Pins, Needles and Rickets

(Open on two lovely ladies riding in a car- a Big ol' SUV that is no longer in the picture. (Tee Hee) The ladies are chatting, perhaps listening to Paris Hilton's new single... Stars are Blind.)

Driver Girl: You know, you want to hate this song, cuz it's- you know, Paris Hilton- but it's surprisingly catchy.

Passenger Girl: I don't care- I hate Paris Hilton.

Driver Girl: (SCRATCHING BALD HEAD) Me, too. But seriously, I'll shoot myself if I hear Shakira next - (YELLS) Bitches!

Passenger Girl: What? Who the hell you calling bitches?

Driver Girl: Damn bones!

Passenger Girl: (LAUGHING) Oh, if it's only the bones...

Driver Girl: Must be the rickets.

(AND SCENE)


Yes, I finished the chemo, but the fun lives on. I spent the first week in horrible bone pain. My friend Jill referred to my "gangsta walk"- occasionally, one leg would buckle and I'd sort of mosey. I'm not sure what rickets is, other than a bone disease that kids get, but I definitely felt like I had it. My hips would hurt if I sat anywhere too long, my forearms would feel like someone was burning them from one end to another, like a matchstick. Good times.

About 10 days after my last treatment, I still have side effects. I'm told the pins and needles in my fingers and feet can last for a couple of months. Please, sir, may I have some more? My feet look like someone took a cheese grater to them... and not the single side...the tiny holed side- they are shredded. I'm told I can thank my chemo for this, too. My nails are lifting- a couple of them could fall off at any minute. In other words, I'm in desperate need of a mani/pedi, but I can't get one right now- my white blood count is low right now and I should avoid anything that could give me an infection. When I wake up, I feel like I'm walking on pegs for a few minutes- I simply cannot feel my feet properly. Thank you chemo.

But every day is better. And the worst is behind me. Who needs fingers and toes anyway?

Picture of my new baby...

New Car Smell

I celebrated the end of chemo by buying myself a little present. It's not so little, I mean it's bigger than a breadbox, but it's little compared to others of its kind. In fact, it's so little, you could call it MINI.

Yep, a MINI COOPER. A convertible, in fact. It's blue. And drives like a go-cart. And I look oh so cute in it. And you know what, being bald is very convenient when driving a convertible. No nasty windblown hair.

Some might argue it was a rash decision. Or perhaps a bit impractical...I did in fact trade in my SUV and all its room (and its 18mpg) for it. When taking my dogs anywhere, we'll now have to smash them into the back of our sporty, yet not as cute 4 door sedan. But dears, this decision is a long time coming.

See, when I left life on cruise ships and Alan and I settled down for a life "on land," I desperately wanted a MINI. We drove them, looked at them... but decided we needed something bigger. Something more reasonable. Something for the dogs. So a few years go by, and you would think my MINI obsession would subside. Not so, my friends. I would see them on the road, cheer them on in their adorable little speed racer mentality.

Upon traveling to England, home to the MINI, every time I saw them on the road I would yell, "One MINI COOPER, Mwa-ha-ha. Two MINI COOPERS, Mw-ha-ha." This is easiest to imagine using your very best Count from "Sesame Street" voice.

When the convertible came out, I decided it was finally my time. I had recently gotten my current job. But practicality won out. We needed the room. We didn't need to spend the money, yada yada yada...

Then last winter, Alan and I were serious. We were going to buy a MINI. We contacted a salesperson in Atlanta. It was our goal to order one and pick it up when we moved. We went back and forth for a few months, building a MINI online, talking to dealers, we were all set to put down the deposit. YAY!

Not so much. That week, I found out I had cancer. Our world was now doctors and tests and surgeries. We put thoughts of the MINI aside. With deductibles and baby hatching and whatnot, we decided it wouldn't be practical to spend the money. We were worried about other things. Suddenly, bonnet stripes didn't seem so important. Alan emailed our salesperson and said "sorry." We bought a nice used 4 door instead. For half the cost. We commented on how good we were being. How safe. How responsible.

Well, guess what? Here I am, six months later. And I still love the MINI. And I still cheer when I see it on the road. And dammit, I just finished chemo. And dammit, we can afford it. And dammit, life's too short to be practical all the time.

