To Everything There is a Season–PART 1

SEEING RED

Written on 5/8/11

(flashback)

Summer ’09 was the worst summer of my life—to date. The diagnosis of Ductal Carcinoma In Situ and subsequent mastectomy had left me angry at the world and seriously depressed. So much, in fact, that it was all I could do to get through my days with all the children in care and then shut the world out when the last child left each evening. I tried to make the most of moments when they would come my way, but I can say, matter-of-factly, that I was not someone you’d want to socialize with that year. Bitter resentment along with despair were the facial expressions of choice. I didn’t want to hear words of encouragement. I didn’t want to pray. I didn’t want to find the humor in things (although I tried hard to each day and it just came out biting, sarcastic, and crass sounding). I didn’t want to do anything but cry, or scream, or punch something or someone. I had to hold it all in, though. I had to maintain so I could just get through each day and holding it in just made me an even hotter mess. If you were to ask me now if I ever exhaled that summer, I would honestly tell you no.

I know NOW that was the most unhealthy way I could have lived. Hell, I knew it then, too, but chose to ignore the signs–Defeat-est mentality at its finest and those of you who know the Type A that I am probably can’t ever imagine me getting that low. But that Type A began working overtime on my self-destruction. For example,

Why should I worry about my grades anymore– is God really gonna care that I was on the President’s List or made it into the National Honor Society?

Why should I bother turning in any paperwork for any agencies I’m accountable to for my business, like they really give a damn what I’m fighting here anyway.

Why should I bother fighting for my oldest daughter, after all, so many others had given up on her.

Why should I care what I look like, I’m just gonna lose my hair anyway… I’m just gonna look ridiculous wearing makeup…I’m just gonna have to find shirts covered with such loud prints that it will distract anyone from noticing I don’t have a chest anymore…

Why should I bother with anything…I’m just gonna be 6 feet under by the end of the year.

Why should I bother with reconstruction—I’ll finally get the boob job I always wanted just to have the best looking chest standing at attention from my coffin as everyone passes it by during the visitation.

I was feeding the beast inside me by continuing such inner destructive self-talk. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t get out of the quick sand that kept pulling me back into that pit of despair. Each time a friend would throw me a lifeline, I’d only hang on half-heartedly. I was giving up–giving in. It was all too much. I didn’t know how to process all of the stimuli attacking me. It was just easier to retreat into a comfortable cocoon of anger. I was prescribed medication after medication from anti-depressants, to anti-anxiety, to sleeping pills so I could just shut off my brain at night–all of them addictive. At least I had enough sense about me to avoid filling any of those Rx’s. My doctor wasn’t happy about that. I argued that–I drive children to schools and I won’t drive under the influence of something. I won’t take something that would make me feel loopy or jittery. I won’t take something I would only later have to fight to get off of. I knew that it was up to me to pull myself out. I just didn’t have a clue how I would go about doing that.

I know there are some women that handle such extreme stress with grace. I wish I could say I was one of them. There were times—fleeting nanoseconds that would allow me the courage to hold my head up high as I walked into a room, but they vanished as quickly as they appeared. I’ll give you a glimpse back at who I was that summer. It’s written all over my face and my body language screams, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING AT—HAVEN’T YOU EVER SEEN SOMEONE WITH ONE boob!.” Yes, for me to bring about a change…it would probably take more courage then for me to walk into a hospital and have my chest cut off–and since that had already happened, the fight was only just beginning. Not a physical one, though—a purely mental knock-down, drag out fight that Mr. Miagi wouldn’t be able to help me get out of.

As you can see, I had truly succumbed to the anger. It overrode most of my emotions. It had itself manifested into a type of cancer that was once again invading every area of my life. The problem was that I breathed life into this type and it was by far Stage 10. By summer, it had become a comfortable friend. Letting go of the anger would have been just too easy. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I was ever going to be ready. I held tight to it and slammed the door on anyone trying to get in including my family. There were times when I I would look out that door’s peephole to view the world that was still going on without me. That made me angrier, still!

Then there was the crippling events surrounding my oldest daughter who had gone missing. We were dealing with the loss of a child we weren’t sure was even alive or dead at this point, and I was going through the painstaking process of supplying dental records to the police in case remains were found. The stress of just the cancer would have been enough to anyone but combine it with the stress of losing a child and the infuriating lack of help I received in trying to find her along with the judgmental advice I was getting at all turns was enough to push me into a spiraling depression. “No…I’ll hold onto this anger just a while longer,” I thought.

As if things weren’t bad enough… I was told once again our family would be losing insurance. My husband’s job of 17 yrs. was coming to an explosive brink. The business was trying to function with a severely alcoholic boss. My husband was the only one keeping it afloat. The boss was his childhood and lifelong friend, best man in our wedding, and Godfather to our oldest daughter. If you have ever dealt with alcoholism, you may be able to appreciate the horrific strain it can put on relationships. So, as I dealt with my cancer, Jeff dealt with his friend/boss/job and the fact he knew he was losing all three to a self-destructive personality who had also begun an affair with my former best friend of 17 years and maid of honor in our wedding. It was all too much.

Then, the insurance—this bastard—this corporate structure we had paid money into our whole lives decides to begin cutting our benefits and raising our premiums. It began a vicious cycle where the teasing thought of a couple more months worth of benefits dangled in front of me like carrots–causing complete panic on my part–how will I get the rest of my surgeries?  How will I pay for medicine?  What if this metastasizes and I can’t pay for treatment?  What do I do?  I braced for the worst–complete denial altogether once Jeff had been fired from his job. Denial in mid-treatment. What kind of insurance company does this? Mind you, this was before Obama’s healthcare reform where pre-existing conditions would be grandfathered in (or so I thought at the time).  I realized I better get a game plan…and fast.

With all that, my mental state really started nose diving. I was becoming scatterbrained–unable to focus–very attention deficit disorder–without a doubt. The strain on our marriage, our family, our lives had become nothing short of catastrophic. No amount of counseling could help. There was no way to sort it all out. Prayers were offered up just to get drowned out by the yelling—whether my own or a chorus of frustrated cries by everyone under the same roof. I stopped writing because I could no longer process any stimuli coming in or going out.

