So, it's been Side-Effect City at the Cake Eater Pad lately.

Since my first chemo treatment, almost three weeks ago, I've experienced everything from joint pain and swelling to bone and muscle pain to nausea to fatigue to a complete and utter five-day loss of appetite. It's been an adventure---and I use that as a euphemism, in case you weren't familiar with my particular brand of sarcasm---waking up every morning and wondering what it's going to be today. Because it will be something new and usual. You're assured of it. Fortunately, however, the side-effects are temporary, and most of the ickiness is over with by the fifth day, when most of the drugs are out of your system. Then you have to deal with recovering from the chemo, because it demands you take a few days off to recover from it. It's sort of like when you know you're done with the flu, but you're weak and ineffectual as a human being because your body needs time to recover. That lasted for four days in my case. Then I felt fine. My energy surged to pre-chemo levels this past Monday and I've felt like a rock star ever since. Last week I did all of the laundry by myself for the first time since my surgery, at the end of February. I managed to get the house cleaned up, except for the vacuuming, which the husband graciously agreed to do, because I'm still afraid I'll rip my innards to shreds if I push the floor sucker around the Cake Eater pad. I'm thinking about my spring planting and am starting to plan that out. I even manged to rip George Tenet a new one. I'm feeling pretty good right about now, and I really like it. I want it to stay that way, too. I like feeling good, because when you spend, literally, months not feeling good, or even normal, well, you treasure the time you feel well. It's cliched beyond all belief, but it's the truth. Everything feels better now. It really does. Food smells and tastes better. My evening glass of wine is a joy to imbibe. Spring is springing and I'm enjoying it even more this year than in years past. It's a rebirth not only for Mother Nature, but for myself as well. Life feels pretty damn good right now. Because I'm feeling good. Yet, my attitude might change by the end of the week. Barring any complications in the meantime, I have my next treatment scheduled for this Friday.

But that's in the future.

There's just one thing, though. Just one side-effect of the chemo that's still happening. Think you can guess what it is, my devoted Cake Eater readers? You can? Ok, good. Give it your best shot! YES. That's right. It's {insert drumroll here} hair loss!

Woo-freakin'-hoo, people!

It started, roughly, a little over a week ago, when I noticed I didn't have to shave the 1,023 square inches that comprise the surface area of my legs every day. It was every other day. Same with the armpits. Then, last Monday, twelve days out from my first treatment, my hair started coming out. Now, my devoted Cake Eater readers, when I have hair, I have a serious head of hair. It's thick. It's curly. It's long. And, for the most part, it's a pain in the ass. I whine as much about it as I possibly can. Because I can. I have a tempestuous relationship with my hair. I always have. It's Petruchio and I'm Kate. It's a love-hate relationship if there ever was one. Yet, it is also, quite seriously, my best feature. It makes or breaks my appearance. If it's out of control and frizzed out, creating what the husband calls "The Halo Effect," where all the broken ends rise towards the heavens, creating a halo of frizz that can be seen when I'm backlit, well, I look like hell. If, however, it's under control---easily achieved in January, when there's little to no humidity---I look pretty damn good. It is my crowing glory---to use an trite phrase to drive the point home.

I knew this was coming. My hair was going to fall out and I was going to be bald. Hair loss is a side-effect of both the carboplatin and the taxol I receive in my treatments. It was going to happen. I knew it was. I just wish it hadn't started to fall out when I felt so good. But, perhaps, there's a reason for that. Perhaps it's a built-in period of time to reestablish your good will towards life so you can deal with the fact that your hair has lost its will to be attached to your scalp, and any privacy you might have had regarding your diagnosis is shot to hell. Now, suddenly, everyone and their mother knows you have cancer. Or, in my case, had cancer. Because people know now. There's no getting around it. You look different than everyone else, so they notice the incongruity you represent---you're the one thing that's not like the other---and they look at you. They look hard. I have to say, my devoted Cake Eater readers, the accompanying reactions are interesting. Because if they're looking at me, well, I'm looking just as hard at them.

That said, I'm not bald just yet. That'll happen tonight because my head has suddenly turned into Charlie Brown's Christmas tree, and is shedding at every opportunity. If only it made that neat tinkling sound every time it shed, I'd have it made. I had to cut it short the other day because the hair loss was too unruly, too out-of-control. Go figure that my out-of-control hair would be out-of-control when it started to fall out.

They tell you that the best way to minimize the trauma of hair loss is to take it down to the scalp when it starts falling out. Otherwise, you just have to wait for it to do it's business. And it's a messy business. Particularly when your hair is long, because it comes out root to tip---and if your hair is over a foot long, well, my devoted Cake Eater readers, it looks like Chewbacca's been spending some time in your bathroom. Dr. Fuzzy Sweater told me to cut it short beforehand, so that it didn't create as much of a mess when it did fall out. I blatantly ignored this piece of advice. Fuck that, I thought. I'd had so much taken away from me, in such a short period of time, and I hadn't been ready for it. When my hair went, I decided, it was going to go on my terms---not anyone else's. I know it may seem a little whacko, but so much of what happens to you as a cancer patient is determined by other people---your doctors, your nurses, their schedulers, the lab technicians, and even the side-effects of the drugs you're on control you, as well. Cancer is like riding a roller coaster at an amusement park: you show up for the ride, but everyone else is in control---and all you can do, or are required to do, is hang on for dear life and scream at the appropriate times. So, when you can exert control over something, well, you grab the bull by the horns and you go for a ride.

