A Penny from Heaven

At 8 a.m. on the Friday of my post-chemo appointment, I stepped out of the elevator in the Yawkey Building at MGH, and the gleam of a copper penny caught my eye. Out of habit I murmured, “Thanks, Grandma.” I usually hold her accountable for most pennies since they normally appear while shopping or in places that I know she would’ve loved to have seen. And looking over the rooftops of red brick buildings in Boston, with the gold dome of Beacon Hill in the center, this seemed like one of those places.

The early morning sun made the penny sparkle. I looked up and saw the sun bouncing off the dome of Beacon Hill, expecting to see a ray of gold spinning off the dome and landing on the penny. After scooping it up, that incredible shine made me think: That penny was from more than one angel. If my tribe of angels is with me, I’m thankful. They hold no hard feelings toward me for my declaration back in July: “I know they are waiting for me on the other side, but I have too much yet left to do here before I see them!”

That night at home, I emptied my pockets and found the penny. It’s dirty and dull, nothing like the shiny penny from early that morning. My heavenly tribe, those winged warriors danced that day. They fluttered above and around that penny, pumping their wings so hard that bits of gold light dripped down and transformed a dingy penny into a mighty brilliance. Touched by angelic grace. Warm and sweet. Twinged with pain.

Staying strong,

Linda

Never Say Never

I said I would never have tattoos: I have tattoos. Miniscule dots that no one else will notice. Five of them, marking me like a 3D grid for the laser light to line-up and make sure the radiation goes where it needs to starting next Monday morning, March 1st, at 7:30 a.m. On Thursday the 4th my daily appointments move to 11 a.m., every weekday for six weeks. I “set-up” well in the planning appointment. During our first meeting the doctor told me that a bit of my lung may have some scarring from radiation; however, after being set-up for radiation, he said there is a thin layer of tissue between the plane of radiation and my lung. My lung shouldn't be affected. A block will protect my heart from the radiation. I don’t know the details but trust the doctor to make that work. He’s the Harvard grad. I’m not.

My lifeboat of pill bottles is transforming. After a ceremonial Royal Flush, I’ve replaced the prescriptions with over-the-counter pure aloe and My Girl’s Radiation Cream. A little hefty at $25 a jar but said to be well worth the expense in treating sensitive skin after radiation. I’m getting a cotton bra for least amount of skin irritation during treatment.

I’m booking flights to Iowa then on to Florida for our family for spring break in April. I asked my radiation doctor to work it so I’m done by April 15th. He gave me the OK to travel, actually he said, “Of course, you can travel!” I have a list of what to avoid and how to protect the radiated area. Sun cream and clothing to protect against the sun. Aquaphor to protect against the chlorine in pools. Avoid massages in the radiated area.

If I lose weight, I may need to be re-tattooed. Decisions, decisions.

Aunt Charlotte, Mom’s sister and a breast cancer survivor, just emailed to let me know I’m now done with the most painful part of radiation treatments: the tattoos.

Staying strong,

Linda

Mouse Trauma

The morning of Paul and Monica’s arrival from England, I was in the basement doing laundry. Movement catches my eye. I see a healthy mouse skidding away from me on the black shiny tile, trying to round a corner. Fate: I was talking to Kay who said mice run around sticky traps but she’s heard peanut butter on the trap works well. She’s very calm on the other end. I’m not so much. I get out four sticky traps as we talk. They are recycled. I saw a mouse a few months ago, never caught him, so I had put the traps back in the box. We end our conversation and, shaking, I go get a big glob of peanut butter. I put a dollop on each trap then return to my laundry. Within five minutes, the mouse is sitting on the trap eating peanut butter. Seeing me, he tries to flee and only his foot is stuck. Apparently, most of the trap had dried up on previous duty.

I ran into the laundry room to find something to shove him in and decided the bucket needed a lid. And I needed gloves. And I wished Bill was home. Bill?!?! I mean Dad. I wish Dad was next door. Or Mom. Or my sister. Or Grandma Murphy and Hazel. Two 85-year-old women, one with one leg, trapping a mouse in a sticky trap. Hazel caught it in her apartment then called Grandma for help. Grandma would get the damn thing with the end of Hazel’s cane. Then the ladies ended up with the cane stuck in the sticky trap – Grandma had missed the mouse. Then they got to laughing… Years ago, Mom had gone out one night to milk cows. My sister Leslie and I spotted a mouse, set a spring trap, and while Mom was still in the barn, crap! Snap! I only remember me standing on a chair screaming in the middle of the kitchen. I’m guessing my sister took care of it. …Then there was the mouse that Dad squished when I was first Dancing with a Foreign City Slicker.

