Waiting for DIEP

My oncologist told me that the further one gets from cancer treatment, the less enthusiastic they are about becoming a patient again. Well, no kidding.

I feel so nearly normal. Apart from the wild mood swings, night sweats, Buddah belly, deformed boob, and mild lymphedema, it’s like nothing every happened! According to Winona Judd, ‘Normal is just a cycle on a washing machine’. So I’m just as normal as I can be, and the thought of slipping into a hospital gown and walking into surgery seems like somebody else’s life. Not mine.

So I need to move forward. The wait for this surgery has gone on too long. It dangles in front of me like a carrot and as I move forward so does the date. Until recently, I’ve been happy to look at it from a distance; secretly hoping the day would never come. I’ve deliberately been running at medium speed but now it’s time to sprint ahead,  and put the damn carrot in the rear view mirror.

So I emailed my surgeon’s office and told them that it’s been almost a year since radiation, and I need to know what’s going on. Thirty seconds later, (Ping!) I received an email from Dr. Escargot saying  ‘I’ll work on it’.  Surprisingly, he didn’t say there’s ‘no rush’, nor did he say the usual stuff about scheduling being up to the other surgeon's office. Normally his secretary gives me a little speech about the difficulty of scheduling two surgeons and an OR room for an entire day. But Dr Escargot said none of that. The snail was taking action.

Twenty minutes later Dr Plastic Surgeon’s office called, and said they are making calls and would get back to me shortly.  So I sat in front of my computer, waiting for the Ping on my computer indicating that I had mail. But it never came.

But I needed an answer before the weekend.  Waiting isn’t working for me anymore. So I called the PS’s office, and his kind secretary gave me an update. She told me that they’d proposed two dates to Escargot, without any success. But, there was a third option she was proposing, and was waiting to hear back.

‘And what date might that be?’ I asked.

‘May 9’ she said.

Sounds perfect. I want that date. I should know by tomorrow. Fingers crossed.

Fit/Fat

It’s a tricky business trying to stay fit and fat at the same time. On one hand I need to preserve my expanding tummy. The middle fat is necessary so that it can be transferred to my upper middle, thereby reducing the risk of canceritis recurrence to almost zero. The fact that it requires a ten-hour operation makes me uncomfortable. And the fact that I haven’t yet been given a date for the aforementioned ten hour operation, has me completely on edge.

Then there is the other hand. I have to be in shape for this surgery. My surgeon, Dr Escargot, told me that I’m the ideal candidate for surgery. I’m a young (why thank you Doctor!),  healthy, non-smoker who is in fairly good shape.

But in order to grow my tummy, I’ve been avoiding all the exercises that strengthen  my stomach. I stopped doing sit ups, and I’ve taken a break from Pilates. I’ve been completely neglecting my core.

But my post surgery body needs to be strong. From what I understand, my recovery involves a strain on my back, since it will be overcompensating for my frontal realignment.  And I’ll have about 8 weeks when I can’t use my ab muscles at all. So I need to build up my strength. I’ve gone back to Pilates – sort of.  Rather than go back to class, I downloaded a video so I can do it my living room.

Self Portrait with Minor Exaggeration

So I came home tonight, and did my workout.  At the end I spent a few minutes doing a plank. (Diane Sawyer swears by this). Tonight I took my position and looked down at my body. I could see my little cleavage, and below that, my gut. BUT – my tummy was actually hanging lower than my boobs! No matter how alarming, this is also fantastic. I was working out, while watching my fat. And there is ample!

In a perfect world, they doctors could squeeze my middle and push my fat up higher – much like a tube of toothpaste. But my body is less like toothpaste and more like a Werther’s in a muffin. Soft on the outside, hard in the middle.  So I continue to work on the hard core, while my muffin gleefully spills over my pants.

And I am getting fitter. And fatter. And still waiting…

One secretary. Three heads.

For all the fantastic people I deal with at Princess Margaret first class hospital, there is always one dud. In this case it my oncologist’s secretary. Her name is Cerberus.

