Sunday, September 30, 2007
Genes and Hormones
As I suspected, I do not have a BRCA gene mutation, more common in Ashkenazi Jews than the general population. That mutation predisposes the bearer to breast and ovarian cancer. The very very cheery and and rushed genetic counselor gave me the news Thursday. She's still waiting to see if I have a certain other mutation responsible for breast and uterine cancer. I need to get her one more piece of information before she can tell me that I'm a suspect. And if I am? I guess a hysterectomy will follow. Does this never end?
Recently I talked with a woman I know about professional/academic matters and then she said, You're my age, aren't you? and I am, and she turned the talk to menopause and hot flashes. Hers sound worse, only because she doesn't have a partner, so that she's been on dates when she's broken out in a sweat. At least I don't have to be embarrassed about them when I'm with L. How many times have I asked him, Is it hot in here? And we know the answer: No, it's just me. That, more or less, is the title of no fewer than four books about menopause. I think I'm still fascinated by the oddness of the flash. I'm like a kid who keeps saying: You know what? That's what! How many times have I implored L to touch my clammy scalp just to feel its sponginess? And he doesn't like to do it because of the clamminess. The attribute that gives amphibians a bad rap.
What could be the evolutionary advantage of the hot flash? I can't figure it out. I found an article that explains that motherless children are more apt to survive if they are cared for by an older woman without her own children. That makes sense. But surely there must have been some women through time who lost estrogen, yet remained free of hot flashes. Unfortunately, those women wouldn't still reproduce, so that's a dead end. I try to cheer myself: Could it be that menopause symptoms were more extreme back in antiquity? What if there were once scads of menopausal women who were so irritable and ferocious that they killed their offspring? The genes for the worst symptoms would have died with them. So we should be grateful now, huh?
The macrobiotics folks point to soy, which is good for easing hot flashes. Except if you had a breast cancer tumor that was estrogen-positive. In that case, you have to avoid soy because it's too close in form to estrogen. So I am soy-less and flashing. It helps to fold a scarf into a band and to wear it at my (low) hairline and tie it at the back of my neck. That way the fabric absorbs the sweat. Or at least keeps it from dripping into my eyes. Tonight I wore a tie-dyed bandana and S called me Tom Sawyer.
(I typed "Tom Sawyer" and "sweat" into Google and found quotes from Huck, such as: "Looky here, Tom, being rich ain't what it's cracked up to be. It's just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead all the time," and just thinking about how I could be foxy and twist the quote some to make it relevant to menopause made me embarrassed...and sweaty.)
Recently I talked with a woman I know about professional/academic matters and then she said, You're my age, aren't you? and I am, and she turned the talk to menopause and hot flashes. Hers sound worse, only because she doesn't have a partner, so that she's been on dates when she's broken out in a sweat. At least I don't have to be embarrassed about them when I'm with L. How many times have I asked him, Is it hot in here? And we know the answer: No, it's just me. That, more or less, is the title of no fewer than four books about menopause. I think I'm still fascinated by the oddness of the flash. I'm like a kid who keeps saying: You know what? That's what! How many times have I implored L to touch my clammy scalp just to feel its sponginess? And he doesn't like to do it because of the clamminess. The attribute that gives amphibians a bad rap.
What could be the evolutionary advantage of the hot flash? I can't figure it out. I found an article that explains that motherless children are more apt to survive if they are cared for by an older woman without her own children. That makes sense. But surely there must have been some women through time who lost estrogen, yet remained free of hot flashes. Unfortunately, those women wouldn't still reproduce, so that's a dead end. I try to cheer myself: Could it be that menopause symptoms were more extreme back in antiquity? What if there were once scads of menopausal women who were so irritable and ferocious that they killed their offspring? The genes for the worst symptoms would have died with them. So we should be grateful now, huh?
The macrobiotics folks point to soy, which is good for easing hot flashes. Except if you had a breast cancer tumor that was estrogen-positive. In that case, you have to avoid soy because it's too close in form to estrogen. So I am soy-less and flashing. It helps to fold a scarf into a band and to wear it at my (low) hairline and tie it at the back of my neck. That way the fabric absorbs the sweat. Or at least keeps it from dripping into my eyes. Tonight I wore a tie-dyed bandana and S called me Tom Sawyer.
(I typed "Tom Sawyer" and "sweat" into Google and found quotes from Huck, such as: "Looky here, Tom, being rich ain't what it's cracked up to be. It's just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead all the time," and just thinking about how I could be foxy and twist the quote some to make it relevant to menopause made me embarrassed...and sweaty.)
On a Roll
I had my first taste of cabbage rolls in Sardis, West Virginia, about 40 years ago, and the Allen clan is still talking about that memorable first. When Nathan's mom, Kathleen, served cabbage rolls, I went back not once, not twice, but at least five times for more from a huge pot simmering on the stove. I couldn't get enough.
I was excited but nervous when Nathan announced that Frances would be making the cabbage rolls from his mom's recipe for my visit to the Circle A Farm. Would they live up to Kathleen's legendary cabbage rolls of the sixties? Would my more "sophisticated" palate dismiss them as hillbilly comfort food? Could reality compare with nostalgia?
As it turns out, my nervousness was needless. Frances's cabbage rolls did in fact live up to the legend and the legacy of Kathleen. As the band Foreigner would croon, "It felt like the first time."
It was finally time for me to ask for Kathleen's acclaimed recipe. The recipe started out looking pretty standard (ground beef, sausage, rice), but the last two items surprised me: turmeric and cumin, two standard ingredients in Indian food.
This was a revelation. I searched through at least 100 of the more than 800 cabbage roll recipes on www.cooks.com to see if this was a common addition. Not a single one of the recipes I surveyed included these exotic spices.
Now I'm thinking that this skinny 12-year-old girl must have had an early appreciation for nuanced flavors. And I'm wondering if this early Asian exposure has anything to do with my nearly fanatical love of Indian food. I introduced my brother Robert and my niece Emily to Indian food during a visit to LA a decade ago, and they too were instantly smitten. Now when Emily visits, the first restaurant she wants to hit is an Indian one.
And for this, and the recipe for the best cabbage rolls ever, we thank Kathleen, Nathan and Frances.
2 lbs Ground Beef
1/2 lb Sausage (Reg. Mild)
I was excited but nervous when Nathan announced that Frances would be making the cabbage rolls from his mom's recipe for my visit to the Circle A Farm. Would they live up to Kathleen's legendary cabbage rolls of the sixties? Would my more "sophisticated" palate dismiss them as hillbilly comfort food? Could reality compare with nostalgia?
As it turns out, my nervousness was needless. Frances's cabbage rolls did in fact live up to the legend and the legacy of Kathleen. As the band Foreigner would croon, "It felt like the first time."
It was finally time for me to ask for Kathleen's acclaimed recipe. The recipe started out looking pretty standard (ground beef, sausage, rice), but the last two items surprised me: turmeric and cumin, two standard ingredients in Indian food.
This was a revelation. I searched through at least 100 of the more than 800 cabbage roll recipes on www.cooks.com to see if this was a common addition. Not a single one of the recipes I surveyed included these exotic spices.
Now I'm thinking that this skinny 12-year-old girl must have had an early appreciation for nuanced flavors. And I'm wondering if this early Asian exposure has anything to do with my nearly fanatical love of Indian food. I introduced my brother Robert and my niece Emily to Indian food during a visit to LA a decade ago, and they too were instantly smitten. Now when Emily visits, the first restaurant she wants to hit is an Indian one.
And for this, and the recipe for the best cabbage rolls ever, we thank Kathleen, Nathan and Frances.
Kathleen's Famous Cabbage Rolls
2 lbs Ground Beef
1/2 lb Sausage (Reg. Mild)
Salt & Pepper to Taste
2 Slice of Bread (Crumbs)
1 Cup Of Instant Rice
1 Egg
1/2 Teaspoon Cumin
1/2 Teaspoon Turmeric
Mix together ingredients and shape in to fist size (or
whatever size your prefer) meatballs. Roll up in cabbage
leaves that have been parboiled until tender.
Put in a large pot and cover with tomato juice, about one
quart can or more will cover the rolls. Simmer until done,
about 1 1/2 hours.
Enjoy!
PS Hint, hint: When I get out of the hospital after my stem cell transplant and you're thinking
about dropping off food for the family . . .
PRMA Sponsors Bold Breast Reconstruction Calendar
For Immediate Release: September 24, 2007
PRMA of South Texas, a leading cosmetic and plastic surgery practice in San Antonio, Texas is sponsoring a unique effort to inform and educate breast cancer patients about their options after mastectomy.
“Life is a Carnival,” a bold approach to mastectomy and breast cancer reconstruction education, is a 14-month calendar featuring photos of women who had breast reconstruction after mastectomy and those who didn’t. The calendar is published by Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered (FORCE), the only national nonprofit organization for families affected by hereditary breast and ovarian cancer. “More than just a calendar, ‘Life is a Carnival’ is an intimate collection of real women courageously sharing their bodies and their experiences to help others understand their choices,” said Sue Friedman, FORCE Executive Director. “Our calendar celebrates life after mastectomy. As these breast reconstruction photos attest, life after mastectomy— with or without reconstruction—does go on.”
Mastectomies are performed to treat various types of breast cancer. Increasingly, more women—including very young women—with a family history of the disease are choosing preventative (or prophylactic) mastectomies to reduce their lifetime risk of developing breast cancer, which can be as high as 85 percent. Choosing the best way to reconstruct breasts lost to mastectomy, or whether to reconstruct them at all, can be confusing and overwhelming. “Life is a Carnival” provides a unique way to explore options, consider different restorative techniques and make informed decisions when it comes to mastectomy reconstruction. “Today, women have many reconstructive options after mastectomy,” said PRMA’s Dr. Minas Chrysopoulo. “We’re proud to sponsor ‘Life is a Carnival’, a tool that helps women understand what is possible so they can make their own informed decisions.”
PRMA plastic surgeons Drs. Peter Ledoux, Chet Nastala, Steven Pisano, and Minas Chrysopoulo specialize in all aspects of cosmetic surgery and breast cancer reconstruction following mastectomy, with a special emphasis on advanced microsurgical breast reconstruction techniques using the patient’s own tissue. Their preferred reconstructive technique is the DIEP flap (Deep Inferior Epigastric Perforator flap), which uses the patient’s lower abdominal tissue (like a tummy tuck) and spares the abdominal muscle.
The DIEP procedure is the new “gold standard” in breast reconstruction surgery and is associated with less postoperative pain and a shorter hospital stay and recovery than the conventional TRAM flap procedure. Another major benefit of the DIEP flap procedure is that it prevents the loss of abdominal muscle strength usually associated with TRAM flap reconstruction. Experience is an essential factor for this technically demanding surgery; PRMA performs over 300 DIEP flap breast reconstructions per year.
The “Life is a Carnival” calendar is available from the FORCE website.
*****
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.
*****
PRMA of South Texas, a leading cosmetic and plastic surgery practice in San Antonio, Texas is sponsoring a unique effort to inform and educate breast cancer patients about their options after mastectomy.
“Life is a Carnival,” a bold approach to mastectomy and breast cancer reconstruction education, is a 14-month calendar featuring photos of women who had breast reconstruction after mastectomy and those who didn’t. The calendar is published by Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered (FORCE), the only national nonprofit organization for families affected by hereditary breast and ovarian cancer. “More than just a calendar, ‘Life is a Carnival’ is an intimate collection of real women courageously sharing their bodies and their experiences to help others understand their choices,” said Sue Friedman, FORCE Executive Director. “Our calendar celebrates life after mastectomy. As these breast reconstruction photos attest, life after mastectomy— with or without reconstruction—does go on.”
Mastectomies are performed to treat various types of breast cancer. Increasingly, more women—including very young women—with a family history of the disease are choosing preventative (or prophylactic) mastectomies to reduce their lifetime risk of developing breast cancer, which can be as high as 85 percent. Choosing the best way to reconstruct breasts lost to mastectomy, or whether to reconstruct them at all, can be confusing and overwhelming. “Life is a Carnival” provides a unique way to explore options, consider different restorative techniques and make informed decisions when it comes to mastectomy reconstruction. “Today, women have many reconstructive options after mastectomy,” said PRMA’s Dr. Minas Chrysopoulo. “We’re proud to sponsor ‘Life is a Carnival’, a tool that helps women understand what is possible so they can make their own informed decisions.”
PRMA plastic surgeons Drs. Peter Ledoux, Chet Nastala, Steven Pisano, and Minas Chrysopoulo specialize in all aspects of cosmetic surgery and breast cancer reconstruction following mastectomy, with a special emphasis on advanced microsurgical breast reconstruction techniques using the patient’s own tissue. Their preferred reconstructive technique is the DIEP flap (Deep Inferior Epigastric Perforator flap), which uses the patient’s lower abdominal tissue (like a tummy tuck) and spares the abdominal muscle.
The DIEP procedure is the new “gold standard” in breast reconstruction surgery and is associated with less postoperative pain and a shorter hospital stay and recovery than the conventional TRAM flap procedure. Another major benefit of the DIEP flap procedure is that it prevents the loss of abdominal muscle strength usually associated with TRAM flap reconstruction. Experience is an essential factor for this technically demanding surgery; PRMA performs over 300 DIEP flap breast reconstructions per year.
