I'm just not that kind of cat

I'm a little concerned because every day I'm becoming more and more like my cat. And not Tiger, the sweet, compliant, easy-to-please one. I'm starting to resemble Puss, the feisty, particular one who knows exactly what she wants and gets grumpy if she doesn't get it.

Puss is the one who likes attention, but only on her own terms, which means that she must be sitting on my left side. Not the right. Not on my lap. Only the left side will do. She's the one who rejects all but one of the six varieties of canned food produced by Friskies. The one who insists on breakfast at seven and dinner at five. The one who likes to be stroked while consuming her meals. I blame it on her previous owner, a single 82-year-old man who doted on her for more than a decade.

I realized the resemblance when I went to Nordstrom's last week to purchase a new pair of shoes for a corporate gig. I knew exactly what I wanted, something halfway between sensible and slutty. I marched in and told the salesman, "I'm looking for a black pump with a peep toe, a quarter to half inch platform, a sling back and no more than a three inch heel." He marched me over to the perfect pair.

When he brought out the pumps, he also slipped in another box "that I thought you would like." I was delighted. I thought my salesman was like Pandora, the music application that can select tunes you'll love based on past selections. It turned out that it was Pandora's box, not Pandora. I lifted the lid and the foul odor of rubber tires rose like a fresh peel-out on asphalt. Why would he bring me such hideous and stinky shoes?

"These Tory Burch beach sandals are such a good value I thought you'd like them," he explained. "Only $55." I wanted to tell him that I liked quality, not status, and that status symbols without quality were not status at all. I wanted to yell out, "What kind of fool do you think I am to pay $55 for rubber beach shoes that smell like a tire?" Instead, I said, "No, thank you." I was so disappointed in the salesman. I thought he "got me," but he didn't have a clue. (I didn't know that buying shoes could be like dating.)

But there's clearly no doubt that I, like Puss, know exactly what I want. No wonder my doctor, who treats me like an equal, always asks, "And what do you think about this? I know you always have ideas." "Do you mean I'm really opinionated?" I asked.

I once feared that I ran the risk of becoming a "passive patient" because I trust my doctor so explicitly. When I confessed this fear to my (ex) husband, he said, "That's one thing you don't have to worry about." I guess that was a compliment.

Sometimes I think that I'll surprise my doctor one day and just coyly shrug my shoulders, tilt my head and mutter, "Whatever." But even while writing this I realize that's unlikely to happen. Apparently, I'm just not that kind of cat.

Baby Banter

Head over heels in love with this new little man in my life

Funny how a few words can change your life.

Two and a half years ago, it was "You have cancer."

Six months ago, it was, "Mom, I'm pregnant."

Two days ago, it was, "My water broke."

39 hours later, it was, "WAAAA!" - the first sound from baby Joseph.

He arrived a month earlier than expected, but both he and his mommy are healthy and strong.

I, on the other hand, am tired enough to fall asleep standing up.

Sleep Watching

Some people can sleep any time and anywhere. I envy them.

Take the 20-something young woman I saw at The Coffee Gallery the other day. She plopped herself down on an overstuffed couch while she waited for her boyfriend. Since she had nothing to do, she stared up at the fans spinning lazily overhead. Soon, she was as mesmerized as a six-month-old. The next thing I knew, she was sleeping like a baby.

“Oh, to have such a simple life,” I thought as I pretended to write. And then I realized that I was entertained by watching someone watching spinning blades. And then I stared some more as she slept. And then I Twittered about it. And now I'm blogging about it. Does it get any simpler than that?

Apparently so. Today I watched a patient at the City of Hope fall asleep while he leaned against a wall. I hopped up, tapped him lightly on the shoulder and offered my seat. He refused and I insisted until I had offered and he had refused three times (that’s the secret number of times one must insist, in case you were wondering). I felt a little bad about waking him and slinked back to my seat.

Within seconds, he was asleep again. I spent the next ten minutes watching him sleep standing. At one point, his head jerked violently back, but, otherwise, he was as unmoving as a corpse. I thought only horses could do this.

I took a break from my sleep-watching to have my vital signs taken. When I returned, I was happy to see the man still slumbering . . . in my vacated seat.

Warning: The next few paragraphs may cause drowsiness and should not be read while operating heavy machinery. However, if you or someone you know is taking Rituxin, the information may have the opposite effect.

I recently read that Rituxin, the monoclonal anti-body that I take every quarter by I.V., can lower resistance to infections, especially pulmonary infections. A blood test can measure the number of infection-fighting immuno-globulins, and, if the numbers are low, patients can receive a special transfusion.

I asked my doctor about this today, and he agreed that it was a good idea to draw a little more blood so that we could look at the immuno-globulin numbers. He also said that oncologists continually debate the merits of maintenance Rituxin because a) it can lower resistance b) the efficacy is debatable and c) Rituxin can no longer be used in relapse cases after it's used for maintenance. I knew about the efficacy debate, but I didn't know about the other two issues.

