Michael vs. Cancer

Well, it's been a very emotionally charged couple of days - weeks, really. Anxiety was building to alarming levels over Michael's upcoming scan, and it culminated in a rather surreal and very draining day yesterday - what with it being the anniversary of my dad's death, and then my doctor appointment in the morning and the worry over my blood pressure, and then dropping Michael off late yesterday afternoon at the outpatient center where he would spend a couple hours for his full body CT/PET scan.

I have to say that I had no idea until recently that this scan would be such a huge emotional issue. When Michael was going through treatment last year, it was horrible and awful in so many ways, but at least we had the comfort of knowing we were being proactive. He and his doctors were actively fighting the beast, and Michael was being constantly watched and monitored. When he had his scan immediately following the end of treatment, there was definitely a huge relief factor, but it happened so quickly after treatment I just don't think we had an opportunity (or I didn't anyway) to dwell much on the possibility of a bad outcome.

But now it's been a year since treatment ended, and only recently has it begun to sink in for me the feeling that we've somehow been cut loose. A whole year for one mutant little cell to have escaped the clutches of chemo and radiation and surgery, maybe multiplying its little heart out deep inside Michael, with us none the wiser. It happens. It's exactly why there are follow-up scans and checkups.

I don't know how either of us managed to sleep last night. Today we were both bundles of nerves. And what to say to the kids? They know that Dad went in for some kind of test last night, but Kevin is the only one we actually told that it was a test to make sure the cancer is still gone. I feel terrible now because I know I was Yelling Screeching Mom today - every last nerve in my body was on edge and my patience was at about -100. The kids went to school, Michael went to work, and I spent the morning at a friend's house (thank you, Jen!), Michael and I just trying to get through the day as we waited for a phone call from his doctor that very well could change everything for us once again.

We finally got the call late this afternoon. The report from Michael's scan states "No evidence of disease." Michael remains in remission. His oncologist said he's see him in a couple months for a regular checkup.

To say that we are thankful and relieved seems almost trite. I want to jump for joy. I want to hug everyone I love. I want to live and love as hard as I can. I don't want to leave anything unsaid.

Life. I am thankful.

Doctor Appt. Update

So I went to the doctor this morning to get the low-down on my blood pressure (get it? low-down? har har). I kind of feel like it was a big fat waste of time.

Okay, so I admittedly have a deep-seated prejudice against doctors. So it's unlikely that I would come away from any doctor's office with rave reviews.

This is my PCP. I've never met him before, as we changed family doctors after our previous one missed Michael's cancer (that's right!), or rather, failed to refer him to a specialisit until SEVEN MONTHS after he first brought alarming symptoms to her attention. Yeah. So after that we kind of decided maybe she wasn't the doctor we wanted to entrust our care to. So this is a doctor new to us. Highly recommended, actually, by Michael's oncologist - who is actually a doctor I very much like. Anyhow, this new doctor, however, happens to be out of town currently, so I saw some quack doctor filling in for him.

On the plus side, when I arrived, the waiting room was pretty crowded, but they were moving patients right along and I didn't have to wait long at all. I filled out the requisite paperwork and then was called back.

(Kind of a funny aside: on the wall was hung a sign that said "A FEE OF $25 IS CHARGED FOR FILLING OUT FORMS." I shit you not. I almost laughed out loud at this. Seriously? They're going to charge me to fill out forms pertaining to me? I mean, isn't clerical stuff part of the office staff's job? I love when they ask you for your insurance card so they can make a photocopy of it, then give you a form to fill out that asks you for your detailed insurance information. Dude, you have my freaking insurance information! And don't bother asking me for my driver's license number or social security number, because the only reason for you to have that information is for collection purposes, but I have insurance so you don't need to worry your pretty little heads about collecting anything from me!)

Anyway, so I go back and the nurse weighs me and measures my height (apparently I've shrunk an inch over the last few years) and takes my blood pressure. It was high. 162/96. A few minutes later the stand-in doctor comes in. I explained to him about the stress and anxiety I've been under with my husband's health, and also that my bp always tends to be noticeably lower (though still on the high side) at home than in the doctor's office. In a nutshell, here's what he told me:

• Stress does not cause high blood pressure (this after admitting that there is such a thing as "white coat syndrome" - a particular stress having to do with being in a doctor's office that causes some people's bp to elevate);
• Caffeine plays very little in the role of blood pressure
• My alcohol intake is most likely the biggest culprit and I need to seriously cut back.

