I have tried, many, many times, to write this post, but it has just been too difficult.   For the past nine months, I have sobbed and wailed every single day until I vomit.   Grief is wretched.

I am not going to sugarcoat anything, because Karen would never allow such a thing in her blog. 

Suffice it to say, it was an awful, traumatic experience for everyone who loved her.  And many people loved Karen.  She was gorgeous and brilliant and to me, perfect in every way. 

She never complained once, because she didn’t want to upset me or her mother.  Plus, that just wasn’t Karen’s style. She would always tell us that she felt fine, even when we could tell that she clearly did not.  At first, I thought that she was possibly in denial, but as it turned out, she knew exactly what was happening.

About a week before she passed away, our friends and neighbors– Ben and Doreen– came over to have, what turned out to be, their final visit with her.  I was letting Karen sleep and the three of us talked for a while in my living room.  At some point, Doreen asked me if she could go back into our bedroom and pray with Karen.

I had a baby monitor in the room, which I purchased so I could come running if she called.  When I heard Doreen’s voice on the monitor, I turned it off.  I didn’t want to eavesdrop. So Ben and I continued to talk and I let the ladies be.

Shortly after Karen passed away, I recalled that visit and I asked Doreen what– if anything– Karen had said that day.  After all, these were some of her last and final words, so I wanted to know everything.

As Karen lie there, sick as anyone could possibly be, she asked Doreen to watch out for me and to help me because she knew I was going to suffer.  She was extremely worried about me, when it was her that was facing her own death.  I realize that this is almost hard to believe, but only if you don’t know Karen.

When I heard this, it absolutely broke my heart.

I still can’t accept that she is gone.

I have not slept in our bed since she passed.  Her swimsuit is still hanging on our bathroom towel rod, where she last placed it to dry.  Everything is exactly as it was and I don’t know if I’ll ever have the heart to gather her things together.

Karen has many more posts that she saved in draft mode.  They are rough, and she intended on editing them first, but she obviously never got to it.  So I will continue her work and continue to post.  So please check back now and again.

That’s all for now. 

The song and artist in the video below was one of Karen’s favorites. It always managed to cheer her up, regardless of circumstance. Please give it a listen.

I live in Arizona, a hot desert of a state that borders Mexico.  There has been a lot of hysteria in the media lately about illegal immigrants making their way across the border and making a living (barely) doing day labor jobs in the United States.  They pick fruit, they clean toilets, they landscape yards and paint houses for a few dollars a day so that they can save money and help their family have a better life.  They are a humble and community oriented people.  They are also very religious and heart felt. 

I have never seen a homeless Mexican begging for money on the street (in the United States).  When they are broke, they hang out in front of Home Depot and try to find “daily labor.”  The Mexican people work, and work hard.  I think that a lot of people are afraid of the illegal aliens in our country because most illegals don’t speak English and we can’t figure out what they seem to be so happy about.  It’s a fear born out of ignorance.

Now, I know the other side of the argument, that there are drug dealers and gang members.  There are a lot of American drug dealers and gang members too.  The few that are depicted in the 10:00 evening news are not an accurate sample of the migrant workers who want to stay below the radar and just pick our fruit for us.

I know my readers are wondering why I am taking the time to write all of this.  It is because everyday I walk my dogs and see a group of non-English speaking landscapers when I pass through the park.  Each day I wave to them, and each day they smile and wave back at me. 

This morning one of them approached me.  In Spanish, he told me his name is Antonio.  Antonio is probably in his forties.  He had on a t-shirt with the landscaping company’s logo on it, but other than that his clothing was very tattered.  A few of his teeth were missing but he smiled widely at me and tried to communicate with me.  Between the small bit of English he knew and the even smaller bit of Spanish I knew, Antonio managed to tell me that he has seen me walk my dogs every day.  He noticed recently that I lost my hair and must be sick.  He told me he loved me and that he and the other landscapers pray for me every day.

Then, Antonio squeezed my hand and went back to work.  This kindness, I will never forget.

Well folks, I’m here to tell you:  It isn’t so bad.  If, God forbid, you are ever told that you need it– stay strong and remember it really isn’t like it used to be.

For example: Chemotherapy doesn’t always cause your hair to fall out.  There is a drug called Xeloda, which is a chemotherapy treatment used specifically for breast cancer and apparently you don’t lose your hair with that one.  Of course, I didn’t get that drug– I’m completely bald right now.  Oh well.

Also– and this is the big one– chemo makes you sick right?  Heck yes it does!  It’s terrible.  However, my doctors promised me that they would get my nausea under control and they did that.  Took about 3 days to figure out what worked (Emend), but once I had the right medication, I stopped vomiting and ate just as I always did.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to sell you on the stuff or anything.  It sucks.  But I really feel like I am getting better and so far, chemo is the only thing I’ve had.

My parents are buying their first home in over 25 years.  Since they are a little out of practice I am going to use my expertise in the field of lending money and dealing with purchase contracts so that I can shamelessly promote myself in my blog.  And, make sure that they are getting the best possible deal on their mortgage (naturally).

Michael and I own a branch of Arizona Wholesale Mortgage.  We have been with AZ Wholesale Mortgage since about 2002.  We are a very reputable company–we never bait and switch our clients–and we donate $200 to Breast Cancer Charities for every loan we close.  We are also proud members of The Better Business Bureau with a clean history of zero complaints.  If you are planning on buying or refinancing a home in AZ, be it through FHA, VA or conventional, please call me for a quote!  877-551-8188 x 1

The home itself is modest, but very cozy.  The seller, Marilyn, is moving to Florida and she was leaving the house furnished, so my parents won’t have to spend too much money to move in.  The master bedroom has a walk in closet and there are plantation shutters in the windows.  It even has a screened in patio in back. 

