tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44620037160775414232024-02-18T23:29:01.250-08:00Doing Cancer the Right WayA blog about my experience having breast cancerRoseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-14150402574619983662009-05-11T05:42:00.000-07:002009-05-11T09:21:27.168-07:00Cancer On the TV<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEbGcAzaR6Qchdx3GK5i4MQc_akl9At5qH24aYMVUkjiQ_bJZskAbfAZOZKCnnTG_tb80_PFZ5ZUP3j_YpiHDj2si0_cE-9sxGyIgsIvfHxfXWnrckqwnTkk5VE5K68D1sVcK4Pu9BgnO/s1600-h/ep60_april_506.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEbGcAzaR6Qchdx3GK5i4MQc_akl9At5qH24aYMVUkjiQ_bJZskAbfAZOZKCnnTG_tb80_PFZ5ZUP3j_YpiHDj2si0_cE-9sxGyIgsIvfHxfXWnrckqwnTkk5VE5K68D1sVcK4Pu9BgnO/s200/ep60_april_506.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334562506242806210" border="0" /></a><br />I'm watching two TV shows right now where a character has cancer. The first one is the incomparable <span style="font-style: italic;">Breaking Bad,</span> with Bryan Cranston. His character, chemist-turned-high-school-teacher Walter White, has a form of lung cancer that — we suppose — has been brought on by long-term exposure to chemicals. The other is <span style="font-style: italic;">In Treatment</span>. One of Dr. Paul Weston's patients, April, has Hodgkin's lymphoma. She's not telling her parents, though, because they already have such a burden at home with her autistic brother.<br /><br />Yeah, right. Like there's really a way a 23-year-old student without an income can enter treatment for cancer at a major hospital in New York and not get her parents involved. Do the idiots — that's right, idiots! — who wrote this understand that one of the things they talk to you about right before you go into an infusion room is HOW YOU ARE GOING TO PAY FOR YOUR TREATMENT AND WHETHER OR NOT YOU ARE CURRENT WITH YOUR BILL?<br /><br />If you didn't catch my meaning, I'll say this another way. They don't start doing a thing to you at the oncology center until they sort out how any health coverage you may have will pay for it and then they make you understand what your share of that will be. Even with insurance, it is not free of charge to you. I'm afraid that, although it makes for fascinating TV, April cannot get treatment for her lymphoma without getting her parents' bank account involved. I will say this again — before you can even set foot in the infusion room, your first stop is the financial office.<br /><br />Oh, even worse, Gabriel Byrne (the therapist) does for April what she cannot do for herself and takes her to "the hospital" for chemo … if you are getting in-patient chemotherapy, you certainly are not going there under your own power or even on your own two feet, much less all alone or with some stranger (yes, the therapist is basically a stranger). No, in her case, she's getting outpatient treatment and that doesn't take place in a hospital — again, the costs are the reason why, plus, you don't need to be in a hospital. Secondly, April subsequently refers to her port, which the unnamed hospital people somehow placed in her chest while she had fainted or something, and then they pumped chemo drugs that she doesn't know the name of into her right after that. Later, right in the good Paul Weston's office, she doubles up in pain because of the port … oh, for fuck's sake.<br /><br />The port installation is a surgical procedure. You are unconsious when it happens, and it happens well before you get your first infusion. It doesn't hurt. You can't feel it. It's below the skin, right under your collar bone. I've blogged about this before.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">In Treatment</span> is based on a series from Israel, and maybe this all this shit happens in Israel, but not in the U.S. of A., honey. Scripts for <span style="font-style: italic;">In Treatment</span> are written by Marsha Norman, author of a tiresome 1970s play called <span style="font-style: italic;">'night Mother</span><span></span>, in which a young woman argues for five acts with her mother about why she wants to commit suicide. She also wrote <span style="font-style: italic;">Getting Out</span>, about a woman leaving prison. I had no idea Ms. Norman was still kicking around, applying fatuous and misguided notions to some of life's most dramatic moments — you know, offing yourself, release from prison, getting cancer, the list just goes on!<br /><br />I know why doctors and police officers get so disgusted with television that purports to show the drama of their respective careers. And I have attempted to gently tell people that a diagnosis of cancer and the ensuing treatment doesn't play out in real life like it does on television. There are no blinded-by-the-light moments. There are no plateaus of sweet relief and angels singing. After spending your life watching how people do this on TV, you would be awfully surprised how much the same everything — and I do mean everything — is, and how uncertain everything still feels.<br /><br />This is the truth that <span style="font-style: italic;">Breaking Bad</span> gets to. In fact, they got to it in last night's episode. The unlucky Walt White, who's chosen a path of meth manufacturing because he believes he's going to die soon, learns that the heroic efforts of his medical team have succeeded in stopping the progression of his disease. Time to celebrate! Right everybody? But he tells the party crowd his unknowing wife had assembled in honor of this occasion that, when he got his diagnosis, he thought, Why me? and that when he got news of his remission he also thought, Why me? And then he proceeds to get mean, messy drunk. He's not happy and smiling. He's more uncertain and angry than ever.<br /><br />Having reached the limits of what can be done to his body, now Walt has become obsessed with cutting out the sludge and rot from his house, sawing, welding, replacing, improving, trying to make it right, <span style="font-style: italic;">get the shit out</span>.<br /><br />This is the cancer experience. This is what the real thing is like.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-24282606413980709162008-11-30T09:44:00.000-08:002008-11-30T10:14:15.320-08:00Plan BSome people who know me may know that I have not shopped at Target for about the last three years. That's right! No Target. At some point I became aware that Target had a policy that if any of its pharmacists had "moral problems" with dispensing the so-called "morning after pill," Plan B, that pharmacy could refuse to fill the scrip. Turn your intercoursing ass away and send you to someone who can put up with you and your medical needs.