Donations Not Accepted

I would like to publicly thank the countless friends who have supported me through my ordeal with breast cancer. You have cooked for my family; taken me to chemo; and cheered me on.

But recently, some of you have volunteered to become donors.
You know who you are.

Without my having to ask, and without knowing whether we were compatible, you stepped forward, ready to sacrifice unwanted lipids to my upcoming breast surgery.
How many times did I hear you say, “If your doctor needs a fat donor, I’m your woman.”

Granted, you didn't offer me a kidney, but I don't need one.
The greater consideration is: What makes you think I don’t have enough body fat to support my surgery?"
I realize that women have trouble asking for help, but believe me,
I'm good.

Still, I appreciate what you were trying to do.
Why throw it away when you could give fat to a friend in need.
It’s the ultimate in recycling.
It’s so giving,
so green.

Therefore, it is with resignation that I hereby inform you that on Tuesday, August 2nd, my plastic surgeon will be removing fat from MY OWN stomach and grafting it to my breast. In addition, Dr. M. will try to up-size, not at all similar to super-size, my existing implants, in an attempt to achieve the fullness I have lacked since cancer laid claim to my breasts in October 2009.

In other words: I am getting a tummy tuck and fuller, bigger boobs...hopefully.



Two months post-op.



Courtesy of  http://www.atuckandthat'sit.blogspot.com/.
Two days post-op.



Suffice it to say, your willingness to contribute to my desired "C” cup (or at least an overflowing "B") has not gone unnoticed.
Not once did my own husband offer up his pound of flesh.
Perhaps this kind of gesture is one
only a woman makes.
And it takes a woman to truly appreciate it.

P.S. Dawn, thanks for the use of your photos.

In Honor of Father's Day

In honor of Father's Day, this week's Parade Magazine discusses "What I learned from my dad."
In it, Luke Russert remembers his late father, Tim Russert, who died three years ago this weekend.
Luke calls his dad his compass and shares life lessons learned from his father.

As I think of my own father,
I am transported to his room
in a nursing home in Texas.
I think of him,
laying there,
G-Tube feeding him nutrition,
trachea assisting his breathing,
eyes wide, staring.

This is not the father of my childhood.

Daddy is strong.
He is funny.
He is the guest you invite to a party and really hope that he will show.
He's the neighbor who offers work to the kid down the street.
He is the master gardener, king of the bar-b-que brisket and great storyteller.

He is the father who assured me that God said I would be fine,
when diagnosed with breast cancer in 2009.

Today, of all days, I think of him
and want to share Daddy's optimism.

I Remember (as written Friday, June 10)

I am sitting in the chemo room...again... waiting to undergo treatment.

I am forcing myself to write before the meds kick-in and take me under.

I usually disapear this way.

Seated around me are women, most of whom are black.
They are surrounded by other women, various shades of mocha.
We are a village.
A custodian walks in to empty the trash cans.
She comments that we all look the same.
She is right; we are the original Village People.
But today, I don't feel like much of a "Macho (Wo)Man."  


I know I should be grateful. At least I'm not getting chemo.
I only need my infusion of Rituxan.
Yet being here,
having to be here, 
causes a flood of memories to overwhelm me.


I find myself fighting back tears when the chemo nurse, working on the patient across the room, has trouble accessing her port. I watch as the woman's feet flutter in an anxiety-ridden avalanche.

And I remember.


Her15th treatment doesn't diminish the nervousness that I witness.
It's a process you never get used-to; it never gets easier.
Relief is only temporarily achieved after the chemo nurse has successfully accessed the port and there is a return blood flow.


I remember.


My nurse is ready to begin. She dons her mask and pulls out the port-access kit. I kindly remind her for the second time this morning that my port has been removed. She smiles, searching for a vein instead. The one she selects is hardened, the product of last year's Adriomyocin. She tries another, but it won't give up the blood.

A second nurse is called over.
"Maurene can always get a vein." 
Success,
but the blood return is slow, which means my counts will be unreliable, possibly wasted.

I remember.

It is 11:00 a.m. now.
The Rituxan is hung, and I realize I won't be leaving the hospital before
1:00 p.m. I thought I'd waltz in, take my medicine and disappear for seven days.

