Category Archives: Breast Cancer Humour

One Too Many

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This morning I had my first post-treatment check-up with the breast surgeon. I will be alternating appointments between my breast surgeon and my oncologist so that I see one of them every three months for the foreseeable future. I haven’t asked recently when that will switch over to six months, and so on, because right now every three months seems pretty comforting. I’ll want that safety net there for a good long time before I walk the tightrope with only the cold, hard, popcorn strewn floor below, thank you very much.

Many people have asked me “what’s next” now that surgery (other than phase two of reconstruction a/k/a my tit exchange as one friend so aptly put it), chemo and radiation are finished. This is their gentle way of asking what can be done to make sure that I am okay and that the cancer has not come back.

People are often surprised to learn that these doctors visits will be composed mainly of a physical check-up and questions about how I am feeling. Scans are not always routinely performed on patients who did not have a lot of positive lymph nodes at the time of surgery and even when scans are done they do not tend to change outcomes.

Having thought about it I am not too keen on getting scanned and thus subjected to even more radiation on a regular basis. Some cancer survivors find scans comforting, but from what I’ve learned from my doctors, I might actually find them anxiety producing. Time will tell.

Blood tests are sometimes performed at the check-ups to test for tumour markers, etc. but the results can apparently be confusing. So again, the main tools used are the physical exam and talking to the patient. Old school.

That brings me back to this morning’s check-up. My surgeon examined me and said that my skin looked very good after radiation. He then palpated the skin around my expanders (my temporary, saline implants) and under my arms and finally did an ultrasound to see how the expanders were lying under the skin and whether and to what extent there was inflammation following my treatments. All looked good.

Following this, I showed my surgeon a small cyst on my right arm (people who have found lumps on their bodies that turned out to be cancer do NOT like to find random lumps on themselves) which he dismissed as a typical subcutaneous cyst, which probably predated my cancer. For good measure I had him look at a small, dark mole, which one dermatologist had insisted I biopsy immediately but which a second opinion had determined to be “nothing sinister.” He concurred with the latter opinion and said we could watch it.

Once I was out of questions about lumps, bumps and marks I figured I would get his input on the big picture. “Is there anything else I should be doing?” I asked. Now, I have already asked four oncologists their opinions about such things, given the morass of extreme cancer diets and information out there claiming that one has to do this, that and the other thing to stay healthy.

My surgeon knows how I am. In other words, he knows that I eat a relatively healthy diet, that I exercise regularly and that I am not planning to gain weight. And his answer was basically “nope.”

This is a relief because I hadn’t planned on going macrobiotic or anything. If I even tried to do that I might become psychotic, which could be a more serious health issue than cancer, or extremely bitchy and irritable, which could be a serious health risk to others around me. Or just a plain ole insufferable bore, which many people who embrace extreme diets and such are (sorry if you are one of them and you are offended but the great majority of people really don’t give a shit that you ate only kelp and green tea today).

While I was at it I polled him about alcohol consumption, especially considering a recent study I read indicating that as few as TWO drinks a week can increase the risk of estrogen-positive breast cancers. I really hate studies like that. I mean, two fucking drinks? Good grief. Not that I was a big boozer before all of this, but I do enjoy a nice glass of wine for crying out loud.

He said that it was very hard to separate alcohol consumption in those studies from other factors and that in the grand scheme of things he wasn’t too concerned about an increased risk if one didn’t drink excessively.

It all boils down to what my London oncologist said to me one day. “You have to live your life.” And you do. You can beat yourself up about every minute thing or you can get on with it and be reasonable and once in a while indulge. Isn’t that what makes life enjoyable on some level?

Therefore, when I got home this afternoon I took the last of the chocolate chip cookie dough (homemade gimme some credit) out of the fridge and baked up a sheet of cookies. My older daughter had a play date over so it was a good excuse.

“Okay, each child may have two cookies,” I said. Then when they weren’t looking I shoved four of them into my mouth in rapid succession. After a dinner of seared chicken breast, rice, mushrooms, roasted broccoli and purple cauliflower, which I swear tastes better precisely because it is purple — or at least that is what I told the kids when I said they couldn’t have any more cookies after dinner if they didn’t eat it all — and “one unit” of white wine, I ate two more cookies.

Following the sixth cookie I stopped, held my stomach and assessed how I felt. “Oh boy. I think I ate one too many cookies,” I told my five-year-old.

Without missing a beat, she responded, “I think I ate one too many cauliflowers.”

Ain’t life beautiful?

My Latest WTF Moment

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It’s sort of difficult running into people who haven’t seen me since I had long wavy hair and didn’t know I had cancer. When they recognise me (and it registers) I feel somewhat apologetic at the shock and horror they experience.

Then the usual happens. After the initial surprise wears off, they ask when I found out and how I am doing and tell me I look great, which is true, of course, so I smile and thank them. Ha ha.

