Category Archives: We’re Going to be OK

Oncology and telling Ethan: things are moving FAST

Posted on by

5

After the MRI fail this morning, I waited around for one more appointment: the oncologist. Several survivors have told me that the oncologist is a super important part of the medical team, so it’s important to have confidence in the doc.

I checked in (the girls at the desk already know me by name – ugh) and sat in the same seat as last time. Again, I was the youngest by far. And again, the elderly patients were enamored by the TV (“The Chew” this time, not Kelly Ripa).

Suddenly three shrill bells sounded, followed by a message, “Medical emergency in the cancer center, infusion room. Medical emergency in the cancer center, infusion room. Medical emergency in the cancer center, infusion room.” All hell broke loose as 13 (by my count) medical people ran down the hall from all directions. It was about 30 minutes before an old man was taken down the hall to the hospital by gurney.

Soon after I was called by the nurse. We went through my medical history and the same series of questions I answered with the surgeon’s nurse earlier this week. I mentioned that I didn’t make it through the MRI this morning, and she said to make sure to mention that to the doc. The nurse took my vitals (blood pressure was a little elevated, but still within the normal range). When she went to take my temperature via my ear, she gently moved away my hair and said, “Oh, your hair is so pretty!” (I started to tear up.) She explained some of the things I could expect from chemotherapy and some of the recommendations this oncologist usually makes to his patients.

I waited for the doctor after the nurse left. “Fuck, this is an oncologist’s office. I have CANCER,” I thought. This was feeling really REAL. This was the toughest wait I’ve had so far. Oncology is SERIOUS. Surgery I get – cut it off, but chemo is scary.

The doctor came in, and I instantly liked him. He made me feel really comfortable. He asked the basics, then he said, “Do you want to just jump right into this?”

He explained the basics of chemo and how it’s changed over the years. Side effects, like vomiting and nausea, are manageable. He encouraged me to think of chemo as “medicine for cancer” not “poison.” His plan includes two phases prior to surgery: phase one will include Adriamycin (aka “Red Devil”) and Cytoxin (with neulasta to help grow cells lost from the two other meds), one treatment every two weeks (4 treatments total), and phase two will include Taxol and Carboplatin (second one only if my body can tolerate it without dropping my cell counts too low), one treatment each week (12 treatments total). With this schedule, I’m done with chemo by the end of May.

We talked about other chemo side effects like menopause (being in my 40s, instant menopause is very likely), when I’ll lose my hair (about 7-10 days after first treatment) and what I can/can’t do (no birth control pills).

Then he said, “You’ll start chemo next week.”

Back the bus up…WHAT?! (Tears. “Shit’s getting real,” I thought.)

We compared schedules – my class schedule versus his breast clinic schedules at two hospitals. We settled on Friday mornings. I don’t teach on Fridays and that gives me the weekend to recover.

He typed some notes in the computer, placed some orders for necessary pre-chemo stuff (a heart test, installation of a mediport in my chest) and wrote a prescription for lorazapam (to help me get through another attempt at the MRI). And he called the nurse to have a “chemo education session” with me.

“You’re young and healthy. I have no concerns about you in this process. I’m confident you’ll do fine with this,” he said.

The nurse came back in with a book to take home (so much casual cancer reading) and several documents detailing the various medications I’ll receive during chemo and those to manage side effects. We spent another 40 minutes talking about my fears and concerns. She printed a prescription for a wig (that’s weird to type!), we hugged, and I left the cancer center.

 

First thought when I got in the car: I can’t hide this from Ethan any more. He’ll notice when I start losing hair… I planned the conversation in my head on the drive home. I’ll tell him tomorrow – Ethan and I are spending tomorrow together (he has a doctor appointment so I’m keeping him home from school).

I got home. Mom had already picked up the kids, and Ethan was working on homework in the dining room.

I briefed my mom and told her I had to tell E. A few minutes later, Ethan said he was ready to review his work. I walked into the dining room. “Hey, pal, we need to talk tomorrow,” I said.

“Is it about your boob?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I know something’s going on. But I don’t want to talk about it tomorrow.”

“Now then?”

I went back to the beginning. I found a lump, went to the doctor, had some images done. “The doctor told me the pictures looked funny,” I explained.

“Funny haha or funny strange?” he asked.

I made a face with my fingers in my ears and my tongue out. “Well, not funny haha. The lumps weren’t doing this. It was more like this,” I said as I made a sad face.

