Pink Ribbons

I've been on the mailing list of Medex, a medical supply company, ever since I ordered some stuff from them for our Hospital Holidays party. Today I was treated to this way-too-pink-for-a-Monday-morning email:



When you click for more information, it takes you to this press release, but to save you the trouble, here are some highlights.

MedexSupply Announces the Release of the ADC Limited Edition Pink Ribbon Stethoscope, With Proceeds Being Donated to Breast Cancer Research


Medexsupply, (http://www.medexsupply.com) a national leader in the supply of medical instruments and equipment announced the release of the ADC 603 Limited Edition Pink Ribbon stethoscope to the health market. The company will donate a portion of the proceeds from their versatile, new stethoscope to Breast Cancer Research.

Through the sale of our Pink Limited edition ADC 603 Stethoscope Breast Caner Awareness Merchandise, we will donate $5 for Breast Cancer Research for each stethoscope purchased

Look, the last thing I want to do is complain about money being donated to breast cancer research, or, as Medex calls it, Breast Cancer Research. But it's a pet peeve of mine when products say a portion of your price is going to something like that, and they don't tell you which research group/foundation/whatever. Is it the Breast Cancer Research Foundation? Susan G. Komen? Breast Cancer Action? Is it mammograms for uninsured women, or lab funding for scientists developing new drugs? Is it some cutesy organization that spends more money on self-promotion than research?

Anyway, I've gone off plenty of times about the commodification of breast cancer and how companies exploit it to increase sales/profits. Also, how these marketing campaigns encourage the kind of armchair activism that leads people to believe they've done their part by buying the pink lidded-yogurt, so they never do anything else. Besides, it's coming up on Breast Cancer Awareness Month, when everything turns pink, so I'd better save some of my crankiness for that.

The press release goes on to detail more technical specs than I ever could have imagined a stethoscope to have, but not before a little dig at my self-esteem:

Current research has led to more and better treatment options, and many women are spared radical disfiguring surgeries.

I'm just going to pretend like they're talking about the chest-muscle-removing mastectomies from days of old.

---

John Edwards

If you're still reading, let's move on to the sordid John Edwards goings-on. I've heard & read responses to this that are all over the map:


It's none of our business.
Why are we always surprised to find out politicians are human?
Someone screwing up their personal life doesn't necessarily mean they'd be a bad leader. Why does it make a difference that he did it while she was in remission? Like that makes it better somehow?
She should kill him.
She should castrate him.
She should divorce him and take him for everything she's got.
Live and let live, I say. But John Edwards is not doing much for the image of trial lawyers who have wives w/ cancer. Thanks a lot, pal. (this one was Dan's!)


Here are my thoughts. First, I've always admired them, so it's disappointing. Secondly, I'm usually not one to rush to judgment when we hear about people cheating; people have all sorts of different marriage arrangements, and who knows what's okay with them and what's not. Sadly, the fact that she "found out" about it implies it was not just a consensual part of a non-conventional marriage.


If he did use campaign funds to pay her for her videography even though she wasn't qualified or experienced, as some reports say, that's a misuse of campaign funds, and he should have to answer to his donors for that. So in that sense, at least, it is other people's business - or at least people who gave him money.


Also, if the baby is his, that raises the disturbing possibility that he was having unprotected sex with someone outside his marriage. That means he was exposing his wife, who was immuno-compromised from around half a year of chemotherapy and radiation, to whatever the woman he slept with had. And whatever the other people she slept with had, and so on. THAT possibility is what seriously gives me an emotional response to this story. 'Cause that shit ain't right. It's dangerous. He endangered her already fragile health.


I feel for Elizabeth, going through all this insanity while dealing with terminal cancer. God, what a shitty hand she has right now.

---

Related Reading:

Breast Cancer for Fun and Profit
"AstraZeneca, a pharmaceutical company, first organized Breast Cancer Awareness month in 1985. This was an auspicious beginning because, as Breast Cancer Action, a breast cancer prevention advocacy group, notes, AstraZeneca manufactures an herbicide known to cause cancer."


Crunch for the Cure
"What will happen to global consumerism if breast cancer is ever really "cured"? Luckily for SunChips, it seems unlikely that we'll find out in the forseeable future. [...] In other words, when you think of a breast cancer "survivor", you don't picture a poor black grandmother living in squalor without health insurance (and you certainly don’t imagine a woman who, because of sensible research efforts, never got cancer in the first place.) The Breast Cancer Brand woman is a pro-patriarchy white chick: middle-class, straight, virtuous, concerned with maintaining her femininity, and married with two above-average kids. [...] These circumstances, i.e. breast cancer, turn out to be, as King says, a lucky gift. In fact, breast cancer has given her such a marvelous opportunity for personal growth, she'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. We never hear about the dead women, of course, since their demise does nothing to reaffirm faith in the medical establishment, the government, patriarchy, the status quo, the Ford Motor Company, Avon cosmetics, or Hooters."


Sneer of the Week
"I hate Komen because they’ve brainwashed millions of people into believing that if they buy pink shit they are “making a difference.” Snap out of it! All you are doing is buying pink shit. Komen is a marketing facilitator. They do not reduce breast cancer occurence. They do not reduce breast cancer deaths. All they do is hook up sanctimonious shopaholics with corporate leeches who want to shine up their tarnished public images."

(Cross-posted - sorry to those who have to sift through it twice)

I can't begin to tell you how I feel about today, because I can't really parse it out myself, yet.

Today I had my last cancer treatment.