So I did. It involved a barbershop, a pair of clippers and a willing barber. While I personally think the Marines would be happy with my hair as it is right now, the husband tells me it's not high and tight enough. What the hell, I wonder, would qualify? My hair is now less than an inch long in most places. This means, in the scheme of things, that I left, roughly, eleven or twelve inches of very thick, brown and blonde, curly, color-treated hair on the floor of the husband's barber's shop last Thursday. Don, bless him, had agreed to be my back-up a week before. The husband had offered to shear me. He has a set of clippers and I'm sure he would have done a fine job. I, however, wanted him to have a back-up in case he felt uncomfortable with the idea of it as the time came closer. When it came down to it, he felt Don would do a better job, so we got a last minute appointment, walked down to his shop and sat down for a shearing.

It was bizarre to be clipped, I have to say. I know that my devoted male Cake Eater readers probably deal with the buzzing every two weeks or so, but it was my first time and man, did, it feel weird. This vibrating thing was running along my scalp, cutting my hair as quickly as it's ever been cut, and long locks of hair it had taken me years to grow were falling to the floor as quickly as Don could move the clippers. The thought crossed my mind that someone had to invent this thing. How on earth did they come up with the idea that this vibrating thing would be the best way to cut hair? The most efficient way to cut hair? How did they think this up? I had no idea then, and I still haven't a clue. But, before I knew it, all the hair was gone. Don hadn't taken me down to the scalp. I hadn't mentioned that to him, so that was fine, because everyone in the shop was telling me how cute I looked with my hair this short. I didn't know what to say because I didn't have my glasses on. When I saw myself, I gasped a little bit, surprised at just how short it was.

And then Don made me laugh by telling me I looked just like a lesbian.

Because I do look like a lesbian now. And he's not the only one who's told me so. My brother called me the next day, after seeing the photo the husband had lightly bullied me into posing for and then emailed out, and he said the same thing. My hair is short. And it is cute, in a pixie-ish sort of way. It's soft if you run your hands down it; if you run your hands up it, well, it feels like a brush you'd pull out of your shoeshine box to polish your nicest pair of John Lobb Cordovan wingtips.

But it's still falling out.

It's just doing so in a more manageable way. I'm not clogging the drain now. Any long, brown hairs that are on the floor now are the husband's, not mine. My head gets cold, so I wear hats and do-rags when I go out---and to hide the fact that it's getting a little thin in spots. It's interesting, watching people watch me. Because, like I wrote up there, lo those many paragraphs ago, I can't hide it anymore. If you're wearing a hat or a do-rag, and your hair is as short as mine is, and your eyebrows are thinning out, like mine are, well, the chances you're a cancer patient are pretty good. (Although, I know some women who would pay really good money to have their eyebrows shaped like mine are now.) People look at you. They can't help it. They just do. What's interesting is how they respond to your cancer-ridden (or not) presence. I've devised a series of categories to place them in, because it's amazing how many of the responses are the same.

Ahem.

• First off you have the I'M NOT LOOKING AT YOU People. Theyr'e not looking at you. No, they're not. You just thought they were looking at you. They'll swear on a stack of bibles that they're not looking at you. You're wrong. Their pupils are firmly set directly in the middle of their sockets, they're looking directly ahead, and NO they did not SEE YOU. They'd swear they didn't. And if they did just for one fraction of a second, well, they didn't mean to see you. They really didn't. It was an accident and it will never happen again! EXCEPT THAT THEY JUST DID! AIEEEEEE! Oh, Holy Hell! Their eye slipped over to the corner and...they forced it by sheer will back to center. OHMYGODDIDTHEYNOTICE??? I DON'T WANT TO MAKE THEM FEEL LIKE THEY'RE IN A FREAK SHOW! I CAN'T LOOK! REALLY, I CAN'T. LOOK AT THE GROUND LOOK AT THE GROUND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST LOOK AT THE GROUND!!!!

  These are the people who pick up the pace and get by you really quickly.

• Second, you have the Smiley People. They're the ones who notice you, and make sure you notice them noticing you, then they break out in a big smile, to show you that you shouldn't feel awkward in their presence because---ahem---they understand.

  While their sincerity is sometimes hard to judge in an instant, I'm not knocking the Smiley People. They're the nice ones. You run into a lot of them when you take the shortcut to the oncologist's office through the hospital.

