Packing and unpacking....

Ignorance is bliss…… me during this entire ordeal

 I should have known and packed a bigger bag.  Never crossed my mind I would be there for more than one night.  Come to think of it, it never crossed my mind it was a serious as it was. Pia hurt like hell and I knew there was an infection, but had no clue it was bad.  However, it apparently crossed other people’s minds.  As I said, ignorance is bliss and it has done me well these past months. 

That does sound strange, but one thing I have learned is what I don’t know is probably a good thing.  Way back when I was told cancer—I knew all would be fine.  Never crossed my mind it would be anything other than fine—just a bump in my road of life, but fine.  Never even thought about what Stage cancer it would be, so I was a wee bit surprised to hear Stage 3—those pesky lymph nodes.  When Dr K kept saying “my job is to keep you safe”, it never crossed my mind I wasn’t safe.  All I knew was my numbers dropped and I ended up in the hospital.  When Portia started stinging that night in the ER, it never occurred to me that dang thing was in my heart.  See the pattern?! So when Pia turned red and angry, it never crossed my mind it could be anything other than a bothersome infection.  And when Dr Lynn said she would operate and open the wound, it never crossed my mind there might be a problem.  Again, ignorance is bliss. 

The plan, as it were, was, whatever, was to go under around 11am Friday morning and stay overnight on the 2^nd Floor for wound care.  I was so excited to get in the pre-op room early as I was starving and the sooner we started, the sooner we would be done.  Hmmm.  I forgot about all those questions.  When was the last time you ate or drank anything? Are you allergic to anything? Etc, etc.  I also forgot about the IV.  Poor Nurse Patty.  I said no hand so she tried the arm and it did not work (I jumped for some reason) so into the hand it went (not as bad as it has been, so I was pleasantly surprised).  Luckily the blood stick went smoother.  And then the anesthesiologist came in—I went for deep sedation.  And I waited. And waited.  Dr Lynn and Michelle came in to say hi and Michelle took one look at Pia and was like oh my.  They left and then all the nurses who stopped in were concerned Dr Lynn did not mark it.  Finally someone comes back and says “Dr Lynn is not marking it as it is obvious where it is.”  (I refrained from saying I was thinking the same thing not to mention the thought of adding dumb a&% to the ending, as I was confident Dr Lynn already had). 

            The next thing I know I am in recovery and feeling mighty good.  Then I was on my way to my room.  Funny, I had given up on my wig—I wore Scarlett for the attitude, and while I was stopped outside my room for a moment, I looked in and saw one of my library patrons visiting her sister—I said hi there and it took her a minute as she knew the voice, but not the hair!  Too funny.  Anyway, I was plopped in my room and all was good.  I was on Percocet and morphine as needed.  I was happy. I was so happy that I was laughing each time I heard the bed alarm from the guy next door go off.  Poor man was not all there and was DETERMINED to get out of bed.  (Side note—I did not have an alarm as I was not a slip or a flight risk).   I was happy until Dr Lynn came in the next morning and “unpacked” me.   It was then I realized this was a wee bit more serious than I thought. (Of course her saying “this was deeper than I thought” probably helped too.) Apparently Pia was opened, drained, cleaned out and was packed—with like 8ft of gauze—then taped up only to be removed 2 times a day in the hospital.  The tape removal hurt more than anything—and yes, I did play it up a bit—but not much.  That crap hurts! Anyway, back to Dr Lynn and the unpacking.  It was like a magic show—she finally gets the tape off and she pulls and she pulls and she pulls.  I swear she pulled gauze for 2 minutes.  She finally says all done and I am like this is not too bad.  Then she says “let’s pack!”  Should have known.  Did I mention I love morphine?! Yikes!  (At this point I think I knew I was staying until Sunday as the wound was deep).

Long story short, Saturday night started early with a woman 2 doors down yelling help me, help me—sounded like a goat, but I was concerned.  I let her go on for another minute until I called my nurse—who did not answer—she was too busy lying on top of this lady who was trying to escape.  (Yes, I was on the surgery floor, not the mental floor).   Betsy and Erin came in around that time with questioning looks when she started up again.  She continued way past the time when  they left and finally calmed down.  By then the Code Red alarm was going off (fire somewhere) and my temp was at 101.  It was down by the time Dr Lynn did her rounds (another reason she wanted to do surgery on Friday—she was on call), but I still felt bad and asked if I could stay one more night.  She let me.

