has also left an ugly scar, one that I am treating with Mederma, and I hope will fade over time.

Like I said, it's a marathon.

The Marathon

If you're reading this, maybe you have been diagnosed with cancer,
hopefully you haven't.

But if you have, as difficult as it seems, try not to be fearful.
Cancer is not your friend; neither is fear.
It will steal your joy and your ability to see beyond the disease.
Just remember, fighting cancer (and make no mistake, you will be fighting)
is more of a marathon than a sprint.

And from this point on, the finish line will forever be ahead of you.

No matter your diagnosis or prognosis, you'll want to arrive at the starting line, well-prepared. Beyond your medical team, you'll need a dream team to help you maneuver this new frontier. Some people to consider include your immediate family, extended kin, friends, co-workers, neighbors, and acquaintances. Never underestimate the people who will run to your rescue. Likewise, don't be surprised when those you thought would show up to cheer you on, wind up sleeping in.

People still ask me, "So you were sick?" (I assume they ask this because I look so good.)

Don't forget to strap on your sense of humor. It might just be the THING that carries you across the finish line.

Don't Tell/Do Tell

I am writing after a long hiatus, in-part because I realize that I still have something left to say.
In my moments of doubt,
I almost lost my voice.
I wasn't sure that anyone was still listening.

Today, two women persuaded me otherwise.

The first, and we'll call her "D," is a three-year breast cancer survivor.
This morning was my first time meeting "D", but it won't be my last.
In between sips of coffee and bites of jam on bread,
she wrestled with the fact that she'd struggled with telling people that she had breast cancer. That was three years ago. Yet even today, she questions her decision to keep her decision on a need-to-know basis.

For a survivor, telling someone, can be almost as difficult as confiding the truth about your diagnosis. "D" admitted to sharing her breast cancer story with a stranger during a three hour flight, while lacking the words to express even the most basic conditions regarding her illness to those around her. Think about it, how DO you tell someone?
"How are you doing? Me? Oh, I just found out I have breast cancer."
It isn't an easy conversation starter.

It was then that I offered a simple explanation for creating my blog. I needed a way to tell people. My words in cyber-space were birthed from the realization that informing people of my diagnosis would not be easy, for them or for me. A blog kept me from re-telling my story.
I was willing to lay my soul bare, if anyone was willing to read it. Sure enough, within ten minutes of posting my initial blog and subsequently posting it on Facebook, my phone rang. It was Claire. "You must have read my blog," was how I answered the phone.
Thus the conversation was launched.

Was "D's" decision the right one?
Although it was different from my own, I assured her, it was.
We all want to survive. We all make the best choices that we can with that goal in mind. People handle life's issues based on life's experiences.
Nobody owns the sole rights to right decisions.
For some women, saying the words breast cancer can mean looking at the ugly disease, over and over again. For others, putting it out there, frees one from the stress of carrying it inside and alone.

Perhaps that's why I've been a little overwhelmed by life lately.
Maybe I should have kept blogging all along, instead of suffering in silence.
Well the silence has ended,
and I've got lots to say.

Words Before "Amen"

When the five of us gather around the table for dinner,
we take turns praying over the meal.
For months, my husband and kids have also prayed for the health and recovery of me, my sister and my father, in addition to giving thanks for the food.
Depending who's praying, I've pretty much memorized the words that will precede "AMEN."

So I was completely surprised last night when our eldest son concluded his prayer without mentioning "mom."
I initially thought that he was really hungry, or worse, that he'd forgotten me.
But thinking about it later, I realized that he no longer sees breast cancer as something I need to be rescued from.
In his mind, I have completely recovered.

I only wish that my mind would follow.

The Bittersweet Ending

For at least seven years I have walked in numerous Komen Races, in different cities, always wearing the same pink message on my back -
IN CELEBRATION OF:
my sister Stephanie,
Aunt Dorothy, and
my grandmother Katie.


Today, as a new survivor, I walked among the tide of pepto-pink, in celebration of countless others:
Auntie Wanda
Theresa
Tawana
Claire
Becky
Karen
Nicky
Angie
Andi
Lisa
Miyun
Myra
Bonnie
Jean
Mrs. Goldman, Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Bunting,
and Kathy, the fellow survivor that I met as we walked from our hotel, to the survivor's tent.

For the first time, I also penned a second, pink message to my back.
This one read,

IN MEMORY OF:
Thea Williams

...a college acquaintance and morning news producer in Texas.
Thea died last Wednesday, after having fought the good fight.
Our diagnoses were only one month apart,
but our outcomes could not have been more different.

And before the day's end,
I learned that my sister's friend Andi
had also passed away; she died yesterday.

I walked in celebration of a life that was already gone.

www.columbiamatters.org

I wanted to host a show about my journey through breast cancer.

To date,
battling cancer is the single, most difficult ordeal I have endured.

I thought that by telling my story, I could inspire and educate other women in their fight.

Watch the special breast cancer edition of www.columbiamatters.org.


Thank you.

My Silver Lining

Cancer taught me to find the "silver lining"
wherever I could during my illness.
A fait accompli at times and elusive bubble at others,
my life became about trade-offs:
chemo for a cure;
bilateral mastectomy for boobs that would make a twenty-something, green with envy;
and
an oophorectomy (removal of my ovaries) for the chance to say "bye-bye" to my period.

So when my I told my girlfriend, Gwen about my latest surgery,
(she obviously hadn't read my latest blog)
imagine my
SHOCK!!!
when she mentioned that losing my ovaries did not equate to losing my period. "You still have your uterine lining, which should shed each month. Your ovaries were removed, not your lining," she explained.
"Did I learn that in my 6th grade class, where the separate the girls from the boys?" I obviously wasn't paying attention in class the day that Ms. Cook, the girl's coach, covered the subject.

So much for looking at the bright side, I thought, hanging up the phone.
"Is that true?" I asked my favorite doc.
Jeff was pretty certain - since I hadn't had a period in nearly a year, now that my ovaries were out, my period probably wouldn't return.

Who would have guessed that my uterus held my silver lining after all?

I've Changed

Restarting my life after this past year is tougher than I imagined.
For some reason,
I thought I would just jump back into my former self, like putting on my favorite sweatshirt.
But as I began to recover,
I discovered that my former self had changed.

B.B.C. -
before breast cancer,
I worked out all the time; volunteered for committees; and ran around, slashing items from my to-do list with the
SWISH !!! of a big red marker.
I felt strong, triumphant.

When I got sick, those things that made me feel so capable were stripped from out beneath me.
Oddly, I felt guilty because of it -
guilty I couldn't volunteer; attend a meeting; or become an Iron Girl.
Following one of life's most profoundly challenging experiences,
I expected more from myself.

I thought my struggle would be returning to my old life.
But the real contest is determining whether my new self even fits into my old life anymore.
Maybe it's time to relinquish the preconceptions, expectations and guilt
and start over again.

I've changed.
It isn't because of breast cancer; it's in spite of it.

Not Again...

Maybe I missed his call.
If I had, I would have understood.
He is extremely busy.

I checked my phone,
just to be sure.
Nothing.
No missed calls.

Since attempting to see me in November,
I hadn't heard from him.
Then, just last Monday, he tried again.
He was unsuccessful this time as well.

Since becoming President, Mr. Obama has visited Walter Reed twice.
He visited while campaigning and as a Senator.
I know; I checked.

The last time he visited - there I was:
ready for surgery, then left alone and cold for hours until the President's visit was over.
Last week, I was luckier; I wasn't scheduled for surgery.

That's set to happen tomorrow.
Let's hope it's an Obama-free day at the hospital.

