Finding a Lump in the Road

I have been using essential oils the past few months to stay healthy, and to control pain.

I was pain free for over two months until a bit over a week ago, when i felt like i had pulled a muscle doing, well, i had no idea what.  Then, monday afternoon, after essential oils and NSAIDs all failed to ease the pain at all, I reached around to massage the sore area and found a lump.

In the past, the pre-essential oil near miracle past, I would have ignored the pain.  Pain has been a part of my daily life for so long, that I learned long ago to just live with it.  What is one more point of pain?  Well, since i have been pain free fo a few months, I didn't ignore it, but nothing worked to alleviate it.  So, when i massaged my side/back and found a lump, I was a bit worried.

In the past, my pre cancer past, I would have ignored the lump for a few months until somthing else brought me in to the doctor's office.  But I am no longer living in that past and my partner, the nurse, made an appointment for me for Wednesday.

The nurse practitioner thinks it is just a benign fatty tumor, but I am getting an ultrasound this afternoon just to be sure.  And I will have the results sent to my oncologist, just in case.

I have been cancer free for four years and a couple of weeks now.  But, I must admit I have a small niggling fear about this.  I am not letting my fear take over though.  I am doing what I need to do and not freezing with fear, denying anything, or doomsaying.  I am just taking it as it is.  Maybe a pulled muscle. Maybe a pocket of fat I hadn't noticed when I was 43 pounds heavier (yes, 43 pounds lost since this spring).  Maybe something else.  I am just taking it one moment at a time, bound and determined to keep myself from going crazy once again from anxiety and fear.

The Universe will see that I am safe on my journey, wherever it takes me.  Blessed Be.

The Language Void Bubble

(written November 9, 2010)

Yesterday I had my three year post cancer exam.  My CA 125 blood work was only 10.5, which is great.  My pelvic went well.  If I don’t hear anything about my pap in a week or two, it was normal.  Yipeeeeeee!

I have to admit that I feel a great sense of relief.  In three years, this is really the first time that I have had a niggling doubt that something might be wrong.  It is difficult to stay positive when I have been so tired lately.  I have been about as tired as I was when I was diagnosed with cancer.  (I vacuumed the house yesterday, and tried to get the mopping done, and I had to stop twice to take breaks.  A few days ago, in Costco, I leaned up against a stack of boxes and almost fell asleep standing up.  I haven’t done that since I was going through chemo and radiation.)  Although energy wise, I am getting a little better than I was a month ago.  Once I’ve been awake about three and a half hours, no matter how awake and energetic I was upon waking, my eyelids start to lower, my eyes start to blur and I have to fight to stay awake.  Each morning, I think, wow, I feel so much better today, maybe I’m normal again!  Then, a few hours later, I start pooping out. 

The tiredness isn’t even what is scaring me the most.  I am forgetting things.  Some days I’m mostly fine and only forget a word once or twice and I can come up with an alternative word within about 5-20 seconds.  But, there have been a couple of times when I’ve been in the middle of saying something and it is as if there is a bubble of silence in my brain.  It feels as if I have no ability to access language of any sort at those times.  I picture myself as a cartoon character chattering away, with a string of words coming out of my mouth when a big, impermeable air bubble blocks out all access to any more words.  A moment of panic sets in, my mouth stops running because it has no way of knowing what sounds to make.  My brain wouldn’t understand how to interpret those sounds at that moment anyway.  In my panic, I can feel myself close my eyes and take a deep breath, as if I am trying to breath the words back into my brain from the ether around me.  I feel like I am suffocating in a way.  Not suffocating for air, but for language, for ideas.  I can’t even form a coherent thought during those times.  All I can do is gasp and grasp for something that I had a moment ago but is gone.  I am totally aware at the time of what is happening, and that terrifies me.  I feel like I go somewhere else for a moment.  I don’t think that eternity of languageless panic lasts more than a few seconds at a time, but it’s hard to tell.  It’s almost as if time is suspended, set aside in that same place where my language has gone.  I guess I need to remember to ask whoever I’m talking to how long I go without talking.  It usually happens in the middle of a sentence, so it’s probably pretty noticeable.  It is definitely noticeable to me.

Friday evening, I found out that my disability insurance only approved a week and a half of payments.  I had no idea.  I called them to tell them that the nurse practitioner wants to extend my leave, and oh, by the way, I’ve got a gap in the checks coming in, do you know when the next one is due?  They said that chronic fatigue is too vague of a diagnosis and that they had sent me a letter requesting all doctor’s notes, test results, etc.  I never received the letter.  They said that they also called me, but I had privacy manager so they couldn’t get through.  I explained that all you have to do is say who is calling and the call will go through.  I told them that I am having trouble staying awake for more than about 4 hours at a time, and that is why they are keeping me off work.  She said that they need scientific verifiable proof.  Of course, now I’m freaking out because I don’t know how they determine what numbers of this or that verify that I am losing my mind and my energy.  What if the numbers aren’t bad enough?  Do I go back to work, knowing that I am impaired, since, after all, I’m not communicable or dying, I’m not unable to walk and talk and drive, I can see (even though stuff is blurry much of the time due to the exhaustion, and it makes it hard to read some times), I can hear, I am coherent most of the time.  My Epstein-Barr Virus numbers have slightly improved, I’m not anemic, I don’t have Celiac’s disease, my diabetes is not out of control (A1C is 6.2), and my basic blood work is within normal range.  But for some reason, my B vitamins have dropped even further even though I have been taking the supplements and getting jabbed with a needle to get vitamin infusions (my last scheduled one was today, as I began writing this).  I want to know why my vitamin B levels are dropping when they are mainlining the stuff into my veins.  I start B12 injections this week at home.

(the rest of this was written November 11, 2010)

Tomorrow I go for memory testing.  I am hoping that they will be able to figure out what’s going on.  It does seem worse when I’m stressed (like finding out I don’t have any more money coming in for a while) or when I’m tired (been awake more than 4 hours).  I have a real fear of this because my grandma and two aunts died of Altzheimer’s.  My Aunt Ronnie and my Grandma forgot how to do everything, including eat and eventually swallow.  My Aunt Annie forgot that she was allergic to bees.  Also, my mom had a couple of strokes in her lifetime, with the big one messing with her language center, confusing her thoughts and blocking certain words from her mind for months.  So, with language being such an important part of my identity, I am really scared that this stuff may be permanent.  Hopefully, it’s just related to the vitamin deficiency.  My fear is probably totally unwarranted.  Hopefully I will find out more tomorrow.

