Primary Fallopian Tube Malignancies in BRCA-Positive Women Undergoing Surgery for Ovarian Cancer Risk Reduction

Role of protease activated receptor-2 in tumor advancement of ovarian

Role of protease activated receptor-2 in tumor advancement of ovarian

Tumor suppressor LKB1 inhibits activation of Signal Transducer and

The Simple Life

My dad is a simple man. Don't confuse this with being a simpleton or unintelligent; he's as bright as they come. But his needs and wants have always been and continue to be simple.

Now that he's 80, he's gotten to the stage where he shares many of the same stories again and again. I think these stories boil down to the essence of who he is or how he wants to be remembered.

He's always been a hard-working man. One of his favorite sayings when we were growing up was, "I never want to have to step backward to pick up my paycheck." When I attended my 10-year high school reunion 25 years ago, one of my classmates asked me if I was Clyde Strother's daughter. He worked with my dad at "the plant" and said that he was known for his work ethic. He put it this way: "Your dad is crazy. He works so hard that he makes the rest of us look bad. We're always trying to get him to slow down." I was so proud that I could have burst my buttons.

And so my dad's own stories go, a litany of hard-scrabble, low paying jobs. He always gave more than 100%, even when he chose to work through slipped discs or sprained thumbs or pneumonia.

It's no wonder that one of his favorite baseball players was Randy Hundley, the Chicago Cubs catcher who became famous for "playing through the pain."

All of this gets me to thinking about what stories I'll repeat when I'm 80 years old. I do take a perverse pride when I recall throwing a baby shower and then driving myself to the CoH ETC (Evaluation and Treatment Center), only to find out that both my hemoglobin and platelet levels had hit all-time lows. Or the day that I turned away a discretionary red blood transfusion when my hemoglobin counts were at 8.3. "No, that's OK. I don't need it. I walked four miles in the 90 degree heat last night."

I know these stories have Cancer Banter readers regarding me in the same way that my high school classmate viewed my dad. "You are crazy!"

I may not share my dad's love of the "simple life," but I think we're alike in many other fundamental ways.

What will be the stories that YOU repeat?

Pubes. . .

Yes, they fall out! And don't even get all embarrassed from reading that cuz some of you have asked me that question, so I know that even more of you are probably asking it in your heads.

My moustache--hasn't come out. So I guess not all hair is victim to chemo. Damn!

My armpit and leg hairs--I haven't noticed that they are falling out, but they've remained stubbly since I last shaved over a week ago. And I darenot shave now, because if I get cut, the chances of infection are pretty high.

Eyebrows and lashes--should fall out but haven't thus far.

I still have thin patches of hair on my head, mostly where my brain stem is right above my neck. But mostly, my head is just one big old white itchy noggin. I've been putting tea tree oil and gel on it to relieve the itchiness.

And the hairs on my arms, fingers and toes look unfazed. So much for me being like one of those creepy hairless cats, which I swear are the work of the devil.

Poor little Chloe is trying to understand the whole "Mama is sick" thing, and keeps telling me that her hair is falling out too. I'm not sure how to talk to a four-year-old about this stuff. It's a tough age. The programs at the cancer agency for kids with parents with cancer start at age 6, nothing for littler ones. But I'm just trying to keep her involved in whatever I can, to expose it rather than hide it and make her feel a part of the treatment and recovery, but I'm not sure if that's the right thing to do.

As for Mylo, he just keeps saying this and that hurts. And he repeats it, over and over and over again. It's even tougher to talk to him, and I have absolutely no clue about how to get him involved, as his primary interest is destroying things and beating the crap out of them. At least with Chloe, she's into the whole girly make-up, dress-up type thing.

This week, I've been feeling okay, even though my WBC is at its lowest, from what I was told. It's kinda a deceptive, dangerous state to be in. Cuz I feel alright, but I know that if I get the smallest injury, I have to be really careful. A couple days ago, my finger accidentally pushed lightly on the vein where they took blood from last week. I have this routine blood work done every 3-6 months, and it always heals right up. But when my finger touched the spot--a week after the test--it hurt! I could feel the bruising from something done a week ago. Then yesterday, as I was lighting some candles, my finger touched the hot metal on the lighter for less than a second, and what normally would have been a practically non-existent burn hurt like hell and swelled up a little. So I had to put Neosporin and a bandaid on it, even though I could barely see where it was burned.

It's difficult for my mind to understand that my body kinda sucks right now cuz I'm used to being so active and running around all over the place, not giving a rat's ass if I trip or fall or be clumsy and all that. Anyway, I should rest up because my next treatment is on Wednesday.

Happy Birthday, Chloe!

On this day four years ago, I was in labour at Cedars Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. Eventually, I would get the blessed epidural, and hours later, during primetime television viewing hours, I would give a big heave-ho that would introduce Chloe into the world.

Last Sunday, we had Chloe's birthday party. The day started out looking like a piece of shit, but by afternoon, it was actually quite sunny. So we were able to grill up some meat and fish and let the kids run amok outside. Lots of Chloe's little friends showed up: Lily, Maia, Quintin and his little bro, Marcus, Saya, Jordy, William, and Joshua. And of course there was Mylo, who wasn't as psyched about the birthday girl's moment in the spotlight. But he will get his soon. . .


{what we always get: a fruit cake (sometimes a mango cake) from Anna's Cake House on Fraser}



{candles blown out, let's eat!}



{PRESENTS!!! of course, a girl needs help from her friends}



{Mylo's in the background, pushed out of the bubble of girl power, looking like, "OMG, what-EVER!!!!"


Happy Bday, Chloe Bean!

Life in the Slow Lane

For decades, the official slogan of Ravenswood, West Virginia, was "Living is good in Ravenswood." I always wanted to change the slogan to "Living is slow," but I guess we would have had to change the name of the town to "Ravenswoe" to make the rhyme work. "Living is slow in Ravenswoe." I think it's kinda' catchy, but I don't think the Chamber of Commerce would have bitten.

To get a better view of the slow life, I took a 3.5 mile walk around town last night. Here are a few things I observed:

1. It's not the heat, it's the humidity: Need I say more?

2. Practice the wave: I wave to everyone I see drive or walk by, whether I recognize them or not. God forbid that someone should later say, "I saw that Sue Strother walking last night and she's gotten so uppity since she moved to California." Never mind that I moved away more than 31 years ago.

3. This porch is made for sitting: With the abundance of craftsman homes in the Pasadena area, there's no shortage of front porches. But I can't remember the last time I saw someone actually sitting on one of them. Not so in Ravenswood. I must have seen (and waved to) more than a dozen porch sitters. They were no doubt drinking "sweet tea," the common name for iced tea with sugar.

4. Howdy is not the name of a puppet: People really do say "Howdy." And without a trace of irony.

5. Earplugs, please: This must be a locust year. Is it true that they come every seven years? I could have used a pair of earplugs to protect me from the din of the noisy creatures. But then I wouldn't have heard the folks yelling, "Howdy!"

PS A shout out to Bill and Melinda Gates, who made today's post possible.

And the winner is . . .

"I'll get you , granny. . . and your fancy little apron, too!"

Congratulations to "the other Karen" for submitting the winning entry. I'll make arrangements to deliver your Duke's Mayo as soon as I get back to So. Cal.

SAMO's Caption 6, "MY Boots, MY Bike, My Doll. Hey Robert, what did Santa bring you?," was a close second, although I don't know what's so funny about it. Those really were MY boots, Robert. Since the contest was so close, I think I can come up with another jar of Duke's.

Skin Writing

I have diagnosed myself with allergic contact dermatitis, caused by a reaction to the adhesive in band-aids. The question is whether I should see my doctor, for the dermatitis, as well as the port incision, which hasn't healed. In researching on the net I found very interesting things. I found a discussion group in which people talked about latex allergy, which I don't have (according to me). One person said he was allergic to latex and when he was in high school he once wore a condom on his foot all day to see if he would react. He didn't, and so he knew he could wear a condom where it is more customarily worn. There's a connection between latex allergy and allergy to mangoes, because the proteins in them are similar. I was interested to see that a number of people on-line had a reaction for the first time, as adults, to band-aids, both to the latex and the adhesive.