I kind of felt bad for Billy as he spent his weekend at the hospital, but I did point out it must be a different view.  It was and I think he has a different appreciation of what I tell him is the “dark side”.  He did come to get me on Monday and while there were grand plans of stopping at a few places, it did not happen.  I was wiped out.  And have been that way all week. 

Dr Lynn did let me go back to work and there are a few who think it is crazy.  I disagree.  My mental well being is very, very important too.  So a few hours a day will not kill me (okay, I did work 6 hours yesterday and it about killed me.  So 4 hours is my limit for a few weeks).  I even sent Estell an email giving in yet again and asking for help.  (See, I am getting the hang of this).  Granted it I thought I would be over and done with this, but my plans are not my own. And everything happens for a reason, right?  Sometimes I really would like to know why, but then again, half the time I don’t even think about it.  So yes, ignorance has been bliss.

And I shall call her......

For those of you not familiar with the true definition of Pia --it means pain in the ass.  So from now on, my right boob will be known as Pia, which I deem very appropriate given everything it has done to me this year.  Think about this. Pia sent me into surgery back on January 6 because of some pesky little tumor, which turned out not to be so little which then decided to share the joy with the lymph nodes.  From there I did 6 rounds of chemo, lost my hair, ended up in the hospital 4 out of 6 times, led me to visit the ER twice, gave me all sorts of side effects, gave me Portia, rejected Portia, made me settle for Pedro, sent me to be cremated for 33 treatments, and is now sending me back to the OR in the morning due to some silly infection.  Definitely a Pia.

             Dr Lynn knew when she came into the room this morning how it was going to shake out.  It must have been the fever—it had been 100.8 when Patty took it and well, even she knew it was not a good thing.  I knew before she even looked at Pia I was doomed.  So I asked her what she wanted to do. She explained 2 options and I said again, what you want to do.  She said I want to operate tomorrow and pack it.  I said okay and then maybe you should explain this a tad bit more. 

Dr Lynn:  I will filet it

Me (interrupting her): Crap, (not what I said but Mae Ling told me to watch it) I wanted a steak tonight but you just ruined that.

Dr Lynn: Get over it.  Again, I will filet it and will pack it with (can’t remember what she said but I think it was gauze).

Me (interrupting again): Does it stay in there?

Dr Lynn:  No, you will have to change it.

Me: Lovely.

Dr Lynn:  Here is the deal—by packing it, it will heal and the infection will go away.  The cavity, where the fluid and infection are at will start to heal from the inside outward.  However, since it is a radiated area, this could take 6-8 weeks.  I will do this tomorrow and I will keep you overnight for Wound Care.  You will be on the surgical floor with the surgical nurses who will show you what to do. (This was actually a longer conversation as I asked about my nurses on the 10^th floor—she said she would prefer to have the surgical nurses show me.  I caved as I would be closer to the chocolate chip cookies.)

Me:  This sucks.

Dr Lynn:  Yes, see you at 11:00am.

            It is now almost 9:00pm and I am packing a bag for yet another surgery and another stay at New Hanover.  A smaller bag this time as I know I will only be there one night. I really don’t know what to expect as far as pain or as far as recovery and what will be expected of me.  Dr Lynn did say I could go back to work next week and I will.  I am getting weary of these strange complications I seem to attract.  At least my hair is coming back nicely.  And yes, as it has been pointed out to me many, many times these past months, everyday is a good day, some are just better than others. 

James 1:17

           

I was this close......

So close.  Thought I was done, finished, and looking at this crap in the rearview mirror.  Apparently I have more to learn.  And I swear I did not say “now what” or “what next” or even “this could be worse.”  Nothing; nada.   Here’s the lowdown…

