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Just The Facts, M’am.

On the night of July 23rd, I had a small trickle of painful, dark colored, smelly urination.
On Thursday, July 24th, 2014, I went to the YMCA to exercise.
After 1 hour on the Precor machine, I stopped by the restroom on the way out.
It hurt again.
I peed some blood.
I have no ovaries anymore.
I am in full blown menopause.
I went to the nearest Urgent Care Facility.
They did a Urinalysis.
I was told there wasn’t any bacteria, so it may not be a Urinary Tract Infection.
The doctor left the exam room, returned, and then told me that there actually “was something” in the urine, so they were going to run a culture and they would let me know on Monday what sort of bacteria we were dealing with.
I was happy it was a UTI.
They called on Monday to cheerfully report that “nothing grew”. It was a false UTI diagnosis.
They did not, however, know why my leukocytes would be elevated.
Which they were.
I freaked out.
I called my Oncologist.
He told me not to freak out.
I asked him if we should do some blood work.
He replied, “Why?” and “Not necessary”.
I kept my appointment with my General Practitioner’s office to draw blood to check my cholesterol levels.
I did not mention the urinalysis to them. Therefore, no other blood work was ordered.
I did not visibly pee blood except for that one day in July.
My Oncologist referred me to my Gynecologist.
I had to wait a week to see my Gyno.
He did an exam.
He did not see or feel anything unusual.
He ordered another Urinalysis.
We went on vacation four days later to Six Flags Fiesta Texas in San Antonio.
My lower back has been aching off and on for over a year or two.
I got a voicemail on August 11th, while sitting in the water park at Six Flags, that my urinalysis came back and there was still blood in my urine.
My pap smear was normal. (Yay for my pap smear!)
My Gynecologist referred me to a Urologist.
On August 12th, I woke up feeling a little dizzy. I continued to feel rather “off” for the rest of the day. Easily fatigued. Headaches.
On August 13th, I woke up with a headache and backache again.
My urine over the vacation turned completely clear in color.
Returned home on the 13th and just wanted to sleep for a little while.
Picked up our labrador from the boarding facility that evening but had to leave our foster dog in their care.
The next day, my backache continued off and on.
Took my daughter to her tutoring session across town.
Returned home around 5:30 p.m. and promptly fell asleep.
Totally forgot to take my daughter to her junior high’s orientation night.
She freaked out and yelled at me in tears.
She was unaware that evening was the “Express” event.
I had forgotten to mention it to her previously.
I was diagnosed with Triple-Negative Breast Cancer late August, 2011.
It is August 16th, 2014 today.
Triple-Negative Breast Cancer is aggressive and has a tendency to return in the first three years.
It does not tend to return in the breast area (especially when they have been removed).
I slept in bed until 2 p.m. this afternoon, except for breaks to go to the bathroom.
My lower back still hurts.
My urine is still clear.
I’m starting to notice weird aches elsewhere.
I made an appointment, while on vacation, with the Urologist who was recommended.
I was told by the receptionist that they liked to “act as quickly as possible when there is blood in the urine” and she scheduled me for this coming Tuesday, August 19th at 3:00 p.m.
I have to have a referral.
The Urologist’s office insists on that. The Insurance Company insists on that.
They must have a referral from my General Practitioner, and my General Practitioner ONLY.
Who is on vacation until Monday.
Who has no one covering for her in her practice while she is out.
Whose office keeps mentioning that referrals must have at least 48 hours to be “approved”.
The Urologist’s office has informed me that without a referral on paper, they will not be able to see me.
My throat has been feeling a little raw off and on since last Sunday.
I keep having little headaches. Off and on.
My house is extremely messy.
My now clear urine has been smelling strange since late July.
I have piles of laundry.
I freaked out on the phone with everyone involved with health insurance matters and this appointment.
I have been swinging between burst of energy, like when I work out and walk the dogs, and feeling worn out completely, after doing those things, or after going out to social events.
I have been feeling unmotivated to do the things that need doing.
Our yard needs mowing, and trimming, and weeding.
I’m not in a good mood; I go between a sort of emotional flat-line, unfocused thoughts, eerie calm, and tears.
The kids’ school year starts back up in one week.
We have not prepared.
I’m not feeling physically well; my energy is low, my lower half feels weak; I feel a little light-headed, almost buzzed in a very strange way.
I’m having to urinate more often than I usually do.
We are going to show up to my appointment, with a referral or without.
My cat, Rex, has lost a lot of weight lately.
He had mysteriously started losing a lot of weight around the time of my cancer diagnosis in 2011.
(After I “recovered”, so, coincidentally, did he).
He would follow me around the house a lot back then, before I knew I had cancer, staring me in the eyes and meowing.
He is doing it again.

