Did you miss me?

I’m back. I took a bit of a break over the last week. The pressure of the holidays is always a little intense, and I have to admit that for the most part, I’m glad they’re over. There are highlights, of course, one of which is a special sweatshirt from The Pretty Girl to her Mum. And then there’s work. That’s a whole other set of pressures.


Let’s see, what’s new? I’ve finished 12 of 33 radiation sessions. So far, so good, not much to mention. I’m beginning to notice some skin irritation but it’s manageable with the burn cream provided by the center and 100% aloe gel.

And my hair is growing! It’s a slow process and it will be months before there’s enough to push out of my eyes, but it’s growing. Looks gray, or salt-and-pepper at best. Imagine that! I’ll post pictures when there’s a little more to see.

I think (hope!) that my breast cancer sally is moving from being the major player in my life to a supporting role. Radiation will continue until about January 25. I have an appointment with my oncologist on January 22, presumably to discuss and establish my drug therapy plan (five years of an estrogen-inhibiting drug).

I won’t stop writing this blog, I just won’t put so much emphasis on my cancer. I plan to publish it into a book and have already found a company that will allow me to self-publish. I’m very excited about that. And there’s plenty more to discuss—good books and movies, presidential politics, Boston sport teams (how ‘bout them 16-0 Patriots, huh?)

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It's almost Christmas

I'm sending you all a cyber-hug and wishes for a wonderful holiday with the people you love. This can be a very difficult time of year and sometimes it's hard to find reasons to be thankful and grateful, particularly when facing the loss of someone you love or tough times for whatever the reason. In your own way, each of you has touched my life over the last six months, and with luck we'll continue to walk together for a long, long time to come.

Merry Christmas. God bless us every one.

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Who reads this blog?

We have a counter on the blog that shows us where readers are located. Here’s a recap of the last 100 visits:


California: Chico and Desert Hot Springs
Florida: Lake Mary
Maine: Edgecomb and Wiscasset
Massachusetts: Boston, Boxford, Easthampton, Haverhill, Lawrence, Lexington, Lynnfield, Marblehead, North Andover, Reading, Rowley, Taunton, and Woburn
New Hampshire: Concord, Lyndeborough, North Salem, and Suncook
New York: Schenectady
Pennsylvania: Schnecksville
Virginia: Mechanicsville
Wisconsin: Madison

And from outside the U.S.:
Devonport, Tasmania, Australia
Carouge, Geneve, Switzerland
Salisbury, Wiltshire, United Kingdom

Pretty cool, huh?

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Radiation photos

As promised, finally, here are some pics of the radiation machine.


I’m not quite sure how to describe everything (what, me at a loss for words? HA!) That round section that’s above the table—the radiation beam is delivered from the section. Now look at the second picture.



This shows you the underside of that round section, what I see when I look up at it. See the two rows of thin grey bars that meet in the middle? They’re like two bar graphs, and those individual thin bars separate to make specifically-shaped images so the radiation beam can be targeted to deliver the good exactly where they need to go,

In this shot, the image “hole” looks a little like an anvil (yes it does…!) Another of my images looks like the state of Vermont, and a third one looks like a sea horse. Hey, when you’re on your back getting radiated, your mind goes to strange places!



That round head rotates around the table to deliver from a variety of angles (the third picture shows the machine rotated 90+ degrees to one side. I get hit with seven different blasts from three different directions: one straight down with the head directly above me; from the left at about the number 10 on the clock, and from far down on my right (I can’t see how far down because I have my head turned to the left). Those left and right shots are more targeted to the area where the cancer was found; the overhead hit delivers to the entire breast.

This third pic also shows the table without the drape. My upper body is elevated slightly and my arms and hands are extended over my head and rest in the supports. It’s a very comfortable process and is over in less than 10 minutes.

Any questions????

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The color purple

Stuff they don't tell you about chemotherapy: my purple finger and toenail beds are an indication of dead nails. I can look forward to them peeling and eventually falling away. What fun!

I wondered throughout chemo treatment why my nails continued to be so strong and to grow. Chemo, after all, targets fast-growing cells (cancel cells--we hope, and hair) and I assumed nails would be among the fast-growing population.

They are, but from the point of growth (duh!), which is why it is only in the last few weeks that I've noticed the purple tint to a few nail beds. Now I know the reason.

I'm told to be patient, it will take a few months for the cycle to complete itself. It could be worse, right??

Radiation photos are coming, really. Maybe later tonight.

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Radiation Day 4

Where does the time go? Day Four today, uneventful (except for the male technician... but as the woman who went in ahead of me said, "At this point, all modesty has gone right out the window.") She knows the drill.

No skin reaction yet. Took some photos but I need one of my two "I-know-how-to-download-photos-out-of-the-digital-camera" gurus to get them up here on the blog. Patience, please?

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No radiation today

Snowed out. Took almost 3 hours to go from work (Marblehead) to home; called radiation en route and I was the only one they were waiting for. At that point I was 1 1/2 hours away (minimum), so we cancelled. I'll go tomorrow and we'll add a session on to the end of the cycle.

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I forgot the camera today

It's packed for tomorrow. Pics tomorrow night!

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One down....

... 29 to go! Radiation for real was rather uneventful. Just like simulation, only when the "BEAM ON" light it lit you know it means business.

My course involves nine blasts (one long, one short, machine is repositioned; one long, two short, machine repositioned; two more cycles of one long and one short with a repositioning in between). Duration of the blasts is about eight to 10 seconds for the long, 2 seconds for the short. I think. I'll count tomorrow.

I'll bring the camera tomorrow too and shoot some pics so you can see the machine. It's a little hard to explain how it all happens.

Good skin care is important during radiation. I've already told you I have to use an all natural deodorant. I can't use powders (cornstarch only). I have two different products the radiology teams suggests I use every few hours to keep my skin in good condition. One is Aquaphor (a thick ointment for dry or irritated skin), the other is a burn cream. I've been using the Aquaphor for a few weeks to get my skin ready for the assault. I'll start with the burn cream tonight.

I have to wash everything off four hours before the radiation treatment and go to the treatment "clean." Presently my appointment is at 4 p.m., which means I need to be cleaned up at noon (that includes washing off deodorant).

I asked today if there's a chance I can move my appointment to early morning, and there is an opening at 8:40 a.m. starting on January 3. It makes sense to change to that time as soon as possible because it gives me more time during the day to use products to help protect my skin and help it heal. They say it will be a few weeks before I notice any real symptoms of redness and "sunburn."

So, like I said, pretty unremarkable. The facility is warm and inviting, the staff is friendly and caring. If you have to go through this, it's a great place to be.

Photos to come.

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Radiation simulation complete

OK, I’ve been simulated, it’s time to get radiated. Tonight I wave goodbye to my Degree and bid a reluctant “hey there” to Tom’s of Maine. (Did I say all of this once before? It sounds familiar. Ah, get over it, Penny.)

So simulation was rather uneventful. Apparently the measurements taken the last time were all OK because I really do get to go back and get started tomorrow. I didn’t take a good look at the machine today; I’ll do that tomorrow and give you a complete report.

BTW, I made the “Letters to the Editor” column in the most recent issue of the “AARP” magazine (January/February 2008 issue with Caroline Kennedy on the cover). I’d written in response to an article in the last issue that listed reasons why women don’t get mammograms. For those of you who didn’t bother to read the letters (and to the rest of you too young to receive this fine publication), here’s a reprint:

‘Your article on why women are avoiding mammograms [Navigator Health, “What’s Your Excuse?”] worried me immensely. I’m the midst of chemotherapy for breast cancer and because I never miss a mammogram, my cancer was caught early. Women, please, schedule an appointment today, and tell someone you love to do the same.’

Signed with my name and home town. Pretty cool to be published nationally.

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Last day before radiation

Well, sort of. Tomorrow (Monday) is my simulation day. They'll use the tests and calculations done/made a few weeks ago and do a "dry run" to make sure the machine is set properly. The fun really starts on Tuesday.

I had more energy today than I've had in a long time. I went to IKEA and knocked off the majority of the holiday shopping, then did the food shopping, and now I'm working on my second load of laundry. Feels good, and I'll take it while I can get it.

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And then there was today

I feel like I got dragged around on my ass today. I'm so tired, it's an effort to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving.

Just goes to show that there are no promises or guarantees, and that every day is different. I'm hold on to hopes I can do the holiday shopping on Sunday--it feels like the only chance I'll have to get it done. If I don't, everyone gets an IOU in a card!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I read a story in today's Eagle-Tribune about a 15-year old young man from Haverhill (MA) who died Wednesday of acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Andrew Gmelch Jr., sounds like he was a remarkable young man who maintained an optimistic outlook and his smile. The story absolutely broke my heart. I hope you have room in your heart for a prayer for Andrew and his family.

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Moving right along

I continue to move in a forward direction and with some sense of control. It feels good, really.

I feel like it's OK to plan ahead a little--think about the weekend and all that needs to be done in anticipation of Christmas. Radiation starts on Monday, so I feel like Sunday will be a "must shop" day. I've done very little shopping, haven't given much thought to decorating (except to think that maybe, with a new cat in the house, that we may be smarter to pass on a Christmas tree). I did manage to send out holiday cards and letters (my mother's holiday card this year takes the award for the funniest, hands down--if you got one, you understand!)