This is much harder than I anticipated. Jeff is not here, and I find the loneliness unfamiliar. 



Two more villagers enter the treatment room.
I am depressed. 
I need sleep NOW!

My Struggle to Break Free

I've stalled again.
I haven't written anything lately.

Maybe it's because I am struggling to hold on to this blog
while, at the same time,
writing about ANYTHING other than breast cancer.

Intellectually, I am convinced that there is life beyond breast cancer,
but I find it hard to break free.
I am forever connected to people who currently have,
or whom have had,
or who will have the disease.
Doctors no longer like to use words like "remission" - not the way you think.

Once the disease is confirmed, you either have it or you don't; you are never cured.
For the past 20 months, I have been part of a community in which I will never be alone.

Too bad.
It is sometimes easy to forget that this disease called cancer,
has a dark side.
It can be hard to recognize the dark cloud amid the blur of pink ribbons. 

Last week, I was brutally reminded that cancer is still a killer.
And no ribbon isn't going to save us.
"Until there's a cure?" - How about - "Until there's no need for a cure?"

At the end of the day,
I am convinced that there will be something worth writing about,
something beyond breast cancer.
I just have to wait until it inspires me.

Tell me, what inspires you?

Tattooed Ta-tas?

I can't believe that I am rethinking my policy on getting a tattoo.

If you don't know me well,
then you might not know that I do not like tattoos.
My husband likes them, and apparently so do lots of other folks.
Until recently, I thought that ink wasn't for me.
Now I am seriously considering getting two of them -
one on each breast.

No one is more surprised about this change of heart than I am.
But last week I had a completely unexpected encounter.

I was in Houston visiting my family, when I interrupted my mother, who was getting undressed.
My brain scrambled to make sense of what I was looking at:
My
Mother
Has
Areolas!
And if I'd stood there long enough, I'm sure I would have noticed that she had nipples too.

What did I expect?
I guess I expected hers to look like mine,
minus the mastectomy scars.
The last time I'd seen those two "additions" was November 2009.
It had been years since I'd glimpsed my mother's ta-tas,
or anyone else's for that matter.


Not everyone will agree with me, but
it IS possible to forget how they are SUPPOSED to look.

Since donating my breasts to science,
I have grown accustomed to looking at myself in the mirror each morning and thinking - that doesn't look so bad...
okay, that's not completely true.
This ripply-implant-thing is just downright weird-looking.
But ignoring that,
I love the idea of getting away with NOT having to wear a bra.
Without a bull's eye on my breast,
a sheer t-shirt has nothing to reveal:
no push-up padding, no straps, no nothing.

On the other hand,
I cannot go bra-less with the rippled implants I currently have.
So, who knows?
Once the implants are replaced,
and fat is injected to smooth-out my skin,
I might go for the tatts.

After all, I could do a lot worse,
than simply looking like my mother.


(Were you expecting a picture of something else?)

The Uni-Boob

So I finally got my explanation.
I now know why my breast size is smaller than its original packaging.

My doctor believed that I would probably want to avoid:
THE UNI-BOOB!

We've all seen it. Maybe you've even experienced it personally, while wearing a tight-fitting sports bra. Without the bra, you have two. But after squeezing into the breast compressor, you find that your two breasts have morphed into one.

There's also a medical term for it: Symmastia (or medial mal-position). It occurs when breast implants move too far toward the midline. In some cases, the implants may touch one another in the center of the chest. It happens when a surgeon is too aggressive with his/her attempts to alter chest wall anatomy (i.e., trying too hard to increase a patient's cleavage).

In my case, my pectoral muscles are anatomically far apart and so are (were) my breasts. My surgeon was unable to move them closer together without risking the creation of the uni-boob.
After complaining in my last blog, I now agree with his decision to leave them in their natural locations.
After all, I'm not much of a risk-taker.

The Solution?
One part patience; one part silicone; and one part fat.

For the next few months, we will see how the implant rests in the pocket.
(I'm getting in-touch with my inner pool table.)
By then, the capsule (i.e., scar tissue surrounding the implant) should have either shrunk enough to make the implant appear less rippled or will have to be replaced.

