Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Cancer is the new Black
The other night I watched an Entertainment Tonight segment on Mr. T's battle with cancer. Elizabeth Edwards and Tony Snow are both dealing with recurrences. Melissa Etheridge sings about her ordeal. Ted Koppel aired a documentary about his friend Leroy Sievers, a journalist. Lance. I commented to Brian that "Everybody's doing it... I can't believe how 'hip' I am!"
"Cancer is the new Black," he said.
I've never been in on a trend before. As a kid, I had dorky hair and clothes. When I moved from California to Tennessee, my mom bought me school clothes that would have been reasonably accepted in Northern California (stirrup pants with oversized sweatshirts and shaker sweaters), but in Tennessee--which was a couple of years behind--made me look like I was wearing my pajamas to school.
It's not that cancer is some new scourge; it's that people are talking about it like never before. Look at me--not only am I talking about it, I am blogging about it, which is like the double-whammy of trends, these days. I'm so edgy, I might accidentally cut myself.
And I don't have to worry about growing out or cutting a dorky hairstyle: all I have to do is take that one off and slap another one on my lumpy, bald head. Chic.
"Cancer is the new Black," he said.
I've never been in on a trend before. As a kid, I had dorky hair and clothes. When I moved from California to Tennessee, my mom bought me school clothes that would have been reasonably accepted in Northern California (stirrup pants with oversized sweatshirts and shaker sweaters), but in Tennessee--which was a couple of years behind--made me look like I was wearing my pajamas to school.
It's not that cancer is some new scourge; it's that people are talking about it like never before. Look at me--not only am I talking about it, I am blogging about it, which is like the double-whammy of trends, these days. I'm so edgy, I might accidentally cut myself.
And I don't have to worry about growing out or cutting a dorky hairstyle: all I have to do is take that one off and slap another one on my lumpy, bald head. Chic.
Labels: baldness, blog, Brian, mom
Monday, November 20, 2006
Everything Old is New Again, and Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
First, let me apologize to those of you who read my blog via rss feed. I've switched to the new Google Beta version of Blogger. This in and of itself isn't really very important, except that now my blog posts can be tagged.
At first I thought I'd make general categories for my blog posts and have everything neatly organized, but then I started listing key terms like "nausea" and "hip" and "infusion" and "eyebrows" that appear in some posts but not others, and now the tags are just lists of descriptors that appear in each post (the term "Brian" appears most frequently, despite Brian's insistence that I don't mention him enough) and I've given up limiting the number of key terms I'm willing to use.
What is a pain for me is that I have to go in and list the keywords for each post manually. I've been doing it gradually because I have 89--now 90 blog posts to edit. What is a pain for you is that each time I edit one of these things, it appears to be showing up as a brand new blog post.
At least it does in my subscription on Bloglines.
So anyway, I'm sorry about the confusion, although this gives you a chance to re-read some pretty interesting posts from way back when without having to use the Internet Archive's Wayback Machine, which is currently the only way to view one of my favorites from when I was just discovering the wonders of the Internet (try 1998).
Last night in the course of my dreaming (something involving girl scouts and a flood and driving cars) I was utterly convinced that my long, thick chestnut brown hair needed to be put in a ponytail. I was actually getting somewhat frustrated, because my hair was so thick and silky that it kept slipping out of the ponytail holder and I had to try repeatedly.
It took me a while after I woke up to remember that I did not in fact have long, thick chestnut brown hair that could be put in a ponytail and that instead I look like a pasty eyebrowless gollem with an anemic sea urchin on its head. I don't think I look particularly good in a ponytail under the best of circumstances, so I guess the fact that I can't put my hair in one now is kind of pointless. I'm just tired of having to go through so much effort on a daily basis to look human. I am tired of painting the eyebrows on. I am tired of lining my eyes to simulate lashes or trying to use false lashes. I am tired of wearing detatchable hair.
At first I thought I'd make general categories for my blog posts and have everything neatly organized, but then I started listing key terms like "nausea" and "hip" and "infusion" and "eyebrows" that appear in some posts but not others, and now the tags are just lists of descriptors that appear in each post (the term "Brian" appears most frequently, despite Brian's insistence that I don't mention him enough) and I've given up limiting the number of key terms I'm willing to use.
