Still Polly

"It has pockets for the drain tubes," I told no less than 3 nurses. "You'll help me get into this thing, right? It pulls up over my hips, apparently." Pockets for the drain tubes! Imagine that! A camisole with pockets to organize those drain tubes. Now we're talking. Pockets. Genius! It is true that the camisole Bob picked up for me at Cancer Services had pockets with velcro tabs that could accommodate two drain tubes and bulbs on the affected side. I had done some research of course, and saw lots of pictures of such camis online. They were supposed to be soft, comfy, and could fit over the ace wrap that I'd have to wear every day until my follow up. I did my research. This is what they look like. Without the tubes and bulbs.  I think of myself as pretty realistic. Apparently, that is, until I get cancer. Then I live in a sort of wish-world where tubes and bulbs have zero mass and add no bulk to the sleek look of my mastectomy camisole. Instead, ...

"She has good days, and she has bad days." Bob has used this line frequently in the past few days. At first I felt like it was an oversimplification, and also a line that is used for someone with "health problems," you know, ongoing, lingering, "health problems,"not for me. But it's true. I've had good days. Yesterday was one. I slept well, woke up without pain, felt positive, made my way through the ADLs (activities of daily living) without much issue. Bob brought me communion. I was able to begin going 6 hours without pain meds, and only used an ice pack a few times. Drainage volume was less, all was right with the world.  The day before, not so much. Saturday. I opened one eye and knew something was horribly wrong. It was a migraine to beat all migraines. I got downstairs to take some pain pills and Ibuprofen, filled up the water jug and made it back to bed. I won't bore you with the details except to say it was classic -- mass...

I have been hugging a lot of people lately. Which is odd. Very crowded meeting rooms make me twitch. The chairs are often so close together that if every one is filled, I'll be touching the people on either side of me. I start by pushing my chair back out of the line, or make myself really, really small so I'm not touching anyone. I look for the nearest exit and wonder if they'll notice if I belly crawl for the door. You are all inside my bubble, I think. Get out of my bubble. Imagine how comfortable I am in crowded public spaces or airplanes. If you couldn't guess, I'm not really a hugger. I'm very awkward at it. Do I go around the neck or the waist? Side hug or full front? Sometimes it changes halfway in, then parts bump and it's all so embarrassing. The handshake-turned-hug is like a sneak attack on me. Shudder. After I found out I had cancer, the hugging started, slowly. Most what's-happening-now conversations ended in hugs. People I hadn...

I wasn't expecting "Calm Down TV." Once all the prep was done, all the vitals taken, all the questions asked, papers signed, and some shots administered (not nearly as bad as I was expecting), the nurse went to get Bob to sit with me until time. I pointed, "Look Bob, they have Calm Down TV." It was actually very nice scenes of nature, accompanied by soothing music. A field of flowers. A mountain vista. A gorgeous sunrise. A pond with a duck gently padding along. He said it just as I was thinking it: "Aww, a duck...getting eaten by a giant croc!" It wasn't Animal Planet, but just in case, we changed it to HGTV. I was expecting Dr. D to pop in and say something to us prior to the surgery. But I wasn't expecting her to talk about how they really worked to fit me in this quickly, knowing my tumor was growing and being concerned about it. We asked how she was doing, and if she had gotten a good night's sleep. Many people including Bob and ...

I can't get this Psalm refrain out of my head, so I'm sharing it with you. Also a hot tip: Adobe Spark is a fun way to create these little graphics. Check it out. (I received no compensation for that endorsement.) Talk to you very soon!

It's finally here. This is really happening. Today I get a mastectomy. I have started this post a dozen times. I thought I'd talk about what I did yesterday, what I've been doing this morning, and what I expect to be doing until time to be at the hospital. All that would be just to fill up a post. It doesn't amount to much in terms of how I'm dealing with it emotionally. It's all just busyness and pretty boring.  Instead I will share my Examen from this morning. It was about gratitude. Talking to God about what I'm grateful for. Words can not express my gratitude for my husband. He's a rock, my love, my friend, someone who really gets me. Then, for "everything else." Every person who will read this, I'm thankful for you. For my little dog. For my new home. For my friends. For my knack with decorating (God created creativity, after all). For my ability to write something that anyone would want to read. For my sisters-in-law that are...

