Oh my favorite skirt
Denim, frayed and well-worn
Ah the times I threw you on
To find comfort and a loose-fitting waistband
The way you hung low on my waist
I recall a day when you nearly pulled off my hips
without the aide of the zipper
But such sorrow
Fresh from the laundry
Where hast thy roominess gone?
Cutting into my waist when I sit is unacceptable
Curse you, aromatase inhibitor!
Starving the cancer cells
While feeding my fat cells...
Curse you, cancer!
Now I can't wear
my comfy
Denim
Skirt
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Thursday, September 23, 2010
More Port Ponderings
I've had the new Bard Power Port for about three months now I think. Once in a while I still get pain twinges on the skin covering it, and I suspect that something to do with depleted hormones affects scar healing.
As shown in this lovely picture, it sports "a unique triangular arrangement of three bumps called Palpation Points on the soft top of the port", making the needle target easy to find.
They look obvious and hard to miss. I am, however, still feeling angst over the fact that I can only palpitate one palpatable point. It is the one at the lower point of the triangular configuration, and is clearly visible through my skin. In fact, sometimes I wonder if it is possible for it to eventually wear its way THROUGH my skin.
I am not sure which bothers me more, that this one may pop through, or that the other two are seemingly nonexistent. They are clearly in the picture. The doctor and the nurses close their eyes and feel for them, and swear they are right there in place. Why then, is ONE so clearly prominent, and the other two, of purportedly the same size, impossible for me to feel?
This doesn't bother me as much, though, as wondering if it is possible, however rarely, for the catheter to pop off the little purple end. Sure, there are ridges, but I don't see anything more secure than that. Sitting low on my chest, and down into breast tissue, it doesn't exactly rest securely in a stable spot. Boobs MOVE. Big ones move even more.
When I had the placement procedure, the doctor taped my breast down, to keep it from falling down under my arm while on my back, and thus skewing placement. Good plan, but when I sleep, on my side, I do not wear tape. This is difficult to explain, and I fear I did not impress my concerns properly upon my physician. I think he thought it was just a bit of a chat about my breast. My concern is that it will move around and flip, or unplug.
I haven't had an honest to gosh put-on-the-paper-gown breast exam in over a year. Last month he did feel around my lymph node area under my arm. Tuesday, I am taking my fabric substitute for the paper gowns that never fit, and insisting on an exam, and showing him what the port does when I lie on my side.
Yes, it's a pain to get undressed and dressed again, and yes, for awhile it was difficult to do my own bra, and yes, regular scans should, in theory, suffice. But the time has come. I don't care what he thinks, and if it makes him somehow uncomfortable, tough ****; he's a freaking doctor.
Not that I don't adore him. I do. But sometimes I feel like I don't get as much attention to detail as I would like. I know that none of these questions will effect my prognosis one way or the other. So I guess I need to reiterate that to him - I don't care that nothing is going to make me GET better; my main concern is FEELING better, or at least not feeling worse for as long as possible, emotionally and physically. Avoidance of stress and pain, with the clear understanding that I accept this prognosis.
With that said, it is also time to get another scan done. Even considering a scan or possible spread brings on the 'scanxiety' and tears. I wonder at it, since I know how this story ends. It must be the fear of not being able to avoid the pain and discomfort as this disease progresses. Scan time makes me step closer to my mortality in my mind's eye, dropping the drapery of denial that keeps the prognosis at a more tolerable distance.
Definitely making a good list this time for the doctor.
As shown in this lovely picture, it sports "a unique triangular arrangement of three bumps called Palpation Points on the soft top of the port", making the needle target easy to find.
They look obvious and hard to miss. I am, however, still feeling angst over the fact that I can only palpitate one palpatable point. It is the one at the lower point of the triangular configuration, and is clearly visible through my skin. In fact, sometimes I wonder if it is possible for it to eventually wear its way THROUGH my skin.
I am not sure which bothers me more, that this one may pop through, or that the other two are seemingly nonexistent. They are clearly in the picture. The doctor and the nurses close their eyes and feel for them, and swear they are right there in place. Why then, is ONE so clearly prominent, and the other two, of purportedly the same size, impossible for me to feel?