It's Good to See You Again

Hello ENERGY:

Welcome back!
It's been a while, but it's great to have you here again.
I never imagined how much I'd miss you, but life was so much harder when you weren't around.
Call me helpless, but I had trouble climbing a flight of stairs;
keeping up with chores;
and taking walks.

Since your return,
I've begun making up for lost time:
sorting laundry,
cleaning floors,
washing dishes,
preparing meals, and
shopping.

ENERGY,
here is your formal invitation to hang out for an extended visit.
I promise to let you know if you ever overstay your welcome.
And don't worry about Jeff and the children; we've talked about it.
They have already consented to having your around on a full-time basis.

I'm sorry that circumstances drove you away.
You are family, and I've missed you.
We all have.
Please say you'll stay...

...forever,
Dee

Taking My Life Back

A couple of months ago,

I met a survivor who had just completed radiation therapy.

At the time, I was between treatments and feeling great.

My new friend cautioned, "Everyone tells you how much easier radiation is than chemo. But radiation whipped my butt."

That is precisely how I feel about my experience.

If chemo was HELLISH,

then radiation, to put it simply, was OPPRESSIVE.

What began on June 18th, as a 28-day treatment schedule,

evolved into more than eight weeks of treatment, interrupted by blood transfusions, hospital admissions, and a relentless anti-body that attacked the red blood cells in my body.

At approximately 8:02 this morning, I rang the bell three times, signifying the completion of my therapy.

A poem was read and everyone within earshot, applauded.

For all that I endured, I received a certificate from Radiation Oncology,

the perishable scars of radiation, and

a chance to take my life back from breast cancer.

...and THAT was the point, after all.

A Mardi Gras State of Mind

I endured my 25th radiation treatment this morning.
Radiation was followed-up with a 4-hour infusion of Rituximab,
the drug designed to suppress the antibodies in my blood that keep attacking my red blood cells.
Needless to say, it was a long day.


As I slipped into my shoes, the phone in my purse chimed.
"Mrs. Hutchinson?" a voice inquired. I recognized it immediately.
"I'll be right down," I interrupted.
"I will meet you at the front door," Kathy responded before hanging up.


Jeff and I arrived in the Plastic Surgery Clinic five minutes later.
Dr. Martin had agreed to have a look at my chest, burned reddish-brown from the radiation.


We followed Kathy to Exam Room 1.
Opening drawers, she began searching for a gown.
"Don't bother, " I offered. "I don't want to take up a lot of Dr. Martin's time.
When he comes in, I'll just flash him."

Wonder what I did wrong? I thought. I left without a string of colored beads.

BOZO Begone!

Bonnie was loading her car when I approached her in the hospital parking lot.
She looked up, smiling.

I wanted to know if a friend of mine had contacted her. She had not.
So I quickly turned the conversation to my own hair dilemna.

Yes, I do have hair, and my hair needed a trim.

"I see what you mean," Bonnie agreed, pulling the sides of my hair taunt.
The top and front were smooth and straight, but the sides curled into short ringlets.

I said I had hair; I didn't say it was long.

"I was hoping you could cut my hair sometime this week."
Bonnie, herself a breast cancer survivor, instructed me to see her when I finished treatment that afternoon.

Priorities.

Standing over me, Bonnie examined my hair.
"The top usually grows more slowly than the sides. I can take some off the sides, and we'll let the top catch up." She paused to gauge my response. "Do you want the hair completely off the ear?"
I had to admit that I didn't have a clue, which meant, Bonnie could do whatever she wanted to.

I must have sat in the chair for about 20 minutes, which surprised me because I didn't think I had 20 minutes of hair to cut. When she was finished, Bonnie admitted that getting people to have their hair cut, when they had so little, was one of the hardest things to do.

And just like that, Bonnie removed the black cape from around my shoulder
and
POOF!
BOZO BEGONE!

Apparently, uneven, BOZO hair does not bother everyone.

Not My Idea of a Vacation

I have been away,
on and off,
for three weeks now.

I haven't been on vacation,
but I have been absent from home,
on pause from responsibilities and removed from my family.

Week 1 - A three night stay in Howard County General Hospital; blood transfusion - four units.
Week 2 - A two night stay in Walter Reed Army Medical Center; blood transfusion - two units.
Week 3 - A two night stay in Walter Reed; blood transfusion - two units; drug infusion.

...Not exactly the vacation the doctor prescribed.
But I can pretend:

Check In. Show up at a hotel, and you have to wait in line to register with a clerk behind the reception desk. At Walter Reed, the admission's representative came to me, and he didn't even ask for a credit card.

Safekeeping. Many hotel have room safes. But during my recent hospital stay, a gentleman came to my room and asked, "Do you have any valuables you'd like to store?" I responded that I did not. I mean seriously, would you hand over your jewelry to a stranger?

Ice and Vending Machines. Yep, hospitals have them, on every floor, just like hotels. And the best part - your nurse will bring ice to you.

Room service. Just like in a hotel, all you have to do is survey the menu, pick up the phone and order what you'd like to eat. Someone will bring it to your hospital room, and no one expects a tip.

Housekeeping. A Sanitary Engineer shows up at your door, asking if you'd like to have your room cleaned, trash emptied, or if you're in need of fresh bath towels. Unlike in a hotel, you will not be expected to clear your hospital room. But you'll notice that the housekeeper will still keep the door wide open.

Room Amenities. The cost of hotel toiletries are factored into your room rate. Like it or not, your hospital bill will reflect the cost of every "extra". That's why my mother advises to collect every bottle, gauze, alcohol wipe, moist towelette, and plastic drawstring bag before being discharged from the hospital.

...because

at

Check Out,
you'll pay for it: immediately, if you're in a hotel and later, if you're in the hospital.

Exposed & Invisible

Why do I feel exposed
and invisible at the same time?

My last two weeks spent in and out of hospitals,
have been hard to accept;
the threat of returning - even harder.

I've shown the doctors:
those are my scars from my mastectomies;
my medi-port leftover from chemo;
radiation markings;
here's my blood - red blood cells, hemoglobin, hematocrit, anti-bodies.
Everything EXPOSED.

Sitting in the middle of the bed, sobbing as I stare across the courtyard, into another window.
Life passing.
Growing weary from the isolation of my family, friends, my life.
I cannot write.
How do I communicate what I really feel; what I'm afraid of; what I seek.
INVISIBLE.

It's better being home.

The Lost Hours

Somewhere
between 3:35 and 5: 58 a.m.,
time dissolved,
slumber drifted away,
and I realized it was Wednesday morning.
I was having trouble sleeping again.

But this time, I was not in my own bed.
Trying to sleep beside me, was Jeff,
struggling to fit onto an over-used recliner.

Anemia had driven me to the E.R.
and admitted me into the hospital.

Before Tuesday, I had no idea that anemia could be such a serious condition.
In my ignorance, I thought anemia was something that little, frail, skinny women got because they were always cold. Anemia was for "girlie" women.

I thought back:
When was the last time I didn't feel tired, dizzy, light-headed or out of breath?
Why couldn't I climb a flight of stairs, without having to rest
or felt my heart, pounding beyond my chest?
How many times had I taken pills to help me sleep?
Was my vision distorted every morning, when I awoke?
Had it been two weeks or three?

As I casually mentioned the symptoms to my radiation oncologist,
she insisted that I NOT drive to Walter Reed the following day, but have blood work done across the hall that afternoon.
At 9:30 Tuesday night, Jeff answered the phone.
"Who's calling," he asked?
"Johns Hopkins," Jeff mouthed.