<br /><br />For all I knew, any pharmacy company in the U.S. could have exactly the same policy. But Target likes to brand itself as hip, urban, tasteful, and forward-thinking. (This is in contrast to Wal Mart, whose brand is traditional, family-values, and no nonsense.) Good design is for everyone at Target, but good medicine is not. It is important to note that Plan B is birth control. It's not an abortifacient. Birth control is still legal in this country.<br /><br />This really pissed me off. Then I read about it again in the always-profane column "Savage Love," by Dan Savage. I contacted Target and told them that this policy amounted to discrimination and that anyone, anytime, anywhere, who had a prescription that was lawful was entitled under the law to have it filled. Here's what they said in reply:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Dear Target Guest </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">In our ongoing effort to provide great service to our guests, Target consistently ensures that prescriptions for the emergency contraceptive Plan B are filled. As an Equal Opportunity Employer, Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 also requires us to accommodate our team members’ sincerely held religious beliefs.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">In the rare event that a pharmacist’s beliefs conflict with filling a guest’s prescription for the emergency contraceptive Plan B, our policy requires our pharmacists to take responsibility for ensuring that the guest’s prescription is filled in a timely and respectful manner, either by another Target pharmacist or a different pharmacy. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">The emergency contraceptive Plan B is the only medication for which this policy applies. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Under no circumstances can the pharmacist prevent the prescription from being filled, make discourteous or judgmental remarks, or discuss his or her religious beliefs with the guest.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Target abides by all state and local laws and, in the event that other laws conflict with our policy, we follow the law.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">We're surprised and disappointed by Planned Parenthood’s negative campaign. We’ve been talking with Planned Parenthood to clarify our policy and reinforce our commitment to ensuring that our guests’ prescriptions for the emergency contraceptive Plan B are filled. Our policy is similar to that of many other retailers and follows the recommendations of the American Pharmacists Association. That’s why it’s unclear why Target is being singled out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">We’re committed to meeting the needs of our female guests and will continue to deliver upon that commitment. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Sincerely, </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">xxxx<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:130%;" >So the only barrier between you and a filled scrip for Plan B at Target was if you were unfortunate to encounter a pharmacist who possessed "sincerely held" religious beliefs against the drug. What if those beliefs were <span style="font-style: italic;">insincere</span>? Would you just give me the damn pills then, you meddling jerk-off?<br /><br />It was remarkably easy to turn away from Target after this exchange, and it's a habit I'm not prepared to change, in spite of the fact that Plan B is now available without a prescription for women over 18. (I suppose they can still refuse to give it you, even if you have bruises to show them.)<br /><br />But do I need a "plan B," in light of this new development? I know I don't need new ways to spend money. But I do wonder if there are old habits that I'm hanging onto and can't remember why anymore. Yes, this is the sort of thing having cancer makes you think about.<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-34666841206126591092008-11-30T09:42:00.001-08:002008-11-30T09:44:12.869-08:00No More RadiationI am done with radiation treatments. It was an emotional moment, when my kid and the radiation crew threw confetti on me. My doctor presented me with a plaque has has a quote attributed to John Wayne: "Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway."Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-53037396031012695142008-11-25T10:58:00.000-08:002008-11-25T11:00:42.415-08:00Two More Treatments LeftIt is very busy in the radiation center because all patients are getting five days' worth of treatment in three days. You have to let at least five hours elapse in between treatments.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-46462328214069426602008-11-25T06:12:00.000-08:002008-11-25T06:22:05.087-08:00Things People Have Done For Me During All This1. Brought my family meals, including incredible homemade chicken parmesan. Packed a lunch for my child once a week and brought it to school.<br /><br />2. Called me immediately after one of my little handmade purses sold at Parts and Labour, then called me again about 45 minutes later after another one sold.<br /><br />3. Taken me to chemo and brought me crunchy tacos from Hillbert's (getting chemo made me hungry).<br /><br />4. Checked in on me to see how I was feeling (crappy! thanks!).<br /><br />5. Knitted me a hat to cover my bald head.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-28722687191073106702008-11-24T05:52:00.000-08:002008-11-24T05:55:18.977-08:00Five More Treatments LeftI now have five radiation treatments left. I'm going in this morning for a treatment, then coming back five hours later for another one.<br /><br />The skin on my clavicle and shoulder is all brown-red and starting to slough off, like when you get a bad sunburn. But last week's break from the regimen was really helpful. I feel a lot better. This week will be no picnic, but at least it will be over soon.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-70480606431715575172008-11-22T05:59:00.000-08:002008-11-22T06:08:29.731-08:00I Want My Party EarlyYesterday I made a decision — I am doubling up on my treatments for Monday and Tuesday, and I am going to finish radiation on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. I want my confetti party early, and I want to drink champagne after. I am probably going to cry.