In the midst of it all, I began having a recurring dream. It continued every night for 6 months straight. I began to realize it was a sign…and once that sign revealed itself and what it meant to my life…it was the catalyst for all things that followed…

SEASONS PART 2 will be posted on Monday morning 5/23/11. Don’t miss what the dream reveals! You can do that by subscribing to this blog through RSS feeds, the subscribe by email feature, or the Networked Blogs link in the side bar (the easiest way)!  Cya soon!

We Wish You A Merry Christmas!

This pretty much says it all. My son’s Christmas program was on 12-10-09 and the last thing I did before I left for it that morning was put new batteries in the camera and check how much room was left on the memory card. I’m notorious for having technical difficulties or outright failures and it drives me insane. So, I get there, find a spot and start recording. Lo and behold, the batteries are working wonderfully but within minutes, I’m out of room on the memory card and I didn’t have a backup.

I remember it saying I had enough room for 54 pictures. I never once tried to think that might not be a good conversion when it came to video. I fumbled frantically as I had to make split second decisions as to which pictures and video I was going to erase knowing I hadn’t backed them up. For me, that’s the worst feeling. I did it though, but continued to have problems here and there. AAARRRGGGHHH! So, I recovered what I could and was able to at least get the general idea on tape.

I want a new digital video camera for myself. Total splurge, but I want one. I have a nice 8mm, but I want something that I can upload to youtube easily without a lot of converting and that camera is also semi-broken (well the housing anyway) because I forgot to lock it onto the tri-pod last Christmas and it fell off when the dog’s tail whacked it. I also want something I can just whip in and out of my purse. Right now, I’m just using the video feature on my camera. The resolution isn’t the greatest and it gets shaky every once in a while. Although, I have found that if I rest the arm that is holding the camera on my ginormous lady lump (ok, ok, breast mound–but it isn’t as funny) I have a great way to stabilize the video! —-Trying to look at the bright side of reconstruction—hahaha.

I’ve also put some additional videos into the Boob Tube for your viewing pleasure and it includes one from Jordan’s concert as well. She’s my harpist. She used to play cello for several years, but gave it up this year against my wishes. I’ve got some photos I’m working on uploading to Flickr so check those out. Justin was adamant about wearing a suit and a tie. I spent the night before racing around Walmart for new black shoes and socks. I also decided against the suit thing while there and thought khakis, a button down, and his red tie would look just as nice.

When I got home, I looked into his closet and found his Easter suit he never wore because I was in the middle of recovery from my mastectomy. It is very thin material so he wore his long johns underneath and whattayaknow…his old black shoes still fit with the dress socks! Score–I get to take the new ones back! He is super skinny and has always needed to wear adjustable waistbands or belts but they dig in and he hates that. He’s wearing his “spenders” as he calls them to hold his pants up.

He told me later that the girls in his class told him he looked “handsome” and the boys told him he was dressed “like a man”. He’s super serious throughout the concert and I wondered, “What’s up with that?” the whole time.

As usual, I have much I want to write about, but I know this week will be CRAZY. I can’t believe it’s been 8 weeks since my first reconstruction surgery. I have been going to the plastic surgeon weekly for my fills. What a bizarre process that has been and I have a big post (I’m sure you’re all surprised at how short this one is–lol) and lots of pics coming up. I will have my last fill in a couple days. I’ve been in a lot of discomfort and at times downright pain for almost 3 weeks now. The skin and pectoral muscle are stretching and it is really pulling at the point where the muscle attaches into the inner armpit area.

I look like I have a giant grapefruit on one side of my chest–I’m not kidding–this it TOTALLY BIZARRE! I’ve barely been able to sleep for several weeks now because of the pressure from the expander and my range of motion in my right arm is limited. I work on it everyday, but IT HURTS!!! Don’t get me wrong–I’m not really complaining–in fact, you have no idea how much this has lifted my spirits. To look inside my shirt and see cleavage again has done wonders for my outlook. My next surgery will be in January, but more on that later.

So, please enjoy the holidays–and if it isn’t snowing where you are at, enjoy the snow I’ve posted on here for you! Oh, and another thing–if you watch the video “Snowpants”–take a look at Justin’s facial expressions. Doesn’t he look like Bill Murray in “Caddyshack”? Hahahaha.

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Picture taken 12/19/09 about 10pm after we got home from bringing Jasmine home. We made our last trip to Sioux City, yesterday. We’ll all be together for Christmas. Blessings.

I’m Seeing Another Man…

I’m seeing another man. In fact, I saw him twice last week. I also got to spend time with his partner and we discussed a possible threesome for later in the week…:)

Did that peak your curiosity? Perhaps I should clarify before the rumor mill gets to churning out the latest gossip and sends everyone in the family into a tizzy…

Due to ongoing pain around the tooth I had rooted out back in May, I found myself back in the hot seat at my new dentist’s office three times last week. Last Monday, I had the pleasure of meeting one more of the three dentists that practice at the Myotech Dental Center. This was not the same doctor that helped fix the 4 cavities and the root canal issue that had surfaced prior to starting my chemotherapy. Since Dr. Leppo was not in, Dr. Prudent and I made plans for me to return when both Dr. Leppo and Dr. Prudent could take a look at what was going on. I was again impressed with the unbelievable bedside manner of yet another partner in that business and it completely justified my decision to divorce the dentist I had been seeing for almost 4 years.

There have only been four dentists up until now in my life. My childhood dentist was imposed upon me by my parents. I hated him. There was something about him that really made my skin crawl. My girls call those kind of people–“creepers”. When I think about it–he was. I’m sure he was a nice enough fellow, but I didn’t like him and he inflicted a great deal of pain on me during my childhood and for that–he was out. Actually, he dumped me and opted for retirement. When his son took over the practice, I stayed for a while. The commute back and forth from where I lived in the cities as a young woman to the office in my hometown was just too difficult to make over a lunch hour though and so, I left him–without so much as a goodbye.

For five years, I worked for an eye surgeon in the Quad Cities. His office was right beside a dentist’s office. One day, I decided to start up a new relationship. I stayed with that dentist and followed him when he moved to a bigger office. As I moved further away, the commute began to take a toll once again, but there was a bigger problem. I hated his secretary–just couldn’t stand her–very bitchy and always looking down her nose at me–especially when I’d come in a few minutes late (as though she had never gotten stuck in traffic or dealt with kids in meltdowns). The doctor himself was great–kind, soft spoken, gentle, and would always set my appointments for the last one in the day because he knew that I was a freaker (thanks to dentist #1). He knew that more than anything, going to the dentist for me was a major psychological hurdle. He knew where the exposed roots were on the two molars that had housed headgear bands during the phase in my life when I wore braces and he always stayed clear from them with his sharp tool. I’ll never forget (I’m sure he won’t either) the day I went in to have a silver filling that had gone bad dug out and resealed. I was a mess–couldn’t stop crying, freaking out about the drill–I mean BAD. I was literally crawling up the back of the chair to get away. What should have taken about 20 minutes took and hour and a half because he would stop and start and stop and start to give me some time to brace myself. He never laughed at me. He understood and he was patient with my freak out. I loved him for that. I sent the office flowers the day after.

