Finally got test results from my liver scan and it seems the suspicious area is nothing but cysts! Whoooohooooo!
Thanks to all who worried (and prayed) with me for the past week. Must have worked!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Another hurdle in my path
So, had a PET/CT scan last week to "restage" my colon cancer after January's surgery and six months of chemo. Showed up at my oncologists office this Tuesday expecting the all clear ... see you again in three months. Surprise! Latest scan shows a spot on my liver. Scheduled for a new CT scan tomorrow — this one with radioactive gunk running through my veins to give a clearer image of my latest hurdle. Dr. Miranda says it could be a collection of blood vessels — no big deal. Or it could be a spread of my cancer — big deal.
I've tried to keep myself optimistic, at least on the outside. On the inside, I'm screaming "ENOUGH ALREADY!"
Stay tuned.
I've tried to keep myself optimistic, at least on the outside. On the inside, I'm screaming "ENOUGH ALREADY!"
Stay tuned.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!
Not quite yet , but when I'm disconnected from my chemo pump on Thursday morning, I will be free at last. Hopefully, chemo free! Hopefully, cancer free!
It's hard to believe that I've almost finished all 12 bi-weekly chemo treatments. They started March 1 and here we are Aug. 2 and almost done. In many ways its been easier that I expected. In other ways, harder.
Some things I have learned:
"Chemo Brain" is real!
I've known there were side effects. Hyper sensitivity to cold in my hands, feet and mouth; bathroom issues that have made me think of buying stock in Imodium; incredible fatigue. I've attributed other issues — can't find the right word, "(almost) senior moments," general klutziness — to stress. But during the previous treatment, I overheard three fellow chemo guys talking about "Chemo Brain." Sure enough, when I Googled it that night, it's an actual clinically observed side-effect. The Mayo Clinic lists these symptoms:
There are crises, then there are CRISES!
Surprise divorce is a crisis. Cancer is a crisis. Moving certainly has crisis potential. Other things, not so much. Delayed flights, unexpected car repair, broken AC — these are NOT crises! Yes, such an issue can be complained or worried about, then I need to Just Get Over It! The Serenity Prayer has become my guideline for life's issues and life's CRISES!
The health, happiness and well-being
of my kids rocks my world!
OK, I'm smart enough to know that you can't let your world revolve around the happiness of others. But I recognize the joy I get from knowing that 23 years of parenting (soon-to-be ex shares the credit) has produced two level-headed, well-rounded kids. Are they perfect? No. But they do light up my life.
Allow me to brag:
Amanda has had three jobs in the seven months she's been home. They haven't all been picnics. The first was a part-time child care job where she saw first-hand the problems created by a disengaged parent. She came to dislike the job, but she had made a commitment though mid-July and she stuck with it. She's even continuing with occasional weekend / evening work with the family, just to stay in touch with the kids. (Small doses!) Her second part-time job was with a tech start-up. Her dad's and my antenna went up early with her tales: showing up at 8 a.m. at the boss' directive and finding no one else paying attention to the new starting hours; going from "you're one of our best employees" to "you're fired" in a matter of weeks (she talked her way out of that!); and management by threat "if you dont' all ... you're all fired." She started a new full-time job last Friday — another tech start-up, but this one seems to be managed by normal people. I know she'll do great, and I'm proud of her initiative and perserverance in a lousy job market. She's also been a great help and comfort to me during the recent ups and downs of life.
Nathan is finishing up a 10-week stint in a wood-bat baseball league in Ohio. His defensive play has been awesome, but his batting average during the first half of the season was below the "Mendoza Line." After his first two weeks, he blogged: "If there’s one thing I've learned from my first two weeks here: I really better make sure I pay attention in class my senior year because its pretty clear that any kind of baseball career isn’t going to work out." It was heart-breaking to read because I know how much effort he has put into baseball. It would have been so easy to give up — physically or emotionally — but he hasn't. He's set up up an intense work-out schedule for himself (and is looking really buff, if moms are allowed to notice such things). He's showed up for every game ready to play, or cheer his team from the bench. His hard work is paying off: For the last 30 days, he's batting a respectable .342 — including a three-RBI triple to win the Aug. 2 game. If Nate's got his heart set on baseball, I hope baseball works out for him. But even if it doesn't, the lessons he's learned — and taught himself — about individual and teamwork will pay off in spades no matter the life / career path he follows. Nate has been in school or in Ohio for most of my trials, but he, too has been a great help and comfort to me — albeit remotely.
If I had three wishes for them:
It's hard to believe that I've almost finished all 12 bi-weekly chemo treatments. They started March 1 and here we are Aug. 2 and almost done. In many ways its been easier that I expected. In other ways, harder.
Some things I have learned:
"Chemo Brain" is real!
I've known there were side effects. Hyper sensitivity to cold in my hands, feet and mouth; bathroom issues that have made me think of buying stock in Imodium; incredible fatigue. I've attributed other issues — can't find the right word, "(almost) senior moments," general klutziness — to stress. But during the previous treatment, I overheard three fellow chemo guys talking about "Chemo Brain." Sure enough, when I Googled it that night, it's an actual clinically observed side-effect. The Mayo Clinic lists these symptoms:
- Being unusually disorganized
- Confusion
- Difficulty concentrating
- Difficulty finding the right word
- Difficulty learning new skills
- Difficulty multitasking
- Fatigue
- Feeling of mental fogginess
- Short attention span
- Short-term memory problems
- Taking longer than usual to complete routine tasks
- Trouble with verbal memory, such as remembering a conversation
- Trouble with visual memory, such as recalling an image or list of words
There are crises, then there are CRISES!
Surprise divorce is a crisis. Cancer is a crisis. Moving certainly has crisis potential. Other things, not so much. Delayed flights, unexpected car repair, broken AC — these are NOT crises! Yes, such an issue can be complained or worried about, then I need to Just Get Over It! The Serenity Prayer has become my guideline for life's issues and life's CRISES!
The health, happiness and well-being
of my kids rocks my world!
OK, I'm smart enough to know that you can't let your world revolve around the happiness of others. But I recognize the joy I get from knowing that 23 years of parenting (soon-to-be ex shares the credit) has produced two level-headed, well-rounded kids. Are they perfect? No. But they do light up my life.
Allow me to brag:
Amanda has had three jobs in the seven months she's been home. They haven't all been picnics. The first was a part-time child care job where she saw first-hand the problems created by a disengaged parent. She came to dislike the job, but she had made a commitment though mid-July and she stuck with it. She's even continuing with occasional weekend / evening work with the family, just to stay in touch with the kids. (Small doses!) Her second part-time job was with a tech start-up. Her dad's and my antenna went up early with her tales: showing up at 8 a.m. at the boss' directive and finding no one else paying attention to the new starting hours; going from "you're one of our best employees" to "you're fired" in a matter of weeks (she talked her way out of that!); and management by threat "if you dont' all ... you're all fired." She started a new full-time job last Friday — another tech start-up, but this one seems to be managed by normal people. I know she'll do great, and I'm proud of her initiative and perserverance in a lousy job market. She's also been a great help and comfort to me during the recent ups and downs of life.
Nathan is finishing up a 10-week stint in a wood-bat baseball league in Ohio. His defensive play has been awesome, but his batting average during the first half of the season was below the "Mendoza Line." After his first two weeks, he blogged: "If there’s one thing I've learned from my first two weeks here: I really better make sure I pay attention in class my senior year because its pretty clear that any kind of baseball career isn’t going to work out." It was heart-breaking to read because I know how much effort he has put into baseball. It would have been so easy to give up — physically or emotionally — but he hasn't. He's set up up an intense work-out schedule for himself (and is looking really buff, if moms are allowed to notice such things). He's showed up for every game ready to play, or cheer his team from the bench. His hard work is paying off: For the last 30 days, he's batting a respectable .342 — including a three-RBI triple to win the Aug. 2 game. If Nate's got his heart set on baseball, I hope baseball works out for him. But even if it doesn't, the lessons he's learned — and taught himself — about individual and teamwork will pay off in spades no matter the life / career path he follows. Nate has been in school or in Ohio for most of my trials, but he, too has been a great help and comfort to me — albeit remotely.
If I had three wishes for them:
- I wish they would make the effort to build a better relationship. Siblings are traditionally life's longest-lasting relationships. They have this approach to each other that alternates between "sniping" and "ignoring." Perhaps like wine, their relationship will improve with age.
- I wish that our divorce won't cause lasting trauma in their lives. Just because their dad and I are divorcing, doesn't mean their future relationships are doomed. Mark has said he doesn't think the divorce will affect them much. Personally, just because they're not toddlers or adolescents prone to acting out their emotions doesn't mean they aren't busy coping with them. IMHO.
- I wish they will always keep the lines of communication open. Parenting doesn't end with college graduation. I hope they know their dad and I will always have their backs. Yes, we will continue to give unsolicited (and perhaps unwanted) advice. But after a certain age / milestone (college graduation), that advice is given as "wisdom of our years", not mandates they must follow.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Rounding Third and Heading for Home!
Gosh, my posts have dwindled to one a month and this one's overdue.
On the breaking-news front:
I try to listen to all of the Ironmen games, which are broadcast on the Internet. To listen, go to http://www.lcironmenbaseball.com/ and click on "Listen Live" on the right hand side of the page. (Warning: the broadcast goes silent between innings and during pitching changes, so if you don't hear anything, give it a minute or two.) Seeing a few games gave me a chance to connect names to actual players and also to meet a few parents of players. About half of the Ironmen team hails from Ohio and the rest are scattered around the country. Amanda and I were walking out when one set of parents volunteered that the team loves Nate. "He's so positive, so upbeat, so involved with the team. Even when he's not in the lineup, he's supportive of his teammates." Makes a parent proud!
