My Adventures in Cancerland

Dueling Dog-ma

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 22:18:00 +0000

These two churches face each other across a busy street.

'Magic Mushroom' Hallucinogen Might Help Cancer Patients

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 22:52:00 +0000

Oh yeah, man. Feeling groovy...

Study found it eased anxieties, lifted spirits in those with advanced disease.

Nora and Delia Ephron’s Love, Loss, and What I Wore

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 02:36:00 +0000

Jamie-Lynn Sigler

Helen Carey

I've never been a Fashion expert, nor a Neophyte, but today's amazing performance of Nora and Delia Ephron’s Love, Loss, and What I Wore, reminded me that we all notice clothes at some point in our lives, along with their related events. The play's various vignettes are relatable, entertaining and incredibly funny.

Victoria Clark

Nancy Giles

The play's talented cast will have you laughing within seconds of their entrance. No one attending will be immune to this likable cast. Bring your friends and run, don't walk, to see Love, Loss, and What I Wore. The moment you leave the theater, you will want to turn around and return to the warm bosom of these wonderful stories.

All of the cast was gracious and generous with their time, signing autographs & taking pictures with their demanding fans... (me)

Stacy London (What not to Wear) & me

Nancy Giles & me

Now this is a bag!

One Meaning Jewelry & Apparel donating 8.13% of all their Oct Sales for Breast Cancer Awareness Month

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 15:15:00 +0000

One Meaning Jewelry & Apparel is donating 8.13% of all their October sales to the Breast cancer Cancer Research Foundation. This is a wonderfully generous company with beautiful products. I encourage everyone to go on their site an look around.

I met the founders, Karen & Ingrid, and was very impressed by their energy and drive to make a difference. As their motto states, they wanted to create "Couture with a Conscience." I believe they are well on their way.

They developed a unique design, that they have fashioned into different accessories. The design represents, as they explain, "I love you." 8 Letters. 3 words, one meaning. Beautiful.

Every Month, they pick a different charity to donate to. It's a fantastic concept. Let's help these ladies succeed.

Ciao.

HINT FICTION OPEN

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 13:44:00 +0000

Robert Swartwood has posted guidelines for the new HINT FICTION ANTHOLOGY. I highly recommend giving this a shot. There is divinity in brevity. Test yourselves.

Good luck!

Annelise

OPEN LETTER TO LINDA STASI ON YOUR PIECE: "SHED NO TEARS FOR THIS TWISTED SICKO" RE: MICHAEL JACKSON

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 17:03:00 +0000

Dear Ms. Stasi,

I applaud your column, "SHED NO TEARS FOR THIS TWISTED SICKO."

Jackson was a supremely talented, iconic and influential person. He affected and changed music and dance forever. His accomplishments will not soon be forgotten.

But I thank you for reminding people of the proverbial "Emperor's New Clothes" syndrome. In death, everyone happily forgot what they were aware of, only minutes before the announcement of his death: that Michael Jackson was a child molester and sadly, the possibility that he created new molesters for future generations is his real, and disturbing, legacy.

I know firsthand how a molester operates. They can be be talented, charming, witty--and yes, even loving--but ultimately will use those talents, and influence, to find victims for their own twisted and desperate needs. Pederasts will often surround themselves with people that adore and respect them. People that will readily champion their innocence without a clue to their darker side. They do this unknowingly, instinctually. And even though those protectors will say that Jackson was innocent, they have no way of knowing something that only Michael and his victims knew. Something that happened in the privacy of his bedroom, without witnesses. (Why would you need perimeter alarms surrounding your bedroom, if not to alert you of someone approaching?)

Neverland Ranch always looked like a giant Child-Catching trap to me. Everything there perfectly suited to ensnare and delight those that entered it. (I'm sure most knew this as well, from deep below their souls, but chose to ignore that icky feeling the place gave them).

While I'm sure hundreds of kids visited Neverland and were never touched, (and will swear to that) I'm also sure that there were those chosen few who did not leave unscathed. Especially since in a child's mind an adult, especially one bigger-than-life, is the authority. The adult will say that he's just showing them how much he loves them, that they are special, and that this is just another form of love. How easily a child is seduced by their need to be loved!

Molesters have an instinctual knowledge as to which children will make perfect victims. They provide that child with what is missing, be it attention, love, play, whimsy, etc. in order to seduce them.

Child molesters are victims as well, because, sadly, they are made, not born. But everyone has the power to stop the cycle, if they so choose.

You were brave to write the piece, and I'm sure you will be much maligned for it. But stay strong because just as many are grateful you wrote it.

Regards,

Annelise Pichardo

So I owe you all 3 more posts...

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Sun, 22 Jul 2007 17:52:00 +0000

So I owe you all at least 3 more posts, then I will leave the Blog up here for others to read. You never know, it might help someone to deal with the fright that is a cancer diagnosis.

In case some of you are worried about my lack of posts, rest assured I'm fine. In fact, better than fine. Just trying to get back to my schedule (writing in the early a.m.) which is turning out to be more difficult than I'd thought. I've reverted back to my younger body clock of being more awake in the afternoon, than the morning. So please bear with me.

In the meantime, I'll mention a couple of cool sites, that I really love: www.Cheapstingybargains.com
www.woot.com
These sites have been a great source of fantastic bargains, as well as really entertaining freebies. I've used their online discount coupons many times to get unexpected discounts on merchandise I would have ordered anyway, without a discount. I highly recommend it, not to mention the great fun you can have screwing up the name of the site, when you tell others... (use your imagination here)

Will write more soon.

Hmm... Chemo Brain no longer a myth...

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Sun, 06 May 2007 17:59:00 +0000

Here is a great article from the NY Times on this phenomenon...

