Things that Come in the Mail

The upside to this cancer bullshit is that I'm getting a lot more snail mail these days -- a long forgotten joy. I've received cards, hilarious and heartfelt. Several CDs. People have loaned me their own tokens and charms to help ward off evil spirits and freaky cells. I also received a big picture of Patrick Dempsey's face. (I have a strange, inexplicable aversion to that guy's face, so now I have something readily available should I ever have the urge to destroy something.) Earlier this week, I got an actual six-page LETTER, two-sided on yellow legal paper, from my friend Holly. It even included some illustrations of her lifting weights with two old ladies, one of whom apparently has a massive rearend, the other of whom had BC and a double mastectomy and is now a force to be reckoned with at the gym.

Last night, I opened a card from my cousin BJ and this absolute GEM -- Nana Rie's senior T Pass -- fell out. I almost hit the floor right along with it.

And so it will be added to my growing bag of talismen which is always along for the ride.

*** 7 Songs of the Day 2/12/2009

1. Give me Love - George Harrison
2. A Few Minutes of Silence - Paul Westerberg
3. Movin' On Up - Primal Scream
4. Good Time Coming - Something Happens
5. A Life of Sundays - Waterboys
6. All Possibilities - Badly Drawn Boy
7. Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight - Beatles

-Courtesy of LPD

The 7 Songs of the Day

Bittersweet Playlist, 2/11/09

1. 1234 - Feist
2. Half the World Away - Oasis
3. Your Song - Elton John
4. Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley
5. Have a Nice Day - Stereophonics
6. La Vie en Rose - Louis Armstrong
7. Somewhere Only We Know - Keane

-The Roving Lemon

The Schizo and the SW

MONDAY, Feb 2, DF 10
The social worker (SW) is not what I was expecting. 40ish, very glam and stylish. I was expecting more LL Bean fleece than Chanel silk. She's the kind of woman that makes you hyper-aware of your eyebrows and cuticles and scuffed up who-remembers-what-season-ago boots. Which is NOT good for the tumor. I dislike her instantly. The way I dislike women I see everywhere these days. Women going about their business. At the market, at gymnastics, at Starbucks and Dunkies. Women who are obliviously organized enough to throw together a nice outfit and get their hair and nails done fairly often. To me, they are a personal affront; a double-barrel middlefingered "F**k you! I'm normal and healthy and you're not." But then I don't feel that way at all. I feel like it's the way I should feel toward these women all around me. For me, it's never the why me, it's the why not me. And I wonder how pathetic and self loathing one has to be to believe that she somehow deserves to get cancer more than the next person. But then I don't feel that way at all.

The SW speaks and I'm completely disarmed. She's a lovely person who is here at the DF dealing with schizos like me who can't unball their fists. She left her office on a distant floor and stopped by my chemo-mainlining cubby to bring me a book about keeping children emotionally healthy during a parent's illness. She gives us some backpacks for the kiddos that include some Beanie Babies and magic markers. She also sits with us for quite a while and gives us some great advice on how to talk to the kids about what's going down. When I say "great advice," I mean "identical" advice to that of Amy (friend-who-happens-to-be-a-therapist), Tracy O (friend-who-happens-to-be-a-nurse, and Sarah D. (friend-who-happens-to-be-a-SW).


Aside: Granted, I'd kill for a SW like Sarah D. who would wheel your chemo IV onto the rooftop of the DF parking lot if you needed a little vitamin D (or something stronger).

Nevertheless, our SW assuages our guilt about being brutally honest and potentially frightening our kids about what's happening. Our reticence to do so is understandable; human, she says, as our primal instinct is to protect them from what's going on rather than to involve them in it.

Our SW also runs a support group for women under 40 who have the beast in the boob. I just told her I'm definitely going to attend and I'm certain James' jaw hit the floor at the fact that I don't have to be coaxed out from behind a filing cabinet to attend (or worse, join) a group activity.

I've come a long way in four weeks. I want to connect with people who are on this strange journey and/or have been. I have a rapidly growing list of people to talk to and I plan to call on all of them.

Aside II: Still not a phone person, however. Still rather email or meet face-to-face over a green tea or red wine.

Air Quotes and Divine Intervention

In speaking honestly to the kids, the SW sees a teaching moment at "a crucial stage in their emotional development," a chance to do something that will "lay the foundation for better emotional health down the line." I sense divine intervention. I can't believe I was about to fuck up my kids for life before they turned 5 and 6. I thought I'd had a few more years. The SW explains that they are totally egocentric right now at 4 and 5 and as long as their routines aren't disrupted and they feel secure within them, they won't be too affected.

The Advice, Broken Down

1. Use the words "breast cancer." First, the word "breast" makes me cringe. I don't even like saying it in a sentence: "I'm marinating a boneless chicken breast in some sesame ginger." Ew. I picture LPD (who shudders physically at the word herself) saying the word with her trademark emphasis: "Bwreast." A pursed half smile, her head cocked to the side, hell bent on grossing you out. It's not right.

2. Don't describe chemo as "medicine" because kids think medicine is supposed to make you feel well, not sick. Say "treatment." Say it will "make you tired."

3. Make it clear that you're "sad to lose your hair." While the kids will find it fun to cut your hair themselves and be involved in donating it to Locks of Love, they will be confused if you're somehow gleeful about baldness.

Aside III: Right now, I am not in the least bit sad about losing my hair. My roots are so offensive, I wish it'd all fall out right now so I could don my wig (which is quite fierce). Unfortunately, the wig won't be ready until next week due to the insane smallness of my head.

So, the convo went a little something like this: (I've bolded the "advised" words to show you what good students we are)

ME: The reason dad and I have been going into the city every day is I've got something called breast cancer that needs to be treated by a doctor.

(BTW, this statement has led to a daily question from Caroline: "Mama, how's your breast cancer doing today?" I say, "Great. It thinks it's disappearing.")

ME (con't): I have to have some treatments that are going to make me very tired and lose my hair.

CAROLINE: Like Papa!

ME: Sort of.

ME (con't) But it's only for a little while. My hair will grow back.

PAULIE: But poor Papa's hair isn't going to grow back!

ME: No, but Papa likes being bald. I will be sad to lose my hair, but it'll grow back.

CAROLINE: Will your hair be back by my birthday party? (April)

ME: Probably not, sweetie.

CAROLINE: That's ok, Mom, you can wear my Hannah Montana wig!

ME: Really? Thanks! (And I actually mean this. She's very anal with her things)

PAULIE: What about by my birthday party? (June)

ME: Yes, my hair will probably have started to grow back by then.

PAULIE: Cool. If not, you can wear my Chewbaccana mask. ("Chewbaccana" is how Paulie pronounces Chewbacca.)

ME: Awesome. Do you think I can pull off the Wookie Mullet look?

PAULIE (non-chalant): Oh yeah. Sure. Sure.

Don't Call it a Comeback, It's Been Seven Days

MONDAY, Feb. 9
Exactly seven days since my first treatment. And lo and behold, I feel normal again. I was told I'd have one week "on" and one week "off" as I undergo chemo every other Monday through the Ides of March. But I doubted I'd ever feel normal again after this week of unholy fatiguery. Less than 24 hours ago, I was luggage after 42 minutes of light activity. Today, I actually attempted to take Vito for a walk around the loop (it'll come as no shock to anyone that he's the one who had to turn back).

I feel "on" again, just like they said I would. One week. Seven days. Like clockwork.

It got me thinking about that whole "changing every seven years" concept. I'm sure you've heard it here and there. For me, it's usually come up as a casual Q&A:

Q: Why the f*&$ am I breaking out like a MF teenager?!

A: Well, your hormones change every seven years, didn't you know that, etc.

I've always believed this on some level, actually all levels -- not just hormonal ones. Intervals just make sense to me: happiness, misery, mental energy, physical energy, creativity, hormones, luck, love, lust, etc.: intervals. And seven sounds like a decent odd number -- intervally speaking.

Thoughts turned to Feb. 2002 when the proverbial shit was hitting the fan all over the place. But I have to say, the time and space between then and now has been pretty fantastic for me. Things have been rolling along quite smoothly. So, it's high time to shake things up?

