I was between appointments at the oncology department, trying to be productive in the quiet of the Healing Garden—an oddly serene spot nestled next to the treatment rooms. The goal was simple: wrangle some productivity out of a day that had other plans. That’s when I saw her.

She was sitting there, looking like someone who’d just misplaced her car keys, wallet, and all belief in human decency in one catastrophic moment. She kept glancing at me.

Now, the Healing Garden is one of those places where people go to get out of their own heads, which, let’s face it, is a tricky thing when you’re dealing with heavy stuff. It’s not the sort of space you just stroll up to someone for an impromptu chat. But this woman? She wasn’t just lost in thought. She seemed to be looking for a life raft.

I took a breath, closed my laptop, and asked, “Umm, are you okay?”

Her voice cracked as she explained that her friend had been diagnosed with late-stage cancer. “Sorry, I assumed you’d been through this,” she said, her eyes darting to my mostly bald head—cancer’s calling card. She asked, “What do I say to her? What do I do?”

Of course, she didn’t want to be that person—the one who blurts out “Everything happens for a reason,” or “Cancer’s a gift, it teaches you so much,” or, worst of all, “At least it’s not [insert supposedly even worse cancer here].”

I could feel the weight of her question, and I knew there was no tidy answer. Cancer is messy. People are complicated. Emotions are tangled. Put all that together, and it’s a proper dumpster fire.

I what she was afraid of. I asked her to tell me about her friend. And she did—her worries, the times they shared, and, yes, some recent tough bits too. Sitting with her, I felt a bit like a fraud, because, let’s face it, I didn’t have that magic formula I suspected she craved. Instead, I shared a few things I’d picked up along the way—not because I’m an expert (unless surviving cancer automatically qualifies me for that, in which case, where’s my goddamn certificate?), but because I’ve been asked these questions before. With thin patchy hair, no eyebrows, and one boob (I’ve chosen to stay flat)—sometimes folks start to see you as the consigliere of cancer.

I mentioned an article I’d written on this very topic, a sort of distilled version of everything I’d told others. She found it helpful and, well, that made my day.

I will recap it my that article’s advice here for you:

Spoiler alert: There’s no magic script for any of this. Every person is different, every situation changes minute-by-minute, and frankly, it’s all just fucking weird.

Here’s the gist:

• If you’re the one with cancer, take the drugs that ease the symptoms (don’t be a hero), nest like you’re prepping for a zombie apocalypse (make your space a comfy retreat), and let your kick-ass cancer team guide you. Skip the internet rabbit holes—they’re terrifying and often off base—and, for the love of all things sacred, buy high-quality barf bags (practical) and super soft socks (for the pampering).

• If you’re supporting someone with cancer, listen and read the room. I liked humor (the raunchier, the better). Some people don’t. Read the person’s cues. If they seem tired—leave. When in doubt, send a gift—but not a gift that involves them having to do anything. Think of something they could appreciate when they can’t lift their head, let alone get off the couch. Bird feeders are awesome unless they attract bears—though, honestly, a bear might make a cool distraction.

There’s no right way to handle cancer, but there are some things I’d avoid. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Don’t send gift baskets of tantalizing food the person can’t eat. Don’t avoid the person. DO roll with the punches, and never underestimate the power of a good laugh, a soft blanket, or a Netflix subscription.

So, to the awesome woman I met in the Healing Garden and to anyone navigating this impossible terrain: you got this.

My original guide: The Definitive WTF Guide: Navigating Cancer and Supporting Loved Ones — Deb Helfrich/Gold Star Dog Training

While the event described is true, the store name, location, and names of persons involved have been intentionally omitted to allow the players to retain some shred of dignity.

I'm bra shopping on a rainy afternoon.  Like I don't have better things to do.  Like I'd want to be doing anything else but this--and that includes trimming the poopie clusters from my long-haired German Shepherd's back end.

Always hated it. But, I like it even less now given I've got one boob (the other one tried to kill me so it got lopped off).

I'm on my third store in search of something with a list of important criteria...

I think my bras should be half price since I'm only using one cup. But I digress.

I go to the counter.

Me: do you have mastectomy bras?

Sales woman: oh, you're looking for a vasectomy bra?

Me: not exactly, I'm looking for a MASECTOMY bra.

Sales woman: we have a nice selection of vasectomy bras.

Me: *sigh*. Okay, show me to the vasectomy bras.

All is well, and I didn’t have brain cancer :)

———————————————————————————————-

**Warning: there may be an abundance of swearing in this post.**

So, it's 6am at my folk's house outside of Boston. I've been wide-eyed awake all night, doing an Olympic gold effort mind-fuck on myself. A good thing is that I've become a bit more comfortable posting here--even without all of your wonderful thoughts, posting is a positive outlet (blogging is a release for me, but can't do that at moment-can't let certain information get to some family/friends).

(This next bit is the swearing part, and the part that may end up being non-sensical word vomit, brain dump).

Cognitive chemo brain issues continue. Mind-boggling (pardon the pun) and so incredibly frustrating. I give a flawless lecture and handle tough Q&A--then get in my car, drive 5 exits in the wrong direction and can't figure out how to line the fucking credit card strip up with the card reader at the gas pump. Work has been really hard (work was THE thing I'm good at) and I've been on reduced hours for nearly two years now. Having a functioning brain is somewhat important to what I do. If I had the energy, I'd make lemonade with lemons and take this as an opportunity to explore a new career (where I don’t need to think all that much…good luck)--but I'd rather at the moment take those lemons and make myself a good stiff drink.

Latest fucking MRI shows "brain abnormalities" (hahaha--I always knew I was weird, but). The ass kicker--they don't explain chemo brain--and I'm looking at something new. I would have preferred a new car, a new stove, a make-over--not a new condition, thanks. More tests on the horizon.

And, we're bringing dad home from rehab this morning. He's not doing well, but my mom and he insist on him being home. I'm sure many of you relate--but managing aging/sick parent situation from out of state is like sucking a whole turkey through a straw--totally ineffective and impossible. I'm dreading today--now knowing what this transition home will look like. I don't think it will be pretty. Seeing the safety seat on the toilet in dad's bathroom was the kick to the head reminder that this ain’t gonna get fucking better.

Long post holy shit--thanks for reading. Is there a word limit...?

(In an attempt to think of something good...my dog training hobby business is going gangbusters and I launched a new therapy dog training program. My dog classes are the only thing I feel competent at these days...so I'm hanging on to that!)

Over and out...

Piss-and-vinegar alert:  Most of my blogs--even the ones about scary, uncomfortable, or difficult topics related to cancer--have had a humorous bent to them. I'm not feeling one bit of humor tonight.  I don't feel like looking on the bright side. I don't want to gain perspective.  All I want to do is rail and rage (at least for now).

Why?

It took many many months to get an appointment with a dermatologist.  Many months building up hope that he or she would be able to fix my chemo-blasted scalp and grow me some hair. My hair remains thin, patchy, and gray...and at this point, it's long enough to sometimes look like a really bad comb-over or an Einstein impression.  I've colored it, I've tried styling it...but it still looks pretty pathetic. I may just shave it off completely.

Turns out the hair loss from chemo is permanent.  This is it.  The follicles have given up the ghost, gone to the great hair brush in the sky.

My reaction surprises me.  I think I took the cancer diagnosis, and all the crap during treatments, in better stride than this.  That seems to make NO SENSE.  Learn I have Stage 3 cancer and rally.  Learn my hair is gone for good, and lose my shit completely.  