Smart as a Box of Rocks

I have a feeling that my class this semester, my final class for my log-anticipated bachelor’s degree may crush my current use of one of my favorite insults. Only a few humans have earned my use of this insult, more likely it goes toward, say, my old cat who used to electrocute herself repeatedly on the TV antennae for as many times as I could stand to let her, and who once, we suspect, fell in the toilet while trying to investigate why the water wasn’t going round and round and round and-SPLASH. But, I love using this insult, it rolls off the tongue in a not quite, almost rhyme: “dumb as a box of rocks”.


Now that I have started reading my Environmental Geology textbook, I think that insult is actually a compliment. Rocks speak more about our Earthly home than the most loquacious human ever can. They not only speak to us, but they are also smart, they have seen the fires of creation and were born to tell about it.

Sorry I haven’t written for a while. My plate has been full and my heart has fealt as heavy as a box of rocks. Hopefully, I’ll find some more inspiration soon.

I went to the Snow Festival in Frankenmuth yesterday. The vision of these artists is inspirational, as they start with a huge block of snow, and ounce by ounce shave away the frozen crystals to bring to life a gnome or an angel, a cobra or an octopus eating a submarine. The festival runs through this weekend, I encourage you to go and enjoy the beauty.

By the way, I got my port out last week.  I'm doing the cancer free happy dance.

Life is a Jumble of Rumbles

I just looked at the date of my last post and feel guilty.  So much has happened over the past couple of weeks that I just haven't had the time or the heart to write.  This is a very non inspirational entry, just so you are prepared.  I'm just going to give a very quick run-down on my past couple of weeks.

The good news is that I have now been officially cancer free for two years!!!  The bad news is that I can't get my port out for three more months due to they found some slightly enlarged lymph nodes that they want to re check but aren't too concerned about.

My friend Charlie from work died suddenly.  My friend Eva died after a long battle with pain and a long 95 year life.  Another friend went into the hospital, then came home from the hospital to a life much changed.  I am getting a 2.5 percent pay cut, and my differed comp is no longer being matched by my employer.  Waiting to see which other shoe is going to be thrown at us.  I am having trouble getting motivated for school even though I really like both of my classes this semester.

So, sadly, I am short on humor and on inspiration these days.  I appologize.  I'll be back soon.  I have, however, been trying to update the local events calendar as I hear of things, so check it out over there to the right!

Angles, Roundness and Laughter: My First Yoga Adventure

(Written Thursday September 24, 2009)

Today, I learned that I’m pretty much as flexible as I ever was during my track running high school days. (Except I can’t do the lotus position.) I also learned that no matter how flexible I am, my fat belly just plain gets in the way of me being able to do certain things (like grab my feet while I balance precariously on the flat part of my flat butt). I also learned that I need to work on strength training. And, the fourth thing I learned is that Yoga push-ups are far more complicated and physically demanding than any regular push up.

The class was an hour long and fifteen minutes into it, I was panting and sweating and staring at the clock, demanding that it go faster because I didn’t want to wimp out so early. I thought for sure I was in some movie-type of time warp where time had slowed, or, at least, the clock had broken. By the time sixty minutes rolled around I was relaxed and energized all at the same time. In my head I composed a Facebook blurb that I never posted, it went something like “just had my first yoga class. I was exhausted when it started and now I’m energized. How’s a girl to sleep?” I didn’t post it. I didn’t even get on the computer because I got home, peeled off my sweaty clothes, showered, talked to Deb for a minute, laid down, petted Biddy Kitty, told Jake the Little Booger Puppy to get his ding-a-ling off of my face and snuggled Indigo who seems to feel left out whenever we are dog sitting Serena and the Booger. Then I fell immediately and deeply asleep. I hit the snooze twice without waking and on the third time I was going to reset the alarm for fifteen minutes ago and realized I had to get my sore butt out of bed and quickly get ready for work because I was already a half hour later than what I expected.

Oddly enough, on some of the poses where the instructor counseled people that this one is really hard for a lot of people and for us to just do the best we can, I had no problem with, and the stretch felt really good (the triangle pose, standing, feet apart, leaning to the side, touching the floor with one hand and stretching the other to the ceiling). But some of the other poses that should have been easy (the aforementioned holding my feet in a crouch while balancing on my flat butt) were just plain funny when I though about getting this body there. During the butt balancing pose, I lay on the floor and laughed instead of grabbing my feet. (It is kind of like the old nuclear blast protection-grab your feet and kiss your behind goodbye-except instead of leaning down to protect your head, you are on your backside, kind of like a turtle who has been flipped upside-down.)

So, “they” say that if you are overweight and you lose ten percent of your body weight, you improve your chances of beating heart disease, diabetes, etc. (although my ten percent would be radically different than my 20 years ago ten percent, so I’m not sure where they get that figure). I wonder, if I were to lose ten percent of my body weight, would my yoga angles be able to be ten percent more acute? Would ten percent get me to the upside-down-butt-turtle pose? Would it get me back into the lotus position that was so easy for me as a kid? I wonder, would losing ten percent of my body weight push less on my diaphragm/lungs when I’m stretched so I am upside-down and touching the floor, sweating and gasping for air?

Being one of Kinsey’s ten percent, ten percent should be a lucky number for me, shouldn’t it? I’m going to try it, and I’m putting it her ein typing in order to try to make it more real and more of a commitment. If I make a public declaration of a thing, I am more likely to put it in to practice.

So, here it is: I am going to lose 28.48 pounds by the end of the year. That gives me 3 months-less than ten pounds per month. I can do that. Then comes the hard part- keeping it off.

Considering that today I got up and down more times in an hour than is required during a Catholic mass, I feel pretty good. My hips don’t hurt for the first time in months. And, although my shoulder is in a lot of pain, it’s a different type of gain than the senseless pain I’ve been having. Today’s pain is one of muscles well used, not of random violent bursts of agony. I’d say that’s an improvement. Oh yeah, despite laughing instead of doing the upside-down-turtle-but pose (I have no idea what the real name is), my butt muscles hurt. I feel like I am breathing deeper and freer than I have in a while, and my ribs don’t hurt as bad as they did yesterday. My radiated surgery scar hurts since that class. I think maybe it got stretched along with my muscles. Perhaps it will stretch enough to lose its rigid painful lumps. No expectations as far as that goes, but it would be a good side effect if it happened that way.

