This one has hit me pretty hard. My arms are heavy and numb (common side effect), my head hurts, I have nausea and no energy at all. Can barely lift my head up. But 1/4th done.

Thank you everybody out there taking care of me, Scott, Nick and Mojo. It is taking a village to get me through this.

More later.

Love,
c

Having my hair falling out has really been no fun. In the shower, it comes out by the handful. I thought it was short enough that I would not be able to tell it was falling out more. I was wrong. Clumps of hair in my hand. Hair shedding all over my shirt and in my hats. It’s itchy and impossible to shake out. Because of my allergy to fragrance, I can’t use talcum powder, so I bought corn starch and put that in a shaker bottle. That helps a little, but any ideas are welcome.

Do you remember that crazy, creepy looking doll from the original Toy Story? Well that’s what I look like. Clumps of hair sticking out all over my bald head. By the way, your scalp is really, really white. I am very self conscious about it, I don’t even take my hat off in front of Scott. I wait until I am actually in bed. So don’t ask me to see it, can’t do it yet. The hats stay on my head.

Chemo starts again tomorrow. I am certainly not looking forward to it, but I have to look at it like, this is what is making me better. So here we go again bring it on.

Okay, well I had my pity party day. Now I am following the advice of my cocktail napkins (always wise, don’t you think?):

Oh boo frickin hoo, have a drink and get over it already!

So I went out to lunch with the girls and had a lemon drop martini. Then put on my wig and went out to dinner too. I slept past 9:00 this morning, so that tells you it was fun. Ask Scott about the belly dancer at the restaurant.

Anyway, I am lining up my hats and hair and mixing them up. The wig is very strange feeling. I have a little liner that goes over my scalp and then this big hunk of hair. It is hot and itchy and kind of tight. I don’t even recognize myself in the mirror, which is totally unnatural. So long as I don’t scare myself, I guess I’ll be doing ok.

Chemo starts again on Tuesday so I am trying to enjoy my last couple days of feeling semi-normal. Someone asked me if I feel different even this week. I do. I still have headaches and just not as much energy as I used to have. I guess I will get used to it. I just don't know. Stay tuned.

OH CRAP IT’S BALD DAY!!!!

Yep, yesterday evening it started falling out in clumps. For some reason, this has been the day I dread the most. It’s a real manifestation that I have something seriously wrong.

My head hurts to touch it, like when you hit your head against something and it is really sore. But mine is like that all over. When I run my fingers through my scalp, hair comes out in big bunches. I am shedding worse than one of my dogs, so I had to make the big decision.

This morning I went to a salon and had them shave it very short. I was bawling the whole time. I am sure the other people in the salon think I must be having a really, really bad hair day. It still comes out all over, but now it is in much shorter pieces. We won’t be able to tell which is mine and which is Scott’s.

I can’t really talk any more about it right now. I need to have a pity party by myself for a few minutes and then move on to the next hill.

Hey, great news, yesterday was finally a normal day! I went to a doctor’s appointment, out to lunch with a friend and made dinner - all without having to lie down for the afternoon. More fun today - laundry. I know that sounds ridiculous, to be excited to do laundry, but right after chemo I would look at my laundry basket and not even be able to imagine hauling that to the washer. Now I’m sorting, washing and drying with the best of them. I still draw the line at ironing though.

Now for the hard topic ... I went shopping for wigs. Why is this so hard for me? I have cute hats and scarves, and yet I am dreading this more than the first chemo treatment. Each morning, I am running my hands through my hair. Is it still there, how am I going to feel when it isn’t? Even writing about it is hard for me. I wasn’t even sure at first that I wanted a wig. I didn’t want to look like Zza Zza Gabor or Doris Day. You know, big poofy hair that sits way back on your head. They look hot (I don't mean Paris Hilton hot) and very fake. But, let’s face it, I am not an attractive woman with hair, bald will be a disaster. The boys won’t want to see me sitting around with a fat bald head. Plus, I don’t want to embarrass them at their graduations. So, I thought I would see what was out there.

