To Carve or Not To Carve?

Thanksgiving turned out to be extra special because, at the last minute, Katie and George were able to join us at Allison and James' house. The reason they were is not a good one; with her mother and her sister getting violently ill on Thanksgiving eve. The sister lost so much fluid that she fainted a couple of times and her dad called an ambulance. She spent the night in the hospital. Cause, unknown. They, therefore, opted out of hosting Thanksgiving in their sick ward. So the Mensing's lucked out. What a great day. Anna, Katie, Allison and I discussed the fate of my boobs. Interesting that they all agree that a double mastectomy would be best, eliminating the potential return of breast cancer. That's how I felt 10 or 15 years ago when I did have a biopsy and Andy and I shopped for new boobs that very night. But now I'm closing in on 70 and and not nearly so concerned with my physical appearance as I was a few years ago. Why amputate anything at all if everything looks healthy? Even the breast with the cancer in it. I can be part of a study at Dana-Farber to see if no surgery is any different from surgically removing the formerly cancerous tissues. Some doctors feel that we're getting close to the time when we can rely on the chemo and radiation to kill it off. My big question is whether or not the lymph nodes can return to doing their job. Not losing the lymph nodes would perhaps eliminate the possibility of lymphedema, which is gross swelling of the arm and hand. Some surgeon told me it's not painful, but I bet she's never had some of the different swellings I've had on my body, which hurt like hell. Speaking of hurting like hell, avoiding another 3-D mammogram would almost be worth lopping off both breasts. Now that's Pain. It makes a regular mammogram seem like a walk in the park. Anna and I came down pretty hard on Katie for not pursuing a mammogram when she found a lump in her breast. She's only 24 and her doctor told her they'd "Watch it", words I detest. I had been talking earlier about being the first one to get any foreign mass removed. I've done it many times in the past. Hope she pursues it. Time finally came to carve the turkey. It is Blake's job to remind Allison next year that her oven does not reach the temperature it claims in bright red lights. But the turkey was sublime, an unfrozen stock-item from Stop and Shop. It wouldn't be fair to not mention everyone else's delicious contributions: James' broccoli casserole; Blake's stuffing with sausage and other delectable ingredients I can't recall right now and mashed potatoes with Gouda and bacon; Allison's creamed onions, especially for me; Katie's pumpkin pie made from scratch using a real pumpkin; Anna's Keylime pie, with homemade graham cracker crust; and my doctored chicken stew (which some of us had as a first course to stave off hunger till the turkey was cooked), using Bambi's monster bird and her organic vegetables. I have a couple more months before I have to decide the fate of my breasts

Is It Wrong to Love Chemotherapy?

I'm sitting in a wonderful reclining chair, watching TV and glancing out at the Charles River every once in a while. Mike just finished giving me a massage. He just bought a condo in Dorchester, the top floor of a three-story Victorian. We agree that it might be the next, up-and-coming neighborhood. Everyone is so friendly that it feels a lot like visiting the Midwest: almost very passerby smiles, looks me in the eye and greets me. Many are Black and I wonder what makes this neighborhood different from Ferguson, Missouri. I have no sense of any racial tension. Is definitely different from moving into the Lower East Side of Manhattan in 1972, when I armed myself with a black German shepherd and a fistful of keys sticking out through my fingers. I am channel surfing. We haven't had any TV for the last few weeks during this move. If I find the cable box, we may actually have TV later today. But for right now I'm catching up on the news and "What Not to Wear". I love the before and after, so I set my timer to see the end of each episode. Whatever happened to that makeover show with the plastic surgery? Extreme Makeover? I've loved hospitals ever since the ninth grade in LA (The tonsillectomy at age 6 or so didn't bode well). I had a wonderful private room. I didn't feel sick. I'd been taking anabiotics for pneumonia but they didn't work. After any tests, the doctors determined that I had psittacosis, parrot fever. Sheila (of whom I was always jealous because she had a song named after her) had a slumber party. Her parakeet joined us at the dinner table and walked all over my plate. It must've been before there were restrictions on importing wild birds into the country. I had a huge room overlooking a sunny garden. I had lots of visitors, including our school bus driver who brought me some stuffed animal. It was the end of the year and I did not have to take any exams. My mother was on Password with Alan Lunt, I think it was, and I got to watch her. That was long before DVR's. I love having to sit still, not having to cook and being waited on. In fact, I don't really understand people's urge to have visitors during this process. It is relaxing to be alone and to be responsible for nothing. Andy feels very guilty about not coming with me today, but it's over five hour process. He is coming later to pick me up, which is perfect. I even was able to make a couple little stops on my way here this morning. I am looking for some sort of system to support the end of our bed on the gears I got last week. So I stopped in at Olde Boston, an architectural salvage place, where I got our mantel for the North End condo years ago. They don't really deal in any metals, but I did see some sink bases that I considered and I found a welding shop on my route. Did I mention I love the little lady putting warm blankets over my cold hands and arms. Of course, those chemicals and proteins attacking the cancer cells is The best part, resulting in that lump in my armpit being nearly undetectable now. The oncologist said some people actually feel some sensation in those cells that are being attacked, but I haven't.

