When Menopause Won't Come

TMI ALERT:  This will be a very long, roundabout post and will contain extreme TMI about lady parts and other such things.  You have been warned!  Seriously, if you're at all squeamish about the female anatomy (there might be drawings!  and pictures of needles!), you should just close this post now.  I mean it.  I'm just looking to complain, explain, share, and get stuff out of my brain again...  :)

LCIS cells - pretty in pink

My particular health sagas began in 2008 - after many years of routine, nothing-to-see-here visits, I had my first suspicious mammogram, then biopsies and surgical procedures.  Because my results showed LCIS, lobular carcinoma in situ (non-cancerous cells, but with areas of abnormal cell growth that increases a person's risk of developing invasive breast cancer later on in life), I was recommended to see a breast surgeon (Dr. Julie Halston) and an oncologist (Dr. Pay-in-Advance) to monitor me frequently.  I would see them every three months or so. 

Dr. Pay-in-Advance was always particularly aggressive in her ideas for my treatment.  It was her idea that I start on Tamoxifen, which is an estrogen-modulating drug, usually used by people already with breast cancer.  She thought I should take it for three years and it would significantly reduce my risk of developing breast cancer myself.  (She also thought I should give up caffeine and eat a vegan diet.  I tried, I promise.)  Tamoxifen has some mighty strong side effects, like extreme night sweats and sudden-onset menopause.  Actually, I wasn't too sad about the menopause thing.  I figured it was time.  After many years of unhappy times of the month, I was glad to be free.

NOT FUN

Fast-forward to 2011:  I have yet another suspicious mammogram, biopsy, and surgical procedure, only this time the diagnosis was DCIS, which is ductal carcinoma in situ, meaning those abnormal cells became cancerous, but hadn't invaded the rest of my breast tissue yet.  This is when I decided to have the double mastectomy (you can remind yourself of that saga HERE).  When I had that surgery, it was decided I should stop taking the Tamoxifen, since it obviously wasn't working on me.  And of course, after I did that, my happy menopause was over and my unhappy times of the month were back.  (Of course, I also decided to stop being a vegan and drink caffeine again, because hello.  They didn't work either.  Why suffer?)

Every year, I see my gynecologist (Dr. Disco, so named because of her choices in attire) and I tell her that my unhappy times of the month are getting worse.  Every year since 2011, she has been telling me to hang on 'one more year' and surely I would be starting menopause soon.  Yes, I had a hot flash here, and a longer cycle there, but basically, nothing was stopping.  Last year, it got to the point where I was basically in some part of my cycle every day of the month - extreme exhaustion (seriously extreme - some days, I couldn't get out of bed) during the first few days; extremely heavy flow for seven to ten days (I have to sleep sitting up to avoid accidents), then two or three days of vertigo (I was so dizzy, I couldn't get out of bed).  Once that was over, it would all start up again, with no break.  It got to the point where I would start to cry every time I saw that it was 'that time' again.  I was getting depressed, I was missing at least one day of work a month, I was anemic and on iron (which is gross) and I was experiencing what I called 'crime scene' moments, where the flow was so heavy, it would just pour out of me onto the floor of my bathroom, so the red on the black and white tiles looked like a Law and Order episode.  I know there are women who have it way worse than me, but I felt like my life was just seeping out of me.

yuck, right?

I've known for years that I've had fibroids, benign tumors in my uterus, which of course are a big part of all my problems.  All of the excess estrogen has wreaked havoc.  I've had a couple of sonograms over the years to monitor their growth.  With the ever-worsening of my cycle, I finally convinced Dr. Disco that something needed to be done.  I'm over 50 and I just can't do it anymore - her asking me to hang on 'one more year' was not working.  She gave me the names of a few doctors to talk to to discuss having my fibroids either embolized or removed.  All of the names on her list were men.  I said, "Can't you recommend any women doctors?"  She said, "You prefer a woman doctor?"  I thought, uh, duh.  My whole team is wonderful women doctors and why would I add a male doctor now?  It's pretty much always been my experience that male doctors are harder to convince that there's a problem (the last male doctor I had actually asked me if I was in therapy because he couldn't find anything wrong with me; this was in January).  Anyway, I did call one of the doctors on the list and he had retired.  A WOMAN had taken his place - woo hoo!  So off I went for a consultation with another doctor inside my current health network - it makes everything so much easier when all of my appointments can be tracked on that network's website.  

NOT me

First I met with that doctor's lab assistant, who was, conservatively, twelve years old.  And a boy.  Sigh.  I will never forget the experience of trying to describe to him the different levels of feminine protection and what each color generally means.  He was looking at me as if I were telling him a short story instead of my symptoms.  I guess I'm a compelling storyteller.  Anyway, he did a couple of little tests to see if the embolization procedure was even a good fit for me.  Since it was, he went to get the doctor.  Who was, conservatively, fourteen years old.  But a girl.  I have dubbed her Dr. Mary Ingalls.  She came in and said I was a good candidate for the procedure, I just needed to get a pelvic MRI first, to confirm my problems were only fibroids and not something worse.  She also was telling me the potential risks or complications, one of which is menopause.  I just looked at her and gave her a thumbs up.  I mean, hello, that's the side effect I'm looking for!  The MRI, which I had a few days later, was a piece of cake and showed that yes, indeed, I needed the procedure.

not completely size-accurate, but still!

That ugly picture up there is of what fibroids apparently look like - I have nine and they are like that yellow one, intramural.  That means they're in my uterine wall, towards the back.  The largest one is 5 x 7 x 6 centimeters, which seems pretty huge to me!  No wonder they're giving me such problems!  My bathroom issues, my flow issues, are all explained.  So after discussing the results with Dr. Mary Ingalls and Dr. Disco, we set up the appointment for UFE, uterine fibroid embolization.  I was hoping to have the procedure during Tennis Week, since my mom would be here and I wouldn't have to take extra time off work, but we couldn't get our schedules to sync.  So I made the appointment for the Friday before Columbus Day, figuring I'd at least have one free day to play with.  Dr. Mary Ingalls told me that the recovery was around a week, so I planned to be back at work in six days because I was cocky and thought I could recover quickly.  Oh how wrong I was.  I ended up needing ten days to recuperate and I'm still a little achy, but at least it's getting better.

NOT me

My appointment was set up as the first of the day, which was nice, because the nurses all let my mom tag along to the tests and pre-op stuff.  I went into a room to have a major IV put into my hand - it needed to be able to deliver antibiotics, pain meds and a sedative.  So that was an ordeal, since it's historically a problem getting an IV into any of my veins, but the girl seemed to do ok.  This will come into play later.  My mom and I sat in the pre-op room for quite a while - suddenly, another nurse blew into the room, saying she couldn't find any saline bags for my IV.  She looked around and didn't find anything, then blew back out.  My mom and I exchanged looks.  She seemed a little excitable, but ok.  This will come into play later, too.  Finally, the time came to lead me into the operating room (my mom was taken back upstairs to the waiting room).