This doesn't bother me as much, though, as wondering if it is possible, however rarely, for the catheter to pop off the little purple end. Sure, there are ridges, but I don't see anything more secure than that. Sitting low on my chest, and down into breast tissue, it doesn't exactly rest securely in a stable spot. Boobs MOVE. Big ones move even more.
When I had the placement procedure, the doctor taped my breast down, to keep it from falling down under my arm while on my back, and thus skewing placement. Good plan, but when I sleep, on my side, I do not wear tape. This is difficult to explain, and I fear I did not impress my concerns properly upon my physician. I think he thought it was just a bit of a chat about my breast. My concern is that it will move around and flip, or unplug.
I haven't had an honest to gosh put-on-the-paper-gown breast exam in over a year. Last month he did feel around my lymph node area under my arm. Tuesday, I am taking my fabric substitute for the paper gowns that never fit, and insisting on an exam, and showing him what the port does when I lie on my side.
Yes, it's a pain to get undressed and dressed again, and yes, for awhile it was difficult to do my own bra, and yes, regular scans should, in theory, suffice. But the time has come. I don't care what he thinks, and if it makes him somehow uncomfortable, tough ****; he's a freaking doctor.
Not that I don't adore him. I do. But sometimes I feel like I don't get as much attention to detail as I would like. I know that none of these questions will effect my prognosis one way or the other. So I guess I need to reiterate that to him - I don't care that nothing is going to make me GET better; my main concern is FEELING better, or at least not feeling worse for as long as possible, emotionally and physically. Avoidance of stress and pain, with the clear understanding that I accept this prognosis.
With that said, it is also time to get another scan done. Even considering a scan or possible spread brings on the 'scanxiety' and tears. I wonder at it, since I know how this story ends. It must be the fear of not being able to avoid the pain and discomfort as this disease progresses. Scan time makes me step closer to my mortality in my mind's eye, dropping the drapery of denial that keeps the prognosis at a more tolerable distance.
Definitely making a good list this time for the doctor.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Day of Art at Banner Desert Medical Center
Twenty-four hours until my tax appointment. Am I ready? Almost. Should I be working on that instead of blogging? Probably.
Yesterday I participated in the Day of Art at Banner Desert Hosp, sponsored by the oncology department. I guess they do it twice a year. The paintings done at these events line the halls of the oncology unit in the hospital. I saw them when I was hospitalized in August, and thought I could never do something sparkly and positive, but really wanted to do something.
So I did. It is a version of what I worked up on the computer.
Every painting has a story underneath it on the wall, written by the artist. Hopefully I can find where it ends up being hung, and get a picture of it framed and on the wall.
This is the dirty pink underbelly; the part that exists without glamour or glitter, where the only pink ball caps are the ones dropped in the gutter, stepped on and run over.
It is a dirtier shade of before, a bit soggy and cloudy, and for some of us, the new reality.
It is a cold rain on the pink parade.
At one point when I started on the umbrellas, I feared they looked like pink pumpkins, then boobs. Thank goodness they turned out umbrella-y enough.
Mostly old people there, several people I knew from the support group, several with METS also. Later in the afternoon a couple of younger people came, and it always breaks my heart to see women so young battling cancer.
It was outside, in a garden area between buildings. We had very nice weather and shade most of the day. I had some help at the end with some of the shading. The counselor who facilitates the support group took pictures of each of us with our painting when we were finished. I'm sure that's a lovely shot, after being in the breeze and working and concentrating all morning. It started at 9:00am, but I didn't make it there until about 10:00am. They had a light breakfast, and then served lunch as well (yum!) I panicked a bit midway, worrying that I wouldn't be able to finish by wrap-up time (3:00pm), but I actually finished by about 2:30pm.
I got compliments on my painting, and said to the counselor, 'yeah, they haven't read the story part yet'...haha. One of the other METS ladies understood it though. The counselor said she was glad I did it, and that it needed to be said. I agreed, and shed my only tears of the day.
It's not all rainbows and puppies and pink ribbons.
