Seamus is More Famous

I've been meaning to post pictures and tell tales of our Fiji adventure--because believe me there is so much to tell. It's a magical, wonderful, gorgeous place. But I also have 700+ photos, and my step-mom Nancy just sent me her 700+ photos, so there's a lot of culling to do. Plus, we returned home to one funeral and no sooner had we come home from that then we learned that Chris's aunt had passed away from metastasized breast cancer. We arrived at her home about an hour before the mortuary did. Her funeral was Friday.  Needless to say, things have been sad and busy and well...keeping me from the blog. Fiji stories and photos will be coming....um...well...maybe soon.

In the meantime, Seamus is feeling a little jealous of Bob over at Daisy and Bob's blog  because Bob, the pit bull, is having quite a week. So Seamus would like me to let you all know about the award he received this week. He got a plaque with his portrait and signatures from the staff over at Ruff House Pet Resort at the celebration of their 5 year anniversary. See, Seamus was their very first customer and after 5 years, is still their best customer. (He got a plaque; we got a free weekend of boarding for him in one of their new island-themed suites along with a bath....wait...I guess that's sort of for him too! But we get to get away...don't let him know that.) The photo is of Seamus (who hates being picked up; hates it!) and me getting the award from owner Marti. Thanks Ruff House.

Chris's Aunt Susan was an avid animal lover herself. She passed away after a six-month battle with breast cancer (metastasized to her brain and elsewhere by the time it was caught). She loved Seamus (who doesn't?) and all animals and she will be greatly missed. RIP Susan.

Not Fair at All

This has been a difficult couple of weeks. [Be warned: not much any humor in this post.]

By now we've all heard that Elizabeth Edwards died from cancer today. It's not like I knew her, but I'm saddened by her death and by her obituaries that focus on her asshole jerk of a husband and all his betrayals. She seemed like a very decent, intelligent person, and it bothers me to no end that cancer doesn't really care about that. Her passing and the news coverage of it is just one more reason that I have been unable to put cancer, and more to the point, the possibility of a recurrence of cancer, out of my mind of late. Elizabeth Edwards death today brings me back to the blog...to vent.

I haven't been able to blog lately for a lot of reasons, but mostly because I don't really know what to say. I still don't. Cancer has been omnipresent of late and I may well have lost my sense of humor about it.

In the past two weeks we have once again been dealing with cancer in our family. My beautiful sister-in-law (my brother's wife) lost her father to throat cancer just before Thanksgiving. He was 63 years old and his diagnosis was shocking and his battle was very short. My sister-in-law lost her mother to breast cancer 11 years ago on December 14th at the age of 52. I remember being at her mom's funeral on December 23rd, the year after my father's wife died on that same day.  It's just not fair. Cancer never is.   I think of my niece who has a grandmother, a grandfather and an aunt who've all had cancer and what this might mean for her future (and I hope it means early screening, extra attention and vigilance...but mostly I hope for a cure before any of that matters)

And very recently, with seemingly no warning, Chris's aunt has been diagnosed with Stage IV metastasized breast cancer, with a pretty grim diagnosis. I've been helping her on the legal side of things (the "get your affairs in order" side of things) and Chris spent several hours with her at the hospital today. I can't help but think that she's probably had cancer for far longer than I have (or did? what's the proper word here...we don't know) but for some reason hers wasn't caught, but mine was. Or was it?

I think about these people, these cancers, and I think about my blogging friends battling various stages of cancer, and another business colleague who recently went to a hospital to say goodbye to a friend of hers whose breast cancer has recurred and was nearing the end of her battle, and I think about my new "virtual" friends recently diagnosed with breast cancer and in touch because they found my blog and reached out for support, and I think...F*CK CANCER.  I wish I could be more articulate than that, but no...F*CK CANCER.   And I think about the possibility of a recurrence of my own cancer and I just want to say that again. F*CK CANCER.

Usually my logical mind takes charge and so yeah, I can figure out that none of us knows how long we have or if cancer will strike or strike a second time and that I'm maybe no more likely to die of cancer than anyone else despite my recent encounters, because the thing is...none of us knows.... but also, I can't stop thinking about cancer right now.And the possibility of recurrence.

Have I mentioned how much I dislike this time of year? There is a lot of good stuff going on in my life right now, but at the moment, today, I can't seem to focus on that. Because life is just not fair. Not fair at all.