428 days ago today, I had my first treatment. It was chemo, the really nasty kind. 359 days ago I had my first dose of Herceptin. First I had it every week, for 12 weeks. Then I had it every 3 weeks, for a year. And today was the last one.

I will not set foot in my oncology office for three months. In the past year and a half, the longest I've gone without being there was three weeks.

When I had my last chemo, I was ready to party. My hair was growing back a tiny tiny bit, I wore my "I Survived Chemo" sash from Aunt LaVerne, I was all dressed up and wearing a tiara, and that night I went out drinking with my friends.

Today, quietly, with no fanfare, I had my last treatment. I sat for about an hour and a half hooked up to the IV bag, watching a DVD on my laptop. It was just the same as all the other times - thirty, maybe? - that I've had treatments.

The hotel across from chemo that was just a foundation when I started has been open & running for weeks. Everything is different now - I certainly feel different now - but in the chemo room, everything stays the same. New people are always starting treatment. Other people are always finishing theirs up. Some people there will never finish treatment - they're stage IV and will be in treatment until it stops working, then they'll live as long as they can, and probably go to hospice.

Today while I was waiting to get hooked up I heard Linnea, one of the physician's assistants, breaking the news to a doctor that one of his patients had brain metastasis. She was being routinely screened before entering one of their clinical trials. For most trials you have to start out with a baseline CT or MRI of the patient. But this patient won't be in the trial now. She got a phone call this afternoon that every cancer patient lives in fear of, no matter how much we try to ignore it. Three lesions on her brain. I've overheard these calls before. Once, on one of the rare times Dan wasn't with me during a treatment, I heard a call about lung mets. I briefly met the eyes of the person in the chemo chair across from me who'd heard it too, and we quickly went back to our books, trying to pretend we hadn't heard.

I haven't formed long relationships with anyone in chemo. Everyone's treatment schedule is different, so you might see the same people there a few times in a row, but then you won't see them anymore. I wonder about some of the people I've seen there, and how they're doing now. During my first treatment, I shared a room with a lady who had lung cancer. She was bald, in the middle of hardcore chemo, couldn't stay warm even with a bunch of blankets. She scared me because I wasn't to that point yet, but I knew it was coming. Her adult daughter brought her to treatment but spent most of her time outside in the truck, talking on the phone. Every time she came back in, she smelled like cigarette smoke. I saw that woman twice more, then never again. I wonder if her treatment worked and how she is now.

There are so many of these little stories you see in chemo. And because they're brief and never go any further, they're like faint sketches of someone's life, without details filled in. Or with tiny details filled in but none of the major biographical information. I might know that the man across from me hasn't been able to eat anything but Saltine crackers for a week and that he was too tired to drive himself home from the doctor last time and that he's so thin that it looks like his chemo port will pop right through his skin, but not his name, or what he does for a living, or whether he has kids, or what kind of cancer he has, or whether his chemo is curative or palliative.

I actually almost cried today at the end of my treatment. I feel relieved, yes, but it's bittersweet. It's not pure joy to get to the end of a road you never wanted to be on, and know you'll never be able to really and truly remember what life was like before. You'll remember intellectually, but it's like remembering a taste or physical pain - you can think about what it was like, but not recreate the experience emotionally. And you know that some people will not reach the end of this road, and they're no more or less worthy than you, or anybody else who's walking there.

I don't know. I can't believe it's over. It took me a long time to believe I had cancer - maybe it will take me a long time to believe I'm done with treatment. I kind of feel stunned. And a little bit like a baby bird who's been kicked out of the nest. No one will be looking in on me every three weeks to ask me if I'm experiencing any shortness of breath or ankle swelling, or how my appetite is, or whether I'm sleeping well. There's something comforting in feeling like you have a whole medical team monitoring you constantly.

I still take a pill every night, and will for four more years. But I'm not as much of a Cancer Patient now, and it definitely feels different. This milestone, and turning 30, and a couple of other things that have unfolded over the past few days have me very emotional. Writing it down helps me figure it out. Thanks for reading. And thanks for all your support along the way. It's been a long 463 days since I found out I had cancer. I'm ready to stop counting for a while.

The Red Cross and Louisville Public Media (my place of employment) are teaming up to have a blood drive tomorrow from 10am-3pm. The Louisville Red Cross has an urgent need for blood - as of right now, they are operating with less than a 24-hour supply.

No one wants my incancerated* plasma, so I thought I would post to see if anyone** reading this could come donate. You can either set up an appointment by calling the lovely Janelle (our receptionist extraordinaire) at 814-6500, or just walk-in and sign up on the spot. We're at 619 South 4th St., between Broadway & Chestnut, right next to the Palace Theater.

If you do, let me know and I'll come say hi and hold your hand while they stick the needle in, then get you a cookie.

__________________________________________
* Chemotherapy depletes patients' red blood cells to the point where many of us need blood transfusions sometime over the course of our treatment. I was lucky enough not to (Procrit did the trick for me) but it was close a couple times, and many of my good friends have needed transfusions to get them through treatment. So there - I played the cancer card to persuade you to give blood. How can you say no?

** The eligibility guidelines say that if you are a male who has had sexual contact with another male since 1977, or if you've had sex with someone who fits that description, you can't donate. I would agree with those of you who might say this is BS. We did a show on blood donation a few years ago, and apparently this is a state regulation, not one implemented by the Red Cross.