Personally, I fell right in love with the place.  Michael did, too.  It has very high ceilings that make the home seem larger and more grand than it really is.  I know that my parents will make improvements but I can already envision them living here.  I can tell my mother is thinking the same thing. 

My mom just looked around the place as if she were thinking how perfect it is.  It’s small enough for her to maintain and it’s also close enough to my house so that she can zip over to see me any time she wants.  Or, I can zip over to see her for that matter.  Oh, yeah.  I can tell she wants it.

Marilyn, the seller, was there as we were viewing the home.  She said that she had an investor from California who was interested in buying the home, but she indicated that she would rather sell it to us. 

This evening, my parents made an offer and it was accepted.  The close of escrow is in one month!

I knew that they had been thinking of buying a second home.  They had been looking at houses in the Carolina’s and Florida but hadn’t found anything in their price range.  When I suggested Arizona, my mother immediately said that she knew that she would not like the desert climate and that everything is “too brown”.  I knew she was wrong and I knew that Arizona would be perfect for them, but at that time, my mother said that she would never fly again and that the drive from Michigan was too long. 

Of course that all changed when her baby was diagnosed with cancer.

This morning I called one of the real estate agents that I work with and asked him to email me some properties for my parents to look at.  Now that my mother has seen Arizona she has expressed how much she likes it here.  The agent emailed me a list of homes and I showed them to my parents. 

My dad widdled the list down to 10 properties.  I made an appointment for my dad to go looking with the agent.  My mother chose to stay behind and have my dad do all the leg work.

A few hours later he returned with a grin on his face.  “I think I found something that you should take a look at,” he told my mother.

I couldn’t believe it!  My dad actually looked excited!  My mom was a little skeptical, but she agreed to take a look at the property the following evening.  I looked at the description of the house that my dad was interested in.  It looked so cute!  It was a 2 bedroom/2 bath home with 1.5 car garage.  The perfect size for a car and golf cart.  It was in a gated retirement community on a golf course about 6 miles from my house.  It was perfect. 

I’m pretty excited for my parents, but a bid has already been placed on the house.  The seller has not accepted it yet.  She said that she would wait to see if my parents wish to bid on it before she makes her decision. 

On the way to chemo he regaled us with tales of his youth:  How he rode off straddling the family dog like a horse when he was four years old.  He was found over a mile away from his house.  How he liked to hide in small tight places and ended up getting stuck in the drainage pipe underneath the street.  The city had to dig him out by tearing up the entire cul de sac. 

After each story he would fondly remember his mother’s inability to scold him.  Instead, she would say things like, “I know you don’t know understand money Jeff.  But, you just cost the city of Troy $17,000.”

We arrived at the hospital and I went to the OPIV room to have blood drawn from my picc line.  Jeff and my mother came along with me.  While we were walking down the hall Jeff asked if there were any hot nurses that I could hook him up with.  I rolled my eyes.

After my blood was drawn, we took the elevator to the first floor and headed for the cafeteria.  The three of us carryed our trays filled with food and sat down at a table.  My mom asked him to tell more stories.  She also asked him questions about his mother.  For the first time, Jeff began to open up about his parents.  He talked about how hard it was for him to watch his mother’s health fail.  He talked about his father and the depression that he fell in to. 

I was shocked.  I had never heard Jeff speak about these things.  I could tell that they still made him sad.  My mother sensed this, too and gave him a hug.

Soon, it was time for me to get my chemo.  We walked back to the elevators and rode to the fourth floor.  We walked to the OPIV room and I chose a chair to sit in.  The nurse hooked the IV to my picc line catheter and the premeds started to drip in my vein. 

I told Jeff that I would be asleep soon; I was already beginning to feel the affects of the Benedryl in the premeds.  He sat with me for a while and I started to doze. 

When I woke two hours later, my mother was sitting with me but Jeff was gone.  “He went for a walk,” my mother said, “an hour and a half ago.” 

I smiled.  Jeff is too antsy and hyper to just sit in a chair.  No doubt he went hiking in the desert fields around the hospital.  Or was cruising the hallways looking for a nurse to hit on.

He came back about 20 minutes later just in time.  My chemo was over and we were ready to go.  “So….what did you think?”  I asked Jeff.

“I’m glad I came,” he said.

Anyway, Michael has a friend named Jeff.  Of all of Michael’s crazy motley crew of friends, Jeff stands out the most.  This isn’t because he’s particularly unique in looks or stature (although he does look an awful lot like Ross from “Friends”).  What makes Jeff stand out is his insane personality and his risk taking behavior.   He also always manages to convince my husband to follow along, God knows why.  The picture I posted to the left was taken by Michael when Jeff convinced him to climb a small mountain with zero safety equipment.  It was a spur-of-the-moment type thing; they were driving and Jeff made Michael pull over so they could climb.  My husband almost died that day, but that is another story altogether.  I forgave Jeff.  I’m not a real worrier anyway.

If you dare Jeff to do something, he will do it; no questions asked.  Someone once dared him to jump through a raging bonfire.  He immediately stripped down to his underwear, poured a beer over his head, got a running start and jumped through the fire; dislocating his shoulder in the process. 

Jeff is legendary, almost supernatural.  One of my favorite stories is that when he was a kid, his eyesight was poor and he had to wear glasses that were so thick they were like coke bottles.  He was very spastic and nerdy-looking.  He was one of those kids that bullies liked to target because he was little and he always had spit in the corners of his mouth. 

But the bullies learned early on not to screw around with Jeff.  This is because Jeff has Super Human Strength.  If someone tried to fight with Jeff or steal his lunch money, he would immediately pound them into the ground and make them sorry that they even tried to touch him. 

His strength isn’t the only thing that’s Super Human about him.  One day when he was still young, he took off his glasses and threw them in the garbage.  He declared that he didn’t need them anymore and to this day has perfect vision.   Nobody can explain it, not even Jeff.  My husband is absolutely mystified.