Brunch for Breast (cancer awareness)

The Brunch for Breasts fundraiser for The Pink Ribbon Place was a huge success!! About 70 people were served spectacular brunch dishes by Chef Clements and his amazing Omakase staff from 9a.m. to 2pm on Sunday. Over $1,400 was raised for the breast cancer resource center. And I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one drinking those "Cure" Royales and Mamm-osas! Finally, I get my "drink for a cause" event. We knew I'd sneak that in there somehow.

Sunday was a busy day all in all. Chris and I were troopers and spent from 9:30 to 2pm at the brunch, dining with several different folks including my dad and step-mom (Jim and Nancy McElhannon), then the good and great and also cute Dr. Amer Karam (who almost got the long distance travel award by coming from Westwood, but then a breast cancer survivor showed up from Lancaster--her niece works at Omakase-- and tore the award from his precious and skilled hands; luckily this was only metaphorically), the lovely Sheena Meder and her friend Vanessa, and Chris's mom Trudi Kern (a 17 year survivor). 

Post-brunch I worked with  videographer Rees Evans (a friend of committee member and BC survivor Meredyth Meredith --yes, that's really her name) to start capturing our "survivors" for a film he's putting together. We were able to film 7 survivors out "living life" (which meant walking, shopping, running, playing tennis, golfing, playing with her daughter and playing with her dog....guess which one I was?) and then turning to the camera to say "17 years" or, however long they'd been kickin' cancer's butt. I was floored to meet a totally adorable, cute, fashionable smiling young woman who turned out to be a survivor reporting in for her filming. She's 28 and was diagnosed at age 25. And she was the one filmed out running--because she's a marathon runner. Wow. So impressive. And yeah, this disease touches everyone. The film is meant to be a message of hope to women facing the diagnosis themselves. It will also be the lead-in (no idea if that's the technical term) for the video of the "professionals panel" were putting together on November 9th. Doctors from each of the areas one encounters in BC treatment (surgeon, anesthesiologist, oncologist, radiation oncologist, plastic surgeon for reconstruction) will be present to discuss their role, give practical coping advice and answer questions the live audience may have. The video will become part of The Pink Ribbon Place's library as a resource. It's looking like it will all work out great. With any luck we'll be able to give at least a little support, reassurance and hope to others dealing with a breast cancer diagnosis.

And I am pleased to report I have walked Seamus 7 out of the last 8 days. Woo. Hoo. It's not a marathon we're walking but hey, at least I'm up and moving. I'm less pleased to report that I'm now pulling on my hair trying to make it actually grow. Okay, not quite...but I'm thinking about it. And according to Facebook, I only have about 12 months of hair growing before my 30th high school reunion will be here. Umm...fat and shorn? No, no, I don't think so. (Did I say 30th?? I meant 20th. I'm sure that's what I meant....)

PS the photos are not from the actual brunch; Brein's food looks (and tastes) even more amazing than that. I was too busy to remember to take photos at the brunch! Next time..

4a.m. Follow-Up (How to and not to respond)

Yeah, more insomnia. This is fun. I am steadfastly ignoring that I was up at three in the morning when I had fettuccine alfredo (and wine), and now I'm up at 4a.m. after having fettuccine in a Gorgonzola cream sauce (and wine). This is pure coincidence.

But it is also giving me a chance to read your comments here and on Facebook and in emails. Perhaps I was a bit strident in my directions on the "care and feeding" of "cancer person." Perhaps. But it's working! Here is what may be my favorite response to date:

"...[I] was led to your blog which made me cry and laugh and cry. But I am glad I found it because I would have said something foolish to the effect of 'my grandma beat it and you'll beat the odds too.' But that's not what you said you need, you need numbers tipped to your side and she is just taking away from your chances. The bitch!

So here goes (remember, I am Holly's child and with that comes her sense of humor)

'I am so sorry, especially because the ten people I have met with breast cancer have all died.'

I hope that helps to put the numbers back on your side again! And if you need anything at all, just ask. Especially chef services, I'll whore Brein out to you and Chris any time!

That's from Roryann Clements. And it's my favorite for two reasons: 1) it's damn funny, and 2) she and her husband Brein are the owners of my favorite Riverside restaurant Omakase, so I'm all over that chef services offer!! (He is unlikely to prepare fettuccine in any kind of cream sauce, so I'm okay there).