My Pot Boileth Over

On July 25, 2014, after ending a one hour workout on the Precor machine at my YMCA, I felt like I had to go to the bathroom. Which, for me, after a workout, is a little unusual. But, plenty of people probably do that on a regular basis, right? Right.

I enter the stall, I sit, I pee, and it hurts. Nothing much actually comes out. Damn. I probably have a urinary tract infection, I think.
I mean, I had been kinda having some symptoms that were making me think a UTI might be on the horizon.
I stand up, I grab some toilet paper, I wipe, and there’s blood.
Holy crap! There’s blood. I look behind me into the bowl. Yikes! There’s blood….

Probably a sign of a urinary tract infection, I tell myself. But I can’t help panicking.

Why the hell would a woman of my age (fortisheemumbleesomething) panic about that?
Maybe you’re getting your period, sheesh!

Well, my ovaries were taken out, along with my breasts, over two years ago, because of my BRCA2 genetic mutation, and because I had Triple-Negative Breast Cancer.
No. I wish I could say it was my period. But, not possible.

I try to stay calm. I go home. I have a shower. I call my husband and my mom. We all agree that I should go to my doctor or the nearest Urgent Care facility. So, off I go to the Urgent Care because I couldn’t get through to my primary doctor.

We do a urinalysis.  It comes back negative. Then the doctor re-reads and says it’s positive. Rather, “Well, there is something there”. They will do a culture and we will have to wait until Monday for the results.

Ah, shit. There’s a lot of details to this story, but I’m just gonna get to the chase….

I peed blood about a week ago. And it’s had me freaked out ever since because I am a “former” cancer patient.

And now I have a really weird rash on both my arms that looks like the shingles I got about a month or two ago.

Shingles are an old person’s disease, if you ask me.
At least, that’s the way I always felt before.
I’ve learned about them since then and I realize that it can happen to anyone who’s ever had the chicken-pox.
Still. The fact that it looks like it’s coming back after having peed blood and after having cancer is the reason I’m writing right now.
With a bottle of wine at my side.
Because I’m having a “terrible, horrible, very bad, no good” week.
Or more.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I went into a “fight-mode”. I actually closed my eyes and visualized myself suiting up, in impenetrable steel, sort of like a Transformer. I visualized sending those cancer cells out into a black hole in space.
I remembered how a very dear friend of mine had gone through her breast cancer with an incredible sense of humor and stoicism. “How are you going to handle this?” I remember asking myself. “Like my friend, E.” was the response, “like a total badass!”.
I was NOT going to die from this!! NO. WAY.

It was a whirlwind of an education about breast cancer, and its many, varied, forms after that. But I was going to get through it. That was the foremost thought in my head.
I. Had. To. Get. Through. It.

I have children. I have a husband. I have parents. I have friends. I have pets. I have unfinished business.

Every chemotherapy completed, every surgery over with, was a milestone.
I completed my chemotherapy on April 17th, 2012. I rang that bell!!

I chose not to reconstruct for many, many reasons: One was that I did not want to waste one more second of my life on cancer. The fact that my “foobs” would have absolutely no sensation in them was another. (I mean, what’s the point, right????). The whole reconstruction journey of breast cancer patients is a whole ‘nother post in itself….

So. I can remember being wheeled out of the hospital after my double mastectomy.
I felt almost high. I was grinning from ear to ear.
(What the hell was wrong with me?)
I was just happy as hell to have survived the surgery. I was happy as hell just to be alive.

Fast forward.
I’ve felt nothing but relief to be declared NED. To be labeled a “survivor”. I’ve bounced about, for the most part, like a labrador puppy. I try not to think about cancer.

I didn’t realize how much I’ve been suppressing.
I never went through an “anger stage”.

Hoo-boy, am I going through it now…..