Buster passed away yesterday evening. His death and the hours leading up to it were peaceful, and he didn't seem to be afraid or in any pain. He died curled up next to me on the couch, under a blanket.

Fittingly, his last act on earth was to pee on something.

We're having his body cremated - a process Adam had expected would be like when they burned Qui-Gon Jinn's body on a funeral pyre in Star Wars - and we should get his ashes in a few days.

Right after he died, Jiffy really checked out his body and smelled him. Then she climbed into Dan's lap and looked pensive. I don't think Willy really knew anything had happened, but she could tell we were upset, which makes her upset.

I don't know what the majority of his life was like. He came into Chihuahua Rescue as a stray who was afraid of everyone and bit people. But I like to think that his last two years or so were happy and comfortable. One day I'll write the story of how Buster came to live with us, but for today, I'll just post pictures.

Buster was the only animal who never left the house while I was sick. He was calm enough to stay through my surgery, and was my 24-hour-a-day cuddle buddy while I recovered from surgery and went through chemo.

Thank you Buster, for taking such good care of me. I miss you.



( More Pictures )

Thanks everyone who commented and emailed for my cancer- and mastectoversaries! I'm out of my funk, for now. I handled it by drinking too much and running my mouth all night long Saturday night maturely.

Before cancer, I had a livejournal here: funambulator. I'm going to go back to it. But if I post anything health related (scan results, treatment changes, etc.) I'll post it here also. That way if you just want to keep an eye on my cancer status, you can keep this bookmarked, or sign up for the email feed, or what have you, and not have to be subjected to whatever I might post on the other journal (read: mundane what-I-did-today posts, videos of cute animals, my half-baked opinions on everything).

I should have more to post soon - I'm supposed to be having abdominal and pelvic CT scans the week after Derby week, so hopefully I'll have more cool science-fictiony pictures of my innards to share. Like these blasts from the pasts:





Oh, also, I do have pictures of the new, permanent foobs uploaded. Now remember, these are pictures of a surgically altered rack (fack?) so don't click if you're squeamish or if you're going to get in a twist about it!

The dreaded tissue expanders, during their last night on earth: http://picasaweb.google.com/LauraMEllis/Surgery/photo#5186692663455097186

The day after exchange surgery: http://picasaweb.google.com/LauraMEllis/Surgery/photo#5186692203893596450

New foobs: http://picasaweb.google.com/LauraMEllis/Surgery/photo#5186691933310656786

Now I just have to decide once and for all whether to get fipples or just cool looking tattoos over the scars. I'm still a cyborg, because I still have my chemo port (see above) until I finish Herceptin in late July.

It just doesn't sound as good as cancerversary. Or survivorversary.

It's 10am on April 18. This time last year I was getting my boobs amputated while my husband, family and friends waited anxiously in the waiting room.

This is a sadder anniversary than the one on Saturday was. In fact, all this anniversary business has me upset and uptight. I mean yes, of course I'm happy to still be alive and that I've 'survived' for a year. But obviously I still wish I wasn't even having to think of it at all and that none of it ever happened.

I've heard people say that their cancer was a gift, and that it made them appreciate life more and not take things for granted. I'm not to that point yet. It's not a gift I'm glad I got. It's kind of like if you're deathly allergic to dogs and someone gives you a puppy as a gift.

I have scans coming up in May. I'm hoping that having those come up clean will get me out of this funk I'm in!

Hi all... I know I haven't posted much lately. I've been super busy assistant stage managing a play, plus we had our pledge drive at work.

But I wanted to pop on and let you know that I'm officially a one-year survivor now! Saturday was my Cancerversary. I celebrated by getting a tattoo - on my foot. I have to say, it was kind of cathartic to be going through a painful procedure that I actually CHOSE to do, rather than one that was forced on me by stupid cancer.

I will write more (and post pics) soon!

For the past three months or so, every month, between around the 20th and the 25th, I start to get really paranoid that I might be pregnant. So far, I haven't been. And, you know, it's not like I'm making unprotected whoopie, as they call it on the Newlywed Game. My options in that arena are limited, seeing as how any estrogen in my system ups my chances for cancer to come back. Those who keep up with these things know that most of your options for not having little bambinos involve adding estrogen and/or progesterone to the system (I think the principle is that it fools your bod into thinking it's already pregnant, so it doesn't go through all the trouble of trying to get pregnant any more).

* * * * * * *

Speaking of newlywed games, our anniversary was awesome! We went to Florence Y'all, and stayed at a theme motel I've been blabbing about wanting to go to for YEARS. It's called Wildwood Inn & Suites, and we stayed in the Tennessee Cave room. The whole room was all done up like a cave. A CAVE WITH A HOT TUB AND BIG SCREEN TV IN IT! Look at it!



We went to dinner at Vito's Cafe, where the owner and all the servers sing, and Piano Pete plays piano. Highly recommended! The servers are mostly grad students in the music program at University of Cincinnati. We felt a little sad when we wondered if, as vocal performance majors, they are making more at Vito's than they will make after they get their degrees. Maybe so, so if you go, tip them well. They were all really good, and highlights included Vito himself singing If I Were a Rich Man (a song he was born to sing). Because it was our anniversary, they sang Happy Anniversary to us, and brought our desserts with candles in them. Then they took our request, which was Tenderly, which was played at our wedding! And Vito sang it! The best word to describe the evening was enchanting.