“It would have been funny if the lumps were making the funny face,” he said. Yeah, that would have been funny.

I continued with my explanation: they took samples from the lump with a needle on Christmas Eve, and they called with the results saying it’s cancer. “The good news,” I said, “is that it’s caught super early.”

“It can be cured?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said. “But the doctors need to do a lot to treat it.”

I explained chemo (“medicine for cancer that attacks fast growing cells. Know what other cells besides cancer grow fast? Hair. I’m going to be bald!” He laughed and studied me for a minute. “That’s going to be funny! I’m going to take pictures of you everyday bald!” Sure, kid, whatever floats your boat.)

I explained surgery. He asked, “You’re going to have ONE BOOB?!”

“Maybe,” I said. “They can rebuild it, though.”

“Will it be removable?”

“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Wait… Do they rebuild your boob with metal? Will you have metal boobs? Oh! Wait! Super Mom! You’ll have metal boobs that shoot toxic milk!” he said.

He seemed really disappointed to find out my boobs will not be metal. Nor will I shoot toxic milk from my nipples.

“You’re handling this really well,” I said.

“You said that when you told me you were going to start dating. No big deal. You’re going to live another 60 years,” he said.

Nailed it, kiddo. Nailed it. (Well, not the metal boob part… Where that visual came from makes me a little nervous.)

Tomorrow: genetic testing

MRI fail

Posted on by

5

I was supposed to have an MRI today to get a better look at the two masses and make sure there’s nothing hiding in my “dense” breast tissue. I made it one-third of the way through the procedure, then quit.

The appointment was scheduled for 7 a.m. I like being the first appointment. In and out, I thought. Then I can hang out at Panera, get some work done, and get ready to see the oncologist at noon.

The hospital volunteer took me back to the MRI area right away. I was given a locker for my things and a gown and pants to put on. A few minutes later, I was taken into the MRI room.

(Sidenote: I had an MRI before, when I was about 19 years old. It was for my head, after I started having some strange symptoms which were later diagnosed as atypical migraines. I remember the machine being loud and very tiny, but it wasn’t too bad.)

One of the techs started an IV for a contrast solution which would help show the abnormal tissues in my breast. She tried both arms – my veins are deep and not easy to hit the first time. She finally managed to start it and then asked me to turn over and lie on my stomach.

She moved the pillow I was laying on while she started the IV, and there were two holes. “Your breasts go here,” she said, pointing to the holes. “Forehead here,” while pointing to a C-shaped elevated platform. “Arms outstretched like Superman on this pillow above your head.”

It was wildly uncomfortable. There’s an elevation between the pelvis and the holes for the breasts. It felt really unnatural. The forehead platform was only elevated about an inch and a half, so very little clearance between the tip of my nose and the bed of the machine. (Also, Lauren used my makeup brushes to paint with my hair gel, which I didn’t know until my overly sensitive skin developed a wildly red, itchy rash on my cheeks and forehead. The forehead platform hit all the red itchiness in all the wrong places.) Plus, it was completely uncomfortable with my arms straight out in front of me.

She put headphones on me. (“To help you relax, focus on the music,” she said.) And handed me a cord with a rubber ball at the end. Apparently this was my way of contacting the techs if I had an issue.

Once situated, she moved the bed into the tube. Because of my position, I couldn’t see how close the sides and top of the machine were to my body, but it felt small (even though I wasn’t touching the sides, I was very aware that I was in a small tube with no easy way out.)

Image shows similar position to my test, except the machine at my hospital required me to go into the tube headfirst.

Image shows similar position to my test, except the machine at my hospital required me to go into the tube head first. Also, my tech didn’t look as happy as this woman does. (Image from GE Healthcare)

“I need out,” I said. And she moved the bed out and allowed me to sit up. I asked how long the test would take (30 minutes), and it was reiterated that I couldn’t move at all during the test or the films wouldn’t match up and we’d have to start again. She recommended that I focus on the mirror placed below my eyes in the forehead platform. “You can see outside the machine through this mirror. It’ll make you think you’re in the open!” she said. I thought, well, now you just told me that what I’m seeing in the mirror is a lie and I’m not REALLY out of the machine, so that’s not really going to work…

“OK, 30 minutes. I can do this,” I said. “Put me back in there.”

Music started in the headphones. Country, not my favorite and certainly not necessarily relaxing. The voice of the male tech came over the headphones. “This first one will be about 40 seconds.”