Amanda and I had lunch with my childhood friend Billie and her younger daughter. Billie is one of two school friends with whom I've maintained contact over the years. As lunch was winding down and the girls were taking a powder room break, Billie and I were congratulating each other on having raised such smart, beautiful, level-headed daughters. Guess we did all right! Makes a parent proud!
Who knew that all those years of slaving over jobs, houses, relationships, and life's ups and downs, the one thing that truly matters is your children. When they're good, life is good.
Life is good!
On the breaking-news front:
- I am in the midst of my 11th chemo treatment. After this, only one more to go, hence the headline.
- Just returned last night from a 9-day trip to my old stomping grounds, Ohio. (Guess the headline could apply to this too.) It was great to see my sister, who lives there, and my brother who flew up from Atlanta. We managed to work in visits with a couple remaining aunts and a cousin whose sense of humor and sarcasm kept us in stitches. Makes me wish I lived closer to "family." Of course, the 90+ percent humidity toward the end of the trip did dampen that urge.
- Got to see three of Nate's baseball games. He has played great at first and outfield this summer. His Uncle Ray is still bragging about a throw Nate made from deep left-field to home plate for an out. (Most such throws are to a "cut off" man, usually the third baseman or the shortstop, but Nate's got a good throwing arm so he threw a bullet directly to the catcher.) Now he's getting his hitting in order. Wood bats are different. He's been blogging about his summer baseball experience. You can catch up with him at http://natebeingnate.blogspot.com/.
- Amanda flew into Ohio a few days after I did and is still there, enjoying (NOT) the humidity. The bad news is we were only able to take Amanda and Nate's grandma to two games before the assisted living nurses said the humidity wasn't good for her.
I try to listen to all of the Ironmen games, which are broadcast on the Internet. To listen, go to http://www.lcironmenbaseball.com/ and click on "Listen Live" on the right hand side of the page. (Warning: the broadcast goes silent between innings and during pitching changes, so if you don't hear anything, give it a minute or two.) Seeing a few games gave me a chance to connect names to actual players and also to meet a few parents of players. About half of the Ironmen team hails from Ohio and the rest are scattered around the country. Amanda and I were walking out when one set of parents volunteered that the team loves Nate. "He's so positive, so upbeat, so involved with the team. Even when he's not in the lineup, he's supportive of his teammates." Makes a parent proud!
Amanda and I had lunch with my childhood friend Billie and her younger daughter. Billie is one of two school friends with whom I've maintained contact over the years. As lunch was winding down and the girls were taking a powder room break, Billie and I were congratulating each other on having raised such smart, beautiful, level-headed daughters. Guess we did all right! Makes a parent proud!
Who knew that all those years of slaving over jobs, houses, relationships, and life's ups and downs, the one thing that truly matters is your children. When they're good, life is good.
Life is good!
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Long time, no blog
Boxes are still running my life. You'd think that four-plus weeks after the move, I'd be unpacked and settled in. Hasn't happened yet. I guess I've got a good excuse. In my usual perfect timing, I came down with a sinus infection five days before the move. Antibiotics knocked it back pretty quickly, but not before the infection wiped me out. That and yet-another round of chemo — this one on the heels of the move — knocked me back into last year. Usually, the Tuesday to Thursday chemo leaves me fatigued through Saturday. This time the whole weekend came and went and I did squat. Just opening a box took enough out of me that I'd either sit for a while or, more likely, take a nap. Even Sparky got tired of napping!
I did finally start to feel better by the following weekend, but then it was time to gear up for another round of chemo. The good news is I now have eight rounds under my belt and only four to go. Boxes will be in my life as long as they need to be.
Things chemo, moving and divorce have taught me:
We lived a very peaceful life in Dove Canyon for nearly 15 years. Maybe too peaceful. It was the kind of neighborhood where you pulled your car into your garage, closed the door and cocooned in your house or back yard, rarely to be seen. If I hadn't been an avid (if sporadic) gardener, I doubt I'd see a neighbor for days. So I've enjoyed rediscovering the sounds of life that occur in my rental townhome. Kids actually play outside. Sirens whiz down Lake Forest Parkway. Even the occasional rumble of my neighbor's home theater sound system doesn't bother me. An added bonus: An ice cream truck cruises the neighborhood like clockwork at 5 p.m. each day. I'd forgotten there were such things. (So far, I've resisted temptation.)
I am ready for chemo to be done. My platelet count is low, so every little bump becomes a major bruise. I know I should be thankful that chemo has gone as smoothly as it has. Aside from the fatigue during chemo weeks, my other big side effect has been thinning hair. How bad is it? Let's just say I keep a lint roller by my bed so I can swipe clean my pillow each morning. I know I should be thankful that I still have hair — however sparse — all over my head. At least it's not like breast cancer chemo which leaves most women temporarily bald. However, it drives me a little crazy that Nate has taken to shaving his head. If he doesn't want that hair, I'd take it! The good news: It takes about a third of the time to blow dry my hair these days.
The other good thing chemo has done is kill my appetite. During one of my early chemo sessions, I panicked when I overheard a woman complaining that she'd gained 10 pounds during chemo. Since I'd dropped 10 pounds during the "divorce" year, and lost 5 more after my colon surgery, I wasn't eager to think about packing the pounds back on. Fortunately, I've lost 20 more. Chemo makes food taste differently — and not in a good way. Things taste bland or metallic; chewing is exhausting; swallowing an effort. Even when something sounds good, halfway through the meal it loses its appeal. Consequently, I don't each much during the chemo weeks. I think my stomach has shrunk, so that even on off-chemo weeks, I fill up pretty quickly. Can't decide if this has been the easiest or hardest 35 pounds I've ever lost! Makes me laugh: My good friend Shari has taken to calling me The Incredible Shrinking Woman.
I worried that the move would make the divorce more "real," and thought that I might sink into a major funk. However, it's been rather peaceful not having to tap dance around a soon-to-be-ex. I think I did my grieving while we were still living under the same roof. I'm still not happy to be divorcing, but I do know I will survive. A favorite quote: I can be changed by what happens to me. I refuse to be reduced by it. —Maya Angelou
Back to my boxes.
I did finally start to feel better by the following weekend, but then it was time to gear up for another round of chemo. The good news is I now have eight rounds under my belt and only four to go. Boxes will be in my life as long as they need to be.
Things chemo, moving and divorce have taught me:
We lived a very peaceful life in Dove Canyon for nearly 15 years. Maybe too peaceful. It was the kind of neighborhood where you pulled your car into your garage, closed the door and cocooned in your house or back yard, rarely to be seen. If I hadn't been an avid (if sporadic) gardener, I doubt I'd see a neighbor for days. So I've enjoyed rediscovering the sounds of life that occur in my rental townhome. Kids actually play outside. Sirens whiz down Lake Forest Parkway. Even the occasional rumble of my neighbor's home theater sound system doesn't bother me. An added bonus: An ice cream truck cruises the neighborhood like clockwork at 5 p.m. each day. I'd forgotten there were such things. (So far, I've resisted temptation.)
I am ready for chemo to be done. My platelet count is low, so every little bump becomes a major bruise. I know I should be thankful that chemo has gone as smoothly as it has. Aside from the fatigue during chemo weeks, my other big side effect has been thinning hair. How bad is it? Let's just say I keep a lint roller by my bed so I can swipe clean my pillow each morning. I know I should be thankful that I still have hair — however sparse — all over my head. At least it's not like breast cancer chemo which leaves most women temporarily bald. However, it drives me a little crazy that Nate has taken to shaving his head. If he doesn't want that hair, I'd take it! The good news: It takes about a third of the time to blow dry my hair these days.
The other good thing chemo has done is kill my appetite. During one of my early chemo sessions, I panicked when I overheard a woman complaining that she'd gained 10 pounds during chemo. Since I'd dropped 10 pounds during the "divorce" year, and lost 5 more after my colon surgery, I wasn't eager to think about packing the pounds back on. Fortunately, I've lost 20 more. Chemo makes food taste differently — and not in a good way. Things taste bland or metallic; chewing is exhausting; swallowing an effort. Even when something sounds good, halfway through the meal it loses its appeal. Consequently, I don't each much during the chemo weeks. I think my stomach has shrunk, so that even on off-chemo weeks, I fill up pretty quickly. Can't decide if this has been the easiest or hardest 35 pounds I've ever lost! Makes me laugh: My good friend Shari has taken to calling me The Incredible Shrinking Woman.
I worried that the move would make the divorce more "real," and thought that I might sink into a major funk. However, it's been rather peaceful not having to tap dance around a soon-to-be-ex. I think I did my grieving while we were still living under the same roof. I'm still not happy to be divorcing, but I do know I will survive. A favorite quote: I can be changed by what happens to me. I refuse to be reduced by it. —Maya Angelou
Back to my boxes.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Too much stuff
The world did not end on May 21, as predicted by apocalyptic Christian broadcaster Harold Camping. I would have been royally pissed if I did all that packing and moving, only to have the world end the day after my big move. Thankfully, it didn't. (Although, as I look around at these stacks boxes and jumbled rooms, the end of the world does hold a certain allure.)
