My Last Spring

 by Norma King

                This will be my last spring—to be bald, to be radiated, to be able to blame cancer and chemo for my bad memory, or for the abundance of Fatheads still driving on Missouri roads.

I count nine months—that’s long enough to produce a baby—since I started my cancer journey. I’ve chronicled some of my experiences and feelings in this place, boldly declaring I have breast cancer and  my lump was the size of a Skittle. (I used to say the size of an Advil—boor-ing.)

I watched as my hair fell out, complained about cardboard food, and endured sleeping on my back almost every night because I didn’t want to pop my port or invite lymphedema. My oncologist would say that I’m very imaginative. (What is a port? It’s a portacath implanted in the upper chest which connects directly into a vein which connects to the heart which allows the chemo drugs to be infused through the body quickly. And it’s about the size of a butterscotch candy gone sci-fi. )

So now it’s spring. What a great time to be released from the jowls of the monster cancer! And you know what’s weird? My Zodiac sign is Cancer. Nasty sense of humor, that Mr. Zodiac. It’s also known as the Crab. Why? Some say the Latin for crab is cancer; and others say that Greek Physician Galen thought some tumors looked like crabs. Whatever…I think the Zodiac for those of us born June 22-July 22 should be changed to something more positive—like Redbud or Cardinal or Chocolate.

Let’s talk about radiation.

Besides being a cancer-buster, so they tell me, radiation comes with tattoos.

I have five tattoos. Look at the period at the end of this sentence. That’s about the size of my tattoos. You’d figure as a reward for four months of chemo and seven weeks of radiation—not to mention my bald head—I could get a butterfly or smiley face.

But no, they just mark you with the dots, then when radiation time comes they line up the dots in the crosshairs of some green laser beams and zap you while you hold perfectly still and gaze at the Lucy and Snoopy Band-Aid above you on the linear accelerator machine.

 I needed 35 radiation treatments. The first five weeks were spent having invisible, buzzing photons shower down on me from above. Then I had a week of electrons zapping just my scar on the left breast. The final week was a reunion with photons. Here’s a description of the process which I sent my sister-in-law, Debbie:

Radiation is weird. I have to lay on this hard table, naked from the waist up (don’t like) and this gigantor machine moves around me—it’s not claustrophobic—and beams radiation into my left breast. There are usually 3-4 radiation therapists—all women—who assist, but of course, they all run out when it’s time to radiate me—and they leave me there. What does that tell you about the safety of radiation? The actual radiating is done from two different ‘fields’: 38 seconds on one, 40 seconds on the other. I’m in and out in 15 minutes. But I’m not liking all this killing-my-cells business.

I figured out later, that not only do the radiation therapists run out, they close an 18” thick steel  door behind them.

Although radiation is a solo event, the waiting area was not. The waiting area was actually the best part. I got to know other cancer patients and we bonded in our matching blue hospital gowns as we waited for our “turn” behind the steel door.

Cancer is a bad Zodiac handle, but it’s an equalizer among the special people who agree to suit up (or down, as the case may be) and fight. And I have no complaints about the radiation therapists, the radiologist or anyone else in the office. They were great.

Fortunately, I didn’t experience the bad ‘burn’ some radiation patients endure. And I’ve heard some good/bad true stories. My main side effects with radiation were fatigue and continued tingling in my fingers and toes. I count my blessings.

Ahead of me are another six months of Herceptin, an infusion for those of us who are HER2 positive. But that’s another story. Fortunately, Herceptin does not make me sick, nor make food taste like old baseball gloves.

It’s spring, I’ve got new friends, wonderful support from husband and others and I get to keep my tattoos!

Crazy Chemo Lady on Board

I know it’s a bad chemo day when I want to ram the semi in front of me because it’s in the way.

Really. This kind of attitude spills over to phone calls from idiots who don’t know I’m on the no-call list and so-called customer service that originates from the Himalayas.

It’s been 13 weeks since I showed up for my first chemotherapy cocktail. My husband took my photo as I lounged on a lovely wooden bench in the waiting room. I was smiling. Inside the small treatment room at the cancer center I ‘put up my dukes’ and had him take another shot. Oh my goodness, even John Wayne would have known to get out of the way while the getting was good.

