My New Companion

I arrived home this afternoon to find a message waiting for me from the bone cancer specialist who had viewed my MRI.

He said the MRI "wasn't specific for anything, although it would be a good idea for me to come back in 8 weeks for another MRI to evaluate for any changes."

Don't you love doctor-speak? But, after all these years, I've gotten pretty good on deciphering it: They can't say for sure it's not cancer. "Evaluating for any changes in 8weeks" means, "We want to see if that area grows."

However, I have decided not to respond with Fear...Instead, I've moved on to Panic.

It makes sense that the word "panic" derives from the mythological god, Pan, the creepy little creature who roamed the countryside. With horns, cloven feet and a tail (inspiring Christian images of Satan), even his mother ran away at the sight of him.

One description says, "His unseen presence aroused feelings of panic in men passing through the remote, lonely places of the wilds." This captures how I feel right at the moment. I'm in the wilderness with an eerie unseen presence hovering about me.

I decided to not tell my husband about the MRI. Or my parents. I've seen the toll that cancer and my BRCA surgery took on them this year. And, they can't do a thing but stand helplessly by, worrying about someone they love. Why drag them to hell and back if this turns out to be nothing?

So, I worry--rather, I panic--alone.

If you have or have had cancer, you understand this roller coaster ride. Every test has the potential to expose something bad. And with MRI technology, I've been told that often "too much" shows up on film, adding to the confusion. Much of the "extra stuff" is nothing at all. But, then, as we cancer people can attest, the strange thing they see on an x-ray can turn out to be something with a very nasty name.

So, Pan has entered my life for the time being...but I'm not telling my husband. Although I'm sure Pan will expose himself one way or another in the next 8 weeks as I wait for the second MRI.

Sizing Up the Situation

I've had so much plastic surgery at this point that when I die, I won't be buried or cremated. I'll be recycled.

This was my thought after meeting with my reconstruction surgeon, who felt like my breasts needed to be a tad bigger...just a tad. He said it would look better for my tall frame. But, he left the decision up to me...which is good since I'm the one buying the lingerie.

Of course, my husband, Gary, was no help. He agreed with the surgeon, and described his preference by cupping his hands in front of him at arms' length. Funny.

But, he also said the choice was up to me. Thank you. (I'd like to point out, by the way, that my female friends say my breasts are a normal size...but, that's what I get when I have two men weighing in this matter.)

So, I choose small (excuse me, normal) because I've known too many women who have chosen breast reduction and feeling "free" for the first time in their lives. Well, I'm feel free now...why be encumbered?

My surgeon advised me to think about it over the next couple of months...since I might change my mind. Okay. But, I wouldn't bet on it.

Putting Myself Together Again

Now that I'm five months out from two massive surgeries involving lots of moving parts, I'm feeling the after-effects these days. Somehow I went into surgery fairly young (okay, middle-aged) and came out of OR 30 years later.

I'm sore, stiff and achey all over. If you're a Baby Boomer, you might remember the Samsonite commercial from years ago. It showed a gorilla throwing around a piece of Samsonite luggage in his cage, demonstrating that it was impossible to break open. I suspect that's what the surgeons did to me. I think they also beat me with a wrench...kind of like I've seen mechanics do when they're peering under the hood of a car. At least it feels that way.

And, with all the slicing and dicing of my muscles, my posture now resembles one of the early stages of man you see on the evolution chart.

Then, there's my fragile emotions. I thought I was handling everything just fine --facing the fact that I'm a BRCA gene carrier, undergoing the knife, discovering I had fallopian tube cancer growing inside me. My emotions have been pretty even keel. That is, until something goes awry.

For example, a couple of weeks ago, I received a call at work from a friend's father. She had not shown up for her flight, which had left over 2 hours earlier. She didn't answer her cell phone and no one could reach her. This was highly unlike her, especially since she was speaking at a major conference. I'll skip all the details, but her parent's concern became my panic, as I spent the following hour trying to track down every place she could be. The only thought that came to me during that time was that she was in a wreck on the side of the road, and I'd be going to her funeral that weekend.

Her father called two hours later, saying she had been booked on an earlier flight than expected and was all right. I hung up the phone. And burst out crying.

I react like that whenever anything out-of-the-norm happens--I envision death and destruction and devastation. In other words, I'm not the way I used to be. Physically, or emotionally. So, this is my time to put the pieces of my life back together. That's what you do after surgery.

Physically, I'm doing water aerobics classes and pilades to stretch my body. I'm taking Vitamins B, C & D. I drink cod liver oil each morning. My diet and lifestyle habits have always been Jack LaLanne-approved, but I've stepped it up. I'm paying even more attention to nutrition, as I now consume mostly dried beans, nuts, seeds, grains, vegetables and fruit, and minimize meat & dairy. I eat as much fish as Flipper, and try to buy organic and fresh food whenever I can. I exam each package label like Sherlock Holmes, looking for the dual villains of hydrogenated soybean oil and high fructose corn syrup. And, I continue to drink the same amount of water that travels over Niagra Falls daily.

As for my nerves, I'm spending time processing my thoughts with friends, taking long walks in nature, journaling, connecting to others, praying. I know it will take time for me to reclaim my former life in which my body moves more freely and my mind responds in a calm and collected manner.

But, then again, that may be expecting too much. After all, as a poster child for type-A personality, I've never responded in a calm and collected manner my entire life.

The Waiting Game

Some people have created masterpieces in the same amount of time I've spent in doctors' waiting rooms. I'm sure I could have written a best-seller if I had spent that time at the computer rather than in the waiting room.

But, here I sit once again. For 2 hours. I even made a 7:30 AM appointment. You would think that would get me into an exam room fairly quickly. Instead, I watched an entire waiting room full of patients -- and I'm sure a few people from off the street -- get called into exam rooms before me. So, I sit...and wait.