And then there is my least favorite response to date. Both of my parents (who have agreed on precisely two things ever in life--one resulted in me and the other resulted in my brother) suggested that I should tell my ex-husband about the breast cancer. So I did. And three days or so later, here's the email I got in return. Get the tissues ready:

Teresa:

Sorry to hear about your health issues. I had no idea. I really do hope that the doctors at UCLA and the science we have today will be helpful in treating you successfully. I wish you all of the best.

Okay, now wad up the tissue and throw it at the computer screen!! I promise you that is the entire response. I spent ten years of my life with this man! Clearly he has been beseiged with emails from ex-wives recently diagnosed with life threatening illnesses and he was forced to develop a form response so he could just hit "send" as necessary. But I'm not bitter. I understand. He was raised to think emotions are like dirty underwear--you don't display them. I know deep down though he's worried. He's worried I won't be able to pay my medical bills and this will damage his credit report since I still have his last name.

Oh good, I feel better now. And it's 5:15a.m. and I can hear that in the other room Chris is now wide awake and watching TV. Poor baby. This is going to be a long 8 months.

Proper Care and Feeding of A Cancer Patient

(The above is one of Cancer Vixen's cartoons. Did I mention I just adore her?)

I mentioned I went to the Mayor's State of the City Address on Thursday. My first public foray post-diagnosis. From this small, but extremely scientific survey, I can tell you there are five basic responses a person has to encountering someone who has been diagnosed with breast cancer, to wit:

1) Person assumes serious, even pained, facial expression, grabs "cancer person" by hand and winces in a barely audible voice, "I've heard about your situation/diagnosis/ illness" (you can pick euphemism; I'll just tell you--no one can utter the word "cancer"). "I'm soooooooooooooooooo sorry. Are you okay?" Then cocks his or her head to the side and continues peering at "cancer person" as if she is dying on the spot.

2) Person assumes stoic face, says "Hi. How are you?" to cancer person while glancing furtively at cancerous breast but refraining from in anyway outwardly acknowledging that they've "heard."

3) Person rushes over to cancer person, hugs, smiles, or just generally effuses and says "Oh my god, I read your blog. It's so great that you are keeping your sense of humor." Or "I heard. You look great and you seem to be handling this well" and frequently there's the "If there is anything at all I can do, please let me know."

4) Person rushes up to "cancer person" and immediately begins a barrage of things "cancer person" must know, people that must be contacted, information that must be gathered, doctors names, other "cancer people" that must be talked to, and 614 stories of people who have survived; this frequently includes graphic descriptions of things that cancer person may have to endure but is in no mood to contemplate at the moment.

5) Person sees "cancer person," and perhaps even makes eye contact, looks horrified, glances away and then runs away or quickly begins a conversation with the stranger next to him or her, while still glancing repeatedly in the direction of "cancer breast." (I will allow for my paranoia causing this feeling--but some people are just remarkably obvious in their inability to "deal.")

Guess which response is my favorite? That would be #3. I think that if you know someone who has been diagnosed with cancer, and particularly breast cancer, there's a few things you should keep in mind. Early on, the person feels fine. I can't tell, physically, that I have a disease right now. Other than the yellow-green fading bruise from the biopsy, physically I feel fine. So why wouldn't I continue on with my normal life? The other thing is, I'm still the same person. Post-diagnosis I don't think a person is going to suddenly be a different person. I deal with things with humor, mostly dark humor. I will continue that as long as I can because I don't like the other options. So when you encounter a "cancer person" if you know this person at all-- treat her the same way you normally would! If she is an extremely private person, then probably you wait for her to bring it up or you discreetly say something. In my case, I showed up in a room full of a thousand people in a tight black t-shirt with a pink stiletto and the words "Pink Heals" on my chest. It's gonna be okay to say something to me. For those who may in the future be in categories 1, 2, 4 or 5 above, a few comments:

1) This response most frequently actually comes from men. I understand--men want to fix things and solve problems and this is not one that most men can fix (Dr. Good Karma can however!). But the response is awkward at best. Again, I still feel fine. And it makes me feel like I have to comfort YOU and assure YOU that everything will be alright. And hey, this is about ME!! ;-)

2) You're kidding when you look at my breast, right? Are you expecting to see something bursting Alien-like from my chest? We caught it early; there will be no bursting forth. And for me, I'd prefer "so I heard you've had some bad news lately' or something that at least opens the door for me to say "yes" or change the subject or do something other than think "wow, this Person is really uncomfortable right now; I wonder what I did?" Eventually I began to say "So I assume you heard?" Every once and awhile though I was wrong--the person hadn't heard! So I am paranoid! But, I can't tell you apart (those who've heard and therefore are uncomfortable and those who haven't heard but apparently are uncomfortable with me in general!) so speak up (just not wincing and crying when you do so).

