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.