So, until Monday gets here, there isn't much to share. But believe me, when the action starts again, you'll be the first to know.

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How long have you waited to read this...?

I feel really good today! More energy than I've had in a long time, good focus, managed to juggle a couple of problems at work and wasn't daunted by the challenges. Is it possible that more good days are just ahead?

Dave and I went out for dinner (our usually and customary Tuesday Night Date Night) at the 99 in Wilmington, where Paul the bartender made me the finest Grey Goose Dirty Vodka Martini I've ever had.

Will the good time continue? Time will tell. It's sure to go downhill with radiation. I have to remember to take things one day at a time. My friend Diane (herself a BC badge holder--I hate the term "survivor," even though to this point we have survived) reminded me recently that I'd dropped an atomic bomb in my system. Interesting choice of words and it really made me stop and think.

She's right. I've been describing it as feeling like a 55-gallon drum on toxic waste. Atomic bomb sounds so much more appropriate.

On another matter, my beautiful PJ celebrated her 24th birthday yesterday. I don't know how she got to be 24. I certainly haven't aged these lase 24 years.

So that got me to thinking: what are some necessary skills one should have by age 24? I invite you to add to the following list:
* drive a standard-shift vehicle
* handle a church key
* run the washer and dryer without overloading either
* polish your resume and go on a killer interview

What have you go to add?

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So tired of being tired

Went food shopping yesterday and then spent almost the entire afternoon snoozing under my favorite blanket. How tired is it acceptable to be at this point in recovery?

I wish I knew the answer to the question. I was there was a map with target points spelled out so you'd know what is normal and what isn't. I hate complaining, really I do, and I can't imagine it's any fun for you to keep reading my complaints. I wish someone before me had done a blog that could have read so I'd know if where I find myself is when I ought to be. I guess that's part of the reason I'm doing this, so the next person will have some idea of that to expect. God, I hope there isn't a "next" but I can't promise myself there won't be.

Tomorrow is PJ's 24th birthday. (24??? How the hell did that happen!!) I went shopping this morning at Target and picked up some things I'm sure she can't possibly live without (but I'm holding onto the sales receipt, just in case!) She's so easy to please, and is more than content with promises that we'll go out and get something that she really wants. I'd rather have things for her to open and then go along on the exchange trip.

You'll notice that I changed the color of the type on these last two grafs. That's another thing I'm stealing from my friend Tanya's blog. She posts her breast cancer-related comments in pink and everything else in white. So as not to copy her directly, I'll put the non-cancer stuff in another color. That way, you can see right away whether I'm yakking about BC or life in general, and govern yourself accordingly. Hopefully you'll read everything.

Sooner or later I'm going to run out of BC news and updates. With luck.

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Time for a haircut

That's what I read when I opened my e-mail this morning--I had one of those periodic announcements from SuperCuts, letting me know that sufficient time has passed (according to their calculations), and it's time for me to come in for a cut.

I should print out the announcement, complete with the accompanying $1 coupon, and drive right on up to the local shop. I wonder what they can do to improve upon my current state of nothingness! Hey, with luck I'll get a $2 coupon on my first someday-down-the-road haircut.

I really can't wait to get my hair cut. Seriously, I can't wait to have that choice--to cut it or not. I continue my obsession with hair, I'm constantly looking at the way people wear their hair, the care they show their hair (usually not much), and what their hair styles tell me about them.

It's probably a sad mind game I play with myself, but it beats brooding about it. I've gotten over being sad about my hair loss. The only thing that's troublesome about it now is how cold I am without hair. That's probably a great reason to pull out the wig; but that's a whole different hair trauma.

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Thankful Journal Day 30

Thankful the week is over, that I managed to give the job 40 hours (haven't done that in ages), and most of all, thankful to the people on my team who took me to a neighborhood bar and bought me the first cocktail I've had in a L-O-N-G time (dirty vodka martini, made the mistake of going with 'house' vodka, next time we order Grey Goose).

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Two weeks post chemo

It’s been two weeks since my last (!) chemo treatment, and it’s been a long, hard road. Last week was absolutely the worst week I’ve ever had, hands down. Every day I feel more clear headed, which is such a nice change from the fog that had been normal for so long.


I notice the change the most at work. It’s nice to go to the office and feel like I can make a contribution to the department. I am getting back the ability to concentrate on projects, participate in a meaningful way in conversations and meetings, and give my team thoughtful and useful feed back to their questions and concerns.

Operating as I did on less that full strength for such a long time was mentally challenging and emotionally draining. You begin to question your value and whether the ordeal you are going through by way of treatment is worth everything you perceive you will lose while you sit on the sidelines, unable to pull your weight.

And that’s just what I was feeling about my job. The same feelings of drifting aimlessly, failing to contribute, and sitting by and watching life go one without me was happening at home. I turned down countless offers to go someplace, do something, most of those from PJ. She always took my decline with grace and kindness, never hinted at disappointment.

I just can’t imagine how much more overwhelming all of this might have been without all the love and support I got from Dave, PJ, family and friends, and my coworkers.

How do people who live alone get through this? How do parents with kids that need and demand their attention get through this? How do children or the frail elderly get through this?

My chief complaint now is being physically tired and that I’m sleeping poorly at night. The tired feeling will get better when my sleeping pattern improves. An occasional hit of Tylenol PM isn’t a bad choice (doc approves). Tonight might just be one of those nights.

So, it’s all getting better. Thanks for hanging in.

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Thankful Journal Day 29

Thankful for Dave, for coming home to a lovely dinner--turkey, stuffing, gravy, and squash! Squash was the only thing "missing" from the Thanksgiving table (and only because I'm the only one who will eat it, and I wasn't ready for it). Dave remembered and made it for me tonight. Made me cry. What a guy, huh?

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Thankful Journal Day 28

You know what? I’m feeling fairly decent. A little energy, a little appetite. It’s nice not to feel like a toxic waste dump. Something will come along and rock the boat (something usually does), but for now, life is pretty darn OK.

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Thankful Journal Day 27

Thankful for good food and the nice company of our friend Tanya. She joined us at the 99 in Wilmington for a couple of beers, and I finally got to order a "Nine's Burger," my first beef in months. Soon enough I'll be back on hops and malt as well.

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Baby, it’s cold outside!

You know that theory that you lose 30% of your body heat through your head? Or is it higher than that? Whatever the percent, now that I’m bald, I’m a big fan of hats.


You know that theory that you lose 30% of your body heat through your head? Or is it higher than that? Whatever the percent, now that I’m bald, I’m a big fan of hats.

My head and ears are always cold these days. And so are my feet. I can’t figure out the correlation between not wearing a hat on my head and having cold feet. I’ve even been known (by no more than two people and one cat) to wear a hat in bed. Flannel sheets up around my nose and a red knit cap on my head. It’s a wicked attractive look.

Not that I’m glad all this has happened, but it if had to, I’m happy it’s happening in cold weather. I can hide my head under hats and bandanas (although I’m daring myself to go au naturel to the office some one of these days). Hats in the middle of a summer heat event would be a sad time for everyone involved.

Another sad fact of having no hair is that I can’t push my eyeglasses up on top of my head any more. That was always the place I felt first when I needed my reading glasses (and unless you wear glasses you won’t understand the gesture). If I push my glasses up onto my head they keep riding up and over the dome and fall behind me. Fortunately we’re talking about reading glasses I buy for a buck a pair at the Dollar Tree store in Sanford, Maine, so it’s not like I’m going broke.

I can’t get used to those eyeglass chords or straps, the things you plug into the ends of the ear pieces that let your unworn glasses dangle at your chest. Nope. I’m not old enough for that look (sorry, it’s just a personal preference).

Radiation starts in two weeks and I have to throw away my Degree for Women Shower Clean Body Responsive Antiperspirant and Deodorant in favor of Tom’s of Maine Natural Long-Lasting Deodorant Stick. I hope Tom and I can strike a balance over our 44-day relationship (30 sessions, plus weekends and holidays). If not, I’ll call to you from across the room or send you a note.

Ah, the things I do for my cancer.

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Thankful Journal Day 26

Thankful today that my BCBF Tanya started her radiation treatments. Her diagnosis came with its own unique set of circumstances and treatment decision challenges (as does every diagnosis and sally). I'm glad she's moving ahead and getting ready to leave it all behind.

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Mammograms and Lies

I wrote the following in October and submitted it to a newspaper for publication. Haven't heard from them. I'd rather share it with you.


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Have you had a mammogram in the last 366 days? If not, schedule one or lie to me.

I had one in April and it saved my life. I was diagnosed with breast cancer, had two surgeries, and am bald due to ongoing chemotherapy. Once that ends I face six to seven weeks of radiation, then five years of drug therapy. I couldn’t be happier.

Happy? Yes, I’m alive.

My mission since diagnosis has been to tell one woman a day to schedule a mammogram, or tell one man to remind a woman he loves to have one. (And yes, breast cancer strikes men too, and they need to be aware of changes on their bodies.)

I am stunned by the numbers of women who can look me in the eye (or talk into my ear or type into my e-mail) and tell me why they don’t have regular mammograms.