Chemotherapy Fog Is No Longer Ignored as Illusion

Enjoy!

A

DogsWalk Festival Against Cancer Pix!!

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Mon, 30 Apr 2007 01:13:00 +0000

2007 DogsWalk Festival Against Cancer Saturday, April 28th

2007 ACS Pacesetters Cruise

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Sun, 29 Apr 2007 23:50:00 +0000

2007 ACS Pacesetters Cruise for Web

So, folks, today Barbara and I were privileged enough to take the 2007 American Cancer Society's Pacesetters Cruise. This due, to Barbara's amazing fund raising efforts - she raised almost $5,000 single-handedly (almost $15,000 by our group, led by Erica Mizutani)

It's a wonderful example of what can be achieved when we bind together. It makes one believe that anything is possible.

Today's cruise on the Spirit line was wonderful: relaxing and entertaining. We met so many wonderful people, who not only raised a lot of money to fight cancer, but who, sadly, have been touched by the dreaded C. But it was so much fun. A great day (rain held out), great staff; excellent food and most of all, wonderful conversation. Many thanks to all those that made this possible, as well as the wonderful women at out table.

I'm posting the pix of the trip here. If you want them emailed (or a cd) let me know. You can click on the image titled: 2007 ACS Pacesetters Cruise for the Web to view the full album.

You can contact me at: alphorizons@gmail.com

Thank you again for a memorable day.

Annelise

Holiday Message

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Sun, 24 Dec 2006 18:51:00 +0000

Dear Friends and Family,

I want to thank you for all the support and encouragement you have provided me with, throughout this difficult year. It has been rough on everyone but I made some wonderful discoveries through out it.

I've been reminded of how lucky I am and how many wonderful people surround me. Some, I've collected through the years, some I was born with and some came into my world of their own volition. I'm consistently reminded of the joys of life, most of all how fortunate I am to be here.

So I leave you all with my heartfelt thanks for every breath I take, and wish you all Health, Happiness and all the love you can withstand.

Remember to tell those close to you, how much they matter and mean to you. Don't wait for opportune times, because those times might not arrive until it's too late. Look at the bright spots in life, and don't dwell on the dark ones, because if you do, you'll miss all the light around you.

Greet everyone you care about, like a dog does. Without reservation and with abandon. Don't worry about feeling foolish, we all do foolish things sometimes, but greeting someone as if they were your sun and your moon is not one of them.

I'll be back with more adventures in January. For now, Have a wonderful holiday and a Happy New Year!

xxx

Annelise

Currently . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Wed, 25 Oct 2006 14:57:00 +0000

Currently . . .

My hair is coming back, albeit, with much gray and a Cruella DeVille white streak in the front. The eyebrows have returned; I guess they received the 'all clear' signal. The eyelashes have also made an appearance, although they seem a bit shell-shocked, since some of them are coming in striped (yes, I said, striped) ala Tabby Cat, and others look like a bunch of ZZZ, resembling crinkled Christmas tinsel.

In the remake of THE FLY, with Jeff Goldblum, Seth Brundel's DNA mingles with a fly’s, he then begins his metamorphosis. Brundelfly is what Jeff’s character begins to call himself as his inner fly (and I don’t mean fly, as in the common slang usage) makes its appearance. He is both the person going through the changes, and the clinical, scientific observer.

Since this adventure began, I’ve felt a bit like Brundelfly. I’ve been keenly interested in the changes I’ve undergone physically during this process, -- at once horrified and fascinated. I reside simultaneously inside and outside. I guess, I’m more curious than afraid . . . most of the time, anyway.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

A True Dog Story

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Fri, 22 Sep 2006 18:13:00 +0000

Now, I am posting this, because if is quite a tale. It will warm your heart. It was emailed to me and I really liked it, however, I can't vouch that it's a TRUE story. I'm posting it anyway with hopes that it is.

Mary and her husband Mike had a dog, Lucky. Lucky was a real character. Whenever Mary and Mike had company come for a weekend visit, they would warn their friends to not leave their luggage open because Lucky would help himself to whatever struck his fancy. Inevitably, someone would forget and something would come up missing. Mary or Mike would go to Lucky's toy box in the basement and there the treasure would be, amid all of Lucky's favorite toys. Lucky always stashed his finds in his toy box and he was very particular that his toys stay in the box.

It happened that Mary found out she had breast cancer. Something told her she was going to die of this disease. She scheduled the double mastectomy, fear riding her shoulders. The night before she was to go to the hospital she cuddled with Lucky. A thought struck her .... what would happen to Lucky? Although the three-year-old dog liked Mike, he was Mary's dog through and through. If I die, Lucky will be abandoned, Mary thought. He won't understand that I didn't want to leave him. The thought made her sadder than thinking of her own death.

The double mastectomy was harder on Mary than her doctors had anticipated and Mary was hospitalized for over two weeks. Mike took Lucky for his evening walk faithfully; but the little dog just drooped, whining and miserable.

Finally the day came for Mary to leave the hospital. When she arrived home, Mary was so exhausted she couldn't even make it up the steps to her bedroom. Mike made his wife comfortable on the couch and left her to nap.

Lucky stood watching Mary but he didn't come to her when she called. It made Mary sad but sleep soon overcame her and she dozed. When Mary woke, for a second she couldn't understand what was wrong. She couldn't move her head and her body felt heavy and hot. But panic soon gave way to laughter when Mary realized the problem. She was covered, literally blanketed, with every treasure Lucky owned!

While she had slept, the sorrowing dog had made trip after trip to the basement bringing his beloved mistress all his favorite things in life. He had covered her with his love. Mary forgot about dying. Instead she and Lucky began living again, walking further and further together every night.

It's been 12 years now and Mary is still cancer-free. Lucky? He still steals treasures and stashes them in his toy box but Mary remains his greatest treasure.