            Sunday, I started hurting around where the surgery took place—my right boob—yes, there—I said it; boob, the right one.  Probably should have named it but I didn’t.  So boob it is.  I knew I was retaining fluid in there as Dr N and I had talked about it and while it is normal, he told me to make an appointment with Dr Lynn anyway seeing as I had not seen her in months.    (Little did I know one week later I would be sitting on an exam table staring her in the eyes and bitching about the size of the needle she was going to use on me).   I digress… anyway, back to Monday.  I woke up and while I didn’t feel great, I was not worried.  I was off and although I had a few things on my agenda, I thought I was in the clear.   However, as I sat in a church meeting, I realized I was going downhill fast.   I still had a 2:00pm dentist appointment I really wanted to make. (I know, wanting to make a dentist appointment seems crazy, but he was going to fix 2 teeth).   As I left the meeting, I knew I had to take my temperature.  Remember those 3 thermometers I was attached to?  Well, took me 10 minutes to find only one.  Figures.  By this time I am chilled and getting a wee bit pissy.  I take my temp and it is 100.8 and since I run a degree low—it was really 101.8.  It took me a minute to figure out who I had to call and it was not Susan.  So I called Dr Lynn’s office as my boob was hurting, red and more than likely infected.  As always, I left a message.  This is not a complaint, I have to do this with all my doctors and they call me back promptly.  I figured I had enough time to take a shower to warm up and then hit the dentist.  (And yes, for those wondering why I would go to the dentist with a temp, I called and was told I would be fine.)  No call so I started out to the dentist. I hit Four Corners and they call me—I tell her the basics and the appointment maker makes an appointment for next Tuesday.  I tell her I need to see Dr Lynn by tomorrow.  She switches me to the office where I am told get down there now—Dr Lynn is off but Michelle (her PA) is there.  I mentioned the dentist and she just said get down here.  And I thought Susan was rough.  I went straight down there. 

            Michelle is awesome and to be honest, I was glad to see her.  She is a sweet as Dr Lynn is, well, anyway. She takes a look, is immediately concerned and says she has to aspirate it, but wants to talk to Dr Lynn first.  She makes the call and was back in 3 minutes telling me how special I must be as the doctor herself was coming in on her day off to aspirate the sucker.  I should have known.  That woman loves to inflict pain on me.  She acts really, really nice and concerned and then goes in for the kill—Portia is all I need to say.  She looks at my boob and says oh my—as she is getting this really big needle out.  I say no way in hell and she jut grins and says yes way.  But have no fear, you will be numb.  Great, lovely, oh joy and oh shit went through my head.  I did tell her she came in to joyfully inflict pain.  I think she laughed.

            The numbing stuff really did work and she knew it (the needle for the numbing is much smaller, but with the pain I was in—hurt like hell. Michelle, being the sweet one in the practice, held my hand and I did not cry.  Thought about it, but why give anyone fuel for a fire). Dr Lynn knows me well enough to where she told me not to even think of yelling that hurts as she had put enough numbing medicine in there.  She then proceeds to pull out over 100ccs of fluid out of my poor boob.  She promises I will feel better.  She gives me antibiotics and tells me to take Advil around the clock and she will see me Thursday morning at 9:30am.  I am out the door. 

             I did this all on my own as Mom was on her way back from Wilmington and I did not think I was going to feel as bad as I did.  I made a few calls and then called her.  She was good and I did not tell her it hurt like hell.  I saved that for later.  I really thought about not going on the prayer chain—and for those of you who did get it—notice I never said boob-- then I realized more prayers would never hurt. 

            Later Monday night, I took off the bandage from where she inflicted that huge needle and although it hurt like hell (see the pattern) my boob had deflated like a bicycle tire.  Seriously?   I had to laugh as there was not much else I could do.  I called Billy and he said to relax, it would be fine.  Speaking of Billy, I mentioned to Dr Lynn my plans for this weekend were to go to Charlotte.  She said she doubted she would let me go as she did not want me far from her and she was on call this weekend.  I told her I would be staying will Bill.  She said “your brother does not need to see your tit”.  Good point.  Unless a miracle happens, I will be staying home. 

            She lied to me as she said it would get better and while I will be grinning when I gleefully point that out—which I most certainly will—I know she is going to be concerned.  I am actually concerned.  Something I really have not been these past months and that does bother me.  Maybe because I thought the worst was over with and all I had to deal with was my hair.  Or maybe because although I have been tired, I have been feeling better and better each day.  I just don’t know. But I do know I am in good hands--God's and that nutty surgeon whom he gave a very special talent to and who will do anything to make sure I am in good health.

 

PS...  Mae Ling had taken pity and is sticking around for a bit and I am back to Gold Child status.  Always look at the positive!

 

 

Hell freezes over

Monday around 10:20am:

Dr N:  Looks great so I will see you in 4 months.

Me:     (kind of sighing) I’m really done.

Dr N:  Yes, you are really done.  What are you doing after this?

Me:     Getting my toes done.

Dr N:  (looking down) Good thing, they need it.

Me:    (giving him the evil eye) Well, I have been a bit busy, you know, visiting Hell every day.

Dr N:  (rolling his eyes) go on, get out of here. See you in December.

