Part IV Begins

So that looks like fun doesn't it? That's not me (I don't have that much hair, remember) and that's not the breast being radiated (you do remember your biology don't you?) but the picture does sort of launch us into the mood for part IV of my cancer odyssey wherein I become Radiation Girl. If you're wondering why I say part IV, I break it down like this: diagnosis, surgery, chemo and then radiation. Believe me, getting to the diagnosis is it's own stage--do I need to remind you of the nightmare of trying to get a doctor's appointment, the ultrasound, the mammogram, the biopsy, the MRI? Yeah, it's its own stage.

Tomorrow I have my first appointment with the radiation oncologist. They told me it would take an hour to an hour and a half. Yeah, expect a long post to read on Thursday. I feel ready for the appointment, but in my mind (and I hope I'm not delusional) I'm not starting the actual radiation until after my weekend of debauchery (aka Memorial weekend).

As I head into phase IV, it occurs to me just how long this has all been going on. Almost 5 months now, from my very first doctor's appointment. I haven't really had time to stop and think about that. There's a way in which the time had gone quickly and there's a way in which it feels like a very long time that my life has been consumed by this battle. Today I went back to the very beginning of this blog, when I was first getting diagnosed and letting folks know, and I read for a little bit. Wow. What a long, long "journey" this has been. Reading it now, I can "hear" more fear than I thought I had originally. It's interesting to see how overwhelming the diagnosis (heck the very idea of cancer!) was then-- and now I feel like an expert on breast cancer. Not the medical part of it so much, but the practical aspects of dealing with all the diagnosis entails and all that goes on after. And I was also reminded how many of you have been reading this and commenting this whole time. Thank you all for that. It means a lot. And hang in there with me-- radiation is going to be a long haul too (6 or 7 more weeks).

I'm feeling pretty good by the way. I had a hideous hive breakout on my face last night, but I took two Benadryl, had a great night's sleep and it was almost all cleared up by the morning (but uh, yeah, I'm thankful for foundation and powder). Tomorrow is the end of my "danger zone" time. In my usual fashion I'm sure I will be expecting to instantly feel better and have more energy first thing Thursday morning. A girl can hope. We leave for La Jolla and a fabulous weekend Friday afternoon, so I'd like to feel good. Is that really so much to ask?

Oh, and it seems many of you found the photo of Chris and me (and my bald head) to be quite touching. I do too but I worried about posting it (and the other bald one). I decided though that really, it's cancer we're fighting...it can't really be a cancer blog or any kind of cancer narrative without showing the most obvious effect of the chemo. So, given where we are (Chris, me and all of you reading this) in this cancer odyssey, that's now the photo over to the right in the "information/ about me" section. Until we move on to the next stage---which I like to think of as the return to normal.

BaldiLocks

This was a big weekend for baldness. Or, well, semi-baldness. See, in continuing my attempts at positive thinking I'm figuring the hair will start growing back any day now. Okay, okay, any week now. So I won't be bald that much longer. Now, I'll have stubble, and then a serious crew cut and other sundry short-short styles. And of course, there's the "it will be darker and curlier" phenomenon. But the point is, I won't be bald for that much longer and since I don't ever plan on being bald again (not that this adventure was planned...or virtually any other part of my life as it is today...let's not think about that for too long....), I decided we needed photos to preserve for posterity exactly what my skull looks like. And, you need an update on how Chris's hair is looking too. So here you have both of us.

Not a bad photo considering Chris is actually the one taking the photo (yep, it's the arm out with camera pointed in the general direction of our heads do-it-yourself shot usually seen in vacation photo albums). So you will likely notice two things. 1) Man, does Chris have a lot of hair. A lot. I will never catch up to that, and 2) I didn't lose all of my hair. Sure, 95% of it, but there are some strong little guys just hanging in there. We had buzzed it down to about a 1/4 of an inch back on March 13th, just before it really started falling out. So now those hairs have grown to be about an inch long. No reason to shave them, and I kinda admire their fortitude. When I get out of the shower and dry my head, these hairs stand straight up. Chris calls it "little hair, BIG attitude."