Live every day to the fullest. Remember it is a blessing from God. The people who make a difference in your life are not the ones with the most credentials, the most money, or the most awards. The ones who really care are the ones who never forget you. Enjoy this day, my friends!

I'm Okay

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Fri, 22 Sep 2006 17:41:00 +0000

For all of those out there, who were worried about me: I'm okay.

The mastectomy was done on Wednesday, and I was released on Thursday (yesterday).

I feel fine. Other than some discomfort and having to remember not to lift anything heavy w/my right hand, I'm great.

Thank you all, for the sweet thoughts and kind gestures/flowers/food/cards that I've received. (Really. I am very lucky)

As I've said before, I feel I'm an incredibly lucky person. And I am reminded of that everyday. Having you all (those that know me) in my life has shown me that.

In lieu of flowers, feel free to donate to the American Cancer Society. As I've mentioned, Barbara is walking this year, and we are hoping to break some records! Here is her link for making a donation.

Again, my heartfelt thanks for all your support!

xxxx
Annelise

The Dictator

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Wed, 20 Sep 2006 02:33:00 +0000

Since I don’t know if I’ll be able to type after tomorrow, I’m going to be using Dragon NaturallySpeaking 9 - Preferred Version, to do the typing for me. It’s dictation software. Once trained, it’s 99% accurate. Unfortunately, I haven’t had time to train it, so I don’t know what will come out. I know that version 4, which was many years ago, needed a lot of training. This one should be better. Don’t forget, I have an accent and I slur my speech.

I’ll give you a sampling. I’m going to dictate the above paragraph, and this sentence, to Dragon. I’ll leave the entry unedited. I’ll leave you to decide if this is a good idea or a bad one.

As dictated to Dragon Naturally Speaking:

since I don’t know if I’ll be able to type after tomorrow, I’m going to be using Dragon naturally speaking nine – preferred version, to do the typing for me. It’s dictation software. Once trained it’s 99% accurate. Unfortunately, I haven’t had time to train it, so I don’t know what will come out. I know that version 4, which was many years ago needed a lot of training.. This one should be better.. Don’t forget, I have an accent and I slur my speech.

I give you sampling and going to dictate the above paragraph, and this sentence, to Dragon. I leave the entry unedited. I leave you to decide if this is a good idea or a bad one.

Hmm. Not too bad.

Godspeed.

I’ll write more when I can.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Wed, 20 Sep 2006 02:25:00 +0000

Swoon

The Massage

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Wed, 20 Sep 2006 01:47:00 +0000

At the beginning of February an amazing client, and friend, gave me a Spa Gift Certificate.

Over the years, I had given massage certificates as gifts, as well. Some of the crazy fools never used them. Now don’t groan, you know who you are. I would not make that mistake.

I was ecstatic. I'd always wanted a professional massage. I know they are not for everyone, but baby, if you mentioned that a Yeti was coming to town to give me a massage, I’d be there before you could add, “... and he's bringing the Loch Ness Monster.”

I’ve dreamt of this for years but could never bring myself to book one. It felt too decadent; too self-indulgent. Now, with the certificate in hand, I had an excuse.

First, I needed a partner in crime, someone who was experienced at this and could guide a neophyte, like me, through the spa routine. I didn’t want to appear a total moron. I’m not vain about my looks, but I do care about looking as if I don’t know something.

I recruited my friend, Martine. She’s cosmopolitan. Looks like she knows what she’s doing and can navigate around spas with ease. Plus she knows what an idiot I can be. I could ask her stupid questions and not feel embarrassed.

Picking a time became a problem early on. Between my chemo, weakness and general unreliability, I could not commit to a date. Once I got on the light chemo, I realized this was my opportunity, before my surgery.

Martine made the appointment at a well-known day spa. They had an opening. She booked a 75 minute massage for the both of us. I was thrilled. An entire hour, with a bonus 15 minutes! The only hitch was that my masseuse would be male. I had hoped to start with a female, since I felt a bit bashful; surprising, I know, in light of the fact that I now regularly paraded topless at many doctor’s offices, without any shame.

We arrived separately. Outside, the rain came down with a violence that hinted at someone ’s vain attempt at washing New York down. Inside, the staff went about their business, among the muted, scented greys and chrome, unaware of the deluge outside. The new age music piped softly trough the hidden speakers. Everybody whispered. I don’t do well in venues that encourage whispering.

I walked up to the front desk.
“Checking in?” The attendant asked. How quaint, like a hotel.
“Yes. I’m here for a massage. I have a reservation.”
“What type of massage will you be having today?” She asked.
“What types are available?”
She listed the options. I decided to start with the basic. “Swedish, please.”
She handed me a chart. It looked an awful lot like the charts you get at doctor’s offices.

Diseases? Allergies? Medications? Why, this was the doctor’s questionnaire! I checked off the necessary boxes, realizing that, on paper, I was not the ideal massage client. I wondered if I’d scare the masseuse off. I’d have to mention that he was to avoid the port area, and, because of the tube running up the left side of my neck, he’d have to stay away from the left side of my neck and shoulder. Oh. He’ll be delighted. I was sure.

Martine arrived and after we checked in, the girl gave us a tour of the facility. Subdued and tranquil, in a corporate way. She pointed out the TRANQUILITY ROOM. A circular room, with lights so dim, you could pass yourself off as Michael Jackson, Mahalia Jackson, Samuel L. Jackson or anyone other Jackson in your whimsy. The scent of flowers wafted through the air, enhancing the mood. Circular seating adjoined the walls. Various clients, sat whispering, in their robes.

“This is where you can relax, read something . . .” I noticed magazines arranged discreetly around the area. How anyone could read in this light, was beyond me. She then lead us to the locker room. There she gave us soft, white robes and plastic slippers.

