So Everything is All Good Now, Right?

"So everything is all good now, right?"  I hear this question/statement at least twice every day that ends in "Y."  And I wish that I could say "Yuppers!  Back to the old Jill Pickle!"  But usually I say something doctorish like "My brain scan came back clear!"  and "NED!"  Which is doctor jargon for "No Evidence of Disease."  Because no one in the biz says remission anymore.  Plus, I am pretty sure when I spout off phrases like those, it makes me sound like I could have been Doogie Howser, M.D.  (Remember that show?  About the child genius that became a doctor at like 12 years old?)  Seriously.  I was gifted in the fifth grade.  So chances are I could have been an M.D., but they "released" me from the talented and gifted program when I hit the sixth grade and discovered boys.  Shout out to my sixth grade boyfriends Barry D. and Jason M. for squashing my Harvard graduation potential!

The truth is, that is a very hard question to answer.  Because some days are just peaches-n-cream!  However, there are gobs of  days I feel like a blob.  Ok, 99% of days I feel like a jello mold.  It's as if my body has completely transformed itself into Jabba the Hut.  I walk up a flight of stairs and I am tired.  I move like a two-toed sloth, forget everything, and if I have a glass or two of the Pino-Greezjh, pull out your hide-a-bed, because I will be taking an immediate "nap." Basically I now have the alcohol tolerance of the high school valedictorian in her first week of college.  It's like I have time traveled to 1992 and I'm a wasted teenage girl off a couple of Bartles and James wine coolers.  Just from one glass of mama's happy juice.  Compliments of Prozac and a daily dose of mama's little yella pills--the hormone blocking medication I am on for at least ten more years.  Hopefully.

I say "hopefully" because I still want to be alive and kicking in ten years!  And these li'l yellow pills are making another decade possible.  So whenever anyone says, "But you're all good now, right?"  I have a million different ways to answer that question. But in the wise words of country songsmith Ronnie Milsap, "Nobody wants a sad song." So I try to take a clue from Mr. Milsap and refrain from babbling on about what ails me and how life after cancer has changed everything.  I mean Every. THANG. So if you have run out of kitten videos to watch on Youtube and need to kill some time, I present to you an unedited list of how everything is going....Oh, and here is that Ronnie Milsap song you're singing in your head now.  Nobody Wants a Sad Song

Here is a sampling of the million different ways I could answer when anyone asks me how I am doing.
*  My body hurts.  My joints, my hips, my feet, my hands and especially my chest.
*  Whenever something new starts to ache, I think "Oh Snap.  It's back."  But probably it is just because I am 40.  Anxiety out the wazoo.  Hence the prescribed Prozac.
*  Ok fine, you caught me, I'm 41.
*  My hands have swelled so much and I have put on so much weight that my wedding rings no longer fit.  Not even on my pinky.  And daggum, these sausage fingers were meant to show off that sparkler Clay paid two months of his salary for. 
*  Once twelve noon hits, my body feels like I just OD'ed on ZZZquil.  I'm ready to crumple.  But I think I do a pretty good job of hiding my utter exhaustion. 
*  I catch myself being a total b***h.  A lot.  Thanks little yella pills.  Sorry Clay. 
*  And those same yeller tablets make me grow a white fuzz beard.  That I have to scrape off using special pastel lady face shavers disguised as eyebrow groomers.
*  Even though I take those yellow drugs to stop my womanly hormones, I still have to get injections in my stomach --with a needle the size of a crochet hook-- to make sure no estrogen makes an escape into my Jabba the Hut like body.  I have little scars all over my six pack to prove it.
*  I could go on and on and on.  But my darlings keep asking me to pour them chocolate milk and and help them find really bizarre stuff on Youtube.  Like the "Floor is lava" videos. 

I know this all sounds like piddly stuff compared to being dead and having the worms crawling in and the worms crawling out and the worms playing pinochle on my snout six feet under.  But it's a weird thing, this living and trying to get back to normal business.

 Here are some recent photos from my dear friend Miranda Lawson of us "getting back to normal" at my nephew Hank's baptismal party.  My little chiclets have grown so much since this cancer razzmatazz started.  They were in preschool, kindergarten, and 1st grade in March 2016.  Now they are 1st, 2nd, and 3rd graders.  All of them losing teeth at the same rate at which they brush them.  Caroline said that she doesn't even remember me with long hair anymore....But pretty soon this hair helmet will be back to its long, natural bleach state!

My Beef and Noodles Day

You know those Facebook quizzes when you have to write "25 Things About Me?"  And then you list your favorite drinks (Diet Coke, Chocolate Milk, Beer), favorite cheese (Colby Jack), first concert (Tesla and Firehouse), favorite book (Little House on the Prairie) and questions like those?  Welp, whenever that questionnaire asks about my favorite meal, my answer is always the same.  Northwest Ohio funeral food.  If you are from Hank County, Ohio, you know what I am talking about.  The luncheon in the church cafeteria after a funeral. Coffee cake, shredded chicken sandwiches, deli platter with Nickles white bread and ham and summer sausage, deviled eggs, that red frothy Jello with pretzels in it, amongst other culinary delights.  Like beef and noodles if you're lucky.

Does it seem weird that I have such a fondness for funeral food?!  I don't know why, but it gives me a comforting, warm "Grandma Borstelman- made- crocheted -blanket- around -me" sort of feeling.  Maybe it's because I am always around friends and family at the luncheon and the saddest part of the ceremonies are over.  And I am thankful and grateful to spend time with my peeps here on earth and so happy to be around them.  Or I am just some sort of sick weirdo.

Anyhoosikins, in case you haven't heard, I have been battling this pretty pesky case of breast cancer for about 16 months now.  Much longer than I first anticipated.  And much more advanced than I understood.  All of this cancer razzmatazz has definitely changed me.  One way in which it altered me is that I think about dying at least five times per day.  Now don't get me wrong.  I don't think I am going to die anytime soon, but the nagging doubt in the back of my mind rears its ugly noggin a few times per day.  And it causes me to daydream about my potential funeral. Because heck, I could get eaten by Jaws at the beach this weekend if the cancer doesn't get me.