According to one of the websites about this procedure, "In a UFE procedure, physicians use an x-ray camera called a fluoroscope to guide the delivery of small particles to the uterus and fibroids. The small particles are injected through a thin, flexible tube called a catheter. These block the arteries that provide blood flow, causing the fibroids to shrink. Nearly 90 percent of women with fibroids experience relief of their symptoms.  The equipment typically used for this examination consists of a radiographic table, one or two x-ray tubes and a television-like monitor that is located in the examining room. Fluoroscopy, which converts x-rays into video images, is used to watch and guide progress of the procedure. The video is produced by the x-ray machine and a detector that is suspended over a table on which the patient lies."  Ahhhhhh, science.

radial artery catheter.  fun.  again, not me.

So, basically, I felt like I was in the middle of a video game for a couple of hours.  The radiologist, who had pink hair and many tattoos, was very pleasant and took her time setting everything up.  She briefly warned me that there would be some 'discomfort' during the nerve block, but I should be fine throughout.  Oh, and I warned them that I had a cold and they said it was no problem, if I had to blow my nose, just let them know.  Considering that one hand was attached to IVs with painkillers and the other hand was attached to the catheter thing that was inserted into my radial artery, there was no way I was going to be able to blow my nose.  Thankfully, my head stayed pretty clear.  The overly-excitable nurse put an oxygen thing in my nose, then came back and said "I'm not getting a reading."  I'm like, yeah, I have a cold, not breathing through my nose, thanks.  So she put another oxygen thing in my nose.  Same thing, no reading.  So then she put an oxygen mask OVER the nose thing.  That wasn't the most comfortable and it took her a few minutes to figure out that I only needed the mask, but whatever.  I was feeling drowsy, but not asleep, so I was awake for the whole procedure.

Even if I had been asleep, the injection of the nerve block would've awakened me.  I consider myself a person with a pretty high pain threshold, but holy mother of hell.  That was the most painful thing I've ever experienced.  It was supposedly going to be a 'prick' just below my belly button, but it was agonizingly painful.  I don't know if it was because it was directly into a fibroid, or what, but oh my god.  I kept moaning in my stupid oxygen mask and the Tattooed Tech kept saying "I know, I'm sorry, I'm almost done," but then she would press it again, like some crazy button that needed to be pressed, or like pumping air into a flat tire.  I almost passed out from that, but thankfully it finally ended.  Then I could notice and marvel at the fact that it seemed like Dr. Mary Ingalls was playing Space Invaders.  See that picture up there on the left with the big video screen?  Apparently, as the Tattooed Tech was pumping the nerve block, Dr. Mary Ingalls was nuking my fibroids!  She kept moving things around, hitting buttons, moving things around, hitting buttons.  The sound of it just reminded me of my nephew playing video games.  So that's what I imaged was happening.

About this time, though, the overly-excitable nurse exclaimed that my hand IV wasn't working.  Uh, wait, what??  Did that mean my pain killer and my buzz were going to wear off too soon?  I don't know, but she had to come over and give me another IV into my wrist instead.  By now, I had so many needles and bruises, I looked like an addict.  The overly-excitable nurse was also quite disturbed by the fact that she had to keep monitoring me instead of writing things down on the chart.  She was flustered that she was getting behind and she needed help.  It was a bit nerve-wracking for me.  I'm just lying there, but I felt like it was somehow my fault she couldn't get her work done.  When the procedure was finally over and they took the radial artery catheter out, the Tattooed Tech tried to calm the overly-excitable nurse down.  She finally called in another nurse, Mallory, who just wasn't having it.  She and the Tattooed Tech kept rolling their eyes at each other every time the overly-excitable nurse complained that she didn't have time to do anything.  So Mallory wheeled me into recovery, to get me away from the overly-excitable one, who I never saw again.  It was like a video game AND a performance of Mean Girls!  What a trip!

I was freezing in the recovery room, so Mallory brought me one of those wonderful heated blankets.  That helped me doze off.  Though I kept feeling as if I had to go to the bathroom.  Mallory said it was pain from the nerve block, but I finally convinced her that if I went to the bathroom, my brain would stop telling me that I needed to if I really didn't.  So I gingerly got up - yay, pretty easy!  Then I went to the bathroom and proceeded to use that bathroom sort of like that scene in A League of Their Own.  You know, when Tom Hanks comes into the dugout and uses the bathroom so long, they time him?  Yeah, like that.  When I came out, I said to Mallory "Told you I had to go!"  Thankfully, she laughed.  Dr. Mary Ingalls dropped by to tell me that everything went fine and that I might be in a lot of discomfort the next day, after all the drugs wore off, but I was a little too cocky, remember, and I'm like, oh it's fine.  I have cramps, but they're ok.  I would be sorry about that later.

They had put a huge pressurized cuff on my radial artery and every few minutes, Mallory would come to release some of the pressure.  That probably lasted about an hour in total.  And then everyone forgot about me.  I was just lying there, dozing, but no one came to speak to me for quite some time.  After everyone around me was released, and then I started to get cramps in my legs and back, I finally stopped someone and said "Can you get bed sores after only a few hours?"  She sent Mallory over.  "You think you're ready to go?"  Uh, yes.  I know I was lying there for at least two hours, if not more, and I'm sure my mom was going nuts upstairs!  I would rather have been lying on my couch than in that freezing recovery room.  Mallory asked me about my pain and I SHOULD'VE SAID IT WAS A 7.  That way, she would've given me something and I would've been ok until I got home and it was time for another dose.  But, no.  I said it was a four.  I am dumb.  Everyone always says, "Don't be a martyr, if you're in pain, do something about it," but I didn't really understand that until now.

Oh, and I forgot to mention:  while I was lying in recovery, there was a contretemps happening between another nurse (not my Mallory) and doctor (not Dr. Mary Ingalls) about the patient next to me.  From what I could overhear (and, of course, I was on drugs at the time), the gent in the bed next to me had something removed from his arm, or around his arm, or something, and he needed to keep his arm flat and still.  It was making the gent uncomfortable, so the young-sounding (male) doctor said he'd give him a little something to relax him.  After a while, the doctor came back and asked if the medication had helped.  The patient said he hadn't received any medication yet.  The doctor then proceeded to yell at the nurse, "Why hasn't he received the medication?!"  The nurse calmly replied, "Because you didn't order it."  The doctor said, "You heard me talk about it."  The nurse replied, "If you don't order it, I can't give it."  The doctor retorted, "Yes, I did order it!"  The nurse replied, "Please show me where you ordered it, because it's not in the chart or the computer."  The doctor stomped away.  I heard all the nurses whispering and then I'm pretty sure I heard the nurse in question say, "He said he's going to report me."  If that contretemps wasn't a microcosm of what's happening in the world right now, I don't know what was.  Of course, I WAS on drugs at the time.  But still.

