A friendly person called me on my cell phone early Wednesday afternoon while I was walking to the Little Cafe Down the Street. It took me a while to figure out that my interlocutor was the heretofore Unjolly Fellow. He was quite jolly, offering to call me back once I got in out of the cold. I said I was just about to go inside. I didn't hear his name at first, and he repeated it, adding, I was there for your biopsy. There? He was the main poker. His sad task (so why did he sound so happy?) was to tell me that I'm definitely not a candidate for a lumpectomy because the tumors in the left breast are all connected. That was a given. He also said that it was clear that the third section of my breast, which he hadn't poked, was also malignant. He said that the MRI had also picked up the presence of two suspicious-looking nodules in my right breast. Nodules, he informed me, are lumps that are less than 1cm; masses are more than 2cm. I didn't think to ask what's in between. There are lots of false positives on MRIs, he said, "it doesn't necessarily mean cancer." I couldn't believe he uttered the word. Maybe no one wants to be the first to say it, but once the crab is out of the bag, it's Cancer cancer cancer; call the pizzeria and order it, a double topping of Cancer; cozy up to the bartender and grab a tumbler on the rocks, Cancer; climb up to the top of the parking garage and shout it to the four winds: Cancer! Let's hear it. Cancer! This finding means that I will have to get up at the crack of dawn next Tuesday so I can have an MRI-guided core biopsy of the right breast. I don't understand how the surgeon will manouver herself around to my breast to poke it. But the Fellow Formerly Known as Unjolly assured me that "an attending" will do it. I think that means a Real Doctor.
That means I had to put off my second-opinion appointment at Pretty Good Hospital, planned for Wednesday.
I had an appointment with a plastic surgeon Wednesday afternoon. His name sounded Armenian and I looked him up on the web and found out that under languages spoken, he listed Armenian. Surprising that someone who's a Baby Boomer speaks Armenian. I thought most of the people my age wouldn't have carried on the language. I'm in the middle of revising a book review of The Bastard of Istanbul, a novel by Elif Shafak, who is Turkish. The book deals with Turkish denial of the state-sponsored massacre of 1915, among other things. It seems as if I've always felt a kinship with Armenians, because of their dark eyes and tragedy, but I don't even remember when I first heard of the genocide. I do remember when I first learned about Turkish denial. I read about the official Turkish government deniers in Peter Balakian's 1998 memoir, Black Dog of Fate. I went to his reading of the book here, during his book tour, because I knew him slightly. I was surprised at the big Armenian turnout. I didn't realize what an important book it was for Armenian-Americans. What I remember most in the book is when he's in junior high and planning to write a report on Armenia. He tells his father, who is pleased. He finishes the paper, then explains to his father that he couldn't find enough information about Armenia, so he decided to write about Turkey. In all innocence. His father, of course, exploded. But the family had told Peter so little about the murders of Armenians that he was purely purely ignorant. It turns out that the plastic surgeon's best friend (or cousin?) had Peter Balakian's father as a dentist, in Englewood, NJ. The surgeon gave me information about a talk Saturday night at the local Armenian center (I hadn't known there was one). I said that my husband would probably want to go to a movie on Saturday night, unfortunately.
We talked about my breasts, too. He showed me before and after photos of patients. He recommends saline implants for me, even though their infection rate is 1:20. That's mostly for smokers and D-sizes, he said. He also said that though efforts to save the nipple didn't necessarily work (it could die; I don't want to imagine what that would be like), such a thing was possible, and I should ask my surgeon. So maybe L was right about hearing her say that. As the plastic surgeon left the examining room he said I needed to have my picture taken (meaning pictures of my breasts) so that he could remember me. And then I realized that I could connect with him about Armenians all I wanted to but the important thing was for him to think about my breasts and how to do well by them.
***
Just a few minutes ago my computer told me that Molly Ivins is dead, at 62. Of breast cancer. She had Inflammatory Breast Cancer, which is not what I have. (Whew. Knowing it's selfish to be relieved.) IBC is less common than "regular" breast cancer with lumps, and has very different symptoms. It is amazing that she wrote almost up until the very end, which is what I plan to do.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Prelude to One
My anniversary date is upon us. What a year it has been. This year has been good, bad, and everything else in between. I think one good thing that I have learned this year is that marriage, living in a house full or ladies, the Lifetime movie marathons, the tea parties, and constantly having to redress and carry Barbie dolls and pursues has not made me soft. The time that I have spent on my own as a pseudo bachelor I have been able to quickly adapt again to those life skills that took me years build up before marriage, children, and civilization:
- Eating pizza for breakfast, lunch, dinner, then breakfast once again
- Ice – Cream (milk shakes for breakfast)
- Watching sports all day on the weekends in between naps
- Working out late at night
- Wearing holey clothes around the apartment
- Scratching, belching, and using my freedom of speech when I drive
Free Dinners
As L has pointed out, we're getting three free dinners out of this so far. Our second one was last night with our neighbor Z. He and his wife are what the French call "les voisins de palier," meaning neighbors on the same floor. I suppose there were more apartment buildings earlier on in France than, say, England, and thus the phrase was invented. I don't know if there are equivalents in other languages. If someone is expert in the language of multi-family dwellings around the world, please speak up. We ate at the Neighborhood Veggie Place Where Not Enough is Organic. I like it anyway. We got to talking about nipples. I said mine had to be removed in the mastectomy, because there might be disease in it. L said it was preserved, that he was paying attention to that part of the surgeon's talk. What does he think, it can be moved around like a maraschino cherry on a sundae? I believed him, though, until I looked up surgery in the pink handbook that Fancy Hospital gave me. It's the size of the original Our Bodies, Our Selves, and I pasted a medusa over the pink rose on the cover. I've also added some words so it now reads "The Breast Cancer Bitch Handbook." I've also pasted on it a Certificate of Entitlement from some junk mail credit-card application . Anyway, we were also talking about donating bone marrow, for some reason. Z has plans to see next month if he's a match for someone who needs a donor. L said he had been planning to donate marrow or plasma to a woman in his office, but... she died. Oh, I said, pretty sure I knew who he was talking about, of breast cancer? Yes. For some reason I started laughing. Then I told Z how my friend P has offered to loan me books, one of which is The Cancer Journals by Audre Lorde, who died of breast cancer. I don't want books by people who died of it (though of course they died of cancers that spread from the breast, not breast cancer itself). I thought that was very funny.
Is this denial?
I was also telling P the other day at how I was inwardly scoffing about someone who recommended Pretty Good Hospital, because she'd gotten a biopsy there. A biopsy? That's bupkes. I said it's the way Holocaust survivors have a hierarchy. The ones who survived Auschwitz look down on the ones who were *only* in concentration (not extermination) camps, and the people who were in the latter look down on the ones who were *only* in labor camps, and those people look down on the ones who spent the war in hiding. So the friend who had the biopsy, I said, it was like she was hiding in a barn the whole time. A nice barn, out of the way of soldiers and hostile peasants.
And the ones who died? P asked. Where would they fit in?
Is this denial?
I was also telling P the other day at how I was inwardly scoffing about someone who recommended Pretty Good Hospital, because she'd gotten a biopsy there. A biopsy? That's bupkes. I said it's the way Holocaust survivors have a hierarchy. The ones who survived Auschwitz look down on the ones who were *only* in concentration (not extermination) camps, and the people who were in the latter look down on the ones who were *only* in labor camps, and those people look down on the ones who spent the war in hiding. So the friend who had the biopsy, I said, it was like she was hiding in a barn the whole time. A nice barn, out of the way of soldiers and hostile peasants.
And the ones who died? P asked. Where would they fit in?
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
The Housewives of the 60s
I finally got my hands on some generic Valium in preparation for my MRI. I was looking forward to seeing what it was all those unhappy housewives had used to get through the day. (I don't think the Feminine Mystique touched on this, but I haven't read it for a while.) Such a disappointment. It didn't even allay my slight anxiety, just made me sleepy. This was just one of many of the day's surprises and my misapprehensions. The Breast Center people had told me that I would get my results right after the MRI. (The MRI should reveal whether the calcifications in my right breast, the "clean, good" breast, are malignant.) The MRI people told me on the phone that it was not an open MRI. The MRI person told me there that the MRI was doughnut shaped. I thought for a moment I would have to curve my body inside it. I found out: I'll get results in a few days, it was an open MRI, and I did not have to curve my body inside a hollow doughnut (or bagel).
My gracious friend P picked me up and drove us to Fancy Hospital. The staff was very friendly and efficient. I was singing "Mother's Little Helpers" while changing clothes, still hoping for a Valium high. The MRI was the tube everyone talks about, but it was white (I'd imagined it like a black iron lung) and it was doughnut-shaped, but the doughnut was perpendicular to the floor. I lay face down on a bed-like thing, which had holes for my breasts to poke through (blue mesh "baskets" containing them) and a pillow for my head. I turned my head left and the bed was pushed into the hole of the "doughnut." I fell asleep from time to time. I had imagined that P would read The New Yorker to me (or, if I couldn't follow the articles in my retro-housewife haze, from Italo Calvino's Italian fairy tales) but the MRI-related noise was too loud for such a thing. She sat in a chair near my head and read The New Yorker to herself. I drifted off, drooling on the pillow, with intermittent noise coming somehow from the machine. It sounded sort of like a fire alarm inside a bulding. Like very loud buzzes. Every so often the tech would ask me... something. What did she ask me? What could she have asked me? If I was OK, maybe. Or maybe she warned me when there would be more noise. Then it was over. I felt I was in a spacious cave open at both ends but when I lifted my head up a bit I realized I was only a few inches from the "ceiling" of the tube.