If all that weren’t enough. he can also climb a wall like Spider-Man and hang on to the most shallow crevice with just the tips of his fingers.  (He climbs trees professionally.)

Jeff has entire lifetime of crazy situations.  One time while he was in high school, he got angry with somebody on the road and purposefully rammed his mother’s station wagon into their parked car.  He sped away and hid his mother’s car in the garage.  When the police came around later that day, his mother stood in the doorway and wouldn’t let the police in or open the garage.  She gave her son an alibi and said that he was with her the whole day.

Jeff was always very close with his mother.  From what I’ve heard, she was an incredibly loving and patient woman (she would have to be with a son like Jeff).  Unfortunately, when Jeff was in his early twenties, she was diagnosed with lung cancer.  They tried to treat it, but she was too far gone.  Jeff’s father couldn’t handle that his wife was dying.  He fell into a deep depression and didn’t get out of bed for over seven years.   I imagine that Michael would do the same thing…

So, when his mother was dying, Jeff moved home and took care of her.  He had to change her clothes and bedding and administer her morphine.  To this day, he won’t really talk about his mother’s passing.  It is still too sad for him. 

Jeff flew into Arizona a few days ago and he wants to go to chemo with me tomorrow. 

This really concerns me.  I told him that it’s really depressing and it takes about five hours (Jeff has a hard time sitting still) but he said he really wants to go.  I guess he thinks that it will be cathartic for him to sit with me while I get my infusion.  Perhaps if I show him that I’m beating cancer he will be able to open up and let go of some of his feelings about his mother.

I really hope I can help him.

I take that back.  Once when I was 22 I was driving home at 3:30 am from my job as a bartender.  It had been the busiest weekend of the year for bars and restaurants (Thanksgiving Weekend) and I had worked three double shifts in a row.  I hadn’t slept more than 4 hours per night the last three nights.  I was exhausted.

Anyway, while driving home I kept hallucinating out of the corner of my left eye that Ghandi was running along side my truck.  His white robes were flowing behind him and he was barefoot.  As I cruised along at 45 mph, the only thing that I could think was, “Damn!  Ghandi can run!”  I shook my head and looked over and he was gone.  It then dawned on me that Ghandi was not a faster-than-a-speeding-bullet-superhero guiding me home.  In fact, he was quite dead.  And, for those skeptics out there:  No I was not drinking and I’ve never done drugs.  It just so happens that when I’m extremely tired, my mind hallucinates great historic figures of peace with super-human abilities.

That is until I started chemo.   With chemo I feel like I’m taking a trip in one of Hunter S. Thompson’s novels.  Sometimes I’ll think I’m seeing bugs crawling in my peripheral vision.  Sometimes I’ll see some sort of movement from an object that hasn’t moved.  It’s so strange. 

It has really effected my memory, as well.  I just finished the book “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornby and I honestly can’t tell you anything about it.  I know that it’s about a guy who owns a record store in London, but I’ve completely forgotten the main plot and characters.  This is dreadful.

I just hope that these mind tricks subside once I’m done with chemo.

Dr. N made an appointment for me with one of the social workers at Mayo.  I went to the appointment with my mother, which I usually don’t like to do because talking about my cancer makes her upset and cry.  She came in anyway, and sat quietly with a Kleenex in her hand while I spoke with a woman I’ll call Diane.

Diane first gave me some information on nutrition and took a basic financial statement to see if I would be eligible for some sort of financial aid.  She asked me if I needed any information on support groups; I told her I didn’t.  I felt strong and positive that I was going to beat the cancer. 

She looked at me a little sideways.  She asked, “Do you know what your diagnoses is?” 

I said, “Yes.  I’ve discussed it all with Dr. N.”

Diane:  “What did Dr. N tell you?”

Me:  “He said that I have Stage IV Breast Cancer and that I have a three in a thousand chance to be cured.”

Diane:  “And, what if you are not one of the three?”

Me:  “Huh?”

Diane:  “What if you are not cured?  Are you emotionally prepared for this?”

I was genuinely confused when she asked me this.  The thought of not being cured had never occured to me.  I have been from the very beginning completely sold on the idea that I am going to beat cancer.  I don’t know when it’s going to happen, I don’t know how it’s going to happen.  I just know it.  I think it’s very dangerous for her to try to plant a seed in my mind to the contrary. 

I know what she’s trying to do.  She’s trying to prepare me for what, statistically, is my probable outcome.  But, she doesn’t know me.  I AM NOT A STATISTIC!!  I have blocked all of that negative shit out of my mind. 

My mother sobbed.  This made me mad.

“Look Diane.  I’m going to be one of the three and that’s it.  I think we’re ready to leave.”  I stood up and helped my mother to her feet.

“Karen, I have some information on meditation if you’d like….”

“I already know how to meditate and I do it every day.”  I snapped at her a little strongly, I know.  But I was pissed and I just wanted to get out of her office.

I helped my mom to the car.  She was trying not to cry but I could tell that this meeting had unnerved her.  We talked about it on the way home and we both ended up getting angry about the whole thing.  By the time we arrived home we had concluded that Diane had no idea what she was talking about and that I was going to go on as planned.  I was going to be one of the three in a thousand.  I am going to beat cancer.

She began shooting needles in me from the top of my head down to my feet.  Again, when she placed a needle in my lower abdomen she asked, “Do you feel this in your vagina?”  (What the hell is her weird obsession with my vagina?) “Yes, yes I feel it down there.” 

“In your vagina?”  She asked again.

“Yes!  I feel it in my vagina!”  What did I have to do, announce it to the world?

She finally finished sticking me with needles and left me in the room with quiet music.  At length, she came back in and removed the needles.  I felt very relaxed and yet felt more energized.  This stuff really works! 

On the way home, I called Aunt Denise and Uncle Pete.  Uncle Pete, a very respected surgeon, answered the phone.  I told him about my experience with Dr. C and her obsession with asking me about my vagina.  He laughed and said that there is a nerve in that area called the Pubic Nerve and she was probably making sure that she was hitting it with the needle.