All this playing like an old film reel as I stand paralyzed in the laundry room. No gloves in the basement. I’m gonna have to push the trap into my bucket bare-handed. I go back to find the mouse with one foot stuck to the trap, dragging the trap with him, and escaping under a door to the dank closet where the sump pump lives. I’m screaming at the mouse, holding the far end of the trap, “Don’t go under there! I don’t have time for this! I’ve got to get to the grocery store! I have a doctor’s appointment!” Then pull, pull, pull. He freed himself, but it looks like some of his foot is still on the sticky trap. Crap! I moved the trap. Seeing it up close, no, it’s not mouse toes. It’s a peanut. I used chunky peanut butter. So now I know he’s behind this door, fully intact. I find a wine box in the laundry room, open up the flaps, put a trap in the box and slide it right up to the door. The whole time thinking that I have to get this thing out before our friends arrive in six hours. I have little hope as I head back to the laundry room to finish laundry. With not even one shirt folded, I hear rustling in the box. And I thought Roosters were dumb.

Shaking like mad, I close the flaps on the box, run to the basement door – holding the box as far as possible from my body. I toss the box into the backyard and sit down, trying to quiet the shaking and trying to convince myself I’d read that hypothermia was a relatively painless death.

After tossing the box out the basement door, I race out the kitchen door to get to my appointment with the radiation doctor on time. I’m too hot for the wig. I take my gingerbread hat. At MGH, I meet my nurse who is also breathless and sweating. She explained that she had to get to her daughter’s book fair before work and raced like a mad woman to meet me at 10 a.m. Sweating, I pull off my hat. Life. “Crazy isn’t it? I’ve been chasing a mouse for an hour.”

Three days later, I notice the Kendall Jackson wine box folded up in the garage. Bill and I hadn’t talked about the mouse. I didn’t want three English people thinking I was a heathen for ridding the mouse from our house inhumanely. Bill definitely would’ve said something if he’d found the mouse with the box. I went looking for the trap. Nowhere in the vicinity of the box-landing. Ahh, but it was upside down nearly under the fence – empty. No mouse parts on it. My bachelor mouse had escaped the Malcolm house and property intact.

From a mouseless house,

Linda

Chipmunk Cheeks and Eyebrows

I want one but not the other. My most recently posted photos alarm me, mostly because I think they may alarm you.

Starting chemo, I defied it to actually make me unable to eat. I was careful and gentle with the first four rounds, knowing their possible effect on my stomach. But the opposite happened after Day 7 of those first infusions: That’s when I was eating grilled meatloaf sandwiches and four egg omelets. My weight stayed in place. Even with a more than occasional childhood favorite of milk and Oreos. Oreos dunked in a tall glass of milk all at once and eaten with a spoon. Then Christmas came. And by then I had proven to chemo it wasn’t going to stop my love for food. It could sway me away from hot and spicy but not from most other.

Cooking and exploring recipes from other cultures had become a favorite hobby for Bill and me, starting when we first met 21 years ago. While living in Rockford, we belonged to a Cooking Light supper club in Chicago for five years. We cooked regularly with many friends, including a monthly night with Jim and Lynda. In the early 90’s Grandma came to visit us. Up early one morning and intrigued by my cookbook shelves, she started counting. “You have 150 cookbooks.” Hmm. I had never counted. When we travel, I don’t buy sweatshirts or t-shirts. I buy a cookbook. For many years, friends and relatives have given me special cookbooks. For my 30th birthday, I used my birthday money and bought eight new cookbooks. Inside each I wrote: “For my 30th birthday – from Grandma Murphy, Grandpa & Grandma Mills, and Mom & Dad.” When Julie visited last fall while Bill was traveling, she created another very special cookbook for me, gathering loose recipes from the cookbook shelves. It’s now a favorite, titled by Julie: “Every Loose Recipe in the Kitchen: Linda’s Fabulous Conglomeration of Culturally Authentic and Diverse Recipes, Rescued from Eminent Neglect due to Life’s Natural Order of Priorities.” The chapter titles get even better.

So for chemo to march in and say, “I’m going to take this away,” I felt challenged. I did not want to worship a porcelain goddess for four months. I did not want it to take away this part of my life. Admittedly, over the last six years, I’ve made more mac’n’cheese than paella, but cooking is still a part of me that I tend to protect, knowing I will get back to it. And there were evenings mid-chemo, after Day 7, that I celebrated by cooking. I kicked everyone out of the kitchen, cranked up Gloria Estefan, smashed garlic, chopped onions, and watched them dance together in olive oil. Breathing deeply and listening for the sizzle.