Unfortunately, I just couldn’t stand to go there and be harrassed by the secretary. I showed up about 10 minutes late one night and she went through the roof and said I needed to pay a broken appointment fee. I had already had a bad day and I told her to shove it. It would be different if I never showed up, but I even called in route to tell her I was on my way. It infuriated me so much, I divorced her–on the spot. That meant, though, that I was divorcing him too and that made me really sad because I had been with him for about 15 years and so had my kids. I decided to find something closer to where we had just moved. I took a coupon out of the Welcome Wagon basket that promised free exams for new patients. Without dental insurance–that was like winning the lottery for me and my family because those new patient exams are soooo outrageously priced. My family has been with this dentist for about four years, but we haven’t liked it. Even so, I just can’t justify spending over a thousand dollars to get everyone in for new patient exams, x-rays and cleanings somewhere else. So, we’ve stayed.

The dentist at the time was someone I personally didn’t care for. He was patronizing and I just couldn’t stand that about him. He actually laughed when I told him I didn’t know if I could take having any major dental work done and that I have been known to take more than 2 or 3 novacaine shots in the past because I could feel the work being done despite the anesthetic. He would look at me incredulously and then laugh. It made my blood boil. I felt as though he really couldn’t care less and to him you were just a meal ticket. The women in the office infuriated me as well and would pad the bill each time I went in for myself or my kids. I’m always VERY SPECIFIC when it comes to dental bills because it is such a HUGE outlay of cash each 6 months that I have to budget very carefully. The last time I went in for me I told them I needed x-rays and an exam–no cleaning, no sealant, no flouride, no extras whatsoever because I was just checking on a specific tooth (the root canal one). I’ve learned with these women to repeat myself and make sure they have made notations on my account so when I actually do come in, there is no mistaking what I want or don’t want done. With all the computerization that is in that office and with the prior knowledge all these women have of me and that I can get very bitchy when someone is trying to screw me out of money–you would think that there were red flags waving signaling my arrival that day. Nope.

When I went back to the examining room the hygenist took the x-ray and then proceeded to clean my teeth. I stopped her, asked her what she was doing, and she looked at me like she had no idea what I was talking about. I got up, walked out to the office and really got into the ladies business that is in charge of scheduling. I remember her telling me, “Well, if she started the cleaning, then we have to charge you for the whole cleaning and so you may as well get it done”. OH MY GOD–ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I went nuts. I even reminded her when I signed in that day. Do you think she could have transferred that information to the hygenist? I cancelled all other appointments for the rest of the year for the kids and myself–went ahead and said ENOUGH IS ENOUGH (actually, that was the nice version of what I said) and I walked out. Before I left, I did demand all the x-rays, afterall, I paid for them over the years–why shouldn’t they give them to me?

Months go by and I hadn’t found a new dental home. I knew that wherever I landed, I wanted it to be the last one. I wanted to feel like the people in the office and the doctors themselves didn’t just see me as a walking $$ sign. I knew I needed to start looking, but I knew I was going to have to have work done to that upper tooth that gave me such problems. It wasn’t until that trip out to see my grandmother in Virginia one year ago that I passed by a billboard sign in Kentucky that promoted a local dentist and said something about sedation dentistry. I thought about it the whole way out and when I got home I started looking over the yellow pages. There aren’t too many places that provide that service here where I live. I would have to either travel or call an office that I always thought was geared more for patients needing dentures and dental implants. I took a shot on the denture office and it turned out they do all sorts of tooth restoration work. They also carried the ZOOM teeth whitening machine and I had been dying to have that done for a few years. I remember when I first called for information and prices (before I was even diagnosed) finding out that it was in my best interest to be a patient–it would be cheaper. Sigh. That meant I was going to have to start shelling out some big bucks to have all that new patient work done before I could even start any work.

It wasn’t long after Christmas last year that I had that fateful mammogram where I was diagnosed with breast cancer. When that happened, everything else took a back seat and months went by before I was again faced with the need to see a dentist. Back in April, I was told by my first oncologist that any dental work that I needed to have done would need to be done prior to starting treatment because the risk of any infection developing while my immune system was being destroyed would not be a good thing. I knew I had one cavity and it was a bad one, so I went ahead and called this denture office to see about coming in. I explained my situation and they got me in–no problem–no waiting. The doctor that came in to talk to me was hands down the nicest dentist I’ve ever met. He and I talked at length about my nerves and then discussed the x-rays and the fact that I had not one but FOUR cavities! One was so bad it needed a root canal (that was the one in question for 6 months). He told me the price of everything and I think I stopped breathing.

Where in the world was I going to come up with about $2800 in a week (I had to have it done before my first chemo on May 7, 2009)? I don’t carry credit cards–I figure if I don’t have the money for something, I shouldn’t be buying it, but now was one of those times I wished I had an emergency card. To tell you the truth–I’d just be paying interest and minimum payments for God knows how long and that’s not how I operate. I hate being “payment-ed” to death. I was really going to have to fanagle this one. That’s when he told me he could spread the payments out and give me 90 days same as cash. Still a freaking lot of money, but I had to have it done AND I know of no other dentist office that will let you do that. It included the extra $500 to put me to sleep–totally worth it in my mind and the date was set. I had to have someone drive me out to the surgical facility and hang around nearby for a few hours because I would be loopy to drive myself home. I wasn’t completely knocked out, and I can only remember bits and pieces of that afternoon.

Taken 5-4-09 right before being put under for my root canal.

I remember the nurse putting the IV in my arm and turning on the medicine that would make me fall asleep.

I remember Dr. Leppo coming in and telling me everything would be ok.

I remember him giving me a warm blanket and turning on the TV.

I remember several times opening up my eyes and seeing him hovering over me with a lot of bright lights and he was wearing micro-surgeon’s binoculars. He would ask me reassuringly each time if I was ok.