Anyway.  Mom and I slowly walked outside after getting all my discharge papers and information and found a cab.  Of course, this was the worst cab and cabbie in NY.  He drove way too fast and the car had no shocks.  At least it didn't feel like there were any shocks - we bumped and shook all the way to Queens.  This ride did not help my cramps in any way, shape, or form.  I was feeling very unhappy by the time we got to my apartment and I was so ready for a pain pill, but I had to wait for my mom to go get the prescription filled.  By the time she got back, I was really agitated - in pain and nauseated, so I was afraid to take a pill (even the one for nausea).  I finally started taking pills right after I threw up, figuring I had a few minutes grace time before something else would happen.  

My paranoia about taking opiates is real.  The pain pills would wear off well before it was time to take the next one and I would be in real agony.  My mom kept telling me to just take the pill, but I was afraid to take them off-schedule.  I kept saying "I DON'T WANT TO GET ADDICTED OR BE LIKE KAREN ANN QUINLAN!"  I can be a little over-dramatic.  But the first few days were bad - the pain was much worse than I expected; it wasn't just the cramps, but there was a strong, searing, continual pain in my side that extended into my leg that made me nervous.  After my sister's blood clot misadventures, that fear is always on my mind.  Two days after the procedure, when I thought the pain should be tapering, that strong pain in my side was still going strong, so I called the after-hours doctor for a little advice.  In the three hours it took someone to call me back, I had already taken another pain pill, but I was glad to finally be reassured that the pain in my side and leg was normal with the nerve block wearing off.  Even if the (male) doctor on the phone seemed less than interested in speaking with me.   

So my recovery was much rougher than I thought it would be.  After my surgeries in 2011, I stopped taking pain pills really quickly, but that didn't happen this time.  I guess I'm older and less able to handle pain.  I had thought I would be back to work in under a week, but ha ha, I ended up being off ten days.  I wanted to wait until I had stopped the pain pills completely, even overnight.  I finally just had to tell myself to get over it, I wasn't going to become addicted to opiates.  My mom was a trouper throughout, even when my internet and cable went out.  I guess I should be glad that the water was never turned off while she was there.  But we had fun regardless - we played Golden Girls Trivial Pursuit, I made her listen to The Band's Visit cast album, and then I suddenly remembered that you don't need cable to watch DVDs.  So we watched quite a few of my rather neglected DVDs (gosh, The French Lieutenant's Woman holds up beautifully!) and I just reclined and took it easy for those ten days.  Sitting up was uncomfortable, but reclining on my couch and bed was fine.  As long as I kept up with my medications.

My first day back at work was also rough - of course, there was a subway problem and I had to stand for about an hour while we were trapped in the tunnel.  I started to panic that I needed a pain pill and I didn't bring any (yes, I left some in the bottle, it helps with my paranoia), then I started to feel really nauseated.  But by the time I finally got to work, I felt ok and made it through the day, though I felt pretty week and wobbly.  I've been feeling incrementally better the last few days.  I have a follow-up with Dr. Mary Ingalls in a couple of weeks, but it will probably take four to six months before I know if the procedure worked in the way I wanted it to - I'll keep you posted, though I'm sure everyone has been grossed out enough by this post that you don't need to hear anything else.  But I'm hoping it might be time for me to have a little women's-health-good-fortune.  Fingers crossed!  I don't want to have to tell any more of these stories!    

Relief.

So, after all my ballsy "hey, I'll have an MRI and this time, it will all be easy!" thoughts, of course things couldn't go smoothly.

Had the MRI last Friday.  Almost first thing Monday morning, the technician called me and told me there was something 'suspicious' on the left side.  I couldn't believe it!  Where could something suspicious even be?!  They took everything off, didn't they?!  Immediately, I begin panicking that the five errant cells have taken hold and this whole health nightmare would begin again.  The technician did mention that perhaps the MRI was just picking up scar tissue, but that would have to be confirmed.

The technician then told me I needed to come back in for a directed ultrasound and a physical exam.  She said someone would call me later to schedule it.  Um, what?!  You just call to give the perhaps-bad news and then leave me hanging?  Grrrrrrr.  A few hours later, Dr Pay in Advance's office called and said she wanted to do the physical exam herself, then I should have the ultrasound.  So we made an appointment for this morning.

Being me, I couldn't just sit and brood on my own, so I called my sister.  She told me to e-mail my plastic surgeon's office and see what they might have to say about scar tissue.  My sister is very smart.  I e-mailed the office manager, who is always very kind to answer my paranoid e-mails, and talked to her later that afternoon.  She said that yes, scar tissue can develop, and it would probably be fine, but I should keep them in the loop.  And if, heaven forbid, I needed a biopsy, not to worry because insurance would cover replacing the ruptured implant.  OK, so...I felt better talking to her for about the first few minutes.  After that, not so much.

Two days of terror, worry and concern I wouldn't be able to do all this again.  Then I would tell myself to calm down and just decide that yes, it is indeed scar tissue screwing up the MRI and nothing is the matter.  I was having quite the conversations with myself, especially at night.  I went to a reading of a new musical Monday night, which took my mind off things, then worried most of the day yesterday.  I feel sorry for my workmates.  Then I saw a show last night (post to come), which took my mind off it pretty well.  Didn't sleep at all and dragged myself into that dang office again this morning.

For once, I didn't have to pay Dr Pay in Advance in advance.  That was a first!  Which kinda scared me.  But she came right out and said she thought it was scar tissue, too, but we should do the other tests, just to be sure.  When the nurse took me back to the examining room, we stopped at a scale.  I said, really?  We have to do this now?  I'm depressed enough.  She laughed and said never mind.  Then, when we got into the room, she took my blood pressure.  She said, um, that's REALLY high!!  Are you nervous about something?  I said, uh, YES.  Hello.  Doesn't she read the chart?

Dr Pay in Advance came into the room and took a very long time doing an exam.  She also peppered me with questions, like have I had the flu recently, do I feel pain, any changes in general health since my last visit.  She said she did feel something, but was certain it was scar tissue underneath.  Since the MRI didn't show any activity on the breast wall behind my implants (and that's the area she's worried about), she was confident things were fine.  Though she did say she wanted to take my blood pressure again before I left and if it wasn't lower, she was sending me back to the cardiologist (Dr They Didn't Operate On Your Legs).  I said, believe me, once everyone says I'm ok, the blood pressure will skyrocket downward.

