I'll never forget my first day as a wide-eyed freshman at a small university in South Carolina. When I learned that one of my roomies was a senior, I gushed, "Oh, it must be so sad to know that this is your last year." "Believe me," she replied. "When the time comes, you're ready."
Fast forward a few decades to a post-stem-cell-transplant visit to the City of Hope. I was slowly (and reluctantly) weaning my way from three to one visit per week. When I learned that a fellow patient was there for her annual appointment, I felt like a college freshman all over again. I couldn't imagine a stretch of 52 weeks without an appointment any more than I could imagine leaving dorm life behind.
Funny how three more years as a student and a patient changes your perspective. By the time I hit my junior year, I was plagued with student fatigue. You know the drill - when you think you're going to scream if you have to write one more paper or attend one more lecture or eat one more meal in the cafeteria.
Now I have patient fatigue, but not the kind that comes from massive doses of chemo. I'm simply tired of being a patient. If I have to take one more test or see one more specialist or endure one more procedure or . . . you get the idea.
Unlike my early days as a student or patient, I'm not as willing to do research or ask questions, and that's too bad. I'm still beating myself up over a City of Hope visit in August. My doctor and I celebrated the good news of clean, cancer-free scans and pondered the bad news of continued weight loss (I tipped the scales at 106 that day) and a host of GI problems. When it came time to discuss the results of my bone density scan, the doctor commented that my bones were thin. I didn't bother to ask the obvious follow-up question: "How thin?"
Six weeks later, I broke my hip, an event that led me to once again ask, "How thin?"
Last week I got the answer to that question with a printout of my bone density exam. "Osteosporosis" was the headline. The results indicated that I was eight times more likely to break a hip than my counterparts with normal scans.
Would this knowledge have prevented my broken hip? I doubt it. But it does make me think twice about wearing slippery socks on hardwood floors (although my accident happened with bare feet). And it does remind me that, in spite of patient fatigue, it's important to pay attention in class.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Is there a story in you?
Greetings, Cancer Banter readers! It's been a long time (thank heavens) since I've needed to post here in my role as Susan's "cancer correspondent."
With Smooky's permission, I'm posting today about a blog that may be of interest to writers who read Cancer Banter. The Rose City Sisters flash fiction blog presents short-short stories of up to 1,000 words. There's a catch: each story might have a connection to Pasadena. (In spite of our name, male writers are welcome.)
Susan took the fiction plunge last year and wrote "The Fourth Possibility," which starts:
Miranda thought the Japanese word sounded like what it meant—hot and humid. She escaped the mushiatsui life when she moved from sultry South Carolina to Southern California, but there was no escaping the steamy, suffocating heat of Sado Island, Japan, in August. (Read the rest here.)
My most recent story is about a woman with a very peculiar superpower. This week we have a darkly comic Thanksgiving story—in list form. (Illustrated with a nearly obscene photo of a raw turducken wrapped in bacon.)
If you're a writer who's up for the challenge of telling a very short story, please read our story submission guidelines. If you know writers, share this blog post with them. The Rose City Sisters blog is accepting submissions.
With Smooky's permission, I'm posting today about a blog that may be of interest to writers who read Cancer Banter. The Rose City Sisters flash fiction blog presents short-short stories of up to 1,000 words. There's a catch: each story might have a connection to Pasadena. (In spite of our name, male writers are welcome.)
Susan took the fiction plunge last year and wrote "The Fourth Possibility," which starts:
Miranda thought the Japanese word sounded like what it meant—hot and humid. She escaped the mushiatsui life when she moved from sultry South Carolina to Southern California, but there was no escaping the steamy, suffocating heat of Sado Island, Japan, in August. (Read the rest here.)
My most recent story is about a woman with a very peculiar superpower. This week we have a darkly comic Thanksgiving story—in list form. (Illustrated with a nearly obscene photo of a raw turducken wrapped in bacon.)