I'm done putting aside my dreams. There's a time and place for practical- and guess what, it's never really been in my "free spirited" nature, so why start now? I used to do a lot of dancing and singing. So guess what? Dance lessons and vocal work for me. And I always wanted a MINI. So I got one. Time to stop having cancer and time to start getting a life.

So please, don't wait till something shitty like cancer makes you realize it's time to do something just for you. Whether it's a car or a new job or those oh-so-great-but-they-cost-too-much-but-my-ass-looks-so-good pair of pants. Life's too short.

Now if only I could get Alan out of the driver's seat.

Ooh-wee, It's hot in here- there must be some Toros in the atmosphere!

If you don't get the reference, I suggest you run your little self to the nearest Blockbuster, rent a copy of the campy and amazing cheerleading flick, "Bring it on." Then proceed to dust off your spanky pants and enjoy.

Hot, you say? Sure it's hot- it's called summer in Atlanta. No my dears, that is not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the raging hot flashes that are happening to me, even when the thermostat is set at 68 degrees.

Hot flashes suck. Except for my first night of chemo, I have been lucky to miss out on them during treatment. Unfortunately, they are coming on big style now. This scares me on numerous levels. First of all, I am afraid of my next electric bill. I am afraid I will scare someone by ripping my wig or hat off in the middle of an inopportune moment. I am also afraid that my dogs will lick my sweaty head in the middle of the night.

Most importantly, I am afraid of chemopause. I am afraid the hot flashes are a sign of what I've been trying to avoid. TMI WARNING: I've been lucky so far. I've had a couple of periods and am eagerly awaiting the next. Any day now. But when I have the hot flashes, I worry that my baby making machine is closing for business. Chemopause can be temporary and it can hit even after chemo. It can also happen while on hormone treatment. Other than being fatty mcchubby, menopause is the big worry. While I can revel in the money saved on tampons, I fear the money spent on IVF.

So I will hope the hot flashes, like potential chemopause, are temporary. I will walk around my house without pants because they are so damn hot, I will apologize to my husband when he's freezing and I'm screaming, "colder, colder."

I will suck it up. Meanwhile, I know the fall collections are in stores, but please refrain from sending me sweaters.

My Last Chemo

Woo-Freaking-Hoo!

I had my last chemo on Thursday. I'd like to say it was life altering or prophetic or something, but it wasn't. It was like every other chemo. I waslked in, got weighed, asked for my two warm blankies, settled in to my lounge chair and away I went. I slept the whole time practically. When I did wake up, I had to pee. Benadryl and fluids... go figure.

The only excitement was the woman sitting next to me. It was the first time anyone was sick in the chemo room. Like pukey pukersons. And she was si-ick. She made the comment that just thinking about the flush in her port made her puke. That blows. I wanted to say something- tell her it would be okay, see if she needed to talk.

But I didn't. I didn't say anything. I slept instead. And I felt a little guilty. I mean, I was never that sick. Maybe I'm lucky. But I do know what it is like to feel that miserable. And I know what it's like to be thankful someone reached out. Next time I will. And I'm sure there will be a next time. Unfortunately.

I walked out of that chemo room with a smile on my face. I'm done with chemo. The hard part's over. But I can't help worry that I'll end up back there again. I'm not sure if that fear will ever go away. And maybe it's because of that fear that I don't feel as happy or as free as I thought I would. Maybe because I'm not done with treatment. Maybe it's because I'll still have side effects of the chemo for a while. Maybe it's because breast cancer is a sneaky little bitch and you're never actually "cured" or "in remission." Nobody knows if it's actually gone.

And that sucks. But we celebrate what we can. We enjoy the milestones when we hit them. So I will.

The Ya-Yas

First of all, I apologize for not writing in a while. In all my "Grabbing cancer by the throat" shenanigans, I went out and got a life. My parents were in town, I flew to Chicago for a wedding, my brother came to visit. I drove said brother and husband around while they drank and got giggly and decided that yes, 12:30 am was a perfect time to give my parents a call... You get the picture.

Last week I met the Ya-Yas. You, know- like the book? (or movie starring Sandra Bullock that was not as good as the book?) The Ya-Yas were an amazing group of crazy southern women who did anything for each other. Oh, and they were usually drunk.