<br /><br />I try to keep thinking how bad off you have to be to arrive at the radiation clinic in a private ambulance, how bad off you have to be to be in chemo and radiation simultaneously, and that's not me. I can walk in there and leave on my own two feet, and in my own car. And the people who work at the radiation clinic are the most professional and nicest human beings I have ever encountered. But I just don't want to be there anymore and I am going to get this over with.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-3883767023875585552008-11-21T06:15:00.000-08:002008-11-21T07:01:32.372-08:00Rad RadsHow do people blog all the time, every day? Their hip flexor muscles must be frozen at 90 degree angles!<br /><br />This week in radiation: I have taken a "break" from my 28-day regimen to do a five-day "boost." This means they are now radiating only the tumor bed, from three angles. My clavicle has gotten very red and a bit painful from the other regimen and Dr. Trip decided to let me have a break and allow my skin to heal a little bit before we resume.<br /><br />Here's what all I have tried to get some relief from the pain and itching:<br /><br />Domoboro soaks (it's a powdered astringent you mix in water)<br />Gene's Vitamin E cream (you can only buy this online)<br />Cetaphil cream<br />Aquaphor ointment<br />Aveeno cream<br />hydrocortisone cream<br />an OTC steroid cream<br />RadX cream<br />Lily of the Desert aloe vera gel<br /><br />Domoboro is good for skin irritations like poison ivy. RadX seems to be the best at relieving pain. The aloe vera is good for immediate relief but it flakes off or sheds in little rolls, because of its gel texture. Ibuprophen helps keep down the inflammation. Aquaphor is greasy but it's great to apply it before a shower so your skin doesn't get dried out from warm water.<br /><br />Just one more boost treatment today. Then, it's three regular treatments next week, Thanksgiving break, then the final two. They throw confetti on you on your last day.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-55402315942326471532008-10-29T12:27:00.000-07:002008-11-04T06:37:13.365-08:00Going to Radiation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfDiAyQd3IKFxKYOeGo_OuEyOgiHke81Jjs4s9kwFi47Oh-hohqU0ubnWfgIXroOWS6_SBfN83MGI1EOvMB4wqehgC62toypBMob8fOVhJ8OQZTJnmBYy-UqhKb5sONomS3iol_vK4rYvX/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfDiAyQd3IKFxKYOeGo_OuEyOgiHke81Jjs4s9kwFi47Oh-hohqU0ubnWfgIXroOWS6_SBfN83MGI1EOvMB4wqehgC62toypBMob8fOVhJ8OQZTJnmBYy-UqhKb5sONomS3iol_vK4rYvX/s200/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264810068222616354" border="0" /></a><br />Going to radiation is very annoying. I have to go five days a week. That really doesn't make any sense. If it's so good, why don't we go every day, seven days a week, until we're done?<br /><br />The only thing I have to say in favor of this experience is, everyone who works for Dr. Trip (that's my nickname for him) is completely gung-ho about what they do over there at the Superconducting Supercollider Radiation Center. Man. I've never met people who are so into what they do. Whenever I have the slightest question or observation about what's happening, they jump at the chance to explain, explain, explain everything that's happening.<br /><br />What happens? I don't pretend to understand all of this. I've previously had a CT of just my upper chest and neck ,and that scan is the guide for how they radiate me. It's a foreshortened view of that part of my body, and they get a look at all the numerous "slices" of my upper torso, all stretched out like a loaf of bread that's been pulled apart. All that information from the CT gets fed into the computers that delivers my radiation treatment. They are supposed to radiate just my breast and my lymph nodes on my left side — and nothing else, like my heart or lungs. They don't "eyeball" anything. It's all done with very sophisticated computers — state of the art, I'm told.<br /><br />Five days a week, I go into the dimly-lit radiation room, where there is a machine that looks a little like a scanner and a hard "bed" you lie down on. I've got 4 Sharpie marks on my body now that are covered in clear stickers to protect the marks. Three are in red, right along my waistline. These are the marks they use to line up my body every day, corresponding to all these laser lines that are shooting out of the walls and ceiling of the room. One is in black and it's right at the top of my breast. It marks the edge of the "fly zone" of the radiation.<br /><br />I eschewed their lovely exam gowns and I bring my own shirt every day instead. I lie on the hard bed with a wedge under my knees and they secure my feet with a little Velcro strap. My head's cradled in a plastic "bowl" thing. It allows for a bit of movement. That's good, because I must turn my head slightly to the right, so my esophagus doesn't get radiated. I have to raise my arms over my head and grab a kind of trapeze bar and stay that way for the entire time. They elevate the bed with me on it and my body gets close to the thing that the radiation comes out of. The technicians leave the room and close the lead door behind them. They see me on a TV screen on the other side of the room, and I can see a computer monitor that has all the data about what they're doing to me — not that I can understand it. The only thing I know is they can't mess it up because the radiation oncologist has input the data exactly the way he wants it and it's not possible for radiation to begin unless everything is precise. If there's any data highlighted in orange, that's wrong and they adjust things until it's no longer highlighted. There are no accidents. They can't radiate anything that's not supposed to be radiated.<br /><br />The first thing that gets radiated are the lymph nodes on my back. Then the machine rotates around me three other times to get the other portions of the target area. When the radiation is being delivered, a lighted alarm goes off in the room. Each blast lasts around 10-12 seconds. Once when I had a different technician I commented that the blasts seemed longer than previous treatments. He gave me a very long explanation about it, but the upshot is, I wasn't getting more radiation than any other time. They just took a little longer to deliver the same dose. Again, the technology won't let them screw anything up.