I have been referred to my OB/Gyn by my oncologist, who, bless his heart, has assured me that it’s not that big a deal. It could very well still be a UTI. There could be a myriad possibilities for the blood in the urine. “Take a deep breath” he advised me.

And he’s right.

And,yet….
WHY is this rash on my arm????

I’m still PISSED!! I am pissed off that I have this THING hanging over my head for the. rest. of. my. life.
I am mad about the panic, which, frankly, came out of the blue for me, about every little odd occurrence.

I. AM. MAD.

I want to know. I want to know how much time I have left.

And this has my brain going a million miles a second….

I’m pissed off. At LOTS of things…..

The Morning After

Upside to drinking a whole bottle and a half of wine and passing out in your nice clothes is that when you wake up you are already dressed for the next day…

This is especially great when you have an appointment to meet with your psychiatrist and you are running very late because of your hangover.

The fact that your loved one did not make coffee, however, is not lost on you.

Bad Night

I’ve been pretty good about avoiding the alcohol lately. I recognized that I could have a problem with it.  Honestly, I’ve known that I have a problem with it. Namely, I like it too much.

However, this evening was not a good one. In fact, it was the most stressful I’ve had in awhile.

I had some hints from the Universe to not stop for liquid comfort:  My mom mentioning that she, too, felt like stopping for wine on the way back from our dinner tonight, but decided “it was not the right thing to do”. 

At her house, however, she went straight for the rum to add to her coca-cola.  We both shared a laugh about her going for the hard stuff.

There was a cheerleader in my head yelling “you can resist!”.  I decided to throw the finger at that cheerleader.

The men in my life are pushing my buttons.

My husband. My father. My son. 

All good men. But damn if they aren’t making me mad.

I know that wine won’t solve my issues. I know.

Maybe I do need an AA Mentor.

Yeah. Tonight was rough. 

Cancer

Cancer.

Yes. I had it. Triple-Negative Breast Cancer.

I can’t seem to recall the specifics because I seem to be in a state of avoidance lately.

April 17th will be my second anniversary of being released from active treatment.
I have an appointment- a routine follow-up appointment – on Monday, with the surgeon who performed my double mastectomy.

I feel guilty somewhat.
I’m going on with my life like it never happened.
And yet, my perspective has changed.
And yet, I get resentful sometimes of how it has changed me.
And I feel weird
And I avoid
And I feel pressure
And

This is a glimpse, a very small, millisecond, glimpse into my brain, when I think about cancer….

Never Say Never

I consider this my Life Lesson #1:  Never say never.

My mind flashes back to so many moments in my life in which I uttered sentences that began with “I will never…..”  Oh, the many blog posts I could write on all the examples of when I so confidently announced what I would never do!  

(There’s a thought!:  A blog devoted to all the the things I said I would never do and how it all came back to bite me in the butt. Because there’s nothing more that Karma loves than the meaty challenge of a fool proclaiming “Never!!”)  

(I never thought I would actually start a blog for one, but I digress…)

I never wanted, nor planned, to be a Housewife. A Hausfrau. Oh, you should have heard me as a teenager! “Never!”  Yet, here I am.

If I had known that that is indeed what I would end up doing, perhaps I would have elected to partake in those Home Economics classes in high school. Do they still teach those classes? Are they still called “Home Economics?” I didn’t take them because running a household and cooking and cleaning and budgeting and sewing and mending clothes were things I was not interested in. Certainly not things that I imagined at the time were going to factor greatly in my future. I apparently did not go so far as to wonder who was going to be responsible for those things in my adult life. That was a bit fuzzier. All I knew is that it wasn’t going to be all up to me.

When I got married I still didn’t picture it all being up to me. I was working (in the “outside world”) at the time and I had these strange visions in my head of my husband and I making the bed together, doing the laundry together, cooking together, washing the dishes together, one of us dusting while the other one vacuumed. A day or two a week set aside in which both of us cleaned house as a team and then in the evening afterwards relaxing together. I don’t think we actually ever discussed this wonderful, romantic, plan of mine in the mandatory, but very brief, “couples counseling” sessions requested by the pastor who married us.  In fact, I think the session involved us turning in questionnaires that were given to us to fill out at home and then listening as the pastor tallied up the score and said that though it looked like there were “things we probably needed to work on”, in general, it seemed we were compatible. No. We didn’t really delve into how we planned on managing our household “together”.  I think we just figured it would evolve organically. Do couples ever plan out these things? Looking back, I probably should have mentioned to my bridegroom that I really didn’t love to clean (are there really people who do?) despite the fact that in our very first long distance conversation over the phone, that first call after I’d given him my number, he caught me meticulously dusting and Lysol-ing my parents’ books and bookcase. What can I say? I don’t love to clean, but when I do, I want it really, really, clean.