What is a pain for me is that I have to go in and list the keywords for each post manually. I've been doing it gradually because I have 89--now 90 blog posts to edit. What is a pain for you is that each time I edit one of these things, it appears to be showing up as a brand new blog post.
At least it does in my subscription on Bloglines.
So anyway, I'm sorry about the confusion, although this gives you a chance to re-read some pretty interesting posts from way back when without having to use the Internet Archive's Wayback Machine, which is currently the only way to view one of my favorites from when I was just discovering the wonders of the Internet (try 1998).
Hair Dreams
Last night in the course of my dreaming (something involving girl scouts and a flood and driving cars) I was utterly convinced that my long, thick chestnut brown hair needed to be put in a ponytail. I was actually getting somewhat frustrated, because my hair was so thick and silky that it kept slipping out of the ponytail holder and I had to try repeatedly.
It took me a while after I woke up to remember that I did not in fact have long, thick chestnut brown hair that could be put in a ponytail and that instead I look like a pasty eyebrowless gollem with an anemic sea urchin on its head. I don't think I look particularly good in a ponytail under the best of circumstances, so I guess the fact that I can't put my hair in one now is kind of pointless. I'm just tired of having to go through so much effort on a daily basis to look human. I am tired of painting the eyebrows on. I am tired of lining my eyes to simulate lashes or trying to use false lashes. I am tired of wearing detatchable hair.
Labels: blog, Brian, eyebrows, google, hair, rss
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
New Logo!
I've been wanting some graphics on the website for a while now, and was dissatisfied with the notion of going with the ubiquitous pink ribbon. I wanted something a little more unique.
I may be working on a new favicon--fashioned after the logo--soon. I tried to download a plugin that would let me use photoshop to "save as" windows icons, but the PC I have at work is set up for security, and not for installing software. What a pain in the butt. I can't complain, because it's what we (the Systems Department) make everyone else go through, but I long for the days of running in admin mode willy-nilly instead of having to change logins to install stuff.
So what do you think? Too much? I'm rather taken with the googly pink eyes and happy smile.
I may be working on a new favicon--fashioned after the logo--soon. I tried to download a plugin that would let me use photoshop to "save as" windows icons, but the PC I have at work is set up for security, and not for installing software. What a pain in the butt. I can't complain, because it's what we (the Systems Department) make everyone else go through, but I long for the days of running in admin mode willy-nilly instead of having to change logins to install stuff.
So what do you think? Too much? I'm rather taken with the googly pink eyes and happy smile.
Labels: blog, favicon, graphics, logo, photoshop, pink ribbon, smile
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Boob-log or Boobliography?
Brian suggested the other day that my blog could actually be considered a boobliography. I had originally thought of calling it a Boob-log, but now I'm not so sure. What do you think? Would a boobliography be more like the list of breast-related resources at the right, or could this whole thing be considered one? Should I stay with my original impulse? Should I embrace change? I must know. Please send your comments.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Recognition: I'm not sure why, but somebody's reading me
Here it is. I'm on somebody's list. I hope that whatever information or stories get posted here are helpful to other people; I find it helpful for myself to write things down and do this mostly as a selfish exercise. I also got tired of trying to remember whom I've told what and if I left anything out, so it's easier to do things in one place. You will find on your visit here that I have something akin to gallows' humor about my situation, and I often comment on the more bizarre or humorous things that have gone on.
Feel free to contact me, unless it's to congratulate me for my fortitude. I do get tired of hearing "how brave" I am. My goal is not to be some sort of poster child for early breast cancer detection (I failed at that one anyway...early detection didn't help me). I'm also not brave for being afflicted; it's just a fact and I have to put up with it. I certainly don't go around telling anyone, "How cowardly you must be for being perfectly healthy!" If there's anything you have questions about or you just want to say "hi," I'd be delighted to hear from you.
Welcome.
Labels: blog
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Phew; where to begin?