I made some small talk with the doctor after the exam.  I nodded in agreement when she said "Well at least you survived cancer".  As soon as I stepped out of the exam room and made my way to the checkout desk, the end of the hallway blurred from the tears. My belly flipped with a rush of anxiety and nausea.  A basketball felt lodged in my throat.  All I wanted to do was get back to the privacy of my car.

Then, oscillation between tears and anger.  Waiting to check out at the doctor office front desk...the woman (full head of beautiful blond hair in a loud pink bow) ahead of me with the million fucking questions and issues and complaints.  A line building up behind me.  Too many people.  And, the  pink bow lady prattling on and on...I wanted to just throw the paperwork at the receptionist and run before I either strangled the woman with that ridiculous pink bow or dissolved in a puddle.  

I remember sitting in the oncologist waiting room, last year... well into chemo, 30 pounds lighter, totally bald, and barely able to walk.  A woman with this stunning head of dark long hair came over and said "don't worry, your hair will come back!  You have that to look forward to!".  I learned I'll never say that to anyone undergoing chemo.  And, I'd advise others from making such sweeping, know-it-all statements.  I know she meant well...but the truth is, sometimes your hair doesn't grow back.  And while I'm at it, I also put "don't worry, you'll beat this" type comments in that category too.  Because, you know, sometimes people don't beat it.  Sometimes they die instead. 

So, I lost a boob, 30 lbs, my hair, my stamina, and a fully functioning brain. The last several months have been an all-day pass on the unpleasant post-cancer emotional, lingering-side-effects rollercoaster.  
And, the pissy and really discouraging thing is that of all of the things that got lost along the way....the only thing I DIDN'T want to come back was that fucking 30 lbs I lost.  

And, that's the only thing that did come back.  

When cancer is gone, treatments well behind you, you just want to bloody get on with it.  But cancer still throws you those little "hahah...I won't let you forget me..." reminders:  the words you just can't remember, the wave of fatigue when you try to push harder, the mis-firing memory, the scar across your chest...and of course...the gray thin sickly patches that remain of your hair.  

I'd just rather do the back stroke in a vat of razor blades and then roll around in some salt and pepper.  I've always been more of a "buck up and move on" type of chick.  I don't like to talk about feelings.  I don't want to admit to sadness or any of its creepy cousins--insecurity, doubt, powerlessness, etc..  Instead, roll me in razor blades and sprinkle me with salt and a pinch of pepper.

I'm cancer free.  That's a pretty big fucking deal.  Not everyone gets this outcome; this could have ended with sympathy cards and eulogies, or many years of ongoing cancer treatments (though the change of recurrence is a new and sometimes unsettling awareness).  Considering the late stage of my very aggressive cancer, and only a year of (albeit intense) treatment, I'm really quite fortunate.

I'm on THE OTHER SIDE,  cancer cells eradicated, radiation burns now smooth skin, chemo done and left in the dust, scars from the surgeon's knife healed up--defrosting the life I had to put on ice.
Everything should be all roses and hearts and unicorns and rainbows and puppy breath. Right?  RIGHT? Buck up and move on!  But, in many ways the period after cancer can feel harder than when you had it. 
I should be glad to be alive.  I should feel fortunate.  I should be joyful.  I should be...  I should be...  I should be...  I should be...  I should be...  I should be...  I should be... I should be...  I should be...

So, this is not really a definitive guide to those questions like "I know someone who just got diagnosed...what do I do/say/help?" and for those who are on the sharp, pointy end of the cancer stick themselves.

But, if I fessed up and said I don't think there is such a guide, you might not want to open up the link and read.  I know this blog may not be as interesting as juicy details about chemo side effects (one of my most popular blogs!!) and, of course, diarrhea jokes that the first-grader in us will ALWAYS giggle about.

I actually did some research on this.  I book-marked a bunch of links.  Then I deleted them all and figured I'd write from the gut on this one.  You're all smart, you can find internet resources about how to talk with someone who has cancer (and actually, there are some decent ones out there).

In short, there isn't a right answer for any of this.  No script for what to say, what to do, how to act--whether you're the one with cancer, or the one who knows someone who has it.  It depends so much on the person, and even with one person I think it can all change day-to-day, and possibly minute-by-minute.
But, since several people have reached out to me with just those questions...so here's my best advice.  Again, this is what worked for me...what works for you may be very, very different.

For those with cancer...

• Take the drugs. Don't go all stoic and tough-guy.  When your nurses say to take the anti-diarrhea drugs at the first cramp, and the anti-nausea drugs at the first tummy whirl, do it.  Don't be any sicker than you need to be. Find relief when you can.

• Shave your head. If you're on the type of chemo that makes the follicles flee, when it starts to fall out, shave it off. I found waking up to clumps of hair on the pillow and in the shower drain to be disturbing.  I went to my trusted long-time hair stylist, took a couple of friends with me, and just did it. I did it--it wasn't something that happened to me.

• Skip the internet vomit... and self-help books about what it's like to have cancer.  You'll soon find out, and that shit on the internet can be frightening (and wrong).  It made me worry about things that didn't happen, didn't prepare me for the things that did, and made everything seem way scarier.  If you're a research-type person, and researching is your happy place or security blanket, just carefully consider the sources, and maybe even limit to a few.

• Get your kick-ass cancer team.  Find a core (manageable) team of medical A-gamers and LISTEN TO THEM.  Make sure your oncologist and surgeon are smart and savvy, your chemo nurse is approachable and knowledgeable (mine was AMAZING), and (if you want them), wrap yourself with support services like a social worker and counselor (many cancer centers have free access to both!).  If you're overwhelmed, don't drink from the firehouse of information, opinions, and options about cancer--just let them spoon feed you what you need when you need it.

• Nest before treatments/surgery. While you feel still good, get prepared before treatments/surgery knock you flat.  Set up space that you find comfortable and comforting (I dug out my childhood stuffed animals, favorite books, blankets), buy your barf bags and other chemo supplies (my chemo nurse gave me a list) in advance. 

• Do whatever you need when you need it.  Get through each day however you can.  If that means days on the couch in feety pajamas watching Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, or days eating a whole box of ring dings, so be it.

For those who know someone with cancer...

• Listen.

• Don't assume anything.

• Don't make promises. Don't make sweeping assertions like "don't worry, you'll beat this" or "don't worry, your hair will grow in (and then tell them HOW it will look)"--unless you know for SURE.  And, really, when you're dealing with cancer, there aren't many sureties for many people.  Some people don't make it.  Some people's hair never grows back.  Also, I think some people feel compelled to make other promises like "I'll come visit you, or I'll sit in chemo with you, or fill in the blank".  The person on the other end may really look forward to/rely on what  you've offered--so just be gentle and realistic about your promises.

• Listen.

• Don't assume anything.

• What worked Monday may not work Tuesday.  Some people want to talk, some people don't.  Some people want to joke about it, some don't.  Some folks will want someone around when their heads are hanging over the porcelain bowl, others prefer to puke in private. And, that may change day-to-day.  Be observant, listen, roll with it. For me, I really really liked those who had a sense of humor about the whole thing (the raunchier the better).  I was less into those people who wanted to have serious conversations about HOW I WAS HANDLING IT.  Diarrhea jokes, bald jokes, one-boobie jokes--all fair game.  One dog training student of mine came to spend several sessions of chemo with me--and we laughed so hard we got put in a special room.  Yeah, we got kicked out of chemo.  How fucking awesome is that?