It was quite uneventful except for the anticipation. Afterward I had hiccups and was very sleepy. We stopped for coffee at The Cool Italian Bakery-Cafe in Gentrificationland. We were sitting at our tables talking all about breast cancer and wondering what histology was. P thought it was the study of cells. A lovely young woman studying at the table next to us told us that it was the study of tissues and that pathology is the study of diseased tissues. She's a third-year med student who is thinking of going into OB-GYN. When we walked to the car, I said ours would have been a wonderful conversation for one of my students to have overheard and transcribed. I assigned them overheard conversations the other week. One of them was sick all week and so wrote down a dialogue she'd heard in her dream. P and I wondered whether all the voices you hear in dreams are necessarily in your own diction and rhythm. Once when I taught at the Arty School, a student turned in a description of a dream, but it was typed single-spaced, which I don't accept. I told her it had to be double-spaced. When she gave it back to me, I saw that she had physically cut out every line and then pasted each on a piece of paper, with space in between them. I think she had some out of sequence, too, or upside down. It was very funny and dream-like.
So our household has been disappointed lately in the efficacy of our meds. L twisted his back and is waiting for the muscle relaxant to kick in. I grateful that I don't see Valium addiction in my future.
**
I just looked in the index in The Feminine Mystique. Valium, depression, drugs, medication--all not listed. Closest was "anomie," which is caused "by never achieving the hard core of self that comes not from fantasy but from mastering reality." This causes boredom, "purposelessness, non-existence, non-involvement with the world that can be called anomie, or lack of identity, or merely felt as the problem that has no name."
All of my women friends have a purpose and we are using our educations, and most of us are also on anti-depressants or anti-anxiety medications. Explain that.
My gracious friend P picked me up and drove us to Fancy Hospital. The staff was very friendly and efficient. I was singing "Mother's Little Helpers" while changing clothes, still hoping for a Valium high. The MRI was the tube everyone talks about, but it was white (I'd imagined it like a black iron lung) and it was doughnut-shaped, but the doughnut was perpendicular to the floor. I lay face down on a bed-like thing, which had holes for my breasts to poke through (blue mesh "baskets" containing them) and a pillow for my head. I turned my head left and the bed was pushed into the hole of the "doughnut." I fell asleep from time to time. I had imagined that P would read The New Yorker to me (or, if I couldn't follow the articles in my retro-housewife haze, from Italo Calvino's Italian fairy tales) but the MRI-related noise was too loud for such a thing. She sat in a chair near my head and read The New Yorker to herself. I drifted off, drooling on the pillow, with intermittent noise coming somehow from the machine. It sounded sort of like a fire alarm inside a bulding. Like very loud buzzes. Every so often the tech would ask me... something. What did she ask me? What could she have asked me? If I was OK, maybe. Or maybe she warned me when there would be more noise. Then it was over. I felt I was in a spacious cave open at both ends but when I lifted my head up a bit I realized I was only a few inches from the "ceiling" of the tube.
It was quite uneventful except for the anticipation. Afterward I had hiccups and was very sleepy. We stopped for coffee at The Cool Italian Bakery-Cafe in Gentrificationland. We were sitting at our tables talking all about breast cancer and wondering what histology was. P thought it was the study of cells. A lovely young woman studying at the table next to us told us that it was the study of tissues and that pathology is the study of diseased tissues. She's a third-year med student who is thinking of going into OB-GYN. When we walked to the car, I said ours would have been a wonderful conversation for one of my students to have overheard and transcribed. I assigned them overheard conversations the other week. One of them was sick all week and so wrote down a dialogue she'd heard in her dream. P and I wondered whether all the voices you hear in dreams are necessarily in your own diction and rhythm. Once when I taught at the Arty School, a student turned in a description of a dream, but it was typed single-spaced, which I don't accept. I told her it had to be double-spaced. When she gave it back to me, I saw that she had physically cut out every line and then pasted each on a piece of paper, with space in between them. I think she had some out of sequence, too, or upside down. It was very funny and dream-like.
So our household has been disappointed lately in the efficacy of our meds. L twisted his back and is waiting for the muscle relaxant to kick in. I grateful that I don't see Valium addiction in my future.
**
I just looked in the index in The Feminine Mystique. Valium, depression, drugs, medication--all not listed. Closest was "anomie," which is caused "by never achieving the hard core of self that comes not from fantasy but from mastering reality." This causes boredom, "purposelessness, non-existence, non-involvement with the world that can be called anomie, or lack of identity, or merely felt as the problem that has no name."
All of my women friends have a purpose and we are using our educations, and most of us are also on anti-depressants or anti-anxiety medications. Explain that.
New Identity
It finally sunk in and I assumed the identity of a cancer patient. It was kind of hard to deny after I'd read my chart, watched the reactions of all of those around me, visited an oncology office, opened and read all of the cards, and had seen my name listed on church bulletins as one of the afflicted. I knew now it was real, no mistake had been made.
I started to do research on my disease. I knew it was very rare. I spent hours and hours looking for medical information on the internet. I finally found and read all of the horrible statistics and predictions related to my diagnosis. I was a nurse. If I'd read all of that on behalf of a patient, I'd have assumed the patient was a goner. It was emotionally devastating. I tried to contemplate not being here to raise my kids, to contemplate not spending my old age with my husband. The bottom had truly fallen out of my life. I was afraid now to even contemplate a future. I'd always said that I could die anytime in a car accident, but this was different. Before when I'd said that, it was an intellectual reality. Now it was an emotional reality as well. It was like comparing the intellectual reality of potentially dying in a car wreck to being in a speeding car with the accelerator jammed, anticipating impact while watching the world fly by outside of my window.
It's funny now, but at the time I found myself suddenly unable to purchase clothing or any durable goods for myself. I was always frugal, and it seemed, based on the medical literature I was reading, that I might not live long enough to wear out the shoes I contemplated buying. I was suddenly a bad investment.
I started to do research on my disease. I knew it was very rare. I spent hours and hours looking for medical information on the internet. I finally found and read all of the horrible statistics and predictions related to my diagnosis. I was a nurse. If I'd read all of that on behalf of a patient, I'd have assumed the patient was a goner. It was emotionally devastating. I tried to contemplate not being here to raise my kids, to contemplate not spending my old age with my husband. The bottom had truly fallen out of my life. I was afraid now to even contemplate a future. I'd always said that I could die anytime in a car accident, but this was different. Before when I'd said that, it was an intellectual reality. Now it was an emotional reality as well. It was like comparing the intellectual reality of potentially dying in a car wreck to being in a speeding car with the accelerator jammed, anticipating impact while watching the world fly by outside of my window.
It's funny now, but at the time I found myself suddenly unable to purchase clothing or any durable goods for myself. I was always frugal, and it seemed, based on the medical literature I was reading, that I might not live long enough to wear out the shoes I contemplated buying. I was suddenly a bad investment.
Monday, January 29, 2007
I Love Pink M & Ms
I love pink M & Ms. I eat them every day. That's all I eat. If I eat enough of them my cancer will go away. Won't it? Isn't that what they promise? In the USA we like our news and health and our donations sugar-coated. If I eat M & Ms and I go on the Avon Walk (Do I get a free Avon makeover before setting out; all those cameras, you see; I must look my best; it's important to look my best; that's why we wear pink ribbons in our hair and--oops--some of us don't have hair; then around our necks?) and I sell Pink Ribbon Cupcakes and Support the Cause Brownies ("Great for a bake sale or afternoon tea.") then I will be in the pink. The ingredients for Support the Cause Brownies will make me healthy. If not, why would they be named after Susan G. Komen? Ooops-she's dead. She died of cancer. Maybe she died from eating these brownies. But how could that be? They're made with M & M'S (R) Milk Chocolate Candies Help Fight Breast Cancer and Snickers and brownie mix (any brand--quick, here's an opportunity for another multinational corporation to step in) and a can of (your brand name here) chocolate frosting. What could be more natural for us girls? We're made of sugar and spice and everything nice. Even our out-of-control cancer cells are nice. Because they're pink, like us. Aren't they? Remember to follow the recipe. We have to learn to follow recipes to be good cancer patients. And don't forget the final decorations. Decorations are important. "Make a continuous ring of M-&-M'S(R) Brand Milk Chocolate Candies Help Fight Breast Cancer around the bottom of the brownies." Celebrate!
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Independent Studies
I have two students whose teaching internships I'm supervising this quarter, another student from another university doing a magazine internship, and two students who have planned independent studies with me during spring quarter. I had to tell all of them that my schedule might be messed up, that I'm not sure what my time will be like or what I'll be capable of doing. I find saying I have cancer with impending surgery seems a good incentive for getting them to come up with a research paper topic right away. (I hope, at least. I'm waiting for the topics.) When I told R that I might have to scale back, I realized I was smiling. It felt like an embarrassed smile. A cancer smile? A smile that says, I'm sorry to spring this heavy thing on you, sorry to involve you in my intimate life, but I have to since it affects our professional relationship. And I'm smiling because I feel sheepish because don't feel sick. But it's also the same smile I've felt when I have to tell a student he's doing badly. It still bothers me that I was part of kicking out a weak student from WRU's (Well-Regarded University's) graduate journalism program about 20 years ago. I remember telling her, You're skating on thin ice, which was a very vague thing to say. It was the introductory quarter and we didn't give letter grades, just check, check-plus and check-minus. She could have made it in the program, I think, in the long run; she was intelligent, not like the DC schoolteacher we had who was almost illiterate. Years later I met the sister of the "thin ice" student at a conference and asked how her sister was doing. It seemed she had recovered from her failure at WRU and was married, had kids. I don't remember if she had a professional life. I felt assured that we hadn't ruined her life.
I'm a gatekeeper now. I've been on seven admissions committees for the graduate writing program at WRU. Last time, O. was lobbying for letting a particular student in. Well, he said, if she doesn't do well, she'll get a bad grade and leave. I argued that we shouldn't let her in. I know the tendency of teachers (or at my own tendency) is to pass a student along. You think, Well, she was admitted, after all. She must have skills. Someone must have confidence in her. We ended up rejecting that applicant because I foresaw a basic failure to develop a voice. She could write well and had degrees and honors but her writing sounded almost like the voice-over of a movie trailer, a voice created by a committee. Her personal statement didn't indicate that she had enough awareness of the generic nature of her style, and a desire to break through it.