Apparently the guru on this whole "seven years" dillybag is a philosopher (or heathen, depending upon your perspective) named Rudolph Steiner. He wrote that "without some smattering of these [seven year] changes, it is difficult for anyone to understand the relationship of any given individual with his or her environment." Translation (I think): It's impossible to have any perspective on anything without a little sea change every now and then.


Aside: This is not going to devolve into a discussion on the mysteries of the universe. If you want to read more about Steiner and his spiritual philosophy, you can find more info here and here.

Anyway, the website I was looking at broke life down into paragraphs by age intervals (i.e. birth-age 7, 7-14, 14-21, etc.) I thought it was cool. If you're a total geek, you'll probably think it's cool too. Otherwise, please skip it. Apparently, you not only undergo emotional and mental changes every seven years, but also physical ones - all the way down to the cellular level.

Ages 35-42 (paraphrasing): A time of restlessness and a desire to share what one has gained and learned through life thus far. A time of creativity, break through and modification. (Perhaps even of the emotions, the bad habits, the DNA that turned my good cells bad and formed the Jamaican Dog Posse in my left boob).

Seven Songs for Seven Years
To pay tribute to this seven years thingy, I was going to try to do something similar to "25 Things" that by now everyone on earth has completed or has been tagged to complete. I was going to try to list my "7 songs" and ask that you do the same. But then I realized that would be a sadistic exercise even for people who don't worship the music. So, maybe a daily playlist of 7 songs, an offering up of sorts, insurance that if the times/the cells/they are a changin' that they are a changin' in our favor.

I’ll try (try!) to post a "7 Songs of the Day" playlist every day or at least attach one to the end of a longer post. It can mean something or nothing, its baseline peripatetic or dreamy. Doesn't matter. And feel free to email me yours. I’ll post with full credit (if you want it). It'll be fun. Not to mention, you never know when you'll find yourself in a giant body scanner with your arms stuck up over your head.

7 Songs of the Day

1. I’m so Tired - The Beatles
2. 15 step - Radiohead
3. Accentuate the Positive - Sir Roland Hanna & Carrie Smith
4. Things Behind the Sun - Nick Drake
5. Keep me in Mind - Little Joy
6. Violet Hill - Coldplay
7. Fugitive Kind - Paul Westerberg

P.S. to BG: It's a Nickelback-free zone. And you know I say that with only love for you.

Two More Reasons Never to Check your iPhone While Driving

There could be photos like this on it.

These two beauties arrived courtesy of Dawnie. The photos, circa 1999, appear to depict TBag posing for a professional photo as a train engineer (???) But who knows. I received these pics with neither explanation nor origin. Which sort of makes them that much more awesome. I've been asking for laughs (received some killers during chemo last week) and this one definitely hit the mark. After shrieking, I believe I sheared off some landscaping hedge by the Briteway car wash on Route 53.

Still awaiting answers...

Dog Tired

"The conversation had been brisk and pleasant when suddenly and simultaneously, everyone just got dog tired." - One of my all-time, favorite Far Side cartoons, which I am now living on a daily basis.

My unfamiliarity with sleepiness is well-documented. I am a certifiable spaz, an insomniac. I've been getting by on about 4-5 hours of sleep per night for as long as I can remember. The entire concept of napping has always been a joke that was way over my head. The only way I could ever (ever!) catch some midday ZZZs was via a self-induced Nyquil coma, usually brought on by some kind of heartache or moral hangover. I was aware this A/C chemo "one-two punch" promised fatigue, but this is ridiculous. Almost blindsiding. I am counting my blessings as I have had zero nausea the whole time, but every day, I get dog tired. Everything stops and I just have to lie down. Not just for a minute, but for, like, the rest of the day and possibly into the next one. It's the treatment. It's not just attacking the rogue cancer cells, but the healthy cells as well, even the excitable insomnia ones, laying waste to the little spaz inside my soul. That said, I was supposed to be at the Blarney Stone in Dorchester today, celebrating Mr. Bean's 41st birthday since he was in Australia last year for his 40th. And Code Red's 20-19th birthday as well. Good intentions: The kids were at my sister-in-law Amy's for the afternoon. I went out and bought some birthday cards, had my unwieldy eyebrows threaded by Nanda, then ran to Trader Joe's for some bananas and blueberries. The entire journey took less than 42 minutes. I was enjoying a pre-party turkey sandwich with James in the kitchen when he began eyeing me suspiciously:

"You OK?

"I'm fine. I think I just have to lie down for about 10 minutes and I'll be good to go."

But within five minutes, it was like I'd been chloroformed by a gloved villain. Two hours later, James walks into our room. It's dark outside now. I'm spread eagle in my red t-shirt that ironically reads "Fueled by Determination" (determination, my ass, but many thanks to Katie N.) LV's "chill" CD is playing on my laptop, which has somehow sandwiched itself around my left leg like some kind of live trap. I'd also apparently lit some Molton Brown candelas as evidenced by the overwhelming aroma of Moroccan eucalyptus. James blows out the candles and says he's going to pick up the kids. Then I fall back to sleep again.

So...Happy, happy birthday to Mr. Bean and Code Red! I was sorry to miss you today! I did, however, raise a toast to you somewhere deep in REM-sleep that for whatever reason involved a dream about the Alpine Slide.

Rolling on the Drip and a Possible Viking Funeral

7 a.m, Mon, Feb 2:
Caroline's curly head appears bedside. "Oh, mommy, are you SO nervous today? I am sooo nervous!" She scurries up and down the hallway then jumps into Paulie's bed with the same questions. At first, I'm trying figure out who let the MF cat out of the bag that I was starting chemo today. But, after a few more words -- "Phil," "shadow," and "will someone PLEASE just turn on the news already!" -- I realize her neurosis is Ground Hog Day-related and has nothing at all to do with chemo. Thankfully.

I hear the kids shuffling down the stairs. Caroline is drilling Paulie on the profound importance of the shadow sighting this morning. "Do you want spring or not, Paulie? It could be six more weeks of this messy, messy winter."

"Spring, Caroline! I already told you that twice," Paulie says, getting exasperated.

We all are. And the wintry mix outside isn't helping.

I find myself hoping against hope that the little Punxsutawney rodent won't see his shadow and will be forced to keep his prickly little head above ground with the rest of us who don't have the luxury of hibernating the next six weeks.

10: 30 a.m: Dana 10/Infusion
Judy, my chemo nurse, gingerly places the IV into the vein on my left hand and strings a bag of clear fluid over the top of my stand. She explains that I need some hydration before I can handle the "one-two punch" of the chemo, the Adriamycin-Cytoxan, the A/C, the poison.

I can already feel myself ballooning up like one of those gluttonous little shits from "Charlie the Chocolate Factory" as the sea-salty solution seeps into my bloodstream.

Judy explains to James and me and that it's going to be about 30 minutes: Do we want to watch TV? No. Grab a snack from the kitchen? No. Some coffee or tea? No. Water or juice? No. Can I re-adjust your recliner? No, I'm fine. Or would you prefer a bed? We're ok, thanks. Are you sure I can't put the TV on for you?

I'm having a spot of deja-vu from my nuclear medicine scan last week. Daytime television: Bonnie Hunt + Divorce Court = NOT good for the tumor. And I'm really wishing I hadn't reread DFW's essay on the cruise ship industry last month right about now. We have our laptops, iPhones, holistic cancer books and some mags. We're good.

As Judy rechecks my tubes and IVs, I notice James' checking out Judy from head to toe. "I'll be back in a half," she trills, and heads off to the nurse's station to start mixing my toxic stew.

I know what is coming next.

James leans over and whispers, "So, where do you think Judy is from?"

James and I have this strange ability, one that comes and goes like a foreign language with inebriation. For whatever reason, we can identify the migrations of provincial people among neighborhoods, inner cities and the Greater Boston area. Or sometimes not at all. Anyway, it's a game we play.

JAMES: I'm going with West Roxbury or Marshfield.

Good guesses, I concur.

ME: I'll say either Canton or Norwood, or maybe Needham, but just as a dark horse.

He shakes his head, somewhat impressed.

He starts reading some emails. I start reading a fact sheet on the potential side effects of A/C chemo: May cause leukemia (bitchen); heart failure (hmmm); spontaneous, potentially-fatal rupturing of spleen (holy shit!!!)

***
Just then, we're distracted by a 20-ish brown-haired woman with a wee nose ring. She's skulking around our curtained cubby, looking lost and a bit unstable on her feet.