Once in a while I get a slightly “different” response. The latest happened just the other day, in fact. I ran into a lady I hadn’t seen (well I had seen her but from afar and she hadn’t really seen me) since last fall. Let’s call her LB for short.

After LB and I exchanged pleasantries, she touched the side of my head and said “I wanted to ask you about this haircut!” Um, yeah. Je suis très chic, dontcha know. I explained that the haircut was not my choice and then the shock and awe part happened. It happened and happened and kept on happening and there were gestures and hands clapped over the mouth and lots of “Jesuses” and even a few “fucks” thrown in for good measure. And grunts and groans. And a “but you were so healthy!” It really went on for a while. It was like watching a broken fountain: the water just came out in fits and spurts and kind of all over the place. I just stood there waiting for it to be over.

She threw in a “we thought you were making a political statement!” I considered this. Hmm. This might have been a keen assumption had I also been sporting an eyebrow piercing or a fresh tat or had I been (at that moment) worshiping the devil, cultivating armpit braids or ripping up a picture of the Pope or something of that nature. But there I was, sitting cross-legged in my premium denim (no I won’t name names cuz then you will just have to run out and buy the same jeans) and a purple J Crew merino wool sweater (don’t care if you buy that) and flats. And I was wearing my diamond studs and mascara and shit. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly channeling Sinead or a Nazi skinhead.

“Nope,” I said. Not a political statement. The malfunctioning fountain was interrupted by the speaker to whom we were supposed to be listening and as we turned our attention that way a warm wave of relief enveloped me. Saved at last. (Although during the speaker’s comments there were a few sputters and snorts, but they didn’t really rise to the level of what I consider to be verbal communication.)

Naturally LB wasn’t done with me. The questions started again the instant the speaker had finished. The pièce de résistance was when she looked at me and exclaimed “but I don’t understand; you have eyebrows and eyelashes!” “Yes,” I said. “They grew back. I didn’t have them six weeks ago.”

“Oh my God!” She cried. “What did you do? (imagine the crescendo building….) You must have looked like… a FREAK!”

Really? [Insert stupid Beavis and Butthead breathing noises and nervous laughter here.]

What did I do? Well I wore make-up. And then it was over and the shit grew back. And now here I am, for crying out loud. All freaky five feet nine (okay so maybe eight and a half) inches of me.

I’ve looked back at pictures of myself without eyebrows and eyelashes and hair and I do in fact look pretty weird without make-up on. But that is sort of besides the point, isn’t it, people?

Two excellent thoughts occurred to me during this episode:

No. 1: Thank God I didn’t run into LB while I had no eyebrows or eyelashes, the sight of which might have led to a water show that far outsputtered the one I witnessed.

No. 2: Boy will this be fun to blog about.

Luckily I have a sense of humour and am comfortable with my physical appearance. But here’s a little tip in case you aren’t sure: if you see someone who looks odd because they are bald and/or pale and/or have no eyelashes or eyebrows or you find out that at one time they didn’t have them because they had CANCER and had to have CHEMOTHERAPY for fuck’s sake, don’t say they look, or must have looked, like a freak.

Only I am allowed to say that. It’s like people being allowed to make ethnic jokes about their own ethnicity.

At the end of the day I am really proud of my self-restraint. I could say a whole lot of other absolutely hilarious shit about LB now and make some truly witty ironic comments but because I am classy I don’t want to identify her.

Now if you’ll excuse me it’s Friday night and I have to get my freak on.

I Smell a Rat

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Like, literally.

So here’s how it all started. On the very last day of radiation treatment (#25 of 25), which was Friday, July 27, I was home puttering around in preparation for our trip to the States the next day and I popped outside (the British are always popping here and there to do things and this has thoroughly infected my speech patterns by this point so deal with it) to put the trash out.

After closing the lid of the rubbish bin (that’s trash barrel for you die-hard Americans) I caught something out of the corner of my left eye on my way back in the door. I directed my gaze down the precipitous steps leading to the basement.

And there it was, looking back at me. A rat. The size of the animal and the length of its tail betrayed immediately that it was no mouse.

I didn’t think much of it, though. I figured, it likes the trash. We live in the city. Until I went out and returned several hours later and saw it (or one of its pals) again in the same place. That did not seem like a good sign. And it had the nerve to peer up at me again before it slunk out of sight.

At the bottom of the aforementioned steps there is a water pipe/drain that leads into the house. It occurred to me that they might have found a way into the basement via that or other similar means. So I reentered the house and went into the basement from the inside on a recon mission. I saw right away that something (here’s a hint: it was a rat) had chewed up one of the tiles of the drop ceiling (you know those tiles in unfinished basements made of some sort of cardboard-like substance) and the debris from this gnaw fest was deposited below. Ew.

