Got my latest liver enzyme readings, checking in on the all important Alkaline Phosphate S, AST (SGOT), and ALT (SGPT).
Here are this week's
numbers, after chemo number 4. Yesterday was chemo number 6, which means I'm halfway through:
Alkaline Phosphatase, S 124 (started at 286 pre-chemo, high normal 150, 57% drop from start)
AST (SGOT) 32(started at 150, high normal is 40, 78% drop from start)
ALT (SGPT) 45 (started at 124, high normal is 40, 63% drop from start)
The drops in numbers are lower at this point, but since we're normal for two of the numbers and just about to hit normal for the third, that's ok. I don't want to head to the bottom of the scale and have the opposite problem.
Tonight I'll be joining my friends at Mi Vecinidad, a Cuban/El Salvadoran joint down the street, to toast Beatrice the liver, and her improving health. Finally, I'll be meeting the fabulous Nico, the National Cancer Institute Oncologist who blessedly looked over my reports and offered me constant straight, encouraging talk. How do I handle a situation like that? Give him a lap dance? That'd be kind of creepy coming from a balding cancer patient, plus, he is gay. Maybe I'll just pay for his dinner. That might be more socially acceptable.
I continue to experience pure gratitude for all the help I'm receiving from friends and family. I could not do this without them. I also continue to experience challenges in finding others who are also dealing with metastatic cancer and living well with it. Some folks are doing just that, and some seem to have dropped into a life of settling for the constant threat of recurrence and death. This disease might take me early. Who knows. But I want to live my life and live it well, loving the people around me, helping others, just taking it a day at a joyful time. At this point I do not need to go onto disability and I don't need to think of end of life planning (I've had the will set up for a long time now anyway). Right now I am focused on healing, surgery, maintenance and moving forward. Who knows what will happen next, but I can't control that, so why dwell on it.
I've got t-shirts to create (I have more in mind-http://uppitycancerpatient.spreadshirt.com). I have organizations to volunteer for, mentoring other women going through this crap. I have movies to see, books to read. coffee to drink with friends, walks across the Mall, jokes to crack, counted cross stitch to create, dogs to pet and play with, vacations to take, and so, so much more.
So the news continues to be good and I am happy. I did have one hell of a cold for two weeks and discovered that colds on chemo suck. Suck real bad. But still, I'm alive, I'm loved and cared for, and now I have some fun t-shirts to wear. The Uppity Cancer Patient t-shirt was quite a hit at chemo yesterday. Wait until they see the Embrace Your Inner Cockroach, Kick cancer to the curb shirt.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
Boobs or No Boobs
Well, that's not really the question. It's more bilateral mastectomy or lumpectomy. I met with my oncologist today and, while my news is most excellent with my liver enzyme readings way down, my oncologist takes the worst-case scenario approach with the goal of being pleasantly surprised. That was not exactly the approach I was hoping for, but I can see her point of view.
The topic of what happens next came up. My question was, after the chemo, how long do I have to wait for surgery. I expressed my focus on having both breasts removed. Dr. Kaltman questioned why I wanted such a radical procedure, telling me that her focus is to keep the cancer at bay elsewhere and that the likelihood of another primary cancer appearing in the breast was very low. I took a few seconds to think about this but my reply was fast and adamant.
"Even if it's rare, if that happened, it would piss me off." That seemed to catch Dr. Kaltman's attention.
I understand that we need to get the cancer backed down, but frankly, I do not want to go through all of this only to have another cancer 20 years from now. While in the waiting room for this appointment, in fact, I met a 74 year old woman who had fought breast cancer 19 years ago and was now back with a recurrence. I've met too many women like this. The cancer I have is aggressive and fast growing. While, yes, it's in my liver and I know that this complicates things, I do want to remove as much of the breast cancer's growing media as I can.
So bilateral mastectomy it is. It's tough surgery, but my life is worth it. I feel like saying that with pointed pauses.