And with those words, I walked out of Hell (originally the Glow Place before the invisible rays took their toll and started cremating me).

            I really finished a week earlier—Friday, August 10, 2012 at 4:47pm to be exact--but he really had not released me until this week as he wanted to see if the damage inflicted by those invisible rays was healing properly. I had seen him the Tuesday before my last day and it was looking rough.   To make me feel better, he told me once I was done with the treatments, while it might get worse for a few days, (I refrained from saying “really?  it could get worse?” as the flashbacks to the “there is no way the fatigue could get any worse” were hitting me at warp speed), it would then heal quickly.  He did not lie—my arm became my own again in less than a week.  (Whew, good thing too as I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to get both of my arms back at the same time.  This sleeping on the one side or on my back with the arm (or arms) in a twisted position was getting really annoying). 

             The plan for my last day was for me to go by myself as I had no idea how I was going to react when I walked out.  I honestly have not really, really cried and I had a feeling it might hit so I figured I would be better off by myself.  However, on Wednesday, Billy decided he was coming down so I asked him to meet me.  (Funny thing, we did not tell Mom as I did not want her to feel bad I wanted him there and not her, so it was rather amusing when we were able to pull it off without her picking up on it).  I finally walked out (4:47pm) and we had dinner and then home.  Walked in and Mom asks me what I did and I said I had dinner—want to meet my date—and Bill poked his head in.  Not even 3 hours from being done and the Golden Child status was stripped away.  Dang.  I thought I was good until the end of August.  However, on the positive side, (as there is always a positive side) Mae Ling has been nice enough to stick around until the fatigue goes.  I figure I have until the second week of September before she leaves.  (Then again, the Golden Child comment might signal the end of Mae Ling.  I should add, long live the Toilet Paper Queen as she is very important too).

              It is hard to think I am done with it all.  No more chemo, no more radiation, no more daily rides to Wilmington.   I have a follow up with Becca on September 10 and then I do not see Becca or Dr K for another 4 months.  Last Monday was the first time in more than 6 weeks (aside from one day) in which I did not make that 3:00pm drive to Wilmington and I admit it bothered me a bit.  I felt like I was supposed to be somewhere.  For 218 days, my life revolved around my treatment and suddenly it was done.  About 3 weeks ago I told Dr N how strange it was going to be not to have a daily appointment.  He told me some people do have trouble with the treatment ending and sometimes depression will set in as their routine has changed yet again and they are not able to relax and realize they are really done.   I told him not to worry about me.  I was good and while I would miss the staff (they are amazing), the only thing I really was going to miss was my daily cupcake or, depending upon the time, respecting the light.  I think he might have rolled his eyes.

           

Burn, baby burn

           I should have known when I saw Peter’s smile…but I was not focusing on the smile.  If I had been, I would have known something was up.  But no, I gave my birthday and continued to the glow room to assume the pose.  I lie down, they adjust me, and I am ready—I have assumed the pose and I am still.  Denise walks out saying “here we go”—my hint they are starting and then the music starts.  Remember, I have to be still as I have already been adjusted and out of the speakers comes Disco Inferno.  I am just about to lose it when I hear Peter over the speaker laughing and telling me not to move.  I have 5 invisible beams I have to stay still for and of course today was film day as next week starts the boosts—the invisible rays which are shot into where the tumor had been.  Of course, in typical Liza fashion, normal films take about 7 minutes, however these took about 40 minutes.  And Peter was ready.  The play list continued: Burning Down the House, Burning Love, a few Cars songs and then, the last song—We Didn’t Start the Fire.   The thought of how I was going to kill him kept me occupied and still. And I admit, it was rather amusing.  Peter has been with me since Day 1 and I am so very glad he will be with me all of next week, even if he is cremating me.

            Last night, I had nothing in me and knew there was no way on earth I was going to make it to work today (Friday).  This was something rather new for me.  Chemo was different and I was basically not on the schedule; more of an if I feel good, I will be there.  Recently, I have been going in by 8 and if I was tired, I would just leave early.  I like this going in early as I can get everything set up for the day and I like the quietness of it all.  All of this was going through my mind while I was trying to make a decision for today as I really wanted some hours and it hit me fast and hard; I was done for the week.  Thank you Brandy for coming in early—you made it possible for me to sleep for most of the day.  And apparently I needed it as I slept late, took a nap by 10, ran some errands, napped again for 2 hours then down to hell for my cremation therapy.  I was told I would be the most tired 2-3 weeks after radiation ended.  Lovely…..guess I need to rethink the work thing.

