Cancer's got me in a double (helix) bind

Yesterday my husband I drove to my health care provider to meet with a genetic counselor. I went to work afterwards and pondered what the counselor told us.

I took a bus home after work. My regular bus, a commuter express that gets me downtown in about 20 minutes, doesn't run during the week between Christmas and New Year's Day. So, this week I'm stuck taking the poky-little-puppy bus that takes about 40 minutes.

I was wearing a particularly fashionable hat and nice earrings, but apparently that wasn't enough to encourage anyone to sit next to the "masked me" on the bus. The seat next to me was the only one not taken. I was simultaneously pleased and perplexed. I think my feelings are beginning to be hurt.

*****

My father was diagnosed with breast cancer about ten years ago. At that time, I asked if he'd consider being tested for the BRCA mutations, genetic markers that are an indicator for breast and/or ovarian cancer in women.


He kindly agreed to be tested and the results were positive for BRCA1. I was tested and the results were negative.



I assumed I was free and clear and didn't give breast cancer much thought after that, but began to be closely monitored by my health care provider.

Adolph Munter in Spokane, WA

My great-grandfather on my mother's side, Adolph Munter, came to this country from Pinne, Prussia in 1869. Pinne was a town with a large Ashkenazi Jewish population.



Ashkenazi Jews tended to keep to themselves as they spread throughout Central Europe. Their religion and culture isolated them from the Christian cities and towns in which they lived. They married within their communities, and their societal isolation created the possibility of genetic mutations being intensified.

While there doesn't appear to be a lot of breast cancer on this side of the family, it's been recommended that I be tested again to rule out my having these particular genetic mutations.

While I met with the counselor, I was able to ask a question that I've been wondering about. I spend a fair amount of time on my family's history, including trying to find out more about Pinne's Holocuast-decimated Jewish history.

It ends up that genetic archaeology has studied Ashkenazi Jews, the associated BRCA Ashkenazi Jewish founder mutations, and the Holocaust and pogroms. The genetic counselor said that the Holocaust and pogroms created a sort of funnel for the genetic mutations. And since WWII, as the Ashkenazi population increased, so have the risk of the mutations in this population. It's a coincidence that the mutations survived this "funnel".

He then talked about societal isolation as opposed to geographic isolation, such as Iceland, and the types of genetic mutations that have shown up there.

For the general population, the risk of having a BRCA mutation is 1 in 500. For the Ashkenazi Jewish population, it's 1 in 40. That's quite a difference, and the armchair scientist in me is fascinated by this information. The cancer patient in me is intimidated by the cold reality of genetics.

"Is that a man or a woman?!?"

I visited my Aunt Rachel on Friday. She's in West Seattle, rehabbing and racing other seniors up and down the hall in their walkers.

Rachel critiques rehab's chowder for Epicurious Magazine

When I got there, she was sitting in a dining area, contemplating a bowl of chowder that she clearly did not think much of. I sat with her there for a while, and heard a woman behind me bark "Who's that?! Who's that?!"

The interrogator was being fed by what looked like family member or friend. Rachel told her "She's my niece."

A staff-person brought Rachel a plate with what appeared to be three spears of canned asparagus, an attempt at festive pilaf and some sort of fish chunks in a taupe sauce with flecks of grass clippings. Rachel said "I'll eat the asparagus."

It's what I would have gone for.

She needed salt, so I turned to Miss Congeniality behind me and asked if I could borrow their salt. The friend/family member said "Of course!" She was grasping for any sort of civil interaction with another human.

"What's she doing?!" the inmate sounded indignant.

"I'm visiting my aunt," I told her with the tone in my voice I used to use with argumentative patients in a psychiatric hospital.

Rachel shows off 2/3 of her new mobility aids

I gave Rachel the salt. She did an excellent imitation of my dear mother by coating the asparagus in a layer of it. I returned the salt to my new friends.

Before my BFF could spew forth her continued interrogation, I said in a loud voice to ensure she got my message without being able to read my lips "Why am I wearing a mask?"

"You've got a cold!" she stated as if it was fact.

"No, I'm wearing a mask because I'm on chemotherapy and you might make me sick!" Her demeanor changed.

A few moments later she countered with "Is that a man or a woman?!"

I turned to her. "I'm a woman. What are you?"

"A woman."

"Good," I complimented her, "Then we're on the same team!"

I could have sworn I saw a sparkle in her eye.