My sister, Nan, was here and I thought it was time to go and be prepared for the inevitable, bald day. A sister has seen you at your very worse, she was there on those early Christmas mornings when you had no makeup and your hair looked like something from Rocky Horror Picture Show. She saw you in those ever so funky outfits from the seventies. She has seen you through long hair, short hair and all those perms in between and has always felt free to tell you exactly how she felt about every style. So Nan was the perfect person to bring. I couldn't ask my beautiful friends (not that you aren't beautiful too Nan) to come see what I will look like bald.

Of no big surprise, I have never bought a wig before. Where does one buy a wig? No idea. Fortunately, my new friend, Elizabeth, (herself a breast cancer survivor), gave me a brochure for a wig place on 103rd St. My sister is not pretentious in the least. She is very down to earth. But she lives in Naples, she moved there from Lake Forest, IL. Really pretty places. Now I was taking her to the armpit of Jacksonville - deep Westside. Really Nan, 103rd Street is not what I want you to think of when you think of Jax.

Inside the bright pink building, is more hair than you could find in Cher’s dressing room. I am afraid I wasn’t very excited. Nan was doing everything she could to keep me upbeat. Ooh look how cute, and this would look great on you! All I could do was stare at all of the wig stands and their bald heads, and imagine that was me.

I started trying on, and I was able to see what I will look like with no hair as the clerk (who could not have been nicer) has you put on a little footie for your head, a mesh skull cap. We started with the Dolly Parton long, curly blonde wig, just for fun. God knew what he was doing when he didn’t make me a blonde. Not a good look. On to the others. Too short, too long, weird color. I was unbelievably picky. Nan kept going around trying to bring me something I would like. We tried something close to the short cut I have now, but it just looked too short. Finally, I settled on something a little different. I’m not telling, but it is fun.

So then the sales lady told me I needed halo hair. You won’t believe this, but they sell a little circle of hair that goes underneath hats. Crazy you think. But really not a bad idea. Scarves, hats, tams, caps with hair, they have it all.

Now I have a wig, halo hair and a variety of hats and scarves. You never know what you will see me in. I am still worried about it and will probably be crying that day, but now (as Nan says) I have options.

So three days later when I woke up, the questions started. Have I lost my hair yet, will I be throwing up for the next 2 weeks, mouth sores, diarrhea, constipation? What is next? Having read about this and anticipated it for many weeks, I was aware of everything that could be happening to me, or not. I hate that phrase “chemo affects everyone differently.” Meaning, I could have any, all or none of those symptoms. Thinking how this has gone to date, I am anticipating all of them.

The first week, I had nausea pretty much all day, every day. Not throwing up, but just that awful, nothing sounds good, not hungry, kind of feeling, like after a hangover. Soup and fresh fruit basically got me through that time period.

The worse symptom though was a woozy head feeling. From my eyes up, my head sort of hurt. It felt stuffed with cotton wool. Advil didn’t help. The only thing I could do was lie down. The lack of motion really helps. Again, was this normal? I didn’t know and don’t know. For a while, every little hang nail will make me wonder if is part of the new normal that is me.

I got through that first week, without too much trouble, thanks to my friends. Without their dinners, poor Scott and Nick would have been starving. I made it to the grocery store with Andrew. Half way through the produce section, I hit the wall. The rest of the way was speed shopping. I was like something from a game show. Cyndy Glazier, Come on down! You’re the next contestant on Cruise Through the Grocery Store In 5 Minutes!

Second week. Every day seems a little better. I am getting stronger, less nauseous, and less woozy headed. I still seem to need a rest in the afternoon, so I try to listen to my body. Rest when needed and go out when I can. But so far, I have still not felt like I did prior to the chemo. Hopefully that is still to come.

Chemo day. I have been trying to look forward to this day because this is the stuff that is going to kill what is trying to kill me. These are the little soldiers I need. But now that the day is here, well maybe I am not so excited.

Andrew drove me. Boy did that make me feel guilty. I can just see when he gets back to school. So, dude, what did you do for spring break, beach every day, golf, basketball tourney, what? Uh, took my mom to her chemo treatment. Yeah lots of fun. I am so sorry Andrew, but so grateful too.