The “Life is a Carnival” calendar is available from the FORCE website.
*****
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.
*****
Brandy's Babes Take Vancouver by (& in a) Storm!
My hands are still thawing out as I type this. We couldn't have asked for shittier weather today--torrential downpour, windy & cold. But Brandy's Babes were still troopers and warriors, who braved the elements in support of breast cancer research. Not all of Brandy's Babes are pictured here. Among those missing (due to the weather and the crowd, we didn't quite stay together as planned all that well) are: Shirley and Steve (who walked with me for a good deal of the 5k); Heidy, Greg, Quintin and Gryphen (poor little Quintin got all wet and so they had to bow out); Trish, Brent and Lily (they came in last); my parents-in-law John & Helen; and Henry, who took the picture. Those who were MIA--which means they either were there and I didn't get to see them, or they were home sick or afraid of the rain--were Mary and Janice; Grace; Shirley Raibmon; Lawrence; my mom; and May. All told, 30 people were on the team, and together we raised around $3,500! Amazing.
So I'd like to thank everyone who participated in whatever way they could--and I hope everyone gets all cozy, snug, and dry today!
If anyone would still like to donate to the cause, visit CIBC Run for the Cure where in the middle of the page, you can make a donation.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Princess and the Queen
{Chloe came upstairs in one of her princess dresses, saying, "Mama likes my dress." I think she dressed up to cheer me up!}
Hairline
I look like Sluggo, Nancy's pal in the comic strip. My hairline is lower than my tattoo-line was, and I look like a Neandertal.* My tattoos are mostly faded. I want to get someone to rewrite the US out of Iraq on the back of my head. My scalp still shows through the hair. My eyebrows are growing in but I still use pencil to darken. My eyes are close together (an oculist told me, and it's true) and I think it's more pronounced now that the tattoos are gone. I am vain and obsessed. I think about 50 percent of the time about my hair/non-hair and the rest of the time about food, students, writing, the world brutality du jour, cancer coming back. Not in that order. The order keeps changing. I suppose I should be thinking about the Cubs' major win. They are Midwest division champs of the National division. Or something like that. Only 11 more wins and they are world (US and Canada) champs. I applied today for a fellowship from the Christopher Isherwood Foundation. I regret never writing to him. He has been dead about 20 years. A friend of mine wrote to Meridel LeSueur and kept up a correspondence. I regret not sending my books to Grace Paley, who would have read them or not, but at least she would have been aware of them. A critic wrote that Paley wrote English as if it were Yiddish and someone once said that about my work. She was much much closer to Yiddish speakers and inflection than I've been. I interviewed her over the phone and then met her here, but before I had any books. I didn't mention my breast cancer on the personal statement to the Isherwood Foundation. I would have if it were for nonfiction writers, but it was for fiction, so I put my best fiction foot forward. I almost wrote: I was diagnosed with breast cancer in January and finished chemo this summer. I am writing a nonfiction book about it and that takes time away from my fiction so I need money to buy time for my fiction. That was all I could think to say so I didn't say it. Other than: I had breast cancer, feel sorry for me and send money. My time may be short. But think of all the writers with AIDS who may be applying. Breast cancer seems like chump change. At least my kind of. It is garden-variety-ish, and that is why my oncologist (soon to be my former) seemed bored with it. Or maybe he is without affect. I will see the new young female oncologist on Friday. The old oncologist seemed indifferent to my case. He didn't call my shrink back to talk about drug interactions and when they did talk (after she called again) she asked him about monitoring of something or other in my liver and he brushed her off. I want an oncologist who at least feigns interest and goes through the right motions. Is that too much to ask?
I have tried to find pictures of Sluggo on line to link to, but it's hard to find good ones. In most, he's wearing a hat. I remember him as being nearly bald, with stubs all over, and a low hairline. But in this comic, it's not so low.
*"Neanderthal" sounds more natural, but I want to sound smart, so I'm spelling it without the H. Mr. Neandert(h)al was not available for comment.
I have tried to find pictures of Sluggo on line to link to, but it's hard to find good ones. In most, he's wearing a hat. I remember him as being nearly bald, with stubs all over, and a low hairline. But in this comic, it's not so low.
*"Neanderthal" sounds more natural, but I want to sound smart, so I'm spelling it without the H. Mr. Neandert(h)al was not available for comment.
Phytochemicals- My Complementary Therapy
I am much the same as Graham Davies , who posted a comment to my last blog entry (thanks Graham!). In part he said:
"I am sceptical about alternative and herbal remedies, although I recognise the fact that some naturally occurring chemicals are believed to have a positive effect. For that reason, I drink green tea and red wine, and I eat quite a lot of garlic, broccoli and dark chocolate. Regardless of whether these foods are beneficial or not, I like them anyway, so I can’t really lose, can I?"
For over 30 years it has been known that a diet high in fruits and vegetables is protective against certain types of cancer and heart disease. New compounds naturally occuring in plants have been discovered, these compounds are called phytochemicals. Thousands of different types of phytochemicals have been discovered, more are being discovered all the time. Phytochemicals provide plants with color and flavor, but also protect plants from microbes, insects and oxidation (they are antioxidants). Phytochemicals offer many protective benefits to plants. It is believed they also provide protective benefits to humans and help explain the health benefits of a diet high in fruits and vegetables.
Phytochemicals also seem to work best in combination with each other. The more colorful fruits and vegetables are rich in phytochemicals. A single orange has 200 different kinds of phytocemicals. Green tea is rich phytochemicals. These substances are not produced by our bodies and must be consumed in food. Once consumed they only stay in our bodies for a day or two.
Of course, when the protective benefits of phytochemicals became known, companies immediately began to investigate creating phytochemical supplements in pill form. But no one knows which are the most beneficial phytochemicals and in what amount and in what combination they are most effective. And how many pills would be required to provide the amount of phytochemicals in one serving of a particular fruit or vegetable? Would processed or artificially created phytochemicals still be as beneficial as those found in fresh fruits and vegetables? Those questions have not been answered.
This is a link to an article by Ohio State University regardiong phytochemicals, it's worth a read: Phytochemicals -
Phytochemicals - Vitamins of the Future?, HYG-5050-98
I eat a lot more fruits and vegetables and do now buy green tea- that is a change I've made in the sense of complementing my medical therapies. It's easy, relatively cheap, and can cause no harm. It also gives me an excuse to buy some of the more expensive fruits and vegetables I love, even when they are out of season. And now my family and I go blueberry and strawberry picking almost every year!
"I am sceptical about alternative and herbal remedies, although I recognise the fact that some naturally occurring chemicals are believed to have a positive effect. For that reason, I drink green tea and red wine, and I eat quite a lot of garlic, broccoli and dark chocolate. Regardless of whether these foods are beneficial or not, I like them anyway, so I can’t really lose, can I?"
For over 30 years it has been known that a diet high in fruits and vegetables is protective against certain types of cancer and heart disease. New compounds naturally occuring in plants have been discovered, these compounds are called phytochemicals. Thousands of different types of phytochemicals have been discovered, more are being discovered all the time. Phytochemicals provide plants with color and flavor, but also protect plants from microbes, insects and oxidation (they are antioxidants). Phytochemicals offer many protective benefits to plants. It is believed they also provide protective benefits to humans and help explain the health benefits of a diet high in fruits and vegetables.
Phytochemicals also seem to work best in combination with each other. The more colorful fruits and vegetables are rich in phytochemicals. A single orange has 200 different kinds of phytocemicals. Green tea is rich phytochemicals. These substances are not produced by our bodies and must be consumed in food. Once consumed they only stay in our bodies for a day or two.
Of course, when the protective benefits of phytochemicals became known, companies immediately began to investigate creating phytochemical supplements in pill form. But no one knows which are the most beneficial phytochemicals and in what amount and in what combination they are most effective. And how many pills would be required to provide the amount of phytochemicals in one serving of a particular fruit or vegetable? Would processed or artificially created phytochemicals still be as beneficial as those found in fresh fruits and vegetables? Those questions have not been answered.
This is a link to an article by Ohio State University regardiong phytochemicals, it's worth a read: Phytochemicals -
Phytochemicals - Vitamins of the Future?, HYG-5050-98
I eat a lot more fruits and vegetables and do now buy green tea- that is a change I've made in the sense of complementing my medical therapies. It's easy, relatively cheap, and can cause no harm. It also gives me an excuse to buy some of the more expensive fruits and vegetables I love, even when they are out of season. And now my family and I go blueberry and strawberry picking almost every year!
Sick
Chloe's sick. So I should stay away from her. This is impossible--and not something I want to do anyway. At six this morning, I heard a little whimper downstairs, and it went straight to my gut. Even in the deepest sleep, I can feel my kids needing something, no matter how quiet they are. Of course, no one else heard little Chloe crying, so I went downstairs to see what was the matter. She had to go pee but was afraid in the dark. So I helped her, and she coughed all over me, and I didn't think to turn away. Then I put her back in bed and gave her a kiss.
Step 1: Remember that I have virtually no immune system.
Step 2: Stay away from crowds and sick people, including my own kids.
I think I'm fucked. I can't remember the first step, and I can't be bothered with the second one. This is too hard.
Last night, I had a bad moment. Actually, last night was good. People were dropping by to pick up their race shirts, and my friend Emilie came to hang out. But when everyone left, and I was in bed, I felt like crap. Not because of all the company, but just because of the chemo--and because of the horrific realization that I'm only on cycle 3 out of 8. Then I panicked: how the hell am I going to make it through EIGHT of these cycles? EIGHT???? I know people have done it, but it seems like a long-ass road ahead.
Sometimes, I really hate realizations.
Step 1: Remember that I have virtually no immune system.
Step 2: Stay away from crowds and sick people, including my own kids.
I think I'm fucked. I can't remember the first step, and I can't be bothered with the second one. This is too hard.
Last night, I had a bad moment. Actually, last night was good. People were dropping by to pick up their race shirts, and my friend Emilie came to hang out. But when everyone left, and I was in bed, I felt like crap. Not because of all the company, but just because of the chemo--and because of the horrific realization that I'm only on cycle 3 out of 8. Then I panicked: how the hell am I going to make it through EIGHT of these cycles? EIGHT???? I know people have done it, but it seems like a long-ass road ahead.
Sometimes, I really hate realizations.
Friday, September 28, 2007
PET(ty) Ramblings
I don't know if it was the vet, the PET whisperer, the PET psychic or the Maytag man who worked their magic, but the City of Hope PET Scan equipment was up and purring by the time I arrived today for my 12:30 scan.
I had set my alarm for 6:15 this morning so that I could prepare a high protein breakfast, the only food group allowed before the 6:30 start of my pre-scan fast. Unfortunately, I couldn't make a preemptive strike against hunger because making ZZZ's was more enticing than making bacon and eggs.
I managed to go about my day on an empty stomach, even though food mocked me everywhere. The recipe for Frances's cabbage rolls (more on this in a future post) was waiting for me in my email inbox. The staff in the PET Scan department were carrying on an animated discussion about the merits of adding a dash of vinegar to foods. Even the PET Scan machine looked like a giant glazed donut on steroids. Before entering the donut hole, I took a milligram of Atavan, and slept the deepest, most restful slumber imaginable, while visions of strawberry donuts from The Donut Man danced in my head.
These PET Scan machines, by the way, are works of art. The one pictured in my last post looks like it was designed by Philippe Starck or Mies "less is more" Van Der Rohe. I think architect-designer Michael Graves should defect from Target and switch over to designing hospital equipment. Or Martha could come up with a design to go with her new line at Macy's. Faux bois PET scan anyone? (At the very least, we should get Martha, or maybe even Vera Wang, to work on designing a hospital gown that's both flattering and functional. Is that too much to ask?)
After the scan was over at 3 pm, I got to satisfy my grumbling gut with my favorite addiction - an iced passion fruit green tea from Au 79 in Arcadia. I never thought I'd live to see the day (no pun intended) when I'd pay $4.00 for an iced tea (no refills, thank you very much), but that's exactly what I do at least twice a week. The food is just a notch above mediocre, but after a day of fasting, the late lunch of minced pork, steamed rice and a soy bean, corn and cabbage salad was just what the doctor ordered.
Speaking of the good doctor, I'll meet with Dr. Forman on Monday afternoon to discuss the scan results and our next steps. Yep - I'm still moving closer to the answer to "When's the date?"
Have a great weekend, friends. Mine is jam-packed with activities (attending a friend's birthday celebration tonight, hosting an Italian-themed bridal shower on Saturday, visiting at least two of the Japanese gardens on the LA Conservancy garden tour and reading "Pole Dancing" at the WeHo Book Fair on Sunday at 4:25 PM), so I probably won't post again until Monday.
I had set my alarm for 6:15 this morning so that I could prepare a high protein breakfast, the only food group allowed before the 6:30 start of my pre-scan fast. Unfortunately, I couldn't make a preemptive strike against hunger because making ZZZ's was more enticing than making bacon and eggs.
