What Now
I don't know what's wrong with me. On Monday, I had to go home because I was nauseated and finally threw up. Yesterday I was all better. Today I'm feeling nauseated again. I've eaten a cup of yogurt and some hot tea.
I'm afraid to eat anything else because if I get sick, I may never be able to eat that again. That's how it is for me. Once I'm sick after eating something, I never want to be within a mile of it again. On the other hand, I really need to eat something.
Well so much for that. I just had to make a trip to the restroom...sick again.
I Highly Recommend It
Bitch bitch bitch
I am, among other things, what used to be referred to as "a woman of a certain age." I'm over 50 and I'm good with that. Fifty is a very liberating age, even if you don't have breast cancer to remind you of whom you truly are. Be happy with you, because you're great just the way you are.
Nonetheless, I've been in a general quandary about what's appropriate (or not) for women my age to wear. To help enlighten myself and avoid embarrassing fashion faux pas, I subscribed to a magazine aimed directly at my demographic.
I've come to dread its bi-monthly arrival. The magazine is filled with articles about women who've quit their unsatisfying, soul-killing but lucrative careers to pursue their personal career bliss. Without fail, these women have somehow managed to find the work they love that puts food on the table and pays the monthly mortgage. Imagine my distress.
I'm stuck here in Crazy Land, doing things that I generally don't like to do...or doing nothing at all (unless you count weblog activity as work-related). I'm the primary wage earner in the family, I have breast cancer, personal debt in addition to a mortgage payment and, of course, the rising costs of fuel, food and medication. Stuck.
I resent the beaming faces and glowing testimonials to branching out on your own, opening a knitting store, a cozy bed and breakfast, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Looking at them makes me feel like a failure and a coward. I am a failure because, even when my job here was highly demanding, it was without question nothing that I ever liked and always underutilized my brain power and creativity.
Next, the age-appropriate fashion. How many of us can afford a "bargain" $300 dress for work? Or a $150 pair of jeans, paired with a $200 pair of espadrilles and a $150 shirt? Even if I could afford it, I wouldn't. Clothing costs make me absolutely crazy. I like clothes. A lot. I don't indulge my desires as much as I used to; the changes breast cancer makes to one's body doesn't inspire a great body image.
I shop at sales. I mean 80% off sales. Even at that discount, I still couldn't afford anything like the prices cited as "reasonable" in any magazine that features knock-offs of high fashion looks. I don't want to look like Meryl Streep; I just want to look classy and elegant. People generally say I do. I think that has to do with the way I (used to) carry myself and the fact that I was genetically blessed with a tall, slender frame. We all know I work out like a maniac when I'm capable (in between breast cancer tortures). I try to eat right. So I look okay, without spending lunatic amounts of money.
Nonetheless, I'm sick of being made to feel like a disappointment to my generation for not achieving enough, looking good enough, being healthy enough, not climbing a mountain, not raising a perfect family while having an enriching career.
Where am I going with this? Nowhere. I just had to say. I'm not, repeat not going to read this month's article about gourmet cooking on a $400 a week budget. Furthermore, you don't like what I'm wearing? You think I shouldn't be wearing these shoes because they're too young-looking? As it turns out, I don't really care. Welcome to fifty.
Things Can Always Get Worse. Or Better. Or About The Same.
I had an appointment with my radiation oncologist on Thursday morning. He diagnosed the pain and swelling as localized lymphedema. I'd considered that possibility before, but my several sources of information only mentioned swelling down the arm, not under the arm. I don't understand why sometimes it's localized and sometimes it isn't. He said that physical therapy might be very helpful and referred me to a clinic here in town. They're supposed to contact me sometime this week. I'm enormously relieved that it's nothing more serious, although lymphedema, untreated, can produce disastrous results. It's also really unattractive.
Thursday evening I fell four times. Four times. That's excessive, even for me. I'm not sure why I fell the first two times, although I think all of them may have been a result of having my eyes dilated earlier in the day. I had an opthamologist check the progress of my macular degeneration. (It didn't get any worse--Yay!) It's possible that, even though it seemed my vision was back to normal, there may have been some depth perception distortion.