I've been reading about hives, which I thought came only in the form of bumps like mosquito bites. But they come in other forms. To wit: "The term physical urticaria refers to hives produced by direct physical stimulation of the skin. By far the most common form is 'dermographia,' which literally means 'skin writing.' This is an exaggerated form of what happens to anyone when their skin is scratched or rubbed: a red welt appears at the line of the scratch. In dermographia, raised, itchy red welts with adjacent flares appear wherever the skin is scratched or where belts and other articles of clothing rub against the skin, causing mast cells to leak histamine." That's from medicinenet.com. I do have the red welts. A medical dictionary tells me that a flare is "an area of skin flush resulting from and spreading out from a local center of vascular dilation and hyperemia," and I think I have that, too. So now that the deliberate skin writing has faded from my head, it's finding its way onto my chest. Psychics also talk about skin writing. From what I read, I think that a message appears for a short time on the skin of a "sensitive."

What is the writing on my chest? It says, I am sensitive. I am itching. I am mired down. I am turning on myself. I am allergic. I am overreacting. Allergy is an overreaction, the body gearing up to fight what it perceives as a dangerous foreign body. (But self, can't you see, it's just the stuff that makes the band-aid stay on; and it's just pollen, and mold and dust mites; what harm could they do?) Cancer is overproduction, the assembly belt gone haywire, cells gone wild. The sorceror's broom wheeling out of control when the apprentice thinks he knows enough. Too much too much too many. Let's cut it out. Let's bombard it with poison. And wait.

Co-in-kee-dink

Hm, I used to use that word--coinkeedink--a lot as a kid, but I never saw it in print before. Anyway, I like it when weird things happen. Like today, when I was walking down Davie Street before my appointment for a CT scan on my leg...For some odd reason, I had this thought: "I wonder if I'll run into Mike C.?" Then I was kinda drawn into the Book Warehouse moments later, where, as a matter of fact, I ran into Mike C. He asked me how I was doing, and I said something like, "I'm doing. . .whatever"--which aptly describes the whole cancer thing. So we had a nice chat, after which I was drawn to the back of the Book Warehouse, where I found two extremely discounted books: The Summer of Her Baldness: a cancer improvisation, by Catherine Lord, and A Safe Place: A Journal for Women with Breast Cancer, by Jennifer Pike. I bought them both right away! You would think that because I like making handmade books and that I am a big journaler that I wouldn't dig guided journal type of books, but I actually find them to be useful sometimes. Anyway, I'm really excited about these finds! And it was nice to walk around town, just looking at storefronts and everyone enjoying the last sunny days of summer (which we didn't have much of in Vancouver this year).

Then I came home. To my parents and kids (H is in LA, and I wish I had gone with him, taken the risk). My parents, of course, are concerned about me and came all the way from Pennsylvania last week to help out for a couple months. But what I don't really dig is being treated like a complete invalid. At the moment, I'm feeling completely fine, but my mom kinda won't let me do simple things like heat my own food in the microwave or wash a spoon. It's driving me a little nuts, but I'm trying to keep things in perspective. She wants me to rest, but I don't want to be bedridden! So I'm trying to let her know that the best help is taking the kids outside to play or to the park. It's hard to balance out having loved ones help while also trying to maintain a certain level of independence. And despite my attempts to communicate my wishes, Mom still pushes me back to my bed.

I. Have. A. Headache.

So, what to do? I haven't played the shakuhachi in a while. Maybe now's the time.

The Hype Around DIEP Flap Breast Reconstruction And How To Find A DIEP Flap Surgeon

If you are a woman facing mastectomy you have a decision to make: do I want breast reconstruction? If the answer is “yes”, plastic surgery holds the key. Although reconstruction cannot replace the breast(s) you were born with or allow you to breastfeed, it can restore your natural silhouette and make you feel “whole” again following mastectomy.

Depending on your health, breast reconstruction can be performed immediately after your mastectomy surgery so you can wake up with new breasts already in place. While the cosmetic results with immediate reconstruction are generally superior, breast reconstruction can also be performed at a later time once the cancer treatment has been completed.

The DIEP flap breast procedure is today’s gold standard in breast reconstruction. Advances in breast reconstruction have made it possible to use excess skin and fat from the abdomen (rather like the tissue removed during a tummy tuck) to construct a new breast without the need for implants or the sacrifice of abdominal muscle. This procedure, known as the Deep Inferior Epigastric Perforator (DIEP) flap, is a sophisticated modification of an existing procedure known as the TRAM (Transverse Rectus Abdominus Myocutaneous) flap.

TRAM flap surgery is a common breast reconstruction technique that requires the rectus abdominus (sit-up) muscle to be sacrificed and relocated to the upper abdomen. Unfortunately, this technique can be associated with significant post-operative pain, prolonged recovery, loss of abdominal muscle strength (up to 20%), abdominal bulging (or “pooching”), and even abdominal hernia.

DIEP flap breast reconstruction is similar to TRAM flap surgery but spares the rectus abdominus muscle. SKIN AND FAT ONLY are removed from the abdomen, transplanted to the chest and connected using microsurgery to create the new breast. NO MUSCLE is sacrificed. As the sit-up muscle is left behind in its natural place many of the above complications are avoided and the patient essentially receives a tummy tuck at the same time as the breast reconstruction. There also tends to be far less pain following the DIEP procedure, and a quicker recovery time.

Knowing the significant advantages of the DIEP flap it is easy to understand the reason for all the hype, especially for active individuals who don’t want to sacrifice the strength of their abdomen. A breast that has been reconstructed with fat and skin will also look and feel more natural than an implant reconstruction and will last longer. Unlike an implant, the reconstructed breast also ages like a natural breast.

As with all types of breast reconstruction however, 2 or 3 procedures performed a few months apart are often required to complete the reconstruction process and to obtain the best cosmetic result. Unfortunately, due to the complexity of the DIEP procedure very few centers in the US perform DIEP flap surgery so many patients will have to travel for the procedure. The good news is that many of these DIEP flap centers will accommodate out-of-state and even international patients.

To learn if a breast center or plastic surgeon near you offers DIEP flap breast reconstruction, please check the following websites:
www.breastrecon.com and www.diepsisters.com

The lists on these websites seem fairly thorough but there are plastic surgeons out there who perform DIEP breast reconstruction that have not made the lists (for whatever reason). Having said that, currently there are only about 40 plastic surgeons in the US that routinely perform the DIEP flap procedure. Before choosing a plastic surgeon ensure that he/she is certified by the American Board of Plastic Surgery and has extensive experience with the DIEP flap procedure. Ask about the success rate of the procedure in their hands (most DIEP flap specialists boast a flap survival rate of at least 97%) and how many DIEP flaps they have performed.

Insurance companies are federally mandated to pay for the cost of breast reconstruction. Unfortunately, some patients will still face difficulties in gaining access to a DIEP flap surgeon and the procedure. Here again it pays to seek out plastic surgeons who specialize in the DIEP procedure as typically insurance specialists are available to help patients with insurance issues.

Learn more about the DIEP flap procedure and other breast reconstruction options here.


******

Dr Chrysopoulo is board certified in Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery and specializes in breast reconstruction surgery after mastectomy for breast cancer. He and his partners perform hundreds of microsurgical breast reconstructions with perforator flaps each year. PRMA Plastic Surgery, San Antonio, Texas. Toll Free: (800) 692-5565. Keep up to date with the latest breast reconstruction news by following Dr Chrysopoulo's Breast Reconstruction Blog.

*****

Mifflintown, Pennsylvania 17059

My hometown is small--really small--especially people-wise. Which means that if there's any gossip, it travels faster than the speed of light, across county lines, state lines, even across the country and across the U.S.-Canadian border to here. It also means that gossip is sometimes, usually, mostly, maybe, probably, kinda connected to someone I'm directly related to or someone that I might have been related to somewhere down the line a hundred or so years ago. I think more people live along my one block in Vancouver than in all of Mifflintown. I think there are more churches than schools, and that the church to people ratio is about 1:9. This post is for Mifflintown.

I gather that my name has been passed among churches because I've been getting a lot of cards from people's whose names I don't recognize, but I do recognize their surnames. I also got some cards from people from my high school class. All this is really awesome. It's funny when people write, "I know you aren't religious, but I'm praying for you anyway. . ." I totally appreciate that and am grateful because while it is true that I don't ascribe to any religion, I am a spiritual person and believe in the spirit of life and some sort of afterlife that exists for spirits, so I do feel the positive vibes that people are wonderful enough to give out generously, even if they don't know me at all!

I also know that some people come here to find updates about my situation, which is also great! I mean, really, this blog is straight from the horse's mouth (I hate that phrase--it sounds gross, like the horse is chucking up a hairball or cud...but I guess horses don't eat cud?). But what I heard is that people are reading my blog and then going to a certain someone who shall remain nameless (which is pointless, I know, because as soon as I describe him, people who know, will know) to chat about my situation.

So this certain someone is my gay (bisexual?) ex-brother-in-law who owns the most popular hair salon in town. I heart him cuz I've known him forever, so he's like my brother...but alas, he's a brother I haven't spoken to or heard from in a really long time. Probably the last time I saw him and talked to him was over a year ago when my husband, kids, and I went to Mifflintown for a summer vacation holiday break [chemo has turned me into a monster of redundancy]. Anyway, I would love for him to come visit me--or even just call me, or email me, or phone me, but I know he's busy, I'm busy, so yeah, haven't spoken to him in a while. Now I hear through the North American grapevine that people ask about me when they go get their hair done, and that he has said that he will buy cheap plane tickets for my family to come see me. I'm not sure why he's saying these things--good gossip? Slow news day in Mifflintown? Maybe. But even if this is all purely gossip (whatever "pure" means), let me say that: #1) there are NO cheap tickets between there and here. Crossing the U.S. border jacks up the price, and the cheapest ticket I ever found was no less than $500--so if you happen to find one that's cheaper than that, let me know asap!!!; #2) if my family wants to come see me (and I know there aren't many who do, out of fear of flying), I will help them pay for their tickets. So as much as I love and respect my ex-bro-in-law, his generosity in terms of my current situation that he may or may not be talking about in his salon is as of yet unfounded. He has been very generous in the past with all the free haircuts, colorings, and so on, for which I am grateful. But plane tickets and phone calls? No.

Anyway, I wasn't certain about posting smalltown family hearsay on my cancer blog, but why the fuck not? I mean, it's the only way I've been "communicating" with some people, it's easy for me, and shit, if we gonna gossip, let's ride this cyberspace wave! Mifflintown people know me as shit-disturber, I think the word is. Truth be told, not much has changed since I left in 1993. So let's disturb some shit.

But seriously, all this is fun but stupid. I just want to set the facts straight--and also thank people in Mifflintown for their prayers and thoughts--and gossip!

Speaking of hair, mine is almost all gone. I still have little splotches here and there that annoy the fuck out of me, but I'll just let them be for now. The tugging and rubbing on my head is getting old, and I have better things to do. Today, I'm getting a CT scan on my leg where I have a stress fracture. I'm surprised that I'm getting this scan because I think they pretty much ruled that it's a stress fracture in my leg, but I guess they want to make triple-sure, which is a weird thing for Canadians, who don't believe in unnecessary, or excessive, testing (it costs money). But hey, if they wanna scan my leg, great!

I've been wanting to eat like crazy. I guess with this chemo, at first I want to puke my brains out, and now, the steroids are kicking in or something, cuz I'm never full. But I'm trying to keep the eating normal and not gain a crapload of weight. So far, so good.

On Monday, Henry and I went to a free fireside chat session at Inspire Health, which is an integrated healthcare organization for cancer patients, which just means that their doctors and staff help you find ways to cope with the side effects of cancer treatments and optimize health and wellbeing during these times. After the fee for their two-day seminar and membership fee, access to their doctors and programs are free, but they also have a naturopath and acupuncturist if you want to take advantage of that, for a fee. I feel super fortunate that we live in a place where such a thing exists!

So yeah, thanks for reading the blog, you in Mifflintown, Vancouver, Pittsburgh, Germany, California, Seattle, New York, Madison, China, Florida, and wherever the hell you are!

Rock on.

Think Funny - The Official Contest of Cancer Banter

It may not be the cure for cancer, but laughter really is the best medicine. No kidding - a few "ha ha's" a day have been known to boost the immune system and keep the doctor away.

So . . . which one of the following photo captions had you laughing out loud? Vote today and find out later this week who will be smearing Duke's Mayo on their BLTs or ALTs or BLATs or, heck, whatever else the winner wants to smear it on.

1. Born to be Mild

2. Heck on Wheels

3. Don't let the Christmas tree fool you. Those candles in the window are a Menorah.

4. Horse Thief!

5. Yes m'am, all cowboys reverse their underpants in the wild!

6. Christmas checklist: MY Boots, MY Bike, My Doll. Hey Robert, what did Santa bring you?

7. HI HO ChooChoo AWAY!

8. Catch me if you can Grandma!

9. Horse thief wins hearts from West Virginia to West Coast

10. Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be cowgirls.
Lett'em be bikers and pianists instead.

11. Underpants!? We cowgirls don't need no steeenkin' underpants!

12. No I am NOT a tomboy! See my dolly?

13. I'll get you, granny ... and your fancy little apron, too!

P.S. I got in to Columbus at 11:30 pm last night and decided not to drive the 2.5 hours to West Virginia. Instead, I drove for an hour and spent the night at the computer-stocked Best Western in Zanesville (of pottery fame), Ohio.

Dedicated to Lynne Dahlborg

I can't remember how it happened, but tonight I accidentally clicked back to a previous post of mine, the "Control" post. I don't reread what I post here. That post was over 6 months old. Control (or loss of control) was one of my biggest cancer hurdles...and so I reread my post. I noticed that post had recieved comments, so I reread the comments.

I truly appreciate comments, and one of the comments was written by another woman with a rare cancer, gall bladder cancer, who also had a blog. This was her comment to my post.

Carolyn - I do not have cancer of the appendix, although I know of two people who do, so I had known that it's a rare cancer. I also have a rare cancer, gallbladder cancer, and I found your website through Sean's Sharing our Days site. I like how he links blogs to different illnesses, and expands our network of connection. I do face the questions about control and having a terminal diagnosis, and how to live my life that's left. I am 8 months post diagnosis, had a period of being asymptomatic, and now have a recurence in my abdomen where my gallbladder was. As a result, I've started chemo, and entered the world of worrying about side effects. These questions are so big, and living life one day at a time really is a hard thing. I, too, have a blog, and I'm always hoping that other folks who have my rare cancer will find it. My site is Life Changing Cancer at www.dahlborg.blogspot.com. I appreciate what you are doing in telling your story and providing resources and links for others with your diagnosis.

I decided to check Lynne's blog tonight to see how she was doing, I hadn't read it in awhile.

Lynne Dahlborg died July 15th of this year.

We connected only for a moment but shared a lot. I cried when I read the last entries to her blog. Then I read her obiturary, and it was probably the best obituary I've ever read. It was truly a tribute to the person she was, it was a celebration of her life. She was a person I would have liked to have known. Here is an exerpt from her obitary:

"On her 59th birthday last year, Lynne Dahlborg went tubing with her children down the rocky course of the Virgin River near Utah's Zion National Park. Doctors had told her a few weeks earlier that she had a rare terminal cancer and removed her gallbladder.

Writing about that river ride in a blog, Ms. Dahlborg said she found herself exhausted and terrified, with no exit. Her daughter loved the three-hour adventure, but Ms. Dahlborg was in agony until she stopped fighting the flow, she wrote.

"Like life, the river kept going, and my surrender was part of living and healing and knowing that I could survive even the sharpest rocks and deepest drops," Ms. Dahlborg wrote, using the river as a metaphor for her cancer and strong faith that God would heal her spirit.

Her complete obituary is at:

http://www.boston.com/news/globe/obituaries/articles/2007/07/20/lynne_dahlborg_professor_at_suffolk_university_at_60/?page=full

Lynne, I'm glad the sharp rocks and deep drops are behind you now. And I look forward to when I will get to really meet you.

Night with B

We just came back from B's. He called us when we were just going out the door to buy food. His elevator hasn't been working for a week, and he was stranded outside his building. His downstairs neighbor (tenant) had carried him and his scooter down earlier so B could go out and teach. Now the neighbor was at Ravinia listening to B. B. King and B was at the foot of the porch stairs.

Precisely. We went over there and first saw the empty scooter. Then we saw legs behind it. He had fallen out and was lying curled up with his head resting on the first step to the porch. We got him sitting up and I brought him some food from upstairs. Meanwhile, I called my mother, who had called earlier. She said we should call the fire department. But they did that last week when K the Irregular, his evening and morning helper, got stuck in the elevator. The elevator repairman had come today but hadn't succeeded in fixing it, and didn't bother to call B to tell him he hadn't fixed it. B had called our friend D to come over and help but he was downtown at a concert. So we were thinking we would sit and wait with him until his tenant came back.

The Cubs had just won against Milwaukee and the lights of Wrigley illuminated the yard for a while. B's house is three doors down from the stadium. When the lights went out, L pointed to the bats careening around and we watched them fluttering and I could see why people used to think they were birds. I'd always heard of bats at Wrigley but had never seen them.

I asked B if K was coming, and he said yes, he expected her between 10:30 and 11. I asked if K's brother could come, because he sometimes does. I had never met him but asked if he might be strong enough to carry B upstairs. B called and about 20 minutes later the cavalry came riding up in a bike. With L steadying him, K's brother V carried B up two flights. He and L took the scooter apart and carried it upstairs.

And then we came home. I didn't know whether to weep or scream. I didn't do either. When I say to B, you have to move, you have to move into a building with multiple elevators, you can find a vintage one like the Wieboldt's by Whole Foods, you can live on one floor instead of two and make everything open and accessible, when I say that, I know I'm saying what I and others have said for over two years, and he knows he's heard me say it millions of times, but he and S have no intention of moving. They love their 100-year-old frame house with its three sets of staircases and garden (tomatoes, cukes, beans, phlox, peonies, apples). They love the hardwood floors they've had refinished and the walls that S has painted different colors over the years, and they love the two decks above the front porch. They love it all and don't want to leave. They don't want anything to change.

Ontario

I went to the dentist today, as I am in the middle of the longest-ever root-canal procedure. I got the temporary crown today.

He is in solo practice and takes off only a week a year, during which he goes fishing in Ontario with a buddy. They've done it for 30 years. His parents were city folk, he said, but his father had a cousin, M, who had a bunch of different jobs and no job but was married to a German woman who didn't mind. They lived in Wisconsin. When my dentist was in high school, his father was dying of cancer. The cousin suggested that my dentist come stay with them. He did and learned to fish. He loved being in the middle of the water without telephones or TV, just with the silence and the fishing, away from everything.

So that is why he likes to fish. His sons used to but don't any more, after his wife talked about the suffering of the fish. But they eat fish. There's no reason to force them, he said, and there's nothing else to do at the place in Ontario except fish.

My dentist and his friend eat fish every day of their trip but don't bring any home any more because of conservation rules.

Fishing is like meditation but with a concrete goal. I liked fishing when I did it at camp. L doesn't. I don't seek fishing out, and so I don't fish. I stopped eating fish for a while and became a lacto-ovo vegetarian when I saw one struggling on a line. But now I eat fish and shellfish and chicken. I am a species-ist. We're more powerful than they are and we overtake them and eat them. I take 3000 mg. of fish oil a day, to help my chemo brain. It would be nice if my dentist's son liked to fish with him. Maybe one day he will.

And that is all I have to say about fish.

Wiggin' Out

Today, Chloe and I went shopping for wigs with some UBC Creative Writing peeps of mine--Jamella, Claire, Meghan, Pat, and Kellee. I was going to go sans kids, but I noticed that Chloe's been wanting to hang around Mama a lot more lately, so I didn't want her to feel left out. She had a blast (even though in the pictures, she looks like she thinks I'm a total freak)! Of course, she wanted me to go for the red, blue, green, and purple wigs. But she liked my choices in the end.


{green monster}



{bobbin'}



{one of the wigs I brought home--kinda scarlett o'hara-esque. picture taken by chloe.}



{the other final purchase...more of the everyday stylin' wig. pic also snapped by chloe bean.}



{me and mylo, pic by chloe. i also bought a hat with a skull on it...a skull cap, in other words.}


To be honest, I was kind of anti-wig when I found out I would be having chemo. But I really like the wigs. I think they kinda rock. My mom even wants to go buy some now! So I might make a second trip to the wig store. For some odd reason, I feel like putting "Red" on (as I like to call the curly red wig, though the tag says its name is "Jocelyn"...the other one doesn't have a name, but it is made out of real human hair, which makes it softer), and kick my heels up, and sing through the streets, "It's Raining Men." [I'm hoping Jamie won't read this, because he will definitely be here in two seconds to take me up on that.]


Okay, now back to tugging out my remaining hair. Up next--henna head!

Country Roads

I'm leaving this morning for West (by God) Virginia, so you may not hear from me for a few days.

Keep those captions comin' in.

Spa

At the moment, I'm kinda anti-computer. But I like showing pictures. Maybe that makes me a narcissistic bitch. Maybe not. But here's why I'm anti-computer: because you can't take the computer in the bathtub without the risk of electrocuting yourself. So until they make water-resistant laptops. . .

Here's where I spend a lot of my time nowadays:


{my home spa}




{. . .with new washcloths. . .}




{. . .and a glass of chardonnay, a pitcher of lemon water. . .}



[By the way, funny thing I discovered: lemons float, limes sink.]




{yesterday, my hair started falling out. Or rather, it started coming out easily when tugged on. I sat in the tub for an hour, massaging my head, rubbing vigorously, tugging with my forefingers and thumbs, pulling out little black clumps. Kinda like weeding, only taking much longer. Guess I have a lot of hair. Now my head just looks like a poorly clipped shrub.}

Think Cure - The Official Charity of the Los Angeles Dodgers

With the Los Angeles Dodgers sliding steadily downhill in their National League West standing, it's hard to "Think Blue" without feeling a little blue from the Dodger doldrums.

It's a good thing the Dodgers have a pick-me-up in the form of Think Cure, a collaboration between the Dodgers, City of Hope and Childrens Hospital Los Angeles. Think Cure will champion critical cancer research at these two institutions.

Be sure to watch the video on the home page of the Think Cure website. Dr. Stephen Forman, the head of City of Hope's Hematology Department and MY doctor, is prominently featured.

Now I just wonder which will come first: researchers finding a cure for cancer or the Dodgers pulling off a World Series playoff.

No Hair Today

Cancer Bitch has returned. Her hair has not.

Our power was out for 24 hours due to the storm that swept through Chicago and environs, but we were out while it was out. We returned to sticks and branches on the street and sidewalks, and a huge uprooted tree trunk around the corner, but our place wasn't damaged much. There is talk of siding that was ripped off, but I haven't seen it.

Last night I saw S for the first time since she left for Mexico in July. She came back while we were in Oregon. She thought I'd shaved my head; she was expecting that my hair had returned. Alas, I am still hairless. The oncology nurse said that I would keep losing hair three weeks after the last chemo. The last chemo treatment was four weeks ago. Most of my head markings are faded, too, except some messy ones around my face. I am bored with head markings. I am tired of rounding up head-decorators. I am tired of ordering tiny bottles of black jagua ink for $25 a pop, and having the black sludge inside turn runny and difficult after a month. I have a cone of henna around here somewhere that I got in an Indian market on Devon but I can't find it.

In Chicago I'm used to strangers complimenting me on my scalp and asking if the tattoo hurt. In Oregon no one said a word. It was either because it was too avant-garde or because it was too faded. I noticed very few piercings in Portland and just a few mohawks. I saw an outstanding colored spiky Statue-of-Liberty-like mohawk just east of Pioneer Square, where black-clad kids and vagrants congregate. Further east, we were excited to read in our guidebook, there's
a Louis Sullivan building downtown called the Auditorium. We went there and found a red brick building with *no* plaque on it and an empty first floor. There was some Sullivan-esque decoration, but it was an otherwise small, plain vertical building, influenced by the Romanesque. It was sort of a red-brick scaled-down version of the Auditorium (Roosevelt University) in Chicago, and was designed basically with a base, column, and capital (well, sort of a capital. The top floors have arches.) L took pictures of it and we saw a guy about a foot away from us taking pictures, too. I asked if he was a Sullivan fan. He didn't know anything about the building and was taking pictures for a collection of Flickr of "ghosts"--those faded painted advertising signs on old buildings.

We came home and consulted a Sullivan biography and looked on the web and found that the building had been designed in 1894 by Frederick Manson White. The guidebook author must have looked up Auditiorium Building somewhere and instead of realizing it referred to the one here, she thought it meant the one in Portland. She had other mistakes in her book, but this was the most grevious. You can see the building here. Scroll down.

Because of the storm, we came back Saturday instead of Friday. My neighbors had a party Saturday night and I wore a scarf with fringe. It was outside and dark and my neighbor thought I had grown rasta-strands. But alas. Alas. Just little stubs, and they are shorter than they used to get between doses of Adriamycin. The Taxol just wiped out my follicles.

Meanwhile, I am waiting. I will get the results of my first genetic tests in about two weeks. That'll tell me whether I have the BRCA gene mutation that's more prevalent in Ashkenazim like myself than the general population. If I have the breast-ovarian cancer gene mutation, I'll get my second ovary removed and then officially be ushered into menopause and will be prescribed aromatase inhibitors. I probably don't have the mutation. The genetic counselor said, based on family history, I have an 18 percent chance of having it. If the first test is negative, the blood will go through another test for more mutations. I think I'll end up keeping my ovary and going on tamoxifen, which can increase my chances of getting uterine cancer. Which could be side-stepped by getting a hysterectomy. So the fun continues.

Warning: The following is obsessive and ultimately, gross:
My attention has turned to the incision where the port was removed. It's a one-and-half-inch horizontal cut between my collarbone and (right) breast. It had super-glue-type stuff on it and a stitch or two, covered by steri-strips. The steri-strips fell off. When we left town it had scabbed up and had a little pus in it and itched. There was a little pink around the edges. Our first night in Portland we had dinner with two former steelworker pals of L's. They're both MDs now. One specializes in infectious diseases and I asked her to look at the cut. She said it looked fine. I asked if I could put antibiotic ointment on it and she said I could if I wanted to. Since, I've had a series of bandaids (some with antibiotic on them) and both the cut and the skin around the cut (where the adhesive part of the bandaid adhered) have been pink and itchy, so much so that there's a pink square surrounding the cut. I know you're going to say I'm allergic to latex, but I'm not, though just to be sure, I bought non-latex bandaids last night. The cut is now bloody and oozy. I have a large, non-latex bandaid on it and no antibiotic cream. It doesn't itch. I think it's fine. There's no pink around the wound itself, no streaks coming from it, so it's not infected. I think there are two schools of thought when it comes to cuts. One is to let it scab up, but then it leaves a scar. The other is to cover it and keep it moist, and it doesn't scar as much. But I think covering it and putting antibiotic ointment on it may make it, paradoxically, more susceptible to infection. That is my scientific finding, based on observation of a very limited population. I'm sure I'm displacing all my cancer anxiety on this small cut, but knowing it doesn't keep me from obsessing.

Another Photo Caption Contest

Here's Ninnie Choo Choo at 3 years old, complete with my cowboy boots and sitting on my new bicycle, circa 1957. Sue gave her blessings to post the photo and commence with the contest.

Winner gets a jar of Duke's mayonnaise. Those with frequent blogger miles will remember Sue's post extolling the attributes of Duke's mayo.

Same contest format. Let the games begin!

Exhaustion, Frustration, Distraction, Elation

Exhaustion: Daily late-night runs to CoH for injections and observation. Post-midnight bedtimes. Daily 7 am reporting for duty for more injections and harvesting. Interrupted sleep from mild but persistent AMD 130 side effects. Emotional ups and downs from the numbers game. It all added up to a case of full-blown exhaustion by the time Friday rolled around. I'm relieved the week is over.

Frustration: Last week I found myself sliding into the unproductive "minimize, maximize" rut that ultimately ends in frustration and a pity party. The cause? Every day I was surrounded by blood cancer patients who were pumping out stem cells like their lives depended on it, while I remained a stem cell underachiever.

I overheard nurse coordinators scheduling the start dates for stem cell transplants with other patients, while I still have no idea when I'll be hunkered down for my month-long stay at CoH. I think I'm asked about the date of my stem cell transplant more often than my newly engaged friend Terry gets asked about the date of her wedding. But, unlike Terry, I have no idea of the month, let alone the day of this momentous event.

I'll get to discuss the game plan with Dr. Forman during my next appointment on September 4. Even though the "miracle drug" AMD 130 didn't pull off a miracle, it helped me mobilize another .78 million stem cells, bringing my two-mission total to 1.7 million. That's just .3 shy of the 2 million minimum. My email from Dr. Forman on Friday evening said that we will "try again [to harvest more stem cells] after a little more treatment for the mantle cell." This at least is very good news because the donor room doctor led me to believe that I couldn't try again.

Of course, all of this means several more weeks of waiting and not knowing.

Distraction: It's a rare week with no doctor's appointments and no treatments. I've decided to use the time to fly back to West Virginia (the land of bad perms and all-you-can-eat restaurants) to visit my dad, brother Piper Robert and nephew Bobby. I'm looking forward to meeting Robert's new gal pal Bonnie, eating beans and greens at Cracker Barrel and shoveling down biscuits and gravy at Bob Evans. I may even return to the scene of the underwear crime.

Elation: For a peek at the brown polka dot dress and the infamous members of the "stemware gang," visit my friend Debbi's blog site. It's hard to stay down for long when I'm reminded of my many loving, supportive friends.

And check out the latest comment from Norma Jean Cope on "The Right Size Bag for the Right Size Job." The post paid tribute to Garland Cope, the owner of Cope Super Market, where I worked my first job as a cashier 36 years ago. Mr. Cope's granddaughter stumbled across the blog post when she was surfing the web and shared it with her family, including Mr. Cope's widow, Norma Jean. I also received a private email from Jeff, Mr. Cope's son, saying that the "whole R'wood family is tickled that you mentioned what the right size for the job has meant to you."

Damn, damn, damn

Grace Paley died yesterday.
Breast cancer.

NEW YORK (AP) -- Poet and short story writer Grace Paley, a literary eminence and old-fashioned rebel who described herself as a "combative pacifist," has died. She was 84.

Grace Paley's short story collections include "Later the Same Day."

Paley, who had battled breast cancer, died Wednesday at her home in Thetford Hill, Vermont, according to her husband, playwright Robert Nichols.
A published writer since the 1950s, Paley released only a handful of books over the next half century, mostly short stories and poems. Writing was a passion, but not a compulsion: She never felt the need to put every experience into words. Her fiction, although highly praised, competed for time with work, activism, family and friends.
"None of it happened, and yet every word of it is true," she once said of her fiction. "It's truth embedded in the lie."
Paley, a longtime New Yorker, moved to Vermont in 1988 after having spent summers here. She was named state poet laureate in early 2003. "Artists are known for challenging convention," said Gov. Jim Douglas at the time. "Great artists like Grace Paley do that and more."
In many ways, Paley wasn't a typical American writer. Her characters did not suffer "identity crises." Instead of living on the road, they stayed home, in Greenwich Village. They discussed politics, dared to take sides and belonged to clubs anxious to have them as members.
"People talk of alienation and so forth," she said in a 1994 interview with The Associated Press. "I don't feel that. I feel angry at certain things, but I don't feel alienated from it. I feel disgusted with it, or mad, but I don't feel I'm not in it."
She was a child of immigrants who seemed to embody a more intimate time, the kind of person strangers at readings would call by her first name. Short and heavyset, she had a round, open face, a warm smile and a friendly disarray of hair.
Her voice was small and surprisingly girlish, with every thought seeming to occur to the speaker only at the moment she expressed it.
Born Grace Goodside in New York in 1922, she was one of three children of Russian Jews. Her family spoke English, Russian and Yiddish, but politics proved the universal language. Her parents had opposed the czar in Russia and were supporters of the New Deal. The bitterest neighborhood feuds were not among drug dealers, but between Trotskyites and Stalinists.
"I thought being Jewish meant you were a Socialist," Paley said. "Everyone on my block was a Socialist or a Communist. ... People would have serious, insane arguments, and it was nice. It makes you think the rest of the world is pretty bland."
She started writing poems early and continued to do so even as she married a movie cameraman, Jess Paley, had two children, worked part time as a typist and became involved in community affairs around Greenwich Village.
Paley began writing prose in the 1950s.
Novels seemed too long -- she never wrote one -- so she turned to short stories. Although many of her pieces were rejected by magazines, an editor at Doubleday learned of her work and her first collection, "The Little Disturbances of Man: Stories of Men and Women at Love," was published in 1959.
"I felt some of these stories, writing about women and writing about children, I had a reluctance to write for a while because it seemed to me it was not interesting," said Paley, who published "Enormous Changes at the Last Minute" in 1974 and "Later the Same Day" in 1985. Her collected stories came out in 1994.
Paley's fiction set an easy, informal tone, but was developed out of weeks and months of careful refinement, all sentences read aloud before being committed to paper. Many stories were not so much "stories" as conversations overheard, with fitting titles such as "Listening" and "Talking."
Like longtime neighbors, Paley's characters become familiar faces, especially the compassionate Faith Darwin. It was typical of Paley that she did not look upon Faith as an alter ego but as someone who might have been a "good, close pal."
At the same time, Paley was a self-described "combative pacifist" who joined the War Resisters League in the '60s and visited Hanoi on a peace mission. She was arrested in 1978 during an anti-nuclear protest on the White House lawn and for years could be found every Saturday passing out protest leaflets on a street corner near her New York apartment.
"I happened to like the '60s a lot. I thought great things were happening then and I was glad my children were part of that generation. As an older person in the peace movement, I learned a lot from it. I mean I learned a LOT," Paley said.
"So, I don't know where things went wrong, except, whatever happens in society, the society corrupts, eats up and takes over. ... But at the same time there's always this really small little hill of hope that's right in the middle of this. You see people from that period doing wonderful things, all the things they meant to do."
Paley married Nichols in 1972. In the late 1990s, they formed Glad Day Books, which publishes political fiction and nonfiction.
She never let fame or politics obscure her devotion to family, her stepson said.
"A lot of well-known people are hard to access," said Duncan Nichols, of Thetford. "She was just the opposite. She was just a very family person. I think it's absolutely true that she would give someone the shirt off her back. She was just very, very generous that way a people person rather than a reclusive artist type."
**Links to interviews with her

Our Community

I'm feeling very grateful tonight. Grateful that I am part of the cancer community. I am grateful for those of you I've met and corresponded with and talked to on the phone. Those I've met in person in my community. Just since publishing my web site I've communicated with over 220 appendiceal cancer patients. I now know several more diagnosed with other cancers in my community.

But today was an especially great day in that sense. It just happened today that I interacted with a lot of people affected by cancer.

At first, just after I was diagnosed, I was uncomfortable around others battling cancer. It made me feel vulnerable. I wanted to be back in the "before cancer" world, the "normal" world.

But us cancer survivors (all of us alive with a cancer diagnosis or history, even the day after) share some very profound differences from the rest of those around us who haven't battled cancer. A woman who has never battled cancer commented today that the best defense was a positive attitude. Us cancer survivors who were there knew better.....you can't be positive all of the time after diagnosis. Sometimes we've had to put on a positive front as those around us were sure we'd die if we didn't stay positive, so we pretended to be positive to make them feel better when we struggled. All of us who've dealt with cancer up front and personal have had negative moments, we all admit to times of downright depression. And that's okay, that's normal. Please read:

"The Tyranny of Positive Thinking"

from the book "The Human Side of Cancer: Living with Hope, Coping with Uncertainty", it helped me a lot.

Those of us who have battled cancer also live our lives one day at a time. Most of us who have some time in the battle no longer fear death, so comments from the rest of the world like "I know you'll have many more years" are really not very meaningful to us. We no longer care about the quantity of our time, we are all about quality and meaning and purpose. My dentist today said I may need dentures in another 15 years. His employee, the cancer survivor, and I looked at each other and smiled when he said that, we both acknowledged his difference in perspective. In some ways, he seemed from another planet. Fifteen years to us has no relevance, we don't even contemplate a decade from now. She and I just want to raise our kids to adulthood, teeth or no teeth. I've almost been alive long enough to see my kids become adults, anything more than that is bonus time. Her kids are younger, she wants to live at least long enough that her kids remember her. We don't think to even ask for old age or retirement post cancer.

And as we acknowledged our perspectives wordlessly when we looked at each other, I felt so understood.

I was so grateful for a day of being around cancer survivors, grateful that I was part of the cancer community. I was grateful for my new perspectives.

In many ways, cancer is a gift.

One More Day

Dr. Han from the CoH donor center just called with disappointing numbers from today's harvest. The stem cell count dropped from .17 yesterday to .09 today. In order to have reached the 2 million goal by Saturday, I would have had to continue to pump out .17 million stem cells each day.

The total is now at 1.57 million. I've been asked to come in for one more day because miracles have been known to happen.

Cancer Bitch on Vacation

Cancer Bitch is writing to you from Portland, Oregon. She and Cancer Bitchusband aka L have been in Oregon for almost a week, spending five days at the coast, one of Bitchusband's favorite places, and celebrated a milestone birthday (his) there. Cancer Bitch doesn't usually get along well in The Nature, but the sea was an exception. She walked on and on along the beach, picking up sand dollars, whole and broken (mostly broken), saw a starfish (probably dead), rode with friends to Garibaldi, a little fishing town with a 101-year-old marina, to get fresh crab and tuna. She even saw the half-moon reflected on the ocean. She first saw true moon light (that she remembers) only 20 years ago, since she is a citified Cancer Bitch and mostly stays around artifically-lit places. (She has heard that there's a good recent New Yorker piece about light pollution but hadn't read it yet.) She recommends Rockaway Beach, Oregon, to all her readers, and quick, before it gets all fancified and cute. It is pretty much down home now, though condos encroach. And, thankfully, like much or all of Oregon, there is espresso everywhere.

"First-World" Fight--An American in Canada

I have to admit: I'm having a hard time trying to figure out how to tie the story I want to tell at this very moment into my cancer. Maybe I should tell the story first, and then the connection will also come out of my ass. So last night, Henry was on the internet trying to find a way to gussy up one of his computers. He kinda became transfixed by it. This was because he had taken apart an old Mac G4 Powerbook by taking the screen off (it was already falling off as the hinges broke and the wires were just hanging there, exposed) and hooking it up to an actual monitor. So he was feeling proud and encouraged when he managed to get the jalopy started. Then he wanted to mess with the shiny computer we have--the one that is totally awesome accept for the fact that it is 1/32" too tall to fit neatly into our desk space. So he wanted to take it off the base somehow, and mount it on the wall. He didn't find any official word from Apple on this, but he found some other geek website that explained how to do it. I thought, There must be a reason why you're not supposed to....So I said to him, "Henry, any idiot can do anything if they try hard enough, but it doesn't mean it's the right thing to do." I was struck by the awesome aphorism that came flying out of my mouth, and wanted to set it in stone, in permanence, somewhere. Here's good enough for now.


Okay, so how does this connect to cancer? Hm, I still don't know, but I'm sure someone will think of a way. I just wanted to puff out my chest with my quotable, and if that makes me a word whore, so be it.

But let's talk about the cancer for the heck of it. I was telling my friend Russell the other day that even though I bitch and moan about all that's going on, I feel pretty lucky because we live in a place where not only can I get some of the best cancer treatment in the world--and alternative treatments too--but I also don't have to mess with insurance companies and fight with them. I find Michael Moore kinda irritating, and I think he idealizes Canada a bit too much, but it is true that here, if you are not well and you need help, you can get it without trying to justify why you should have the right to be well! So all the stuff that I get to do--a lot of it is free! At the cancer agency, there are counseling services which include one-on-one counseling, seminars for families and caregivers, therapeutic touch sessions, relaxation seminars, cosmetic seminars for women, a Chinese-language sessions that my in-laws can go to, and other stuff--all free! Not only that, but there's a complementary therapy organization that offers accupuncture, naturopath services, and other things, that is specifically for cancer patients--not free, but I heard from many well worth the cost. So I am fortunate to be where I am with this illness.

Still, trying to find a way to justify putting that aphorism here though. Okay! I got it! I'm going to say that the chemo caused my brain to think up that brilliance, and that hopefully, the chemo will replace the tumour with awesome sayings and other fun word stuff! Yes!

Whack........Whack

Ah yes, the spanking story. This one ain't short.

Chapter One. First, some background information needs to be given. We're talking dog days at Grandma's West Virginia farm, summer of 1962. From what I can remember, we had no rain for quite some time, typical of dog days. Water was always a valuable commodity, whether it be well water or rain water. Grandma always had nicely maintained rain barrels. Run off rain from the house roof gutters was caught and stored in these barrels for use as wash water for clothes. I learned at a young age to preserve water during the summer and I knew the benefits of soft rain water. Sis and I would shampoo with rain water...awesome.

Grandma was very proud of her Scottish heritage and it showed. Nothing was wasted, we all worked hard, we would lend a hand to help a neighbor at the drop of a hat. We were very aware of what we did/didn't have and made the most of this. Most importantly, we were a tight knit family and community. This still holds true today. Sardis, WV is a great place. Three cheers for the MacDonald of Clannranald. (Our cousin Nathan's clan.)

Chapter Two is understanding the protocol involved when visiting family and neighbors in the rural areas of West Virginia. Grandma always wore an apron around the farm. Whether stringing beans, frying chicken or weeding the garden, Grandma had her apron. She wore her everyday type apron and also a dressy apron. Sometimes Grandma would wear her apron when visiting and other times not. If there was going to be some type of work involved while visiting, the dressy apron was worn. When Grandma and I spent the night with Effie Martin, this was a no apron visit. We would eat popcorn, no bake cookies and drink grape Kool Aid. Laughing and playing dominos was a requirement when visiting Effie.

My sister and I had play clothes and dressy play clothes. Get the picture? Sue and I worked hard and played hard. Sue would go after it like she was fighting snakes. Is it becoming clear why Sue is the person she is? Hard working, intelligent, compassionate, frugal, to name a few admirable traits.

Chapter Three. Hollering was a common form of communication between our Grandma and Bea Allen. When Bea would pick up her mail, Grandma would holler down to her (at least a hundred yards away) and they would have a conversation. Bea told Grandma she was going to string beans that night. Grandma answered she would help and told Bea she needed some milk, could she get a couple gallons from her? Bea said, no problem. These were the days before plastic and Grandma kept milk in glass “vinegar” jugs. The type that had the finger hold at the top of the jug. Grandma used lot's of vinegar and when the jugs were empty, they were cleaned and used for milk.

The Allen's were almost a self sufficient farm/family. I would routinely walk up to their farm and get a gallon of raw milk that was loaded with rich cream. They had cows, sheep, chickens, big garden, potato patch, corn field, you name it, they had it on their 300 acres. You've read some of my other exploit's with Nathan Allen and his family. I love him like my brother.

Chapter Four. Putting all this background information together, remember, Sue is aware of a water shortage, she is resourceful, she's intelligent, and honest.

Sue and I were told by Grandma to get ready for our visit. We washed and put on our dressy play clothes. I was upstairs in my bedroom and Sue came up to hang out until we walked up to the Allens. (Yes, walk, it was only a half mile.) I heard Grandma climbling the steps and when she arrived, I made a mental note, Grandma was wearing a dressy apron. Cool. She asked Sue if she had changed her underwear. Sue replied yes. Grandma asked, “Where are they?” Sue answers, “I changed them.” Grandma asks again, “Where are they?” Now I'm wondering, where are they? Sue stares for a moment, then replies, “I turned them inside out.” WHACK.......WHACK

Still in the Stem Cell Game

My stubborn stem cells are slowly but surely leaving the comfort of my bone marrow. I think they heard a rumor that they'd be put on ice and, like me, don't like the notion of being cold and out of commission.

The good news is that the doctors have lowered the collection bar from an optimum of 5 million to a minimum of 2 million. The more stem cells the better for a quick and easy engrafting after the transplant, but 2 million can get the job done.

I'm now up to 1.32 million and can collect for three more days. (The mobilizing drug is limited to a six-day collection time frame.) I harvested .28 million on Monday and took just a slight dip to .22 million on Tuesday. If I (with the help of AMD 3100 and Neupogen) can continue to coax the stem cells out at this rate, we'll have that 2 million in the bank by Saturday.

(PS My laptop will be in the shop for several more days, so I'm posting this from the City of Hope.)

Chemo Rollercoaster--WARNING--GROSS-OUT POST

I have to change the way I think about this. When a human being grows up, s/he is raised to think that when sickness occurs, s/he will eventually get better, and life will be back to normal. With chemo, I'm finding this truth to be absolutely false. I find myself being constantly deceived. What I mean is that once a side effect has passed--or so I believe--I think I'm in the clear. So at the end of last week (about Sunday-ish), I thought, "Okay, so the nausea is gone, fatigue is not there, heartburn still there but whatever, I'm okay." Yesterday was fine, except that I began to get a little tired in the afternoon and had a headache--and oh yeah, got my period, which I don't think is actually my period, but me just bleeding nearly black blood from the vagina as a side effect of the chemo (sorry to gross the guys out, but whatever...), especially since I'm not supposed to get my period until next week. And I also have a bad case of acne and sores, inside and out (I got sores in my mouth), which is another side effect from one of the chemo drugs. So I'm not feeling entirely okay, but yesterday, I thought I was over most of the side effects.

Then today happened. I woke up, did stuff on the computer, drank a bunch of water like I'm supposed to. Every day, I have to wait one hour before I can eat (this is from a condition that was diagnosed six years ago), because I take a thyroid medication. So I'm drinking water and all that, and then I get a massive wave of nausea. I don't mean that I feel a little urpy--I mean that I want to puke my brains out. Real bad. So I take my anti-puke pill, and try to fight it off for about ten minutes. But I really need to vomit, big time. So I go in the bathroom and start heaving. Problem is, the only thing in my stomach is water. So I'm gushing water and mucous, and I'm involuntarily crying because it's hard work to do this, but it also makes me feel so empty and frustrated because there's nothing to puke but I keep having to feel like I gotta puke up something--anything--maybe my stomach itself, I don't know.

Ah, me. So I'm done puking--for now. I need to stop saying that I'm done feeling or experiencing anything as far as how my body reacts to the chemo that continues to make its rounds. I'm just hoping that the chemo is doing what the doctors mean for it to do, which is to attack the cancer more than it's attacking me.

WINGO -Women’s Information Network of Gynecologic Oncology Women’s Bingo!

WINGO

Women’s Informational Network of Gynecologic Oncology

Women’s Bingo

A Night of fun, food, dessert, games, bingo, prizes, raffles & life-saving information for all women.

Combining food, fun & educational awareness to women.

Date & Time: August 26th, 2007 @ 5:00 PM
Location: 77 Apple Lane
Medford, NY 11763
Bring a friend or two or three!

Please bring a wrapped or gift bagged item worth/valued at 15.00 (Women’s type gift)

In addition please bring 7.00 cash.

Appetizers, hot & cold buffet, cocktails & dessert will be served.
Raffles.

Proceeds will go to LI OCEANS INC.

Long Island Ovarian Cancer Education Advocacy Network Support

For more info please call: Khrissy 631.878-3205

Psychic Readings 20 minute reading $40.00
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Playing the numbers

Well, crap!

Susan just called from CoH to say yesterday's harvest resulted in a puny .28 million tally. This, after she gave herself all those shots! The first harvest after the booster drugs is supposed to net a bumper crop of stem cells.

She'll be in harvest mode today and tomorrow at least. She has .8 million cells on ice (they keep, unlike some of the UFO's in my freezer), and she needs a cool 5 million to get the job done. It may take her a month or two, but it's doable.

Really, really, really frustrating, but doable.

Bro, I think we're ready for the "spanking story" any time now!

Laptop Dancing

I successfully resolved my WiFi connection problem, and didn't even have to call in the Geek Squad to do it.

But my laptop will be in the shop for an indefinite period of time to fix the problem with my "optical scanner." I brought my iBook to the Apple Store's Genius Bar last week, but the "genius" used the same ejection tricks that I had tried before concluding that it was a hardware problem.

I'll call Paula with the (fingers crossed) good news about my stem cells tomorrow so that she can post the word.

And I'm hoping that Piper Robert will use this down time to entertain us with a yarn or two.

Neupogen Junkie

I'm still taking daily Neupogen injections along with the stem cell- mobilizing AMD3100.

Between the late night trips to CoH for the AMD and the early morning (7 am) call to duty for harvesting, I'm spending more than eight hours a day at my home away from home.

Tomorrow I'll find out just how many stem cells we harvested today.

A Toast to Stem Cells

Stem Cell: An undifferentiated cell of a multicellular organism that is capable of giving rise to indefinitely more cells of the same type, and from which certain other kinds of cells arise by differentiation.

Stemware: Fancy glasses for drinkin' hooch, especially when one finishes cancer treatment.

Thanks to more than a dozen gal pals, I have a beautiful new collection of assorted stemware glasses for sipping Manhattans, champagne or margaritas; toasting special occasions; and envisioning the production of millions of stem cells.

I've learned at least two things from the first botched stem cell mission:
When envisioning stem cell production, don't picture the stemware swirling (and then clashing) in space. And ask for a blood heater to prevent 70 degree blood from surging through the veins.

Manhattan, anyone?

Stuff!

What's been nice is that lately, some days are like my birthday! Today, for example...a random Sunday. But who's that at the door but the nice Canada Post delivery guy with a box of stuff! From Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania! I took the box and bounded up the stairs and shouted to the kids, "Mama's got presents!" Of course, when kids hear that, what they hear is, "Mama got presents for US!" But it was cool--I explained that Mama's friend Auntie Lisa sent ME a bunch of stuff--and they were just as happy helping me open it all!

Lisa is awesome. Not only did she send me stuff (a tradition that we have kept up between the two of us since high school), but she got her co-workers at her newspaper to contribute stuff as well! It was so cool to see how people gave me--a complete stranger to some of these people--something meaningful to cheer me up! THANKS SO MUCH FOR THE STUFF, YOU GUYS!!!





{Chloe's trying to decide which item to pilfer. . .the pencils or the lip gloss???}



{Like Mama, like daughter--she tries to get away with the mega-pack of lip gloss (I ended up giving her 2 of them).}



{just me checking out the stuff!}



{stuffies that people have given me: a breast cancer awareness bear from Vicki; a ladybug from Jamie; and a handmade doll that Kristina whipped up at a craft party, my favourite part being the tag that says, "Kristina Wong made this instead of smoking crack"}


And I leave you with this: a creepy, don't-fuck-with-me badass picture of the new Me, which Henry says he actually takes a liking to quite a bit. He says that the 'do suits me well, that I have a "shapely" head. HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! Sorry for the maniacal laughter, it's just that no one's ever called me shapely before....

Survivors Debate: "the Past Decade Ovarian Cancer"

Conversations--The International Newsletter For Those Fighting Ovarian Cancer!

The Doggie Will See You Now

Why Are Fewer Women Getting Mammograms?

High-Dose Sequential Chemotherapy With Peripheral Blood Stem Cell Support Compared With Standard Dose Chemotherapy for First-Line Treatment of Advance

Menopausal hormone therapy and risk of ovarian cancer: systematic review

Ovarian Cancer: Is Dose Intensity Dead?

Where caregivers find strength to let it all out

Happy Feet-Stuart Weitzman

Foghorn

{Henry wanted me to post a picture of my fauxhawk before I shaved my head entirely, which I plan to do today. I'm sure he'll want to get more shots later. He mentioned something about me donning camo and shitkickers.}


The fog still has not lifted. If you want to know what I'm feeling like, imagine yourself going about your business somewhat stoned, all the time. For some of you, you might think this is a good thing--a bonus! But truth be told, I'm getting pretty sick of the feeling, of moving really slowly, floating, taking forever to think or do things, being disoriented. I'll have a serious thought in my head, and then all of a sudden, I'll say out loud, "What was I thinking?" And then it'll be gone. And then there's the heartburn that never dies. I called to get another prescription to take care of it, but I guess the on-call doctor was too busy to give my pharmacy a ring. So the fire continues unabated. I FEEL OLD!!!! Help!

Yesterday, Henry and I drove down to Seattle so I could hold a poetry workshop at the Wing Luke Museum. I was expecting kids and their families, but two twentysomethings showed up from Tacoma, really nice people. The dude was actually half-Vietnamese, so we chatted a bit about language and "going home"--something neither of us has ever done. I hope that he and his partner contact me so we can keep up the exchange, because they both were nice folks. We didn't actually write any poetry, but made booklets, an act that was nice and meditative. Even Henry made one! And of course, it was good to see Jamie. But it was nice art therapy all around.



{Henry's booklet is the one with the red gate on it. He coined a new term, which I love but won't repeat here because I don't want no one stealing my man's new coinage! You'll just have to be intrigued. But his booklet kinda represents his neologism. My booklet is the one that looks like it has a green hat on the cover. I taught the people at the Seattle workshop, including Henry, how to stitch together a booklet rather than stapling! So that what these suckers are.}


{another shot of the booklets. We all used some paper that I bought in Chinatown. This type of very thin paper is typically used at offerings and New Year's, when you burn things so your ancestors can have them in the spirit world. On the back of my booklet, I used one of those foam rings that come with stacks of DVD-R's and coloured it green so that it looks like a jade pendant.}


{inside my booklet}