Protected: Thanksgiving
As you know, I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for myself for the last few weeks. Yesterday, I was quite overwhelmed with the combination of work, family, and self-care responsibilities. The next two weeks are jam-packed perhaps even more so.
It’s time for me to put my blessings in the foreground:
-I have wonderful friends and family, whom I love greatly.
-I have a great chance at a long and healthy life.
-I have good health insurance.
-Today is my dad’s 80th birthday! Both of his parents died in their 50’s, making this a particularly big deal.
-I am making new self-care habits that make me feel better now, emotionally and physically, and will also help protect me from future illness.
-I love my job.
-My daughter is happy at high school.
-Despite all of the changes and stress in my life including instant menopause, I have lost 27 pounds since May 5th! In 3 pounds, I will officially enter the “healthy weight” category using the BMI.
-I have this blog as an outlet. It helps me now and I imagine it will help me in the future, as I look back at this period of my life.
-I have wonderful healthcare providers. Plus most of them are really nice, as well as technically skilled.
-I live and work in a great community.
-I am a strong and reliant person.
-God is love and love is great. God is great!
I know there are more but I am starting to feel better.
Yes, it was like pulling teeth, but ultimately, I successfully extracted a very complicated report from my brain. Victory!
I was also successful in raising my business account balance from $788 on Sunday to almost $3000 on Wednesday. The insurance checks are finally starting to come in from my return to work over a month ago. So when you think, “Elizabeth shouldn’t work so many hours” remember that 1) I actually am working less hours on average and 2) I collected a total of $600 for the entire month of September. I’ll have another month like that after the TRAM surgery. These are not such easy choices.
Trying to get myself to finish this psych report is like pulling teeth. I did all of the easy, mindless parts. Now it time for complex thought. Aaargh!
I’m going to need a bigger pair of pliers.
I had back to back appointments with both of my surgeons today. My skin has continued to heal and the fluid build up problem appears to be subsiding. So using “The Little Engine That Could” alarm scale, my skin healing situation has gone from “I think I can” to “I know I can.”
There is a chance that Dr. Welk will recommend a minor surgical procedure to graft a small piece of skin from my abdomen to the troublesome skin (about 1 inch wide by 2 inches long) but we seemed to have avoided any need for radical measures.
Fingers crossed.
Protected: Debatred
Well Count Dracula may have wanted it, but I’m not sure about the phlebotomists at Swedish Medical Center. Actually, they do, but they are short-handed. I’m at my neighborhood clinic for a blood draw. My naturopath wants to check my vitamin D levels (very important Northwest people, and for more than breast cancer), my thyroid, and my vitamin B12 levels. My fabulous internist agreed to order the lab work so my insurance will pay for it, since my plan doesn’t cover naturopathy. (It does, however, cover acupuncture.)
The waiting room is full. There are just enough seats for the number of people in the room, all of whom are waiting for blood work. There are three seats empty, however. Three of the men are standing because how better to make time fly than to be on your feet for 45 minutes? I’ll stop being mean. Maybe they have bad backs or something. Or maybe they have compromised immune systems and don’t want to sit in the chairs so close to the other patients. Wait, one of the stand up guys hasn’t taken his heavy looking Boeing briefcase off of his shoulder. He is also hovering close to the sign in desks. Given that he is carrying excess weight and is brave enough to hover close to the potentially germy people at the sign up desk, I feel comfortable calling him, “Impatient” and judging him silently in my mind. Taking time to negatively judge a fellow human helps me pass approximately 50 seconds of wait time.
Hey, a lady just sat next to me and asked how long I’d been waiting. I respond, “About 15 minutes.” Then I try to ensnare engage her with my scintillating small talk. She responds, but only with politeness and no apparent interest. Foiled again, but that 90 seconds just seemed to fly by. Oh hey, an older lady takes a seat across the aisle and starts to talk to me. She seems to have real possibilities! She makes a comment about someone being so happy to have their name called. Then she makes a little sideways nod, smiles, and makes a small raspberry-like noise as if to say, “Can you believe this crazy world we live in? I, for one am determined to enjoy it.” After awhile, I realize that she is not consistently coherent, says the same phrase when each person goes to get their blood drawn. The head move and raspberry noise are repeated. In other words, instead of saying, “Can you believe this crazy world we live in”, she is saying, “I have a combination of vocal and motor tics.” While I’m digesting this, I do feel a little bit happy that her neurological issues give her a certain flair and noting her leopard print socks and colorful clothing, decide that despite the tics, her personality is coming through. Maybe she really is making a positive statement about life while simultaneously experiencing tics. This is what I choose to believe and the animal print clothing clinches the deal. My combined mental efforts as an amateur neurologist, fashion observer, and self-deluder took up at least 30 minutes. Goooooal!!