At the last info session for prospective students, one woman kept asking how much of each writing workshop was devoted to "process" and developing a voice. It took a while for me to get what she meant about "process." I told her we expect students to have a voice already. Afterwards she told me she's been writing features for WRU's business school and wanted to get out of formulaic writing. She wanted to know if the program would help her do that. I suggested she take a creative nonfiction course somewhere before applying. Now that's someone who's aware of her shortcomings. Our next admissions meeting is set for Valentine's Day. Will my breast be medical waste by then?
I'm a gatekeeper now. I've been on seven admissions committees for the graduate writing program at WRU. Last time, O. was lobbying for letting a particular student in. Well, he said, if she doesn't do well, she'll get a bad grade and leave. I argued that we shouldn't let her in. I know the tendency of teachers (or at my own tendency) is to pass a student along. You think, Well, she was admitted, after all. She must have skills. Someone must have confidence in her. We ended up rejecting that applicant because I foresaw a basic failure to develop a voice. She could write well and had degrees and honors but her writing sounded almost like the voice-over of a movie trailer, a voice created by a committee. Her personal statement didn't indicate that she had enough awareness of the generic nature of her style, and a desire to break through it.
At the last info session for prospective students, one woman kept asking how much of each writing workshop was devoted to "process" and developing a voice. It took a while for me to get what she meant about "process." I told her we expect students to have a voice already. Afterwards she told me she's been writing features for WRU's business school and wanted to get out of formulaic writing. She wanted to know if the program would help her do that. I suggested she take a creative nonfiction course somewhere before applying. Now that's someone who's aware of her shortcomings. Our next admissions meeting is set for Valentine's Day. Will my breast be medical waste by then?
RETROACTIVE POSTS
January 17, 2007, or so: Something or Nothing
At the Mammogram Factory the radiologist was peach-colored/complected, with brown/red hair, and she had soft-looking skin. Why did it seem soft? I don't know. She seemed sorry. She seemed sad, rueful. She stood on my left as I lay there next to the ulstrasound machine. She didn't say cancer. She said, You need a core-needle ultrasound-guided breast biopsy. She said, It's abnormal. It's suspicious. But it might be nothing. As an afterthought. She said, We can do it at Noname Hospital. I said, I'd like to go to Fancy Hospital, and she told me I could wait for the films (mammograms and ultrasounds) to take to Fancy. Only later I realized that she could have done the surgery herself. I was rejecting her. Why did I go to her radiology center if I didn't want the radiologists there to work on me? I don't know Noname Hospital, I don't know where it is. I know Fancy Hospital, my hard-to-get-ahold-of gynecologist is there (harder to get ahold of him than it was to find someone in the State Department, back in my journalism days), my left ovary and salpingo (aka Fallopian tube, "discovered" and named by an Italian doctor) are there, or were there, were removed there and I imagine them in a jar there, I imagine them as an enlarged bean sprout. But they probably quickly became "medical waste." My friend J's ovary is there, preserved, she thinks. It had teeth in it.
I call my husband L on his cell phone on the phone in the waiting room and he said, Why didn't you call my land line? and I say, I may be freaking out here and you're worried about minutes, which you never go over, and he says, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Then the e-mails, then the talking, then the imagining. I make lists of women I know with breast cancer, more on the alive list than the dead one. P tells me that Y and Q had the same diagnosis and Y had a mastectomy and Q had a lumpectomy with radiation. I have disapproved of women with reconstructive surgery, except my best friend from high school, who had a double mastectomy.
The e-mails confuse me. K talks about four aspirations of cysts during which brown fluid shot out of her. People say, It may be nothing, it is nothing, it's probably nothing, which I told them, but I think: I know it isn't nothing and now, a few days after the radiologist's words, I don't remember what she said exactly. I start thinking I've been exaggerating, getting people upset for nothing. But the last two times I had breast surgery (removal of a fibroadenoma and a biopsy) I didn't react like this. Because the doctors said both were probably nothing, and they were.
I make an appointment at Fancy Hospital and drop off my films of my breasts. I'm going to sell them to Playboy, I tell my husband.
When I had the cyst removed in March it was pretty clear it was nothing, just CYA surgery on the part of the doctors, but still I looked up ovarian cancer. I saw it was more common in Ashkenazi women and in childless women. I told people I was going to convert to Buddhism and adopt a child. But that doesn't seem funny to me any more.
P calls the morning after my e-mail and asks if I'm crying but it's just my allergies. Overall, I am oddly cheerful. I'm afraid I'm happy that I have cancer, or may have it--relief that the other shoe has dropped? Or, worse, that it makes me feel important to be in the center of a mortal storm. Or if I have cancer, no one can expect anything of me. It makes me think about American Jews and Israel. As Philip Roth has written, for American Jews, Israel has been our Australia--a place you could always go if your life wasn't working. I always felt that if I lived in Israel, nothing would be expected of me, because living there was enough. (That was before the intifadas, before it seemed incumbent on everyone to work for peace.) I think: If I have cancer, no one will expect anything of me. Just getting through the day will be enough. As Marjorie Gross has written on the pros of having cancer, "People don't ask you to help them move." (She died of ovarian cancer.)
P sends me Barbara Ehrenreich's Welcome to Cancerland. Unlike everyone else I know, I hadn't been a fan of Ehrenreich. Till I read this piece. I tried to link it here but failed. You can find it by searching www.bcaction.org.
**
The day I went for the mammogram I also had an appointment with a hematologist because I have a high platelet count--high enough to be monitored but not to require intervention. Before the doctor came in, a fourth-year medical student interviewed me to practice his skills. He was nervous and hadn't read my chart. I was telling him about my long menstrual periods, which supposedly aren't related to the low amount of iron in my blood, but really are. I said, in explanation, I have fibroids. Oh, he said, I'm one of three boys. Pause. He mumbles: What did you say? I pretended I didn't hear him, but for a moment imagined the spectre of five sons, imagined them around me in the patient room. I explained: Fibroids. Uterine fibroids.
##
At the Mammogram Factory the radiologist was peach-colored/complected, with brown/red hair, and she had soft-looking skin. Why did it seem soft? I don't know. She seemed sorry. She seemed sad, rueful. She stood on my left as I lay there next to the ulstrasound machine. She didn't say cancer. She said, You need a core-needle ultrasound-guided breast biopsy. She said, It's abnormal. It's suspicious. But it might be nothing. As an afterthought. She said, We can do it at Noname Hospital. I said, I'd like to go to Fancy Hospital, and she told me I could wait for the films (mammograms and ultrasounds) to take to Fancy. Only later I realized that she could have done the surgery herself. I was rejecting her. Why did I go to her radiology center if I didn't want the radiologists there to work on me? I don't know Noname Hospital, I don't know where it is. I know Fancy Hospital, my hard-to-get-ahold-of gynecologist is there (harder to get ahold of him than it was to find someone in the State Department, back in my journalism days), my left ovary and salpingo (aka Fallopian tube, "discovered" and named by an Italian doctor) are there, or were there, were removed there and I imagine them in a jar there, I imagine them as an enlarged bean sprout. But they probably quickly became "medical waste." My friend J's ovary is there, preserved, she thinks. It had teeth in it.
I call my husband L on his cell phone on the phone in the waiting room and he said, Why didn't you call my land line? and I say, I may be freaking out here and you're worried about minutes, which you never go over, and he says, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Then the e-mails, then the talking, then the imagining. I make lists of women I know with breast cancer, more on the alive list than the dead one. P tells me that Y and Q had the same diagnosis and Y had a mastectomy and Q had a lumpectomy with radiation. I have disapproved of women with reconstructive surgery, except my best friend from high school, who had a double mastectomy.
The e-mails confuse me. K talks about four aspirations of cysts during which brown fluid shot out of her. People say, It may be nothing, it is nothing, it's probably nothing, which I told them, but I think: I know it isn't nothing and now, a few days after the radiologist's words, I don't remember what she said exactly. I start thinking I've been exaggerating, getting people upset for nothing. But the last two times I had breast surgery (removal of a fibroadenoma and a biopsy) I didn't react like this. Because the doctors said both were probably nothing, and they were.
I make an appointment at Fancy Hospital and drop off my films of my breasts. I'm going to sell them to Playboy, I tell my husband.
When I had the cyst removed in March it was pretty clear it was nothing, just CYA surgery on the part of the doctors, but still I looked up ovarian cancer. I saw it was more common in Ashkenazi women and in childless women. I told people I was going to convert to Buddhism and adopt a child. But that doesn't seem funny to me any more.
P calls the morning after my e-mail and asks if I'm crying but it's just my allergies. Overall, I am oddly cheerful. I'm afraid I'm happy that I have cancer, or may have it--relief that the other shoe has dropped? Or, worse, that it makes me feel important to be in the center of a mortal storm. Or if I have cancer, no one can expect anything of me. It makes me think about American Jews and Israel. As Philip Roth has written, for American Jews, Israel has been our Australia--a place you could always go if your life wasn't working. I always felt that if I lived in Israel, nothing would be expected of me, because living there was enough. (That was before the intifadas, before it seemed incumbent on everyone to work for peace.) I think: If I have cancer, no one will expect anything of me. Just getting through the day will be enough. As Marjorie Gross has written on the pros of having cancer, "People don't ask you to help them move." (She died of ovarian cancer.)
P sends me Barbara Ehrenreich's Welcome to Cancerland. Unlike everyone else I know, I hadn't been a fan of Ehrenreich. Till I read this piece. I tried to link it here but failed. You can find it by searching www.bcaction.org.