My . . . life . . . .is . . . . worth . . . .it.
Recovery from surgery? Such is life. Chemo and the exhaustion and side effects that come with it. I get to live. Even radiation. That's the way it goes.
My . . . life . . . .is . . . . worth . . . .it.
The question came from my hope that I would be done with chemo and surgery by October so I can book the "This Shit is Over" cruise to Bermuda. Okay. I know. I'll have to wait until the scan 2 months from now to see where we are, but the news so far is good. Liver enzyme readings way down, doctor's exam of tumor in my breast positive since it's smaller now. All good news.
So in the end, I'm the one with cancer. So while my doctor has her concerns, I get to decide to lop 'em off or not. And for me, lopping 'em off, replacing them with reconstructed versions, is the best option. It's an odd goal, maybe, but it works for me. Do we have to go over the my life is worth it thing again?
The topic of what happens next came up. My question was, after the chemo, how long do I have to wait for surgery. I expressed my focus on having both breasts removed. Dr. Kaltman questioned why I wanted such a radical procedure, telling me that her focus is to keep the cancer at bay elsewhere and that the likelihood of another primary cancer appearing in the breast was very low. I took a few seconds to think about this but my reply was fast and adamant.
"Even if it's rare, if that happened, it would piss me off." That seemed to catch Dr. Kaltman's attention.
I understand that we need to get the cancer backed down, but frankly, I do not want to go through all of this only to have another cancer 20 years from now. While in the waiting room for this appointment, in fact, I met a 74 year old woman who had fought breast cancer 19 years ago and was now back with a recurrence. I've met too many women like this. The cancer I have is aggressive and fast growing. While, yes, it's in my liver and I know that this complicates things, I do want to remove as much of the breast cancer's growing media as I can.
So bilateral mastectomy it is. It's tough surgery, but my life is worth it. I feel like saying that with pointed pauses.
My . . . life . . . .is . . . . worth . . . .it.
Recovery from surgery? Such is life. Chemo and the exhaustion and side effects that come with it. I get to live. Even radiation. That's the way it goes.
My . . . life . . . .is . . . . worth . . . .it.
The question came from my hope that I would be done with chemo and surgery by October so I can book the "This Shit is Over" cruise to Bermuda. Okay. I know. I'll have to wait until the scan 2 months from now to see where we are, but the news so far is good. Liver enzyme readings way down, doctor's exam of tumor in my breast positive since it's smaller now. All good news.
So in the end, I'm the one with cancer. So while my doctor has her concerns, I get to decide to lop 'em off or not. And for me, lopping 'em off, replacing them with reconstructed versions, is the best option. It's an odd goal, maybe, but it works for me. Do we have to go over the my life is worth it thing again?
Friday, March 2, 2012
The Numbers Are. . . .
Finally, I got my latest liver enzyme readings. Again, we're looking at Alkaline Phosphate S, AST (SGOT), and ALT (SGPT).
Here's this week's numbers, after chemo number 3 which was 2 weeks ago. Today was chemo number 5:
Alkaline Phosphatase, S 130 (started at 286 pre-chemo, high normal 150, 55% drop from start)
AST (SGOT) 35(started at 150, high normal is 40, 76% drop from start)
ALT (SGPT) 51 (started at 124, high normal is 40, 59% drop from start)
So Beatrice the liver is doing just fine. My friend Emmy wrote a letter to Beatrice recently, telling her she was very lucky having me take care of her. And then I began to use that idea, rubbing Beatrice, telling her to heal and that she'll be okay.
I've also hired my ex Frank, a mighty tough Jersey boy, to act as my cancer bouncer. A version of him is inside me, firmly pushing the cancer out of my body, saying things like, "Get the fuck out of here, or I'll cut you," his hand in his pocket ready to pull a gun or a knife. Frank is a tough, loving man and I like that about him.