Because my oncologist (Dr E) is almost unreachable, we have to go through this secretary.  My other doctors are all reachable by phone or email, and seem genuinely concerned. Not Dr E. She doesn’t make things easy.

So, I had a question that has been puzzling me. I am on a drug called Tamoxafen that messes with the estrogen that contributes to the development of cancerous breast tumours. Because I’ll be replacing my breast tissue with the fat from my big round tummy, I’m wondering if my drug regime will remain the same. So when I was at the hospital having my arm checked, I thought I should stop Dr E’s office, and say hi.

‘Hi Evelyn,’ I chirped sweetly. She looked slowly up from her appointment book. 

‘Oh. She said. ‘Hi’

‘I’d like to talk to Dr. E.’

‘Ok. You can phone for an appointment.'

 I looked at the appointment book, which was at her fingertips. ‘ Can I make an appointment now?’

‘You should call.’

‘I’m standing right here.’

She looked up at me as though she’d just cracked open her Wendy’s salad, and discovered a piece of slimy lettuce.  Her face puckered in disdain.  Reluctantly, she opened her book.

‘July 4^th.’ She said.

Really?! Screw off!  ‘Can I please have something sooner? I have an important question.’

‘What kind of question?’

I explained about my continued Tomoxifen. She ooomphed. ‘You’ll have to ask Dr E about that.’

‘ I know.’ I said. ‘That is why I’d like to make an appointment.’

She leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. We had a little staring contest as I sized up her three heads. Then she dragged her finger lazily across the calendar as though the effort had exhausted her. ‘April 4.’

I nodded. ‘Fine.’

Janet-1. Cerberus -0. Time to find a new doctor.

Feeding Time in the OR

The problem with a long waiting time for surgery is that it gives me too much time to think. Rather than relaxing in downward dog, I think about scar tissue. Instead of counting sheep, I think about blood vessels. All this worry, and I don’t even have a surgery date.

Last week I was booked for a CT scan. No big deal. All I had to do was lie down on a table, and glide in and out of a giant donut.  But I forgot about the flimsy hospital gown, and how vulnerable they make me feel. And I forgot about the injection, and the search for the perfect vein, and the smell of whatever goes into the syringe.  Too much stuff to think about, for a gal who tries not to think about what happens in the OR.

So I was happy to get out of there, and after hurling my gown into the hamper, I ran down to the lobby for a peppermint tea. There, at Tim Horton’s, I stood in line. All around me there were doctors. In front of me were to surgeon-ish looking men ordering coffee and talking about sports. ‘Did you see the size of his head?’ said one to the other. So I started thinking– these guys must also chat to each other during procedures – but what is it they talk about?

Three Espressos Before Surgery

While I’m under anaesthetic, unable to defend myself, do the Doctor’s talk about me? My only point of reference is MASH, where there was some witty banter (with sexual undertones) over the wounded. But I’m going to be out for many hours, so those people have a lot of time to fill. Will they say that I too have a big head?  Or, will they comment on the colour of my toenails?

And what if the medical staff is hungry? It’s a long surgery and they’re going to have to be fed.  I’d hate to think of my surgeon with a rumbly tummy, thinking about two eggs sunny side up. Or, God forbid, an anaesthesiologist with a nervous tick, who drinks too much coffee.

34C

For me it’s a monumental day. One that I am dreading, and one that always plays out in my head. For doctors, it’s another day at the office. And that day will include chatting, eating, telling jokes, stretching, calling home, and going for a pee. And at the centre of it will be me; the quiet participant.

And then there’s the game that I seem to remember playing during my University drinking days. You take the hand of your comatose friend,  and make him slap himself. Could it be remotely possible that some of the interns will take advantage of my supple nature and start amusing themselves by rearranging my arms so it looks like I’m holding some forceps?

The possibilities are endless. 

So is my imagination.

This is a long wait.

Front Seat Driver

Jed and I were out in the neighborhood yesterday morning, walking at 1 mile per hour.  He was having a particularly sniffy day, and he was stopping to smell each fragrant shrub and every single snowflake.