One thing I know for sure

Don't begin chemo at the same time you're moving. I do have an Excuse for not hiring movers to just pack up and move everything. The last time I did that we were moving from an 1 bedroom apartment to a 3 bedroom house. I knew I had a big enough house and enough time to sort through everything, so I did no editing before the move. Even the full wastebaskets came. Now we're doing the reverse, moving from a 3 Bedroom place to a 1 bedroom place. And it is about a third the size. Thus the piecemeal move. That and my friend Mark's offer to take truckloads wherever I wanted. Mark's nickname is Andre the Giant, well deserved. He is the hardest working man ever, with the cheeriest, best, can-do attitude. Yesterday, the first two truckloads went to the Treasure Chest, never to be seen by me again. The third truck load, Andy accompanied Mark to Boston give me time to rest. And to bring my car back to the Cape from Boston. Which brings me back to why not to make a move at the same time as having chemo. I napped forever this afternoon so that I can be rested for the women's extension group international dinner at six. I am so happy I went. (I've got to work on my tenses.) But my car got blocked in so I couldn't make an early escape, as planned. So I snuck upstairs and curled up on one of Sandy's guestroom beds until the party broke up. Great night sleep, ready and raring to go, filling trashbags full of stuff to go to the treasure chest, CLICK. Locked myself out of the apartment.

God's trees?

I am a tree-pruning fanatic. The Manager on the Cape also handles landscaping and maintenance issues here. One of the biggest waste of money that I've witnessed over these few years is how the trees were pruned. God made trees and they grow the way he/she/it told them to. The manager went over his/hers/it's head and paid some "arborist" to tell the trees to do something different (I'm not talking topiary, which I love). The main reason I'm talking about this right now is that I think I figured out how to add pictures to my blog from my phone. So here's my first attempt. I am a tree-pruning fanatic. The Manager on the Cape also handles landscaping and maintenance issues here. One of the biggest waste of money that I've witnessed over these few years is how the trees were pruned. God made trees and and they grow the way he/she/it told them to. The manager disagreed with God and paid some "arborist" to tell the trees to do something different (I'm not talking topiary, which I love). The main reason I'm talking about this right now is that I think I figured out how to add pictures to my blog from my phone. So here's my first attempt. Failed.