My surgeon is betting on the latter.
He thinks it will probably take two or three more sessions to revise my breasts and make them look better.
Part of his solution will include replacing the existing implants with slightly larger ones.
The other part of his plan will be to graph fat from another part of my body and add it to my breast.

(Let me stop right here to inform you, and you know who you are, this is not an invitation for you to start offering me your excess flesh.)

"Even with thin women, I can usually find some fat to use," he assures me,
assuming I need assurance.
I stand up and introduce him to my stomach.
After the births of three babies: 8.6 lbs., 10 lbs., and 7.14 lbs.,
finding body fat is not a problem.

REALITY:
I will never have cleavage.
No one will ever stare at my breast and whisper, "are those real?"

I have adjusted my expectations,
again.
Come August, I look forward to adjusting my bra size too,
hopefully for the last time.

The Ripple Effect

The ripple effect is a term used to describe a situation where, like the ever expanding ripples across water when an object is dropped into it, an effect from an initial state can be followed outwards incrementally. (Wikipedia)

That 'pretty much' describes how one of my breasts looks
...like silicone rippling beneath my skin, causing it to droop outward.

Right now, you're probably thinking:
What? Aren't your implants new? Didn't you just have surgery a couple of weeks ago?
If that is what you're thinking, and I don't mean to burst your bubble (pun intended), they are, and I did.

At my first follow-up appointment, my breast didn't look this way, but I can still recall the PA saying that it would take about three months for them to "settle." (Settle as in: to sink gradually or to the bottom?)

Since I had an appointment today, I asked my physical therapist what she thought.
"Does this breast look right to you?"
I was lying on my back, but my breast looked as if it was about to slide off the edge of a cliff.

WAIT A MINUTE!! Shouldn't fake boobs forever point north?

The therapist took a look.
"It's not supposed to look like that. I'm not an expert, but that one might be defective."
It WAS defective, I think to myself. That's why I had it replaced.

But I knew what she meant.

I see my plastic surgeon next week.
I can't wait.
I need him to understand that
although I've given birth to three boys, and one of them weighed just over ten pounds, I'm still in my forties, and unprepared to see another body part with ripples.

When is Getting a C Better than a B?

The new girlz are in.

I hate to admit it, but I'm a little disappointed with them. I was expecting bigger and better. Imagine my let-down (no pun intended) when I peeked beneath my tightly bound tube top to find two B-cups. (At least I think they are B-cups.) What happened to the C-cups I requested?




When I unwrapped my bandages after last week's surgery, I felt deflated...literally. Hadn't my doctor said, "You will definitely wear a C-cup in a Victoria's Secret bra?"
And what happened to the 425 cc's of saline I'd grown accustomed to, while living with expanders? Mine even had names. The left one was October and the right one was November, referring to the fall of '09 when expanders replaced my breasts.

Bigger boobs were supposed to be my pay-off for getting breast cancer.
Some pay-off!

Today my PA informed me that my breasts still have some swelling. "Does this mean my breast will be even smaller?" I asked. Looks like I'll be putting off buying that new bra for another three months.

Ironic thing is, I don't really need to wear one.

1000 Prayers for Japan

My heart aches this week for the people of Japan.
It's not as if I don't know anyone living in that country.
As a matter of fact, I know of seven people (some I've met, others I have not).
They are now living in a country devastated by an earthquake and tsunami.

10,000 feared dead
Threat of nuclear meltdown
Shortages of food and water
Loss of electricity

None of the events over the past few days has directly affected the small town of Osaka, where Sean lives. Sean was Jeff's best friend in high school. He has lived in Japan for more than 17 years, and is married to Ikuko. They have four children: Karen, Megan and Sarah, and a lone boy, Simon. Ikuko's mother is part of their family.

In last Friday Facebook post, Sean asked us to pray for the people of Japan.

Prayer: a devout petition to God.

I immediately thought about the Senbazuru, which hangs in my bedroom window. It is a collection of one thousand origami paper cranes held together by strings. Sean sent it to me while I underwent chemo treatment. He didn't personally fold each crane. He didn't have to. Instead, he solicited help from family, neighbors, friends, employees, students...anyone willing to make a crane and say a prayer. The 1,000 paper cranes, intricately woven into a breath-taking design, was an ever-present reminder that people in Japan prayed for me.