Ahead of us was a threesome who was moving along at pretty much the same pace. I’d seen them come out of a house on my street, and we’d since caught up, which shows you the speed at which we all traveled. They were three men  - two older, and one younger, and they were inching towards a van. The eldest man was using a walker, while his friend was walking alongside. I assumed the younger man was the driver of the van, and he’d come to collect his passengers.

Jed stopped to pee on a discarded tricycle, and I watched the elderly gentleman shuffle along. He was slightly stooped, and was wearing the kind of shapeless chinos favoured by older men, the kind into which you can jam a few hankies and a wallet.  He seemed deep in concentration as he and his friend navigated the winter sidewalk. Inside my head I was chanting ‘Please don’t fall please don’t fall don’t fall’. For the millionth time that day I was grateful for my strength and mobility. I thank the universe every day that I can breath deeply, and get where I need to go. Who cares that I’ve got Frankenboobies  - that’s what French bras are for.

Jed

The van was only five feet ahead, but the walk was slow. Rather than pass them, Jed and I crossed the street, and watched them from the other side. They all were heading towards the drivers side of the vehicle. Apparently it would take two men to help him into the back seat. 

The young man opened the driver’s door and the passenger door. And the older man in the walker shuffled to the back door and then shuffled right on past it toward the younger man. The young man took the walker, set it aside, and with the help of the friend, picked up the older gentleman and plopped him behind the wheel.

I watched. And waited. And Jed licked a snow bank. And then I stepped back as the van jerked away from the sidewalk, and tore loudly up the street.

Control comes in all shapes and sizes, and in this case is was a 4000 pound container with rubber burning under it's feet.

Marching Into Spring

The days are getting longer.

Like most Canadians, I look up at the sky like a sunflower, impatient for the extra light and drinking in as many rays as possible. But this year I’ve also embraced the evenings, and have been using the outdoors to my advantage. The early nights allow a certain anonymity, so once the sun goes down, under the cloak of darkness, I march.

After being diagnosed with lymphedema last fall I learned that I had to do exercises to compensate for my loss of nodes. My lymph fluids need extra help circulating, especially through my right arm, so it doesn't swell up like a fleshy pork sausage.

Every few months I check in at the Lymphedema Clinic at Princess Margaret Hospital. The circumferences of both arms are measured to make sure they are under control (they are). While there, the therapist asks if I’d like to do a self-massage under her guidance (no), or if I’d rather she massage me (yes please!)

Then we go through the basic preventative exercises, two of which I do in the car. Keeping my arm elevated, and pumping my fist are easy to do when stuck in traffic. (Thanks to my dad I’m a one-armed driver, as my driving lessons consisted of driving to Baskin Robbins, and then a driving home holding a rocky road ice-cream cone).

Because there are also nodes in the groin area, the therapist suggested I stimulate them by marching.
‘Marching?’ I asked her, ‘Like a soldier?’
‘More like a marching band,’ she said. ‘Soldiers don’t always bend their knees.’

And so I march. But instead of carrying an intstrument, I’m pulling a basset hound. Or more likely, he’s pulling me as I march quickly behind. I’m keenly aware that I probably look like a clumsy wind up toy, and not like the elegant French lady I so long to be. Nobody ever marches down to the patisserie for a baguette, and certainly not while wearing a parka.

But my body has changed, and I’m constantly trying to compensate for it’s revisions. So I’m appreciate the dark night, when I can march through my neighborhood, without actually being seen.

Spring is coming, and soon my neighbors will be sitting on front porches. And I will march by them, with Jed disguised as a tuba.

Good, Very

Today I woke up at 3 o’clock in the morning, wishing I could change the answers on my questionnaire.

Yesterday was Water Spa day, with a lovely group of girls. The idea is to do a ‘circuit’ of five pools that will benefit your body in all sorts of ways. The least appealing pool is the frigid Plunge Pool in which we submerge for about a minute. Challenging at first - though it’s amazing how the body can acclimatize. By the third time in the plunge pool, my sister was leisurely fluttering her legs, carrying on long conversations with the other polar bears.

I don't know these people.

But I digress. Before we even entered the facility, we had to fill out a form stating any health issues. I haven’t done one of those in a while, so I answered truthfully. Under ‘Most Recent Illness’ I wrote ‘Breast Cancer’, and under ‘Medications’, I wrote ‘Tomoxifen’, and under my ‘Overall Health’ I wrote ‘Good’.

I pondered briefly why I’d bother to write anything at all. After all, I’ve been lying on questionnaires most of my life. I even lied to the elliptical trainer about my weight and age. But it had to be done – and the youngster behind the counter scanned the piece of paper, eventually filing it away.

In the wee hours of the morning I woke up thinking about that questionnaire with ‘Janet’ on it, and the word ‘Cancer’ underneath.  I don’t like having those two words together unless it’s at a medical facility. Certainly not at a spa. Wandering to the kitchen for a snack (peach yogurt), I tried to figure out why it bothered me. Cancer is a big part of my life, but it’s almost behind me.  My surgery is because of the disease, but it’s a surgery I’m choosing.

I am healthy, and I have hair.

So I am glad of the last minute change I made on the questionnaire. Before the girl behind the counter filed me away, I’d reconsidered the line for ‘Overall Health.’ Then in the small space before the word ‘good’,  I’d squeezed in the word ‘very’ before I’d quickly signed my name. 

Little Peas

Eighteen months ago I bought six big bags of frozen peas. They were on stand by in case I had to put them on my nails to prevent them from falling off, due to the side effects of chemotherapy.  But because the hospital provided me with ice packs, I never did have to bring my own vegetables.

So they sat in the fridge.

And tonight as I was leafing through recipes, I asked Jim if he’d prefer his smoked salmon farfalle with capers, or peas. He looked surprised. ‘We don’t have any peas,’ said he. I was even more surprised. I’d been looking at peas every day since Autumn 2011, when I went on a manic shopping spree. How could he have missed them?  They’ve been a fixture in the fridge, right alongside the ice, blueberries, and frozen shrimp. We had a friggin’ pea wall in our fridge and a bag usually fell on my toes every time I reached for the frozen vodka.

Medicine Cabinet

So  I started rooting around to see what else was hiding in the icebox. A year ago it looked like a chemo fridge, and was jammed with every manner of homemade soup, and frozen salmon fillets and loaves of banana bread. But now it was nearly back to normal.

So I grabbed a bag of peas and slammed it against the counter. I opened it and shook out a few chunks, and a few tiny green balls fell to the floor. Did they not want to be eaten?

Yum

Peas had been my backup for cancer care for so long, that they were as trustworthy and dependable as my aloe gel and my painkillers. I’ve done a major house cleaning of things that I don’t need. All my headgear is long gone, and the wig is tucked away until it can be put to good use. Aloe gel is in a pretty box, on hold for my next surgery, and the painkillers have all been dispensed of – they serve no purpose and I don’t like having them around.

And now I feel the same way about the peas. Right now, my life is the most normal it's been for a while. That will change soon, when I will again need the pills, and soups, and compresses, and pound cake, and Oprah, Phil, Ellen, Anderson, and Dr. Oz. But for today a pea is just a pea and it will be used in the way the Good Lord intended.

In farfalle with smoked salmon and cheese.

Jelly Belly

If I thought my reconstructive surgeon was young and soft spoken, his Visiting Fellow was even more so.  He may or may not have been over twenty-five, but his British accent made him sound like a genius.

I stood in front of him, holding open my robe, naked from the waist up.

‘Are you sure….’ I asked, glancing at my stomach ‘That I have enough fat for this surgery?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at my boobs, and then at my middle, which is now hanging over my pants. ‘You have enough.’

I guess I’ve been in denial. I know I’ve gained weight.  Out of necessity, I’ve changed the way I dress, and wear blouses rather than T-shirt, and sweaters with an empire waist. And though I still manage to squeeze into my demi-curve Levi’s stretch jeans, it’s getting harder and harder to cross my legs.

But I still find it hard to believe that I have enough fat to make a pair of perfect little breasts. I also find it odd that a doctor who specializes in microsurgery doesn’t use any tools to assess the fatness of my belly. ‘It doesn’t seem very scientific,’ I said to the young British Doc.

So he wheeled his chair over and started playing with my tummy. Squish squish squish. Then he fished around in the pocket of his lab coat and produced a cloth tape measure. He took a few measurement that didn’t make any sense, so I suspect he was just humouring me.

Before..............................And After

'Did Dr H tell you that you’re good to go?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Well, he’s one of the best, anywhere, so you have enough fat.’ He paused slightly. ‘Good work.'

I don’t know what I was expecting. I’d assumed a more fairy tail ending, as in Hansel and Gretel, where the wicked witch thinks Hansel is way to skinny. I imagined the doctor was going to tell me to ‘fatten up’, so that I was good enough to eat.

I was hoping he’d tell me to go back to my gingerbread house, and eat more candy.

DIEP 2013

Trusting my Gut

 For the last year I have been gaining weight.  I blame it on the Tamoxifen, but the truth is I’ve been eating with wild abandon for the last twelve months. As a result, I have a little tummy that is uncomfortable once it’s trapped in my pants. My new body is happier in sweats.

But I feel good about my weight gain. My upcoming surgery is called DIEP, and it requires that I have a little excess stomach fat in order that in can be used to replace the fat in my breasts. In a nutshell, it’s a boob job and a tummy tuck. At least that’s’ what sister Sue cheerfully blurted out to my reconstructive surgeon during one of our appointments. He smiled sweetly and said, ‘Um, yes. Essentially. But that’s not exactly how we promote it’

‘Can we use my fat?’ asked Sue.

‘Um…no.’

As yet, I don’t have a surgery date. I’d like to get it over with a soon as possible, since it’s the last step of my treatment and I’d like to put the whole canceritis kit and caboodle in the rear view mirror. (Plus – I want to fit back into my jeans). But I have to wait till the surgeon and his OR become available. Right now he’s fully booked, reconstructing people’s heads and such. Hopefully it will be this spring. And once my date is confirmed, I will have to get Belleruth Naparstek and her Guided Meditations back on board, along with all my ‘magical friends and allies’.

I’m really not to keen on going back into the hospital, or going back under the knife – but I’m thinking long term. They will use my newly acquired fat (thank you wine and cheese), after which I will likely have flattened abdomen. It’s a long surgery, with a long-ish recovery, but it’s got the best chance of drastically reducing the chance of recurrence for a bilateral gal like me.

Recently I was talking to Sue about a difficult decision I was trying to make.  She thought a minute. ‘Trust your gut,’ she told me. Than looking down at bulge beneath my sweater she added ‘I mean, trust your boobs.’  

Let the games begin!

Dressed for Battle

This week I’m going to meet my plastic surgeon. He’ll sit across from me and we’ll exchange pleasantries in his office. Softly, he will review my case. His bedside manner is impeccable and I am grateful for his quite attentiveness and gentle sense of humour.

Once again, I will look at him wondering how such an astounding biography comes from such a regular  looking man. As usual he will be wearing his white lab coat, and as usual I will be wearing my black knee high boots. He will be dressed for healing, and I will be dressed for battle.

I can’t afford to feel vulnerable. My black leather boots have a low heel, which allows me walk in long purposeful strides (More RCMP than dominatrix, but with a bit of elegant hardware around he ankle).  They zip over my jeans, and tightly hug my calves so the power shoots upward. I look relatively polished and ready to jump on a horse.

Neither stocking feet nor big clumsy winter boots are appropriate for my appointments. I need to be able to hop up on the table and cross my ankles with precision. The fact that I’ll be wearing a blue and white striped wrap round hospital gown, or, a bare-naked top isn’t important. From the knees down, I am invincible.

We have some very important matters to discuss. Namely, surgery. He’s got the upper hand here since he’s got degrees from a wide variety of highly acclaimed international medical institutions, and has the skill to reconnect tiny blood vessels under a microscope. I, on the other hand, can barely rip off my own band-aid.

But we will sit face to face and calmly discuss how to rebuild me. At some point he will look at my boobies, and probably even touch them. At some point I will look down and compare our footwear..  He will be wearing his casual brown Merrell multi sport hyperbolic slip on shoes with a rounded toe that look like curled up hampsters.

My gleaming GEOX riding boots could kick his little fuzzy Merrell ass. But there is no battle and there is no opponent.  Here we are all on the same team.

My Little Pony

I have big fears, so I’m trying to learn to do thinks in spite of being afraid. I can talk the talk, but I’m trying to walk the walk - or trot, as the case may be.

Not long ago I was Christmasing in Cuba with my mother Violet, sister Sue, and nephew Caleb. We took a break from being horizontal to do a jeep tour up a mountain. Our adventure included visiting a farm (easy), speed-boating (fun!), lunch (delicious) and horseback riding.

The horses were optional. Violet was one of the first to volunteer no to go, opting instead for a golf cart ride with the Cuban cowboys. Caleb was ready and willing. Sue and I however, were afraid. Years ago Sue had a bad experience on horseback and was really nervous about getting back in the saddle. I’m just a big fat hairy chicken, and don’t like to get into any situation where I may potentially lose control.

Fear

There were about 12 beginners in our group, with the exception of one gal from Alberta who was an experienced rider with nine horses of her own. Our cowboys assigned each of us to a horse. I requested (in bad Spanish) a small gentle ride, but I don’t think the boys understood, as they led me to ten-foot tall monster named ‘Jeri’, who was the biggest and most terrifying horse in the group. Horrified, I refused to climb up.

But assured that I would be just fine, I got up the horse. Feeling shaky, I looked at the ground. It was a million miles away! I looked over at my sister, who was sitting on a horse of her own, and she smiled nervously. If she could do it  so could I.

Hope

Meanwhile – Alberta gal was still on the ground demanding that she have a big strong fast horse that could ride like the wind. The ‘vaqueros’ gave her the once over, and matched her up with a small horse that was only lightly taller than my basset hound. ‘Oh – come on!’ I heard her mutter as she threw her leg over the horse.

So we started walking. We had a few instructions on how to drive our animals, but I was still really nervous that the horse would start running. In my imagination he’d take off through the woods, and I’d get smacked in the forehead by a low hanging branch,  tossed onto the ground, trampled by the rest of the stampede, and run over by the golf cart.

But things went quite well. There were a few tense moments when Jeri wondered off the beaten pack and onto the road, but I found that steering him was easier than I thought. Sue had a moment where her horse started to frolic in the grass, but within seconds a guide was coming to her rescue.

Reality (Jeri is on the left)

(Alberta, on the other hand, was miserable. She looked like a giant kid who was sitting on the horse at the mall, but didn’t have the 25 cents to make it actually move. To my delight her feet almost touched the ground, and I was relaxed enough to have a silent evil chuckle on her behalf)

A couple of great things happened on this walk. Firstly, being on a horse was Caleb’s favourite moment of the trip – and it’s always very cool to see someone fall in love with something for the very first time. Secondly, my sister and I both managed to do something that scared us.
I'd managed to control the giant stallion  - and not only did we have a  most enjoyable time, but we looked smashing in our riding hats!

But here’s the thing. When I got home, my mom sent me some photos she’d taken of us on horseback. My horse was no giant. Jeri was tiny!  My fear had made him into the Trojan horse, when he was just actually a tiny little creature. If he’d had a pink tail – he could have been in the toy store.

But fear makes things big. Bigger than they should be. So I'm trying to take a lesson from  Jeri. In my big fat chicken head, the idea of riding seemed insurmountable.  But in reality Jeri was just a nice horse and I was a little nervous. And in hindsight,  I rode with ease, and he was just little pony.

Sisters In Arms

I was standing in line at the dinner buffet at our fabulous all-inclusive resort in Cuba. More specifically, I was standing at the pasta bar.  The amount of food was overwhelming and a lot of it was porky pig, which I prefer not to eat. It was also a good chance to practice my Spanish. I could point to the various ingredients and request  peas, onions, and cheese. Or I may have actually asked for thumb tacks, an eraser, and teeth. I’m not really sure, but pointing goes a long long way.

Carefree in Cuba

The pasta bar was very popular and there was always a slow moving line-up. At one point I looked behind me to see how many people were waiting. I saw a few sun burnt faces and drunken Brits, and then I saw her. She was about my age and had two little kids hanging off her. Her hair, I knew immediately, was baby hair. Short in the front, a little mullet in the back, and an unnatural post - chemo curl. 

She was wearing some super cool glasses and to someone else she may have looked like any old lesbian with tattoos on one arm. But she wasn’t a lesbian (I don’t think) and she didn’t have tattoos. She had a rocking lymphediva compression sleeve in with black and white roses. It was beautiful!

My first instinct was to scream out ‘HEY! SISTER! I love your sleeve!’ Had I been wearing my fleshy suasage, I would have held it up in solidarity. As it was, my ugly compression garment was in my beach bag, where I’d left it that afternoon.

But I didn’t say anything. I was zapped back to the present, thinking about treatments and hair-do’s and puffy arms and future surgeries. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, thinking how some people are so cool. There are gals that make do with their situation, and there are gals that ‘Buckle the Fuck Up’ and elevate their situation to awesome.  She was obviously that latter, and I'm always grateful for inspiration. It's something to strive for. But before thoughts about canceritis could float into my head, I was interrupted by a much more urgent matter.

'Buenos Tardes lady! What you like in your pasta?’

Gordo

This year I’m going to Cuba for Christmas.  Joining me,  along with my bathing suit and sandals, will be my fleshy pork sleeve and matching gauntlet. So far it’s been easy to match my compression garments under a long sleeve shirt where they can be ignored, but now they’re going on vacation and it’s going to be hot.

But c’est la vie. It’s not as though I’m going to be lying on the beach, because I’m not allowed. My post-radiated body won’t do well in the sun, so I was already on planning on settling down under a palm tree. And if that didn’t work, I would be just as happy in the bar, with a mojito and a good book by my side.

So I had to make a return trip to Mansueta boutique, home of the unstylish medical garments. I’d called the Lymphedema Clinic because my thumb had become numb.  They suggested that my gauntlet might need refitting, which led me to Mansueta and my  tiny Filipino friend, Nanci.

I sat down on the stool while she fiddled with my hand. She was wearing heels that day, so we were eye to eye, and I was stuck by how large I felt in her presence – as though I was size of her buffalo.

‘Hm,’ she said stretching the fabric. ‘You hab no feeling in your thumb?’ I told her that I had pins and needles. I was worrying, in fact, that the lymphedema was spreading. I’d been doing my exercise, and the occasional self-massage, but as it’s Christmas, I’d been a bit lazy. Would I every feel my thumb again? Squeeze a lime, or open a tin of smoked oysters?

Gordo 

Nanci removed my gauntlet, pulled it a bit, and then put it back on my hand. Gently she rolled the fabric up my thumb, then folded the final 1/2 inch. ‘How is that?’ she asked. Wow! What a difference. ‘The babric was too tight and too high’ she told me. I looked at my thumb. 

‘So all you had to do was make a little turtleneck?'

She laughed. ‘Yes, a turtleneck’.

So now my thumb has an outfit. It’s not the fashion choice my thumb would have chosen for a Cuban vacation, as he prefers  to go the minimalist route, in the manner of a German tourist. But even though the colour's all wrong, at least it's better than a speedo.

(Just for fun, I looked up how to say ‘thumb’ in Spanish. The slang is ‘dedo gordo’. I don’t know that dedo means, but gordo means fat, and I think that Gord is a perfectly good name for my thumb.)

So us gals are off to Cuba, accompanied by my nephew Caleb (12), and Gordo in his turtleneck. And Gordon is now in charge of squeezing the lime.

Two Wishes

Last year I was visited by a fairy. And no – it wasn’t the steroids, or any other mélange of drugs – it was an actual fairy, for real.

It was last Halloween, and I was standing on my sisters' porch dressed as Jane Goodall, with a couple of monkeys strapped to my hip, and an itchy blonde wig on my bald head. All the kids came storming up the stairs with their big bags , saying trick or treat. The little kids were the best, because they were expecting magic, and on their best behavior. As the night got later, the kids got older, and sometimes they mumbled thank-you, and sometimes they said nothing at all. Some of them wore a mask, but there was little magic, and even fewer manners. I gave them all candy anyway, cus I’m a grown-up and it was Halloween.

Last night I was going through a drawer looking for some Christmas magic of my own - a sparkly hair clip. I only have a few inches of hair these days, but I love it, and thought it deserving of a clip covered in fake diamonds. In my search, I came across a little box where I keep a favorite necklace. I opened it, and found a small piece of paper. It was pink, and folded in half. I opened it, and on it said ‘ 3 Wishes.’

And then I remembered. I was standing on the front porch (as Jane) handing out the last of the candy to teenagers. On of the last girl up the stairs was about my height, and even though a little heavy, she walked like she was traveling on air. I can’t remember what she was wearing. But she came up the front steps announced she was a fairy, and said I had three wishes. She handed me the piece of pink paper and headed down the stairs.

I can’t remember what I was thinking at the time. I was completely crazed, so I don’t remember what happened between that Halloween and today. I probably wished for good health. I like to think I also wished for world peace, but because of the drugs, I might have just wished for another season of Downton Abbey, or some slippers.  Whatever.

Due to my delicate condition those last wishes didn’t count, so they are still valid today. And since there’s not lot for me to wish for,  I’ll consign my wishes to another who may need some fairy dust.

My true gift was finding this piece of pink paper. In this season, we’re always looking something more than parties and pie. Beyond the sequined sweaters and bulging credit cards, there’s something else out there,  just waiting to be found. And I found it unexpectedly, tucked away in a drawer while I was getting dressed for a party.

I never did find my hair hair clip with a bit of sparkle, but I did find a bit of magic instead.

Lymphediva

To protect my arm from further swelling, it was recommended to me that I get a ‘sleeve’ to wear. And lest I think that could waltz in to any old drugstore, and get something off the shelf, I was mistaken. I needed a note from my doctor, and then I had to go to ‘Mansueta’, which is a little boutique near Mount Sinai Hotel and Spa, that deals with all sort medical garments for breast canceritis people. Compression stockings, fake boobs, padded bathing suits, and such.

So I went down for my fitting, and had my arm measured yet again. It was decided that I would get a sleeve with the minimum amount of pressure, and a ‘gauntlet’, which is a fingerless compression glove for my hand. It would be a kind of cool accessory if I was a Goth kid (I’m not) or if it was the 80’s (it’s not) but as a flesh coloured fashion accessory, it leaves something to be desired.

Do I have a joke for you!

‘It’s kind of depressing,’ I said to Valentina, as she squeezed my arm into the sleeve, jamming my skin in as though she was making a giant pork sausage. She nodded. ‘You’ll be wanting this.' And she whipped out a pamphlet for Lymphe-Diva, a company which specializes in sleeves with decorative patterns. The brochure featured two stylish women at a café, one with a sleeve of roses, the other, snakeskin.  They seemed to be having a great time. Clearly lymphedema hasn’t slowed these girls down one bit!

I wanted to be just like them. Happy, confident, sitting on a terrace. ‘How much are they?’ I asked Valentina. ‘Oomph,’ she said, ‘quite expensive. About three times as much as these.' So I thought about it, and decided the simple fleshy $120 sausage option would suffice. It’s Christmas, after all, and there are other accessories that take priority.

So I put it out of my head until yesterday afternoon when I got a call from Valentina. ‘Your sleeve is ready,’ she said. I'd honestly forgot all about it, and it was at least five seconds of me with my mouth hanging open, trying to figure out why someone would call me about a sleeve, rather than entire outfit.

But sometime around the four second mark - before I processed the information - I remembered a joke that had been lying dormant in my brain for a long long time.  And even though I’m the only one who has ever found it funny I’m going to share. Here goes.

Q – Where does the General keep his army?

A – In his sleevey.

Ha! It cracks me up every time. 

And I'm picking up my sleevey next week.