This is why I brought up my favorite meal.  Funeral food.  Because if a Great White chews me to bits, I want all of the aforementioned delicacies in the St. Paul Lutheran cafeteria and I want it to be packed.  Because even after death, I will still be an attention whore. Hot damn, folks better show up in droves.  And bring your kids so they can run willy nilly all through the hallways of St. Paul Lutheran and entertain the Triple Threat.  Let them on the playground and spin around the Witch's Wheel.  (Is that still there?!)  And if it is cold, open up the gym and let them roll around on those square scooter things and climb the rope.  All the way to the top. While the adults are eating coffee cake. And make sure everyone gazes at the 1988-89 Lutheran Girls Basketball Championship picture of me and my b-ball homies that is prominently displayed by the gymnasium.  But please don't judge me on my bangs.  I ran out of Rave 4 hairspray that day and they were kind of flat. I'm still upset about it.  Also, side note, I made zero points my entire two year basketball career.  But I loved socializing on the bench.

As for the ceremony, I want my favorite hymns sang.  Including hymn 311 (from the blue hymnal--not the new ones) the ever popular, "Lift High the Cross."  And of course hymn 518, "Onward Christian Soldiers."  Please let all of the former St. Paul Crusader boys break out their "air-machine-guns" during this diddy.  Because that brings me back to great memories of the boys in my class faux machine gunning down fellow classmates during that song.  You know.  Because it mentions war and soldiers.

Okay.  Enough talk about my hopefully-not-gonna-happen-anytime-soon-funeral.  Alright, one more thing.  I want people to go out and have some beers afterwards.  And tell funny stories about me.

But back to how this cruddy disease has changed me.  I now know that I used to be a polly-wolly-crappy friend.  Because people near and far have been so giving and generous to me and my family.  I know that I was not as thoughtful to friends and family going through hard times as they have been to me.  I may have short term memory loss, but I try to be more cognizant and empathetic of other peoples' struggles.  The cards and messages and monetary donations and meals and groceries and a gazillion other nice things have seriously kept me and my family upbeat and going.  Lemme tell ya.  This year would have sucked ratballs if I didn't get cards in the mail.  Or messages on my Facebook wall.  My #MCM (Man Crush Monday.  Mom, I know you didn't know what that meant) was always Louis.  My mailman.  Bringing me cancer presents.  So I completely understand now that a simple card can bring so much joy.

Alrighty.  This is getting a little lengthy.  I am just spewing out the thoughts in my head because I have insomnia and I am trying to make myself tired.  Another way in which cancer changed me.  I can't freaking sleep.

But will someone please bring beef and noodles to me while I am still alive and kicking?

Doesn't everyone go searching for their Lutheran Hymnal at 1 in the morning?  Or is it just me and Snoop Dogg?

Things You Might Be Wondering But Would Never Ask...

Everyday I get thoughtful people asking me, "How are you doing?  And Clay and the kids?"  And I usually say "Living the dream and doing great!" It's kind of a fib and kind of not.  Sort of a fake it till you make it kind of existence.  Basically if I make myself smile and be happy...I am.  But there are days...

And on those days I am grateful for mental health medication.  Yup.  I'm on crazy pills.  A double dose for the really bad, can't breath, feels like I went on a bender and woke up with drinker's remorse sort of anxiety.  I know you know the "drinker's remorse" sort of feeling.  Because you are friends with me.  That feeling of dread when you wake up with yesterday's mascara down to your cheeks and looking like a meth head and trying to remember what caca-may-me things you said to God-knows-who.  Except I wasn't on a Busch Light bender.  And I didn't drink a plethora of Pinot.  I just have a horrible feeling that I did something horrible and something horrible is going to come back to haunt me.  The past two months have been laced with anxiety out the wazoo. But I am beyond relieved that the crazy pills have started to work their magic.  And no one better go all Tom Cruise Scientology whack job on me and tell me that I just need to work out and take vitamins to make myself feel better.

Because here is the thing.  I can't really work out.  I can't walk or run because the chemo leaking out of the capillaries in my feet are burning my tootsies.  And when I say burning, I mean massive huge blisters and blood blisters forming on the bottoms of my feet and sometimes blisters coming up my legs.  The good news is that they pop and start feeling better the week I am off the chemo.   Have you thrown up a little in your mouth yet?  I know.  It's grody.   So I go to water aerobics with a bunch of Centrum Silver poppers at the community pool.  Shirley is the instructor.  And I use the term "instructor" very loosely.  About as loosely as the loose stool the chemo gives me.  (Sorry for making you throw up again a little in your mouth.  But this is my reality.)  Anyhoosikins, Shirley thinks she is the bomb.com.  She is an 80-year-old water jazzercise instructor that plays Abba's Greatest Hits on repeat for the entire session.  Except she doesn't really instruct you on what to do.  She just yells in her headset microphone to do the dog paddle the entire hour.  And then busts me for talking to Sally and Maryann during "quiet time."  Even though I was having a very important discussion about Maryann's latest bridge work on her teeth and dentures.  Old people love talking about their ailments. And it is always a competition about who is closer to the pearly gates.

I can't speak about the rest of my family's feelings--because that is their story to tell if they want to tell it.  But I know this year hasn't been easy.  My daughter just told me that she was scared of me when I was bald and sick.  Levi recently told Clay that he used to be scared that I would die, but now he thinks I am better.  And sweet Caroline cries because she can't remember me with long hair and she loves long princess hair.  Clay has had to deal with my emotions, his emotions, the kids' emotions.  It has been a roller coaster.  Like the Magnum at Cedar Point roller coaster.