I remember my jaw aching.

I remember when it was over, he got up and he walked around holding onto his back because he had been in such an awkward position for over three and a half hours.

I remember telling him that I really appreciated his kind nature.

I remember him smiling at me very warmly and saying, “That’s what I’m here for”. He told me I would need a crown on that tooth, but because of the placement of the cavity on that particular tooth, I would be lucky not to lose the tooth sometime in the near future. He said it was a 50/50 shot and he made the decision to see if the root canal would do the trick. He said it was just too bad and that the cancer was really beginning to do some damage to my teeth. He said the tooth itself was packed full of antibiotics before being sealed. He also told me to come back with any problems and to hang tough through the chemo.

I looked at him dead on and said, “I want you to know, that if I don’t make it out of this this year, that you were one of the nicest doctors I had ever met and I was very glad to have him as part of my medical team.” He thanked me and told me it was quite alright.

It was just a couple days later when I had that encounter with the woman in the wig shop (Just Own It) and that is when I made the decision to get my tattoo. I knew that would also need to be done prior to chemo and my white cells getting killed off and I knew that all the antibiotics from the root canal would help kill off any kind of infection a tattoo might inflict. Right before going in for my first round of chemo, I went back to Dr. Leppo. I hadn’t been able to eat anything in a few days. My mouth was so sore from being clamped open for so long. I knew the other teeth he had fixed would take some getting used to chewing on again, but the side of my mouth that really had the work done was in a lot of pain. I couldn’t take the Vicadin because I transport kids during the day and the Ibuprofen just wasn’t doing the trick. He filed some stuff down and I went home. It wouldn’t matter whether I had eaten or not, the day came for my first chemo and after that I wasn’t really that hungry for a while. After about three weeks, things calmed down and I have been good since then–until a couple weeks ago.

I started experiencing pain on both sides of my upper jaw again. It got to the point where I just knew I had to get it looked at. I was worked in right away and from the initial x-rays, Dr. Leppo’s partner couldn’t tell if I had cracked the root canal tooth (with all the stress over Jasmine this summer, I had forgotten to go back for the crown), or if the tooth had two roots and one wasn’t all the way tied off or whatever they do to it. I kept saying there was something else. On the tooth right beside it. It was causing me A LOT of pain. He told me to come back on Wednesday and together, Dr. Prudent and Dr. Leppo would take a look and try to determine what was going on. Sitting in the dentist’s chair on Wednesday, I started getting nervous. What if the tooth has to come out. Then I’m going to need a fake tooth. Geez, I already have a fake boob, my face tells a nasty story with all the worry lines of what our family went through this past year, and now I am losing my teeth. I’m just so sick of falling apart.

As I waited for the doctor to come in, I mulled over a lot of stuff. “It’s detail work now, smoothing out the kinks–ya know?” I said to myself as convincingly as possible. I began to think about it more along those lines and after a few moments, I made yet another decision regarding my aftercare. As I sat there and stared at the posters for teeth whitening, I decided I would be more specific with my New Year’s resolutions and I was going to be doubly specific with what I meant by “This year I’m going to work on Me” (my resolution last year–and way to generic and vague). As far as my teeth were concerned, I was going to fix my teeth and get them back into a stable state and then I was going to ZOOM them. A little cosmetic pick me up for the new year. If my smile were to dazzle everyone, perhaps they wouldn’t see the wrinkles that were forming, the gray hair that was just beginning to grow in, the extra 30 pounds I was sporting, or the cyclops boob that was expanding on my chest.

I know its all superficial–it’s not what truly counts–but dammit, I need a makeover in the worst way. I decided that…

I would go and get my hair re-colored–I’ve tried my new natural color for six months now and it’s just not happening. I’ve tried rocking the lesbian chic look and I’m not sure I’m pulling it off. LOL.

I’m going to take myself over to the little nail salon by my house and get a much needed mani/pedi.

I am going to commit to my nutrition program and stop talking about the extra 30 pounds–instead–I’m going to do something about them. I’m going to work my ass off–literally. I want to sign up to learn how to dance salsa. That should burn a few calories.

I’m going to get ready for my next surgery where the expander will be taken out of my chest and an implant will be inserted and I will have the other side lifted. I will contemplate a matching implant for the left side and a nipple reconstruction for the right side–something I’ve not been sold on yet.

I am going to go get a spray tan–for the hell of it. I always feel better with a little color in my skin and since I’m terrified of burning my chest in a tanning bed and not feeling it because all the nerves have been severed–I am going to go get airbrushed–just because. Period. Maybe they can spray on a six pack for me–haha–afterall, I’ve often heard that you should post a picture of your goal on the fridge to remind you of what your working for. I’ll just post my pic on my gut.

Lastly, I’m getting a massage. I need one. I’ve been terrified of getting one after what I was told back in February (that massage helps the drain the lymphatic system and that getting a massage when you have invasive cancer could possible send any free radicals bee-lining for a new host location to set up shop). I need one though–not want one–NEED ONE! Too much stress buildup over this year.

I need to stop pouring so much of me into everyone else all the time and carve out time to pour back into me. I just have to be a little selfish. Period. I’ve neglected me for too long. I had been expanding my mind, but forgot about all the other stuff and as you get older it’s important to look at the whole picture–or pieces of the picture start to get torn and that’s what was happening to me.

All of a sudden, Dr. Leppo walked in beaming. He was genuinely happy to see me. He said to me, “You made it!–That deserves a hug!” He came over and hugged me and then sat down to talk to me. I said, “I’m alive”! and we spent a few minutes catching up on how the year has gone. It was like talking to an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. Our attention turned to my teeth and we came to the conclusion that I really needed a whole new set of x-rays to see the damage that the chemo has done to my teeth.

“What kind of damage does chemo do to your teeth?” I asked.

“Well, it’s not really the chemo as much as it is the fact that chemo dries your mouth out and as a result of an extremely dry mouth, you don’t have the saliva needed to keep your gum tissue healthy which can also contribute to dental carries. Without saliva, there’s nothing to wash the sugars away” he said. Thankfully, I didn’t really experience any major side effects except having my hair fall out and going into respiratory arrest–nothing major–yeah, right–so, a few cavities is nothing in comparison, right? It still didn’t explain the pain, though.