Thunk, thunk, thunk. The process of getting the images sounds like a jackhammer. I tried to think about being in a downtown area, watching the construction of a beautiful building.

It was a very long 40 seconds. I think he lied about the time.

“How are you doing? Next one is five minutes.”

I opened my eyes and saw the mirror of lies. I lifted a finger and could see the image in the mirror. It was about then that I realized it was really hot in the machine. And there didn’t seem to be enough oxygen.

“You can do this. It’s ony 30 minutes. Go back to the construction image,” I tried to tell myself.

More noise and a really long five minutes.

“How are you? This next one is about four and a half minutes.”

“OUT!” I yelled.

“I can’t understand you,” said the male tech.

I repeated, louder. And squeezed the panic ball.

He came in the room to the opening by my head. “If you talk too loud I can’t understand you in there. Are you okay?”

“I can’t breathe very well. It’s hot in here.”

He still couldn’t understand me since I was essentially talking to the mirror below me and I was stuck in this tube.

I lifted my head and felt a glorious cool breeze on my cheeks. I realized the cool air felt great and being in this position did not move my breasts. “OK, let’s just get this over with.”

I thought I could go the rest of the time with my head elevated, but after a few minutes of the next round of images, the cool breeze wasn’t that cool anymore. I was starting to sweat, and it was getting really hard to breathe – like there just wasn’t enough oxygen in this tube.

After the four and a half minutes of the next round of images ended, I cried to get out. “I just can’t,” I said as tears rolled down my face. “I need up. I need a drink of water. I need air.”

The female tech came back in the room and disconnected the IV and helped me sit up. She gave me a Dixie cup of water and a tissue, and she rubbed my back. “This happens a lot,” she said. “We can’t put you totally under for this procedure since you have to lie on your belly, but you can see your doctor for a Valium or something to take the edge off.”

My hands were shaking and I felt weak – physically and mentally weak for not being able to get through this. Both techs assured me that this was one of the hardest MRI tests because of how the body is contorted.

I just wanted to get dressed and leave.

I called my mom and B when I left, and they both made me feel more calm. Writing this is making me calmer. I finally stopped shaking, and my heart isn’t racing anymore. I’m killing time until my oncology appointment at Panera (one of my happy places), enjoying a mocha, and eating a cinnamon bagel. I figure I deserve it.

On the positive side, there was one option (lumpectomy, maybe?) that would have involved undergoing an MRI annually to supplement the yearly mammogram. Yeah, that’s not happening, so my surgical options are sorting themselves out.

EDITED TO ADD: How badly did I want out of the hospital this morning? Two hours after getting dressed post-MRI fail, and I just discovered my pants were on inside out.

A note to my IRL friends – and a few requests

Posted on by

3

NOTE: I’ve purposely kept this blog very hush-hush. Heck, I just told my mom last week that I have a blog, but I didn’t share the URL. I just don’t want to feel restricted or edited in what I say or how I say it. BUT there are a handful of people in my real life with whom I HAVE shared this URL (and I know a few of you have shared it with mutual friends, too. That’s okay.) This post is written for you. And for those of you I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting IRL (yet), please see my requests at the end of this post – many of us have been on the widow/solo parenting journey together for a while, and I’d love to hear from you too.

Hey, friend. What’s up? From Facebook and Instagram, looks like you had a great holiday. Yay! I’m still on break – classes don’t start until the 26th. Woo-hoo, the life of a college instructor!

Seriously, most of you have been on this journey with me from the time of Mike’s death. This blog has been my way of keeping you in the loop with how I’m doing, what I’m feeling, what’s going on with me. And hell, you know me pretty darned well. And you know that if you call me, no matter what’s going on, I’ll probably say, “I’m great. Kids are good. Mom’s good. How are YOU?” I’ll immediately deflect to talk back to YOU because I really hate talking about myself.

But I’ll write it. This blog is like opening my brain and letting you all in. It’s real. Sometimes raw. But always authentic.

You’re probably up-to-date on what’s going on with my boob. Yeah, I know you’ve been reading because you’ve called or texted or emailed or messaged me (or, ahem, perhaps you’ve messaged someone else to get the skinny?? I’m on to you, you-know-who. OK, I don’t know specifically WHO you are, but I have my suspicions.).

You have NO idea how much it means to hear from you. I’ve read every message and text and listened to voicemails over and over. Thank you for caring so much. I love you. You’re kindness makes me cry. Happy tears. Tears of love.