“You can change, then go through there and wait to be called.” She pointed to a curtain across the hall. “Afterward, you can shower. We have everything you need here: towels, soap, brushes, creams... Whatever you need." I needed a better body. Did she have that? "Through there is the sauna.” She pointed toward the showers. I looked over. A naked woman laid prone on the other side of the glass door. I guess it was a sauna for one.

Once in our bathrobe and slippers, we walked to the tranquillity room. A moment after we got there, Martine was greeted by her masseuse. She looked back at me. “Bye, see you later!” and she disppeared giddily through the curtain. She was ready. I was nervous.

I few minutes later, Don, my masseuse, appeared. A coffee complected, young man with dreadlocks.
“Hello . . . Annelise?” He has a soft, modulated, accent-less voice. Appropriate for this place.
“That’s me!” I said, a bit too brightly and loud. Fortunately, the heavy carpeting didn't allow my voice to echo.
“Just follow me.” I did, right into a room lit by candlelight. A massage table sat at the center. I was disconcerted by how dark and romantic the room looked. Why that would bother me, I haven’t a clue.

Don handed me a towel and asked that I remove the robe, lay on the table and cover myself with the towel. He turned to leave.
“Wait!” He turned back.
“Yes?”
“I need to go over certain areas that you have to stay away from.” I said.
“Sure.”
I listed the caveats. He nodded, smiling and said, “No problem. We’ll start on your back first. Just lay face down.”
He then left. I took off the robe and got on the table, clumsily turning myself over and hoping the legs on the damn table would hold. I’m no lightweight, and ever since getting cancer, I’ve gained – yes, I said, gained – 25 lbs. Can you imagine? Where is the benefit of cancer? Everyone I know that got cancer, lost weight. No. Not me. Go figure.

The table wobbled wildly as I maneuvered above it. Please don’t let him come in while in the midst of my gyrating, I prayed. Finally I settled on the table, but then had to find a way to lay the towel over my back without toppling off. I laid it haphazardly and hoped for the best. It barely covered anything. Don returned.

“Okay. You ready?” I felt like a virgin, when I whispered, “Yes.”

He arranged the towel on my back, properly, then began to massage over the towel. It felt great.
A few minutes later, he walked over to the side table. A small bottle sat among the candles. He coated his hands with oil.
He began by massaging my calves. As great as that felt, I realized, a bit sadly, that my decreased sensitivity was affecting my level of enjoyment.
Ever since I began my treatment, I’ve lost a great deal of feeling and sensitivity all over my body. The fingers in my left hand have very little feeling left. This came in handy when I slammed the security door over my finger a month ago. The finger was cut and swelled immediately, but I was grateful for the numbness, because I felt very little pain. Now I was not so grateful. The massage felt good, but I knew in past years it would have felt great.

The silence and pleasant scent, made me begin to praddle. Silence, a man stroking my back, candlelight ... Well, you get the drift. Nerves became the name of the game. And, in my current state, as I wrote about in the “Train of Thought” entry, the praddle was non-stop, wildly all over the place, and exhausting. I felt bad for Don, but I could not stop myself. Halfway through the session, Don turned the music on, and got the hint. I immediately turned my chatter off. That only lasted a few minutes. I felt the words desperately trying to make the way out, and although I tried to refrain -- mightily, I might add -- they began to flow again. Poor guy. I think he was relieved when the session ended.

I felt good. I was sure the next time I’d do better.

Martine waited for me in the Tranquillity room. I sat next to her.

"Well? How was it?" She asked.
"Great." I said.
“I could hear you talking the entire time.” She said.
“No! Through the walls?”
“Yup.” How embarrassing.
We chatted some more then forgot to whisper.
From across the room, a middle aged white man, very corporate looking, spoke up:
“I’ve been wondering if I should say something . . . but . . . I feel I must. This is a room for silence. Calm. The spa experience is tranquil, about relaxation . . .”
“You’re right. We apologize.” I piped up, before Martine could give him a piece of her mind.
“. . . This place is for relaxing. I come here to rest . . .” He continued, unabated.
Martine said something to him I didn’t hear. Not as placating as me, I was sure. I apologized again. Finally he stopped pontificating.

Now we all sat in silence -- awkwardly. Martine got up, got some dried fruit from one of the side tables and sat at the other end of the room. I knew why she did it. If she had remained next to me, we would have started talking again. Now I sat staring out, feeling like a chastized five-year old, wondering what to do with myself, since it was too dim to read.
Five minutes went by, then the guy’s masseuse came out to get him.
What does he say? “Uh. I need to use the bathroom first.” All that time sitting there like a stone, taking the time to lecture us, he could have used the bathroom! Tsk. Tsk.

Overall, it was a great experience. The next time I will be prepared and duct tape my mouth.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

PILL-O-RAMA

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 16:45:00 +0000

One pill makes you smaller... one pill makes you larger... (Jefferson Airplane)

“Step right up, kids! Right this way... Come and see the magic pills. That’s right, an amazing Kaleidoscope in every size and shape! Step right up, that’s right, folks... that’s right... come this way... On the other side of this curtain lie the smallest and most powerful tools in the alchemist’s bag. Guaranteed to confuse and delight you. A treasure trove of emotion sure to leave you feeling like a feeble, disoriented, bloated mess. Ah, but you’ll thank me for it.”

That’s how I felt at the height of my pill taking. This is the regiment I was on during the worse part of the chemo:

Clarinex - every night. Helps with my allergies.

Aciphex - Every night. Helps with the uncontrollable acid the chemo caused.

Warfarin, commonly known as Coumadin - Every night. To ward off a blood clot that having a port might cause. There is no scientific or statistical data that the coumadin actually helps, or that without it I might get a clot, it’s just a precaution.