An urgency resonated from the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the phone.
"CBC results...yada, yada...Hematocrit low...yada, yada...hemoglobin low...yada, yada..."
Translation needed now, my brain screamed!
I quickly handed the phone back to Jeff, but not before hearing:

"GET THEE TO AN EMERGENCY ROOM!!! BLOOD TRANSFUSION STAT!!!!"

I was admitted to a room in the hospital, while the blood bank searched for a cross-match to my blood type. The Red Cross was notified. More than 24 hours passed before blood was found. During my stay, I tried negotiating a temporary release from anyone who would listen: the techs, nurses, and doctors. They all had the same response, a smile and patronizing, "Uh...no."
Maybe I would have had better luck with the housekeeper.

It was Friday morning before four units of "least incompatible" blood had been completely transfused through the port in my chest. Turns out I have Hemolytic Anemia, a condition in which, red blood cells are destroyed shortly after they are created. A total match would not have been possible, but I am feeling better and greatful to be back home.

Insomnia...Part Deux

Several years ago,
I remember my sister, Stephanie telling me about the night she couldn't sleep.
I'm sure it was not the first time. One of cancer treatment's little "gifts" is insomnia.
On that occasion, she turned on her television,
hoping to get back to sleep.

A commercial aired for a product that claimed to "help you fall asleep and stay asleep."
Stephanie watched the commercial with great interest since it was 4:00 a.m.,
and she was,
well,
AWAKE.

In her over-tired mind,
she tried to memorize the product's name,
for the purpose of discussing it with her doctor.

With the commercial's conclusion, came familiarity.

AMBIEN
was in-fact, the drug her doctor had prescribed,
that was supposed to help her sleep.

In retrospect, I guess I should be grateful it's only 12:45 a.m.

I Don't Like the Way this Story Ends

I was sitting at the kitchen table when Noah threw his arms around me.
"You're the luckiest mom in the world!" he proclaimed.
I hugged back.
"Why is that?" I ask.
"Because you have me," Noah responded, matter-of factly.

Earlier that afternoon, I wasn't so sure.
Jeff, Cameron and Noah had accompanied me to my first radiation treatment.
The doctor thought it might be a good idea if the boys saw where I was receiving treatment; she thought it might diminish some of their fears.
After checking-out the exam monitors and radiation equipment, they were whisked away so I could begin treatment.

Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed and back in the reception area.
Noah handed me a story he had written:

Once upon a time,
there was a boy,
a boy who was born to dance.
But there was another boy who loved food.
The boy who was born to dance was named Harold.
The boy who loved to eat food was named Henry.
They were brothers.
They played together.
They sang together.
They even went to the same school.
Harold was six. Henry was six too.
They had a big garden.

Their mother died, but their dad was still alive.
His name was Harry. Harry was a parent.
They were all sad because their mother had cancer.
They found a way to have somebody to be a mom.
That was Harold's idea.
But did it work?
It did work!
They were so happy and jumped around.

THE END

Hmm....I wonder what Noah would have thought if he'd seen the chemo room.

Don't Push Me, Cause I'm Close to the Edge

Her first mistake was saying:
"Don't try to help us. We will move you into the right position. Pretend you're at a spa."

A spa? I thought to myself.
Laying still in a dark room does not equal spa.

Clearly,
preparing for an X-Ray before my radiation treatment was going to be tougher than I thought. Over the next 28 days, not counting weekends and holidays, the staff would ask me to slip into an examination gown (opening in front), and lay completely still on a cold, thin, plastic gurney for the duration of my treatment. Radiation itself, would probably only last about 5 minutes, after I was moved into the correct "spa" position.

This was the second part of my CT Simulation. The first part occurred a week earlier.

Between X-Ray films, two technicians disappeared and reappeared, called out numbers, adjusted the table, took exacting measurements and drew detailed markings. When the green light indicated that my X-Rays were finished, the left side of my chest literally looked like a road map of blue and green lines, no GPS required.

The technician apologized for doing her job.
"I had to draw the new lines higher than the ones you got last week."
I sighed, loudly enough for her to sense my disapproval.
"I know," she continued in her sing-song voice. "You won't be able to wear those cute summer tops. But it's only for a couple of weeks, and it's part of your progress."

DID SHE JUST SAY THAT TO ME?

What part of having a biopsy in September; mastectomy in October; axillery dissection and mastectomy in November; drains sticking from my body on-and-off for three months; and placement of a chest medi-port in early January sounds remotely like a couple of weeks?

"Did you slap her?" my sister asked, after retelling my story.
Sisters think of everything, don't they?

No. I didn't slap anyone, but I wanted to later that afternoon when a man, driving a van at Georgia Avenue and 29, tried to force his vehicle into my lane, without regard to me, pedestrians in the crosswalk, or other vehicles.

I leaned on my horn.
The driver stopped and looked over to see my waiving my finger and shouting,
"YOU CAN"T DO THAT!!! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?!!! YOU COULD KILL SOMEONE!!!"

Something inside must have snapped wide open because I drove the next two miles to the hospital in a haze of tears and Kleenex. I've never done that.

Whether it was the radiation tech, comparing my treatment to a two week spa visit;
the idiot driver, totally oblivious of how his actions could affect the lives of others;
or the cancer that I've been beating back with a vengeance,
I am definitely a woman on the ledge.

Watch out...
I still might have to slap somebody.

Phoning Home

This is the first year that I can recall
when I didn't wake up, eager to call me dad and say,
"Happy Father's Day, Daddy. Did you get the card I sent?"

Phoning home, hasn't always been simple.
Dealing with time zones overseas and in Hawaii presented minor challenges.
And I fondly remember, realizing halfway through a cross-country road trip with two girlfriends, that we needed to stop and call home to wish our respective dads a Happy Father's Day.

Today should be easier.

I live on the Mainland and have a mobile phone.
My father is not dead,
not incarcerated.
He is not missing, lost or deployed.
Daddy is not spending time with the OTHER family, he abandoned our family for.

My father is in a nursing home,
and I am painfully aware that he may not recognize the sound of my voice.
The Father's Day cards I mailed have not lessened my guilt.

I want to call him.
But that would mean hearing my mother's voice, trying to convince him that I'm on the phone,
and then
hearing nothing at all.

Should I recognize Father's Day when my dad doesn't recognize me?

If You're Diagnosed with Breast Cancer

The breast cancer version of the children's book,
"If You Give a Mouse a Cookie",
as it relates to hormone therapy.

If you're diagnosed with breast cancer
you are probably going to need a Valium to go with it.
If you take a Valium you might not remember everything the doctor says
so you're going to need someone to remind you.

Following surgery, chemo and radiation,
your doctor will recommend Aromatase Inhibitors (AI) as hormone therapy.
AIs will require monthly abdominal injections, suppress your ovaries and jeopardize your bone health.
Hearing the news will make you want a second opinion.

If you get a second opinion, you'll have to go to a different hospital.
The other hospital will suggest Tamoxifin,
which will increase your risk of blood clots.

Determined to avoid a blood clot,
you will start receiving monthly shots.
A couple of months will pass before you consider having your ovaries removed.
You'll make an appointment at Walter Reed.

On the day of your surgery, President Obama will show up, and the entire hospital will shut down.
The delay will piss you off, wildly.
Dressed in a surgical gown and waiting for hours will take its toll on your emotions.
And chances are,
if you get THAT worked up about it,
you're probably going to need a Valium to get through it.

June's visit to the plastic surgeon

I visited my plastic surgeon earlier today.


It was time for another refill, so I braved the beltway and managed to secure a decent parking space, all by 10:00 a.m.


After check-in, I donned the familiar examination gown.