The new image I have in my mind is being piled upon by all the things I have to deal with, that keep me from focusing 100% on the last thing in the pile; having cancer and taking care of me. That might translate more universally across the cancer lines. I'll work on that idea for six months.
Yesterday I participated in the Day of Art at Banner Desert Hosp, sponsored by the oncology department. I guess they do it twice a year. The paintings done at these events line the halls of the oncology unit in the hospital. I saw them when I was hospitalized in August, and thought I could never do something sparkly and positive, but really wanted to do something.
So I did. It is a version of what I worked up on the computer.
Every painting has a story underneath it on the wall, written by the artist. Hopefully I can find where it ends up being hung, and get a picture of it framed and on the wall.
Metastasis is the u
npublicized part of this breast cancer ride. it is the part for which there are no parades, no pink ribbons, no feather boas, no emotional marches.
With the Stage IV diagnosis comes the feeling that one has been de-ribboned and stripped of the title of Survivor.
npublicized part of this breast cancer ride. it is the part for which there are no parades, no pink ribbons, no feather boas, no emotional marches.With the Stage IV diagnosis comes the feeling that one has been de-ribboned and stripped of the title of Survivor.
This is the dirty pink underbelly; the part that exists without glamour or glitter, where the only pink ball caps are the ones dropped in the gutter, stepped on and run over.
It is a dirtier shade of before, a bit soggy and cloudy, and for some of us, the new reality.
It is a cold rain on the pink parade.
At one point when I started on the umbrellas, I feared they looked like pink pumpkins, then boobs. Thank goodness they turned out umbrella-y enough.
Mostly old people there, several people I knew from the support group, several with METS also. Later in the afternoon a couple of younger people came, and it always breaks my heart to see women so young battling cancer.
It was outside, in a garden area between buildings. We had very nice weather and shade most of the day. I had some help at the end with some of the shading. The counselor who facilitates the support group took pictures of each of us with our painting when we were finished. I'm sure that's a lovely shot, after being in the breeze and working and concentrating all morning. It started at 9:00am, but I didn't make it there until about 10:00am. They had a light breakfast, and then served lunch as well (yum!) I panicked a bit midway, worrying that I wouldn't be able to finish by wrap-up time (3:00pm), but I actually finished by about 2:30pm.
I got compliments on my painting, and said to the counselor, 'yeah, they haven't read the story part yet'...haha. One of the other METS ladies understood it though. The counselor said she was glad I did it, and that it needed to be said. I agreed, and shed my only tears of the day.
It's not all rainbows and puppies and pink ribbons.
The new image I have in my mind is being piled upon by all the things I have to deal with, that keep me from focusing 100% on the last thing in the pile; having cancer and taking care of me. That might translate more universally across the cancer lines. I'll work on that idea for six months.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Authority Issues? Who, Me?
I was pulled over by a Chandler police officer today, driving north on Arizona Avenue toward the San Tan 202 Freeway. I had just flicked a glob of frosting from the middle of a donut out my window. Granted, I did not need to be eating [another] donut on my way home from work today. Granted wiping it inside the donut box would have been a better idea, in hindsight, but flicking a substance out the window that would be melted, evaporated or distributed on the tires of Chandler drivers by morning seemed a neater way to go.
It took me forever to find my registration/insurance. I knew I had put it in a little plastic sleeve , but couldn't find it at first, and did not hurry at all because he would not tell me what "the problem was" until after I delivered the requested documents.
He asked what I had thrown from the vehicle. Frosting. I flicked frosting. Yes, I know it's illegal to throw things from a vehicle...but this was not litter, per se, it was not long for that pavement, as I explained above. I asked him if he pulled over people who threw cigarette butts from their cars. He said, yes, he did, and had in fact arrested people for that very thing before. I thanked him for that. (he said he had originally thought that I had flicked a butt). The thank you may have well been what saved me from a ticket for the busted tail light that shows white light. Big No-No, I know, just like it was last year and the previous 5 or 6 years that it has been busted. I'll put more damn red tape on it. I was actually surprised when he neither gave me a ticket, nor a warning, nor a repair order, nor even the "I'm not going to ticket you this time..." speech.