Anyway, I walk in to the chemo room and take a chair. This is a fairly small room with large comfortable recliners around the perimeter. Behind each chair is an IV setup and between each is a plastic rolling cart with medical supplies. This way the nurses have what they need right next to each patient. I like to look out the window, so I took a chair as close to the window as I could, next to a man in his late 20’s, early 30’s who was already plugged in.

The etiquette of the chemo room is tricky. Most of you know me as a nosy person. I like to talk to people and hear their story. No one does that in the chemo room. I guess what would you say? So what are you in for? Doesn’t sound quite right.

A older man across the room said he needed to go to the bathroom. It was obvious he would require help, so the nurse called in a male aide. All of a sudden the old man fell asleep. The aide was trying to wake him but couldn’t. I was thinking this is not a good sign. One of the nurses came over to help and she couldn’t rouse him at first either. She got a blood pressure cuff on him and unhooked the IV, told the aide to get the doctor and call 911. The poor man had gone into some sort of shock. Finally, he came around, and poor thing still had to pee. The paramedics come and roll him away. What a great first chemo day.

Ok, my turn. Uh, I will pass on the drugs that put me into a coma ok? They didn’t seem to think that was very funny.

My chemo port is supposed to make iv access easy. It was supposed to go: spray my skin with a cooling agent to numb it, feel for the port access, deep breath and pop in the needle. Relatively easy and pain free. Of course, I can’t be so lucky. The nurse sprays and is feeling for the port, but can’t seem to find it very easily. She sticks the needle in but it won’t go in the port. Again, she tries, no luck. This time she calls over the more experienced nurse. She tries, nope. They decide one should hold it in place and the other stick the needle in. No luck. Again and again - 7 times! By this time, I am trying not to scream. The area where they put the port in is still very tender and they keep digging around with an iv needle to find the opening for this stupid port. I don’t want to disturb everyone else in the room by crying out, so I am digging holes in the arms of the chair and tears are flowing down my face. Finally, they decide the port has flipped around and isn’t going to work, so they stop. Thank God! The poor young man next to me was so very nice. Oh hunny, he said, just cry out, you aren’t disturbing me. His mother was in and out bringing him things and she wrote her name and number for me telling me she was available if I ever just needed someone to cry to.

Chemo is going to happen that day though. They start an iv drip in my arm. Compared to what they were doing, it is nothing! They start with an anti-anxiety and anti-nausea drip first. The ativan is to relax you and allow the chemo to spread through your body. To be honest, it didn’t seem to do much for me. Maybe I was too worried about the next step. Was it going to burn or make me sick right away? I had no idea what to expect. They tell you lots on the internet, but not the day to day details and of course they always say “It’s different for everyone.” Well then what good are they for me?

Anyway, back to chemo. It doesn’t burn, hurt or tickle. Just a regular iv. I did get a little woozy and was glad I had brought a movie to watch through earphones. The chemo room has a tv in it that blares rather loudly, people are coming and going, the nurses talking etc. so escaping into a movie was the best option for me. I can also see how nice music and just closing your eyes also might be a way to get through.

The whole process takes about 2 1/2 hours and so finally I was through. Again, I didn’t know what to expect when I was done. Would I be puking on the ride home? No, it doesn’t kick in that fast.

The medical and the surgical oncologists conferred and decided they needed to go back in and check out what is wrong with the port. Another surgery, another hill. Over to the surgeon’s office from chemo. Great. Surgery the next day to check out the port, maybe move it up a little, or flip it over. No big deal.

You know, I don’t remember much about getting home and that night in general. I think I ate dinner and watched tv. Was Idol on? I really don’t remember. Isn’t that weird?

Back to the hospital the next morning. Andrew again. But first I had to stop in to the oncologist and get my Neulasta shot. This stuff stimulates white blood cell regeneration by promoting bone marrow output. This means your bones ache, especially your lower back. Well especially, my lower back. But thankfully only for a few days.