That last one is the one that has me throwing my hands up. I am NOT a heavy drinker by any stretch of the imagination. I like to joke about drinking, but the honest truth is I have the equivalent of ONE drink 4 - 5 nights out of the week. Once in a while when I go out I might have two or three drinks. That's it.

He said that he could give me a prescription for a bp med today, but when I told him that I'm still breastfeeding he informed me that he's not sure if any bp med is safe while breastfeeding. "Probably," he said. But, he said, it would probably be better if I just stopped breastfeeding. And that got under my skin too. As if it's that simple, that cut and dried. I have a toddler with Down syndrome who does not drink out of a cup yet. Yes, I need to work on that, but I guess what bugs me is just the black and white perception.

What we finally decided is that I will work at making certain lifestyle changes - eat better (less salt - I do love my salt!), try to get more exercise (though, seriously, with all the running around I do, I hardly live a sendentary life, and at 5'4" and 128 pounds, I am not overweight), I don't know about the alcohol . . . whatever . . . and monitor my bp at home for the next few weeks and see. And then go back and see my new real doctor for a follow-up.

So basically I feel like I am left standing here, still at square one. I don't know if I actually have chronic high blood pressure, or if it's situational, or even if it's hereditary. My dad had high blood pressure, but he also had a terrible lifestyle - he was grossly overweight, he was a heavy smoker, a severe alcoholic - so his hypertension could very well have been totally lifestyle induced and not genetic.

Blah.

Monsters

I just took my blood pressure at home, wondering if my sky-high reading the other day had anything to do with my White Coat Syndrome. (I have a blood pressure monitor at home that I used to monitor my bp when I was pregnant with Lilah.) It read 182/86. Not great, but not nearly as high as it was in the doctor's office the other day.

I have an appointment with my GP tomorrow morning. And I'm having some anxiety about it - which I'm sure isn't helping. High bp, worried about high bp, which probably elevates it more . . . ah, it's a circle jerk.

Anxiety has been running extremely high in our house lately. It's not something I've talked a lot about, in the interest of privacy, but I need to put it out there now. We are scared. Michael is due for an annual PET scan, and in a way, it feels very much like we're reliving the period right after he was diagnosed, when we were trying to wrap our heads around the fact that he had cancer, but we didn't yet know how bad it was or what the treatment plan and prognosis were going to be. Emotions have been heightened by the fact that some people Michael has become acquainted with who had the same type of cancer he had have died recently. It throws you for a loop, that's for sure.

Until very recently, I've been operating under the assumption that everything is going to be okay. Of course it is! Of course his scan is going to be completely uneventful. Of course it's just going to confirm that he's completely fine. Very naive of me, but I think it's just been a defense mechanism. I can't let myself go there. I can't let myself think about the other possibility, because I might lose my mind if I do. The only way I can hold it together is to convince myself that of course everything is going to be fine.

Only now that naivete is crumbling, and reality has wormed its way in. All it takes is one rogue little cancer cell to have not shown up on his scan immediately following the end of his treatment. One little cell that could pull the whole fucking rug out from under us once again.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: people think that once a person is finished with cancer treatment and their follow-up scan shows "NED" (no evidence of disease), that's it, the beast has been beaten and everyone can heave a sigh of relief and get on with life. And to some extent that's true, but it's also true that cancer never leaves you (or your loved ones) completely. The fear - and the chance - of recurrence is always there. It's not an easy thing to live with. The hardest thing is figuring out how to not let the fear control you and steal your life.

Michael saw his oncologist this morning for routine bloodwork, etc. (which went fine), and in the interest of putting all this waiting and wondering behind us, scheduled his scan for tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully we will get good news within a day or two and can move forward. In the meantime, one foot in front of the other.

Fourth Annual Book Club Holiday Extravaganza

For four years running now, my book club (which has been going strong for over seven years now!) has forgone a December book discussion and instead we've gotten together for a holiday dinner and gift/book exchange. This year's dinner was hosted by the lovely Audrey (at the head of the table in the first photo below) who went all out.





















This is an event I look forward to every year, and every year it gets better and better. I feel so fortunate to be a part of this group of intelligent, fun, opinionated, stimulating women.