Anyway, the first couple of times I fell I was just walking around in my house. I didn't sustain any injuries. The third time, I misjudged the two steps down from my bedroom into the living room, slipped and sprained my ankle. Within about an hour, I was going through the den to let Andy the Demon Dog outside, fell and bruised my knee. Both the huskies' crates are in the den, but his is close to the path to the back door. I usually keep the crate door cracked so he can go in if he wishes. I've had disastrous encounters before with the wide-open crate door and I'm actually a quick study when it comes to ways to prevent collisions. I've had a lifetime of practice.
I guess Hubby left the crate door wide open and I didn't turn the lights on in the den. Too much time and trouble to turn on lights, you know. I slammed into the door with my knee and just collapsed on the floor. Luckily, the knee wasn't sprained, too.
Earlier in the evening, I accidentally whacked my head against a cabinet door. I have a bruise on my nose and forehead. They're not bad; they just look like maybe I'm not the most fastidious person in the world. My husband thinks I'm trying to get him arrested for assault. (Note I did not say "domestic assault." I think it minimizes the crime.) The most amazing news? I did not go to work. I always go to work with sprained ankles. Yes, I have them rather frequently. I think it runs in the family; my mom's ankles collapse for no apparent reason.
Today, I had my annual skin cancer check with my dermatologist. She found an area on my lower back that looked a little weird. It wasn't a mole or anything like that; it was a gray area that spread across my hips. We did a biopsy; results expected within 3 to 5 days. I'll have to have stitches taken out in a couple of weeks.
The great news here is that if it turns out to be something scary, my beloved Dr. Ross is an accomplished skin cancer surgeon. As a matter of fact, he consults throughout the country on difficult cases. Lucky me. Have I mentioned lately how much I love him?
Last Wednesday was Hubby's birthday. I was confused. I thought it was Thursday. Good move. I don't know--I was confused about the date all last week. Who am I kidding? I never know what day it is. I mean I'm not even sure if it's Tuesday or Thursday. It's either the monotony of daily life or the lingering effects of chemotherapy. I like the latter explanation later.
I'd already bought a gift for Hubby, so I was clear on that count. However, I didn't wish him a happy birthday until he pointed out to me that I should have. I noted that he forgot our wedding anniversary last year. We're even now.
Aside from giving you a blow by blow account of the numbers of loads of laundry I did this weekend, that about wraps it up. How timely. It's only about ten minutes before I get to go home. I'm working on being much more entertaining in the days to come, so don't give up on me now.
The Mind is a Terrible Thing
"Her mind lives tidily, apart From cold and noise and pain, And bolts the door against her heart, Out wailing in the rain." ~ Dorothy Parker
I just ate an apple without washing it. Do you suppose it will kill me? Big ironic smile here. My dark sense of humor has grown much darker the past couple of years.
I finally broke down and called the radiation oncology office yesterday. They were busy, of course, and the recording suggested I leave my name, number and what hell I was calling about. I did that. Have I heard anything? Hell no. With the help and encouragement of my online friends, I overcame my fear of seeming like a crazy hypochondriac and called. Thanks so much for getting right back with me about the pain and swelling, cancer guys. I guess they figure those two things don't necessarily mean anything that will result in imminent death, so no rush.
I can't recall whether the oncology office recording said they'd get back to me within 24 business hours. That's the usual standard these days. It's been 24 business hours now. Maybe I'll have to call back, just to check. I don't want to miss the opportunity to give people an enormous amount of trouble about breaking the 24 hour rule. I'm generally such an empathetic personality that I'm willing to cut people an enormous amount of slack. However, woe be to those who overestimate my level of good will. Ask the folks at Holiday Inn. They can attest to that fact.
As far as I can tell, I'm not overcome with anxiety anymore. God only knows what's going on beneath the level of ordinary consciousness, though. Nothing like having a brain that walls itself off automatically to protect against unwanted emotion. Generally speaking, though, it requires that I put some active effort into it.
There are all kinds of thoughts and fears that I examine, then put aside into little individual compartments in my head. "I'll just get back to this later," I think. It's highly conducive to the ability to function, no matter what. Thank you, crappy childhood. Of course, it's not the most mentally healthy way to deal with things, I've been told.