**
The day I went for the mammogram I also had an appointment with a hematologist because I have a high platelet count--high enough to be monitored but not to require intervention. Before the doctor came in, a fourth-year medical student interviewed me to practice his skills. He was nervous and hadn't read my chart. I was telling him about my long menstrual periods, which supposedly aren't related to the low amount of iron in my blood, but really are. I said, in explanation, I have fibroids. Oh, he said, I'm one of three boys. Pause. He mumbles: What did you say? I pretended I didn't hear him, but for a moment imagined the spectre of five sons, imagined them around me in the patient room. I explained: Fibroids. Uterine fibroids.
##
January 23 & 24: The Unjolly Fellow
January 23 my husband L and I spent more than eight hours at Fancy Hospital. Luckily he brought his laptop so he could work. We saw many doctors. Many pictures of my breasts were taken. You could wallpaper rooms with the mammograms and ulstrasound images from that day. Fancy Hospital found three suspicous places, to the Mammogram Factory's one. Which is a good thing, a lucky thing. I was lucky too because Fancy could perform the core biopsies that day. Unluckily, the Unjolly Fellow did it. He was a handsome thing, a Fellow, meaning he was no longer a resident but not yet a radiologist who could be set loose upon the breasts of the world. I have found that apprentice medical workers are usually defensive. They are M.D.s, after all, they've taken all that Organic Chemistry (while we were off reading novels) and they've cut up bodies and probably delivered dozens of babies, and they know that we think of them as Not Real Doctors. The Fellow seemed nervous. How so? His face. It seemed to have an apprehensive look on it. Or was it defiant? He did the core biopsies, which consisted of poking holes in me. The ultrasound tech deftly moved my arm around so that it would be more comfortable during the procedure. The lab techs and nurses and anyone else who is not an M.D. are called by their first names. Doctors are called Doctor. I wished I'd gotten a Ph.D. after all so I could be Doctor too. I wish I could be awarded an honorary doctorate right now from anyplace, anywhere. The tech was probably twice the Fellow's age but still she was First Name and the Fellow was Dr. Last Name. Later the real radiologist came in, a warm and confident woman with a New York accent and forehead wrinkles. She guided the Fellow's hand somewhat. I don't know how good a job he did but I thought he was going to biopsy three places and he did only two. Four days later my breast would still look like it had a black eye. When I'd show it to friends they would gasp.
###
January 24: When Positive is Negative
The Unjolly said he would call me January 24 at 3. I had a small meeting at school that afternoon but kept my cell phone on the table in front of me. A little after 3 it rang. It was my husband L. At 4:30 I called Fancy Hospital and left a voice mail message with the radiology department. A few minutes later the Fellow called. It's positive, he said. I guess they learn in the cancer segment of med school never to utter the word "cancer"--it'll scare the patients. Look on the bright side, it's positive. Accentuate the positive/eliminate the negative/and leave Mr. Well-Enough alone. Isn't that how the song goes? I said, rather haltingly, Are you calling because you said you'd call or did you get my message on the answering machine? only I'm sure it came out more scrambled and inarticulate. He said: Are you OK? Of course I said yes.
I learned years ago not to ask someone if she's OK. Instead you ask: How are you? Or, if you don't know what the situation is, you ask: What's the matter? It's too easy for the other person to respond, I'm OK, and then everyone's off the hook.
Of course I don't know if the Fellow poked me in exactly the perfect ways. in the exact perfect spots. My friends who gasped at my breasts weren't experts.
###
Jan. 24: How NOT to Tell Your Class About Your Breast Cancer
###
Jan. 24: How NOT to Tell Your Class About Your Breast Cancer
1. Be grateful that during class you don't think about your cancer, except during free-writing, when they're making lists that begin with Because, with Susan Donnelly's poem Why I Can't as the model. The title of your list is: Why I Don't Trust Doctors Who are Very Good-looking.
2. Tell them as soon as you know, on the day you get your diagnosis from the Cold (and good-looking) Blonde at Fancy Hospital. Don't wait until you have concrete information that your students will need, such as dates of classes you will miss.
3. Wait until five minutes before class ends. While they are standing with their coats on, say that you have something to tell them. That you have breast cancer. Expect your voice to be calm. It will not be. It will break. You will be in danger of crying. Tell them you will find substitutes for any classes you'll miss. Tell them you're going to talk to a surgeon the next day, but be unable to continue, leaving them stunned. Then exit.
4. On the way home, think about how irresponsible you were.
5. At home, send an e-mail to all of them, telling them you're sorry if you freaked them out. Become paranoid when only one of them replies.
6. Have your friend K tell you that it's all about what you need, so whatever you needed to do was OK. Know that she's wrong. Your job, in a way, is to protect your students from your own mishugas.
7. Post this on the class's website and see what happens.
##
January 25: Surgeon
The surgeon is warm but business-like, a nice combination. The cancer is in three places, so she can't do a lumpectomy. She has to do a mastectomy. She says it's probably Stage Two, because the mass is probably more than 5cm. But I thought it was 2cm. She explains that now they're thinking of the three places as one big place. Surgery would be in two-three weeks. Without reconstruction, the hospital stay would be one-two days. With, four to five. I tell her I don't want reconstruction but she encourages me to talk to the plastic surgeon anyway, just to see what my options are. And then suddenly, I, who'd imagined myself a one-breasted, defiant Amazon, find myself thinking: I would love to have reconstruction.
###
January 25: Valium Quest
I have an MRI planned for Tuesday, so the doctors can check out the calcifications on the right breast. I am scared most of all of the confinement. The Real Radiologist had asked me if I was claustrophobic, and I said yes, and she said I should take Atavan or Valium before the MRI then. One of my doctors (via voice mail) informs me that Atavan should be enough and that she'll send in a prescription. But I know what Ativan does (reduces the anxious lump in my throat) and I know that that's not enough when I feel claustrophobic. Listen, I want to say to her, I have had asthma since I was three *days* old. I don't mean three years. I mean days.
I am afraid of running out of breath. I am afraid of the lack of air and the perceived lack of air. Years ago I paid good money to spend an hour floating in a dark tank for relaxation. I was afraid the whole time that I would fall asleep and drown. I consider it a wonder that I can do yoga; the thought of paying attention to my breath is alarming.
P will take me to the MRI and will read The New Yorker to me while I'm in there.
###
January 27: Black Camisole
W. greets me in black lacy top with black bra straps showing. She's tucked her top into black pants. She has graciously offered to talk to me about reconstruction after her mastectomy. Indicating her camisole, she says, I'm not wearing this just for you. Her treatments have zapped her into instant menopause and she's suffering from hot flashes. But why shouldn't she wear her camisole? She looks fine in it. And later, when she shows me both breasts, I see that they're almost identical, except for the long scar on top, across one of them. She lets me push a little on the new breast so I can tell that it's soft. She has saline implants and praises her plastic surgeon to the skies: He loves women's breasts, she says. She also recommends her surgeon. All was done at Pretty Good Hospital, though she tells me you can pick and choose your surgeons and oncologists and pathologists, they can be at different institutions. She sent her slides to a certain pathologist in Tennessee who she says is world-famous. The idea of doing that seems daunting, but why not? She says that Fancy Hospital misread her pathology report. I have a friend who does research at Pretty Good. That night he says he'll check to see which surgeons are good, which ones are drunk, which are in a down period. I had never before touched another woman's breasts. My idea of teen-age-hood and life was much influenced by Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, read at a very early age. I remember she talked about asking a friend if she could touch her breasts. Her friend said no. I thought it must be a normal thing to ask another girl. But I never did.
###
Thursday, January 25, 2007
chemo day cometh once again
Chemo Day "Rat poison #7" is upon us once again.
The side effects of this poison are finally start to come to the surface (bad skin, joint pain, vomiting / nausea), Oh well so much for this chemo being easier than the other Rat poison cocktails I have had.
Note to cancer infusion rooms everywhere we need Patch Adams. The chemo infusion rooms are dark in spirit and down right sad the doctors, nurses, patients, and care givers should be able to have some fun. We aren't at a funeral so even while getting the juice we should be able to have some fun live a little.
The side effects of this poison are finally start to come to the surface (bad skin, joint pain, vomiting / nausea), Oh well so much for this chemo being easier than the other Rat poison cocktails I have had.
Note to cancer infusion rooms everywhere we need Patch Adams. The chemo infusion rooms are dark in spirit and down right sad the doctors, nurses, patients, and care givers should be able to have some fun. We aren't at a funeral so even while getting the juice we should be able to have some fun live a little.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Stand for Something
There seems to be some confusion about information about me, about my situation, and about the message(s) I would like to convey.
About Me:
I am human I am going to have good days and bad days, bear with me. I only hope that my good days far out number the bad ones. If sometimes I sound a little bitter or sour about the hand I have been dealt; I am probably having a bad day so lets hope it quickly passes.
My Situation:
I am not alone, I am unfortunately a member of a select fraternity that I was not allowed to turn down. I am not the only person in the country or world with my condition, if I were I think I might be more accepting because it would mean (in my eyes) that other patients weren't slipping through the medical cracks and hearing the unbearable news that they have advanced, late stage, terminal cancer.
My Message:
My goal is to get the transplant so that it can possibly have transplantation as an option when dealing with late stage BAC (Bronchioloalveolar Carcinoma). I would also like to at least get people (young and old) to at least discuss organ donation and know that even in the darkest moments when life has beaten you down you can still lift someone else up. Lastly many, many (did I say many) smokers are unhappy with me and to that I say get over it. The deal is most non-smokers aren't up in arms about you all smoking, people are going to do what they are going to do. Where many non-smokers take offence is when we can't access a building, store, restaurant, train, or even walk down the city street without inhaling your second hand smoke. Smokers cry about their rights but don't known smokers have rights too??
Where's the balance???
About Me:
I am human I am going to have good days and bad days, bear with me. I only hope that my good days far out number the bad ones. If sometimes I sound a little bitter or sour about the hand I have been dealt; I am probably having a bad day so lets hope it quickly passes.
My Situation:
I am not alone, I am unfortunately a member of a select fraternity that I was not allowed to turn down. I am not the only person in the country or world with my condition, if I were I think I might be more accepting because it would mean (in my eyes) that other patients weren't slipping through the medical cracks and hearing the unbearable news that they have advanced, late stage, terminal cancer.