Then the call came

I've been waiting for a call from the manager of our apartment complex, the new one. Andy and the kids moved all that heavy stuff into the Boston yesterday starting around 11 AM. I was pretty sure Sunday's not move-in day so I did not ask permission. Remember I am aiming at a moving target and racing against the clock to beat the fatigue that is beginning enfold me with her arms. Well I just got the call, but from the wrong manager. The complaint was at the Cape end. First couple of questions were did you move stuff out on Saturday night? Yes. Did you back the truck up against the front door? I don't know I didn't ever see the truck. Did your kids move you again? Yes (there were a few little no-nos they committed four an half years ago when we moved in.) The manager never forgets an infraction of the rules. This time the U-Haul truck was backed up across the walkway to the front door of the building!!!!! I was quite frankly appalled that they would've been so stupid as to drive across the sidewalk and said so to the manager, who's name I will not print, lest given permission. He ended his tirade with you'll be hearing from Jim (the condo owner from whom we rent). Click. After a few beats I called him back. I asked why the tattletale hadn't spoken directly to the kids or come to me to complain. He responded that it's his job to enforce the rules, which had been broken at a time that he could do nothing, which is part of the reason I'm sure he was so irate. Mentioning those few little infractions when we moved in, for which he scolded me then, I told him that I had photographs of 40 infractions by other residents that I had never reported over the years. Send them to me. No. It just makes me feel better every time I think of the times you've gotten mad at me (a couple little things when I was selling real estate and my broker was doing an open house. Her job to contact manager, not mine.) I ranted about sneaky tattletales, about the stupidity of the truck on the sidewalk, the responsibility we have for any repairs required and apologies. (Did I mention, that unbeknownst to me, I let a sink overflow, flooding a few floors below us? The manager's opening shout, after beating on our door, was you're responsible for this! I didn't do it on purpose I said. I know he said.) Andy overheard this conversation from another room and asked me to come tell him about it. I told him the u-Haul had been backed up across the sidewalk to the front door. And he said I know, I backed it up to the front door. So now I'm waiting for the manager at the Boston apartment to call. I plan to apologize.

Piling on bricks

Nurse George told me that reactions to the chemotherapy will start piling up like bricks. The only reactions I recall him mentioning are numbness in my extremities, fatigue and weight gain from the steroids. I may be getting the extremities reaction because my feet were so cold last night that I could not go to sleep. We were staying in our empty shell of an apartment on the Cape and all I could think to do was put on a second pair socks and nuke a stale loaf of French bread and wrap it around my feet. Worked like a dream, no pun intended. Thinking I might lose my taste for food, I went to Brax for brunch, with its great view of Saquetucket Harbor and an all-you-can-eat buffet including nice, rare roast beef. I had already had a couple cups of coffee at home and was feeling a little jittery, so I snagged a slice of roast beef before being seated. I also felt a craving for protein, much like the one Son George had at the end of the move last night. Instead of a cocktail he wanted protein. We found a couple kinds of hummus in the fridge. Looking for a vehicle to dip into the hummus, George found huge shredded wheat squares and dug in. I found dill pickle spears and joined him. George pooh-poohed the pickles, but then tried one and loved the combination. The protein did calm me down. My next 2 platefuls were bites of the most appealing treats on the table. Everything tasted great except for the roast beef, which was not rare enough for my taste, therefore dry. With my Last Supper in mind, Andy and I went to a local pizza joint for dinner at 3:30. My barbecue burger was nearly the best I have ever eaten and the french fries were sublime. A new burger joint opened last summer across the street and we asked about lost business. Yes, it was affecting their business. I suggested that they offer, "if ours isn't better than the one across the street, it's free." I'm sure our 22-year-old, 1-day-a-week waitress will take it right to the Head Honcho. That problem solved. I have always loved running other peoples lives. It's so much easier than running my own. I hope the following 2 little ailments are reactions to the chemo and not new plagues. Reader warning: 1. giant, crystallized globs of goo in my eyes; 2. nostrils so dry, I have now dedicated a stick of Chapstick to them. Enough said.