In light of the impending nuclear threat, what better time to pray. While I cannot orchestrate the assembly of a Senbazuru, perhaps I can solicit prayer for the people of Japan.

...1,000 prayers for Japan,
Who's with me?

Choose Life

The first time I remember hearing the word CANCER,
I was seven years old, and my grandfather was dead.
It was probably another ten years before I recall hearing that word again.

But since having my own occurrence with breast cancer,
not a month passes without my being told of another life,
interrupted by the disease.

Take the case of a friend's friend.

She was diagnosed with breast cancer at an early age, when cancers are generally most aggressive. Against her doctor's advice, she decided not to undergo chemotherapy and received radiation therapy only -

...which got me to thinking:
What would make a person forgo a potentially life-extending treatment?
Was she afraid?
Did she believe she would be okay without chemo?

As I pondered the question, I was reminded that my aunt also chose a similar path, nearly 15 years ago. When cancer was discovered in one of her breasts, she had a mastectomy. After surgery, the recommended standard of care was chemo, followed by radiation. Aunt D. passed on the former.

But when her cancer returned more than two years ago, she began to regret her earlier decision. After my first surgery, she wrote a letter encouraging me to take the chemo, if offered by my doctors. There was little question in my mind that I would.

Was I afraid? Definitely.
Did I believe I could be okay without chemo? Definitely not.

In fact, I spent months trying to wiggle out from under radiation. I shopped RadOncs, looking for someone who would tell me that I didn't need to have the therapy. When radiation was "strongly recommended" three times, I acquiesced.
I wanted no regrets.

My aunt's decision to skip chemo may have cost her more than a breast.
The pain started in her back and moved to her legs.
Walking became difficult.
She is currently undergoing treatment and probably will for the rest of her life.

Last week, I was introduced to a different woman living with Stage 4 Bone Metastasis.
I know little about her, but I assume that she is REALLY tired of hearing the word- CANCER.
I would also guess that she is afraid.
Hell, we're all afraid of something.
The decision to undergo treatment or not is highly personal.
But I'd be willing to bet that if treatment appears to be the only option for saving or extending life,
most of us would chose life.

I know I did.

What Not to Say to a Cancer Patient...if You're a Therapist

I was inspired to write this after reading another blogger's entry entitled, "What Not to Say to Cancer Patients."

In her blog, Wendy Farha writes about people who offer unsolicited advice regarding taking supplements/herbal medicines and eating miracle foods.
Her entry reminded me of a recent visit to a therapist.

Because I was there for a family member, I was a little surprised when she began asking about my medical history. After learning I'd had breast cancer, her line of questioning took an unwelcomed turn.

QUESTION: Do you eat meat?
ANSWER: Yes.
QUESTION: But you eat it only once a week, right?
ANSWER: No, more often than that. We don't eat lots of red meat, but we do eat lots of chicken.
WHAT NOT TO SAY TO A CANCER PATIENT...if you're a therapist:
You shouldn't eat meat more than once a week. It's not good for you.

QUESTION: Take any prescription drugs?
ANSWER: I take Drugs A, B, C, D, and E, daily.
QUESTION: Why do you take Drug C?
ANSWER: My doctor prescribed it for menopausal symptoms.
WHAT NO TO SAY TO A CANCER PATIENT...if you're a therapist, and my physician husband is seated beside me:
Drug C isn't for that; it makes you hot. These physicians...I don't know what they're thinking.

QUESTION: Do you drink?
ANSWER: Yes
QUESTION: How much?
ANSWER: Two, sometimes three drinks a week, mostly wine with dinner.
WHAT NOT TO SAY TO A CANCER PATIENT...if you're a therapist, speaking to a woman who is not your patient, but who is beginning to dislike you:
You cannot drink ANYTHING!!! EVER!!! You've had breast cancer.

In her blog, Wendy suggests,
"If you feel you absolutely MUST advise a cancer patient to try something, why not first let the person know casually that you've heard of something you think might be helpful."

Good looking-out Wendy.

So, to this (particular) therapist, I'd like to casually suggest "something that might be helpful." Keep your nutrition and pharmaceutical recommendations to yourself. It will allow more time for you to listen to your patients...even if I'm not one of them.