A friend of a friend's mother lives here in Hotlanta, and through this friend, she offered to take me to her support group. I wasn't sure, as I had gone to a support group already, but hell- it was a Thursday afternoon and I hadn't been to that part of the city yet.

As I drove up, a "mom looking" woman starts yelling across the parking lot, "Courtney?! Is that you? (YA-YA clue #1). I greet her and she immediately gives me a huge hug. I felt immediately like I had found my new southern mom.

Little did I know I would meet 15 more.

The minute I walked in the room, I was handed a hot pink feather boa. (YA-YA Clue #2) It was someone's birthday. (YA-YA Clue #3) Later, she would receive a long flowing wig... for her still short hair. It was amazing and black and had a huge grey streak and matted and would look excellent with a fake nose and wart and painted hat. (Clue #4)

When we began talking, I mentioned something about my younger radiation oncologist... to which the room perked up and we spent 10 minutes discussing cute doctors. The group informed me they kept a list of doctors to recommend but they considered Dr. McDreamy's to be a special section of that list. The group agreed having cute doctors was definitely a plus, if not a requirement. At one point, there was discussion of a particular doctor, to which it was mentioned they kept a picture of him. Eye candy is very important when you have cancer. (Clue #5)

Later, my southern mom informed me she has a terrible potty mouth. That it was amazing she went the whole meeting without saying "Fuck." My kind of girl. (Clue #6)

While there was no booze involved, I'm sure that was just a condition of the group being held in a church. I'm sure these women could toss back a few.

More importantly than the antics, however, was the true true support I received, even being so much younger than most of these women. It's like I walked into a huge hug the minute I walked in the room. I automatically felt like they would take care of me. Women offered to accompany other women to appointments, they offered advice on doctors, insurance, anything. They meet every week and I could tell that this group was a lifeline for many- and for some, many years out of treatment, it was a way to support those traveling through behind them.

This was a group of smart, funny, strong, beautiful women. They inspired me. They educated me. They made me laugh. And more and more, they made me proud to be a part of "the club".

Because if it brings out such generosity of spirit, it can't be all bad, can it?

(PUTTING ON MY BOA AND FUNNY HAT)
Ya-Yas!

Game on...

When I was in college, blissfully unaware I had a life threatening tumor growing inside my left boob, I was quite the little minx. See, I was crazy busy...in charge of just about anything I could (I know, big surprise, huh?). I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off, basically enjoying being a big fish in a little pond. I was also hot as shit. (that's a story for another day)

As only you can be at 22, I was afraid of nothing. Or perhaps that comes from being a middle class white kid who went to a fancy schmany private college with a bunch of other white kids. I would like to believe it was because I was a. brilliant, and b. simply that good.

"Game on," we would say, as our little "we could have gotten into the Ivy League but we were too busy having a life" selves would proclaim, as we took on such amazingly important tasks as funding the student government or rushing those soon to be sorority girls. "Game on," we would shout as we picked up our Dewalt drills and built some theatrical set. "Game on," we would laugh, as we stayed up all night licking envelopes or going to the Green Mill until 4am.

Game on. A late nineties phrase used to imply saddling up to a challenge. Also used in the same conversation... "not so much" or "cool beans" or "ricockulous."

Everything was a game. We were always up to the dare. I don't think I traveled in circles where people said, "sorry, I don't think so" or "I'm not comfortable with that." Life wasn't about comfort. Life was about grabbing some sack and getting it done.

Then life bitch slapped us. One by one. We couldn't find a job right away, we got cheated on by the guy we thought we were going to marry, we lost friends and GASP! we were shown that were weren't quite as smart or as talented as we once thought we were. Of course not, we were 22. "Game on" wasn't heard so much anymore. Perhaps it simply got replaced by other catch phrases. Or maybe, we lost a little of our game as real life responsibilities got in the way. You know, bills, real jobs... adult stuff. We lost a little of our fearlessness. Or maybe we just got a clue. Who's to say?

As I reflect on my lost mojo and how to get it back, I think about that time. The time when, granted it was in a bubble, I was ready for anything and afraid of nothing. Sure, real life might have made me a little less stupid, but cancer definitely wore me down.

I've let cancer take my self image, my strength, my energy. I've let it take my body, my self confidence and my fearlessness. I've let it take my hair, part of my boob and my sex drive and feeling in my fingers and toes. I've let it take way too much. I'm done. I'm taking it all back.