<br /><br />A single radiation dose is 200X than what you get in an X-ray. I'm getting 33 treatments total. It opens a can of whoop ass on your tissues. Kill, kill, kill those cells. It's usually 10 minutes from the time I get out of my car and back again. That's how short the whole thing lasts. My skin is beginning to get a little red now and the area feels swollen. Remarkably, the few palliative steps you can take to help this don't do all that much — creams, ointments, etc. I'm not grossly uncomfortable yet but I've seen on other people how bad it can get. Mostly, I get extra tired sometimes. That's the cue for me to nap or go to bed early. Of course, I would rather ignore how I feel and keep doing what I'm doing, anyway.<br /><br />Today's treatment will be No. 16. (Nov. 4). Almost halfway.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-79028332260175127222008-10-16T05:49:00.000-07:002008-10-16T06:38:40.192-07:00Things I Don't Want to DoWhat is it about big illnesses like cancer that awake the sleeper cells of pagentry and celebration? I'm talking about the walks, runs, radio promotions, and all manner of public testimony about your disease. It is endless, the opportunity to lay yourself bare before semi-caring strangers. ("Oh, breast cancer," they're thinking. "Hope it's never me." Yes, you <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> hope that.)<br /><br />I know, time was, if you had cancer no one even uttered that word. Maybe even <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span> didn't know you had cancer. It was too awful to talk about. In the latter part of the 20th century we set about to change all that. And we did. The problem is, no one wants any limits on the discussion and the endless "sharing" of our stories. I know that no one in the Cancer Nation wants to bother me, but just once I would like a request for participation in an event to begin with the words, "We understand if you aren't interested, but we would like you to know about …"<br /><br />Here are a few things I do not want to do just because I have been diagnosed with breast cancer:<br /><br />1. Stand with 399 other women for a "bras across the bridge" moment. You're holding a bra (yours, maybe? one you don't need anymore? wink, wink) and you hook yours onto your neighbor's and form a giant chain of bras, so people will see … a chain of bras.<br /><br />2. Buy a pink bracelet. Or wear one that's free.<br /><br />3. Go on Christian radio.<br /><br />4. Hand out refrigerator magnets reminding women to "feel your boobies."<br /><br />5. Pose for a dreamy portrait of myself wearing my cancer cap, or worse, pose while I was bald.<br /><br />Okay, so what is this blog about, right? It's a public statement about my experience, too.<br /><br />I guess I am not one who finds comfort in numbers. This communication is to my friends and acquaintances, and yes, an occasional passing stranger reads it, too. But I'm not trying to get anyone to do anything. I don't think my "story" is going to change much for someone who's not a cancer patient, and as for those who are being treated for cancer, well, we pretty much know how to find each other, don't we?Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-70446427100553972462008-10-02T14:38:00.000-07:002008-10-02T14:56:30.238-07:00Radiating Waves and a Tall Boy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi524exUzh-yjdENe67xy851Z1aSq0nSipF_8AFIsEjlcTAnIsfD8XSABVKW6FOjzMYNfYEpY7EM4wlPivLOdUCGsDTuBpauL4sYlPGRyDsIZjtmPs2xcf8VPRoYRuxh-sqoSTxxTuEx_lV/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi524exUzh-yjdENe67xy851Z1aSq0nSipF_8AFIsEjlcTAnIsfD8XSABVKW6FOjzMYNfYEpY7EM4wlPivLOdUCGsDTuBpauL4sYlPGRyDsIZjtmPs2xcf8VPRoYRuxh-sqoSTxxTuEx_lV/s200/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252678355956808322" border="0" /></a><br />I had 21 weeks of chemotherapy, altogether. I felt every moment of it.<br /><br />But now I've had nearly four months' respite from active cancer treatments. I feel much better. They stop giving you chemotherapy, and then you feel better. I feel almost normal, except for the fact that I still get tired fast (been puttering around the house, trying to find places for items displaced by the ongoing home renovations). I am not so interested in going back and being a cancer patient again.<br /><br />So it was without much enthusiasm that I visited the radiation clinic today to discuss my upcoming treatment.<br /><br />Nurse: So, when do you want to start?<br />Me: I don't want to.<br /><br />(LATER)<br /><br />Me, to Dr. : Why am I even in here? There are people out there in the lobby who can't even walk they're so sick. What is the deal?<br />Dr.: You had some bad luck.<br />Me: Oh.<br />Dr.: Those people out there, I'm just trying to buy them some more time.<br />Me: Oh.<br />Dr.: I'm trying to stop any illness at the microscopic level. Prevent you from being one of them someday, five, ten, twenty years from now.<br />Me: Yes, I was planning to be around for a while.<br />Dr.: Just think of this as your daily, 10-minute appointment at the 7-11.<br />Me: What, do I get a tall boy in a paper bag when I come here?<br />Dr.: Ha-ha. Sure, if that's what you want.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-38581712903803052022008-09-24T11:29:00.000-07:002008-09-24T11:57:37.687-07:00Between Scenes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6LQ_tc8MUE3GwR9l7ajjjnk3qpgy1VA75XqqRojxNqkgQTtzSe0jS52gAvr5DhiIJSC-oXI1rbYDXNMGgC-0U_wOn3bgQT1w5YKpSLdemT-B7O1G0P5lXQ6nqok7sUW3DncSIyoiod34m/s1600-h/Alcatrazsign.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6LQ_tc8MUE3GwR9l7ajjjnk3qpgy1VA75XqqRojxNqkgQTtzSe0jS52gAvr5DhiIJSC-oXI1rbYDXNMGgC-0U_wOn3bgQT1w5YKpSLdemT-B7O1G0P5lXQ6nqok7sUW3DncSIyoiod34m/s200/Alcatrazsign.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249663114108420642" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4VvUH2RNw-0jcS-v6uV6W3NEZ_tVSpRaIXjwQiaF9WITcpgxylO5sXHeJzEgmVbTu73edrq-ggUfLSowO8-nyj5_oqUpCecGM14C0bJkBtlVThiCUUD-CVeuZOoRLVxYmLZ1t_KweBo4/s1600-h/RARssvalley.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4VvUH2RNw-0jcS-v6uV6W3NEZ_tVSpRaIXjwQiaF9WITcpgxylO5sXHeJzEgmVbTu73edrq-ggUfLSowO8-nyj5_oqUpCecGM14C0bJkBtlVThiCUUD-CVeuZOoRLVxYmLZ1t_KweBo4/s320/RARssvalley.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249662606909811314" border="0" /></a><br />Nothing is happening to me right now. It's been four weeks since my surgery and I've healed just fine, no infections. I'm waiting to start radiation.