So down I went to the third floor and waited around for the ultrasound.  Good times.  I hate waiting in that waiting room.  The tension in there is always palpable.  I picked up the People magazine and tried to relax and lower my blood pressure.  Finally, they took me into the ultrasound room.

It's a strange feeling, or non-feeling, to have implants tested.  I see that the technician is pouring that gel stuff on my person, and I see her pass the wand back and forth, but I can't feel it.  It's just really strange.  The technician seemed, to me, to be taking an awfully long time to look at scar tissue.  Then she went and got this weird disc that sort of looked like a bar of glycerin soap.  She put that over the area, then put the wand on top of that.  It was just odd - how could she get a reading if she wasn't actually touching the area?  I didn't understand.  Then she went out to get a doctor (and by now I'm sweating bullets), then the doctor did the same thing.

Thankfully, FINALLY, the doctor agreed that it was scar tissue under there.  She suggested I have another MRI next year, and maybe even a mammogram (blech), just to make sure everything stays in tip top shape.  As long as she said it wasn't bad news, I was happy.  Then I had to go back up to Dr Pay in Advance's office and wait around for her to read the test results herself.  After maybe an hour, she came and sat with me in the waiting room and told me yes, it was scar tissue, nothing to worry about.  WHOOSH.  Big relief.  OMG.  No words.  Then she made me take another blood pressure test, which, indeed, was scads lower.  Everyone laughed and I went on my merry way.

But.  Wow.  I know I've had it pretty easy this whole time.  They caught the DCIS early, I had everything taken off, I've had no complications (imagine me knocking wood right now).  But I just could not wrap my head around starting the whole thing over again.  And adding more invasive measures to the mix, because I can't imagine having things quite so easy again if another problem should crop up.  I believe I've mentioned my avoidance/denial way of life.  Having a two-day worryfest before getting the all clear is not conducive to that way of life.  I'm thinking I may have to go home tonight and watch a really sad movie (I have A Tree Grows in Brooklyn on the DVR, that should do the trick) and have a really big cry-out.  Then, pull up my big girl pants and get on with things.  Which is what I probably would've done if the news had been bad, but I'm thanking my lucky stars that I didn't have to put that theory to the test...

Wow. Two Years.

I don't necessarily want to do another "oh, here's what happened two years ago today..." post, but I did want to ruminate on a couple of things.  I mean, it's not like I sit around and think hmmmm, I wonder how many days it's been since my surgical adventures.  :)  But there is something about seeing the date on my desk calendar that makes me think twice.

Anyway, I can hardly believe two years have gone by since my surgery madness!  In some ways, it seems like yesterday and I'm still getting used to new body parts!  But, in some ways, it's just the way things are and the ways things have always been.  Strange.  I do find myself, though, sometimes thinking of myself 'before' and 'after.' 

I will admit that another reason to 'reminisce' is that having a post-implant MRI on Friday did bring back many unpleasant memories.  I've been back to that building a dozen times, but going to the testing floor?  Uncomfortable.  Dr Vera Wang had said it was fine to have an MRI to make sure my implants are in good shape, but Dr Julie Halston did NOT want me to have one.  She said it was unnecessary.  The winner this round was Dr Pay in Advance, the biggest worrywort of an oncologist ever.  She has been hot for me to have an MRI as a 'baseline' test for anything that might come further down the line.  Because one of my pathology reports showed a suspicious five cells that may have migrated elsewhere, she wants to make sure they aren't planting themselves behind my implants.  She says there's an infinitesimal chance that will happen, but better safe than sorry.  Right.  Naturally, it panics me.  Every twinge around my implants causes me to stop and hold my breath.  And those phantom itches?  Drive.Me.Nuts. 

Every time I talked to someone, I made sure to mention my implants.  I don't think the MRI scheduler was too thrilled with my paranoia, but hello, I wanted to make sure they were careful around the implants!  You break 'em, you bought 'em!  She tried to tell me they didn't compress, but I've had my share of MRIs in the past.  They totally compress, to make sure nothing moves during the test.

My original appointment was at 5:30, but because of the incoming storm, they called and asked if I'd like to come in at 2 instead.  I said sure.  But then I didn't even get in to the MRI room until around 3:45.  So dumb.  I realize they were probably scrambling to get more people in early, but man.  Sitting around and sitting around is not good for my imagination.  I imagine all sorts of bad things in those waiting rooms - imaginary conversations that usually end with Dr Pay in Advance saying "oh, let's do some chemo.  just in case."  Oh, and the very nice girl who couldn't find my vein for the IV?  Sigh.

I hate MRIs.  I totally believe a man invented this test.  You completely throw your dignity out the window to lie on a table, crawl on your belly and try to put the objects of the test through a couple of holes.  Interestingly, this time, they had me put my arms up over my head, instead of at my sides.  I wonder if that's because implants don't naturally hang and keeping arms up will keep them in the right position?  I don't know.  It was vaguely more comfortable, though it sorta creeped me out because it reminded me of Jill Kinmont in The Other Side of the Mountain.  After she was paralyzed.  Shudder.  Moving on.  During the test, they had put a headset on me and I listened to some classical music, though it's hard to hear the music over all the noise the MRI machine makes.  I also like to count to distract myself.  I would've distracted myself by thinking of the pleasant gathering I had originally planned for afterward, but the stupid bad weather put the kibosh on that.  So I had to have a nerve-wracking test AND miss out on drinks with my dear ones.  Double dumb.

OK.  Putting stupid scary medical tests out of my brain.  Moving on.  I can also hardly believe it's been two years since I had a nice white tile floor in my kitchen!  I'm so lazy, I haven't replaced those dingy fire-stained tiles.  Though I don't go in my kitchen all that much anymore.  I so need to work on that.  Cooking for myself: good.  Ordering in via the genius that is the Seamless phone app:  bad.  And expensive.  I would be ever so rich if I didn't eat...

And realizing that it's been two years since I've talked with 'friends' who suddenly stopped contacting me and dropped me from their lives once I shared what was happening, is also freaky to me.  I'm generally pretty good at judging people and selecting friends.  I wonder if there's significance to the fact that these particular people who dumped me were all straight men.  Not that I had romantic feelings about any of them, but still.  I know it reflects on them more than me, but it still makes me sad and causes me to worry about a whole myriad of other things.  Who can I trust?  Can I ever really share?  Again:  before and after.  Will that feeling ever go away?  And will I ever stop looking at the calendar in February and taking a deep breath?  Probably not, i guess...

Waiting for life to begin

Oh, well, not really.  I've just been listening to Once on This Island on my iPhone a lot lately.  I love that song, and it does sort of apply to how I'm feeling, though.  Ish.