            In one week, it will be over and my new normal will begin.  I am hoping my new normal is kind of like my old normal with just a few changes.  Yes, I will be taking tamoxifen every day for 5 years and I am sure I will never trust a mammogram again and I will never look at a lump in the same way, but I will also fall back into my normal routines.  I am hoping to return to a 40 hour work week by early September and am looking forward to the new Sunday School year and seeing the kids again.  My hair is growing back—slowly, slowly like that sloth, but it is showing signs of life.              Not sure when I will give up the wig—that will be on my terms, not what others think, but it will be nice not to always have to search for it.  Not to mention running back in the house when I realize I forgot to put it on.

            This has changed me in ways not easily put into words—someday I may try, but not tonight.  Tonight, I am tired and have one more thing to do before my head hits the pillow.  I need to order my 2013 Day Planner because some things will always remain the same.

Radiation 101

                BURN: To undergo combustion.

I am slowly being cremated.  Seriously….if my outside looks like it does, my insides have got to be crispy by now.  Sometimes being oblivious is bliss.  I had no clue what I was in for… all I had heard was radiation was a piece of cake compared to chemo.  Little did I know that piece of cake was not a nice piece of say Apple Annie’s hazelnut squares; more like one of those muddy, rocky ,poo filled cakes we gave to Joey Schiavone when we were 6 (relax, he didn’t eat it; came close but smelled it before he took a bite). 

Anyway, like I said, I had no clue what they were doing.  This was evident when I asked why my chest was getting red.  I got one of those  looks that had dumb ass written all over it and was told by the sour- faced- no- humor- at- all- nurse that is what was being radiated.  This happened on the Monday of week three—so the next day when I was assuming the position and my awesome tech Jamie was rearranging, I told her what had happened—she laughed her head off and showed me all the targets (the tattoos... forgot about them).  The light went on.  However, she forgot to mention the exit wounds.  So at the end of the week I said “Jamie, don’t laugh (she started snorting—must be kin to me) but why is my back red?”  Of course the first snort gave it away, but I let it go.  She snorted again when I said “oh crap, it’s an exit wound isn’t it?”  She laughed even harder when J’Nell walked in laughing HER head off as we were on speaker and Jane in the waiting room was laughing HER head off.  Glad to know I was amusing them as I was being prepared to have invisible rays shot into my body.   The urge to move my feet to the music to annoy them almost got the better of me—but the thought of having to assume the position for any longer than needed, stopped me.  Side note on the moving of the feet comment--- I have this habit of crossing my feet when I am laying down and in the beginning Peter got on my case about my feet and I called started calling him the Foot Nazi (remember I have to lay perfectly still during all this as not to let the invisible ray hit something it should not).  Week 2 I got on his case… but he got his revenge.  Music is always playing to try to help take the mind off of the invisible rays and to their credit they do ask if there is anything you simply can’t listen to and they do take special request (lately I have been following an older lady who is only calmed down by Irish dance music).  That smart butt put on Elvis and the songs were those tap your feet to the beat kind of songs… I wanted to throttle him… which I voiced loudly as I knew I was on speaker.  Again, I amused them and Jane. 

Back to the not knowing part of this--- every week they take films to make sure all is going well.  Somehow Jamie and I got to talking—this was near the end of the 3^rd week,  an exciting eye opening week to say the least—and I heard the word lung.  I had forgotten all about that.  Because of the lymph node involvement, the way the invisible rays were launched, the tip of my lung is in the line of fire.  Immediately I began to have trouble breathing.  All in my mind of course.  But to be sure I took a swing past Krispy Kreme and to my delight the light was on.  And I had to respect the light.  After two hot ones, my mind stopped playing tricks on me. 

Another thing I did not even think about was the throat area.  Never even crossed my mind. However, my throat started to get sore this past Wednesday, but it was a scratching, different type of sore—not a sick sore.  Did not think much of it as it was not annoying me too much.  But on Friday, I was clearing my throat constantly and my voice was a wee bit raspy.  I mentioned this to Jamie (who to her credit did not laugh), told me was a potential side effect, but not to worry as it was only temporary.  Whew, dodged a bullet on that one—although I am sure there are many shaking their heads just wishing I would lose the voice for a few months. 