Nevertheless, as soon as he left, the tears came. I cried for a minute there at the side of the road, and then cried off and on all the way home. Yep. For NOT getting a ticket.
At some point during the drive home I ran the silent dialog through my head about the world giving me a freaking break after all I had cancer gosh darn it!! Because, yes, that is hopefully the suckiest thing I will ever go through. The came the thought "I had CANCER", and I started crying about that. Why do I still cry, 2 1/2 years after diagnosis, about having had cancer?
"Well", said the sometimes rational and insightful part of my brain, "cancer invaded and abused my body." The policeman made me feel helpless at the hands of an authority figure. Cancer made me feel helpless at the hands of an invader. Helpless in the hands of authority or an aggressor is an age-old issue with me. That's why I still cry about cancer. My sweet Doctor was my rescuer, my protector, throughout treatment. Yes, doctors are usually authority figures, but he never did any of the unpleasant things to me directly. Another reason I'm sure that I was so attached to him.
But y'know darn it, sometimes you NEED to cry anyway. If you are stressed and never let it out, it builds up in your muscles and your body and things go awry, and backs hurt, shoulders are in knots, and your body doesn't process toxins well enough and some rogue cell decides to go terrorist on you and next thing you know you find a lump.
I should cry more. Not because of an encounter with authority, but just as a matter of cleansing and release. I'm afraid to call my son's teacher back tonight, whose class my son is failing, because I know I will cry, and that poor man isn't tasked with listening to me cry. I should see a therapist; a luxury I cannot really afford, but I obviously have a lot of stress lately.
And it was only frosting for Pete's sake! I'm just sayin'...
It took me forever to find my registration/insurance. I knew I had put it in a little plastic sleeve , but couldn't find it at first, and did not hurry at all because he would not tell me what "the problem was" until after I delivered the requested documents.
He asked what I had thrown from the vehicle. Frosting. I flicked frosting. Yes, I know it's illegal to throw things from a vehicle...but this was not litter, per se, it was not long for that pavement, as I explained above. I asked him if he pulled over people who threw cigarette butts from their cars. He said, yes, he did, and had in fact arrested people for that very thing before. I thanked him for that. (he said he had originally thought that I had flicked a butt). The thank you may have well been what saved me from a ticket for the busted tail light that shows white light. Big No-No, I know, just like it was last year and the previous 5 or 6 years that it has been busted. I'll put more damn red tape on it. I was actually surprised when he neither gave me a ticket, nor a warning, nor a repair order, nor even the "I'm not going to ticket you this time..." speech.
Nevertheless, as soon as he left, the tears came. I cried for a minute there at the side of the road, and then cried off and on all the way home. Yep. For NOT getting a ticket.
At some point during the drive home I ran the silent dialog through my head about the world giving me a freaking break after all I had cancer gosh darn it!! Because, yes, that is hopefully the suckiest thing I will ever go through. The came the thought "I had CANCER", and I started crying about that. Why do I still cry, 2 1/2 years after diagnosis, about having had cancer?
"Well", said the sometimes rational and insightful part of my brain, "cancer invaded and abused my body." The policeman made me feel helpless at the hands of an authority figure. Cancer made me feel helpless at the hands of an invader. Helpless in the hands of authority or an aggressor is an age-old issue with me. That's why I still cry about cancer. My sweet Doctor was my rescuer, my protector, throughout treatment. Yes, doctors are usually authority figures, but he never did any of the unpleasant things to me directly. Another reason I'm sure that I was so attached to him.
But y'know darn it, sometimes you NEED to cry anyway. If you are stressed and never let it out, it builds up in your muscles and your body and things go awry, and backs hurt, shoulders are in knots, and your body doesn't process toxins well enough and some rogue cell decides to go terrorist on you and next thing you know you find a lump.
I should cry more. Not because of an encounter with authority, but just as a matter of cleansing and release. I'm afraid to call my son's teacher back tonight, whose class my son is failing, because I know I will cry, and that poor man isn't tasked with listening to me cry. I should see a therapist; a luxury I cannot really afford, but I obviously have a lot of stress lately.
And it was only frosting for Pete's sake! I'm just sayin'...
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