<br /><br />We took a vacation from this again, just Roland and me. We went to San Francisco. We ate at Cafe Zoetrope in North Beach, went to wine country in the Russian River Valley, met up with friends at a burger joint on the Embarcadero, and visited Alcatraz. This is me on a hilltop in the Russian River Valley. It is insanely beautiful there. Boy, you have to be stubborn to be a winemaker, is all I can say. The other photo is a posted sign at Alcatraz, obviously.<br /><br />They try to feed you this crap about Alcatraz not being such a bad prison, just a cold and boring place to be. Why, there were even families living on the island, and they had Christmas caroling and gardens, and everything. All the cells and stuff are on the second floor of the building, which means there is a basement/ground floor that the public doesn't see. I bet that was nice, too, back in the day. Still, it was kind of strange how the Western sun streamed in pleasantly through the barred windows.<br /><br />We also saw Spoon at the Fillmore. They gave a good show of old and new favorites, plus a couple covers.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizLLGbsHTKCBuMHGzwNHx7v_wzZcQyoiNSVAR0vFAgrlqC2rv8mseP2OMeWF-zqBmHc9V4e-KKTnHkHVw5FmGIVwYqgUS7FL7Z-0KU8ciymdx7k1eJtZTN12poNca7lbTBIxNm_nupQJOA/s1600-h/Alcatrazsign.jpg"><br /></a>Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-10906890852852475422008-09-10T06:26:00.000-07:002008-09-10T07:02:53.862-07:00In DreamsSome people who know me know that I've always had a bone to pick with That Big Sports Celebrity Who Is Also A Cancer Patient. My spouse argues there is no backlash to foment against this guy, so my bumpersticker ideas ("I'm 6ick of [him]"; "7 is enough already") won't go anywhere.<br /><br />Celebrity, upon retirement from his sport, declared he would work tirelessly to bring awareness to the problem of cancer and offer support to those affected. When I looked for support for my young child, I did find some help from an agency that is funded by Celebrity's foundation. Yay, he really does do something, right? But the main agency where I get support for myself doesn't receive a dime from Celebrity, even though someone he once cared about is affected by breast cancer.<br /><br />Whatever.<br /><br />One of my recurring dreams is, I am working in a restaurant. (I waited tables for 5 years.) Last week I had this dream again, and believe it or don't, Celebrity was in it. He was a waiter, along with me. He was stacking plates and folding napkins and shuffling menus. We knew we had cancer in common and that our current work was a good service to others (see how the unconscious mind loves wordplay?).<br /><br />So I find it interesting that Celebrity's out-of-retirement announcement hinges on his desire to uh, something about shouldering the burden of cancer. This just rings as disingenuous to me. Why not be truthful? He loves being loved for the thing we loved seeing him love. Dating the Rock Star, the Preppy Fashion Designer, and the Semi-Talented Waif Actress got boring. There were rumors about him seeking high, statewide office, but I just couldn't see him in a suit, sitting in a meeting about the State Preservation Board with the delegation from East Texas. Those political people are too boring and unsophisticated for him and the job itself is a drag.<br /><br />I suppose it's possible to be completely self-aggrandizing and yet doing good for others. But I don't buy it that the first seven times were for just himself, but this next time is for the Cancer Nation.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-3127732829576223922008-08-29T13:30:00.000-07:002008-08-29T13:32:13.701-07:00Drink the Bubbly of Your Choice BecauseI just heard from Dr. Solemn. He told me that the pathology came back and there is no cancer in my tissues.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-42248991089011983182008-08-27T08:24:00.000-07:002008-08-27T08:36:00.418-07:00I'm OkaySurgery yesterday went fine. Solemn and IH did their thing. They discovered the cavity from my previous surgery, at end of a little corridor inside my breast, almost like a small chamber at the end of a cave. Solemn re-excised the tissue, IH filled in the cavity with fat from another spot in my breast and closed the incision. He didn't reposition my nipple (thank God) as he planned to, because it made an acceptable return to its proper place on my breast, once he was done with his work.<br /><br />I'm a little stiff and sore, but really want to avoid the pain meds, as they keep me awake at night. Last night I got up and watched a show about people wanting to know what their houses were worth, a show about a couple wanting to move so the wife would have more room for her doggy day care business (don't you want them for neighbors?), an infomercial about total cleansing, and the rerun of CNN's talking heads, blah blah blahing about Hillary's speech last night.<br /><br />Okay, I'm rambling about nothing, so I'm going to go. Back when I'm more lucid.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-27637899957816042332008-08-26T07:52:00.000-07:002008-08-26T07:58:09.349-07:00Surgery TodayToday is my surgery, a so-called partial mastectomy (lumpectomy) and scar revision. I will also get my portacath removed. It's not been easy to be a front seat passenger all these months because the seat belt hits the lump on my chest where my port is.<br /><br />I haven't had much chance to talk about the loooong journey I've taken up to this point. I was considering a California team of surgeons for my next procedure. But since we seem to be back at a relatively simple place in my treatment —nothing drastic is going to happen — I decided to have this at home and recuperate in the bosom of my family.<br /><br />Well, off I go. See ya on the flip side.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-74740900183915978002008-08-19T05:31:00.000-07:002008-08-19T05:57:24.060-07:00Crucifixes and Cancer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjsE8mReYcsE7zgFsPWuKZM6NQdwPOH52WtI1tQagOe_zw6XQGzzwt6JYaToux62ktqVvxWvfUU1gt8e3BDFPVVgnI_nkljn21K8bp6Q-R5oWDmngV7A3lNRTjrV7X-QkLO0f2IyqCPRK/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjsE8mReYcsE7zgFsPWuKZM6NQdwPOH52WtI1tQagOe_zw6XQGzzwt6JYaToux62ktqVvxWvfUU1gt8e3BDFPVVgnI_nkljn21K8bp6Q-R5oWDmngV7A3lNRTjrV7X-QkLO0f2IyqCPRK/s320/images.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236211285401757954" border="0" /></a><br />Oops, there's a few people who don't know my surgery is not today. It's next Tuesday, Aug. 26, at 12:30. Dr. Solemn will be doing the re-excision of the tissue, and Dr. Impossibly Handsome will be prettying up what's left over, immediately after Dr. Solemn is done with his work. It's a day surgery — I'll be home in my bed that night.