After dinner, we went to a place in Newport called Hofbrauhaus. It's a German pub Derek & Nancy had told us about. There was a polka band (the dude had an electronic accordion with all these different settings!) and everyone in there stood up in their seats the whole time and swung their mugs around in the air and sang along. It was a fun place and I wish we had one here in Louisville! Also, the beer was freaking beautifully good. That might be my favorite wheat beer I've ever had. And I've had a lot. Not tonight, though, sadly.

It was a wonderful anniversary trip - even getting lost on the way home. Dan and I have been lost together lots of times, and there's no one I'd rather be stuck in a creepy-ass small town somewhere in Kentucky or possibly Ohio with. On the way home we ended up in a town called Falmouth, which we pronounced 'foul mouth.' That and the German language radio station - yes, an all German language radio station, out in the boondocks of KY or possible Ohio - were the highlights of the trip home.

* * * * * * *

About my survivor party: It's a no-go. I knew there was a reason it couldn't be on Friday instead of Saturday, and that's because I'm assistant stage managing a play with Pandora Productions and we have a performance that night! So on Saturday, my cancerversary, I think we're going to brave downtown (for the first time in YEARS) and watch the fireworks from Dan's office on the 17th floor of the Meidinger (My Dinger) tower. Then we're going to wander down to the BBC in theater square and have some brews. And maybe do some cornholing! Ha ha ha! That just never gets old (to me). I have something else in mind for earlier in the day that day, but I'm keeping it mum for now...

* * * * * * * *

I haven't posted pictures of my new foobs yet, but I promise, I will! I really will! I feel like my set of surgery/reconstruction pictures is a cliffhanger and I need to post the ending! I'm pretty happy with them, alhough if I had it to do over I would have gone a leeeetle beeet bigger. Because the real foobs don't stick out as much as the tissue expanders, because the real foobs have some give to them, whereas the expanders were harder than hay-ull.

But they're squishy, and they move around when I move around, and they lay down when I lay down, and they even have a little bounce to them. And they do look more like this:

(\)(/) than this: [\][/], which was a definite improvement.

I've experimented with wearing bras, which makes them feel a little more normal, but my chemo port is right where my bra strap hits, and the strap rubs it, which can hurt like hay-ull (word of the night). Saturday night, though, I went out bearing my fleavage for the first time since reconstruction!

Which reminds me, I still need to do a post about fipples!

* * * * * * * * *

Okay, I've covered pregnancy, birth control, making whoopie, hot tubs, hotel rooms, cornholing, and, as usual, my chest. Sorry dad! :)

I've been kind of sick since Tuesday, thinking that I had another cold or bronchitis. I keep catching every little bug that goes around. It's amazing how during 5 months of chemo, when my white blood cell counts were down, I never caught anything - not once. Since I've been done with chemo, I have been sick three or four times and had a random toe infection.

Friday I went to the doctor because I was feeling really bad. As it turns out, I was running a fever and had 4 or 5 swollen lymph nodes* on each side of my neck, and my lungs sounded like crap. They took blood cultures, hooked me up to an IV bag of antibiotics, and sent me for a chest x-ray because I had fluid in my lungs. They were supposed to call me if the chest x-ray results were too alarming, and I haven't heard from them, so I assume no news is good news. Meanwhile I'm on another 7-day run of antibiotics, which, including the ones I took for my recon surgery makes, what? Four? Five courses of them in the past four months? I don't even remember.

And I really need to feel better by next weekend because Dan has made some mystery plans for our anniversary! He won't tell me what they are! It drives me crazy, but I love it. I'm excited. That's right, it's almost been a year since we tied the knot. Sometimes it's hard to believe it's been a year already, but most of the time I feel like I've lived (and aged) 10 years in the past year.

And closely following the approach of our anniversary will be another anniversary. On April 12, 2007, I got my diagnosis. I was sitting in bed, in the very same spot I'm sitting in right now, when my surgeon's nurse called with the results of my biopsy. It wasn't really a shock - Dr. Stewart had already told us he was sure it was malignant based on all the other scans. He even said if it came back benign, he would order it again because he wouldn't believe it. But we decided not to tell everyone until we had the biopsy results. So on that day, almost a year ago, we got the answer, and that night, we called everyone and rallied the troops.

The troops (that's you) rallied amazingly. More than I ever would have imagined. I had to go through a lot of tough shit to get rid of the cancer and to stay alive. I did it with your help & love - I don't even wanna think what it would have been like without you all behind me. And now, even though I'm still technically in treatment**, I feel like I've won the fight. And may there never be a round two!

So I've been wondering how to commemorate my cancerversary. I was thinking of rallying the troops once again for a 1-Year Survivor Party. I realize it may seem strange to have a party commemorating the day you found out you have cancer (that's the editorial 'you,' meaning 'me') but I think of it more like the first one of many many many years I will be a survivor. Personally, I'm hoping it will be at least three times as long as the years I lived before I was a survivor.

The thing about this party plan is that April 12 falls on Thunder Over Louisville day. So since I've been laying around in bed convalescing all day, my imagination has run away with me, and now I'm thinking of having a post-Thunder Survivor party someplace downtown - maybe the BBC at theater square, because they are pretty laid-back about people having parties there - and maybe even getting a few folks to come play music, and putting up some decorations, and putting out a donation jar for the Young Survivors Group. People who went to Thunder can just walk up to the BBC from the river. As for people who didn't go to Thunder... I don't know. I've never tried to get into downtown after Thunder. I know almost everyone is trying to get out of downtown.

So I turn to you for advice. Should I attempt this on Saturday, my actual cancerversary, or should I do it Friday?