• If you don't know what to do or what to say, that's okay.  If you want to show support, but don't know how to interact with someone or maybe don't feel comfortable, here are a few ideas:

  • Send flowers/plants (or one of those flower-a month clubs), well, unless the person is allergic.  Then, don't do that.  Send fake flowers.

  • Blankets and soft pillow to cuddle up in are nice. And, really, can you have too many pink Fight-Breast-Cancer blankets?

  • Books, coloring books, paint by numbers, legos, puzzles. Some people appreciate things that involve the mind, some want mindless options. If you're not sure, a mix might be good--Daily Advanced Physics Problems and the Beavis and Butthead Joke Compendium.

  • Subscription to netflix or other movie-type channel.  Because there are those days that even color-by-number is too much pressure.

  • If the person might be sitting by a particular window, set up a bird feeder outside the window.  Well, unless that attracts bears...though bears might be cool to watch through the window too.

  • If the person is open to it, hiring (or doing yourself) out services around the house--housecleaning, garden maintenance, snow plowing, etc.  

  • A care package of treatment- and chemo-friendly supplies...lotions, soft toothbrushes, lemon or ginger candies, etc. (there are some excellent lists of such needs if you google "cancer care packages").

I've been moving on since my last Herceptin treatment on 9/29/17 (Herceptin, part of my chemo cocktail, was pumped into my body every three weeks for an entire year from the very first chemo treatment). 

While I've had lots of little itches to blog again, they apparently weren't itchy enough to prod me to actually do anything about it.  Part of my reticence for writing has simply been not exactly knowing how to articulate this post-cancer-but-not-quite-myself period. The funky side effects from chemo, gory descriptions of procedures, the very tangible and visceral experiences of

being in the middle of the cancer fight...they all seemed much easier to describe than the nebulous and shifting sands of life after the cancer machine or life on an alien and desolate landscape.

And, the "chemo brain" I've been experiencing hasn't made written expression easy. 

So, I'm sitting here in a hospital room for the next six hours--with nothing but some crappy hospital coffee, and this blank white computer screen starting at me. (I'm not here for me, for once, but instead as a licensed foster parent sitting with a kiddo in foster care custody). So, I'm going to give this blog thing a go.
I remember this place.  For a year, this hospital was an enormous part of my life--here three to five days a week, with more than a few overnight stays.  In the worst parts of treatment, this was the only place I went outside of the house. There's a comfortable familiarity being here.  It feels safe and known.  The smells, the beeping machines, the hospital-issue recliner with the noisy vinyl (they had the same ones in chemo, except the chemo ones had massage and heat!), the nurses come and going at regular intervals, the standard issue jello, crackers, and juice in the kitchenette.

My cancer team warned me that sometimes life in the months and years after cancer can be more difficult than the period of active treatment.  Really?  You mean that shit-sandwich of treatment was the easier part?  The departure of my hair, all manner of eruptive bodily functions thanks to chemo, the hospitalizations, the days of having to crawl to the bathroom, my taste buds thinking everything I put in my mouth was seasoned with metal shavings?  Wouldn't it be smooth-sailing, party-all-the-time, life-is-blissful with all that under the bridge?

Don't get me wrong...I am so incredibly thankful for the outcome.  I am cancer-free.  THAT is fucking amazing and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't feel amazingly fortunate.  And, there were some pretty amazing by-products: a healthier perspective and sense of priorities, an "I can handle whatever comes" attitude, an ability to more quickly let go of anger and other yucky feelings, an acceptance of things I can't control, lessened anxiety, relationships that became deeper and more meaningful, and a handful of new and very dear friends...

But, as I put the miles on in between me and cancer, and the months go by, I find myself in a new and weird phase. Cancer reminds me every day that it had me for a year.  My hair hasn't grown back (and probably never will), my brain remains challenged with cognitive functions that were always so easy for me (and that are critical for my job), and I'm still tired a lot of the time.  These new battles are in a way more difficult because people just don't get it.  When you're bald, and you're puking in a bag, people cut you a break. They don't expect anything. They are supportive and kind  But, when it's been a year since treatment and you still aren't yourself, people have moved on and many don't get why you're still not the you you used to be (if you ever will be that person again).  And, I struggle sometimes to maintain the lessons and attitude that came from the experience--all those amazing side benefits.  Not that I wanted to get cancer, but I did--and for that time, I think I changed for the better in many ways...a much more grown-up, gracious and grounded person...and I don't want that part to slip away like my hair did. 

So, I'm going to try to get back to blogging, to articulate the new set of challenges not just for me but for anyone out there who might find it useful. And, so it's not all piss and vinegar, I'm going to use this blog to do a little travel-related writing about my adventures on the "Fuck Cancer! trip to Europe...

Hope you read along with me.

It is my last day of treatment...exactly a year ago today, I started chemo (first phase of treatment, followed by a mastectomy, then radiation, and rounding out the year with 3-week infusions of Herceptin). 

I wasn't in THIS chair on that day a year ago, but in one across  the room from where I'm at now.  One second...I have to give Stephanie (chemo nurse) my cancer credentials before she hooks up my IV:  Helfrich 11/18/xx.  You have to

report your last name and birthdate to every medical professional who touches you, talks to you, takes your vitals, looks your way, etc. (it's okay, it keeps me from getting someone else's chemo cocktail or having the wrong body part zapped or removed).  I joke with Stephanie that I'm going to have a T-shirt made: "Helfrich 11/18/19xx" on the front and "Fuck Off Cancer!" on the back.  In.big.bold.letters.

Looking across the chemo bay, there's the chair where this all started last year. Today, there's a woman in it getting her treatment.  We're part of that club you don't want to really be a member of, but you are--and when you see people without hair, you have a new awareness of what that means.  Sometimes you make eye contact and there's a knowing.  Sometimes that's pretty damn cool.

She's slumped over, a restless sleeping (these chairs are comfortable, with heated seats and vibrating cushions, but they are still chemo chairs). She looks tiny, swimming in the green heated hospital blanket you get tucked into when you're having treatments (that part is nice, I'll miss that). Her hair is patchy and looks like it's just started falling out. I imagine she's at the beginning of the chemo process (I hate the word "journey"...leave that for Hallmark, okay)?  Back then was tough...more days of chemo, side effects, tests, medication, needles, fatigue, weakness, uncertainty--more of THOSE days ahead than behind.  But, today, those days ARE BEHIND, DONE, CHECKED OFF THE CALENDAR...being here feels like a European vacation, pasta, puppies, fast cars, wine, limoncello, and shooting guns all rolled into one wonderful cocktail of WAHOOO.

But, I'm remembering. The diagnosis and my first day at the cancer center.  Stage 3.  Aggressive large tumor.  Difficult chemo regime.  Radiation.  Mastectomy. You will lose your hair.  Give up dog training.  You probably won't be able to work.  Putting a port in.  Better not to talk about odds. Chemo starts NEXT WEEK... I left that day with a bag full of pamphlets and some very frightening reading. I suddenly had knowledge of where to buy wigs and fake boobs, and protocols for controlling explosive, persistent diarrhea.  A whole cupboard in my kitchen was emptied of small appliances to make room for medications, puke bags, medical equipment, and bandages. My life had changed. But, one thing that stuck with me was my oncologist leaning in to me and saying in my ear "We're GOIN' FOR A CURE".  
I didn't think today would be a big deal, mentally, you know.  After all, the BIG stuff, the rough times, the worst parts of treatment, the anxiety around tests indicating results (or lack of)--that's many months in my rear-view mirror now.  And, the great news--that it was all WORTH IT--and I'm cancer-free. (Wouldn't that have sucked...yeah, haha cancer still there, hit me with another round of chemo, please!).