So, the big moving day has come and gone and I have way too much stuff. Despite what felt like a major purge that included a garage sale, much paper shredding, many, many, many charitable donations, and a huge storage space, downsizing from a 3400-square foot house into a 1500-square-foot townhome has convinced me that 10 pounts of s--- won't fit in a 5-pound bag. Fortunately, one of our first pieces of mail was from another charity seeking donations. As I unpack, I've already started a pile of things I was crazy to move. The purge continues.
Even after an exhausting day, it was amusing to watch five grown men try to squeeze a 34-inch wide refrigerator through a 30-inch wide doorway. From our view on the patio, Amanda and I could clearly see the fridge wouldn't fit without removing the doors. Still, they persisted, each mover offering what he thought would be the magic maneuver to make it fit. Thirty minutes later, they took the doors off and squeezed the fridge in the house.
This move would not have happened without tremendous help from Amanda and Nathan, who each did yeoman's work, most of it without complaint. Off to a slow start, soon-to-be-ex Mark even came through in the end. My Realtor friend Grace put in countless hours hauling me around over the last year as I struggled to picture myself in a different place. My friend Maggie pitched in with numerous packing and hauling tasks. She even had a great idea for arranging furniture in the new place. Other friends who pitched in included my long-time buddy Shari, my bookstore partner Denise, my (long-ago) walking buddy Martha and her husband Bill. Amanda's friend Ashley and Nathan's friend Alex also came to my aid. Even the friends who didn't physically pitch in gave much needed moral support along the way. Nothing like a life crisis (or two) to help you figure out who your friends are. Thank you every one!!!
Back to boxes ...
So, the big moving day has come and gone and I have way too much stuff. Despite what felt like a major purge that included a garage sale, much paper shredding, many, many, many charitable donations, and a huge storage space, downsizing from a 3400-square foot house into a 1500-square-foot townhome has convinced me that 10 pounts of s--- won't fit in a 5-pound bag. Fortunately, one of our first pieces of mail was from another charity seeking donations. As I unpack, I've already started a pile of things I was crazy to move. The purge continues.
Even after an exhausting day, it was amusing to watch five grown men try to squeeze a 34-inch wide refrigerator through a 30-inch wide doorway. From our view on the patio, Amanda and I could clearly see the fridge wouldn't fit without removing the doors. Still, they persisted, each mover offering what he thought would be the magic maneuver to make it fit. Thirty minutes later, they took the doors off and squeezed the fridge in the house.
This move would not have happened without tremendous help from Amanda and Nathan, who each did yeoman's work, most of it without complaint. Off to a slow start, soon-to-be-ex Mark even came through in the end. My Realtor friend Grace put in countless hours hauling me around over the last year as I struggled to picture myself in a different place. My friend Maggie pitched in with numerous packing and hauling tasks. She even had a great idea for arranging furniture in the new place. Other friends who pitched in included my long-time buddy Shari, my bookstore partner Denise, my (long-ago) walking buddy Martha and her husband Bill. Amanda's friend Ashley and Nathan's friend Alex also came to my aid. Even the friends who didn't physically pitch in gave much needed moral support along the way. Nothing like a life crisis (or two) to help you figure out who your friends are. Thank you every one!!!
Back to boxes ...
Monday, May 9, 2011
Moving on, literally and figuratively
My house looks like it's been ransacked, but packing does that to you. The sale of our house of nearly 14 years is proceeding smoothly with closing scheduled for May 20. (We'll have 3 days after that to vacate the premises.) Amanda and I spent lots of time looking at rental options on realtor.com and, with the help of my Realtor friend Grace, we settled on a townhouse in Lake Forest, about 20 minutes from here. Now that we have a new place lined up, everything else seems so much more real.
The owner has been nice enough to allow us patio access before the lease even starts, so we've made several trips over with my multitude of potted plants, plant stands and assorted tables and chairs. After decades of gardening in yards where the work is never done, I'm looking forward to "container" gardening where I might actually get everything looking good and be able to relax and enjoy the outdoor space without thinking: "There's another flower bed that needs weeding or planting."
Nathan's home for three weeks, so I have some muscle at my disposal. Typical Nathan, he called me Thursday afternoon on his way to the airport in Longview, Texas. He was 15 minutes away for a flight that was leaving in 20 minutes. Arrrrrgh. Actually, the Longview airport is so small that he had a slight chance of still making the flight. But, alas, the doors to the plane were closed so he had to bunk in with a friend and fly out Friday. It's good to have him home and if he ever stands still long enough, I want to measure his height. I swear he's taller than 6-foot-3.
Nathan was one of my concerns in rental house hunting. He'll hardly be in California for the coming year (summer in Ohio playing in a wood-bat league and then his final year of college in Texas). Amanda and I could have made due with a two-bedroom, but I wanted him to have "a space to call home." The townhouse has four bedrooms (tiny, tiny, tiny), so even Sparky gets a room!
Mark is "too busy" to find a place, so he's opting to live in a hotel for the coming year. With rents so high in California and his company's corporate discount at this hotel, it makes sense financially. Personally, I think it's strange, but I keep reminding myself I don't (pick your verb) get to / have to / need to manage his life anymore.
Chemo looms tomorrow — my sixth of 12 treatments — so the rest of the week will be wiped out. Hopefully by the weekend when the lease starts, I'll rally and be able to make a few trips over with lamps, pictures and other assorted stuff that's too hard to pack up for movers to handle. I've got some friends lined up to make some car trips and once my "stuff" starts to occupy my new space, a new page will be turned in my life.
One wrinkle: A few weeks ago, I rolled over to sleep on my stomach and felt a lumpy thing in my abdomen. Lumpy things are scary when you already have cancer. I mentioned it to my oncologist, who felt it and decided to order an ultrasound. (The ultrasound experience may be a blog entry of its own titled: "What's wrong with medicine today.") Anyway, best thinking is it's a seroma, which is "a pocket of clear serous fluid that sometimes develops in the body after surgery. When small blood vessels are ruptured, blood plasma can seep out; inflammation caused by dying injured cells also contributes to the fluid." (Thank you, Wikipedia.) This apparently has been developing since my January colon resection surgery. In the short term, it means a trip to my surgeon, Dr. Shaver, for a look-see on Thursday. In the long term, it could mean needle aspiration of the fluid or surgery to place a drain in my gut. Neither one sounds like fun, but at least no one is thinking it's a new tumor. Just one more hurdle on my road back to health.
The owner has been nice enough to allow us patio access before the lease even starts, so we've made several trips over with my multitude of potted plants, plant stands and assorted tables and chairs. After decades of gardening in yards where the work is never done, I'm looking forward to "container" gardening where I might actually get everything looking good and be able to relax and enjoy the outdoor space without thinking: "There's another flower bed that needs weeding or planting."
Nathan's home for three weeks, so I have some muscle at my disposal. Typical Nathan, he called me Thursday afternoon on his way to the airport in Longview, Texas. He was 15 minutes away for a flight that was leaving in 20 minutes. Arrrrrgh. Actually, the Longview airport is so small that he had a slight chance of still making the flight. But, alas, the doors to the plane were closed so he had to bunk in with a friend and fly out Friday. It's good to have him home and if he ever stands still long enough, I want to measure his height. I swear he's taller than 6-foot-3.
Nathan was one of my concerns in rental house hunting. He'll hardly be in California for the coming year (summer in Ohio playing in a wood-bat league and then his final year of college in Texas). Amanda and I could have made due with a two-bedroom, but I wanted him to have "a space to call home." The townhouse has four bedrooms (tiny, tiny, tiny), so even Sparky gets a room!
Mark is "too busy" to find a place, so he's opting to live in a hotel for the coming year. With rents so high in California and his company's corporate discount at this hotel, it makes sense financially. Personally, I think it's strange, but I keep reminding myself I don't (pick your verb) get to / have to / need to manage his life anymore.
Chemo looms tomorrow — my sixth of 12 treatments — so the rest of the week will be wiped out. Hopefully by the weekend when the lease starts, I'll rally and be able to make a few trips over with lamps, pictures and other assorted stuff that's too hard to pack up for movers to handle. I've got some friends lined up to make some car trips and once my "stuff" starts to occupy my new space, a new page will be turned in my life.
One wrinkle: A few weeks ago, I rolled over to sleep on my stomach and felt a lumpy thing in my abdomen. Lumpy things are scary when you already have cancer. I mentioned it to my oncologist, who felt it and decided to order an ultrasound. (The ultrasound experience may be a blog entry of its own titled: "What's wrong with medicine today.") Anyway, best thinking is it's a seroma, which is "a pocket of clear serous fluid that sometimes develops in the body after surgery. When small blood vessels are ruptured, blood plasma can seep out; inflammation caused by dying injured cells also contributes to the fluid." (Thank you, Wikipedia.) This apparently has been developing since my January colon resection surgery. In the short term, it means a trip to my surgeon, Dr. Shaver, for a look-see on Thursday. In the long term, it could mean needle aspiration of the fluid or surgery to place a drain in my gut. Neither one sounds like fun, but at least no one is thinking it's a new tumor. Just one more hurdle on my road back to health.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Progress on the home front
Finally have some solid news to report on the house-for-sale front. We are 'in escrow" ... as in, someone made an offer, we accepted and now we're working on things like termite and home inspections. Sadly, or ironically, this offer is lower than one we received before the home went into the multiple listing service last October. Our realtor and a couple agents showed the house a few times while we were finishing our "spruce up" tweaks. We had a verbal offer that was $25K higher than where we ended up, but considerably lower than what we were asking. We turned it down, thinking "Geez, we're getting offers and the house isn't even listed yet." Fools, we. We also had a low-ball offer — more of an insult — on Christmas Eve, which we rejected. It's not the greatest offer, but it is time to move on with my life.
