This post is from 8/7/12, the day before my right-side mastectomy. I have re-posted it previously. I include it here because it is a quite bittersweet reminder of the fears I had at the time about my physical health as well as about my view of my own physical attractiveness. My breast surgeon briefly appears in this post to show what a reassuring rock star that he is. And yes, I think I used my humor well to cope with this. This was my third surgery in six weeks. I had undergone two lumpectomies with a lack of clear (cancer free) margins. The extent of the cancer in my right breast had not yet been discovered. My treatment plan was still up in the air. (And yeah, I know I repeat that a great deal but was so incredibly stressful.)

The dress in the post? I gave it away after it became too big for me. I loved it. I felt pretty, mod, and feminine when I wore it, even during the three months after the surgery, when I wore a foam prosthetic. Plus, it was comfortable, a requirement of a middle-aged fashionista.

 

Tomorrow is the day that I say goodbye to rightie, the ta to my other ta, the oonga to my baz, and the crenshaw to my honeydew. And you don’t have to tell me that it’s sad because I already know. I do need to move forward and the sooner I have this surgery, the sooner I can get over the next round of painful and yucky stuff. My outward appearance with go from Elizabeth 1.0 to Elizabeth 2.0 to Elizabeth 3.0 by the time the holiday season comes upon us. (Just pretend that I was never a baby and I started out life as a 46 year old woman. Be creative.)

Elizabeth 1.0 did have a proper send off today. As I walked into Trader Joe’s, I received not one, but two compliments from the Trader Joe’s employee who was working out front. First he said, “Have a good time shopping” followed by, “I like your dress.” He may have even been younger than me. As an extra bonus, he was not one of the drunk guys at the bus shelter in the Junction, ergo the flirting was not the least bit creepy or boundary violating. The bus guys seem to be my main fan club. (And drunk guys, I haven’t heard a lot from you lately. Middle aged ladies need a little encouragement.) So hey, Elizabeth 1.0, you still got it and with a sober guy, too!

I am not going to be bringing my computer to the hospital tomorrow so I may not post anything until I get home on Thursday. John may have his computer and if I am mentally with-it enough I may be able to get him to post on my behalf. Otherwise, please be patient. I’m not sure what I am going to be up for communication-wise for a couple of days. I am confident that surgery will go well and even though it is likely to hurt for awhile and to be very upsetting, I will be okay. During my meeting with Dr. Beatty last Thursday I said, “I’m going to thank you now because next time I see you I may have lost perspective.” His quick and calm reply was, “No, you won’t.” He’s probably right.

Goodbye, Girl; hello, long and healthy life.

The Trader Joe’s guy has an affinity for prints, apparently. I do think I looked better in this dress for the obvious reason. My whole head showed rather than being semi-headless like this model. To have an entire head is more aesthetically pleasing. I learned that in my art history classes. I do like her earrings, though. Buy your own dress at http://www.sierratradingpost.com/chetta-b-jersey-print-dress-v-neck-short-sleeve-for-women~p~4059u/?filterString=womens-dresses~d~257%2F&colorFamily=02

 

Much to my surprise, orange has become a theme in my breast cancer experience. I have written FIVE posts on the topic of orange. Here are two of those posts, the first written in August 2012, right before my mastectomy and the second in September 2012, right after my expander placement.

8/1/13: Future Job in the Chorus of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?

You remember who was in the chorus of the Gene Wilder musical classic? Yes, the Oompa Loompas. And what color were the Oompa Loompas? Yes, they were orange. And what color were my roots after using an unfortunate shade of Clairol Natural Instincts? Yes, they were a very deep shade of overripe cantalope. “Natural” Instincts, my ass!

I’ve never messed up a hair color before but I haven’t done it myself for several years and apparently, Clairol Natural Instincts uses a totally different formula than they did when I last used their products. And they are on a melon kick! Not to be seen in public (other than going to Target to get a fix for this), I used a non-permanent, normal looking reddish brown dye today. Ah, much better. Most of the melon is gone.

The Oompa Loompas would say that my parents are to blame for this mishap (“…the mother and the fa-ather”). However, the same thing happened to my mom and she warned me about it. When did I remember this? After I rinsed the color out of my hair! So, I’ve decided to blame Roald Dahl.

It will be so nice to be able to go back to the salon. It will happen.

P.S. The color was just like this except MORE orange. No lie.