• Third, you have the No, My Mother Never Told Me It Was Rude to Stare. Why Do You Ask? People. They stare. They don't hide that they're staring at you. If you're a moving target, they will move with you to make sure their view of you stays unimpeded. Sometimes their jaws drop. Most of the time they manage to hide their Cro-Magnon Man instincts, however, and fit in with other Homo Sapiens and manage to just come off as incredibly rude.
• Fourth, and finally, we have the There, But For the Grace of God, Go I People. They're an interesting species. They notice you and they have a visceral reaction to you. It's not one that's meant to shun you or make you feel badly, it's just that you really don't matter. You're instantly out of the equation. Your covered head is simply the catalyst for them to think about how they would deal with the disease. You can see it play out on their faces. They're not sad that you have cancer; they're suddenly and abruptly sad because, one day, they might get it. And, judging by the reactions, their world will end if they do.

That it's so far. I might come up with new categories, we'll just have to see what happens. Oh, and I should mention there are plenty of people who look, but just look away, too. Then they just go about their business, like they would have before you wrapped your head up in a bandana. But they're hardly the majority. On the whole, however, it's been an excellent people watching experience.

And I'm not even bald yet. We'll have to see what happens tomorrow.

{Insert wiggling of thinning eyebrows here}

Posted by: Kathy at 05:59 PM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
Post contains 2484 words, total size 14 kb.

Ok, that's just sad. And stupid.

And people wonder why I don't subscribe to the Strib.

I'm serious about that, too. I can be chatting with a neighbor or someone I met at a party, something that was mentioned in the paper comes up, and I'm clueless; they inform me of what's going on; I shrug my shoulders and say, "Well, I haven't subscribed in years." They express shock and wonder at this statement, and perhaps look down on me, like I'm an idiot, that of course I should be subscribing, otherwise how will I know what Garrison Keilor has written this week? I honestly don't give a rat's ass what the Strib has published and, in general, the People's Republic of Minnesota is a much nicer place to live when you're not aware of what a select group of idiots (coughcoughMinneapolisCityCouncilcoughcoughStateLegislatorscoughcough...) are up to. I mean, honestly: what does it matter if I pay attention anyway? Will anyone in the establishment listen to me if I complain? No. So, why bother?

What's funny is that a few months back, when I wasn't blogging, I was actually called by a Strib reporter, who shall remain nameless because I can't remember his name. He left a message on my voice mail in regards to Mike Zabawa and could I please call him back? I have a brother that goes by that name and I wondered what he could have possibly done to merit attention. I call the guy back, and I find out that it's not my brother he's asking about, but rather this guy, who, allegedly, tried to wipe a Waseca family out of existence on a cold February night. I told him I didn't know him, and if I was related to him I certainly didn't know anything about it. Since he seemed disinclined to believe me, I had to explain that "Zabawa" is actually a pretty common Polish name, so, no, even though my maiden name is the same, I probably wasn't related to the guy. The reporter was also surprised that I didn't know anything about this. He seemed to assume that everyone knew all about the story and when I told him I didn't, because, ahem, I didn't subscribe to the Strib. His reply: "Shame on you." And he was half-serious, too! I told him I subscribed to the FT, and that shut him up. It just goes to show you what a ridiculous air of entitlement this newspaper---and some of its employees---gives off. It seems they just assume you should subscribe because you live here, that quality of content doesn't come into the equation. It's a ridiculously blind way to go about your business.

It's like a pot dealer not realizing that their market is eroding due to meth sales.

That said, I kind of had the feeling Lileks would get the ax, or a demotion, at some point. His column has been whacked at with the column-inch weed whacker for years, so that it's barely a shadow of what it used to be. They changed it from "The Backfence" to "The Quirk" and they moved it from the Variety page to the Metro section when they changed the name. (At least I think they did. The only time I pick up the paper lately is at the oncologist's office.) It's been coming for some time. God only knows what they're going to do to him next, but he's much too talented a writer to be forced to churn out stories about the Internet. I'm sure he'll give it his best shot, because that's just who he is, but it's a magnificent squandering of talent if I've ever seen one.

{see also: Martini Boy's Bartender and the Llamas}

Posted by: Kathy at 02:38 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 625 words, total size 4 kb.

George Tenet from his 60 Minutes interview on Sunday:

{...}Tenet admits the CIA's mistakes and his own. But what makes him angry now is how the White House ignored CIA warnings, cooked the books on intelligence, and then used "slam dunk" to brand him with the failure.

"The hardest part of all of this has just been listening to this for almost three years. Listening to the vice president go on 'Meet The Press' on the fifth year of 9/11, and say, 'Well, George Tenet said, slam dunk.' As if he needed me to say slam dunk to go to war with Iraq," Tenet tells Pelley. "And they never let it go. I mean, I became campaign talk. I was a talking point. You know, 'Look at what the idiot told us, and we decided to go to war.' Well, let's not be so disingenuous. Let's stand up. This is why we did it. This is why, this is how we did it. And let's tell, let's everybody tell the truth." {...}

{my emphasis}

What is that I hear? Could that possibly be the world's smallest violin playing the saddest of all sad songs just for you, George? Could it be? I think it is. Because God only knows you've had it rough over the past three years, living the life of a fat cat government retiree with a book deal. Poor you. Gosh, it must really be hard to have to hear Dick Cheney bad mouth you on national tee vee. How do you stand it? Copious amounts of scotch? Vicodin? Hookers? What? George, how do you manage to make it through the day? America wonders.

