Pinky Pie

I must confess that I’m a little compulsive. When I’m into something, I’m REALLY into something.

So a little snow this morning did not stop me from my daily rounds at the mall – although not sleeping last Thursday night kept me from my daily rounds last Friday.

Compulsive? Yes. Consistent? No.

When you are a mall walker, you get to know faces, names and sometimes lives. We say good morning (a logical thing to say at 7 a.m.) and wish each other a good day as we put on our coats to leave. Between there are comments about each other’s paces and a few “excuse me(s)” if you pass someone.

This morning I finished my last round with Arlene, who had breast cancer three years ago. (My friends did not show up.)

I meet women everywhere who have had this disease and are years out from treatment. Way to go women – for yourselves and for inspiration for those of us still in treatment.

Arlene ended up with a dead battery so I drove her home. And I pieced together what I knew of her husband, who also happens to be in Kiwanis with my husband.

Her husband is a retired pastor who has said this is a Christian nation and the government should act accordingly.

I know this nation was founded on the principle of freedom of religion, although not everyone remembers that. I could put in all sorts of quotes from George Washington, Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson supporting that premise, but this difference is not the point.

What we share in common is far more important. We believe in small kindnesses to others and daily walks in the mall (until spring when I’m outa there.) And we value support for other women going through this treatment.

I used to think having children was the great leveler between people. It enables connections between people who might not otherwise have something in common. We connect by sharing stories about our kids: the good, the bad and the ugly things that happened (thankfully, mostly good in our case).

Lately, I’ve noted connections between women who have had breast cancer who I have known or happen to meet in the community. My life will not always revolve around cancer, but when I do have these intersections with women who have gone through it, I have appreciated the encouragement and support.

I look forward to the time when I will be a woman who once had breast cancer five, ten, 15 or 20 years ago. It is my hope that reaching out to women diagnosed after me will help them.

A gal can dream.

A view of my new hair and new body.

It was a big moment Saturday morning, sitting with our kids – Maggie, Michael  and Jenny (Michael’s girl friend who is practically a kid of ours) – at brunch.

I took off my hat in the Uptown Diner in Minneapolis, careful not to allow my new long, lush and thick hair to fall into our food. OK, it’s not so long, lush and thick.

“You are not exactly Repunzel yet, Mom,” Maggie said, but “what you have is definitely growing.”

It was a great image. I laughed really hard.

It was amazing. For the first time since this whole breast cancer thing started, I was out of town. I’m back now, so no burglars need visit.

My kids were thrilled with my energy level. As Maggie said, “I feel like I’ve gotten my mom back.”

Michael is finishing his undergraduate degree at the University of Minnesota, where Maggie also graduated. He and Jenny are now waiting for responses on their grad school applications.

Maggie is finishing her master’s degree at the University of Kansas, while working full time as the communications coordinator for the Blue Valley School District in Overland Park, Kansas.

Maggie flew into Minneapolis Friday night because of a baby shower for her old college roommate. Her life has taken a turn since she was flying in to go to bridal showers.

We had a great time eating and shopping and eating. Michael and Jenny even fixed us brunch Sunday in Jenny’s place.

I’ve been such a hermit over the last five to six months that it was great to get out of town and not worry about the Boogey Man coming to get me because my immune system was compromised by chemotherapy.

I am back to being me; no hair and all.

And yes, patience is not my strong suit.

Orangina in a box.

I looked into my cat’s eyes last week on a visit to her in the veterinary hospital and said, “I know how you feel.”

Orangina (yes she is orange and white and was named after the drink) looked just miserable. I knew that look.

Been there.

After a week in the hospital, and mounting veterinary bills in addition to my own medical bills, I said to her veterinarian, “I will be your indentured writer for life.”

“Yes,” Dr. Tom Thompson said. “That’s why we need to make sure that the chemotherapy and radiation are working.”

I laughed. Hard. It was an absolutely perfect response.

Dr. Tom, who had his own bout with cancer a few years ago, said it like it was. We do want that stuff to work, whether to pay off my veterinary and medical bills, or simply because life is too much fun not to be here.