Thank God, there was an explanation.  I was beginning to feel a little weirded out.

But, nothing can keep me from going to one of my favorite stores, Target.  I spend hours browsing through their novelty t-shirts, their scented candles, the endless supply of CD’s and DVD’s for sale….you know, all the worthless crap that you buy that ends up cluttering your home.  I’ll go to Target with the intention of buying one bottle of fabric softener, and one hour later leave $150 poorer while hauling 10 bags of where-am-I-going-to-hide-this-from-my-husband contraband.

Today, I went to Target to buy a greeting card and some dish soap.  As always, my first stop is at the “Dollar Store” section where everything is (you guessed it) a dollar.  Or, as I like to call it, Romper Room.  This is the only place in the whole store where mothers can drop off their kids and say, “Pick anything you want in these 2 aisles.”  The younger kids open their eyes in wonder and shop.  The older kids roll their eyes and pout.

I was browsing through the section, when I started to have the Mother of all Hot Flashes.  This one came on so quickly that it took my breath away.  I actually started panting.  The sweat was rolling down my face, so I took off my hat and started fanning myself.  It was then that I noticed a ten year old girl watching me.  She was locked in a stare that looked like it was full of wonder.  That is, until her jaw dropped as she watched me remove my hat.  She actually recoiled at how crazy I looked:  bald, no eyebrows, no eye lashes, catheter in my arm and sweating.  I tried to smile at her, but she bolted from the aisle and ran to her mother.

I felt bad that I made her feel uncomfortable, so I moved away and went to the book section of the store.  I thought I was safe until a five-year-old boy ran by, laughing.  He took one look at me, stopped and his face fell to the floor.  You would have thought that I had told him there was no such thing as Santa Claus.

I’m beginning to feel like I’m a ghost that no one can see except children.  The adults around me avert their eyes and pretend they don’t see me, while their kid’s eyes widen in horror at the crazy sweaty lady.

Not that I can blame anyone.  I haven’t been able to look at myself in the mirror in months.

For the first time, ever, I left Target without buying anything.

Upon hearing this, I dropped to my knees and wept.

Nobody is more surprised about this than I am.  Thankfully, there was nobody around to witness my breakdown.  It was embarrassing.  I actually sobbed.  I don’t really even know why!  I have not been following Lance Armstrong’s career or even this current Tour de France.  I wasn’t emotionally invested in all things Lance.  I knew about his story, of course.  His book, It’s Not About The Bike, is required reading if you are a cancer patient so I was all too familiar with his fight with cancer. 

But, to actually hear about a SURVIVOR overcoming UNBELIEVABLE odds and beating cancer THEN coming back and winning, not one but SEVEN Tours de France…  I think my heart broke with pride for a fellow cancer patient. 

And right at that moment, Lance Armstrong became my hero.

Michael came to my rescue.  Dr. N had prescribed Vicodin for my pain.  Michael ran to the kitchen like a superhero and brought me a glass of water and two pills.  I swallowed them and settled back to wait for them to take affect. 

I must have dozed off because I woke a while later feeling Great!  The vicoden had taken the pain away and made it so that I was able to bounce out of bed and get some work done.  I’m so grateful to have a remedy for debilitating pain.

I had told Dr. N about the pain that I had experienced a day and half after my last round.  He prescribed pain medication to help with the bone pain. 

I just hope it works.

Dr. N even noticed.  Today I had an appointment with him.  While my parents and I listened, Dr. N made comments about how well my blood counts looked.  He looked over the questionaire that I had filled out before our meeting and noted that, aside from the nasty hot flashes and after-chemo-pain, I have been coping very well with my treatment. 

He then paused and took a step back to get a good look at me, like an artist admiring his painting.  He turned to my parents and told them with pride, “Karen is a fighter.  She’s just like Hillary Swank in that movie ‘Million Dollar Baby.’”

I could tell Dr. N hadn’t seen the movie, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Hillary Swank’s character spends the last third of the movie trying to kill herself after becoming a quadrapalegic from fighting.  This is because I knew what Dr. N was saying.  I know what he meant.  He was talking about the way Hillary Swank’s character was before the accident. 

With cancer, you have to be a fighter.  In the first part of the movie, Hillary Swank gives everything she has–mind, body and soul–to be a prize fighter.  There is no other way for her.  She stops at nothing.  There is no telling her “no” because she doesn’t accept any “no’s”. 

I have to be this way.  I cannot be accepting when cancer tells me “no”.  Each chemo is another round in the ring with cancer.  Each scan is a sparring match.  I get weary; sometimes I get knocked down.  But, I always get my tired, puffy, bruised body back up and fight some more. 

Muhammad Ali–The Greatest– once said, “Champions are not made in gyms.  Champions are made from something deep inside them–a desire, a dream, a vision.  They have to have last minute stamina, they have to be a little faster, they have to have the skill and the will.  But the Will must be stronger than the Skill.”

I may not be The Greatest, but I do have a strong will.  I know that as a contender, Cancer is a worthy adversary.  But, cancer is not stronger than me.  Cancer is testing my Will, but it will not knock me out of this fight!

First of all, their home is absolutely gorgeous.  It is in a quaint neighborhood where all the houses are designed to look like homes in New Orleans, with big wrap-around porches.  Their backyard overlooks a lake, and the home is decorated so beautifully yet it is very comfortable (Aunt Denise is an interior designer–her home is really stunning).  The preferred method of travel in Peach Tree City is the golf cart.  In fact they have a series of golf cart paths that connect all the neighborhoods in the city such that you almost never have to drive a car.  There are paths that take you to all of the local shops, the post office, everywhere!

While we were there we ate at a lot of really great restaurants, we went to an improv show, saw the sites and a lot of shopping.  Best of all, we met several of Aunt Denise’s and Uncle Pete’s friends and neighbors.  They were all wonderful, kind people that made us feel welcome in their neighborhood.

