Cancer: Diagnosis Part II

Waiting is the worst. Then the results are the worst.  As warned, my MRI showed a lot of little marks.  Cysts here, cysts there, blebs all over the place. (I have no idea what a bleb is, but the pathology report says I have them.)  It noted the scoliosis in my lower spine which I have long known about and showed -- woot! -- minimal degenerative changes; it showed some old scarring in my right lung.  And then, because life wasn’t complicated enough, it showed two nodules in my lung, nodules where no nodules should be.

I completely freaked.  The nurse who should have reported the findings to me was away for the day, and the woman who I spoke to left me with the idea that these nodules (even after I cleared up my confusion that nodules weren't the same as nodes as in lymph nodes -- and what would they be doing in my lungs, anyway?  I was distressed and confused.), those nodules could be cancerous. 

               

“But it has nothing to do with the cancer in your breast.”

Oh, thanks, lady, thanks a lot.  Like it’s comforting knowing that my lung cancer isn't related to the cancer in my breast.  WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!  From there it didn't matter that she told me the scarring was nothing and the nodules were probably inflammation.  Nothing mattered except that lung cancer is very, very bad indeed.

 I knew better than to go trolling on the internet, but that didn't stop me.  I can be as much of an idiot as the next person, and I was.  After about half an hour, I realized that reading about how awful lung cancer is was not helpful, and I set off for quilting workshop.   Normal, yes, normal is what I needed, and what could be more normal, more apple pie, than quilting.  I lasted an hour.

When I returned home, my husband and my wonderful friend had researched the Cleveland Clinic and Web MD -- you know, decent, informed web sites -- and reported that there was a lower than 4% chance that I had lung cancer.   They read that something like 90% of stuff (I’m using the scientific term here) in the lungs showed up when people were imaged for something else, like I was.  To put it even more clearly, a lot of you are walking around with little medical things in your body that you should be glad you don’t know about.

The mean lady (or, more accurately, the clueless lady) from the doctor’s office (and she is the only bad experience I've had so far) said the surgeon wanted me to schedule a CT scan of my chest for a better look at those nodules.  Just, you know, to be sure.  My appointment was 48 hours later.  (See?  Dire medical issue = fast medical attention.)

But, hey, that left a whole 24 hours in between.  No need to be bored.  I had a consultation with my radiologist.

My radiologist, what can I tell you?  He has a big intellect and puppy dog eyes.  Who wouldn't love that combo?  To top it off, he likes gin and tonic, a thing perhaps not discussed in all radiological consults, but, hey, that’s the way I roll.  He reassured me that the size of the lung nodules made them almost certainly insignificant and promised me the short, 3 1/2 week course of radiation.  I was to line up a preparatory simulation three weeks post-surgery, and he’d see me then.

The rules for the CT scan were firm:  nothing to eat drink, chew or swallow from midnight the night before.  No gum, no meds, no nothin’.   I asked if the scan was going to be with contrast, explaining my vein issue.  The scheduler didn't know but, bless her, suggested I drink two glasses of water before going to bed which I did.  The next morning, the needle slid in like silk.

The technician warned me that the dye, as it infused, made patients to feel like they’d wet their pants.  What kind of weird side effect is that?

Since the CT scan is a three dimensional picture, you can lay on your back.  Your arms are placed just so, and into the machine you slide.  A female voice orders, “Breathe in.  Hold your breath.  Relax.”    And do you know what this proved to me?  Forget science fiction:  the robot revolution has already taken place, and the robots won.  You think you’d resist?  You would not; you do exactly as the robot says. 

Half way through the scan, I felt warm liquid seep down my urethra, and I would have guaranteed you, I WET MY PANTS!  I mean, it felt like I was laying there with warm, wet pants.  Did I move?  Did I protest?  I did not!  The robot was ordering me to breathe and hold, and in case I was tempted to resist, the female robot took a break only to be replaced by what psychologist probably determined was more a authoritative male robot voice.

“Breathe in.  Hold your breath.  Relax.”  The stakes are high, and you are not going to blow it by disobeying your Robot Overlord.   