Now four rounds of chemotherapy later; four times feeling like an alien had inhabited my body I’m a wiser woman. Was this how Superman felt when he was exposed to red Kryptonite? (It was GREEN Kryptonite that would kill him; RED Kryptonite made him sickly and came with a variety of weird side effects.)

I shouldn’t complain. But I do, and any amount of sympathy, accompanied with pizza is appreciated. I have to admit, though, I have it so much easier than some folks do on chemo. My main complaints besides periodically hating people who drive Corollas and Kenworths, are muscle aches, fatigue, tingling in my feet, and tastelessness.

I don’t mean I dress tacky and my furniture would look good in Hoarder’s Circle Magazine; I mean, chemo messes with the taste buds. Try metallic casserole or burned orange juice. Even the beloved chocolate tastes like something my friends and I made with mud and sprinkled with pine needles when we were youngsters.

But, this is not a column about bad chemo side effects which nobody wants to read.

So I’ll enlighten you on some basic fallout that comes with chemo, like my hair. My grandchildren are fascinated with their bald grandma. Cami grins mischievously when I pull off my hat-of-the-day at her request. Her sisters are more sophisticated and have told me, “You look better with the hat on.”

I have enough hats for a first grade class. It’s like Hermione (of Harry Potter fame) put the Geminio curse on them, they just keep multiplying thanks to good people like Mary from the bank, Walt in Utah, and my daughter who recognizes a good hat when she sees one.

A Canadian writer friend, Bonnie, asked me if I needed a toque. A toque? Sounded like something to burn off the light fuzz of hair trying to grow back on my scalp. I looked toque up and found U2 artist, The Edge, in a rockin’ knit cap.

So how does somebody get a name like The Edge? Would everyone please call me, The Write, or maybe You’re Right would be just as good. By the way, I found some revealing photos of The Edge online and I think he’s bald, too.

There is a good side-effect, though. It’s meeting cancer survivors who have refused to buckle to chemo’s Kryptonite : Like 75 year-old Ardith who never missed a day of work during her treatment except when she was hooked up to the chemo IV; and, Amy who taunted her cancer cells and refused to let negative influences enter her life. Both are now strong, active women with hair.

A piece of advice from Ardith Palier: “Maybe cancer happens for the best, maybe it happens to tell you you’re not invincible. It’s going to take more than that to lay this old dog down. You never know what’s going to happen to you, but God’s looking out for you.”

I like.

Let not one hair fall unnoticed…

Chemotherapy: Why Me?

My second visit to KU Cancer Center concluded with a trip to the Little Girl’s Room and an abrupt face-to-face with my future.
I was sure I had walked into the Little Boy’s Room when a tall, denim-clad fellow walked out of a stall. I did a double-take and then a triple-take. No fellow here, it was a woman without hair—a woman somewhere on the chemotherapy journey. And like one of those sci-fi movies—I had seen my future self.
After my lumpectomy six weeks ago I figured I had dodged the bullet. Chemotherapy need not apply. The margins of my invasive ductal carcinoma tumor were clear (medical slang for ‘we got it!’); as were the two lymph nodes the surgeon took. I wouldn’t need chemo, right?
Wrong. Within a few weeks the testimonies of two well-respected oncologists had convinced me I needed chemo. It was all about my hormone receptor status. Basically: the force was not with me.
So what to do? I’ve always leaned toward natural medicine. I’d heard “If the cancer doesn’t kill you the chemo will,” and other scary catch-phrases. And I’d believed them. But then I got breast cancer. It was real. Susan G. Komen, double mastectomies, nausea and bald women were real and I was joining the league.
So I had a second visit with the second oncologist. Tell me again why I need chemotherapy. And he did. My risk factors, my breast cancer, my chance for a reoccurrence: one in four. Not good enough odds for me. Chemo would give me 1 in about 10. That was better.
I’m in this life for the long haul. My fourteenth grandchild, born a few weeks after the surgery, my paranormal book still in the rewriting phase, my bedroom still a mess…all reasons to stay on earth a while longer.
Okay, I’ll have chemo.
If you’re going to have chemo, have some fun with it I was told. So how do you have fun with it? You buy hats. Fun hats, cute hats, pink hats, hats with witches and pumpkins. My surgeon’s office helped out with a few donated hats from some wonderful service organizations and the American Cancer Society offered a wig. Wow! I shouldn’t have to share my bald look with anyone except my husband whose secret identity, by the way, is Knight-in-shining armor.
To the arsenal I added colorful scarves, some great makeup and I even bought eyebrow/eyelash cream that is supposed to help me keep those delicate hairs (here’s hoping). And I bought three prescriptions of anti-nausea medications. Kinda forgot to budget for it all, but the Knight patiently indulges me.
Funny story from the grocery store: So last night I’m shopping for cat food, frozen dinners, soup and chicken. Karen, one of my favorite cashiers, asks me about my breast cancer. The conversation goes something like this:
Me: I start chemo Monday.
Karen: Are you ready?
Me: I’ve got eight hats.
Karen: Inside or outside?
Me: Both.
Karen: In Liberty you can only have three.
Me: Right. (roll eyes)
Karen: Yeah that’s the rule. (serious)
Me: What are you talking about?
Karen: Cats, you can only have three cats.
Me: I said hats, not cats.
Karen: Oh. (laughs)
I won’t even go into the Nanook of the North hat she tried to convince me to buy right then and there. Karen: “It will keep your head warm.” More laughs.
Hats, laughter, makeup, friends and the Knight, it all helps a lot.
Did I mention that my daughter gave me a great idea for a Halloween costume? It’s Jack Skellington from “Nightmare Before Christmas.” I don’t even need a wig.