Melatonin - Every night. Not prescribed. It helps me to sleep.

One day before chemo the following are added:

Emend - Every morning, for three days. To help with Nausea that the chemo causes. (Didn’t help, but I took it anyway)

Temazepam - After chemo, as needed. To help me sleep. No Melatonin then.

Benadryl - as needed. After chemo. To offset the any allergic reaction caused by chemo, and to keep my body from reacting too badly.

Dexamethasone - A steroid, on the day of chemo, then for 3-4 days after the chemo, to prevent a reaction. These were usually tricky because I had to take 2 on the first and second day, then one for two more days. I did, however, have unlimited energy and never felt better. I completed many projects on only three hours sleep, all of them while talking up a storm. Sadly, as my body got used the steroids, the positive effects wore off, never to return.

Neulasta - 24 hours after the end time of chemo. Via injection. To boost white cell count.

Tylenol - As needed. To bring down slight fever sometimes caused by the chemo and shot to boost the white blood cell count.

Fluconazole - Every morning for 10 days at the onset of symptoms. To fight off the fungal infections that frequently developed after chemo, represented by beautiful, internal mouth sores. If a sore developed -- sometimes they showed up in the back of the throat -- I was to begin immediately taking this. Since I could never remember the proper name for the drug, I took to calling it, FUKITOL. Close enough.

Antibiotics, various - As prescribed. Usually taken for 7 to 10 days. These were suggested when those annoying sores would turn out to be an actual sore throat. Prevention is the key to staying healthy, you know.

This does not take into account all the various vitamins I was, and am, taking on my own:

Milk Thistle for liver health and to help the liver detoxify; Vitamin C; B Complex; A Multi-vitamin; Quercetin Complex for lung health - prevents my cough; CosaminDS - Glucosamin Chondroitin Sulfate for my arthritis; CoQ-10, for the same reason as the Cosamin.

Now that I’m on the lighter chemo, I only take the Clarinex, Benadryl, Aciphex and Melatonin, along with the vitamins I listed above.

When my friend, Evelyn, went through the same breast cancer, and treatment, four years earlier, I didn’t realize how prophetic her words would be:

“Geez,” she said. (I’m paraphrasing) “The first thing they should tell you, when you have cancer, is that you’re going to need a personal assistant!” Truer words were never spoken.

Thank you, Barbara.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

Breast in Show

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Thu, 07 Sep 2006 14:26:00 +0000

On September 20th, 2006 I am scheduled to have a mastectomy on the right breast.

Now don’t anyone fret. It’s a day I knew was coming and you know what? I am not worried. I am not sad. I have no particular feelings on the subject other than to state, once again, that this does not bother me.

My lack of anxiety have disturbed others though. Like the subject of the hair (see earlier posts) the fact that I am losing a breast is deeply disturbing to some. That I am not upset about it, bothers them even more.

Like my hair, my breasts do not make me feel more female. I’m glad they were given to me, but they are not necessary. They are not an arm, a leg or an eye. I don’t need them to walk or to write with, although that would be a pretty funny sight. I can hear perfectly fine with or without them. They don’t help me to think, even though some would credit them with helping others not to think. I am not breast-feeding anyone – that I am aware of – and I don’t use them to do any housework. I don’t play the piano with them or paint: although if Jackson Pollock, had them, he might have gotten creative with them. I am no Jane Russell. (see right)

I liken my situation to that of a plane about to crash because it’s overloaded. If my body was that plane, the pilot – that would be me – would have to toss something out of the plane in order to survive. Well, I’d hate to toss out an arm, a leg, or any other appendage. What to do? The first thing out of that hatch, kids, would be a breast. You betcha. Maybe I’d toss both. They are simply flotation devices and, at my age and stage in life, not worth risking my life.

Everything in perspective, kids.

Live in the present, for the past is gone and the future has yet to arrive. You only have the present. The now. The right in front of you. If you spend all your time looking back, you’ll miss it . . .

. . . not to mention you might walk into a pole.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

Barbara is doing the Cancer Walk on October 15th, 2006

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Tue, 05 Sep 2006 14:18:00 +0000

I have to say I'm impressed. Barbara is going to be doing the American Cancer Society's Cancer walk on October 15th, 2006. I will be joining her if I feel up to it. She's going to be part of the Juniper Park Dog Owner's group.

Here is the link to her fundraising page, if anyone wants to contribute. I will say, now that I'm at the other side of the looking glass, I've seen first hand all the great resources the the ACS make available to cancer patients. From providing wigs - some say much nicer than those you buy, to research and support, they are truly a wonderful group.

Cheers.

Again, if you wish to donate, here is her link

What Happens When the Train of Thought Derails Into a Stream of Consciousness?

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Mon, 04 Sep 2006 23:48:00 +0000

Since the time that I began receiving steroids along with my chemotherapy, I noticed an increase in the amount of talking I do. Now, for those of you that know me, that may be a horrifying thought. For a time, I subjected those that love me -- and those that like me only a little -- to a barrage of non-stop chatter. I expected that effect to wear off once I got off the steroids. Not so.

The Chemo I’m receiving now, and will be getting for the next eight months, is made up of only Herceptin, Benadryl and a Saline drip. Yet, I still ramble - incessantly. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I can’t stay on topic for more that a few seconds.

As I’ve been told, it’s not the volume of speaking that is a problem, but the way I race through topics. Like a crazed housewife on a 30 second winning spree through a supermarket, I stay on a topic only long enough to demonstrate that I actually had a thought. To make matters worse, there are no pauses between thoughts or subjects. Although, to be fair, in my mind there are.