So much has happened in the time since my last post. I regret not having been able to chronicle things as they occurred. At this point I think most of the three or so people who read this blog are up to date, but I will try to reconstruct events (to the best of my ability) after the fact.
After my less-than-delightful news about the cause of my joint pain (which just had to be delivered by the incredibly condescending doctor whom I have since given several bad ratings in a mail survey sent to me by Oakwood Westland Family Practice), I intended to soldier on and go about my business. I contacted the University of Michigan Cancer Center, and was told that I would have to supply them with all of the conceivable medical records relating to my initial cancer diagnosis. Slides, mammograms, X-rays, scans, pathology reports, everything.
I was unable to do much of anything besides make phone calls; Brian did most of the collecting. He went to various hospitals and gathered piles of films and scans and CDs. He tried looking at them too, but to a lay person they don't make much sense. The Cancer Center called and said I had an appointment with Dr. Daniel Hayes on November 29. I met the doctor and Lita, his nurse practitioner who both seemed very kind and yet somewhat disquieting. Nobody asked the really dangerous questions, and nobody seemed inclined to provide answers to what remained unasked: how bad is it? How long do I have? What's the prognosis? Will I get better?
What they did do is start setting up appointments like gangbusters. I was to come back the next day to meet with the orthopedic surgeon to find out if surgery would be required for my hip. I was to have the first of my monthly infusions of a bone-strengthening drug and the first injection of the pellet which has by now completely shut down my ovaries (there will not be the pitter-patter of little feet in my future unless the little feet are attached to a puppy), and I was to meet with the radiation oncologist to get "measured" for the radiation treatments.
The next day I was back at the medical center being wheeled around. Good news from the surgeon: no surgery. It wouldn't really help at this point, and radiation would be of more benefit. The infusion was unpleasant, as they always are; the iv lady couldn't get the iv started and after several failed attempts had to get somebody else to do it. The giant needle used to insert the pellet hurt like a m***** f*****. When they say "You might feel a little sting," be prepared for the PAIN.
Finally I went to meet the radiation oncologist, who was oddly smiley, and the radiation people put me on the table, made some marks on my body, and then said something which sounded disturbingly like, "Ok, now we're going to do the tattoos."
"Is that really necessary?" I said. I'd had it with being stabbed for one day.
It wasn't. They were able to make do with stickers, so I avoided acquiring permanent markings as a sign of my treatment. (I did eventually get something of a radiation burn on some very private areas--and suffered some rather interesting hair loss--but the rash went away and I assume the hair will eventually grow back. If not, I'll forever be able to save money on the kind of bikini wax job people pay good money for.)
Sitting up from the table, I started to feel very ill...I am extremely familiar with nausea and started having that extreme saliva production that heralds the onset of, well, the puking. Somebody grabbed a pink tray for me, and I spewed into that for a moment. Of course the involuntary spasms caused no small amount of agony in my hip.
Later that evening, getting into the car, I had trouble turning on my good foot and accidentally put my full weight on the injured side.
Agony.
Every bump in the road compounded it.
Getting out of the car took forever.
Getting up the steps was one of the hardest and most painful things I've ever done; putting any weight at all on my right leg caused horrible, excruciating pain. Dangling the leg and putting no weight on it caused similar, but different pain. Every time I was able to hoist myself onto the next step, my right foot would tap the step as well, causing more agony. About halfway up the staircase I started to feel like my left hip was snapping apart as well. I don't know how I finally made it; Brian tried to help but lifting under my arms didn't work either. I eventually made it onto the landing and it took about a half an hour to go from the front door to the bathroom. From there I went to bed, where I planned to stay the next day.
Before leaving for work the next morning, Brian made sure I would have pills and water nearby, and that I'd have access to a phone. When I woke up and attempted to get out of bed, I was made painfully aware that I was not going to be able to do so. I couldn't get out of bed, much less cross the hall to go to the bathroom or make it down the stairs to any of my radiation appointments. I called Brian and left a message; Brian called Lita and started planning how to get me admitted to UM Hospital's Emergency Room.