After a few minutes, Rachel and I returned to her room. On the way out of the dining area, I waved at the grouch and she waved back and smiled.

Once in her room, I took off my mask. I shouldn't have, because Rachel had been coughing and her former roommate had pneumonia. But dammit, I wanted her to be able to see my mouth move as I talked to her.

I wish I could see the little germs, bacteria and viruses that are perpetually trying to break down my force field of masks, hand disinfectant, hand-washings and pleadings to my Household Gods. 

My Household Gods

That way, if I saw where they are and how formidable they are, I'd know when it was okay to slack off a little.

Two things...

Thing 1:

My father loved me. Of that I have no doubt.

He was a taciturn man, and didn't speak much of his love or why he loved me. The two compliments I remember him giving me about my looks were:

1. You look good in hats.
2. You have a nicely-shaped head.

My husband frequently repeats these phrases in jest to make me laugh, and to remind us of my father.

When I started telling people I would be going bald and when I started losing my hair, I was surprised how many people told me "You have a nicely-shaped head!"

It's wonderful and funny hearing this. I know Papa would laugh.

Thing 2:

I had an after-factory chest port inserted under my skin near my collarbone to ease the infusion of chemotherapy.

When it was installed, I asked if I could plug my Ipod into it. I figured my body could act as a resonater.

Yesterday my friend Carol Milne sent this to me because of a recent blog post of mine:

Apple announced today that it has developed a breast implant that can store and play music. The iTit will cost from $499 to $699, depending upon cup and speaker size. This is considered a major social breakthrough because women complain about men staring at their breast and not listening to them.

Temporary art is more transitory than temporary



She's not injecting my brain with henna



Yesterday morning I used my husband's two electric shavers to shave my head.

I was moderately successful. It was hard to shave my head. It felt wrong, so I was sloppy.

When Patti Shaw showed up to paint a henna tattoo on my head, she reshaved the areas I missed.

Even though I didn't have a lot of hair left from chemo, there's still a big difference being completely bald.

We used some henna I had left from when I used to dye my hair. Patti had found a book about henna tattoos in a thrift store and brought it along as a reference. She told me she was so concerned about doing a good job on the first tattoo that she:

1. woke up in the middle of the night because of worrying
2. practiced designs on the steamed doors of her shower in the morning

We mixed the henna with some boiling water. I cleaned out a syringe I'd used to inject myself with post-chemo medication, and she began her design. Patti said that using the syringe to apply the henna made a consistent application.

The henna was cool as it was applied. Patti steadied her hand on the back of my chair, my shoulders, etc.

After she started, other artists who will apply tattoos later showed up and watched. Comments and advise were given and accepted. She got a lot of praise. And, I think the others were relieved to see how easy it is to do.

They all left shortly after Patti was done and a few hours later I washed the henna off my head. In hindsight, I now know that using red henna for a henna tattoo doesn't work. The tattoo hardly shows.

I will buy henna tattoo kits to ensure that the work my artist friends create lasts.

Gale Johansen is scheduled for December 31. Patti's agreed to another date, later.

It was wonderful having my friends over to help me maintain even a small amount of control over my appearance, which has been so altered by poisonous chemotherapy.

I am grateful.

Today my scalp goes from kinda hairy to tattooed

I am on vacation the rest of the week. I'm relieved, because my body feels strange. My taste buds are misfiring. My head feels tight. My scalp is tense. My heels are tender. My stomach is a little queasy. My pulse is fast.

Sleep's been difficult. The last few nights I woke up a couple of hours after falling asleep, lay there for a few hours, fell back asleep for a few hours, woke up again, lay there an hour or so, etc.

I assume these uncomfortable sensations are the result of chemotherapy.

Today is the first of a series of visits from artist friends who have agreed to paint henna tattoos on my bald head. First up is Patti Shaw. Others who've agreed to participate are Tina Koyama, Gale Johansen, Marvin Johnson, Jan Kilgannon, Carol Milne and Joline El-Hai.



Not me ~ Not me ~ Not me ~ Not me ~ Not me ~ Not me ~ Not me ~ Not me

I can't wait. I am looking forward to what they come up with.

On the bus home last night, I sat like a spector in the back in the back of the bus. No one sat next to me.

A couple with a small boy sat nearby. The boy couldn't take his eyes off of me. I tried smiling at him through my mask and suspect my smile didn't translate well.