Thankfully the flight home was uneventful.  The TSA workers in Georgia were not nearly as concerned about my cathater as they were in Pheonix.  I’m glad because it would have spoiled our perfect weekend.

By the time we reached the x-ray machines, I was pissed.  At nothing in particular;  I was just pissed.

There were two TSA workers managing our particular machine.  I removed my shoes and placed them in the bucket that the first TSA worker provided.  I took off my sweater (again) and threw it on top of my shoes.  Finally, I removed my baseball hat and revealed my shiny, bald, sweaty head and placed it on top.  In my t-shirt and skirt I walked through the metal detecter and stood waiting for my things to be x-rayed.

That’s when it happened:  The TSA working on the receiving end of the x-ray machine (I will refer to him as “Jerk Face”) pulled me aside and demanded that I undo the bandage that was covering the picc-line cathater in my arm.  I explained to Jerk Face that I could not uncover the dressing because exposing the site to the air could expose it to infection.  Plus, I didn’t have any spare dressings with me. 

Jerk Face:  “Then you can’t go to your gate.” 

Me: ”Maybe I’m not being clear.  I have cancer.  This is a picc-line cathater.  It’s not anything dangerous.”

Jerk Face:  “Pick line what?  I don’t know what that is.  You could be hiding drugs in there for all I know!”

Just as I was getting ready to summon my supernatural menopausal strength and make this guy pay, the first TSA worker took Jerk Face aside and told him to, “…chill out, Dude.  Can’t you see she’s got cancer?”

Jerk face is lucky.  His friend saved him from one hell of an ass kicking!

My mom was extremely embarrassed this morning, but still very giggly about the whole thing.   This will definitely become one of those stories that gets told at family gatherings.  In fact, it will probably be told by Michael, the nudist himself. 

When he arrived, my father was out in the garage working on one of our cars.  He told Michael to go on into the house, and said that I was upstairs in my room.  Meanwhile, my mother was just getting out of the shower as Michael made his way in our house.  Thinking that Michael was my father, my mother stepped out of her bedroom and into the hallway just as Michael reached the top of the stairs. 

Even though my mother was covered with a towel, she still felt exposed and screamed with embarrassment.  While all of this was going on, I was in my room with the music on, practicing my dance moves in the mirror.  Suddenly my door opened and there stood Michael holding a box of eclairs and wearing a strange look on his face.

“I think I just saw your mother naked.”

You may be wondering why I’m telling this story.  This is why:  Last night Michael woke me up in the middle of the night, frantic.  He had woken up because he was very dehydrated and got up to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water.  At the precise moment that he opened the door to our bedroom, my mother was taking this 3am opportunity to use the restroom.  They met in the hallway facing each other.  Michael was completely naked. 

“Augh!  What are you doing?!?” screamed my mother in total shock.  She was actually…uh…accusatory with him, as if he met her in the hallway intentionally.  You know, to shock and terrify her.

“I’m just getting a glass of water!  I live here!”

Michael shut the door, giving up on the glass of water and fell back into bed– humiliated.  This was when he gently shook me awake.

“Karen!  Karen!  Your mother just saw me naked!”

I rolled over and said, “Good.  Now you’re even.”

Even when roused from a deep slumber, I can be quite witty.

I need to go apologize to all the people I snapped at yesterday when I was so miserable.  Severe pain brings out the worst in my personality and I’m ashamed that I was so awful to the people around me. 

For example, yesterday my husband gently put his arm around me to give me a hug.  Even this light touch made my body hurt.  I reacted by telling him not to touch me and I could see that I really hurt his feelings.  I feel so terrible.

Last night, my mother offered me a prescription 800mg Motrin.  I didn’t feel any improvement at all.  I ended up taking a sedative so that I could at least try to sleep through the pain.  But, the pain woke me up as soon as the sedative wore off.

I wish this pain would go away.  It’s really starting to wear me down.

As the day progressed, the pain became more intense.  It didn’t matter if I was lying down, standing or sitting.  I couldn’t get relief.  With each passing moment, my discomfort grew.  The Ibuprofen that I took seemed to do nothing to ease the pain and I could do no more than lay in bed.

Now, I am laying here wondering what is causing all of this pain.  I had chemo two whole days ago, why would I be feeling this way now?  This makes no sense to me.  I just wish it would stop!

I’m not really experiencing any side effects.  Yesterday after my treatment, I went home and slept for the rest of the day.  The Benadryl really did me in, but the great news is that I had no urge to puke.  Normally after getting a dose of Adriamicin, I feel groggy and very fatigued the next day.  The Taxol, however, doesn’t make me feel that way at all!

I still have to keep up with my usual routine of getting a Neulasta shot to help boost my white blood cells.  But, thankfully, I don’t feel any numbness in my fingers or toes. 

So, things seem to be going smoothly for the moment.  The fact that I’m more than half way through my chemo is getting me pretty excited.  The road to get to this point has been long and arduous, but there is definitely a light at the end of the tunnel now!

When my chemo was ready, I was paged from the waiting area and found my usual chair.  The nurse prepped me by first flushing my catheter.  She attached a syringe of saline and pushed it through.  (The moment she did this, I could tast the saltiness of the saline in the back of my throat.)  Then she pulled on the syringe (ooooohh!  I hate that suction feeling in my chest!) and drew some blood to make sure that it was open and functioning properly, before she depressed the syringe again.   

Satisfied that my catheter was flushed and in working order, the nurse started me on my pre-meds.  My pre-meds for the Taxol are the same except they add a dose of Benadryl to the mix.  Benadryl will make most people very sleepy.  It puts me in a deep coma.  When I wake up after taking a dose of Benadryl, I can barely remember my name.