• “I can’t be bothered to take the time.” Dying is a bigger waste of time.
• “It’s painful.” Yes, sometimes it is, but it’s less so than biopsies and surgeries.
• “I might get a recall notice and have to go back for another.” If your mechanic asked to see the car again, would you refuse?
• “I’m too busy.” You find time to get your nails done, go out for coffee, hit the gym, sleep late, or wander the mall.
• “I don’t have insurance,” or “I can’t afford one.” There are programs that offer free services to people in need.

And what if you do get a call back or a diagnosis? You fight and you move forward.

I wish my life hadn’t been interrupted with the news from my April mammogram. I wish I didn’t have to see the sadness in the eyes of my husband and daughter as they watch me endure the sometimes miserable aspects of my treatment. I wish I didn’t spend hours on the couch wrapped in blankets to beat back the chills, or days wracked with nausea. I wish I had the energy to give my job a solid eight hours every day, commute another two, and have something left to give when I get home.

All those sound like great reasons to forgo a mammogram. But they’re not. The chills are gone in a matter of hours. The nausea is over in a couple of days. The energy comes back in about a week. I’m learning that the wonderful machine that is my body has plenty of fight in it.

I have a lot of living to do, and my breast cancer diagnosis isn’t going to stop me. I want be around to celebrate my daughter’s accomplishments and commiserate when she’s unhappy, listen to my husband snore, bake apple pies, entertain and be entertained by friends, and eat Ben and Jerry’s coffee Heath Bar ice cream.

I want to be promoted and earn a fat raise, take my new passsport to Switzerland, take out the trash on Tuesday mornings, feed seagulls at the beach, read newspapers, write in my blog, snuggle with maybe-someday grandbabies, buy a new car, and clean the spare room. The list is endless, as it should be.

I’ll keep having mammograms, and if the breast cancer comes back, I’ll find the best way to fight it and keep moving forward.

If you don’t respect yourself enough and love your family and friends enough to do the same, have the decency to lie to me about it.

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Thankful Journal Day 25

Thankful today for a quiet day to contemplate many things. Sadly, it’s back to work tomorrow.

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Thankful Journal Day 24

Thankful today for the bright light in the sky. It’s a sunny (albeit cold) day and it begs for me to put my shoes on and go someplace, and try to put some of the recent difficulty behind me. Maybe it’s a sign that things are ready to turn around? It's been so dank and gloomy lately, this is a lovely change of scenery.

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Thankful Journal Day 23

Thankful today to spend time with my cousin Peter and his wife Laura (click through for a photo).


They make the annual T-giving trek from their home in Hartford to his sister’s in Manchester, NH, and they always stop here on the day after the holiday for another food fest. Turkey, stuffing, gravy, pies, and lots of love and togetherness. It’s what this holiday is all about.

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Thanksgiving 2007 in the rear view mirror

Yesterday was an extraordinarily difficult day. All the cumulative effects of chemotherapy decided Thursday morning, the holiday, would be the perfect time to settle in and try to turn the day into a disaster (click through for a photo).

I spent the morning on the couch, holding on for dear life through waves of nausea and dizzy spells that made me very unsteady on my feet. Dave and PJ hovered nearby offering anything and everything they could think of, but there was nothing to do but wait if out. Of course, they refused to drive to the family gathering in Maine without me (I’d have been very “happy” to take to my and pull the covers over my head). By noon the serious badness seemed to pass and we headed for Route 95.

Thanksgiving isn’t just Thursday with a fancy turkey dinner. It’s about family, friends, and all that wonderful food. When have you know me to turn down food of just about any kind? I did yesterday, in spades. I managed a couple of crackers and pieces on cheese, then “feasted” on a few slices of turkey, tablespoon-sized portions of stuffing, potatoes, and Kelly’s green bean casserole. I passed on the pies (Dutch apple, mince, and pecan), the tarts and raspberry squares, ignored the pickle and olive trays, the leek dip and veggie platter, the bucket of mixed nuts, and all the alcohol. At another point in time I’d have welcomed each as an old friend.


I was absolutely blessed yesterday to be with people I love. Dave and PJ; my mother; brother Ted, his wife Cindy, and my nephews Ted and Tom; sister Kelly and her husband Bill (and later in the day their “girls” Rudy and Duncan). Our gather was complete with Bill’s mother Lillian, his brother David, sister Ann, and Ann’s squeeze Scott. We toasted the important things—our togetherness, my dad, and better days to come. It turned out to be as perfect a day as conditions allowed.

Now it’s Friday morning, and things look brighter on all fronts. I just finished breakfast—a cup of tea and one of Lillian’s raspberry squares.

Now it’s time to cook a turkey of our own. I’ve got a nine-pound breast sitting on the kitchen counter and a date later today with my cousin Peter and his wife Laura, who make a stop here on their way home to Hartford from Manchester, NH. This is our tradition on the day after the holiday.

I hope your holiday was warm and wonderful.

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Thankful Journal Day 22

It's Thanksgiving and I'm more thankful than you'll ever know that I was able to make it to Maine this afternoon and spend the day with my family. Check tomorrow for photos.

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Getting Ready to Give Thanks

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. It's always been my favorite holiday.

When I was younger it was the holiday we spent with my mother's sister and her family. Whether we traveled to Manchester, New Hampshire to spend the day at Aunt Nat and Uncle George's home with cousins Melissa and Peter and their dog Pearl, or they all came to our place in Wakefield, there was nothing as wonderful as that day together.

Over the years that tradition slipped away. Nat and George are together in heaven (I assume), having died on the same day, ten years apart. Now Melissa hosts the holiday for her husband's family, and Peter and his wife Laura make the journey from Hartford back to Manchester. We'll see them on Friday for turkey sandwiches before they head home.

We had what was undoubtedly one of our best Thanksgivings 13 years ago tomorrow. Two things happened that made it a spectacular day.

My father had been given the good news that he'd beaten the lung cancer he'd been diagnosed with earlier that summer.

Dave survived a midnight car crash—he was hit broad-side by a car load of drunks, pushed through an intersection, up an incline and through a fence, and into a parking lot. The EMTs who responded assumed from the look of the wreckage that Dave was a dead man. He refused the ambulance ride to the hospital. He woke me with blood on his face, I woke PJ, and we spent the evening in the emergency room.

So there we sat on Thanksgiving, feeling blessed by whatever force it was that was out there handing out the good stuff. Dave was suffering in pain but we were grateful he was not just alive, but able to sit in the same room and enjoy our Thanksgiving meal.

And my father? We were high on excitement. He'd mastered the beast and would be with us for a long time to come. He'd see his grandchildren give him great-grandchildren.

But that wasn't to be. My Dad died in early January, not even two months from that wonderful day when the world was bright and we had so many expectations about so many tomorrows.

There were so many things we never got to talk about. Hopefully when all was finally said, we said the things that were really important.

So, tomorrow is Thanksgiving. We have a lot to be thankful for, I know. I just don't feel comfortable about it all this year. Frankly, I'm scared we could find ourselves in the same kind of place we were in 13 years ago—filled with false hope and expectations of things that won't come to be.

It's pessimistic as hell, I know. I'll be scolded by some for all of this, but it's honestly how I feel.

Let tomorrow come, and let it roll along. We'll hold hands, give thanks, tip our glasses to one another and to the sky, and try to be grateful for all that we have.

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Buzzed

PJ just buzzed my peach-fuzz all off. Now we can officially watch my hair grow back!

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Thankful Journal Day 21

Today is my first day in recent memory that I’m cancer-drug-free. No more post-chemotherapy drugs for me, I'm done with them. All I need to do is get all the effects out of my system and try to enjoy tomorrow’s holiday. It’s my favorite day of the year and I can’t wait to spent it with the people who mean the most to me.

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Trying to say goodbye to Chemo #4

Man, it’s hard to let go of all these rotten chemicals in my system. Today was tough; nauseous, dizzy, just not in a good place at all. At least it’s normal, just the Chemo Brain syndrome that bothered me last time, back to bother me again.

It’ll all be over in a few more days and I’ll get a break for a few weeks before radiation starts.

I took my LAST dose of post-chemo drugs this morning. I wanted badly to skip it but figured it was better to take it than not to. Someone smarter than I decided it was important for my body to have it.

Tomorrow I can celebrate being drug-free.

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Thankful Journal Day 20

We made my mother very happy today—Dave uploaded some photos to Wal-Mart online last night and she was able to pick up the prints at her local Wal-Mart in Maine this morning. Talk about convenience! Nice.

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Thankful Journal Day 19

Today I am thankful for patience. I can drive to the next town and buy a Christmas tree. No deal. A few things have to happen before I start decorating for Christmas, and one of those things will be to celebrate Thanksgiving. Goodness, we’re all in such a hurry to have our lives speed by.

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Treatment #4, Second Day

Just back from a 24-hour mini-break to Maine. Didn’t sleep well last night, it’s the drugs (the culprit is Decadron, a steroid with a first-listed side-effect of insomnia).


I’m on it twice daily yesterday, today, tomorrow, and then Tuesday morning. Beginning tonight I can cut the dose in half and hopefully avoid the serious sleep loss and depression I felt the week following Chemo #3. I don’t look forward to another week of “Chemo Brain,” but if that’s what has to happen, at least I’ll understand what’s happening.