Then Laurie, who has been at the front desk checking me in for every appointment for a year, disappeared from her behind her computer and popped up behind me, with open arms and big hug.  Laurie was always a kind, warm first contact of every visit.  The days I practically crawled to the check-in desk, barely upright in the chair, she made sure I didn't have to wait, that I could find a quiet place to crumple in a chair, that the nurses knew I needed some attention, and was always encouraging and warm.  Suddenly, this last visit felt like a very big deal, but I'm finding it very difficult to capture the experience in writing.

And, having my survivor-ship visit...and seeing all my nurses.  I think a little kid leaving the safety and structure of preschool--but excited about big girl pants and new school supplies--may feel like this?
I'm still recovering and I've not escaped unscathed. I'm down a boob, my hair looks gray and Kewpie-doll like, I'll have cancer in my mind at every screening, and I've got chemo brain. But, I'm okay, better than okay. I feel tough and capable. I sort of feel badass! 

I'll leave you for today with a little breast cancer-related humor (a true story)...
I'm underwear shopping. I'm at the counter, and the saleswoman (I can't help but notice she has very big 80s hair, and boobs to match) asks (perkily) if I'd like a custom bra fitting. I ask if that would work for someone with only one boob. She looks very confused, so I whip out my fake boob (a beautiful knitted knocker) and show her.  
She cocks her head sort of like my German Shepherds do when they are noodling something perplexing. 
"We can totally work with women who have had vasectomies!" she pipes enthusiastically. 
"You mean mastectomy', right?" (I gently ask)
"No, vasectomy, when you get a breast removed." She sounds very very certain of this.  
As she continues to prattle on about how great their custom bras are for women with vasectomies, I am struggling every time she says VASECTOMY not to giggle and pee my pants...
At least I just bought new underwear if I need a quick change.

Radiation is over.  I'm healing up from all that cancer treatments do to your body, your mind, your assumptions and perceptions.  The treatments are life-saving, but brutal nonetheless.

The big announcement:  I'm cancer-free!  Biopsies of the pieces of me they removed during surgery showed no cancer left behind (go chemo!).  And, the latest CT also showed no cancer present.
WFHEW.

So, I've been trying to get back to life.  Assuming more of my responsibilities at work.  Teaching a full slate of dog classes and lectures.  Up to 40 min on the rowing machine. 

But, I still have reminders that cancer has been a very big part of my life this past year.  My stamina isn't as good.  If I push too hard, my body makes me pay for it.  I have chemo brain (and menopause brain--yay both at the same time!).  My hair is growing in but slowly (think gray--haired kewpie doll).
But, I am getting there bit by bit. 

I'll write more soon....

The radiation machine looks like something out of an Alien movie.  A big round lamprey head mounted on an arched white neck.  Within the head, a clear window into its radiation-making parts.  Inside the window, set deeply back, metal pieces click, whine, and move forward and back, side to side, shaping and channeling the radiation into the parts of me where it’s supposed to go. It reminds me of the shape-shifting murderous puzzle cube in Hellraiser.

Every day for 5 weeks the pattern of beeps and machine rotation is the same.   Counting it out seems to make it go by faster and gives me something to pass the time.  I thought I’d use the regularity and structure this daily routine provides to do something productive, like try meditation, or play memory-enhancing games. But, that seemed like too much planning. And, so I count the beeps and patterns. Sometimes my mind wanders as the machine shoots me with imaginary beams of cancer-killing radiation and I lose track of the beeps.  I’ll hear click-beep-whir in my sleep for months.

Radiation.  A word always associated with dangerous and creepy things—with transformation from something normal and natural to something monstrous, mutated, and malevolent.  Deformed humans with no teeth, boiled skin, patchwork hair, and pink toothless children eating unsuspecting vacationers.  Bugs the size of RVs picnicking on family pets and humans alike.  Godzilla and the cast of associated monsters (Mothra, Gamera and the like) tromping all over Tokyo.  The 50-foot woman.  Know what they have in common?  They were all exposed to radiation.  I challenge you to think of one radiation- or nuclear-fallout-related movie that had a happy ending.  Good luck.

And, now I’m getting shot full of the stuff every day.  While I haven’t turned into a mutant (yet??!), my skin looks like a tanning session gone way wrong. It hurts to swallow.  I’m tired (my cells working overtime to turn me into another lifeform?).  Feels a bit creepy.  Especially since every time the technicians go to zap me, they all retreat to a room very far away and behind a 12-inch thick metal door. 

But, this is the last critical step in getting rid of cancer. 

There is a light at the end of the tunnel…but it may be ME, glowing brightly in green florescence.

The BIG AWESOME news is that examination of the pieces they cut out and off during surgery (one boob and a bunch of lymph nodes) showed NO CANCER.  Go chemo.  

I still don't have any hair, my hands are still numb, I'm slowly regaining my muscle strength and stamina, but no cancer.  I can live with that.  Eventually I'll get back to whatever normal looks like.

But, this blog is about nakedness.

Actually, it’s more about lack of nakedness.

There have been plenty of unpleasant, wacky, embarrassing side effects on the chemo and surgery show.  But, one thing I didn't anticipate and no one really warned me about was how completed weirded out I'd be about what I look like after mastectomy. 

Everyone (and all the things I read on the internet and all the multitude of pamphlets I received) talked about how traumatic losing my hair would be.  Not just for aesthetic and self-esteem reasons, but because it's such a daily shocking reminder that you have cancer. 

But, I didn't find it all that difficult to adjust to and have no issues looking in the mirror or sporting the shiny head in public.

But, after the mastectomy, I felt afraid to look at the bandages, let alone what was underneath.  I was wheeled into an OR whole, put to sleep, and without any sense of time even passing, woke up with pieces missing.  

I didn’t want to change the wrappings or remove he corset they bind you up with for support.  I just didn’t really want to see what was there, or not there.  Tom saw it up close and personal many times before I could even think about taking a sideways glance (his calm demeanor and lack of shock helped, as did his refrain from Frankenstein jokes since I had an incision that went from the center of my chest to under my arm).The first time I got completely naked, I ignored standing in front of the mirror.  Didn’t want to chance a mistaken glance.  I hurried into the tub, pulling all the bubbles (thank god for bubble bath!) towards me and covering my upper torso.  Whfew, didn’t see anything I’ve glanced down a few times at it when getting dressed.  It’s not so bad I guess.  But, I’ve yet to really stand in front of a mirror and take it in…FULL. FRONTAL. NUDITY (and how many of you jumped to that phrase before reading the context and thought WHAT?!?!?!). I have however enjoyed pulling out my fake boob and showing it to folks in public places.  I love these knitted knockers several friends and family made for me.  Though, I have to be careful to make sure it’s even with the other boob, doesn’t have too much or too little stuffing…don’t want to look unbalanced after all.And, my new normal now involves phrases like “Are my boobs even?” Or, sometimes, “Oh shoot!  I forgot to put the boob in!”

But, sacred cow did this last round kick the holy excrement out of my system.  New side effects (don't ask, they were weird), the old side effects hitting really hard...and ending up being so weak I can barely get up the stairs.   But, normal and healthy will come back at some point.  Right?

