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.

Round Five

I stopped by to visit a friend yesterday,
while receiving her fifth round of chemo.

I happened to be in the same building, at the same time.
I didn't know what to expect when I walked across the hall to ask if she was having chemo.
But the receptionist told me to "Go on back."

For a moment,
I was anxious about pushing open the door.
Did I really want to do this? I have treatment on Friday.
Would I get sick, once inside the treatment room?

Before my fears could take hold, I was walking through the door, down a short hall and into the open treatment room, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

I don't recall what she said next,
but judging by the look on her face
I knew that visiting a friend in pain, is never a bad idea.

Membership on Hold

Today was the big day.
I was finally going to the gym,
to put a HOLD on my membership.
I have two gym memberships and neither has been used since I was diagnosed with breast cancer last October.


For months, I had postponed freezing my account.
I thought it was because I didn't want to run into people I knew;
at first maybe it was.
I later convinced myself that I looked too much like the FACE of CANCER.
It would be awkward for them and embarrassing for me.


Of course I over thought it.

I drove to the fitness club, filled-out the paperwork and left.
Shutting the car door, I pinpointed the source of my anxiety.


Placing a hold on my gym membership was like
admitting that I was too weak and too sick to work out.
The real reason I'd procrastinated for so long was that I was afraid of feeling defeated.


And I did feel that way,


...for about sixty seconds;
...long enough for me to calculate the savings;
...and get over it!

I Win

Jeff: "I'm sick of work."

I chuckle.

Me: "I'm sick of chemo."

...thinking

Me: "Who wins?"

...silence