So, after Tuesday I’ll be OFF DRUGS until radiation is complete. Then I go on the five-year drug plan (not sure which one yet and at the moment don’t really care). That’s part of the ongoing oncology treatment.

I start radiation on December 10, so anticipate a nice break from treatment for a few weeks. Will be nice to be normal for a while.

I’ll stay in touch and hope you will too.

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Thankful Journal Day 18

Am home from my 24-hour vacation in Maine. Exhausted and ready for a nap, but thankful for the brief chance to escape what has become normal. Had a 16-ounce orange soda and a book on CD to keep me company on the one-and-a-half hour return trip. Arrived home to find the good housekeeping wizards put the house in order. I’m so lucky to be so loved.

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Thankful Journal Day 17

I’m thankful that I’m heading north on this beautiful, bright, sunny Saturday. I’m meeting my mother and driving to Portland for the annual meeting of the Friendship Sloop Society.


It’s a chance to not only get away for 24 hours, but to be with some wonderful friends that I only see two or three times a year. I hope this doesn’t take too much out of me (since it’s the weekend following a chemo treatment). I’ve promised Dave I’ll go slow and easy (and I now he lovingly doesn’t believe that I will). I hope not. I feel like I need and deserve this mini-break from reality.

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It’s DONE, DONE, DONE

I’m through with chemotherapy. Today was my last treatment. Part of me wants to climb up on the roof and scream this wonderful news. Part of me wants to sit on the couch and wait for the other shoe to drop.


At every step along the sally, we thought one thing and then learned another.

• The surgeon “got it all.” No, wait, there was a micro-invasion.



• The lymph nodes were clear. No, wait, there is a cluster of cancer cells in the first node.



• You need chemo, but it’s “easy chemo.” It’ll take two weeks and you won’t even lose you hair. Ah, no.

I don’t want to be cautiously optimistic, I want to be balls-to-the-wall excited about this day. It’s a milestone, three down (diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy), two to go (radiation and drug therapy). I’ve been at what I hope will prove to be the low point. It’s time to climb back on top. It’s time for Dave and PJ to breathe easier and not worry so much about me. It’s time to get back to enjoying life and looking ahead with anticipation.

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Thankful Journal Day 16

Chemo is over, and am I ever thankful.

I'm thankful to the wonderful staff at the Winchester Hospital Oncology Center at Baldwin Park, in particular Kristi, Rose, Barry, Dr. Bowker, and the rest of the cast for their encouragement and support. They are really remarkable people who share a mission: to help people in their dark hours find the sunshine again.

And on another note, today is the 61st wedding anniversary of my dear friends Tony and Mary Foltz of Putney VT. Talk about commitment! Talk about love! Pick up you glass and toast their six-plus decade romance. Wow!

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Stage 2 and Tattoos

So, do you want to see my tattoo? Actually, my four tattoos? They're my passport to Radiation Happiness.

I feel like part of an elite group, a club for those fortunate ones making the voyage to good health. I'm happy to be moving to the fourth step in my personal voyage (first was diagnosis, second was surgery, third was/is chemo, fourth is radiation, fifth will be drug therapy, and sixth will be future monitoring).

Dr. Heidbreder (the radiologist) talked to Dave and me at length about what he wants to do for treatment. He says my cancer was a Stage 2 because of the lymph involvement. For those reasons, he wants to undertake a more aggressive approach and radiate not only the breast tissue but under my arm and up to my collar bone as well. His attitude is, since the cancer got into the lymph system we need to be as aggressive as possible. There is no guarantee it stopped at the first lymph node, it's possible it passed the second and went further.

I've wondered/been afraid of this same thing but never heard any of my providers say it out loud. I give Dr. H credit for being so candid. My assumption is, and he confirms it, that the chemo is killing anything that might be floating around my body and that the radiation will make sure anything in the area of the original cancer will be blasted away.

He says it will be 10 years or so before anyone will make the assumption that "we got it." He says he won't use the word "cure," and I appreciate that, because for the moment, I don't believe anyone is ever cured. We can argue about that another time if you'd like.

So, I have a new fleet of friends in the provider community, including Sandy (nurse) and Natasha and Kristen (radiology technicians).

I went through a CT scan, following which Natasha and Kristen used the images to compute how the radiation will be delivered. It will come in three waves: to the collarbone, to the underarm area at the back of the underarm, and then to the breast). Natasha did the tattoo honors, and I was done for the day.

My appointments are at 4 p.m. daily beginning Monday, December 10 (that is a dry run for positioning and will include more imaging; the first actual treatment will be Tuesday the 11th). I'm scheduled for 30 sessions (5 days a week, 6 weeks, with Holiday closures and such it'll be more like 7 weeks before it's done).

That means I get a short break in treatments. I need to start preparing my skin for the affects, which will include redness and peeling (like a sunburn). Natural antiperspirant only and cornstarch in place of powders.

I'll certainly whine and complain as we go along (there's your warning).

Last chemo is tomorrow. In many ways I'm filled with dread--wishing there could be some other way to go through with it. I expect the next week will be very difficult. Time will tell.

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Thankful Journal Day 15

I'm thankful for messages of love and support. Again today I have a card in the mail from someone who remember me often in her prayers. Please, this isn't a plea for you to send me a card... I get so many from so many wonderful people. There must be someone special you haven't spoken to in a while--a grandparent, a friend who lives far away, a neighbor you haven't seen out and about. Write to that special person, or pick up the phone and call. You'll make that person's day.

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$28,000 worth of Thankful, Journal Day 14

I'm thankful (again) for health insurance. The $7,000 bill I received yesterday was sent "in error." There was a "system glitch" at the hospital that didn't reflect full payment from the insurance company for the $10,000 shot I receive on the day after chemo.

Yes, $10,000 for a drug that boosts my while blood cell production following a chemo treatment (actually it's $10,527.11; I was billed $7,080.04)

With four treatments, and the assumption I'd have to pay $7,000+ for each, we figured we were looking at a $28,000+ total payment. Just for that shot.

What's the total bill going to be for my complete treatment? I can't want to find out.

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I’m tired/Thankful Journal Day 13

Right to my bones tired, of everything associated with breast cancer and not being myself. I want badly to feel good again and be in control again.

I came home to find bills from Winchester Hospital for charges my insurance company apparently isn’t going to cover. Thousands and thousands of dollars in charges. I’ll be on the phone first thing in the morning.

As to being thankful, I recently did a “Notes to Neighbors” campaign for the American Cancer Society (The ACS sends you a list of neighbors, you sent notes out, you buy the stamps for the outgoing letters and the return addressed envelopes). My neighbors are responding and sending checks. Each is a lovely expression of support, and I’m thankful for their thoughtfulness.

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Thankful Journal Day 12

November 12: Thankful today for feeling good and having some energy. Had enough to give a full day at work and came home with some left over. It’s nice to be in a good place.

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Thankful Journal Day 11

November 11: It’s Veterans’ Day. Thank a veteran for your freedom. This isn’t a P.C. sentiment to match the day on the calendar, it’s real and heartfelt. Remind me to tell you about the World War II veterans I interviewed for a newspaper series a number of years ago. They taught me more in mere hours than I ever learned from books or in history classes. I was ashamed of my ignorance of the battles they fought, stunned by the magnitude of their terrible experiences, and honored beyond my ability to express what it meant to have met each of them. I will never forget their stories.

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Mourning my eyelashes

My eyelashes aren’t what they used to be and trust me when I tell you that I’m not happy. I’m the person who wouldn’t go to the mailbox without mascara.

My bottom lashes are just about gone—one or two left. My top lashes are thinning significantly. I don’t mind seeing myself without hair, but without fat, beautiful, brown-black Maybelline XXL Volume+Length Microfiber Mascara layered lashes, well, it’s just not me looking back at myself.

Funny what cancer and chemotherapy do to you. Makes you realize what’s important and what isn’t. Eyelashes aren’t important. Living, and living well is.

Still, I’m mourning my eyelashes. Where are my sunglasses?

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Thankful Journal Day 10

November 10: Chemical-induced sleep. I got just shy of 12 hours of badly needed Zs last night with the help of a little pill pink and white pill (Benedril, with my oncologist’s blessing). I needed sleep badly and woke this morning feeling more like myself that I have in a long time. Better living through chemicals. Others I take would kill me, not this one.

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Thankful Journal Day 9

November 9: Popsicles, particularly root beer or banana. Makes getting fluids down a little easier to bear.

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"Chemo Brain"

That’s the name my nurse Kristi gives to my present state of mind and physician condition. I’m stuck in a place that isn’t much fun and might be here a while. The good news is, it’ll all be behind me soon.

More Penny drama. Sorry, but it’s how I feel. This is about being honest and sharing what’s really going one. I need to keep track of everything and find a way to preserve it, because I don’t ever want to forget this. No way.

I want to remember everything—I don’t plan to keep living with it—but I want to remember what it was like so I can package it up when the time is right and put it away. I don’t want to forget it completely.

So, let’s talk about Chemo Brain. Apparently this is very real and very normal. Disconnected, out of control, no focus. Tired, extremely so. My case of Chemo Brain is being exacerbated by Decadron, one of my anti-nausea drugs. That little gem carries side effects that include (among others) insomnia, muscle weakness, and irritability. While I don’t think I’ve been particularly irritable (Dave? PJ?), I feel a little depressed. Nothing I’m alarmed about, but certainly not mentally sharp. Decadron will do that too, make you happy or take you down.