The second big baldness-ish adventure was that I went out in public in just the head scarf. Hey, it's hot out. I do have the hives/ allergy issue and I just couldn't see bothering with a wig just to go to Target and my office (even though odds are high I'll run into someone I know at Target). So, I just went with the scarf. When I'm on a project (like shopping!) I forget what I'm wearing and what I look like, so it's not really that big of a deal. (I probably would however, be acutely aware of it were I out and about bald...and somehow I expect there'd be stares to remind me. A nearly 6 foot tall bald woman is not likely to slip by unnoticed in too many places). But I did notice at one point that the scarf is a "cancer sign" and that certain women can recognize it. I'm sure I would never have given it a second thought prior to my diagnosis if I had seen a woman in a head scarf like mine. Just as I wouldn't have really noticed the super short, dark hair as anything other than a very practical hair style choice. Like sensible shoes (Hey, not my choice, but I can see the appeal for others). But today, twice, I noticed women--both in their 60s or so-- looking at me with this sort of knowing, kind smile. I didn't quite understand it the first time, but the second time, the woman made eye contact and I suddenly realized--ah, she recognizes the "cancer sign." She's "been there, done that" so to speak. It was actually a nice feeling. There is a good side to the "Cancer Club." I felt oddly supported, and she didn't even say a word. Just smiled.

So there's a photo of the head-scarf look. Just so you are in the know and can be supportive when you see "the look" too. The next photo...well, it's unmistakably the Chemo Coif.

All in all, this was a good weekend. Physically, I'm not back to 100% (and not just because of the hairdos) but emotionally and psychologically, I felt really good this weekend. Lots of energy and productivity. In many ways I just felt normal. And normal, like the five loads of laundry I did, has never felt so good.

My Pink Irony

Turns out this breast cancer club is kind of a woman thing. Yeah, that's a problem. I have never been good at women's club things. Never. I may not be a "group" person in general. For example, the thought of a cancer support group, to me, is worse than the disease. And not surprisingly, no one (not even my health care providers) has suggested that I attend one. Okay, well, the oncologist's office did hand me a calendar of "events" at San Antonio Community hospital (which has an awful lot of support groups--but none for generally grumpy, sarcastic souls such as me) but the calendar was for January and February and she handed it to me on February 26th. Funny, they've never given me the March/April calendar. And I was so wondering what to do with all my spare time when I manage to stay awake in between chemo appointments, white blood cell crashes, blood tests, hives, 300lb limbs and practicing law in my year-old office. But that's what blogs are for.

So here I am--breast cancer person, thrust into a world of pink ribbons, cute t-shirts, inspirational talks/signs/ poems/books, woman power and....cliques. Yeah, cliques. Now don't get me wrong, I love the shirts. The favorite I've seen thus far was one that didn't apply to me--but if it did, you'd see me with the following emblazoned across my chest: "NO, They're Not Real. (the real ones tried to kill me)." But I'm not that big of a fan of pink (fuchsia, sure, but not baby pink), I think the whole "woman power/ be strong/ sisterhood" thing is cloying and annoying, and I couldn't possibly be inspiring to a single soul. I'm more of a warning to others (Kids, don't be like me). I also tend to find myself uninspired by things that I'm just sure are supposed to inspire me. I'm fairly certain, now halfway through this "journey," that at it's end, I will be epiphany-less. I will not be one of those people inspired to quit my job and pursue my passion. I will not suddenly decide to run or even walk marathons (I consider all these breast cancer walks to be invitations to hell; I thus decline. Please note there are no "Prostate Cancer 3 days of Group Pain" events with everyone in baby blue hugging each others sweaty selves; None.) I likely won't even begin to exercise regularly. I probably won't even be a kinder person and I'm highly unlikely to consider every day a gift (unless it involves wine. Or is a Saturday at home.) I want nothing more than to get through this and return to being me. Just like I was before. Sorry.

This feeling that I'm a member of a club has been around since early after my diagnosis. And hey, it's not a club anyone wants to belong to so that's no surprise. The feeling that I might be a loser member of the club and not living up to expectations is new-ish. But the fact that there are "cliques" within this club and a sort of "rule book" is only starting to sneak up on me. I'm not sure I'm finding my clique. Maybe because my people don't go to pink events? I might now be the equivalent of the goth kids in high school.

An example of what I mean. I went to the Inland Agency "Shop to Stop Breast Cancer" event last Monday. It's a fabulous event and it raises a lot of money to provide mammograms to women under 40 who wouldn't otherwise be able to get them. In just January and February alone they provided 120 mammograms and found 5 cancers! That's unfortunate and fabulous at the same time. So I wanted to support the cause (hey, I love shopping as much as the next woman, and I was feeling good that day). I bought my agency bucks and got my friend Valerie Zucker to go with me (that's us shopping in the photo; okay, that's her shopping and me being overwhelmed).