To be continued...
After my less-than-delightful news about the cause of my joint pain (which just had to be delivered by the incredibly condescending doctor whom I have since given several bad ratings in a mail survey sent to me by Oakwood Westland Family Practice), I intended to soldier on and go about my business. I contacted the University of Michigan Cancer Center, and was told that I would have to supply them with all of the conceivable medical records relating to my initial cancer diagnosis. Slides, mammograms, X-rays, scans, pathology reports, everything.
I was unable to do much of anything besides make phone calls; Brian did most of the collecting. He went to various hospitals and gathered piles of films and scans and CDs. He tried looking at them too, but to a lay person they don't make much sense. The Cancer Center called and said I had an appointment with Dr. Daniel Hayes on November 29. I met the doctor and Lita, his nurse practitioner who both seemed very kind and yet somewhat disquieting. Nobody asked the really dangerous questions, and nobody seemed inclined to provide answers to what remained unasked: how bad is it? How long do I have? What's the prognosis? Will I get better?
What they did do is start setting up appointments like gangbusters. I was to come back the next day to meet with the orthopedic surgeon to find out if surgery would be required for my hip. I was to have the first of my monthly infusions of a bone-strengthening drug and the first injection of the pellet which has by now completely shut down my ovaries (there will not be the pitter-patter of little feet in my future unless the little feet are attached to a puppy), and I was to meet with the radiation oncologist to get "measured" for the radiation treatments.
The next day I was back at the medical center being wheeled around. Good news from the surgeon: no surgery. It wouldn't really help at this point, and radiation would be of more benefit. The infusion was unpleasant, as they always are; the iv lady couldn't get the iv started and after several failed attempts had to get somebody else to do it. The giant needle used to insert the pellet hurt like a m***** f*****. When they say "You might feel a little sting," be prepared for the PAIN.
Finally I went to meet the radiation oncologist, who was oddly smiley, and the radiation people put me on the table, made some marks on my body, and then said something which sounded disturbingly like, "Ok, now we're going to do the tattoos."
"Is that really necessary?" I said. I'd had it with being stabbed for one day.
It wasn't. They were able to make do with stickers, so I avoided acquiring permanent markings as a sign of my treatment. (I did eventually get something of a radiation burn on some very private areas--and suffered some rather interesting hair loss--but the rash went away and I assume the hair will eventually grow back. If not, I'll forever be able to save money on the kind of bikini wax job people pay good money for.)
Sitting up from the table, I started to feel very ill...I am extremely familiar with nausea and started having that extreme saliva production that heralds the onset of, well, the puking. Somebody grabbed a pink tray for me, and I spewed into that for a moment. Of course the involuntary spasms caused no small amount of agony in my hip.
Later that evening, getting into the car, I had trouble turning on my good foot and accidentally put my full weight on the injured side.
Agony.
Every bump in the road compounded it.
Getting out of the car took forever.
Getting up the steps was one of the hardest and most painful things I've ever done; putting any weight at all on my right leg caused horrible, excruciating pain. Dangling the leg and putting no weight on it caused similar, but different pain. Every time I was able to hoist myself onto the next step, my right foot would tap the step as well, causing more agony. About halfway up the staircase I started to feel like my left hip was snapping apart as well. I don't know how I finally made it; Brian tried to help but lifting under my arms didn't work either. I eventually made it onto the landing and it took about a half an hour to go from the front door to the bathroom. From there I went to bed, where I planned to stay the next day.
Before leaving for work the next morning, Brian made sure I would have pills and water nearby, and that I'd have access to a phone. When I woke up and attempted to get out of bed, I was made painfully aware that I was not going to be able to do so. I couldn't get out of bed, much less cross the hall to go to the bathroom or make it down the stairs to any of my radiation appointments. I called Brian and left a message; Brian called Lita and started planning how to get me admitted to UM Hospital's Emergency Room.
To be continued...
Labels: blog, Brian, Dr. Hayes, hip, infusion, IV, Lita, nausea, Oakwood, radiation, spasms, University of Michigan Cancer Center, Zometa