From time to time, when I talk about moving problems over to their own little room in my head, my therapist asks me how I do that. I have no idea. I do know that there have been times when keeping things in those compartments requires visualizing many locks and an occasional barricade. I've been able to count on the locks and barricades when it's absolutely necessary.
All of that is a clearly pragmatic decision to put things aside until later. As I mentioned before, sometimes my brain kindly moves fear and anxiety directly to secret places without any effort whatsoever on my part. Sooner or later, though, the gates somehow open and I'm flooded with the memories, thoughts or emotions that have been hidden from me. The surprise is invariably unpleasant.
I think everyone does that to some extent. There are all kinds of nasty things floating around in what Freud would have called the unconscious. I'm not a big fan of Freud's view of the world, but when he's right, he's right. Carl Jung (among others) agreed. He's much more palatable to me.
For instance, I suspect that each of us harbors ill-will towards others, even though we may never perceive it. We might vehemently deny it, as a matter of fact. When I clearly see into what Zen Buddhists call "Hatred Mind," I always find some previously buried hatred, resentment or anger. It requires "opening the hand of thought" to find Hatred Mind and what lies within it. I try to be benevolent towards everyone, but I'm not seduced by that desire.
Freud would say there are shameful desires, primeval fear, unassailable rage that we're incapable of confronting because they pose unspeakable danger to our psychic wholeness. It's sort of like the mind-splintering direct encounter with the divine, alluded to in every spiritual tradition of which I'm aware. The infinite, though blindingly loving, is too much for us to bear. Wholeness can lead to madness just as surely.
Notice how I veered off into theoretical exploration? That's my brain offering up distraction and solace. Every once in a while, I can see it as it happens. It no longer matters to me, at this moment, whether the sacred 24 hour rule has been violated. I'm still stuck on the idea of hatred mind and the mystical meeting of humanity with infinite love.
Living on the Outskirts of Fear
"I've been trying to get as far away from myself as I can," "Things Have Changed," Bob Dylan
I tried calling in sick to Life. "Hello, Life? I'm not myself today, so I won't be coming in. I'm sure I'll be back tomorrow." Life does not accept those kinds of calls. I'm reduced to living on the outskirts of consciousness, tamping everything down and floating around the edges where nothing serious lives.
I'd love to take a vacation from myself. I get that old claustrophobic feeling I had after my last surgery. If only I could rip some part of myself open and step out of this body for a while. Or if I could just scream long enough, maybe all of the anxiety would drain away.
I've written several posts and abandoned them or saved them for some day when I can concentrate. I haven't been visiting my friends online. It feels like half of my brain is dead. Maybe more than half. I spend my Crazy Land days trying to work on the database, but it all seems so complex and unfathomable. I haven't accomplished much.
I've been crying at the smallest of things. Even writing that sentence makes me teary. I become enraged at unpredictable moments. When I'm not enraged, everything irritates me. So, let's see...crying, then being enraged, then being irritated, then back to crying with a little irritation mixed in. I've got my own private Crazy Land going on in my head. No one pays me for showing up every day, though.
My mother seems to call me every 15 minutes. I love my mom, but get off the damn phone already. I had a psychobitch meltdown with Hubby yesterday. I'm sure he'd like to get away from me almost as much as I would. Crazy Land is easy. I'm in my office where I pose no danger to anyone else. If I don't see them, I don't yell at them. I don't crumple up into a little ball and cry at the copier. I don't expect them to understand where I'm living these days.
Most of the time, though, I'm able to keep it together. I chat with people, I read, I listen to music. I do not talk about fear. I try not to engage fear on any level. My inner debate continues: Am I being crazy about the mass under my arm (and the pain and swelling) or does it make complete sense that it terrifies me? The question arises regularly and just as regularly, I push it away.