Thursdays are going to be a bit rough with Wednesday night being my Monday and having two academic classes on Thursday, and now Yoga after that. But, I think this is something good I can do for myself that is free (it is the official twice weekly meetings of the U of M Flint Yoga Club) and healthy and I get to entertain myself with the absurdity of trying to get this body into those positions. I’m running a comedy film in my brain.

Through it all, Jessica, the leader of the club, kept saying “that’s perfect” no matter how awkward or totally wrong we (me) posed. In her philosophy, it’s the movement and the act of being intentional that count. The first time I met her, last week, she said that everyone does yoga every day when they do something nice for another person. She says yoga is more than exercise; it’s a way of life. I’m not sure I can jump into that one, but I can stretch and move and breathe and laugh at myself.

During the final meditation, she asked that today “you do something good for yourself, someihtg good for another, and something good for your community.” I did one of those three, I took an hour of Rock and Roll, and hour of contemplating death, and an hour of breathing life. Those were for me. I didn’t do anything for another or for my community today, but as an imperfect person in an imperfect world, I can try again tomorrow.

Now stretch. Now breathe. Now laugh at yourself.

(the following was written on Friday, the next day)

Ow. Ow owowowowwwwch.
(the following was written a few hours after that)

I did some of the yoga stretches that I remember from class and I don’t feel quite so sore. More like achy now.

Silence.
I came to a realization recently that I have imposed a type of silence upon myself since getting my cancer diagnosis. My silence is obviously not one of the mouth or the pen or the keyboard.
My silence is one of the body. I have put my mind and mouth in one compartment and left my body (at least the root chakra) in a dark and silent tomb somewhere else.

I recently read a very powerful and moving book called Waking: A Memoir of Trauma and Transcendence. The author, Matthew Sanford, chronicles his life as a paraplegic, beginning with the car accident that severed his spinal cord when he was 13 years old, an age when kids are just learning about their bodies. Sanford was coerced by the medical establishment to silence his “phantom pains” and emotionally distance himself from the bottom 2/3 of his body. Once he accepted their directives, he felt like just a head and shoulders person. He was this disembodied person for many years, living with a silence of body that only few can understand.

Eventually, he made peace with the living, unmoving body that is a part of himself. He found yoga and re-introduced his body to his mind and visa versa. He now teaches yoga even though he is still paraplegic.
Toward the end of this book, as he was describing how it felt when yoga opened him up to his whole body’s energy, I remembered that feeling of a kundalini rush while meditating or doing energy work and I cried. (What is it with menopause anyway? I seem more emotional than I ever was before.) I was crying in joy and relief for Sanford, but also in grief and anger at myself.
I realized that it has been over two years since I really felt alive throughout my whole body. I’m not sure if the disconnect started when I first got my cancer diagnosis, I don’t think so because I was still meditating and doing Reiki at first.

The disconnect likely happened when Dr. B went out of his way to verbally intimidate and mostly castigate me before doing my vaginal exam which left me feeling unclean and ashamed of having cancer. He said I was too fat to do surgery on and the radiation that he ordered had a possibility of rendering sex so painful as to be impossible, or at least unenjoyable, for the rest of my life. And, he said that because I do not sleep with men, that doesn’t matter anyway.

The disconnect could have happened as I went on the internet and sought out the worst case scenarios for the treatments I was to get.
The disconnect could have happened during the radiation process (you can read about the gory details in some of my earlier posts) and with a radiation doctor that only sees women as property and without physical or emotional considerations.

The disconnect could have happened after my surgery, with the painful recovery (even now, the scar is often a bit painful and there is a hard lump of tissue that healed wrong because of the previous radiation damage).

Despite all my ruminating, trying to pinpoint a moment where I disengaged from my body, ultimately just gives me an excuse to stay in my mind where I feel safer, more in control. (Okay, if you’ve been reading my blog for a while, that last sentence sounds unlikely. But, believe it or not, that mental chaos feels safe compared to the idea of reconnecting with my root chakra or physical body.)

Another thing I realized from reading Waking, is that I totally take my body for granted. I have aches and pains and crackles and creaks, and I notice those, but it has been a long time since I just sat or did some activity and felt proud of my muscles, my strong legs, my feet that support twice the weight they did when I was young and fit. I have felt more embarrassed of my body than grateful, or even present.

So, I am trying to get back into this shell of mine by breathing deep (as deep as an ex-smoker with pneumonia can), walking, biking, stretching, touching my toes, meditating and paying attention to what my body feels- not just how my mind interprets parts of what I feel.

Reaching back in my memory, I’ll try to describe what I had forgotten that I lost- or, rather, what I actively blocked until the blocking felt more “normal” than being unblocked:

I remember sitting on the ground at the base of an old oak tree. My butt was nestled between two big roots and my back- the whole of my back from sacrum to lumbar to thoracic to cervical spine- was leaning completely against the bark. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, paying attention to what my breath felt like. The more focused I became, the less I noticed the people walking past me to and from the mess hall, to and from rehearsals for the big concert coming up, to and from their dorms or temporary apartments (I was at the University of Kentucky for a Sister Singers’ conference). As others faded, my heartbeat and my breath blended and created a quiet music of their own. Then, I felt energy, almost like my spiral fluid flowing from my root up through each vertebra, around the back of my head to the crown, up through the branches and leaves, then circulating back down through me into the Earth through my pelvis. I don’t know how long I sat like that before I felt something that really startled me. The bark touching my spine, that channel of energy that was so palpable, began to buzz in relation to the buzzing inside of me. It was like the tree’s sap and my spinal fluid were one in the same. I became high from the joy of the moment. I was high without drugs, alcohol, cigarettes or anything else polluting my body. That remarkable moment had to have been 18 or so years ago.

Before the silence, I regularly became a tree, firmly planting my roots in the loamy Earth to stay grounded. I’ve only been a sickly sapling for the past couple of years, whereas before I was a great oak, willow or birch, depending upon the moment.