The surgery went fine. The only problem being finding a vein for my iv. Fortunately, one of the nurses from my prior visit was there that day and remembered my name. (I am so unforgettable. Actually, I was giving her advice for her boyfriend on his custody case. There is no escape.) She came over as a nurse was trying to insert the iv in my hand, this after I wouldn’t let her do it in my wrist. She took over and easily accessed my arm. (For the next 5 years, I can not have blood taken or my blood pressure taken on my right side as it could damage the lymph node system.)

My surgeon said the port was bad. I think that might be surgeon speak for he screwed up and needs to blame it on someone else. But anyway, they put in a new one, stitched me up and sent me home, where I slept for the next 3 days.

So catheter port in, the surgeon comes out to talk to Scott. Oh yes by the way, the sentinel node was positive for cancer! This was a very big shock to us as the sonogram had seemed to show clear lymph nodes. The sentinel node is the first one the breast drains into. They injected my breast with dye (I can’t tell you how bad that hurt!! If any of you have to do it, I’ll come hold your hand.) then it drains into the lymph system. The surgeon removes the one that shows up with dye, that being the first or sentinel node. That this is positive for cancer is the most scary news to date. Had it spread? What next.

I thought the next step was getting in for chemo. No wait, now they want a pet scan because of the positive lymph node involvement. Of all the tests this is the scariest. Basically a MRI of your entire body, it is supposed to show any other suspicious areas of cancer. This test was a Thursday morning and they called me with the news by afternoon. NEGATIVE FOR CANCER OUTSIDE OF THE BREAST!!! I think this was the first good news I had in 3 weeks. I think this was the first good deep breath I had been able to take for quite a while.

So chemo next. Carlos decided he wanted me in a research study. What does this mean? I’m in big trouble and I need research to cure it? Another question, another step.

My file goes off to another office and I was to hear from the next nurse by Thursday or Friday. One thing I have discovered about doctors offices, is that they seem to close early. So after hearing nothing on Thursday, I waited until late Friday morning and called the new nurse. Sorry she says you don’t fit the research protocols. Okaaaay, so now what? Oh you need to call back at the other office and schedule your chemo there. I know I was worried when I was going into the research, now I am worried because I am not in the research. Am I so bad they won’t take me. Whatever, I wanted that chemo because I didn’t want (logically or not) the cancer to have a chance to leak out somewhere else. All it takes is for 1 microscopic cell to escape and ...

Another 3 calls to the oncologist’s office and I am told, call back on Monday. I feel like I am having to beg these people to fill me full of poison. What is up with that. Another weekend of not knowing what is going on. Meanwhile, I am on the internet filling my head full of chemo and its side effects. The internet is a wonderful place, but sometimes there is such a thing as too much information. No hair, mouth sores, diarrhea, constipation, sensitive scalp, nausea, dehydration. The list goes on. Not everyone gets everything, but you could. So, I wait out another weekend.

Finally, it’s Monday and the new plan is see the doctor and have chemo training on Tuesday and then chemo on Friday. So what do you do when you know the next day you will voluntarily be making yourself sick for the next 6 months. What every red blooded American girl would do. Shoe Shopping!! A little retail therapy did help for a while (and I got some cute shoes). Finally, it’s Wednesday and chemo is to start.

So catheter port in, the surgeon comes out to talk to Scott. Oh yes by the way, the sentinel node was positive for cancer! This was a very big shock to us as the sonogram had seemed to show clear lymph nodes. The sentinel node is the first one the breast drains into. They injected my breast with dye (I can’t tell you how bad that hurt!! If any of you have to do it, I’ll come hold your hand.) then it drains into the lymph system. The surgeon removes the one that shows up with dye, that being the first or sentinel node. That this is positive for cancer is the most scary news to date. Had it spread? What next.

I thought the next step was getting in for chemo. No wait, now they want a pet scan because of the positive lymph node involvement. Of all the tests this is the scariest. Basically a MRI of your entire body, it is supposed to show any other suspicious areas of cancer. This test was a Thursday morning and they called me with the news by afternoon. NEGATIVE FOR CANCER OUTSIDE OF THE BREAST!!! I think this was the first good news I had in 3 weeks. I think this was the first good deep breath I had been able to take for quite a while.