If I wasn't insured, I would skip the Rituxin. I called billing recently because the cost for one dose of the drug was $18,000. I thought that had to be a mistake, but it wasn't.

My EOS are creeping back up again, so we've delayed any further tapering of the Prednisone. Something else I learned today: I'm my doctor's only patient with eosinophillic issues. Oh, how I love being the one and only.

Alright. You can wake up from that snooze now. I'm just sorry I wasn't there to watch you.

Diprivan, "Vitamin P" and I saw this coming

I just read that the powerful sedative Diprivan (also know as Propofol) was found in Michael Jackson's home.

I can understand the allure of the drug because I recently came under its spell (administered by an anaesthesiologist, of course). I was half joking when I wrote this:

But don't tell anyone. If word gets out about Vitamin P, it could be the next illicit street drug. Just imagine the applications. Sleep-deprived parents. Cramming college students. Anyone wishing to sleep through 15 minutes of boredom, pain or grief.

I just wish it wasn't a joke.

One article described the discovery of Propofol in a home as "unusual." No, raising a pet chimp is unusual. Wearing a mask in public is unusual. The at-home use of a powerful drug, intended to be administered by a licensed anesthesiologist in a clinical setting, is unheard of, dangerous and tragic.

Samurai Night Fever

On Sunday, I came close to attending a kendo tournament in the South Bay. At the last minute, I found out I wasn't needed to help out at the A3M bone marrow drive, but the anticipation of dueling swords got me thinking about my own experience with a bamboo blade.

I'd almost forgotten that I was once a samurai in training. When I was in my early 20's and desperate to get in touch with my Japanese side, I took kendo lessons at a dojo in Monterey Park. Back then, an adult sword-fighting woman was a rarity.

Here are a few of my favorite kendo memories:

Tora! Tora! Tora! My sensei and classmates called me Tiger because my birth surname (I hate "maiden name") was Strother, pronounced Su-to-ra-da in Japanese. The middle part of the name, tora, means tiger.

The Kanji symbol in the center is for tiger.

There's something about a girl in uniform: Sometimes Kumie (my little-sister-like friend), her family and I would stop for food while wearing our kendo uniforms. It never failed: men would chat me up and then ask for my phone number. I felt like a Samurai seductress.

Lessons Learned: Fight through the pain and clean up after yourself: Once while I was practicing with an opponent, a sliver of glass became embedded in my bare foot. When I saw the trail of blood on the wooden floor, I asked the old-school Japanese sensei if I could stop. He nodded at my opponent and I knew I had no choice. I continued to wield my sword while smearing streaks of red on the floor. Of course, I was responsible for mopping up my own blood when the match was over.

If you go back and read old Cancer Banter posts, you'll find that I've never used the popular lexicon of battling or going to war with cancer or eosinophils. (I don't have a problem with other people using this language; it just never felt natural to me.) So why do I suddenly want to embrace my inner Samurai? To paraphrase Lance Armstrong, it's not about the sword.

According to this site that lists the top ten characteristics of a Samurai professional, the ultimate warrior maintains integrity, displays loyalty, is resolute, plans relentlessly, seeks advantage, continuously improves, flows with (not against), has personal discipline and self control, displays personal courage and acts industriously.

I especially like the idea of going with the flow:

Life is continuously in balance. Accept gracefully both victories and setbacks. Contending against instead of working with is a losing strategy. Go with flows. Yield what cannot be won. Adjust. Agility and flexibility are far stronger than direct opposition. Learn to change and progress endlessly.

So, which Samurai should I channel?

Toshiro Mifune as Yojimbo in The Seven Samurai?

Samurai John Belushi from Saturday Night Live?

Or Samurai Susan, who enjoys intimidating unsuspecting pooches.


Samurai can be so smug.


Moments later, I tripped, stained my gi, stubbed my toe and scraped my forearm. I think there just might be a lesson here.

Risky Business

I've been engaging in risky behavior lately.

Don't get too excited.

For the last 20 weeks, I've been leaving my comfort zone and taking improv classes at Bobby Oliver's Standup Academy. How much riskier does it get?

How about getting up on a stage and performing at The Ice House in front of family, friends and strangers?

I'm glad I took the risk.

But I'm even gladder it's over.

I'll miss spending Saturday afternoons with this zany group.

Spa Day

Turn off the cell phone and the laptop.

Curl up with a favorite book.

Enjoy a complimentary room service lunch served in bed.

Indulge in a never-ending supply of warm blankets.

Shut out the world.

I have been looking forward to spending the day at the spa at the Montage in Laguna Beach ever since I toured the lavish resort in November.

I still haven't made it there, but I did get to experience the next best thing: I spent most of yesterday at Hotel Hope for my quarterly fix of Rituxan.

Hotel Hope doesn't have much of a view, but it does offer at least one thing that the Montage doesn't. After the nurse pushed Benadryl through my veins, I settled in for a deep, three-hour sleep.

Shut out the world indeed.