Week five begins tomorrow (Monday) and by 5:00pm I will be in single digits. This last week is a normal week—laser beams all over.  However, Friday will mark the last of the cremation rays.  Next week, week 6, is what is referred to as the boost week.  This is when I have 5 days of concentrated rays to where the tumor lived.  And by 5:00pm on Friday, August 10, I will be done.  No more assuming the position, no more burning; I will walk out of there with my certificate hopefully never to return.   I will begin to heal and that holly tree will just have to wait.

 “Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”                                               1 Thessalonians 5:18

Planning 2.0

                The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray…..

I thought I had it all figured out.  Chemo was done and over with and I was ready to get back to what I considered my normal—or rather my new normal.  True, I was looking at 30 days at the Glow Place, but still, how hard could it really be?  All I had to do was lie down and assume the radiation position and I was good to go.  Besides, I had been told by those who have traveled this path before me—radiation is a piece of cake, so I was ready.  My plan—yup—there I went with the planning again and dare I say I love having my trusty day planner back in my life—but I digress…back to my plan.  My plan was to work as many hours as I could and get to the Glow Place each day for my standing 4:30pm appointment.  Silly, silly me—I kind of forgot God was in charge and was not ready to let me go just yet.

 I had heard radiation made you tired but I thought there was no way on this earth I could ever be more tired than I had been during chemo.  And I even voiced it; more than once too.  Another lesson I apparently have not learned…never, ever say there is no way as there is always a way.  Granted it is not the sick chemo fatigue; it is a fatigue of its own.  And there is no escaping it.  I come home from radiation and all I can do is nothing.  Nothing at all—which explains the lull in blogging as well as all the other things I really planned on catching up with.  At the risk of snide comments, I can’t think when I am this tired nor can I comprehend anything.  I thought it was getting better, but it’s not.  The druggy chemo haze is gone and has been replaced with, as Pooh says, fluff.  My mind is fluff.  As in cotton; not as in marshmallow fluff. 

  Again, I am being forced to face reality; this includes not always driving myself to radiation and not working as many hours.  However, I am well enough to realize the tone of voice from a certain unnamed Assistant Library Director when I admitted I need to cut back on my hours… yes, you can hear smirking over a phone line.  Not to mention the “I knew you would give in to people driving you “uttered by another nameless person who also had that gloating tone of voice.  And to top it all off, I sit down to get my nails done and Kim says “I was told to tell you you need to slow down”.  Luckily she did not say it in the tone of voice I am sure it was said to her in.  Gee people, give me a break here… you too would like to have your normal back if you were in my shoes. 

 I just realized I have not really talked about radiation.  Really is anti climatic after all I have been through.  But it is a necessity and honestly, while the drive is a bit old, the people and the other patients are wonderful. Here is the lowdown:  I sign in and grab my bagged gown (we have a Ziploc with our name on it and we keep the same gown for a week.  Hint: always grab a purple gown, the others do not tie well and goodness knows we don’t need to see boobs hanging all over the place).  After changing you go to the little waiting room and if you are lucky there are only one or two people waiting so it goes rather quickly.  However, the radiation department at Zimmer flooded the other week and for 7 days they sent some of their people to Coastal—where I am.  While it did delay us, we did have fun in the waiting room—especially last Thursday.  There were 4 of us—all who had seen each other before, but only 2 of us really talked.  There we were, all comparing not only lingering side effects, but hair growth.  Jane’s chemo stopped in April so she has the most hair—we were all admiring it when she took her wig off—I was next and they all admired my peach fuzz… Anita thought we were nuts and would not take off her wig ( but she did tell us she sneezed the other day and the wig went flying) and Lynn—well, she said she had been worried about the wig but now just loves it as it takes her no time to get ready in the morning.  We all agreed that was a major plus.  We had so much fun that Peter came in to ask us if we wanted to just skip the treatments and order dinner in.  

Yes, I still have lingering side effects—my legs – which had not been aching, have started back up.  Walking at times can be amusing, but I am proud to say I was walking Barley (the Ashby’s dog) the other day and we made it to the corner and almost to the next corner before I told him to turn around.  It was a major accomplishment for me.  I was even tempted to ride my bike—of course that did not last long.  Maybe someday soon.  As for my hair—it’s growing and maybe by Christmas I will have the guts to wear it without the wig… Kim says October but I think she just wants to dye it pink for Breast Cancer Awareness. 

I can’t say it enough; I am so thankful for everyone around me… and especially thankful for Dr K.  I never realized that during the entire treatment he kept telling me (and Mom) that he just wanted to keep me safe