And at that point, I'm going to party, travel, eat, drink wine and coffee, socialize, train dogs, and run proposals like the make-up-caked lead singer from a hard-rocking, hair-slamming, spandex-wearing 80s metal band.  

But I survived.  I friggin' survived.

There were a few things that contributed to getting me through chemo.

• Tom.  What more can I say.  I have a terrific husband who took great care of me and our dogs and who also shares my sense of humor on this whole shit sandwhich. 

• The flood of support from family and friends--from messages and emails, to Facebook messages, to visits while I sat in chemo, to care packages and cards.  Knowing I was on people's minds and that they were pulling for me.  At the same time, also understanding and respecting MY lack of response and communication, my need for space when I needed to just hang my head in the toilet bowl without company, and the crushing fatigue and lack of energy (for anything, including visits and phone calls).  And despite that, finding ways to keep in touch and stay connected in truly meaningful ways.

• The medical team and the chemo routine.  The medical team--from the sweet ladies who check me in for appointments, to the chemo nurses, to the doctors, to the hospital volunteers--were all so caring and attentive.  They made chemo as easy as it could be and got me through some really bad days.  When I first got thrown into the cancer care machine, it was overwhelming, but the routine became a comfort of sorts. 

Stage 1 is over.  Stage 2--boobie removal--is next week.  Four weeks after that, is Stage 3--six weeks of getting zapped radiation every day.  

My surgeon warned me that for cancer patients, the time after chemo, and especially after surgery and radiation, there's still quite a time of adjustment from the mental and physical process of battling cancer.  Friends and family may think "the cancer fight is done" when chemo is over.  But, they don't realize that there's this period of coming back to normal that keeps the person in the world of cancer.  
It makes sense.  After chemo was over, I wasn't in the middle of that fight, with all the medical appointments, the routine--with the tangible goal of getting six chemo treatments under my belt. I admit I've been feeling a little lost.

Now that I'm through what many (and I agree) is the worst part (in terms of side effects) of cancer treatment, I'm starting to uncover a new set of feelings. 

• Elation and a sense of accomplishment for getting through chemo.

• New worries...what will surgery be like and how will I feel about having a boob lopped off? Will that be traumatic?  Will I feel like less, like something is missing?  Will I get a fake boob or remain a one-boobie amazon chick? 

• Will my skill fall off from radiation? 

• WHEN will I be able to resume normal function (and those of you who are thinking "Did Deb EVER function normally?" can stop giggling now). Will I step easily back into the challenges of work (let's face it, I've had a reduced level of responsibility and hours...which has been kinda nice.) Have I lost my edge?  My work ethic?  Will I still have the same goals and desires for work? 

• A funny fear but one that is definitely top of mind....I lost 25 pounds thanks to chemo and that has been a joyous side benefit.  I fear as soon as my taste buds return and I'm not in the bathroom every five minutes that I'll be stuffing my face and will gain it all back and even MORE. 

• Has all of this cancer treatment actually worked?  Will I walk out of this cancer-free?  (That's a big one that I've not let myself dwell too much on).

Thanks for reading along with my meanderings tonight...we've certainly wandered over many different topics.

Just sign me,

Soon-to-be-one-boob-lighter and lit up with radiation Deb

Warning: If you are grossed out by body function-related humor, or easily offended, you may want to skip this installment :)

Do you laugh at 4th-grade-boy-type jokes about farts? Fascinated by juicy details about bodily functions gone awry? Read on.

If you're interested in a candid, vivid, juicy journey through my chemo experience, strap in and keep reading. I'm partly writing this because I think it

will be a fun piece to write and share but I'm going to blame a good part of this on my friends and family--who have had many questions about what chemo is like and wanted to know the gory details :)  So, this is for you.

If you're in chemo or about to undergo it, I don't know if you'll take comfort in my details or run for the hills. I hope it helps to know what MIGHT be ahead--but please remember that everyone's side effects are different based on what drugs you are getting (mine is a particularly gnarly combination of 4 chemo drugs), their own bodies, etc.  So, my experience may be much worse than yours (or it might be much easier...)  :)  

And in no particular order, here are the biggies...

I'M BALD 
"hair, oh hair, wherefore art thou my hair?" (Shakespeare, adapted)
The great shiny bald is chemo's iconic side effect. My hair started to leave me about the second round of chemo.  We'd been together a long time and I was sad to see it go, but of all the side effects, I have to admit this one was not as traumatic as I thought it would be.  Though, it certainly is a daily reminder that I have cancer and sometimes that's a bummer--but it's also a badge that I am fighting and so I proudly go bald. 

To wig or not to wig?  I chose NOT to wig-it.  I don't have hair, and I don't want fake hair.  But, that's just my preference.  So, I have a nice assortment of hats for when I get chilly and that's done me just fine.  Otherwise, I'm content going head-naked.

Benefits and bright sides:  Losing my hair has spared me having to color my hair to avoid the skunk stripe of gray hair that is now my true dominant color.  I'd been thinking about growing my hair out completely gray and now there's no awkward phase of that gray line while it all grows out.

Related Tips: If you have long hair, think about getting a short cut before you notice anything falling out. It helps with the transition from lotsa hair to nada hair (and short hair tends to look better longer as it's thinning out).  Then, when you see it starting to fall out, take charge and shave it off.  Watching it fall out slowly, waking up to it on the pillow, and getting clumps of hair in the shower was worse than just going bald at once and by my own choice.
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MY GI SYSTEM IS IN REVOLT
"It's not very funny but it's very hot and runny diarrhea diarrhea..."
(for a hilarious assortment of verses about the brown wave, check out: http://diarrheasong.blogspot.com/)
My entire GI tract went into revolt about 5 days after the first chemo, and war wages on.  This gets the award of Most Unpredictable Side Effect. The two key players in this coup-des-stomache are Mr. Runs and Mr. Upchuck.  They take turns deciding when to stage their acts but Mr. Runs gets more air-time than Mr. Upchuck (due to the particular chemo regimen I'm on) but they're both fairly constant comrades each round of chemo.

Back to unpredictability.  Baldness:  I was warned my hair would fall out, and it did.  Fatigue--pretty predictable; I'm tired all the time. Taste-related effects--also predictable; everything tastes like crap.  
Mr. Runs and Mr. Upchuck like the element of surprise.  Just when I think I'm done with them for a few days (or a few hours), there they are.  And, I've never had the experience of sitting on the throne and then realizing Mr. Upchuck is about to make an appearance.  As a result, I've perfected the Sit-Spin-Quickly maneuver.

Benefits and bright sides:  I'd been wanting to lose about 30 lbs for along time now. I'm close to goal, as I've lost about 25.  I don't recommend chemo as a weight loss strategy, but it's certainly a bright spot in all of this.