A conversation might now go something like this:

Neighbor: Hey, how are you?
Me: Fine. You? (So far, so good)
Neighbor: Great. Say, have you seen the gardeners this week?
Me: I think they were here yesterday. (looking down at the front lawn) Dang, I have to weed. (Noticing my neighbor’s feet) Say, are those new shoes? Can you believe all the rain we’ve had? Soon we’ll have to get the Ark out of the garage. Hey! Did I tell you that I submitted an article to the New York Times? That reminds me, did you see the article in there yesterday about the dog run? It was in the City section, I think. The paper is getting too expensive, I might have to cut back my subscription, but I hate to do all my reading online. I’m so pooped at night I barely stay awake long enough to read a paragraph. Have you read THE CELL, by Stephen King? A grabber from the get-go. I should get my eyes checked. In fact, I should also make a dentist appointment at the same time. Look! Bob and Ruth are back! (Off I go, leaving my poor neighbor dizzy and slack-jawed)

And yet, I hear the pauses. But maybe, like the sound of a dog whistle, only I can hear them.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

Is it hair or is it Memorex??? Only her hairdresser knows for sure.

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Mon, 04 Sep 2006 17:20:00 +0000

Who am I kidding? I don't have a hairdresser - that should be obvious . . . I hired a gardener.
. . . And why is there gray in it?

Those Pesky bugs in Technology

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Sat, 10 Jun 2006 16:34:00 +0000

Dear friends,

I think I've fixed the problem with posting comments on the site.

I posted a couple of "test" comments and they showed up okay.

When you post a comment now, you should have a "Pop-Up" window appear where you can write up to 300 words. You'll also see a verification box with some numbers or letters to re-type. I did this to block all the Porn and New Business Opportunity For You spam that was beginning to appear. I thank you for your patience and apologize for any inconvenience you might have experienced trying to post.

Your comments, feedback and support mean the world to me, so please continue to visit. I thank you for spending your time here.

A

New Chemo

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Thu, 08 Jun 2006 13:27:00 +0000

Along with my great Oncologist, there are two very important people without whom I could not do without: Nellie and Patty, the nurses in the Chemo Unit. These women are the most competent, caring and compassionate nurses I’ve encountered. They have a difficult job that on the surface seems relatively easy. To the untrained eye they might seem like overly-trained babysitters to anywhere between one to twelve chemo patients at one time. But in reality, this is a very stressful job that barely allows for bathroom or lunch breaks. Our lives and well-being are in their hands. Here is my process from the moment I enter the room.

I walk in and someone will ask what recliner I’d like. I scan the room to see if I know anyone. If I don’t recognize anyone -- and here it gets dicey, since chemo brain has allowed for very embarrassing moments, where once seated I hear from across the room, “Hey, how are you doing? How did the last chemo go?” These words come out from, what a minute before was, a total stranger.
Once seated, the nurses will ask me if I want a pillow or a blanket, I reply yes to both, having learned from past experience, that once the fluids start to flow I will get cold.
They bring both, along with all the IV bags, needles and tubes. They hook up the saline drip along with the Taxotere, steroids, and Benadryl filled bags. An additional bag of saline awaits along with a bag of Herceptin for later. All this is done in a quick and experienced manner. Once all the bags and tubes are ready, they sterilize the area over the port opening on my chest. They have to be very careful since if the area is not sterilized properly, an opportunistic infection can enter here and go directly to the heart, do not pass go, do not collect $200, since the opening leads directly to that fine muscle.

When they are ready they will ask me to take a deep breath. I do and they insert the needle in the port, which stings a bit, but is not awful. Once this is done, they run some saline in though a syringe and then pull some blood out to make sure the port is clear and not clogged. Then they set up the various drip speeds.
The Taxotere has to be administered though a machine that monitors the exact amount of drops being given. This is a strong drug which is carried into the bloodstream via another drug – can’t remember the name – that some people are violently allergic to.

Before the first treatment on this regiment, I asked my doctor what possible side effects I might experience. After listing a whole slew of interesting ones, some of which I’ve mentioned in previous postings, she blurted the last one very quickly, in a strange muffled and rapid patter, following it with a faster-still disclaimer and a nervous laugh. But I had heard the name of the last side effect: Death. Yup, that last side effect was a killer.

“I’m sorry, did you say Death?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Some, not many, can have an allergic reaction to the Taxotere. Well, not the Taxotere, but the agent (drug/chemical) that it has to be paired within the IV.” She giggled nervously. “But don’t worry. It’s rare. And we test it first. We give you a few drops first to determine if you are allergic to it. If you are, we stop immediately.” I should hope so, I think to myself.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” She added, confidently, more to herself, than to me, I think.
Should death be considered a side effect? Isn’t that rather final? I have a sneaking suspicion that side effects are reactions that are treatable and, some times, reversible. I’m pretty sure DEATH is not a side effect. I can hear the conversation now. “Your daughter is doing great, other than having suffered a bit of DEATH, she’s fine.” Then the mother hits the floor. Hard. Out cold.

But I digress. After I was hooked up, they brought over additional equipment which had never come over to my side of the room before. Oxygen and various resuscitation equipment. To some, this might have been reassuring, but I was suddenly filled with a sense of dread.

Nellie gave me the stats. “We’re going to first run the test. We’re going to give you 20 drops of the Taxotere. If you start to feel warm or begin to have trouble breathing you’ve got to tell us right away. We’ll stop everything immediately.”
“Okay.”
“Seriously, if you feel anything out of the ordinary, you’ve got to to tell us.”
“Will do.”
“Really.”
“Gotcha.”
“Okay. Here we go.” She said. And the drip began.