It's one of those times, I suppose, when no one can help me out of this. Why don't I go to see my radiation oncologist, people ask me. I don't know. I don't want to. That would require that I allow fear a free hand in my consciousness. Maybe I just don't really want to know what's going on. Maybe it's stupid to even think I need to see him. If I see him, won't he just tell me he doesn't know what's causing the problems, that I should give my oncologist a call? Or maybe he'd tell me to get over it. Hell, I can tell myself to get over it without having to shell out the $15 copay. Maybe if I just wait a little while longer and keep the panic corralled, my logical brain can get control over things and I won't have to go at all.
Anguished. That's the word. If I had to sum up everything going on inside me, that would be it. Feeling it is almost more than I can bear. As I type these words, there's a voice inside reminding me that my problems are small compared to most people's. There's a whole lot of suffering going on in the world.
I either need to get some greater perspective on my problems or open my heart and mind to the anguish. I should observe the fear and rage and sadness. I should note how they feel to this physical body. Mindfulness meditation. Maybe I can get around to that later on. Not now, though. Right now, I'm going to summon the energy to push it all away again.
Phil Spector and Politics
My day is almost over, but I had to report on the Phil Spector news. He's sporting a new wig this week.
I know this is absolutely crazy, but I'm thinking about starting a political blog. We don't have enough of those in cyberspace. This one will not feature my own opinions. Stay tuned.
The Jim Bob Hopkins Memorial Film School
"No plan can prevent a stupid person from doing the wrong thing in the wrong place at the wrong time - but a good plan should keep a concentration from forming." ~ Charles Erwin Wilson, 1890-1961
It's another Loathsome story. Who would have guessed? Recall that Loathsome is in charge of a huge project and that he's already made some damn fine progress in screwing it up. The trend continues.
This morning, I opened my intra-office email and found two separate emails from Owner regarding an old Crazy Land employee. The first email informed everyone that Jim Bob Jones (name changed to protect a whole range of people) is ineligible for employment and should not be allowed in the building. The second email contradicted the first--we're hiring him so let him in the building to fill out his paperwork.
I recognized Jim Bob's name immediately and had to stop a phone conversation with my mother because I was so stunned. No wait...surely he means someone else, I thought. Jim Bob worked for us about ten years ago. He suffered a series of minor work-related injuries which, if nothing else, indicates some pretty poor safety habits. Then he shattered some bones in either his leg or his arm. It doesn't matter which. Coincidentally, Jim Bob had been in a bull riding contest over the weekend. Obviously, we had some reason to doubt the cause of the fractures, seeing as how there were no witnesses to the accident at the work site.
Bull riding. What the hell is the deal with that, anyway? I'll never understand it. I've gaged the extraordinary scope of his arrogance and stupidity. It rivals Loathsome's. There is no way that guy could be good enough to make any real money at falling off bulls on a regular basis. However, the list of things that can get permanently injured is endless. Let's start with breaking limbs. I'll bet his genetic heritage is absolutely saturated with stupidity, because he actually told us about the bull riding.
This was a huge, huge workers' comp case. Doctors put Jim Bob on restricted duty for months. I won't bore you with how much that can cost a company or why. Suffice it to say, Crazy Land was in for some major workers' comp problems the next year because of this bull riding pin head. (Note: We don't have any problems with people who are legitimately injured at work, even though they may be off for a significant period of time. Especially if they don't do it repeatedly.) We had no light duty projects to accommodate his particular restrictions. That meant Jim Bob was going to be sitting on his ass at home for the next six months, drinking beer and watching soaps, no doubt. Lost time accidents take a serious toll not only on workers' comp rates, but on our ongoing ability to find and keep customers.
Owner was furious. Jim Bob is arrogant and whiny and snotty. It's a winning combination that doesn't inspire much confidence and certainly not any pity. Owner directed me to give Jim Bob something to do at our office every day for the next six months (or however long the disability lasted).
This is how the Jim Bob Hopkins Memorial Film School was created. I told Jim Bob he'd be watching safety films all day, every day until he was restored to full duty. Just to ensure he wasn't spending his time with us napping or chatting with office employees, he was required to write synopses of each and every safety film. I reviewed them every afternoon. Not only that, but he had to go over to the State Safety Commission, pick up and return his own films each day. I got to approve the list of films. Jim Bob was not going to sneak in repeat films so he could re-use his synopses. All of the reviewing and approving was, to say the least, annoying additions to my then harrowing number of responsibilities.