There is a certain amount of irony to my giving Orangina an IV and oral medicine while Dick holds her and a reason I didn’t become a nurse or doctor or anything in medicine.

When my kids were sick, my nursing skills were limited to making Jello and later, handing them a Popsicle. My mom used to make us pudding, which I certainly could have used over the four months of chemo.

I was not at all hard hearted about my children’s illnesses. I just am a weenie when it comes to body functions. Yuck.

I do remember one time when one of my babies – whose name shall be nameless in order to avoid embarrassing Michael – threw up all over me. And, I mean all over me.

At the time, I was wrapped up in a blanket holding the unnamed baby. We were covered and not just with the blanket. I called for help from Dick, who grabbed up everything while I took the baby upstairs to be changed.

The next day, we were looking for the remote control and couldn’t find it anywhere.

Later, I found a perfectly clean remote control in the dryer. With new batteries, it worked again – although clicking it at the other clothes in the laundry basket did not get the clothes put away.

Here’s to Orangina, Dr. Tom and the success of my chemo and radiation so I can pay off bills and continue to enjoy life.

The view over radiation is this - panels of flowers.

This is the art at the entryway to radiation.

I don’t know about you, but I have a pretty healthy imagination – especially for the unknown.

I had no idea before I began radiation what it would be like or even what the room in which the treatment is given would be like.

I imagined the bomb shelters that cropped up when we believed the Russians were coming to get us. Another possibility in my mind was off the iron lung machine of the 1940s that treated patients with polio in the 1940s and 1950s. And I also wondered whether I would hear a Geiger counter ticking away in response to the radiation.

None of these things happened. A machine does go around me and it makes a humming sound when it is radiating me, but it’s really not scary. And the sound is short lived. I am given radiation from four directions to make sure every angle is covered.

Radiation  ensures that whatever cancer may have survived surgery and chemotherapy (but hopefully not) gets what it deserves.

The folks who work in cancer care, whether it is chemotherapy or radiation, are absolutely wonderful people. They are upbeat and caring. And they are willing to laugh at my comments.

I have a picture of me on the radiation table because I wanted to show my family. Also, while I hope no one ever needs this service, I want it to give you confidence about the treatment ahead.

I thought today of the Debby Boone song, “You Light Up My life,” which I tweaked it a bit for this latest treatment. I hope Debby – who had breast cancer some years back – doesn’t mind.

You radiate up my life

You give me hope

To carry on

You radiate up my days

and fill my nights with song

And here is a picture.

A random patient in the linear accelerator. Perhaps she can be identified by her shoes.

Tiger Woods & Me. Obviously a photo taken a couple years ago.

Another one you didn’t see coming; I’m sure.

Today,  when I finished my 3.3 mile walk at the mall, the voice of Tiger Woods came on my iPod, which tracks my distance and speed:

This is Tiger Woods: Congratulations. You’ve just completed your fastest mile to date.

It was enough to make me take up golf.

Not.

I played golf for a season or two with friends from the School District of La Crosse plus my friend, Gayda. It was great fun at the time as we called ourselves the Not Up to Par Players (NUPP).

(I know that it is really down to par but we couldn’t create a cool acronym for that one.)

I grew tired of golf. What I don’t like about it is it is hot and there are bugs.

But that personal message from Tiger Woods amused the heck out of me. I know longer claim I have no connection with him.

I am not one of his 17 mistresses (Why are women automatically called mistresses in these situations?), or am I?  You can check out a list of photos and descriptions of the women connected with him – supposedly – at this website

http://www.nowpublic.com/culture/tiger-woods-women-list-complete-mistresses-count-w-photos-2537006.html

The website does give a caveat: “So that’s it for now – 17 women. Remember they are still not all confirmed though.”

I am not that interested in Tiger, actually, just amused that he popped up this morning to congratulate me. Obviously, these programmed voices were created before Tigergate.

And now, I’m wondering if I walk faster tomorrow, if I’ll hear from John Edwards.