Game on.

Hello, my name is Courtney and I have breast cancer...

I went to my first support group meeting last Thursday. "But Courtney, you've had cancer for months, why a support group now?" Well, my friends, it is two fold... First of all, I am in a brand new city, where I don't know many people. Call it socializing, cancer style. Secondly, I never had a support group within easy access before... You know, living in the boonies and all. And thirdly, yeah, I suppose there's a thirdly, I have not actually spoken aloud about my feelings, in person, to anyone but my husband. Sure, I've talked about options, procedures, yada yada yada when I've seen my family, and I've talked about it with friends on the phone, but my friends live hundreds of miles away. I guess why maybe this blog has become more important to me than I originally planned.

So anyway, I decided it was time to speak some of this shit aloud. It was really nice. We all go to the same hospital, all have the same doctors, and we're all under 40. The rare breed. And we talked, we laughed, and yes, there was a little bit of tears. It's very hard to be witty through tears.

I was sitting there with this group of brave, strong, beautiful young women who had such balls to be going through all this. And again, I was inspired by their talents, their insight, their perspective. And I was pissed at the same time. Pissed that this disease - at any time - has made these women feel scared and alone. Pissed that it made them feel like something had been taken from them. Pissed that at any point they felt less than themselves. Pissed that they had to "recover" from anything. We shouldn't have to be worrying about this. We should be meeting boys and getting drunk and getting married. We should be having fun and having babies and having heart palpitations over our first house payment.

When I was diagnosed, I spent a lot of time (and still do) in the chat room on www.breastcancer.org. These women walked me through my pathology results, gave me ideas for side effect management, laughed with me over those side effects... When we weren't crying through them that is. They gave me ideas on shaving my head, what to eat during chemo and what questions to ask. Mostly, though, they gave me a place to talk about the disease and not have to explain it, not have to rationalize my feelings and not have to comfort the person you're talking to. They have been sisters and mothers and grandmothers to me, when they have absolutely not reason to be. In turn, as I move through this disease, I have hoped that I could be that to another woman who has the unfortunate ability to join our club.

So I was so glad I got to be a part of a real life support group. I am happy to do all these things face to face- to see the recognition on another's eyes as they tell you without saying a thing that they understand completely. TO laugh together over chemo stubble or peeing blue. And sometimes, maybe cry a little. Cuz after all, we are girls. And it wouldn't be a group of girls talking about feelings without some tears.

More random pictures

Since I seem to get the most response from picture posts... here's some more...


This is Alan and the doggies... and yes, the one below is all three of them playing tug of war. Alan had had some drinks.





Harry's favorite sleeping spot... our fireplace



Harry's a construction dog....yes, that's bits of drywall all over his face.

End of random photo post.

Important Breast Cancer Article...

Just thought I'd pass this on. It's about IBC- Imflammatory Breast Cancer... I know about it cuz, well, I've read a lot of books, but most people don't. And let me tell you, even to those of us who actually have cancer, this one is scary. Please read it... it talks about symptoms and whatnot. Again, touch yourself up and get to know those girls.


http://www.komotv.com/ibc/

Mojo

Being as I'm on the upswing from my recent nervous breakdown, I have been thinking a lot about me- who I was, how I'm different, yada yada yada.

Then Alan and I went to the Tom Jones concert. Yep, you heard me correctly. Tom Jones and all his leather pants wearing, open shirt exposing, dirty mouth welshman talking, ways. See, Alan and I spent too much time on cruise ships, and somehow had become oddly fond of "What's New Pussycat" or more recently, "Sex Bomb." When I hear that song, I think of Dutch officers with no rhythm drunk off their asses trying to hit on women. It's freaking hilarious.

So off we go to this great outdoor theater thing...Think Ravinia without as much lawn if you're from Chicago. You know, old people with full candlabras and brie. And there were a fair number of old people there...being as Tom himself is no spring chicken. I think he's like 65 or something. Definitely AARP material.

Then Tom performed. And I have to say, I give the old guy props. I mean, this is the only concert I've ever been to where women swooned. And by swooned, I mean they flashed their tits and threw underwear on the stage. Really? Women do that? For Tom Jones? Are you fucking kidding me? They didn't even do that when I went to New Kids on the Block... then again, most girls there weren't wearing bras yet. But man, if we were...