Next to me sat Edna, another chemo patient. She’s on the same treatment I’m on. She has the same type of breast cancer as I have and the same Oncologist. She’s one treatment ahead of me w/the Taxotere, so she went through this last time. She turned to me.
“Really. Make sure you tell them if you have any strange sensation.” She said.
“You did okay with the Taxotere. Right?” I ask, hopefully.
“Uh-huh.” Nodding in the affirmative.
I sit back and try to relax.

At this point I should mention another lovely thing chemo does: it fries your ovaries. Two years before all this started, I had a hysterectomy, because they had found pre-cancerous fibroids. The surgeon took out the cervix and uterus but left my ovaries intact, at my request. I didn’t want to slam into menopause if there was no need to. I wanted to slide into it gracefully. When I was diagnosed this January I wasn’t even in peri-menopause. Now the chemo was cooking those salvaged ovaries, giving them to me medium-well, with a side of bacon, please – Thank you. I was on the fast track, on my own personal Slip-n-Slide to menopause. And I was feeling the effects. The main one being: Ta-da! Hot flashes. All the time. Now you might think that I hate the hot flashes, but you’d be wrong. I love them. They are great, because, other than the instant bathing of myself in sweat - which is not that big deal when you have no hair - they, themselves, have a side-effect which fits into one of my many famous theories. Let me explain.

For some time now, I’ve been aware of an interesting curiosity: when we come in from extreme temperatures and our body temperature regulates, we become sleepy. For example, if we are very hot, such as in summer, and we enter an air-conditioned room, as our body’s temperature begins to regulate, we get drowsy. The moment our temperature hits normal, we fall out. The same happens in reverse. If we come in from the cold into a warm room and our body temperature goes back to normal, we get sleepy as well. I think it’s the body’s way of giving a contented sigh. It relaxes and exhales a luxurious, comfortable sigh that knocks us cold.

The hot flashes work the same way for me, especially since the vast majority of them occur during the night. I’m a light and restless sleeper. I wake up frequently during the night. A perfect example of this is that I’m writing this at 3 am. But when I awaken and get a hot flash, I push off all the covers, wait for my body to cool down, and when it does – voilá – I fall back to sleep instantly. A miracle wrapped in one sweaty little package.

Okay, so back to the chemo room.
A half hour goes by, during which Nellie and Patty watch me very carefully.

Edna asks, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay, so far. My ears a little warm, though. I think I’m getting one of my hot flashes.”
At that, the room goes deathly still.
“You’re getting warm?” Patty asks, alarm evident on her face.
“Yes. But I think it’s a hot flash. I can feel it starting in my stomach. From there it runs up through my scalp and to the back of my neck. This is very familiar to me.”
“You’re getting warmer?” Patty asks again, this time more urgently. She looks over to Nellie.
“You see. Your hot flash is exactly like the allergic reaction. You’d feel the same warmth.” Nellie says.
“I think it’s a hot flash.” I insist, less sure now, but hoping.
The room tenses now and you can feel it.
Patty looks to Nellie for confirmation on how to proceed.
“We’re going to put you on Oxygen and continue for two more drops. We’ll watch.” Nellie says.
“How many drops have I gotten so far?” I ask.
“Fifteen.” Fifteen? Only fifteen in a half hour? Wow.
They attach the oxygen tank through a nose tube. It feels wonderful. Cool and exhilarating. The effect of which dissipates the hot flash immediately, since it brings my temperature back to normal. Now I’m sleepy.

“How are you feeling?” Asks Nellie.
“Great.” I say, although I’m tempted to lie so I can have the oxygen longer. A sigh of relief travels through the room. Shoulders sag back into normal positions, creases disappear from their brows. Even Edna sits back, comfortably. A few minutes of terror all over in a few minutes. In my favor, thank God.

A bit longer and Nellie announces:
“Twenty. You’ve gotten the twenty drops. You’ve passed the test. Now we can proceed with the regular chemo.

How worried were they? I can tell you that a few seconds after Nellie made that announcement my oncologist came bounding into the room. “You passed the test! You passed the test!” She giddily announced with a huge smile. Then she gave me an approving nod and left the room. She must have been in her office biting her nails the whole time. Whew! Who knew...

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

The Meg Ryan Incident

noreply@blogger.com (Alp) — Thu, 08 Jun 2006 12:41:00 +0000

First, a disclaimer. This story is not about Meg Ryan, the actress. It’s about Meg Ryan, the look-alike. Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t want to mislead. If I should ever have a story about the real Meg Ryan, I promise to post it. My apologies to all who were expecting dirt on the ‘real’ Meg.

Back in January, 2006, a couple of weeks after all this started, I was scheduled for an appointment with Admissions at the hospital. This was a couple of days before my first lumpectomy on the right breast. During the visit, the Admissions clerk took all my information: DOB, allergies, emergency contacts, etc. After that, I was sent back out to wait for the Intake Nurse to see me. This would be the person that would have me sign all the consent forms and take a detailed medical history.

A petite, perky blonde with a clipboard called my name. I followed her back to a small office where she introduced herself. She was the spitting image of Meg Ryan, if Meg Ryan had actually let herself age gracefully, that is; without awful cosmetic surgery and collagen uber-lips. She was maybe 45, had the same great Meg hair and cheerful smile. I liked her immediately, although that would change.

She started with the first question.

“Okay. What are you here for?”
“Surgical biopsy of the right breast.” I replied. “They suspect breast cancer.” I added helpfully.
At the mention of breast cancer, she looked up sharply. “Breast cancer?” She looked thoroughly alarmed. “My mother died of breast cancer. Five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry!” I said. Feeling bad for reminding her of that tragedy and wondering if that’s a great thing to bring up to someone just starting on this journey.
“Well actually she died of the Tamoxifen. They gave it for seven years and it eventually killed her.”