My Message:
My goal is to get the transplant so that it can possibly have transplantation as an option when dealing with late stage BAC (Bronchioloalveolar Carcinoma). I would also like to at least get people (young and old) to at least discuss organ donation and know that even in the darkest moments when life has beaten you down you can still lift someone else up. Lastly many, many (did I say many) smokers are unhappy with me and to that I say get over it. The deal is most non-smokers aren't up in arms about you all smoking, people are going to do what they are going to do. Where many non-smokers take offence is when we can't access a building, store, restaurant, train, or even walk down the city street without inhaling your second hand smoke. Smokers cry about their rights but don't known smokers have rights too??
Where's the balance???
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
MLK Jr. tribute
This post is a day late and a dollar short but I would be remiss if I didn’t take a minute to pay my respects to the man, the mission, the courage, the strength, and the leadership that was embodied by Martin Luther King Jr. Regardless of your race, creed, color, or religious preference or how you may have felt about him or the many shoulders he stood upon to rise to his position he fought for all of us. Martin drew a line in the sand and had the conviction to stay on difficult the course he had chosen in an effort to correct an injustice that had no place in our society. Thank-you Martin, and thank-you to the many nameless men, women, and children that aided Martin in the struggle and have kept the fight alive.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Life as a Cancer Patient
When I left the hospital after my appendectomy, I began my life as a cancer patient. I wasn't ready yet to use the term survivor, though I'd been told everyone alive with a cancer diagnosis was now termed a survivor. To me, a survivor was someone who was still alive 5 years later, or who had at least completed treatment. I had a long way to go.
I remember several things about my transition to life as a cancer patient. I remember waking up mornings and for an instant my morning would be normal. Then, once I was more fully awake, I remembered that my world had changed, it wasn't a normal morning. "Normal" was gone, I had cancer.
I remember feeling so out of place in an oncology office at first, I felt I didn't belong there. I looked around the oncology office waiting room and saw people who had lost their hair, who were very thin, who looked ill. Was I one of them? I felt a mistake must have been made. I felt great, I felt healthy. I wanted to leave and go back to my normal life. But normal was gone.
I remember hardest part; seeing the pain my diagnosis caused my husband, my kids, my parents, my best friend, my sisters, my in-laws. And I couldn't make it better, I couldn't change it. My best friend summed it up best. She called me one day and said she just wanted to hear the dishwasher run. She said she wanted our normal back. She wanted our lives to be the way they were before I had a cancer diagnosis. She said she had been home contemplating my diagnosis and had heard the dishwasher run, and for a minute she felt everything was normal again, everything was the way it was supposed to be. She'd stood and just listened to the dishwasher and remembered normal.
Normal. I mourned the loss of the normal life I had taken for granted. Life had changed so rapidly and so unexpectedly. Would life ever be normal again?
I remember several things about my transition to life as a cancer patient. I remember waking up mornings and for an instant my morning would be normal. Then, once I was more fully awake, I remembered that my world had changed, it wasn't a normal morning. "Normal" was gone, I had cancer.
I remember feeling so out of place in an oncology office at first, I felt I didn't belong there. I looked around the oncology office waiting room and saw people who had lost their hair, who were very thin, who looked ill. Was I one of them? I felt a mistake must have been made. I felt great, I felt healthy. I wanted to leave and go back to my normal life. But normal was gone.
I remember hardest part; seeing the pain my diagnosis caused my husband, my kids, my parents, my best friend, my sisters, my in-laws. And I couldn't make it better, I couldn't change it. My best friend summed it up best. She called me one day and said she just wanted to hear the dishwasher run. She said she wanted our normal back. She wanted our lives to be the way they were before I had a cancer diagnosis. She said she had been home contemplating my diagnosis and had heard the dishwasher run, and for a minute she felt everything was normal again, everything was the way it was supposed to be. She'd stood and just listened to the dishwasher and remembered normal.
Normal. I mourned the loss of the normal life I had taken for granted. Life had changed so rapidly and so unexpectedly. Would life ever be normal again?
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Will Insurance Pay For My DIEP Flap Breast Reconstruction?
"Will insurance pay for my DIEP breast reconstruction?"
This is a question I am repeatedly asked. The easy answer is "they should". However, some women have experienced difficulties with their insurance companies in terms of getting their DIEP breast reconstruction covered. Women must also be aware of "balance billing".
The good news is that there are a handful of plastic surgeons across the country that do routinely offer these advanced procedures and many of them accept insurance. Unfortunately most women will have to travel to gain access to them. We have posted an article on our website about finding a DIEP flap surgeon near you and which questions to ask.
Our group, Plastic, Reconstructive & Microsurgical Associates (PRMA) is located in San Antonio, Texas. We perform over 350 DIEP breast reconstructions per year, the vast majority of which are covered by insurance. We are in-network for most major US insurance plans and do not balance bill. We have insurance specialists on staff so our patients typically do not need to worry about the insurance side of things themselves.
Answers to more DIEP insurance FAQs can be found here.
Answers to more general DIEP flap FAQ's can be found here.
Dr C
*********
Dr Chrysopoulo, board certified plastic surgeon, PRMA Plastic Surgery, San Antonio, TX. Specializing in breast reconstruction surgery after mastectomy for breast cancer. Over 350 DIEP flaps performed yearly. In-network for most US insurance plans. Toll Free (800) 692-5565. www.prma-Enhance.com. Latest breast reconstruction news available at The Breast Cancer Reconstruction Blog.
*********
This is a question I am repeatedly asked. The easy answer is "they should". However, some women have experienced difficulties with their insurance companies in terms of getting their DIEP breast reconstruction covered. Women must also be aware of "balance billing".
The good news is that there are a handful of plastic surgeons across the country that do routinely offer these advanced procedures and many of them accept insurance. Unfortunately most women will have to travel to gain access to them. We have posted an article on our website about finding a DIEP flap surgeon near you and which questions to ask.
Our group, Plastic, Reconstructive & Microsurgical Associates (PRMA) is located in San Antonio, Texas. We perform over 350 DIEP breast reconstructions per year, the vast majority of which are covered by insurance. We are in-network for most major US insurance plans and do not balance bill. We have insurance specialists on staff so our patients typically do not need to worry about the insurance side of things themselves.
Answers to more DIEP insurance FAQs can be found here.
Answers to more general DIEP flap FAQ's can be found here.
Dr C
*********
Dr Chrysopoulo, board certified plastic surgeon, PRMA Plastic Surgery, San Antonio, TX. Specializing in breast reconstruction surgery after mastectomy for breast cancer. Over 350 DIEP flaps performed yearly. In-network for most US insurance plans. Toll Free (800) 692-5565. www.prma-Enhance.com. Latest breast reconstruction news available at The Breast Cancer Reconstruction Blog.
*********
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Hall of Fame
What a sad two days it has been for me. I have come to the realization that there is a goal I will never be able to fulfill. It seems I have become a victim to some of the horrible medication that I have taken in the Bay Area. No longer can I preach from my soapbox and tell young athletes that I don’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. I have not knowingly been taking steroids for about a month now; not the cream format either that is so popular in the Bay Area.
Since I am taking a steroid or athletic enhancing drug I have to make peace with the fact that I will now never be able to play in the NFL, or play MLB. I will also not be able to go in the hall of fame for either of the two sports. To top it all off I will probably lose my security clearance and have to testify before Congress. I may hire TO’s publicist to do damage control after I testify before that most moral and ethically sound body we call Congress. I hope I don’t get a cell too close to Jack Bower.
I have also been practicing taking the Fifth.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKUTS9l2HfY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmDKsAuHooo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0p0ZllZ7Xg
Since I am taking a steroid or athletic enhancing drug I have to make peace with the fact that I will now never be able to play in the NFL, or play MLB. I will also not be able to go in the hall of fame for either of the two sports. To top it all off I will probably lose my security clearance and have to testify before Congress. I may hire TO’s publicist to do damage control after I testify before that most moral and ethically sound body we call Congress. I hope I don’t get a cell too close to Jack Bower.
I have also been practicing taking the Fifth.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKUTS9l2HfY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmDKsAuHooo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0p0ZllZ7Xg
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
DFW Star-Telegram Article
In 2007, Jerrold Dash resolves to: Live to see 2008. Find a way for his family to be together. Promote organ donation and break the stereotypes associated with lung cancer.
By Mitch Mitchell
Source: Fort Worth Star-TelegramCredit: STAR-TELEGRAM STAFF
WRITERTuesday,January 9, 2007Edition: Tarrant, Section: News, Page A1
The Lockheed Martin Aeronautics systems engineer is 33 and approaching the first anniversary of his cancer being diagnosed. For the past six months he has lived in a Mountain View, Calif., apartment awaiting a double-lung transplant at Stanford University Medical Center. Dash’s wife of four years and his two young daughters live 1,600 miles away at the family’s south Fort Worth home.
"Cancer doctors are well-versed in what they do, but they don’t give you a lot of hope," Dash said in a telephone interview. "I’m not supposed to survive a year, and I’m definitely not going to be around after five, is what they told me."
Dash and his wife, Rhonda, were racing toward the good life when he began complaining of night sweats, sleepless nights, constant coughing and fatigue. Doctors suspected allergies, asthma, bronchitis, but none used advanced X-rays to screen for lung cancer, Dash said. He was working toward a third master’s degree when the cancer was diagnosed Feb. 1, four years after symptoms first appeared.
He is one of two patients in the United States with his diagnosis who have been approved by a transplant program, according to the United Network for Organ Sharing’s Web site.
Dash says the fact that he has never smoked and was athletic and health-conscious delayed his diagnosis.
He’ll never be able to pinpoint the cause, but he is convinced that secondhand smoke and pollution are two of the likely culprits. He pours out his anger at smokers on a blog that he began in September.