And I suck as a friend because I haven’t responded to your outreach. You took the time to reach out. You want to talk, and I’ve been silent. Sorry, not sorry. It’s still hard to talk about this (completely unplanned) journey. I don’t know what to say in words that come out of my mouth. Words that come off my fingertips, sure, but it’s hard to SAY the words out loud right now.

Look, you know me. You know that I don’t want you to feel sorry for me or for you to feel bad for me or to hear “you’ve been through so much already.” It is what it is, you know? Cancer’s here, and now I have to deal with it. Sucks? Yes. But there’s only one thing to do: win.

I’ve thought a lot about this, and there are some positives:

  1. I get new boobs. Yep, 40+ years of these puppies and gravity is winning. But not for long. Whether I decide to go for a conserving surgery or just have it completely removed, I’ll have new breasts. Insurance pays for them to look symmetrical, so the left one won’t be left out – it’ll get a lift (at minimum).
  2. New boobs might come with a tummy tuck. If I opt for a mastectomy with flap reconstruction, the fat and tissue from my abdomen will become my new boobs, and my stomach ends up “tucked.” I never liked how my c-section scar healed, and this might be the time to get all that fixed up.
  3. I get new hair. Yes, I am still a little emotional about the curls, but I’m getting over it after looking at my wig options. However, I haven’t seen my natural hair color since 1992. Who knows what will happen when it grows back! Will I be blonde? A ginger? A true brunette? My hair was naturally all these at different points of my life, until college when I started coloring it. Only time will tell what’s really going on with the follicles. But until then, I get to add hats and scarves and wigs to my wardrobe – and I don’t have to feel bad about buying these accessories. My head must stay warm, you know.

So there. No reason to feel sorry for the diagnosis. I get new boobs and hair! Woot! And you’re all invited to see both and celebrate with me (with a lot of wine) when this is over. (Well, probably not see-see the boobs. That might be weird.)

But, I know you want to DO something. If there’s one thing I’ve learned through the grief process, it’s that people want to help. So I’ve been thinking about that – how you can support me from wherever you are. Three things:

  1. Obviously prayers are very much appreciated and needed. Pray for me, for the kids, for my mom, for B, for my doctors. We’ll take all the good thoughts we can get!
  2. Keep calling, messaging, texting, reaching out. I might not respond, but I REALLY appreciate you and your messages. I need to hear your encouragement. It helps so much to know you care. Thank you.
  3. I need a playlist. Whether it’s sitting in waiting rooms or waiting during chemo treatments, I need some good, upbeat music. Consider it a way for you to hug me – I’ll think of you when I hear the songs and feel the love and good vibes you’re sending my way. I have some thoughts on how this might work, if someone wants to spearhead this. OR, just leave your musical suggestions in the comments below.

Much thanks to all of you. Much love to each of you. XO

-Jax

 

Surgical consult and what’s known about my cancer

Posted on by

4

I’d never turned left at the intersection. Turn right to the kids’ pediatrician. Turn right to the ER. Turn right to the breast health center. But I never had a reason to turn left. Until today. Left is a one way to the cancer center. Oh, and the hospice. I’m not a fan of that combo.

It sucks that I had to turn left today for a surgical consult.

I walked into the cancer center and found I was the youngest by at least 20 years. Everyone wore hats, presumably because of hair loss from treatments. Everyone seemed to be WAY into Kelly Ripa on the TV. Everyone seemed to know each other.

I sat as far away from everyone as possible to fill out my new patient paperwork. I looked behind me, though the window, into the “wellness center.” It wasn’t so much a “wellness center” as it was a wig/scarf/hat shop. I bet I’ll be spending some time there, I thought. I’m going to be spending a lot of time in this waiting room.

I was escorted back by the surgery nurse who took my vitals (all completely healthy/normal) and started the assessment. Did I need any assistance with walking, showering, getting around? Could I handle my personal hygiene? Did I have any financial, emotional, transportation, spiritual needs? Any pain or tenderness?

I changed into a gown, opening in front, naked from waist up. And I waited. And I started to sweat.

I was just sitting, but my armpits were wet with sweat. And so was the underboob area. It was gross, especially because I didn’t wear deodorant this morning, unsure if I’d have any tests (aluminum can affect some tests). Just nerves, I guess, but I felt pretty comfortable. Just sweaty and stinky and gross.

The breast surgeon came in. She immediately put me at ease. She’s young, maybe around my age, and had an excellent manner. Not over explaining, not assuming I’m an idiot. She made notes as we talked, drew pictures of everything, and let me have her notes.