The Taxol, Frank, and my loving on Beatrice are making a difference. My goal? To show no cancer in the scan after chemo and then move forward with the bilateral mastectomy, followed by maintenance on Herceptin.
I'm in the process of planning a Bermuda cruise out of Baltimore in late October with my friend Jill. All are welcome to join. An ocean-side room is only $699 for a 6-day cruise.
And I'm going to enjoy the help I'm receiving. My friends Emmy and Thaura are making me dinner right now. I love Friday night dinners for the wonderful company and because I am being served. Life is good and I am grateful. Now back to planning that cruise.
Here's this week's numbers, after chemo number 3 which was 2 weeks ago. Today was chemo number 5:
Alkaline Phosphatase, S 130 (started at 286 pre-chemo, high normal 150, 55% drop from start)
AST (SGOT) 35(started at 150, high normal is 40, 76% drop from start)
ALT (SGPT) 51 (started at 124, high normal is 40, 59% drop from start)
So Beatrice the liver is doing just fine. My friend Emmy wrote a letter to Beatrice recently, telling her she was very lucky having me take care of her. And then I began to use that idea, rubbing Beatrice, telling her to heal and that she'll be okay.
I've also hired my ex Frank, a mighty tough Jersey boy, to act as my cancer bouncer. A version of him is inside me, firmly pushing the cancer out of my body, saying things like, "Get the fuck out of here, or I'll cut you," his hand in his pocket ready to pull a gun or a knife. Frank is a tough, loving man and I like that about him.
The Taxol, Frank, and my loving on Beatrice are making a difference. My goal? To show no cancer in the scan after chemo and then move forward with the bilateral mastectomy, followed by maintenance on Herceptin.
I'm in the process of planning a Bermuda cruise out of Baltimore in late October with my friend Jill. All are welcome to join. An ocean-side room is only $699 for a 6-day cruise.
And I'm going to enjoy the help I'm receiving. My friends Emmy and Thaura are making me dinner right now. I love Friday night dinners for the wonderful company and because I am being served. Life is good and I am grateful. Now back to planning that cruise.
It Matters
Today is chemo day and I am anxious. The main reason? Last week I didn't get any liver readings. The reason for that? The doctor had decided to only take the readings once every other week. She had no idea how important those numbers are to me, and I found not having them to make a big difference. This was a rough week, filled with emotion and exhaustion, a cold causing even more exhaustion, and then finally losing my voice, a nightmare for someone who cannot shut up.
Add to this a horrible interaction with an angry person who decided to make her point by telling me that, "I thought people who were terminally ill were nicer." That came out of nowhere since the comment I made to her was simply a joke, and such an extreme reaction from her was way out of line, even if she was pissed about my joke. After spending the afternoon in my office crying, I emailed her back and told her how that interaction would have been better handled, and that her comment, even made to the biggest SOB in the world, was cruel and mean. This young lady has some cognitive disability but mostly,she has not been taught limits about what is appropriate or not appropriate to say to others. Certainly, I will make sure she does not cross that line with me again. In the end, I was so angry, I was tempted to travel to where she lives and teach her that she could be terminal too by drowning her. I won't. I won't. But it was a comforting thought for me. She of course made this comment on Tuesday, my worst day of physical and emotional exhaustion after chemo.
What might have helped would have been to have had some good news from my liver numbers. Instead, not having the numbers made me feel like I was in a boat adrift, not sure where I was going. I knew the numbers had been getting better, but what if they weren't this last time? I didn't have them to know. Those numbers get me through each week, because frankly, chemo and having cancer sucks. So any little thing I can grab onto matters.