"I am not crazy, deranged, I am just mad as hell. I am mad when I fight for breath and I see smokers lighting up not caring where or in what direction their second-hand smoke goes. In California, there is no smoking in the restaurants, businesses, stores ... however, that does not stop smokers from lighting up right outside of the entrances to such establishments. It physically hurts me to have to walk through this stuff."
— Dash’s blog, Oct. 16
Baylor All Saints Medical Center in Fort Worth, Baylor Medical Center at Southwest Fort Worth and Lockheed all went smoke-free this month. Arlington banned smoking in restaurants, some bars and many other public places as of New Year’s Day. Fort Worth city leaders have scheduled public hearings this month and next on further tobacco restrictions.
Dash, who worked for tobacco giant R.J. Reynolds for two years after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in computer science, said even stronger measures are needed to protect nonsmokers from the byproducts of tobacco.
Against the odds
About 10 percent of people who have lung cancer have never smoked, according to David Weill, head of Stanford’s Lung Transplant Program. It is one of the few U.S. programs that transplants organs to cancer patients, Weill said.
"Usually, transplanting with cancer doesn’t work. The chance of getting cancer after the transplant is pretty high," Weill said.
And while the odds of Dash’s cancer returning after the transplant are about 50 percent, the chances are small that any recurrence would be fatal, Weill said.
"I think in life we have two great vices — fear and failure. ... I have over the last several months conquered my fear of death. No one lives forever. It is in knowing that I will one day die as an old man that I am able to live without fear and try to take advantage of every moment I have. Failure is not in my vocabulary. Athletes don’t fail." — Dash’s blog, Oct. 27
Tamara Crawford, a co-worker at Lockheed, said Dash informed her of his diagnosis about a year ago while he was being tested at a Fort Worth hospital.
"I said that doctors can get the diagnosis, but they don’t know the final outcome," said Crawford, an aeronautical engineer at Lockheed who had attended classes with Dash at Southern Methodist University. "Then I walked back to my car and cried."
A former fullback at Winston-Salem State University in North Carolina, the 5-11, 235-pound Dash has struggled to maintain his weight. He lifts weights nearly every day and says chemotherapy — rat poison, he calls it — makes him hungry, weak, sleepy and angry.
"I had to call the cops today at the hospital to get three die-hard smokers out of the no-smoking area so that cancer patients didn’t have to go through a cloud of smoke while trying to get into the cancer center," Dash wrote in an e-mail Dec. 28.
Dash communicates with his family daily by phone, e-mail or webcam. His wife, Rhonda; their 3-year-old, Raegan; and 1-year-old Ravyn huddle around the computer to share news of holidays and routine events. The trio last visited Dash in California on Thanksgiving.
Raegan "cries for him. She misses him," said Rhonda Dash, an environmental investigator with the state. "She always asks when we can go back out there for a visit."
Ravyn was only a few weeks old when her father received his diagnosis. For her, Dash is a man inside the box.
"She calls the telephone Dada," Jerrold Dash said.
Timing is crucial
Jerrold Dash hasn’t been to Fort Worth since September, when he attended the funeral of his mother-in-law, who died of lung cancer. If he leaves the Palo Alto area, his name will be removed from the transplant list. That policy is driven by the short shelf life of lungs — a mere six hours after being removed from a donor. Transplant recipients must not venture more than four hours from the hospital because of the time needed for a pre-surgery work-up.
Dash completes his assignments related to the Lightning II project by telecommuting from one of Lockheed’s California offices.
He is working on a third master’s degree — this one in systems engineering, having earned graduate degrees in organizational management and computer information systems. He completes course work at Southern Methodist University by watching DVDs of his classes. His classmates graduated in December, but he is one class and one paper short of fulfilling his degree requirements.
Yet some things, he knows, are more important.
"From the time I graduated from college up to now, I did everything I could to benefit my career; a career I do not feel I will ever get back on track again. However, I am not sad to see my career take a backseat. You have to find a balance in life and prioritize the major things in your life. The things that are important to me are being able to wake-up and see another day, my GOD, and my friends and family."
— Dash’s blog, Jan. 2
SECONDHAND SMOKE
Secondhand smoke causes 35,000 to 45,000 deaths from heart disease every year. An additional 3,000 otherwise healthy nonsmokers die of lung cancer each year because of their exposure to secondhand smoke, according to the American Cancer Society.
The Environmental Protection Agency has classified secondhand smoke as a Group A carcinogen, a substance that is known to cause human cancer.
Find information online about lung cancer and secondhand smoke at Medline Plus at medlineplus.gov or at the American Cancer Society at www.cancer.org/docroot/home/index.asp
ORGAN DONATION
As of Dec. 29, more than 94,600 people were on a transplant waiting list; more than 22,000 received transplants in 2006, and nearly 11,200 donated organs.
To ensure that your decision to become a donor is carried out, sign up at www.texasdear.org.
Indicate your wishes on your driver’s license or state ID when you apply for or renew it. Tell relatives that you have decided to become a donor.
Find information online at Donate Life America at www.donatelife.net, the United Network for Organ Sharing at www.unos.org or LifeGift at www.lifegift.org.
Contact Jerrold Dash through his blog at 2newlungs.blogspot.com.
SOURCES: American Cancer Society, Donate Life America, United Network for Organ Sharing
IF YOU GO
The public is invited to comment on recommended changes to Fort Worth’s smoking ordinance during 7 p.m. meetings hosted by the city:
Jan. 16: R.D. Evans Community Center, 3242 Lackland Road
Jan. 22: Handley Meadowbrook Community Center, 6201 Beaty St.
Feb. 1: Southwest Community Center, 6300 Welch Ave.
Feb. 12: North Fort Worth Baptist Church, 5801 N. Interstate 35W
Mitch Mitchell, 817-548-5411 mitchmitchell@star-telegram.com
By Mitch Mitchell
Source: Fort Worth Star-TelegramCredit: STAR-TELEGRAM STAFF
WRITERTuesday,January 9, 2007Edition: Tarrant, Section: News, Page A1
The Lockheed Martin Aeronautics systems engineer is 33 and approaching the first anniversary of his cancer being diagnosed. For the past six months he has lived in a Mountain View, Calif., apartment awaiting a double-lung transplant at Stanford University Medical Center. Dash’s wife of four years and his two young daughters live 1,600 miles away at the family’s south Fort Worth home.
"Cancer doctors are well-versed in what they do, but they don’t give you a lot of hope," Dash said in a telephone interview. "I’m not supposed to survive a year, and I’m definitely not going to be around after five, is what they told me."
Dash and his wife, Rhonda, were racing toward the good life when he began complaining of night sweats, sleepless nights, constant coughing and fatigue. Doctors suspected allergies, asthma, bronchitis, but none used advanced X-rays to screen for lung cancer, Dash said. He was working toward a third master’s degree when the cancer was diagnosed Feb. 1, four years after symptoms first appeared.
He is one of two patients in the United States with his diagnosis who have been approved by a transplant program, according to the United Network for Organ Sharing’s Web site.
Dash says the fact that he has never smoked and was athletic and health-conscious delayed his diagnosis.
He’ll never be able to pinpoint the cause, but he is convinced that secondhand smoke and pollution are two of the likely culprits. He pours out his anger at smokers on a blog that he began in September.
"I am not crazy, deranged, I am just mad as hell. I am mad when I fight for breath and I see smokers lighting up not caring where or in what direction their second-hand smoke goes. In California, there is no smoking in the restaurants, businesses, stores ... however, that does not stop smokers from lighting up right outside of the entrances to such establishments. It physically hurts me to have to walk through this stuff."
— Dash’s blog, Oct. 16
Baylor All Saints Medical Center in Fort Worth, Baylor Medical Center at Southwest Fort Worth and Lockheed all went smoke-free this month. Arlington banned smoking in restaurants, some bars and many other public places as of New Year’s Day. Fort Worth city leaders have scheduled public hearings this month and next on further tobacco restrictions.
Dash, who worked for tobacco giant R.J. Reynolds for two years after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in computer science, said even stronger measures are needed to protect nonsmokers from the byproducts of tobacco.
Against the odds
About 10 percent of people who have lung cancer have never smoked, according to David Weill, head of Stanford’s Lung Transplant Program. It is one of the few U.S. programs that transplants organs to cancer patients, Weill said.
"Usually, transplanting with cancer doesn’t work. The chance of getting cancer after the transplant is pretty high," Weill said.
And while the odds of Dash’s cancer returning after the transplant are about 50 percent, the chances are small that any recurrence would be fatal, Weill said.
"I think in life we have two great vices — fear and failure. ... I have over the last several months conquered my fear of death. No one lives forever. It is in knowing that I will one day die as an old man that I am able to live without fear and try to take advantage of every moment I have. Failure is not in my vocabulary. Athletes don’t fail." — Dash’s blog, Oct. 27
Tamara Crawford, a co-worker at Lockheed, said Dash informed her of his diagnosis about a year ago while he was being tested at a Fort Worth hospital.
"I said that doctors can get the diagnosis, but they don’t know the final outcome," said Crawford, an aeronautical engineer at Lockheed who had attended classes with Dash at Southern Methodist University. "Then I walked back to my car and cried."
A former fullback at Winston-Salem State University in North Carolina, the 5-11, 235-pound Dash has struggled to maintain his weight. He lifts weights nearly every day and says chemotherapy — rat poison, he calls it — makes him hungry, weak, sleepy and angry.
"I had to call the cops today at the hospital to get three die-hard smokers out of the no-smoking area so that cancer patients didn’t have to go through a cloud of smoke while trying to get into the cancer center," Dash wrote in an e-mail Dec. 28.
Dash communicates with his family daily by phone, e-mail or webcam. His wife, Rhonda; their 3-year-old, Raegan; and 1-year-old Ravyn huddle around the computer to share news of holidays and routine events. The trio last visited Dash in California on Thanksgiving.
Raegan "cries for him. She misses him," said Rhonda Dash, an environmental investigator with the state. "She always asks when we can go back out there for a visit."