"Opening in the front, please," the nurse advised.
At least I kept pants on.
In the eternal wisdom of the former Mrs. Bobbie Brown, "Crack is whack!"

I sat at on the edge of the exam table,
alone,
and wishing I'd carried in the Ebony Magazine from the waiting room.

To occupy my time,
I poked the implants,

and when I was bored with that,
I started doing calf raises, dips and modified push-ups off the exam table.
The only reason I stopped was that I became a paranoid that BIG BROTHER had a hidden camera, recording my every move.

I decide to sit down and wait, like a normal patient.

For the first time, I suddenly realized that the room was chilly. As the hospital AC blasted cold air overhead and down my gown, I began to worry.
With nothing more than a flimsy, cotton gown (opening in front), to shield me, I knew it wouldn't be long before I exhibited signs that there was a nip in the air. (pun intended)

Then I relaxed.

Without nipples, there wasn't much chance that Dr. M. would walk into the room, take one look at me and announce,
"Are you cold or are you just happy to see me?"

The Hair I Wear

Sometimes


It's Party-Girl Pink;



Other times,




It's Columbia Matter's Length.



And then there are times,




When I just want to cover up.





Seeking a (semi) professional opinion, I phoned my sister Stephanie for styling advice. She has worn short hair since being diagnosed with breast cancer more than 16 years ago.

Stephanie shared her recipe:
hair pomade or creme
a good brush
silk scarf
hair spray
Paul Mitchell hair gel


I took mental notes:
check
check
check
check and...



"I bought something called 'Let's Jam'. Will that work?"
"The one with the bright green lid?" she asked.
"Yep, that's it." I said, retrieving the jar from beneath the bathroom sink.
"Deneitra, that's not hair gel. You can't use that on your hair." She sounded genuinely annoyed that I didn't know better.
I tried to defend myself. "Well people have complimented me on my hair."


"Keep using that product on your hair, and it will start flaking. Before you know it, you'll wind up with that Jam 'dandruff' dropping in your ear or onto your forehead. People will stare and be too embarrassed to say anything."

I knew she was correct, so I headed to the store to buy a tube of the "recommended" gel.
My actions met with approval when Stephanie responded, "there was no need to call. I knew your hair would look better."
That was Wednesday.

Thursday afternoon, I received a text from one of Stephanie's closest friends.
Ramona has worn short hair for as long as I can remember.

"Welcome to the club!" her text read.

I wrote back. "Stephanie told U, didn't she?

"U know she did! We laughed! We R still laughing @ U."

Before I could type a comeback, Ramona's next message appeared.

"I'm here with Steph now; her chemo is just starting."

I was happy to know that my sister was laughing, especially during chemo.

I guess she owes her amusement to "Let's Jam".

And I owe my good-looking hair to Stephanie.

Follow-up to Last Night's Blog

It wasn't what I expected to hear at 5:30 in the morning,
but one of the boys was coughing.
Oh-oh, I thought. I have a doctor's appointment today. What am I going to do?

I listened intently.
You know - the way, only a mother can listen to identify the child and type of cough.
It was Noah.
But he wasn't coughing; he was sobbing.

I rushed to check on him.
When I reached his bedside, I realized he'd been crying for a while.

"What's wrong, Noah?"
"I had a bad dream," he responded.
I silently wondered if his dream had anything to do with his classmate's dad dying.
We'd only briefly discussed the subject at last night's school concert, after Noah brought it up.

"What did you dream?"
Noah shook his head. "I don't want to tell you," tears still streaming down his face.
"It's okay. You can tell me," I assured him. "It will make you feel better and you'll be able to go back to sleep."

With a shaky voice, he relayed his dream:
"I dreamed that my foot stepped in the poo," he said, honestly upset.

WHAT?!?
I tried hard not to laugh aloud.
Noah continued, "But the poo was in the toilet, and I put my foot in the toilet and stepped in it."
"But you didn't really do that," I countered. "It was only a dream, and dreams cannot hurt us.
Now go back to sleep."

He did.
I couldn't sleep; I was too busy smiling.

A Kindergartner's Loss

It probably won't surprise those who know me that I don't think about death very often.
Even after my initial diagnosis of breast cancer, I don't remember thinking about it much.

With chemo finished and radiation scheduled for later this month,
I spent a chunk of today making doctors' appointments: hematologist; plastic surgeon; medical oncologist; and CAT Scan.
I ran errands and pondered what I'd cook for dinner before tonight's band concert.

My cell rang.
It was not a call that I expected.

Sadly, one of Noah's classmates, a fellow kindergartner, lost her father to cancer last Friday.
I did not know the girl's father, but because of the disease,
I felt an immediate, albeit posthumous bond with him.
The class was informed as a way of preparing for the the little girl's return to school.
The reason I was called is because, without intending to, the counselor had upset Noah with the words "died" and "cancer".

Tears collected in my eyes as I ached for two children:
one whose dad was gone; and
and the other who probably wondered about his own mother's future.
My distress only grew when I learned that my older son's class would get the same news tomorrow.
The kindergartner's sister is a friend of Cameron's.

How do you explain to your children that people die from this disease without having them worry whether you will die too?

Noah and I prayed together tonight.
He prayed for his classmate's dad.
I prayed for the family.
When we finished praying, Noah wanted to know whether his classmate would get a new dad.
I told him that I didn't know, but even if she did, it wouldn't be the same.
Noah said, "Yeah, that's because God makes the dads special."
"And the moms too," he added.

CANCER SUCKS pink ribbons

CANCER SUCKS

that's a button slogan, used by the advocacy group Breast Cancer Action.
Some members of that group adamantly disagree with the belief that if you "...put a pink face on it...we'll all be great."


I can relate.

I've been on both sides: wearing the positive afterglow of the pink ribbon alongside the stomach-wrenching pull of cancer's suck.

For the record, I would have preferred to remain, like Switzerland,
NEUTRAL.
But since I've already crossed those borders and am preparing for LEG THREE of this race, here is the Yin & Yang of my cancer journey thus far:

Yin - 25+ rounds of daily radiation treatments ahead/Yang - 16 rounds of chemo behind me;
Yin - increased risk of blood clots/Yang - five years of Aromatase Inhibitors, daily;
Yin - monthly stomach injections that allow me to take a cancer-fighting drug/Yang - alternative hormone therapy decreasing the chance that my ER+, PR+ breast cancer will recur;
Yin - sacrifice my ovaries/Yang - significantly reduce my chances of ovarian cancer.

Why write about the "downside" of cancer, when it's a given?

Because this blog is intended for the woman who might be traveling along a similar path,
but who has reached a poin where she stops and wonders:
Is there something wrong with me?

Be assured.
There is nothing wrong with you.

Cancer sucks.

Perspective

"If I can just help one person, then it is all worth it."

How many times have you heard someone make that claim?

If you're like me, you may have questioned, not the sincerity of those making the statement, but the reality of the words: it is all worth it.
REALLY?

As I prepared for my 16th and final round of chemo,
I have spent the last few days, looking back -
rereading old blogs and reflecting on your comments;
scanning the photo diary on my I-phone; and
recalling how very different this journey looked, just five months ago.

Have I helped someone, inspired a friend, encouraged a stranger?
I sure hope so.

Since my diagnosis in October, four young women have contacted me, regarding their own diagnosis of breast cancer. Two of the women were strangers prior to this month. Now we are sisters, part of a sorority that doesn't judge or vote.

Funny thing about adversity of any kind,
if you're willing, you will find multiple opportunities to help others.
If you look around, you will see people, who need exactly what you have to offer.
There are instances,
where the only path to sharing an experience,
begins by first, living that experience.