I told him I had tried to schedule a new patient cleaning, exam, and x-rays, but was told the first appointment wouldn’t be until the end of March. He and his assistant looked through everything and because we had been hit with such a snow storm the previous week, there were many cancellations from people not wanting to drive into town. I was scheduled for the next day and as I left, I was told that there was no charge for my office visit for the second time that week. I couldn’t help but think that I had found my new dental home.

The next day brought a lot of anxiety for me. I was going to have to go through all the poking with that sharp little instrument I hate so much. All the scraping on my silver fillings that sends shivers through my spine and sounds like nails on a chalkboard. I was going to have to pray my new hygenist would be mindful of the exposed roots on the upper back molars and I would have to really hold on to the hope that I hadn’t cracked my tooth and the underlying problem was, in fact, due to something else. I couldn’t have been more put at ease. The two girls that worked on me were soooo nice! They answered all my questions about water picks, sonic toothbrushes, and teeth whitening. One talked to me about my cancer and asked quite frankly what I was thinking when I realized that I was really going to have to have my boob cut off (she’s young). It didn’t shock me, and I’d rather someone just come out and ask me those kinds of questions then just whisper behind my back. She asked if I was contemplating reconstruction and I had to laugh inwardly–did she not see this huge cyclops boob on my chest? Did she just think that was the silhouette of my real boob and since it overshadowed the actual real one that the left side must be the side I had cut off because it really looks pathetic over there now. Then she told me she just had an augmentation and that’s when I asked her a bunch of questions–especially–silicone or saline? That’s the question that weighs heavily on my mind these days.

Dr. Leppo came in again and looked through all the x-rays. Turns out I have two old silver fillings that are lifting up and causing me great pain since stuff is getting in there. They’ll need to be dug out and replaced. I hate the thought of it, but am secretly glad to get rid of all the silver in my mouth. It turns the color of my teeth gray and I hate it. So, I’ll get them replaced with enamel colored fillings and that should help the discoloration on that side. We’ll start working on replacing all of them since they seem to be really wearing out–but we’ll do it slowly and as I can afford to do so and about that root canal tooth–well, it’s still too hard to determine just what is going on with it, but I do have a cavity butted right up beside it and it could just be pain radiating throughout that entire area.

We talked about the possibility that once the cavity is filled, I find out that I’m still having pain and that it really is the root canal tooth. We talked about extracting it and having an implant put in. I freaked. I don’t know a lot about that–my parents always had partials–these things that they put into their mouths in the morning and took out at night to brush and soak. On their website their is a tiny flash video of how they use a screw to anchor in the implant–it acts like a metal root. “God, I totally do not want to do this”, I prayed and then quickly proceeded to put it into context–“Chris, you had your boob cut off this year. If you can do that, then you can handle a tooth implant screwed into your jaw”. Dr. Leppo reminded me it may not come to that. I was worried about how much that was going to cost. We never did get specifics, but he did say he would apply all the money I had paid for the root canal toward the implant. He told me he would stand behind his work and if it didn’t work, then he would reimburse me. Have I mentioned lately, that I love him? He knows just what to say to help get me through all this and for me it all boils down to pain and money. How much pain do I have to endure and how much is that pain going to cost me.

We talked about doing all the work at once and again I started to panic. We came to the agreement that I would get the middle sedation treatment–a pill that would make me super relaxed–and if I needed laughing gas–he’d give me that as needed. I’ve spent almost my entire adult life not relying on drugs or meds for things and this year, I have decided–they really come in handy! I wasn’t going to do it all at once, but it sure beats having to get super freaked more than one time. I also can’t stand to take off 2 or 3 afternoons to get it all done. So, we scheduled it for over a naptime where I could feed the kids and have a sub come in to help–mostly just to make sure they nap soundly. The effects of the meds should wear off farely quickly after the procedure and thankfully, my daughters will be home to help me out should I need it with the rest of the afternoon. The 29th of December is the day and I am not looking forward to it. I paid for half the visit (which was supposed to be $350 and they only charged me $219–another score in my book) and I made arrangements to put the balance with the total from the 29th (about $700) on a 3-pay again. Hard to come up with all that during Christmas, but I just have to keep plowing ahead. I can’t think about it or I’ll get stressed. It just bites because I just registered for school to retake a couple classes. These are on my dime. I just got that bill and now I realize why I signed onto that scholarship program (note to self–never let another class slide). Sigh. It’s always something. Anyway, here’s my super nice dentist and if any of you are wanting to make a switch to their office in Moline, make sure you tell them I sent you. They have an incentive program for referrals and one of them is a massage–I mentioned earlier how much I needed one, right?

Dr. Leppo

Race For the Cure

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Throughout this past year, with all the ups and downs and major family crisis, there is one event that really sticks out in my mind–a moment where we ALL came together (including Jasmine)–The Race For the Cure. I am going to be completely honest here, I had always heard of it, but had never participated before. I had always read about it in the paper, but had never witnessed it. I had always seen news clips of our local race, but I had never been touched personally by breast cancer up until this year. I take that back, as I’ve stated before in my post Strapped In Tight , my oldest daughter’s daycare provider was affected by the disease and yet, after she got remarried and moved, we lost touch. We weren’t thinking about it daily anymore and therefore, details and extra curricular activities once again busied our lives.

I have spent a great deal of time flip-flopping between being on the outside looking in (even though I was very “IN”) or “owning it”. I have said openly–“I DON’T WANT TO BELONG TO THIS CLUB”! I don’t. A big part of me really just doesn’t want to ever have to worry about cancer, statistics, prosthesis, chemotherapy, metastasis, reconstruction, wigs, mastectomy swimwear, etc. etc. etc. It’s like this…when you are pregnant for the first time, you are hyper tuned to all the strollers you see passing you in the mall, all the laughter of a preschooler playing in a park, a toddler crying for a piece of candy in the checkout lanes of the grocery store, or a baby and its mother conveying their love for each other through their eyes. If you aren’t pregnant or trying to conceive, you are busy with many other routines of life. Same goes for cancer. I am now, on alert when I read things in the newspaper regarding cancer treatments. I am more aware of (young and old alike) women that have lost their hair and whether they are wearing a head covering of some sort. I am more aware of the anguish some women are feeling as they are sitting in the Center for Breast Health. I know what they are feeling now. I have been there. I have walked a mile in their shoes. I have deep compassion and respect for these individuals who are facing their own mortality.