Jim Bob was eventually released to full duty and resumed his work at our client's site. The next time we were required to make work force reductions at that site, Jim Bob was at the top of the list. Aside from the questionable circumstances of his injury, he had clearly not been working safely for quite some time. Needless to say, the time came when Jim Bob rode his bull into the sunset, falling off all the way.
Yesterday, Loathsome sent over a list of people he was hiring for the big project. Everyone who does hiring is required to check in with me to ensure they're eligible fore rehire, based on their injury record. A flurry of ruffled feathers swept throughout the building. Virtually everyone knows the story of the Jim Bob Memorial Film School, because I bitched about it endlessly while I was essentially babysitting him. I had already gone home for the day, so someone called Loathsome to tell him that Jim Bob is not eligible for rehire. Loathsome then called Jim Bob and told him he's not eligible for rehire. Another brilliant move by Loathsome. Jim Bob wanted to know if that's because of his work-related injuries. Having screwed up royally, Loathsome then punted to Owner to resolve the problem.
Although our company is well within its rights to refuse to hire someone based on a poor safety record, that wouldn't necessarily prevent Jim Bob from attempting to sue. In this state, all it takes is $250 and a rapacious attorney. Like all companies in that situation, we would be compelled to settle a claim (and maybe hire him, anyway) in order not to spend the next decade litigating at an enormous expense to the company.
I hope I'm here when Jim Bob shows up to fill out his employment paperwork. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to see me again. I won't mention the fact that we now have a film school named after him. That would be the kind of idiotic thing Loathsome would do. I might ask him how the bull riding is going, though, as if he might be having some success with it. In the meantime, I'm getting the break room ready for some more safety film reviews. Welcome home, Jim Bob, your film school is waiting for you.
America held hostage: Endlessly (I gave up counting long ago)
Bushism of the day:
"I've heard he's been called Bush's poodle. He's bigger than that." --George W. Bush, on former British Prime Minister Tony Blair, as quoted by the Sun newspaper, June 27, 200
Find your own gems at http://politicalhumor.about.c...
Vacation Envy
"To get away from one's working environment is, in a sense, to get away from one's self; and this is often the chief advantage of travel and change." ~ Charles Horton Cooley
Everyone in Crazy Land is either just back from a vacation, planning one or is taking one now. Because of my many years of service here, I have four weeks of vacation and five days of sick leave. I figure I won't really have any of those two until the year 2012. I've been out more than 5 weeks the past couple of years, having surgeries or chemotherapy. I spend a lot of time traveling to places where they torture me for the sake of my health; those get added into the time off tally, too. There will be no vacation for me and, frankly, I'm envious of those who get one. I might, on some days, be said to hate them a little bit.
How callously they talk about the great times they had or will have! I suppose I should be more genuinely celebratory with Crazy Land folks and their vacations, but I'm not. I make the appropriate sounds of appreciation for the things they've seen, note that they look rested. Inside? Surly.
I just had the day off for Independence Day, but days like that are usually spent in recovery from the built-up fatigue from never having a real vacation. Realistically, though, even if I had officially sanctioned vacation time, would I have vacation stamina? No.
In a couple of weeks, my mom is going to a big family reunion with the family I've never met. I was invited, but a four day weekend, surrounded by people I don't know is exhausting to merely contemplate. I'd really like to meet my uncles, aunts and cousins. They are (as far as I can tell) the sane branch of my family. My dad's family is, without exception, really really crazy. I wouldn't hazard a guess as to whether they're clinically insane (DSM-IV doesn't recognize "insane" as a diagnosis, or course), but they're crazy in the way that makes you hope they're never able to track you down.
I'm still not sleeping well, but I'm sure it's related to anxiety about the iffy area under my arm. I double checked the information about lymphedema and determined that it's not the cause of the pain and swelling. It certainly isn't the cause of the hard mass in roughly the same place.
I'm even boring myself today, coasting along half awake and suffering from vacation envy. Charles Horton Cooley speaks of getting away from one's self. If only. On the up side, the Phil Spector trial is back on this week. My vacation? Criminal prosecution of insane genius music producer who hates women, points guns at everyone and finally kills someone. I can hardly stand the excitement.