So to answer the question on my mind this morning, as I steady my nerves before the chemo nurse sticks that needle into my port for the last time:
Is it worth it?


Hell Yeah!

Meet Ms. Preakness Pink Warrior

The Preakness has come and gone.

Many of you supported my efforts to become this year's Ms. Preakness Pink Warrior.
Thank you for voting for my essay.
Super Saver didn't win his race, and neither did I.

Another survivor was awarded this year's crown.
Her name is Charelle Barnes, and I'd like to tell you about her.

Charelle was first diagnosed with cancer the same year my sister received her initial diagnosis of breast cancer. That was sixteen years ago.
I'm sure that Charelle, like my sister, never expected that her cancer would return.
Both women were wrong.
In 1995, Charelle's doctor found a lump in her breast.
Following treatment, Charelle's cancer returned in 1996; she has been fighting to live ever since.

My sister's cancer returned in 2003, 2004, twice in 2007, and most recently in 2009 - the same year I was diagnosed. She too, continues her fight as she undergoes chemotherapy.

At age 36, Charelle currently has Stage IV metastatic breast cancer in her lung, bones and brain. Instead of succumbing to the disease, she continues to fight, to dream, to win.

I have never met Charelle Barnes, but I am inspired by her warrior spirit.

R.I.P. Miss Lenora

"Linda, have you seen Lenora?" I asked. "I haven't seen her in a while."
Linda was my very cheerful chemo nurse. She smiled; she usually smiles.
"Oh, you heard? Her daughter called Tuesday to tell us that she died."

Her words poured over me.
I'd met Lenora, shortly after starting the Taxol part of treatment.
(see 13 March blog)
I never met her daughter.
Since our initial encounter, Lenora and I would briefly chat about treatment, Jesus and fashion.
Funny thing about women: we can bond over a hat just as easily as we can over cancer.

"And she looked so good," Linda commented, while checking my IV pump.
I thought so too.
I knew Lenora's battle with pancreatic cancer would be harder than mine.
But I considered it too cliche' to be a patient who learns of another chemo patient passing away, while undergoing treatment.

Instead, I chose to play the DON'T ASK; DON'T TELL game.
I knew Lenora's schedule, and I should have seen her every two weeks. I chose not to ask
....until today.

"Yeah, we've lost a lot of good people over the last couple of months," Linda said, still smiling, but less cheerful. "At least we know they aren't suffering anymore."
Here we go with the cliche's again.
I said something about being sorry that Lenora had died and wondered if I would cry.
I didn't.

Instead I chose to pray for her family and loved ones who needed comforting.
And I prayed for those left behind to fight on.
Rest in Peace Lenora.

My Belief

About two weeks ago,
I lost a gold earring.
It wasn't big or very expensive,
but the earring cradled the memory of my maternal grandmother, who had presented it as birthday present when I was a teenager.
Momo departed this life, 25 years ago.
With time, her reflection has settled somewhere in the recesses of my mind,
placed on one of life's shelves,
accessible from the back of the closet,
instead of from the front.

But each time I reached for that pair of gold hoops, I'd recall her hands, pale but strong; wisps of hair, cottony-soft; and the look in her eyes: a pool of love, warming me from the inside out.
A single year has not passed that I have not missed her.

Two weeks ago,
I was rushed and careless.
I didn't properly fasten one of the earrings before hurrying the boys out the door.
We were late for the bus that day; we have been late many times since my diagnosis.

When a neighbor noticed that one of my earrings was missing, she helped me look for it.
Later that morning, I searched again, inside and out.
I could not find my earring.

Ironically, I'd been learning about believing God, and the difference between faith and belief.
One day after my earring went missing, I witnessed Noah believe that God could make a bunch of dead weeds grow again.
I had faith,
now I wanted Noah's belief.
I prayed,"Lord help my unbelief." And in my mind, I could "see" my earring,
laying outside,
in the grass,
along the sidewalk near my house.
Most mornings or afternoons, I'd walk to and from the bus stop, looking down.
Other days, I forgot to look.
I never forgot to believe.

This morning, after posting my FB status about renewal and promises, I headed to the bus stop with the boys.
I wasn't wearing earrings, just a baseball cap.
We weren't rushed.
The kids boarded the bus and left.
I stood, chatting with neighbors, wearing the same GAP sweatshirt I wore the morning I lost my earring.

Here's where I'm supposed to tell you
that I found my earring,
laying in the grass,
along the sidewalk,
near my house.


Leaving the bus stop, I casually glanced down at my foot and saw it:
the earring my Momo had given me nearly 30 years earlier.

Two weeks ago,
I lost it.

Today I found it:

My Belief

The Great Pretender

For the past two days,
I've been walking around
pretending that I don't have chemo on Fridays.

It was actually my friend, Claire who put the idea in my head.
"You know, your hair looks really good like that. People could never tell from looking at you, that you're undergoing chemo. I think you should leave it (your hair) that way."

Driving back to Columbia, I replayed Claire's words.
Could I?

I put the theory to the test when I dropped Christopher at fencing lessons later that evening.
"Hey! You got a haircut," Gabrielle remarked, "a real haircut!"
I responded, "Yeah, thought I would try something new."
And just like that, I'd pulled it off. (Pun intended)

Pretending again today,
I headed for a meeting on base.
By the end of the afternoon, I'd received a half-dozen comments, like:
"I love your hair"; "I used-to have that haircut"; and "I like that."
What a difference a three weeks make. (Going Commando, blogged 19 April).

All of this just proves:
Chemo is no match
for a confident woman,
wrapped in a bit of swagger,
rocking a SUPER cut.

Every Three Minutes

According to organizers of the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer,
"A woman is diagnosed with breast cancer every three minutes."

That means that 48 hours from the time my Facebook friend "D"
asked her friends to support my efforts to become Ms. Preakness Pink Warrior -
until the voting ended today -
960 women learned that they have breast cancer.

Sadly, one of D's friends is among them.

I don't know much about HER or HER breast cancer,
but I know that if she's willing to fight hard,
she's a PINK WARRIOR too.

Pink Warrior

I am,
You know
...a Pink Warrior, a survivor.

To prove it,
I have entered an essay contest to be named "Ms. Preakness Pink Warrior" 2010.
This is no beauty contest. For the first time, Ms. Preakness will honor those who have survived or who are fighting breast cancer. Winners are selected on the strength of their essays. Since my blog has been such a uplifting outlet, I have decided to use it as the starting point for my essay. Because of all of you, I have inspiration.

If you have time,
between now and Monday, May 3rd,
I would appreciate your vote for my essay.
The winner, will be chosen in part through an on-line, interactive process.
After the voting, the rest is left up to a panel of judges.

To vote, please go to www.preakness.com. On the home page, you will find a pink ribbon and the Susan G. Komen name. Click there and look for the Ms. Preakness Pink Warrior; click to find the collection of submitted essays.
My essay is #10.

I hope to update you of my status,
Warrior-style.

My Hair Cut

I had a hair cut today.

And by "A Hair Cut",
I mean
I grabbed a pair of scissors, and I cut
a single hair, sticking up from the middle of my head.

For the past several weeks,
my hair has been slowly filling back in.
My once shaved head is now lightly covered with straight, fine dark brown hair, sprinkled with a few, stray grays. (Darn it!)

But this morning, I noticed a wirery, black hair
that wouldn't fall into line with the other hairs.
Today, I had to take a pair of scissors to it.

So here's my question:
Did I make a mistake or should I have kept the hair
and worn it as a comb-over?

Believing Noah

"Mommy, look!" he announced.


I looked up from my book to discover Noah, holding a fistful of Dandelions and other unidentifiable weeds that he had carefully plucked from our not-so-well manicured backyard.