I've been SO exhausted lately.  I mean, I've always been relatively lazy, but this is different.  At least, I think it's different.  I wasn't this tired last year at this time after all the surgeries (not counting when I was on narcotic drugs, of course).  All the doctors told me it would take me about a year to feel like myself, since I'd had so much anesthetic throughout the surgical process.  So, I've been waiting to magically feel like myself again.  Not yet.

Even taking into account my lack of exercise and weight gain, I'm just beat.  Some days, it's all I can do to even get out of bed.  I'm late for work most days.  I'm not getting nearly as much done in a day as I used to.  I'm having to stay in the office later and later just to stay relatively on track.  At my recent job review, it was mentioned I sometimes seem 'unhappy' at work.  I'm not unhappy!  I'm struggling to stay awake!  And on the weekend?  I pretty much sleep through it.  I'll clean a little bit of the apartment, lie down, clean some more, lie down.  It's dumb.  And the apartment is a bit of a mess.  I've only cancelled a few get-togethers, but I make very few plans these days.  And I don't fully enjoy the parties I do attend.  I hate that.  One of my greatest pleasures is enjoying time with my friends.  But one Saturday this summer, it took so much energy just to get to a friend's picnic, I could barely speak to anyone once I got there, that just took too much effort.  Some nights, I'm even not looking forward to going to the theater.  I've pretty much stopped buying tickets for the near future.  I mean, I have stuff coming up, but I bought the tickets a while ago.  I've never felt this tired before.  So then I start to worry.  Worry that something new is going on.  Worry that those five errant cells have found a place to land and are starting something up.  And the worry wakes me up when all I want to do is sleep.  It's a vicious circle.

When I saw Dr. Pay-in-Advance in March, she took blood, just like any oncologist would do after all my stuff last year.  I didn't hear anything back, so I figured nothing was wrong.  When I saw her again in July, I told her about being so tired and she said, let's do a blood test.  I told her she had done one already (sigh. if I have to pay in advance, the least she could do is look at my chart before my appointment.  but I digress).  She looked at the results and said, oh, you're really low on vitamin D.  Take a 5,000 IU supplement.  Uh, ok.  I guess all those years of staying indoors and the massive amounts of sunscreen that led to my lily-white complexion are coming back to haunt me.

Oddly enough, all of the 5,000 IU supplements I saw online were made with gelatin, which makes them not-so-vegetarian.  I briefly toyed with just taking the gelatin pills and using them as an excuse to eat bacon again, but thought, no, I can figure this out.  I found a vegan supplement that was only 2,000 IU, but I figured it would be better than nothing.  Dr. Pay-in-Advance assured me that other patients who started taking the supplement felt more alert immediately.

Not so much.  Still tired.  So when I went to my annual gyno exam in early September, I told my doctor (I've never given her a nickname - why is that, I wonder?!?!) about being so tired and she decided to do another blood test.  Fingers crossed my insurance doesn't explode.  But a week later (as opposed to having to wait four months), she called me and told me that I'm anemic AND massively low on vitamin D.  So she gave me a prescription for 50,000 IU of vitamin D to take once a week for eight weeks (ok, your normal multivitamin has about 800 IU in them, so WOW that's a lot of vitamin D!!!), and a prescription for iron supplements.  After the eight weeks, I'm to go back and get my blood checked again.

I've been taking them for a week, I guess (second dose of huge vitamin D pill was yesterday), so I'm ready to feel better.  Not yet.  If I hadn't had a massive deadline at work, I would've stayed home Thursday and Friday.  As the saying goes, I'm awfully tired of being tired.  Though I'm glad nothing worse turned up.

Clearly, I took good health for granted all these years and now I'm being forced to work harder on my own wellness.  I should be exercising and cooking for myself, but that takes a lot of energy.  Energy I need just to function some days.  It's become like a slowed-down hamster wheel, where each day I'm spinning the wheel and trying to make something new happen and I'm so ready to jump off and feel like myself again.  I feel lame starting up with the complaints and the worries again, but maybe if I think aloud and put stuff out there, I can talk myself into feeling like me again... 

Boy, time sure flies!

Wow, look at those dates on the right!  I've been blogging for over a year!  It certainly doesn't seem that long.  Of course, I don't blog all that much, but still.  A year is a long time!  I think about blogging a lot, though.  Something will happen and I will wonder "should I blog about that?"  I wonder if anyone outside of my circle of friends will read or care about what I write.  I know I get annoyed when my favorite bloggers don't update regularly - I even check my stats and try to imagine who IS reading my blah blah blah!  Is this being too self-centered?  I do find jotting things down gets stuff out of my head and into the air.  I have a tendency to brood, and I think I've noticed my brooding has decreased in the last year.  Or, at least I feel as if my holding onto stuff too long has decreased.

What else has happened over the last year?  A lot, I guess.  As things sort of fall back into a normal place and/or routine, there are changes.  I'm certainly fatter.  This needs to be worked on.  There are days I don't notice the new 'girls' at all and there are other days it's like carrying around a load of bricks.  I honestly think it depends on the barometric pressure.  Which makes no physical or biological sense, but it gives me a modest feeling of comfort.  Of course, a big change is that every trip to the doctor or dentist has become an even scarier experience for me.  I've imagined all sorts of scenarios every time I'm sent to another doctor.

This morning, I was sent to Dr No Bedside Manner (the above photo is the view from in front of his office building).  I saw him a couple of years ago to check on my fibroids (yes, pretty much every benign female complaint has come my way at one time or another).  That day, I believe he said two sentences to me:  "please place this for me" (referring to the scary medical instrument he uses for an internal sonogram), and "you have fibroids" (in the 'uh, yeah, that's why I'm here' department).  He isn't exactly Mr Warm and Fuzzy (actually, he's Dr No Bedside Manner!), but oh well.  I figured I wouldn't really need to pay regular visits to him.  But, Dr Pay in Advance is so hot for me to have my ovaries out so I can go into menopause right now that she sent me back to Dr No Bedside Manner.  I guess she wanted him to tell me that my fibroids are out of control and that I should have my ovaries out NOW. 

The last couple of days, I've been working myself into a frenzy over which horrible medical disasters were going to befall me.  I've read studies that say once you've had any kind of breast cancer, you're at a higher risk for ovarian cancer.  There are people who believe that cancer cells never leave your body.  Oh, and one of the side effects of taking tamoxifen was a higher risk for uterine cancer.  I didn't sleep much last night, trying to figure out when I would have time in my schedule to have a complete hysterectomy and still have time to get all my work done.  Gah!  Where was my usual modus operandi of denial and avoidance???  I hate being in worst-case-scenario mode!!!