Bottom line: the clinical assessment (“clinical” because it’s a guesstimate until surgery can confirm these details): invasive ductal carcinoma, grade 3, stage IIA, triple negative.

Basically, cancer cells started in the breast’s milk ducts and have started to grow outside the ducts (that’s the “invasive” part). Grade 3, which has to do with the growth of the cells (scale from 1-3, with 3 being aggressive, meaning it will continue to grow if not treated). Stage IIA evaluated by the tumors’ sizes, and there’s no indication of cancer spreading to my lymph nodes. Triple negative meaning I’ve tested negative for cancer being fed by estrogen, progesterone, or HER2.

Good news? Invasive ductal carcinoma is the most common form of breast cancer. Stage II is considered early detection and has an excellent treatment success rate. And triple negative cancers respond well to chemo, so my treatment will most likely start with there. Chemo could shrink the tumors and doing it before surgery gives the docs an idea of how the masses are responding (or not responding) to treatment.

We talked about options with surgery. Even though there are two masses, I could (probably) have breast tissue conservation surgery (lumpectomy with radiation), which would mean breast reduction as the reconstruction method (including a lift and reduction on the “good” boob). Or I could go with a mastectomy with a flap reconstruction. This means the doc would take muscle, tissue, and fat from my abdomen and use it to reconstruct the breast. The flap results in a tummy tuck (!) and a more natural looking breast than implants.

My week is quickly filling up with appointments: oncologist on Thursday, MRI (for more visual clarification of the area) on Thursday, genetic testing on Friday.

Whew! Good thing classes don’t start for a couple of weeks. (Shit, I still need to write syllabi for this semester and do my self-evaluation in between appointments… Oh, and I had to email the dean today. More on that later.)

IMG_4573First visit to the cancer center. Free knit hats! Sexy hospital gowns! Interactive boob! And my tumors.

IMG_4564I couldn’t figure out this exam table (or is it a chair?), so I refused to sit on it.

Needles in my boob, the meaning of positive, and so much damn cancer information

Posted on by

3

Didn’t mean to leave anyone hanging, but I’ve spent a ton of time with the kids and B during the holiday break. From Christmas (and so much playing!) to a New Years (kid-free!) getaway with B, it was a great week. In between the fun, I was researching and reading and plotting all the potential scenarios, but as much as possible, I tried to focus on the kids and B. But now I’ve reached the point at which I need to write this out, to get these thoughts and feelings out of my head. As I’ve said before, this blog helps me process, and I’m going to need to process a LOT during this process…

So the update, starting with the Christmas Eve biopsy.

Biopsy

I don’t think I ever want to spend Christmas Eve morning at the breast imaging center again.

The results of my mammogram and ultrasound were suspicious, so the biopsy was the next course of action. Again, not feeling like I had much to fear, I was in good spirits – looking forward to the next day with the family and the start of a week with B.

I changed into a surgical gown and was escorted back to the ultrasound room. The radiologist who would perform the procedure came in. He was really nice, to the point, and very socially awkward (which I appreciate and kind of adore in people). He explained the procedure and looked at the images from my last visit. In a few minutes, I was warned that the local anesthesia would sting a bit. It did, but it wasn’t bad.

A few minutes later, the first incision was made. I watched on the ultrasound as the first mass was found. I could see the radiologist’s needle approaching the mass.

“One. Two. Three,” he counted. Click! I watched as the needle pierced the mass and retracted back. This went on for six or seven times. Count to three. Click sound. Needle in and out. No pain, but I could feel blood dripping down my side.

Then he made a second incision for the next mass. Same procedure, except he forgot to count. “I’m so sorry,” he said with a little under-the-breath laugh. “I forgot to count. Are you okay?”

I assured him I was fine. Since I was watching the whole thing on the monitor, I could see the needle approach and anticipated the click and needle in-out thing. Besides, I couldn’t feel anything with the local anesthesia.

The nurses laughed as I explained that I figured it out and didn’t need the countdown. “Everyone is different,” Nurse Gina said. “Some people ask a ton of questions. Some want to bury their face in a pillow and not look at all.”

The whole thing lasted about an hour. During that time, the nurses, radiologist and I talked about our Christmas plans, recipes for cooking a tenderloin (two of us were making one for dinner the next day), and recipes for our themed holiday drinks. (We would have Cranberry Margarita Martinis, while Nurse Gina was preparing Frozen Grasshoppers.)