It's not as depressing as it sounds. I got a tip from a friend who has had a mastectomy that I might want to get some PJs and tops that button up, since I won't be able to easily raise my arm over my head for a while. I have a ton of tee shirts, so those will be out, and a few button up tops but they're work clothes and not very soft or comfy. So I went cancer clothes shopping yesterday. I'm a little ashamed to admit that when I worked in Fort Wayne I used to shop nearly every day on my lunch hour. I was always on the hunt for a bargain, and I usually found them, so I had a ton of clothes. Too many clothes. I had more clothes in the hamper than some people own at all. When I got the job at Our Sunday Visitor in Huntington, I went through a bit of withdrawal. The shopping is very limited there -- Walmart, JC Penny, Big Lots and a few other stores. So little by little I broke myself of the clothes shopping habit. In fact, now when I go shopping for clothes I...

This morning while waiting for confession, I was praying the daily Examen. Today I was asking God to show me what grace I most need right now. I talked to him about what I'm facing in TWO DAYS. And then, in a moment so not like me, I shut up and listened. He said, "rest." Just rest.  Resting. Phooey. Ask Bob or most people who know me and they'll tell ya, I'm not the type. I rarely sit still, I'm always doing something -- laundry, housework, a project, decorating, you name it. When I'm out of things to do I come up with something. A nap? No way! I'll file my nails. I'll clean out this cabinet. The counters are a mess. These books are out of order. The dishes need put away. The garage floor needs swept. This stuff isn't going to do itself! So when God told me to rest, I was like, huhwha? You must be off a pew, Lord, this is a message for the woman behind me. Then, Jesus said, "I will give you rest." It was a direct message for ...

Random, disturbing thoughts. Chemo. "Oh good, my transformation to alien life form is nearly complete." (A line I LITERALLY said to my surgeon.) Will I wake up one morning with my eyelashes and eyebrows on my pillowcase? I envision them coming off in one piece, like false eyelashes and two little fake moustaches. I will need a strategy for windy days. Double stick tape? After the mastectomy. What if I bump into something and make a dent in the stuffing on the right side? Will it be like when your zipper's down and someone notices but can't tell you? They keep looking up and avoiding eye contact. I'll have to watch for that. The tumor. What if it was caused by underwire bras? Like remember the reports we heard ages ago about dimes causing cancer? Then what if I'm part of a study that results in banning underwires? You're welcome women-of-Earth. Will they let me keep it?  Maybe in a jar on the bookshelf. A little too Howard Hughes? What...

The "before" pic.  This may change tomorrow, but today, I'm calm. I spoke with the scheduling nurse, Marybeth. She had a gruff voice, but was very sweet. We went through some questions, and after them she told me, "You're easy." I said, "I'm the healthy one." At the end of the call I said, "Well, here we go, right Marybeth?" She sort of laughed but I think sounded sad when she said, "Yes, here you go." Details. No food after midnight Sunday, I can have clear liquids until 6 am Monday. Thanks be to God that means I can have black coffee from the time I get up until 6 am! I usually get up around 4:30 so I could down several cups! Then, nothing after that. The surgery is at 2:30 Monday the 22nd. I show up at 12:30 and then there's all the busyness leading up to surgery. It will take 2 1/2 - 3 hours, then 2 hours in recovery. Bob will have a lot of time to kill. Other stuff today. I talked to Cancer Services. Line...

"So, I've heard that some people on chemo don't lose their hair, is that right?" I asked. Dr. D shook her head, "When it's chemo for breast cancer, you will lose your hair." "All of it? Eyebrows, eyelashes, and the whole nine?" "Yes." Okay, so it's not the main thing, but it is A thing. For a while I'm going to look like Patrick Stewart, only without eyebrows and eyelashes. So I decided I needed to come up with a strategy that suits me (a self-conscious introvert, the worst).  The options.  First up: the cancer hat. This is my nickname for the pre-tied scarves designed just for breast cancer survivors. I think women wear them as a badge of courage. It says, "I'm a fighter and I want you to now it." I admire this a ton. Cancer hat pros: inexpensive, lots of colors to choose from. Polly cons: everyone who sees you knows you have cancer. Okay I'm already "that" person. I'm the one...