So I'm watching Tom motion to his good ol' boy and women scream. He wipes his sweat with shirts, he sings. Man, he's got some pipes on him. And there's a part of me that says, "Good on you, Tom" I mean, wow- he's got some mojo. That's the only way I can describe it. Except when he danced. Ohh, that wasn't good. Stop dancing Tom... really, you're showing your age. Seriously, stop. Stop right now. Ow, my eyes. My side hurts from laughing. Stick to pelvic thrusting. Works much better for you.

Dancing aside, it's the mojo, baby. It's not just for Austin Powers. Tom Jones has it. It's that certain something that assures everyone you know you're the shit. You don't necessarily have to flaunt your fishizzle, it's just understood. You can read it in the way you hold yourself, talk to others, choices you make. Breast cancer aside- I definitely used to have it... how do you think I got all those stories I can't repeat in front of my parents? I think my mojo has hidden behind my chemo port. I can't seem to find it anywhere. And everyone has it, I know they do. So maybe it's time to embrace our own inner mojo...pelvic thrusting aside, of course. Unless you're into that kind of thing. In which case, call me later with the story.

Bottoming out...

Okay, I apologize for not writing this earlier, but you know, Star Jones got canned, Tom Cruise pimped pictures of his "daughter" (I use that term loosely) for cash, Britney posed nekkid on the cover of Bazaar... it's been a busy day or so. Oh, yeah, and I had to work.

So anyway, about a week ago I hit bottom. If I were an alcoholic, and my Lifetime movie were a mini series... last week would have been the scene where some well meaning person would have found me, Kitty Dukakis style, clutching a bottle of nail polish remover. Yes, I referred to Kitty Dukakis. The Duke in '88, baby. I digress...

Okay, so maybe I'm not an alcoholic. My bottoming out was more of a spiritual self image bottoming out. See, I had to get a new Driver's License. This entailed putting on my wig and going to the DMV. I hadn't put on my wig in a couple of weeks... it's very hot down here in the South. I struggled with the task- it involved giving up the dream that I was, in fact, still 120 pounds. When I was in Illinois and renewing my license, they would ask, "is all your info still correct?" Sure, I would say. 120. Yes. When I was sixteen, that is. Ha! Suckers.

Needless to say, I got dressed, put on my wig, and started to put on makeup. Why we bother to put on makeup for the DMV picture, I will never know. But we do. Face it. You spend a half hour on your face to wait in some smelly hot linoleum tiled room and take a split second picture that you're not even ready for. Why? So some bartender/waitress/cop who pulls you over might one day say, "Hey, nice picture"?

Stupid shit.

So anyway, back to my meltdown. Upon looking at my reflection in the mirror, which I don't do very often, I started to cry. I somehow looked...I don't know... "Garish". Yep, garish. Like some Toulouse Lautrec, Moulin Rouge wannabee. My face was fat. I mean, fat. No hiding it. My beautiful, wonderful, expensive wig didn't look right on my fat face. The hair ended right at the most unflattering spot. The make up looked like too much on my pasty face. I felt, honestly, like a bad drag queen. Like all this attempt at femininity was a sham. All the highlights and the Clinique in the world would not hide the fact that I had lost my cuteness, my hair, part of my breast... part of me really. I didn't see me when I looked in that mirror. I cried. The mascara ran. I rubbed my eyes... eyelashes came off on my fingers. I couldn't win.

So mid-meltdown, off to the DMV I went. As I was leaving, Alan asked me what was wrong, what he could do to help. I freaked out and just told him to let me go. He looked so confused as I drove away. All I wanted to do was rip off the wig, go put on some yoga pants and wake up when I was me again... fake hair color and all.

They say you have to hit bottom to come back up. That was it. That moment in the mirror. The moment I realized that for all my "you're so strong, you're handling it so well, you're a fighter" bullshit, I had in fact, lost complete control. That feeling fat was just a symptom of the greater issue. That while I had actually been "putting on my wig and makeup" for months, there was a part of my that had been taken over. So that very night, I got off my ass and decided to do something about it. I walked three miles that night. More movement than I had done in months. I'm going to find me again.