Cancer treatment is one that requires long waits. You can expect to wait between 1 to 2 hours before seeting a physician or getting a test. I remember the waiting time for radiation was the worst. It averaged 2 to 2 1/2 hours each visit.

So, my advice is to come prepared: bring a book, magazines, journal and/or a friend to talk to. That's what I do. Now, if I just would bring my laptop, then I could pop out a best-seller one of these days.

Fear Is Another 4-letter Word

The Exorcist was the last horror movie I've seen since high school. I decided after watching Linda Blair throw up, scary movies were not for me. After all, life is scary enough without adding make-believe to it.

But, isn't that what we do with fear? We create worst-case scenarios in our minds...and most don't ever come to pass. Yet, we live with these torturous thoughts plaguing us for much of our lives.

These days, especially, you can't get away from bad news--from Wall Street tanking to company layoffs to war in Iraq and terrorism hovering. And then there's cancer. What's a girl to do?

I need an angel to appear and say, "Fear Not!" But, then again, if an angel appeared, I'd freak out.

My fears and worries have worn me out. So, just for today, I'm going to take a deep breath, and put my faith where my angst is, and focus on my life at-hand, rather than all the scary, awful potential things that could happen. Because many scary, awful things have already happened in my life, and I have survived.

The reason I have endured many scary, awful things is because they are real -- and humans are designed to handle reality. Fear is not reality. It's a possibility that may never happen. And humans weren't designed to live with "what if?" but rather "what is."

I need to live with what is real and true. And what's true for today is that I'm alive and life is good for millions of reasons. That's what I need to focus on -- being grateful for all that I have been given, rather than worry about what might be. Because choosing worry over gratitude is a waste of life.

I've Never Learned to Limbo

I think I could live in practically any state...except for the state of Limbo.

However, despite my best efforts, I'm constantly being dragged there against my will. As a cancer survivor, you're often dangling between 2 possibilities -- do I have it, or do I not? Only time will tell.

After missing yet another call from the orthopedist, I aggressively tracked him down the next day--with the same determination as if he were an escaped convict--for an explanation of my MRI report. But his answer was disappointing. He didn't know. He advised me to have the report faxed to my oncologist for her to weigh in on this "mystery spot" on my leg bone.

Visions of my leg being sawed off raced before me. All I could think of was how everyone had said I was so brave to have this preemptive BRCA surgery, and I how told them that I could easily give up body parts -- like boobs & ovaries -- any day over losing something really important...like a leg. And now, here I am.

Cancer can cause one to become a drama queen--which I rightly have been crowned. There are some days in which it's simply impossible to be rational and calm. And this is one of them...or several of them, as far as I'm concerned. The worry that I have cancer in my leg bone hovers over me. I feel like Fay Wray in King Kong's grasp. That cancer has a grip on me and won't let me go, and I'm as weak and helpless as Fay Wray (without the movie star billing).

Cancer is like a terrorist. You never know when it's going to strike. So, you have to learn to live with this uncertainty. But try telling a control freak that.

After I ordered the MRI report to be faxed, I followed up with my oncologist's office. Again, no return call on Friday. Which gave me ALL weekend long to obsess.

I left another message this morning. No return call this afternoon. Finally, at the end of the day, my frazzled nerves won over my logical brain, and I took the matter into my hands. I called my oncologist's cell phone. I apologized for calling, but explained that I just needed to know, going forward, whether I should buy 1 pair of shoes, or a single shoe. Okay, so I wasn't quite that sarcastic, but it was something along those lines.

Tonight, she called me back from her home. I decided that although neither she nor I are Catholic, I'm still nominating her for sainthood...right up there Mother Teresa.

She told me that she wasn't overly worried about the report, but wanted to see me next week and have me bring the MRI...so she could explore this matter further. (In layman's terms, it's still not resolved.)

Limbo, like King Kong, just won't release me from its grip.

Stretching and Retching

I recently redeemed my friend's gift of two one-on-one sessions with a pilades instructor. It was her treat because of all my surgeries this year. How kind, I thought.

But now, after my first session, I am questioning this friendship...perhaps I've ticked her off in the past and this is her way of getting me back. Or, maybe we were never friends to begin with.

It felt somewhat like the torture rack--you know, the one that yanked Braveheart William Wallace from limb to limb...until he died. I was pulled in every direction except for the one that offered comfort.

Even the "pilades machine" resembles a torture rack. See dictionary: The rack is a torture device that consists of an oblong rectangular frame, slightly raised from the ground, with a roller at one, or both, ends, having at one end a fixed bar to which the legs were fastened, and at the other a movable bar to which the hands were tied. The victim's feet are fastened to one roller, and the wrists are chained to the other.

Yep. That was what I was on, all right.

It's amazing I survived. Not only did I survive, I signed up for her next session. Call me stupid. You can also call me a hunched over old woman. Because that's what I am after I've been cut from limb to limb.

With a double mastectomy and reconstruction, your abdominal muscles have been severed and sewn back together. As you heal, you will tend to give into poor posture, hunching over because you're muscles are weak and tight. Stretching is critical in restoring your body to a normal stance.

I thought I was healing just fine. That I was stretching and building strength. At least that was my illusion until I took a pilades class. It exposed my pathetic state. I cannot do a sit-up. Or, much else, it seems.

Jessica, my instructor, rubbed her hands together in glee. Torture is her specialty. She tasked me to do the impossible. Everything appeared so easy when she demonstrated it. Alas, it was not so simple. I realized how desperately tight and weak I am, and how desperately I need this.

It appears that pilades is a perfect therapy after breast cancer surgery. Or, maybe it's another type of therapy I need instead...the one involving my head.