But there are things I am so glad we put in place that I thought we would never have to worry about. I signed up for the short and long term disability through work about 15 years ago.  We would be bankrupt if I didn't have that cushion.  I cannot stress enough to pay that 18 or so bucks a paycheck to get the disability insurance.  Just do it.  It is only 60 percent of my pay, but it is definitely better than nothing!  Because I haven't been able to work for well over a year now.  I am also glad that I was brought up to have that fiscally conservative German in me.  Because we have no car payments.  Clay drives a 1999 Chevy pick up that we bought used in 2002 and I am still cruising in my 2005 grocery gettin' Ford Expedish.  That I bought in 2011.   Car payments are a huge expense that we don't have to worry about.  That "would be" car payment money now goes to my insurance premiums.  That are $640 a month.  Ouch.  This does not include my medical bills.  Which would make your head spin.  But this is not a "whoa is me" paragraph.  This paragraph is about being so thankful to the people that have helped us out over the year and the good fortune we have had!  Because I know you were wondering, "Now how in the heck could they afford to go to Disney?!"  I'll tell ya.  Bank rewards points that we haven't used in 17 years.  And special gifts from our favorite Disney planner.  Also named Jill.  The real bomb.com.

Can you tell I worry about people thinking badly of me?!  I do my best to not worry about what bad news the future hopefully doesn't hold for me.  But here is the truth.  Many people think you can just beat breast cancer and it is the "good" cancer to have.  Reality is that if it comes back, there is no beating it.  No cure.  The medical team does their best to prolong life, which is on average about three years.  And you never know when, why, or how it may rear its nasty-ugly head.  So I am focusing on moving on and doing fun things in life!  Like hornswaggling our way into local resorts for the day and pretending we are Rockafellas.  The Jay-Z kind.  Here we are on Mothers Day living the life!  Oh, I also learned on this day that crazy pills and a few Miller Lites don't mix.  I Googled chemo crazy pills and alcohol a day too late.  I may have taken a little snooze, but dang we had fun!

Me and my mini-me!

Toofless hunk

My handsome nephew!  

Sweet Caroline

Make sure to tell him he doesn't look fat!

And the eight(teen) year old.  So cool.  

The Iron Bra I am Not Wearing

I'm no junkie, but I'm guessing that jamming a fistful of M&Ms down your throat and taking off your bra after a really long day has got to be a better rush than shooting up with black tar heroin.   That used to be my favorite way to stay sane.  Plain M&Ms, a Diet Coke, and the removal of my boulder holder.  Except now, a year after my cancer diagnosis, it has become evident that the Diet Coke does not cancel out the chocolate fat and I feel like I am wearing an iron bra that I cannot take off.  So basically I feel like a sumo wrestler in a tween underwire training bra.  

One would think that when you have your breasts surgically removed that you would feel a ton of weight off your shoulders.  And you would get a nice new rack.  And it would just be like getting a boob job.  No big deal to lose your hoots because your body would feel the same, just with better headlights. Except,wrong-ola.  First off, I want to throat punch anyone that says, "Boy, I bet your husband is gonna like those new funbags!"  But don't feel badly if you made a comment like that to someone like me--because even I made "fun boob" comments before I had my chest amputated.  Just think of this as  your public service announcement to not do it again.  Because a double mastectomy sucks.  Something fierce.  

My selfie game is not on fleek

I couldn't take a shower for two weeks after surgery.  Baby wipe baths.  Delightful.

Those drains are attached to my body

The drains were in for weeks

Things about mastectomies that you may not know.

1.  Nipples are gone.  

2.  Big ol' Freddy Krueger slasher scars right through the center of your previous breast

3.  No more feeling in your chest

4.  Except for the sensation of lugging around a ton of rocks

5.  And the feeling of an iron noose around your rib cage

6.  Tissue expanders make it look like you have boobs

7.  They hurt.  Like hell.

8.  No more sleeping on your stomach.  Or side.  Basically I sleep like I am in a casket.  Folded hands and everything.  

9.   The foobs (fake boobs) are filled up with a giant saline filled needle

10.  But first a "stud finder" is used to find the port inside your foob to be filled up

11.  Sometimes there are muscle spasms so severe I think I am having a heart attack

12.  But back to the saline filled needle.  I can't feel the needle because I am completely numb.  Silver lining!

13.  My right foob is flat

14.  My left is not

15.  You can totally tell

16.  Because I don't ever wear a bra now

17.  So I don't have to use my 30% off Kohls coupon for Maidenforms anymore

18.  I hope it feels better when the real implants are in

What's Worse than Cancer?

What is worse than cancer?  I'll tell ya.  Cancer with lice.  Yup.  You read that right.  LICE.  Head bugs.  Hair house for a louse.  Nit nest.  Bug Bungalow.  However you want to say it, Jesus proved to me that he was a real Jokey Smurf back in January.  That prankster couldn't give the Triple Threat lice a couple months ago.  Of course not.  Because I was bald then.  I could have shaved everyone's noggin and claimed that they were supporting their poor cancer stricken mother--and not trying to get rid of hair varmints. The public would have loved that story!  Heck, we might even have been Channel 5 special on the evening news.  The precious bald family of five.

I can laugh about it now.  Because my tears are no longer trickling down my cheeks.  This is the true story of my near nervous breakdown.  Perhaps a soon-to-be Lifetime special with Christina Applegate playing me.  Seriously.  

There are some stories that just cannot be made up.  This is one.  It was January.  The Friday before the Martin Luther King, Jr. long weekend.  Kate, my second grader, was all sorts of hyped up because she was going to wear her unicorn pajamas to school for their class celebration.  I had heard rumblings about a lice outbreak at daycare and school.  And I was scared.  Very scared.  Because unbeknownst to me, Caroline had a case of head lice over Christmas break in Ohio.  And I wasn't there to deal  with it because I was back in Florida getting radiation treatments and injections and doing my best to stay alive.  I won't lie.  I smiled a smidgen because I didn't have to deal with slathering mayonnaise on a scalp and picking out nits.  But I knew karma would come back to get me, so I did my best to contain my joy at not having to comb through long, girly, hair.  Oh and before you start judging me and calling the Klausings dirty white trash, lice LOVE clean watermelon-kiwi Suave scented fresh hair.  For real.  This is what I get for keeping my kids clean. Ish.