"What are you going to do with those?" I asked.



"Plant them," he answered matter-of-factly.



Only a six year-old would imagine PLANTING weeds.
At least I should be grateful those weeds were no longer in our yard, right?


Together, we found an empty glass flower pot, some leftover top soil and a garden spade.
Noah found a watering can.
I returned to my book.
A few minutes later, he rejoined me.


"I know that the flowers are already dead, but I prayed to God to get them to grow."
I knew I should say something, but wasn't sure how to follow-up.
"Okay," I managed.
But inside I was thinking - Honestly, you can't just pull up a handful of weeds; stick them in a pot; and expect them to grow.


Two days later:

God answered Noah's prayer.

Got Nipple?

Last week I met with my plastic surgeon.
My breasts (as they are) hadn't seen much of Dr. M. since December, and my left breast was looking a bit like a deflated football.

The resident entered the exam room first.
"What brings you in today?"
I mentioned my nipple.
"Your nipple?" she wondered aloud and confused.

She was probably thinking - Lady, you don't have nipples. You don't even have breasts.

Reading her mind, I stated the obvious. "Well I don't actually HAVE nipples, but see this?" I asked, opening my gown, showing her.
"When I wear something thin, the corner of my left expander looks like a nipple poking out."

She considered my point (pun intended) of view: the tip of the left expander, near the mid-line, extending out of my chest. "You're right."

I awaited the doctor who had the power to decide whether, after several months of slowly watching my left breast flatten, I would get a refill. I knew Dr. M. wanted to wait until AFTER radiation, but I was hoping he'd have pity on me and give me some juice.

Dr. M. walked through the door, smiling and happy to see me. I thought he would immediately notice my warped breasts.

"Are you wearing your hair like that because it looks good or is it from chemo?"

When was the last time you met a plastic surgeon more interested in admiring your hair, than examining your breasts?

I got my "refill". But next time, I won't wait so long before seeing my doctor again.

Going Commando

I'm not sure if I saw her first,
or if she initially noticed me.
I purposely tried to avoid making eye-contact, because today was different.
Today, I'd gone "Commando".
No, not like Joey Tribbiani, but sans all protective head gear: hair, scarves, caps or hats.
In a word, B-A-L-D.

On my list of errands to run:
the Post Exchange, post office and commissary (grocery store).

The few eyes that met mine, were mixed.
Some were open and welcoming,
smiling eyes.
Some were unable or unwilling to make the connection.

I'd nearly finished shopping when I spotted her again.
Apparently, she saw me too because she'd stopped pushing her cart to speak.
I smiled politely and tried to maneuver to her right.

Her graying hair was slightly longer than mine.

Could she be? I wondered.
She smiled warmly. "Whenever I see a woman with really short hair like yours and mine," she paused, to reposition. "I want to give her a hug."

And just like that, we stood embracing, between the turkey and the cured ham.

Namaste

"Seven of twelve," Dr. Miller announced, referring to the twelve rounds of Taxol.
I smiled. "It sounds better than six, when you say it that way."

The fact that I am blogging, just hours after chemo, is always a GOOD sign.
And today was a good day:
Kim arriving with cups of Starbucks;
adequate blood counts; and last week's infection cleared
-thanks in part to Keflex.

My weight is holding steady
and my hair appears to be growing back...REALLY!
And "NO",
that DOES NOT mean the chemo isn't working; Dr. Miller assured me.

Inspiration followed:
Only five treatments left.
Jeff remarked I looked stronger.
Feeling good.

My girlfriend, Meena V. sent a link of Indian model, Diandra Soares.

Inspiration struck again.

Namaste

Survivorship and Sisterhood

I got a call from a college sorority sister a few weeks ago.
I had not seen or spoken with her since leaving the university.
She contacted me
to tell me she had breast cancer.
Her surgery was scheduled for April 6th.

The doctors were encouraged by the MRI findings. They speculated that no lymph nodes were involved.


I listened,
quietly remembering how my own surgeon had been encouraged by my MRI, recalling that she thought my lymph nodes looked good too.

That was 12 treatments ago.

It's been exactly one week since her surgery, so I called today; I wanted to wait long enough for the pathology results.

This time the doctors WERE right:
clean margins;
no positive nodes;
no need for chemo or radiation.


Either way you get there -
SURVIVORship and sisterhood sounds really good to me.

Oh, the Irony of it All

I'm b-a-c-k.


Our family decided to take a hiatus and head to the beach for a Spring Break.
Everyone has been feeling the stress of my illness, and I thought a diversion would offer a welcomed change of pace.


I only had three requirements:
1) it had to be within a few hour's drive;
2) I needed a frontal, ocean view; and
3) we had to have an indoor pool.
It's always too cold to enjoy the beach this time of year.
Turns out, we had perfect weather: 20 degrees warmer than usual. So we spent more time than expected, outdoors and without proper beach accoutrements.

To complicate matters, days before our trip, our 12 year-old, announced that he wanted to become a vegetarian. We took him with us anyway. He was fairly successful most of the time, ordering: mac and cheese; salads; baked potato; veggie burger; McDonald's double meat cheese burger, apple sauce and cheese pizza.
Hey, I said most of the time.

Speaking of food, one of the popular Ocean City Boardwalk eateries is Thrasher's Fries. People buy them by the cup-, Super-sized cup-, and bucket-full. They are served hot and delicious, the way real fried potatoes would taste if you left the skin on, thinly sliced, fried and salted them yourself.

But after four days of vacation with three kids, you can only imagine the number of fries (and the amount of fried food) we'd consumed.
As soon as we pulled into the Sonic Drive-In, I promptly proclaimed:
"I don't want to look at or smell a French fry on the way home!"
No one ordered fries, but Jeff ordered tater tots.
I wound up eating them because I thought my Sonic burger was disgusting.
Blame it on the chemo.


While at that Sonic in Bridgeville, Delaware (don't try to find it on your GPS) I heard,
"Deneitra!"
And no, it wasn't Jeff's voice.
Turns out...
"It's Jennifer."
Why of course it is, I thought.
We probably live five minutes apart in a Maryland suburb; used-to work out at a local fitness center and have at least one mutual friend. Yet, I haven't seen Jennifer in nearly two years. Who else could it be in the middle of NoWhere, USA?


My physician's assistant tried to talk me out of going on a trip. She was concerned that with my low, white blood (cell) count, I might get sick and be too far from home.
I assured her that there were plenty of hospitals between Baltimore and the Eastern Shore and that I would make my way to one of them, if such a need were to arise.

Turns out that during our stay, I came down with a slight infection.
Now I'm on antibiotics.


As long as my schedule doesn't slide, I'll be ready for my final six treatments, beginning next Friday.


Now that I've put it out there, I hope I haven't jinxed myself.

Easter

Exhausted tonight.
Not quite sure how to keep my eyes open or my head up.

It was a beautiful Resurrection Sunday:
perfect, springtime weather;
family and friends;
church fellowship;
egg hunt;
Easter dinner; and
"The Ten Commandments" with Charlton Heston.

Headache is back.
Hating the thought of another round.
The sun is down now. There goes my light.

Blame It (On the Che-Che-Che-Che-Che-Che-Che-Mo)

I thought I had it all figured out:
complete the final eight rounds of Taxol, and forget about it.

With treatments 1-4 securely behind me,
I was set to coast to the end of my regime with relatively few side-effects.
All I had to do was show up and take my medicine.

But the medicine was my problem.

"We have a little issue," the P.A. informed me, as she re-entered the exam room.
She carried a sheet of paper in her hand. A number was circled.
Turns out it was my white blood cell count.