4) Um, wow. I can't carry that kind of information in my head. And while I know you mean well, every woman's situation is different and I'm really, really squeamish so lots of the details need to be left out. I'll deal with it when I have to. It's better if you write something down or just say "I know of a good doctor/ someone who's recently been through this/ a great website" etc... followed by "would you like me to SEND you the information?" Much, much better. Because then "cancer person" (who has very little control over the disease she is recently battling) can at least maintain control over information and decisions. And the information is available when it's needed. I can't tell you how many post-it notes and scraps of paper I have stuck in my purse currently. I can barely keep track of the number of doctor's appointments, restrictions, instructions, tests, results, etc. that I currently have, let alone things I may encounter in a few months time. (And as for the survivor stories...right. The ones who don't survive don't seem to be telling their stories!)

And you response #5 people: Well, you clearly don't know me well. So let me just say, you can't catch cancer.

In general, I'd say this: I have cancer. Cancer doesn't have me. I'm still me. If people can keep that in mind, we'll all do just fine.

A Blue Day

So today's theme was not pink. It was blue.
Perhaps the universe was reminding me that all is not pink. Or rosy. Oh, wait, the universe always reminds me of that. First, I went to the Mayor's State of the City address (kudos to me; kudos to you; kudos for all my friends; and you only get that joke if you were there)--first public appearance since I broadcast my diagnosis across our tiny little town. More on that in a later post probably. But it was fun and I was in a jovial mood when I got back to my office. Except there was a message for me from Sasha at UCLA. Hmmm... this is not a name I'm familiar with. And by way of a little background, among the many, many, many things I have marveled at in the great institution that is UCLA Medical Center is that no matter how often I show up or how many "procedures" I have, no one-- but no one-- has so much as uttered the word co-pay to me. Or even "pay." Or "how do you intend to...." Never. [Okay, wait, the parking lot attendant always holds us up for $11, but that's not a co-pay.] I called Sasha. And Sasha as sweetly as can be informs me that Blue Cross informs her that my coverage lapsed on January 1. Right. So now I need cardiac care. Know any good clinics?

As calmly as possible, I said "that can't be right. I know I've paid the premiums and I've had the same insurance forever." She told me that I should call Blue Cross and straighten it out. Honestly, it took me three tries to dial the number correctly. And while I waited the 6 days, 19 hours, 43 minutes and 8 seconds they had me on hold, I perfectly envisioned my life as a bald, bankrupt, bag lady. And the bag was not Coach. Turned out it was Blue Cross's mistake (and they even said that!). They'd input my policy date wrong, but my coverage goes from January 1 to December and I was fine. Covered. They'd correct it and UCLA could call back in 15 minutes. Phew.

I recovered and went about my day being a lawyer rather than a "cancer person." Then, at about 6:30 a friend who has "been there/done that" circa 2007 called. She gave me all sorts of great information and of course we compared types of cancer, treatments, procedures, and the general poor state of health care in the Riverside area (it's a theme). Then we got to discussing my upcoming surgery. There's a part where they shoot blue dye into one of the twins (the ailing one of course) and well, let's just call it dead center. With a needle. They do this to find the road map to the sentinel node. Well my friend had this too. And so did my guru the Cancer Vixen. Both of them describe the pain as "off the charts." On a scale of 1 to 10 it's an 11. And my friend has three children. The children are not adopted. You do the pain math.

I'm a wimp. Who isn't with that kind of info. I hung up the phone and emailed the great and wonderful Dr. Good Karma. It's now about 7:45pm. I asked if this would be the case for me. Give it to me straight. Then I closed up the law shop and went home. To panic. I should have just reached for my Blackberry. He responded in less than a half hour. And because it makes me laugh for several reasons (mostly at myself) here's the response:

"The blue dye is the one I use in the operating when u r asleep so u
won't feelit plus my skilled hands will keep the any pain away ;-).
u may get some staining of the breast that is temporary and
ure urine turns blue and green for a day (
the college kids I treated always get a kick out of that.
The shot u get in the morning is for that tiny bit of radioactive
material that also goes to the sentinel lymph node and that
is not painful. I use both techniques so I can make sure to find
the sentinel node. "

Sounds like fun huh? Hey, after what I thought it was going to be...that's a good time right there. And yeah, my doctor's a Black(crack)berry addict and uses those abbreviations and a smiley face.