So on the eve of our departure I discovered that there were rats in the house, or at least in the basement, which still counts as “in the house” in my book.

Crap, I thought. Via my pal, Susan, I got in touch with the pest control dude, whom we had had out to the house to investigate whether we had mice in the basement only a few weeks prior. This was after my husband found a dead mouse down there (which I now suspect was not a dead mouse but a dead baby rat) and I had heard some scrabbling in the floor near the base of the main staircase. Nothing had been found.

In my absence, Susan and our nanny, Agnieszka, met the pest dude at the house a few days later. He placed some bait in the basement and checked for possible points of ingress, of which he identified two, one in each of the adjoining houses on either side of our house. “Don’t worry,” he reassured the ladies after placing the bait, “they won’t die in the house because they will go out looking for water.”

This statement was later revised by the dude to something like “they are very unlikely to die in the house.” Oh sure.

There are other points on which the pest dude was severely lacking. How about for starters that I questioned him long and hard when we returned from our trip about whether the rats could somehow gain entry through the water pipe or any holes near it where I had repeatedly seen the culprit(s). He said unequivocally no. But then the contractor who was working on the house next door and who knows this house like the back of his hand informed me this was total BS and of course the rats could get in that way and he even poked around and observed that there were holes around that drainage area. HELLO? I could go on… In fact I will, later. Read on.

Some days after the initial baiting, Agnieszka met the dude at the house. It hit them hard as soon as they opened the front door. The unmistakable stench of decomposition.

The dude descended into the basement but could not find the body. He told Agnieszka to light some scented candles and that everything would be fine and dandy. Just wait it out, he advised.

Horrified, Agnieszka scrubbed the floors and opened doors and windows trying to air the house and abate the stank. She purchased room freshener and a scented candle. All this while I was across an ocean, blissfully unaware for a couple more hours that our house had become a rat graveyard where a rat can’t get a proper burial.

Then I got the email from Susan. “Brace yourself,” it warned, “this is a stinker.” I read on. The pest dude sent a message about the fact that a rat had died in the house. The long and short of it was that this sometimes happens and that it isn’t nice but it is better than having rats running around down there.

I called him up and ruffled his feathers about his claim that the rat wouldn’t die in the house. He was somewhat unnerved by my American directness via pointed questions, though they did not rise to the level of accusations, my being a reasonable person and all.

From that morning I got the news I began to prepare myself. Tried to swallow that after all the shit we’d just been through, what would greet us upon our return to the Old Country was the reek of decomposing rodent in our home. For some reason, even though I was told that it would soon pass, this really bothered me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

An impending sense of horror insinuated its way into my consciousness. I would be distracted momentarily, but then something would jerk me back into thinking about the dead rat smell that awaited us. And the possibility of more rats in the house.

Our flight home was uneventful. When we opened the front door, we smelled it for sure. But it was not as bad as I had anticipated. It probably couldn’t have been considering how mental I had gotten about it. I thought to myself, “this is gross but I can deal with it.” We got settled, went out to dinner and came home and went to bed. We could not smell the rat from our bedrooms.

The next day, my husband went down to the basement to investigate, the real point of which being to determine whether any rodent activity had fouled his latest batch of home brew, which lay in waiting in the tiny finished room adjacent to the basement. He popped (there it is again) upstairs and informed me that he had heard a noise in the ceiling near the stairwell that sounded like an animal breathing or snoring. I thought he was kidding. But he persisted.

So I accompanied him back downstairs. We stopped. We listened. And by George, there it was. A sort of low, soft, exhale somewhere between a growl and a snore. We exchanged a look. I acknowledged that I could hear it. And at that moment we started to fear the worst. That there was not only a dead rat in the house but live rats as well.

As it turns out, we never did discover the source of that guttural sound. But it was enough to prompt a call to the pest dude to demand that he come out forthwith and deal with the problem in case any rats were still in the house. After some initial resistance, he agreed to come out. And it was during this meeting he informed me the rats couldn’t have come in at the base of the stairs where I had initially spotted them.

I began to lose confidence in him at that point and what made it worse was that he was, to put it mildly, rather verbose, or as a friend once aptly put it about his own loquaciousness, intoxicated by the exuberance of his own verbosity. My first clue should have been that when I offered him a parking permit and asked how long he thought he would be at the house that day, he rejected the half hour card in favour of an hour-long one.

The second inkling was that every time I asked him something that I believed to be relatively cut and dried (you know, straightforward questions), he looked pensive, hemmed and hawed, and said “let’s start at the beginning.”

Good Lord, I thought. We might end up needing an exterminator for our exterminator at this rate.

Shortly after his deficiencies became apparent to us, our estate agent hired another company and informed the pest dude of our transfer of affections to said company. He really had lost me when I suggested we plug an obvious rat-sized hole in the ceiling of the “beer room” and he said not to bother because for every hole you plug there are ten more where they can get in. And that hole led to the main part of the house! Why don’t I just roll out the red carpet, for fuck’s sake, and line it with biscuits and chocolate.