So...today's appointment.  The nurse was nice - we had a long conversation about how she liked my hair color and did I do it myself?  She was cute.  And at least I got more than two sentences out of Dr No Bedside Manner this time - I filled him in on last year's surgical extravaganzas, then he asked me questions about the tamoxifen, if I'm still on a regular cycle and if I'm having any other issues.  I hardly knew what to say, I was so surprised he was speaking with me!  He also pointed things out to me on the sonogram machine; he certainly didn't do that last time.  So, either I'm way more charming and drew him out of his shell today (ha ha), or now that he thinks there's a real reason for me to be there, he can relate to me a little better.  Regardless, it was nice to actually speak a few words.  I can think of few things more uncomfortable than a prolonged office visit where the doctor says nothing.  Happily, he saw nothing different on the sonograms - the fibroids are the same size as before and nothing else is going wrong.  I knew that would be the outcome, so why put myself through the worry?  I guess because now I know what can go wrong.  Blech.  But at least I can wait until my next annoying appointment with Dr Pay in Advance to fight over having my ovaries removed.

To celebrate keeping the ovaries for a few more months (lol), I will now post gratuitous old photos of me with Tony nominees.  Did we ever decide if photo-dropping is worse than name-dropping???  Oh well...

I guess I can't fill out a certain kind of survey anymore! (TMI alert)

You know the kind of survey I mean - the one that gets e-mailed around your circles of friends and asks questions like: who was your first prom date, do you prefer vanilla or chocolate, what is your favorite color and DO YOU HAVE ANY TATTOOS??  Now that I have to answer 'yes' to that last question, no more surveys for me...

Yes, the saga of my new breasts is (hopefully) complete.  I made a visit to Dr Vera Wang's tasteful office on the East Side yesterday and had my nipples tattooed.  For some reason, I had sort of forgotten about this appointment.  For one thing, I made it in January.  And for another, I guess it's part of my denial/avoidance thing.  I'm just tired of thinking about it.  And I'm not looking forward to another period of breast high-maintenance...

I got to the offices early and was ushered in quickly.  As I was changing into the lovely peach-colored robe, I took a couple of photos - one of yet another syringe, and one of a color wheel and Spirograph-looking wheel guide.  Interesting!  Dr Vera Wang came in and made small talk.  Then she showed me, on the Spirograph thing, which sizes she thought would be appropriate for me (I ended up choosing a circumference a bit smaller than the 'normal' size), then we decided which shades would be good for my skin tone.  I thought it was funny she thought a combination of beige 2, beige 3 and rose would go well with my "red" hair.  I didn't remind her that my red hair is fake.  Just like my breasts, I guess.  :)

The process was pretty painless.  She did numb me, since I'm starting to have some sensation, especially at the top of my breasts (which she said was excellent news - uh, ok).  Then she got out a little machine that looked and sounded like a dental drill.  She drew the circles on, colored them in with the custom-mixed pigment, then drilled/tattooed it on.  I felt a little pressure, but that's it.  It took her a couple of tries to get the colors quite right.  She had me take a look and, yes, I got a little teary.  There they were.  Breasts that almost looked as they did last year.  Not really, but close enough.  The color looks a little dark right now, but she said that's because the tattooing brought blood to the surface and the colors will lighten over the next week or so.  More gauze bandages, antibiotic cream and the return of my stupid surgical bra that makes me look like I have the chest of a pudgy twelve-year-old boy.  Oh well.  I can stand it for one more week.  The whole tattooing process took about a half hour.

I see Dr Vera Wang next month, to make sure the tattoos are right, then I'll only see her once a year after that.  It will feel strange, seeing these doctors occasionally instead of all the time.  But it will help me get back to feeling like myself, I'm sure.  She took one last look before she left and said, "You look beautiful."  Thanks to you, Dr Vera Wang.

One more fun photo.  I admit I was a little anxious walking from the subway over to her office this morning.  Imagine my happiness seeing this billboard on my way.  Imaginary boyfriends always make a day better and put a spring in a girl's step... :)

**Six years ago, I reviewed the hideous stage production of Festen; five years ago, it was the Kevin Spacey Moon for the Misbegotten; four years ago, I saw Candide at New York City Opera; three years ago, I greatly enjoyed the Lincoln Center revival of August Wilson's Joe Turner's Come and Gone.  April is always a big theater month for me...

Seems like forever/seems like yesterday

It took me a while to decide if I wanted to do another 'last year' post - I recently made the mistake of reading one of those discussion boards again.  Why I do it, I have no idea.  Two popular breast cancer bloggers died this week.  There was also a gal posting about how she has DCIS (like me) and had to have a double mastectomy (like me), but didn't have anyone to take care of her (her husband died and her daughter is estranged.  NOT like me).  She was just having the perfect storm of problems, because her friends were either not willing to help or taking advantage and the therapist she was seeing kept cancelling her appointments.  Wow.  I have to stop reading this stuff -- it makes me seriously depressed.  I'm generally a plucky trouper and have little to no depression, mainly just annoyance when my bra is too tight.  But lately, I've occasionally started crying more; at work, at home, doesn't matter.  Post-traumatic stress?  Who knows?  Do I have ANYTHING to complain about?  No.  I almost feel as if I should shut the f*ck up.  But do I?  No.  Why?  I don't know.  Because I want more people to see the photos of the apartment fire?  Maybe.  To expel it from my brain?  Maybe.  To remind myself there's nothing to feel sorry about?  Maybe maybe.  But you know what?  My stuff is my stuff.  Part of me thinks I should drive up to Maine and help that poor woman, and part of me is incredulous that she had to go to a message board to get the help and support she so desperately needs.  And part of me feels like if someone happens to read this blog, they might not feel so alone.  So...here we go.

Last year, on this day, I started an adventure I'd rather not have started, thank you very much.  Having three 'procedures' over the previous five years didn't really prepare me for having a double mastectomy.  The last time I had a major surgery was 1969.  I can barely remember what happened last week, so clearly I don't remember that surgery.  The other procedures I had only required a light anesthetic, I didn't really need any major pain medication, and I was an outpatient for just a few hours.  This time, it was major anesthesia, with the tube down my throat, and major painkillers (they gave me a morphine drip).  I also had to stay overnight in the hospital.

I really only have blurred, hazy memories of the time in the hospital.  I hated to ask my mom to pay for a private room, since it wasn't covered by my insurance, but I also didn't want to have to share a room.  So my parents cashed in part of their 401(k) to get a room for me while I was in recovery.  I have the best parents in the world.  It wasn't fancy, but at least it was big, Mom could have a place to sleep and I didn't have to share with a potentially unpleasant roommate.  My mom got this picture of the view from the room.  Nice, yes?