I am blue no more. Until next week anyway, when I will be quite literally...blue!

I'm a Lab Rat!!

I feel so proud. Or, er, well, happy. No, um, I guess just willing. This goes with the "silver linings" I suppose. UCLA has asked me to participate in a research study on "MRI and Spectroscopy." Which sounds like something I would totally flunk (there's a reason I went to law school and not medical school). But the pressure is off. They asked me to participate because they already know I will flunk. They are studying the use of MRI and Spectroscopy as a way of diagnosing breast cancer without the need for a biopsy. I have had both. Trust me, you prefer the MRI (unless you are seriously, seriously claustrophobic; I'm not. I'm seriously, seriously tired and would have slept through my MRI were it not for the fact that Chris planted the idea for this blog in my head right before I went in for the MRI--thus, instead I was planning the blog and time just flew by; the guy knows me!). So because I'm now a lab rat, I'm going back to UCLA Tuesday evening (the 27th) for another MRI and Spectroscopy (I won't feel a thing, despite what it sounds like) which is purely for their study--since they already know my biopsy results they can compare what they would have found if I had only had the MRI with Spectroscopy. I kind of think it's cool I get to help. In whatever way I can. My breasts are going to be so popular! (It's like high school all over again! ...Kidding! Totally kidding! Mom, dad...I'm kidding!!!) Plus, it means we will stay overnight in Westwood which makes it so much easier to get to the Medical Center by 7:30a.m. which is what time I have to check in to the Nuclear Medicine department so they can shoot blue dye into my right breast in preparation for "THE surgery." (Now there's a good time!). So what the heck, we're going to make a little vacation of it and stay the night before and the night after the surgery in Westwood. Sounds better than driving in heavy traffic while trying to change the ice pack on my breast every 20 minutes. Currently thinking Hilgard House, as per Stacey's recommendation. Any other suggestions? Really, really close to UCLA. That's all I ask.

Here's a link to a little bit about the MRI and Spectroscopy studies for those who are interested:

MRI and Spectroscopy

(I searched for something that was close to "plain English.")

UCLA is going to pay me a whopping $75 for this! Which covers, like, the first 5 minutes of parking, so that's totally cool!

Today (Tuesday) was a busy day on this little blog. Thanks for all the support (or schadenfreude!!). But it seems we have learned the age cut-off for "blog comprehension" and it's 35. For those of you over the age of 35 who would like to leave a comment: first, thank you for caring. Or cursing. Either way. Second, if you click on the "0 comments" (or whatever the number is with "comments" following it) right below this post, you will be able to enter a comment. Then you will see a "post comment as" button with a little drop down menu. Don't be afraid...use it. If you select "Name/URL" and then just fill in the space with the name you want to use for your post (for example "John Smith" or "Inept Techie" or "Not my Boobies"; however you want to identify yourself) that is all you need to do. You don't need an "account" or anything else. Just enter your name, type your comment and click on "Post." And you're good. Or at least I think that's what Chris said....

Pink Shirts and Silver Linings

More things I've learned about breast cancer: it brings out a lot of pink shirts and silver linings.

Shirts first. My step-sister from a former life, Laura, says she's sending a shirt from "Save the Ta-Tas" foundation. I'm looking forward to proudly wearing that one! Then, Sunday my step-dad Ted (from a current life; yeah, my family's complicated) gave me the shirt in the photo. It's from www.pinkribbontour.com
He happened to see the truck/organizers in Arizona on the very day I called to tell him and my mother about my diagnosis. Great shirt, huh? It says "Pink Heals" and it's got a pink stilletto right there. Get it? Pink Heels...Pink Heals?! Shoes are clearly important to this whole breast cancer survival thing.