I made it through the premeds still conscious.  The nurse connected a large chemo bag to my IV tube and I settled back and waited for the Benadryl to kick in.  Within a few minutes, I was asleep.

From the dark recesses of my mind, came this nagging voice in my head, telling me to wake up.  I didn’t want to wake up.  I wanted to sleep.  Forever.  The voice wouldn’t stop.  It became louder and more urgent.  “GET UP NOW!  YOU HAVE TO GO!!!”

I opened my eyes.  Oh my God, I have pee so badly right now, I don’t know if I’m going to make it to the bathroom.  I stand up and try to get my rubbery legs to work.  I drag the IV with me towards the restroom, but I’m still in a dreamlike state.  Every step makes me feel like the door to the bathroom is getting farther away, not closer.  I finally reach the handle and hurl it open with more force than necessary.  I clumsily drag the IV into the stall as a nurse finally notices me and rushes over to help.  Too late.  I lock the door with one hand and disrobe with the other.  Finally, relief.

I must have dozed off for a few minutes, because the next thing I know, there is a knock at the door and the nurse is worriedly asking me if I’m OK.  I drowsily answer that everything is fine and finish up.  When I open the door, she helps me meander my way back to my chair where I ease back into my coma.

Today was my first appointment at Hugi Chinese Accu-Herbal Center. Dr. C was in her early forties and told me that she has about 20 years of experience with Chinese Medicine. She was the real thing; she had practiced accupuncture for 14 years in China and had been in the United States practicing for about six years. She also teaches. She had a very thick accent, which made it a little difficult to understand.

She handed me a clipboard with a “medical history” questionaire to fill out. When I was finished, she led me to a back room and gave me a gown to slip into. I was told to take everything off but my underwear. (That’s funny because most people won’t remove the underwear without a formal request anyway. Was she actually worried that I was going to get buck naked voluntarily and without being ordered to do so?)

A few moments later, Dr. C re-entered the room and began my examination. She gave me the once over and inquired about my cancer. Then she closely examined my tongue.  Not with a tongue depresser, but by holding the tip firmly and tugging. ”Your chi is very bad!” she shouted, alarming me ever so slightly.

“Very bad chi. I can fix.”

She can fix it; good by me!  She pulled out an accupuncture needle. Naturally, when I saw it, I took pause.  My immediate inclination was to- naturally- ask Dr. C if this was “going to hurt”.

She answered quite honestly: “Yes. Yes it is.”

Before I could say another word, she shot me between the eyes with a needle. It took me by total surprise, such that it completely stunned me at first. For a few split seconds, I just looked at Dr. C with wide, unbelieving eyes.

Then I started laughing, and she was soon to follow. This was fun, as it turned out. We were both having a great ole time. She reached up and wiggled and pushed on the needle (ouch! that’s the part that stings) before instructing me to lay down on the bed.

She put a needle at the very top of my head, a few in my chest, my lymph nodes, my hands, legs and feet. I’m still not exactly certain how she inserted the needles because I kept my eyes closed the whole time. After she initially stuck them in, she would wiggle them and push on them. Then she put one in my abdomen about 3 inches below my belly button.

“Do you feel this in your vagina?” Dr. C asked.

I didn’t know what to say because it was such an embarrassing question, but the truth of the matter is I did feel it in my vagina. How weird.

She had finally finished sticking me with needles. I had about twenty of them in me and I looked like a porcupine. I tried not to look at them (the one between my eyes was really distracting and made me want to go cross-eyed) so I just lay on the table with my eyes closed. Dr. C lowered the lights and put on some relaxing music. She left the room for twenty minutes and told me to relax.

I actually did become very relaxed. The needles didn’t hurt at all, as long as I was perfectly still and the music almost lulled me to sleep. The twenty minutes passed quickly.

Soon Dr. C returned and began pulling out all of the needles. I got dressed and went to the counter to pay. I noticed that I actually did feel better. Much less achey than usual and a little more energy to boot. The doc gave me some ginseng to help with my chi and I scheduled an appointment for the following week.

With the early morning summer heat and my low blood counts, I decided to call it quits and made my way back home while my father carried on without me.  I hate feeling my limits–especially when my limits are so short. 

I go to the bathroom mirror to practice.  I smile, I laugh, I look pensive….I try a myriad of different looks but they all look the same.  Like I’m an alien holding my head in different positions.

Someone had given me a wig catalog and inside they also featured eyebrow prosthetics.  I thought it was hysterical at the time because they looked like miniature fake mustaches.  I thought it would be funny to put them on a Cabbage Patch Doll and make him look like Tom Selleck. 

Instead of ordering fake eyebrows, I pick up a pencil and very sofly feather on some eyebrows.  I end up drawing them on unevenly and look cock-eyed.  This is hopeless.

A hotflash comes on and that is when I take a full look at myself.  I mean I really look at myself.  I have hit the trifecta of beauty, haven’t I?  I’m bald, fat and sweaty.  And now with the missing eyebrows, it’s official:  I’m Gross.

By the way, that really is Tom Selleck’s moustache on that Cabbage Patch doll.  My husband read my entry and thought it would be funny to ”Photoshop” one in.  The moustache came from the Tom Selleck poster below, which is curiously endorsed to a “Michael.”  Hmmmmmmm….

There is so much great Tom Selleck stuff on Amazon.  And it’s a good thing too, because I still love Magnum.

Having dad around brings a whole new element.  He’s a conservative version of John Wayne mixed with the Bad Ass attitude of Clint Eastwood, but less flamboyant.  While he’s here, I won’t have to worry about taking care of the dogs.  He has assigned himself to that job.  In fact, every time I speak with him over the phone, he talks about how he can’t wait to see Autumn and Farley and how much he loves them.  I guess since I didn’t give my parents grandchildren, they have to take what they can get. 

We pick dad up from the airport and he is happy as can be and all smiles.  He compliments me on my new ‘look’ and I turn the car towards home.