Yep, that's right. All this caterwauling you've just read just boils down to me trying to decide whether to throw a party on a Friday or a Saturday.

Maybe I should just do it Friday. But no one has anything to do after Thunder anyway. But everyone who went is tired, and everyone in Indiana can't get over the bridge.

You know what? Leave me a comment with your opinion, and I'll decide, and then I'll talk to the BBC (or wherever, if it's Friday) and put up a snazzy invitation here and by email.

_____________________________________________
* nothing makes a cancer patient experience a split second of irrational but intense panic more than someone telling them their lymph nodes are abnormal in some way.

** for those who have lost track, I'll be on Herceptin (which is an IV infusion I get at the oncologist's office) very three weeks until July, and Tamoxifen (which is a daily pill) until 2012. 2012?!?!?!??! Doesn't that seem like way far in the future, when we'll have hover-cars?

Hi everyone! My exchange surgery is over and I'm feeling pretty good. Sore, but good. It's not nearly as bad as it was after my last surgery. I'm just really sleepy, so I'm sleeping a lot. And I can't take a shower until 48 hours after surgery, which would be at around 9 tomorrow morning. Now, everyone knows I'm not the world's cleanliest person... but I can't wait to take a shower! Maybe I just want to because I'm supposed to.



Because it snowed a thousand inches the night before, our ride to the hospital was fraught with peril.



Schools were closed (Adam's been out for two days!) so there weren't a lot of other cars on the road.



Here's what Jewish Hospital East looks like through ice.



It seemed like one of the only places open at that hour (it was 6 in the morning) and there were hardly any cars in the parking lot. The ladies who checked me in weren't the usual checking-in ladies, but the regular checking-in ladies hadn't made it in because of the snow storm.



The luxurious bathroom of my hospital room. It's like a hotel bathroom.



Me, after surgery. There's a used-up bag of IV fluids in the sink - ew!



Dan is sleepy and ready to go home. On the right, you can see that they hide all the medical-equipment-looking stuff in the armoir to make it seem less hospital-y.



But he's happy it went well.



The Westminster Dog Show was on TV while I recovered. We already knew the beagle had won, because it was on the CNN news crawl while I was waiting to go back for surgery.



Instead of a Gideon's bible in the drawer, there were tissues.



I wore my snowman socks, because of the weather.



Me, right before going home. Looking strangely puffy, but well cared for. :)

Today the dogs came home, and all seems right with the world again, except not being able to take a shower or go to work.

The End!

Hi folks - this is Dan blogging LIVE for Laura.

She can't blog now because she's passed out. And not for the standard reasons. No, this time she's passed out due to the after effects of general anesthesia and a virtually sleepless pre-surgery night.

But, by all accounts, the exchange surgery was a success. She's squeezably soft again, but not squeezable for a while. Dr. Corbett said he didn't have to cut her up too much, and she's looking pretty good from what I can tell at this point. She even had some crackers and Sprite, and watched a little of the Westminster dog show in our posh hospital room.

SPOILER: the beagle wins it all.

Anyway, we're home now due to the hospital's "on the rim and out the door" policy. But actually, it's better here as long as the cat doesn't jump on her. No screaming babies or anything, at least. Hopefully this will be the last time we'll have to spend any quality time in a hospital for quite a while. I think I can speak for both of us when I say we've had enough of sterile, well-lit environments this year thankyouverymuch.

Thanks so much for all your support. It means a lot to me, and I know it means a lot to Laura. And good luck to all of you out there going through this same crap. You, like my wife, are all beautiful beyond words.

I'm gonna eat and take a nap, but I'll get Laura to post a coherent update ASAP.

--Dan

Tomorrow (Tuesday, the 12th) is my exchange surgery! My foobs will go from temp to hire.

Here is an explanation of the reconstruction process. Dr. Corbett says the surgery itself should only take about half an hour. I have to be there at 6 in the morning and the surgery will start around 8. It's at Jewish Hospital East, out by DuPont Circle, and it's an outpatient procedure.

From now on, February 12 will be my foobs' birthday. There has been talk of two pinkish, round, side-by-side cakes... Or maybe we can have lots of little foob cupcakes, and have a cupcake decorating contest, to help me pick out my tattoo! If I was really dark I'd stick a gumball in one, where the tumor used to be, and give a prize to whoever gets that piece! And I don't even have to tell you what kind of prize (a booby prize - see what I did there?!).

Of course, the universe has decided to open up and blast us with 6 or so inches of snow and ice, so getting there will be an adventure. Foobs on Ice! The Foob-capades!

I'm going to ask Dan to post here when I'm done, to let everyone know how it went. If you want updates, you can text the poor dear - he'll probably be sitting around in the waiting room going a little nutty. Text him at 502-396-3774 or by emailing 5023963774@vtext.com.

Thanks for all the good wishes! I'll be laid up for about a week and on heavy medication for part of that time... I'll try not to PWP (phone while on Percocet), but if you see my number on the caller ID, brace yourself!

P.S. A few people have asked questions about nipples, so I'm going to write about those next. Making myself a note here so I don't forget. Stay tuned if you like to hear a hot, duck-butt-headed, foobulous woman talk about nipples (and who doesn't?). Or, oh my god: fipples?!?!??!?!?

I just surfed over to the blog of someone I know from the YSC message board, and I was inspired by her honesty to try some brutal honesty of my own. So here are some true confessions. Some might be disturbing, gross, or TMI (but don't worry, they're not the kind that start with "Dear Penthouse...").