The scan was over.  I had not, in fact, wet my pants.  The nodes were reported as inflammation, probably left from a bronchial infection (ah, that time I had walking pneumonia).  The test would be repeated in six months for safety and to ensure my aggravation factor did not drop below the requisite level. 

I called the surgeon and scheduled my surgery.

True Confessions

A friend told me she had a bad habit, and I replied, “Surely you have no bad habits.”

She answered sweetly with a gentle smile (because she is a sweet and gentle person), “I have exactly as many as you do.”

“Uh, oh.  You are in big trouble!”

Yes, I have a few bad habits.  Okay, I have many bad habits, but, really, I don’t want to make a comprehensive list.  How about if I confess to a couple?  

When I got my new car (as far as I’m concerned, cars remain “new” for eight to ten years), the back-up camera led to dizzy disorientation.  Once I adjusted, though, I discovered I like it.  Eyes on the screen, I shoot out of the garage zooming a delightful 16 feet.  It's fun!  (I always stop and look carefully before turning onto the adjoin pipe stem shared by four families.  I have a bad habit, but I don’t want to kill anyone.)   I’m waiting for a backwards-race, and then I’m so in.

I woke up at 4:00 A.M. the other morning.  4:00 A! M!  (This is not a bad habit, just bad luck.)  I spent the next three hours equally obsessively reading Beloved (although the nightmares it gave me were the reason I slept poorly) and obsessing planning a quilt (including digging out the colored pencils and graph paper).  Obsession over anything, or in my case, everything, is never a good habit, plus all that early-morning intensity used up my concentration quota for the day.  I didn't accomplish one of the things on the ever-expanding to-do list.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zip.  Instead I went to Costco (couldn’t find the ice cream because I was so tired), cruised through the mall (and later returned two items, wondering why I thought I should buy anything in a haze of exhaustion), and tried to pretend I was napping although I knew perfectly well I wasn't. 

I know it’s a bad habit to avoid doing the things that should get done, but, isn’t it amazing how much you can accomplish while avoiding those things?

At least that day I didn't propose to any young women.  This is the bad one, the really, really bad one.  I did not propose to a young woman that day, not once (and, no, it’s not what you think).  I have this bad habit of proposing marriage for my son.  It’s not that any of these women has met or will ever meet my son.  And it's not that my son isn’t perfectly capable of proposing to someone himself; I know that he is.  It's just that I meet these interesting and adorable young women.  One is an interior designer:   just think how gorgeous their home would look.  One is a ballerina:  lithe and long and lovely.  One is an intern applying for her residency in internal medicine:  I mean, a doctor for god’s sakes!  When I see them standing there all beautiful and smart and funny, out it comes, “Hey, would you like to marry my son?”  If he ever finds out, I am so dead. It’s not like mean to do it; the words just tumble out.  I have got to stop.  I have given myself a stern talking to, so we’ll just have to hope I’ve learned my lesson.  (BTW, just for the record, they laugh; they do not accept.) 

They say that confession is good for the soul but perhaps not so much for behavior.  In fact, if you smiled or laughed at any of this, you’ve encouraged me.  I’m blaming future sins on you.  OTH, I got the quilt planned and the yardage calculated.  I’m good to go.

In Search of the Blue Footed Booby

Tuesday morning, bright and early, we’re off.  The airport issue has been solved, the sequestion having inconvenienced those in power, so that’s we don't have to count on delays.  We fly through Panama -- sadly just another airport I’ll have been in without seeing the country -- into Quito, Ecuador on our way to the Amazon.

Oooh, the Amazon!  You may feel as some of my friends do (or, indeed, you may not)  that it's dangerous to be wandering around the jungle, swarmed by insects and wild animals.   Ah, no; we'll be under the watchful eye of a certified naturalist and staying in a comfortable lodge.  We were in the Peruvian Amazon in 2000, and the duplex cabins there were perfectly comfortable.  Granted, we had to walk down a boardwalk to the (extremely clean) pit toilets, but there were regular toilet seats, so my daughter and I were perfectly happy.  The Yarina lodge will assign us to private cabins with running water bathrooms.  There will be no hardship. 