That isn't sarcasm, it's the utter truth. I'm thrilled to pieces to have breast cancer. Early morning in the oncologist office. More paperwork and despite my efforts to be at least neutral, I griped again, "Why do I have to keep telling you people the same things over and over!" I later had to apologize to the "cancer concierge" (yes, it's a thing) when she explained that Dr. N's group is not part of the Parkview system. "Ah! Now I get it!" So we visited with the cancer concierge (I actually just like saying that out loud), and I was basically calm and feeling hopeful (despite what my blood pressure later revealed, yikes!). Then the nurse came to get me. She called my name and I stood up and asked, "Does my family..." "YES, they come!" After so many positive experiences with caring healthcare workers, I finally ran into a crankpot. She is older, wears a waist-length salt-and-pepper braid, and looks like she cou...

So a friend of mine at work told me recently about her sister, who had two different kinds of strokes (is okay now), and her case was included in a textbook written by her doctor. Now that they can laugh about it, she says they think the sister ought to be doing book signings. I suggested that her inscription should be something like, "It could be worse." Ba dum dum. When my surgeon came in the room she said, "I know I haven't met you yet but I feel like I know you." "Oh?" "Yes, I've been talking to people about you and your case." Shudder. So trying to find my sense of humor I asked, "Am I going to make the textbook?" She chuckled, and to my disappointment she said probably not. That's how my first meeting with Dr. D. started. After the really brief exam, I went into a small consultation room where Bob and my mom-in-law were waiting. We asked questions, she did her best to answer. The elephant under the rug is: di...

They even call them "waiting rooms." You wait in the larger one until they take you to a smaller one, but either way you're waiting. I remember so many waiting rooms. When I was a kid and mom would take me to the clinic (which we nicknamed "the blood and bucket") and we finally made it to the small waiting room, she and I would open all the drawers and giggle hysterically. I confess that I have done this as an adult. Try not to judge. But there's waiting that is happening outside of those rooms, too. And I've been doing a lot of it since 7/9. Waiting for first mammogram results. Then waiting for the day for the ultrasound. Waiting for email responses from cancer support people. Waiting for the day of the MRI. Waiting for the appointment with the surgeon. Waiting for the PET scan (which is today).  But I think the next 24 hours of waiting will be the most difficult, because this appointment with the oncologist could be for all the marbles. I...

Sometimes a verse just hits me between the eyes. Today it was the second reading, Hebrews 12: 1-4. First this: "For the sake of the joy that lay before him he endured the cross..." And in the one-two punch, this part: "he endured such opposition from sinners, in order that you may not grow weary and lose heart." Weariness is coming with the territory the past few weeks. And losing heart seems pretty possible. I felt close to losing heart after a little scene that happened at the restaurant this morning after Mass. (We call it "second church" because nearly all the 7:30 am Mass attenders go to Nick's afterward.) A fellow parishioner came over to chat, and let me know she was praying for me. When we were going into a few details, I mentioned one thing the doctor said, and got the "yikes" look. Twice. And the concerned nod. After she went back to her table, Bob and I sat in stunned silence. But I re-educated myself about that parti...

Mastectomy. I'm having a mastectomy. Soon we'll be scheduling my mastectomy. I'm saying out loud more in the last two days, just to let the idea soak in. So I know in my past I have said, and really thought, why do I even have these things!? I was one of the first girls my age to develop breasts, and it was embarrassing. I was wearing a bra before a lot of my age mates, and being naturally self-conscious, it made me even more of a loaner. I think I was even teased about it. I remember my mom and my aunt telling me I was "so lucky" to have breasts and I turned red and almost cried when they went on to talk about their size and shape. EGAD. As an adult I did my best to just ignore them. Squish them flat for exercise. Try and find a bra that makes them at least manageable in more sheer tops or clingy tees. The joke with Bob on the golf course was, "do I go over? or do I go under? These things are not good for my golf swing!" Since I was not to be ...