<br /><br />The reason for the delay is, Dr. IH changed the venue to the Big Imposing Catholic Hospital (BICH), and I was not made aware of this. I told Dr. Solemn's office I just can't be involved in the Catholic health care system unless it is a matter of immediate loss of life. So they changed the day of the surgery and returned it to The Other Hospital — where it was supposed to be in the first place.<br /><br />I visited a breast cancer patient at the BICH in July. She had just had big surgery and was out of the ICU and recovering in a regular room. There's new construction going on at BICH, and we could hear every power tool the crew was using. The crucifix on the wall of the room jiggled while they worked. If I'd known her better, I would have offered to pull it down and stick it in the trash. I don't know what happens when you remove a crucifix at BICH. Maybe they don't let you.<br /><br />Anyway, this issue goes very deep for me. I was raised a Catholic. A churched and confirmed Catholic. Not the yeah-my-grandmother-never-missed-Mass-but-the-rest-of-us<br />-only-went-drunk-on-Christmas-Eve kind of Catholic. Add this to a family history of breast cancer, and it makes for a transformative experience, let me assure you. BICH does help out the poor with health care, and I've even contributed to that fund. But it doesn't mean I have to let them be part of what happens to me.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-39866504958972106532008-08-16T10:42:00.000-07:002008-08-16T11:49:29.271-07:00Cancer On 120 Grams of Protein A DayWhen I was pregnant, my diet wasn't good. The <span style="font-style: italic;">What To Expect When You're Expecting,</span> superior-type granolas would not have approved! But I was very scrupulous about my daily vitamins, extra folic acid, and calcium. Almost the day after I had my baby, however, my discipline toward supplements dropped off to nothing. With the pressure of gestating a human off me, I felt free to slack off.<br /><br />Even before my cancer diagnosis I had returned — somewhat happily — to a new regime of taking supplements for so-called brain health, mostly vitamins and some amino acids (like tyrosine and GABA+). When I was diagnosed, I snagged an appointment with Mr. Sought-After Nutritionist, Ph.D. Sought-After added some things to my regimen, namely taurine, glutamine, CoQ10, and melatonin.<br /><br />Taurine is one of the things in the energy drink, Red Bull (ew).<br /><br />Glutamine powder, mixed in a small amount of water, supposedly grows a barrier on the gut and helps with neuropathy (tingling in the extremities). I know that when I was on chemo if I missed one of my thrice-daily doses of glutamine, my burned-from-the-inside-out feeling got worse. I never had any mouth sores nor any neuropathy, which are common side effects of chemo. Glutamine has the texture of that same grit they use to polish your teeth when you go to the dentist, but very little taste. It doesn't stay in suspension very long, so it helps to down it fast from a tiny Dixie cup. My brother called it booger juice, but it really didn't bother me to use it. Its benefits were so noticeable.<br /><br />CoQ10 supports the soft tissues and protects heart health. High quality CoQ10 is not cheap. I had to avoid it and my vitamins the day before, the day of, and the day after a chemo infusion so as to not interfere with the cancer treatment. My heart used to be healthy before they gave me chemotherapy and I'd like to think it's still all right.<br /><br />Melatonin had kind of a heyday about 15 years ago or so as an insomnia fighter. It doesn't cause drowsiness. It seems to work by sitting on estrogen receptor sites and cuts down on estrogen in the body. Estrogen keeps women awake at night, and it fuels tumors.<br /><br />I also added DIM, another supplement that has a role in estrogen processing. It's not cheap to use it, either. Luckily, our health plan offers a discount on this particular supplement.<br /><br />My new regimen also included a low glycemic diet, which indicates no tropical fruit or white flour. No salads made of leaf lettuce — too dirty for a person with a compromised immune system. Add 8 oz of a processed tomato product every day — lycopene fights cancer. Eat 120 grams of protein daily — all kinds, all sources, including red meat twice a week.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQijGgVV5CkuLp1ZSiAZq2f53IsZE44hM7bkYSXmaDwge8RG8s1SnTUR3iI5XKthSwAyi1z_Um5eljmn1y3VKKV41dHKTz5t1YBqRYxBcMLWjZKaATE6ay9HEkd83lEPQpJUBh3nN4vf0R/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQijGgVV5CkuLp1ZSiAZq2f53IsZE44hM7bkYSXmaDwge8RG8s1SnTUR3iI5XKthSwAyi1z_Um5eljmn1y3VKKV41dHKTz5t1YBqRYxBcMLWjZKaATE6ay9HEkd83lEPQpJUBh3nN4vf0R/s200/images.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235189493180889826" border="0" /></a><br />This last one was much harder to do than you would think. For example, 8 oz of red meat only has about 64 grams of protein. You still have another 60 to go. Eat a pound of steak, then? Maybe not. Check the nutrition information on a food label some time and you can see how difficult this really is. I'm pretty sure I mostly did not ever get up to 120 grams of protein every day. I bet I got half of that. It's a pain in the neck to keep track of. I can only drink so many whey protein smoothies before I feel annoyed about it. A great protein source is that Fage Greek yogurt — 15 grams in a serving! The word is out about Fage. HEB was totally out of it when I went there the other day. But even so, you still have about 100 grams of protein to consume, somehow.<br /><br />I'm talking in past tense because, with the horrid chemo out of my life and that crisis now over, I feel pretty slacker-ish again. When will I ever learn? A fellow cancer patient recently admitted to me that she, too, is often AWOL from her supplements. How much better could she feel if she would just get on board and stay there? As you can see, there is a lot of self-reprimanding we do. We have to be model patients, after all. We have to do our cancer the right way. Everyone's looking. I'm supposed to still be on all of this stuff, all the way through radiation.