And yes, my driver's license picture is hideous. I do actually have two chins in it. And yes, when I am hot again, I will be "losing" my license and getting a new one. Cuz after all, what if I do get pulled over one day?

Gratuitous House Picture

Yeah, yeah, it's been a week. I know. And I have many posts to write. See, I've had a bit of an epiphany. But in the meantime, I've had requests for home info and pictures. So, here you go. This is my (still unfinished) office. Most of the time you can imagine me there, slaving away. Or looking online for window treatments.

There goes my kitchen table!

Alan and I have sat and wondered many times in the past couple of months where the fuck our money has gone. I mean, I make a very decent living, enough even to support us both while Alan was finishing school. (Not to say I won't be peeing myself in glee when his first paycheck arrives, cuz I will)

Granted, we've moved, and taken on a mortgage, spent enough at Home Depot to feed a small country...but, really, there should be more cashola around. So where in blazes has it gone?

It hit me today. Cancer. Fucking Maria. I wrote a check today for $950.86 for my genetic testing. The bill finally came. Granted, my insurance covered more of the 3k test than I thought it would, and granted- they have covered lots of things, but still. This for a test that, in the early stages of diagnosis, I demanded to have- even though I didn't really have the risk factors for it. And of course now, in a more rational state of thought, it was negative. Fucking $950. That was a big chunk, if not all, of my kitchen table. Alan and I will be eating outside for a while. Good thing it's summer in the south. And I have such a cute new patio set :)

My genetic test is probably the last of the "bills" I will have to pay...thankfully. That's after deductibles, co-pays, etc. Where I really got slammed? Driving 360 miles round trip almost weekly for 3 months while going to Chicago to be treated. Then driving another 100 miles round trip from my parents to Chicago. Did you forget gas is like $2.75 a gallon? Alan and I are guessing that's probably a grand or two there. Fuck living in the boonies!

I should stop bitching... after all, one of these days I will add up how much it's costing the insurance company to treat me. Or Northwestern who was so generous with our fertility treatments. I am lucky. I have wonderful insurance, a great job and I can afford the $950. Still doesn't mean writing that check doesn't hurt a little. Who knew something 1.6 cm X 1.4 cm X 3.6 cm could be so expensive?

But I'd rather be poor and healthy than rich and sick.

Suburbia

You know that scene from "Old School"... The one where Frank "the Tank", Diet Pepsi in hand, refuses the beer bong at the party? When asked why, he says something to the effect of:

"We have a nice little Saturday planned. We're going to Home Depot. Maybe Bed, Bath and Beyond. We'll see if we have time. Big day tomorrow."

Yep, that is now my life. Yesterday we went to the outlet mall. The nice one- Pottery Barn, Willams-Sonoma and Restoration Hardware. All my suburban, I live in a cookie cutter house in a subdivision, heart could desire. And I desired. The end result- you're looking at it here. My current favorite home purchase. Why, you say? First and foremost, it has stripes everywhere. Many are aware of my longtime stripe obsession. If Maria, my tumor was striped, I'd probably want to keep her too. Secondly, being as we currently have no kitchen or dining room table, it now allows us to actually sit while eating. No more copping a squat on the carpet/concrete/grass for us. Alan has been grilling about 5 out of 6 nights (ARG ARG, FIRE FIRE!) so this is nice for us. I woke up this morning to find Alan reading the paper outside, drinking a cup of coffee, while my puppies played. A Pottery Barn suburban life has its perks. Almost makes you forget you have cancer.

Almost.

At least it's not cancer!

I know someone recently who had a health scare. And by health scare, I don't mean they came down with a "social disease" or anything. As in, they thought they might have cancer. The doctors were running lots of tests, there was a lot of waiting for results, yada, yada, it all sucked. Turns out it wasn't cancer. When someone told me she got her results, they actually looked me straight in the eye and said, "God, at least it's not cancer. Anything but cancer." I thought it was funny that they had the balls to say that to me. Then again, I've never been one to turn away a set of balls.

Cancer. The big "C". The "C" word. The "club". Cancer itself is a very scary word. People are afraid of the word alone. Why? Well, shit. It could be because so many people die of it. Most people I know have had a grandparent or someone die from it. Cancer is as bad as it gets. It's up there with like, I don't know- AIDS, Ebola, Bird Flu. Maybe because Cancer has no cure- only a treatment. There is no known cause. It sucks. Finding out you have cancer is probably one of the worst pieces of news there is.