As we near home, I suddenly remember a conversation that Michael and I had after I told him that my dad would be flying in for a visit.  Michael said, “You know Karen, having your dad stay with us will be like an episode of ‘All in the Family’.  Your dad is Archie Bunker, and I’m Meathead.”  Which I guess would make me Sally Struther’s character.  I’m certainly gaining enough weight to fill the part.

Michael notices my fatigue and it worries him.  Last night we were sitting on the couch watching a rerun of Seinfeld.  It was the one where George makes a grand announcement in a meeting at work that he’s quitting, then comes back to work the following day as if nothing happened.  I remember thinking in my mind that this was such a funny episode.  I didn’t notice that I wasn’t laughing. 

Michael looked at me and said, “You never smile any more.  Are you depressed?”

I thought about what he said and really tried get a grasp of how I feel.  The answer is, No.  I’m not depressed.  In fact far from it.  Except when I’m having a hot flash, I’ve been feeling quite content and happy with the way things are going, as of late.  But, chemotherapy has made me too tired to express myself.  I can only sit here.  Or sleep.  Lately, moving from the bed to the couch makes me breathless–like I just ran a mile.  Michael’s had to help out with the dog walking.  The gym?  Forget it.  My days are getting shorter and shorter because I need so much rest.

But, amazingly I am not depressed.  Apparantly, though, my lack of facial expressions makes look like I’m completely bummed out all the time.  And when I try to smile, I find that it does take a lot of effort. 

I think I need to devote more time to visualizing my body creating more red blood cells.  I read some where that the act of audibly telling your body to do something triggers your brain to take action.  So, that’s what I’ll do.  And, in the mean time, hopefully Michael will believe me when I tell him that I’m not sad.  I don’t want him to worry about me.

“Poker is a game of skill,”  Michael told us.  “It’s all about how well you can read your opponents and how likely it is that they have a hand that’s better than yours.”

We sat out on the patio this evening and dealt the cards around.  We played a few practice rounds with the cards face up.  Soon, we were ready to play for money.

The first couple of hands, I won.  Then my mom found her own strategy:  Play every hand and raise.  Even if you are bluffing.  She ended up bluffing Michael out of most of his money.

With each hand that he lost, Michael became more and more frustrated.  “You weren’t supposed to win that hand!  What do you have, a pair of 2’s?  I had a pair of 10’s!  You were raising like you had a pair of Queens!”

The last hand of the game:  The first two cards are dealt and the bidding war begins.  Michael ends up going All In.  He has a King of spades and a Queen of hearts.  My mother is holding pocket Aces.  The flop is the Ace of diamonds, 2 of clubs and 5 of spades.  It’s all over, my mother has cleaned out our poker tutor in less than twelve hands.

But, I’m not giving up.  The best things in life are always the hardest get or acheive.  I’ll just be more appreciative of my health once I’m through all of this. 

What’s disturbing is that when she pulls on the syringe and draws my blood, I can feel a ”sucking” pressure in my chest.  I am so grossed out by this, I want to barf. 

Before I can dwell on it too much, though, the nurse hooks up my IV by simply screwing the IV line into my picc line.  So easy, and so much less painful than poking me with a needle. 

When my chemo is done with, the IV is unscrewed from my picc line and arm is bandaged.  I am free to go.

“It’s a picc line catheter.  It’s going to make getting chemo less painful because they won’t have to stick me with an IV needle.  Here, come look at it, I’ll show you how it works.”

“No!  I can’t look at it!  Please cover it up!  I don’t want to see it!!”

I didn’t expect that reaction.  I know that it’s gross, but it’s not that gross.  I think he was disturbed because he felt like they were slowly turning me into the Bionic Woman without the superhuman speed and strength. 

Finally, Karen came in and began the process of creating a surgical environment.  She sterlized my right arm and used a miniature ultrasound to find a vein that she could tap into.  At last, she found one towards the inside of my arm at the base of my bicep.  Next, she numbed my arm with some local anesthetic. 

Finally, using the ultrasound to guide her, Karen began the process of trying to thread a tube with a wire in it into the vein in my arm.  The wire acts as a way to help guide the tube through the vein to the center of the chest once it is inserted.  Karen was having trouble, though.  Every time she pierced my arm with the needle, my vein would collapse and hide.  She was about to give up and have me get a port, when she finally got it.  She was able to feed the tube through my vein to my chest.  She then removed the wire and bandaged my arm.

I sat up and examined the addition to my arm.  There tucked beneath the bandages, I could see a tube coiled around itself.  At the end of the tube was a splitter that sectioned the tube into two seperate ends.  The ends were capped off; one with a red cap, the other with a white.  This is now where I would have all of my blood draws and infusions.

I sit down in my chair.  Bob, the man who comforted me during my first chemo, is just finishing up his chemo session and is getting ready to leave.  We smile and acknowledge each other, but he is too weak to do more than exchange pleasantries. 

The chemo nurse comes and begins preparing my arm for an IV, however she has trouble finding a vein.  She calls another nurse over to give it a shot, but she has no luck either.  This is starting to get painful. 

Finally, they bring in the Big Gun.  They call over a nurse whose name is also Karen.  She gives it the old college try, but not even she can find a vein.   She releases the turnicate with exasperation and tells me I need a picc line or a port.

I have been dreading making this decision for so long, and now I have to.  I would like a port, but if I do that, it will most likely delay my chemo by a week, and I definitely don’t want to do that.  Karen can install a picc line right now and my chemo will only be delayed for one day.

I choose the picc line catheter. 

When I lifted my head again, I was completely bald.  Completely.

On the bright side, I have a husband who could care less and loves me with or without hair.  He offered to shave his head “in solidarity,” but I don’t want to look like two cancer patients walking around.  One is bad enough.  What would people say?

“Oh look!  How adorable!  They must have met in the chemotherapy infusion room!”