Scorpio Scorpion
You're a Scorpion!
You really enjoy weapons and like keeping as many of them at hand as possible, just in case. Most of these weapons are sharp, and you have a small collection of armor as well. You just can't be too careful these days. Maybe it's that you've always been small and feel threatened and this has prompted your elaborate collection to bloom. It's not too surprising that you've become a bit of a loner, even a hermit, with those tendencies. Or that your favorite actor is The Rock.
Take the Animal Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.
Don't eat the dogs
My Own Inner Cancer Survivor
Then everyone would leave the room and this huge machine would circle around me like a vulture. It would radiate for a while here, move, and radiate in another place. It usually went on for about half an hour. The machine made a lot of noise and, from my vantage point, I could see it internally repositioning itself (by technician-controlled computer) . Blades inside made a whirling sound as they moved. I started to have burns before many days passed. Big deal. I'd just finished up chemo. A few burns meant nothing to me.
As I lay there, I'd sometimes contemplate my radiation oncologist's explanations about the need for precision. If I moved during the radiation treatment (I love that word, "treatment"), it could radiate my lungs and/or heart because of the size of the area and its proximity to those organs. Sometimes I didn't think at all, drifting still in my poisonous haze. I just lay there and felt how much my body hurt. When it was over, I smiled and told the techs I'd see them tomorrow. I'd get dressed and go back to work. It makes me sad to think about that time.
I got unaccountably attached to my radiation techs, a young man and woman. We never talked much. I'd say hello and ask how they were. They'd answer and ask how I was. They knew how I was. I was dazed with pain, beaten down and generally felt like shit. I looked really good, too. It was nice that they asked, anyway.
Those techs were two more strangers I became comfortable with pulling and pushing my body around. At that point, it didn't really seem much like my body anyway. On my last day, the young woman tech rushed out and stood beside the door with a handful of confetti. As I walked out, she threw it up into the air. I actually hugged her. We hadn't had that kind of relationship, but I suppose all cancer treatment relationships become intense, if only for the patient. Actually, I think it's probably a little intense for the care providers, too. However, they need to protect themselves emotionally, of course, in order to survive the jobs they do. When I think about my own two radiation technicians, I'm still grateful and marvel at their gentleness. I would hug them both if I had a chance.
My own personal victory: I did what I could to liberate my fellow cancer patients by not wearing my wig. I was completely bald, of course, because I'd just finished chemo. By the time radiation was over, I was beginning to have a little baby bird fuzz. There was another young woman receiving radiation treatment for breast cancer whose appointment was always just after mine. After seeing me with my naked head for a couple of days, she started showing up without her wig. She told my mom one day, while I lay on that table in the radiation room, that she had never gone anywhere without her wig. Even her husband had never seen her without it. I gave her the courage.
I had begun to feel that, by wearing a wig, I was giving in to a sense of shame, almost. I was bald because I was trying to survive a terrible disease. Why would I hide that? I had lost all pretense to vanity a long time before my hair completely went away. Wearing a wig became more a gesture of protection for other people than for me. And, in fact, when I started coming to work without my wig, people were troubled. I told them that I'd gotten used to it and they would, too. I have no idea if they ever did, of course.
I decided that being bald was a profound symbol of exactly how difficult my life had become. It became a statement of pride. This is how much I can endure. This is how committed I am to staying alive. I not only have enough inner strength to keep going, I have enough strength to let you see how I've suffered. Furthermore, fuck you, cancer.
We all get through it how ever we can, though. I would never, ever judge another cancer patient for making a different decision about it. I think everyone should be as comfortable as they can be, in every possible way. If a scarf or a wig helps a little, then hallelujah. It's important to celebrate your Inner Cancer Survivor somehow, though, if you have enough energy. My way didn't take much of that.
I have my six-month check up with my radiation oncologist soon. We'll be having those little visits for the next five years. Sometimes it feels like all of it will never end, especially as I mark time until the next ultrasound.
Radiation ended, though. A year ago today. Here's to my own Inner Cancer Survivor.