I have another chemo under my belt — my fourth, making me one third of the way done. This week's chemo went as quickly the previous one, so it looks like my port fix is permanent. The bad news is the chemo weeks wipe me out. It's incredible that I can awake from a night's sleep, be somewhat active for an hour or two, and then need a nap. This is going to complicate packing! Thankfully, some very dear friends have offered to help — and I'll be taking them up on it.
Baby Girl got a new car this week — a Honda Insight (hybrid)! They are rare and hard to come by because they are built in Japan and we all know what's happening there recently. Our local dealer got one in with a navigation system and bluetooth, which Amanda wanted. She test drove it on a Friday. After Tuesday's chemo, we took a couple written offers from other dealers (out of our area), but the local dealer wouldn't budge on pricing. Looked like we were going to have to make a drive to Temecula to get her the car. Surprise, the next morning our local dealer called was willing to negotiate. We met nearly in the middle, so it was worth it to "shop local" and get the purchase made without having to drive all over SoCal.
Today we took a load of Christmas stuff — we have ALOT of Christmas stuff — and stored it temporarily in Mark's boss's unused second floor office space. Mark's boss, a former neighbor of ours, is allowing us to use the space to store the stuff we don't need to deal with immediately, which should make divvying up the household and moving into two places somewhat easier. We'll be storing other stuff there that we can't sort quickly, as well as stuff we probably will try to sell once we get settled in new places. Going from a 3500-square foot five-bedroom house with a loft into two condos or apartments isn't going to be easy.
Had some sad news this week. Fred Turner, the sports editor of the Sun Sentinel in Fort Lauderdale, passed away on Monday. Fred was the one who hired Mark in Fort Lauderdale, where I had been working for five years. Because Mark and I happened to be from NE Ohio, we hit it off and the rest, as they say, is history. Even though Mark and I won't be riding off into the sunset together, we did manage to create and raise two wonderful kids during our 22+ year marriage. Without Fred, I wouldn't have the two best things in my life. So, thanks friend. Rest in peace.
I have another chemo under my belt — my fourth, making me one third of the way done. This week's chemo went as quickly the previous one, so it looks like my port fix is permanent. The bad news is the chemo weeks wipe me out. It's incredible that I can awake from a night's sleep, be somewhat active for an hour or two, and then need a nap. This is going to complicate packing! Thankfully, some very dear friends have offered to help — and I'll be taking them up on it.
Baby Girl got a new car this week — a Honda Insight (hybrid)! They are rare and hard to come by because they are built in Japan and we all know what's happening there recently. Our local dealer got one in with a navigation system and bluetooth, which Amanda wanted. She test drove it on a Friday. After Tuesday's chemo, we took a couple written offers from other dealers (out of our area), but the local dealer wouldn't budge on pricing. Looked like we were going to have to make a drive to Temecula to get her the car. Surprise, the next morning our local dealer called was willing to negotiate. We met nearly in the middle, so it was worth it to "shop local" and get the purchase made without having to drive all over SoCal.
Today we took a load of Christmas stuff — we have ALOT of Christmas stuff — and stored it temporarily in Mark's boss's unused second floor office space. Mark's boss, a former neighbor of ours, is allowing us to use the space to store the stuff we don't need to deal with immediately, which should make divvying up the household and moving into two places somewhat easier. We'll be storing other stuff there that we can't sort quickly, as well as stuff we probably will try to sell once we get settled in new places. Going from a 3500-square foot five-bedroom house with a loft into two condos or apartments isn't going to be easy.
Had some sad news this week. Fred Turner, the sports editor of the Sun Sentinel in Fort Lauderdale, passed away on Monday. Fred was the one who hired Mark in Fort Lauderdale, where I had been working for five years. Because Mark and I happened to be from NE Ohio, we hit it off and the rest, as they say, is history. Even though Mark and I won't be riding off into the sunset together, we did manage to create and raise two wonderful kids during our 22+ year marriage. Without Fred, I wouldn't have the two best things in my life. So, thanks friend. Rest in peace.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
So much for an "off week"
This was supposed to be my good week, the week between chemo treatments when cancer moved to the back burner and I felt human again. I did feel human, but cancer still had a starring role.
On Monday, I had to go in for a dye test to see what was happening with my recalcitrant chemo port. The port disc is the size of a quarter and sits below the skin in my upper left chest. A tube running off to the side of the disc is supposed to feed directly into large vein. In my case, the tube makes a complete loop around the port, before feeding into the vein. This is probably what's making the chemo treatments so sluggish and time consuming.
"Never seen that before," said Dr. K, who did the dye test. From there, it was a series of phone calls to convey the test results and schedule to surgery to fix the port. So, Monday I'll be going under the knife again to, most likely, get a new port. Because chemo's supposed to start the next day, the surgeon will place the chemo needle during surgery so it's in place for Tuesday's third round of chemo.
Not a major complication, by any means, but enough aggravation to be depressing. How depressing? I spent 45 minutes wandering a department store's super sale with a 30 percent off coupon in my pocket and couldn't find a thing to buy. That's just not like me.
On Monday, I had to go in for a dye test to see what was happening with my recalcitrant chemo port. The port disc is the size of a quarter and sits below the skin in my upper left chest. A tube running off to the side of the disc is supposed to feed directly into large vein. In my case, the tube makes a complete loop around the port, before feeding into the vein. This is probably what's making the chemo treatments so sluggish and time consuming.
"Never seen that before," said Dr. K, who did the dye test. From there, it was a series of phone calls to convey the test results and schedule to surgery to fix the port. So, Monday I'll be going under the knife again to, most likely, get a new port. Because chemo's supposed to start the next day, the surgeon will place the chemo needle during surgery so it's in place for Tuesday's third round of chemo.
Not a major complication, by any means, but enough aggravation to be depressing. How depressing? I spent 45 minutes wandering a department store's super sale with a 30 percent off coupon in my pocket and couldn't find a thing to buy. That's just not like me.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Nothing's ever easy!
My chemo port is misbehaving. Today, it would give no blood (so I had to have a stick in the arm), and unless I was flat on my back, the chemo drip slowed to a random drop every few seconds. Normally, being told to lie down would be music to my ears. However, even good things like recliners have their limits and two hours flat on my back is mine.
Phyllis pointed out that a gentleman who was getting the exact same chemo as me started a half hour after I did and finished a half hour ago. I still have 800 ml to go, plus another smaller bag of something else after that. I've already been here four hours!
So the next adventure in my treatment will be next week (my "off" week) to get some dye injected into the port so that any problems in my line will be visible. Phyllis says I may need a new chemo port, which probably means another surgery. But if it speeds things along, it will be worth it.
Phyllis pointed out that a gentleman who was getting the exact same chemo as me started a half hour after I did and finished a half hour ago. I still have 800 ml to go, plus another smaller bag of something else after that. I've already been here four hours!
So the next adventure in my treatment will be next week (my "off" week) to get some dye injected into the port so that any problems in my line will be visible. Phyllis says I may need a new chemo port, which probably means another surgery. But if it speeds things along, it will be worth it.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Chemo: 1 down, 25 to go; er, make that 1 down, 12 to go; oops, 1 down, 11 to go!
I always have been math challenged. Somehow, when they said six month's of chemo, I divided the 52 weeks in a year in half, and figured I had 26 treatments. Amanda was driving me home after my first treatment and I was filling in a friend via phone: "So, I've got 1 down and 25 more to go." Amanda said: "WHAT?" and pointed out the fallacy in my calculations. I had totally overlooked the fact that my treatments would be every other week, thereby cutting 26 in half. What a relief! I'd gone from mentally preparing for 26 treatments and, in the blink of an eye, it had been cut to 13! Two days later, when I related that story to my chemo nurse Phyllis as she disconnected me from my pump, she gave me even more good news. "Actually, six months of chemo is only 12 sessions. You've just got 11 left!"
So, I've survived my first chemo experience. It began with nurses complaining about my chemo port placement. Seems instead of surgically placing it in a "pocket" with the incision above the device, mine had been placed so that the tender five-day old incision ran directly over the membrane nurses need to access to get the poison flowing. There was much hemming and hawing as two nurses tried to determine exactly where to stick the needle. (Have I mentioned how much I love getting stuck with needles?) In fact, when the port was first described to me, I envisioned it as more of an IV hookup that permanently hung outside my body for easy, needle-poke free access. I think I was confusing a chemo port with a PICC Line.
Anyway, lucky for me, it was a one-stick wonder and the only remaining concern seemed to be positioning me to maximize the flow. Amanda was my chemo buddy and kept me company for the nearly four-hour process. There were at least a dozen chemo patients in the room; some younger, some older; some with buddies, some alone; some sleeping, some chatting. Not everyone's chemo is the same length, so some came and went while I was there; others were there when I arrived and still there when I left. (Note to self: Pick a better chair next time. My recliner partially blocked the doorway to the nurses station so I was constantly pulling up my legs trying to get out of the way of passing nurses.)