So, it’s all normal. It’s all good.

I spent part of the morning at the oncology center getting checked out top to bottom (blood pressure was 121 over 65… that was good). My doctor wasn’t on today, I saw another, who took notes furiously, asked a lot of questions, and pronounced me as fit as is possible for this point in treatment.

The third treatment can be particularly difficult, she said. Chemotherapy’s effects are cumulative, so it’s not unusual for the week after #3 to be marked with exactly my symptoms and complaints. And as crappy as I feel, it’s good to know it’s OK to feel this way.

She added that it’s likely to continue and hang on with me through the week following #4 (next Friday, a week from tomorrow). That means this might go on through Thanksgiving week. And that’s OK too, as long as I know this is normal and to be expected, I can handle it.

Imagine how good it’s going to be when it’s over!

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Thankful Journal Day 8

November 8: I’m thankful for Lucci’s in Wilmington. It’s a small grocery store, conveniently located on the way home from the oncology center (where I spent the morning getting my head checked out). I stopped into Lucci’s to make a tough day a little easier (it's all about me today), to get a pound of turkey from the deli so I could make lunches for today and tomorrow and not have to fight my way through the bigger, crowded, very expensive market in North Reading (I know, cling peaches, I'm rambling). I ended up discovering why other people have been raving about Lucci's, like great prices, great sandwiches, great service, no lines (OK, maybe not a mid-day on a Thursday). A very pleasant experience. I’ll be back. It’s nice to have choices.

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Reflecting on how hard this can be

I hoped going through chemo would get easier as I went along. I heard that might be harder, and I’m finding it’s both. Easier and harder. Doesn’t make sense, does it?

It’s easier this time around because I don’t feel so significantly ill. I’m not buried under blankets on the couch or so weak I can’t function, not wracked with gastrointestinal distress or terribly nauseous. It’s harder this time around because I’m not sleeping and I can’t seem to focus.

I feel unconnected in a lot of ways. My concentration is shot and it’s a struggle get interested and stay engaged. Maybe this is normal for someone in this situation. Maybe it’s the way my head is supposed to tell my body that I really need to move into the slow lane and let the rest of the world downshift, gain speed, and pass to my left.

What I need to do is accept that it’s OK to let this happen. I don’t have to be in charge of anything right now except managing the day to day it will take to recover and move forward.

A lot of this goes back to feelings I had in the very beginning, when I realized that I lost control then I gained the breast cancer diagnosis (it makes sense to me). Too many things were going to happen that I couldn’t control and I had to hand management of myself over to other people. That’s a very hard thing to do when you think of yourself as independent.

You imagine yourself as a strong person, and then a miserable tiny speck of a disease brings you to your knees. It strips away all of your leadership qualities and you have to rely on other people to keep you alive. Seriously. Alive. It’s such drama.

Today was a tough day. I’m once again struggling with food and fluid. I know I need to eat to maintain a decent energy level and consume those 80 precious ounces of fluid to flush out the bad stuff. If It’s hard some days and today is one such. I know that by denying or delaying the things I know I need to do I prolong the difficult recovery process.

Enough for today. Tonight is the last night of the breast center support group. I’ll wave goodbye to some of the members, hang in with a few, and keep one close by—hopefully for a long, long time to come.

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Thankful Journal Day 7

November 7: Today I’m thankful for the beautiful flowers in the antique vase on my kitchen table.

The Pretty Girl came through the door the other day and presented me with a huge bouquet of carnations—-white, red, and rosy-wine colored blossoms. They are one of my favorite flowers, mostly because with love and care they’ll last a long time. The flowers are symbols of many things (beauty, nature, and so on and on), but not as much as how special my daughter is to me. She’s a wonderful young woman, a dear friend, and I can’t begin to imagine how empty my life would be like if she wasn’t part of it.

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More on Tuesday

Long day. Different recovery this time from last Friday's chemo session. The new drugs have helped, I haven't felt as sick this time around. The exhaustion, however, is significant and once again I'm losing my voice.

Both yesterday and today (Monday and Tuesday) were long, tough days. Hard to concentrate. Battling to stay awake until a reasonable hour to go to bed, then snoring so loud I disturb Dave within moments of falling under the blankets. Awake just after midnight and on and off until 5 a.m. Part of the problem is trying to get down 80-100 ounces of non-caffeinated fluid a day, and then pass it along through the night.

(Stop fussing Penny, you're a lucky girl... This is easy stuff compared to the rest of the fight.)

Last night I had strange dreams. I work for a medical publishing company and my boss wanted a special give-away we could send to anyone who bought a newsletter. I came up with a brilliant idea, a chimney sweeper's brush, but he didn't like my designs. Where the hell did that come from? Anyone want to analyze that one for me?

I think I need to take a little time away from the office, for sure. I'd like to, maybe in January or February (if my energy holds on that long).

I'm putting a link to Tanya's blog on the page, please check it out. She writes about more than our shared adventures in Pink Land.

We're both glad that October has come and gone. It's no longer Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It's Thankful Month. What are YOU thankful for today?

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Thankful Journal Day 6

November 6: This thankful entry is both sweet and bitter. Tanya and Cheryl shared news yesterday.

Tanya news is wonderful news—the suspicious area in her breast is a funky lymph node, and nothing that will cause concern. I’m thrilled for her.

Then there is Cheryl, whose dad lost his brave cancer fight in late September. I didn’t know he had died.

I ran into both Tanya and Cheryl yesterday at Wal-Mart in North Reading and got to hug them both, for very different reasons. For one my heart overflows with happiness.

For the other it breaks with the sadness for the journey that is still to come through illness and death, learning to live without seeing and leaning on someone you love and miss so deeply. He’s still there, but it’s not the same. I know.

I am thankful both these special women care about me. I’m the lucky one this morning because I have them as my friends.

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Thankful Journal

My friend Tanya, my new little sister in the breast cancer fight, has a wonderful thing going on her blog. She's writing a month-long "Thankful Journal" and invites her friends to join the effort.

I'm jumping on board and I hope you'll take some time to post a comment or two along the way, or even start a blog of your own. Who knows where all the thankful thinking and potential creativity will carry you?

I have to back up and start on November 1. Here goes:

November 1: I'm thankful that I have Dave and PJ on the front line, every day, supporting me as I go through this fight. I've never questioned their love for me, or worried about their commitment. They make the fight worth every struggle.
November 2: I'm thankful for family and friends, near and far, who call, write, worry, fuss, listen, and give generously of their time and attention. It all means the world to me.
November 3: I'm thankful to work for a company and a management team that understands my situation and gives me the time I need to take care of my health. My coworkers in my group have my back every day. I hope they know I'm there for them as well, but I hope I never have to cover for them in a similar situation.
November 4: I'm thankful to have health insurance. I'm beyond stunned at the expenses I'm running up, for surgeries, procedures, appointments, drug treatment, and chemo treatments. Next comes radiation and five years of drug therapy. How do people without benefits survive something like this?
November 5: I'm thankful for a great medical team. I haven't been happy with some of the things we've discussed; I've been upset by news they've delivered on occasion; I've been impatient with delays and scared by procedures. All normal and natural. Still, I'm thankful. It's good to have choices, the ability to make decisions, and a voice in what's happening.

My "thankfuls" won't all be about cancer. I have plenty more to be grateful for, and I look forward to seeing what you have to say. Please comment!

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Treatment #3, the second day

So far so good... no repeat of last session's second day when I was so ill. Maybe the new nausea drugs are working?

Woke up with enough energy to run a marathon. Clear head, great mood. It was 5:45 a.m. (we fell back an hour last night to Daylight Savings Time) and I'd been awake for about an hour. Decided, hell, why not get up and get the day going.

Sent out "Notes to Neighbors" on behalf of the American Cancer Society, begging for contributions. I hate getting those solicitations in the mail, I feel guilty not contributing. But I figured I do it this year (of course, now I'm on the ACS's list forever).

Hit Wal-Mart and Demoulas and ran out of steam. Came home and had lunch with my best girl (which perked me up a bit). Did two assignments for my online management course, and swapped several dozen e-mails with Tanya (we should have just gone to Lendy's for breakfast!)

Now it's time to watch (or try to) the Patriots take on the Colts. I expect to be asleep in no time.

Might just be able to go to work tomorrow. Let's hope so, I'm running out of vacation days to spend on chemo treatments and recovery.

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Treatment #3, the next day

Uneventful day. Well, not really. I spent a lot of someone else's money today.

Had my $3,000 Neulasta shot. Isn't that a sin? What do people without health insurance cope with the high cost of health care?

Then I hit my pharmacy for a chat with Anne, my pharmacist, about all the drugs I'm taking. I want to be sure I'm taking them at the right time of day so they all do the job they're supposed to do. She thinks I'm on track with everything, so I won't fret.

I'm on two new anti-nausea drugs with the cycle, Emend and Decadron. Also a new one for break-thru nausea, Reglan. The nursing staff at the oncology center think I can have better days following treatment that I've had the last two rounds. I assumed I was paying the price for going through chemo with a couple of tough days--we'll see how it goes this time. So far today has been OK, nothing to really complain about that way. A bit of gastrointestinal distress and (now after dinner) a flushed face.