I managed to go about my day on an empty stomach, even though food mocked me everywhere. The recipe for Frances's cabbage rolls (more on this in a future post) was waiting for me in my email inbox. The staff in the PET Scan department were carrying on an animated discussion about the merits of adding a dash of vinegar to foods. Even the PET Scan machine looked like a giant glazed donut on steroids. Before entering the donut hole, I took a milligram of Atavan, and slept the deepest, most restful slumber imaginable, while visions of strawberry donuts from The Donut Man danced in my head.
These PET Scan machines, by the way, are works of art. The one pictured in my last post looks like it was designed by Philippe Starck or Mies "less is more" Van Der Rohe. I think architect-designer Michael Graves should defect from Target and switch over to designing hospital equipment. Or Martha could come up with a design to go with her new line at Macy's. Faux bois PET scan anyone? (At the very least, we should get Martha, or maybe even Vera Wang, to work on designing a hospital gown that's both flattering and functional. Is that too much to ask?)
After the scan was over at 3 pm, I got to satisfy my grumbling gut with my favorite addiction - an iced passion fruit green tea from Au 79 in Arcadia. I never thought I'd live to see the day (no pun intended) when I'd pay $4.00 for an iced tea (no refills, thank you very much), but that's exactly what I do at least twice a week. The food is just a notch above mediocre, but after a day of fasting, the late lunch of minced pork, steamed rice and a soy bean, corn and cabbage salad was just what the doctor ordered.
Speaking of the good doctor, I'll meet with Dr. Forman on Monday afternoon to discuss the scan results and our next steps. Yep - I'm still moving closer to the answer to "When's the date?"
Have a great weekend, friends. Mine is jam-packed with activities (attending a friend's birthday celebration tonight, hosting an Italian-themed bridal shower on Saturday, visiting at least two of the Japanese gardens on the LA Conservancy garden tour and reading "Pole Dancing" at the WeHo Book Fair on Sunday at 4:25 PM), so I probably won't post again until Monday.
Brandy Interview Slideshow
[i did this quickie slideshow...a bit self-indulgent, but what about this blog isn't, after all? enjoy...or not!]
Translation
It's always dangerous to make absolute statements (such as those that include "always"), but I will venture: Everyone loves secret code. That's what's so magical about speaking a foreign language.
I went to a French-language gathering last week. It was at La Creperie, and when I arrived there were about 20 people sitting outside at a long table. I went to sit down in an empty chair and a man gestured toward me and said he liked "l'ecran." My screen? What was he talking about? O, "le crane," my cranium, my scalp, meaning the message on my head: US out of Iraq. I'd thought it was too light to read. I told him I had the tattoo because I'd lost my hair. He didn't ask where it had gone. He was a very good and quick speaker of French, thanks to a French ex-wife. I realized I hadn't spoken French since December. I spoke rather rustily to him and to another guy who arrived, looking like a lawyer in a yellow tie and suit. And he was--a lawyer. I say I'm a writer and people say what do you write and I tell them I'm writing about cancer. What kind? asks the lawyer. Breast, sein, I say, and to make sure he's understanding me, he touches his chest. I am telling this stranger about my breast cancer and my recordings on WBEZ, and I'm feeling I wouldn't be telling him all this in English, so easily. Of course it's not easily tripping off my tongue. The gears are creaky. I read a William Maxwell story in which he talks about a man and his wife who want a child, and the wife is unhappy as a 1950s housewife without career or children, and they take a French class and say to one another what they can't say in English. Then their life goes on, after that brief opening up. I'm amazed at what one reveals in French, but at the same time on this very blog I've said many an intimate thing to--anyone--n'importe ou (anywhere)--who can find this square of zero-dimensional cyberspace. But it's different in person, isn't it? But in French in person it's not real; it's not English, doesn't matter what you say, and everything is interesting if it's said in French, because it's French, you have to struggle a little, to comprend. Pay that extra attention. French not real the way that travelers unfold the bills from their wallets and say, How much is this in real money?
The waitress came to collect money and the lawyer was asking her for change (in French) and she couldn't understand him. We were in a haze of French, speaking French, speaking in a familiar but foreign language to strangers. And we thought the world could understand us, because these people we'd never ever seen before could.
Makes you believe in the believers in Esperanto, who would craft a universal language and we would all be able to speak to one another, to speak the same language, as it were, and there would be no more strife.
But there were civil wars. Still are.
But the Jew who started Esperanto already had a universal language at hand: Yiddish.
Don't be afraid of Yiddish, Kafka told an audience once. You will understand it more than you thought you would, because it is like German. (Don't be afraid that you'll turn into your grandparents because of it.)
Old joke: What do you call someone who speaks two languages?
Bilingual.
What do you call someone who speaks three languages?
Trilingual.
What do you call someone who speaks one language?
American.
I went to a French-language gathering last week. It was at La Creperie, and when I arrived there were about 20 people sitting outside at a long table. I went to sit down in an empty chair and a man gestured toward me and said he liked "l'ecran." My screen? What was he talking about? O, "le crane," my cranium, my scalp, meaning the message on my head: US out of Iraq. I'd thought it was too light to read. I told him I had the tattoo because I'd lost my hair. He didn't ask where it had gone. He was a very good and quick speaker of French, thanks to a French ex-wife. I realized I hadn't spoken French since December. I spoke rather rustily to him and to another guy who arrived, looking like a lawyer in a yellow tie and suit. And he was--a lawyer. I say I'm a writer and people say what do you write and I tell them I'm writing about cancer. What kind? asks the lawyer. Breast, sein, I say, and to make sure he's understanding me, he touches his chest. I am telling this stranger about my breast cancer and my recordings on WBEZ, and I'm feeling I wouldn't be telling him all this in English, so easily. Of course it's not easily tripping off my tongue. The gears are creaky. I read a William Maxwell story in which he talks about a man and his wife who want a child, and the wife is unhappy as a 1950s housewife without career or children, and they take a French class and say to one another what they can't say in English. Then their life goes on, after that brief opening up. I'm amazed at what one reveals in French, but at the same time on this very blog I've said many an intimate thing to--anyone--n'importe ou (anywhere)--who can find this square of zero-dimensional cyberspace. But it's different in person, isn't it? But in French in person it's not real; it's not English, doesn't matter what you say, and everything is interesting if it's said in French, because it's French, you have to struggle a little, to comprend. Pay that extra attention. French not real the way that travelers unfold the bills from their wallets and say, How much is this in real money?
The waitress came to collect money and the lawyer was asking her for change (in French) and she couldn't understand him. We were in a haze of French, speaking French, speaking in a familiar but foreign language to strangers. And we thought the world could understand us, because these people we'd never ever seen before could.
Makes you believe in the believers in Esperanto, who would craft a universal language and we would all be able to speak to one another, to speak the same language, as it were, and there would be no more strife.
But there were civil wars. Still are.
But the Jew who started Esperanto already had a universal language at hand: Yiddish.
Don't be afraid of Yiddish, Kafka told an audience once. You will understand it more than you thought you would, because it is like German. (Don't be afraid that you'll turn into your grandparents because of it.)
Old joke: What do you call someone who speaks two languages?
Bilingual.
What do you call someone who speaks three languages?
Trilingual.
What do you call someone who speaks one language?
American.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Mysticism
Sometimes, I wonder if every little annoyance in my body indicates cancer elsewhere, or a side effect of the treatment, or a side effect of a drug that gets rid of side effects. Like now--itchy heels. Why do I have itchy heels? Or that stretching feeling in my abdomen? Or the unending tension in my temples. If I'm paranoid, I'm a hypochondriac. If I ignore the symptoms, I could end up sorry and regretful.
I keep saying the word "mysticism" when I think to myself about cancer because it seems that's what it comes down to. What do I believe in, hope for, am willing to do?
I keep saying the word "mysticism" when I think to myself about cancer because it seems that's what it comes down to. What do I believe in, hope for, am willing to do?
Bringing Sexy Back
Sometimes there are drawbacks to being one of the last American families without cable.
Like being clueless about the ending of The Sopranos.
And being confused by references to Pimp My Ride.
And missing the documentary Crazy, Sexy Cancer on The Learning Channel (TLC).
I could get 100% behind the "crazy" part of the title. (If it had been "kooky," I really would have embraced it.) But I was a little confused about how cancer could be "sexy."
Film maker Kris Carr explains it best in her Crazy Sexy Cancer blog (grammatical errors are Carr's, not mine):
Carr goes on to write, "I don't look at my journey as if it is a battle (partly because I hope I don't lose) so instead I call it my cancer adventure story."
I love that! When I first received my diagnosis, a friend said something similar to me: "Don't think of yourself as a sick person. Think of yourself as someone who has something interesting going on in her body."
And let's face it: it has been an adventure. A crazy, interesting and - yes, sexy - adventure.
Like being clueless about the ending of The Sopranos.
And being confused by references to Pimp My Ride.
And missing the documentary Crazy, Sexy Cancer on The Learning Channel (TLC).
I could get 100% behind the "crazy" part of the title. (If it had been "kooky," I really would have embraced it.) But I was a little confused about how cancer could be "sexy."
Film maker Kris Carr explains it best in her Crazy Sexy Cancer blog (grammatical errors are Carr's, not mine):
"Cancer ISN'T sexy, the soulful women who have it ARE. We are warriors, angels, vibrant hot tomatoes and cancer can not take that away from us. Cancer cowgirls are empowered, whole, thrivers with or without the disease. I refuse to let cancer break my spirit, victimize me, or make me feel like a sick person - so I CHOOSE to believe that I am more alive, beautiful and yes, sexier (AKA empowered, passionate and intriguing) than ever before! Why not?By that definition, I AM sexy, even with a Marine hairstyle, slack skin and a pipeline coming out of my chest.
Carr goes on to write, "I don't look at my journey as if it is a battle (partly because I hope I don't lose) so instead I call it my cancer adventure story."
I love that! When I first received my diagnosis, a friend said something similar to me: "Don't think of yourself as a sick person. Think of yourself as someone who has something interesting going on in her body."
And let's face it: it has been an adventure. A crazy, interesting and - yes, sexy - adventure.
Caught
My body is becoming soft from nonactivity, while the veins in my left arm are hard from the chemo. When Chloe squeezes my arm as her sign of affection, it feels like a hose with the water on, but knotted up in the middle, the pressure building. Likewise, my mother doesn't understand that her tastebuds are not mine. What she buys for me at the Vietnamese market are delicacies to her, and on an average day, are to me as well; but now, they make my stomach roil, causing a retching reaction. She leaves the food on the table with the hopes of a miraculous recovery of appetite.
It's a bit difficult to make anyone understand what the immediate reactions of a chemo dose are. The first week is the worst; and it gets worse by the dose. It's a tug-of-war of feeling okay one second, and not feeling quite right the next. So much limbo and not knowing what to do with your own body.
Eventually, the strangeness wears away, and some semblance of normalcy reappears. But between now and then, all I want to do is hide from those who want to understand the most but cannot.
It's a bit difficult to make anyone understand what the immediate reactions of a chemo dose are. The first week is the worst; and it gets worse by the dose. It's a tug-of-war of feeling okay one second, and not feeling quite right the next. So much limbo and not knowing what to do with your own body.
Eventually, the strangeness wears away, and some semblance of normalcy reappears. But between now and then, all I want to do is hide from those who want to understand the most but cannot.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
PET Scan(dal)
I was scheduled for a 7:00 follow-up PET Scan at City of Hope this morning, but I learned yesterday afternoon that the equipment is on the fritz. During each status report phone call, I would imagine an underemployed Maytag repairman tinkering with the sophisticated machinery.
At 8 pm, Juan called to report, "It's still down. Someone will call you tomorrow to reschedule once the equipment is operating."
The PET scan (along with the CT and MRI) is one of the most valuable diagnostic tools for a cancer center. Without it, dozens of anxious patients (including me) are left in the dark.
My appointment with Dr. Forman, currently scheduled for Thursday afternoon, will have to be put off until after the PET scan is complete. I was looking forward to this meeting to set my mind at ease about the mild symptoms (weight loss, fatigue, gastrointestinal grumblings, burning sensation in right eye) I've been experiencing for the last few weeks.
The waiting doesn't get much easier.
Round 3
I fucking hate chemo. I'm trying to take it all in stride and be grateful for the treatment, but I've sort of developed a fear of chemo day and what happens later at night. The nausea, the full-head headaches, the uncontrollable sobbing, "dead arms" (that seem to perplex everyone), pain in my veins, insomnia. The day of chemo, I have a voice in the back of my head going, "Oh, god, why me?" I'm sick of popping pills, being poked, and now I gotta poke myself every other day! The whole length of the chemo treatment is not even half over. I've got 5 more cycles after this one. And holy christ, that shit ain't cheap--those self-injections to boost my WBC's, which by the way, will cause additional achiness in my body. Just for one cycle of chemo, I gotta pick up my $1700 prescription. Thank god Henry's got awesome extended medical healthcare and that Pharmacare kicks in a chunk too, so that in the end, we only end up having to pay $50 each time (without any of the hassle of trying to get approval for the drug that we probably would have had to go through in the U.S.)! So yeah, sitting next to our leftovers, soy milk, and almond butter are my little vials of joy.