I expected some "momentous occasion" feelings, but none came so I passed the time reading magazines, snoozing, people-watching, eaves-dropping and chatting with Amanda. The side effects kicked in later that day. They warned me about hyper sensitivity to cold and that happened with my first drink of water. The sensation was akin to dipping your foot in a too-cold pool. Only it was happening inside my mouth and throat. It wasn't painful, like a ice-cream brain freeze, just jarring. The next side effect happened at home when I carried a Diet Coke in from the garage fridge to my dresser. Halfway there, it felt like pins and needles were shooting into my finger tips. Sort of like accidentally shocking yourself. Or like having a hand or foot fall asleep. Thankfully, the sensation stopped as soon as I put the can down.
They start you off with anti-nausea medication — and it worked for me. The in-office portion of the chemo cocktail took four hours. Then they hooked me up to a pump that would give me an hourly dose of one of the drugs over the next two days. I was invisioning a tiny little pump, but this thing was like a first-generation cell phone. Fortunately, it came in a case that I could carry over the shoulder, in a purse or wear as a fanny pack. At night, it rested on the pillow next to me — softly whirring once an hour. I had to remember to carry it with me for middle-of-the-night pit stops. Only once did I forget and start waltzing into the bathroom, only to be yanked back by my tubing. No harm done.
On Thursday, I went to be disconnected from my pump. I told Phyllis about a dull-but-definite headache I'd had for 30 or so hours post-chemo. No amount of Tylenol or Motrin knocked it back. "That's the steroids," she said. STEROIDS???? (There goes my chance of making it into the Baseball Hall of Fame.) Turns out steroids are part of the anti-nausea medication included in the chemo cocktail. Next time, they'll cut the steroids in half and I'll get to figure out whether I'd rather be more queasy or take my chances with the headache.
Thursday afternoon, the fatigue side-effect kicked in with a vengeance; I could have slept 24-7. By Saturday, I was perking back up.
My "week off" has been good (aside from a lingering side effect that has made Imodium my new best friend). I've heard conflicting reports: One, that chemo gets worse as it goes along; two, that your first experience is pretty typical of how you'll tolerate it. Personally, I'm hoping for the latter.
Thanks to all of you who've inquired how it's going. Didn't mean to keep you in the dark for so long, but I've spent the better part of my "week off" rounding up tax papers. To paraphrase Ben Franklin: "Nothing is certain except chemo and taxes."
So, I've survived my first chemo experience. It began with nurses complaining about my chemo port placement. Seems instead of surgically placing it in a "pocket" with the incision above the device, mine had been placed so that the tender five-day old incision ran directly over the membrane nurses need to access to get the poison flowing. There was much hemming and hawing as two nurses tried to determine exactly where to stick the needle. (Have I mentioned how much I love getting stuck with needles?) In fact, when the port was first described to me, I envisioned it as more of an IV hookup that permanently hung outside my body for easy, needle-poke free access. I think I was confusing a chemo port with a PICC Line.
Anyway, lucky for me, it was a one-stick wonder and the only remaining concern seemed to be positioning me to maximize the flow. Amanda was my chemo buddy and kept me company for the nearly four-hour process. There were at least a dozen chemo patients in the room; some younger, some older; some with buddies, some alone; some sleeping, some chatting. Not everyone's chemo is the same length, so some came and went while I was there; others were there when I arrived and still there when I left. (Note to self: Pick a better chair next time. My recliner partially blocked the doorway to the nurses station so I was constantly pulling up my legs trying to get out of the way of passing nurses.)
I expected some "momentous occasion" feelings, but none came so I passed the time reading magazines, snoozing, people-watching, eaves-dropping and chatting with Amanda. The side effects kicked in later that day. They warned me about hyper sensitivity to cold and that happened with my first drink of water. The sensation was akin to dipping your foot in a too-cold pool. Only it was happening inside my mouth and throat. It wasn't painful, like a ice-cream brain freeze, just jarring. The next side effect happened at home when I carried a Diet Coke in from the garage fridge to my dresser. Halfway there, it felt like pins and needles were shooting into my finger tips. Sort of like accidentally shocking yourself. Or like having a hand or foot fall asleep. Thankfully, the sensation stopped as soon as I put the can down.
They start you off with anti-nausea medication — and it worked for me. The in-office portion of the chemo cocktail took four hours. Then they hooked me up to a pump that would give me an hourly dose of one of the drugs over the next two days. I was invisioning a tiny little pump, but this thing was like a first-generation cell phone. Fortunately, it came in a case that I could carry over the shoulder, in a purse or wear as a fanny pack. At night, it rested on the pillow next to me — softly whirring once an hour. I had to remember to carry it with me for middle-of-the-night pit stops. Only once did I forget and start waltzing into the bathroom, only to be yanked back by my tubing. No harm done.
On Thursday, I went to be disconnected from my pump. I told Phyllis about a dull-but-definite headache I'd had for 30 or so hours post-chemo. No amount of Tylenol or Motrin knocked it back. "That's the steroids," she said. STEROIDS???? (There goes my chance of making it into the Baseball Hall of Fame.) Turns out steroids are part of the anti-nausea medication included in the chemo cocktail. Next time, they'll cut the steroids in half and I'll get to figure out whether I'd rather be more queasy or take my chances with the headache.
Thursday afternoon, the fatigue side-effect kicked in with a vengeance; I could have slept 24-7. By Saturday, I was perking back up.
My "week off" has been good (aside from a lingering side effect that has made Imodium my new best friend). I've heard conflicting reports: One, that chemo gets worse as it goes along; two, that your first experience is pretty typical of how you'll tolerate it. Personally, I'm hoping for the latter.
Thanks to all of you who've inquired how it's going. Didn't mean to keep you in the dark for so long, but I've spent the better part of my "week off" rounding up tax papers. To paraphrase Ben Franklin: "Nothing is certain except chemo and taxes."
Monday, February 28, 2011
Just another complication
'Twas the night before chemo and all through the house ...
All the creatures were stirring, and so was the house.
Just to complicate life further, we may have a nibble on the house. OK, so it's not an official offer. Just a report from our listing agent. A couple who came to see our house on Friday apparently liked it enough to inquire if we would consider a 30-day closing. Apparently, they are cash buyers (not too many of those floating around these days) with an ill family member and they want to get settled quickly. They wanted to come back and see the house again tomorrow afternoon — chemo day — but I had to beg off because I just don't know how I'll be feeling. They are considering another house near us, but supposedly ours is the leading contender. They are scheduled to come again Wednesday.
Many people probably think I'm crazy to even consider selling/moving amid chemo. Secretly, I think my sister is one of them! And she may be right. She has pointed out that I'm right in the middle of three of life's major stresses: divorce, cancer and moving. The first two were out of my control, and I've turned control of the third over to the Real Estate Gods.
After my surgery, when it became apparent that chemo was in my future, my soon-to-be-ex generously offered to put everything on hold until I'm done with chemo — no more divorce negotiations, take the house off the market, focus on getting better. It was a kind and tempting offer, but I turned it down. I'm afraid that if everything goes on hiatus, it will feel like starting divorce proceedings and house selling from square one when chemo's done. Right now, I'm mentally prepared for divorce and leaving my "forever home": Not happy about it, but ready to deal with both and get on with my "next" life.
So, I've turned my future living arrangements over to the Real Estate Gods. If a good enough offer comes in during chemo, a move is in my future. If not, I've lost nothing and can muddle through chemo in my cozy little downstairs bedroom. The fact that Mark and I are still amiably living under the same roof is an interesting ("Awkward," says Amanda) twist to our divorce. But, hey, the house is plenty big and he works long hours anyway.
Got my chemo port put in last Thursday. Surgery was easy, but I seem to have developed an intolerance to anything taped to my body. The 4-by-5-inch adhesive bandaging covering the port has been itching like crazy. I've gently loosen much of the adhesive and tried to soothe my reddened skin with lotion and antibiotic ointment, to no avail.
Another "fringe benefit" to the chemo port is that it apparently sets off sensors. Amanda and I were popping into Kohl's Sunday night when the alarms started beeping. I'm looking around to see who's sneaking out with unpaid goods. Amanda says, "Mom, that's you!" Then she reminded me that I left the surgical center with a "Medical Alert Identification Card" that I'm supposed to carry in my wallet. I can't wait to see what I do at airports these days!
All the creatures were stirring, and so was the house.
Just to complicate life further, we may have a nibble on the house. OK, so it's not an official offer. Just a report from our listing agent. A couple who came to see our house on Friday apparently liked it enough to inquire if we would consider a 30-day closing. Apparently, they are cash buyers (not too many of those floating around these days) with an ill family member and they want to get settled quickly. They wanted to come back and see the house again tomorrow afternoon — chemo day — but I had to beg off because I just don't know how I'll be feeling. They are considering another house near us, but supposedly ours is the leading contender. They are scheduled to come again Wednesday.
Many people probably think I'm crazy to even consider selling/moving amid chemo. Secretly, I think my sister is one of them! And she may be right. She has pointed out that I'm right in the middle of three of life's major stresses: divorce, cancer and moving. The first two were out of my control, and I've turned control of the third over to the Real Estate Gods.
After my surgery, when it became apparent that chemo was in my future, my soon-to-be-ex generously offered to put everything on hold until I'm done with chemo — no more divorce negotiations, take the house off the market, focus on getting better. It was a kind and tempting offer, but I turned it down. I'm afraid that if everything goes on hiatus, it will feel like starting divorce proceedings and house selling from square one when chemo's done. Right now, I'm mentally prepared for divorce and leaving my "forever home": Not happy about it, but ready to deal with both and get on with my "next" life.