"Mind if I sit down," she asks?

"NO! We don't mind!" We both bust out; I quickly kick out a rolling stool, a trick I learned from James on day one.

She settles onto the stool without missing a beat (or fainting) and extends her hand to me. "I'm Elle," she breathes.

ME: Hi, I'm Kate. Are you ok?
ELLE: Yes, I'm the Chaplain here. I just wanted to see if you wanted to talk.
ME: About?
ELLE: About that (points to my IV)
ME: Chemo?
(Shakes head, smiling at me).
ME: Do you know something that we don't know? Is my spleen about to fatally rupture?
ELLE: Whaaat?

Aside: Elle sort of reminds me of a woman from graduate school who used to write poems about how God lived in the space between her radius and ulna.

ELLE: (kicking off with a leading question) So, do you guys have any religious beliefs?

James and I admit we're both lapsed Catholics, but very much believe in God. James goes back to tapping on his Blackberry; I start yapping about how I want to provide a spiritual and moral compass for my children but can't in good faith go back to....then Judy mercifully returns with her three vials of red death.

ELLE: Kate, would you like me to sit with you through your treatment this morning?
ME: We're all set, Elle, thanks, though. If we need last rites or anything, we'll page you.

Elle smiles, nods, and shuffles along.

JAMES: That girl is going to be up.your.ass. everytime you're here.

I appoint James as "Chaplain bouncer" just in case. I love talking to people -- all kinds of people -- but there is a time and place to have certain conversations and this was neither the time nor the place. I decided Elle was well meaning but hadn't yet mastered that art of reading people. Sounds familiar.

***

JUDY: ( gloving up) "Who was that, the social worker?
ME: No, the Chaplain.
JUDY: Oh, that's a nice service, isn't it?

Yes. Of course. And there's that word "service" again. Now I am deep into DFW territory with no way out. I'm really wishing I hadn't reread that damn essay. Now I have no choice but to address it here:

Aside II: The essay is called "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never do Again." It was about the instant gratification of the luxury cruise industry but I've seen enough parallels lately to be concerned. For instance, in a scene in his essay, DFW insists on carrying his own duffel bag over the polite protests of a porter only to feel guilty about it later realizing the porter probably faced a real shitstorm over it. Throughout the course of the trip, DFW begins to realize that despite all of the protocol geared toward his pleasure, all he could feel was despair. These people couldn't care less about his comfort or even if he fell overboard. They were just doing their jobs.

Major Disclaimer:DFW also suffered from suicidal depression and took his own life a few months ago. We won't go down this road. I will say, though, that I've concluded the polar opposite experience exists here at DF - their compassion is legit; their aim is true. They want to help and heal. And they're certainly not expecting tips or props (or deportation on a bad day).

For instance...

Flashback to Jan 30. Nuclear Medicine scan
A man named "Oz" (short for Oswald) and an IV nurse Wendy are trying to help me unhinge Lefty from my bra that was jammed on a piece of thread in my sweater. I couldn't get my left arm out myself without my IV needle reaming out all of the veins in my forearm. This is an unpleasant, somewhat embarrassing scenario for all of us, but they're insisting on helping me. Finally, I'm able dislodge the thread from the sweater (and all of us from this medical menage-a-trois) and, even though my arm bleeds a bit, it's clear we're all relieved.

But that was nothing compared to what happened next!

I'd been pleasantly surprised to learn I could listen to my iPod during my 40 minute PET scan -- so much so, I'd even passed on the Xanax (I'd also learned the scanner was open-ended and less likely to cause a complete claustrophobic meltdown). But then Oz dropped a bomb: I had to hold my arms over my head and couldn't fiddle with the iPod -- at all -- during the screening. I had to remain completely still. What? Just a few days prior, I'd cleaned up my old playlists and had nothing prepared.

"WHAT," I said to Oz? "Do you know how much SHIT I have on this thing? You should have that 'no changing songs' item on the prep list. It should be right up there with the 'no food or drink 12 hours beforehand.'" I was probably delirious from my fasting, but I was still panicked about being unleashed into a musical wilderness of sorts with Lord knows what kind of lyrical baggage: Jeff Buckley, Nick Drake, and Good God -- Kidzbop!! Oz looked at me, not with pity but understanding, as he set me into the scanner, pushing me off onto some half-assed Viking funeral, my arms bound in gnarled headphones over my head.

Then he flashed me the a peace sign and stepped out of the room to radiate my blood vessels.

Thankfully the iPod gods were somewhat with me:

Playlist: Songs for a PET Scan:

"What's a Sweetheart Like you Doing in a Dump Like This" - Bob Dylan ( Talk to me, Bob)
"I Just Want to be OK Today - Ingrid Michaelson (me too, woman)
"Columbia" - Oasis (Gotta love Oasis. They have the perfect answer for those of us who struggle daily with the question 'How are you feeling': "I can't tell you the way I feel because the way I feel is oh so new to me."
"This is Love" - Goerge Harrison "Little things that will change you forever
may appear from way out of the blue Making fools of everybody who don't understand
This is love." (W0w)
"The Further I Slide" - Badly Drawn Boy

Needless to day, I survived it and got a new playlist to boot. On the way out, Oz hands me a card that says I've had radiation today -- just in case I should wander into a high security area and find myself surrounded my armored guards. Dude, you're nuclear.

Flashforward to 1:30, Feb 2 Dana 10/Infusion

JUDY: (dismantling my A/C chemo apparatus) So, Kathryn, you'll be peeing orange for the rest of the day.

KATE: That's nothing compared to my radioactive urine from last week.

JUDY: (laughs) So, do you guys have a long ride home today?

JAMES: No, just about 20 minutes.

* It's Go time *

ME: Hey, Jude (yes, I called her hey Jude) Where do you live?

JUDY: Norwood, born and raised. I still live there. All my kids went to school there etc.

Ding ding ding.

James and I make brief eye contact and I'm thinking that I should’ve made it more interesting. My stairway runner should certainly be installed this weekend. I picture Caroline and Paulie having a ribbon-cutting ceremony at the stop of the steps for Vito, who will finally be able to make it all the way to the top of the steps without backsliding on his belly.

Next installment: We're off to meet with the social worker who is going to teach us how to go against every fiber of our being and tell our kids the truth about what's going on.

On Nana Rie Bling and Talismen that Cannot be Diliuted

Just days after I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my friend KT met me for a tea downtown before one of my genetic tests. She asked me point blank: "You're not going to start wearing pink now, are you?"

I laughed out loud at the sentiment. "What do you think?!"

Aside: I do NOT have the BRAC1 or the BRAC 2 gene, much to the surprise of the docs.

My friend, Doreen, a breast cancer survivor and fellow Eastie girl cut from the same cloth, phoned a week later threatening bodily harm should the pink ribbon materialize on my bosom or on any area within a one-foot radius.

I don't care for the color pink in general (except on my daughter, of course, and other wee ones) and the irony is not lost on me that the flagship color of breast cancer awareness is -- what do you know?

I mean zero disrepect to the pink ribbons and those who wear them. First, you have to wear what works for you, what makes you feel positive and strong on your journey. Second, there is NO doubt that the pink ribbon's uber-success in raising awareness has led to numerous fundraisers and one, two or three-day walks that many of us have participated in. Because of the pink, the BC coffers overfloweth with cash-money, research funds and expertise. The pink is probably one of the biggest reasons why I have a better chance of surviving breast cancer today. So, I give thanks to the pink.

But with great success, comes ubiquity.

(Hence, LPD and I beating feet out of a North Scituate surplus store after a rapid succession of Susan G. Komen and other related BC commercials)

And when something becomes ubiquitous, it becomes generic. And when something becomes generic, it begins to no longer mean anything. The whole sentiment becomes diluted.

Anyhooters, with one in 8 women projected to get breast cancer at some point in their lives, each illness, life situation and journey will be far too unique and personal to fall under one symbol. People will find their own inspirations and talismen to get them through the battle.

That's why the Nana Rie bling (NRB) among other things, is working for me. And not just for me, but for my cousins who also have their own arsenal of NRB to draw upon for strength. My Aunt JoJo (their mom) was recently diagnosed with MF lung cancer. So, we're all wearing NRB in solidarity, and on Facebook, of course. (BTW, those who never met JoJo in person, she is the artist who hand painted my kids' "Make way for Ducklings" table and chairs that everyone raves about when they come over.)