- I currently have an infection under my toenail. They think it's related to the Taxol I took, which can cause changes with finger- and toenails. It was probably exacerbated by the hours I spent dancing in too-tight shoes on New Year's Eve. It's really disgusting and painful. I went to see Dr. Cervera (my oncologist) about it today and he put me on a course of antibiotics.

- I just FINISHED a course of antibiotics for bronchitis.

- 7 days after I finish this course of antibiotics I'll begin ANOTHER course of antibiotics because I'm having surgery on February 12th.

Oh yeah, I'M HAVING SURGERY ON FEBRUARY 12TH!!! I'm getting my temporary foobs replaced with permanent ones that will be squishy instead of hard. It's an outpatient surgery which will take place at luxurious Jewish Hospital East and will feature Dr. Lee Corbett as the plastic surgeon, and Yours Truly as the bold and alluring patient. It really is luxurious, too - it's where I had my port put in. That place is like a nice hotel! Okay, back to the confessions.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Corbett."

- Remember how I said none of these confessions would begin with "Dear Penthouse"? Well the next one does (sorry, Dad!).

- Dear Penthouse, I always wear a shirt when making whoopi now. I realize this is not in keeping with the spirit of most of your Penthouse Forum letters, but there it is.

- I can't wait until like a year after my exchange surgery, when my scars are healed up enough to get my foobs covered in pretty tattoos.

- When I was miserable with chemo, I would search online for pictures of people with untreated breast cancer. It's horrendous what breast cancer looks like when it has gone untreated. It made me not feel as bad about how horrendous the treatment itself made me feel.

- I'm going through a stage where I am very worried about recurrence. I only have a microscopic amount of breast tissue left, so if I recur, it will probably be somewhere else, which means metastatic disease. I dwell a lot on what I think I will would do in case of a Stage IV recurrence. A lot of it involves going to the beach.

- I have been working on letting myself feel these fears and think these thoughts, no matter how negative they might be, because my first tendency is to immediately push them out of my mind. I think it's important, though, to let yourself feel and think the things that come into your mind and not to try to be your own thought police.

- I also think it's important to believe you will be okay. I'm working on that. Or maybe it's better to accept that you might not be okay, and somehow become okay with that. But that's a much higher bar. I don't think many of us could really do that. Not without years of meditating on a concrete floor in a shack somewhere in India.

- I've never been very good at meditating.

- I do believe in its benefits, though.

- Three times since I've been in treatment, I have fallen asleep in the bathroom at work. Usually it's only for 5 minutes or so. Every time, it's been in the afternoon, and I woke up when I heard Susan's voice doing a newscast. I felt like an idiot or a slacker for falling asleep, but I would try to remind myself that some people stay out of work the whole time they're on chemo, so if you're going to work through it, you have to cut yourself a little slack. (Side note: We have the radio station feed playing in the bathroom, so instead of driveway moments, we have bathroom moments. And sometimes we come back into the newsroom and say, "Guess what I just heard in the bathroom?!" which must be disquieting for any visitors who may overhear.)

- I consider myself a feminist. As such, I find it very disappointing how much my self-esteem can fluctuate based on the numbers on the scale at the doctor's office.

- A few days ago, I watched an online video of a mastectomy. I really wanted to see what exactly it was that had happened to me. It was a little disappointing, though, because it was a promotional video for a brand of scalpels, so it focused much more on the scalpel technique than on the surgery in general. I still want to see a video where they're actually explaining the procedure as they do it. And I want to see what the cancer looks like when they pull it out of there. I feel gross for wanting to watch that.

- Sometimes I get seriously, seriously pissed off about my nipples being gone forever.

- I drank while I was on chemo. I figured with the toxic shit going through my system, a drinking half a keg every other weekend a few drinks here and there couldn't possibly hurt anything.

- Drinking is a hot topic among breast cancer survivors. Heavy alcohol use (more than 3 drinks a day) can increase your risk of getting breast cancer. So it stands to reason that it can increase your risk of recurrence. I haven't read anything about lighter alcohol use. I worry that if I ever have metastasis to the liver, I will blame myself for drinking. On the other hand, I feel like, hey, I had cancer! I've been through a lot, I'm faithfully doing all the treatments science can offer me, and who knows what's around the corner, so I'm going to damn well have a good time.

- I have always been a very curious person. I want to know the whys of everything. I want to know why this happened. It's hard to accept that I never will.



* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That's it for this edition of True Confessions, but I bet there will be more. Stay tuned ...IF YOU DARE (lightening crashes and a cat screeches in the lonely distance).

To wrap up the Picasa saga, here is the message I got from them the day after it all went down. I am very happy with how things turned out & it makes more sense now. I'll still back it up this time, though.



Hi Laura,

We wanted to apologize for the frustration that you've experienced
regarding your deleted photos in your Picasa Web Album, and let you know a
bit more about why this happened.

Because many millions of photos are uploaded to Picasa Web Albums every
day, we rely on user feedback to quickly identify photographs that violate
our terms of service (which prohibit pornography, obscenity, etc.).
Because multiple users had flagged your album as offensive, access to the
album was suspended. When our support team was made aware of your
situation, we reviewed the content in your albums and determined that they
had been inappropriately flagged. Your photographs and comments have
therefore been returned to their previous state.

We hope you will understand that preventing abuse on a large photo-sharing
service like ours is a challenge that's both difficult and important.
Please know that we try to move quickly to review and rectify mistakes
when they occur, and that we are always working to improve the technology
behind Picasa Web Albums.