First Reaction

My gingerale tasted metallic last night. Friday at 4 was my second chemo session. Well, we really blew it, because I didn't check the appointment calendar and didn't arrive in time for the bloodwork, pre-administrating of the drugs. We also really didn't leave enough time to arrive by 4 from Dortchester. Who could've anticipated the rush-hour traffic on a Friday night in Boston? My nurse George was completely reassuring about it all and drew the blood work himself. He was thrilled to find out that the lab was actually functioning finally after a day of mishaps, so we were able to get started pretty quickly. I put him under some extra pressure by telling him I wanted to get out as quickly as possible. A lovely friend was throwing herself a 70th birthday party at her very elegant ladies club and I wanted to pop in for just a minute, before everyone sat down to dinner. George threw us out the door a little after seven, as I was struggling to change into my "elegant" party clothes. The final step was putting on my pantyhose as Andy chauffeured me over to the club. The doorman escorted me in and I was directed to the proper suite of rooms, bedecked with gay balloons, in her signature red and white. Not just separate balloons, but the red ones inside the white ones. I knew a lot of the people and it was so fun to say hi to everyone. One acquaintance made a special effort to come up to me and assure me that I too would be fine. She had just gone through breast cancer earlier this year. I ended up alone with Susan (I changed her name to protect the innocent.) I don't know what made me do it, because she is such a grand dame, but I lifted my ever-so-stylish, be-zippered, black skirt to show her the top of my pantyhose, pulled just above the knee and no higher. I compounded my rebellious behavior by doing the same to my equally proper friend Claire (I will start using real names if given permission) in the ladies room. Andy I went to Ester for dinner and had a blast with Eleanor who is the owner. We asked about the name of the restaurant. It is at the end of Dorchester Avenue, hence the end of the word Dorchester. She doesn't mind the scientific connotation of the word either. It was our first night sleeping at the new place, Andy on the camping pads, on top of the two new Zebra area rugs, under a sleeping bag on the bedroom floor and me on my favorite couch in the living room (snoring is a problem. I'm not saying whose). Even so I did not sleep well. My mind was racing with decorating plans. The biggest stimulant was that I found on Craigslist the perfect hardware to support our bed frame and I did not want to lose it to a faster buyer. But the only contact info was by email so I had to wait for the seller to call me. Our bedroom is the fat end of a pie shape. The curved wall has three steps up to the windows, almost like an amphitheater. The bed is going to rest on the first step and needs to be supported nearly 2 feet high at the other end. There will be nothing under the bed. The said hardware are 4 gears, in red and green, in 2 different sizes, with different designs. I know superglue won't work so I'm hoping Bambi and Tracy can weld together a Christmas present for me. That and the about-to-be pink-striped livingroom would keep any mind swirling for hours. I did go to sleep for quite a while, but woke and kept praying for dawn to break and watching for customers in Dunkin' Donuts across the street. Finally the customers came and I went. Grabbed the ever-giving seedpods and my purse, stocked up at Dunkin' Donuts and raced off to the Flower Market. Route 93 was jammed on the other side, but my side was clear going. Dawn was sure are slow coming. The expert at Chester Brown, the best wholesaler, was shocked that anybody would say the pods would last for three months, but I clearly recall him saying so. No matter, he exchanged them for the far more durable red willow branches. The gear seller still has not called me, even though I had sent an email this morning saying I was up and ready to buy. Deciding to