I understand that the Yarina Lodge, like the previous one, keeps a baby Capybara for guests who miss their pussycats to pet.  You can keep your cooking lessons in Italy and in France; we’ll have one here on local cuisine.

After four days, we transfer back through Quito to the exotic Galapagos.  Even if my sausage toe is bothering me, how bad can life be aboard the pontoon ship cruising around the Galapagos Archipelago?  We’ll be on the lookout for giant turtles and giant albatross.  Sea lions may choose to swim with us.

We are ready.  We’ve had our yellow fever inoculations and updated tetanus shots.  We’ve packed our malarial pills, and Steve has his altitude meds. (I’m allergic to them, so I’m stuck with to drinking water and coca tea and using my inhaler.)   We’ve got our walking shoes and our water shoes, our kindles and our camera, our sunscreen and our bug repellent.  We’ve got our emergency antibiotics and pain killers.  We’ve got walking sticks and moleskin and binoculars.   Is there any room for clothes?  Who knows?  Who cares?

Tuesday morning bright and early, I’m off, off in search of the blue footed booby.

What Is the Nature of Your Emergency?

The flight from Philie to Halifax was calm and beautiful with the blue ocean outlining curves of green land.  We claimed our rental car at the airport and loaded our luggage, removed it and loaded it again. 
My brother-in-law slid behind the wheel with my sister took shotgun, and Steve and I sat in the back.  When you rent a car, there are always those first frantic moments while you locate all the buttons and amenities.  At this point, we (well, my brother-in-law) were having some trouble locating the controls to adjust the side mirrors.  My sister said, "What about these?" as she pointed to a row of icons on the rear-view mirror.  Just as my brother-in-law said, "Wait!  Don't touch th . . . " she poked at them.
"You have activated your On-Star, on-line emergency system," a computerized voice intoned.  "I am connecting you with help." 
"No!  No!" was accompanied by frantic jabbings. 

"Push that power icon!" I recommended, never allowing being in the back seat to prevent me from offering assistance.  She pushed at it. 

Just as we thought we had it powered down, a disembodied, female voice spoke through the air.  She sounded just like the commercials, too.  "What is the nature of your emergency?"
"There is no emergency!" my sister yelled in a panic. "We turned this on, and we're too stupid to figure out how to turn it off."
"I can help you with that," and the system shut off, just like that.
We found the mirror adjustment buttons.  Eventually my brother-in-law discovered how to turn off the tushie-warmer, and a few minutes later their GPS Lady (theirs is English, with a very cultured voice) found herself and began directing us to our hotel. 
The next morning we came out of the hotel and, dragging our suitcases, repeatedly clicked "unlock" in front of a silver Malibu to no avail.  Hmm, wronbg car.  We meandered all over the parking lot looking for where we'd parked the night before, and I thought, that On-Star lady didn't take care of our emergency.  We're still stupid. 

On the Road to Muncie - Part I

Before I begin today's blog, I want to say hi to my new Followers.  Welcome to the vagaries of my mind, and I hope you get a smile out of what you read. 

On Tuesday, we headed out to visit the Perfect Grandchildren. As we approached Cumberland, MD, there were signs warning that the right lane would merge ahead. I have this romantic idea of Cumberland in my head. Maybe it comes from a song where I think Cumberland Gap is mentioned although neither my husband nor I can think of the song. In my mind, it evokes images of mountains rising from beautiful meadows with the gap slicing between. It evokes pioneers and nights with the Milky Way spilling down the sky. It evokes simpler – albeit I doubt pioneer days were happier – times. I have always loved our drive through Cumberland because of that slicing gorge (if you go one way) or the beautiful drive (if you go through the town.)  
Now, though, I’ve experienced “Right Lane merges, and I am SO over it.

"Right lane merges in 1500 feet."  Everyone slows down and, politely, I must say, gets in line. Sure, a few people zip as far as they can in the right lane and then force their way in, but an astonishing majority wait patiently. Access to only one lane slows the drive through Cumberland considerably.