So, it goes without too much saying that when all the buzz about our local Susan G. Komen’s Race For the Cure was getting underway, that I found myself drawn to signing up. What an experience that was! I couldn’t believe how many people were at the sign up. I couldn’t believe how much pink was being proudly worn. I couldn’t believe how huge this was. The signup happened on a weekday and since I provide childcare during the day, I thought I’d just take them down with me–no big deal–we’d sign up–they would be my sign up supporters and we’d high five a good job done for Tina and we’d go grab a pizza somewhere. Little did I know that it would turn into a huge nightmare.

It was COLD and windy that day. The parking lot was jam packed and we had to park all the way to the back of the lot and run up. Once inside the convention center, I had to navigate through lines of women all the while continuously counting heads even though the kids are all knowledgeable about the rules I have while in public–hands on the stroller at all times, listen carefully for instructions, etc. We made it to the line where the applicants who hadn’t pre-registered were asked to stand. I waited approximately 20 minutes only to get to the front of the line when I remembered I left my debit card in the van. We turned around and headed back out into the cold to retrieve it. Once we returned the line had grown. We waited again for approximately another 30 minutes and once I reached the head of the row, the lady explained that they do not accept debit cards. I couldn’t believe it. I was so angry! She knew that was what I was going to get. It was the same lady. She heard me! Couldn’t she have told me then and saved me the trouble? Yes–but she didn’t. I turned everyone around and out we went to the van yet again. I loaded all the children, the double stroller and away we went looking for an ATM.

We ended up at a bank and after getting the exact amount of money we would need–plus a little extra to spend at the mini pink ribbon store that was there–we went back for a third time to the convention center. Pulling into the parking lot, I pulled out the snacks and had everyone finish up those before going in. I knew if I attempted it again, I would ultimately hear, “I’m hungry”. So, I crossed that one off the chesklist, first, and made my way through the throngs of women who were now standing in long lines. I found the same lady’s line that I had already stood in twice before. I know, you’re all probably wondering why I chose her again, afterall, she had already failed to give me pertinent information that would have made my life easier given the fact that I was trying to get through this process with 6 children by my side. It was a matter of principle at that point. I was going to prove to her that I was not easily deterred. That I was determined to sign up for this event–and really, if I left now without signing up after going through all the hassle, I would have been more mad at myself!

I thought that if we went and looked through the store, killed some time while picking out some bumper stickers, the lines would diminish some. I kept my eyes on their status and when I realized they were only getting longer, I figured I better go and grab a place. As we stood there, we played Simon Says and amused all the women around us. We also played I Spy until I was sick of it. I was getting hot and so were the kids. I started to peel coats off and pray the line would move faster. I finally get to the front after another 40 minutes only to have her smile sickeningly at me and ask me where all the registration forms were. That was it! I was about to blow and I knew I couldn’t because I’d have 6 children watching me. It’s moments like these when you know they are watching you. This is a teachable moment in patience, tolerance, and keeping my mouth shut firmly. I tried. I really did. I couldn’t help it, though and so I leaned over the table and got very close to her and as I smiled sweetly to her I told her through clenched teeth that this was my first time here. I had no knowledge of the process, the order to get that process done, or that I needed to bring cash or check. I told her that it was her duty as a volunteer to be trained adequately so that when someone shows up and looks lost, they are given ALL the information they need to produce the items necessary to register”. I then asked her where in the hell are the forms. She pointed to the back of the line where a table was set up. AAAAGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!

“Calm Down”, I told myself. “Breathe”. So, I did. The sound in the convention center was becoming deafening with all the chatter and women’s laughter. I was totally over stimulated. The kids, although satiated for the time being, were bored. What was supposed to take me 15 minutes had now taken me over two hours and I was still no closer to getting my race badges. Here is where the crucial mistake was made. Recall, I had given the children snacks in the van? What goes in must come out, right? Yeah–I never thought about that in all my frustration. So, after spending 10 minutes filling out all the information on front and back of 5 forms and standing in line for another 20 minutes, I hear that familiar sound, “Tiiinnnnaaa–I have to go potty!!!!!” That prompted the next one to grab themselves and start dancing–and the next one and the next one–etc. etc. etc. I looked at the front of the line–I was second in line. The women all behind me were secretly happy. I could tell. They were tired of listening to the umpteenth repetition of “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush”. “Can you hold it just a little longer?” I begged. “NOOOOOO! They all cried”. I should have pottied them when we were filling out the registrations. Hindsight. Crap. “I give up”, I dismally said out loud.

I took them all to the potty but the women’s line was out the door. Double crap. I can’t go in the men’s bathroom, especially with a double stroller so, I am going to let the 4 preschool boys go in as a buddy system and I would be standing right at the door listening for them. The first sign of trouble, I was coming in. Note to self: Never let 4 boys go into a public restroom with urinals hanging from the wall because 1.) they are not preschool sized or hung at a preschool height; 2). They can’t reach the sinks or the soap hanging from the wall; and 3.) the toilets are usually plugged and not flushed and no one will want to go. I could hear the laughter. I knew something was going on. It was just a matter of time, really. They all were bored and it was more fun to be playing in a big boys bathroom then to stand in a line waiting to be helped. I asked a man coming out how it was going in there. He was in there and I know not only had he heard me, but many, many women all around me heard the ongoing conversations I was having loudly with the boys. The man told me they were the only ones in there–noone else if I needed to go in and check on them. I thanked him and started maneuvering the stroller into the narrow opening.

What I saw was comical to say the least. On the one hand, it completely helped break the tension that had been building in me from our disastrous morning and on the other showed me how ingenuitive these boys really were. There they were–still buddied–only not hand in hand as I sent them in there. They had collectively figured out a way to use the urinals so they could all have a chance of peeing on the blue urinal cake. One buddy hoisted his partner up by holding onto his legs. Boy being hoisted was leaning with both hands on the wall on either side of the urinal and the forward lean was helping point the arc in the correct downward spiral. Once done, they switched spots and the hoisters now became the urinators. I do wish I could have taken a picture of that–although highly inappropriate–it was hysterical. My boy was heard throughout the immediate vicinity to say very loudly–“Just don’t pee in my mouth–ok?” I laughed and helped the boys all up to wash hands. I congratulated them on their use of logistical thinking skills and their cooperative teamwork, but asked them kindly to just use the normal potty from now on–even if it means you have to pee on someone’s poo (that was the overwhelming concern they all voiced).