Far be it from me, however, to point out that for all your bitching and moaning about how hard it's been to listen to Dirty Dick badmouth you, there are other people who have it worse than you do. People with a far greater sense of honor, courage and fortitude, who are living through Hell on Earth, fighting bad guys left, right and center and who, sometimes, only manage to survive by the hair of their chinny chin chins. They, too, are facing the direct consequences of your actions, yet they don't get to go on 60 Minutes and whine about how hard it's been for them the past three years. Scott Pelley sure as hell doesn't want to interview them---that is, unless they've been accused of doing something wrong Then he's all over them. But until that point? Nope. They suffer in silence. And that's the way they like it. Because they don't see it as "suffering" per se; they see it as "doing their job."

And you just made it harder for them.

Nice double whammy, asshole.

In case you're wondering whom I'm referring to George, well, it's the men and women of the United States Armed Services, who went to war because their Commander in Chief ordered them to---a Commander in Chief who based his decision to wage said war on intelligence you delivered and which turned out to be bad. Surprisingly, however, they don't mind that. They're in Iraq, and no matter how they got there, they want to finish the job they started. Yet, you take no responsibility for your part in all this. Instead, you choose to whine that you've been scapegoated by an administration who never appointed you in the first place, and who should have, by all rights, fired your sorry ass on September 12, but who not only gave you the benefit of the doubt after 9/11, and who also went to bat for you when critics bayed for your blood. This is how you repay them. This is how you repay the men and women who risk their lives everyday for this country. You whine about how hard it's been to be badmouthed on Meet the Press?

Well, far be it from me to say so, George, but perhaps there should be a little rendition in your case. As in they should throw your lard-ridden ass on the back of a C-130 (no private jets for you, George), fly you to Iraq, dump you in the middle of Baghdad (and not the Green Zone, either) and see if your perspective changes a bit.

Methinks you'll still feel sorry for yourself, but it'll be for other reasons then.

See also: Hitchens and Fausta.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:43 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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I'm going to try to make myself useful by entertaining you all. Because God only knows I'm not doing a whole hell of a lot else right now.

Work with me here, people.

So, without further ado some bits and bobs for your amusement and edification...

• Longtime devoted Cake Eater readers will know that we take the Financial Times as our daily dead tree paper. This past Monday they redid the layout of the paper and it's been somewhat interesting this week to read it. I keep thinking my reading speed must have increased tremendously because I'm getting to the opinion section sooner, only to be reminded that, duh, they just moved it up a few pages. Apparently, I'm not the only one who's having issues with the new layout. One Mr. R.A. Parsons, Tempsford, Beds sent a most eloquent letter regarding the new, er, positioning of columnist Lucy Kellaway's regular Monday missive about work life.

  And I quote:

  "Sir, I preferred Lucy Kellaway horizontal."

• Just for the record, I still haven't puked. Yet.
• How sweet would it be to own this ride?
• I've decided that chemotherapy is this guy. He's doing his damndest to break me down, so that, ultimately, he can build me back up again, but damn, I really wish he'd lighten up a bit. Right about now, I'm feeling a wee bit like Mario Van Peebles after Gunny ripped out his earring. I do know, however, that it would be a mistake to call in Swede to try and stop him. Gunny would simply kick Swede in the nuts and that would be that. Waste of time, really.

  Now, I simply have to decide whether or not I like the mental image of millions of little Clint Eastwood heads running around my body, killing cells left and right, whilst muttering the words, "Boo Ya" in that gravelly voice of his.

  What say you, my devoted Cake Eater readers? Do you think Gunnery Sgt. Tom 'Gunny' Highway should be the official image of my chemotherapy?

  If not, who should be? We could have a contest or something.

• Though it slays me to give the tubby bastard anything, I fail to see where Alec Baldwin should have to apologize for chastising his daughter. Furthermore, this maxima mea culpa business is getting old. Kids can be cruel. No, parents shouldn't take out their frustrations on their children, particularly not when the source of said frustration is their other parent, but one can and should call a kid on it when they've stepped out of line. It does no one any favors to let them get away with it. I almost feel sorry for the guy. Almost.
• They warn you that chemo will cause your skin to be uber-sensitive to the sun, and they tell you to rush right out and buy a bottle of 45 sunblock to protect yourself. I realized they weren't kidding when I got sunburned last Friday, right after the chemo, in about fifteen minutes. No matter how pale I get (and believe me, I can get pretty darn pale) that doesn't happen. So, I've been slathering the sunscreen on all week long and whaddya know, just from doing my usual errands, I'm getting a pretty bitchin' tan.

  You see, it's about making the side effects work for you.

  Not like I'd really know, though. This is the only one that's worked in my favor.

• Luna Bars have the official Cake Eater Seal of Approval.

  Particularly the Dulce de Leche bars. Mmmmmmcaramelmmmmm.

• Spelling pet peeve that I'm seeing everywhere nowadays: it's capitol when you're referring to where the seat of government is located and it's capital when you're referring to start-up money, accumulated wealth, letters, an important principle or a crime that's punishable by death.