If you're a writer who's up for the challenge of telling a very short story, please read our story submission guidelines. If you know writers, share this blog post with them. The Rose City Sisters blog is accepting submissions.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
19 Steps
I've made great progress since my hospital stair-climbing meltdown. Thanks to the help of a top-notch physical therapist, I'm now going up and down the staircase with confidence and ease. Here's a video of the technique.And, of course, I had real motivation to make the climb: my own bed and a hot shower. Gives new meaning to bed, bath and beyond.
Monday, October 11, 2010
She's Got the Look
I love a line from the trailer of "She's Got the Look," a reality show in which long-in-the-tooth and lean-in-the-leg women over age 35 compete for a modeling contract. One 40-something runway-worthy woman gushes in the ad, "The great thing about getting older is that you no longer have fears."
Oh, really? I just want to take her aside and slap the curvy booty on her skinny body (how does she do that?) and say, "Oh, honey, the fears don't go away. You just learn to confront them."
And let me tell you, the show is designed to make the leggy lovelies crack under the pressure of extreme fear, whether it's heights or depths (under water) or something in between. These women quickly learn how to produce a cover-girl shot even though they want to pee their pants.
I have to admit, I haven't felt that kind of head-spinning, stomach-churning fear in a long time. That is, until my physical therapist tried to teach me to climb the stairs. As I watched him demonstrate how to lead with my strong left foot, I felt sick to my stomach. I could feel the fight-or-flight adrenalin surging through my body. My pulse raced and my sweat glands went into overdrive.
I remembered my unsolicited advice to the potential supermodel: ". . . just learn to confront them." I put aside my fears and attempted the left-foot-lead technique, but felt my head spin. "Can we go now? I feel dizzy" I whimpered.
As I used my walker to navigate back to the room, I still felt dizzy and requested a wheelchair.
It's a good thing I'm not a contestant on She's Got the Look. For sure I would have gotten the axe.
Oh, really? I just want to take her aside and slap the curvy booty on her skinny body (how does she do that?) and say, "Oh, honey, the fears don't go away. You just learn to confront them."
And let me tell you, the show is designed to make the leggy lovelies crack under the pressure of extreme fear, whether it's heights or depths (under water) or something in between. These women quickly learn how to produce a cover-girl shot even though they want to pee their pants.
I have to admit, I haven't felt that kind of head-spinning, stomach-churning fear in a long time. That is, until my physical therapist tried to teach me to climb the stairs. As I watched him demonstrate how to lead with my strong left foot, I felt sick to my stomach. I could feel the fight-or-flight adrenalin surging through my body. My pulse raced and my sweat glands went into overdrive.
I remembered my unsolicited advice to the potential supermodel: ". . . just learn to confront them." I put aside my fears and attempted the left-foot-lead technique, but felt my head spin. "Can we go now? I feel dizzy" I whimpered.
As I used my walker to navigate back to the room, I still felt dizzy and requested a wheelchair.
It's a good thing I'm not a contestant on She's Got the Look. For sure I would have gotten the axe.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
A Flop on the Floor and a Flop in the Kitchen
Just a day before my flop on the hardwood floor, I had a flop in the kitchen. My gourgeres, intended to be lighter-than-air cheese puffs, were as flat and dense as buttons.
Read about the cheese flops at Open Mouth, Insert Fork.
Read about the cheese flops at Open Mouth, Insert Fork.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Fear of Falling
Most cancer survivors live with a low-grade fear. It's not something we talk about or dwell on, but it's there. Will I relapse? Will I ever return to the person I was before treatment? Will Meg Whitman become governor?
This broken hip is tapping into a whole new set of fears. The out-of-control feeling of falling is a recurring theme of my nightmares. And now the nightmare has come true.
I fear pain, but I also fear pain meds. Part of that is about fear of losing control (as I did after my one experience with morphine) and part is about fear of addiction. (It didn't help to read Broken Hip Chronicle, which describes the patient's addiction and 3-time withdrawal from pain meds.) I requested meds the first night I was here (emphasizing "the lowest dose possible"), but haven't experienced pain since surgery last evening. But, don't worry. I think my dread of pain will trump my fear of meds.