Thrown For a Bit of a Loop

So this morning I went in to my old OB/GYN's office for my annual well-woman visit (no photos, so sorry). My midwife did my last well-woman, which was very cool, especially because it took place in my own little Home Sweet Home (convenient!) and because it involved cocktails beforehand - imagine how much more relaxed every woman would feel were she served an ice cold screwdriver before she was served a speculum! Anyhow, I had an inkling that this year I might be in need of some referrals to other doctors (for a mammogram, which at 43 I have yet to have; and possibly to a urologist to address the damage birthing six babies has done to my holding power), so I went back to the OB/GYN whose ship I jumped mid-pregnancy four years ago. I actually saw his Nurse Practitioner, so I didn't have to face him.

After filling out an inch-thick stack of paperwork, I was called back where the nurse weighed me, asked me a bunch of questions about my health history, and took my blood pressure.

And there was the kicker: it can no longer be denied that I have high blood pressure. The first time she took it, her eyes got big, she whistled and said "190 over 104." Seriously. She waited a few minutes, told me to try to relax and took it again. 178/100. Not good. Not good at all.

The fact is, I've had high blood pressure in the past. It first came to light when I was pregnant with the twins, and at that time it was diagnosed as pregnancy-induced hypertension. By the end of my pregnancy, I was in the throes of pre-eclampsia, and my blood pressure was so high while I was in labor (exaccerbated, I am convinced, by the on-call motherfucker obstetrician who spent a very long time trying to bully me into a completely unnecessary c-section) that they were afraid I was going to go into a seizure, and put me on a magnesium sulphate drip.

At that time, I thought it was just the pregnancy with twins that did that to me - it was just a lot for a body to handle, growing two babies at once. But when I got pregnant with Lilah my blood pressure also revealed itself on the high side. Same with Finnian. My midwife was able to help me control it with a high protein diet and various supplements, but on the sporadic occasions I've been to the doctor for various ailments between pregnancies over the last few years, my BP has always been on the higher side, though never as high as it was this morning. So I don't think I can chalk it up to pregnancy-induced anymore. There is a hereditary factor, as well. My dad had chronic high blood pressure and died from a massive heart attack at the age of 51 (which is less than ten years older than I am now). He was overweight and had several decades of hard living, hard drinking, and heavy smoking under his belt, which no doubt were the main contributors to his death, but still, I can't help thinking . . . I'm not overweight, I don't smoke (anymore, but I did for a loooong time), and I'm only a moderate imbiber, but there's the high blood pressure. Which at this point looks chronic.

So then the nurse stuck me in a little exam room giving me the usual instructions to get undressed and put that ridiculous paper robe on, and a few minutes later the NP came in and right away told me that my blood pressure "needs to be addressed as soon as possible," and I started crying. Fool. Ninny.

It's just that in the wake of Michael's ordeal last year, I feel so incredibly fragile and mortal.

You know, you go through your twenties and thirties feeling kind of invincible - or at least like, all that decline and health stuff that comes with age? It's so far off in the future that it's hardly worth thinking about. And then you find yourself in your forties, and especially if any kind of devastating illness has visited itself on your family or anyone you are relatively close to, and suddenly you feel so vulnernable. And it's terrifying at times, knowing that there might be invisible things going on inside your body that you have no knowledge of, no control over. And you have visions of your children being left motherless or fatherless. And everything you have to lose suddenly becomes so tangible that you can touch it.

Michael's battle with cancer has done a whole head trip on me. Every little ache or pain these days makes me stop for at least a second or two and wonder what it means. Is it something horrible hiding inside me, just waiting for the right moment to reveal itself and fuck my whole family over? The feeling usually passes pretty quickly by great effort on my part. And really, despite this burgeoning hypochondria, there is also a sense of utter procrastination. I can't deal with any of my potential issues right now because I have too much other stuff going on with Michael and the kids. My stuff can wait. I'll deal with it later. And there is a certain bliss in remaining ignorant.

But after this morning, I am no longer ignorant of my state of health, or at least not completely so. And now I have to address it. I left the doctor's office this morning feeling a little like a walking time bomb. Is my heart on the verge of giving out? Is there a vessel in my brain about to burst at any second?

I have an appointment with my family doctor early next week to address this blood pressure issue. The NP this morning told me that they'll probably put me on medication to control it, and maybe even baby aspirin. Gah. Is this the start of being old and lining up my prescription meds on the counter every day? How depressing.

Gotta do it, though. Take care of yourselves, people. Just do it.

Hair: The Long and the Short of It

It's recently hit me how much time and emotion are invested in hair in our house. Seriously.