I wore the short blond wig with a head scarf (it keeps the fake hair out of my face) and I noticed two other women who were clearly fellow chemo gals. One wore just a cute newsboy cap and the other wore a bandanna. They both looked great. There were likely others there, choosing to wear wigs and thus not as easily identifiable as chemo folks. I definitely noted this and thought about how that really is such a personal choice--how one deals with the most obvious sign of this disease (or, the treatment anyway, since that's what causes the baldness). Look, I can laugh at my chemoenstein look, but that doesn't mean I don't want to look as good as I can look throughout this and especially in public (I'm not good with sympathy, so if I can avoid it--great!). That's what works for me and that's what helps me get through this. But there are "cliques" that form around this choice and there is, it seems, a sort of judgment among the groups. I've heard the "wigs are for wimps" on more than one occasion. And at that event someone told me how another breast cancer survivor had responded to being told that I had several wigs and chose to be blond one day, red the next, etc. with "yeah, well, wait 'til it gets warmer." Hey, thanks for the encouragement. Apparently if I don't just run around bald, I'm not part of the cool kids. Okay. I can live with that. I may or may not run around bald someday. But I don't think that makes me any more or any less of...well, anything. For the record, I generally prefer just a scarf (tied jauntily and fashionably, of course, in a way that resembles either a biker or a pirate, depending on the angle of the tie) and I usually wear just that out and about and at home. But at work? I don't know. Do my clients really need to be focused on my issues when they're paying me to focus on theirs? Do I need to have such a constant reminder of this "journey"? The answer is no. I'm a little unclear on why anyone else would want to make this choice for someone else or force a viewpoint. When we don't have cancer, is it permissible to comment on each others hairstyles of choice? Because if so....I've got a few things to say to some people!

Then came the inspirational speeches from the inspirational chair and the honorary chair (I'm unclear on the difference). I knew I was in trouble. First up was one of those women who actually is inspirational--you know, she's the one who runs the marathons, beat cancer twice, is happy, perky, thin. Shit. She belongs to the healthy athlete clique of pink. They do yoga, eat right, run, all that stuff and from the looks of things they have inner peace. I have breast cancer and Lay's potato chips. That's it.

Then came the other. She emphasized how she got through it by being aggressive in her treatment and with a strong family, strong friends and strong faith--at which point I turned to Valerie and said "I'm totally f**ked." Which worked out well since she had just turned to me and said "You're totally f**ked." (There's a reason we're friends). My friends have been great and I have more than I knew, and my family seems to be taking turns being normal, so there's that, but I have zero faith. Zero. So, yeah. Screwed. As the inspirational speech went on, Valerie told me she'd be leaving me to go hang out with these far more impressive women. I can hardly blame her. She was particularly impressed with the "I went to work everyday with a positive attitude" statement. Okay, I'm thinking the inspiration meant every day that she went to work, she was positive. Because, as far as I know, there aren't mobile chemo infusion facilities that come to your positive self at your workplace, so at least a few days of work had to be missed. But Valerie was adamant this woman was stronger, better, faster than me. (Valerie was kidding. I think.) But hell, I'm sure the inspiration is stronger, better, faster. I didn't go to work everyday with a positive attitude before all this, why would I be different now?? And, I kinda wanna scream, why do I have to be?? Oh wait, I don't. I'm not part of the we shall overcome inspirational pink clique either. Phew. Okay, no yoga, no marathons, no faith, no positive attitude. Still breast cancer. That's it. That's all I've got for you. (I was inspired to have a drink with Valerie in the Marriott martini lounge after the event. Does that count?) There are thousands of breast cancer survivors. Where's my clique? (For the record, I did not have this problem in high school; sarcastic un-inspirational girls with attitude were all the rage in high school, although hair style was extremely important then too.)

There are signs my people may be out there. There is Cancer Vixen of course (and to prove my point, at the event I was the lone purple Cancer Vixen t-shirt in a sea of pink Save the TaTas t-shirts; I probably overlooked a few Avon Walk t-shirts and the inevitable "Live Love Laugh" or "Mothers Daughters Sisters Friends" pink ribbon shirts). And I found a book called "Five Lessons I Didn't Learn From Breast Cancer (and One Big One I Did)" by Shelley Lewis. I think I'm gonna like her. A sampling: "If you honestly think breast cancer is a gift, you can't come to my birthday party." And: "I guess you could say my relationship with God has been problematic for both of us." She even talks about being in a separate chapter of "The Club." This could work. Next lunch time, I'm totally taking my tray over to her table to see if I can sit with her and Cancer Vixen. I hope they like my scarf.