Before I go on, are you scratching your head yet?  Yup.  Thought so.  Anyhoo, it was before school and I thought I would dump a boat load of tea tree oil on everyone's heads as a preventative measure.  I know you are only supposed to spritz a little on because that stuff is potent.  But I figured that more is better.  Kinda like money.  More is better.  What ended up happening was that my lice panic made us late to school.  We are never ever late to school. And Caroline promptly walked into Kindergarten and told her teacher that we had head bugs.

Meanwhile I was supposed to be getting one of my last radiation treatments that Friday.  And radiation after chemo and surgery makes a girl tired.  Like run a marathon while pregnant and hungover tired.  But the end was in sight.  Just as I was getting myself ready to get zapped, the school clinic lady called.  And it was then that I heard the stinging words no parent ever wants to hear.  "Your kids have nits."  I didn't know what to say.  I was so ashamed.  If you have ever been a parent of a child with lice, you know what I am talking about.  But like I said, little licies love them some clean hair.  And the school nurse reassured me of this.  Probably because she thought I was going to start crying while on the phone with her.

So I canceled my life saving radiation procedure to go pick up my dumplings from school.  As I walked into the front office I felt like everyone was staring at me because they knew the reason I was there.  THE SHAME!  I walked out with the Triple Threat and a Xeroxed copy of how to delouse your house.

We were home before Hoda and Kathie Lee aired on NBC.  Kate promptly went inside to put on some dance clothes.  Black booty shorts and a green bralette.  Perfect attire to perform contortion and gymnastic moves in the driveway to entertain the folks at the garage sale across the street.  I am being sarcastic.  She might as well have thrown out some jazz hands and hollered "Hey pedophiles creeping at the garage sale!  I live here!"

For real Kate was performing circus contortion moves in the driveway.  She had a gymnastics mat and a portable speaker blasting Shawn Mendes "Stitches" and some Katy Perry tunes.  Meanwhile I was climbing the ladder of the bunk beds to strip the mattresses.  I felt like someone had fed me cement soup. I was so worn down from the radiation.  But I had 14 years worth of laundry to do now. And our laundry room is the garage.  Florida style laundry.  Which is where I spotted the sign that Kate had set up for the garage salers.

It said "YOU CAN TAKE VIDEO."

Oh.my.stars.  My 2nd grader is in the driveway contorting herself in barely there clothing while my other two are inside with Nits-B-Gone in their hair and I am fighting for my life.  With Mt. Everest sized piles of laundry surrounding me.  At this point I laughed.  Probably one of those crazed maniacal laughs.  And I tried to take video of her.  Of course she wouldn't let me.  Video taping apparently was only for potential Chester Molesters.

So my entire weekend was spent combing through everyone's hair with a nit pick.  That is all I did.  Comb, laundry, wipe my tears, repeat.  Comb, laundry, wipe my tears, repeat.  And of course I got 'em too!  Because Jesus hates me and lice love freshly grown, ostrich feather soft, virgin hair!

Don't get your panties in a wad.  I know Jesus doesn't hate me.  It just seems like he does.  This was just one of those "God doesn't give you more than you can handle" weekends.  One of those "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" sort of days.  And while I moved the blankets from the washer to the dryer I sang that "This is My Fight Song" song in my head while I turned the dryer heat up to HIGH.  To cook those bug bastards.

My last radiation app't after a weekend of hell.

My PSA for Your Hootnan-nays

I find myself telling my cancer memoir quite a bit.  To moms at the baseball field.  To moms at dance class.  To the cashier and the lady behind me at Target.  Anyone that knows-- or even kind of knows me-- knows that I love an audience.  Usually my stories consist of how I am asked to make bologna sandwiches or put a ponytail in a Barbie's hair or download Crossy Road on my phone all while I am taking a shower.  Meanwhile, their father is leisurely watching an episode of Moonshiners on the Discovery Channel.  Because apparently my children don't know that their paternal DNA donor  can indeed take the wrapper off a Kraft Single.   Even though my husband would gladly remove the cellophane from that orange square of processed cheese delight, my kids apparently think I do it better.

But for the past nine months most of my chatter and small talk has been about cancer, and how I am feeling, and how the kids and Clay are doing.  And for the record, we are all doing pretty good considering the amount of stress we are all under.  So that brings me to my public service announcement about breast cancer.

My PSA face.  And I love, love, love the necklace Kelly Sonnenberg!

Whenever I tell my story, I make sure to let everyone know that I had gotten mammograms early.  I had to get special orders from my doctor to have early mammos, because I wasn't 40 and insurance wasn't going to cover it, or something like that.  I say this because even I am shocked that I didn't notice my cancer earlier, given that my tumor was the size of a burrito as big as my head.  If my head was the size of a large lemon.  But I had had mammograms, and everything always came back fine, so I thought I had nothing to worry about!  My thought process was that I was proactive and I was taking preventative measures so nothing was going to be wrong.  Wrongola.  

It has been over nine months since I was diagnosed with advanced stage breast cancer.  In the past six or so weeks, six of my friends have been diagnosed with some sort of breast cancer or precancerous condition.  Luckily it seems like most have caught it early, and you know how I hate to brag, but I like to fancy that theirs was caught early because my story urged them to get checked sooner rather than later.  Because, ugh, my stomach gets all barfy feeling whenever I think of a friend having to go through what I have endured.

So here they are, in no particular order, weird breast cancer warning signs that happened to me.  Except I didn't know they were warning signs at the time.

1.  Itchy, itchy side boob itches.  I have no clue how long this went on.  Years for sure.  It would come and go.  I would scratch and scratch and curse my bras for being so annoyingly itchy.  I would buy those Maidenform T-shirt comfort bras to stop the itching.  I would search for tags that were not there that I thought was causing the irritation.   Then I thought it might be detergent or soap.  So I bought Free and Clear everything.  Still itched.  Now I know that I was itching right where that cancer was growing.  This is a symptom of cancer.

2.  Discoloration of skin.  I done scratched so much that it changed the color of my side boob.  Maybe scratching so much was the effect of the skin discoloration.  Or maybe it was a cancer symptom.  Either way, my skin turned flaky and a tannish color right where that cancer was setting up shop.