When it was over, Nurse Gina applied pressure to the two incisions for about 10 minutes. That was probably the most painful part. It was SERIOUS pressure. Then steri-strips and a gauze/adhesive dressing. The incisions were so small, Nurse Gina had a hard time finding them.

I had to change the dressing a few times that night because I kept bleeding through. It turned a beautiful purple color. (I joked that it matched the dress I was going to wear on New Years.) And there was a lump where the biopsies originated. But there was very little pain.

The worse thing was the flu that I was coming down with and would battle for the next week and a half.

Then waiting… Having B and my mom around, and the kids of course, kept my mind occupied (somewhat), but there was still the WAITING…

Positive Doesn’t Mean “Good”

Friday at 9 a.m., B and my mom were getting ready to leave, after they both spent two nights with the kids and me. My cell phone rang.

“I just got off the phone with the pathologist,” said the socially-awkward radiologist. “It’s positive for breast cancer. Both areas. Wait, sorry. I should have started with asking how you’re feeling since the biopsy…”

I laughed. I’m good, I assured him. Surprised at the results, but the biopsy area was fine.

“I really suspected it was cancer when I saw it,” he said, “but I had to wait for the results to be sure.”

He told me a nurse would call soon to schedule a meeting with a surgeon.

Tears. I walked out of my office and into the kitchen. I looked at my mom and said, “It’s positive.”

She put her arms around me and buried her head in my neck.

“Positive is good, right?” said Ethan, who I didn’t even realize was in the room. Until this point, I hadn’t said anything to the kids.

“Usually, yes,” I said. “But not usually when it comes to medical stuff.”

I explained that I had a test that showed a lump in my breast and had another test to determine what it was. It was the second test that was positive for something and that meant I’d have to see more doctors to find the best way to fix it. That satisfied him and so far, I haven’t said anything else to him.

(I’ve thought a lot about this. Until I have a plan and more information on my particular kind of cancer, talking about it to a kid who’s been through so much would do more harm than good. I really want to be able to say “here’s what’s up, here’s how we fix it, and everything will be okay.” I just don’t have enough information yet to do that.)

About that time, the surgical nurse called. I had already reviewed the surgeon profiles at the cancer center so I knew which surgeon I wanted to see. I had three options: two general surgeons and one breast-only surgeon. I’m going with the breast-only doc. Of course, she’s out of the country until January 12, so things are kind of on hold until then. She’ll be the one to refer me to the oncologist and radiation doc, and order additional testing necessary before surgery.

Information Overload

In the waiting time, I had an “education session” with Nurse Gina. I brought my mom for two reasons: 1) the cancer people kept asking if I had a support system (since I’d been alone during the mammogram and biopsy) and I wasn’t sure they believed that I did have support, and 2) I thought it would help my mom. (It did make her feel more comfortable.)

Most of what Nurse Gina covered, I knew from my hours of research, but there were two points that caused me to cry.

She explained that since I was pre-menopausal and under 50, I would most likely have to endure chemotherapy. As she went over the specifics and side effects of chemo, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself. Losing my hair, eyelashes, eyebrows – “fuckity fuck fuck,” was the only thing I could think as tears streamed down my face. As she continued with the services offered in the cancer center – head shaving, wig fitting, scarf tying, eyebrow makeup classes – more tears. Tears because, quite frankly, I can hide all of this from people, but not if I lose hair. Then I’ll get sympathy looks, which I hate. I also teared because it’s so ridiculously vain – and that pissed me off that I could be so damned vain about HAIR… And it cycled back through again.

The second thing that caused me to cry was when she asked if I told the kids yet. I said no, and explained why and what they did know. She gave me information on how to tell kids, which is somewhat helpful, but given our situation, it’s so much more complicated. I just tear whenever someone talks about or I think about how my kids have been affected (and in some cases, messed up) by so many things out of their control. And at such young ages. This is just one more thing for them to worry about.

Nurse Gina was fantastic during the education session. She made my mom feel completely at ease. She sent me home with an inch-thick book and a two-inch binder, plus a ton of pamphlets and brochures on information and resources locally and nationally. I like having as much info as possible, so I’ve already devoured everything except the book (which seems to be a lot of info I’ve found in my research). And last night, I started researching wigs and scarf tying and the god-awful bras and inserts made for women who’ve gone through breast surgeries.

That’s where things stand right now. Stay tuned… there are still a half-dozen topics I want to write about, and will write about, in the coming days/weeks.