On the far side of Cumberland, a third lane appears on the right. Both the right lanes are blocked by red cones. We’re still driving. Slowly. Five slow miles further, we drive by a state trooper who is sitting in his squad car in the rightmost lane – bored out of him mind, I imagine – to ensure that no one dodges the cones and tries to speed ahead. You could, though. It would be perfectly safe. Nothing is going on there.
Steve asks, “Where are the workers? Why are the lanes closed off?”
I respond, “This project is shovel-ready.” We both bust a gut laughing. Then I realize, “You know, they didn’t say they were working on the highway. They just said the lanes were closed. And they are.”

A couple of  miles later, we do see a couple of guys talking, one sitting on some machine. Another mile and we see a man driving a machine with a wide brush roller in front cleaning the road’s shoulder. Another mile and a street cleaning machine is dumping a load of dirt into a truck. (I know, I know, I’ve never seen those street-cleaners do that either, but that’s what it was doing.)
It added 30 minutes to an 11-hour drive to our PERFECT GRANDCHILDREN, but I can attest that Rt. 68 through Cumberland is clean.

Submit to, Yikes, What?

Submit -- Makes me think of the dog whisperer teaching that the master’s job is to keep the dog in a state of calm submission. The dog will be happier that way and well behaved. The people around it will obviously be happier, although not necessarily well behaved. That seems right, that an animal be submissive to a human, doesn’t it?
Submit -- Makes me think of submitting my Jaguar Sees manuscript to agents and the rejections, oh, the rejections I got back. Some of them were simple form e-mails. Some were more difficult to interpret, like, your writing is really good; the characters are well-developed and the dialog believable; the plot moves well, but I don’t want to represent your book. What was I supposed to make of that? And what’s the good of submitting if people like it but still don’t want it?

Submit --  Makes me think of myself in whip, shiny black boots and my 25-year-old body, tapping shiny black boots and . . . hmmm, never mind.

Let’s face it, the word Submit is a little intimidating. It means you have to give something up, allow someone to dominate you, have control. Now explain to me why it is that what they chose to write to the top right of my Blog screen?

I remember a couple of weeks ago filling out a dialog box that would allow my readers (those are lovely words; let me write them again: “my readers”) to receive an e-mail notification when I blogged. Some of them (my readers, that is – see? I got it in again.) had requested such notification. I filled out the form and then, well, as far as I could tell, nothing.

Last week I noticed that word up on the right, Submit. I thought it a little strange. Where did it come from? What did it mean? What was I supposed to submit to? I took a deep breath and grew bold. I pointed and clicked.

Surprise! It was the result of the form I’d filled out. Readers can click on it and subscribe to receive a notification e-mail when I post. How simple. How easy. How confusing. Couldn’t it have read, “E-mail notification”? or “Sign up”? or anything less scary? I guess not.

So if you enjoy what you read here, or know me and like me, or would like to stroke my ego, just go to the top right of the screen here and click on Submit. I promise to keep the boots in the closet.

Pharaoh Chipmunhotep

I’ve been to the pyramids. Huge, massive things, each with the footprint of a New York city block. No matter how much beer the ancient Egyptians poured down the slaves’ throats, I can’t imagine how one pyramid was ever built, let alone multiples.

I’ve climbed down a laddder into one (just ahead of -- or below -- a woman in a full abaya.) And down. And down. There was something almost magical about the little room in the bottom in the deep dark lit by wavering torches in the still, dry air..
Because, as we know, Egypt is dry. While the mummies place in the pyramids were eviscerated and wrapped, the Egyptian desert is dry enough that, even untreated, bodily remains often naturally desiccate, leaving preserved, leathery skin wrapped around an assembled bone structure.

Virginia weather is the opposite of that.Virginia is humid. In the summer, it’s even more humid. However, it seems mummification conditions exist in our garage. No, really. About a year ago, while lifting a wastebasket  so I could sweep out the garage, I came across the dried out bodies of two – not one but TWO – chipmunks. I guess maybe they ran into the garage last winter during a snow storm and starved to death, poor things. It was pretty interesting, though. Their fur was a dull brown, the stripes faded into one dull brown. The bodies were flat, like sad, furry versions of Flat Stanley. At first I thought they were, I don’t know, some kind of cardboard cutout or strange, lost doll, but closer inspection (whoops! Not too close!) proved them to be naturally mummified chipmunks.