3.  Inverted nipple.  I thought this was just from breast feeding three kids back to back to back with no break.  I thought those babies had just done some permanent damage to ol' lefty.  Turns out it was the cancer pulling that nip inward.  Just slightly.  I couldn't see a huge difference between the two, but there was a slight difference.  Not identical twins.  Fraternal.  

4.  A faint line.  The more I think about it, I had a faint line across my left breast for a long time.  I never stared at it in the shower or anything, because hello, I was always being asked to make someone chocolate milk or put together a Hot Wheels track while I was in the shower!  But it was a very light indentation.

5.  Muscley feeling in only one side.  Here is where I really went wrong.  I don't know how long I felt something in my left side, because my boobs always felt like that starting when I was pregnant.  Fibrous feeling.  Like a muscle or something.  What I didn't know was that it is NOT normal to feel this in just one side.  Feeling it in just one side is a big neon flashing warning signal.  I thought cancer was supposed to feel like a marble or a Skittle.  Sometimes it does.  But mine sure didn't.

6.  A dent.  This one I had no clue about until I started Googling "breast cancer signs" after my last mammogram when the tech told me that I definitely was going to need to come back for my pictures. When I lifted my arm, the skin on my boob would pull in and make a huge dent.  This was the cancer.  I sent this picture to my midwife friend Jen wanting her to tell me that it was no big deal. She didn't.  And it was a big deal. I couldn't get the full effect of the dent, because well, I don't own a selfie stick.  But this is what it looked like with my arm halfway up.  

I have just sat here for ten minutes debating about whether or not I should post this picture.  But if I would have known about this symptom a couple years ago, I still might have that underboob and not be starting my second round of chemo and not be slathering Radiaplex all over my burned up, chopped up, radiated side.  So I hope no one thinks this is in poor taste.  I just want women (or men) to know that something that looks like this should be checked out immediately.

These were my personal warning signs.  There are others!  I just didn't experience them.  My advice?  Get your mammograms.  Encourage others to get theirs.  And take care of yourself!

Radiation Station

I have a new best friend at radiation.  His name is Dick and he is from Wisconsin.  I like to refer to him as "Dickie from Wickie."  He appears to be about 112 years old and gets laser beamed right after me every day.  My appointment is at 10:45 and his must be at 11.  He's a big Badger guy, and I'm a big Buckeye girl and we have the Big Ten in common.  There is really no point to this story.  I just want to remember Dickie from Wickie--and the way my brain works nowadays I am afraid I will forget how he sat in the lone chair outside the zapper room waiting for me to be done.  The on deck chair.  

You don't get to make as many friends at radiation as you do at chemo--because it goes so quick.  Like 20 minutes start to finish.  I was nervous at first, because I had to  sign my name in at the front office and then walk to the dressing room all.by.my.self.  Not a big deal, right?  Except that those doctors' office hallways are like a corn maze.  At any turn you could end up seeing someone buck nekkid in a patient area or walk into the break room and see all of your therapists eating donuts or accidentally end up in a restricted radiation zone.  Luckily this never happened, but it sure as the dickens caused me anxiety.  Not like I need a Xanax anxiety, but elevated heart rate anxiety. 

Anyways, I figured out the corn maze right quick and learned how to sign in and strut through the front office like a hot shot.  I'm pretty sure all the newbies in the front waiting room were looking at me with admiration--knowing that I was a seasoned professional.  

This has been my routine for the past six weeks.  Once I get through the maze and into the ladies dressing room I rip open the plastic bag for the coralish pinkish colored gown.  Pretty sure it's my color.  I never even tried for the green or maroon ones.  Creature of habit.  I have had a good response so far to radiation--so I don't want to jack it all up by messing with the color of my open front gown. Makes total sense, I know.   Plus it matches my lipstick pretty good.  I am way more into make up now.  I suppose that happens when you are at the fugliest point in your life!  Hoda and Kathie Lee are always playing in the dressing area.  God I love them.  Always boozing and talking about the Bachelor and Brangelina.    

Sadly, there is never anyone that speaks English in the waiting room with me.  I always like to hear everyone's story.  I know that I have mentioned it before--but old people get competitive with their medical woes.  Like always trying to one up one another with who is worse off.  It's a pretty fun game to play, and I always get bonus points for being young and having little rugrats.  But I only had a lady that no speaka Ingles with me, and I couldn't ever play a round of "I'm closer to death than you are."  Bummer.  But then I do have Dickie from Wickie.  So there's that.  

After "Ms. Klausing" gets called by one of the radiology peeps I walk the maze back to the zapper room where I have to say my birthdate for the one gazillionth time.  Then I have to lay on a table built for someone with the waist size of Barbie.  I know that I am of sturdy German stock, but I don't know how some folks fit on that sucker!  Once I am all lined up with my new dot tattoos, the radiation folks leave the room and it feels like someone is moving the table around with a joystick.  I doubt that is what happens, but that is what it feels like.  Then this doohickey whirs around me for about 10 minutes and I'm done!  On Mondays I meet with my awesome radiation onco or his PA where they check out my savage tan skin.  Wondering how I know my doc is awesome?  He is a Buckeye.  Good looking AND smart, like all of the OSU grads I know!  

The only adverse effects I have had from radiation are extreme fatigue--more of that here in the final weeks--and at one point I felt like I had a chip or pill caught in my throat for a couple weeks.  That was from the radiation messing with something in my throat.  I have what they call supraclavicular radiation.  At least that is what I think they call it, and they laser beam my left armpit up to the left side of my neck.  They adjusted it and the caught chip went away.  And I was glad, because that was about as annoying as getting a Facebook message telling you to copy and paste AMEN or else you love the devil.  I just started getting blistering and burning on my chest and in my armpit, but I am pretty sure I did more damage in 1990 slathering baby oil on and laying out in my backyard with a pink pastel ghetto blaster, a neon bikini, and lemon juice in my hair.  Savage tan then and savage tan in my left armpit now.  My left armpit that I can't wear deodorant or shave.  So you might want to keep your distance.  

My third major portion of my cancer treatment is almost over, and I have what appears to be a cigar burn mark on my left shoulder from radiation to serve as a sweet memory.  Now on to the next segment, the six month chemo trial!