It was kinda funny yesterday though. While I was getting my chemo, a nurse walked in and stared at me and Henry a little. Then she said, "You're Brandy, right? I heard you on the radio yesterday! I recognize you from your blog except you're wearing glasses!" So I guess she read this little blog here after listening to the CBC interview and saw that I was getting chemo, and came into the room to say hi! That was neat! (She also said that my kids were cute too--just in case you didn't know that for yourself.) The other nurse who was giving me my chemo said, "What's the website?" There were two other older people in there, so the nurse said, "Oh, I'll email it to you." And then she said to me that she agreed with the URL. So to the nurse who reads the blog--HELLO and thanks for reading!
Anyway, don't get me wrong. The whole cycle doesn't suck for much of the time--just about the first week. After that, I try to build myself back up by doing things and getting outside and everything. But I just felt like whining a little bit just now. The blog is the Good, the Bad, and the Stupid (stupid in a good way sometimes, stupid in a bad way). Many things are worse than this, but right now, I'm wallowing in the suck.
It was kinda funny yesterday though. While I was getting my chemo, a nurse walked in and stared at me and Henry a little. Then she said, "You're Brandy, right? I heard you on the radio yesterday! I recognize you from your blog except you're wearing glasses!" So I guess she read this little blog here after listening to the CBC interview and saw that I was getting chemo, and came into the room to say hi! That was neat! (She also said that my kids were cute too--just in case you didn't know that for yourself.) The other nurse who was giving me my chemo said, "What's the website?" There were two other older people in there, so the nurse said, "Oh, I'll email it to you." And then she said to me that she agreed with the URL. So to the nurse who reads the blog--HELLO and thanks for reading!
Anyway, don't get me wrong. The whole cycle doesn't suck for much of the time--just about the first week. After that, I try to build myself back up by doing things and getting outside and everything. But I just felt like whining a little bit just now. The blog is the Good, the Bad, and the Stupid (stupid in a good way sometimes, stupid in a bad way). Many things are worse than this, but right now, I'm wallowing in the suck.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
What is Mine
Marcel Marceau is mine. And that's not a typo. He is mine because his father, Karl Mangel, was born in a small town in Poland and was a kosher butcher in Strasbourg. I understand kosher butchers. I understand Yiddish-speaking Polish fathers, though mine wasn't either. After his father was arrested, Marcel and his brother worked in the Resistance. Marcel took a new last name from a Victor Hugo poem. He used his artistic skill to forge documents. He led a group of Jewish children, dressed as Boy Scouts, across the Swiss frontier. He took drama lessons in Paris from a school that had been named, before and after the War, for a famous Jewish actress. Sarah Bernhardt. She is mine, too. So is Simone Weil; and Edith Piaf, but only because I saw the Piaf movie. Simone de Beauvoir isn't mine, though I know she had an orgasm for the first time when she had sex with Nelson Algren on the beach in Indiana. He isn't mine, either, though he was Jewish, despite the Scandinavianizing of his name. Or maybe it was in his apartment in Chicago. She wrote him love letters.
Marceau's father was murdered in Auschwitz, and so was Karl's younger brother.
Herschel Grynzspan is mine. Anne Frank is mine, though she's everyone's and they've all trooped through her cramped re-created attic in Amsterdam. Philip Roth is mine, though Cynthia Ozick is not. I.B. Singer is not, Bernard Malamud is not, though he was my teacher's teacher, and my teacher named his son after him. Delmore Schwartz is mine. St. Augustine is mine, for his agony, though I haven't read his diary since freshman year of college. So is Thomas Merton. Both had wild early years. Charlotte Salomon is mine, and Lincoln Park (the neighborhood) is mine. Louis Sullivan is mine--the ornamentation, not the shape of the buildings--and Sacagawea and Edna St. Vincent Millay, whose former summer place I stayed in for a month on a fellowship. Squirrels are mine, and raccoons, and dachshunds and beagles. Cicada skins and doodle bugs and grasshoppers, though they struggle against my closed hand (quick as lightning) and spit tobacco juice on my fingers. Lightning bugs aren't mine. Mark Twain isn't mine though he looks so familiar in his white mustache and suit. Milk chocolate is mine, but only when it's sold in bulk, and covers almonds or malt balls. Milk shakes aren't mine though chocolate chip ice cream is. Tiropita is mine. And kosher gumbo. And espresso. Organic milk is mine, and organic rice milk. Dark wood molding is mine, and green walls against dark wood is mine, and also polished light pine floors. Dark chocolate is never mine. French is mine and Hebrew is mine, and spoken but not written Yiddish. Kafka is mine. The Nora Ephron from the 70s is mine. Mrs. Pigglewiggle is and so is Jeanne-Marie who counts her sheep. Little Brown Bear is mine and Judy Bolton but not Nancy Drew.
Emma Goldman is mine and Eugene Debs and the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. Frida Kahlo and Walter Benjamin are mine but I have to share them with everybody else. New York isn't mine but Berkeley is. And Venice, though I don't know it well, and twisty little rue Mouffetard, with its little Vietnamese and Moroccan restaurants in the late 1970s, is mine. Adon Olam is mine and Avenu Malkenu. The year 1968 isn't mine, or 1967, but 1945 is and 1976 and 1978. Crosswords aren't mine, nor Scrabble nor Monopoly, but Clue is. Barcelona isn't mine though I walked its streets and into its Art Deco lobbies for almost a week. Harbors aren't mine. Nor boats. Cambridge, Mass., is mine. And Newport, R.I. Lapis lazuli is mine but not jade or silver. Nail polish isn't mine but bow lips are. Silent films aren't mine but Tina Modotti is. Der Blau Engel is mine though I don't understand German. Potato latkes are mine though I don't fry things well. Mary McCarthy is mine. The Bayeux Tapestry is almost mine. Glow worms are almost mine. The main square in Brussels is mine, though I've been there just once. South Street in Philadelphia is mine. Whole Foods and Trader Joe's aren't mine, though I seem to be in one or the other every other day. The sun is not mine but the 2/3s-full moon is. Pansies are, especially dark ones.
Why must I claim so much? Why must I own, even in words?
I saw Marcel Marceau perform, wide-eyed and whitefaced in Chicago. I couldn't see what he was seeing. Maybe, he said to an interviewer, I am silent because of the silence of those who returned from the camps. But this was not his own idea; he was saying Perhaps in answer to the journalist's question.
The amoeba makes itself an arm so it can reach what it wants. The amoeba surrounds the thing and takes it into its one-celled self.
Everything is already named. I have been alive for half a century. I do not know what to do with myself.
Marceau's father was murdered in Auschwitz, and so was Karl's younger brother.
Herschel Grynzspan is mine. Anne Frank is mine, though she's everyone's and they've all trooped through her cramped re-created attic in Amsterdam. Philip Roth is mine, though Cynthia Ozick is not. I.B. Singer is not, Bernard Malamud is not, though he was my teacher's teacher, and my teacher named his son after him. Delmore Schwartz is mine. St. Augustine is mine, for his agony, though I haven't read his diary since freshman year of college. So is Thomas Merton. Both had wild early years. Charlotte Salomon is mine, and Lincoln Park (the neighborhood) is mine. Louis Sullivan is mine--the ornamentation, not the shape of the buildings--and Sacagawea and Edna St. Vincent Millay, whose former summer place I stayed in for a month on a fellowship. Squirrels are mine, and raccoons, and dachshunds and beagles. Cicada skins and doodle bugs and grasshoppers, though they struggle against my closed hand (quick as lightning) and spit tobacco juice on my fingers. Lightning bugs aren't mine. Mark Twain isn't mine though he looks so familiar in his white mustache and suit. Milk chocolate is mine, but only when it's sold in bulk, and covers almonds or malt balls. Milk shakes aren't mine though chocolate chip ice cream is. Tiropita is mine. And kosher gumbo. And espresso. Organic milk is mine, and organic rice milk. Dark wood molding is mine, and green walls against dark wood is mine, and also polished light pine floors. Dark chocolate is never mine. French is mine and Hebrew is mine, and spoken but not written Yiddish. Kafka is mine. The Nora Ephron from the 70s is mine. Mrs. Pigglewiggle is and so is Jeanne-Marie who counts her sheep. Little Brown Bear is mine and Judy Bolton but not Nancy Drew.
Emma Goldman is mine and Eugene Debs and the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. Frida Kahlo and Walter Benjamin are mine but I have to share them with everybody else. New York isn't mine but Berkeley is. And Venice, though I don't know it well, and twisty little rue Mouffetard, with its little Vietnamese and Moroccan restaurants in the late 1970s, is mine. Adon Olam is mine and Avenu Malkenu. The year 1968 isn't mine, or 1967, but 1945 is and 1976 and 1978. Crosswords aren't mine, nor Scrabble nor Monopoly, but Clue is. Barcelona isn't mine though I walked its streets and into its Art Deco lobbies for almost a week. Harbors aren't mine. Nor boats. Cambridge, Mass., is mine. And Newport, R.I. Lapis lazuli is mine but not jade or silver. Nail polish isn't mine but bow lips are. Silent films aren't mine but Tina Modotti is. Der Blau Engel is mine though I don't understand German. Potato latkes are mine though I don't fry things well. Mary McCarthy is mine. The Bayeux Tapestry is almost mine. Glow worms are almost mine. The main square in Brussels is mine, though I've been there just once. South Street in Philadelphia is mine. Whole Foods and Trader Joe's aren't mine, though I seem to be in one or the other every other day. The sun is not mine but the 2/3s-full moon is. Pansies are, especially dark ones.
Why must I claim so much? Why must I own, even in words?
I saw Marcel Marceau perform, wide-eyed and whitefaced in Chicago. I couldn't see what he was seeing. Maybe, he said to an interviewer, I am silent because of the silence of those who returned from the camps. But this was not his own idea; he was saying Perhaps in answer to the journalist's question.
The amoeba makes itself an arm so it can reach what it wants. The amoeba surrounds the thing and takes it into its one-celled self.
Everything is already named. I have been alive for half a century. I do not know what to do with myself.
The Allen Clan
Enough already about "last parties." Today I'd like to focus on one big happy family that seems to make every day into a party.
One of the highlights of my trip to West Virginia was a visit to the Allen clan - my cousin Nathan, his wife Frances and their brood of four adult children and ten grandchildren. Nathan and his sister Charleen are technically our fourth cousins, but who's counting. They were without a doubt our best friends in "the country," where we spent carefree summers at grandma's house.
What makes Nathan's family unique is that they all live on the same "compound" of more than 200 acres in Sardis, West Virginia. Their five homes are spaced close enough for convenience, but far enough apart for privacy. Frances baby sits for all ten grandchildren, ages two through 12
Food is front and center at most family gatherings. On Friday nights, Frances makes homemade pizza or spaghtetti for the entire clan of 20. For our Saturday afternoon picnic, she whipped up homemade cabbage rolls, fresh corn on the cob and green beans, rolls and, of course, plenty of sweet tea.
One of the highlights of my trip to West Virginia was a visit to the Allen clan - my cousin Nathan, his wife Frances and their brood of four adult children and ten grandchildren. Nathan and his sister Charleen are technically our fourth cousins, but who's counting. They were without a doubt our best friends in "the country," where we spent carefree summers at grandma's house.
What makes Nathan's family unique is that they all live on the same "compound" of more than 200 acres in Sardis, West Virginia. Their five homes are spaced close enough for convenience, but far enough apart for privacy. Frances baby sits for all ten grandchildren, ages two through 12
Food is front and center at most family gatherings. On Friday nights, Frances makes homemade pizza or spaghtetti for the entire clan of 20. For our Saturday afternoon picnic, she whipped up homemade cabbage rolls, fresh corn on the cob and green beans, rolls and, of course, plenty of sweet tea.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Bright Light, Dim WBC's
I went on CBC this morning and gave an alright interview: CBC Brandy Interview . . . It's hard to think of what to say that early in the morning. Oh yeah, and you need Real Player to be able to listen to the interview.
Anyway, then I had my usual lab work done this morning to check how my white blood cell (WBC) count is going. After I got poked, I noticed that my band-aid was slipping off because I was bleeding profusely from the tiny prick. So I went back to the nurse, who cleaned me up and gave me another band-aid.
Later, I had my appointment with the oncologist. They told me that my WBC count was low enough to be concerned, and that from now on, I'd have to inject myself with a drug that would help boost my WBC count. So starting with the cycle tomorrow, I have to give myself an injection every other day, and this will last through the remaining chemo treatments. Sounds like it sucks, but I'm sure I'll get used to it. It was kind of a bummer though, because I was hoping that with my good energy levels and me exercising and taking good supplements, that I'd be strong and all that. But it seems that my body has other plans in mind.
Good news is that the chemo seems to be working. The oncologist said that the lump feels smaller, so that's a positive sign for sure! So the experiment that is my life continues.
Anyway, then I had my usual lab work done this morning to check how my white blood cell (WBC) count is going. After I got poked, I noticed that my band-aid was slipping off because I was bleeding profusely from the tiny prick. So I went back to the nurse, who cleaned me up and gave me another band-aid.
