In Living Color

Journal entry from Thursday, April 15th (Day before last radiation treatment)

Raw Sienna – The color of the dead skin rolling off under my arm and under my breast. Since radiation is now concentrated only to a 4-inch oval, the peeling doesn’t sting as much. The “pain” was more of a twinging annoyance, partly because I still have very little feeling under my arm from the surgeries of late last summer.

Light Olive Green – The color of my half-dollar size bruise on my right chest, where the port used to be. It’s bordered on the top by a 1 ½ inch Light Pink incision scar. After about 10 days, still a bit sensitive to bear hugs.

Tumbleweed – The color of my post-chemo hair.

Burnt Sienna – The color of my Summer 2009 hair.

Cornflower – The color of the Florida sky I’m envisioning. We leave Monday the 19th and will be back Sunday the 25th.

Black and white – The color of the space shuttles that we hope to see. Discovery: scheduled to land April 18th; Atlantis: rolling out to the pad the same day. Only three more missions left.

Journal entry from Friday, April 16th (Day of last radiation treatment)

10:45 a.m. Breast Cancer Blonde – The true color of my hair in the sunlit rearview mirror, as I wait in the car to go in for my last radiation blast.

10:47 a.m. Breast Cancer Blonde – The color of my hair as I call my hair stylist to schedule a hair color appointment.

11:15 a.m. White – The color of the three radiation techs’ lab coats, with their arms wrapped around me as they wish me well.

Hospital gown blue – The color of my 33rd, and final, radiation “johnny” that I throw in the dirty laundry.

1:00 p.m. Level 7 ½ Gold – The color working on my hair.

Pink – The color of my fingernail beds. While having my hair done, I realize the white Taxol specks have just now grown completely out.

2:00 p.m. Breast Cancer Blonde is gone. Burnt Sienna is back.

Staying strong,

Linda

Little Miss Forgetful

After a long streak of reading Little Mr. Men books, I've been dubbed Little Miss Forgetful by Will. On Wednesday, I made lunches for both boys but only got them to the floor outside the office at school. Will, wise to my ways of weeks ago, found his. I discovered Liam’s when I got to school, just where I left it. He only takes his lunch a couple days so doesn’t know where to look for it if it isn’t in the fridge. Will took me on as if I had planted arsenic in his lunch: “Why did you put ham and butter on MY sandwich?” I didn’t. I made him a peanut butter and jelly – then put it in Liam’s bag.

And that’s the kind of week it’s been.

The port came out fine on Tuesday. I did take an Atavan. In the operating room, as the doctor did his thing, a nurse again established I was from Iowa, had milked cows by hand, have two sons adopted from Korea, and a husband from England. At first I thought, “Not again!” but I didn’t cry this time. One of the nurses, from Texas, had also milked cows. “I’m from Texas! That’s what we do there!” A nurse asked the doctor if he had, unsurprisingly, he had not. “You know,” I said as he maneuvered the stitches, “as long as you do the best you possibly can at your job today, it doesn’t matter to me if you have ever milked a cow!” I could hear him chuckle over the Irish music he had playing in the operating room.

They still use the orange stuff. I came home with one side of my chest orange complimented by the other side that is now the deepest red it will be, or so I hope since the last full blast of radiation was this morning. In the Crayola crayon spectrum, the shade is close to Brick Red. Not Red. Not Wild Strawberry. Not Violet Red. Yes, the boys and I have been coloring this week. Aunt Tina and crew sent a brand new box of 64 crayons to the boys for Easter. Wednesday afternoon after I picked Will up, perhaps knowing I needed coloring therapy, he said I could use his new crayons if I wanted to color with him. What an invitation! I love new crayons!

After getting the port out, well, I’m tired. Stressing over this procedure took a lot of energy. I am moving about as fast as a hot air balloon that’s lost all of its hot air. I’ve not been very productive, other than coloring. I know. That’s OK. I purposely took a day off yesterday, just to be still and to be by myself for a while. Didn’t look at or think about the to-do lists.

As for the immediate future: Taking the boys and friends to the Museum of Science in Boston this afternoon. Finishing taxes this weekend. And going to a good friend’s birthday party Sunday. Next week: the last five “boosts” of radiation, just to the ex-tumor site. One more week. Midnight Red, a shade richer than Brick Red, could be a new Crayola name.

Staying strong,

Linda

Every Ending is a New Beginning

I’m having my port removed next Tuesday, April 6th. I’ve put it off, held back by continuous reflecting on the experience and the day (the Warrior Princess Day) that it was put in. I could have had it out in February. March. Now it’s April. My nurse practitioner in the oncologist’s office encouraged me just to get it done. Stop dwelling on it. I told her the day I had it put in was one of the worst in this whole process. Let them know that, she said.

So I confirmed it Friday. I’ll have radiation at 7:45 a.m., about 10 minutes north of our house; then I have to be in Boston at 10 a.m., 30 minutes south of our house. Only a local is used to remove the port, so I can drive myself. After confirming the appointment, I asked to talk to a nurse. Debbie was very kind. She seemed to be able to understand my words through my broken voice, complimented with tears reminiscent of Warrior Princess Day. Good news: They don’t use the orange stuff any more. (Although I saw a woman sitting outside the infusion suite on Friday who had it all over her…) Debbie couldn’t believe that it had been used in October. Guess they were just finishing off the last bottle on me? She suggested they could give me an Atavan before the procedure if I was anxious about it. Atavan is the 21st century’s version of valium. I may take her up on that. In that case, I better have Bill with me. I certainly don’t want to be detained in the interventive radiology department. Again.

It’s spring. “What you see is the clear warm light of April. And it means we can begin a whole new year together, Toad. Think of it. We will skip through the meadows and run through the woods and swim in the river. In the evenings we will sit right here on this front porch and count the stars.” Ahhhh. Little robin red breasts are looking for worms, while Linda red breast is counting down the last few days of radiation. One more week left of the full dose. After that, the last five days I just get boosts: one quick 30 second burst focused on just the area where the tumor was. April 16th, done with radiation.

The beginning of a new story. We celebrate Easter today. The freshness of new possibilities, new starts. A heap of thankfulness. Regardless of what you celebrate this spring, I hope your spirits are stirred by all that lies ahead. Even if filled with challenges or sprinkled with unpleasant moments, “ahead” is a good thing to have.

Staying strong,

Linda