If you don't know the story of Nana Rie yet, it bears repeating: Our Nana Rie was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 37, back in the 40s when it was a death sentence. She had a double mastectomy and went on to die at 81, in perfect health, after being hit by a car on her way home from a dance class. She took that disease DOWN, wearing her funky hats and pins and beads and necklaces the whole time. Holding onto a piece of her strength and fighting spirit can only make you stronger -- or at least give you a funky-ass baseline along the way.

Aside II: The only ribbon I will wear is the turquoise one, which represents ovarian cancer for my sister-in-law. Nobody has any idea what the turquoise stands for (yet) and people are always asking me about it. Caroline wears her turquoise ribbon as a barrette and says it's for "My Auntie Paula." I usually answer: it's for ovarian cancer, do you know the symptoms? Well, there aren't really any (asides bloating, but c'mon), they whisper. Cue Icicle Works: "Whisper to a Scream."

That said, I share my sack o' talismen that accompanied me to the Dana for my first 1-2 punch of chemo yesterday AM.

-Nana Rie bling: Her rhinestone heart pin that comes with me anywhere.
-A strength stone from my Aunt Joanne.
-Caroline and Paul's artwork, including an envelope Carrie addressed to me that says "Kate Jackson, I love you."
-Uncle Paul's (the orginal Boulos) cross passed along by Paula (he was a brother at Stonehill College who passed away a few years ago. We all loved him.)
-A metal from Majagoria from the Dell'Olio's that I'm wearing on a beaded charm bracelet.
- A necklace that James got me from a street vendor in Positano (right after 9/11) as a reminder that we'll return there during better days.
-I'm sure the bag will continue to grow throughout the journey.

Since I'm wearing as much as this stuff as I am carrying, James has begun referring to me as George Clinton, King of Funk.

That said, please stay tuned for tomorrow's installment (if I'm still upright): "Drip, Drip, Drip goes the Chemo." I'm feeling good today after yesterday's infusion. They told me my bad days will likely be Wed and Thurs, possibly starting later today because of my small size, aka "the boney cheese hater size," if you will.

Pointy note: I never meant for the PU to become a blog about cancer. But that's where we're at right now. And hopefully we will in a different place next year at this time. Thanks for sticking around in the interim. I appreciate you all. xo KJ

Last Suppahs (with hair) and Other Gatherings

Tomorrow I start mainlining chemo at the DF and will continue to do so through June. So, we kicked off our "Fuck Cancer 2009" tour (many thanks for the lid, Cameo) this past week. For a few days, I suspended my fascist vegan, no caffeine, no alcohol, no gluten, no meat, no dairy nunnish existence and got down to celebrating my last days with hair and high energy (for a while) with people I love.





James and I stay out past 11 p.m. at Tosca Caffe with P and Maria





Burds among burds at Strawberry Fair.








Mr. Bean's fireside dinner in the burbs.







Snack and story time at Paulie's school.








"I'm NOT a inspiration, I'm stoned on anti-anxiety meds."











Slainte! January Suppah Club@Rustic Kitchen






Cam at age 8: "I loved to hop up on the can at my grandmother's house. Splash on a little Jean Nate and scratch my back with a monkey paw."




Lizard Lounge (at Papa Razzi): Liz and I raise a toast with pomegranate martinis, aka the Fuck Cancertini. Pomegranate is a very potent anti-cancer fruit.







My favorite girl along for the lunch.







And another favorite girl along for the gelato! LPD gathers energy for surplus shopping.








Escape from the Japanese suburban danceclub! Jacksons/Nortons/Drinans score a table among the clusterfuck at Burton's.





Katie, Gena and I: "balls deep" in the anti-cancer booze.

The Long & Winding, Shiteous Road (that Hopefully Leads to the Land of NED)

That hospital smell, all antiseptic and institutional; it attaches itself to you like you applied it on purpose: A dab behind your ears, another dab along some cleavage whose days are numbered. I’ve showered, changed clothes, cut the hospital-scented bracelets from my wrists, but I still can’t dispel the smell. Especially from my hands. I’ve been washing them like an OCD-er. There have been aggressive applications of Purell and assorted hand lotions. I’m looking at my hands, smelling them, looking at them, then smelling them again. It’s like I’m possessed by a hybrid of Lady MacBeth and Mary Katherine Gallagher.

I’m sure we’ll get used to this, however.

We’ve worn a path between the South Shore and Dana Farber the past few days, one that will be well utilized in the coming months. Walking into the Dana this week was like walking into the land of Oz. It was brighter, more cheerful, and gave you the sense that all the frenetic scrambling ended here. The walls were adorned with Red Sox paraphernalia and colorful artwork and information on all kinds of programs and support groups. Oh, and there was free food everywhere! Every time, I walked into a department, I was expecting someone to tell me I was in the wrong place. But I never was. Had I been, I’m 100 percent sure someone would’ve walked me to the right place and made a phone call to let whomever was expecting me know I was on my way.

In One Room
My oncologist Ann, her fellow Katie, and surgeon Michele sat with us, off and on for five hours -- in the same room -- bouncing ideas off each other. They answered all of our questions and began personalizing my treatment plan, incorporating James' and my feelings and wants into each decision. They explained why they want to do a certain treatment, how it works and, most important, what we’ll do if it doesn’t.

Basically, all I had to do was show up.

ANN: We’re missing one of the pathology reports from your biopsy that we’re going to need.

ME: (clicking around on my phone to find that number, trying to remember that woman’s name in medical records)…Edna! Let me call Edna!

ANN: No, no, it’s on its way. We already talked to them. It’s taken care of.

It's taken care of. Everything was. Their efficiency blew me away only to be outdone by their confidence in driving the beast from my body. Hearing them talk about chemo, surgery and “radiating the crap” out of this cancer fired me up even though I’m dreading every moment of it. They fired me up even more when they said we are going for the cure, not just a successful treatment of this cancer that I can now identify without a cheat sheet: HER2/neu 2+ ER-/PR-, Grade 3, Stage III.

So, together, we roadmapped a plan for treatment, one that will hopefully be as effective as it is grueling. It's going to be a long, strange, shiteous 14-15 month trip, but if it leads to the land of NED (No Evidence of Disease) it’ll be worth it 100 times over.

This is the first and last time I will discuss the treatment in one big block. From herein, it’ll be broken up into manageable chunks; isolate and attack, one day, one treatment at a time. Here’s my deal:

1.) Five months of chemo broken up into two stages:
a) Two months of aggressive chemotherapy with two potent drugs called Adriamycin& Cytoxan (A/C). Bald as an egg by day 10. Fatigued, immobile, legless. I’ll mainline this poison every other Monday for two months, so it’s really only four doses. One week of shite, one week of normalcy, etc. lather, rinse, repeat.
b) Three months of two less scary drugs: Taxol and Herceptin (the supposed HER2 wonder drug). Many people are able to resume normal activities during the T/H stage of treatment. I’ll get this vein cocktail every Monday for three months.

2.) A Mid-Summer Double Mastectomy

3.) Radiation – every day – for seven weeks.

4.) Herceptin through at least April 2010

5.) Reconstruction. Get a new set -- the 2010 models

6.) Hopefully be a huge hit at active adult communities in Florida in 20 years with my perky, albeit immobile, implants.

Getting Wiggy
Katie is printing out all of my prescriptions for me at breakneck speed, all of which will be ready for pick up at the pharmacy before we even reach the elevator bank. Katie explains I have meds for nauseau, anxiety, a shot to boost white blood cells and prescription for a wig. Wha? I though I'd heard her wrong, but it's true. I have a prescription for a WIG. I was expecting to just pop on over to Drag Queen Dorothy’s on Mass Ave. and pick up a few new looks (which I still plan to do - fun with baldness). But now I can get a legit wig too, something I can wear if I have to go to the kids' school or to the market when I don't want to be stared at.

Obviously, we’re going to have to talk to the kids this week about what's going to start happening. I am talking to a social worker at the Dana, to Nurse Tracy O and my friend-who-also-happens-to-be-a-therapist Amy about how to approach the conversation. We’re not going to get deep into the cancer thing but we will address the baldness and why mom’s so down and out and telling everyone to please shut the f up 24/7. Most have advised us to use our instincts in how much we tell them, because, after all, we know the kids best. I for one know my kids are going to think the baldness is absolutely, fall down hysterical. And I want to do everything we can to foster that. So, next weekend, with the help of Maria, we are going to let the kids cut off all my hair. Then when I'm bald, maybe I'll let them stick some temporary tattoos on my head.