So chemo next. Carlos decided he wanted me in a research study. What does this mean? I’m in big trouble and I need research to cure it? Another question, another step.

My file goes off to another office and I was to hear from the next nurse by Thursday or Friday. One thing I have discovered about doctors offices, is that they seem to close early. So after hearing nothing on Thursday, I waited until late Friday morning and called the new nurse. Sorry she says you don’t fit the research protocols. Okaaaay, so now what? Oh you need to call back at the other office and schedule your chemo there. I know I was worried when I was going into the research, now I am worried because I am not in the research. Am I so bad they won’t take me. Whatever, I wanted that chemo because I didn’t want (logically or not) the cancer to have a chance to leak out somewhere else. All it takes is for 1 microscopic cell to escape and ...

Another 3 calls to the oncologist’s office and I am told, call back on Monday. I feel like I am having to beg these people to fill me full of poison. What is up with that. Another weekend of not knowing what is going on. Meanwhile, I am on the internet filling my head full of chemo and its side effects. The internet is a wonderful place, but sometimes there is such a thing as too much information. No hair, mouth sores, diarrhea, constipation, sensitive scalp, nausea, dehydration. The list goes on. Not everyone gets everything, but you could. So, I wait out another weekend.

Finally, it’s Monday and the new plan is see the doctor and have chemo training on Tuesday and then chemo on Friday. So what do you do when you know the next day you will voluntarily be making yourself sick for the next 6 months. What every red blooded American girl would do. Shoe Shopping!! A little retail therapy did help for a while (and I got some cute shoes). Finally, it’s Wednesday and chemo is to start.

I’m starting this 4 weeks into the fog that is cancer. I don’t know why I didn't’ want to write about it before. Maybe putting it into words makes it too real. I don’t mind talking about it, I just didn’t want to write it down.

I felt a lump. How did you know people ask. How did they find it. All of a sudden I felt a really big hard lump. None of this pea size stuff for me. Noooooooo. It felt like a hard super ball. I was having bleeding issues anyway so I called the gyno. I hadn’t been in a while and had an appointment scheduled in a couple of months anyway, but I thought I would go ahead and go early with these problems. I really thought the bleeding would be worse news than the lump. I had a lump removed from the other side years ago and it was just a cyst that had grown some. I thought this would be the same. Sure I would have to have the mammogram and probably a sonogram too because of the density of my breast tissue, but no big deal. I am one of the lucky ones, mammograms hurt, but they are not the excruciating procedures some people experience. Hurt, pinch, pressure but not bring you to your knees kind of thing.

The gyno was able to get me into the Breast Center quickly. Monday was the gyno appt. and by Friday I was in the center. The breast center is a warm reassuring place, up to a point. You change into gowns, that for most of us sitting there were too small. Why wouldn’t they make really large gowns. You can always drape it around you if it is too big, but too small is a definite problem. From the first waiting room you move into the second waiting room. A tv is blaring and the lights are glaring, however for a lucky few of us able to sit in the smaller quieter room, it isn’t too bad. The lights are dimmer and it is a quieter calmer place to be. I could sit and read without much problem.

Everyone has the same look on their faces going into the mammo. Kind of a don’t want to be here going through this but if I have to I have to. Sort of embarrassed sitting around naked from the waist up except for a skimpy robe. and mostly, sort of scared. I have to say, I wasn’t really scared. I was sitting next to an African American woman who must have just found out she was having a biopsy, because the poor woman was terrified. She kept calling on her faith and was reassured. I had been through the lumpectomy before so even if they found a lump, I didn’t think it would be anything other than a cyst. I knew I would have the mammo and then would have to have the sonogram, for definition. After that, they would tell me it is probably a cyst and it should be removed soon, but don’t worry not cancerous.

So here I go into the mammo. Trying to play it cool while this woman slings my breasts around into different places to squeeze. Not too bad. Then she comes out with the compression plates. These are smaller to give more compression and definition to the area they are trying to look at. Oh mama! Not fun, but ok for 5 seconds I can hold it and survive.