I thought about telling him why I'm wearing a mask, but didn't; I didn't want to say out loud for others to hear "I am on chemotherapy. I could get sick easily from others' germs, so I wear this mask to protect myself."

That would go over real good on a bus.

Hair, hair, everywhere: in a plastic bag, on my shoulders, on my pillows, in the tub, etc.

On my way home yesterday from an errand downtown, I remembered I was going to drive by Rudy's, a hair chop shop in my neighborhood.

I had gone there about a month ago to have my hair cut short in preparation for dying it blond and then it falling out.

I decided to just get it over with. Pulling my hair out in front of others for the shock value is fine, but not something I want to do for very long.

When I walked in, the man who had cut my hair before was not busy. He remembered me. My first visit there, I had told him about starting chemo and he told me both his parents were on chemo. Yesterday I said "It's time..." and blithely pulled out some hair to prove it.

I told him I wanted to save what he cut off (it's in the bag in the photo above) and I wanted it cut down to about a half-inch. He asked me if I was sure. Of course I was sure. I wouldn't have walked in if I was waffling.

He cut it off and wouldn't let me pay. When he was done, the haircutter next to him said "I'm a survivor, too." We chatted and as we chatted I wondered not for the first time why I dislike the term "survivor" in reference to cancer. I don't feel like a survivor now and I don't think I'll use that term later. If you know me personally and can think of a term that's more fitting for me, please let me know.

When a friend saw the photo above, he said "Your hamster looks sick. You probably shouldn't keep it in a plastic bag..."

I talked to my cousin Rich this morning. He said he's been reading my blog and added "Hair's over-rated."

It's falling out very fast. This photo was taken this morning, after I gently massaged my scalp in the shower. Even now, in the late afternoon, there's a discernable difference from this morning. I'm very glad now that I cut it short yesterday. It would have been hard to have it fall out when it was longer.

My hair appears to be falling out in the way that hair falls out for many men. It's fastest straight up from my eyebrows and heading back. And hair's disappearing just about everywhere on my body, except my eyebrows and eyelashes, though I'll probably be without those, also.

And at last! Some nausea! I woke up about three in the morning a little queasy. I got up and took a pill and the nausea disappeared.

Yesterday: Tricks with chemo side effects

Last weekend I was wondering about the word "yesterday". What's a "yester"? Ends up it means "other".

I had chemotherapy yesterday. My second treatment. I walked from the International District to Fourth and Pike. It was nice to stretch my legs a bit. I'm not getting much exercise.

I then caught the 43 up to Capitol Hill with the usual hacking, coughing and sneezing members of the public.

My hair is definitely, undeniably falling out. I washed it yesterday morning, and there was a lot left in the tub after I got out of the shower. I put some gel in my hair, and after washing my hands, there was a little nest of hair (perfect for a hummingbird) in the drain screen.

 







I cannot adequately describe how fascinating and scary this was at first.


















At work, I decided to have some fun. I approached a few coworkers who I like to bother and asked if they wanted to see my latest trick. They had to say yes because... I have cancer! I ran my hand through my hair and pulled some out to show them. This was especially gratifying when one my coworkers was about to eat a particularly delicious-looking lunch from Salumi's. This guy loves his pig.



















Later, the CEO passed me on the stairs and asked how I was doing. "Good!"









I did not show her my new trick.







I am inspired by my cousin Carrie's experience with hair loss, and what she did with her hair as it fell out.

When my husband and I first met, we both had long red hair. His was natural, mine was hennaed (I figured my also having red hair would increase the chances of our having red-headed babies). At some point, we both cut our hair and I saved the hanks. I've used a little bit of both; his I crocheted into a blanket and mine I felted into some art.

As I alternated yesterday between revulsion and fascination with my hair falling out, by the end of the day I decided I would save my hair as it comes out by brushing it frequently and catching the hair in my brush. I'm not a spinner and my hair is short, so I won't make a ball of yarn. What I can do though is make some felt out of it by adding sheeps' wool. Thinking about this will give me, as Cousin Carrie said, "a sense of control..."

Funny how feeling like I have some control over this craziness helps.

When I got to the clinic yesterday for my second chemo tratment, I had to stop at the pharmacy to get some Lydocaine cream for my chest port. I took a number and waited with all the other people, though I sat some distance off. I looked at the number and calculated how long I had to wait. I browsed an old People magazine and caught up on what Celine and Jennifer were doing last February. I listened as an automated voice announced the next number to be waited on by the pharmacists. I had to look at the numbered paper repeatedly to remember what number I had. After the fifth time looking and worrying I had somehow morphed in the main character in Memento, I made a determined effort to remember the damned thing and not have to look at it again.