Related Tips:  Keep drinking; stay hydrated. Do as your chemo nurse tells you--don't be afraid to use the medications you've been given--BEFORE you think you need them (lessens or even prevents these side effects).  Before chemo starts, make sure you have on hand (because once The Runs and Upchuck make appearances, the last thing you want to do is make an emergency drive to the nearest pharmacy) all of the drugs you'll need.  Buy toiler paper--lots of it.  Diarrhea makes your bum hurt; get Tucks soothing pads.  
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I'M SO TIRED I CAN'T EVEN SLEEP
“'I must be overtired', Buttercup managed. 'The excitement and all.' Rest then', her mother cautioned. 'Terrible things can happen when you're overtired. I was overtired the night your father proposed.” (Princess Bride)  

If I were to rank the top two worst side effects of chemo this would be one of them.  I'm tired--really tired--a lot. But, I often can't sleep. On the worst days, I sort of lay around for hours, with no energy but not able to sleep (sleep is welcome because at least I'm knocked out not thinking about how tired I am and all the things I could be doing if I wasn't so flat, and sleep passes the time).  Part of this is also not having much physical stamina. A trip up the stairs feels like I've done one of those extreme Spartan races.  Running an errand feels like facing an Everest climb.  It wasn't so bad in the beginning, but it's been worsening with each chemo treatment.  Thank fully there's only one more chemo treatment left!!

Benefits and bright sides:   Been stewing on it. Can't think of one fucking upside to this one.  

Related Tips: As soon as you can accept the limitations fatigue puts in your way, the easier it will be to accept these limitations.  Slow down on your commitments; you may be too tired to keep them and the pressure of whether or not you'll be able to can be really stressful. Have things you can do (like writing a blog, crosswords, or finding a favorite TV series) on the couch when you have limited energy; this helps you not go crazy from boredom.
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EVERYTHING TASTES LIKE &$*%!
"People who love to eat are always the best people" (Julia Child)

I think out of all of the major side effects to chemo, this one gets the Worst Side Effect award from me.  I love to eat.  I love food.  Pretty much all of the three-week chemo cycle, my taste buds are shot.  That means that food tastes bitter, and the texture of most foods is really off-putting. But, here's the cruel trick...food still SMELLS amazing.  But, when you put it in your mouth, you get the unpleasant surprise that it tastes nothing like what it should and nothing like what it smells.

Some of my most favorite foods have translated into the worst chemo food choices.  Goodbye pasta and all of my favorite sauces...one among many food casualties.  Good bye coffee, wine...

I do get a very narrow window toward the every end of each three-week chemo cycle when my taste buds bounce back and act somewhat normal.  So, for the day before and day of chemo, food tastes closer to what I remember it should be.  So, that means 24 hours of binging on pasta swimming in mom's homemade tomato sauce, with a side of meatballs.  

Benefits and bright sides:  Other than losing 25 lbs that I'd been trying to shed, the only other bright side is

that I have learned to love the super health food, the avocado.  Maybe they are so gross to begin with, chemo can only make them better.

Related Tips: Avoid foods you love--because when you taste them with chemo-taste buds, you may never want to eat them again.  Experiment with new foods--things you didn't like before, may taste okay on chemo.  For me, things with slippery textures (noodles in soup) were far more tolerable than rougher foods (like toast).  Also, sweet foods (there are weeks I've lived on ice cream) seem to go over better than non-sweet ones.  What I'm living on these days and what has become tolerable staples include:  Campbell's Double Noodle Chicken Soup, Hoodsies ice cream cups, eggs, Frosted flakes (dry, no milk), and avocados drizzled in sweet flavored vinegar.  
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This past month's chemo cycle was particularly difficult in terms of side effects--so many more bad days and more (and new!) severe effects on those days (I have discovered that it's possible to have the runs, be constipated, and needing to vomit all in the same very toilet trip...egads my GI system is possessed--Linda Blair has nothing on me). 

Landed me in the ER, had me cancel some important opportunities, barely able to get through the work week...just couldn't function a good portion of the cycle.  In fact, today I went for chemo number 4 and my oncologist took one look at me and decided I needed a week's break before they knock me down again (and she also warned that each month will likely get progressively worse...yipeee!!).  Safe to say this month has been one large and unpleasant shit sandwich.

 But, to be honest, I can't blame the chemo entirely.  I've not been taking self-care seriously enough...letting myself getting dehydrated, not eating small frequent meals, trying to push too many hours at work.  But, I'm learning that I need to adjust...moving from workaholic or worrying about things that really aren't all that important in the grand scheme of things to focusing on this fight. And, maybe part of it is I haven't really accepted that I HAVE CANCER and this is sort of a big deal.  Sometimes I'm a little slow on the uptake.  

I know my last post ("Loss and Limitations") was a downer.  And I've been quiet this month because I'm pretty sure that whatever came out of my keyboard wasn't going to be much in the way of sunshine and roses either (and writing from the throne just didn't seem all that appropriate--there are some places I just don't want to take you guys).  Sharing this experience using humor is more in my comfort zone, and I just wasn't feeling very humorous last few weeks.

Not to say the more serious stuff isn't important to write, but I think I wasn't in the place to write that stuff this past month, and between running to the bathroom and being passed out on the couch, I wasn't getting in a lot of writing time anyway.

But, I'm back and I wanted to try to look at some of the bright points.  (and I'm also working on another post about chemo side effects that will hopefully be funny in a gross-out, middle-school-boy-humor, Stand By Me barforama scene type of way).

Okay, and now my list of bright points to going through chemo...
1. With my taste buds in total chemo shock, I've totally lost my taste for things I'd been trying to take a healthy break from anyway and never had the willpower to do:  too much wine, too much coffee, salt and vinegar potato chips, fries, to name a few.

2.  My taste buds have found a love for avocados drizzled with olive oil and vinegar.  Avocados are a super food (we met online when I was looking for high-potassium foods since my potassium was knocked out and I love them now).

3.  I no longer have to fuss with my hair--and I've heard that when it grows in, it might be completely different in a good way--a new color, fuller, wavy...I'm looking forward to that surprise.

4.  I've lost 15 pounds in a few months that I've been struggling to lose for YEARS.  I'm fitting into those clothes in the back of my closet that I couldn't bear to throw out.  And today when the nurse took my measurements I was a 1/4-inch taller.  I'm not sure how that happened but I'll take it.

5.  I've had amazing support from friends, family, and colleagues. I especially appreciate folks continuing to reach out to me even though I can be a real deadbeat about returning calls, texts, and emails.  Many of my long-term friendships are deepening in unexpected ways and many who were acquaintances or very new friends are quickly become closer---all amazing blessings to me. And of course, a special shout out to the hubby--who has taken on pretty much everything at the house and kept everything so sane and grounded and isn't phased that I'm bald and says he won't leave me for another woman when I'm boobless. :)

6.  I have met an amazing team of people at the medical center....from the woman who schedules all my appointments and keeps me organized to my chemo nurse Jamie, to my overall case nurse Alison, my oncologist, my surgeon, and every single person who has drawn blood, stuck me with needles, infused me with chemo drugs.  Just everyone I have encountered has been not only so knowledgeable, but so caring and understanding--and even just plain fun to be around.

7.  I got a housekeeper!  I am very excited about this.  I hired a wonderful local lady to do a deep cleaning on my house, tomorrow she cleans the carpets, and then comes twice a month to keep it all sparkly.  This place was becoming a pit and now it's magically clean and I didn't have to do it.  I'm keeping her even AFTER cancer is gone.

8.  Strangers are a lot nicer to you in public when you're my age and bald.

9.  I get free parking at the medical center on chemo days.

10. I've got a totally tubular assortment of very cool socks, hats, and blankets now (apparently popular gifts for chemo patients).