I've since contacted my doctor twice, once by phone and once by email, asking her to please order these readings every week. Today I will ask the nurse if the order has changed. If it has not, I will ask that the doctor be called. While I will see numbers taken from last week, thank God, if the test is not done this week, I'll have a week of no numbers again. I'd rather skip that experience. Having Stage IV cancer means I'm taken over in terror every once in a while, so the liver numbers are buoys in that sea of "I don't know where this is going." So forgive me for being pushy, but my life is in the balance here. I don't really care if my doctor is annoyed by my asking. She doesn't have Stage IV cancer. I do. And we've already established that I am an Uppity Cancer Patient.
And, oh, in the midst of all of this, I started thinking of responses to the situations coming up in my cancer journey. Sayings like, "Don't Fuck With Me, I Have Cancer," or the label of "Uppity Cancer Patient." My wonderful friend Frank Meyers of VOX801 Design is a talented artist and he graciously agreed to create designs for the sayings. I found a site that handles orders and fulfillment, and now there is a place where folks can buy these wonderful sayings on a t-shirt. If you know someone who is going through this, pass it on. The site is http://uppitycancerpatient.spreadshirt.com. And, oh, in honor of the young lady's cruel comment to me this week, I'll be making another shirt that says, "Nope. Not planning on dying. But thanks for asking."
Add to this a horrible interaction with an angry person who decided to make her point by telling me that, "I thought people who were terminally ill were nicer." That came out of nowhere since the comment I made to her was simply a joke, and such an extreme reaction from her was way out of line, even if she was pissed about my joke. After spending the afternoon in my office crying, I emailed her back and told her how that interaction would have been better handled, and that her comment, even made to the biggest SOB in the world, was cruel and mean. This young lady has some cognitive disability but mostly,she has not been taught limits about what is appropriate or not appropriate to say to others. Certainly, I will make sure she does not cross that line with me again. In the end, I was so angry, I was tempted to travel to where she lives and teach her that she could be terminal too by drowning her. I won't. I won't. But it was a comforting thought for me. She of course made this comment on Tuesday, my worst day of physical and emotional exhaustion after chemo.
What might have helped would have been to have had some good news from my liver numbers. Instead, not having the numbers made me feel like I was in a boat adrift, not sure where I was going. I knew the numbers had been getting better, but what if they weren't this last time? I didn't have them to know. Those numbers get me through each week, because frankly, chemo and having cancer sucks. So any little thing I can grab onto matters.
I've since contacted my doctor twice, once by phone and once by email, asking her to please order these readings every week. Today I will ask the nurse if the order has changed. If it has not, I will ask that the doctor be called. While I will see numbers taken from last week, thank God, if the test is not done this week, I'll have a week of no numbers again. I'd rather skip that experience. Having Stage IV cancer means I'm taken over in terror every once in a while, so the liver numbers are buoys in that sea of "I don't know where this is going." So forgive me for being pushy, but my life is in the balance here. I don't really care if my doctor is annoyed by my asking. She doesn't have Stage IV cancer. I do. And we've already established that I am an Uppity Cancer Patient.
And, oh, in the midst of all of this, I started thinking of responses to the situations coming up in my cancer journey. Sayings like, "Don't Fuck With Me, I Have Cancer," or the label of "Uppity Cancer Patient." My wonderful friend Frank Meyers of VOX801 Design is a talented artist and he graciously agreed to create designs for the sayings. I found a site that handles orders and fulfillment, and now there is a place where folks can buy these wonderful sayings on a t-shirt. If you know someone who is going through this, pass it on. The site is http://uppitycancerpatient.spreadshirt.com. And, oh, in honor of the young lady's cruel comment to me this week, I'll be making another shirt that says, "Nope. Not planning on dying. But thanks for asking."
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
And Then There are Other Days
Like yesterday. Yesterday was one of those days. I found out that because I have metastatic breast cancer, I can no longer be an organ donor. I have been an organ donor since the day I first got my drivers license. I was proud of this fact. I didn't plan on handing over my organs, but if I died in a fiery accident, I knew my body would do some good for someone else. But no more. Yesterday, I contacted the DC Department of Motor Vehicle and officially removed myself from the organ donor list.