And then there's the silver linings. I've discovered some on my own, and some friends are determined to point out the silver linings to me. So, Breast Cancer silver lining number one: who knew I had friends that were optimists?! And then there is the fact that I don't think I've ever heard "I love you" so many times from so many people (well, sober people anyway). I've heard from lots of friends and family, including some I hadn't heard from in a long time (hey, we all get busy and wrapped up in our lives). Some people have suggested that there might be weight loss with chemo (I try not to think what they clearly think of my current weight), there is a certain focus to my life suddenly (I have time for two things: work and dealing with "this" and hey, I can't spend any money on anything else either...so that simplifies things greatly). And then finally there is the "CANCER WINS" silver lining. No, really, it's a silver lining. Basically "I have cancer" while true, is also a fantastic way to get out of anything and everything!! Oh, and get my way on anything and everything! Cancer Vixen calls it the Cancer Card. You can just whip it out and run it through like a credit card. It's accepted everywhere! Who can say no to "I have cancer, can you do me a favor?" No one!! (okay, except Seamus--he is completely unmoved by this). I'll try not to let the power go to my head. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to conserve it for when I really need help. Besides, Chris is on to me.

update: Thanks to "The Bachelor" Chris has found a website with "I (Heart) Boobies" shirts. What's the over/under on how quickly he has a pink shirt himself?

www.keep-a-breast.org

More about MammoSite

The good karma Doctor (Doctor Karam) emailed me (yes, emailed. My doctor emailed me. Personally. Wow. I haven't tried, but I'm thinking he returns phone calls too! I'm still marveling at this). Anyway, he sent along some information on the pros and cons of MammoSite. I just don't think it's for me, and neither does he. Give me the best long term chances possible, please. So that question is answered. (Until I get Shawna's comments....which should be appearing below any moment!).

Here's the article:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/27/health/policy/27device.html?_r=1

The Treatment...The Team

It took 7 hours but we are back from UCLA and my brain has been jam-packed with information (some of it I'm just rejecting out of...well, mind). Surgery (the "lumpectomy" just really isn't dramatic enough is it?) is scheduled for January 28th at 11 a.m. Of course, I need to get there at o'dark thirty and I can't have coffee, wine, gum, candy, heroin or scrambled eggs after midnight so by 11a.m. I'll pretty much be begging for anesthesia (and/or death; but I realize some of you might not find that amusing right now). The good doctor promises an IV of Starbucks when it's all over. He's quite funny but that better not be a joke. And speaking of the good hands man, that's him. Dr. Amer Karam. What he's holding is a spectacular drawing of what's going on inside my "right breast 10 o' clock"; yeah, it made me nervous about his manual dexterity too, but he just overslept when they taught "cancer cartoons" in med school. Still, if you ever hear the words "highly suspicious of malignancy" give the man a call. And yeah, I know, he looks young. He assures me he's done seven breast surgeries before (okay, he said "hundreds" but I heard "seven"; I'm like that). I'm trying to remember that I was 23 when I graduated from law school and I expected everyone to take me seriously. I'm taking him seriously. It's the cancer I refuse to take seriously.

Oh, and IT WAS MY GOOD FRIEND STACEY ALDSTADT WHO REFERRED ME TO UCLA and personally made sure I got to a doctor long before the medical community of Riverside could even find my chart or return a phone call. Thank you Stacey. Thank you, Thank you, Thank you. No, really. Thank you.

And that brings me to other supporting players. Here's my January team:

Dad on the left, Dr. Karam, and Chris. That was our little team today figuring out my whole "treatment plan." I focused on margaritas, martinis and wine (when each was applicable); Dad asked medical questions (how is this relevant??? Geez. Dads.); and Chris took scrupulous notes while trying not to giggle every time Dr. Karam said "breast" (which the dude says a lot. A lot.)

In the end, the plan was the lumpectomy and search for the "sentinel node" on the 28th (more on that sentinel later; it's kinda fascinating). If all goes well (meaning there's no cancer in the lymph nodes) I'm home that evening (well, after a 5 to 6 hour drive home in rush hours traffic). I insist on being back at work the following Monday. I have appointments scheduled!! Then after a week or so, I go back to Dr. Karam. If he got "everything" in the first surgery, well, Dr. Karam ends our relationship and it's goodbye to him (unless one of you starts dating him; and there seems to be volunteers among you). But alas, that is not the end of my cancer journey. Then I have to go see an oncologist and convince him or her I don't really need chemo, or I just need chemo light. Dr. Good Karma, who thus far has not been wrong about a single thing (apparently he didn't miss all of his med school classes; just the drawing one) seems to be preparing me for the inevitability of chemo. So that will likely start sometime in March and go on for 4 months. Reminder: Birthday Bash in February still an option! I'm thinking Friday the 13th! Totally appropriate. After that will be radiation. Which should be delightful in Riverside in you know, July or August! Stay out of the sun? Are you kidding me??