There is Annabelle, of course, with her unofficially diagnosed trichotillomania. Which breaks my heart. And which I thought we had so well under control, and which lately we clearly do not have under control. Her hair had grown out so nicely from last spring through the summer until school started, and since then she's been on a twirling/twisting/pulling frenzy that no amount of reasoning, ignoring, or fidget-toys seems to be helping. It recently got to the point where one whole side was so noticeably shorter than the other that she looked positively lopsided. I consulted with a girlfriend who also has a daughter with a penchant for pulling and asked her, "Should I trim her hair to even it out? Or should I just leave it since she doesn't seem to care?" I was advised to leave it, and I did for a while, but I couldn't take it any longer and this weekend I trimmed it. (And I'm still asking myself, is it fair or right to impose my vanity on my six-year-old daughter? And I still haven't come up with an answer.) The truth is, Annabelle is a beautiful little girl - I'm not just saying that - and she looks adorable with a little pixie cut. It's not the short hair that bothers me, it's the reason it's short, and it's people asking her why her hair is short while her sisters' both have long hair, and watching how she kind of folds up in shame when the question is posed to her.

Then there is Joey. He's been letting his hair grow for almost a year now. And really, I swear he has the most gorgeous, to-die-for hair . . . wavy and thick with natural golden highlights . . . I'm telling you, he has the kind of hair that women pay big bucks to simulate. Anyway, and I really like the long hair on him. But quirky little Joey . . . I started thinking this was becoming some sort of Howard Hughes thing with him, that if we didn't make him go in for at least a little trim, he might go the rest of his life without allowing scissors to touch his hair. So with the aid of some good old fashioned bribery, we got him to agree to go in for a little trim this weekend. It's still long, and it still looks great, and now it's cleaned up and hopefully we've broken whatever hair-head-trip he was on.

Kevin also grew his hair out over the summer, and I have to say it looked awful. He's got straight, fine hair like me, and it just hung in his face. But it was almost like he was competing on some level with Joey - we were letting Joey grow his hair out, and Joey gets all this attention for his gorgeous hair (from family and strangers alike), so it seemed like Kevin wanted a piece of that too. Which is a little sad, that Kevin at 13 feels like he needs to compete with his 8-year-old brother for whatever reason. Anyway, we pushed and pushed for Kevin to get his hair cut when school started back up, and he did, and was very upset about it. And since then, we've made him get his hair cut a couple more times, and it's always with a fight. He looks so handsome with short hair, but I'm not sure I feel like anyone has won. I guess he's at that age when self-expression is rearing its head, and we have to let out the reins some, right?

Lilah's hair is down to her butt. Like Joey, she has the most wonderful, gorgeous hair. Curly, thick, honey-colored, cascading down her back. Hair that I'd kill for. She announced to me yesterday after her bath that she wants me to cut her hair, that she wants it like Daisy's (which is a little longer than shoulder-length). She started crying and begging me to cut it. I have no doubt that she hates how I have to comb and tug through it after washing it to detangle it (and no amount of conditioner seems to do the trick). But I can hardly bear the thought of cutting those tresses! Plus, she's so fickle these days that I just know I'd cut it and she'd be shrieking that she wanted her hair back. So it stays for now, but I know at some point . . .

Finn's pretty easy. I just stick him in the kitchen sink about once a month and take Daddy's electric trimmer to his head and give him a faux hawk. The only downside is that Michael doesn't like the faux hawk. Well, you know the saying - you can't please everyone.

I think Daisy is the only one who is happy with her hair the way it is, and whose hair everyone else seems to have no complaints about either.

Thanksgiving 2010

Thanksgiving this year was the best in recent memory.

I have to say, usually I find myself becoming depressed when the holiday season hits. It's usually when I feel the absence of extended family the most, and it's always a reminder of my dad's untimely death right before Christmas in 1998. This year everything feels different though. I guess it boils down to the feelings of gratitude I wrote about in my last post. This family of mine - my husband and my kids - it's enough for me. It's the family I always wanted, and there's nothing to pine for anymore. I miss my dad - I always will - but he'd want me to be happy and to bask in the present.

Anyway, it was a pretty low-key, no-stress day. Michael and I spent the day getting all the food ready, and we had dinner on the table by 5:00.





The turkey was fabulous - and I'm not a big fan of turkey. It was super moist, tender and very flavorful. To achieve this, Michael had to establish relations with the bird three days in advance according to these instructions my friend Robin sent me. Seriously, bookmark it and try it next year - you won't be sorry.

I am feeling positively in the holiday spirit now - me, the Humbug. Might even get some Christmas decorations put up before the weekend is over.

I close with a little Thanksgiving animation my brilliant son, Kevin, made with clay and Legos. Enjoy!