Later, I had my appointment with the oncologist. They told me that my WBC count was low enough to be concerned, and that from now on, I'd have to inject myself with a drug that would help boost my WBC count. So starting with the cycle tomorrow, I have to give myself an injection every other day, and this will last through the remaining chemo treatments. Sounds like it sucks, but I'm sure I'll get used to it. It was kind of a bummer though, because I was hoping that with my good energy levels and me exercising and taking good supplements, that I'd be strong and all that. But it seems that my body has other plans in mind.
Good news is that the chemo seems to be working. The oncologist said that the lump feels smaller, so that's a positive sign for sure! So the experiment that is my life continues.
The Last Party
When I first caught a glimpse of my dead mother in her casket, I let out an audible gasp.
It wasn't the shock of seeing her lifeless form or the horror of viewing her bloated body that prompted the gasp. It was the shapeless, polyester, leopard-print smock.
It was the type of tasteless, bargain-basement garment that my mother wouldn't have been caught dead in. Who says the grim reaper doesn't have an ironic sense of humor?
After my careful orchestration of our mother's funeral, I couldn't believe that this had happened. But the tasteful ensemble I selected for her no longer fit her puffed-up body; the funeral parlor did a last-minute switcheroo.
I vowed there and then that the same fiasco wouldn't happen at my own funeral. Of course, I'll skirt the whole "What do I wear to my own funeral" issue because I opted years ago for cremation. But I figured that there were other details that I didn't want to leave to chance or guesses made by emotionally distraught loved ones.
Six years ago, I started fantasizing about my own final party: Invitations. Location. Guest list. Music. Food. Mood.
After I received my cancer diagnosis in late January, my plans throttled into high gear. While driving to San Diego for a business meeting in February, I couldn't stop thinking about the details. But I learned pretty quickly that my friends and family did not find this amusing. I viewed my planning as a fun diversion; they saw it as a morbid obsession and cut me off immediately.
When we vacationed with friends in Hawaii in February, I went on a flight of fancy about my funeral plans while we sipped mai tais and watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. To my surprise, they not only listened but chimed in with their own plans and jokes. ". . . wants to be cremated and have his ashes scattered across the ocean, but I told him we could save time and money by just flushing them down the toilet." I was having the time of my life while talking about death.
I haven't given death or my final service much thought since then because I've been too busy enjoying life. But yesterday during lunch with two friends, the topic came up. "I like to plan and control everything in advance," my young, healthy friend admitted. "Why shouldn't I plan this too?" "Yes! People don't understand that I'm not being morbid when I do this," I chimed in.
It's just that I don't want to end up with the equivalent of a leopard-print jacket at the end of my life.
QUESTION OF THE DAY: Do any of you think about this? What are the details? What would be your nightmare equivalent of a polyester jacket?
It wasn't the shock of seeing her lifeless form or the horror of viewing her bloated body that prompted the gasp. It was the shapeless, polyester, leopard-print smock.
It was the type of tasteless, bargain-basement garment that my mother wouldn't have been caught dead in. Who says the grim reaper doesn't have an ironic sense of humor?
After my careful orchestration of our mother's funeral, I couldn't believe that this had happened. But the tasteful ensemble I selected for her no longer fit her puffed-up body; the funeral parlor did a last-minute switcheroo.
I vowed there and then that the same fiasco wouldn't happen at my own funeral. Of course, I'll skirt the whole "What do I wear to my own funeral" issue because I opted years ago for cremation. But I figured that there were other details that I didn't want to leave to chance or guesses made by emotionally distraught loved ones.
Six years ago, I started fantasizing about my own final party: Invitations. Location. Guest list. Music. Food. Mood.
After I received my cancer diagnosis in late January, my plans throttled into high gear. While driving to San Diego for a business meeting in February, I couldn't stop thinking about the details. But I learned pretty quickly that my friends and family did not find this amusing. I viewed my planning as a fun diversion; they saw it as a morbid obsession and cut me off immediately.
When we vacationed with friends in Hawaii in February, I went on a flight of fancy about my funeral plans while we sipped mai tais and watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. To my surprise, they not only listened but chimed in with their own plans and jokes. ". . . wants to be cremated and have his ashes scattered across the ocean, but I told him we could save time and money by just flushing them down the toilet." I was having the time of my life while talking about death.
I haven't given death or my final service much thought since then because I've been too busy enjoying life. But yesterday during lunch with two friends, the topic came up. "I like to plan and control everything in advance," my young, healthy friend admitted. "Why shouldn't I plan this too?" "Yes! People don't understand that I'm not being morbid when I do this," I chimed in.
It's just that I don't want to end up with the equivalent of a leopard-print jacket at the end of my life.
QUESTION OF THE DAY: Do any of you think about this? What are the details? What would be your nightmare equivalent of a polyester jacket?
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Seasons
Today was a gorgeous day here in Vancouver. And my in-laws wanted to treat the whole family to brunch at Seasons restaurant in Queen Elizabeth Park. On the drive there, my mom said to me, "Don't you get any summer here?" My parents came here in the middle of August, and we've had nice days here and there, but never a substantial stretch of warm, sunny weather. I told her that this summer was particularly sucky, but she just wondered how come we've gone straight into fall.
Here are some pictures from our outing today:
Lily and Chloe--don't be fooled by their cute, innocent smiles.
Mylo in his favourite train sweater-vest!
Me and the kids--obviously, they're so into getting this picture taken.
Me and the man, coordinated.
Afterwards, we had a nice walk in the park.
Then we took the kids to the miniature train park in Burnaby, where we got to ride these cute little trains.
Then we came home, dropped Mylo off for his nap, then Henry, Chloe and I walked to Rhizome for Baby Disco. Chloe and I totally got our groove on (whatever that means anymore, I don't know. I'm getting old).
I'm so glad that I've got all this energy now, cuz I know that this week is going to suck ass cuz I'm getting chemo on Tuesday. But you know--you gotta be happy for the days that are good, and grateful that you make it through the days that bite the big one. That's fucking life, my friend.
Oh yeah, by the way, I have a blog central station: Planet Brandy The description on the new blog will explain why I created it.
Enjoy the rest of Sunday!
Here are some pictures from our outing today:
Lily and Chloe--don't be fooled by their cute, innocent smiles.
Mylo in his favourite train sweater-vest!
Me and the kids--obviously, they're so into getting this picture taken.
Me and the man, coordinated.
Afterwards, we had a nice walk in the park.
Then we took the kids to the miniature train park in Burnaby, where we got to ride these cute little trains.
Then we came home, dropped Mylo off for his nap, then Henry, Chloe and I walked to Rhizome for Baby Disco. Chloe and I totally got our groove on (whatever that means anymore, I don't know. I'm getting old).
I'm so glad that I've got all this energy now, cuz I know that this week is going to suck ass cuz I'm getting chemo on Tuesday. But you know--you gotta be happy for the days that are good, and grateful that you make it through the days that bite the big one. That's fucking life, my friend.
Oh yeah, by the way, I have a blog central station: Planet Brandy The description on the new blog will explain why I created it.
Enjoy the rest of Sunday!
Tribune/Great Henna-head/Four Women, Four Breasts
Yesterday's Trib came in a plastic wrapper with a pocket that held three free food items geared toward women: two little boxes of Curves cereal and one Curves food bar. Thanks, Trib. Just what I wanted on Judaism's most solemn fast day. Fast, as in not eat until sundown. I'm sure the Muslim subscribers who were observing Ramadam loved the free gifts, too. That's a 30-day period when observant Muslims don't eat from dawn to sundown. Not even free cereal. Get it?
I came across this lovely henna-head. She says she uses black henna, which is dangerous. I use jagua, which is a black fruit-based ink--not black henna. I can see why she switched to black, though. Henna can look faded, even when it's fresh. Geez, this same woman reports that when a woman saw her on the street with her henna baldness, she crossed herself.
I went to A and P's 30th anniversary picnic today. When they were cutting the cake (quite beautiful, from Angel Food Bakery), I was standing nearby, and noticed N (mastectomy) standing on A's other side. Later I said to A (mastectomy): I don' t think I've been anywhere where there were three one-breasted women. And then she pointed out a fourth. A, N and I don't wear prostheses. A, N and the fourth woman are all lesbians. Are lesbians less likely to opt for reconstruction? Are they less attached to the symmetry that epitomizes the mainstream female ideal? Earlier, I was waiting on the corner for G to give me a ride to the picnic. The Cubs game was just letting out. A guy noticed my adorned baldness and exclaimed: Look at you! What would he have said if he'd noticed my one-breastedness? Depends on how drunk he was.
I came across this lovely henna-head. She says she uses black henna, which is dangerous. I use jagua, which is a black fruit-based ink--not black henna. I can see why she switched to black, though. Henna can look faded, even when it's fresh. Geez, this same woman reports that when a woman saw her on the street with her henna baldness, she crossed herself.
I went to A and P's 30th anniversary picnic today. When they were cutting the cake (quite beautiful, from Angel Food Bakery), I was standing nearby, and noticed N (mastectomy) standing on A's other side. Later I said to A (mastectomy): I don' t think I've been anywhere where there were three one-breasted women. And then she pointed out a fourth. A, N and I don't wear prostheses. A, N and the fourth woman are all lesbians. Are lesbians less likely to opt for reconstruction? Are they less attached to the symmetry that epitomizes the mainstream female ideal? Earlier, I was waiting on the corner for G to give me a ride to the picnic. The Cubs game was just letting out. A guy noticed my adorned baldness and exclaimed: Look at you! What would he have said if he'd noticed my one-breastedness? Depends on how drunk he was.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
The Right Side
The weather was cool today, so it was Yom Kippur without that Bikram feeling. I had scheduled my arrival to services just about right: I got to the little-synagogue-that-isn't-there at about 1:30, with just two prayers to go before the break. Then there was yoga. Most of us were wearing white, which is the traditional color worn for the High Holidays. It was nice to see so much white. Made the mind calm. Unlike black, it shows up. You notice it. I was thinking of making white my signature color. Though unlike black, it is not slimming. I liked our yoga instructor. At the end, in savasana, corpse pose, he listed all the parts of each side of our bodies, as we checked on them or touched them with our minds. As he was going through the right leg, for some reason I started thinking of my cousin B, who died two autumns ago, at age 97. I cried a little. I remembered sitting in her kitchen with her with the bird clock on the wall, and me watching a lizard through the window. Why did going over the right side of my body make me think of B? Is there a message there? It makes me almost believe it is possible to commune with the dead. That was maybe the penultimate time I saw her. She was still walking around then. Her last year she was in the hospital and back.
At the break I talked to B, who told me his wife had died of breast cancer. It bothers me to look at you, he said, because of it. She was 50 when she was diagnosed, and had 10 years before it came back. How old are you, he said, in your 20s? I'm 51, I said. When I told him the cancer was not in my lymph nodes, he gestured dismissively, as if I had nothing to worry about. I also talked with an 18-year-old diabetic who was fasting, but who had insulin and food with him, just in case. I said I was fasting but I was drinking water. Did your oncologist tell you to do that? he asked. No, I said, my husband did. The young man told me when he was diagnosed, the first thing he wanted to know was if he could fast on Yom Kippur.
***
I have just finished reading through a blog written by the cat of a friend of mine. I think her style is influencing mine here. She is a surrealist and a dreamer with typical evil cat aloofness. She has angry leftist politics and a hatred of squirrels. In other words, she is no Mehitabel.
At the break I talked to B, who told me his wife had died of breast cancer. It bothers me to look at you, he said, because of it. She was 50 when she was diagnosed, and had 10 years before it came back. How old are you, he said, in your 20s? I'm 51, I said. When I told him the cancer was not in my lymph nodes, he gestured dismissively, as if I had nothing to worry about. I also talked with an 18-year-old diabetic who was fasting, but who had insulin and food with him, just in case. I said I was fasting but I was drinking water. Did your oncologist tell you to do that? he asked. No, I said, my husband did. The young man told me when he was diagnosed, the first thing he wanted to know was if he could fast on Yom Kippur.
***
I have just finished reading through a blog written by the cat of a friend of mine. I think her style is influencing mine here. She is a surrealist and a dreamer with typical evil cat aloofness. She has angry leftist politics and a hatred of squirrels. In other words, she is no Mehitabel.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Bikram Kol Nidre
O man, was it hot in services tonight. We had an erev (eve) Yom Kippur dinner here and then R, P2 and I went to the little congregation that meets in a church. There were two ceiling fans and one rotating fan. I wanted to go stand by the rotating fan but didn't want to hog the air. I have been a very sweaty Cancer Bitch it seems like forever. Partly it's because I stopped taking black cohosh because it interferes with one of my Pills to Combat Melancholy. Partly it's from being zapped from peri-menopause into full-blown menopause by the chemo. Partly, according to X, my acupuncturist, it's because I'm still getting rid of the toxins. When I get warm, I stay very very warm. And get sweaty. When I have a slightly unpleasant thought or think of a time when I was embarrassed or irritated, I get sweaty. I get a clammy peach-fuzz head and then sweat streams and streams around my face. And then too when I'm just sitting around or standing or walking, calm and minding my own business, a flash starts. Sometimes I feel my ears get red first. I don't mind the heat, it's the *sweat.* I can't take soy for the flashes because I had the kind of breast cancer that feeds on soy, because it's estrogen-like. In other words, the cancer (the cancer that is no longer with us, the cancer that was cut out with wide margins, the cancer that was sliced and diced and put in parrafin) feeds on estrogen and estrogen-like substances, such as soy and pesticides and bovine growth hormones. Which means I'm supposed to eat organic as much as possible, and soy as little as possible. Which brings us to this musical question: If the oncology nutritionist said to have more protein, and to take it in the form of whey powder, should I still eat it even though I can't find organic? How do I know that this concentrated powder isn't full of contrated hormones? Next time I'm in Whole Foods, I'll ask at the courtesy desk about ordering the organic. Or I could even ask the nutritionist directly, God forbid.