  Seriously, people. How hard is it to get this one right? All you need is to remember the opening credits of the now-defunct soap Capitol to spell this word correctly.

  And don't give me that disdainful look. You know you watched it.

  Honestly, if soap opera writers can spell it correctly, you can too!

• Right at this bleedin' moment, there is a pair of ducks in my yard, looking for a space to do their dirty deeds dirt cheap. I will repeat this for the third year running: The Cake Eater Pad's yard is not a duckie brothel! Move it along, already! Go to my neighbor's yard: she's a former hippie and no doubt she'd be cool with it. Take your duckie licentiousness elsewhere.

Ok, that should do it for now, my devoted Cake Eater readers. I'll check back in when I have the need to feel productive again.

Posted by: Kathy at 02:53 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 792 words, total size 5 kb.

1 Looks like you are rocking right along. Kudos to you. Shall I send a pellet rifle for you to kick duckie butt?

Posted by: Chrissy at April 27, 2007 03:21 PM (d3xGU)

2 I got my breast biopsy results on Monday. I have invasive ductal carcinoma. I see the oncologist on Thursday and we will make a plan. If you have taken Gunny Highway then I am going to take Gunny Hartman (R. Lee Ermy) from "Full Metal Jacket". I don't have a complete plan, yet. It looks like surgery, radiation, and possibly chemo. Just DAMN!

Posted by: Robin at April 27, 2007 05:55 PM (AzTnM)

3 What is it with this "Dulce de Leche" meme that's suddenly popped up? Starbucks is flogging it for all it's worth.

Posted by: Robbo the Llama Butcher at April 28, 2007 05:33 AM (piZDb)

4 I was thinking Tank Girl, but Clint is better.

Posted by: Margi at May 03, 2007 12:18 PM (2Wxch)

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A brief snippet of conversation over two steaming bowls of Cream of Wheat, approximately twenty minutes ago:

The Husband: "Do you want some craisins for your Cream of Wheat?"

Me: "No, I don't want to puke up any little red things later on."

The Husband: "That's a bit morbid, but I see your point."

UPDATE 8:19 p.m. 4/20/07: Just for the record, no, I haven't thrown up.

Not once.

That was me being paranoid. They've got me on three different anti-nausea drugs, decadron, ativan, and compazine, and they seem to be doing the trick, even if they all have their own little side effects associated with them, like drowsiness, fatigue, and a complete loss of appetite, and in the case of the decadron (which I had to take at three different, specific, times yesterday, before this even started) a flushed face, anxiety and sleeplessness. (Yeah, so last night was a real joy, because I had to take it at ten and wake myself up at four in the freakin' morning to take another dose.) But I haven't puked. And the oncologist swears that I won't, provided I keep up with these medications over the next three days. My job, as the RN pointed out to me right now, was just to stay on top of the medication (i.e. don't wait until the symptoms show up and then take it) and to rest, and I should be fine by Tuesday, when most of the drugs will have worked their way through my system.

The chemo procedure itself was, well, pretty boring, on the whole. It took about five hours, all told, to receive the drugs via IV---and I received them in a very swank recliner, in a room full of about twenty-five other people, receiving their own chemo regimens, who all had their own swank recliners. It was sort of like day camp for sick people, but instead of doing arts and craft projects, we all watched tee vee, read, listened to iPods, or, in the case of the husband and myself, we played a game of travel Scrabble, wherein I kicked his bony little ass by about fifty points. (That's what happens when you get stuck with the 'Q' at the end, after having already been beaten into submission by a few triple word scores.) Fortunately, I didn't have any allergic reactions to the drugs, and tolerated them well, except for when they pushed a half-sized bag of the decadron into my system and I thought I was having an hour long hot flash, but, again, that's just a side effect of the drug and it was remedied by a cold washcloth to the back of my neck. I tolerated the three hour taxol drip well, but by the time the half-hour carboplatin drip was done, the last bag of the day, I wasn't feeling so well, sort of like I had the beginnings of a bad case of stomach flu. Fortunately, we were on our way home and in and out of Walgreens, with all of my prescriptions, in a shot. And, within fifteen minutes, I had compazine in my system and it started working immediately. Enough for me to take a long nap. Which felt good, considering I had very little sleep last night.

So, all in all, it's going better than I expected. Which is good, because I kind of low-balled my expectations, assuming the worst. What I now have to look forward to is being immuno-compromised by next weekend, possible anemia, potential decreased white cell count (furthering the problems with my immune system), complete hair loss within three weeks, and, perhaps, neuropathies in my hands and feet from the taxol. We'll just have to see how it all shakes out.

Just in time for my next chemo session, three weeks from today.

Good fun, no?

And, just remember, my devoted Cake Eater readers, I'm already cancer free.

I ask again: good fun, no?

What's that line about the cure being worse than the disease?

And, Robbo, craisins are simply dried cranberries. They look just like raisins. Except they're red.