My radiation office in Cape Coral.  Lucky that it is only about 5 minutes from my house.

Repping Ohio State on my first day

My first day!  Right after the momentous OSU/Michigan game

Always going with coralish pinkish.

Just another examining table.  It's like my new davenport.  

In the waiting room.  I had taken another picture but I looked way too humongous in that sucker.  

The Christmas tree that greeted me after getting zapped!  Happy Holidays 2016!

The doohickey

2016 Was a Real Jim Dandy!

I spent a lot of 2016 being a total mutant.  Like laying in my bed for 12 days straight and then finally getting up to lay in my recliner, dubbed Black Beauty.  Obviously this was all cancer related and I wasn't slothing around like I dreamed of doing back in 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013,2014, and 2015 when my kids were babies, toddlers, threenagers, and preschoolers.  Seriously.  I remember getting sick probably back in 2012 when the Triple Threat was 1,2, and 3.  I wished upon a star that I would be diagnosed with pneumonia and get hospitalized so I could rest and have a CNA bring me a tray of mashed potatoes and meatloaf from the hospital cafeteria.  And in my dream the medical professional wore seasonally appropriate scrubs--like Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang Valentine's style, because people that accessorize according to holidays just seem to care a smidgen more--and she or he would bring me a can of 7UP with a straw and fluff my pillows to make me more comfortable.  But that was just a pipe dream.  And I did get pneumonia.  But there was no hospitalization or rest.  Ol' Heysoos was apparently saving up my sick time to carry over to 2016!

So here I am on the last day of 2016 reflecting on what a dandy of a year it has been and what I should write about.  I want to thank everyone that has supported my family this year--but I am so bad at being sentimental and worry that it comes off as fake.  I always feel that way about saying religious things also.  Like talking about praying and God's blessings and all that jazz.  I believe in them and think about them, but always feel like I sound like a phony when I say them.  Weird, because I know that the Lutheran sparkle in me is always shining.  As a side note,  I don't feel odd breaking out the Nicene Creed by heart because that is just impressive. But please, please know that we appreciate all of the cards, gift cards, monetary gifts, race running, t-shirt and bracelet buying, and meal training this year.  We truly could not have made it this far, this smoothly without you all.  Aaaand I have a cry lump in my throat as I type this because it so unbelievable to me that I have just spent nine months battling cancer and that so many people have been so NICE to us.

So cheers to 2016 and on to 2017 tomorrow.  I still have a long treatment road ahead of me.  I still can't go back to work.  Which sometimes makes me feel awkward about going out and doing things.  So here is a peek into a cancer patient's head.  At least this cancer patient's noggin!  Here are the things that make me feel bad that probably shouldn't make me feel bad, but they still do.

1.  Drinking a beer while watching a Buckeye game.  I feel bad because I think that people are staring at me and thinking that I should be drinking a kale and blueberry smoothie.

2.  Taking my kids to theme parks.  I feel bad because I think that people are wondering how I can afford to do that.  Because we all know that Sea World is freaking expensive!  But we go because we have free season passes.  Perks of being a teacher and having littles.  It still makes me feel awkward to post pics with Shamu on social media though.

3.  Again, taking my kids to theme parks.  I feel bad because I think that people wonder how I have the energy to do it.  Truth is, I cancer pranced my way into getting fast passes for rides for the kiddos.  Shameless, I know.

4.  Not working.  I know that I look healthy.  I'll give a big round of applause to the 30 pounds cancer put on me for giving me that healthy glow.  Not really.  I'll give my now  morbidly obese middle finger to those 30 pounds. But I hear all the time how someone has a cousin  that worked her way all the way through chemo, radiation, and surgery.  But I couldn't.  I couldn't walk three steps to the bathroom without help.  So I guess that means that I won't make the cancer All-Star Team like cousin Tina.  

5.  Being alive.  I'm no psychologist, but I think this is known as "survivor guilt."  Folks from near and far have done so much for me and my family because I had such a whopper of a breast cancer diagnosis.  But now I am feeling better and feel guilty going out and doing anything because I worry that people think they gave time and money to me for nothing because I look and act just fine and dandy.  What goes through my butch lookin' head is that "these people thought I was going to die and those poor little children of hers will be motherless..."  And then here I am drinking a beer at the Buckeye game!  I probably need a psychologist for feeling bad about not dying....

6.  Not getting all of my Christmas cards sent out.  I had visions of thanking everyone via Christmas card this year.  But I had to go to radiation.  And get injections.  And then I would be so tired that Black Beauty would call my name and I would fall asleep before the Young & the Restless was over. So I still have like 100 cards to send out.  Whaddya think--should I still send them out or would that be tacky?  I LOVE sending cards, so it's not a chore that I hate doing.  I love addressing them with my red Pilot pen and stamping those babies.  I just plum ran out of time.  And now I worry that wonderful people feel bad that they didn't get a card.

There are about a bajillion other things that I worry about that I know I probably should not worry about--but it's time for me to get ready for that Buckeye game.  One would think that I would be ready for 2016 to be over, but a part of me wants to hang on to this sweet year.  Because 2016 made me realize how truly blessed I am with friends and family.  And yes, I still feel awkward writing about how "blessed" I am, but it is nothing but the truth.  Thanks for the memories 2016!

These pics were taken by my dear friend Miranda Lawson.  They were taken before my 2nd chemo treatment in April when I didn't know what was coming.  I kind of feel a little bad for this happy lady...because she didn't know what $%*# storm was coming!

Are You There God? It's Me, Jill

When I was in the 5th grade, our class had Nurse Knepley come in to the St. Paul Lutheran cafeteria to give us girls a talk about "menzstroooayshun."  We were horrified. Especially after a tampon was dunked into a glass of water to show us how it expanded.  We were even more aghast when she told us that the clinic had maxi pads in case any girl needed them.  Pretty sure we were all petrified of ever needing them because we had all read the Judy Blume classic, Are You There God?  It's Me, Margaret.  And the sanitary napkins mentioned in that book involved a belt that had to be connected to aforementioned pad.  No. Thank. You.  I would not be needing any of THOSE maxi pads.  I'm pretty sure none of us felt any better after watching a movie about "growing up" starring Aileen Quinn, the girl who played little orphan Annie in the original movie.  I remember thinking that this puberty business was not for me.  Or Annie either.  I liked her better tap dancing with Daddy Warbucks more than I did her as a junior higher telling me about armpit hair.    