My name is called. I have a short conversation with a very pleasant phlebotomist with gnarly tattos. Noting that there is evidence of multiple recent needle marks in my arm he says, “Good times.” I tell him about my cancer. that I am doing well, and that I am getting excellent care at Swedish. He says something generic but it is communicated with an air of hipster sweetness so I feel supported. All in all, the blood draw and conversation take less than 3 minutes.
My total wait time was 50 minutes. It was not so bad. I am trying to think about time and waiting differently these days and it seems to be working. I also try to make sure that I don’t try to squeeze medical appointments into my schedule.
If they hired one vampire they could take care of this problem, stat. Just sayin’.
Couples will say, “We’re pregnant”, but they don’t say “We have cancer.” For the record, I hated the phrase, “We’re pregnant.” “We’re expecting a baby.” That’s fine. There’s only one person who is pregnant. I would never want to have missed out on the experience of pregnancy, but I’ve got to say that most of it from a physical standpoint was terrible. This was not due to a bad attitude on my part. I believe this blog attests to my positivity in the face of adversity. I very much wanted to get pregnant, especially since the first almost year long period that we tried to conceive a few years before, was unsuccessful. Every pregnancy is different but I was beyond fatigued, nauseous, and throwing up until I was 5 months pregnant. I remember taking a short walk across the Indiana University campus and having to sit on a bench for a couple of minutes because I’d gotten motion sickness from walking. After I hit the 5 month mark, I was fatigued, my brain was foggy, my legs ached if I stood still for more than a minute, and I had acid reflux unless I slept upright in a reclining chair. John was ecstatic to be a dad and was wonderful most of the time. It was a stressful time for both of us, though. We hadn’t settled down to a geographic area and John was really sick of moving around the country after different academic positions. He really wanted to go back to Seattle. There was also anxiety about the health of the baby and becoming parents. There were times, when John’s anxiety and stress got the better of him. He once complained that I was walking too slowly (at 8 months pregnant), twisted my arm into going hiking with his parents (I was 8 months pregnant. I slept in the car, in the 90 degree heat, with the windows and doors open), and he once asked me when I was going to start making money. Yes, I am making him look like an a-hole. I also acted like an a-hole from time to time maybe even more frequently than he did. But I did feel, whether fairly or not, that it was his job to “be the better person” because I was bearing the load of, well the child-bearing.
So I have cancer. It impacts the family. My husband has a lot of care-giving responsibilities that he hasn’t had before. He’s got to deal with his own fears about my health as well as his fears that he does not take care of me well enough. (He did have the courtesy this time to get sick before my surgery instead of afterwards.) Our friend, Michelle, who is a psychologist who specializes in treating cancer patients and their spouses, told me that cancer is as hard or harder on the spouse. In many ways I can see how my disease has infiltrated my family and larger social network. So one could say, “We have cancer.” After five surgeries, countless blood draws, meds, radioactive substances, shots in the butt to “shut down my ovaries”, “We have cancer” sounds a lot like “We’re pregnant.” I have cancer. It’s me.
This reminds me of the show, Thirty-Something when the character, Nancy had ovarian cancer. She got involved in a support group and got kind of carried away with a friend she made in the group. The friend was saying things to the effect that having cancer was cool. Nancy was spending a lot of time away from her husband and kids. When her husband, Elliot, complained that their son, Ethan missed their mom, she said something to the effect, “You don’t know what it’s like to have cancer.” Elliot’s response was something like, “No, but Ethan knows a lot about what it’s like to have a mom with cancer.” He actually made a nice little heart felt speech and woke Nancy out of what was depicted as a somewhat self-absorbed reverie. I remember agreeing with his point when I watched the show and empathizing with her.
It is times like these when I am not feeling well but still don’t look or act “sick enough” that I feel this pull the most. I’d like to say, “My eyes are down here” and be defined by the cancer because I feel a little overwhelmed by the expectations of my family and of my job. With my husband, there’s only so many times I can say, “Cut me some slack, I’m being treated for cancer.” It’s true that it’s harder for me to keep an even keel, bite my tongue, and otherwise behave like a mature person. But I still have the responsibility to try my hardest to do so, just as I expect from him.
It’s a tightrope walk and we’ve mostly done a really good job. But I worry some. The next surgery is going to be a lot harder. I’m going to need help getting up and down from bed and the couch, I’m guessing for several days. I know that we’ll get through it but I still feel anxiety about the whole thing.
Oh and did I tell you that increased anxiety has been a side effect of taking Percocet for pain? I’m hoping today is the last day I need to take it.