So, armed with this knowledge that I am currently going through one of the scariest things you can go through in life, and that there are few things much worse (although worse forms of cancer are definitely up there) and that I am, for the most part, okay, I find this phrase "At least it's not cancer" uniquely funny. Hell, I've even been known to say, "Shit, it could be worse. You could have like cancer or something." In fact, I still say that now. Only now, it's with a sense of Alanis Morrisette Irony.

I find the phrase "At least it's not cancer" liberating. Kind of like when I got my first C in college. See, I was strictly and A and B kind of girl. But apparently when you don't show up to class, read the book, break up with your boyfriend, have your grandmother die and have tech week for a show, midterms become low on your priority list. So when I got that C in Greek Mythology, I said to myself. Wow- that sucks. The class wasn't even hard. Then again- you know what? I got a C. I'm fine. Still hot. New boyfriend. Great resume. I will not lose a job because of this C. Felt good. Felt liberated. Much like the liberation of getting cancer and hopefully coming out the other end. Well, almost like it. Although they both start with "C"- hmmmmm....

See, when you get this thing that everyone associates with one of the shittiest things that can ever happen to you- especially when you get it so young, you think...yep, I got cancer. And you know what? I'm still here. Still working, still decorating my new house, still playing with my dogs. (kylie, my golden retriever is just now learning how to fetch. We should have gotten her a back yard years ago.) So now, there's tons of crappy things that can happen. But- hey, at least they're not cancer. So if they aren't as bad and I proven I can already do cancer- then I'll probably be okay. Gives you perspective, I suppose.

You notice how my perspective is directly correlated to how I'm currently feeling? For example, see "Tears in the Shower" below. Funny. Not to say it won't be shitty sometimes. And it won't suck. And it's not scary. Because it's all those things. And there are good days and there are horrible days. Hell, it IS cancer, after all.

But if cancer also involves playing fetch with my dogs in my new backyard, watching my husband grill, I wouldn't be anywhere else. Everything else I can deal with.

Pins and Needles

I must say, this Taxol chemo is much better than my A/Cs. However, it's not without its own problems. Some of them kinda rough. The biggest side effects to Taxol are bone pain (and we know how I feel about bone pain) and neuropathy- as in tingling and loss of nerve feeling in your fingers and toes. You can also have problems with your nails. Within two days I had all of these. Granted, I didn't feel like I was going to curl up and die. I was, however, unable to walk one night. The bone pain is pretty intense. I feel it in my back, which I'm used to, but I was surprised to feel it so much in my legs. My shins, ankles and feet were wracked with pain. My legs buckled a few times and it hurt to move. Thankfully, the worst of it was over within a few days. I am left now with residual pain and a lot of tingling. It's like my feet and fingers are constantly asleep. It feels funny. And annoying. I feel kinda stupid cuz a day or so after chemo I was going on and on about how easy it was and how I was fine. I am- sort of. I just need to adjust to a whole slew of other issues. It's kind of hard to type- I can't feel my fingers and at the same time they hurt. Sort of difficult to do my job when I can't type well. I have spellcheck on overdrive with my typos. The wierdest thing so far had been my nails. The last couple of days my nails have started to hurt badly- like a slammed all of them in a car door and they could fall off at any minute. Can't drum my fingernails on my desk, can't open a can of Coke, it hurts too much. Bummer.

But I don't feel like I'm going to puke. And I have very nice drugs. It's amazing how your mood improves when you don't feel like you're going to puke your guts out. Even not walking seems not too bad.

Chemo #5- Mama's got a brand new bag!

IV bag, that is! I had my first chemo of the new kind (Taxol) at Emory last Thursday. So far, I really like Emory. The doctors are cool. They all know my oncologist from Northwestern. I feel like I'm a part of a big oncology sorority. I knew the secret handshake and everything. They don't have a penthouse or fancy individual chemo rooms, but they do have this chemo center type thing- there are like 30 little lounge chairs all set up at their own little station. Each has their own TV, their own requisite IV stands and pumps and an extra chair for the lucky mofo who comes along. Alan said it's not very comfortable.