I also remember the joy and amazement the first time I felt the coiled-snake energy begin to dance: Kundalini. The red snake wound its body up in my womb to sleep and when it woke, it woke my whole body. That fire snake introduced me to the Phoenix, which is the spirit animal born to me again and again, rising out of the ashes I make of myself every now and then.
The other day, a day or two after finishing Waking, I woke up naturally, without the alarm. (It was Tuesday or Wednesday morning, so I had slept the night before since I have Mondays off work.) I sat up on the edge of the bed. (Deb and the three girls staying with us were all still asleep.). I quietly but securely placed both bare feet flat on the bare wooden floor. I straightened my spine from the bottom up and unrolled my shoulders. I put my hands to either side of me, palm sides down. I breathed slowly, deeply, deliberately. I felt myself settle into my body, like an old farmhouse settling, except without the creaking sounds or cracking foundation. As a matter of fact, my foundation felt more solid than it had in a while. More solid than it has for two years. I felt the tree that the settling farmhouse was made of inside my body, sending grounding roots thirstily into the Earth, tentatively as if not wanting to over drink like a dehydrated person might. It felt good for that moment. I felt solid. For that moment, I felt at home again in me.

Did I mention that I highly recommend the book, Waking, by Matthew Sanford for everyone who has ever felt silence: adolescents, differently abled people, women, transgendered people, people of color, arthritic people, diabetics, anyone who has ever had a car accident or a major surgery, menopausal women, men with ED, anyone who has wanted to be a parent but couldn’t, alcoholics, yoga instructors, massage therapists, overweight people, anorexics, ministers, teachers, nurses, doctors, social workers, body workers, body builders, home builders, amputees, veterans, the elderly, people of all faiths, humanists, and you.

If you are interested in hearing a fantastic interview with Matthew Sanford, you can go to http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/bodysgrace/ .  If you are not convinced to read this book yet, listen to him as he tells his story.  Even if you choose not to read the book, the interview alone is inspiring.

Tripping Down the Path of Buried Fears

(Written Sunday August 23, 2009 about 3am)

I am a little over a third of the way through Sherwin Nuland’s book, How We Die. It is a book of compassion and clinical dispassion all at the same time. Even as he describes his friend’s descent into Alzheimer’s disease and the step by step progression of the disease as his friend, in proportionate amounts, digresses, Nuland maintains a clinical distance that allows room for my own grief and fear to surface and fill in the space.

Tears ran down my face unabashedly as I read about his friend and his friend’s wife’s deep love for one another and how occasionally his friend would come to the surface for a few seconds and tell his wife he loves her. My grief and wonder were woven into this man’s very personal story as I remembered an experience that happened during my grandma White’s last years in a nursing home for Alzheimer’s patients: My Aunt Ronnie got a call from the nursing home one day and they said that grandma was missing. They were out looking for her and I think they even had the police looking. Aunt Ronnie went to my grandpa’s house to tell him, and there they were-napping together. He was asleep in his chair and she was asleep in hers. Across the gap, they were holding hands with the romantic music of snoring.

As I read this chapter (which I’m still not done with-I have had to take a break as this subject speaks to my greatest fears) snippets of conversations and personal experiences engulf me: Deb’s dad asking the same question every two minutes; seeing my grandma being fed like a baby (I was ten); listening to my cousin, Tim, a couple of weeks ago as he related the description of his once strong, beautiful independent mother forgetting how to suck on a straw in her last days (Aunt Ronnie, from the earlier story); feeling that my Aunt Annie had been loved so much by her garden that the bees spared her and her family the agony of the quick descent into oblivion that Alzheimer’s was leading her to.

My aunts’ and my mom’s greatest fears were to disintegrate from the brain down, the way their mother did with Alzheimer’s. That fear has become part of my inheritance, even more enveloping than an heirloom quilt. Reading such a clinical description of the various ways that Alzheimer’s first deludes, then destroys, then kills its victims, without even their knowledge, brings out that heirloom quilt yet once again. Today, it wraps me in its folds like the newborn baby that my grandmother became before she died.

There seems to be disagreement as to whether or not Alzheimer’s is genetic, but they really don’t seem to know much about it at all. However, having lost a grandmother and two Aunts to it (Aunt Annie forgot she was allergic to bees, so with their help, the disease killed her). (My paternal grandmother had a different type of dementia as well.) I can’t help but wonder if I, too, will have to face it one day. My chemo-brain experience gave me an in my face reminder of my fears of dying with the fog of dementia. I can’t help but wonder and fear if the future will make me into someone I’ve never wanted to be-angry, frustrated and forgetful. So, each time I forget a word or yell at Deb for some idiotic imagined slight- somewhere in the back of my mind is the fear that maybe my family’s nemesis is lurking in my brain’s DNA and maybe the chemo I had two years ago already set the wheels in motion. Even though I feel like I’m back to “normal”, whatever that means, I can’t help but think about the fact that people with Alzheimer’s don’t know they have it and believe that they are “normal”. The fear is always lurking…

Puppy Dog Tails Change the World

(written June 25, 2009 posted today due to internet glitch)

Monday of last week (I know, my brain does not work in chronological order), I had my regular four month pap smear. It’s hard to believe that two years ago this week I was in shock from being told that I had cancer and then going to a misogynistic gyn oncologist. I hadn’t yet gone to my doctor at U of M. I should be a poster child for yearly checkups for women-except I hate getting my picture taken. I always have, even when I weighed half what I weigh now.

I go back again in four months. At that point, I will be considered to be at low risk for recurrence, and can go down to every 6 months for exams. I’ll also finally get my port removed at that point. Yippee and yippee, respectively.

One of my high school buddies (a different one than I mentioned before), recently re-connected with me through Facebook. She is just now reading my blog, including the steroid and stress induced mania from the beginning. I think I was more interesting then, but I’m glad my brain chemicals seem to be back to normal-well, my normal, which probably isn’t NORMAL normal.

Deb is home recovering from having her gallbladder removed. Now she will have a four inch horizontal scar to keep the long vertical scar company. I’m sure she probably feels trapped like a rat. Still no driving, lifting, coughing hard, laughing hard, sneezing, sitting up fast, laying down fast, or pushing to poop. Ahh, a life of leisure. I’m glad it’s not me-again.

On a whole ‘nother subject- I seem to have little dogs running through my brain tonight. Perhaps it’s because my across the street neighbor’s yorkie has taken a liking to me. Perhaps it’s because I’m fascinated with Jake, the puggle that has captured the hearts of my goddaughters, attends obedience school with them and regularly falls asleep in their arms after eating his own poop. Perhaps it is because the other day, someone gave me two organically grown carrots with the tops still on, fresh from the garden and I wanted to share them with Little Bit, so it made me miss Little Bit a bit. Perhaps it is because I saw a toad the other day. Perhaps it is because it is 4:30 in the morning and the only way to stay alert is to embrace my musical turrets and internal tail wagging.