So basically, not much changed today. Except we have actual dates and a sort of schedule. Oh, and they had me do 1) a chest x-ray; 2) blood tests (4 vials); 3) a urinanalyis and 4) an EKG in preparation for surgery. They managed to accomplish all of that in about an hour. Astounding. And I didn't have to drive all over the place and carry my records myself. I could do the whole testing journey in super-cute 4" strappy silver sandals walking only as far as the elevator. Oh, and there was one "it could be worse" moment when Dr. Good Karma told me one of the tests was a pregnancy test. I may have threatened his life if he came back to me with "you're pregnant." (Security was called prematurely in my opinion!!) This whole cancer thing may be over in 8 months. Pregnancy? The child never goes away, right? I'm 45. My dad came to my appointment today. (Thanks, Dad. ;-)

Things I've learned

You know how when you buy a white car you suddenly notice how many people have white cars? Breast cancer is the same way. Geez, does everybody have breast cancer or know someone who does? Yes. The answer is yes.

And apparently there's a lot a person needs to know to deal with this all (sadly, get the #@%& out of town for treatment was one of the things I learned--note the lag time between "feel a lump" and "Yep, that's cancer"; 25 days.)

So here's my thoughts with this blog... 1) it's my therapy. Yes, it's incredibly self-absorbed but hey it's better than bombarding people with emails about my "right breast 10 o'clock." And it's a better way to update those who might actually care (occasionally, no one is going to care daily!) and aren't squeamish; 2) if anyone else has been through the experience and is willing to share advice, stories, encouragement this is as good a place as any, I imagine (the waiting room at UCLA Medical Center seems a little tense!) so please pass this along to anyone who might be willing to share/ add comments and keep me informed; 3) good lord there is a lot of misinformation out there on mammograms, self-exams and breast cancer in general. If folks only knew the difference between catching it early and not (it's the difference between lumpectomy and masectomy and "chemo-lite" and well, not so light; and that's just for starters!), I assume that those of you who have said to me "I guess I should schedule that mammogram I've been putting off" (you know who you are) might actually do it. So I'll share what I learn and what women should know about this. I caught mine by self-exam (although, truly, Chris deserves and wants some of the credit for the ahem, "exam"). Show the girls some love, ladies.

I'm super early in this whole process. And so far I've only bought two books (and read half of each; Love "Cancer Vixen" by Marisa Acocella Marchetto...who I think is Italian...) and talked to 2 surgeons, 4 radiologoists, a hospital administrator, several cancer survivors, and a whole host of "I had friend who..." folks. I'll sift through and share the good stuff. You do the same.

The MRI results

And this brings the blog up to date with the group emails...

Finally, I have some better news. The MRI was yesterday (January 13) and the cancer is only in the one spot. Woo hoo! This means "only" a lumpectomy which will likely be at the end of the month. Then apparently I get a few weeks to recover before chemo starts. So expect a "post-op pre-chemo" birthday bash in mid-February! (apparently the only party I'll be attending in 2009! So I figure I get to drink a year's worth of wine, right?). I go in on Thursday with Chris and my dad to get the whlole treatment plan and options laid out. When I told him my dad and Chris were both coming with me, The doctor said "I'll be sure to have my Wheaties in the morning." He hasn't even met my dad! Did I mention my doctor met me at check-in, walked me over to the MRI (which was at 11:30) and then called me personally by 4pm to tell me the results? This is health care in the big city! Wow.

And in other good news, Chris is going to help me set up a blog mostly to amuse myself and be all self-absorbed about what's going on, but also so I don't have to bombard you with whiney emails you may not want. You can just check the blog for updates when you want to (or not, and I'll never know!), plus you can likely vote on which wig looks best (I'm thinking this is my chance to experience life as a non-blonde; will I be smarter??), what wine pairs with chemo (Facebook friends seem to be voting white), and who we should be setting up with my totally adorable and apparently single doctor (the man knows his way around breasts! and er, in them too).

Okay, so likely the only other "update" email you will get will be with the blog address. And maybe a party invite! Thanks for all your humorous responses. And yes, Chris and I are totally going to Maui next December (for that holiday formerly known as Christmas and henceforth to be called Jimmy Buffett's birthday).