I remember not enjoying the food they brought me--my lunch's vegetarian stir-fry was loaded with onions, and my dinner's fish wasn't completely cooked.  To the kitchen's credit, they called me and asked why I didn't eat the fish.  When I told her, she offered to send me something else, which was very nice.  But after raw fish, you kinda lose your appetite for anything.  I do vaguely remember that the breakfast pancakes were tasty.

I remember my pals coming to visit, and being so grateful for them.  I think the morphine made me pretty sick, though, because I had the dry heaves quite a lot that first night and didn't sleep much at all.  So I asked to be taken off morphine and to stay one more night in the hospital, even though the doctors on their morning rounds told me I was ready to go home that first morning post-surgery (I had been told by someone that they can't throw you out if you ask to stay) and they let me.  Thank heavens they did.

I dozed a lot and talked to a lot of doctors who checked on me.  I tried to get my mom to go out and do something, but she wouldn't, god love her.  It's just a bunch of fuzzy images, really, that I remember from being in the hospital.

I remember crying when I got my first look under the bandages, but my mom can't handle it when I cry, so I stopped (maybe that's why I have post-surgical stress now). I was so grateful that my friend with the car came to pick me up and drive me home.  But I can't even describe how exhausted I was by the time we got to Queens and then to my street.  THEN, when we saw the fire trucks, it was so surreal.  I tried to convince myself the fire trucks were at another apartment building.  Thank heavens my gal pal was also in the car with us.  She got out and sussed out what was going on.  I think I remember her saying "I have good news and bad news."  Yes, fire in my building/no fire in my apartment.  Man, what a mess.  They said I could move back in if I absolutely had to, but they didn't recommend it.  I also remember feeling suddenly so unwell and so sorry for myself.  My other pal talked me out of that pretty quickly.  In my fog, I remembered that I always pass a hotel on my way to LaGuardia, so I asked to go there until we could figure out what to do next.  We went to the Marriott Fairfield Inn: no one ever stay there, please.  And please tell all your friends never to stay there.  The picture above will help you remember what it looks like so you'll never go there.  My mom and friends went in to get me a room asap, and they wouldn't let me have a room.  Even though they told her I just had major surgery and my apartment building was on fire, she wouldn't yield.  It was about noon, and she said all the rooms were being cleaned and check-in time was 3pm.  What a maroon.  I can't believe there wasn't one room that was ready for a customer.  I didn't want any special treatment, but a little empathy would've been nice.

Luckily, my darling gal pal had an iPhone, so she did some research on finding another hotel.  We went to a motor inn really nearby, but it didn't look very nice, so we kept going.  God love my friend with the car, driving a panicking me and Mom around Queens looking for a hotel.  Finally, we went to the Marriott Courtyard, almost directly across the highway from LaGuardia.  That hotel manager, Richard, let us right in, thank god.  Everyone should always stay here and recommend that all their friends stay there.  Even though he was really nice, I'm sure Richard was thrilled to see me, zombielike, with drains hanging down from my flannel shirt, shuffling across the lobby to the room, but I had to get to a bed.

All I wanted to do was lie down.  That, I remember.  And I pretty much stayed in the hotel room for the nine days we couldn't get into my apartment.  Visiting Nurse Service had to drive out to the hotel to check me out, which was an adventure.  My mom was a rock star, with all her responsibility of draining and measuring my drains twice a day.  We watched a lot of premium cable (who knew we would catch up on the Vince Vaughan oeuvre), I developed a fondness for Let's Make a Deal, and we ordered in a lot of take-out from the only two restaurants in the immediate area.  It was a nice hotel, but they didn't have a restaurant on site, just a breakfast room and a bar (the bartenders were also very nice and let Mom order bar food before they were officially open), and there was nowhere for Mom to walk, which started to drive her insane after a few days.  Plus, she started to really worry about money.  Thankfully, her sisters sent us a care package of breakfast pastries, and then my office sent me a couple of care packages with some cash to help us out with expenses.  Once I started to get up and walk around, we decided to take the free shuttle over to LaGuardia.  What a goofball thing to do, but at least it was a change of scene for Mom.  You can maybe tell by the above photo of the view from our room that the neighborhood wasn't very atmospheric. 

Richard was very generous and lowered our room rate almost every night we were there.  We had hoped to go back to my apartment after six days, but once we got there, we knew it still wasn't ready to be lived in.  So back we went to the Courtyard, where Richard kindly gave us a different room on the other side of the hotel, for a different view.  Finally, after nearly ten days, we moved back into my apartment.

Here's what we came back to:

What a mess.  It smelled like smoke all over, so we kept a towel stuffed at the top of the door to try to keep the smell out.  It couldn't keep the noise out, though.  That fan they had in the hallway to blow the smoke smell out was SO LOUD.  It was driving both of us crazy.  Mom was also being driven insane because my cable was out--she didn't enjoy watching my DVDs of seasons one and two of Little House on the Prairie quite as much as I did.  :)  

An old friend from college sent me a wonderful care package of CDs and DVDs from my Amazon.com wish list, so it was nice to have some new movies and new music to watch/listen to.  At least once we were back in the apartment, though, Mom could get out and walk around the neighborhood.  She would go, probably once a day, to the local hardware store to get towels, then window blinds, then more air fresheners.  She did my laundry and went through my tons of stuff that needed to be thrown out.  Thank heavens I had taken a month off from work, because not only was there recuperation to be done (and, to tell the truth, the physical recuperation wasn't all that bad--discomfort, difficulty sleeping and exhaustion, yes, but none of the horrible problems of lymphedema or frozen shoulder or new staph infections that I had feared), but also a near-complete inventory of my apartment.  She worked her fingers off, as did all of my friends who came by to help out.  No, not help.  DO.  They did it all, while I laid around and 'supervised.'  I can't imagine how anything would've gotten done if I had been in the sad situation as that message board lady in Maine.  So, reason #2,356,976 that I am so fortunate and so grateful.  Rest assured, though, I'm sure I will complain again, about something.  :)  Oh, and another reason to be grateful:  as of today, I am all paid up.  I finally paid the last installment of the last hospital bill.  At least I think it's the last.  Hopefully, no new paperwork floats my way, and we all have clear sailing from here on in...

p.s.  Two years ago today, I reviewed "Measure for Measure", a production of Theater for a New Audience, featuring Rocco Sisto and Jefferson Mays.  Thumbs UP.  I'm very excited Jefferson Mays is going to be in the upcoming revival of "Gore Vidal's The Best Man."  I also hope to see Rocco Sisto again sometime soon...

One short year ago... (tmi alert)

As I transfered everything from last year's desk calendar to this year's, I noticed a doctor's appointment notation.  Sigh.  I tried to put it out of my mind, but today is a blustery day, and my mind is blustering about.  One year ago today, I received the news that would shake me up and see what I was made of.  I know I should be looking forward and putting all this stuff behind me (I mean, doesn't my statute of limitations of bitching and complaining run out soon?), but I find myself replaying events over and over, like a movie I keep watching and hoping will have a different ending. 