I don’t enjoy cooking either. I wish I did. But, in truth, I don’t.

When I found out I was pregnant, there was never a doubt that I wanted to stay at home with our baby. I had been a latch-key kid from the time I was 11 and for me it wasn’t such a great thing. I knew that I didn’t want that for my own child.  Not particularly enjoying my job history, and the costs of daycare and commuting, certainly factored into the decision to stay home as well. We weren’t sure how long I would do it, but we were willing to try.  Again, I had very romantic, hazy, sorts of ideas about how this plan would go.

Excuse me while I take a moment to laugh somewhat hysterically to myself.  Oooooo, hoooo….yeah.

Again, there was that whole not really thinking through who would be “responsible” for this or that or the other. It just wasn’t going to be all on my shoulders. Because, after all, especially as a child of the “Free to Be, You and Me” era, this (cleaning), that (cooking) and the other (everything else involved in maintaining a house) was never anything I had seriously considered as a “vocation”. As a life’s “work”. As “my job”.  As an identity.

And here I am. 

The thing is, as a somewhat introverted person, I love being at home. I love being able to operate on my own schedule. I love not having to answer to a boss. I love not having to deal with the general public and the lousy days that they may be having. I love not being chained to a desk in an office. I love being here 24-7 for my kids (I really do!).

I just really don’t like the whole “housekeeping” bit. It is, and has been, a huge struggle for me. I guess because I still don’t see myself as a Housewife. I was never going to be a Housewife. A wife – yes. A mom – yes. An artist who worked from home? – a dream, but yes, please!! A Housewife?

Never.

Karmic lesson gained: I realize now just how judgmental, how snobbish, how ignorant I was about housewives.

 

 

Madness

This is madness. The idea that I’m going to keep a blog.  Who am I kidding?

It’s happening to me again. I get this surge of ambition and hope and resolution and then trip over myself and land face down. And it always happens when I declare my intentions out loud. I automatically doom them that way.

Time. Time is my enemy and always has been. I don’t manage it well. Deadlines wage holy terror in my head and slay me in my tracks. I know that no one has put any deadlines upon me here, except maybe myself. I know that there isn’t any impatient, pointer wielding, red-marker carrying, instructor around to shame me about lack of productivity or poor phrasing or grammatical errors or “lack of originality” or “lack of a thesis statement”. I don’t really have any particular goals or ambitions with this thing I’m learning how to navigate. I’m not doing this for a grade. 

I should insert a short, general, disclosure here: I am seeing a psychologist and have been for a few years now. We discuss lots of things. I had a moment about a month ago in which she enabled me to see that what I choose to do doesn’t necessarily have to have any purpose other than making me happy. If I’ve always wanted to write – well, then – write! That was such a freeing revelation for me. The thought of writing – just for me. Not for a certificate, not for an assignment, not for money, not for a profession, and now that I’m remembering that, I’m starting to feel better….

This morning I was starting to feel remorse about telling a few people, with tipsy camaraderie, that I’d started this blog. Why? Well, because now I feel the obligation to keep it updated. 

(Okay. It just struck me between the eyes that I’m not being entirely truthful. I’m feeling remorse because I feel the obligation to myself to keep it updated.) 

And here is where I circle back to my idea that it’s madness. 

I want to write well. And, maybe, okay, I’d like someone else in the world to say “well done!” (again, I realize I wasn’t being entirely truthful before). But to write well, to do anything creative, really well, you have to devote the time to it. A LOT of time. You have to dedicate yourself to it. Commit TIME to it. Every day.

There’s more:  I also love to paint, to knit, to sew, to craft, to just make stuff! Be it with words or colors or cardboard or metal or marker or you name it.  I could spend every waking hour happily doing those things, every day, all day, and into the night. As long as there isn’t a deadline. Or someone looking over my shoulder. 