Posted by: Kathy at 07:43 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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The husband and I attended "Chemo Class" at the oncologist's office this morning. During class they give you the rundown on what will be happening to you during the treament, how you will feel afterwards and what the major side effects of chemo are. We toured the treatment room, we chatted about wearing jewelry during treatment (You shouldn't, just in case you're allergic to the chemo. They don't want to have to cut your rings off.), hair loss, skin and nail care, mouth care, infections, and, most importantly, nutrition. They then tell you that nutrition can be a major factor in how you feel, and that it can help control some of the adverse effects of chemo. The class was mainly a primer and they sent us home with a boatload of literature, neatly organized in its own expandable envelope. One little booklet from the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, the National Institutes of Health and the National Cancer Institute, titled, "Eating Hints for Cancer Patients: Before, During and After Treatment," has some wonderfully helpful tips I'm sure we'll be using during all of this.

What I found interesting were the tips they gave in case you should lose weight and need to get your calorie count back up. They're simple, helpful tips to boost your count without having to eat more food---which might be an issue as appetite loss can be a problem. The last thing you want to have to do when you have no appetite is eat more. They include things like:

• switching to whole milk


• making fortified milk with whole milk and powdered milk


• add sour cream to cream soups


• folding unsweetened whipped cream into mashed potatoes (ed. heavy whipping cream has six grams of fat per tablespoon. Don't ask I how know this.)


• make hot chocolate with cream and add marshmallows


• melt cheese on top of casseroles, potatoes and vegetables


• add cheese to omelets and sandwiches


• use melted butter or margarine as a dip for seafoods, such as lobster, crab, scallops and shrimp


• stir melted butter into cream soups, sauces and gravies

I could go on, but I think you get the gist. What the cardiologist loathes, the oncologist loves.

Heh.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:24 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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I finally, finally find a product that controls my curly hair and now it's all going to fall out in approximately three weeks.

Go freakin' figure.

You just can't win if you've got curly hair. Really. It sucks trying to find something that tames the wild beast that is the mop on your head. And you try everything that comes down the pike. Believe you me, straight-haired people of the world, you'll never have the product problems I have had over the years. But I found something. And it works. It does what it says it's going to do. And you, who have had the ol' bait and switch pulled on you too many times to count when it comes to "frizz control" have a hard time believing it. And when you finally believe it, you jump for joy, secure in the knowledge that, unless the company goes bust, your hair worries are at an end for the time being.

Then, of course, because God enjoys a good laugh every now and again, you get cancer and have to have chemo. Which makes your curly hair fall out. And then the doctor tells you it may grow back in differently. The color may be different. The texture may be different.

At which point, if you've got my luck, you'll probably be stuck with a whole lot of product made to tame curly hair you no longer have. Probably.

Alanis Morrissette should write a song or something.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:20 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Or, Why It's Generally Considered a Bad Idea to Chat With an Oncologist Whilst High on Percocet.

If you're interested, take the jump.

(Parts One and Two of the Neverending Ovarian Cancer/Hysterectomy saga can be found here and here.) more...

Posted by: Kathy at 02:14 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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The title says it all. In no particular order...

• Could you not announce to the entire waiting room, which is the size of a football field, that we're "self-pay"? Would that be possible?
• What's with the reliance on pharmaceuticals to solve every problem? Eh? Whilst I was in residence, I developed a rash on my back. It wasn't anything serious, but it was uncomfortable so I asked the nurse if I could have some benadryl for it. She dutifully started looking at my chart and saw I was cleared for it and was about to get ready to go and get some, when it occurred to me that she meant to give me an injection of benadryl, not the topical stuff I was asking for. I stated as much and she said, "Oh, we don't have that." Eh? I'm in a hospital and they don't have Benadryl cream? How is that possible? They have this phenomenal, computer operated cabinet to house the drugs and through some sort of magic it only allows the drawer that holds the particular medicine the nurse is looking for to open up, while the rest stay locked. This thing is HUGE, too, and they have TWO of them on this floor. There's enough drugs in both of them to make the fifth, sixth and seventh fleets, respectively, very, very happy and yet there's no benadryl cream? I simply told the husband to bring the cream from home. And it worked, too.
• And while we're on the topic of overlooking the obvious, let's chat about gas, shall we? I had some bad gas pains while I was in residence. This, in the scheme of things was a good thing as it meant my gastrointestinal system was working, even if I couldn't give it anything to work on. But the pains were horrible. I was bent over half the time and miserable. I wanted them to go away so I asked for something. What did they give me? Dilaudid. Which is a narcotic. And they gave me a lot of it. What they wouldn't give me, however, was Gas X, or mylicon, which would have solved the actual problem. When I got home, I had two tablets and---POOOF!----the pain was magically gone.

  This was interesting in that the doctors claimed they couldn't give me anything to stop the gas pains because they wanted the system to keep working, even if it was painful. But, as it turns out, the reason I didn't have any appetite was because of the gas pains. The morning after I got out of the hospital, I ate a soft boiled egg and a whole piece of toast without a problem---and I was mildly hungry when I ate it. So, I'll leave it to you, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, to do the math on that particular problem.