That day, I entered Dr Julie Halston's office pretty nonchalantly, considering I had had the 'procedure' three times already, and each follow-up consisted of a long wait in the exam room, a wound check, draining of fluid and benign, yet high-risk pathology report/diagnosis.  Same old, same old.  Since I had done the routine so many times before, I didn't even take anyone with me to the appointment.  And, if I recall correctly, the appointment went pretty much as planned, at first.  I sat in the exam room for a LONG time, she came in, asked me how my kids are (she seriously can't remember that I don't live in New Jersey with two kids), checked the wound and drained it.  Then, she sat down, opened the file and said, "Well, I wasn't expecting this."  Oh, that's never good to hear!  She said the path report showed DCIS, and I should get dressed and come into her regular office to chat.  That clearly set me on a brain whirl I didn't want to be on.  But I did what I was told.

She put a box of kleenex down in front of me and told me she thought I should have a mastectomy.  Wow.  No beating around the bush here.  Then she said I should talk to Dr Pay in Advance (who has been my oncologist for three years) immediately, though there was plenty of time to decide.  I just kept repeating I didn't want a mastectomy.  That's pretty much all I remember--I was very emphatic that I didn't want to lose the breast.  In fact, I knew Dr Pay in Advance was going to want me to consider one anyway, regardless of this pathology report, but I had kept putting her off.

While all this was happening, I realized that I forgot to charge my cell phone.  I kept turning it off and on, to try to save power.  Finally, I got through to one beloved gal pal, choked out "It's not the worst news, but it's not good news, either," and god love her, she immediately met me at a nearby diner, where I continued to cry and insist I didn't want to lose the breast.

Four blurry, watery weeks later, I had a double mastectomy.  And I'm still trying to figure out where, exactly, I changed my mind.  I knew I wasn't attached to my breasts, cosmetically.  I've never been about how I look.  I just went from being certain I wanted to keep them, to being certain I wanted them BOTH off.  Even Dr Julie Halston was surprised when I said I wanted them both to go, since the DCIS was only in one.

I guess, ultimately, it's my very bad habit of avoidance and denial that strangely led me to the more drastic surgical option.  My whole life, I've tried to avoid bad news.  I simply ignore it, which is so immature and stupid, but that's what I've always done.  If I don't think about something, then it doesn't exist.  From parking tickets to debt collectors.  Trying to not think about breast cancer is really hard, though, but I think I sort of rationalized that if I had them both off, I could not think about it anymore.  Which is also immature and stupid, but I really do kind of think that's where I was going.  If I had chosen the less invasive option, the lumpectomy and radiation, I would've kept the breast, but I would've been reminded, every single day, for at least six weeks, while I was having radiation, that I had breast cancer.  And I would've worried every day that it would come back, in one or both breasts.  That became the less appealing option more and more as the three weeks and the many doctor appointments went on.  So...we had the big 180.  At least that's how I think it happened.

Although I don't really think about it constantly, I do still feel a vague unease, or unsettledness, in myself.  Not that it will come back, because I know the chances are practically non-existent that it will.  And I know they told me it would take me at least a year to physically feel like myself again (which, hopefully, will miraculously occur first thing in the morning on Feb 10) but I'm sure it will take longer.  I have so far to go when it comes to regaining what little physical fitness I had before all the surgeries.  I never thought of myself as having nice abs before, but when you completely lose them?  You miss them.  I remember the gal in Dr Vera Wang's office telling me to be careful about slouching, because it's a natural physical response to a mastectomy, and I could end up with 'frozen shoulder' or a permanent hunch.  So, in my zeal to NOT slouch, I think I threw my shoulders too far back, unwittingly stuck out my stomach, and forgot to pull in my abs.  For a year.  It is, frankly, incredible how grotesquely grotesque they are now.  And I still find myself slouching every now and then.  Is that a lose-lose scenario?

I know I have to get back into shape--why get rid of your cancer-y breasts if you're just going to get fat, with high blood pressure and then have a stroke climbing the subway stairs??  I have GOT to put on my new pedometer that my wonderful sister got me for Christmas (RIP, old pedometer, lost in the smoke damage of the Post-Mastectomy-Fire-Adventure-Of-2011).  Fingers crossed I make it to the elusive 10,000 steps every day.  Today, of course--no pedometer.  Dumb.  I guess my pre-emptive avoidance and denial mode caused me to oversleep by two hours this morning.  Whatever.  But I keep asking myself, do I really have the energy to get fit?  Ugh.  It took a year to get this bad, it will take way more than a year to right the ship.  After all, I'm not 25 anymore.  I hate being fat, but the thought of the dedication and hard work I'll need to put in is kinda daunting.  I mentioned the whole avoidance and denial thing up above, yes?

I also wonder if my vague unease is due to the fact that I have told practically no one outside my intimate circle of dear friends and family about what's going on.  Or, I guess I should say, what WENT on.  I have over 400 Facebook friends (which is a blog post topic in itself, yes?  400??!  seriously??!), but I think maybe 30 people are aware of my situation.  Why have I done it that way?  I have one friend on Facebook who pours out her heart and lets everyone know every horrible sad thing that happens to her--the outpouring of love and support she then receives is heartening, but it just makes me so uncomfortable.  Maybe I'm taking the avoidance and denial thing too far in that I don't want to think about the bad news SO MUCH that I won't let any good wishes in, either.  Because they'll remind me of the bad news.  That is lame, right?  Private is private, but avoiding telling people because you don't want to talk about it is silly.  Or is it?  Part of me has considered 'outing' myself and just getting it over with, but I can't quite seem to get there.  I try to be inspired by a couple of blogs I read by breast cancer survivors, but when they talk about being the center of attention at parties because they joke about fake boobs, I mentally turn away from that (not that I haven't tried to joke about them in the company of my intimate pals).  I guess I just have to accept my manner of dealing with things as mine, and just get over being annoyed with how other people do it.  Perhaps, I would annoy THEM!  :)   Besides, I'm not sure I want the look in everyone's eyes to change when they look at me.  From, 'oh, there's Tari', to 'oh, there's Tari, she has breast cancer.'   I already have a few people who just stopped chatting with me once I confided in them.  And I know that's their problem and not mine, but still.

Blah blah blah.  Wah wah wah.  I hope you're rolling your eyes right about now, if you've even made it this far.  I think want to turn a corner, but my brain doesn't seem to want to tag along.  But I thought if I put the whirling dervish that is happening in my brain onto paper (as it were), it might fly out of my head and let me be ready to move on.  To whatever is next.