As we emerged from the men’s room, I realized how odd that statement probably sounded coming from my son for those who had not witnessed what was going on. I couldn’t help but openly smile. I re-entered the line to register with all my applications and noticed the lady I had dealt with was now gone. “Probably out to lunch”, I thought. The lines were starting to dwindle and as I approached the front and got all the applications turned in and paid for, I mentioned to the lady as briefly as I could how unprofessional I felt the woman she replaced was. She asked me if the woman had shown or pointed to where the ATM machines were located there within the facility. I was horrified and speachless and as I turned around and looked down a dark corridor, I saw it. AAAAGGGGHHH!!! I turned and told her “Absolutely Not”. She shook her head and apologized. She finished up and told me to take my badges over to the T-shirt table to pick up our groups shirts. I thanked her and headed over there hoping we were close to being done. It was there that the gentleman helping me shorted me one shirt. He swore he had only received 4 vouchers. I swore I gave him 5. He went back through a giant stack of vouchers and began to check. I looked to see if I had dropped one somewhere. Then I saw it. One application that had gotten shoved down by the coats in the cargo bin of the stroller while I was in the restroom with the boys. It was Jasmine’s application. Triple Crap.

You know what that meant. I had to return to line to pay for hers and get her voucher. At that point I was wondering if I should just forget about it. I mean, she was, at that time, MIA and Lord knows when she was going to be back. I went with my gut and decided to wear her badge along with mine should she not show up. Knowing that if she were in her RIGHT mind, she would not miss this and if she did, she would walk in spirit with me. When I got to the front, the first lady was back. I glared at her. She asked me for the money and I handed it over. She said I was $5 dollars short. WHAT??!!!!! I was FURIOUS!!! I had no more money, time, or patience left. I began to replay the events of my entire morning to her including the part where she failed to tell me there was an ATM ON SITE!! Her supervisor came over and it was waived. I was not trying to get out of donating to a worthy cause, mind you, I had spent upwards of $100 that day and knew I would spend more at the race as I perused the vendors, so it’s not like the organization wasn’t going to be making any money off of me, that’s for sure. I snatched the voucher out of her hand, marched over to the T-shirt table and had the man bag up all my shirts. I was relieved to be done, finally. The kids were relieved to be done, finally. Finally, we were going home.

We left the center and it was so nice to hear the quietness of that cold morning. We went to the van, loaded everyone up, loaded the stroller, and began to exit the parking lot. QUADRUPLE CRAP!!!! This sickening feeling washed over me as I looked in between the seats for the bag of shirts. “Oh God, please tell me I didn’t forget them all in there!” I kept muttering “Please, Please, Please” as I pulled over to check the cargo bin of the stroller. Not there. I looked up at the convention center and realized I had to make one more trip inside. I was about to say “Forget It” and take off without them, but I had paid for them. I wanted my family to all wear theirs with me. I pulled back into the parking lot and for the last time, I unloaded all the kids and walked into the center. Now–I just hope someone hasn’t stolen them. We waded through the sea of women and came to the table. There, all bagged up and sitting on top a pile of t-shirts were mine. I opened the bag, counted the shirts, made sure the sizes were all right, and left for the last time.

This would be my first Race For the Cure. I prayed that my children would walk it every year in memory of me and not because they had been affected themselves by the disease. I prayed that I would be a more willing participant of the “Club” once I could see visually how many people are affected by breast cancer. I prayed Jasmine would come home. I prayed that I would have the strength of an army to get through the rest of this year. I was just happy I had made it out of the damn convention center without killing someone!

The morning of, it was chilly and rainy. Not bad, very spitting conditions, yet not my ideal forcast for my first race. We didn’t let it get to us. We donned our shirts, our race badges, and peeled Jasmine out of bed–she had made it. I’m not sure how with us she really was, but she was physically there and she was willing to participate–so that spoke volumes to me at least. I was overwhelmed and found my eyes tearing up on more than one occassion. I had never seen so many people! I even knew some of them–more members of this club of women–some I had even remembered seeing in the Center for Breast Health’s waiting rooms. We walked that day–all 5 of us. Jasmine pretty much walked ahead of us and at times I wondered if she were looking for an escape route somewhere along the way. We posed for pictures and I secretly wondered if I would be around for next year’s. I began to notice the little patch on the survivor caps that delineated how many years cancer free they had been.

I didn’t wear a wig and I was trying to own my baldness on that day. I had a baseball cap and a smile and my family. That was all that mattered to me. We walked the long route. We saw all sorts of crazy and funny things from t-shirts to dogs decked out in pink ribbons and booties. We saw memorials emblazoned across the backs of countless idividuals walking for loved ones they had lost or were battling their dragons. It’s hard to explain, but the whole time I walked, I had a lump in my throat. It was hard to swallow. Just as it is hard to swallow the fact that 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed. Seeing that many women walking, and watching more intently to the chatter on Twitter regarding similar walks all around the country has prompted me to really think that statistic is not correct. “It just has to be lower than that”, I kept saying to myself as we walked.

One of my all time favorite movies is Superstar featuring Mary Katherine Gallagher, a clumsy parochial student who is just looking for acceptance. She always strikes a pose and cries, “Superstar” as an affirmation to her awesome-ness. When I passed the finish line I pulled my signature Superstar move. Everyone there laughed and cheered! The news crew came down and asked me to give my name so they could give a shout out to me on the radio. I told them I was Christina Heald, 3 month survivor so far, and I was a Superstar!

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Superstar!

Moral of the story: Always pre-register for the damn race!!!

A Work In Progress

“Get your shoes on–you need to come with me” I stated matter of factly as I walked in the house. My husband, who was playing the new Tiger Woods WII golf game I gave him for Father’s Day looked up and wondered what was going on. I moved directly toward the cupboard above the kitchen sink where I kept all my meds and as I opened the door, I knew exactly what I was going to need–Vicadin and Ibuprofen–And a lot of it. I figured with what I was about to do, I needed to get a jumpstart on curbing the pain factor.

I have never been a big “taker” of things. I am a lightweight. I admit it. I never liked that feeling of the room spinning, dry heaving from drinking too much, or the next day’s hangover. I hated not being in control–(there we go again). However, after my mastectomy, I found that my pain tolerance was off the charts. I was also in extreme emotional distress and I was very glad for those pills which helped keep me out of it for two weeks straight. I had a few Vicadin pills left over from my mastectomy and decided I was going to take advantage of them on this evening. I popped two of them and 4 Ibuprofen, grabbed my debit card, my camera, my hubby and away we went.