• They need to find something better to wrap up IV's for showering than saran wrap. It just doesn't work.
• There has got to be a more fashionable alternative to hospital gowns than what is on offer. Really. They're ugly. And don't even get me started on the bright white circulation tights I had to wear for a week. Oy.
• Although, I will say this much about hospital-issued clothing: I really liked the panties they gave me to wear. I liked them so much, I stole a pair and am still wearing them every so often. Very comfortable.
• TORT REFORM NOW! You bastard personal injury lawyers are really on my shit list. Why, you ask, while you cower in fear of the Cake Eater, are you, a personal injury lawyer, on my shit list? What could you, a mere instrument of the law, have done to get on my bad side in such an egregious way? Well, let me tell you: this hospital had no heating pads that actually emitted, you know, heat because you assholes sued the hospital after some idiot managed to burn themselves with one.

  After my surgery, I asked for a heating pad. I was told they'd have to order one, but the nurse brought me a hot blanket instead. I didn't think much about it at the time, but it should have struck me as odd that they'd have to order a heating pad. You'd think that would be something they'd have on hand. Alas, I was drugged up, so I didn't think too much about it, other than to note I was making the nurses and nurses' assistants run around a lot, fetching me blankets out of the warmer.

  The next morning, the heating pad arrived and where I was expecting a simple heating pad, like the kind you'd buy at a drug store, what I received was something different entirely. It was a heating pad, all right, but it was, in essence, a big rubber pad that looked like the larger variety of bubble wrap. It had a small water heater running to it via flexible metal tubes. The theory was this: you poured distilled water into the heater, it warmed up and, after traversing the metal tubes, it flooded the little pillows in the rubber pad with soothing warm water. You were, in theory, supposed to get some relief from this contraption. It didn't happen in reality because you couldn't adjust the heat on the water heater. It wouldn't let you and it was set low because of the fears that someone would burn themselves and would, inevitably, sue. Because of this, and some heat loss in the metal tubes, well, it actually seemed as if the temperature of the heating pad was less than my body temperature.

  This thing was worthless, but I used it anyway. It at least did a pretty good job of holding onto the heat from the constant supply of warm blankets that were applied on top of it. I swore repeatedly that if I won the Powerball, I was going to endow the floor with enough heating pads for all and set up a small legal fund to fight off the personal injury lawyers.

  All I can hope is that somewhere, there's a personal injury lawyer who has made some money off of one of these suits, that is suffering mightily after severe abdominal surgery because due to liability issues, they can't have a heating pad

  Heh. That would be justice.

Ah, I feel a wee bit better now.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:29 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Before I get going, I'd like to thank everyone for their kind words and well wishes. It's been an amazing experience reading the comments and nice emails people have sent. I truly appreciate all of you and I'm very sorry I can't respond to each of you individually---I just don't have the energy yet. But I'm sure you understand.

Because that's why you're my devoted Cake Eater Readers, eh?

Anyway, moving away from the schmaltzy stuff before my menopausal emotional state reaches Defcon One, aka, "Full-On Meltdown" lets get to it. If you're interested in reading about my travails in the hospital, take the jump. If you're not, well, what the hell are you doing here? This blog, much like John Edwards campaign, has turned into an All Cancer-ALLTHEBLOODYTIME experience. Perhaps you'd rather go read about Obama's trip to Kenya instead?

Heh. Couldn't resist. I'll see all interested parties below the fold.

(Oh, I should probably include the disclaimer that some of what is below might be considered "graphic." I don't know what your tolerance for such things is, so if you're sensitive that way, by all means, skip reading the post.) more...

Posted by: Kathy at 11:38 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Well, my neglected-yet-still-uber-devoted Cake Eater Readers, I've got news.

As you might have gathered from the title of this here post, it's rather momentous news.

And not "momentous" in what most people would associate with the phrase "good way," either.

Yes. I have cancer. Not really any more, though. It's kind of confusing, so if you would like to read about trips to the ER, vaginal ultrasounds (which are not nearly as sexy as they sound), cat scans, a doctor who is a grown-up version of Cindy Lou Who (with a few doses of collagen in the lips), another doctor whose last name is, quite literally, synonymous with the word "pain", an oncologist who wears fuzzy sweaters, and a diagnosis of ovarian cancer on an operating table followed by a full blown hysterectomy, well, take the jump. more...

Posted by: Kathy at 11:53 PM | Comments (30) | Add Comment
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I had resolved to give up adult beverages for Lent this year.

But then early yesterday morning, I got a panicky telephone call from my terminally-ill Dad, convinced that he was going to be dead within 24 hours.

It proved to be a false alarm in the end but it was still one hell of a strainfull day. And we have pretty good reason to believe there are going to be more of them.

I'm not theological expert, but I'm hoping God'll give me a bye under the circumstances.

Posted by: Robert at 12:39 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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One JOHN RYAN left this pithy comment to my last post of a while back:

Another dead right wing blog

Well, Jack, assuming you're not just an agent provocateur trying to mess with Kathy, Russ or me, what exactly is your point? Are you trying to make a connection between this blog's general rightward tilt and the fact that there hasn't been much of any posting lately? On what do you base this connection? Are you suggesting that we eeeeeevil right wingnuts have been driven back under our rocks by recent events? Again, where exactly do you get this? Or are you just a loserboy who hasn't anything better to do with himself than surf the net for dormant blogs and leave snide, empty comments?