And now I must admit that I have a fear of wheelchairs. It's not so much a fear of the vehicle as a fear of how others might view me in one. If you've been reading for a while, you may recall the shame I felt at the City of Hope when I had to be pushed around campus. (I even hid my face when I saw my doctor on the grounds.) And you might remember my irrational panic attack when the wheelchair was pushed into the exam room.
My wheelchair-phobia came to light recently when I sat next to a man and his wheelchair-bound wife at a dinner event. When I learned that she was in the wheelchair temporarily as the result of a falling accident, I was surprised and ashamed at my reaction - relief. I'm even more ashamed to admit that a reluctance to talk with her evaporated when I learned that her condition was temporary.
Temporary. Just like my current immobile condition. Just like my hospital stay. And, hopefully, just like my fears.
This broken hip is tapping into a whole new set of fears. The out-of-control feeling of falling is a recurring theme of my nightmares. And now the nightmare has come true.
I fear pain, but I also fear pain meds. Part of that is about fear of losing control (as I did after my one experience with morphine) and part is about fear of addiction. (It didn't help to read Broken Hip Chronicle, which describes the patient's addiction and 3-time withdrawal from pain meds.) I requested meds the first night I was here (emphasizing "the lowest dose possible"), but haven't experienced pain since surgery last evening. But, don't worry. I think my dread of pain will trump my fear of meds.
And now I must admit that I have a fear of wheelchairs. It's not so much a fear of the vehicle as a fear of how others might view me in one. If you've been reading for a while, you may recall the shame I felt at the City of Hope when I had to be pushed around campus. (I even hid my face when I saw my doctor on the grounds.) And you might remember my irrational panic attack when the wheelchair was pushed into the exam room.
My wheelchair-phobia came to light recently when I sat next to a man and his wheelchair-bound wife at a dinner event. When I learned that she was in the wheelchair temporarily as the result of a falling accident, I was surprised and ashamed at my reaction - relief. I'm even more ashamed to admit that a reluctance to talk with her evaporated when I learned that her condition was temporary.
Temporary. Just like my current immobile condition. Just like my hospital stay. And, hopefully, just like my fears.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Slip, Boom, WAAAH!
Breaking a hip is no laughing matter, but at least I was able to entertain Baby Joseph with a recounting of my slip and fall. "Aachan fell down and went BOOM. And then she went WAAH!" He giggled with delight each time I told the tale and then did his own WAAH imitation.
Yesterday morning I fell victim to a slippery hardwood floor. I went down faster than a slapstick comedian slipping on a banana peel and hit the floor with full force. I cried out in pain and then cried out for help because I couldn't put any weight on my right leg.
Lucky for me, two friends were on hand to hoist me up and escort me to my bed. I assumed that I'd just bruised the hip, but, an hour later, I was still in excruciating pain. A trip to urgent care and an x-ray revealed that I'd broken the bone. Now I'm at Huntington Memorial Hospital in Pasadena, waiting for a 5:30 pm surgery to put pins in the hip.
I'll be here for four or five days and then will work on rehabilitation. I'm considered young for a broken hip, so the surgeon thinks that will work in my favor. Nonetheless, it will take at least six weeks to recover. Six weeks of maneuvering the stairs in our two-story house. Six weeks of depending on others to drive me. Six weeks of work in physical therapy.
All together now: WAAH!
Yesterday morning I fell victim to a slippery hardwood floor. I went down faster than a slapstick comedian slipping on a banana peel and hit the floor with full force. I cried out in pain and then cried out for help because I couldn't put any weight on my right leg.
Lucky for me, two friends were on hand to hoist me up and escort me to my bed. I assumed that I'd just bruised the hip, but, an hour later, I was still in excruciating pain. A trip to urgent care and an x-ray revealed that I'd broken the bone. Now I'm at Huntington Memorial Hospital in Pasadena, waiting for a 5:30 pm surgery to put pins in the hip.
I'll be here for four or five days and then will work on rehabilitation. I'm considered young for a broken hip, so the surgeon thinks that will work in my favor. Nonetheless, it will take at least six weeks to recover. Six weeks of maneuvering the stairs in our two-story house. Six weeks of depending on others to drive me. Six weeks of work in physical therapy.
All together now: WAAH!
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