My eat-anything metabolism lasted through the first four treatments. Then my metabolism changed, but my eating habits remained the same through the last four treatments, through Christmas cookies and decadent desserts, through holiday cooking. Perhaps encouraged on by a few steroids, I was overjoyed with my ability to eat -- until my jeans were too tight rather than too loose.

So, what you see is not a puffiness entirely related to the medication itself. You are seeing a woman 20 pounds heavier than in October because she loves food, and yes probably found comfort in food after the metabolism fell. In some strange way, I was fighting “chemo” with food.

But this week I’m happily eating salads every night. Not just the odd one, wondering how much dirt I’m consuming, but enjoying those leaves knowing a little dirt will once again build my immunities. Last night rather than Oreos, I had a bowl of fruit: raspberries, blueberries and strawberries. Sweetness missed for a few months as I limited my fruit to the peel-ables: apples, pears and bananas.

My medical experts remind me that they are happy I’ve gained rather than lost weight over the last four months. So this year, like many past, I’m starting the New Year with a few extra pounds to shed.

Staying strong,

Linda

The Radiation Plan

With February break next week, the boys are off school and we have friends visiting from England.

Yesterday, I met with a MGH doctor who is at a satellite location about ten minutes from my house. Treatment would be the same with him as with the other local doctor I met with last fall. I'm leaning toward the MGH doctor so all of my treatment is on file with one organization. Plus, he said, "I would be happy to take care of you here" -- the same thing my chemo doc said in an email to me. Not to just treat me, but to take care of me. I need to allot about an hour a day, five days a week for six weeks, to the radiation appointments. Radiation will begin March 1st.

We are off to Vermont this weekend -- in search of snow but not sure we will find any even farther north.

7:00: the morning shift is starting... :)

Happy Valentine's Day to each of you!

Linda

Six Hours of Questions and Answers

Written at 2 a.m. Saturday, February 6th

Early morning in our house Friday, February 5th:

“Do I have any clean socks?” No.

“Is there a basket somewhere with clean whites?” No.

“Are there any clean towels?” Yes, the basket in the laundry room is clean. My laundry experiment: “Can I just do laundry on Fridays?” For two days in a row, I had dried off after my shower with single hand towels. If I buy more socks, more underwear, and a couple towels, I can do laundry just on Fridays. Except if someone has an accident in bed on a Friday night.

“Are we really out of bread?” Yes, even the supply that I depend on in the freezer is gone.

In the morning at MGH:

“Do you have a port?” Yes, but I’m done with chemo, so I want blood drawn from my arm. My port is closed.

“Can I really say I’m cancer-free now?” Yes, you were when you started chemo. Everything we are doing is to prevent it from coming back.

“Can I go anywhere and do anything?” Yes, your white blood cell count isn’t 100%, but it’s on its way up. If you get a fever at this point, your body can fight it. (Perfect timing: Will threw up two times – make that three – in the night. Polly Purell wouldn’t have dealt well with this.)

“When can I get this port removed?” As soon as you like.

“Will I have a full body scan every year?” No, there is no evidence to support the benefit of finding tiny breast cancer cells, say in your lung, or finding something after investigating symptoms six months later; research shows that the treatment and outcome would be the same. So there is no reason to subject your body to yearly radiation, nor your psyche to false negative findings. Remember this is a very theoretical discussion because everything you are doing significantly reduces the chances of recurrence. By the way, give your body time to get back to normal. You may look normal but it will take your body a while to recover. I tell my patients for every month of treatment – from surgery to the end of radiation – it takes a month for the body to recover. (Full recovery estimate: January 2011)

“Really? I feel great.” It may not take quite as long, but give yourself time. By the way, don’t be surprised if in a few days or a couple weeks you feel very emotional for no apparent reason. It could happen during the strangest times: you could start to cry watching a Superbowl commercial. Many people put blinders on and move through this physically. But you can’t trick the mind; it will catch up with you when it realizes what you have been through and what a significant step this is to have completed.

Still at MGH, waiting for an injection:

“Do you need anything else?” No, I don’t need this recliner over-looking the Charles. I’m done with chemo. I’m only here for an injection.

Late morning, talking on the phone with Marge, my friend of 30 years who has been reading my LHH posts and the comments:

“Do you know how lucky you are to have so many friends? But of course you know. Aren’t friends the best?” Yes……………………………… don’t make me cry right now ………………………………………. I’m out of bread; I’m parked outside the grocery store; I have to run in for a loaf so I can take Will a PBJ in a half hour for lunch.