The next day I had an epiphany. Maybe the reason that the dead rat had perturbed me so — aside from the obvious “oh we have just been through so much and now we have to contend with a smelly dead rat woe is me nonsense” was the following:

You discover when you least expect it that a nasty, potentially harmful and most certainly unwelcome presence has invaded your home.

You do not know and may never know how it got there and whether it has friends and if so where the friends are and how many there are.

You set about finding out as much as possible about this unwanted visitor, and formulate a plan of attack based on the information available.

You poison the intruder.

Then you set about trying to prevent a similar intruder from returning.

You succeed in killing it.

The execution, however, is a highly unpleasant messy business with unforeseen consequences. The whole thing is rather an ordeal.

After the killing, there is a terrible stench. Everyone tells you that it will fade over time. You want to believe this but it is difficult to imagine because for so long you have smelled it, breathed it, lived it.

Sometimes you think that the smell is gone but then you catch a whiff and you know that the carcass will always be there, albeit out of reach. A reminder of your ordeal.

To tell you the truth I don’t care where the bloody skeleton is as long as it is dead as a fucking doornail. The smell is already a lot better. It will indeed go away eventually. But I will never forget it. I will always know that smell.

The really good news is that the beer was undisturbed. And is damn good.

It’s the little things in life.

Roasted Armpit with a Side of Impatience

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So my vacay is going pretty well and I feel great. Except for one thing.

My armpit really hurts.

My skin is healing up all nicely from the radiation but for some reason (maybe because it is an ARMPIT), there is a spot in my axilla that got rubbed raw. And it really hurts. Reminds me of one of those hot spots that our dog used to get on her bum after chewing her fur a little too vigorously to address a persistent itch. Yes, I know. Gross. I’ll refrain from photographic evidence since you all are still reeling from the super attractive thumb pics.

The rest of the area that got blasted just looks like a healing sunburn.  Sort of dry and brownish/pink. But not too awful.

Now, I realise that in the grand scheme of things this is not that big of a deal. But it is kind of pissing me off because I’ve had enough and it is cramping my style. That and the fact that my stupid thumbnail still refuses fall off. I am keen to get it off so that I can race to the nearest CVS (that’s an American pharmacy for you non-US readers) and buy me some ultra classy Lee press-on nails. Maybe with an American flag on them so that I can be patriotic and shit while I am on this side of the pond. Oh and so that I can do dishes again (not).

But enough kvetching about my leftover symptoms. Let’s talk about the good news. The good news is that my hair is growing back industrial strength. And my little head is so fuzzy that people have been rubbing it (yes, even people I don’t know that well) because it is apparently so irresistible.

It’s sort of like when you are pregnant and people feel entitled to come up and touch your tummy. I hope that in some months time when I have the final iteration of my newbs, people aren’t going to come up and cop a feel (unless of course they’ve been invited).

My eyebrows grew back so fast that I don’t even need pencil anymore. Here let me attach a photo so you can see for yourself. I will also reattach that lovely one that I took on July 13 so that you can see what a difference a few weeks makes. Both photos are with no make-up.

BEFORE (I look rather like a raw chicken, no?):

 

AFTER (five minutes ago):

I even have eyelashes although they are still shorties. I bought some duty-free crap on the plane over here that is supposed to make your lashes grow longer, stronger, darker and curlier. It is probably just snake oil but I had so much fun buying it I don’t care. Plus it is French. Ooh la la. If it works I am planning to put it on my upper lip as well so that I can have a nice long curly black moustache for my post-treatment new look. Just kidding.

There are some places where hair just isn’t welcome. No hair zones. Too bad you can’t pick and choose where you want it to grow back. It’s a cruel joke that after months of having smooth and kissable bare legs I will need to shave soon. Ah well.

 

End of Shit

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The other day I was in the waiting room at my plastic surgeon’s office. The appointment was just a quick check so that he could see how my skin was reacting to radiation toward the end of treatment.

While I waited, I flipped though a beauty magazine, lingering longingly over pages of young, scantily clad women with impossibly perky boobs. I was interrupted by three persons entering the waiting room, two women who vaguely resembled one another and a man.

They were joking around rather loudly and weren’t being very British so we easily struck up a conversation. Turns out one of the ladies was there to get her nipple tattoos as the final stage of her reconstruction, having been through double mastectomies, chemo and radiation. It was great to see another lady out the other side of it all. It had been about two years since it had all happened for her. She was chipper as could be.

The other lady was this woman’s sister, and the man, her sister’s husband. They had come along for moral support and to watch all the magic happen.