11. This isn't related to chemo but I'm just so pumped about it--my three favorite hosts from the original Top Gear (before Clarkson punched out his boss and got himself fired)--Richard Hammond, James May, and Jeremy Clarkson--are launching a new gearhead show on Amazon!!!  The new presenters BBC found to replace them on the new Top Gear SUCK ASS and I was forced to give up watching after struggling through a few painfully unfunny, boring, poorly written episodes.  Now I have Hamster, Captain Slow, and Jezzer back!  Though, they did lose the custody battle over the Stig, sadly.

12.  Last week's check-in with the surgeon showed that all four cancer sites have shrunk!  Chemo sucks, but it's working!

Okay, that's a clean and neat list of a dozen items and I'm running out of steam.  If you have bright side to chemo list items, share 'em in the comments!

Thanks for reading...

This week, for maybe the first time (and probably not the last I would imagine), I've really felt a sense of loss and limitation related to this cancer thing.

I think it may have started with my follicles.  Sick of watching my hair leave me in clumps and starting to look SICKLY--in the shower, on my pillow, running my fingers through it, I asked my most awesome hair dresser to just shave it off.  At the time it actually felt GOOD--taking control, doing something a little daring.  It was a badge of this fight I'm on and I went in public the days after without a hat. And, several people said I have a very nicely shaped head and actually don't look too bad bald.  :)

But, I think there were other feelings attached to that that I hadn't really wanted to acknowledge--loss and limitations being the big ones  And, every time I looked in the mirror (which I still try to avoid and I even wear hats at home a good portion of the time), the bald head was a real (scary) reminder that yes, I HAVE CANCER and well, I don't really know what the journey or the final outcome will be.

And, that happened to coincide with loss/inability to do the things that have been a big part of who I am, what I do, what I love, and what drive me.  Things I have had to put on hold because of my treatments and health, and simply because a lot of the time I'm too damn sick to do them or I'm so fucking tired that I don't have the physical stamina anyway.  That's been one of the most significant side effects--that I can only do so much before I am exhausted and sick...errands, cleaning, working, my business, taking care of my dogs, being available to friends, husband, and family.  It's like I only have this much smaller reserve of me before my body whacks me in the face and says "NO MORE."

My dog training business had been taking off gangbusters and I had so many plans for the upcoming year.  My classes were growing, filling easily, and I was in a groove. Suddenly (mid-class session) I had to cancel classes, and I am struggling to barely sustain my limited lecture schedule.  I don't drive that anymore--cancer does.  Not that I wish ill will on other dog trainers (even if they are competitors, and I'm really competitive), but I have to admit it's been a downer hearing about their new programs, exciting opportunities, and new clients (some of them mine)...having to refer new inquiries to others.  Even though my supporters (thanks!) assure me this is a temporary thing and my business will bounce back, I feel like it's eroding before my eyes.  AND, I just MISS teaching and training--it was my outlet, an income, my passion. (though it's been amazing how supportive and encouraging my clients and past students have been about this not killing my business and that they'll be back with me when classes resume).

And my work with TDV (the therapy dog-related non-profit for which I am the volunteer Director of Training and Testing)...not being able to commit to helping like I used to, and missing teaching the clinics (which was really the only thing that I felt I was contributing to).  In a way it's a blessing that I have a team who can take over for me, but there's nothing like feeling like you're impotent, limited, can't commit and you have to give up the pieces you love and watch others take over. (don't get me wrong...I have a great team who has taken much burden and worry from me...I just miss not only being with the team but also those pieces that were my remaining contributions).

And, my day job--it's getting harder and harder to even put in a 6 hour day let alone the minimum 8.  I had to give up my more intense (rewarding), time-sensitive duties.  Sometimes I feel like a drag on my team, a lesser contributor, and it's frustrating beyond all get out to not physically be able to put in the hours anymore.  (But I do need to say how awesome my colleagues have been in so many ways!). I worry that I'm not able to be present to my direct reports sometimes.

And travel...one of the most important passions in my life...nope that's on hold as well.  And, I just learned that even after chemo, surgery, and radiation (which I thought would finish this process next spring), I've got a whole additional year of three-week cycles of drug therapy after that.  More of life on hold.

And, the inability to be there for friends, family, Tom, my dogs...sometimes just too sick or tired to even want to interact. 

I think I had some very stupid delusions (even though I had been warned by many--and gotten stern advice from my health care team that I better get used to slowing down and focusing on getting healthy) that I'd ignore what treatment would do to me, the very physical limitations it would put in front of me.  I'd push through, powerhouse the shit out of it.  Yeah, that's not really been working.

Okay, I'm going to stop whining here.  I told you this probably be a bummer and it's definitely not my best writing, more a core dump...

I think the next one will be more fun--and probably gross in a fourth-grade boy humor sort of way--I think I'll tell you about all the funky weird chemo side effects.  (PREVIEW...yes, you can have the runs, constipation, AND vomiting all in the same hour.  Yes, you can have extreme fatigue and insomnia in the same night.  And, then there's the weird shit chemo does to your taste buds!  It'll be a  gross-out, but hopefully funny, review of the best of CHEMO SIDE EFFECTS).

Thanks for reading...I know there's a lot I can still accomplish and be engaged in this year, and there are going to be some good lessons and new priorities coming out of this process, but tonight it's just feeling like a lot more loss and limitation.

I'll get back on the pony tomorrow...

How this became a problem and what sort of problems it posed is what I'd call "out of scope" for this cancer blog ("out of scope" is my fall-back phrase for "Naw, I don't want to go there"  I use it, for example, when I give a dog behavior lecture and someone asks me why his cat poops in his flowerpots.)

The particular flavor of my workaholic cake featured these ingredients: an intense drive to achieve, a serious aversion to failure, a splash of competitiveness, glazed with some left-over anxiety about having enough money to not have to choose which bills to pay each month and fearing a permanent diet of $1.20-a-box electric mac and cheese and $.50 ramen noodles.  Over time, I felt strapped to the speeding, careering workaholic train--and this train had faulty steering and no brakes.  I needed to get some control or the end probably wasn't going to be pretty.

So, many years ago I sought out a counselor.  I learned that what may be contributing factors to my work drive are two pals called OCD and anxiety.  I was making good progress on my issues and finally feeling in a place where I could tame the workaholic beast without becoming a total bum or underachiever.  There was nice balance coming together.

Then cancer hit and how it plays ball with anxiety and OCD has been an interesting game.

I would imagine if OCD, Anxiety, and Cancer were having a tea party, it might look something like this:

• OCD: Only allow three drips from the tea pot into the cup. Place three sugars in the coffee.  Fold the sugar packets just so, put to the left of the cup.  One side of the table cloth hangs more off the table than the other. Why is there a photo of a chicken on the wall and the rest of them are ocean scenes? Did I put three sugars in the coffee?  Did I lock the car door before I came in here...I need to go check...

• ANXIETY: It's noon now and my next appt is at 2.  What time do I need to leave to get there?  Why is OCD taking so long to poor the damn tea?  Cancer is long-winded and is going to make me late for my next apt; should I text my next apt now and tell them I'll be late?  What route should I take?  What am I going to do about those posters I need to get printed for Friday...oh and I need to get the dog in for a vet app....and the tea pot actually made four drips into the cup, pour it out start over?  

• CANCER: Fuck you OCD.  Fuck you Anxiety. I'm living happily in your person's boob and loving it. I don't give two shits about your mental crap.  Fuck this tea shit.  Where's the fucking bourbon?

Anxiety and OCD have become interesting comeback stories since I got cancer.