Speaking of tail wagging- we got the dogs groomed a couple of weeks ago and asked that Indigo get a field cut, using a “#7 blade” all over. We forgot to ask for her beautiful fluffy tail to stay fluffy. Now she has a skinny naked black tale like Pluto, except hers has a white spot on it-right toward the top. I never knew she had a white spot on her tail! Without the fluff to catch the air and provide resistance, her wag now seems really really fast. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump instead of thump thump thump thump. It’s like she has got tail tachycardia. (Indigo is the dog that has not only concealed her white dot from us for about 11 years, but for about 8 years she totally hid the fact that she is perfectly trained on leash. What next, is she secretly engaged or running a business on the side, renting out her kitty sisters to kill mice for the neighbors?)

By the way, has anyone seen my missing screw? If you find it, please let me know. Thumpthumpthumpthump.

My Greater Good or THE Greater Good: A false choice

When I was diagnosed with cancer one year and ten months ago, my first thought was not what you would expect. My first thought was not "I'm going to die", nor was it "I'm scared". My first thought was "I'll never be able to leave my job because I'll never be able to get health insurance again". I had been planning on going to seminary within the next few years in order to help people heal themselves and to teach people how to help one another make this a better world. Because of my cancer and the improbablity of being able to get health insurance again, I am having to decide between my personal well being and making a wider difference in the world. There are other considerations as well, but health insurance should not be one of them.

Money is just money. Protecting one's health and the health of those we love is worth more than any gold standard green paper. So please support universal healthcare. In the long run it is a wise investment that will benefit everyone.

-that is a paraphrase of my personal comment that I made when I signed a petition to try to get our legislatures to support a healthcare bill that will go a long way toward getting Americans the healthcare they need.

If you are interested in raising your voice in support of this issue, or of finding out more, you can visit this link: http://pol.moveon.org/standwithdrdean/?rc=homepage

Having a Ball for the Inaguration

I have good news and not so good news and just plain news.

The good news is, that on Tuesday, WE WILL HAVE AN AWESOME PRESIDENT! To celebrate, anyone who knows us is welcome to come by the house, watch the inaguration on TV, watch replays of the inaguration on TV, watch replays of the inaguration on TV and enjoy some snacky-type food (veggies, fruit, chicken wings and pickles, to start). Kind of like the Superbowl, only better.

The just plain news is that I've decided not to go to the inaguration. My hip is doing weird things and I don't wnat my step-mom to have to deal with my whiney lame butt. Also, the more I think about standing in a large crowd (which sometimes makes me clausterphobic) in the cold (the last couple of days here have been below zero at night) and not close enough to see the action (except on a big screen), I think that enjoying the festivities eating pickles and popcorn sounds good as well. The main thing is, WE WILL HAVE AN AWESOME PRESIDENT ON TUESDAY!!!!!

More just news: We are running out of miles on the lease for the truck, so we are shopping for another one.

More just news: Friday I had a CT scan and chest xray, not for anything serious, just a follow up to all the cancer stuff. I love berium, steroids and benedryl. Yum.

The not so good news (other than the aformentioned hinkey hip) is that yet again my bloodwork came back high. The last 2 times that happened, it was back down to lower than ever a month later. I'm not going to stress over it at this point, as I've said before-I'm probably one of those people for whom the CA125 is useless as a cancer indicator.

For those of you who plan on dropping by Tuesday, send me or Deb an e-mail or call us just to let us know how many people to plan for. Feel free to bring friends. I don't know what time the inaguration festivities start, but we'll try to have clothes on by at least an hour beforehand. The door will be open until the cows come home that night.

Needling Deb's Migraine

(Note: This was written September 10, I've just been slow posting this entry.)

Over the course of 9 days, Deb was dealing with a terrible migraine. I couldn’t cook much because smells made her nauseated. She wore sunglasses and kept the curtains closed because light made her hurt more. I couldn’t even run energy on her because it hurt too much. At one point, she came out of the bathroom rubbing her hands and telling me that something is wrong with the soap. The sensation in her hands was all messed up to where the soap didn’t feel right. During that nine days, she couldn’t drive because the sun and the things moving by fast hurt her eyes and made her nauseated. (She was able to drive half way to Ann Arbor for my Doctor’s appointment, but then I had to take over.) So, since she couldn’t drive in order to try to figure out what was wrong and to try to fix it, or at least make it tolerable, I drove her to the doctor three times and to the emergency room once. Nothing helped. Imatrex helped slightly for a couple of hours. Topamax and Fenegren helped for about 10 minutes and Morphine helped for about 30 minutes. Finally, on Monday, Deb decided to go to the acupuncturist. The only appointment she could get was Tuesday late afternoon. She couldn’t drive herself, so I played hookey from school to take her.

Now, that same day (Tuesday), at 11am was her third doctors appointment to try to do SOMETHING about the migraine. Deb had already taken her handful of morning meds, including the long term antibiotic for the Chlamydia Pneumonia that she has. Well, the Doctor, on day 9 of her blinding migraine, decided that the doxycyclene is what gave her the migraine. Go figure. And, she had already taken her morning dose. Dern it.

Ahh, but then, several hours later came 20 needles placed strategically in her hands, arms, feet, legs and right earlobe. She had almost instant relief for the first time since this migraine began. Ask her about the trip she took, it sounds really awesome. We were both kicking ourselves for not thinking of that earlier. Next time, that will probably be her first line of defense.

From the outside, seeing how the migraine made her light, smell and touch sensitive, but also affected her speech, coordination, balance and thought patterns. I’m beginning to think that maybe her doctor was right, way back when and her mystery episodes may actually have been headache-free migraines all along!!

She’s got another appointment at the acupuncturist, Brittney Schram, next week. We are going to try to fit into our budget, regular visits for Deb to see her, because if these episodes have really been migraines all along, maybe Brittney can help them stop, or be less requent or less severe. Something. Finally, some hope of an answer and of relief.

I had my three month check up at U of M on Monday. The pelvic exam looked good. I now get to go every four months since it’s been a year since finishing chemo and radiation. Yeah!! I don’t know the pap results yet. My CA125 bloodwork (tumor marker) came back elevated again. Even more than the last time it jumped. I’m not going to stress about it at this point. I stressed last time and it dropped right back down in a month. I’m not going to let it get to me this time. I’m sure it will drop back down once again. I may very well be one of the people for whom that test is meaningless. If my pap comes back irregular, then I’ll start getting nervous, but for now, no worries.