We hope you'll continue to be a part of the Picasa Web Albums community.

Sincerely,

The Google Team

Thank You!

My photo album is back up in its entirety, including captions and comments.

No one really explained to me what happened, but it's okay. I'm very happy to have my materials back and thrilled that they decided to leave it up and available for viewing.

I can't tell you how grateful I am, both to those of you who interceded and sent messages on my behalf, and to those who commented to show support. The wave of good wishes made an otherwise upsetting day a little easier to get through.

Thank you so much!!!

Laura

P.S. Also, I just discovered that the whole thing was covered on The Consumerist!: http://consumerist.com/345860/the-problem-with-using-free-online-services-random-censorship

I am so upset right now. I just got this message from Picasa, Google's picture posting service:

Please be advised that we have recently received reports that inappropriate content has been posted to your Picasa Web Albums account. One or more photos displayed in your gallery violates our Program Policies and has been removed. Our Policies state that images displayed on picasaweb.google.com cannot contain obscenity, pornography, promotions of hate, incitement of violence, or spam, malicious code, or viruses. Please note that if you continue to violate these Program Policies, we may suspend your Picasa Web Albums account. To read more about our Program Policies and Terms of Service, please visit http://picasa.google.com/web/policy.html Thank you for your cooperation.

They erased my WHOLE album of post-surgery pictures. That album was my record of my entire surgery & reconstructive process. Now it's just gone - including all the comments people left me there. I can dig up the pictures from their different places on my hard drive, but the comments will be gone forever. And I had written in the captions about what the procedures were like and what I thought about them, kind of like a little pictorial recovery diary. I guess those are gone forever too. They could have at least put something in place of the pictures saying they'd been removed, and left my writing and the comments.

They didn't even give me a notice so I could save them or take them down myself. They're just gone.

I looked at their policy & the only thing I can think of that they must think I violated was nudity. Not even all of my pictures showed the foobs; some of them were just closeups of incisions, drains, and stuff. But they zapped the whole album. There aren't even any nipples in my pictures!!!

And I even had a warning on the click-through to the album saying these are post-surgery pictures, they may be disturbing, etc.


Amazingly, I was able to find plenty of pictures of 'normal' breasts on Picasa, some that show nipples, some where the nipple is barely concealed by a hand or clothes or something.

Here are some things that Picasa thinks are more worthwhile and "appropriate" than my gallery (warning: not explicit, but probably not safe for work):
http://picasaweb.google.com/stojanoskislave/UHQKellyBrookWallpapers/photo#5125716303238190402
http://picasaweb.google.com/scuderia.ferrari19/GemmaAtkinson/photo#5140121086825784434
http://picasaweb.google.com/dhruv00000/2SEXY01/photo#5155290602550439026
http://picasaweb.google.com/cameramike/2004BikeWeek03/photo#5154647836743920914 (definitely not safe for work, or kids...)

In contrast, here is an example of one of my pictures. None of them were more revealing than this, and certainly none of them were sexual (warning: post-surgery pic showing stitches):
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v299/shine-ola/apr25.jpg


There seem to be two different standards for what is acceptable. If you're able-bodied with breasts, you may post pictures of them. If you have had a mastectomy, you may not.

Or maybe if I had posed on all fours on the beach, coming out of the water, with a come-hither look on my face, it would have been fine. But the salt water probably would have been bad for the incisions.



Some friends suggested Picasa might still have backups of my captions and comments. I have sent a letter asking for my stuff back, and I posted this info to my breast cancer support community in case they want to remove or backup their own albums.

Dan called Google's main telephone number and got an operator who would only give him the email address of the Google legal department. He would not give us even the name of anyone who works in the legal department, any contact info for the public relations department, or indeed, even his own name. Just that he was a "general operator." I don't understand the secrecy. Isn't this a publicly-traded company?

I have been in tears about this & I had to vent. Documentation has been a huge part of my healing process. And I heard from lots of people who said the pictures helped them when they were getting ready to have similar surgeries.

Why would they do this??? Who would report my album as inappropriate?

There's a feedback form that says "Tell us your story - Share how Picasa has changed the way you edit and share your photos." It's here: http://picasa.google.com/support/bin/request.py?contact_type=testimonial

If you write them, you are welcome to mention my screen name, which on Picasa/Google is LauraMEllis.

Adam, Dan and I are appearing in a community theater production of The Music Man, and it opens this Friday! It's at Clarksville Little Theatre. The relevant info is below! We do get a few free tickets, so if you really want to go and you're hard up for money, let me know as soon as possible! Our producer thinks this will sell out, so call soon if to make sure you get a ticket, if you wanna come.



For reservations call:
812-283-6522
or email clt@clarksvillelittletheatre.org

Friday, Jan. 11, 8PM
Saturday, Jan. 12, 8PM
Sunday, Jan. 13, 2PM
Thursday, Jan. 17, 8PM
Friday, Jan. 18, 8PM
Saturday, Jan. 19, 8PM
Sunday, Jan. 20, 2PM

Clarksville Little Theatre
301 E. Montgomery Ave.
Clarksville, IN 47129

Ticket Prices:
Adults $15.00
Seniors $12.00
Students (ages 13-18) $12.00
Children (ages 6-12) $8.00

The box office accepts cash or checks.

Directions to the Theatre:

From I-65 north or south, take Exit 1 to Stansifer Avenue.
Go west (right from southbound, left from northbound) a short distance to Marriot Drive.
Left on Marriot Drive.
Continue past the Holiday Inn to the second stop sign.
Turn right onto Montgomery.
Clarksville Little Theatre is on the right.