go back to the apartment while I was chatting with another wholesaler, he told me about the water main break on route 93, requiring cars to back off of the highway. He suggested taking the back roads home and to avoid Bluehill Avenue where two people were killed that morning and 6-square-blocks were cordoned off for the investigation. I found a route through some of the old neighborhoods that I had explored during my time working for Metco, the oldest school-busing program in the country. Got home. Andy and I caught up on our nighttime adventures. He was a little concerned that I might be getting a little manic and urged me to nap while he went out for breakfast before the kids arrived to help. But the seller call. He was almost at the New Hampshire border and we were negotiating a meeting place halfway between us when he mentioned he just had his hip replaced. I scrapped his driving part and hit the highway. The gears were perfect. The small ones might not really fit it in but I knew I'd regret it if I didn't buy them. I started the bidding at nearly half off and ended up with a 20% discount. He said he had refused my lowest offer several times already. On the way up I been chatting with "Danny of Deb" who had Dexter for the night. I told him the address where I was going in case I was never heard from again. I called him back on the way home to tell them I had lived. Met up with Blake and Anna and the dogs at just the right time for them to carry the gears in. They were thrilled and honored to be part of this operation, not. George and Katie were conveniently late for this part of the day. But believe me, they paid for it later. Fun, delicious lunch with Eleanor at Ester. This move has been a "moving" target. It was originally scheduled for right after Thanksgiving to Cleveland. Then we decided on Boston instead. In large part, due to Mark's (a friend from the Treasure Chest, where I volunteer) offering and then urging us to accept his help, we had already taken two truckloads to the new place. It's such an odd shaped place, with four steps up to a living area from the dining area, that I really needed to see some pieces in place to fully understand the layout. Bambi is coming on Thursday so I thought the final move could coincide with her arrival in Boston. But the target kept moving and the kids decided to help this weekend. We booked an U-Haul 14' foot truck and filled it. The target did not come into focus until we determined that we could deliver the Big Green Egg to Allison and James on the trip up to Boston. We didn't want to fill the truck in the wrong order. I am using the Royal We, actually. Anna slipped, naturally, into the role of leader, director and Savior. Her composure and sensitive authority created a well-honed team. She and Katie were so careful to keep me from doing too much. Part of the argument for doing this drastic step that day was that we had five, strong healthy people to move the monster smoker/grill/oven in it's custom-made table. Andy's back wouldn't let him participate but I did count myself as one of the five. But my dear girls and sons wouldn't let me help. During the final push, Katie and Anna had a cocktail and some ibuprofen, while I popped antacids and sipped gingerale. When I complained of the metallic taste, they told me it is a symptom of chemotherapy, my first. I never even saw the truck. As the final elevator was going down, I had the brilliant idea of sleeping here on the Cape. Katie didn't like the idea at first but then saw the brilliance. Poor Andy didn't know he was being abandoned until he got to Cohasset. But I am sure even he could see what a great idea it was. Andy drove the truck to Cohasset, Anna and Blake drove the TV there, and Katie and George drove some glass table tops and delicate bases there. I took two Motrin PM and opened some devine oysters, realizing that I had probably done those two in reverse order. But I lived and the risk far outweighed the joy of what my last good food experience might be for a while. I'm sure I was asleep by 7:30 at the latest.