A couple of months ago, I was stumbling out to retrieve the morning newspaper. When I pushed the button to open the garage door, something plopped down from the guide rail, four inches from my face. I jumped back (you would, too, if huge, wild animal tried to jump on your head. It might be a Celery Root attacking!) Then thwump! and scurrying feet on the cement. A chipmunk (sure, it seemed little as it ran away) raced across the garage floor. It looked like it had avoided being run down by the heavy door along its track. Turns out, it didn’t.

When the contractors had all but finished with our kitchen make-over, I again swept the garage. (Man, I’ sounding like a really tidy, organized person. Trust me, these are the two times I swept the garage in the last two years.) I was pushing the new molding over to the wall and bent down to remove a piece of the old molding that was mixed in. Underneath that was a – you guessed it – pancake flat chipmunk mummy.
What’s up with this? Is my garage the current Temple of Chipenhotep, dead chimpmunk Pharaoh of small rodents? In the dark of night, when I can’t see, do the rodent residents of Oakton gather under my car for vigil and prayer? A thousand years from now, will their dirty, little rodent feet scuttle in and wonder (the chipmunks, not the feet) at the amazing structure that housed their dead?

What can I say? This is the kind of thing that occupies my mind.

The Beautiful Kitchen

You'd never recognize our kitchen now.  Well, that is, of course you would.  There was no room to change the blueprint, so the lay-out is exactly the same.  And the cabinets are the colored the same base stain.  But otherwise, you'd never recognize it.
The house is 30 years old, and the original cabinet doors, a rather attractive if soft knotty pine, had long since seen better days. They were gouged. They had lost whatever finish I put on when I sanded and restained them them 10 years ago. The door to the end cabinet, broken into two ragged pieces when we moved in, still looked pretty good from the Elmer’s Glue (I have a deep, abiding belief in the powers of Elmer’s Glue) and staples that I used to repair it when we moved in 20 year ago, but still . . . . I also loved our faux green granite laminate counter tops, but again . . . . The time had come.

 We chose new cabinets (with those lovely drawers and a corner door that allow you to actually access your cupboard space). The wooden floors stayed, of course.  A few pieces didn't make it in yet.  The vent grill, the leaded glass door to two cabinets (ones with the wrong pttern were sent), the wheels to the extra pantry drawer: these are all on order and coming soon. There’s bound to be a glitch or two in a job like this, and as snafus go, these are tiny ones that are easily endured.

The kitchen is now glorious. Well, it will be when those last final touches are complete. Meanwhile, I have to confess it's an enormous convenience to reach through the empty insets directly and directly take out my dishes. I wonder how many times I’ll bang my hands against the glass when the doors are finally installed. The cabinets are a medium cherry with a black wash (sounds awful but looks lovely). The granite – real this time – is called Typhoon Bordeaux. The background is white marble with gray and amber waved striations. It is so beautiful, it takes my breath away. Because we ran the new cabinets to the ceiling, we’ve added a lot of storage which translates into things being put away. This means there is more work space on the countertops, and better lighting with the under-cabinet lights. It is almost, almost perfect.
All that is required to make it completely perfect is to find someone to cook in it.

We Came, We Cooked, We Conquered

Look at this. 

Did you ever see anything so hideous? Scariest damn thing I ever saw. At first I thought an alien monster from outer space had attached itself to my husband in the grocery store. See the bulging body? See the mouthful of scary tentacles ready to pull you in and devour you in its enormous maw? I swear, if you held it up in front of small children, they would run screaming. The damage would last a lifetime.


My fears were (somewhat) allayed when Steve told me the bulging monstrosity was a celery root. But, wait -- what a great way to terrify the kiddies into good behavior. “Get into bed right now, or the Celery Root will get you!” “Eat your vegetables or the Celery Root will eat YOU!” Yikes.
Now, why, you may wonder, would someone pay good money for something like this? Is the taste appreciably different from mundane celery? (Lest the suspense kill you (heh,heh): taste: no; texture: yes.) We’re participating in a communal gourmet dinner, and after we julienne this thing and soak it and smother it in a mustard sauce a la Julia Child, it is going to form a (hopefully) delicious appetizer with the unsurprising name of Celery Root in Mustard Sauce.
It had better taste good because a  celery root is a horrific object to contemplate. (Hey, isn’t this where I send my photos to an art museum and become acclaimed for my unusual still lifes?) The thought of getting near this thing is daunting. I see great possibilities for empowerment in triumphing over the bulbous beast, but equally enormous ego-reduction should it get me instead. I’m headed in after it now, large kitchen knife in hand. *shivers* If you hear from me no more, you’ll know I died bravely, fighting the good fight.