A healthy white blood cell count, one that can effectively fight infection, is usually between 5,000-10,000.
Mine was just under 1,000, barely "passable", but good enough
...this time.

"So, why don't we start you on Neupogen injections," the P.A. explained. "It will elevate your blood level some. You will one injection daily, for three days following each treatment."

I felt deflated, knowing that my once-a-week treatment had morphed into four. It also meant missing this year's Cherry Blossoms Festival and Wine in the Woods.

NOTE to CROWDS and SICK PEOPLE - I'm avoiding you like the Crazy Girl Sushi at Katana's!

I know it's only temporary and given the consequences of having a "non-passsing" white blood cell count, (e.g., risk of a prolonged chemo schedule, or winding up in the hospital with a major infection), I'll have my injectionss and I'll beat it (cancer) too.

Avon Walk for Breast Cancer

I'm fortunate, and I know it.

I have lots of friends:

from junior high to graduate school;

sorority sisters, Army spouses, Mocha Moms, and Jack and Jill mothers;

Pokeno girls, church partners, neighbors, co-workers;

and friends of friends.

One of my good friends is Karen Munter. We first met in Hawaii, nearly 15 years ago.

Karen recently registered to participate in the AVON WALK for breast cancer. Less than a

month and 39 miles from now, Karen and several hundred other walkers, will help raise money to fund the awareness, research and hopefully, a cure for breast cancer.

I know she will finish the walk. She's walking for me.

So, if you're one of my many friends who has asked if you could do anything, please consider donating to the site below. You'll have to cut and paste the website into your browser, but it will be well worth it and truly appreciated.

http://info.avonfoundation.org/site/TR/Walk/WashingtonDC?px=5449431&pg=personal&fr_id=1910

Going Topless

Going topless (albeit for only a few seconds)

wasn't as traumatic as I thought.

I didn't plan to take it off,

it just happened.

Another woman might have walked away,

but my desire got the better of me.

At least I paused long enough to ask myself -

Do I really want to do this?

Yes, was the answer;

and I wanted it bad.

So before I knew it,

I was standing in public,

before a full-length mirror

removing my pink and gray, plaid newsboy cap.

How else was I supposed to try on a couple of hats that I liked?

The Story of "Hawk"

"Looking for the Breast Imaging Center?" the security guard asked.
Without thinking, I answered, yes.

I wasn't; I had an appointment with the physical therapist to work on my left arm, limited since my second surgery.

I saw the guard again, on my way out.
"You remind me of my wife," he commented.
That's a weird thing to say, I thought. Was he hitting on me?
I smiled, awkwardly.

"You know what gave it away?" he continued. "Your hands and the scarf. My wife's hands got dark when she was in treatment."

Confirmed: he was NOT hitting on me.

"I know. That's one of the side-effects of Taxol. Did your wife have breast cancer?"
He had brought it up. I thought it was okay to ask.
He nodded.
"How's she doing now?" I asked, moving closer, so he could tell me all about her triumph over the disease.

Instead,
he told another story.

"She didn't make it," he responded with the resignation that comes when you finally make peace with the pain. He had a little smile on his lips.
I stood, cemented to that spot for about 10 or 15 minutes
...listening.

I learned that his wife was diagnosed with Stage Four breast cancer in 2000.
He found the lump, but it took a year to convince her to see a doctor.
Eight months after undergoing a bilateral mastectomy, her cancer came back.
He retired from METRO because she needed him. He said family support was important.
His wife died in 2007.

We talked about their dream of traveling across the country;
living without "should haves";
his writing a book.

"How are you doing?" I wanted to know.
"The first two years" his voice quietly trailing behind the memory of that time, "were the hardest. I'm better now."
I forced back the tears.
He changed the subject, "But you keep doing what you're supposed to."
I assured him that I would and said I might see him the next time I visited the clinic.

His name was Walter Hawkins.
"They call me 'Hawk,'" he said.
"Keep telling your story, my friend," I said before turning to leave, no longer a stranger.

My BIG FAT Side Effects

I thought I'd tell you about some of the side-effects I am experiencing while receiving Taxol chemotherapy. Don't get me wrong, I am nothing short of THRILLED to be done with that hellish AC. But with chemo, there's always a cost.

Here's what the literature says:
You may notice darkening of your skin, especially in the nail beds, tongue, palms and soles. This is more common in dark-skinned patients.

Here's what I say:
The nail beds of my thumbs have darkened, along with the soles of my feet and both sides of my hands. I now have brown spots, primarily on the soles of my feet. I don't even want to look at my tongue.

Here's what the literature says:
You may notice that your vision is worse. Some patients may have difficulty reading.

Here's what I say:
I wish I could blame it entirely on the chemo. Apparently this is well-known occurrence in my family, usually starting around the age of 40.

Here's what the literature says:
You will lose all of your scalp hair, but other body hair may also fall out such as...

Here's what I say:
I'm a bald, brown-spotted woman, with thinning eyebrows and lashes, who needs glasses to see whether my tongue has gotten darker.


Now the good news:
Most side-effects are short term and go away after the chemotherapy is finished.

"Daddy, it's me. Deneitra"

I'm not sure what I expected to find, but I know what I wanted to happen.
I wanted him to hear my voice, recognize my eyes and WILL himself back to this world,
a world he left on Wednesday, December 16th.


Whenever my mother and I spoke by phone, she mentioned how good my dad looked.
"Your father is still such a handsome man," she would say.
But would I see what she saw?


During our short drive over to the nursing home, I phoned a friend, someone who had seen my father since his incarceration.
"Gwen," I asked. "It will be my first time seeing him like this. Mother keeps telling me how handsome Daddy looks. You've visited him. What do you think?"

I don't remember how Gwen answered. It didn't matter. It had taken her too long to respond.
Besides, I was pulling into the parking lot and my mother had already pointed out a parking space for me to take.


I was about to find out for myself.


I did recognize my father, but not as the man I'd kissed good-bye just two days before his collapse in December;
and not as the man I'd visited over the summer, with the entire HutchBunch in-tow. What had he told Jeff?
...that this was the best day he'd had in a long time?
Did he know something that we didn't?


Watching him lay in bed, body not quite straight; mouth twisted like one of those "old" men in a nursing homes; hands clinched and curled like claws - I stood waiting...
waiting for his gaze to meet mine,
to capture me,
to remember.


I stood immobile long enough to notice the curl of his lashes, long and thick. My sister has those lashes, I thought. I looked for the freckles I counted as a child.

"Daddy, it's me. Deneitra. I came to visit you."


Was he there? Did he know that I was?

I had questions without answers.
This is not what I expected.
This is not what I'd hope would happen.
I left his room that evening, wondering if he'd ever rejoin this world.

It's not the Bag, It's the Girl

I HAD to go purse shopping today.

For some reason

being bald warrants a new handbag.

Sure, maybe not under all circumstances,

but if I plan to walk around in my "skin" this summer,

I will need a new look...

ergo a new handbag.

This wasn't my first day on the hunt.

I have been keeping my eyes peeled for about a month now.

But today I finally scored the perfect Aztec gold-colored, buttery-soft, leather hobo,

handbag that is.

As far as I'm concerned, every bald woman should carry a hobo.

For obvious reasons my leather D&B Satchel no longer fit the bill.

Sure it's a sporty bag if you wear a classic bob,

but it isn't nearly cool enough for the bald head.

Only a hobo could summon my inner Bohemian Mama.

I think I'll probably start carrying the handbag immediately.

Still, one question remains:

will I have the nerve to rock the head that goes with it?