So, I've turned my future living arrangements over to the Real Estate Gods. If a good enough offer comes in during chemo, a move is in my future. If not, I've lost nothing and can muddle through chemo in my cozy little downstairs bedroom. The fact that Mark and I are still amiably living under the same roof is an interesting ("Awkward," says Amanda) twist to our divorce. But, hey, the house is plenty big and he works long hours anyway.
Got my chemo port put in last Thursday. Surgery was easy, but I seem to have developed an intolerance to anything taped to my body. The 4-by-5-inch adhesive bandaging covering the port has been itching like crazy. I've gently loosen much of the adhesive and tried to soothe my reddened skin with lotion and antibiotic ointment, to no avail.
Another "fringe benefit" to the chemo port is that it apparently sets off sensors. Amanda and I were popping into Kohl's Sunday night when the alarms started beeping. I'm looking around to see who's sneaking out with unpaid goods. Amanda says, "Mom, that's you!" Then she reminded me that I left the surgical center with a "Medical Alert Identification Card" that I'm supposed to carry in my wallet. I can't wait to see what I do at airports these days!
Monday, February 21, 2011
I was supposed to be in England!
I was planning to spend late February visiting Amanda in England, from where we would launch a side trip to Paris. Instead I am sitting in a recliner in a dimly lighted room waiting while radioactive material meanders through my veins in preparation for a PET/CT scan. This scan is supposed to pinpoint any remaining cancer hotspots so they can be monitored for changes down the road. (Details: http://www.wcrc.com/pet_ct.shtml.)
With England out of the picture, at least for now, cancer treatment is full -speed ahead: The Feb. 18 PET/CT scan, surgery to get a chemo port put in on Feb. 24 and chemo starting March 1.
On Jan. 28, I met my oncologist, Dr. George Miranda. (When you can use the phrase "my oncologist," it's official, you have cancer.) He spent an hour explaining what my future would hold: Various tests, six months of chemo, possible and likely side effects, procedure, prognosis and everything in between. I'd arrived for my visit with a long list of questions. When Dr. Miranda was done talking, he'd covered them all without my having to ask. Never once did he glance at his watch. I took an immediate liking to him.
My treatment will involve a 3-4 hour office visit where chemo will be dispensed. I will go home with a pump that continues circulating chemo in my system for 48 hours. The procedure will repeat every two weeks. According to Dr. Miranda, I'm likely to feel fatigued during the week of the actual chemo, but should bounce back the next week.
I met Phyllis, the chemo assistant. She showed me the chemo room — a dozen or so recliners, all occupied, with people undergoing treatment. Some were reading, some knitting, some eating, some sleeping. Some had a friend or family member keeping them company. All had blankets.
The good news: chemotherapy for colon cancer is well tolerated compared to the chemo for other cancers. I shouldn't lose my hair, though it may thin. The dreaded nausea is headed off at the pass by anti-nausea medication that is given with the chemo. My body will likely become hyper-sensitive to cold: keep gloves handy for reaching into the freezer, skip ice in beverages, wear slippers on tile floors. Food may have a metallic taste. I remember having that reaction to food while on some heavy-duty antibiotics while hospitalized some years back. It was a total appetite killer. (This could be a positive!)
In the past 5-10 years, a new drug has been added to the colon-cancer chemo cocktail. The chemo is preventative, rather than "treatment." The expectation is that surgery got all of the cancer. But typically, patients like me with Stage 3B colon cancer have a 40 percent rate of recurrence if they skip any post-surgical treatment. Chemo cuts the recurrence rate in half. I'm willing to give up six months of my immediate future for an improved chance at a long-term future.
Back to the PET/CT scan: Once my radio active material was well-disbursed, the actual scan was a piece of cake. I slipped into a hospital gown and lay down on the bed that would slide through the scanner. The scan would take 16 minutes (who decides this?). I felt like a hot dog in a bun. (What is it with the food metaphors? Could be the fasting I have to do before these procedures.) The scan went by in a jumble of whirring, sliding, lights and a disembodied voice: "Beginning now," "Don't move," "One more minute."
Two hours out of my life and another step down the road in cancer treatment. Europe will be there when I'm ready.
With England out of the picture, at least for now, cancer treatment is full -speed ahead: The Feb. 18 PET/CT scan, surgery to get a chemo port put in on Feb. 24 and chemo starting March 1.
On Jan. 28, I met my oncologist, Dr. George Miranda. (When you can use the phrase "my oncologist," it's official, you have cancer.) He spent an hour explaining what my future would hold: Various tests, six months of chemo, possible and likely side effects, procedure, prognosis and everything in between. I'd arrived for my visit with a long list of questions. When Dr. Miranda was done talking, he'd covered them all without my having to ask. Never once did he glance at his watch. I took an immediate liking to him.
My treatment will involve a 3-4 hour office visit where chemo will be dispensed. I will go home with a pump that continues circulating chemo in my system for 48 hours. The procedure will repeat every two weeks. According to Dr. Miranda, I'm likely to feel fatigued during the week of the actual chemo, but should bounce back the next week.
I met Phyllis, the chemo assistant. She showed me the chemo room — a dozen or so recliners, all occupied, with people undergoing treatment. Some were reading, some knitting, some eating, some sleeping. Some had a friend or family member keeping them company. All had blankets.
The good news: chemotherapy for colon cancer is well tolerated compared to the chemo for other cancers. I shouldn't lose my hair, though it may thin. The dreaded nausea is headed off at the pass by anti-nausea medication that is given with the chemo. My body will likely become hyper-sensitive to cold: keep gloves handy for reaching into the freezer, skip ice in beverages, wear slippers on tile floors. Food may have a metallic taste. I remember having that reaction to food while on some heavy-duty antibiotics while hospitalized some years back. It was a total appetite killer. (This could be a positive!)
In the past 5-10 years, a new drug has been added to the colon-cancer chemo cocktail. The chemo is preventative, rather than "treatment." The expectation is that surgery got all of the cancer. But typically, patients like me with Stage 3B colon cancer have a 40 percent rate of recurrence if they skip any post-surgical treatment. Chemo cuts the recurrence rate in half. I'm willing to give up six months of my immediate future for an improved chance at a long-term future.
Back to the PET/CT scan: Once my radio active material was well-disbursed, the actual scan was a piece of cake. I slipped into a hospital gown and lay down on the bed that would slide through the scanner. The scan would take 16 minutes (who decides this?). I felt like a hot dog in a bun. (What is it with the food metaphors? Could be the fasting I have to do before these procedures.) The scan went by in a jumble of whirring, sliding, lights and a disembodied voice: "Beginning now," "Don't move," "One more minute."
Two hours out of my life and another step down the road in cancer treatment. Europe will be there when I'm ready.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Opening Day here I come!
BC (before cancer) I was planning to spend lots of time in Longview, Texas, watching Nate, 20, play for the LeTourneau University Yellow Jackets. He'd had a magical season in 2010, but I'd seen very few games. For 2011, I'd planned to see alot more.
AC, and knowing that chemo was looming, I jumped at the chance to travel to Longview for the Jackets opening weekend, Feb. 11-12. Amanda and I lucked out with some decent airfares right into Longview, eliminating the need to rent a car in Dallas and make the 2+-hour haul back and forth to East Texas.
Our first day there, we awoke to freezing sleet and weather that didn't look promising for baseball. Fortunately, each day after warmed up a few degrees and by Friday's first pitch, it was nearing 50. Not to brag, but Nathan had an amazing opening day. (Details for the sports fans: http://www.letuathletics.com/sports/bsb/2010-11/releases/2011021134i4w6.) He had the team's first homer of the season (That's my boy!). It was puzzling to see him playing left field this year when he owned first base last year, but the intricacies of coaching baseball are beyond me.
We got to see a doubleheader on Friday and another on Saturday and Nate ended the four games with a batting average over .500. Not too shabby. But I felt an overwhelming sadness at the end of Saturday's games when I realized I may have seen my only games of his season.
The night before we left, Nate shared some more good baseball news: He's been offered a position to play this summer for the Lorain County (OH) Ironmen, based in his dad's hometown. It's a wood bat league, which is what baseball scouts like to see potential players wield. Maybe I'll be breezing through chemo and able to travel to Ohio this summer for a game or two during an off-chemo week.
Whether I'm in the stands or following the games online, I hope Nate knows I'm in his cheering section.
AC, and knowing that chemo was looming, I jumped at the chance to travel to Longview for the Jackets opening weekend, Feb. 11-12. Amanda and I lucked out with some decent airfares right into Longview, eliminating the need to rent a car in Dallas and make the 2+-hour haul back and forth to East Texas.
Our first day there, we awoke to freezing sleet and weather that didn't look promising for baseball. Fortunately, each day after warmed up a few degrees and by Friday's first pitch, it was nearing 50. Not to brag, but Nathan had an amazing opening day. (Details for the sports fans: http://www.letuathletics.com/sports/bsb/2010-11/releases/2011021134i4w6.) He had the team's first homer of the season (That's my boy!). It was puzzling to see him playing left field this year when he owned first base last year, but the intricacies of coaching baseball are beyond me.
We got to see a doubleheader on Friday and another on Saturday and Nate ended the four games with a batting average over .500. Not too shabby. But I felt an overwhelming sadness at the end of Saturday's games when I realized I may have seen my only games of his season.
The night before we left, Nate shared some more good baseball news: He's been offered a position to play this summer for the Lorain County (OH) Ironmen, based in his dad's hometown. It's a wood bat league, which is what baseball scouts like to see potential players wield. Maybe I'll be breezing through chemo and able to travel to Ohio this summer for a game or two during an off-chemo week.