(Monday morning: obviously I prevailed. The dinner was delightful; the celery root tasted exactly like mustard.)

                                                                           BOO!

A Strange Collection

I’ve collected feathers for a long time: plain gray feathers I’ve found in the yard from house wrens and more colorful ones, the from cardinals and blue jays. Sometimes I’ll find a stately black feather from one of the crows that protect our house and call hello to me in the mornings. Five or so years ago, when I parked at the mall, I saw a flock of molting geese on the berm. I was the only shopper who walked out and picked up the long, swooping feathers. (Can you imagine?  Everyone else passed the opportunity by.)  Hiking in western VA one lucky day, I found a wild turkey feather. I keep them in vases and cups around the house, subtle bouquets of un-dying flowers.


But, you know, feathers lead to the hard stuff, right?  Like a kid, I began to hide pretty stones in my pocket. They’d end up on window sills and chalices and old ashtrays. Even rinsed off, they soon lost their sparkle, and one year, although I still appreciated them and remembered why and where I picked each one up, I took a fit of sanity and tossed them into the woods, an offering to the dryads of the trees.

About twelve years ago, my friend found a squirrel’s tail just sitting around in the grass. How often do you see just a squirrel tail?  There wasn’t a dead squirrel in sight. (Perhaps like Beatrix Potter’s Squirrel Nutkin, it had thrown it at an invader. At least, wasn’t that the story?) The following year – and I couldn’t make this up if I tried – I found a squirrel's tale on the grass divider in the parking lot at the school where I taught. Again, no dead squirrel to be seen No dead squirrel, no blood anywhere – it was a mystery. I brought it home because it seemed like it shouldn’t be left just lying there, and after all, if Jan had one, shouldn’t I have one, too? I kept it on my bookcase for awhile, but unfortunately, Elaine took an avid interest in it, and I felt it best to throw it away. All that’s left is the tail. (Get it? Tail – tale? Ah, well, I amuse myself where I can.)

This week nature gave me the weirdest gift of all. First, you have to know that I live in very suburban suburbia. Yes, we have a strip of woods behind the house that’s behind us, and yes, the woods encircle our entire development. We have deer and foxes aplenty, raccoons and turtles, but we don’t have any serious wild life like coyotes or wild cats. And yet, and yet last Tuesday I stepped out of the neighbor’s, leaving from her side door of my next-door neighbor's house, through her garage, and right on the lot line, right next to her knock-out roses, was the jawbone of a deer. At least, I’m goin’ with the jawbone of a  deer.  I held it up next to my face (yes, I picked it up with the kleenex in my pocket), and honestly, it’s too big for a human jaw (and don’t think that thought didn’t cross my mind for a minute).  All the teeth are all flat, vegetarian teeth (and I have no idea what long-ago science lesson that knowledge arose from), so it has to be a deer, right?

It had been picked clean, (as clean as the bone we had to soak in a Clorox solution for my daughter’s high school biology class) perhaps by crows and turkey vultures? There were no other parts of the skeleton around, so the question becomes, how did it get there? As I said, we don’t have coyotes or wolves. All the dogs in the neighborhood are good, suburban dogs, restrained by fences, visible or invisible. Do foxes drag bones around? I have no idea. All I know is, I looked down, and there it was.

Did I bring it home? C’mon, I’m the person who brought home a squirrel’s tail. Of course, I brought it home. It’s out on the screened-in porch. Truthfully, it freaks out my husband, and he wouldn’t want it in the house, so the porch seems like a safe compromise. It’s half hiding under the leaves of a houseplant, and I’m wrestling with the off-again on-again urge to sneak it in and brush its teeth. Really, what is WRONG with me?