Now I should mention that Tamoxifen is given to some breast cancer patients, usually those with estrogen-receptive cancers, (which I do not have) to prevent a recurrence of the cancer. The new protocol is to take it for a maximum of five years. I guess that protocol was not in place when Meg’s mother was taking it.

“Any history of cancer in your family?”
“None. Not on either side.”
“Really?” She looked up and shook her head with sadness. Her eyes immediately welled up, big and brown. Irrationally, I was reminded of the Bugs Bunny cartoons, where Bugs or Daffy would suddenly develop large, teary eyes whenever they were in danger or wanted something. Meg’s eyes were now exactly like that.
“Oh. I’m so, so sorry.” She said, patting my hand for comfort. “You know, there are great support groups out there for cancer victims.”
“I’m okay. I’ve got a great group of friends and family supporting me. I’m good with this. I’m in good spirits. Upbeat, actually. If I feel the need to go to a support group, I won’t hesitate. But for now, I’m good.”
She looked down at her questionnaire and continued, all the while shaking her head and sighing.

“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“Occasionally some wine, with a meal.”
“That’s fine.”
“Allergic to any medications?”
“Codeine.”
“Anything else?
“Nope.”

She looks up at me again, her eyes still moist. “How are you doing, really?”
“I swear I’m okay. I deal day-to-day. I had my moments when I first heard. But I’ve come to terms with this.” I said.
She looked at me sadly, tsking, tears brimming and threatening to spill. She seemed to be expecting, or wanting, something more from me.

“Really. I’m good.” I added.
“My mother went through so much...” She trailed off. “Remember, there are groups you can go to.”
“I know.”
She continued taking my history. Peppering her writing with sad glances at me and intermittent sighs, accompanied with shakes of the head.

I crack a joke trying to lighten the mood. She looks at me and says, “I don’t think you’ve absorbed this yet.” The gall of this woman, I think. That she hasn’t gotten over the death of her mother, is obvious. The irony is, her mother didn’t die of breast cancer, but Tamoxifen poisoning. I think she needs a support group.

Thankfully, the interview finally ends. She stands up and looks at me as if this will be the last time I’ll be on this earth, as if she is reading my epitaph. Her look tells me she thinks I’m silly, that I don’t get the gravity of the situation, that I’m deluded. All this is conveyed and evident on her face. The only thing that would give her comfort is me breaking down into a mess of tears, babbling about my fears and how - dear God - I’m gonna die. She seems to be sure of it, anyway.

“Good luck.” She says with a large, sad exhale. In a second I’m out of there looking for some sane, fresh air.

Fast forward a month.

By now I’ve had the first lumpectomy, and only two days before I had my port inserted. Now I’m in the outpatient surgical wing, for the third time, to have a surgical biopsy on my left breast.

By now I know everyone in the area. I greet people, as I come in, by their names (this only worked before my chemo brain.) I ask if I can place my clothes in the usual locker (number 14) and go to the usual curtained cubicle. I saunter confidently through the area, making it my own. Once in my surgical gown and shower cap, with my little booties on, I lay on the Gurney. Barbara sits beside me. We turn on the tv to Ellen and adjust the arm it’s on so we can both watch the screen.

One of the nurses comes in and asks me if I stopped by admissions to check in. I say no. I was told that since I had a procedure here only two days before, I could forego the admission procedure and go straight up to the Outpatient floor.

“Hmm. Nope. You still need to sign consent forms. No problem. We’ll have someone come up.”

I’m relieved. The last thing I want to do is travel around the lobby in my gown and booties. I have no reputation to destroy – did that, years ago – but even I have limits.

In a few minutes I look through the gap in the curtain and catch a flash of blonde hair and a clipboard. I know immediately what I’m in for.

“Watch this.” I whisper quickly to Barbara.

The curtain parts and in enters Meg. She doesn’t look up immediately but I await expectantly for the moment.

“Okay... Let's see here... hmm... I just need some information...”

She looks up...
Our eyes meet...
And freezes...
as if Medusa had given her the look. She lets out a long, “Ohhhhhh..... It’s you.” An expulsion of air so long that I almost expect her to fold into the floor like an empty leaf bag.

“Hello.” I say, cheerily.
“Why are you here?” She asks, alarmed.
“They want to check my left breast.”
“Oh.” Then, after a second, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. They’re just being careful.”
She shakes her head. I’m so familiar with that shake by now, that I can not only anticipate it, but have to stop myself from mimicking her. Her eyes are once again welling up.

I introduce Barbara.

“Have you joined a support group yet?”
“Nope. Still good.”
“I guess your history hasn’t changed, then. I can copy what we had before.” A haughty tone has crept into her voice, now.

She hands me some forms to sign. Then she stops what she’s doing to say, “I don’t think this has sunk in yet.” Haughty, haughty, haughty. And yes, a bit of disapproval has now joined the haughtiness. The more she disapproves of my behavior, the cheerier I become. I can’t help myself.

I can see that Barbara is getting indignant now, so I cut in before she says something that will make her leap over the Gurney to strangle the woman.

“Look. I certainly know what I’m in for. It’s definitely sunk in. I’ve done plenty of research and have friends who have gone through this so, believe me, It’s definitely sunk in.” I hoped that would be the end of it. But now, a new tone has set in: anger. The damn look-alike is actually angry with me for not falling apart, for holding off the gloom, for not succumbing to her fatalistic attitude. I shake my head this time.

“I’m fine.” I say.
“Allright, if you say so.” And with that she wishes me good luck and leaves in a huff.

“Wow.” Barbara says. “You were not exaggerating.”
“My dear, by now you should know that I never do.”

And friends, as strange or off-the-wall my tales might seem at times, I never exaggerate.

Till next time, stay well, y’all. That’s a bit of Southern for you – Southern Italian, that is.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo