I feel great

Since we got the news that the lump is cancer, everyone asks me how I’m feeling.
I feel great.
It makes no sense to me that I have a disease, but I feel fine. I feel like a fraud because I feel so good and have told everybody I have cancer. In fact, I may actually be in denial myself. Unless I feel for the lump, I really don’t feel any symptoms.
If there is an adverse effect to report it's mental. I feel compelled to read about cancer, cancer treatments, what happens in advanced stages. It can be intensely depressing. One of these days I will get tired of it and read a novel.

There are fatalistic thoughts hanging around in my consciousness as well, “Maybe I should write myself one of those convenience checks the credit card company sends me every month”.
Until I was diagnosed in 2002, I never, ever thought about my mortality except to think that for all the adventures I’ve had, I ought to be dead already. Since that cancer diagnosis happened though, I am constantly aware of my mortality.
I recently saw a Sundance show with Quentin Tarantino, who said he’d always felt invincible because he knew there was something he was supposed to do in his time on this Earth. He did lots of crazy things, knowing he wouldn’t die until he’d done what ever that was he was put here to do. He said he began to think he was mortal again after ‘Reservoir Dogs’.

In reading about cancer symptoms, it seems most of the symptoms come from the tumor growing and pressing on nearby organs or nerves, sometimes the tumor releases toxins that produce feelings of tiredness or sickness. Since my tumor is pressing only on a silicone implant and my skin, which because of the mastectomy really has no sensation, as you know it, I don’t feel any discomfort. The rosebud tattoos I got where my nipples used to be were truly the first painless tattoos I’ve ever received!

Doing the detox and the supplements is really giving me an energy boost. I got up two hours earlier than usual this morning and did yoga! The difficulty comes in social situations. I had to say “no” to a dear friend’s birthday celebration, because I know myself well enough to know I can’t just say no. I love a good cocktail or five with friends.
I am happy enough eating raw fruits and veggies, but I have no will power when Damon cooks. Fine food and wine have been a big pleasure in my life, a big part of what drew me to my husband & I feel angry sometimes that cancer is having me choose to change my lifestyle.
I keep telling myself that this drastic change is only for three months, but in the back of my head, I know this may be a more permanent thing. This is a choice I am making myself.

Choice A. Helplessly submitting to the best that modern medicine has to offer- and I do mean submitting, from what I’ve seen those treatments are torture.

Choice B. Taking my life into my own hands and feeling powerful and proactive – the fact that natural therapy doesn’t hurt is a big plus, too. I’m a total wuss.

No matter what, I always feel grateful to have such wonderful friends and family who understand why I am not going out for cocktails. I appreciate when friends ask how I’m doing; it lets me know they care. I am most appreciative when my friends & family get the non-verbal cues that I just don’t want to talk about it today and back off. It takes a lot to deal with a cancer diagnosis and it isn’t going anywhere right away.

Full Moon

My moods have been all over the place this week, but then I am a Moonchild and we are notoriously temperamental. The full Moon never fails to light up my soul, and so after the stressful week of tests and thinking way too much about what amount of slicing and dicing I want to let the doctors do to me, I decided to take The Shadow (also born under the sign of the Moon) for a really long walk.
We walked down our usual streets around our house and then kept walking sunset becoming twilight and then the glorious full Moon rising. We discovered some really cool pockets of architecture from 1930’s California bungalows to Spanish style stucco to really dilapidated Craftsmen complete with bars over the windows to the quietly upscale homes around the Occidental campus.
The evening was so warm, with a light breeze carrying the smells of the ‘hood, carne asada, marijuana smoke, Jasmine flowers, it reminded me of the years I lived in San Francisco’s Mission District – except the sidewalk didn’t smell like pee.
The warm weather brings everybody out, the diversity that is Eagle Rock, runners, people dining on MIA Sushi’s patio, guys hanging out in front of Evil Or Sacred Tattoos, smokers burning cigarettes in front of Barrio Fiesta, teenagers rolling down the sidewalk, one on a skateboard, one pushing a shopping cart with another one in the cart, sports fans yelling at the flat screen at The Bucket, me & my Shadow.

The shitty mood I’ve been nursing all week was washed away by the life all around, the full Moon and I started to think everything would be OK no matter what comes. I’ve been feeling like I have to hurry up and make some decisions about treating this cancer and feeling so conflicted. There are some things I really want to do in the coming months that surgery, radiation or a combination will totally get in the way of.
Tonight I decided I should allow myself a little slack and take my time. I plan to have some more conversation with my doctors, to continue the Dr. Schultze detox and nutrition and most importantly, I will keep a positive outlook. The walk filled me with love for the beauty that is life and reminded me that I am not alone, plenty of other people have their own battles, and it’s part of life. I have been focusing too much on my inner turmoil, twisting my gut into a knot about a future that doesn’t even exist except in my mind.

The Shadow is having a nap on the cool tile floor at my feet. In this moment I am really happy and what more can I ask for? I most likely will have more anger that I have to deal with cancer again and I will probably feel sorry for myself again, but right now life is beautiful.

MRI Wednesday

I'll be going to the S. Mark Taper Imaging Center for a breast MRI. I had this same procedure in 2004 before the mastectomies. At the time I had no idea really of what to expect. Having been previously very healthy, my fear of hospitals and test procedures was because it was all so foreign to me. The experience I’d had with hospitals and specifically cancer treatments were centered on my Godmother and little sister who both died of breast cancer after lots of treatment and in the case of my Godmother, a long battle with breast cancer.

I recall the MRI was scheduled early morning, not my best time of day anyway. I had no idea how small the tube is that they put you in for the test. I remember laughing because I was told to lie face down on the table, and the attendant put 2 coffee filters (that’s what they looked like to me) in the depressions that allow the breasts to hang down.

Breast imaging is very sensitive to motion. I was told even the slightest movement could cause errors, and that I should make myself comfortable and lay motionless for the approximately 60 minutes. The technician added to my fears when she told me how to signal her if I needed to come out right away in case I felt my tattoos burning. Apparently, some older components of tattoo inks could be pulled out of the skin by the magnet!
I lay down on the table as instructed and the attendant slid the table into the tube. I thought of the sickbay aboard the Starship Enterprise and wished the technician could just wave a Tricorder over me and I would be healed. My husband sat outside the tube, but I couldn’t see him for the bright light shining in. I felt terrified and claustrophobic, trying to relax and be still while crying my eyes out. I didn’t feel anything, but heard thumping noises that seemed to surround me and grew increasingly loud. I lay there crying for what seemed like the longest hour of my life.
I think the only way I was able to keep still was the idea that I’d have to do the whole thing over again if the image was blurred. I felt completely drained after I got up from that table, but no so much that I didn’t notice the valves nearby labeled N2O (Nitrous Oxide).
I’m not so terrified this time, I know what to expect and I asked my Dr. for some Valium to take before I go in. I know it will be uncomfortable, I still get claustrophobic even in an elevator, but I’m anxious to get the tests done.