But services. Erev Yom Kippur services are called Kol Nidre after the first prayer*, which is chanted three times. My father always said, Kol Nidre can make or break a cantor. I thought that was funny. Our family tradition was to wise-crack during services. Tonight we got to services late, after the Kol Nidre. I think the real reason it is repeated is so that latecomers will get to hear it. Forgive me, I missed the Kol Nidre at the Kol Nidre service.
The confessions on behalf of the community: We have done this, we have done that. But our prayers, repentance and charity will help us be forgiven. Every year we say we are sorry. And then we go out and sin some more. We are supposed to ask forgiveness of people we have sinned against. But I am stubborn. I am unchanging. I had a best friend. I don't have her any more. It has been more than 10 years. I tell people: We brought out the worst in each other. I should ask forgiveness for hurting her. Did I hurt her? I still feel competitive with her. Is that a sin? Yes. A sin against her, against me, against the universe. If I am competitive, it means there is not enough. It means that I am paying too much attention to what she has. I am looking to the side when I should look ahead. Or inside. I do rejoice when other friends rejoice. I am not always ungenerous. I should ask forgiveness for the times I provoked her. For being late. For staying annoyed. For holding a grudge. We have held grudges, we have bribed, we have betrayed, we have cheated, we have stolen. Forgive us, all of us. We are sorry. By tradition, we beat our chests while we confess, but the modern thing is to massage our hearts--after all, we are of the generation that believes in "not beating yourself up. " Just as we no longer give one another 39 (light, according to tradition) lashes. Massage your heart until it produces regret. Massage your heart until it is soft, and warmth radiates from it, settling on all the bits and pieces and the big large things in the universe. Massage your heart until it opens. It is a hard heart. It is a frightened heart. It is afraid that if it opens like a locket and takes in the universe, it will disappear. It is afraid that it will then become the universe's heart. It will no longer be the heart of the one, the only Cancer Bitch. It will be just like anybody else's. But it already looks like anybody else's. It pumps blood. It does all the things a heart does. Its blood is type O+, which is the most common type, the type that billions of other humans have and had and will have. Its blood can be given and taken. Its blood can be shared. Its blood can be sorted and separated and centrifuged and spread between clear glass plates. It can be spilled. ("If you prick us, do we not bleed?")
One story about Eden, said the rabbi, is that Adam and Eve were pure light. And then when they were exiled from the garden they were given skins. To contain them, to separate them from every other thing in the world that they had not been separate from. Another story is that everything in the world was made of light. Then the light became fragmented and we are trying in this life to collect and connect all the light, to restore and repair the world. The way to heal, I think, and I mean heal the soul, is to train yourself to see the light everywhere. Until you know without looking. Until you feel it without pointing it out to yourself, mouthing the words. It's just there. Like it's been all along.
##
A few hours after I wrote this I realized: I wanted too much from her. I wanted too much and didn't tell her and then the resentment started. And when I told her, the resentment had already taken root. For all that I am sorry.
##
*(The Internet tells me that Kol Nidre is really a declaration, not a prayer.)
But services. Erev Yom Kippur services are called Kol Nidre after the first prayer*, which is chanted three times. My father always said, Kol Nidre can make or break a cantor. I thought that was funny. Our family tradition was to wise-crack during services. Tonight we got to services late, after the Kol Nidre. I think the real reason it is repeated is so that latecomers will get to hear it. Forgive me, I missed the Kol Nidre at the Kol Nidre service.
The confessions on behalf of the community: We have done this, we have done that. But our prayers, repentance and charity will help us be forgiven. Every year we say we are sorry. And then we go out and sin some more. We are supposed to ask forgiveness of people we have sinned against. But I am stubborn. I am unchanging. I had a best friend. I don't have her any more. It has been more than 10 years. I tell people: We brought out the worst in each other. I should ask forgiveness for hurting her. Did I hurt her? I still feel competitive with her. Is that a sin? Yes. A sin against her, against me, against the universe. If I am competitive, it means there is not enough. It means that I am paying too much attention to what she has. I am looking to the side when I should look ahead. Or inside. I do rejoice when other friends rejoice. I am not always ungenerous. I should ask forgiveness for the times I provoked her. For being late. For staying annoyed. For holding a grudge. We have held grudges, we have bribed, we have betrayed, we have cheated, we have stolen. Forgive us, all of us. We are sorry. By tradition, we beat our chests while we confess, but the modern thing is to massage our hearts--after all, we are of the generation that believes in "not beating yourself up. " Just as we no longer give one another 39 (light, according to tradition) lashes. Massage your heart until it produces regret. Massage your heart until it is soft, and warmth radiates from it, settling on all the bits and pieces and the big large things in the universe. Massage your heart until it opens. It is a hard heart. It is a frightened heart. It is afraid that if it opens like a locket and takes in the universe, it will disappear. It is afraid that it will then become the universe's heart. It will no longer be the heart of the one, the only Cancer Bitch. It will be just like anybody else's. But it already looks like anybody else's. It pumps blood. It does all the things a heart does. Its blood is type O+, which is the most common type, the type that billions of other humans have and had and will have. Its blood can be given and taken. Its blood can be shared. Its blood can be sorted and separated and centrifuged and spread between clear glass plates. It can be spilled. ("If you prick us, do we not bleed?")
One story about Eden, said the rabbi, is that Adam and Eve were pure light. And then when they were exiled from the garden they were given skins. To contain them, to separate them from every other thing in the world that they had not been separate from. Another story is that everything in the world was made of light. Then the light became fragmented and we are trying in this life to collect and connect all the light, to restore and repair the world. The way to heal, I think, and I mean heal the soul, is to train yourself to see the light everywhere. Until you know without looking. Until you feel it without pointing it out to yourself, mouthing the words. It's just there. Like it's been all along.
##
A few hours after I wrote this I realized: I wanted too much from her. I wanted too much and didn't tell her and then the resentment started. And when I told her, the resentment had already taken root. For all that I am sorry.
##
*(The Internet tells me that Kol Nidre is really a declaration, not a prayer.)
Slam
In spite of the name, Cancer Banter is about more than cancer. Sometimes it's about food and restaurants. Other times it's about embarrassing self revelations.
Now, dear Cancer Banter readers, I have a few questions for you:
- Do any of you remember the Slam Book from junior high school? We passed around the secret book and made (usually) anonymous entries on each page under a student's name. The books were banned the second that a teacher caught a whiff of them.
- If so, what did your Slam Book entry say? (Mine said "nosy and klutzy.")
- If not, what would it have said about you in junior high school?
Now, dear Cancer Banter readers, I have a few questions for you:
- Do any of you remember the Slam Book from junior high school? We passed around the secret book and made (usually) anonymous entries on each page under a student's name. The books were banned the second that a teacher caught a whiff of them.
- If so, what did your Slam Book entry say? (Mine said "nosy and klutzy.")
- If not, what would it have said about you in junior high school?
Broadcasting live...
me. On CBC, Monday morning. At the butt crack of dawn. CBC Early Edition
Yeah, go figure.
This weekend, Victoria and her O.C. team of Brandy's Babes will be running in the Komen Race for the Cure! Let's cheer them on, congratulate them, and thank them for their time and donations! And next weekend is our run/walk here in Vancouver! We have 27 people signed up so far, and over $1300 in donations! Holy crap, that's awesome!
This week has been stellar. I've done a ton of exercising and walking, I finished the CCHS Family and Food workshop book (launches are in the works right now). It's called "Eating Stories: a Chinese Canadian and Aboriginal Potluck," and it contains the stories of 23 people who took a writing workshop I taught back in February and March. It's an amazing book, if I do say so myself. So that's really motivated me to keep working and editing and organizing.
I'm trying to keep up the energy and spirits because I have round three of chemo on Tuesday. I can't forget how the last shot of chemo sucked, so I'm trying this approach of being as energetic and productive as possible, while listening to my body and resting when I really feel like I need to. I'm also taking Korean red ginseng, some supplements, flax seed and turmeric (in my food), so that might be helping as well. Plus, I got some smashing new scarves at Maiwa on Granville Island. I totally look the part of a tarot reader now. I should really go into business.
Anyway, speaking of listening to my body--time for a nap. It's raining, so taking a nap is even more enjoyable, as I can listen to the rain come down on the skylights.
Yeah, go figure.
This weekend, Victoria and her O.C. team of Brandy's Babes will be running in the Komen Race for the Cure! Let's cheer them on, congratulate them, and thank them for their time and donations! And next weekend is our run/walk here in Vancouver! We have 27 people signed up so far, and over $1300 in donations! Holy crap, that's awesome!
This week has been stellar. I've done a ton of exercising and walking, I finished the CCHS Family and Food workshop book (launches are in the works right now). It's called "Eating Stories: a Chinese Canadian and Aboriginal Potluck," and it contains the stories of 23 people who took a writing workshop I taught back in February and March. It's an amazing book, if I do say so myself. So that's really motivated me to keep working and editing and organizing.
I'm trying to keep up the energy and spirits because I have round three of chemo on Tuesday. I can't forget how the last shot of chemo sucked, so I'm trying this approach of being as energetic and productive as possible, while listening to my body and resting when I really feel like I need to. I'm also taking Korean red ginseng, some supplements, flax seed and turmeric (in my food), so that might be helping as well. Plus, I got some smashing new scarves at Maiwa on Granville Island. I totally look the part of a tarot reader now. I should really go into business.
Anyway, speaking of listening to my body--time for a nap. It's raining, so taking a nap is even more enjoyable, as I can listen to the rain come down on the skylights.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
So . . . When's the date?
Now that I have more than two million in the bank, I'm getting closer to being able to answer the big question.
I'll meet with Dr. Forman on Thursday to discuss the results of today's CT and next Wednesday's PET scans. (By the way, even with my fancy glass, I couldn't stomach my last barium cocktail. It came up, along with today's lunch.) Assuming that I'm still clean, we'll talk about whether I should do another round of Hyper CVAD. If so, it could be several weeks before the stem cell transplant (SCT). If not, I'll move on to two weeks of out patient radio autoimmune therapy* before the SCT. (*This is a must click and must read document.)
As I've mentioned to several of you before, it's fairly easy to reach remission with Mantle Cell Lymphoma (MCL), but it's a little trickier to stay there. All of these potential treatments are powerful relapse prevention tools.
Stay tuned!
I'll meet with Dr. Forman on Thursday to discuss the results of today's CT and next Wednesday's PET scans. (By the way, even with my fancy glass, I couldn't stomach my last barium cocktail. It came up, along with today's lunch.) Assuming that I'm still clean, we'll talk about whether I should do another round of Hyper CVAD. If so, it could be several weeks before the stem cell transplant (SCT). If not, I'll move on to two weeks of out patient radio autoimmune therapy* before the SCT. (*This is a must click and must read document.)
As I've mentioned to several of you before, it's fairly easy to reach remission with Mantle Cell Lymphoma (MCL), but it's a little trickier to stay there. All of these potential treatments are powerful relapse prevention tools.
Stay tuned!
A bit of a cell-abration...
Susan called around 1 p.m. to say her .08 million harvest yesterday brings her to 2.02 million stem cells in the bank. She'll continue harvesting today and tomorrow just get a few extras.
I'm sure she'll check in later with details on when her month-long "visit" to COH might happen.
Yay, Smooky!
I'm sure she'll check in later with details on when her month-long "visit" to COH might happen.
Yay, Smooky!
Word Play
I've been receiving voice mail messages, emails and blog comments to "Smooky," and, to tell the truth, I like it. I really like it.
It sure beats out the other possible nicknames based on adjectives that are frequently used to describe me:
Smart + Klutzy = Smutzy: I was first called klutzy when an anonymous seventh grader wrote "nosy and klutzy" beneath my name in a Slam Book. (How many of you remember that low-tech, mid-60's precursor to My Space?) Strangely enough, I didn't feel slammed. I just read the description, shrugged my bony shoulders and thought, "Yep, that's me." As a matter of fact, I'm still pretty nosy but now people clean it up and call me curious or inquisitive. Unfortunately, there's no way to pretty up klutzy, but I don't mind. Too bad Smutzy sounds so smutty.
Smart + Elegant = Smelegant: OK, I didn't say that I thought I was elegant, but, for some reason, others (including my doctor) often use this adjective to describe me. The downside is that Smelegant can easily be shortened to Smelly, and that ain't so elegant.