Even though the side-effects of my first chemo treatment a little over two weeks ago had been relatively benign, I was still stressed about the second one.

I headed to the lab for a blood draw. I forgot I was supposed to go the infusion center to have my blood drawn through the chest port, and went to the lab instead. In the future, when I go to the infusion center for the draw, they'll put the IV in the port, draw the blood and leave the IV in until and while I get the chemo.

I then met with my oncologist and the Nursigator. They told me my blood levels looked good. I could see from the print out that my white blood cell count is down, and the Nursigator reminded me that I should expect fatigue as the treatment continues. As the Oncologist left, he told me "Merry Channukah!" The Nursigator and I laughed.

I headed over to the Oncology Infusion Center and got settled in. The Nurse de Jour was Emily from Texas. She wiped down took off the bandagey-thing with Lydocaine on it from the chest port and cleaned the area up. The contraption she was going to inject into the chest port was wierd-enough-looking that I turned my head. She was going to be plugging that thing into a catheter that goes straight to my heart.

She told me to take a deep breath and there was a big crash and a bang and I fell out of the comfy chair.

Just kidding.

My first infusion was three huge syringes of red stuff. I suck on ice while I'm getting it because it's the nasty one that causes mouth sores. Ice causes the capillaries in my mouth to contract and thus, hopefully, I'll have fewer sores later. The RN has to inject it manually. It takes about ten minutes.

While she was giving me the red poison, she casually asked me if my feet had been sore. Holy cow! How did she know that I had been thinking the day before how odd it was that my heels were sore?

She told me that's a side effect of the red stuff. First time I'd heard this. All these important snippets of information that are mentioned so casually and randomly by the medical staff help to make sense of oddities. They should have a document they hand out that lists all of them, so the chemo patient can be as informed as possible.

My husband arrived about 15 minutes before I was done. He spent an hour in the pharmacy after taking a number from the ticket machine. He told me that next time, he's taking two numbers. Right before his number is called, others there will have been waiting almost as long as he. He says he's going keep an eye on who just arrived and took a ticket, and try to sell the spare ticket in his possession, which will allow the recipient to pass "GO", collect $200 and head straight to the pharmacy window.

Oh, it's lonely at the back

I like identifying birds through their songs. I'm pretty good at it. I especially like realizing that I've been hearing a bird sing, but haven't been paying attention. It comes upon me slowly: "Oh! There's a hummingbird being territorial!" or "That's a crow's talking to itself!" I will then look for the bird and see if I can determine what it's really up to.

Something similar happens on the bus. I'll be sitting there, baking in the five square inches inside my mask when I'll realize someone on the bus is hacking away, coughing up vile globs of crap that better not travel to me. It comes upon me slowly: "Oh! It's a man not covering his mouth while he coughs and he's spraying all over the place!" or "That woman just sneezed into her hand and is now grabbing a railing with the same hand!" I will then not look for the idjit and see if I can determine what they're up to. I know what they're up to; being bad.

The bus home last night was very crowded. The first bus I took got me into the downtown core, where I caught my regular bus home. I was one of the first riders on the bus, and I sat toward the back. The bus filled quickly as it moved through downtown. No one would sit next to me. A few people chose standing rather than sitting next to me. The last empty seat on the bus was left empty, I assume, because of my facial furniture.

*****

I'd like you to meet one of the free-standing hand sanitizers. To the left is my new BFF. They're distributed throughout the building I work in, and they dispense tidings of great cleanliness. When I see one I walk over, get the goo and debug myself. I'm hardly aware I'm doing it. It's become a second nature.

Many of my coworkers are sick and still coming into work. Many are staying home. I was supposed to be in a meeting yesterday with a coworker who's a walking germ. I told him if he didn't cancel the meeting, he would be the death of me. I told him when I'd be away from my desk, so he could come in and do whatever work is so dreadfully important that he places everyone at risk.

I felt for his pod-mates, so gave them masks.

*****

I have an appointment with a Naturopath in a few weeks. Seattle is home to Bastyr University, and there's a research physician there who specializes in cancer and diet. Yikes, what a CV!