Let's take a look at my drug prices, shall we?
** Emend, $391.99 for three pills; day of chemo, day after, second day after; $25 co-pay
** Decadron, $37.99 for 60 tabs; one evening of chemo, two day after, two second day (morning and evening each, and one third day; $10 co-pay
** Zofran, $309.00 for 10 tabs; one evening of chemo, one next day, one second day; $10 co-pay
** Reglan, $14.99 for 30 tabs; as needed; $8.55 co-pay
** Prilosec, $79.99 for 30 caps; daily since week before chemo started and to continue for one month after chemo ends; $10 co-pay

** Compazine (first break-thru nausea drug they gave me, didn't work well, threw it out this morning because I have Reglan) $22.99 for 30 tabs, $10 co-pay

Absolutely amazing. Are we all in the wrong line of work?

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Chemo Treatment #3

Number 3 is history, in the books, over and done. Thank you very much.





Uneventful day, usual and customary with Kristi at the oncology center. Not much of an appetite, a little nauseous too. They've changed up my medications to help lessen the uncomfortable days following chemo, we'll see how all that goes.

The good news is that my next session--and my last--will be in two weeks, not three. I was scheduled to go again on the day after Thanksgiving, but the center will be closed. My doc suggested waiting four weeks, I opted for two. Why not get it done sooner?

I'm more concerned today for Tanya, a new and wonderful friend I've met through the magic of breast cancer. She's been through a surgery and a boatload of tests and now needs to worry about a newly discovered suspicious area just found through an MRI (and confirmed with additional tests). She doesn't deserve this. No one does.

I know you keep me in your thoughts. Please make some room for Tanya as well.

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Chemo #3 tomorrow

Coming soon to the Baldwin Park Oncology Center, "Chemo #3." I'm headlining tomorrow's 10:30 a.m. session.

The roller coaster of last weekend is long over and I'm in a very positive frame of mind. I feel good, ready to go tomorrow, get it done, and come home and enjoy the weekend. That's my goal. I know that following the last two sessions I had a couple of really difficult days, and in the back of my mind I've already written next Monday off, but who knows? Maybe it won't be so hard this time. And if it is, then it is.

I hear my father's voice in my head when I think of going into chemo. He was fascinated by the weather, and I preferred to ask him for a forecast than depend on a television talking head (since my dad's death I've become addicted to The Weather Channel, not even a shadow of a replacement, but an adequate fill-in).

I'd ask my father when the rain would stop and he'd give me his prediction. I'd ask, "Are you sure?" and he'd reply, "It always stops."

How right he was. The rain always stops (and it usually did when he said it would).

So dad and the rain are a little like feeling crappy after chemo. The crappy feeling always stops and I feel better again.

Life is good.

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Halloween

Happy Halloween. Wide awake. Can't sleep. Thinking about everything I haven't started and/or finished at the office, how little time there is to get it all done, and how much fun it would be to be young again, just for today.

I remember Halloweens from the 50s and 60s (I'm dating myself here). No fancy store-bought costumes. I'd pull on one of my dad's old shirts, smear my face with dirt or coal dust, and run through the neighborhood with a pillow case to carry home my treasures.

Without a doubt, Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. I work for a company that turns Halloween into an excuse to kick back, decorate office spaces, dress in costume, and be entertained by the children and grandchildren of coworkers as they parade up and down the halls and “trick or treat” for candy.

Today would be the day I’d wear my pumpkin hair band to work. It’s great accessory, just a hair band with an orange pumpkin lid glued to the top, the kind of lid you’d leave yourself if you were carving a pumpkin, complete with the brown “stem.” It’s all made of soft fabric, like felt, nice and light, easy to wear. It might look foolish but who really cares. It’s fun and it always makes people smile.

But there’s no sense wearing it this year—I have no hair to hold back, no hair to hold a hair band in place. In fact, the plastic teeth that grip into the hair to keep the hair band in place would dig into my scalp and probably hurt.

I’m no sulking, just stating fact. No “Pumpkin Head” for me this year.

Instead, perhaps I can be “Toxic Waste Woman” and put on PJ’s pink skull-and-crossbones bandana. No, it’s not out there enough, I’d have to explain the costume. I could put on my new wig and be “Normal.” Too subtle. Someone who didn’t know about the cancer would think I wasn’t into the spirit of the holiday.

We have a great mask that I can best describe it as “Death.” It’s a nasty skeleton of a face that wears a positively gruesome, bloody, toothy gasp. Worn with a long, black cape it’s so awful that it’s wonderful. I wore it to a party a handful of years ago and no one knew who I was. I cut a larger hole in the mouth and took in my big girl cocktails through a straw so I wouldn’t have to take off the mask and reveal myself.

No, “Death” wouldn’t even be amusing this year. You know I have a sense of humor, but I’m not going near that one.

Doesn’t leave much else to go on, not with what’s on hand. I think I’ll just pull on a knit hat to fend of the chill, sit on the porch with my bags of candy, greet my little guests, and hope that when all is said and done there will be some Tootsie Rolls left over—those are my favorites.

It’s always interesting to buy Halloween candy. Do you buy something you love and hope to have leftovers, or do you buy something you don’t like and thereby reduce the risk of eating it yourself?

What are you giving away tonight? Maybe I’ll stop by and see if you recognize me.

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Family resemblance

I look more like my brother these days. Click through to take a look.




Ted came to visit tonight, stayed long enough for a few photos and to drop off a gift (a wonderful t-shirt from the "Life is Crap" line, the LIC character tangled up in Christmas lights).

So, who's better looking, me or Ted?

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Getting back on my feet

It's been a long couple of days, and as each one passes, I feel more like myself. It's good to leave it behind me.

I know it's not gone, I know it's something I have to learn to understand and manage. I need to do a better job of listening to what's going on in my head and take the time to process it and deal with it. I have to learn how to say "No," or "Not now" when it's the right thing to say.

Got some extra special love today courtesy of my sister and my mother. Kelly decided I needed a special blanket to take away the chemo chills and she enlisted my mother to create a quilt. When you next see my mother, ask her to tell you the story of the quilt--it's wonderful.

I'll be on the couch shortly, wrapped up in my new quilt. It will be a good place to be and in the best of company.

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Blue Friday

Well, this serious case of the blues continues, although things feel a little less harsh today. I've done a lot of thinking, a fair amount of analyzing, and a good bit of talking about it with the two people who matter the most, and while all of that doesn't make it go away, it helps to put it in balance.

Being depressed about all of this is apparently something I've been fighting. I didn't think I was, but it's clear that I've expended a lot of energy trying to be normal, whatever normal is.

I think I need to fight the feelings less and allow myself to find a new normal. Not normal, but a new usual, a new median, and find a way to accept that every now and again I'll go to that place.

Maybe fighting so hard not to go there is what made these last few days so dramatically difficult.

It's not like I'm giving up, I'll never do that. I'm just giving myself permission to give in when I need to. I rarely do that. I worry too much about what everyone else needs. I need to listen to my head.

Give in sometimes and tell the world to go away for a while. Climb into bed and sleep away the afternoon. Wish it was almost June, not almost November, and imagine I could do this on the porch at the farm.

I haven't said this for a while... I'm so lucky. And I'm smart enough to know when I'm in trouble. Now I'll try to be wise enough to let the trouble in when it knocks and not wait until it gathers itself into an army. I can only really manage one sally at a time.

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“Treat it like a pair of earrings”

That was PJ’s response to my hesitation about my new wig. “Maybe you accessorize, maybe you don’t,” she said, trying to help me find a sliver of a reason to be optimistic about the new look. She was trying to be my cheerleader and it’s part of why I love her. But it wasn’t working.

Today’s wig shopping expedition turned into an extremely emotional experience. It came on suddenly and overwhelmed me. All I wanted to do was escape from what I was feeling and there wasn't anyplace I could go to get away. I really can't explain what happened because I don’t understand it myself.

I recently decided, what the hell, I'll look into getting a wig. No promises, just explore the possibility. After being repeatedly ignored by wig banks on a list provided by the American Cancer Society, I took my prescription to LeTourneau's Pharmacy in Andover (yes, a prescription for a wig, on the same square of paper that your doc might write you up for Prozac).

Actually, I’d called ahead and had an appointment with a wonderful woman named Cindy, who’d taken time on the phone to learn about my situation and what I might be looking for. She had a few styles ready for me to try. Some good color matches, some styles that weren’t to my liking, and one in particular that seemed like a good choice. I decided to go ahead and take it and when she left the room to do up the paperwork I burst into tears.

Where did all this come from? I felt like the bottom had fallen out of the safe world I’ve concocted for myself. I’d betrayed myself. I’ve spent so much time and energy convincing myself that I didn’t want or need a wig, that I’m beautiful as I’m balding, strong, loaded with courage, wearing my diagnosis and treatment plan like a badge of honor and with tremendous pride. And I ruined when I said, “I’ll take this one, the short, brown one.”

But there was more to it than that. The bald me is a constant reminder of my condition. The wigged me looks normal. Real me versus normal me. That’s what I’m really struggling with, and I can’t resolve it.