Then, of course, there are people and animals who depend on me to clean up after them, and feed them, and play with them, and chauffeur them, and supervise them, and teach them, and exercise them, and just BE with them….and the guilt comes back and stares me down.  

“What do you think you are doing spending hours in front of the computer? What do you think you are doing getting lost in knitting that project?  What do you think you are doing, sitting at that table playing with beads and wire for so long?”

And I’m back to madness. Mad at Time, mad at my past, mad at my surroundings, mostly mad at myself. Just generally mad.

The Time Has Come

Oh, dear God, my daughter has cleavage….  

She’s only in the sixth grade!

No, no, no, no, no! This cannot be happening!! This is not possible!!

Oh, wait….. I forgot…. It is possible. It has happened before and it happened to me.

I was just hoping that my daughter could evade it a little while longer.

It happened to my mother, her Oma. It seems to be one of those genetic things.

(God knows I tried to keep it at bay with only organic, non-hormone laden, milk and eggs in the house. Maybe I wasn’t so diligent with the cheese? The yogurt? She prefers the Yoplait. Maybe that’s what did it?? We don’t eat meat, so that’s ruled out. I wring my hands.)

No, it’s definitely genetic. She’s inherited it now at the tender age of 12, same as myself:  The genetic history of having people assuming you are older than you are at a young age; of being on the receiving end of hurtful, misunderstood, jealousy, even from those you consider good friends; of people forgetting that you have a face and a personality; of people suddenly seeming to believe you are deaf and blind; of some thinking that your IQ has suddenly been sucked out of your brain in order to accommodate the blood flow to your new extremities;  of becoming horribly, uncomfortably, aware that your body now seems to have an effect – a most unwanted, unprepared for – effect on other people. Adults’ eyes widen and all males’ eyes descend involuntarily. Even your friends start making remarks. Clearly, they are uncomfortable, taken by surprise, with the emerging you. Just as you are. Clearly, they notice you – at an age that you really don’t like being noticed. Especially if you tend to be on the shy side.

You have to become more careful with what you wear and how you move. You need to develop a thicker skin and a warier mind. Hard things to do when you still consider yourself just a kid. When you are, in fact, just a kid.

All of this burst into vivid clarity for me yesterday as we were attending a school event her little brother was involved in.  My friend, whose son is my son’s best friend and on his team, greeted my daughter and myself with, “Look how tall she’s gotten! I hardly recognized her – she’s grown so much!!”. “Grown so much” obviously code, I realized, for, “Oh, geez, she has boobs!” when my friend discreetly turned wide, sympathetic, eyes to me and slowly mouthed “WOW”.  Her oldest, high-school-age son, a really good kid, as all her boys are, didn’t notice me catching his eyes being pulled to her chest as she sat on the ground in front of him. I glanced downward to see what he was nervously, fleetingly, looking at with suddenly flushed cheeks. 

Oh, heaven help me! The cleavage!! Distinct, unavoidable, cleavage. Cleavage that, unbeknownst to her, and somehow invisible until that moment to myself, was declaring itself like a debutante at a cotillion to which the general public was invited.

How I longed to be able to get her to sit up straighter, off the ground, in a chair against the wall, how I wished it would have been cold enough to have offered her a jacket to zip up to the neck. I knew that if I called attention to it, the effect it would have on her: Complete mortification. Tears.

 I need to find a way to talk to her about this without eroding any confidence, any innocence, she has. Were she in high school I think this would be somewhat easier, but she just started middle school. She’s still more concerned with cute things like otters and puppies, with colored pencils and candy, with funny movies, braiding her hair, and getting good grades. She hates attention, even falsely-perceived attention. She’s pretty damn paranoid about attention, frankly. There’s those genes again.

How am I going to talk to her about making sure she’s covered up, about why that shirt is maybe a little too tight even though it feels comfortable, about why that neckline isn’t the best for her, about not accepting any boy’s random request to bend down and pick up a pencil for him, and also, about not agreeing to any jumping jack contests with anyone, especially when you are not in the gym but rather, the school cafeteria….About why the hell she has to start considering, now, at twelve, the lurking, insulting, scary, uncomfortable, unwanted, things that other people may be thinking without leaving her with a sense of shame about her body? Without leaving her with a hatred for her body? Without instilling a crippling sense of self that is incorrectly, unjustly, bound to her body?