My Perfect Valentine

Valentine's Day 2011 has come and gone.
Personally I'm happy that it's over.
By design - it isn't the kind of day that gets a lot of attention at our house.

Early in our marriage, Jeff and I were eager to go out. We'd make dinner reservations, get dressed up and crowd into a restaurant with a flood of other patrons. We'd eat an adequate, over-priced meal and await the arrival of our bill, before vowing to never eat out again on Valentine's night.

When the boys were little, and we didn't have a sitter, I'd prepare two meals:
the highly favored mac-n-cheese with chicken fingers,
and a romantic, three-course meal for Jeff and I to enjoy once the kids were in bed. Too often, however, our evening ended with us eating too much food, drinking too much wine and, as over-tired parents often discover, wanting little more than a good night's sleep.

Over the past couple of years, expectations have shifted.
Romance isn't dead in our home, but it's definitely been redefined.
Sunday night I announced to Jeff,
"We aren't romantic people; that's okay. I only need romance, maybe a couple of times a year anyway."
I couldn't tell if he was relieved or insulted.

This year we stayed home. I cooked dinner, and Jeff made chocolate fondue.
We ate together, as a family.
There were no roses,
no jewelry,
no over sized heart-shaped box of truffles.

There is only certainty in knowing that after these past 18 months,
no single day will ever adequately convey the love between me and
My Perfect Valentine.

Blame It (On the I - I - I - I - I - I - I - I-PAD)

Jeff surprised me with an I-Pad for Christmas.
I'd asked for a color Nook. But when I unwrapped the rectangular box, I recognized the iconic silver apple.
"You're so lucky!" my ten year-old quipped.

Me? Lucky? I thought. Uh...not quite.

So, for the past six weeks, I've spent lots of time exploring my Pad, using Facebook, email, syncing my calendars and checking out mostly useless apps.
About the only thing I haven't done is post a blog.

Initially I thought it would be great for writing. I'm sure that's what Jeff thought too. I envisioned carrying my I-Pad everywhere, the way I see other people working on their laptops. But after several starts, I realized that I missed the "tap, tap, rap, tap" of my laptop's keyboard. The I-PAD's smooth, soft-touch screen did little to satisfy my need for rebounding between keys. It may sound silly, but I love the solid tapping of my laptop, singing along as I strike its buttons.

(Hmm...this must have been how people felt when they were forced to abandon the "click, clack, return" of their typewriters in exchange for a PC.)

Now that I understand the nature of my relationship with my laptop and my I-PAD,
blame my absence on the latter.
We'll meet here instead.

Aah...
the satisfying thunk of my laptop.

Adjust those New Years Expectations

2010 sucked!
There, I said it (again...if you saw my FB post).

I couldn't get rid of 2010 fast enough!
By the time that ball dropped in Time Square at midnight,
I was so over it!!!!

Jeff and I were supposed to spend New Year's Eve out,
with friends, but our plans fell through.
Instead of getting upset because I wasn't having the proper "midnight experience",
we celebrated with family, donned party hats and with noise makers in-hand, toasted in the 2011. By 12:15 a.m., we were tucked into bed, without the retribution from the next day's hang-overs or threat from drunk drivers.

We wound up spending New Year's Day with a family, whose husband/dad/doctor/soldier left home for a six-month deployment in the Middle East.
I recalled Jeff's 14-month deployment and the friends who spent that "first day"with us. Their company had been a real blessing.
I couldn't change the situation, but I'd become accustomed to finding good in a bad situation.
Cancer does that for you.

So how did we wrap up our celebration of the new year?
Jeff and I got dressed up and tried out a new restaurant. With a fireside table, we shared a bottle of vino and dinner. So what if it was only 9:38 p.m. when he turned the key to our car's ignition to go home? The early hour allowed us plenty of opportunity to spend some adult-married-folk time before it got too late. (If you're over 40, you know that at 11:00 p.m., it's time to sleep.)

I never had high expectations for 2010.
I KNEW to expect chemo, radiation, countless doctors' appointments or worse.
Besides a barrage of doctors' appointments, follow-up care and surgery, I don't know what else 2011 will bring.
But three days into the new year, my ability to adjust and roll with it,
has already proven successful,
just 362 days to go.