Everything in its Right Place

The date Jan. 27 struck me as familiar this morning. I woke up feeling like I'd forgotten something. My iCal showed that it’s Katie’s (sitter/magician) 29th birthday, but there was something else too. It came to me as I was making my third cup of green tea: Today was supposed to be the original date of my first ultrasound and mammogram. Absolutely astounding. I would have yet to disembark on this crapbasket of a journey had I not consistently wigged out over the past three weeks.

When people say "be your own advocate," they're speaking in euphemism. It's more like "be your own shrill zealot." Granted, I had to chase appointments around every corner of the city, which was far from ideal: I had an ultrasound in Brookline, a mammogram in Davis Square, an MRI at the Brigham, a surgical consult in Kenmore Square, back to Davis Square for a biopsy, a CT scan at Weymouth Woods and then back to the Brigham for a bone scan. People who have had scares and been down this path (usually with all of the above appointments occuring within a few days under the same roof) have asked how the hell such a thing could happen, especially when a) I have a great health plan and b) the doctors determined early on that this was probably an aggressive malignancy.

I’ll tell you how.

I have never been sick before. It’s been years since I’ve even had a cold. It's been at least six years since I’ve had a migraine. Aside from pre-natal visits, c-sections and annual ob/gyn exams, I haven't seen a doctor. My primary care physician that I had for more than 12 years -- and loved -- pulled up stakes in Sept 2008 and moved to Vermont to live in a cabin and raise horses on a neighboring farm. Before she left, she assigned me a kind of "acting" PCP until I could choose another one. That said, I was unfazed by the whole thing because I figured this acting doc would be perfectly capable of prescribing some antiobiotics if need be. What I failed to consider, however, is face time and relationship building. When you're not in someone's face, you tend to fall through the cracks. Nobody is really looking out for you because nobody knows who the hell you are. So, you have to make yourself known -- and fast -- which means getting past all the bureaucratic sphincters.

Flashback to Jan. 6
This whole experience has been like a weak episode of "24" from the very beginning. The doc (Diane) who first identified the lump in lefty as "a palpable mass" told the desk staff to book me an ultrasound and mammogram asap. They came back with Jan. 27 in Kenmore Sq. She said that was too long to wait and told them to call around for something sooner. She kept getting the same android response: "Our orders are to book at Kenmore. Mustn't diverge from protocol. Kenmore." Then, Diane was Jack Bauer going rogue. "That's not going to work, damnit!" She grabbed the phone and got me an appointment for the next day in Brookline.

That night, I got a call saying that my appointment had been cancelled and I'd been rescheduled for Jan. 27 in Kenmore Sq. The MFs-that-be overruled her.

So, I called my OB and my midwife with whom I have great relationships and plenty of face time (not to mention, crazy-nude-the-fucking-epidural-isn't-working time) To me, they're not faceless doctors. They are Patty and Helen. They will return calls at all hours and in between delivering babies. That night, at 11 p.m., from Patty: "You’re going in for the ultrasound tomorrow at 9 a.m. and a have a STAT mammogram order in. "

Tues, Jan. 13
I'm standing in a hospital dressing room cubicle looking out onto Davis Square. There's a whispery draft breezing up the front of my johnny gown, causing some serious Chinese staples. For a moment, I'm aware of my bizarre perspective -- standing in a johnny, looking down at Johnny D's. The marquee shows Beatlejuice is playing in March. I wonder where I'll be then? And who replaced Brad Delp?

Just then, the dressing room curtain swishes open and shatters my daydream. Standing before me are Kathy-Ann who is Madame incarnate and her sidekick, Darlene, a powder keg of a woman.

"Kathryn, I don't know why they scheduled you for a diagnostic mammogram today. We don't do diagnostics on Tuesdays because we have no doctor here to look at them," Kathy-Ann says, looking at her clipboard and not at me. "So, we've got you on the schedule for 1 p.m. Friday, k?"

"You’re kidding me, right," I say. Then I instantly wonder how anyone can take me seriously standing there, hands on hips, boobs hanging out of the front of my johnny. "I'm at a mammography center and nobody here can give me a mammogram!?"

"I can give you a mammogram but there's no doctor here to read it," Darlene grunts.

I let my anger wash over me (which is NOT good for the tumor!)

"Fine. Give me the mammogram and I'll take the films somewhere else. I’m not leaving here until I get a MF mammogram," I say.

Madame and Darlene look at each other and then shuffle off around the corner to confer, presumably about when to call security.

Fortunately, Darlene's manner does not match her pitbull-ish presence. She told me she called a doctor from a nearby hospital. She'd do my mammogram now and would have the films ready by the time the doctor arrived. Thank you, Darlene.

DOC: "I'm glad you stayed. Your mammogram is very worrisome."

ME: (mishearing) Menacing?

DOC: Worrisome.

Is there a difference?

Thurs, Jan. 15
Now I'm at Kenmore (which is apparently unavoidable) for the surgical consult. The surgeon is 50ish with a super-calming voice and demeanor. She looks at all of my films and tells me -- straight up -- that I should prepare for this to be breast cancer. I appreciate her candor, but then she hands me the same old shite: "So let's get that biopsy scheduled, then. We can probably squeeze it in early next week."

Here we go again.

ME: "No, no. How about today."

SURG: "I don't think that's possible."

ME: "Can you at least check?"

~She checks~

SURG: "How about right now in Davis Sq.?"

Back to the Kathy-Ann and Darlene Show!

One hour later...
Kath numbs up lefty, the doc jams a needle the size of a small broomstick into the tumor and extracts a bunch of tissue samples.

We know what happens from there.

This week
The oncologist says she wants to start chemo this Friday, kicking off a frantic scramble for a second opinion. And the only place I want to get a second opinion is Dana Farber. In fact, I not only want a second opinion, I want to become a patient.

My sister- and brother-in-law, my friend Doreen, everybody I've spoken to who has gone there absolutely raves about the standard of care, the wonderful people, the unmatched network of support, etc. There shouldn't be a problem becoming a patient, but the super short notice is troubling. So P and J are working their DF network from the inside.

And from the outside, friends and family have called offering doctor recommendations and connections to friends or friends of friends in higher and healthier places. I start emailing doctors and nurses that someone may have heard about through so-and-so's friend's neighbor through the ex-boyfriend of her aunt's mother-in-law. Regardless of how tenuous the connection, we are working the six degrees of separation.

Aside: The past few weeks have been a lesson in who has your back. Someone told me that I'd find out who my friends are during this time. And I've found I have so many more than I'd ever imagined.

My Uncle Charlie, who is going through his own brand of cancer bullshit with my Aunt Jo Jo, (who, btw, is on the prayer lists of Protestants, lapsed Catholics, Tibetan monks and Indian healers worldwide), took the "why the f not" approach and rang up an acquaintance he sort of knows from a family of well-known philanthropists.

This led to a phone call yesterday beginning with the sentence, “Hello, Kathryn? This is the president’s office at Dana Farber calling.” Which led to an experience that was the exact opposite of every experience I've had since Jan. 6. (the epiphany indeed)

I learned they set up two appointments for me tomorrow morning, back to back -- not only in the same building, but on the same floor. Having ping ponged all over the city for three weeks, you have no idea how huge this is for me.

It gets better: The appointments are with a top breast surgeon and oncologist whose names I’ve heard over and over again as recommendations. The oncologist even specializes in breast cancer in women under 40. (At 39, I’m actually not considered “young” in cancerland, but at least I’m still in the same demographic -- and building.)

So, one million THANK YOUs to Uncle Chuck and to a philanthropist who was willing to make a call on behalf of a stranger. ~Bowing down in gratitude.~

This morning, I relayed this good news to my friend Doreen and she effortlessly handed me my quote of the day.

“Your head is in the right place and, now, your boobs are in the right hands.”

Unfurling

Yesterday's news shot me out of the bell jar like a bottle rocket. I'm back on top of the ticket; I've pulled my foot out of the grave and James has suspended his eHarmony account (for now.) Before the good news arrived, I was slowly unfurling from the fetal position and regrouping (and thinking about regrouping.) But yesterday, for the first time in several days, I could look at my kids without losing it.