I told Michael I would sincerely appreciate it if he kept his hair.

She also gave me some bonnets to wear when I sleep.  These are very useful because even though the little hair that I have left is only a half inch long right now, it’s still falling out very rapidly and I have been waking each day with little hairs all over the sheets.  The bonnets, though very “Little House on the Prairie“, keep me from shedding all over the place. 

Lastly, there was a hat and the most beautiful bracelet that was made by Aunt Denise.  I am very lucky to have such kind and loving people in my life.

My moods have taken a turn to the darker side.  This is because I’ve been experiencing more and more hot flashes and night-sweats.  It’s getting to the point where I can’t sleep.  I’ve had to start laying on towels because I’ve been sweating through all the sheets on our bed.  I’m either constantly too hot, or too cold…  This change of temperature has made me the most unpleasant person to be with in the world. 

God, help my family.

All others:  Beware!

I look ridiculous and I know I look ridiculous.  It is a phase that I am willing to go through to get better, but in the mean time, I don’t have to like it.  I just have to deal with it. 

Today, Michael and I pulled into a local restaurant for lunch.  As I was looking for a parking space, Manilow came on the radio singing “I Can’t Smile Without You“.  Damn you Manilow and your poignant and perfectly timed songs!  Michael made it for about five seconds before he fell victim to the Manilow Melodrama and started crying.  “Karen,” he said tearfully, “I can’t smile without you!” 

Someone needs to contact the FCC and get Manilow banned from the air waves. Immediately.

I was at the supermarket with Michael today when the hot flash came on.  Just out of the blue I felt like I was on fire.  It was like I was burning up from the inside, out.  I hurried over to the frozen food section, opened a door, and stuck my head in.  It was all I could do to keep from stripping right there in the middle of Albertson’s. 

Then, I started sweating.  I know what you’re thinking.  “Girls don’t sweat.  They glisten.”  In the case of chemo-induced menopausal hotflashes, there is no delicate way to put this:  I sweat like a giant pig.  Real dainty.

So there I was in the frozen food section airing myself out.  Suddenly I went from being extremely hot to extremely cold.  My sweating was now making me catch a chill and I was shivering.  I moved out of the frozen food section, and within moments I was back to normal as if nothing had ever happened.

When they finally buzz me over, I’m surprised to see Dr. N standing there.  I sit in a chair while a nurse takes my vitals.  Dr. N asks how I’m doing.  “Great!”, is my reply.

We chat for a few minutes and then I watch as he reaches for the Neulasta injection and rubs my arm with an alcohol swab.  He gives me my shot and I hear a nurse nearby whisper, “…he is such a caring doctor!” to another nurse.

I have to agree with the nurse.  He is a caring doctor. 

The chemo nurse suggested that I either get a port catheter or a picc line catheter.  A port is a catheter that is surgically implanted beneath the skin of your chest.  The tip of the catheter lies in a large vein above your heart.  The implanting of the port does require minor surgery with general anesthetic.  But, the benefits of a port are that you don’t have any limitations.  You can shower and swim.  Your life is uninterrupted.

A picc line is a catheter that is fed with a wire from the sight (usually in the arm) to a large vein in the chest.  There is a greater risk of infection with a picc line because it is an external catheter.  The sight has to remain covered with steril bandages at all times; it cannot get wet at all.  This means that it has to be wrapped in cellaphane before showering.  The good thing about a picc line is that it can be quickly implanted by a picc line nurse and does not require formal surgery or general anesthesia.

To tell you the truth, I don’t want either of them.  I don’t want to have surgery and I don’t want to have an external catheter.  I’d rather endure the digging and bruising of my arms as the nurses search for a vein.

Speaking of which, the premeds have all drained into my arm and it’s time for my chemo.  I involuntarily make a face.  Then I force myself to relax and chew the ice cubes that the nurse has handed to me in a cup.  I try to zone out and watch television while my mom sits in a chair next to me.  The nurse is pushing The Red Devil through my veins.  It’s bright color is distracting me from the complicated plot of Magnum P.I. on t.v.  It’s hypnotic to watch it go in.  She follows up the chemo with an injection of Aranesp in my arm.

At last, my third round is finished.  And, again because of the Emend, my appetite is piqued.  I suggest lunch at Chuy’s Mesquite Broiler for a mahi mahi salad and wait for my mother to bring the car around.

There is a routine to these appointments.  First, my vitals are taken and I am weighed (hmmm.  I seem to have gained a few pounds.)  Then, I’m given a sheet of paper with a list of symptoms on them.  On a scale of 1 to 10, I am to report my experience with these symptoms.  Nausea?  Thanks to Emend, 0!  Pain?  No, I haven’t really been experiencing any pain.  Just from the Neulasta.  I’ll give it a 2.  No tingling in my fingers or toes.  No hot flashes.  That about does it. 

Essie came in with the results from my blood work.  My hemoglobin is low, which means I will need a red blood cell booster.  She is going to have Dr. N order a shot of Aranesp.  This will help to combat anemia.  My liver levels are slightly elevated, but are fine enough to continue treatment.  She does a quick examination of my body and asks about my activity level.  I’m informed that I am more active than she is (I doubt that.)  Finally, I’m given the green light to go to the hospital and have round three.

The doctors told me that I am not to take laxatives, but I can take stool softeners.  I eat these like candy.  Still nothing.  This isn’t good.  Where do they go?  It’s like my body is just absorbing everything and nothing ever comes out.  I know that when the time is right however, The Gates will finally open.  And then I’ll be sorry.

I am so glad that she’s going to be here to help me through this.  Still it’s strange because I never thought that I’d be living with my mother at this stage in my life.  I know that the circumstances are unique, but if someone would have told me four years ago when I got married and moved from Michigan to Arizona that I would be living with my mother again by the time I hit the age of thirty, I would have told them they were nuts. 

Of course, I could have never predicted, much less fathomed, these circumstances.