Lumps and Lumpectomies

I knew I hated lumps clear back in the old days when Mom had a bad Cream of Wheat day in the kitchen.
Those lumps were easy to do away with, ignore, dump down the heat vent, or roll in brown sugar when all else failed.
But, fast forward 50 years: the lump showing up in my Mammogram would only be dispensed with by serious surgery.
I had two choices: lumpectomy or mastectomy. Of course I chose the lumpectomy. After all it was just a tiny little 1 centimeter lump, the size an Advil. Wasn’t it? Why do something as radical as a mastectomy? But the good surgeon assured me that some women actually choose the mastectomy. They have their reasons (and they are good) and I had mine; and I was told repeatedly at the doctor’s office and at the Breast Cancer Support Group that each woman needs to make her own choice. And I did, and I’m grateful that today’s medical world gave me that choice.
Years ago a woman with breast cancer was at the mercy of doctors who didn’t care much about the woman’s emotional state. I read of one woman who awoke from what she expected to be a minor surgery to find both breasts removed and huge ugly scars lining her chest cavity. The doctor’s somewhat callous response: be happy to be alive.
She was, but at such a price.
Today is a happy day for me. I’m walking, working, a few bruises and stitches and some serious purple dye hither and thither. Ice is good; Peanut M&Ms are good; letting the husband and son cook and clean and put on my socks is good.
It’s times like these we rediscover that our friends care. Thanks for dinner and calls and prayers, my friends.
And the grandchildren…
My oldest granddaughter saw me at church a few weeks ago and blurted out, “Grandma, our Dad told us you have breast cancer.” Right there in front of any passersby. So be it. When something as life-changing as breast cancer happens it’s time to lose the inhibitions. It is what it is.
I’m grateful to be alive. I’m grateful for modern medicine, caring doctors, sterile operating fields, anesthesia (boy am I grateful), warm blankets, gift shops with bracelets and candy bars, waking up to a nurse asking me what level my pain is at. And to make her happy I said 2. But I don’t think I was at anything.
So the messy basement, overgrown lawn, derelict tomato plants and so much of life’s clutter take a back seat to just being here and moving around and eating peanut M&Ms.
And did I mention grandchildren?
When I got home another granddaughter gave me a home-made card. This is what it said:
“Grandma,
You’re my favorite grandma.
I hope your breast cancer goes away.”
Amen.