For those of you in my family who are reading this- I am so sorry for missing Bud’s funeral. I’m not good about checking my e-mail, so I missed it. (Actually, since composing this, I have checked my e-mail and didn’t find the announcement. As a matter of fact, I have no idea how, but Mig’s e-mail address has totally disappeared from my address book.) I hope you all were able to comfort one another and laugh together, as he would wish.

The Road To Healing is Paved with Scares and Scars

On Monday, I stopped at a rest area just north of Ann Arbor. I saw two things that stayed with me. I'll relate the second one first.

As I was walking back to my car, I saw a young blond boy, about 8 years old, sitting in a dog crate in the back of a pick-up truck. I laughed, he looked so comfortable in there while his chocolate lab puppy was on leash with his mom, sniffing around the grass and trees. The boy looked like he belonged in the crate, with a big grin on his face, waiting for a dog treat while the dog was thinking about the front seat.

Shortly before seeing the kennelled boy, I observed another type of role reversal. It occurred to me that, as our population ages, there is an odd type of reverse discrimination for heterosexual couples. That sounds odd coming from a lesbian, but listen and I will explain...

As I walked into the rest area building, I saw an older man (probably in his late 70s) standing nervously outside of the women's restroom. A few steps further on, I entered the bathroom, and I noticed under the door of the handicapped stall, there was a walker and a woman's feet. This concerned husband could not go in there to make sure his beloved was okay.

When Deb was using a walker after her surgery, I could just go into the stall with her, to help her, to make sure that she was okay. I had an advantage that this white married heterosexual man can't ever excercise in a public restroom (except at the very few and far between that have a seperate, single-seater unisex handicapped bathroom).

I was sad for him in his anxiety and in his powerlessness to take care of his wife in public.

The reason I was in that part of the world was that I had my 3 month pap/pelvic exam in Ann Arbor. It went well. The doctor said that she likes what she didn't see or feel. The pap results aren't back yet. However, the bloodwork for my CA125 (tumor marker) came back the next day. It has gone up to 15.7. Before I had the chemo/radiation and surgery, it was only 12.8. I have to get re-checked in a month. Meanwhile, I wait.

This CA125 test is not always an accurate determination of whether or not someone has cancer. Some people's numbers always go up when they have cancer growing, and some don't. I have no idea which category I fall into. 15.7 is still very low in general, but because it was higher than it's ever been in my blood, they want to keep an eye on it.

So, of course, I'm nervous and worried. Throughout this process, I'm trying to remind myself that everything happens for a reason.

Tomorrow, Saturday June 14, there is going to be a conflict resolution mediator at the church to try to help us work out some of the crap that has been flying around there. My heart is breaking over what's been happening and being said. I'm not even involved in the controversies, yet still my heart breaks.

My heart breaks for those who hold so tightly to anger and resentment that forgiveness seems to them like an abdication of control. In reality, it is a reclaimation of true personal power which is innately rooted in compassion and love. (I am working on a sermon about this, it's not ready, nor am I ready to share it.)

My heart breaks for those who no longer feel welcome in a church that claims that it welcomes all people. As a welcoming congregation, people of all sexual orientations, races, abilities, etc. are welcome. Lesbians, as well as straight white men should feel safe. Straight white men, as well as lesbians, deserve to be treated with compassion and dignity. We all deserve to have the divine spark recognized within us, regardless if we are having a bad day.

My heart breaks that some people don't feel safe within the walls that I hold dear. Safety is a basic human need, and feeling safe assures us of a certain amount of human dignity to which we all are entitled. It is sad to me that some of us don't feel safe among others of us. The U.U. Church should be a safe refuge for everyone. It saddens me that so many intelligent, talented, compassionate folks now look for the "enemies" among us, the "potential abusers", the "perpetually rude", and those who are lining up on whichever "side" they feel is the most rightous among us. We should instead be looking to one another to help us recognize the enemies within ourselves and help one another begin to heal those internal enemies so that they are no longer enemies, but instead sources for positive change and internal strength. We should be lifting one another up, not seeking to drag one another down.

My heart breaks that there seems to be a collective amnesia regarding the importance of living, breathing and worshipping within the framework of the Seven Principles of our faith which are that we affirm and promote:
*The inherent worth and dignity of every person;
*Justice, equity and compassion in human relations;
*Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations;
*A free and responsible search for truth and meaning;
*The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregations and in society at large;
*The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all;
*Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.

So, I hope that those who feel wronged or angry or hurt or threatened, or who just plain believe that healing needs to occur among our congregation all come tomorrow to allow and perhaps even facilitate some healing among us.

I have learned, since having my hysterectamy, that a very interesting thing happens when there has been a painful assult upon the body. Where healing is allowed to occur, the scar tissue is stronger and tougher than before the ripping open. The once abused tissue will never look or feel the same, but there will always be an air of strength for having gone through the process of being wounded, then having the wound cleansed, closed and through patience and care, healed. Without facilitating closure and healing, the wound would fester and contaminate the entire body, eventually rendering it powerless or dead.

Let the healing begin among this body of people that I so dearly love. Let the personal insults, rumors, anger and attitudes of victimization be put aside and allow the healing to begin. Our congregational wounds can be transformed into scars, which are healed areas of strength. Within the areas of current pain, if the healing is nurtured, the gaping wounds can transform into areas of unique beauty, if we choose to see them so.

The way to begin to see the unique beauty and strength is to learn from our pain. Learn collectively how to better communicate with one another (don't forget that the most important part of communication is listening). Learn as individuals to recognize ourselves in one another and to forgive ourselves and one another for being failable human beings.

We need, throughout this process, to remember that everything happens for a reason.

To Be (back to work) or Not To Be (back to work)

Monday of last week, I had my post-op follow-up appointment with the surgeon at UM. I had a large area to the right of the incision that was extremely painful and hard as a rock. I thought it was just part of the healing process, but evidently, it's not. It looks like I have cellulitis, which is inflammation of the soft tissues. It is caused by bacteria. So, she put me on a heavy duty antibiotic for 10 days and wants to see me again on the 17th. Deb says if it doesn't get better, they may want to drain it. Yuck, Ouch.

Because of this painful complication, the Dr. wouldn't sign a release to return to work, nor would she extend my leave. My original paperwork states that the 17th is my last day of leave. She is leaving me no room or time to deal with bureaucracy. I'm not even sure if I should start turning my sleep back around to being awake at night. If I go ahead and flip now, then don't get back to work, it will mess me up. If I wait and see what she says, I won't have any time to get my body ready for the upside-down midnight days.