I don’t have the right to look normal. The real me is the way like is. I convinced myself it was right to pass on a wig and that in doing so, made a commitment to the real me that I broke by taking the wig. I’m struggling with the feeling that I quit on myself and took the easy way out.

The wig is a pass, like the “Easy” button the Staples commercials. The wig is something to hide behind, a mask for weakness. Real is right and strong, normal is wrong and weak.

I’m in such a difficult place and it’s going to take some time to figure it all out.

Part of what makes this so painful is how quickly the whole thing went to hell. That made me wonder whether I’ve given myself the appropriate opportunities to grieve. Mourn the fact that I developed breast cancer in the first place, had to go through two surgeries, now through chemotherapy, later through radiation, years of drug therapy, will be scared to death every time I go in for a mammogram from now until the day I die. What if I get a call back? What if I have to have a biopsy? What if the breast cancer comes back?

I know most of the answers. I’ll go, get tested, be brave, fight like hell, and on and on. In the mean time, I’m busy feeling scared, overwhelmed, and sorry for myself. And I’m going to wallow in it for a while.

I’ll get over it. I always do. We can talk later about accessorizing.

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Tired on Tuesday

Started the day with plenty of energy and ran out of gas at lunch time. It's to be expected, I think. I'm at the mid-point between treatments, when my blood count should be approaching a low point. Time for good meals, and good sleep at night.

That's tough these days, since the Boston Red Sox have clawed their way in to the World Series. Games in the recent championship series started after 8 p.m., and it looks like the trend will continue with this final series against the Colorado Rockies. I may have to call in sick to work!

I have heard raves for my new look (with a single exception). Apparently y'all think the new look is a winner! I wonder if the rest of my hair will fall out in the next week or so. If you remember, it started coming out on a Friday at two weeks after my first chemo treatment. This Friday is two weeks since the second treatment, and this morning there was quite a bit of hair (now short little pieces) in the bathroom sink. Time will tell.

Today's head covering of choice is a bright orange bandana printed with purple and yellow owls and moons. Quite stunning.

I'll have to line up PJ and her camera some one of these days and do a hat fashion parade for you. Then we can have a dramatic reading from P.D. Eastman's classic "Go Dog, Go!"

• "Hello!"
• "Hello!"
• "Do you like my hat?"
• "I do not."
• "Good-by!"
• "Good-by!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

• "Hello again. And now do you like my hat?"
• "I do. What a hat! I like it! I like that party hat!"
• "Good-by!"
• "Good-by."

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New Day, New Me!

Hair's all gone, folks! If you can't stand the thought of seeing a photo, don't click through.

This is PJ's handiwork and I have to tell you, I love it. I feel liberated.

What do YOU think??

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Monica's Bad Hair Day

My boss Monica just called out to me from her office across the hall. "Penny, I'm having SUCH a bad hair day."

So I lifted my baseball cap and called back, "Hey, you can do what I do!"

Poor Monica, it stopped her dead in her tracks. It was rather amusing. She's very sensitive to my situation and extremely supportive. Except when her hair isn't "on."

It started the day on a light, high note. I hope the mood continues.

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"Was That My Life?"

I heard a great song today, by Jo Dee Messina. You should check it out.

Here are the lyrics:

Was That My Life?

I don't want to be the one who's old before their time,
And lose the wonder that I felt as a child.
I can't run this race believing I might lose;
There's still so much to see, and so much left to do.
Yes, I'll fall before I fly,
But no one can say I never tried.

Oh, we just get one ride around the sun,
In this dream of time.
It goes so fast that one day we look back,
And we ask: was that my life?

I close my eyes and think how lucky I have been,
To hold the ones I love and share my dreams with them.
All those sunny days and all those starry skies:
Good morning kisses and sweet goodnights.
Oh, I can't tell them enough,
Just how much that they are loved.

Oh, you just get one ride around the sun,
In this dream of time.
It goes so fast that one day we look back,
And we ask: was that my life?

We just get one ride around the sun,
In this dream of time.
It goes so fast that one day we look back,
And we ask: oh, was that my life?
Ooh, was that my life rollin' on by?

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Turning the corner

Tried to go to work yesterday (third day after treatment #2). Got a few miles from home and had to turn back. It was another pretty miserable day, but I keep reminding myself--it could be worse.

I motored between the computer (to manage office business) and the couch and had to force food and fluids. I managed an English muffin for breakfast, an apple for lunch, a banana at mid-afternoon, and then a package of Ramen Noodles for dinner. I know, I know, sodium overload and bad-bad-bad for my body in every way, but it was about the only thing I could entertain keeping in my stomach.

Today started slowly; I made it to the office and planned to give it half the day. But by lunch time I'd managed to eat half a banana--and in no time felt remarkably better. I lasted until 4 p.m. (thanks to the second half of the banana... must be my miracle food).

Dave and I kept our traditional Tuesday Night Date Night. There was only one thing I wanted, and he found it for me--a cheese omelet with toast at a not-so-fancy-but-wonderful place in Wakefield. I'm such a cheap date.

I think I've turned the corner. If this time goes as the last, I should be on the upswing again. Appetite has a way to go, but at least the constant low-grade nausea is gone.

This whole experience gives me daily reminders to take a moment and give thanks for things large and small.

I receive regular greetings and blessings from my many friends at the Wilmington United Methodist Church, and each one lifts my spirits. Thank you, dear friends.

I receive lovely gifts from friends (including pocket planets, a "Born to be Wild!" t-shirt, a painted and decorated sea shell, river rocks, a small religious statue, scarves and hats, too many to mention them all). Thank you for thinking of me in these ways.

I receive e-mails and messages to these posts, and thank each of you for taking the time to reply.

All of these things mean the world to me, and remind me how important our personal connections are--not just to surviving, but thriving, no matter what obstacles try to block the path.

And Dave and PJ continue to be amazing at every moment. Some one of these days this will behind us... I'm counting the days until we can celebrate like we need to.

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Treatment #2, the second day

Oh my Lord, I feel just awful today. My face is flushed and feels like it's on fire and the rest of me is so chilled--I can't seem to get warm.

I'm not running a fever so there isn't really anything to fret about. It's just awful to feel so miserable.

Once again my appetite is gone--replaced by nausea--and I'm struggling to get in the 80 ounces of non-caffeinated fluid that my dear nurse Kristi tells me I have to drink very day. I've learned that the earlier in the day I can get the fluid in, the fewer times I'm up in the middle of the night meandering down the hall to the bathroom. It seems easier not to drink it at all but I know that's a mistake.

I have work I can do for the office, a chapter and a quiz to take for an course I'm taking online, and a stack of magazines and the first Harry Potter book are calling my name, but so is the couch, my pillows and a warm green blanket. Guess what will win my attention?

More next time.

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Treatment #2, the next day

As I already told you, yesterday was tough. Last night was tougher.

We had in invitation join my cousin Kathy and her family for a birthday-fest for her son but elected to pass because the day had been tough. So we opted instead to celebrate Chemo #2 with a Sicilian pizza from a favorite place in Wakefield and dispatched PJ to pick up. I was so hungry by the time she arrived and had such a headache (which I assumed I could feed and make it go away) that I chewed through two pieces and a slice of and Italian calzone. Big mistake on all counts.

I was nauseous all evening and had that slightly spacey feeling (like I shouldn't drive the car; I felt this way the last time too). Nothing alarming, I just wanted to sleep but the Red Sox were winning and that held my attention.

I woke up this morning feeling rested and strong, and headed off to the health center for my $2500 Neulasta shot (isn’t that a crime???). Then I did a Wal-Mart run for, among other things, funky bandanas (one black with a traditional paisley print, orange with purple and yellow owls and a Halloween pattern, and a royal blue with owls—typing this made me notice the owl trend).

Now it’s time to fold some laundry and think about food shopping. I’ve got a peppercorn and garlic pork tenderloin marinating in the refrigerator, something special for my cheering section. We need potatoes and asparagus to make it a complete meal.

That’s all for the moment. I’m curious to know who is out there reading my ramblings. Would you please hit the comment button and send me a note? I won’t post it as a comment if you don’t want me to.

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Chemo Treatment #2

Treatment #2 is history. Nothing special to report, went smoothly as before.

Actually this one came wrapped in an emotional package. I was very anxious as we were driving to the appointment and had a round of tears when my nurse (once again, the wonderful and gentle Kristi) pulled the plug on the Cytoxan and reconnected me to the saline. I can't explain the tears.

Chemo is scary. Even knowing what to expect (from the last time), it's an overwhelming experience. I try to throw some humor at it and I try not to think of what's really happening--nasty, toxic chemicals going into my bloodstream. But that's what's happening, there is no doubt. Dave was there from beginning to end and that makes it easier to handle. I hope it's not terribly hard on him--but I suspect it is. In spades.

So it's done. If it goes the way the last round did I'll be asleep before the Red Sox get their first "ups" again Cleveland tonight in the American League Division Series.

Go Sox. Go Penny.

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My continuing obsession with your hair

“Your” in the headline is the editorial “your,” meaning anyone other than me. Hair is the first thing I notice on people these days as I ponder my rapid hair loss.

I notice the color, texture, cut, style, the way it moves when you walk, the unconscious way you play with it as you talk. I envy that you can run you hands through your hair without consequence, tug on it without having to think about where you’ll throw what you pull out.