When the wee brown ones are in your presence, you have to fake it like it's your full time job. Acting like nothing is wrong is hard work and most of it's in vain. First, they’re not easily fooled. Second, I'm a horrible actor. Third, my big fat face is a dead give away. Some women can bawl their eyes out of their sockets, then wipe away the tears with a delicate tissue and it's like it never happened. If I even sob a little, my face turns fuschia and swells up; my eyes narrow into coin slots and stay that way, sometimes up to 24 hours. So, every now and then, I catch Caroline or Paulie giving me the hairy eyeball: "You're suspect!"

Organ Thursday:
The CT scan was a blur. I was in a dark mood in the waiting room. James read a Men's Health and tried not to talk to me per my request. I choked down two barium smoothies -- you had to take a full 45 minutes to drink each one. 90 minutes of ass. The scan itself was less than 15 minutes. They injected some dye into my vein and then passed me through this giant donut that checked my organs for the beast. The donut part may have been a cartoon hallucination. I was starving.

On the way out of the hospital, we had a humorous parking lot sighting that wouldn't make sense or be funny so it's futile to describe it. So, we were both in better spirits once we got home. Caroline had drawn me this picture (left) and scotched taped it to the wall next to my bed. "Mommy, I know you don't feel good. I know you have a cold. This will make you feel better when you wake up." (It does.)

On her drawing, there were these little tadpole-looking black squiggly lines in the grass. "What are those," I asked.

She looked at me like I'd just emerged from a pod.

"WORMS!?"

Aside: Both kids have inherited my childhood hobby of keeping earthworms as pets in plastic buckets on the back deck. One time, they caught James dumping one of the buckets off the back deck. They remain traumatized and royally pissed.

I wanted to catch up on Thursday's Lost premiere, and Caroline beat me to the punch: "Let’s snuggle and watch Lost." She doesn't get the show but she's not afraid of it. She watches for Aaron sightings, that's about it. “Oh, Mom, look at him, he’s getting SO big.”

Paulie stood up on the coffee table while we were watching the show and turned around: "Mom, I’m going to shake my booty at you." He did and it was awesome.

That night, the Dell'Olios brought Thai from Wild Ginger over for dinner.

Up, up, up out of the bell jar.

Throw-us-a-Bone Friday:
Friday morning, I woke up feeling good, just wanting to get the bone scan out of the way and move on. I listened to WERS the whole ride into the Brigham and found a new favorite band (or at least favorite song -- "Coming Home"). This hardly ever happens to me anymore. I was car dancing. They're called "The 88" and their name stands for 88 constellations in the sky, 88 keys on the piano, the infinity sign, 88 cities in Los Angeles, 88 mph to get Back to the Future, etc. Love that. I think they've been around awhile. I have to start paying attention again.

I had all of my talismen along for the ride with me: Your emails and Facebook messages, wall posts, and blog comments. I also had Nana Rie's heart. My friend Amy, when I told her about Nana's survival, told me that in order to have survived breast cancer back in th 40s, you had to have had a strong heart. So I was going though some of Nana Rie’s funky jewelry and found a rhinestone-encrusted heart pin. I've been wearing it ever since for some luck.

While I was trying to park my wagon in a teeny tiny compact car spot, I was thinking about what my sister-in-law Paula said to me the day before about not looking online for case studies in my "type" of cancer, about how outcomes are as individual as the person, it's "your" cancer and yours alone. BTW, she told me all of this while she was mainlining chemo at the Dana. Talk about tough.

I met my mom at the Au Bon Pain near the main entrance. She also promised not to talk today and had a whole bag of tricks to avoid chit chat and be there for moral support. So, we went to nuclear medicine where they injected me with a radioactive dye at 9:30, and asked us to please loiter until 12:30. It takes 3-4 hours for the dye to settle into your bones.

For someone who didn't feel like talking, I couldn't shut up. I was talking non-stop - to my mom, the older gent sitting across from us, the cleaning people, everyone in the waiting room. Brandon Fraser was on one of the morning talk shows, jumping around and squealing like a monkey. This was very distracting to everyone.

An old man sitting in wheel chair in the corner barked up out of nowhere. "Who is that? He's obNOXious!!!"

"It's Brandon Fraser. He's an actor," the woman sitting next to me said.

"He's an ASS."

Seriously, there was something wrong with BF. While it's an elderly thing to say, I truly believe he was "on something."

My nervous talking behavior continued during the bone scan, which was the equivalent of being scanned like a photo in a leviathan scanner. I was making lame comments as a picture of my entire skeleton lit up like the night sky on the screen in front of me.

ME: You know, this nuclear dye can’t be good for you. If I didn't have cancer in my bones already, it’s definitely in there now. Har, har, har.

Bone Scanning Lady: (BSL) Yeah, just drink a lot of water and pee it out so it doesn’t stay in your system for too long.

ME: What do you see? Can you see anything?

BSL: I just see beautiful bones.

ME: I know you can’t tell me anything. You don’t say have to say anything. Just knock something off your desk if you see something.

BSL: (smiles at me like I'm an insane)

ME: I'm sorry. I've had three weekends in a row of waiting for tests to come back. They've all had shitty results. Three weeks is not a lot of time in the grand scheme but when you’re waiting for answers that could predict how much longer you may have to live, it’s a lifetime. I need to prepare myself for the worst.

When I was walking out, BSL grabbed my arm and whispered. "Between you and me, I don't think you have anything to worry about. I didn't see anything light up. It usually lights up. Don't tell anyone I said this, I could lose my job. Have a great weekend, ok?"

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I wanted to hug her.

I was all set to hang onto that piece of news all weekend but then the doctor called and kicked it up a notch with the "all clear" across the board. I wasn't supposed to get the results until next Tuesday or Wednesday. Needless to say, "faith" has replaced "fuck" as the F word of the weekend.

We'll take it. Even the doctor said she was surprised by the results and had expected to see more widespread disease. Before they scheduled the scans, they'd told me to prepare for that. I still can't even write what they'd originally predicted. I don't want to jinx this gift. I still have a locally advanced disease and it's still a serious situation with all kinds of ugly treatments and surgeries ahead, but wow, perspective is really everything, isn't it?

GOOD NEWS!!!

CT scans: ALL CLEAR!

Bone scans: ALL CLEAR!

We've been thrown a bone this weekend and we plan on latching onto it like Vito on a leftover bone-in filet from Abe & Louie's!

More later...heading out to celebrate!

Thank you, thank you, thank you for all of your positive thoughts and prayers! You have no idea how much strength you have given us!

xo KJ

Pipe*

I'm quickly learning that every test in cancerland takes 24-48 hours to yield results. That doesn't include weekends, though. So, if you get a test on a Friday, you should not entertain any delusions about getting answers within 24-48 hours. You've got to sweat it out doubletime. So, I guess the logic behind closing all labs down on the weekends is that cancer doesn't spread on Saturdays and Sundays. After dividing and multiplying all week long, the cancer rests on the 6th and 7th days. And on holidays too apparently.

I'm impatient by nature and my anticipation is only exacerbated by the fact that there are life or death decisions hanging in the balance. This is not like waiting for a check to clear! Business days are irrelevant to the cancer patient who wants to know what she's dealing with.

That said, we got more bad news today. Our prayers were not answered on lymph nodes or hormone receptor status. In fact, we got a few extra surprises that we didn't want.

Verdict: The MRI revealed a 10-centimeter mass chock full of blood vessels that are surrounding, coddling and feeding this MF 1.7 cm tumor. (Picture a big mama with a million nipples feeding this odious thing) The MRI also showed "significant lymph node involvement" so I guess that one negative node was nothing to hang our hats on. Also, the tumor is hormone receptor negative, which means we can kiss that avenue of treatment goodbye. I will likely be kissing Lefty goodbye at some point, but at this point, I'm almost eager to do so.

According to the docs, I have HER2+ breast cancer which is the most aggressive kind you can get. Just a few years ago, HER2 was a death sentence but today -- thankfully -- they have a drug called Herceptin that has been very effective and gives HER2-ers the same shot as people with normal breast cancer. Still, because of the aggressive nature of the cancer, I will likely have to have chemo before and after surgery.