The lady said that when she was done with her treatment, she’d had an “end of shit” party. End of shit. Isn’t that the perfect way to describe it all? I think so. Now I don’t know if she coined a term there or if “end of shit” is a British thing. Maybe someone British can tell me. Meanwhile, either way I like it. I’ll have to have me an end of shit party too.

But now I am on break. Summer vacation.

I had my final radiation Friday at noon. One more time on Trilogy (see Meet Trilogy if you haven’t met her), my arms overhead, envisioning my super heroine with flowing cape and hair, standing hands on hips atop a hill and sending white-hot fire from her eyes into the enemy below.

That was what I usually conjured during treatments. That and I couldn’t help but think of the old Raid television commercial in which cockroaches spontaneously combusted with a “pow” and a cloud of smoke, after yelling: “RAI-AID?!!!”

In any event it was weird to have that last treatment. So much of my time has been devoted to getting through “the shit” and really it was sort of anticlimactic when it was all over. But nice nonetheless. Nice to be DONE.

I spent the rest of the day packing, or to be precise, overpacking for our summer trip to Cape Cod. I had trouble narrowing down the summer outfits because in London we have had so little summer that I wanted to cram in as many light and colourful ensembles as possible before we have to pull out the coats again.

When I’d finished with the clothes, I rifled through my four-inch thick medical file folder to find the ID cards for my expanders. I put them in my handbag along with our passports and a letter from my reconstructive surgeon just in case I set the metal detector off (see Things I Am Prepared to Say to Airport Security if this doesn’t ring a bell, so to speak).

Actually my doctor wrote two letters. The first one was to me:

Dear Emily

I do not think Style 133 metal base valves set off airport alarms. I do not want to see you wrestled to the ground, dragged off to custody, being forced to watch the Olympics from a prison cell. Nonetheless I am emailing in a second note a letter that could be produced if there were problems. Safe journey and lots of love.

Kind regards and best wishes

Yours sincerely

It’s definitely the best letter I have ever received from a doctor. And the only funny one. And I have a lot of letters from doctors, most of which I have amassed in the past seven months.

The second letter was a basic statement that I have been under his care and have these gizmos in me and that if there are any issues the airport folks can reach him on his cell.

Soon enough, Saturday morning was upon me and with it the moment of truth. I inched forward in the security line. Plunked my iPad and MacBook Air and plastic baggie of liquids and pastes into grey bins, removed my belt with chunky metal buckle and awaited my turn. The kids went through first. Nothing. Then me.

And of course my tits totally set it off.

“Step over here, madame,” said the security dude. “I need to tell you something,” I said. “I have these prosthetic devices… I have a letter,” I replied. He ignored this and just waved me toward his female associate for a pat down.

I assumed the position and again started to explain myself. But by the time I got to “I have a letter” she had completed her pat down and sent me on my way. So I never got to produce the letter. At least I have it for the way back just in case the folks in Boston are skeptical that I am an evil fembot bent on world destruction.

We had loads of time to kill at Heathrow because we had left an hour early in case the men’s cycling road race caused any traffic delays. So we enjoyed breakfast in the British Airways lounge, watched some Olympic coverage and browsed the shops.

The flight itself was uneventful. I accepted a glass of champagne before take-off to toast my end of shit.

For lunch I ordered the special “Olympic-inspired” fish pie and then had afternoon tea (sandwiches and scones) a couple hours later even though I wasn’t really still hungry. I have trouble turning away food, even on an airplane.

We breezed through customs and made it to my in-laws’ house in Wellesley, where we were to retrieve the Subaru wagon and drive to the Cape, relatively quickly.

After using the facilities, we were about to head out when our five-year-old, who was sitting in the front seat of the car while she waited for the rest of the family, announced that the rearview mirror had “fallen off.” My immediate reaction was that she probably pulled it right off while screwing around in there. My secondary reaction was that I didn’t fancy spending an hour in an auto body shop waiting for the damn thing to be repaired after a seven-hour transAtlantic flight and with a two-hour drive ahead.

I called my father-in-law at the Cape and asked if he kept any crazy-glue in the house. He admitted that the mirror had fallen off before (more than once) and that crazy glue wouldn’t work. At that point my husband emerged from the basement with a roll of duct tape.

So we duct taped the thing on and set off for the Cape. It wasn’t perfect but it held all right. And we made it.

It’s nice to be back in America in a cozy, familiar house with the ocean breeze and the outdoor shower. A welcome change of venue for my end of shit.

I suppose that technically there is more shit ahead since I have further reconstructive surgery, but that doesn’t really count as “shit” because it will be happy times to improve my rack so that I, too, can possess impossibly perky boobs.

Meanwhile, now that I have killed it I will have to find something else to do with my time. But one thing is certain. I am going to keep blogging. Because there is no end of shit about which to write.