FWIW, our dear pal Kathy decided some time back that she has what's known as a Real Life, on which she needed to focus her energies. I had hoped to keep this place going on a regular basis until such time as she decided to jump back in the blogging pool, but I quickly discovered that I simply didn't have enough material to cover two blogs continuously. Hence the extremely erratic posting.

Also FWIW, I (at least) am still an unapologetic right wing blogger. Let me give you a sample of my views:

- I support the President. I thank God that Bush was elected in 2000. I believe the invasion of Iraq was necessary and I still support both the troops and the mission. Related to this, we're going to have to deal with Iran sooner or later, so get used to the idea.

- I think "Global Warming" alarmism is nothing more than scare-mongering for the purpose of grabbing political power.

- I believe Roe v. Wade was an abomination and that abortion as a form of birth control is plain murder.

- I think Social Security is dead and the sooner the gov'mint moves toward private investment accounts, the better.

- I support a Constitutional amendment making English the official language of the United States.

- I support the abolition of all limitations on financial donations to political campaigns, with the proviso that all such donations must be made subject to immediate and full disclosure.

- There is no such thing as gay marriage. Period.

Is that enough to be going on? Because I've got lots more.

Posted by: Robert at 08:52 AM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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Yours truly turns 39 (no really, I'm turning 39. I'm proud of my hard-earned gray hairs & see no reason to hide my age.) this coming Sunday. I remember getting a birthday card once that listed celebrities who share my birthday, and the only ones I can remember right now are Vanna White and Molly Ringwald. Miss Ringwald and I actually were born on the exact same day, which gives me something to discuss with her if I am ever seated next to her on a flight or find her standing in line for Christmas present returns (or something like that).

Punch & Pie will be served in the vestibule. In lieu of presents, please feel free to suckerpunch a hippie and tell him "That one's for Russ, you filthy beast!"

Posted by: Russ from Winterset at 09:54 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Note to self - entries vanish even if you update them. Bollocks.

Posted by: Robert at 04:20 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Watch it, I say!

UPDATE: Well, are you watching?

UPDATE: Yes, I'm talking to you.

UPDATE: Look, I'm telling you: you'll be sorry if you don't watch. Trust me on this.

UPDATE: Ha! Did you miss me? Well you would have if you kept watching like I told you. Don't let your attention wander again.

Posted by: Robert at 04:19 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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The bad news is that my next door neighbor is still singing Me! Me! Me! at the top of her voice.

The good news is that owing to some departures and additions in my section, some office assignments are being switched around and I get to move to another hall (with a better view, I might add).

The guy who's taking over my cubicle came by the other day to ask how it was. I simply smiled Sphinx-like and told him that I had no complaints.

Posted by: Robert at 10:15 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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This is the kind of shit we're going to have to put up with from the macZealots we have to deal with on a regular basis.

Check out the drool encrusted specs here.

Touch screen for a keypad? No tactile response? It's going to suck.

Wanna be a millionaire? Start calling up Chinese manufacturers to find the fastest, cheapest one who will produce, pack and ship 1 million, custom designed scratch-resistant iPhone "pockets" with a drawstring, optional lanyard and/or belt clip and a pocket on the back that contains a branded, scratch resistant buffing cloth. Afficianados will certainly want the buffing cloth cut from Steve Jobs' old tighty-whities. They'll pay triple for the portion that cradled his nutsack...probably more if it's unwashed.

And what's with the android model hand in that photograph?!? Check out how long the thumb is in comparison to the other fingers! An obvious attempt to make the thing look smaller than it is. (Which I know "I" don't want in a left hand...)

ME?? I want one of these!

Posted by: MRN aka "The Husband" at 09:55 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Have I mentioned before that the office next to mine is inhabited by a woman who has a) an extremely loud and carrying voice and b) a life of ongoing crises seemingly plucked straight out of "Oprah"?

She's forty but seems to be dealing with issues most of us have got past by about seventeen or so. Or rather, she's dealing with issues that confront the average forty year old - marriage, kids, career, life goals - the way a seventeen year old would. And with the results that you'd imagine.

At first I was just annoyed at the distraction. Now I'm filled more with a combination of pity and horror, pity that she should be having these problems and horror that she apparently doesn't even understand her own immaturity is at their root. How can somebody live like that?

Of course, I'm still annoyed, too.

Posted by: Robert at 10:11 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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1 It never ceases to amaze me how some can just flit through life with seeming ease while I sweat every second. NOT fair. I suppose it's a good time to be glad that it's not YOU that's the next episode of Okra, huh?

Posted by: Just Me at January 09, 2007 01:09 PM (7dCZy)

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Ya' know, Chee-toes are all very well, but for serious snacking you just can't beat a big ol' bag of salt-n-vinegar potato chips, especially when they're extra salty n' vinegary and your lips wind up all scaly and discolored.

Posted by: Robert at 12:51 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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