It's weird enough walking around with this thing in me. As I've said before, I feel like I'm wearing it on the outside like a suit. A cancer suit.  Focusing on work helps, but even small things become stressful pretty quickly and I have to remember to not snap. These are the same people who are praying for me so they deserve kind treatment. Then there's the whole guilt thing. Then back to thinking: People. I have CANCER stop worrying me about this stuff, can't you see it!? Guilt. Repeat. You get it. Then someone pops up.  Cathy: "Have you gotten your first get well card yet?" Polly: "No, I've gotten a 'thinking of you' card but not get well." Cathy: "TA DAA!" Inside the card: The 1st!? The best!? The only!? Your FIRST get well card! Now that's how it is done. 

So those of you who read my story yesterday entitled "Biopsy" probably got confused about halfway through. There's a good reason for that: I mixed up a couple of days. THAT story was about the day I had my MRI, which was the one test I thought I could go by myself and handle. I did get through it, but it wasn't pretty. (The first story has been updated, including a picture of Riley for your viewing pleasure.) Mixing those days up of course made me wonder this morning if it was a sign of a brain tumor.  Anyway. The BIOPSY was a whole different story. That was August 1st. That was the pocket picture day. That was the day I knew I had cancer. Well, I wasn't officially notified until the 2nd, but still, I knew. Just the word biopsy. It's supposed to be "just" a shot to numb the area, and "just" a needle inserted to take out "just" a little tissue. JUST keep telling yourself that, Polly, I kept saying. So the BDC is a s...

I was standing in the stairwell at the office, I think. Or had I paced back to my desk? Actually, I was back at my desk now that I think of it, because I was taking notes as Dr. Powell, in his super-calm way was talking. He didn't use any of the usual words you normally hear when people talk about breast cancer. So I had to ask, "can you tell how serious or advanced it is?" He said it was "unusual." He explained that it was squamous cell carcinoma. (I think my note I spelled it squeesma. Now unfortunately it's a word I say a lot.) This, he said, may be a metastatic cancer. Very rare for squamous cell carcinomas to be primary in the breast.  Dr. Powell said he would not want to say anything about treatment, "I diagnose, I do not treat." So that was that! He put his assistant Mary on the phone (sweet, treasure she is, she's the daughter of a close friend at work), and she had already scheduled my appointment with the breast surgeon. ...

It started out fine, like most days.  I had coffee, did the daily readings, the daily examen, prayed, played the puzzle game with Riley. Just a normal morning. I even felt very human and grown up getting my things around to get ready to drive myself to the place for the thing that I only knew was going to be LOUD. By myself. I was very aware of the painful tumor, but trying to ignore it. I went out the garage door to throw my things in the car and let Riley out one last time before leaving. For whatever reason, the neighbor's two St. Bernards didn't like how close Riley was getting to the road, and they charged. They're both wearing invisible fence collars, so I watched the first one get to the boundary and stop short. Whew. That was close. I called Riley, and by the time I looked back to see if he was following me, both Bernards were in the front yard facing off with my little dog. The screaming started. This was happening. I was going to watch my dog die and then ...

Was, I mean. There it was on the screen, and the sweet tech, Hanna (love that it was a Biblical name), had a worried look. I stared at her while she was doing her job: breast ultrasound of my right breast. When I couldn't take it any longer, I asked, "It's pretty bad isn't it?" She nodded. She said something about vascular activity, and "We don't like to see that." I asked what that meant. "It's being fed." Hanna flipped the screen toward me. I said, "Those red and blue dots?" She nodded. She said more things but I was not really listening any more. I was pretty calm, and patting myself on the back for not screaming and overturning medical thingamabobs and running down the hall in the crappy, threadbare gown. Shouldn't I be doing that? She finally finished up, and said I could take a seat over there while she sent the scans to the BDC (Breast Diagnostic Center) for a radiologist to read. She said this could be a whil...