Things I Am Prepared to Say to Airport Security

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In a recent e-mail, my mother-in-law asked me whether she thought my saline boob expanders — if you don’t know what I am talking about think of them space savers for my implants — would set off the metal detector at the airport on account of their magnetic ports. I credit myself with thinking of a lot of things but this had not occurred to me. And I doubt it will happen. Nevertheless, in the spirit of the Boy Scouts, I have decided to be prepared.

I have thought about what to say to the authorities should bells go off when I step through, having handed over my watch, belt and iPhone.

Feel free to vote for your favourite.

Option 1: “Stand back; bionic tits coming through, people.” I mean Jaime Sommers has nothin’ on me. Cue corny bionic sound effects and slow-mo.

Option 2: (Said when wand is passed over each breast and sound indicates presence of metal.) “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet; the dude behind me has a metal asshole.”

Option 3: “Oh, those are just my 24-karat tatas. I like to travel in style.”

Option 4: “Take cover! They’re gonna blow!” (That one probably isn’t a good plan because it would likely subject me to rough handling and possibly even a cavity search in a small windowless room, causing me to miss my flight).

And Option 5: (If I get the pat-down rather than the wand.) “Ooh, baby don’t stop. That’s more action than they’ve had in six months.”

What? Yeah, I know. I’m a weirdo. But one has to have a sense of humour about these things for Christ’s sake.

Salt ‘N’ Pepper Chia Pet

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If you are American and of a certain age and owned a television and/or visited a K-Mart growing up then you will remember the oh-so-wonderful (and giftable) Chia Pet. Here, let me refresh your recollection: click on this.

I am thinking about going to one of those make your own pottery places and doing up a head to resemble myself and then putting some seeds on that sucker and filling it up with water. Because I have been feeling sort of Chia Pet-like these past few days. But instead of green, it’s salt ‘n’ pepper chia. And it isn’t nearly as fast. I just spent the better part of an hour scrutinising my scalp to try to determine whether the itty bitty fuzzy regrowth I see is predominantly white. Under overhead lights it looks white. But in the magnifying mirror there appears to be a lot of pepper mixed in, thank God. We’ll see how it looks in a few weeks.

One extremely troublesome wrinkle is that there doesn’t seem to be any regrowth to speak of in the middle of my head. I hope it is just growing at a different pace. Because a hairdo approximating male-pattern baldness (no offence to those who suffer from it) is not the post-cancer treatment look of my dreams.

In other news I counted my eyebrows and eyelashes today, which persist in falling out five weeks after my last chemo treatment. I guess they are on their own schedule. Oh sorry — I only did the right side on which there are fourteen eyelashes — wait, make that thirteen. Dang. And twenty-four eyebrows. Trust me; this is not a lot. Drawing on the eyebrows with pencil has become sort of a daily experiment. I change it up a little every time. Not really on purpose but because I am still not used to it. One day I may just do Bozo the Clown or Bert from Sesame Street.

The benefit to all of this is that I hope to do a chemo makeover “how to” video pretty soon. I have to get on it before everything grows back. I have never done a video so expect really low budget (like it might just be me trying to film on my iPhone while applying eyeliner to myself in bad lighting) but the point is to get it up so that other women who might like a little guidance can have a look at some techniques from a real live cancer patient. Or at least it might provide a good laugh.

Meanwhile let me lay it out there for you. The “before” pic. This is what I look like right now without a single bit of make-up on. It’s dark so you can’t see my chia regrowth. Strange, hmmm? I can’t even remember what I looked like without examining pre-chemo photos. But I know it’s still me in there somewhere. Killing it.

 

 

Top Ten Reasons Not Having Use of Big-Ass Bandaged-Up Right Thumb For a Week Isn’t All Bad

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Reason No. 10: One less fingernail to paint.

Reason No. 9: Makes other fingers feel more important.

Reason No. 8: Don’t even have to think about doing dishes.

Reason No. 7: Realised I can type pretty well with nine fingers.

Reason No. 6: Detracts from baldness, lack of eyebrows and eyelashes.

Reason No. 5: Good blog fodder for several entries.

Reason No. 4: One more thing to bitch about and I just love to bitch.

Reason No. 3: Easier to hitch hike. (Cars are stopping miles away now.)

Reason No. 2: Gives me something to think about other than stupid fucking cancer.

And the No. 1 Reason Not Having Use of My Big-Ass Bandaged-Up Right Thumb For a Week Isn’t All Bad: Realised at Yo-Sushi yesterday I am perfectly competent chopstick user with left hand. Now how else would I ever have found out that crucial bit of information?

All Thumb

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Thanks to all you optimistic well-wishers who thought or pretended to think that the thumb would actually resolve on its own. But really? Alas, such was not the case.

Meanwhile we had plans to go to a beach party (in the 50-something degree drizzle) Saturday night in Beaulieu in the New Forest. I had some concerns about taking the thumb to the country. The first of which was whether, given its size, I might be required to purchase it a seat on the train to Brockenhurst.