Spiders and Frodo to Go

Spiders and Frodo to Go
As ugly as they are, spiders have power. Not just the gargantuan mass that threatens to destroy Frodo in “Return of the King,” or the disgusting dominance of one obese Jabba the Hut, who resembles a spider whose legs have been pulled off by an obnoxious boy. No, to the innocent male child spiders draw the imagination like the wailing sirens of the Morlock’s underground lair in “The Time Machine.”
When I was a child in rural Idaho we had a colony of Opiliones, or daddy-long-legs, living in our basement. Weekly their numbers grew with the immigration of spider cousins who liked the fertile dirt that nourished the famous Idaho potato. Now that I think about it, there must have been as many of the long-legged creatures in our basement as there were potatoes in the neighbor’s fields.
At the young age of six I was assigned a bedroom in the basement. One sister and older brother had bedrooms there, too. But my oldest sister somehow escaped the creepy basement and lived upstairs with three younger brothers. She must have been the favorite child, something I didn’t realize at the time.
My morning went something like this: wake up, jump up, run out of the room and go upstairs. Hope to never return.
My bedtime went something like this: trudge downstairs, lift all the blankets and look for spiders. Regret throwing PJs on the floor that morning. Say extra sincere prayers which included preservation requests regarding spiders. Climb in bed. When second oldest sister finally settles down in bedroom next door, get up and go in and ask to climb in bed with her. Sometimes worked.
During one of those occasions which I’d managed to needle my way into my sister’s bedroom we heard on the radio that Marilyn Monroe had died, and something about pills. We didn’t know what to do about this information other than use it as fodder for our pretend games. Sad, of course. Just like the spiders.
If I was traumatized by the appearance of spiders my sister’s experience would have been more like Ripley’s in “Alien.” I know, you don’t want to read this.
Well, Sister, whose name shall be kept confidential, woke up one night coughing and sputtering. It was a night I wasn’t in her bed. I would never say her prayers weren’t as sincere as mine. But, the truth of the matter is, one ugly, hairy, long-legged, didn’t-have-any-business-being-there spider ended up in her mouth.
Oh, the sadness the memory brings.
If I could just express this sorrow to my grandsons, I’m sure they would abandon their crazy fascination with the eight-legged mutants.
Sometimes children don’t listen. My son tells me that the average human swallows 26 spiders in a lifetime. I want to state unequivocally that I am not an average human and I swallow zero spiders in my lifetime. There is even a correspondent of some kind who reported the belief that the “average” human swallows a pound of spiders–that would be 20,000—in a lifetime.
Come on people. We don’t swallow spiders. We smash them.
Any belief otherwise is just an urban legend which was promoted by a book published in 1954. And that is final.
Sorry, Sister-who-shall-not-be-named, you were the token human who had to swallow a spider. Never again!

Have I Missed the Super Bowl Yet?

How am I to know when Super Bowl 2011 is?
It’s not like Christmas—every December 25. It’s not like my anniversary—October 25 (please send money). And it’s certainly NOT memorable for me.
I didn’t always feel this way about football. No, I take it back. I did. I was a teenager in a small Wyoming town. So small you wouldn’t have heard of it, unless you were from Kemmerer or Border or Sage. I grew up in the days that girls wore dresses to school and boys did ALL the sports. The girls’ options were cheerleading or the drill team—guess where that left me?
Football was the town’s entertainment in the fall. The only competition was three TV channels out of Salt Lake City which turned off at midnight with a flourish of patriotic music warning us to get to bed before Dad got up and found us lounging around, having been intellectually enlightened by Johnny Carson and his Tonight Show.
Every boy in the high school was on the football team. Well, I take that back, a couple of real scrawny brainy types served as water boys or kept stats or just went home and studied during the games.
We had a lush, green football field which took up more square feet than our downtown business district.
On snowy days, and there were plenty of ‘em in Wyoming, Gary Taylor cleaned off the football field with his tractor-mower-turned-plow, strategically placing the gigantic piles of snow at the ends of the field—there weren’t enough people in the hometown to warrant a good view from the end zones.
And I went to every game.
What on earth were those guys doing? Instead of bullying the scrawny brainy stat keepers this was their opportunity to bully each other. And the townsfolk cheered and the girls cheered and the Moms –always in dresses—cheered; and the Dad’s stuck out their chests; and Gary Taylor ran the chain thingy up and down the field with the assistance of some lucky devil, err—friend .
Where the ball was I do not know. I recognized it when it was on the ground before the ‘hut’ thing. Sometimes I saw it in the air and sometimes they caught it and sometimes they didn’t. But always there was a lot of smashing each other up, getting their white pants dirty, walking off the field looking like the Incredible Hulk (who must have been created by an inspired football player).
So why did I go? Maybe it was because my dad was the superintendent. Maybe it was because there was nothing else to do. Maybe it was because all the boys were there. That’s it.

This year, on that day when millions of people are gathered around the TV with their friends and favorite snacks, don’t pity me. I’m happy in my ignorance. And don’t worry, I have good memories from my youth, too, like when the Mets won the 1969 World Series. The universe does reward those who suffer.