I’ve had an EXTREMELY light schedule since I came back to work. This is in part by design and also due to cancellations for testing. I usually have only about one cancellation a year for my testing services but as fate would have it, I’ve had one per week for the last two weeks, which is extra stinging since I haven’t been making any money due to my medical leave. Nonetheless, I have been trying to treat the extra time as a precious resource rather than a source of disappointment and anxiety. Consequently, I took a walk this morning around the neighborhood.
My walking route was not set but I knew that a visit to the coffee shop, Bird on the Wire would be in the earlier part of the walk. On the way to the coffee shop, I saw two girls, one about 9 and the other about 5, waiting for the school bus. It was busy at Bird so I was there for awhile. When I left, I saw that the girls had walked to the street corner. I said, “Good morning, girls.” The older girl’s face started falling ever so slightly. “Are you okay?” I asked. Then Ashley (not her real name), the older girl crumbled into full on cry face. “We missed the bus. We need to be at school. We’re trying to walk there. We are lost.”
I tried to calm them down and found out that they were sisters and that they were responsible for getting themselves out the door on time in the morning. This morning they decided to watch a movie and they lost track of the time. I asked Ashley if she knew her parents’ phone number. “No and I don’t have my phone. They took it away and I have to pick up dog poop to get it back!” (I sure hope those parents give that girl her cell back if they are going to put her in charge of getting she and her sister to school every day.) I asked if she knew where she lived. Both girls gave me directions but I couldn’t really follow them. Then Ashley said, “We can’t go home. Our parents told us it is our job to get to school on time.” I explained that their parents would want them to be safe and not trying to walk all of the way to their school (this is what they were trying to do and they didn’t know the way). Ashley also asked, “Do you have a car?” I told her that I did but that although I would never hurt them, their parents would not want them to take a ride with a stranger.
Both girls felt terribly that they would be breaking a rule by being late to school. The kindergartener, Kelsey (not her real name), said “I’m going to be on the lowest part of the teacher’s chart!” Her sister, felt more responsible being the older girl. “My teacher is going to be mad at me for being late. I’m in 4th grade!” (Many kids live in fear of 4th grade. There’s a big emphasis on being responsible.) I tried to reassure them that I thought their teachers would be understanding. Their distress was heartbreaking and charmingly earnest and innocent all at once. At one point, the little one started jumping around a little, playing and her sister said, “You’re not supposed to play. We did something wrong!”
This is when I realized that I had encountered myself at ages 5 and 9. About two minutes after asking the questions about where they lived, etc., I said, “I have a better idea. I’ll call your school.” As I dialed, little Kelsey said to herself, “I hope they answer, I hope they answer.” I talked to the receptionist who put me on the phone with the principal, Christy Collins. Christy and I know each other from work I’ve done professionally with some of the students at the school. She is a relatively new principal to that school and she is terrific. We arranged for me to wait with the kids while she drove to pick them up. Even when I told the kids that Ms. Collins was going to pick them up, they were still a bit unsettled. Ashley kept saying, “I feel so lost.” Kelsey said, “I wish I could fly in the sky so I could see where our school is.” The girls looked happier when Christy picked them up. I explained to her that they were very afraid of getting into “big trouble” and that Ashley was taking her responsibility as the older sister very seriously. Christy thanked me and they went on their way to school.
The girls weren’t literally lost. They’d really only walked about 10 yards from the bus stop. There were people around to help. But they felt lost. It turned out they were new to Seattle and had moved from a rural town, which is quite a bit north of here. Kelsey informed me, “We moved here so I could go to kindergarten.” She had also told me that she’d gone to preschool and when I asked where she told me that she was “home schooled” for preschool. I told her that I had also been “home schooled” for preschool. (I didn’t go to preschool.) I’m wondering whether she thought there were no kindergartens in in her town.
There have been times in my life when I felt lost when I really wasn’t. When the cogs in my brain churn away at anxiety so ceaselessly that it is hard not to feel that something is horribly amiss and that I can’t see away to fix it. These can be risky times as well. Like the girls, who were so afraid of getting in trouble for not getting to school, my brain can get so focused on the subject of my anxiety that I can minimize the risks of other decisions. My guess is that Ashley had been told many times not to get a ride with a stranger but she felt so panicked about the situation and not carrying out her “big sister” responsibilities that she lost sight of the bigger picture. I was glad to have been able to help these girls, to help them problem solve, to stay safe, and to remind them not to ride with strangers! I don’t feel lost now but I may feel that way again sometime in the future and I will try to remember these girls, that I can solve many problems and when I can’t, I can ask for help.
My Eyes Are Up Here 