On the anxiety front, that's been a little less productive--and not so welcome.  I try not to worry.  In fact, I haven't really pondered at all what the BIG PICTURE of this cancer thing is yet. I just don't really want to go there.  But, anxiety does crop up in unforeseen places.  There's test anxiety--what will each medical test bring in terms of more potentially bad news.  Then there's procedure anxiety (a subset of which is needle anxiety)--the worry over what certain procedures will be like, and how painful or uncomfortable.  And, sometimes there's just more generalized angst over how chemo will go, how it will impact me day to day, if it will become worse over time.  For the most part, the days are okay--the nights can be worse.

On the OCD front, I found myself doing this weird sort of nesting thing before chemo started.  I read through the chemo manual (yes, you get a three-ring manual about chemo and how to manage it), made a list of everything I'd need, went shopping.  I shopped as if I were going to a place where I'd never be able to find basics, like I'd never find a tube of sensitive toothpaste or tissues.  I set aside some shelves in my office for books I may want to read, ordered some new titles, went through my library and pulled some more.  Hey, this is not a bad thing I don't think--I'm preparing, right?  Though, I had to tell OCD to go screw itself when it started whispering in my ear that this was the time (the few days before chemo treatment 1) to review 10 years' worth of personal and business files and clean out 15 years of accumulation in the basement. But, OCD related to hand-washing and germs turns out to be very handy for the chemo game since you definitely do NOT want extra germs in the mix when chemo kicks the crap out of your immune system. 

So, yay for OCD and boos to anxiety!  And, definitely a punch in the nose for cancer.

Not that it hasn't been real up until this point.  Not that there haven't been hard parts.  But, somehow the hair in my hand (and the drain, and all over the bathroom) takes this to a new level of "real". 

I was warned about the hair loss.  I knew it was coming.  But, somehow nothing quite prepares for such a TANGIBLE drastic side effect.  That baldness that seems to be the icon for chemo is now happening to me.

So, I'm going to take charge.  I'm having my head shaved tomorrow.

I really don't know how I'll feel when I see myself sans hair.  I guess I'll find out tomorrow.

For tonight, my hair follicles better party it up because tomorrow they go.

I'm pretty lucky to be healthy overall.  Sure, I've got imperfect vision, some hearing loss and ringing in one ear, allergies, and the occasional gnarly migraine that renders me unable to speak (for some, this may be a reprieve), but who has any business being perfect anyhow?

But I never would have thought my own boob would attempt to murder me.

Then, the "You have Stage 3 Breast Cancer" call came.  It wasn't out of the blue because I was still sore from the 9 core biopsies they'd hole-punched out of my left breast just a week or so before. 

The waiting parts are the worst. If you're waiting for any sort of significant test result, you know what I mean. It's the unknown hanging around like a stale fart with only a vague sense what the fart actually came from.  Was it those baked beans from the other night?  Perhaps the roasted broccoli?  Too many beers?  Not enough yogurt?  You just don't know, but it stinks. 

Once you get the results--whatever they may be--you can start to plan, cope, set up resources, do what you need to do.  But, until then, you're left with nada.  When you're diagnosed with cancer, there's that initial BIG NEWS (Cancer or Benign) but then there's also lots of related tests...to find out what type it is, how fast it's growing, how/if its spread, if there's cancer in OTHER parts of your body.  So, you get lots of tests and you get practice at waiting.

My coping strategy for awaiting results has been to just assume the absolute worst.  I know, not the cheeriest, and one that might make optimists want to punch me straight in the nose, but that's it. That to me is easier than blowing hearts and rainbows up my own butt to then find out it's worst than I thought.  This way the result is always a pleasant surprise.

 
So, to apply this to our current topic, I was relieved to hear that I had Stage 3 (still curable) instead of Stage 4 (not curable) cancer.  I was relieved to hear the cancer they initially found was all there was; none in other bones or organs.  And I wasn't disappointed that I didn't have Stage 1 or 2. 

You may be thinking "But then you put yourself through X number of days dwelling over the worst case for nothing if it's great news?!?"  And so I come to the secondary strategy--not DWELLING (Favorite quote: "Worrying is like trying to solve an algebra problem by chewing bubble gum.") I kept busy. This is not difficult for me; I've always got too much on my plate.  But, keeping myself occupied kept me (for the most part) from dwelling on my potentially worst-case news.  I've always been an exceptional worrier (if there were awards for that...) a good portion of my adult life (to the point of OCD and panic attacks)--but over the last decade of concerted work on trying to worry less, enjoy more, and just take shit as it comes, I've been able to worry and dwell much much less.  Who would have thought this prep would be so helpful in this particular situation?

I have to admit--I haven't cried over this. That does seem a little weird to me.  It's a pretty big deal. Sure, now and then I'll get lump in my throat and I'll feel like a flood is coming. I'm not a crier. I'm more a punch it, yell at it, flip it off, drive angry type instead.  I like humor better too.  I just don't like to cry.  I don't like the way it feels, it looks, it sounds. How it makes others feel.  But, I suspect once I really get into the thick of this, it may happen.

So, I have two German shepherds staring at me with big eyes for their dinners and I've written all of this without even getting to the cancer treatment machine part that I started with (or "what it's like to go from health to being a sick person"). Maybe next time.

That one, relatively short, innocuous word: CANCER.  In itself, the word doesn't sound so bad.  Not like other words.  Bulbous. Gristle.  Lugubrious.  Obstreperous. Unctuous. Phlegm. Crotch. These words sound gross or intimidating; they don't roll off the tongue.  The concept of cancer and what it means...don't you think it should have a meaner, yuckier sound to it?

Anyway, back to the Mack truck.  Yeah, a Mack truck smack-down would have been an easy bounce-back.

You know those 16-story cruise ships that dominate the seas, pulling into city ports
constructed centuries before their worlds could even dream of a boat that big? Dwarfing the seaside landings and buildings, blocking the sun, casting a shadow through the streets, dominating the skyline. Big enough to house zip lines, football-length malls, full-size ice skating rinks, casinos, multitudes of drinkeries and eateries--and all the food, drink, and human capital needed to satisfy upwards of 6,000 party-going passengers. THAT'S what I felt had run ME over.

My little dinghy squished and swamped by something so inconceivably big I couldn't breathe.  Something that ran me over and didn't even know I was there.

A few days after the diagnosis, I was swept into the cancer treatment machine...

Maybe next I'll figure out what the heck a hashtag is and where you find one.

So, for those of you out there who are either two young or sheltered to know what the title of my blog refers to, google "Debby Does Dallas". BUT--don't do so if you're on a work computer, or in a public place where people can see your screen, and don't do it with kiddos nearby. If I've just opened up a whole new interest for you, you can thank me later (and don't tell your significant other it was me...unless he or she likes it).

Another warning about this blog. I wear it on the sleeve. I am generally pretty open. Not all of what I write will be pretty. There may be lots of swearing and I may not be PC and polished. But, I also hope there will be humor, light, lots of off-color cancer humor...and perhaps, even some disco dancing.

So, to keep this one on the light side, let me share some of the runner-ups for ideas to name this blog:

• It Was the Breast of Times...

• Tumor Humor

• The Boobie Diaries

• Tits and Assk Me Questions

• Help My Boob is Trying to Kill Me

• Tits and Bits

• Would You Like to See my Cans...sir?

• Hey Cancer! Suck it

• Dude, Where's my Tit?

  (Many thanks to my totally twisted girlfriends, most from good-old St Mary all-girl's high school for these, including Terry Kennedy Kendell for the name of this blog!)