Back to the holding pen for more waiting while those pix are developed and read by the radiologist. No surprise, have to go for a sona. I know that drill too. It seems like these women have gotten nicer. They try to tell jokes and lead you into a small dark room. Did I mention it is cold. I am never cold and it was really cold in the whole center. God only knows why it has to be quite that cold. They cover you up and the sona tech comes in to work new magic on you.

Who ever thought up the idea that they could see inside someone using sound waves. That is really unbelievable. For many of us, sonograms are associated with being pregnant and seeing our babies. Not with cysts and lumps and tumors and cancer.


So I know what to do. Lie on the table and put your arm over your head. Putting some gel on you. Wand lets me pass sound waves through you to get a pix. The radiologist will then look at it and let you know. OK. No problem. This girl must be really thorough. She is doing a sona of my armpit, glad I shaved. Maybe that’s the new protocol. It has been a couple of years since I had one. Maybe this is what you do now. First tinge of fear, or maybe everything isn’t ok.

Another tech comes in and she does the sona again. Then the radiologist comes in and looks again at the screen. I can see it and it does look like a big bad blob. On the screen, it is giant. No one is saying anything to me and I keep waiting to hear that it is only a cyst and don’t worry. Now the radiologist is saying it looks suspicious and they need to biopsy it. Wait back up, suspicious. It’s just a cyst. Stop. Here is where the fog set in. Here is where people kept looking at me to lose it and I just sort of looked at them like a robot. I turned my head when someone talked to me, but I didn’t really absorb what they were saying. The radiologist said they would get a room ready for a biopsy today. it wasn’t sinking in. What does this mean and where does this lead. I sort of remembered having a biopsy of my other lump, but it was no big deal. I think it was just a needle biopsy. I had read about this, they stick a needle in the lump to aspirate it. Most of the time, the stuff comes out and it goes away - like a zit. So in the hall to wait now. Thank goodness I had my book. What was I reading - have no idea.

Finally into the room for the biopsy. The nurse is setting up all these needles and finally begins to explain to me what the procedure is all about. This is a core biopsy, not needle. OK this is a little more than what I thought it was going to be. Maybe something is really going on. Needles full of lidocaine to reduce the pain, however it still hurt. It was like a hole puncher, grabbing bits of tissue from the lump. Enough now. Doctor you have seen a lot of these. What is this? Well I wasn’t going to say if you didn’t ask, however, it is positive.

positive... positive...positive? positive!! positive! What the hell! This is a cyst, now it is positive for cancer. CRAP!! CRAP!!!!CRAP!!! Now the tears. I always cry. I cry at happy things. I just heard I have cancer and now of course I cry. This isn't[t fair. i am only 50. I have no history, no family history, no warning. I can’t have cancer. The radiologist is talking, what is she saying. The pathology report will be ready on Monday. OK maybe it isn’t true. no. the likelihood of it not being positive is very small.

Here is the name of a book to read Dr. Love’s Breast Book (don’t do it, more later) . Here is my card, she is president of the local Susan G Komen Foundation. Here is the phone number for the nurse manager to help facilitate appointments if you need it. Try not to worry. It will be ok.

Try not to worry. Isn’t that the stupidest phrase in the world. Of course I am worried. I HAVE EFFFING CANCER!!!! The first thing to do is get home. I am downtown on Friday afternoon. Just get out of the parking deck. No you have been around this level already, look for the word exit. one thing at a time. OK you are out. Now concentrate, get on the expressway. I just had to think of one small task at a time. Fulfill that and then move to the next one. Call Scott.

I have cancer. What did they say exactly. Can I remember. Scott asks. I try to remember exactly what the radiologist said. I think I was able to repeat it almost word for word. Just get home.

Stupidly, I called other people on the way home. Don’t ever do that. I was in a state of shock, but fortunately I made it home. Once there I was just overwhelmed. I didn’t yet know the extent of the bad news, but just the words “breast cancer” were enough to send me into a cold sweat.