How do I do that? Because it’s time….

A Goodbye

This morning my husband texted me and asked if I could pick up the mail one last time from his mom’s house.  It was closing day. He and his brother were headed over with the paperwork to finalize the sale with the buyer.

The sun is out for the second time this week and it’s a gorgeous drive over to her neighborhood. I pull into the driveway, park in the dappled shade of mature oak and pine trees, step out into the familiar front yard, but I can’t head over to the jasmine covered mailbox that sits at the curb in front of her house just yet.

Something pulls me to the iron, maroon-red painted gate that spans the walkway between her garage and her house.  I peer into her spacious backyard, a little neglected now, where once there was a pool that my then-boyfriend, now-husband, and I stole some moments in when no one was home.  Years ago.  The image of sun-sparks playing on turquoise water and wet skin flashes past for a second. It is quickly replaced by a vision of our dogs, all three of them, sniffling and snuffling through the leaves at the base of the trees along the fence that stands between her yard and the busy street beyond.  

I glance at the small, concrete, covered back patio and see my sister-in-law sitting at the plastic table in shorts and flip-flops, my husband and his brother standing off to the side on a lazy, humid, afternoon, watching the dogs play (I think my in-laws had brought their doberman over to play with our mutts). I remember us commenting on the bird houses that were collected on the wire shelf along the wall; about how she seemed to love them.

I can almost see myself, bald-headed from chemo, posing with her and my two kids and my sister-in-law, in a corner underneath two tall pines in the back. An image of my little 18 month old niece’s sandals barely covering her chubby toes as she sat in a lawn chair her Nana put out especially for her. Chubby little feet brushing green, bristly, grass under a blue sky. 

I look back up the driveway and remember nights parked here after a movie or a dinner, my husband’s cat, TJ, the only one who refused to stay in the house, sitting on the roof of the car. Poking a paw down through the sun roof left open for the moon.

I’m almost stunned by how many memories are flooding into my head.  I think about how many more memories could flood through my husband’s and his brother’s. 

I can’t help but gaze at the spot at her backdoor that led to this moment. The tan doormat with it’s ivy-colored border and it’s floral motif. The water hose still curled like a sleeping snake next to it.  That stupid, vile, ultimately deadly, hose.

My mother-in-law and I always seemed to have a somewhat, shall we say, tense, relationship. I never felt that I was quite what she had in mind for a daughter-in-law. Oh, there are stories, there are examples, there were resentments, misunderstandings, awkwardnesses. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter.  I know we had two things very much in common: love for her son and love for her grandchildren.

I didn’t realize how much I depended on her, needed her, appreciated her, took her presence, no matter how it could rub me the wrong way or how much mine could do the same to her, for granted. How much I actually loved her until my husband called me from the hospital that day when she was supposed to be coming out of surgery.

It was ripped out of me, how much I felt all of that; violently ripped out as a scream I barely recognized as coming from myself. I couldn’t contain it even if I had tried, couldn’t hide it from the children poking their faces into the refrigerator just feet from me in the kitchen.  We wailed for what seems like hours.  This was not what was supposed to have happened.  This was not how her back surgery was supposed to have gone.

She’s gone. Physically. She’s gone. Her house still stands. But, it is now gone from our life too. No more Christmas mornings there. No more Thanksgivings. Despite the grumblings over things that families grumble over, the unspoken opinions of each other’s decisions or taste or whatever that somehow leak out the sides, despite everything, burn it all away…I’m grateful that love remains.  I’m grateful that the night before her surgery, my last words to her, which I never before had uttered over the 20 years that I knew her, were “I love you”.

I stand in front of her house, wishing I had spoken them more.  I say them aloud now. “I love you. We love you. We miss you”.  

I get into my car and the classical music station that I was listening to pops back on.  The announcer mentions something about the title of the song about to play. What was that? I push the info button (new technology is amazing, I have to say) to double-check the title.

“Hellos and Goodbyes”.

I honestly felt like she was there, telling me something. Reassuring me of something. 

She knows.