<br /><br />I wistfully nibbled only a little salad when I was on chemo, dreaming of the day it was no longer off limits to me. I'm a little surprised that I'm not enjoying it now the way I thought I would. I nearly forget to buy lettuce when I shop now, having steered clear of it for six months. Organic leaf lettuce has gone up since I last bought it, I was kind of shocked. I'm also still skipping eating bananas, melon, and pineapple. After you eliminate something from your diet, it's harder to return to it than you think.<br /><br />My taste buds aren't wrecked anymore, with chemo over, and that metallic taste is gone. But I still feel like I'm not really experiencing food the same way I did before I began to be treated for cancer. My late therapist described the condition of depression as, "The salt is gone out of life." I still feel like the salt is gone out of eating. It holds so little pleasure, not in its anticipation, nor in its reality.<br /><br />Some of this could be attributable to our household's new, gluten-free regimen. But that is another story.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-43473492504388270412008-08-05T05:28:00.000-07:002008-08-05T05:38:00.294-07:00Yo-Yo Recovery<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRaah42kqNrN8IZZ_zKtE6EYVfPAEEwP70a2xqSNWknwS5QFueO5Lm1RLk71bpN1I0wak9SOzauXpMR_xFDQB_PX9z6y3o0383UoU59_0CN1QUR6H2wT52vYq-gLjY5fVrg2yelB4YT7A/s1600-h/hobhill07.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRaah42kqNrN8IZZ_zKtE6EYVfPAEEwP70a2xqSNWknwS5QFueO5Lm1RLk71bpN1I0wak9SOzauXpMR_xFDQB_PX9z6y3o0383UoU59_0CN1QUR6H2wT52vYq-gLjY5fVrg2yelB4YT7A/s200/hobhill07.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231011595347042098" border="0" /></a><br />By about noon yesterday I knew something was not right with me, but I couldn't quite believe it. I had had such good energy the week I was in San Fran, but not a lot of rest. So I thought I was just a little run down. But I went for labs yesterday and my white count is low. Waiting for the other labs today to find out if I'm low on iron or B12.<br /><br />What the hell?? I thought I was on the upswing. But I'm told that recovery is more of a yo-yo than a slow climb up Nob Hill (see right).Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-87459089397647696572008-08-03T14:40:00.000-07:002008-08-03T14:43:18.096-07:00A ReplyFrom a friend, in reply to my query:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">I think I would feel somewhat bemused and mostly cheered up. Having recently been in the position of uncovering and having to move my old journals I think I can say that I have recently found the same thing to be true. I thought I would be horrified at that girl and her emotional excesses, but I found she is still right there, and basically I am happy to have found out that I am still that girl. Or maybe I am finally learning to stop caring what other people think so much.</span>Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-89025357099704253362008-08-02T06:32:00.000-07:002008-08-02T07:32:18.390-07:00Walking On Thin IceEverybody knows this Yoko Ono song, right? Elvis Costello covered it many years ago but I cannot find that version on iTunes. I don't know the lyrics. Maybe it's not really about walking on thin ice.<br /><br />But that's what I'm thinking about as I contemplate my next move in my treatment. On July 10, I went to see Dr. Popular to discuss my scans. His office had phoned me and told me they were clear, but I thought, hey, this is worth more than a phone call. Let's talk. He tells us that the CT and the MRI did not show any evidence of residual cancer and the bone scan is clean. They can see my prior surgeries and my gall stone (yes, isn't that yucky? I have a gall stone), but that's it.<br /><br />Huh, I say. Okay. I guess I still go get surgery anyway. Yes, he says.<br /><br />The next day we go see Dr. Solemn, the surgeon. He needs a new nickname. He comes into the examining room and he's animated, excited, bouncing off the walls. This is great! he exclaims. Your MRI is normal, your CT is not suspicious, this is all as good as possible!<br /><br />Yes, but … what is YOUR deal? I'm thinking. He leaves the room so I can take my top off and my husband and I briefly confer over Solemn's new demeanor. "I guess he's just being upbeat but doesn't want to go, 'Hey! When are we doin' that mastectomy?!'" I offer, as I pull on that adorable capelet thingy. Still, we can't understand his behavior. I've got cancer, for Pete's sake.<br /><br />Solemn returns eventually (he's taking and making phone calls outside the room, he's a busy guy) and examines me and tells me he feels no masses in either of my breasts. That's also great. I get dressed again, and after a while he comes back in the room. He suggests I consult immediately with the radiation oncologist. He says there's no advantage or disadvantage to doing surgery after radiation. But I could have my lumpectomy (partial mastectomy) anytime and a plastic surgeon can clean up the tissue …<br /><br />Wait, we say. What? We thought we were in here to talk about my mastectomy and, well, we were gonna go all the way here and make it a bilateral (that's the term, NOT "double mastectomy") and be done. I have cancer, and I was told it was not good. I had a tumor that was over 8 cm in length, kind of a cigar shape, and I had a tiny bit of cancer in my lymph node. We talked about this in January when we first saw you, Solemn, and again in April. This is what we thought we were going to discuss today.<br /><br />Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis???<br /><br />Oh, you can still do that, he says. But a partial mastectomy is no better or worse than a total mastectomy. Solemn/Willis tells me my risk of local recurrence is low (4-6%) and a new recurrence in my other breast is also low. He tells me a bunch of other stuff that I stop listening to because I am stunned by this new information.<br /><br />Okay, I say, cautiously, What you're saying is, I have options. Yes! You're in the best shape you can be, he says. Does this happen to a lot of people? I ask. No, he says. And then tells me to see the radiation oncologist and consult a plastic surgeon and formulate a treatment. We stumble out of the office in a daze.<br /><br />The next week we meet the radiation oncologist. I need a clever nickname for him. He wears no dress shirt and tie, no jacket, no starched medical coat with his name embroidered on it. Just casual. It would be easy to mistake him for someone who just works there, not the doctor. He's kind of hilarious and quirky. He looked at my personal info, noted that I put down one or two alcoholic beverages a day as my consumption rate and winking, says, "Ah, good. You can't be an alcoholic if your doctor drinks more than you." Unlike Solemn/Willis, he prefers I get surgery first, then come to radiation. He thinks I will need 28 treatments of radiation to my lymph nodes and tumor bed. I will need 10 more treatments if, for some reason, I still do not get negative margins in my next surgery (that means: if they still find cancer cells in my excised tissue, even though I am supposed cancer-free).