In order to see her, I was asked to enroll in a research project. Since I'm getting traditional treatment (i.e. poison) for cancer, they'll pair me anonymously with a cancer patient who's seeking non-traditional (i.e. not poison) treatment. Then they'll watch and wait and see which one of us gets cancer again or who dies first, I guess.

The main reason I initiated seeing her was I assumed I'd be exhausted from the chemo and wanted to find out if making changes to my diet would help. So far, I'm not fatigued, though I do have my second chemo treatment tomorrow and I will be waiting for side effects.

*****

I have never met my cousin Carrie (pictured here with her sisters), but we began corresponding recently when I was working on my family tree. Her mother and my father were first cousins. (her mother's still living and my father isn't, so should I say they "are" or "were" cousins, I wonder...) She sent me an email yesterday, telling me that she had ovarian cancer a few years ago.

Her mother sent me this photograph of a pumpkin with a ball of yarn on top. It ends up that Carrie is a woman after my own heart. She's a geologist and a spinner/weaver. When her hair started falling out from treatment for ovarian cancer, she spun it into the ball of yarn.

Here is an abbreviated version of what she wrote about this experience:

Picking fiber is second nature to a hand spinner. We delight in separating seeds and grass from clean locks. The slip of the strands through our fingers, the sweet aroma of clean wool, the satisfaction of preparing to spin yarn produces a feeling of accomplishment.

Standing in the shower one morning, my hands running through squeaky wet hair, fingers collecting handfuls of fiber with each passing move.

This all began 14 days after my first chemo in August, 2006.

This new fiber posed a puzzle. How should I prepare it? How to spin? What to make with the yarn.

It was eerie, combing my hair on the 4 pitch English combs. After the first few handfuls, it was easier to think of it as rather odd sheep’s wool, especially when I pulled it through the button diz. The roving slipped through the hole in an array of dark and light, curling easily into a little nest.

As I spun up my hair, a sense of control came over me. Where initially the ovarian cancer diagnosis seemed overwhelming, a silver lining appeared ... or should I say a silver yarn.

Now for the project ... a small bowl, perhaps?

***********

Today at work, my coworker Paul had his head shaved, as mentioned in a previous post.

Yesterday another coworker photographed the two of us blond bombshells.

My hair has begun falling out, and Paul's now sporting a very close crop. I'm hoping that we can have our photo taken again when we're both mostly bald.

A six-mask day

We had our White Elephant Potluck today at work. I found myself not liking sitting so close to people without my mask, as if I've turned into a clean freak. But why should I assume coworkers are going to be any less oblivious to their germ-flinging ways than strangers on a bus or train?

For example, one coworker was sitting right behind me, barely alive, sniffling and obviously very ill. Why were they even at work? Don't they know I have no immunity from the crap they're expectorating?

This cancer's and the behaviors of others are going to turn me, formerly hygenically horrible, into a germaphobe.

During the white elephant gift exchange, the gift I'd chosen was stolen by a coworker. I said "But I have cancer!" It didn't change her decision to steel my gift.

***

Today was a six bus/six mask day. One bus into work. After work, two to get to the physical therapist in Bellevue, and three to get home. I surreptisiouly lifted as many masks as I could when I was at the clinic.

The physical therapist measured my left arm's range of motion and the diameter of both arms at various spacings. I've got some goofy-looking exercises to do to increase my arm's ability to work as well as the right arm. Why are physical therapy exercises so strange? Who invents them?

She and I together are going to watch for lymphodema. To avoid developing it, for the rest of my life I can't have blood taken, blood pressure measured, or wear anything tight on my left arm.

A few weeks ago, I cut my hair short in preparation for losing it. A week ago, I dyed it blonde, just to see what it would look like. I've got artist friends lined up to paint with henna tattoos whatever they want on my future bald head. All this has been fun to do and line up.

But now my hair's starting to fall out and it's very hard to take. When I gently run my hand through my hair, there are a lot of hairs laying in my hand.

It's shocking. It's disturbing. It's creepy.

A day without orange juice is like a day that doesn't taste bad

Yesterday I walked around Green Lake with my friends Evonne and Zoe. Zoe and I competed for the coveted Best Head Covering award in the "I'm A Big Baby or I've Got Breast Cancer" category. The competition occured on the sidewalk outside Evonne's car as she was getting Zoe's stroller ready.

I won by a slim margin.