Aside: I've decided it's time to frontload the good times. Let's have some fun before I lose my hair and eyebrows and have to crayon on some Cholas.

Next steps: I have my abdominal, pelvic and chest scans tomorrow and a bone scan on Friday. I had to practically threaten a terrorist attack to get these appointments. After dropping bomb after bad-news bomb on me, the doc (not my doc) proceeded to tell me that my oncologist was out sick until Monday (apparently cancer cells stop spreading when your oncologist is out sick too) and I should follow up with her to schedule my scans, which at this point are booking out until early February.

My response to this was something like: no fucking fuckety fuck fuck fuck way, motherfucker.

Lesson learned: It never hurts to throw a rabid, profanity-laced tirade about standards of healthcare. Moments later, appointments magically opened up for tomorrow and Friday. I have a feeling there may be a police escort when I arrive, however.

Still, all this anger is NOT good for the tumor. That's my going to be my new mantra and I think it's going to come in handy. If someone is bothering me: "Please walk away, your bad energy is not good for the tumor." "Please piss off, your sourpuss is not good for the tumor."

Ugh. I've unraveled. I started writing this blog earlier about the positive forces in my life and the serendipitous ones that have cropped up - at the perfect time -- along the way. This morning, I posted my Facebook status as "up for the fight." This was before I got the news. The news literally brought me to my knees and rattled my faith today. So, tonight I'll knock myself out (Lost will be TiVoed) and wake up with a better attitude, a fighting attitude again tomorrow.

Aside: I still can't reconcile how I can be walking around, feeling as fantastic as I do, and be as sick as they tell me I am!

Call for prayers: Please pray this MF hasn't spread too much, especially to my organs. We're overdue for some good news. Throw us a bone!

*James came up with the title for this post. It says it all.

Genes to Keep or Toss

Right now, such overwhelming gratitude: For the emails and phone calls. For the blog comments and kind gestures, words of encouragement and angry WTF rants. For the prayers, the Sanskrit healing chants, the “let’s get a coffee and go stare at the ocean” protocols. For the good food and episodic envelope or baggie with a chill pill or two. All of this has helped tremendously in this sadistic waiting room we find ourselves in.

The Verdict:
Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, Grade 3. Probably the ugliest words I've ever heard strung together. I'm certainly not alone in that sentiment. IDC is the most common form of breast cancer, representing up to 85 percent of all BC diagnoses. Unfortunately, a grade 3 tumor is the most aggressive kind -- fast growing, likely to spread and recur. The good news is these high-grade tumors are supposedly very responsive to treatment. And we're digging deep to find some good news. Also, the one lymph node they biopsied came back negative. One negative node…we’ll take it!

Still, we need more good news.

...I want the tumor to be hormone receptor positive as it gives us another treatment option.
...I want to hear, with absolutely certainty, that the cancer hasn't spread. Praying for an early stage! Staging comes next, I think.

Immediate next steps...

The MRI:
The last time I had an MRI, I freaked out, got up on all fours and tried to back out of the machine. My acute claustrophobia, as evidenced in #2 of my "25 Things," will likely pose a problem this Tuesday when I have an MRI on lefty and the neighboring nodes. If they don’t have sedatives on hand, and you happen to be in the Mission Hill area Tuesday, you may see a crazy lady in a hospital johnny and bare feet hauling ass down Huntington Ave.

LA SURGERY:
I want it right now. Today. But "they" (doc, surgeon, oncologist) have assured me that waiting up to a month won’t make much of a difference. Let’s hope so. I had my blood test for the BRAC1 or BRAC2 breast cancer gene on Friday and we (the "theys" and me) decided I should wait for the results of the test before undergoing surgery as it could change my mind on the extent of surgery, etc. This waiting is really the result of what the oncologist called my “impressive family history” of cancer. I've got to say, I found "impressive" a strange choice of adjective. I had visuals of my family members actually trying to excel at cancer; my aunts Flavia and Vinnie in a tete-a-tete, chain smoking and eating maximum-nitrate hot dogs to see who could grow the biggest tumor.

TO KEEP OR TOSS:

Aside: How surreal. One day you're in an agonizing deadlock over whether to keep or toss some pilly sweaters and smelly Uggs. The next, whether to keep or toss tangible body parts.

GENES TO KEEP:
If there is one set of genes that I hope I inherited and can keep, it's my Nana Rie’s (for more reasons than the following, btw). She got BC at age 37. This was the 1940s when it was a death sentence. She died at age 81, in perfect health, after being hit by a car on her way home from her line dancing class. And I'm certain she'd still be here had that jackass not been driving so fast.

So, if we’re dealing in genes. Gimme some of what you got, Nana!

A Palpable Mass

Pointy note: This is a compilation of eight days worth of posts. I was waiting, with a combo of superstition and hope, for the right time to come out with it all.

Jan. 8
In the waiting room at Boston Ultrasound, I was squinting at my sonogram trying to see what the doctor had seen in the fuzzy black and white fog. From one angle, it looked like a b&w shot of a distant galaxy. From another, like an X-ray of the Grand Canyon. From another…

…I felt like someone was watching me. Sure enough, a woman sitting two seats over was grinning at me. I looked up. She was about my age and had Wellbutrin eyes -- glazed, but kind. She mouthed “congratulations” to me then went back to pretending to read a 2007 issue of Sports Illustrated.

Oh, the irony. I have to admit my darker side came within inches of flashing the sonogram in her face and saying, “Uh, actually, it’s a tumor.”

But I didn’t have the heart to deflate what was clearly a genuine gesture. I easily saw myself from her perspective: A (somewhat) young woman staring at an ultrasound must be in the early stages of zygote elation, not a life-threatening disease.

Indeed, I’ve been to Boston Ultrasound many times. The last time I sat in this waiting room, the doctors dispelled any fear of neural tube defects in Paulie. Today, the doctors pinpointed the sizable lump in my left boob.

I’ve had scares before. I know few women who haven’t. But it’s always turned out to be nothing to worry about. I was fully expecting to hear the same from this ultrasound doctor. Her calm, almost maternal demeanor was instantly reassuring but I knew something was amiss when she began moving the transducer in furious circles on my left one. Suddenly, she became a drill sargeant, barking at me in broken English: How old you?! You have family history?! When you find this?!

Flashback to Dec. 23: When I Find This
Caroline and I were on the couch flipping channels and came across the movie “The Sweetest Thing” with Cameron Diaz and Christina Applegate. If you're familiar with the movie, it was the beginning of the dressing room scene and I thought Caroline would enjoy a little movie montage. In the scene, Cameron Diaz’s character is in a bra, pushing her breasts up to where they were when she was 22 and then them letting them fall to where they are now at age 28. “22, 28, 22, 28.” For whatever reason, Caroline found this hysterical so I mimicked it.

Then felt a rock!

Aside: This strangely recalled the “Do you have a hummel in your bra” moment circa 1996 in NYC.

I decided I’d have it looked at after new year's because, you know, mammograms around the holidays. Meh.

Aside II: I’m now convinced that Christina Applegate, who had a double mastectomy at age 36, has had all of her movies re-edited with subliminal reminders to women to perform SBEs (self breast exams).

Jan. 6: Doctor's Office
My doctor feels me up and says, very soberly: “There is a palapable mass.”

“WHAT!”

I was like a cat hitting the ceiling. I think I jumped out of my body and hid behind the chair. What kind of scary terminology is that? Palpable mass.

Jan. 8: Back at Boston Ultrasound
The ultrasound doc finally concludes her examination of lefty and we have the following exchange:

DR. “This is solid mass. You need to have follow-up test immediately.”

Me: "You know, I really wish people would refrain from using the term 'mass.' It’s very unsettling."

Dr. “Well, it’s tumor.”

I think we can all agree that "mass" is the better of the two nouns.

Jan. 13, Mammogram: Google, MD
I was gawking at the mammogram results with my doctor. I sat back in my chair pointing (Never in my life have I desired a laser pointer more) to some tiny bright dots on the films. “Are those pleomorphic calcifications in the upper left quadrant? I can see they’re in a cluster, but are they also linear?”

My doctor, head in hands, promptly implored me to stay off the Internet, but not before admitting that they were indeed linear. Then insisting that it doesn't necessary translate into doom.