That was hard. It was hard because it meant I was sick. It was hard because it had a finality. It was just plain hard.
But did I leave that moment alone? No. I had to, on top of my physical exhaustion and difficult emotions, look up survival statistics for metastatic breast cancer. They're not good. My own oncologist told me not to look these up. The nurse practitioner told me not to look these up, explaining that the numbers have changed greatly even just recently and that no one is a statistic. But I had to go and look them up. Silly me.
So that set me off on a really horrible, horribly rotten, I'm gonna die kind of day.
After a nap and a visit from my dear friend Ingrid, I finally started feeling better (it's incredible what a hug can do). But before that, I had the word hospice in my mind (only once) and actually made a stupid comment about how I wouldn't be around to have to empty the dishwasher anymore (this was related to me commenting on how much I hated emptying the dishwasher, so maybe in a way this was a positive thought). I was convinced that my family thought I was going to die and that everyone around me thought I was going to die. Hey, the pity party comes with the territory folks. At least once a week, on my most exhausted day, I am likely to have one.
But then this is what happened next. I got angry. I got angry at the co-workers who pretend nothing is wrong, yet stare at my wig (I wore it for the first time yesterday). I got angry at the few folks who haven't called me most likely because they have too much to deal with, but still it pisses me off. I pissed and moaned with my friend Mary Rose over the phone and the anger helped me to start feeling better. Hey, I don't care if, according to Ms. Kubler-Ross, anger is only one step past denial and so not close to acceptance. It felt good to get pissed. I'm frankly pissed about getting breast cancer and being so special it swept out the door, past my non-enlarged lymph nodes, and straight into my liver (poor Beatrice).
And then I picked up Bernie Siegel's book Love, Medicine and Miracles for another read. Siegel refers to the group of sick people who are waiting for the long-term effects and inevitable death as the Bleak Brigade. I sure as heck don't want to be a part of the Bleak Brigade. In fact, I am not a member of the Bleak Brigade. I am what he refers to as an Exceptional Patient, the one who insists on being part of the treatment and cure and is seen as downright difficult. Or what I call the Uppity Cancer Patient.
I am downright uppity. I will not agree to having treatment or tests put off (I will schedule them myself, if I need to, damnit). I will not immediately say yes to a treatment until I understand and agree with that treatment. I will not let a nurse practitioner send me off to a dermatologist two weeks after the steroid-induced acne has engulfed my face. This would be yet another appointment I do not have energy for and it's just acne, dangit. Call something in for me. And if you won't do that, I'll call my internist who will call it in for me. And then I'll tell you what I did and why and illustrate to you why you do not exhaust a chemo patient for plain old acne.
Because I am difficult. I am uppity. And I am going to live. Damnit.
That was hard. It was hard because it meant I was sick. It was hard because it had a finality. It was just plain hard.
But did I leave that moment alone? No. I had to, on top of my physical exhaustion and difficult emotions, look up survival statistics for metastatic breast cancer. They're not good. My own oncologist told me not to look these up. The nurse practitioner told me not to look these up, explaining that the numbers have changed greatly even just recently and that no one is a statistic. But I had to go and look them up. Silly me.
So that set me off on a really horrible, horribly rotten, I'm gonna die kind of day.
After a nap and a visit from my dear friend Ingrid, I finally started feeling better (it's incredible what a hug can do). But before that, I had the word hospice in my mind (only once) and actually made a stupid comment about how I wouldn't be around to have to empty the dishwasher anymore (this was related to me commenting on how much I hated emptying the dishwasher, so maybe in a way this was a positive thought). I was convinced that my family thought I was going to die and that everyone around me thought I was going to die. Hey, the pity party comes with the territory folks. At least once a week, on my most exhausted day, I am likely to have one.