That puberty lesson was round about 1986.  Thirty years later I was sitting in a chemo chair about to get a menopausal injection with a needle the size of a roofing nail thinking almost the same thing.  "This menopause business is not for me!"  And just like in the fifth grade, I was sent home with a pamphlet detailing all of the hormonal changes that were going to wreak havoc on this 40-year-old body.  Except this time I didn't hide the pamphlet in the back of my drawer like I did in my tween years.  I actually threw my menopause packet away, because, hello, we have the internet now!  I don't need to keep those papers to reference when I can reference WebMD!  

So why menopause, why now?  Because my cancer is hormone driven.  I need to have my estrogen supply turned off.  I had to have it turned off immediately so that I can prepare my body for a chemo trial I am going to begin after radiation.  I need to be in full 70-year-old grandma mode for it to work.  My oncologist has never done this before.  He said that there have been great results for this trial that was done in Japan.  But the participants were mostly Triple Negative Cancer patients.  And Japanese.  (Most young women are Triple Negative, I am not.  I have Invasive Ductal Carcinoma ER positive.)  He brought my case to Moffitt Cancer Center to see if this would be a good thing to attempt.  He told me that often times doctors tend to want to "overcure" patients who are young, good looking, and fun.  I of course told him to "keep going"  with the compliments!  But apparently that is why he brought my case to Moffitt.  So the doctors there wouldn't know me, my family story,  or my face and could give an unbiased opinion.  At least that is what he told me!  I am sure he was just trying to make me feel better! 

So that is the plan.  I meet again with my medical oncologist tomorrow and start radiation on Monday November 28th.  Menopause side effects I am dealing with right now are hot flashes-- like trapped in a used Ford Fiesta with no a/c in August in Southwest Florida hot--a smidgen of irritability, getting fatter by the second, and joint pain.  Crazy joint pain.  I have never had achy joints.  But holy cow I feel like the President of the Arthritis Club of the World.  In addition to still trying to recover from my bilateral mastectomy.  That is still rough sledding.  But really, it is nothing compared to the man-cold that my husband is dealing with tonight!

Freezing up my injection site at the Cay West office where I had my chemo.  The needle had these pellets in them that send your body reeling into menopause.  But at least I don't need to use those maxi pads with the belts!

My Drive-By Double Mastectomy

I am not a medical professional.  But I lived with one for 18 years.  My mom is a retired RN, and my sister-in-law has her doctorate in Physical Therapy.  Also, my cousin Jana is a Physician.  None of this is pertinent to the story.  I just thought it would give me some medical street cred and class me up a bit.  Because what I am writing about is mostly about medicine and medical trends.  And this post also has a whole lot to do with insurance.  And a heaping spoonful to do with politics.  And of course, everything to do with money.  In my opinion.  And just to be clear, I am not an expert on any of these topics.  But I have become a bit of an expert on being a patient.  The purpose of this post is to urge breast cancer patients to think twice in regards to same day outpatient surgery.

Those of you that know my writing know that I stay as far away as possible from confrontational or negative topics.  Because I like being happy!  And I love laughing!   But I am almost a month out from my "drive-by" mastectomy and it is time for me to write it all down before my pain killers kill my memory as well.

Here is my breast cancer story in a (buckeye) nut shell.  I was diagnosed on my 40th birthday with Invasive Ductal Carcinoma that was hormone positive.  It was bad.  7 cm tumor and it had spread to my lymph nodes.  I completed 20 weeks of chemo and the next plan of action was a bilateral mastectomy with immediate reconstruction, followed by radiation, hysterectomy, and removal of the ovaries.  My oncologist has now added more chemo (in pill form--a trial) after radiation.  So basically, I didn't just have a "dash" of cancer.  I had the whole enchilada!

I have to give a shout out to my medical team thus far.  Many, many people wanted me to go to Moffitt, the renowned cancer center in Tampa.  But I had a preschooler, kindergartener, and 1st grader all at home that needed their mama.  So I didn't want to have to drive 2 hours north for chemo and doctor's appointments.  Plus, I have the most common kind of breast cancer out there.  So it wasn't like I was a medical mystery that my doctors couldn't figure out.  I loved them all!  Especially my easy on the eyes oncologist!  I was happy with my decision to stay and get my treatment at home.

Delighted with my care up until surgery time.  I received my surgery instructions in the mail and noticed that my surgery was in an out patient surgery center.  Right away I was alarmed.  I need to note that a few months earlier I "woke up" and felt everything in the middle of my port surgery.  Crazy pain and they knocked me out right away.  However, when I woke up after the surgery was complete, I couldn't breathe.  They took X-rays and sent me home not breathing fully.  But that's another story for another day.  My point is that I had a smidge of anxiety having another out patient surgery.  I always calmed myself down by thinking "Girl, you had three C-sections in two and a half years and you recovered great!"  I recovered "great" in a hospital setting where I had a pain pump to get the agony under control and nurses around to help me when I continually vomited from the anesthesia.

So I voiced my concerns to my surgeons.  They were sympathetic and understanding.  Scheduling was blamed for doing the procedure outpatient.  They couldn't schedule me in a hospital.  So a nurse called me and we talked on the phone for over an hour.  I told her I didn't want to end  up like Joan Rivers, dead in a surgery center.  She assured me that mastectomies were done there everyday and I was going to be just fine.  If I wasn't ready to go home, they would transport me to a hospital for an over night stay.  I asked how long they would give me to recover before they sent me home, and she said "Probably an hour."  I was astounded and said, "That's all?!"  She then said "Maybe two hours."  The nurse said that I would be surprised at how fast I would recuperate.  Unfortunately I believed her.