An Excellent Weekend

I had an unusually good weekend.

Following my seventh round of chemo, I didn't endure the usual side effects.
I moved a bit slower and was tired by 10 p.m., but so what.
I felt more like myself that I had in months.

I've even managed to gain some of the weight I've loss since starting treatment. Not that I was trying, but steroids have a way of doing that to a person.
(Believe me, losing chemo weight is not the same as losing "I know I shouldn't have eaten that pie" weight.)

Saturday's weather could not have been more SPRINGTIME perfect.

Our family spent the afternoon, touring the White House with friends from Jack and Jill.
Noah asked a staffer where President Obama was. After trying to ignore Noah's inquiry, the staffer finally commented that he could not reveal the President's location.
(I submit that the guy could have come up with a more creative response to a curious six year-old's question.)

But it was a lovely day.

I was still feeling good when I decided to join another group of friends for a fundraiser at a Catholic school in Baltimore, later that evening.
I arrived in my business-casual, White House attire, ready for


...BINGO!
(Bet you didn't see that one coming, but I DID mention "Catholic" and "fundraiser" in the same sentence.)

After attending church this morning;
running an errand; and
picking up around the house,
I'm exhausted
but without side effects.

Round Seven...Nine More to Go

Every Thursday, late in the afternoon,
the telephone rings:
"This is the medical oncology clinic at Johns Hopkins. Deneitra, you have an appointment at (time) on Friday, (date). If you would like to confirm this appointment, please press one."

I don't listen beyond "one".
Why should I?
I don't want to confirm the appointment, but I will.
I spend the rest of my day trying to forget.
Sometimes chemo can make it hard to live in the moment; at other times, nothing could be easier.
On Thursdays, it's the former.

I watch sitcoms; I laugh.
I answer emails, Facebook.
I even make a few phone calls,
maybe.
I still have trouble sleeping most Thursday nights
because of Fridays.

I wake up knowing that things will get worse, before getting better;
praying this time will be a little easier than the last.

It's time for another round.

No matter what I do to ease into the day,
it's weight will rush against me.
I feel the rush now as the anticipatory nausea takes hold.
In my mind, I know that the Taxol does not make me sick to my stomach.
It doesn't mater. I have created this.

As soon as I collect my courage, I'm out the door, on my way to chemo.
It's hard to live in the moment without looking ahead.

I look forward to the days when Friday means what it's supposed to mean
...the weekend.

If you visit http://www.shopkomen.com, did you know that 25% of your purchase price will be donated to the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in the fight against breast cancer?

Good cause.

But what about the products?

Just what I need right now:

Meeting Ms. Lenora

Yesterday...

Walking back to my suite, I almost missed her -
the petite, elderly woman attached to the familiar pump.
Eager to get on with my treatment, I barely detected the sadness in her eyes, as she ignored the images on the television screen.
I recognized the stare.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "Are you here by yourself?"
She told me that she was and that her daughter would be arriving later.
Then she looked at me,
I mean, really looked at me.

"You have cancer?" she whispered, in an almost disbelief.
I responded, "I like to say I HAD cancer. But I'm in treatment now, just like everyone else here."
She smiled, woolen knitted cap crooked on her head,
beaded cross, dangling from here neck.
We connected.

We chatted a few minutes - about my head cover, my cancer, her cancer, Jesus.
She shared that hers was terminal.
I knew it wasn't good. A friend of mine died a couple of years ago from pancreatic cancer.
Lenora reminded me of Juanita.
I needed to say something,
just not that.

Instead I spoke to her in truth, "If you know Jesus, you know the right one. Keep doing what you're doing."
She promised to keep fighting.
I told her I would be there and would check on her later.

I did stop by her suite on my way out, but she was alone and asleep.
Her daughter had not yet arrived.
I found some comfort in knowing that I might see her again next Friday for round seven.

God bless those who fight the good fight.
God bless Ms. Lenora.

The Cleaning Continues: Lessons Learned at a Laundromat

I don't recall the last time I was in a laundromat.
Yet, here I sit,
on a hard, canary yellow chair,
waiting for my comforter to wash.

In case you're like me and need a refresher course:

1. Arrive Early. And by early, I mean NLT 9:30 a.m. At this time of morning, only half the dryers are in rotation, and you might be able to score an over-sized washer, which is why you're here anyway.

2. Dress for success. Sweats work, even when disguised as a Pasha yoga hoodie and matching pants. If you're bald, a black knit cap keeps them guessing. Customers will barely notice until...

3. someone spots you carrying a handbag. Downsize instead to the necessities - quarter and/or bills, detergent and of course, your dirty comforter. No one totes a purse!

4. Take a roll. You couldn't make a phone call with a quarter, if there was a pay-phone nearby. Be prepared to spend about $10 to wash and dry your king-sized comforter.

5. Hovering. It is perfectly acceptable to hover over your machine instead of making a quick run to Trader Joe's. Your street cred will only decrease if you return with heirloom tomatoes.

6. If possible, avoid the washer in the corner, near the front (or back) of the mat, when there is no room to pass between the bank of washers and the wall. In doing so, you will also avoid becoming trapped by the mountains of clothes people are intending to clean. Note: not everyone is there to wash a single piece of bed linen.

7. Learn to speak the language. This would have proven invaluable since I could have asked, "Que lavadora deberia yo usar?" and likely known all about #6.

8. Try not to dismantle the equipment.

9. Dryer Check. Be sure your comforter is completely dry before wheeling it out to your SUV and discovering damp spots. No one likes damp spots, and fellow customers will label you a poser if you suddenly return to the (albeit) partially dismantled dryer.

10. Even if you don't need to wash your comforter or anything else, the laundromat is a great place to make change.

Who knew?

Clean Again

Christopher returned from school yesterday
and asked why I was cleaning the floors.

Why?
Had it really been THAT long?

I paused to consider the possibility, before explaining that since my initial surgery in October, the floors had not been properly cleaned.
When I say clean, I mean:
swept, mopped and scraped clean of the "unidentifiable, sticky, gray residue" from-the-kitchen-floor kind of clean.

"You know I'm feeling better... if I'm cleaning," I remarked.

Christopher either really appreciates clean floors or what I said because he replied,
"Then I'll help you."

Now if someone could just tell me how to get my ceramic cook top clean.

The Lovely Hours

I sat outside today
felt the warmth of the sun
inhaled the breeze that brushed past my skin.

I smiled
toward God.
The lonely hours did not exist.

What do you mean, "Am I itching?"

A doctor's wife receives the best gifts.
I should know.
My husband is quite generous.
So generous in fact that Jeff came home last night, with a little "something extra".

Fortunate for me,
it doesn't APPEAR that he was quite as generous as usual
since I'm not itching.

Whatever you do, don't stop reading here!

One of the hazards of working with sick kids is, well, contracting illnesses.
Yesterday afternoon, a patient of Jeff's presented with a highly contagious, infectious skin disease.
And you guessed it: Jeff brought it home.
So far, he appears to be the only one infected;
as I stated earlier, I'm not itching.
But can you imagine waking up, and your husband asks, "Are you itching anywhere?"

At least I have a humorous distraction as I prepare for this morning's chemo treatment. Poor Jeff, he has to call the "other woman" (aka the med student that shadowed him) and tell her that she may have contracted the disease.
Before leaving the house, Jeff confessed, "I need to do a better job washing my hands after seeing patients."

Sitting in Dr. M's exam room an hour later, I noticed this sign:

I pointed it out to Jeff before confronting my own doctor about cleaning his hands, which he had.
But I noticed that after telling him about the scabies, he didn't extend his hand for our usual handshake.

I didn't blame him.