I decided to risk it. Somewhat comforted by the fact that both my rads oncologist and my dermatologist (not the one at Hammersmith) had a look at it Friday and said I wasn’t in imminent danger of it exploding. When I spoke to my rads oncologist she said she really felt the nail should come off after all, so we could clean up the area and get a proper look at things. Her people made me an appointment to see a “Taxol nail” specialist on Tuesday (that would have been today) to determine whether the eleventh-hour diagnosis from the dermatologist at Hammersmith Hospital last Wednesday was correct, and presumably, to remove the nail. Delightful.

So off we went Saturday morning to Waterloo Station to catch our train.

It decided to rain all day so we ate lunch and then lazed about at a charming 350-year-old B&B (Pepperbox House) on the High Street in Beaulieu, napping (well not me cuz I don’t nap) and reading. I finished Solar. We dressed for the party, the theme of which was verdant green. I did wear a nice bright green cardy. But I had to whip out Candy Floss — surely you know her by now — for the finishing touch. Very pink and very green but not at all preppy. Not easy to do, that look, but I think it worked. And white jeans of course because they are so practical in the rain. And platform espadrilles — also a solid choice for soggy outings.

Sorry but I don’t have a photo.

There was a lot of green at the party, including Astroturf in lieu of carpet which I thought was a groovy concept. I might have to put some under my dining room table. Just think, it would be like having a picnic every meal! Neat! And no water required. Just add food and ants.

The party was quirky and fun. A hodge podge of people of varying ages and plenty of finger sandwiches, Pimms, wine, kiwi mojitos (I should have had one), cakes and later smoked pig and home-made pizza. There was a sassy magician with a dry sense of humour and a chihuahua, and a ukulele band from Bristol (?).

The girls dragged Bill outside and collected seashells from the beach in the whipping wind and watched the horses gallop around. In Beaulieu there is a law or something that animals can roam free and graze where they want to so there are horses and cows and other four-legged critters everywhere you look. Sometimes they all decide to cross the street together and stop traffic. I would like to have that kind of attitude. Just decide to wander into traffic and fully expect it to stop. Devil may care.

We decided to pull out at about 9:45 because it was getting late for the kiddies. They didn’t get to sleep until about 11. Oops. For a change we each took a child and a room so I slept with Isabel. That night my thumb started to hurt again and woke me up about four times. I was also awakened by Isabel who in the middle of the night started vigorously stroking my bald head. I wondered what the hell she was doing and rolled over to look at her. Her eyes were open but unfocused and she was clearly fast asleep. Must have been an interesting dream. Too bad we will never know whatthat was about.

Come Sunday morning the pain was bad and the thumb looked terrible. Even worse than the day before.  See Exhibit A below.

Now I ask you, if you were walking around with this thing for several weeks would you not have a hard time focusing on other things? Needless to say I was concerned about and distracted by my right thumb. I couldn’t ignore it because every time I tried to do anything there it was.

Saturday afternoon my dermatologist called and arranged for me to have an MRI Monday morning to check (again) if there was a collection under the nail or any evidence of bone infection. When I went to get it yesterday morning, after getting up early, taking a taxi there and changing into a gown, robe and slippers, and then waiting, they asked if I had any bits or pieces in my body and I told them about my boob expanders with magnetic ports. I had figured they would be all right because the MRI was just of my thumb. Not so. Apparently the whole thing acts as a magnet so once you walk through the door you are no longer in the safe zone. I had images of my expanders busting (pun intended) through my chest. “I’m not going anywhere near that thing,” I said.

So I decided to use modern technology to my advantage and texted my dermatologist. No can do MRI due to bionic tits, I said. Or something to that effect. Do u want me to get ultrasound while I’m here? He responded immediately. Yes he was down with that plan. Or something to that effect. So we did one and guess what? There was a big-ass collection of fluid behind the nail, 7mm deep. Gee, I wonder why it was deformed and uncomfortable. He said it would be sensible (I love the English) to see a hand surgeon and could I try to get an urgent appointment. By the way do you Americans and persons other than the English know why surgeons are referred to as “Mr” rather than “Dr?” I do but I’m not going to tell you right now. Maybe later. If you’re nice.

Anyhow I called and they squeezed me in for yesterday afternoon. Turned out the hand guy was at the same office as my boob guy. Good karma, I figured. I liked him and his confident but not at all cocky manner.

If you get queasy easily or are eating a big juicy burger right now, please read on.

Bill and I spoke with him for a while. Then he took me into the back while Bill was banished to the waiting room.