But then this is what happened next. I got angry. I got angry at the co-workers who pretend nothing is wrong, yet stare at my wig (I wore it for the first time yesterday). I got angry at the few folks who haven't called me most likely because they have too much to deal with, but still it pisses me off. I pissed and moaned with my friend Mary Rose over the phone and the anger helped me to start feeling better. Hey, I don't care if, according to Ms. Kubler-Ross, anger is only one step past denial and so not close to acceptance. It felt good to get pissed. I'm frankly pissed about getting breast cancer and being so special it swept out the door, past my non-enlarged lymph nodes, and straight into my liver (poor Beatrice).
And then I picked up Bernie Siegel's book Love, Medicine and Miracles for another read. Siegel refers to the group of sick people who are waiting for the long-term effects and inevitable death as the Bleak Brigade. I sure as heck don't want to be a part of the Bleak Brigade. In fact, I am not a member of the Bleak Brigade. I am what he refers to as an Exceptional Patient, the one who insists on being part of the treatment and cure and is seen as downright difficult. Or what I call the Uppity Cancer Patient.
I am downright uppity. I will not agree to having treatment or tests put off (I will schedule them myself, if I need to, damnit). I will not immediately say yes to a treatment until I understand and agree with that treatment. I will not let a nurse practitioner send me off to a dermatologist two weeks after the steroid-induced acne has engulfed my face. This would be yet another appointment I do not have energy for and it's just acne, dangit. Call something in for me. And if you won't do that, I'll call my internist who will call it in for me. And then I'll tell you what I did and why and illustrate to you why you do not exhaust a chemo patient for plain old acne.
Because I am difficult. I am uppity. And I am going to live. Damnit.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Gratitude. It does the body good.
I have never felt so grateful in my life. And happy. I'm happy. I'm learning how to accept help from people and that help makes me feel loved and cared for. And who doesn't want to feel loved and cared for? That's really the goal we all have.
The question isn't, "Hey, why did you show up late?"
It's, "If you loved me, you'd show up when you said you would." The fear is not being loved.
So now I have the answer. I am loved. I am cared for. I am happy. And I am grateful. Very, very grateful. People want to help me. They make me hats for my bald head. They bring me food. They offer to pick up dog food for me. They come with me to chemo and stay with me after.
Previously I was so fiercely independent I never wanted to ask for help. I'd muscle my AC units into the windows each Spring by myself. I wouldn't call for help even if I was so sick I was afraid I'd fall over. I worried that if people didn't call me that meant they didn't like me. All of that was wasted time. It's too bad it took Stage IV breast cancer for me to learn how to take help and let people care for me. But, hey, better late than never.
The lesson? Ask for help when you need it. Take that help. Express gratitude. And enjoy the love. It rocks.
The question isn't, "Hey, why did you show up late?"
It's, "If you loved me, you'd show up when you said you would." The fear is not being loved.
So now I have the answer. I am loved. I am cared for. I am happy. And I am grateful. Very, very grateful. People want to help me. They make me hats for my bald head. They bring me food. They offer to pick up dog food for me. They come with me to chemo and stay with me after.
Previously I was so fiercely independent I never wanted to ask for help. I'd muscle my AC units into the windows each Spring by myself. I wouldn't call for help even if I was so sick I was afraid I'd fall over. I worried that if people didn't call me that meant they didn't like me. All of that was wasted time. It's too bad it took Stage IV breast cancer for me to learn how to take help and let people care for me. But, hey, better late than never.
The lesson? Ask for help when you need it. Take that help. Express gratitude. And enjoy the love. It rocks.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Today is week number three of chemo tripping (nine more to go). Today's Chemo Buddy is my nephew Ben, who flew into town for work, and stayed several days to do Chemo Tripping and Chemo Watch (Chemo Watch duties are described as making sure that Susi doesn't drown in her own spittle).
Like last week, I asked to see my liver enzyme readings. Remember Alkaline Phosphate S, AST (SGOT), and ALT (SGPt)?