The Oompa Loompas after disobeying their lax parents in the Clairol Factory and falling into a vat of Natural Instincts “Dark Auburn.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

9/29/12: Wonky Wonka Boob

I forgot to mention the lovely fact that my breast looks like it is jaundiced or has carotene poisoning or something. This is because during surgery, Dr. Welk used betadine as an antiseptic, which contains iodine. Dr. Beatty, my breast cancer surgeon, never did that so I wasn’t expecting to be re-traumatized once again by having a part of my body turned Oompa Loompa color. It is a pretty wonky boob at this stage of the game and wonky is close to “Wonka” so hey, life is just having a little word play on me because it knows I’m always on the look out for good blog material. Maybe they’ve been reading my blog over at the Polyclinic and they actually used Clairol Basic Instincts, “Dark Auburn,” instead of betadine. (I’m totally kidding, wonderful people at the Polyclinic. I know you would never ever do something like that. I’m just getting my daily dose of humor about my breast cancer. Tee hee hee! Ho ho ho!!!)

I read online that hydrogen peroxide would take it off. It took off a little so now it’s slightly more yellow than orange. My skin is really sensitive so I should probably just leave it along for a few more days. But again, I blame Roald Dahl.

 

 

This post is from 7/31/12, the day of my first visit to see Dr. Welk. It was surreal. I have re-posted this previously. It is a favorite of mine. Personally, it took me awhile to feel comfortable in a plastic surgery office. I have such strong associations between plastic surgery and poor body image. But I now feel at home there and Breann and Judy who work reception are always so friendly to me when I come in. They are now requesting that I visit them from time to time as it is clear that I have very few remaining appointments with Dr. Welk. (Knock on wood.)

This afternoon I met with Drew Welk, M.D. a plastic surgeon at the Polyclinic. We had a good meeting and it was interesting to shift from a physician who focuses on disease treatment to one who focuses on aesthetics. I found out that my incision is not in the best place to which I replied, “Yeah, my cancer insists on being all kinds of inconvenient.” To his credit, he laughed at my ribbing. I did learn that I have very favorable “breast geometry” with only a little post-partum loss of muscle tone. Yay, my breasts got complimented! They’ve been a little starved for positive comments lately, especially the right one, which is currently looks like a more than a  little like a dented tin can these days.

Dr. Welk is talking to Dr. Beatty tomorrow to share his input regarding the best way to make incisions for the mastectomy so that he has something reasonable to work with later after the fat has been removed from my skin, the latter of which I get to keep. He took pictures in the clinic photography booth, which was set up like the DMV, except for the fact that I was partially disrobed and he had his choice of three different expensive looking cameras. (Or maybe the other cameras belonged to other surgeons. That makes more sense.) He took the last picture after he’d drawn a little incision map with a Sharpie.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be and I liked him. Plus it was a surgery day for him so between his energetic demeanor and the fact that he was wearing scrubs, he looked like a surgeon action figure. (Not to be confused with 1973’s surgeon Barbie and yes, she was real; click the link. Also, not to be confused with an action figure for the character, Surgeon from Hellraiser 2. Mom don’t go to that link: That surgeon doll is heinous.)

Okay, so Michelangelo is probably not the best sculptor to reference in this post. He was criticized for the way he sculpted breasts, basically that it looked like he’d thrown a couple of softballs on top of a suspiciously manly shaped torso. A better sculptor might be the 20th century artist, Lachaise. That man knew how to sculpt realistic breasts on refreshingly substantial looking women. Hmm. “The Lachaise of La Twins”? I’ll stick with Michelangelo for the alliteration. My cousin, Beth favors Bernini breasts herself. Bernini’s sculptures are absolutely breath taking but the first thing that comes to my mind is “the Rape of Persephone”–not the image I want in my head when thinking about my breast reconstruction. Beth conceded that Bernini tended to show women on the run.  But I present exhibits A, B, and C for your consideration:

One of Lachaise’s fabulous, “Standing Woman” I think this is a clear winner. Unlike “Dawn”, Lachaise’s sculptures of women actual look like a woman modeled for them. Also, Lachaise’s women look like they could fend off a Greek god or random creep in the bushes, unlike Bernini’s stunningly beautiful but nearly defenseless damsels.

Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne. This is Beth’s submission. In this case, Daphne is so desperate to get out of Apollo’s stalkeresque clutches that she turns herself into a tree!