This type of chemo takes a lot longer than my last one. Before, it was almost like drive thru chemo- I was in and out in less than 2 hours. This chemo can cause allergic reactions, so they give it to you very slowly. First there's the steroids, then there's the benadryl (for the allergic reaction), then there's the Taxol. All in, I was there almost 6 hours. Fortunately, thanks to the benadryl, I was asleep for about 4 hours of it. When I wasn't sleeping, I was peeing. They give you a bunch of fluids and my bladder is tiny.

Nothing says cancer like a bald girl dragging her IV pole and pump to the bathroom. Good times.

Being in community chemo was interesting. Because I was there so long, I watched everyone else come and go. Most were older- I mean old older. No one was even close to my age. I definitely was the most perky, even asleep. There aren't a lot of smiles in the chemo room. That's sad. Mostly people are quiet, watching TV, sleeping. Usually chemo day I feel great- almost forgetting how shitty I'll feel in a couple of days.

The downside to community chemo- people looking at you. A couple came in- it had to be for the husband's first treatment, as he still had all his hair. They were probably in their 40s- young for cancer, but not compared to me. The wife sat in her designated chair and just stared at me. Maybe it wasn't at me, but it sure felt like it. Her blank stare. It was a stare that screamed, "I'm fucking scared." She looked lost and alone. And she looked at me, with my port and my bald head, like I should be pitied. I wanted to tell her to relax, that I was going to be fine. Seriously, I'm not as sick as I look. I wanted to tell her that her husband would be okay, but then again I didn't know that.

Instead, I made jokes about unplugging my IV pump and my tiny bladder. I don't think it helped. Instead, it reminded me how scary this whole thing is. How scary it can be when you first find out. How shitty it all is. Then again, perhaps half the shittiness lies in our own attitude.

My apologies

Okay, I apologize to those of you who use this page to procrastinate. You know who you are. You have a project, a paper, a to-do list...Instead, you sit on the internet and check an assorted list of sites to put off what you're really supposed to be doing. What's the news? CNN? MSN? Celebrity gossip? Eonline? It's Monday, have you checked the latest postsectret.com? And hey, has Courtney written any quality missives lately?

I have slacked on the job. I'm sorry. See, writing this blog is as much procrastination for me as reading it is for you. But unfortunately, I have been crazy busy. Too busy for procrastination? Really, Courtney- that doesn't sound like you. I know, I know. See, we moved across the country- and between setting up internet at all and the 1400 trips to Home Depot, it's been hard. Oh, yeah, and I also started my new chemo. Nothing says welcome to the neighborhood like a fresh IV bag of poison!

It all ends now. I have a whole list of things to chat about on this blog, so check back more regularly. I promise to keep you better up to date.

I think I'm in love !!!!

And no, it's not with my husband, although I am quite proud of him this week. Alan graduated this weekend, second in his entire college class, no less. Who knew he was such a nerd? Certainly not me when I met him. Then again, when I met him, he was drunk in a bar wearing a "Male Escort Service" Shirt with the name "Dick" on it. No, right now, it's not with Alan. I haven't felt this way since I was bound to marry Jordan Knight from New Kids on the Block.



It's with Stephen Colbert, Alan's graduation speaker. Yes, Alan's tiny little school had Stephen Colbert. I think they asked him like 2 years ago before he was famous. I was this "-----" close to him on a couple of occasions. I stood proudly next to the kid whose sign said, "End Tyranny- Stewart/Colbert '08" My mother would not let me scream, "I love you Stephen" during his commencement address. My mom is no fun. She didn't like me hanging Jordan's poster over my bed either. I wanted him to be the last thing I saw at night and the first thing in the morning. I wonder if there's a Stephen Colbert poster?

Things about Stephen Colbert. Real life- tall. And cute. And smokes. And one of 11 children. And smart. And funny. And a fellow Northwestern alum. We're meant to be.

Anyway, his speech was funny. And well written. And serious too. And made it the best graduation I had ever been to.

For a full text of his Speech, check this out. It's a good read. Except that on the page, where it says he said "oops", he actually said fuck. Then he said, "be sure to take the Fuck out when you post this." Fuck at graduation. Why we're destined to be together.


http://www.knox.edu/x12547.xml

I love you Stephen!