Hey everyone, I hope your holidays were wonderful! I seem to have reverted back to childhood thanks to some expertly-selected Christmas gifts from Dan - namely, Heelys, and an Old School Sesame Street DVD. The Heelys are pink and white and they do look like little kids' shoes. So now I'm like a big kid who's old enough to drink and has wheels in her shoes. Just what the world needed!

Okay, I hereby pledge not to deploy my Heelys after more than one beer. It's a lot harder than those damn kids make it look!

Also, I think I might accidentally be responsible for Heelys jumping the shark. One of James' nieces raised an eyebrow at me and said, "I didn't know parents wore Heelys..." She probably went home and burned hers.

Dan also gave me a hot pink ukulele, which I've been wanting for the longest. Well, I've been wanting a ukulele for the longest - that it's hot pink was just an added bonus surprise. Having the ukulele led me to look up a uke chord chart online, which led me to this wonderful website which teaches you to play ukulele, and which is obviously not written by a native speaker of English. Example: "Hello. Let's play Ukulele. The good point of ukulele is "very easy" Don't think about difficult things.Let's play ukulele. Guiter is Difficult,but ukulele is easy."

I love this philosophy. Don't think about difficult things - let's play ukulele! I think that's going to be my New year's Resolution.

I also got to meet two new babies in my family and spend time with lots of fun little childrens. My whole family is full of little kids now, and it's great. I swear, we have the cutest kids in my family.

Anyway, without further ado, here is a link to our Christmas pictures (taken on the NEW CAMERA PAT GOT US - THANK YOU PAT!!!). My choice pics are here:


Doggy Niece Precious gets tuckered out


My nephew Jojo & his new teddy bear


My niece Indigo trying to get away from me so she can fight with her brother Jojo


Xmas Squeezin'


Baby talking Adam, to his obvious delight


The singing of Christmas Carols, by Doggie Nephew Jasper and Cousin Erni


I had a treatment the next day & I tried unsuccessfully to pour coffee directly into my artery through my chemo port. It didn't work, but I'll try again next time. I was really worn out from Christmas and I needed that coffee!

For those who have been wondering what my new hair looks like, here is a pic from Saturday night, taken by Peter:


"Do you think I should drink them both...?"

As you can see, it defies gravity by appearing to grow straight up into the air! Dan says the back looks like a duck butt.

Here's a side view, from the next morning:



It's very thin and soft, just like a baby's hair.

As a reminder, my hair has always been straight:

---

I've been having weird dreams. it wasn't until I suddenly started dreaming again, after I was done with chemo, that I realized I hadn't been dreaming during chemo. I don't know, maybe I was so exhausted I just skipped over the dreaming part of sleep and right into the deep sleeping part.

Here's the weirdest one so far.

I dreamed I had decided to, well, die, but by assisted suicide, I guess. What I mean is that Dan and Adam were there and knew what I was going to do. I said goodbye to them and got in the bathtub, which was full of warm water. Then I got injected with the sodium pentothal, which I think is what they use in lethal injections.

But then, as soon as the syringe was fully injected, I decided I didn't want to die! I decided I would try to fight it and try to stay awake. I started getting really dizzy, really groggy, and scared. I thought no one could survive - it was supposed to be a lethal dose that would make me go to sleep, then I would die.

I stumbled around, doing normal things, as if I weren't in the middle of some kind of assisted suicide situation. Through the haze I remember seeing my dad, sitting on a couch. I could see Dan and Adam looking at my face. Just as I started to wake up, I started to feel like maybe there was a chance I would live.


What do you think that means? Does the sodium pentothal represent my cancer? Does it mean I was afraid it would kill me, and I'm only now starting to hope that I'll live? Does it mean I'm committed to fight it, no matter whether it comes back or how bad it gets or how hopeless things look?

Rarely during this ordeal did I let myself feel afraid. Rarely, really, did I let myself feel anything. I am a consummate emotion suppressor, I hate to admit. It drives Dan crazy. It probably drives me a little crazy. I had some hopeless feelings during the worst parts of chemo - I never really felt like there was no hope, but sometimes it felt like it would never end. Standing near the beginning of that road, it felt like the end was a million miles away. That first round of chemo was misery, and I was so frustrated.

During these times, Dan came to my rescue, and held me, and reminded me it wouldn't go on forever.

Was I ever scared I would die? I should have been. It's a rational and reasonable response to being diagnosed with cancer. Was I angry? Am I still angry that this happened to me? That I had to lose what I lost? (That I don't even want to name?)

My friend Ruth recently posted about the stages of grief. She must have come into this more well-adjusted than I am, because she got through them super fast. Sometimes I think I put all my emotions on 'stifle' just so I could keep functioning, and now I don't know how to get them going again. Or even if I want to, because there are bound to be scary things waiting for me to face them.

Don't get me wrong, my good feelings are fine and dandy. I've nver had any trouble expressing those! I am having tons of fun lately (see first pic, above!), acting pretty much like my old self, working, playing, doing things I like. But I can't shake the feeling that something is hanging over my head. That I can't ignore the emotional side of cancer for forever, and that sooner or later, it will rear its head.


Sorry for such a downer entry right before the holidays, but being honest about it here might help me in the long run. Thanks for listening.


In other news, please send good vibes to Dan, because he has a terrible head cold! He needs to get better post haste!