I did okay during the walk. I didn't get wobbly, wasn't in pain, and didn't hurl on all the migratory mergansers in the lake. This was gratifying.

When I ride my bicycle to work, I don't have to think about getting exercise. Seattle is a city of hills, and there's no way for me to get home or work without pedaling up hills. Now that I'm not pedaling, I need to find other ways to exercise. This is too bad, because other than pedaling, I'm sloth-like.

I'm gaining weight because I'm not pedaling. During a lunch break last week, I walked down to the newly-remodeled Starvation Army and bought a bunch of pants and sweaters. The pants are in a size larger than I normally wear. I'm okay with this. I'm 51 years old and know my looks aren't going to get better, they'll just become more settled in and comfy. I also know that as soon as this strange trip is over, I'll be back on my bicycle.

This morning, my orange juice tasted weird. It definitely did not taste like orange juice. It was an odd flavor, kind of off-putting. I was told or read somewhere that some things might taste different as a result of chemotherapy.

Last week I had mouth sores, and anything acidic or spicy hurt my mouth and tongue. This is unfortunate, because pretty much everything I eat is acidic or spicy. I had to give away a grapefruit last week, which broke my heart. And, I make my work week's lunches on Sunday. Typically, it's brown rice, tofu or tempeh and some greens. I usually make the tofu or tempeh pretty spicy, and I'm having a hard time breaking the habit.

On one particularly bad mouth sore day, I had to concentrate to speak correctly. I felt a little like Kramer in "The Jimmy Episode" of Seinfeld.

The first two times that my husband I met with my oncologist in his exam rooms, both rooms had a poster about breast cancer that got our attention. It was well-illustrated. We kiddingly wondered if anyone would notice if we took it.

It had two wheels on the outside edges that turn to show stages of breast cancer and how breast ducts are changed when they become cancerous.

The first time I saw the poster was after I was diagnosed and before surgery. I understood everthing the poster communicated, and appreciated the visual simplicity with which it illustrated the female breast, breast ducts, the chest muscle wall and the complexity of lymph nodes.

During the second visit, after the oncologist left and when we were consulting with the Nursigator, we asked if there was any way we could get a copy of the poster. She said we could borrow the one in the room. Without hesitating, we removed it from the wall and carefully took it home. It now hangs on the outside of our bathroom door and it continues to impress me.

Where not to cast one's eyes when being told about cancer

Yesterday I told a friend I have cancer.









He immediately looked at my breasts.









For a few seconds, as I told him I had cancer and was on chemotherapy, his eyes kept going back and forth between my face and my breasts.





































Perhaps I should have squatted down to ensure eye contact.








I never used the word "breast" when talking to him.



Enough about him.




A coworker who's chairing the "giving campaign" at work apparently swore on the grave of his dear old Uncle Step-Daddy that he would shave his head if the agency met its goal of 70% of the employees participating in the campaign.

A few days ago he informed me that we made our goal and he's shaving his head on Wednesday.

It didn't take long for him to understand the opportunity he had, i.e. to join the ranks of the short-lived blond.

Someone from work sent me a photo of his blond bad-ass self. I predict a new mutant race of humans with badly bleached blond hair gone suddenly bald. Some will wear masks.

Now all I have to do is convince my coworker to also get henna tattoos.

Monster, warm and water-proof

I rode the 355 into work this morning. It was a short, full bus with just a few seats in the back. I made my way to the rear of the bus and sat down.

Here's a photo of the monster, prettily dressed in warm and water-proof clothes.

When standing out in the elements at a bus stop, I dress for the weather. The inside of a crowded bus has a different climate than the bus stop, so once sitting on the bus, I swelter. The mask adds about 20 degrees of heat inside its discreet area. My glasses steam up. I scare children and little old ladies. Looking at this photo, I realize I wouldn't sit next to me.

I talked to my Nurse Navigator yesterday. I agreed to participate in a study of newly-diagnosed cancer patients working with Nurse Navigators (herein called the Nursigator), to help them navigate the confusing, alien and illogical world of cancer diagnosis and treatment. Unfortunately, the Nursigator was assigned to me as diagnosis was wrapping up. I could have used her when the diagnosis bombs were dropping.

I talk to the Nursigator once a week. She asks me how I'm doing, I ask her the questions I've been saving all week, she makes recommendations, etc. Yesterday I told her I had been thinking about returning to bicycle commuting, but was having mildly painful throbbing pulses in my head, chest and lower back when I exert myself. Her opinion was that this was due to depleted oxygen in my system because chemotherapy kills white blood cells.

Chemotherapy kills fast-growing cells, which applies to cancer. Cancer is cells growing at an out of control pace. Other fast-growing cells are white blood cells, which battle disease and infections. Chemotherapy reduces white blood cells to such an extent that not only is my immunity down, the other fast-growing cells in my body can be damaged, such as stomach lining, hair, and mouth. And since white blood cells are made in bone marrow, the Nursigator explained, the throbbing pain was occurring.

So, we agreed that pedaling 17 miles a day through hilly Seattle may not be such a good idea. My knees can't take running anymore, so I may be doing lots of walking. Dammit. I love riding my bicycle.


When my manager came into work this morning, he said there was a trail of my masks on the stairs. I asked him how he knew they were mine. He looked at me oddly. I went and looked. Sure enough, there were two masks on the stairs. I must have dropped them when I left work last night. I picked them up and threw them away. I then told Mr. Manager that I didn't see any masks, that he was just messing with me and my fragile condition. He adamantly insisted there were masks on the stairs. He and I and a few other curious staff went to look. What do you know! There were no masks on the stairs.

He said "Someone must have picked them up." I told him I was very worried about him and if he saw any more masks on the stairs, I wanted to know about it immediately.

Does this mask make me look fat?

I generally ride my bicycle to and from work. It's about eight or nine miles each way and there are a respectable number of hills in my commute.

I had surgery on November 1; what my surgeon called "a generous lumpectomy" and removal of some lymph nodes under my arm. I didn't work for two weeks afterward and started chemo a few weeks after that.

My oncologist told me I wouldn't feel like riding my bicycle once I started chemo, so I haven't ridden since late October.

I'm gaining weight because I'm not getting enough exercise and my appetite hasn't been too affected by treatment.

I'm wondering if I can get back on my bicycle.

On the other hand, treatment gives me an excuse to not ride in the rain and dark.

Stinky masks

This morning I drove to Bellevue for a physical therapy appointment with a therapist who specializes in PT for breast surgery patients. One of the odder outcomes of having surgery done on your armpit (in case you're wondering) is simultaneous pain and numbness starting under the arm and radiating toward the elbow. My range of motion is still limited too, and I would like it back. I've been hoping for a two-fer deal with this therapist, and that along with helping me with the post-surgery recovery, she can give me some exercises to get rid of the upper-arm wanga that wasn't there ten years ago.

I thought about taking a bus to this appointment. I like to take transit, especially when going to the east side. But I got lazy and decided to drive. When I got there, I saw I had a voice mail. I put on a mask and entered the hospital as I was listening to the voice mail. It was physical therapy, telling me my therapist was sick. Dammit. I'd just crawled across the 520 floating bridge and entered the hellish city of Bellevue, all for nought.

I was so pissed that I grabbed more than my usual amount of masks on the way out of the hospital.

Next time, I'm definitely taking transit.

I grab masks when I'm in a hospital because I want to make sure they're handy when I need them. It's also a way to cut down costs. The damned things are expensive.

Later, I rode a bus in the tunnel while going to lunch with some coworkers. I rode a bus back, too. Both times I grabbed masks that I'd picked up somewhere (probably Swedish - more about that in a minute). They weren't like the kind I buy, which are folded and when pulled over my head, expand. These were shaped more rigidly, with a handy metal strip over the nose to provide the illusion of a barrier against disease.

They stank! I couldn't believe it. Someone in marketing must have thought "Let's put a deodorant in these masks!" In addition, the handy metal strip appears to have been engineered, regardless of how they're bent, to cause my breath to steam up my glasses. So not only am I wearing a mask on a bus, my glasses are steamed. I think this is a nice touch. It adds to the whole monster persona I've been hoping to achieve.

Since I'd driven, I swung by Swedish on my way home to see my beloved Aunt Rachel. She did a swan dive on the escalators at Pacific Place a few days ago, and is taking a Swedish vacation. She's on the cardiac unit, so when I arrived at the reception desk with a mask on, the RN asked "Do you have a cold?"

"Nope, I'm on chemo."

She waved me on through. She's not worried about chemo or cancer, she just wants to make sure I don't have a bug.

Since my hair's going to start falling out soon, I cut it and dyed it blond. I was really pleased to see that I match Rachel. I think we look like sisters. Maybe twins.