He shot the base of my thumb several times with local anaesthetic with an enormous needle and proceeded to drain that sucker. Out came about 10ml of bloody fluid, not counting the part that gushed out and wasn’t collected in a small vial. Then he sliced the nail away from the bed at each side and folded the nail back like a hatch. He made a tourniquet out of a rubber glove and clamp the base of my thumb to stop the bleeding and examined the nail bed. It looked good. Pink and healthy. No obvious sign of infection. He cleaned it thoroughly with saline. After this, he decided to leave the nail attached at the base because he saw the new nail growing underneath (which he showed me) and didn’t want to disturb it or further traumatise the area. The collection had been so impressive and the pressure so great that the nail bed was concave like the basin of a pond. After all of this, however, the thumb was much closer to its original size. It started resembling a thumb again rather than an unhealthy sausage.

Finally, he dressed it by inserting a piece of gauze between the nail and the nail bed and wrapping the thumb with gauze and more gauze. Until it looked like a small white potato.

So now I have this big white thumb for the next week. Should come in handy if I decided to hitch-hike to radiation.

Who knew killing it would be fraught with so many weird-ass side effects. I give this one a big thumbs down. But here’s to hoping that it is finally on its way to resolution, with a lot of help from Mr Hand Surgeon.

Smaller Tits in Sixty Seconds

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Remember my favourite catch phrase? Come on, it’s from Boob Retrospective, Armpit Wig and Top Ten Reasons Fighting Breast Cancer Isn’t All Bad. I’ll give you a hint, it’s the No. One Reason. Well today we had the converse, or should I say concave. Which is virtually what’s happened to my newbs.

Just to recap, if you missed my last post (Deflated), I had to get some of the saline taken out of my expanders so they can get the right angle when giving me radiation and thus avoid zapping my left side, which does not need to be treated.

Boy am I psyched the flat look is in. And that I have a relatively small ass so that my latest (unwanted) physical adjustment doesn’t leave me looking too imbalanced.

In the military we call this sort of thing a Temporary Pneumatic Setback or “TPS.” Sort of like SNAFU (situation normal: all fucked up) but shorter. Although SNAFU also applies. FUBAR (fucked up behind all recognition), TARFU (totally and royally fucked up) and BOHICA (bend over here it comes again) also apply. I could write a whole post about military acronym slang and how it is applicable to my current situation. HOOAH.

But I need to get back on point.

Candy Floss (if you don’t know her read Zero), Bill and I went to the appointment with my plastic surgeon this morning. Yes, it was a menage à trois (à quatre if you include the surgeon… and à cinq if you count the nurse). I discussed matters with him for a couple minutes and then it was down to business and he and the nurse stuck those needles in there and sucked out 120 ccs from each “boob.” When they were done I looked down and my girls resembled half full plastic baggies. Not a great look, but really kind of funny. I couldn’t help but be amused.

Undeterred, I whipped a padded bra out of my bag and put it on. Not terrible. And just think of the instant weight loss! I’ve heard you can lose even more in an office visit if you saw off a leg though.

Then CF, Bill and I exited the building and took ourselves to an early lunch. I wore my “rubber” leggings as well to give edge to my ensemble. I figure if I have pink hair and rubber leggings no one in their right mind will be focusing on my tits, or lack thereof. The two of us together on Marylebone High Street must have been a sight. Oh, look, there goes Lady Gaga and her conservatively dressed lawyer friend out for a bite at Le Pain Quotidien.

Speaking of which, do you realise that I have been to that particular LPQ (I’m into acronyms today) with my own hair, with Gabriella (my other lover — oh please — read Armpit Wig if you don’t know her), bald as a cue ball, with a scarf and now with Candy Floss? I wonder if the staff there recognise (it’s plural in England) me or if they think I am five different people. They probably just think I’m a “right nutter” (this means a real weirdo but you could have guessed that couldn’t you?).

And I can live with that because I kind of am. I mean my kids are so used to my weirdness that they let me leave the house bald or with pink hair. And they aren’t even embarrassed by me. Which is kind of great, isn’t it?

I had a great rest of the day. I bought two groovy t-shirts at agnès b (one with an octopus and one with other sea creatures including a lobster). They look good now but there is room for more boob for later as well. Stylish and practical.

Then my friends Susan and Donna and I and Agnieszka took the girls to see The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe in Kensington Gardens. It was a terrific show with a great set (tee hee — I said “set”). A circular stage and there were creatures done up à la Lion King, people flying through the air on wires and singing, you name it. We were there with about five hundred British school children because the Brit schools are still in session through some point in July.

Then we hopped on a bus and took the kids to the Hard Rock Cafe. I hadn’t been to an HRC in ages. Check us out. Here I am with my groupies.

When I got home I looked at my flatter self. Not so bad, really. I think I could really kill it with this look for the next month and a half or so.

I just hope it was enough so that they can get their angle. The scan tomorrow will tell all. Send me and CF good vibes. We need ’em. Because if it didn’t work and they have to deflate and delay again I might have to go AWOL.