Michelangelo. This is a sculpture I’ve seen in person. It’s from the Tomb of the Medici’s in Florence. This figure is supposed to be “Dawn” Looks like a man named “Don” with softball boobs, am I right?

I am taking time off from writing new posts until August 26th. Now don’t fret. At this point of my life, I have an average of two life-changing epiphanies a week! So you know I will be back, with even more musings, angst, and merriment than ever before.

Speaking of silliness, I have set up my blogging schedule to deliver at least one of my favorite humorous blogs, each day. So, if you haven’t been reading long, it will be new material to you. And if you have been reading for a long time, perhaps it will be like seeing an old friend. Or if you read it but forgot it, it will be like one of those awkward encounters when you meet someone you assume is a stranger but with whom you actually went to high school. And that person recounts all of your teenaged shenanigans with, “Remember the time we…?”

I will warn you that at least a couple of the posts are ones that have already been re-posted as part of my “Best of Blog” category. Yes, I will be posting them for a third time. Although I love all of my children, there are a couple that did not get the love and attention they deserved the first or second time around. So like Mama Rose, I am pushing them back into the spot light regardless of what they want or what you want. AND YOU WILL LAUGH AND LAUGH AND LAUGH THIS TIME!!!!!!!!!!!

As you know, I walk between 3-4 miles every day. This week, I’ve had a couple of interesting encounters. The first was an encounter with a black hen that had gotten out of her yard. There are actually a number of chickens and a few roosters that live in the neighborhood. Actually, there are fowl living all over my city thanks to the Seattle City Chickens program. I enjoy the chickens, though not as much so as my husband who will change our walking route so that he can encounter the most chickens. He likes animals, in general, but also used to raise chickens when he lived in Oakland, CA. And yes, I mean Oakland, CA. He and his brother were riding the BART train into Berkeley and they saw a pet store. They loved pet stores so they eagerly walked into the doors of a REPTILE PET STORE. They immediately saw a group of baby chicks. “Why are you selling chicks in a reptile store?” The reply? “Those are boa food!”

So they emptied out all of the money from their pockets (allowance ear marked to buy comic books) and bought as many chicks as they could. Then they brought them home. “You can’t have chickens in Oakland” their mom reasonably said. Then they started crying, “But they’re going to feed them to snakes!!!!!!”

So the boys got themselves some chickens. The population quickly dwindled to one rooster, Cruiser. (There were a number of coyotes in the area.) Cruiser was quite territorial and used to sit on the roof behind the chimney, waiting for the postal carrier. When the postal carrier arrived, Cruiser would swoop down for an attack. The postal carrier promptly started delivering their mail to the neighbor’s house.

Okay, now for the second encounter. Perhaps I should give it a title.

Encounter #2: Elizabeth is not the only spy in the neighborhood!

I was out on my walk today and an older man driving a truck, stopped and rolled his window down. I thought he was going to ask me for directions. Instead he said, “You must walk about 3 miles a day.” (“Hmm,” I thought, “how does he know that.”) I replied, “Yes, how do you know that?” He said, “I live at the intersection of x and y streets. I see you by my house.” (“Hmm,” I thought, “we are not three miles from the intersection of  x and y streets. You look harmless older man but I will be on the look out for black trucks in the future.”)

At this point, probably harmless but possibly creepy stalker-y man says, “Are you walking for exercise?” I reply, “Yes, I am.” He says, “That’ll make you live longer.”

I said, “Yep, hope so.”

So thank you, probably harmless older gentleman for reminding me of the reason I have walked 735 miles in the last eight months.

 

Separation anxiety is common for children. And some of them have it really bad. They follow a parent from room to room. They won’t sleep on their own out of fear that robbers, bogie men, or bad guys from t.v. will get them. They have nightmares with separation themes like being kidnapped, one of their parents dying.

Separation anxiety is treatable but it is intense because the way to break it’s spell is to prove it wrong. Children (and their parents) need time away from one another. They need separations. They need practice being alone and finding out that the world did not end and that everyone is okay. It takes a lot of practice to do this and you start with really tiny separations and work your way up. I typically have kids rate the stressfulness of different separation scenarios (ex. being alone for 10 seconds versus a minute versus ten minutes) on a 1 to 10 scale (10 being most stressful.) I tell them that with relaxation methods and the right incentives they should be able to face a situation as high as a 6.

