Me and my wig

Well, I settled on a 50's revival look. June's traveling with Grease and said I would fit right in. Well, it beats looking like Alton Brown (Good Eats) or Charlie Brown (Peanuts.) Wig and I will be inseparable for about 6 months, but a do-rag works around the house just fine. Some people go commando. I'd hate to scare the yard man.

First outing was yesterday, when I met an old friend for lunch downtown. She lost 50 pounds and got a facelift and we didn't recognize each other. A waiter finally figured it out and got us together. It helps to be well known among waiters. They all know CJ and what he eats.

He stayed home yesterday, involuntarily. He lives for lunch, a habit formed over many years of hanging out with his friends while I was working. I quit paying yacht club dues when it appeared that he was running with a bad crowd. Those bad boys drank way too much, and picked on him when he didn't drink at all. The real reason I quit paying was that they wouldn't let me eat there. Ladies were restricted to the room where they played cards. I went in with a few other lawyers of the male persuasion one day after a court appearance. They tried to seat them in the regular dining room and send me upstairs. Fortunately the guys suggested we go elsewhere. Black and Jewish men had already made the cut, long before women. Hell yeah I was pissed.

healthy habits

The New York Times online lets you comment at the end of many articles. I do this a lot. Makes me feel "published." Mainly gives you the last word. Or at least the 227th word out of 430 and counting.
I posted one today, after yet another article trying to relate health habits to longevity by state, with a kicker in there for the number of doctors:
"Just maybe there is no direct correlation between lifestyle and health in many categories. If you get hit by a bus it doesn’t matter how much bacon you ate. As for life expectancy, our grandparents ate much more local, fresh food, walked to town, and never got cancer. Of course, their life expectancy was 42, so they didn’t get around to it. "
This is closely related to some moronic objections to health care reform, as expressed by the head of Whole Foods, that if we just ate right we wouldn't need so many doctors. Now don't get me wrong. I think eating right is very important. After drinking eight glasses of water, nine servings of fruits and vegetables (making sure to get 25 grams of fiber, 1500 mg of calcium and 1000 of Vitamin D) we don't have much room for Snickers. Don't even hint that I brought my health problem on myself. Unless you give me a bite of your Snickers.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

Some mornings start off better than others. This morning I got up, gave my hair a couple of swooshes with the brush, and literally jumped when I saw that my brush had morphed into a big cone of cotton candy. It was as big as a wadded up T-shirt. Sure, I knew I'd lose some hair, but I thought we might have a gradual thinning. I already got my wig, had it styled to match me, and my friends have supplied me with scarves. After my shower, I poured a bucketload of Drano down the drain, and called Anita.

Anita is a retired hairdresser and my guardian angel. She came over and cut my remaining hairs into what she called a "Pixie." If you can imagine a pixie that looks a lot like Charlie Brown, that's it. Maybe this is all that will happen. Sure.

I went to the oncology clinic for blood tests and coffee hour with the nurses and other patients. The subject of euphemisms came up, and we wondered about the words like oncology, cranial prosthesis, invasive carcinoma, and found that we have adopted these terms too. One woman had been to her GP, the radiologist, and the surgeon before anyone used the word "cancer." She was shocked. She remembers telling the surgeon that it wasn't fair that she should get cancer on top of all these carcinoma problems.

When you hear someone say "I hate butterbeans, country music, democrats, the color orange," or whatever, does it irritate you? It drives me nuts. I try to smile pathetically, instead of saying something like "Well, you're an idiot," or "Who the hell cares?" or "Well, they ain't so crazy about you, either."

This was the train of thought that segued, late at night, into thinking about the many worlds of people out there that I don't know, and especially those worlds that I don't know I don't know, and therefore don't think about. There are concentric circles within each of those worlds, of course. Start with a large world of, say, music. Within that are not just genres, but divisions such as listeners, performers, teachers, collectors, concertgoers, directors, producers, sellers. I belong to a small world of folk musicians that overlap the worlds of guitar, banjo, mountain dulcimer, hammered dulcimer, singing, tin whistle and kazoo. Within each of those worlds the true believers favor even smaller groups that favor more or fewer strings, frets, picks, or noters, or combinations or fractions thereof. If I'm not asleep yet, I can start over with the worlds of horses, cars, flowers, art, literature, politics, and go on until morning. Tonight I think I'll start with desserts.

Adventures in chemotherapy

Tuesday is the beginning of Carol's Big Adventure in Chemotherapy. If we live long enough, there are many adventures waiting for us. Maybe someday I'll rank them from one to ten. I haven't even started this one but I think it will be low on the list of favorites.

The doctor promises that I can jump up and go to work after each three-hour session of IV poisons. I'm not planning to go to work anyhow, but I would like to drive home and jump in the pool, have a nice snack, and get on about my business. He's trying to convince me that I will not get the nausea, heart murmurs and immune disorders normally associated with chemo. This is because I am getting his special blend of poisons. He's very convincing, but then so is every snake oil salesman in the world.

The hair will go, and fairly soon. That gives me doubts about how safe and mild this special mix of poisons is. They gave me brochures of all sorts of wigs and turbans. I can't see me in a turban, unless I'm telling fortunes in a gypsy outfit at the Halloween carnival. I see a do-rag, maybe a Harley motif. Then I have to get CJ a muscle shirt to match, with a message on the back that says "If you can read this, my bitch fell off."

The main reason I'm going for this is that I'd hate myself if I didn't do all I could to prevent a recurrence. Breast cancer recurrences can show up in places like brains or bones, hard to find or treat. And at my funeral, when it is time, I want some serious weeping and wailing going on, not a bunch of biddies clucking around that Carol was worried too much about her hair.

cranial prosthesis

The cancer doctor has put the chemo decision in my lap. He did, however, point me toward some research, by giving me some websites that they use. He also gave me some factors to use in my search. Not only do we consider the stage, type, and group of the cancer (small, invasive, and mean, respectively) but also some biological markers that more specifically define my problem. After following flowcharts and diagrams in three sources, the decision is made for me. I need chemo.

Then I researched the specific chemicals the doctor named, and the side effects to expect. Some of the scary ones I had heard about, like heart and immune system impacts, are not there. The nausea is expected, but they counter that as best as they can with drugs given with the chemicals. Four IV infusions given three weeks apart doesn't sound too bad.

The unavoidable side effect is hair loss. I have a (refillable) prescription for a cranial prosthesis. Yes, that is doctor-speak for a wig. Why use one syllable when you can bill for six? Small price to pay, though. Hair grows back, and life goes on.

The Tadpole

The Tadpole-sized object that showed up in my routine mammogram turned out to be early breast cancer. The biopsy the next week showed that it was small but mean, so a week later I had a mastectomy. The surgery is minor if they don't have to take your armpit or do reconstruction, and I went home the next day, last Friday. Didn't even need pain meds. The doctor found lots of fluffy fat which he rearranged very artfully, so I even have cleavage.

Thirty years of mammograms have finally paid off. All this talk about self-examination is hooey without the mammo. I've been feeling around for a marble or a ping-pong ball, and no one could have felt the tadpole, even if they knew better and knew where to look.

Next week the drains and the staples will come out. I'll also meet soon with the cancer doc to plan a future course of action. After he reads the tea leaves, I'm expecting chemo. Having a little breast cancer is like being a little bit pregnant, you still have to deal with it. It's too soon to choose a wig, but I may go with Cher or Whoopie. You can vote.