Ravyn was only a few weeks old when her father received his diagnosis. For her, Dash is a man inside the box.
"She calls the telephone Dada," Jerrold Dash said.
Timing is crucial
Jerrold Dash hasn’t been to Fort Worth since September, when he attended the funeral of his mother-in-law, who died of lung cancer. If he leaves the Palo Alto area, his name will be removed from the transplant list. That policy is driven by the short shelf life of lungs — a mere six hours after being removed from a donor. Transplant recipients must not venture more than four hours from the hospital because of the time needed for a pre-surgery work-up.
Dash completes his assignments related to the Lightning II project by telecommuting from one of Lockheed’s California offices.
He is working on a third master’s degree — this one in systems engineering, having earned graduate degrees in organizational management and computer information systems. He completes course work at Southern Methodist University by watching DVDs of his classes. His classmates graduated in December, but he is one class and one paper short of fulfilling his degree requirements.
Yet some things, he knows, are more important.
"From the time I graduated from college up to now, I did everything I could to benefit my career; a career I do not feel I will ever get back on track again. However, I am not sad to see my career take a backseat. You have to find a balance in life and prioritize the major things in your life. The things that are important to me are being able to wake-up and see another day, my GOD, and my friends and family."
— Dash’s blog, Jan. 2
SECONDHAND SMOKE
Secondhand smoke causes 35,000 to 45,000 deaths from heart disease every year. An additional 3,000 otherwise healthy nonsmokers die of lung cancer each year because of their exposure to secondhand smoke, according to the American Cancer Society.
The Environmental Protection Agency has classified secondhand smoke as a Group A carcinogen, a substance that is known to cause human cancer.
Find information online about lung cancer and secondhand smoke at Medline Plus at medlineplus.gov or at the American Cancer Society at www.cancer.org/docroot/home/index.asp
ORGAN DONATION
As of Dec. 29, more than 94,600 people were on a transplant waiting list; more than 22,000 received transplants in 2006, and nearly 11,200 donated organs.
To ensure that your decision to become a donor is carried out, sign up at www.texasdear.org.
Indicate your wishes on your driver’s license or state ID when you apply for or renew it. Tell relatives that you have decided to become a donor.
Find information online at Donate Life America at www.donatelife.net, the United Network for Organ Sharing at www.unos.org or LifeGift at www.lifegift.org.
Contact Jerrold Dash through his blog at 2newlungs.blogspot.com.
SOURCES: American Cancer Society, Donate Life America, United Network for Organ Sharing
IF YOU GO
The public is invited to comment on recommended changes to Fort Worth’s smoking ordinance during 7 p.m. meetings hosted by the city:
Jan. 16: R.D. Evans Community Center, 3242 Lackland Road
Jan. 22: Handley Meadowbrook Community Center, 6201 Beaty St.
Feb. 1: Southwest Community Center, 6300 Welch Ave.
Feb. 12: North Fort Worth Baptist Church, 5801 N. Interstate 35W
Mitch Mitchell, 817-548-5411 mitchmitchell@star-telegram.com
Terminal?
The day after I learned I had cancer I woke up remembering the strange conversation I’d had with my husband about my surgery. Still unreal, I had cancer. I didn’t know if it was a particularly bad cancer to have. They’d removed my appendix, was it gone? Maybe it was already over and I wasn’t even a cancer patient anymore.
I was asked to choose an oncologist, which I did. The oncologist’s partner, who was on call, came in to order tests. He ordered a CT scan of the chest, abdomen and pelvis to see if the cancer had spread anywhere else, along with blood tests for tumor markers. He told me that if the cancer had gone to my liver, they wouldn’t be able to offer me any treatment. I would be considered terminally ill in that case. He was definitely an up-front guy. Tell the patient the truth. As a nurse I’d always been an advocate of telling the patient the truth. Now I was the patient.
I talked to my mom on the phone, she knew about the cancer diagnosis. I asked her not to tell anyone else. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone except my best friend. I needed to think about it, to let it sink in, to get used to the idea. Then my eldest sister called me. I told her about the ruptured appendix and that I'd had an appendectomy. She talked about how lucky I was, how blessed I was to have survived a ruptured appendix. She seemed confused that I didn’t sound more grateful. Then I blurt it out. The reason my appendix had ruptured was that it was cancerous. I had appendix cancer. Silence on the other end of the phone. Oh…
Now I told everyone. The secret was out, the phone started ringing, everyone was on the internet.
I was asked to choose an oncologist, which I did. The oncologist’s partner, who was on call, came in to order tests. He ordered a CT scan of the chest, abdomen and pelvis to see if the cancer had spread anywhere else, along with blood tests for tumor markers. He told me that if the cancer had gone to my liver, they wouldn’t be able to offer me any treatment. I would be considered terminally ill in that case. He was definitely an up-front guy. Tell the patient the truth. As a nurse I’d always been an advocate of telling the patient the truth. Now I was the patient.
I talked to my mom on the phone, she knew about the cancer diagnosis. I asked her not to tell anyone else. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone except my best friend. I needed to think about it, to let it sink in, to get used to the idea. Then my eldest sister called me. I told her about the ruptured appendix and that I'd had an appendectomy. She talked about how lucky I was, how blessed I was to have survived a ruptured appendix. She seemed confused that I didn’t sound more grateful. Then I blurt it out. The reason my appendix had ruptured was that it was cancerous. I had appendix cancer. Silence on the other end of the phone. Oh…
Now I told everyone. The secret was out, the phone started ringing, everyone was on the internet.
Monday, January 8, 2007
Friday, January 5, 2007
Day One as a Cancer Patient
I think back sometimes to when this all started, my life with cancer. The first thing I remember is waking in an anesthesia-induced fog in the recovery room. My surgeon was at the foot of my bed telling me that my fibroids weren’t that bad after all, so he’d not done the hysterectomy, but that my appendix had ruptured. In my groggy post-anesthesia state, that explained the NG tube in my nose and the symptoms I’d been having, but not his blank expression. They’d removed the appendix, I was alive and could be given antibiotics, it was a happy ending to a surprise situation. He was a doctor and colleague who always had sparkling eyes and a joyful expression. But as he talked to me, his facial expression was blank, the sparkle in his eyes was gone, his voice a monotone. The brief conversation and the look on his face are now forever frozen in my memory. And it’s funny, but the memory as I visualize it now is in black and white, not color. Grey.
Later in my hospital room, I noticed that all of the nurses and staff were very polite, but also that they were in and out of my room in a hurry, and they didn’t make eye contact. I noticed it, as I had noticed my surgeon’s facial expression, but I didn’t think much of it. They were just busy and very professional, my surgeon had been tired. I decided I was really one of their least sick patients, I’d only had a laparoscopic appendectomy. They had many other patients who required more care and who were sicker. They really didn’t have time to stop and chat, they were busy. Too busy to look at me.
The next day I learned the truth. My husband sat on the side of the bed next to me the day after my surgery. He is a registered nurse also, a surgical nurse. When my ruptured appendix was discovered, he’d scrubbed in and assisted with my surgery as I’d had complications related to the prolonged rupture. They'd needed more nursing staff to assist. Now he sat next to me, crying. I’d never seen him cry before. I remember his words, ”When they got into your abdomen, it looked really bad, you were a mess inside. They found out you have cancer, a very rare cancer. You have appendix cancer”. At the time I felt outside of myself. I felt so sorry for my husband, I wanted to tell him it was okay. I felt so badly for him having to tell me that I had cancer, what an awful job. He must have asked to be the one to tell me. But really, I felt fine. I felt great. How could I have cancer? It seemed so strange. Cancer patients were very sick people, I wasn’t sick. I was ready to go back home to my normal life. The only thing that separated my before-cancer life from my life as a cancer patient were those three words “You have cancer”. I didn’t know much about the cancer, only that I’d never heard of a cancerous appendix. Appendix cancer?
I’ve since communicated with others newly diagnosed who felt the same. Shouldn’t they feel sick? They felt fine, they didn’t feel like a cancer patient…could it really be true? It was strange, I felt I was supposed to suddenly assume a role that didn’t belong to me, the identity of a cancer patient. It was unreal.
Unreal.
Later in my hospital room, I noticed that all of the nurses and staff were very polite, but also that they were in and out of my room in a hurry, and they didn’t make eye contact. I noticed it, as I had noticed my surgeon’s facial expression, but I didn’t think much of it. They were just busy and very professional, my surgeon had been tired. I decided I was really one of their least sick patients, I’d only had a laparoscopic appendectomy. They had many other patients who required more care and who were sicker. They really didn’t have time to stop and chat, they were busy. Too busy to look at me.
The next day I learned the truth. My husband sat on the side of the bed next to me the day after my surgery. He is a registered nurse also, a surgical nurse. When my ruptured appendix was discovered, he’d scrubbed in and assisted with my surgery as I’d had complications related to the prolonged rupture. They'd needed more nursing staff to assist. Now he sat next to me, crying. I’d never seen him cry before. I remember his words, ”When they got into your abdomen, it looked really bad, you were a mess inside. They found out you have cancer, a very rare cancer. You have appendix cancer”. At the time I felt outside of myself. I felt so sorry for my husband, I wanted to tell him it was okay. I felt so badly for him having to tell me that I had cancer, what an awful job. He must have asked to be the one to tell me. But really, I felt fine. I felt great. How could I have cancer? It seemed so strange. Cancer patients were very sick people, I wasn’t sick. I was ready to go back home to my normal life. The only thing that separated my before-cancer life from my life as a cancer patient were those three words “You have cancer”. I didn’t know much about the cancer, only that I’d never heard of a cancerous appendix. Appendix cancer?
I’ve since communicated with others newly diagnosed who felt the same. Shouldn’t they feel sick? They felt fine, they didn’t feel like a cancer patient…could it really be true? It was strange, I felt I was supposed to suddenly assume a role that didn’t belong to me, the identity of a cancer patient. It was unreal.