The only way I could stay offline was if I were sequestered in total sedation. While I will be tested for the breast cancer gene this week, I already know I have the journalism gene because the only (only!) way I can deal with a crisis is to gather as much information as possible. Thus, I've been dubbed "Google, MD."

From the Internets, I already have a full notebook of notes. I’ve ordered $200+ worth of immune system-boosting supplements. (Dr. Nic has already staged a B-vitamin intervention with some of said supplements and ordered a cease and desist until she thoroughly investigates for interactions.)

Drop and Roll
The past week and a half has had many “Drop and roll” moments (with apologies to PM)

When your doctor calls you at 11 p.m. offering unsolicited sedatives. Drop and roll.

When another doctor calls your mammogram “very worrisome.” Drop and roll.

When your surgeon tells you to prepare for cancer. Drop and roll.

Of course, I may be reading in to my own fears and anxieties.

Stages of Disbelief
Of denial: Obscure emails to my doctor: Seriously? Really? Could it be…really?

Of misdirected anger: I am the healthiest I've ever been in my life! I just had a full physical six months ago! Why have I been eating all these leafy greens and drinking all this green tea all these years?! All that fucking beta carotene! Why the I hell did I quit smoking?! This is complete bullshit!

Of message board science: Is it the result of estrogen dominance from an ill-fated tango with the Mirena IUD?

Is it bad luck? Family history? 

Karma for my sins?

I unraveled into this semi-coherent rant as Code Red and I were driving home from a yoga workshop last weekend. As we were going over the Zakim Bridge, CR said:

“Sometimes if you’re going to get something, you’re just going to get something.”

Then all was quiet except for the strangely soothing sound of the bridge cables humming past either side of the car. It was the most Zen moment/sentence I’d heard all week. Code Red is like that sometimes.

Jan. 14: Good Health Store
My favorite tattooed, pierced sales associate is carrying my basket for me while I dump all kinds of medicinal teas into it. He's talking to me about gluten-free waffles. My phone rings and I excuse myself and head into the parking lot.

It's my sister-in-law returning my call. Most know she's been battling ovarian cancer for more than a year now, and just recently, her husband, my brother-in-law, was diagnosed with throat cancer. So they had family fun time over the holidays going through chemo and radiation as a team. In short, they are going through something SO worse. My sister-in-law is a self-contained arsenal of information and positive energy and a take-no-prisoners approach to healing. In talking to me from her place of wisdom, from having been there, done that, she talked me into a better place.

All you really need to know:

Stay in the present at all times.

The waiting really is the hardest part. Not knowing is torture.

You will get through the dark times with the support of family and friends

(and perhaps that wee baggie of Xanax.)

Onward
All this and I still haven’t received the biopsy results! If it's cancer, we’ll deal, if it’s not, we’ll party.

If it is, here’s hoping it hasn’t spread beyond the teeeeet!

25 Things

Happy 2009 to all! We did DIY Chinese food on New Year's Eve and it came out smashingly (or at least it was better than getting booted out of the Ritz.) Still, everyone was passed out by 10 so I rang in the new year trolling the Internets with a glass of prosecco. Like any other night. I noticed a trend popping up on some blogs called “25 things.” Posters were sharing 25 random truths or philosophies about themselves, mostly useless nuggets of information that are either little known or just south of strange. I thought it’d be a fun, albeit gratuitious exercise and I hope others will share in the comment section. Here are mine:

1. I spend most of my days screeching into and out of parking lots because even though I’m totally disorganized, I pride myself on being on time. “Punctuality is the courtesy of kings.”

2. I’m extremely claustrophobic. Wicked. I don’t even like wearing socks.

3. I’ve learned it’s just way easier to give Vito a sponge bath than a traditional tub.

4. I’ve contrived an elaborate survival plan for the coming apocalypse.

5. When I was six years old, I had a laundry basket tied off on the floor at the end of my bed. I called it my “dinghy” and used to sit in it and eat Oreos.

6. When I was in 2nd grade, my friend Danielle’s mother would call my mother every morning to ask if I was wearing socks or tights to school that day. It was only recently that I realized how strange that was.

7. I have freakishly long arms and huge feet for a 5’3” woman.

8. I don’t like cheese, except on pizza. And in a limited number of ricotta-stuffed pastas.

9. I love Nostradamus and all of his doomy quatrains. Armageddon Week on the History Channel. Shark Week on Discovery. And NatGeo’s “Seconds from Disaster.” I despise reality shows and famewhores. I miss going to the movies and especially walking to the Kendall from Charlestown with James on Saturdays.

10. For everything, everything, everything, everything!

11. Paul Westerberg once told me I smelled “really nice” in the parking lot of the Somerville Theatre and I almost fainted.

12. I’m a horrible driver.

13. I can play the piano poorly

14. I’ve seen U2 somewhere between 28-32 times.

15. I’m still bitter that Trish McEvoy #11 eau de parfum was discontinued (see #9).

16. I wish Death Cab for Cutie were not toddlers when I was in college. Their music would’ve provided some major catharsis for us ladies of the day.

17. I’m dying to go on a storm chasing vacation to tornado alley.

18. I feel helpless about my loved ones (and friends of loved ones) who are going through some terrible times right now.

19. My kids don’t flush the toilet, but they do swear often.

20. I’m not as easily impressed as you think I am. I’m usually just being nice.

21. I’m way too nice. I want to be less nice and more kind. There is a huge difference.

22. I love arguing but loathe confrontation.

23. Shabu Shabu anyone?

24. I don’t miss smoking as much as the camaraderie of it (Dreama)

25. Note to Tracy O: The next time we have a high school reunion, let’s go sledding with vodka instead.

Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday to...

Nicola K. and Shane McGowan! Sing along...

Bad Boy

In the winter, there is nothing Vito enjoys more than cooling his junk on a fresh blanket of snow. However, like most of us, he is not a fan of being outside amid stormy conditions, so we had to force him outside to get down to business during last weekend's snowstorm. While we were all hunkered down, I heard Vito in the dining room, sniffing around the Christmas tree as he often does, taking in the evergreen scent and licking a few low-hanging ornaments. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw him wind up, lift his chubby leg and begin to urinate -- on the tree, on the freshly wrapped gifts beneath it. James and I saw it at the same time and were flabbergasted. We couldn't speak, we just looked at each other and gasped. In one swift movement, James heave-ho-ed Vito out the front door, sprinkling all the way. "Bad boy, Vito!" Needless to say, I had to rewrap all the Christmas presents. It could happen again as I've had to keep him inside most of the morning. Deadly icicles are falling like daggers as well as mini avalanches of snow from the roof and trees. So, to quote the foreboding woman from the neighboring active adult community,"Take heed."

Snowstorm or Apocalypse?

If you've been watching the news this week, you'll know that starting somewhere between noon and 2 p.m. today, the blizzard from hell will commence.  It's just a winter storm, very typical for mid-December in these parts but it's being hyped as an apocalyptic event -- like a magnetic pole reversal that will change life as we know it on earth -- instead of just 6 to 12 inches of fluffy snow.  School was cancelled for today -- yesterday.  I had to stop myself from sounding like my mother who tirelessly reminded us whenever it snowed that she never got snow days, but instead walked six miles to school -- uphill -- in a foot of snow, often without boots.  Seriously, though, whoever heard of cancelling school before the flakes even start flying?  

I know all the panicky preparedess is a result of that storm last December that paralyzed the entire city.  It took James five hours to drive 12 miles.  People were running out of gas on I-93, it was anarchy on the side roads, etc.   But that was an anomaly, likely caused by everyone getting released from work early at the exact same time.

Still, I've totally bought into the uber-marketing of this storm.  I did my pre-storm panic shop among the crazy-eyed throngs at Hannaford yesterday, navigating my shopping cart through the aisles at breakneck speed before they ran out of bread (or Pirate's Booty).  I shopped liked my family was going to have to live in our basement for the next 25 years.  There was even a line to get into the parking lot at the wine store.  As I was walking in, a man with a shopping cart full of Bud Light cases said to me, "Watch out, it's like Pakistan in there." It was.  Still, despite the pre-nuclear war vibe gripping the South Shore, I'm kind of looking forward to hunkering down today, making a roast and sipping some vino in front of the fireplace.  

[Although I am very, very bitter that we had to cancel A Very Special Suppah Club in the city this evening (very bitter).]