Nothing New

My thinking about stray shots may seem a little odd to some, but it is not unusual for me to consider plans A and B if a disaster occurs. I guess that developed in New York City. My first plan was an escape route from a fast flooding Holland Tunnel. We often spent the weekend in New Jersey, taking Daisy the cat and Calypso the German Shepard. I guess I assumed I would be fine and just swim to the surface. I knew the dog probably could do the same thing and would come with when called, but there was no way in hell the cat would come when called. So my plan Was to grab her by the scruff of the neck and keep her with me come hell or… Actually we got Calypso because we bought an apartment in East Greenwich Village, in the neighborhood now called Alphabet City. In the late 70's it was very much a ghetto. But we couldn't afford the $40,000 penthouse at 96th and Madison, which wasn't that great a neighborhood at the time. So we bought the first floor of a brownstone on Tompkins Square, Park for $14,500. With that move pending we also invested in a black German Shephard, which we charged at Gimbal's department store, against every one's advice not to buy from a puppy mill seller. She was our insurance and proofed invaluable many a time. Other precautions included wearing a trenchcoat over my going out clothes if we were eating uptown at 21, our weekly haunt. I always clutched a fistful of keys sticking out between my fingers when walking around the neighborhood. I wasn't afraid. Just guarding against possibilities. In fact, I might even have been asking for trouble. For instance some guy walking toward me touched my crotch as he passed by and I turned around and slugged him in the shoulder. When a thug and his pitbull were in our community garden picking all the open daffodils, I reprimanded him. In response, his pitbull attacked me. Fortunately they inside and I was outside the ancient, heavy duty, decorative wrought iron barrier, otherwise I would've been chopped liver. The beast did cleanly rip a chunk out of my beautiful, lime green, boucle coat (actually good riddance. I wore it to my first college mixer and not one boy spoke to me. Luckily, I was waiting for my date with a guy on the football team.) In a movie theater I stood up and screamed at the stranger who touched my knee. Another of my preparedness modes was looking up, as I had seen many objects fall from buildings as I walked and bicycled around Manhattan. I may have saved several peoples lives as I watched a 4' x 8' piece of corrugated metal float down from a construction site on third Avenue. I screamed a warning to the pedestrians who scattered, avoiding sure death. That sheet of metal ripped a hole in the sidewalk as it clattered to the ground. Once we left the terrors of NYC and movd to suburban Boston my preparedness did not wane. First of all I was terrified by many little things like reflections (of passing cars or the postman coming to the front door) in our picture window overlooking our beautiful pond. I was not used to the bucolic silence and nearly hit the ceiling every time something unexpected passed by. At that time Sarah Pryor had been abducted in the town next to ours and I became hyper vigilant about watching my child. And other peoples children. Driving down what is a rather main thoroughfare in our quiet suburb, I saw a little boy on a bicycle alone. I stop the car, talked to the bo, walked him home and warned his mother he was much too young to be alone. I made a rule that our boys couldn't ride alone until they weighed 125 pounds, which I later raised to 150 pounds. George could never understand that, when I would let him walk to the corner store in Brooklyn, New York, with a little boy that he didn't really know, far younger and lighter. I explained that there are people loose in New York City and there is some recourse if something bad happens. If the school closed for a bomb scar, I would not let the kids go back until they figured out who had had phoned it in, no matter how long it took. If they went away with friends they had to write their telephone number, in indelible marker on their thighs, even if only off to the slopes for the day. We spent New Year's Eve, 2000, in New Hampshire because I figured that there would be a major terrorist attack on that night in urban areas, especially Times Square. My stepson had been scouting locations in the area and given access to roof tops without showing any ID. I couldn't watch the ball drop that year. We bought the place in Waterville Valley so that thes boys wouldn't be home on weekends to go to the drinking parties. I admit I do sound a little Looney tune. But those drives up to New Hampshire with the boys and their friends were the best Treasure ever. And they were completely independent, being able to walk and take the shuttle everywhere. They were even younger when they had that independence at Chautauqua institution. They could bicycle anywhere in the gated community explore and experience life without boundaries so to speak. I did learn later that someone tried to sell them marijuana on the bridge over the gulley near the boys club. There's a great old cartoon in the New Yorker with a lady sitting on the porch wiggling her finger at her kids and saying I want you home not one minute after dark. My advice to my children is to let their children grow up in a neighborhood where they have some sense of that old-time security and real-life experiences, having to deal with the same people over and over again without parental interference. In other ways I was remarkably careless and lenient. I almost can't believe I let Blake race an electric tricycle down my parents' long, steep driveway crashing into the garage door, no helmets no nothing. Or give permission to underage George to drive until the oil pan breaks, Which it eventually did on the 2 mile long dirt road to her camp in Maine. More about the adventure home in another blog maybe one day. I do have to get off this damn iPhone and start working on iPad at least. The little bit of editing I am doing is tedious to do on this tiny device. Plus photos and this will be much more fun.

Where the action is

Our Medicare consultant came tonight to sign us up for next year. He, like many of our friends, grew up in our new Boston neighborhood, technically Dorchester. He asked if we had heard about the shooting last week. So I googled it. Yup. It was in the parking lot of our new, conveniently walkable, CVS. A young man was shot critically in the head at around 7 PM. It was election night and all voters were rerouted to the polls through the alley behind our newly beloved restaurant Ester. The press claimed no voter was deterred by the crime scene. I guess we should be comforted that the police think it was gang related. Blake suggests that we should check what the colors are of each gang and be sure that Andy and I where everyone's colors. George did Advise us not to move to the murder capital of Boston. That we convinced him it was a lively and up-and-coming place. How much worse can it be in the lower East side of Manhattan in the late 70's?