Unreal.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
farwell Charlie
This post is not about me it is a tribute to a fallen member of our transplant support group that ran out of time as he was not able to get his much needed transplant. I am posting my farewell and my condolences on my blog as I will be unable to attend the life celebration for Charlie Stockley. Charlie and I never got to meet each other and hang but through the stories his family, friends, co-workers have shared I was able to know the man, the humanitarian, the musician, that was Charlie Stockley. I hate that Charlie ran out of time while waiting for a donor because everybody deserves a chance at life.
For more information on Charlie please visit his website www.charliestockley.com
For more information about organ donation please visit this site www.donatelife.net
Rest in Peace Charlie, breathe long, breathe free, breathe deep
For more information on Charlie please visit his website www.charliestockley.com
For more information about organ donation please visit this site www.donatelife.net
Rest in Peace Charlie, breathe long, breathe free, breathe deep
Chemo Day (comes again)
Had an interesting ride into the hospital this morning. Some guy was on the road and was already having a bad day taking out his frustration on the other drivers on El Camino Real. This guy offered me a chance to get in an early morning workout as he decided to challenge other drivers on the road, I unfortunately gave him a pass and came on into the hospital but I am not so sure the other drivers on the road did not take him up on his challenges. There is a lesson that I am trying to pass along to the early morning drivers near cancer centers wherever you are located. It is in your best interest not to challenge cancer patients on their way to chemo, don't make any sudden movements toward us, and don't look us directly in the eye in a challenging manner b/c we are already tense, on edge, and ready to "Pop the Pop off". Unknown driver please know this I am 5 pounds short of bringing Sexy back my pre-cancer weight of 240 so in three weeks when I ride in for my next chemo I might not give you a pass Mr. 8 A.M. angry driver.
Disclaimer: I don't advocate violence but, you are not of a normal mindset on treatment days; your thoughts and actions are different so you can make it through.
Another day, another hit of rat poison #7, with a vitamin B-12, and steroid chaser.
CT results were stable.
Lung Functionality is down.
That is about it time to head to the apartment and sleep.
Disclaimer: I don't advocate violence but, you are not of a normal mindset on treatment days; your thoughts and actions are different so you can make it through.
Another day, another hit of rat poison #7, with a vitamin B-12, and steroid chaser.
CT results were stable.
Lung Functionality is down.
That is about it time to head to the apartment and sleep.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Last year and Today
Happy New Year. Out with the old and in with the new. My thoughts and some long overdue pent up feelings about 2006 along with hope I have for 2007.
2006
2006 was filled with the good, the bad, and the ugly but; through it all I can’t complain because I am still vertical, upright, breathing, and my family is healthy, happy, and provided for. The sickness that blindsided me and my family was unexpected but we are dealing with it and hope in 2007 I can get a transplant.
The sicker I become, the more I see the two worlds that I am existing colliding (the world of a terminal cancer patient and the world of the not sick who pressure you about stuff that in the grand scheme of things is not that serious). I am torn as from the time I graduated from college up to now I did everything I could to benefit my career; a career I do not fill will ever get back on track again. I however am not sad to see my career take a backseat for you have to find a balance in life and prioritize the major things in your life. The things that are important to me are being able to wake-up and see another day, my GOD, and my friends and family. I still have a lot of my engineering savvy, and training but I can’t waste my time worrying about professional administrative things that I can’t control, I fight for breath daily that is my concern. I struggle to keep my family afloat daily, I struggle satisfy the heartless creditors that demand their payment regardless of what is going on in your life. I can’t control the direction my career takes from this point on since I will be nervous in the future working around others especially working around the office super hero’s we all know that come to work sick rather than burning sick leave.
I still hold a lot of anger toward the office of my former primary care doctor’s office. I have learned that lung cancer is a hard catch for the professionals that engage in the practice of medicine. I am disappointed that I was mis-diagnosed for so many years, and that the symptoms that I was experiencing fell on deaf ears as they never really heard the words that came out of my mouth. The incident that angers me the most is that after I was diagnosed and had switched to another primary care physician I placed a call to the offices of my former primary care physician at All Saints City View and got one of Dr. B’s physicians assistant. I simply asked given all we know since I was diagnosed do you think you did everything you could medically speaking. The answer was yes (expected because they were being legally correct) I was hoping for a human answer that would have expressed the fact that medically they could have done a better job at diagnosing my condition by running more test outside of their patient profile protocol, or just saying they are human they aren't perfect and that they will learn and try to improve their medical practice from my situation.
2007
My New Years Resolutions are as follows
1. Live to see 2008
2. Find a way for my family to be together
3. Promote organ donation and break the stereo types associated with lung cancer
4. TBD
5. TBD
2006
2006 was filled with the good, the bad, and the ugly but; through it all I can’t complain because I am still vertical, upright, breathing, and my family is healthy, happy, and provided for. The sickness that blindsided me and my family was unexpected but we are dealing with it and hope in 2007 I can get a transplant.
The sicker I become, the more I see the two worlds that I am existing colliding (the world of a terminal cancer patient and the world of the not sick who pressure you about stuff that in the grand scheme of things is not that serious). I am torn as from the time I graduated from college up to now I did everything I could to benefit my career; a career I do not fill will ever get back on track again. I however am not sad to see my career take a backseat for you have to find a balance in life and prioritize the major things in your life. The things that are important to me are being able to wake-up and see another day, my GOD, and my friends and family. I still have a lot of my engineering savvy, and training but I can’t waste my time worrying about professional administrative things that I can’t control, I fight for breath daily that is my concern. I struggle to keep my family afloat daily, I struggle satisfy the heartless creditors that demand their payment regardless of what is going on in your life. I can’t control the direction my career takes from this point on since I will be nervous in the future working around others especially working around the office super hero’s we all know that come to work sick rather than burning sick leave.
I still hold a lot of anger toward the office of my former primary care doctor’s office. I have learned that lung cancer is a hard catch for the professionals that engage in the practice of medicine. I am disappointed that I was mis-diagnosed for so many years, and that the symptoms that I was experiencing fell on deaf ears as they never really heard the words that came out of my mouth. The incident that angers me the most is that after I was diagnosed and had switched to another primary care physician I placed a call to the offices of my former primary care physician at All Saints City View and got one of Dr. B’s physicians assistant. I simply asked given all we know since I was diagnosed do you think you did everything you could medically speaking. The answer was yes (expected because they were being legally correct) I was hoping for a human answer that would have expressed the fact that medically they could have done a better job at diagnosing my condition by running more test outside of their patient profile protocol, or just saying they are human they aren't perfect and that they will learn and try to improve their medical practice from my situation.
2007
My New Years Resolutions are as follows
1. Live to see 2008
2. Find a way for my family to be together
3. Promote organ donation and break the stereo types associated with lung cancer
4. TBD
5. TBD
Monday, January 1, 2007
Another New Year, Another New Blog
It was recently suggested to me that I add a blog to my website, that I personalize my site a bit. My daughter created an anonymous blog, an on-line journal, over a year ago. At the time the concept seemed appalling to me. I'm from the day when journals were called diaries. We wrote down our thoughts in small books that we locked with keys and hid under our beds. We wanted no one to have access to our innermost thoughts and feelings. The concept of publishing those thoughts to an international billboard, even anonymously, was beyond my comprehension.
I've since been thinking about a Christian author I admire, though. What I admire most about him is his honesty, his willingness to share with the world thoughts that most would keep hidden. Philip Yancy wrote that the topics of his books are the issues of faith that he struggles with. He seeks answers to questions we all have but are afraid to verbalize, "Where is God When it Hurts?", "Prayer, Does it Make any Difference?", "Disappointment with God:Three Questions No One Asks Aloud". In writing his books he is searching for answers himself, and in reading his books I feel grateful for being allowed to safely tag along on a road he is bold enough to travel.
In communicating with many cancer patients since my own diagnosis, I've found we all share struggles that we don't always talk about with friends and family. We find that after cancer treatment is completed, we are unable to go back to our "normal" lives, the normal we knew is forever gone. We have unanswered questions that resound in our heads, we have feelings and thoughts we are sometimes afraid to express. Part of surviving cancer, though, is finding those answers and coming to terms with what we think and feel. Surviving is also the reconstruction of our lives, the reconstruction of our hearts and minds and souls. It is the recreation of a new "normal".
In this blog I will recount my own ongoing attempt at reconstructing my life along with the challenges I've faced and continue to face as I try to make sense of my life after cancer. I promise to be as honest as I know how to be. I will ask the questions out loud. I will express the thoughts and feelings I've had as a cancer survivor. I'd love for you to tag along.
I've since been thinking about a Christian author I admire, though. What I admire most about him is his honesty, his willingness to share with the world thoughts that most would keep hidden. Philip Yancy wrote that the topics of his books are the issues of faith that he struggles with. He seeks answers to questions we all have but are afraid to verbalize, "Where is God When it Hurts?", "Prayer, Does it Make any Difference?", "Disappointment with God:Three Questions No One Asks Aloud". In writing his books he is searching for answers himself, and in reading his books I feel grateful for being allowed to safely tag along on a road he is bold enough to travel.
In communicating with many cancer patients since my own diagnosis, I've found we all share struggles that we don't always talk about with friends and family. We find that after cancer treatment is completed, we are unable to go back to our "normal" lives, the normal we knew is forever gone. We have unanswered questions that resound in our heads, we have feelings and thoughts we are sometimes afraid to express. Part of surviving cancer, though, is finding those answers and coming to terms with what we think and feel. Surviving is also the reconstruction of our lives, the reconstruction of our hearts and minds and souls. It is the recreation of a new "normal".
In this blog I will recount my own ongoing attempt at reconstructing my life along with the challenges I've faced and continue to face as I try to make sense of my life after cancer. I promise to be as honest as I know how to be. I will ask the questions out loud. I will express the thoughts and feelings I've had as a cancer survivor. I'd love for you to tag along.
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