<br /><br />Thus, the overworked thin ice metaphor. Apologies to Yoko.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-68010476209240418012008-08-01T14:40:00.001-07:002008-08-01T14:50:07.587-07:00Lurkers, Awake!Okay, you lurkers, you interlopers. I'm going to ask a question, and you better answer! Either on the blog, or by email, or phone, or pen-and-parchment.<br /><br />How would it make you feel if you knew (and had written proof) that the things you think about — your job, your creative life, your family, your friends, your home, your health, your travel, your WHATEVER — basically don't change? That whatever you thought or said about any of those things years ago is the same thing you would think or say now? Would you be bemused, depressed, or cheered up? What would you do with this not-new information?<br /><br />Tell me, because it's important.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-67883521645512295812008-07-25T07:13:00.000-07:002008-07-25T07:30:43.372-07:00"You Don't Look Sick"This is meant as a compliment. I have learned to accept it as one. I know I thought Cancer Patients were supposed to be ashen grey, swathed in a pashmina, and coughing roughly into a bandanna. I've had some hyperpigmentation in my skin, but the very thought of being wrapped up in anything heavier than a Kleenex brings on a hot flash. Other than that, yeah, I don't look sick.<br /><br />I have begun to get compliments on my "haircut." My hair's light grey now, and coming in wavy. I look very punk rock. It looks bad ass. People who have known me from "before" are taken back (in a good way). Still I cannot resist telling them, "Yes, they give you this hairstyle free when you get breast cancer."<br /><br />This is what I told my beloved sewing teacher, Sandra Betzina, when we met again this week at the San Francisco Sewing Experience. Sandra is one of the loveliest people I know, ever. She is so generous, not just with her considerable sewing knowledge, but with herself. "You look great, kid!" she exclaimed. We were trying on her garments, ones that she has made (or her assistant has made) from her own Vogue patterns. It lets us get a feel for how the designs fit and whether we want to attempt them or not. Sandra has a new jean jacket pattern, one that's a lot less mamaw than other designs.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxJd-8B8KcB6dA9kQ-UTFSRLwaDcVWc_Y0CLlazFItyasOAfbCjsIHTyfCXIxOjhhuvVfXGfitDBuxbsRNqFQ3KZHKJd84pa4OX6-bdP72evNmMFFGVBeQIzMlq_QwS9sqZnekDcUiAMk6/s1600-h/V1036.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxJd-8B8KcB6dA9kQ-UTFSRLwaDcVWc_Y0CLlazFItyasOAfbCjsIHTyfCXIxOjhhuvVfXGfitDBuxbsRNqFQ3KZHKJd84pa4OX6-bdP72evNmMFFGVBeQIzMlq_QwS9sqZnekDcUiAMk6/s320/V1036.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226957888286946914" border="0" /></a>She had one in a stunning dark denim, and one in olive leather. That's right, leather. You can sew that on your home sewing machine. Well, I was loving the leather one, and made a lot of jokes about how I was gonna just keep it for myself (everyone does, everyone wants Sandra's garments for themselves, they are so beautiful).<br /><br />The next day she came in for class and said, "You know, I was thinking about you last night. You've had a hard year. Why don't you just take that jacket?"<br /><br />So when I'm rocking that jacket in November, you will know where it came from. Membership has its privileges.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-67322309298729075952008-07-22T07:13:00.000-07:002008-07-22T07:36:16.678-07:00Post Chemo Wrap UpMy last chemotherapy infusion was June 11, followed by a week of the worst health I'd had since I'd started treatment. My fatigue and ennui was overwhelming, it was very shocking. I'd come home after labs on my birthday, intending to reward myself by working on sewing, but instead I plopped down and watched the The Retro Network (<span style="font-style: italic;">Rockford Files</span>, thanks for asking).<br /><br />After more Neupogen shots, my condition improved dramatically and we took a Vacation From Cancer, an Alaskan cruise. I'd never been on a cruise ship before and that was fun. The pace on a cruise is verrrrry slow and that's what we all needed. Alaskan scenery is stunning. We wore warm clothes a lot. We have a little movie of it, if you want to see it.<br /><br />The week following that, I had to immediately return to The Job and get my scans — a CT, a bone scan, and a breast MRI. Here's a tip for you if you're getting a CT: if you tip your head back, back, and pour barium smoothie "shots" from a small Dixie cup down your throat, it's a lot easier to deal with (as opposed to trying to "drink" it). Also, my barium had gotten a little frosty, so it was a slushy texture — also made it easier to get down.<br /><br />An MRI is a funny deal. My mother-in-law always begs us to never let anyone put her in a MRI chamber, but with a breast MRI, you're face down and can't see anything anyway. So I close my eyes and just listen to the techno sounds of the machine. I swear it's true — someone out there has probably found a groove based on the sounds of an MRI.<br /><br />None of these things are painful. The worst part, including the chemo infusions, is forcing yourself to go to these places and have these things done to you. It's so strange. You are there under duress, and yet for all appearances, you are there voluntarily and happily submitting yourself to whatever is in store. It's actually your decision to be there. You can't know what this feels like until it happens to you.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4462003716077541423.post-33468212826870420342008-07-21T08:30:00.000-07:002008-07-21T08:32:17.680-07:00Where did she go?Long silence, yes?<br /><br />Lot to catch you all up on.<br /><br />For now, just know that I am in my favorite place — San Francisco — doing my favorite thing — sewing. I am in the company of new and old friends and I am very well.Roseana Autenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00870728109065192288noreply@blogger.com0