Where we last left off in our story, all three of the readings dropped by 10 to 30 percent after just one chemo treatment. Here's this week's numbers, after chemo number two:
Alkaline Phosphatase, S 244 (started at 286 pre-chemo, high normal 150, 15% drop from start)
AST (SGOT) 50 (started at 150, high normal is 40, 33% drop from start)
ALT (SGPT) 71 (started at 124, high normal is 40, 43% drop from start)
So kids, looks like I'm here to stay and Beatrice the liver keeps feeling better and better. Go Bea!
Here's my list of plans for the future:
In other news, I had my hair buzz cut last night (just in time, since the hair began to fall out wholesale last night). The cut was done at Diego's Hair Salon, a barber shop in Dupont Circle (I'm not paying women salon prices for a buzz cut). The young Camillo did a wonderful job, especially with the carving of the word "survivor" into the hair on the back of my head.
Now I'm officially in wig and head wrap world. I have a few knit caps being made by friends (Ingrid is an incredible knitter, and I hear Helen, the wonder knitter, is knitting one too). But in addition to getting to play with wigs and head wraps, I also have had a truly fun experience getting a buzz cut and stencil, with pictures to prove it (thank you, Jo Ann). The cut looked pretty good for a buzz cut on a chick, and I found out that my real hair color is light brown shot through with grey (my natural hair color has not seen the light of day since I was 24). My hair dream? That the hair will grow back a different color like dark brown (it's not uncommon apparently).
Meanwhile, enjoy the pictures.
And this week's shout outs go to:
Like last week, I asked to see my liver enzyme readings. Remember Alkaline Phosphate S, AST (SGOT), and ALT (SGPt)?
Where we last left off in our story, all three of the readings dropped by 10 to 30 percent after just one chemo treatment. Here's this week's numbers, after chemo number two:
Alkaline Phosphatase, S 244 (started at 286 pre-chemo, high normal 150, 15% drop from start)
AST (SGOT) 50 (started at 150, high normal is 40, 33% drop from start)
ALT (SGPT) 71 (started at 124, high normal is 40, 43% drop from start)
So kids, looks like I'm here to stay and Beatrice the liver keeps feeling better and better. Go Bea!
Here's my list of plans for the future:
- Re-do my basement and second floor bathroom;
- Get my nose pierced;
- Have my leg tattoo purtified and then have another tattoo put on my lower right back;
- Adopt a child through the foster care system in DC (I've always, always wanted children but was afraid to go forward because I'm single. Screw that. I'm adopting.).
 |
| You see it. Survivor carved into the hair. |
Now I'm officially in wig and head wrap world. I have a few knit caps being made by friends (Ingrid is an incredible knitter, and I hear Helen, the wonder knitter, is knitting one too). But in addition to getting to play with wigs and head wraps, I also have had a truly fun experience getting a buzz cut and stencil, with pictures to prove it (thank you, Jo Ann). The cut looked pretty good for a buzz cut on a chick, and I found out that my real hair color is light brown shot through with grey (my natural hair color has not seen the light of day since I was 24). My hair dream? That the hair will grow back a different color like dark brown (it's not uncommon apparently).
 |
| The young Camillo at work. |
And this week's shout outs go to:
- Deborah and Carole for the incredible quiche and brownies they left on my front porch. Gourmet food left at the door;
- Connie and Emma for incroyable soup delivered to me at church. Gourmand with God;
- Jo Ann for coming with me for the survivor hair cut and to take pictures;
- Ben for taking time out of his upwardly mobile professional life to shuffle his poor, old decrepit aunt to chemo and to watch over her after. By the way, he is only 17 years younger than I am;
- Jessica, the two time breast cancer survivor who keeps me going with regular venting phone calls. And;
- Cathleen from Ohio, another breast cancer liver mets survivor matched up with me through Y-ME Breast Cancer Support, who is helping me believe I can survive this and live.
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