A 6 can seem like a lot. So with little kids, I might have them give mom and/or dad a hug to “fill up the love tank.” Then it is his/her job to use whatever coping strategies they have to keep it full and stave off the anxiety that typically makes them run back to Mom or Dad, thereby reinforcing the spell of irrational anxiety.

I have been applying this concept to myself, not so much that of a “love tank” but to no longer think of myself as some limitless supply of energy, emotions, and thoughts. I need to do things that fill me up. It is part of my mindfulness practice and my commitment to better self care.

There are plenty of things I can do that fill my time. I don’t have the bandwidth I used to have. Maybe it will come back and maybe it won’t. Although I am getting stronger, there’s still a discrepancy between the amount of mental stamina I need to function the way I used to and the amount I actually have. I have not yet been able to return to my normal reading habits. I used to read a book everyday. I’ve done this since I was a young girl. Every once in awhile, I would have a couple of week period or even a month when I was not reading a novel or a work of non fiction. I have read very little besides blogs for the past couple of months. It is too hard to concentrate after I’ve completed everything else on my to do list.

After my brief barrel of monkeys experience with hyperactive Facebooking, I find myself striving for balance, once again. You know what one of the harder things about balance is for me? It’s not black and white. It’s about having some but not too much of one thing so I can have some, but not too much of another thing, and so on and and so on. It is simpler sometimes just to go without. I spent about 4 years of my 20’s never eating sweets. I just thought it was easier that way. It helped me keep down my weight. But I missed out on some good grub. Four years is a long time. I still don’t eat a lot of sweets but I eat some and have learned to be more moderate about it. And a little chocolate is good for the soul, people.

A problem with excessive use of electronic media is that it doesn’t fill people up. We can’t be healthy with chocolate all of the time, even if it is that tantalizingly delicious Dagoba chocolate. Excessive screen time just occupies minds. I see this with kids with ADHD all of the time. Contrary to appearances, they are actually typically under-stimulated. All of the daydreaming, screen use, jumping around, etc serve to increase alertness by increasing dopamine activity. And screen time is the easiest way to keep their minds busy and occupied. And they will play them forever if allowed to do so. And when the plug is pulled, there’s often acute distress. “World, stimulate me! I am depleted! This is too hard! I can’t entertain myself! Give me back my screen!”

 
There are so many aspects of blogging, social media, and just the Internet in general that are extremely valuable to me. But others, not so much. And too much makes me unable to deal with the quiet of my mind. “Entertain me, world!” But the quiet of my mind is important. Silence is important. It is important for me to be alone with my thoughts and to not fear where they will take me in this very uncertain time in my life. I can’t occupy my mind to fend off the what if’s and the what could be. I know that the more I avoid these silences, the harder they will be for me and the more I will try to avoid them. Avoidance of being alone, just alone with my thoughts, even the scary ones feeds a spell. It feeds the spell of separation anxiety, not just the fear of being separated from my family by death but the fear of being bored. That’s sounds ridiculous, right? But I ask you to look at a bus stop full of people tomorrow morning. You will see that all of them are looking at their Smartphones!

I don’t want an occupied mind. I want an active and creative mind that also knows how to tolerate the slow parts of life, the parts we need for restoration and peace. I am not leaving the land of screens. I am just trying to be more careful about how and why I use them. So I am now asking myself, “Does this fill me up or does it just occupy my mind?”

As I wrote last February, breast cancer is not “big sexy time.”

I know that the negative impact of cancer treatment on sexuality and response is kind of a taboo topic. And I figure that improvements in this arena over time are even a more taboo topic.

Ladies don’t like to kiss and tell. But it sure would be nice to know that after all of the body rearrangement, surgeries, and chemical warfare, that there’s something to which those of us with partners or those of us who are between partners, might possibly look forward.

So hypothetically speaking, I think that things in that, ahem, arena could improve over time.

That is all.

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After two days of steady and grief-y tears, I am starting to feel better and perhaps a bit of my mojo has returned. Unfortunately, this return was marked by another, my first hot flash since my Lupron injection last week.

Perhaps the current stage of grieving fever has broken. Alternatively, I guess a little mojo plus a fine film of sweat does sound a little like a tropical vacation.

Thanks for worrying about me, people. I am hopeful that I will get a break from the necessary but sucky Sadland, in which I have resided for the past couple of days.

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Lindbergh High School Reunion '82, '83, '84, '85

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