Whether I'm in the stands or following the games online, I hope Nate knows I'm in his cheering section.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
The "secret" pathology report
Surgery was Friday, Jan. 7. The IV was a one-stick wonder (yes!) and I don't remember anything between being rolled into the operating room and waking up in my hospital bed. Mark, Amanda, Nathan and a dear friend, Shari, all assured me that the surgeon had nothing but good to report after the surgery. "Got it all!" What a relief! Pathology report would be in on Monday.
I awoke Saturday feeling like a heavy-weight title bout had taken place in my gut. Every movement hurt and being tethered to the bed by a cathader, gastro-nasal tube, IV and assorted other wires was no help. NG tubes — for the fortunate who've never had one — run though your nose and down to your stomach, sucking out everything so your battle-weary bowels can rest. Good concept, but really annoying. You can't eat, obviously, but drinking anything or even sipping ice chips is verboten. Of course, once something has been forbidden, it becomes the thing you want most. I could live without eating, but I was soooooo thirsty. The hospital's answer to that was a 1-inch star-shaped pink sponge on a lollipop stick that I could dip in ice water and use to moisten my mouth. That's what I was supposed to do with it. What I did was suck every drop of water out of the sponge and savor it as it trickled down my parched throat. It wasn't long before I was scowled upon by a nurse when I was caught with a half-empty ice water cup and my mouth puckered up around my sponge: "You're not supposed to be drinking that!" It may have been a small act of defiance, but I held my ground: "This tube is sucking everything out of my stomach, so what difference does it make if I take in a bit of water?" There must have been a bit of logic to that because she left me with my water and my sponge-sucker.
By Monday morning I was virtually untethered and I awoke to Heather, the surgeon's physician's assistant, hovering over my bed for a gut check. "Is the pathology report in?" I asked. She checked, and said not yet. Then she told me that only Dr. Shaver could tell me the results. "He who removes it, delivers the path report."
From then on, every hour on the hour (it seemed) I inquired after the whereabouts of the path report and Dr. Shaver. After the report turned up, I asked every nurse or assistant who popped in where Dr. Shaver was. "In surgery, due here at lunchtime." No show. "Surgery at 3, after that." No show. "Still in surgery." No show. "Surgery is running really long." No show. "Gone for the day." WHAT????
The night nurse took pity on me and offered to call Dr. Shaver's service to inquire. The on-call doctor asked her to read him the path report, which she did. He said he would call Dr. Shaver. No promises he would call back. The nurse asked if she could share the path report with me. "No. The patient will have questions and you won't be able to answer them." As soon as the nurse told me that, I knew this was not going to be an "all clear" path report. If it had been, my only question would have been "When can I go home."
Poor Amanda had waited patiently all day with me. (Nate had flown back to Texas to start classes on Tuesday.) I kept my assumptions to myself and sent her home so we could both get a good night's sleep. I don't know about Amanda, but my sleep was elusive at best and sweat-drenched at worst. Awaiting bad news is worse than knowing it.
The whole process began anew the next morning. Another PA from Dr. Shaver's office did the morning gut-check and assured me Dr. Shaver would be in and that I could go home that day. I busied myself showering and putting on civilian clothes. Amanda arrived and the hours trickled by. Just as I stepped into my bathroom, Dr. Shaver showed up. It was 1:30 p.m. and the news wasn't good. Instead of a Stage 0 or Stage 1 surgical cure cancer, I had State 3. Two of the 15 lymph nodes they removed were cancerous. Chemo was in my future.
Amanda and I shed a few tears over the path report, listened as Dr. Shaver explained what he thought would be the next steps: Heal from the surgery, meet my oncologist, get a PET/CT scan that could pinpoint any areas of concern, and undergo four to six months of "preventative" chemo.
Instead of the end of my colon cancer, it was only halftime. Damn!
I awoke Saturday feeling like a heavy-weight title bout had taken place in my gut. Every movement hurt and being tethered to the bed by a cathader, gastro-nasal tube, IV and assorted other wires was no help. NG tubes — for the fortunate who've never had one — run though your nose and down to your stomach, sucking out everything so your battle-weary bowels can rest. Good concept, but really annoying. You can't eat, obviously, but drinking anything or even sipping ice chips is verboten. Of course, once something has been forbidden, it becomes the thing you want most. I could live without eating, but I was soooooo thirsty. The hospital's answer to that was a 1-inch star-shaped pink sponge on a lollipop stick that I could dip in ice water and use to moisten my mouth. That's what I was supposed to do with it. What I did was suck every drop of water out of the sponge and savor it as it trickled down my parched throat. It wasn't long before I was scowled upon by a nurse when I was caught with a half-empty ice water cup and my mouth puckered up around my sponge: "You're not supposed to be drinking that!" It may have been a small act of defiance, but I held my ground: "This tube is sucking everything out of my stomach, so what difference does it make if I take in a bit of water?" There must have been a bit of logic to that because she left me with my water and my sponge-sucker.
By Monday morning I was virtually untethered and I awoke to Heather, the surgeon's physician's assistant, hovering over my bed for a gut check. "Is the pathology report in?" I asked. She checked, and said not yet. Then she told me that only Dr. Shaver could tell me the results. "He who removes it, delivers the path report."
From then on, every hour on the hour (it seemed) I inquired after the whereabouts of the path report and Dr. Shaver. After the report turned up, I asked every nurse or assistant who popped in where Dr. Shaver was. "In surgery, due here at lunchtime." No show. "Surgery at 3, after that." No show. "Still in surgery." No show. "Surgery is running really long." No show. "Gone for the day." WHAT????
The night nurse took pity on me and offered to call Dr. Shaver's service to inquire. The on-call doctor asked her to read him the path report, which she did. He said he would call Dr. Shaver. No promises he would call back. The nurse asked if she could share the path report with me. "No. The patient will have questions and you won't be able to answer them." As soon as the nurse told me that, I knew this was not going to be an "all clear" path report. If it had been, my only question would have been "When can I go home."
Poor Amanda had waited patiently all day with me. (Nate had flown back to Texas to start classes on Tuesday.) I kept my assumptions to myself and sent her home so we could both get a good night's sleep. I don't know about Amanda, but my sleep was elusive at best and sweat-drenched at worst. Awaiting bad news is worse than knowing it.
The whole process began anew the next morning. Another PA from Dr. Shaver's office did the morning gut-check and assured me Dr. Shaver would be in and that I could go home that day. I busied myself showering and putting on civilian clothes. Amanda arrived and the hours trickled by. Just as I stepped into my bathroom, Dr. Shaver showed up. It was 1:30 p.m. and the news wasn't good. Instead of a Stage 0 or Stage 1 surgical cure cancer, I had State 3. Two of the 15 lymph nodes they removed were cancerous. Chemo was in my future.
Amanda and I shed a few tears over the path report, listened as Dr. Shaver explained what he thought would be the next steps: Heal from the surgery, meet my oncologist, get a PET/CT scan that could pinpoint any areas of concern, and undergo four to six months of "preventative" chemo.
Instead of the end of my colon cancer, it was only halftime. Damn!
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Life Goes On ...
Cancer diagnoses were for other people. I never gave a thought to how I would react to such a diagnosis. If I had, I would have guessed my world would grind to a halt and life would center on cancer.
But it doesn't.
Funny, but on the scariest day of my life, I managed to work in a great breakfast, a nap (one of my chief coping methods), a trip to my primary care physician and an urgent trip to the vet for my on-again, off-again blind dog. (Blind again!)
Referrals for a CAT Scan and surgeon's visit came through the next morning, as promised. Appointments were easy to schedule and the race was on. Cancer seemed to be a blip on the radar that periodically flashed into focus and drifted off again.
CAT Scan Dec. 2: The case of the disappearing veins
Prep for a CAT Scan would have been distasteful if I hadn't just prepped for a colonoscopy. CAT Scan prep, by comparison, was a frozen daiquiri. Finding a vein was another story. For the colonoscopy, it took two nurses and three sticks to start an IV. I thought that was bad. The CAT Scan folks required three people — including one who seemed near tears over my plight — lots of vein "thumping," hot compresses and five sticks. There were so many holes in me, I'm surprised the radioactive gunk I had to drink didn't leak out all over the scan bed.
Surgeon Meet & Greet Dec. 3
When I met with Dr. Shaver, I wanted this cancer out of me so I could move forward with my Christmas visit to Ohio. Could he could squeeze me in next week so I could take my scheduled Dec. 14 flight to Cleveland? The medical gods were having another chuckle at my expense. If I wanted surgery next week, Dr. Shaver — already overbooked — would make it happen. But ... I wouldn't be flying anywhere for three weeks due to the risk of blood clots. Plan B, at his suggestion, was to take my planned holiday trip and schedule surgery for the new year. "A few weeks will not make any difference in your outcome," he advised. Another surgeon concurred. Furthermore, she actually had the CAT Scan results and said it looked to her like it would be a "surgical cure" (no further treatment needed). Reassured, I put cancer on the back burner and planned to enjoy the holidays.
How to tell the family
Mark and I had been humming along toward finalizing our divorce. How does cancer fit into that picture? Somehow, I couldn't or wouldn't call to tell him. Finally, hours later, he texted me and said since he hadn't heard anything about the colonoscopy, he assumed everything went OK. So I gave him the info and he immediately came home. It was strange, awkward, comforting. Pick your adjective.