This was the first morning I didn’t lose handfuls of it in the shower. That’s because here isn’t much left to lose. I feel like I look sick, and that bothers the hell out of me. I don’t feel sick---why look that way?

Anyway, today is Day #2 in Hats. I’m officially bothered enough by my extreme hair loss that I don’t want to be seen in public without a hat. Yesterday I wore the blue “Life is Good” baseball cap; today’s it’s the brick red "LIG" cap.

It’s hard enough coordinating shoes with my daily wardrobe (I have too many shoes), now I have to coordinate my head gear.

Tomorrow is Chemo Day, Treatment #2. Four hours of toxic fun. At least I don’t have to worry about it making my hair fall out.

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Good God, it's all over the place

I cleaned out the file cabinet at my office today and came across a folder from my previous life as a newspaper reporter. It contained all my notes and story clips about a young man named Jared, who died of brain cancer almost eight years ago to the day.

I remember being in such awe of him, had so much respect for everything he was doing to beat his cancer and make it to his wedding day, which was to take place just two short weeks after he died. His fiancé Maureen kept her hope burning until moment before Jared died. It was all so sad.

As we were putting dinner on the table this evening, the phone rang, a friend from Wisconsin who called my mother earlier today and heard my news. Kathy has battled cancer twice herself and continues to fight to get it all behind her.

Two reminders in one day. Cancer is everywhere. There probably isn’t a person out there who can say it hasn’t knocked on the door of a loved one or friend. I don’t know what to do about it globally, I only know how to fight it locally. Fight it in me and do everything I can to make sure it never knocks on this door again.

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Thoughts while standing in the deli line

I had some time to people-watch this morning as I waited my turn in the deli line at the market. I become obsessed with the hair of other women.

There was the 40-something woman with an unattractive mane of black and grey long, curly hair that went half-way down her back. There was an older woman with thinning, straight hair and a teenager with her hair held back in a headband. There was the woman with hair pulled back in a pony-tail, who idly scratched her scalp. Her action made my head itch and I ran my fingers to the offending if imaginary spot and gave a rub. I came away with countless strands caught between my fingers.

Rapid hair loss is a very strange sensation. I’ll never forget what it feels like. I’m really trying not to encourage the process, but it’s not easy. It’s second nature to react to the awareness that something is happening to your skin.

If I had to guess I’d say that I’ve lost a quarter to a third of my hair in the last 48 hours. If I run my hand through my hand through my hair I come away with many multiple of strands. It was all over the pillow case this morning, and it’s all over my shoulders now.

When I showered yesterday and washed my hair, it came out easily as I tried to rinse out the shampoo. Maybe washing speeds up the loss process, but I have to wash it--right ladies? Dirty hair feels miserable, although when the loss process is complete maybe I’ll yearn for those kinds of “bad hair” days.

My scalp feels irritated. The shafts of hair are tingly, and I swear I can feel each one. That tingling sensation is distracting, to the point that I have to make an extremely conscious effort NOT to touch my head.

I can feel individual hairs as they come loose—it’s as if a tension is broken and now relaxed, that hair is free to fall. They come out onto my face—I sweep them away and in doing so take more for the ride. They fall down the collar of my shirt and I feel them suddenly on my skin. Proud trees falling in the forest that has been my head of hair all these years.

It’s all just so strange.

Hat tomorrow, no question.

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My second new look in a week

My hair is falling out. Seriously falling out. It’s so strange. My head feels warm, almost like it’s sunburned or like I’m running a fever. I can feel individual hairs just standing right up at attention. If I run my hands through it I come away with lots of strands, and if I reach in and simply told hair between my fingers and draw my hand out, the hair comes with it. I don’t even have to tug at it at all.

Looks like it’s time for a date with PJ and her hair clippers. She volunteered to do the job when the time came. We talked about how to do it, how short to go. At the moment my thought is to just do it and get it over with. Shave it off in stripes, then a bowl, then a Mohawk (did I say all this once before?) Make a party out of it. Ask Dave to help. Make my final moments with my hair a family affair.

We’ll take pictures.

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End of a long year

Today marks the end of a long year, one of the tougher ones in memory. It’s my birthday and I’m looking ahead to the next year being better than this one.

I’ve been thinking about this for a while and wondering whether there’s really anything cosmic about passing from one year to another. If so, which was difficult, being 53 or it being 2007? Which year do I need to have pass to the next?

Let’s try being 54 and see how that goes. Sure, there will be some rocky times ahead—completing chemotherapy and getting into radiation (which some people say is harder than chemo, I’ll let you know). Maybe it’s premature of me to think that throwing away 53 will be the turning point, but it’s worth a shot, right?

So far the day has been fantabulous. I took the day off from work, slept in, drove to Kittery to have lunch with my sister and mother (Warren’s Seafood Restaurant, salad bar and a Coke with lemon, slice of birthday chocolate mousse cake delivered by the “Happy Birthday” serenading staff), and now Dave and I are heading out to meet our friends Chuck and Gail at the Topsfield Fair. Next to my birthday, the fair is my favorite thing about October.

So, I’m off to look at chickens, the giant pumpkin, BK’s dahlias, piglets, baby chickens, walk the midway and have no trouble resisting the temptation to throw darts at balloons or rings at bottle necks in a useless attempt to win a stuffed animal, maybe ride the ferris wheel, watch Dave enjoy a sausage-pepper-onion sandwich, and try to decide between a plate of tempura or a baked potato with broccoli and cheese.

Life is good.

UPDATE: Had corn chowder in a bread bowl and bought a wicked cool "Betty Boop" skull cap.

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Here's that pic I promised

Here's photo evidence of my new albeit temporary look...


Not the the best photo and the 'do isn't styled. The best part of the photo is that absolutely beautiful smiling face to my right (your left). She's the Number One reason I'm doing this, because I plan to be around for a very long time. I have WAY too many stories about her to tell to my someday grandchildren.

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Hair this morning, gone this afternoon

Wait ‘til you see my new ‘do! PJ supervised my haircut today, it’s not quite what my mother would call a “pixie” cut, but it’s short and I like it for what it is—a transition cut before it’s all gone (as I continue to assume will happen).

We noticed that there’s no gray in it at all, and this is the first time in years I don’t see any gray in my hair. I thought maybe I’d had a miracle, then Dave reminded me that the chemo is killing living cells. I colored it about a week before my first chemo treatment, so maybe there wasn’t time for it to start to grow in gray.

So, duh, Penny—that’s why there’s no gray.

Sorry I have no photo evidence for you just yet. PJ took pics but I need Dave to size them and he worked a killer long day, so maybe tomorrow.

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A few good days

It’s been a good few days, and each one gets better. I can’t know if it’s a sign of things to come or just that the first round of chemo is long gone. I expect it will get tougher with each subsequent treatment, but for now I’m feeling like myself—and that’s a real good thing.

My appetite is healthy and I’m game for just about anything except tomato sauces and sweets. Someone had a birthday at work on Thursday and her group brought in a chocolate fountain with the usual treats for dipping, from strawberries and bananas to marshmallows and more. I couldn’t get away from it fast enough. That’s so unlike me.

I enjoyed the company of family last night over dinner at The Horseshoe Grille here in North Reading (Been there? It’s fabulous! The old restaurant was torn down and a beautiful new one built in its place, check it out.) Dave, PJ, me, my mother from Maine, brother Ted (whose hair style I will rival in days…) from Wilmington, my aunt and uncle Nancy and Mike Thornton from East Kingston, NH, and their daughter and my cousin Kathy Bennett from Wilmington and her daughter and son Lauren and Connor. Nice time, lots of laughs. We don’t see each other often enough. It’s easy not to take time for gatherings like that one, easy to blame the myriad constraints on our time. I’m learning those things aren’t as important as time with people you care about.

So, I feel good. Really and truly.

What’s next? Blood work on October 4, at which point my white cell count should be as low as it will go for this round (it takes 10 days or so to bottom out, then it should start to climb). Then I go for blood work again on the 11th, followed by Chemo #2 on the 12th.

Before all of that comes a hair cut. It’s starting to come out, not dramatically yet, but it’s beginning. I can run my hands through my hair and come away with multiple strands in my fingers. I need (mentally) to ease myself into it, even though I know it’s coming, and go from current length to short, even for a few days, before buzzing it away.

When I look like my dear brother, I’ll snap and post a photo. You can vote on which of us is cuter.

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My appetite came back

I’ve been operating on little food and the minimum of fluids for the past two days. I had no appetite and had to force myself to drink water.

I left work yesterday (Monday) at noon and headed home, worried I’d either fall asleep on the highway or have to pull over for a nap. I called my in-laws and invited myself to come for lunch. At my request there was an egg salad sandwich in process on arrival, and it was absolutely wonderful. It took about an hour to eat it; each bite was a tasty but a struggle.

Today my appetite is back. I realized at about noon that I was hungry, and honestly, that’s a sensation I don’t feel very often. I eat because it’s time to eat or because there is food at hand, not because I’m hungry. I’d love to put a dent in that habit over the next few months.

At least my taste for sweet things is still on leave. The thought of chocolate, cookies, ice cream—all dear friends—is seriously off-putting. Not a bad thing, not at all.

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