http://www.dotnews.com/2014/man-seriously-injured-lower-mills-shooting

We have considered wild gunshots when thinking about the layout of our new Boston apartment. We are on the first floor and some of the apartment is even below grade, which we became very used to in NYC. We'll be watching TV in a section of the living room with no windows. In the bedroom, our heads will be in such a position that any shooter will have to be hanging on the side of the building and shoot straight down to reach us.
We even bought used ammunition canisters (maybe a foot and a half tall and very narrow) to be flower holders. They are in the living room windows and presumably are strong enough to stop any stray bullet. Actually the main purpose of the containers, found on Craigslist, is to hold very large branches, flowers or bamboo that will act as a natural screen from the outside world. I found an amazing long branch with round, bright green, prickly pods. The flower market guy assured me that the pods would last for months. They are very dramatic and effectively blur the sight line. Unfortunately the pods have begun to burst, spilling out milkweed like seeds. Think the flower market will take them back since they may assume they were for the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, which gives me the credentials to shop at the market.
Maybe the gangs will notice that the containers are stamped DOD and avoid us altogether. But someone did suggest that maybe they would want to break in and steal said ammunition. As the Medicare guy said, "We are moving to where the action is."

I  will figure out how to download photos.
I think Becky thought that it might be optimistic of us to think we'd be out of our Cape place by Christmas. Things got quite chaotic once we found the cancer and delayed our return home from Cleveland by 10 days.  The biggest blow came because we were hosting a wedding brunch, Which happened to fall on the day after our return from Cleveland. So when I we got home the day of the actual wedding, I tossed everything that was lying around the rest of our rather large apartment into our bedroom. Beckyand our friends caught a glimpse of our room and closed the door firmly behind them. Becky seemed a bit shocked when I told her that we had cleared about 90% of that stuff out. So hopefully we can be out of our Cape place before Thanksgiving. Bambi is coming next Thursday through Saturday to help with another leg of the move.

Autocorrect

I hate auto correct. But it is very convenient. If you notice something weird please let me know.
After chemo on Friday, Becky and I (Andy went to babysit Grayson and Riley) went To Blake and Anna's for Chinese and Thai takeout. Delicious, and comforting to be with them all. After good night sleep, Becky and I took Addy and Molly for a walk and chatted with lots of other dog owners. The girls raced around the beautiful little park's hilltop and had a grand old time.
Then we drove over to the new apartment for everyone to see. They had lots of great ideas about how to arrange it. We strolled through the neighborhood greeting some neighbors before Becky took us to lunch at Esters. Very excellent experience with yummy food and delightful waiter.
Becky drove us back to the CAPE, made a fantastic Bean soup and plotted our next steps.
Sunday morning saw the return of my friends Danny, Deb and Denise, who had cleared all the plants (including my lovely rock garden, contained in a truck bed liner) off the balcony earlier that week. That process took hours, requiring bucket loads of dirt being carted out and numerous trips down to the garage and even a couple of trips to Danny and Deb's to unload all the plants and dirt.

A room with a view

Andy is driving me to my first chemo session at MGH. Many people have told me to choose a color to ask you all to envision and some sort of an amulet. A gold arrow bounced into my mind, followed by gold spears and acupuncture needles. Odd that all of those ancient tools popped up when I'm going to the 21st-century bastion of science and medicine. We had a long day with more mammograms, blood tests, eating and wig fitting before beginning chemo this afternoon. We got the Primo room overlooking the Charles River, Cambridge, downtown Boston, the Citgo sign in the Fenway. The sky was magnificent studded with fabulous clouds which made for a great sunset. First session was about six hours long because there were periods of observation after the drugs were administered. The first two drugs are proteins to combat the positive her2 receptor. The third is called Taxol and required pre-doses of a histamine, a steroid and a something else. I did not get any of the dreaded instant reactions of breathlessness, aching back or flushing of the skin.
I tolerated them all very well. I was a little nervous at one point because I got quite cold and drowsy but bounced back after that. For the next two Fridays I will get additional doses of taxol.
Andy and I were so happy when Becky, Blake and George visited me.
The nurse I will have for the next 12 weeks also happens to be named George, which may be a little confusing at times. He couldn't of been more enthusiastic, supportive and informative.

MGH It Is

MGH wins. 

I will part OF 2 Studies.

The radiologist invited me to both: Lymphodema (chose to not participate in a study to leave nodes in) and proton beam laser (only if I choose a mastectomy of the left breast).