Next up: Amanda, who'd been living outside London for four months now and was eagerly looking forward to three weeks stateside for the holidays. I'd get to burst her bubble. Thank heavens for Skype. I told her before the surgeon's visit. Both of us staved off the waterworks, and I promised to Skype again after the doctor's appointment. In the interim, reality set in for her: I was sick and she was 5000 miles away; neither of us was in a good place.
Nathan had a week's worth of finals looming in Texas. I hated "withholding" news, but "Surprise, I have cancer!" didn't seem conducive to studying. It was news that could wait to be delivered with hugs.
My sister, my rock of Gibraltar during the divorce process, was stunned with the news. We shared a few choice words — the kinds mothers would prefer to think you didn't know, much less use! — about the latest bad twist in my life.
My brother and sister-in-law would be visiting for a week at the tail end of a Panama Canal cruise. BC — before cancer — I was planning to take them to Vegas for a couple days, maybe up to LA. Instead, I got to tell them the kid sister had cancer.
Ohio, and the Midwest in general, treated us pretty well considering the season. There was snow when we go there and every few days a fresh dusting — just enough to keep it looking pretty and white. Got to see lots of family — the permanent members who are stuck with me and the soon-to-be exes (who will still be family in my book). But I cut the trip a week short when I started thinking of all that needed done before surgery.
Ironically, it felt good to be back "home" — even if the house is for sale, the spouse is bailing and surgery is on the horizon.
But it doesn't.
Funny, but on the scariest day of my life, I managed to work in a great breakfast, a nap (one of my chief coping methods), a trip to my primary care physician and an urgent trip to the vet for my on-again, off-again blind dog. (Blind again!)
Referrals for a CAT Scan and surgeon's visit came through the next morning, as promised. Appointments were easy to schedule and the race was on. Cancer seemed to be a blip on the radar that periodically flashed into focus and drifted off again.
CAT Scan Dec. 2: The case of the disappearing veins
Prep for a CAT Scan would have been distasteful if I hadn't just prepped for a colonoscopy. CAT Scan prep, by comparison, was a frozen daiquiri. Finding a vein was another story. For the colonoscopy, it took two nurses and three sticks to start an IV. I thought that was bad. The CAT Scan folks required three people — including one who seemed near tears over my plight — lots of vein "thumping," hot compresses and five sticks. There were so many holes in me, I'm surprised the radioactive gunk I had to drink didn't leak out all over the scan bed.
Surgeon Meet & Greet Dec. 3
When I met with Dr. Shaver, I wanted this cancer out of me so I could move forward with my Christmas visit to Ohio. Could he could squeeze me in next week so I could take my scheduled Dec. 14 flight to Cleveland? The medical gods were having another chuckle at my expense. If I wanted surgery next week, Dr. Shaver — already overbooked — would make it happen. But ... I wouldn't be flying anywhere for three weeks due to the risk of blood clots. Plan B, at his suggestion, was to take my planned holiday trip and schedule surgery for the new year. "A few weeks will not make any difference in your outcome," he advised. Another surgeon concurred. Furthermore, she actually had the CAT Scan results and said it looked to her like it would be a "surgical cure" (no further treatment needed). Reassured, I put cancer on the back burner and planned to enjoy the holidays.
How to tell the family
Mark and I had been humming along toward finalizing our divorce. How does cancer fit into that picture? Somehow, I couldn't or wouldn't call to tell him. Finally, hours later, he texted me and said since he hadn't heard anything about the colonoscopy, he assumed everything went OK. So I gave him the info and he immediately came home. It was strange, awkward, comforting. Pick your adjective.
Next up: Amanda, who'd been living outside London for four months now and was eagerly looking forward to three weeks stateside for the holidays. I'd get to burst her bubble. Thank heavens for Skype. I told her before the surgeon's visit. Both of us staved off the waterworks, and I promised to Skype again after the doctor's appointment. In the interim, reality set in for her: I was sick and she was 5000 miles away; neither of us was in a good place.
Nathan had a week's worth of finals looming in Texas. I hated "withholding" news, but "Surprise, I have cancer!" didn't seem conducive to studying. It was news that could wait to be delivered with hugs.
My sister, my rock of Gibraltar during the divorce process, was stunned with the news. We shared a few choice words — the kinds mothers would prefer to think you didn't know, much less use! — about the latest bad twist in my life.
My brother and sister-in-law would be visiting for a week at the tail end of a Panama Canal cruise. BC — before cancer — I was planning to take them to Vegas for a couple days, maybe up to LA. Instead, I got to tell them the kid sister had cancer.
Ohio, and the Midwest in general, treated us pretty well considering the season. There was snow when we go there and every few days a fresh dusting — just enough to keep it looking pretty and white. Got to see lots of family — the permanent members who are stuck with me and the soon-to-be exes (who will still be family in my book). But I cut the trip a week short when I started thinking of all that needed done before surgery.
Ironically, it felt good to be back "home" — even if the house is for sale, the spouse is bailing and surgery is on the horizon.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
“It's malignant and it needs to come out.”
Those words, bluntly spoken by a gastroenterologist on the morning of Nov. 30, twisted my perspective on life. I was just coming off the worst year of my life (impending divorce — friendly, but unwanted by me). Note to self: time to redefine "worst."
I had grand plans for the future:
Back to the morning of Nov. 30. I had just undergone a "routine" colonoscopy. I was signing release papers and salivating over my first solid food in 30-plus hours. The gastroenterologist asked me to step into a side room. It was dimly lit, cramped, filled with assorted computers, desks and office materials ... there may have even been a worker at one of the computers. The doctor motioned to a monitor where in wonderous full color were assorted pictures of the inside of my colon (not my best side, but it was squeaky clean!). He pointed to a photo: "It's malignant and it needs to come out." No, "Please sit down ..." No, "Sorry to have to tell you this ..." Just, "It's malignant and it needs to come out."
I sank uninvited into a chair and scrounged around for my voice, "You can tell that from a picture?" He replied, "Well, even if it's not, it needs to come out." Go home. Rest up. Go see your primary care doctor tomorrow. Dismissed!
My poor friend Denise, whom I'd bribed into taking me to my colonoscopy appointment with the promise of breakfast afterward. (For decades, my soon-to-be ex had been my go-to guy for medical/dental anesthesia-involved "chauffeur" needs. With this appointment I'd taken a step in breaking that reliance.) Refusing a wheel chair, I walked to Denise's car and got in. My mind was racing: Tell her? Wait until I'd told "family"? The moment she spoke, my decision was made: "I have colon cancer," I blurted, redefining "family" to include new-found friends. We mourned, we cursed, we had breakfast. What we didn't have were tears.
A former neighbor and dear long-distance friend Kristy had given me a self-help book for my birthday titled: "Me Five Years From Now." At the time, the upheaval I was dealing with was divorce. With the latest wrinkle in my life, I think I'll start calling it: "Be Five Years From Now."
Stay tuned!
I had grand plans for the future:
- Lots of time in Longview, Texas, watching Nate, 20, play first base for the LeTourneau University Yellow Jackets. He'd had a magical season the spring before, but I'd seen very few games. This year, he was out of the dorms and with a couch available in his living room, the cost of visiting dropped dramatically. And maybe I could work a little magic on his dumpy but cheap apartment.
- Couple trips to Europe to visit Amanda, 22, who was living abroad for a year as an au pair for a family just outside London. I hadn't seen her since August and was planning a February visit where we'd make a trip to Paris. Then in June, when she finished her tour of duty, we were going to spend a few weeks traveling Europe. I'd expected her to do some traveling while she was abroad; I expected her to do it was some new-found friends. I was touched that she wanted to see the world with me. Nate had been invited to play baseball for a week in Holland; maybe we could meet there.
- And the immediate future included a holiday trip to Cleveland to visit family and make a couple side trips (weather permitting) to DC and NY. Baby Girl was coming back to the US for three weeks.
- Sell the family home and start my new life in my own place.
Back to the morning of Nov. 30. I had just undergone a "routine" colonoscopy. I was signing release papers and salivating over my first solid food in 30-plus hours. The gastroenterologist asked me to step into a side room. It was dimly lit, cramped, filled with assorted computers, desks and office materials ... there may have even been a worker at one of the computers. The doctor motioned to a monitor where in wonderous full color were assorted pictures of the inside of my colon (not my best side, but it was squeaky clean!). He pointed to a photo: "It's malignant and it needs to come out." No, "Please sit down ..." No, "Sorry to have to tell you this ..." Just, "It's malignant and it needs to come out."
I sank uninvited into a chair and scrounged around for my voice, "You can tell that from a picture?" He replied, "Well, even if it's not, it needs to come out." Go home. Rest up. Go see your primary care doctor tomorrow. Dismissed!
My poor friend Denise, whom I'd bribed into taking me to my colonoscopy appointment with the promise of breakfast afterward. (For decades, my soon-to-be ex had been my go-to guy for medical/dental anesthesia-involved "chauffeur" needs. With this appointment I'd taken a step in breaking that reliance.) Refusing a wheel chair, I walked to Denise's car and got in. My mind was racing: Tell her? Wait until I'd told "family"? The moment she spoke, my decision was made: "I have colon cancer," I blurted, redefining "family" to include new-found friends. We mourned, we cursed, we had breakfast. What we didn't have were tears.
A former neighbor and dear long-distance friend Kristy had given me a self-help book for my birthday titled: "Me Five Years From Now." At the time, the upheaval I was dealing with was divorce. With the latest wrinkle in my life, I think I'll start calling it: "Be Five Years From Now."
Stay tuned!
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