Smart + Quirky = Smirky: Some might consider quirky, a close relative to kooky, a pejorative, but I've always taken it as a compliment. After all, isn't it a little quirky to be both klutzy and elegant? And medical professionals have even applied the adjective to my cancer, as in "your quirky cancer." Silly me - I think if you have to have a disease, it should be a quirky one. (Sure beats "rare and deadly.") But who wants to be Smirky?
Smart + Bossy = Smossy: My immediate family members seem to think that I'm bossy. The name Smossy sounds both elegant and quirky, but. . . moi . . . bossy?!? Don't call me bossy!
Bottom line? I'm gonna' hang on to Smooky, hang on.
It sure beats out the other possible nicknames based on adjectives that are frequently used to describe me:
Smart + Klutzy = Smutzy: I was first called klutzy when an anonymous seventh grader wrote "nosy and klutzy" beneath my name in a Slam Book. (How many of you remember that low-tech, mid-60's precursor to My Space?) Strangely enough, I didn't feel slammed. I just read the description, shrugged my bony shoulders and thought, "Yep, that's me." As a matter of fact, I'm still pretty nosy but now people clean it up and call me curious or inquisitive. Unfortunately, there's no way to pretty up klutzy, but I don't mind. Too bad Smutzy sounds so smutty.
Smart + Elegant = Smelegant: OK, I didn't say that I thought I was elegant, but, for some reason, others (including my doctor) often use this adjective to describe me. The downside is that Smelegant can easily be shortened to Smelly, and that ain't so elegant.
Smart + Quirky = Smirky: Some might consider quirky, a close relative to kooky, a pejorative, but I've always taken it as a compliment. After all, isn't it a little quirky to be both klutzy and elegant? And medical professionals have even applied the adjective to my cancer, as in "your quirky cancer." Silly me - I think if you have to have a disease, it should be a quirky one. (Sure beats "rare and deadly.") But who wants to be Smirky?
Smart + Bossy = Smossy: My immediate family members seem to think that I'm bossy. The name Smossy sounds both elegant and quirky, but. . . moi . . . bossy?!? Don't call me bossy!
Bottom line? I'm gonna' hang on to Smooky, hang on.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Mesothelioma Cancer - What to Tell Children
What to tell your children if you suffered or been diagnosed with the mesothelioma cancer?
The amount of information you should give them depends on their age and how grown up they are. Being honest is one thing but giving them all the information at once may be too much. Try spreading it out a bit to ease the shock of the inevitable outcome.
Questions can be answered on a 'need to know basis' initially but as more hospital vists are undertaken and the patient is unwell at times then more detail needs to be offered. Getting the same question over and over again from young children can be difficult at times but it should be realised that this is a normal part of their development.
Teenagers may have a particularly hard time as they now have to cope with additional strong emotions and extra responsibilies, as well as the usual emotions which are part of their development into adults. They may need to turn to others outside the family if they find it difficult to talk to family members e.g.family friend, teacher or counsellor.
Grief raises its head everywhere and it is important to reasure children that it is not their fault that this illness has happened. It seems to be common amongst children that they feel they are to blame and these feelings could last for some time.
Additionally, they may need to be put right about what they have heard from friends and other people as it may not be correct.
Children need to be dealt with sensitively but honestly. But manage the communication of information according to age, maturity and circumstances.
Article by:
c) Paul Curran, CEO of Cuzcom Internet Publishing Group and webmaster at Information on Mesothelioma, providing information about mesothelioma and mesothelioma news.
The amount of information you should give them depends on their age and how grown up they are. Being honest is one thing but giving them all the information at once may be too much. Try spreading it out a bit to ease the shock of the inevitable outcome.
Questions can be answered on a 'need to know basis' initially but as more hospital vists are undertaken and the patient is unwell at times then more detail needs to be offered. Getting the same question over and over again from young children can be difficult at times but it should be realised that this is a normal part of their development.
Teenagers may have a particularly hard time as they now have to cope with additional strong emotions and extra responsibilies, as well as the usual emotions which are part of their development into adults. They may need to turn to others outside the family if they find it difficult to talk to family members e.g.family friend, teacher or counsellor.
Grief raises its head everywhere and it is important to reasure children that it is not their fault that this illness has happened. It seems to be common amongst children that they feel they are to blame and these feelings could last for some time.
Additionally, they may need to be put right about what they have heard from friends and other people as it may not be correct.
Children need to be dealt with sensitively but honestly. But manage the communication of information according to age, maturity and circumstances.
Article by:
c) Paul Curran, CEO of Cuzcom Internet Publishing Group and webmaster at Information on Mesothelioma, providing information about mesothelioma and mesothelioma news.
How quickly does Mesothelioma progress?
You may ask, how quickly does Mesothelioma cancer progress? Normally the onset of Mesothelioma cancer is quite slow. Patients will begin to experience symptoms such as lower back pain and chest pain. These symptoms may also be accompanied by weight loss, fever and difficulty breathing. Unfortunately, once Mesothelioma develops, it quickly becomes aggressive and treatment must be sought immediately.
Can Mesothelioma be treated?
Doctors are able to use several traditional methods of cancer treatment for Mesothelioma cancer, including surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. Like all forms of cancer, detecting the disease at the earliest stage possible greatly increases the patient's chances for survival. If you have worked in an industry such as construction or suspect that you may have been exposed to asbestos, be alert for symptoms and contact your doctor immediately.
Read more here...
Can Mesothelioma be treated?
Doctors are able to use several traditional methods of cancer treatment for Mesothelioma cancer, including surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. Like all forms of cancer, detecting the disease at the earliest stage possible greatly increases the patient's chances for survival. If you have worked in an industry such as construction or suspect that you may have been exposed to asbestos, be alert for symptoms and contact your doctor immediately.
Read more here...
How much asbestos exposure will cause Mesothelioma?
How much asbestos exposure will cause Mesothelioma? This is probably the general question that is always asked by those health concious or those who have been exposed to asbestos.
Generally, the probability of developing this form of cancer is in accordance with the length of time you are exposed to asbestos. Also, your health is at risk if your exposure to asbestos is intense. It should be noted that Mesothelioma has a latency period of 20 to 50 years.
This means that you may develop the disease long after your exposure to asbestos. On average, people tend to develop Mesothelioma somewhere between 35 and 40 years after exposure.
Generally, the probability of developing this form of cancer is in accordance with the length of time you are exposed to asbestos. Also, your health is at risk if your exposure to asbestos is intense. It should be noted that Mesothelioma has a latency period of 20 to 50 years.
This means that you may develop the disease long after your exposure to asbestos. On average, people tend to develop Mesothelioma somewhere between 35 and 40 years after exposure.
L'Oreal Paris Celebrates Ten Years of Hope and Healing
Thank you & God Bless our Friends & Supporters at L'Oreal Paris !!
L'Oreal Paris Celebrates Ten Years of Hope and Healing
New "Color of Hope" Jewelry Collection Donates 100% of Net Profits to The Ovarian Cancer Research Fund.
L'Oreal Paris Celebrates Ten Years of Hope and Healing
New "Color of Hope" Jewelry Collection Donates 100% of Net Profits to The Ovarian Cancer Research Fund.
Ovarian Cancer run/walk ALBANY NEW YORK
KUDOS TO MARY DAVIS & OUR TEAL SISTERS OF CARING Together Inc.
ALBANY, N.Y. -- Sunday's cool but sunny weather was perfect for the sixth annual Teal Ribbon Walk and Run, which raises awareness and funds for Ovarian Cancer.
The 5K walk and run kicked off Sunday morning in Albany's Washington Park.
Statistics show ovarian cancer is the deadliest of the gynecological cancers. Organizers say they hope to surpass the $70,000 raised at last years event.
"We need money for a screening tool unlike breast cancer, lung cancer, colorectal cancer, prostate cancer, cervical cancer, all have a screening test. This cancer does not," said Mary Davis, President of Caring Together, Inc.
In 2007 as many as 23,000 women will be newly diagnosed and more than 15,000 women will die.
ALBANY, N.Y. -- Sunday's cool but sunny weather was perfect for the sixth annual Teal Ribbon Walk and Run, which raises awareness and funds for Ovarian Cancer.
The 5K walk and run kicked off Sunday morning in Albany's Washington Park.
Statistics show ovarian cancer is the deadliest of the gynecological cancers. Organizers say they hope to surpass the $70,000 raised at last years event.
"We need money for a screening tool unlike breast cancer, lung cancer, colorectal cancer, prostate cancer, cervical cancer, all have a screening test. This cancer does not," said Mary Davis, President of Caring Together, Inc.
In 2007 as many as 23,000 women will be newly diagnosed and more than 15,000 women will die.
New Ovarian Cancer Drug Trial Under Way
New Ovarian Cancer Drug Trial Under Way
FRIDAY, Sept. 7 (HealthDay News) -- Ovarian cancer patients whose cancer has become resistant to traditional chemotherapy can now log-on to a new Web site to learn about a trial of a new drug, phenoxodiol.
In previous studies, phenoxodiol has shown some success in helping traditional chemotherapies continue to fight cancer cells.
The Phase III study of phenoxodiol will take place at 30 sites in the United States, 26 sites in Europe and at least four sites in Australia.
The goal of the Web site, www.OVATUREtrial.com, is to inform ovarian cancer patients about the Ovarian Tumor Response (OVATURE) trial, which is actively recruiting patients. Women suffering with ovarian cancer can learn about the study, the medication and locations for them to participate.
The trial is studying the safety and effectiveness of the drug phenoxodiol when combined with weekly doses of the chemotherapy drug carboplatin. Phenoxodiol is believed to help chemotherapy drugs kill chemoresistant cancer cells by removing factors in the cells that block the killing action of chemotherapy. Phenoxodiol has not yet been approved for use by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration.
Women who enter the trial will be assigned to one of two courses of treatment. The first will receive weekly carboplatin and phenoxodiol. Patients in the other course will receive carboplatin and a placebo weekly. Patients and their doctors will not know which course of treatment they have been given.
Receiving carboplatin weekly instead of every two or three weeks has been shown to provide tumor response in some patients with recurrent ovarian cancer. The study will expand understanding of the safety and effectiveness of both phenoxodiol and weekly carboplatin.
Phenoxodiol has been shown to reverse resistance to standard chemotherapies in lab animals. In a prior Phase II clinical trial, the drug showed some success in reversing tumor progression when it was tested in combination with cisplatin or paclitaxel.
Ovarian cancer occurs in one out of every 69 women and is the fifth leading cause of cancer death in women, according to the Ovarian Cancer National Alliance. It can be treated if diagnosed early, but most ovarian cancers are caught at later stages. When diagnosed in an advanced stage, women have a 30 percent chance of surviving five years.
FRIDAY, Sept. 7 (HealthDay News) -- Ovarian cancer patients whose cancer has become resistant to traditional chemotherapy can now log-on to a new Web site to learn about a trial of a new drug, phenoxodiol.
In previous studies, phenoxodiol has shown some success in helping traditional chemotherapies continue to fight cancer cells.
The Phase III study of phenoxodiol will take place at 30 sites in the United States, 26 sites in Europe and at least four sites in Australia.
The goal of the Web site, www.OVATUREtrial.com, is to inform ovarian cancer patients about the Ovarian Tumor Response (OVATURE) trial, which is actively recruiting patients. Women suffering with ovarian cancer can learn about the study, the medication and locations for them to participate.
The trial is studying the safety and effectiveness of the drug phenoxodiol when combined with weekly doses of the chemotherapy drug carboplatin. Phenoxodiol is believed to help chemotherapy drugs kill chemoresistant cancer cells by removing factors in the cells that block the killing action of chemotherapy. Phenoxodiol has not yet been approved for use by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration.
Women who enter the trial will be assigned to one of two courses of treatment. The first will receive weekly carboplatin and phenoxodiol. Patients in the other course will receive carboplatin and a placebo weekly. Patients and their doctors will not know which course of treatment they have been given.
Receiving carboplatin weekly instead of every two or three weeks has been shown to provide tumor response in some patients with recurrent ovarian cancer. The study will expand understanding of the safety and effectiveness of both phenoxodiol and weekly carboplatin.
Phenoxodiol has been shown to reverse resistance to standard chemotherapies in lab animals. In a prior Phase II clinical trial, the drug showed some success in reversing tumor progression when it was tested in combination with cisplatin or paclitaxel.
Ovarian cancer occurs in one out of every 69 women and is the fifth leading cause of cancer death in women, according to the Ovarian Cancer National Alliance. It can be treated if diagnosed early, but most ovarian cancers are caught at later stages. When diagnosed in an advanced stage, women have a 30 percent chance of surviving five years.
Get out the running shoes!
I'm planning on wearing my running shoes to CoH tomorrow so that I can do a victory lap around the harvest room.
Yesterday's stem cell collection was up slightly to .13 million, bringing the total to 1.94 million. Dr. Wang feels certain that today's harvest will put me over the 2 million mark.
I'll also be bringing along my martini glass so that I can have an afternoon cocktail of Berry Barium in preparation for my evening CT scan. The results of the CT scan and next week's PET scan will put my mind at ease about the return of the disease. But I've been less nervous since my rapid weight loss has been followed by a rapid weight gain. Just call me the Bobby DeNiro of CoH.
The size 4 was fun while it lasted!
Yesterday's stem cell collection was up slightly to .13 million, bringing the total to 1.94 million. Dr. Wang feels certain that today's harvest will put me over the 2 million mark.
I'll also be bringing along my martini glass so that I can have an afternoon cocktail of Berry Barium in preparation for my evening CT scan. The results of the CT scan and next week's PET scan will put my mind at ease about the return of the disease. But I've been less nervous since my rapid weight loss has been followed by a rapid weight gain. Just call me the Bobby DeNiro of CoH.
The size 4 was fun while it lasted!
On a Lighter Note.......
Aren't these the greatest photos of a very young Smooky? Of course these were the days when she was Ninnie Choo Choo. The birthday cakes were absolutely the world's best, made at a local bakery in Clarksburg, WV called Home Industry Bakery. Butter cream icing, colorful flowers, moist cake, and just think, it had our very own name on it.......awesome. How could it get any better? Oh, yes.......sneak a taste of icing. I remember my sister and I would take the flowers off the cake and eat them seperately as a finale. All this was washed down with ice cold Kool-Aid. Those were great times. Sue has another celebration forthcoming, so might as well get in a festive mood.
Hmmmm, those boots look strangely familiar.
The second photo shows Sue has not changed that much. All the appropriate props for a one woman show.
To Cover or Not to Cover
The back of my head, as you can see here, says U.S. out of Iraq. Sometimes it is faint. Sometimes it looks like USOUT of IRAB but you get the message. Most people do when they look carefully, usually from above. My dentist noticed when it had faded completely, and thought I'd had a change of heart, and was reassured when I returned with the protest back in place. I would not wear a political button in class but by default, I cannot remove my scalp wherever I go. I can, though, cover it up. I wore a scarf during two official events where I represented WRU (Well-Regarded University) and I was going to wear one tonight at a student orientation. I didn't cover it last night at Intellectual University, because I was teaching students I'd taught before, and felt comfortable enough with them to be informal. I also felt that they were comfortable enough with me to voice any opposition. During class there's the illusion we're by ourselves, not being watched by anyone, because it's evening and we're surrounded by business-school students who don't pay attention to us. We're in our own Literary universe.
I used to wear a Code Pink button on my winter hat and was stopped in an elevator at WRU by a woman who said she liked Code Pink very much. I gave her the button. She said she couldn't wear it at work but took it to wear away from work. She did something in catering, I think, at WRU. I wonder, What if I had a permanent tattoo that said PEACE? Or PAX PACIS, as would be more appropriate at IU, where Latin adorns the walls and my boss used Latin twice in a meeting? It's that kind of place, even though the ivy covers buildings on its main campus, miles away from my modern classroom. But that's a different issue: Peace in itself is non-controversial. Everyone wants peace. Some believe that invasion is a necessary prerequisite.
I think I will be uncovered next week when I start teaching again at WRU. But I truly don't want students who disagree with me to feel uncomfortable. I will talk to them about my scalp. It is a class on how to teach, and we will talk about personal politics in the classroom.
I just found out that I won't be needed, after all, tonight at the official WRU event. So I will go to yoga and afterwards may ask my friend G to touch up my head, front and back.
I used to wear a Code Pink button on my winter hat and was stopped in an elevator at WRU by a woman who said she liked Code Pink very much. I gave her the button. She said she couldn't wear it at work but took it to wear away from work. She did something in catering, I think, at WRU. I wonder, What if I had a permanent tattoo that said PEACE? Or PAX PACIS, as would be more appropriate at IU, where Latin adorns the walls and my boss used Latin twice in a meeting? It's that kind of place, even though the ivy covers buildings on its main campus, miles away from my modern classroom. But that's a different issue: Peace in itself is non-controversial. Everyone wants peace. Some believe that invasion is a necessary prerequisite.
I think I will be uncovered next week when I start teaching again at WRU. But I truly don't want students who disagree with me to feel uncomfortable. I will talk to them about my scalp. It is a class on how to teach, and we will talk about personal politics in the classroom.
I just found out that I won't be needed, after all, tonight at the official WRU event. So I will go to yoga and afterwards may ask my friend G to touch up my head, front and back.
While You're Here...
Don't forget to click on the "Free Mammies" link on the right-hand side. It's easy--just scroll down a little ways, click, and then click one more time. This is for free mammograms for underprivileged women. It got an email from Mae today saying:
"The Breast Cancer site is having trouble getting enough people to click on their site daily to meet their quota of donating at least one free mammogram a day to an underprivileged woman. It takes less than a minute to go to their site and click on 'donating a mammogram' for free (pink window in the middle).
This doesn't cost you a thing. Their corporate sponsors/advertisers use the number of daily visits to donate mammogram in exchange for advertising."
So while you're here enjoying the blog--and every time you come back--be sure to click on the "Free Mammies" link for a good cause! And if you want to put in just a little more effort, you can try to get others to click as well!
Thanks!
"The Breast Cancer site is having trouble getting enough people to click on their site daily to meet their quota of donating at least one free mammogram a day to an underprivileged woman. It takes less than a minute to go to their site and click on 'donating a mammogram' for free (pink window in the middle).
This doesn't cost you a thing. Their corporate sponsors/advertisers use the number of daily visits to donate mammogram in exchange for advertising."
So while you're here enjoying the blog--and every time you come back--be sure to click on the "Free Mammies" link for a good cause! And if you want to put in just a little more effort, you can try to get others to click as well!
Thanks!
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Help the ovarian cancer community advance research, improve access to patient care and promote advocacy. Support the National Agenda for Ovarian Canc
Help the ovarian cancer community advance research, improve access to patient care and promote advocacy.
Support the National Agenda for Ovarian Cancer.
As you know, the Department of Defense funds great research on ovarian cancer through the Ovarian Cancer Research Program. The bill that contains money for this program is about to be voted on by the full Senate. Ovarian cancer research is under-funded, and we desperately need research on a screening test and treatments!
We need you to tell your Senators to increase the funding for ovarian cancer research through the Defense Appropriations Bill!
Please go to http://capwiz.com/ovarian/issues/alert/?alertid=10079061 and fill out the action alert – and send this to all of your friends, family and group members. Please customize this letter with personal experience or conversations that will help the staff and members of Congress understand why this research program is so important.
When the bill moves into conference to iron out the differences between the House and Senate versions we anticipate needing more, but targeted action.
FY2008 (millions)
Breast Prostate Ovarian
Requested $150.00 $ 100.00 $ 20.00
House Bill $127.50 $ 80.00 $ 10.00
Senate Bill $150.00 $ 80.00 $ 10.00
Cara Tenenbaum, Esq. Policy Director Ovarian Cancer National Alliance 202.331.1332 x300 http://www.ovariancancer.org/
Help the ovarian cancer community advance research, improve access to patient care and promote advocacy. Support the National Agenda for Ovarian Cancer.
As you know, the Department of Defense funds great research on ovarian cancer through the Ovarian Cancer Research Program. The bill that contains money for this program is about to be voted on by the full Senate. Ovarian cancer research is under-funded, and we desperately need research on a screening test and treatments!
We need you to tell your Senators to increase the funding for ovarian cancer research through the Defense Appropriations Bill!
Please go to http://capwiz.com/ovarian/issues/alert/?alertid=10079061 and fill out the action alert – and send this to all of your friends, family and group members. Please customize this letter with personal experience or conversations that will help the staff and members of Congress understand why this research program is so important.
When the bill moves into conference to iron out the differences between the House and Senate versions we anticipate needing more, but targeted action.
FY2008 (millions)
Breast Prostate Ovarian
Requested $150.00 $ 100.00 $ 20.00
House Bill $127.50 $ 80.00 $ 10.00
Senate Bill $150.00 $ 80.00 $ 10.00
Cara Tenenbaum, Esq. Policy Director Ovarian Cancer National Alliance 202.331.1332 x300 http://www.ovariancancer.org/
Help the ovarian cancer community advance research, improve access to patient care and promote advocacy. Support the National Agenda for Ovarian Cancer.
More Pole Dancing in Public
Two other IWOSC members and I will be reading our work at the sixth annual West Hollywood Book Fair on Sunday, September 30.
If you missed my July gig at Dutton's Bookstore, I hope you'll come out for this free event. My slot is at 4:25 pm.
If you missed my July gig at Dutton's Bookstore, I hope you'll come out for this free event. My slot is at 4:25 pm.
FUCK CANCER
Today was the best day I've had since my diagnosis. I feel FUCKING KICK-ASS AWESOME!!!! I wish I haven't been so immobilized by the diagnosis and treatment thus far, but it has been the case. Today, I moved my ass...and moved it and moved it some more. I walked from our house to the cancer agency, which is about a mile and a half.
I attended a free seminar on how to apply makeup. Really, I already know how to put on makeup, but I was just going for the mega-box of free stuff they were handing out--moisturizers, cleansers, make-up, even a nice cotton cap to wear at night (which is really appreciated since it just got really cold here in Vancouver). It felt a little weird to be there because definitely, there was a majority of women over the age of 50--and then there was me. So conversations veered toward how to diminish wrinkles and other stuff. But it was kind of fun watching the other women put on wigs and shout out their opinions on each one.
Then I went to Tim Horton's for lunch and proofread some more of the food book manuscript. I am almost done with proofreading, and then I'll make corrections and tweak the images in Photoshop some more. Then I will pass the book onto H and start working on the cover. So I'm also thrilled that I'm getting closer to finishing the book!
Then I went to Fitness World and did a 30-minute cardio workout on the elliptical, a 15-minute upper-body resistance workout, and a nice long stretch.
Then I walked about two and a half miles to my appointment with the surgeon. The appointment was a little disappointing because for some reason, the cancer agency didn't send over a copy of my chart, so the surgeon couldn't give me a good assessment of my options. But she did put referrals through for the plastic surgeon, so some progress is being made. We have some time to read up on options anyway.
All in all, I feel great! I came home, had a nice dinner with the family, took a bath and read People magazine, and I feel so relaxed and good. I'm kicking cancer's ass all over the place!
I attended a free seminar on how to apply makeup. Really, I already know how to put on makeup, but I was just going for the mega-box of free stuff they were handing out--moisturizers, cleansers, make-up, even a nice cotton cap to wear at night (which is really appreciated since it just got really cold here in Vancouver). It felt a little weird to be there because definitely, there was a majority of women over the age of 50--and then there was me. So conversations veered toward how to diminish wrinkles and other stuff. But it was kind of fun watching the other women put on wigs and shout out their opinions on each one.
Then I went to Tim Horton's for lunch and proofread some more of the food book manuscript. I am almost done with proofreading, and then I'll make corrections and tweak the images in Photoshop some more. Then I will pass the book onto H and start working on the cover. So I'm also thrilled that I'm getting closer to finishing the book!
Then I went to Fitness World and did a 30-minute cardio workout on the elliptical, a 15-minute upper-body resistance workout, and a nice long stretch.
Then I walked about two and a half miles to my appointment with the surgeon. The appointment was a little disappointing because for some reason, the cancer agency didn't send over a copy of my chart, so the surgeon couldn't give me a good assessment of my options. But she did put referrals through for the plastic surgeon, so some progress is being made. We have some time to read up on options anyway.
All in all, I feel great! I came home, had a nice dinner with the family, took a bath and read People magazine, and I feel so relaxed and good. I'm kicking cancer's ass all over the place!
Squeezing out those cells!
Susan phoned in Monday's numbers: a small, but scrappy .11 million cells to add to the 1.7 million currently on ice.
Dr. Wang confirmed that Susan will be at COH every afternoon this week to reach the two million minimum. (Actually, two million and a dab more.) (Yes, "dab" is a medical term. It's slightly larger than a "smidgen." Ask any medical student. Or just watch "Scrubs.")
"So, Smooky…" I asked. "Isn't there an oncology version of Miracle-Gro they can sprinkle on the harvested cells to encourage them multiply on their own?"
Alas, no!
Dr. Wang confirmed that Susan will be at COH every afternoon this week to reach the two million minimum. (Actually, two million and a dab more.) (Yes, "dab" is a medical term. It's slightly larger than a "smidgen." Ask any medical student. Or just watch "Scrubs.")
"So, Smooky…" I asked. "Isn't there an oncology version of Miracle-Gro they can sprinkle on the harvested cells to encourage them multiply on their own?"
Alas, no!
My life sucks (not!)
When I woke up this morning, my first thought was, "My life sucks." George and I had another "incident" with Cindy last night and we woke feeling zapped of emotional and physical energy.
And then I remembered that it's Cindy's life that sucks right now, not mine. And her life sucks in direct proportion to the crazy decisions that she's making.
I bounced out of bed, headed to my Pilates class at the YWCA and then came home to a bowl of yogurt with fresh raspberries.
My life is good.
And then I remembered that it's Cindy's life that sucks right now, not mine. And her life sucks in direct proportion to the crazy decisions that she's making.
I bounced out of bed, headed to my Pilates class at the YWCA and then came home to a bowl of yogurt with fresh raspberries.
My life is good.
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