I liked the doctors very much. Especially Anna's contact chemotherapist Steve Isakoff. Ginger promises plastic surgeon Jay Austin will give me a perfect boob. The question is, will I get 2. If so, I'll get sedum tatoos and go topless on the beach. I love that image.

I begin chemo on Friday with ACHCP (somehting like that) some before surgery and some after.

Opted to not try to save hair with cold cap because risk of migraines, to which I am prone.

I was the first ever to ask chemotherapist about tatoo on scalp. Also told him about henna crowns.

We decided to move to Boston and hope to move into new place (Baker Chocolate Factory in Boston) this week.

Dexter used up another life and took years off of mine

Driving to Blake's to drop off Dexter before going to MGH, I noticed the back window was open as I got off the turnpike. It was true, Dexter was missing. Complete panic overtook me as I retraced my route from the turnpike exit.  I asked individual toll takers if they had seen the cat, racing to the edges of the highway screaming Dexter's name as the toll takers yelled, "Lady you can't go there". Completing an illegal U-turn, I left the booths, spotting Blake walking toward me. I had to go to my multiple appointments at MGH and left Blake promising to search for Dexter. 

My panic escalated, in large part because I did not have my phone with me. Shaking, standing in line waiting to register, I asked Laurie, as it turned out her name was, if I could borrow her phone. I contacted Blake and tried to reach George. I was frantic and shared that with everyone who came and went from the examination room. Having permission to use the phone in that room, I told Blake to post a lost and found on Craigslist. Five minutes later the phone rang and Blake told me that Dexter had been found. I asked if he was alive. He was.  

Blake went to pick him up at the animal rescue league. 

Turns out that someone had spotted the cat in the Prudential Tunnel, which is part of the Massachusetts Turnpike. Dexter was in a storm drain and the man who found him called The Animal Rescue league, which was sending out a team to try and get him. But the man called back and said he had the cat and delivered him to the animal rescue league.

This is the second time Dexter has opened the window and jumped out. But the first time the car was parked. As I was escorting Dad, on his walker, to the passenger-side, Dad pointed and asked if that was my cat. Dexter was exploring the flower bed flanking the entrance to South Franklin. 

I do have a child-lock on my windows and thought I had secured it. Who could possibly dream that the cat would be inclined to leap out of a car speeding through a tunnel?

I pray to God that I don't use up any more of Dexter's lives through my stupidity."

Cancer

One of our first trips planned was to the Annapolis boat show followed by a stop in Cleveland to visit my dad.
The boat show was great except for the signs posted all over motel that pets are not allowed.  The penalty was a fine and eviction with no refund. So I checked craigslist and found a woman who would take a cat for a few days. She warned me that she was a hoarder and looked a little like a bumb. She was perfect. She had dogs, a tarantula and some rats. Dexter was enhralled by it all. We were able to enjoy our days at the show and our nights in the room. When we went to pick up Dexter I knocked on the door and got no answer. So I went back into the bedroom searching and found him in one on my shirt on the bed. I shouted with joy and continued my boisterous greeting until I noticed a body under the sheet. My first thought that it was dead because not a twitch was triggered by my loudness. But in the moment the woman stirred and groggily pulled herself together while I made a quick escape.
Next stop, cleveland. We stayed the cabin we had booked for the following year at the Pine Lake Trout Club.  We and Dexter loved all the wildlife (black squirrels and great blue herons to mention a couple) and the stream outside our windows.
But we hit a bump in the road when I discovered a lump in my armpit. That lead to nearly 10 days of tests, diagnosis of breast cancer and treatment plan at the Cleveland Clinic. All the doctors and other staff assured me that they treated everyone the same but how many queens of England can there be?
It all fit in perfectly with our move to be near dad until death do us part.
But our kids were encouraging us to get treated in Boston so I booked appointments at both Dana-Farber and Mass General Hospital.
Dana Farber convinced me that I must do the treatment through them, but I didn't take MGH off the table. I knew they would have to offer me much more in order to commit to them.

The beginning

A couple months ago I renamed this blog "On the Road with Dexter". Our plan was to Motor around the country with our beloved pixiebob cat. I guess it could still be named that. I'll explain in a little while.