Deb is once again having trouble with severe abdominal pain and bloody stools. Evidently, she is battling diverticulitis once again. She saw her doctor and got heavy duty antibiotics in a needle in the butt, and also orally. She has been on clear liquids since Friday. Today, she met with a surgeon that she has consulted with on this before. He hadn't wanted to operate before because of her compromised immune system. She's been on gamma globulin for about 2 months sub cue (under the skin with a series of small needles each week), so, if her immune system counts are improved enough, he wants to do surgery to remove the sigmoid (lower) colon, since that is where the worst pain seems to keep recurring. The doctor drew her immune counts last week, but we don't know what they are yet.

Sometimes, it seems like when one thing starts to improve with us, something else screws up.

I Can Touch My Feet!!

Yesterday, I put lotion on my feet!!! I haven't been able to do that since my surgery. Bending over puts a lot of pressure on the incision area. There is still a stretch of about one and a half inches that is not totally healed. It is at least scabbed over. That is the area where there seemed to be a minor infection a week or so ago. Unfortunately, the unhealed area is right at my belly button (also my waistline). Pants and underwear irritate it. Every day, the irritated area gets smaller and less red.

Last weekend, I was talking to a friend about the weirdness of having panic attacks. I thought that my first one was the day I had my PICC line inserted, but as she and I were talking, I realized that I had my first panic attack about 20 years ago when I freaked out while doing an obstacle course about 30 feet in the air. I had never been afraid of heights before. Every since, I've had a fear of heights. It's one of those fears that I have been able to control, but not completely overcome. (A couple of years after that first panic attack, I was still terrified of heights, so I went repelling just to prove to myself that I could do it.)

The Path-ology Leads Back to Work Soon

I am now officially CANCER FREE. My pathology report showed that I had no cancer in my tubes or ovaries or para-aortic lymph nodes. The endometrial (uterine) tissue was pretty much mush from the radiation, so they couldn't conclusively say if there had been cancer there before. The assumption still is that there was, but they can't be totally sure. Either way, I should be able to go back to work the week before Christmas. It will be nice to have a regular sized paycheck again.
As of yesterday, my surgery was two weeks ago. Monday, I actually felt pretty good for the first time since the surgery. I think I over did my activity. Tuesday, I woke up with sore abdominal muscles.
I am realizing that I use my abdominal muscles for everything. Standing up. Sitting up. Rolling over in my sleep. Unreclining the recliner. Pooping. Laying down. Coughing. Laughing. Picking up anything from below chest level. Standing in one place. Shivering. (I've decided that unlike my norm, I'd rather be too warm than too cold because shivering takes my upper and lower abdominal muscles, so I'd rather not risk shivering.)
I have the beginnings of an infection in part of the wound area. Deb discovered it over the weekend, so I have been extra careful in taking care of it. I think it looks better. Deb doesn't. It definitely feels better. The pain is not from the incisional area any more, it is only from the muscles around it.
I am not as tired all the time now, I don't know if it's because I hardly ever take the Narco now, or if my body is healing better, making me less tired. Either way, I can't decide if it's better because I'm not falling asleep all the time, or worse because I am more bored. I know I'm not walking as much as I should, but I have done some. I've been cooking a little here and there, washing dishes, even doing laundry, one piece put in the washer at a time, with Deb carrying the baskets upstairs for me.
Annie and Ellen want to plant a "Victory Garden" for me since I am officially cancer free. There is an area out front that Ryan is supposed to remove sod from so it can be used for that. Hopefully, he will finish it before the ground freezes.
Deb has been working outside in the cold today, finishing pulling out the dead tomato plants, shredding the leaves with the riding mower, etc. I have been able to use a reacher to place newspapers on the empty raised beds and spread straw over them so that the beds will be already mulched for next year's plantings. This is the first time we've tried this. Hopefully it will work the way we hope it will.

The Poop Will Set You Free

Thursday came and went. Butt I didn’t. No gas no turds. Nothing. Friday morning came. On their rounds, the doctors just looked at me with raised eyebrows and said, “well?” I said, “nothing”. They shook their heads and moved on. Deb sat with me most of the day. Nothing. Deb left for the hotel and Annie came by after work. I ate a lousy dinner right before she got there. Annie and I talked for a few minutes and I felt a gurgle. I felt a twinge. I oh, so carefully stood up and headed to the bathroom. I came out doing the crappy dance because I had just pooped!! I was free!!! I didn’t just fart, I was an overachiever! (That was around 6pm, about 10 minutes after two of the young doctors stopped in and raised their eyebrows once again in question.) Annie was my caca muse.
I called Deb and of course, she had just fought obnoxious traffic and had finally arrived at the hotel just as I called her. She got back in the truck and came back to the hospital to get me. I made my escape around 8:30pm Friday night.We spent Friday night and half of Saturday night at the hotel in Ann Arbor.
We came home in the middle of the night because the alarm company called and left a message on my cell phone at 1am saying that they called the police because our alarm had sounded and no one was answering the phone. We got home around 3 or 3:30 am and everything was fine, except our phone and internet connection was messed up. And our front door knob was loose, like someone had jiggled it hard enough to make it loose.
So, last night I locked the deadbolt in addition to the regular lock and now that won't unlock. I'm kind of trapped here, except to go into the backyard and around through the gate and out. We will be calling a locksmith to get it all looked at.
I am still moving slowly. I am still wearing the abdominal binder much of the time. I'm alternating between Ibuprofen and narcotics for pain relief. I keep forgetting to take them before the pain gets really bad. Part of the reason is that sometimes the pain level is fine for 6-10 hours, then all of a sudden, it jumps up. (Or, maybe it inches up and I don't notice it until it is bad, I'm not sure.) I still can't figure out why Vicadin (or Narco) is a big street drug. It doesn't make me high in the least. It barely even makes me tired. Nothing. I do notice that I am in somewhat less pain 30-40 minutes after taking it, but that is it. Having said that, I still probably take it too far and few between because I am paranoid about becoming addicted to it.
Even though Deb does most of the housework, I am getting fidgety because I'm supposed to limit my activity very strictly for 6 weeks after my surgery (5 weeks now) and I can't even take the trash out to the garage. It hurts to bend over, and I don't want to pop the stitches, so if I drop something or if there is something on the floor that needs to be put away, it is hard (or sometimes not feasible) for me to take care of it. I feel lazy.