Surgery day.  I'm calm and ready to go.  I generally don't get too worked up about things.  I'm not a cryer.  Actually, I'm kind of like a robot and am a champ at holding in emotions.  My husband and I drive to the surgery center.  I get a little irritated at him because he decides to stop at the gas station to get coffee and now we might be late!  We walk into the center, sign in, and wait with all of the geriatrics there to have bunions removed.  15 minutes later they call my name and tell me I'm in the wrong spot.  Of course.  We walk half a mile around the building to the correct spot.  The first thing they do is collect money.  Lots of it.  That I wasn't supposed to pay because I hit my deductible months ago.  But who cares about feeding my kids, right?  I'll get that money back three years from now.

After they steal my grocery money for three months, they start prepping me for surgery.  The LPN prepping was a doll.  Asking questions about my kids and attentively listened to me ramble on about them.  The anesthesiologist came in and told me she was going to do everything she could to make sure I wasn't sick, in pain, etc.  She even told me that my friend Michelle's anesthesiologist brother called her and told her to take extra good care of me.  My surgeon came in, talked to me, and made me very comfortable.  Everyone was great.  The surgery went great.  I have the best surgeons out there.

The problems started after I came out of my anesthesia fog.  Obviously I was in pain.  I still had an IV in so they pumped me full of pain meds.  My brain was not all there and working properly.  What I do know was that I got a bad apple recovery nurse.  She wouldn't respond to me when I told her I wasn't ready to go home.  She just told me to drink some water and eat a cracker.  I kept falling asleep with my cracker in my hand and partially chewed cracker in my mouth.  Next thing I know she told me that I was leaving.  I told her I wasn't ready.  She told me I was fine and would feel better once I got in my own bed.  She made me get out of bed to go to the bathroom.  I couldn't walk and was starting to feel sick.  In the bathroom I started crying a little and apologized to the nurse and told her "Sorry, I'm not usually like this!"  She did not respond and did not make me feel better in any way.  After the bathroom they put me in my pajamas that I brought.  My pain was really starting to increase and I was getting sicker.  My recovery nurse put a big ace bandage around my chest.  She put it on backwards and another nurse had to correct her.  Again I told her I wasn't ready to go.  She told me I was fine.  Or something like that.  It was obvious she was a new nurse, wanted to go home, and this was just a job for her.  But let me make it clear.  I love nurses and they work harder than anyone.  It is a job I definitely could not do.  My family is chock full of nurses and I have dozens of nurse friends that love their jobs and it is definitely their calling in life.  My luck, I just got a recovery nurse that was having a bad day.

I was barfing in a bag when I was forced into my car.  Just when rush hour was starting.  I was crying, in pain, vomiting, and had to put a seat belt on.  I know they leaned my seat back.  I remember the painful starting and stopping of street lights.  I remember excruciating turns on the 25 minute ride back home.

Once I got home the searing, stabbing pains started.  Take my breath away, most horrific pain I have ever felt in my life.  And it didn't stop.  Then I started vomiting again.  All over my bed and myself.  Now I had to change my clothes and my sheets.  Not a big deal.  Except it is when you have just had body parts amputated and expanders put in under your chest muscles 3 hours earlier.  Indescribable pain all night long.  I remember crying and not being able to make a sound it hurt so bad.  I was terrified my kids would see me like that and kept asking my husband if they were all right. At least I think I did.  I remember thinking it.  Thank goodness for my mom and husband.  My mom is a nurse and knows what she is doing.  My husband did what she told him.

I kept asking for pain relief.  The only thing that was prescribed to me was a low dose Vicodin.  It did zero for my pain.  At one paint, maybe it was 2 in the morning, or maybe it was just 8 pm, my husband, Clay, wanted to take me to the ER it was that bad.  I refused because I couldn't bear getting in a car or moving.  I also didn't want to wait with a bunch of folks that stopped in because they had a cold.  Or needed to get some Oxies.

Bottom line was it was a horrific experience.  I'm pretty sure it would have been less painful to be chased down and ax- murdered by Chucky, Jason, and Freddy Krueger.  This all could have been avoided if I could have spent the night in a hospital to get my pain and vomiting under control.  Even just one night. 

But the fun didn't stop there.  Morning rolled around and a home health nurse showed up to take my blood pressure.  That's all.  My mom emptied my drains and checked bandages and all that gross stuff that I can't imagine doing without losing my cookies.  Meanwhile I am still in debilitating pain.  And now they tell me I have to get in the car AGAIN to have my plastic surgeon check me.  I lost it and refused to go. I cried.  I physically could not imagine getting in a car and driving 25 minutes to the doctor.  Side note.  I live in Florida.  There are lots of snowbirds here who cannot drive.  There is a multitude of slamming of the breaks while driving in SW Florida because a Crown Victoria cut you off.  So it was going to be a painful ride.  And I knew it.  Somehow they got me into my '05 Ford Expedish.  I don't really remember the ride I was in so much pain.  I know I could barely move and had to be held up as I walked into the office.  I must have looked like a monster because the faces in the front office were shocked.  They put me right into a room.  Where I almost started barfing.  Then sat down on the table and said I was going to pass out.  And I did.  I don't remember anything else about that visit.  All I know is that I was prescribed stronger pain pills.  But now I had to drive home.  I would rather dig my eyeballs out with rusty spoons than have to get in a car and drive again.  But I survived.  

This is a really long post.  And if you've made it this far, THANK YOU!  The message I want to get across is, think twice about being talked into a same-day outpatient mastectomy.  Especially if you are young.  My surgeon said that her younger patients seem to have more pain than the older ones.  It seemed like everyone thought I would do great because I was so young and healthy.  It was not the case.  I regret not having this done in a hospital setting and am scared to have any more surgeries done there.  I am sure that some women have done great with this sort of surgery, and it is a big trend in mastectomy surgeries to go home the same day.  I just want my story out there.  This outpatient "drive-by" surgery is not alway rainbows and kitty cats.  Sometimes it's torture.

Me going into surgery.  Before I knew what I was going to have to go through.  My brother jokingly put this on facebook.  "This surgery is soon to be a distant mammary!  Breast joke ever!"  I said that attempting to keep my spirits up!