Staying strong,

Linda

Roosters

Digging through some old journal entries and thinking about fowl, again, I recently asked my mom what useful purpose roosters served on the farm. She immediately started laughing, saying, “Linda, surely you know what roosters do!!!” That put both of us on the floor laughing. “Of course I do! But we never hatched our own chicks, so why did we have roosters around?”

I ask because the one I so vividly recall was the meanest damn bird. To leave the house and avoid attack, we kept a long-handled spade outside by the door to hold him off so we could make it to the truck, or if he was super aggressive, to knock him a bit silly. He terrified us kids. We would carefully open the door, peek out, and grope for the handle of the spade leaning against the side of the house. Often, hearing the door open would bring him running, full strut. An alpha male with no fear, even considering he was only a third the size of a kid. His head bobbed back and forth, and his pace never slowed when the spade was in sight. Brazen and bold, but dumb.

In the morning, when we walked down our long lane to wait for the bus, he would occasionally find us. Our screams would draw Mom out of the house, and she would act as a decoy and get him to chase her instead of us. I can only recall one time that he was of any benefit to me. After my sister and I had had a pretty good fight, she went outside and I went to our bedroom. I ran to the window when I heard her screams from outside. She had ventured into the barnyard without the spade and that rooster was hot on her trail! I distinctly remember thinking, “I win.” So why did we have that rooster? I had forgotten that we took him in when Mom’s cousin and her family moved away and could not take him with them. We were a rooster refuge. Mom nor I can remember what ever happened to him, but we both remember his mean streak.

I know another rooster story that took place well before any farm memories settled in my brain. My dad had a “pet” rooster with enormous spurs on the back of his legs, near his feet. When Grandma or Mom went into the chicken coop to pick up eggs, he often saw their visits as an opportunity for battle. He would jump on their backs and peck them, using those spurs to dig in. I can easily visualize the episode, complete with the sound bite of the cussing that ensued. Fed up one day after my grandma had been attacked, my mom told Grandma they had a little job to do. The rooster had chosen the wrong day for battle because Mom and Grandma had extra time on their hands.

It took Dad a while to realize the rooster was gone. When he finally asked about him, Mom delivered the one-liner: “You ate him for dinner a few days ago.” I hesitate to write this; it sounds so close yet so foreign! To hear this story without the background of living in a place so close to your meals, it sounds a little barbaric. That was probably over 35 years ago. We all laugh over it now, and Dad says he didn’t eat chicken for a month after that. And the reason this rooster was kept around? Dad and Grandpa liked to hear him crow. Can you guess who never picked up the eggs?

If Grandma were still alive, she and Mom would be able to co-teach an inspiring version of “Problem-solving” in today’s world. If chased by a rooster, you pick up a long-handled spade. If attacked by a rooster, you do what you need to do. Either way, deal with it and move on.

:)

Linda P.S. Mom, thanks for filling in the gaps of my memory for this one! Judy, thanks for the “material”! ;)

Where have I been? What happened to daily posts?

More often than not, I’m sleeping all night which has seriously affected my output of words! I miss that peaceful lull between 2 and 4 a.m., yet I’m happy to be heading toward normal.

I’m in the last Nadir period (low white blood cell count). With the exception of an annoying cough and sinus headache, I feel great. (Mom and Mary, I’m watching the cough and will go to the doctor if it doesn’t go away soon. My doctor said not to worry if I didn’t have a fever. No fever.)

Will thinks my hair is starting to grow. (I don’t think it is… he knows it will soon and is jumping the gun a little bit. :) I told him it may be a different color when it grows back. He wants it to be the same color as before, and I told him I could make it that way. He was puzzled. I explained chemo better than I explained the vanity behind coloring my hair.

Monday Bill left for a three-day trip to Vermont, after a very long Sunday night. I was coughing; Will had a sore throat and couldn’t get to sleep; Liam woke up at 1:30 a.m. screaming to go to the doctor. He’s been constipated on and off for a few weeks. Imagining the worst, I bundled him up and took him to the ER. The trip must have jarred him enough to make the pain go away. We pulled up by the hospital, and when I opened the door, he said, “Is this the hospital?” “Yes,” I replied. “Well… I’m not going in there!” We went in, and a very nice nurse met us. Liam looked 100% normal, and I looked like I was on chemo. She had to wonder which one of us was there for care. Liam immediately said, “No shots and NO tweezers!” He looked and sounded just fine, despite being doubled over in the kitchen 30 minutes earlier saying, “I need to go to the doctor. I need my Liam back!” After a conversation with the nurse, we drove home without seeing the doctor. There were definitely no symptoms of a bad bowel condition.

So... there is no shortage of material, just a shortage of early morning hours to cohesively gather words on paper.

Staying strong,

Linda