I guess that night I was in a lot of denial. I was able to tell people without dissolving into pieces and the best thing was Gavan and Orla advising me to talk to Carlos Castillo, a medical oncologist who lives in the neighborhood. I really don’t remember what happened the rest of the weekend, except for a lovely dinner on Sunday night at Mary’s to keep Scott and I distracted. Mary’s babysitting of me continued the next morning going with me to the dog park and then for coffee.

That afternoon, I had a meeting of the architectural review committee and realized Carlos’ wife sat on the committee with me. Ever so gracious, Eunice had me talk with Carlos on his cell phone. He was one of the most reassuring doctors with whom I have ever spoken. I felt so much better hearing from him. Like I didn’t have to be in charge of this, he had it under control.

I didn’t get the results from pathology until the next day. The gyno’s office called. Not the doctor or even a nurse, but some sort of office manager called and said it was positive. I had spent the weekend reading the terrifying book recommended by the radiologist. Full of morbid charts and statistics, it was really only beneficial to understand terminology. Thus I was able to understand what invasive ductal carcinoma meant and it wasn’t good. The office manager was not helpful in the least. I told her I had talked to an oncologist and she was rather put out that I wasn’t going through her. To this day, I have yet to hear from my primary gyno to see if I have any questions about my treatment options. I have an annual in April, he will be hearing from me at that time - insensitive sob.

Anyway,I was on the phone with Carlos in a flash and he had me in his office that afternoon. Scott and I were told the different options and at that time we thought I would have surgery, then chemo, then radiation. It was harsh, but we were trying to deal with it.

The next day we were in with the surgeon. Carlos works as a team with the oncology surgeon and an oncology radiologist. It is a great idea and makes it easier to get in with any of them because of the closeness. Carlos had spoken with the surgeon and there was a new plan of action. Now they wanted to insert a catheter port and take the sentinel node first. Then do a round of chemo, then surgery to remove the lump and then radiation. Theoretically, this reduces the size of the tumor to make less invasive surgery and also stops any spread if it has gone to the nodes. Ok, another new plan. Well we can do that. This was late afternoon Wednesday and I was to call the next morning to get the hospital time for the catheter port. I called and called and called. Trying to get through to them was impossible. Finally, they told me to call the next day and they would be able to set it then. Meanwhile, I had a heart echo. Basically a sonogram of the heart. It was pretty cool to watch. They do this as a baseline to make sure the chemo does not hurt the heart. On Friday, I had to go to the cardiologist for an ekg and clearance for surgery.

Friday, I finally pinned down the surgeon’s office and they told me it would be another week before they could get into the surgery. Not acceptable I said. They tried again and I got in for Tuesday.

The Next Hill.  Back in my thirties, when I was immortal, I thought it would be a good idea to take up roller blading.  I strapped on and started out.  Soon, my wonderful neighbors were skating with me.  They being more competitive than I, wanted to be in races and marathons.  Idiot that I am, I let them convince me that a 39 mile trek part of the way from Athens to Atlanta would be a good idea. Ok I said, I have gone that far here in Florida, no problem.  What did I forget?  We have no hills in Florida! I lived in Atlanta for 3 years, but did I remember the topography, no not so much.  And have you ever been to Athens?  Hill City.  So we started out from Athens, in the dark, in the rain, on the hills.  Those hills looked like Mt. Everest to me.  Cheryl, strong and fit, was able to pull up those hills with no problem.  The only way I could make the up hill was to take the previous downhill at top speed.  I would zoom down past Cheryl to make it even half way up the other side.  Cheryl would zip past me with words of encouragement and enthusiasm.  Here I would come slowly slogging up with every ounce of energy I could only to face the next hill.  Without my friend, Cheryl, I would still be out in the wilds of Georgia somewhere.  She carried me up and down those hills.  

When I decided to undertake the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer (how ironic) several years later, my first question was "Are there any hills in Chicago?"  No, Cyndy, no hills.  Reassured, I was able to complete that ordeal, without hills.  

 

But God wasn't through with giving me hills to face.  Hopefully with this cancer, I can do what I did in Atlanta.  Zoom downhill so I can get up the other side.  Thankfully, I have wonderful family and friends that are carrying me up.