Farting is the Password

The day before yesterday, I was opened up surgically about six inches. The pain has actually been less than what I'd anticipated except that all along the right side of my abdoment I kept getting a major cramp. I got this cramp when I tried to roll onto my left side. I got this cramp when I gried to roll to my right side. Finally, last night, they got me an abdominal binder which helped. It's like a big girdle.

Last night, I fell asleep, but then woke up in a panic attack. I felt trapped like a rat. I kept getting those cramps so I couldn't even sleep on my side as I like to. I had both legs attached to the bed by air hoses that filled and deflated "boots" on my calves in order to prevent blood clots in my legs. I had an oxygen canula in my nose, which attached to the wall. I had a pulsOx monitor stuck to my finger to monitor my oxygen levels. I had an IV sticking out of the port in my chest. I had a wire leading from the pca unit to distribute narcotics to me at the touch of a finger. I had the nurse call light/tv controller at the end of a wire running from the wall to my bed. I had a tube sticking out of my urethra to catch my pee and another one from the wound to catch the drainage. I WAS trapped like a rat. I kept getting tangled up in all those tubes and wires, along with my blankets and I just started freaking out. I ripped off the "boots" and pulled off the pulse ox monitor since I couldn't find the call light that I was sitting on. I let the nurse know that I did that on purpose because I couldn't find the call light. I started to cry when I was telling her that I was freaking out. Of course crying sent me out of this world with pain because of the abdominal cramps. A binder finally came for me.

They got me bound, which sounds like it would feel more confining, but the pain relief was almost instant. They untangled my blankets and encouraged me to put the "boots" back on. They gave me Ativan to calm me down. (I let the Dr. know that I'm afraid of Ativan because when the doctors gave it to my mom, she never woke up again. I explained that I know that she was a geriatric patient and that I know that my fears are unfounded, but they are there. I did allow them to give it to me because anything is better than the panic that I was experiencing.) I was able to roll over on my side with the binder on. I still had some pain, but not too much. I only used the pca once or twice after that.

First thing this morning, around 5:30am, the Doctor pulled my catheter. A few hours later, they pulled my IV fluids and pca pump once they knew that I could tolerate solid foods. Since I hadn't used any narcotics in several hours, we started me on just Motrin for the pain. That lasted for a few hours, but then I started having more pain. And nausea. They gave me Phenigren through my port for the nausea and Narco by mouth for the pain. They both helped, but I was knocked out for several hours. One of my nieces visited me and I was totally out of it, not able to hold a decent conversation or create much of a cohesive thought even. I felt bad.

Finally, after several hours, I was able to wake up. So I walked down here to the isolation area to get on the internet and write on this blog. I am still quite groggy, but they kept telling me that I needed to walk as much as possible. They still want me to fart before I leave.

No more food for me

I just ate my last solid food for a while. As of noon, I can only have clear liquids. My surgery is at 1pm, I have to be there at 11am. Deb and I are going to stay at a hotel in Ann Arbor tonight so that we don't have to get up at a ridiculous time in the morning. I will be admitted to the U of M hospital for 3-5 days, depending upon when I can do certain things. I'm hoping to get out on Thursday, but it may be longer. (I know that people who are heavy like me sometimes take longer to heal or experience more post-op complications than people who are thinner.)

I have to start taking GoLytly this afternoon. I'm looking forward to spending my evening on the toilet.

Deb will be there during my surgery tomorrow. My sister, Mig will stop in for a while also. My friend, Annie, will also be with her during much of the day. Deb will be staying in Ann Arbor until at least Thursday, depending upon when I am released.

Once I am admitted to the 8th floor, I know that there is a room where I can access the internet. If I feel up to it, I may try to write on the blog from there. I'll see how I feel.

This morning, Deb is at her Dr. office, getting her twice weekly infusion of vitamins and minerals. I am watching a young friend who is home from school today. He broke his leg yesterday.

Well, I'm going to sign off for now. See you on the other side.

Eye Can Stop Worrying

I set the alarm on my cell phone to wake me up at 7:15am. And again at 7:30am. And again at 7:40am. I finally dragged my butt out of bed and made it to my eye appointment on time. It turns out that it has been 3 years since I'd been there, I thought it had only been a year and a half or so.

Well, he said that my vision is 20/25. He also said that my retinas look "beautiful", no diabetic retinopathy or other retinal changes. He said that I have SDT (I think), which basically means that my eyes are too dry and that that is why I am having blurred vision. He said for me to use lube for my eyes. (Not like KY, like lubricating drops.) He gave me a sample. I've used them once so far, but haven't noticed any difference.

I can't figure out why my eyes are dry, I seem to have no problem tearing up when I'm emotional. One interesting thing that he said is that more women than men have this happen. He said it is a 5:1 ratio. I wonder why that is. He also said that since it seems to be caused by the chemo for me, it should be temporary. He said to come back in if the drops don't help or if it doesn't get better after a month or so.

I haven't seen this particular doctor before. He is quite a character. Deb and I decided that if he ever needs a second job, he could either be an auctioneer or a comedian. He is very professional, but also outgoing and funny. He dictated the report for my doctor into his recorder and he spoke so fast, I almost couldn't understand much of what he said. That is why auctioneer would be a good second job for him. He kind of reminded me of Jim Carey.

Mistaken Eyedentity

A while back, I mentioned that when I got my chemo, my vision got messed up. I believed that it was from the steroids raising my blood sugar too high which in turn messed up my vision. Well, my eyesight is still messed up. Not all the time. The past few days, I have checked my blood sugar during times that my vision was blurred and my numbers have not been high enough to affect my vision that way. When I went to my general practitioner this morning to get a refill on my blood sugar medication, I mentioned that my vision has been messed up since the chemo. I told him that I was going to wait until after my surgery, but before going back to work to go to the eye doctor. He looked at me and said, "don't wait, go as soon as you can because chemo can mess with your retinas". So, once again, my anxiety is coming out. I'm not frantic yet, but I am worried.

I go to see the eye doctor at 8:10 tomorrow morning. Hopefully, it is nothing. Up until now, every eye exam that I have had has actually come out better than the one before. I first got reading glasses in seventh grade. In high school, my prescription was weaker. In my 20s, my scrip became even weaker. The last time, about a year and a half ago, the doctor said that I didn't really even need glasses anymore. I thought it was funny because the closer I got to the age of 40, the better my vision became. For most people, the opposite is true. Now, I'm 5 months from 40 and my eyes are worse than ever.