Tourettes Strikes Again

I have a personalized license plate that says PAYITFW, and it informs the way I drive and behave behind the wheel. I went to the Bud Galvin School of Offensive Driving, as my sister Mary says, so having to live up to my license plate is a good thing.

Unfortunately, I've been feeling crabby lately about being visited with breast cancer.

As I left my knitting group on Monday night, I drove down the alley as usual and looked left at the end of the alley in preparation to turning right onto the street. I didn't see the three hipsters in black on the sidewalk to my right. They looked peeved and I should have just said "Sorry," but I didn't and turned right onto the street. One of them smacked the side of my car.

I slammed on the brakes, lowered the window, and shrieked like a maniac, "IF YOU EVER TOUCH MY CAR AGAIN, I'LL KILL YOU!" Hip as they are, they looked stunned. Great visual: sweet. saintly white-haired grandmother in a socially conscious Prius with a holy license plate yelling like a trucker. I felt bad for the whole next day. At least I didn't call them little f******s.

More Damned Fun

I didn't intend for this blog to be about this little cancer thing, but it is serving the purpose of me not having to repeat the same story 90 times.

So, today's installment goes like this: things didn't seem right so I called the surgeon and told her nurse, "Things don't seem right." She said come in at 1 p.m. and we'll make things right.

First they swabbed with Betadyne, then injected with novacaine, then used a giant horse syringe to drain out 40 cc's of what was joshingly referred to as "old blood." And if that wasn't enough, the doc says she will undoubtedly have to do it again in a week.

Keep those cards and letters coming. Send white light in mega doses.

Left Boob as Hobby

This whole deal has many requirements—things I have to do, all of them during work hours and none of them paying a dime. Here's the latest skinny.

Saw Dr. Landis, radiation oncologist, last Friday. He spelled out the radiation thing in detail, right down to the two tattoos I have to get on each side of my torso so they can line up the machine. I've requested mermaids, at Mary's suggestion, but they keep insisting on tiny dots.

Next is a chemo consult with a Dr. Tolman. I asked why I have to talk to him, since I'm not having chemotherapy, and they waved around some vague references to hormones. Since hormones are what likely got me into this in the first place, it's not bloody likely that I'll take any more.

After that comes a CT scan so they can accurately plan the bombardment.

Finally, we go into 5 to 7 weeks of daily radiation treatments right in time to cancel out my vacation in Santa Barbara with my BFF Ellen and our nurse practioner friend Fran.

There are no fun chemicals involved in any of this; however, Dr. Landis says it increases the chances of no recurrence of the C word by 100%, so I guess I'm in.

I'd like to end this on an up note. I feel very good, I've discovered how many people care about me and they are just the people you'd want to care about you, and I'm not in the least bit worried.

FYI, here's something you might want to know. If you can't think of anything to say to someone having a hard time, say that. "I hear you are having a hard time and I don't know what to say, but I want you to know I wish you weren't."