I wasn’t nervous at all as we drove. Jeff asked, “what’s going on?”.

I simply stated, “I’m going to get a tattoo”. He couldn’t believe it. Me. The pain wimp.

“You’re joking, right?” he said.

“Nope”, I replied.

“Where are you putting it?” he came back with.

“On the nape of my neck”, I said.

“Geez, that’s gonna hurt like Hell. I’ve heard that’s a really painful place to put it”, Jeff said.

“I’m not worried about it.” I smiled.

“You’re never gonna go through with it”, he looked at me smirking.

“Watch me”, I retorted.

We drove into the parking lot of the Scorpion’s Den, a local tattoo parlor. Ironically, the building that houses the business actually used to be my husband’s late grandmother’s house. He can remember playing in the house when he was a little boy. He was amazed at the changes and began to talk to the owner about which room used to be used for what. The owner asked him to bring in a picture of the house or the rooms and he was very interested in framing them and hanging them in his business.

While the men were talking, I went over to the scariest looking guy there that night. I struck up a conversation with him and showed him on the computer the image I wanted. As he sized up the image and traced it out on the transfer paper, I took a few minutes to look through some of the artwork. I couldn’t believe I was about to do this. I had always been against tattoos–personally. I am all for freedom of expression and didn’t care what anyone else did, but for me–it wasn’t a statement I wanted to make. I had never felt like “owning” anything like that before, but what that girl said to me in the wig boutique changed my mind. I was also beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, I had grown up a little too much. Its hard for me to explain because anyone that knows me–knows I live in a kid’s wonderland–literally. I play with kids, teach kids, hang with kids, laugh with kids, chase kids, swing with kids, paint with kids, etc. How could I be ‘too’ grown up?

Since I am entrusted with kids each day, I maintain a very high quality childcare in my home–one of the top in Scott County, IA. Since my business is kids, I’m not just asked to play with the kids, I am also obligated to teach them and to guide them in making good choices. I have to be an example to them–a good role model. So, in almost 14 years of providing care and having a ball doing it–had I essentially grown up and forgotten what it was like to really just have fun and let loose–lose control–personally–on a leisurely level? Maybe if I did drink a small glass of wine each evening I wouldn’t be wound so tight. Maybe if I made it a point to spend time laughing with girlfriends instead of pouring myself into my classes I would remember how it feels to loosen up. Maybe if I just went and got a tattoo, I could say to myself that I hadn’t forgotten the rebel inside of me.

There were a few other justifications, as well, for getting the tattoo.

1. It was a symbolic outward representation of the disease I was fighting.

2. It was a daily reminder that I needed to live life fully because we never know what is going to be thrown in our path.

3. It was my acceptance into the club–the one I had been fighting against for months. My VIP stamp of sorts that bound me to other women that had gone before me and would come after me.

4. It was going to be in a place that would be out of sight when my hair grew back so it wouldn’t be a nuisance should I ever be interviewed for something that might affect future endeavors.

5. The place I was going to put it–ahhh–the nape of the neck–during chemo–while I was bald or my hair was very short–it would serve as a sort of spiteful gesture to those that would look at me and question or whisper behind my back why I looked the way I did. Yes, this one is completely childish, but it also gives me the biggest laugh. It was a fact–I was going to lose my hair–something I was fiendishly upset about. The kicker–I would lose it right at the start of this summer’s pool season. I had counted up the days on the calendar. I had circled the day the pool opened. It was always circled each year–my family lives for that day. The thought that I was going to be a uniboob mom this summer was excruciating enough but to think I would also be bald was enough to leave me sobbing for days on end. I pictured in my mind people at the pool looking at me from the front and averting their eyes, or staring disgustingly at me. I pictured them pointing and whispering to their friends to look at me.

I also pictured turning around so they could see a large pink ribbon tattooed to the back of my neck and without having to turn around to see their expressions, I could see their faces melt into sorrow and then they would feel bad for pointing and staring or laughing at me. They would get it. Instant guilt trip. I win. 🙂 My childish mind had come up with the perfect solution to combat what was about to be my toughest summer on record and I loved the idea!

6. I knew that things were aligned perfectly for me to get the tattoo on that day. In two days, I would be sitting in my new dentist’s chair as he put me under for my root canal and to also fix the 5 cavities. I knew I would go home from that with a lot of antibiotics and so if the tattoo should become infected over the course of 48 hours, I would have enough penicillin to help put that back into submission. I also knew the antibiotics would help everything heal faster and so–if ever there was a time to get a tattoo–today was the day.

7. Most importantly, my chemo was going to start that upcoming Thursday. In 5 days I would be sitting in a chair while poison was being infused throughout my body. I knew my oncologist would not allow me to have a tattoo after I started treatment. My white cells would be shot from the drugs and if I developed an infection from the tattoo, then I would be in big trouble. So, it was now or never.

8. Last, but not least, I had been told that if I would ever consider a reconstruction, the new boob would have the areola tattooed on. That’s how they do it. Wow. I never knew that. I decided I certainly didn’t want my first tattoo to be that of a nipple!

When it was time to go back to my room with Jesse, I gave my hubby the camera and told him to take a ton of pictures. I wanted to remember this rite of passage. I never wanted to forget this moment in my life. I felt like it was a very visual way of me “owning it” and that it was also a way of me being able to move forward. Jesse’s appearance complete with tattoes and body piercings didn’t scare me. I was a bartender for 15 years and I was able to comfortably joke around with him. I think that surprised him from the woman he probably mistook for being conservative and sheltered.

We talked about the ribbon itself. I told him I didn’t want it to look perfect. I didn’t want it to have clean lines or neatly trimmed edges. I wanted it to look “Torn and Tattered”, “Worn and Weary”, and I also wanted it to look like a “Work in Progress”–because that’s exactly how I felt. I told him, “I’m a Work in Progress” also and I hoped someday in the future, when I truly feel in my heart that I have beaten this cancer that I would come back and write the word “Survivor” underneath the ribbon. Jesse looked at me and said, “Awesome”.

He shaved the back of my neck, placed the transfer on it, and gave me a mirror to check it out. I was so excited. He showed me where to sit and he went to work. With my head bent forward over a cushion I joked with him about life while Jeff captured it all on film. I listened to the buzzing of his tool and could feel the oddest sensations–some of which were slightly painful, but tolerable. I could visualize how he was outlining the ribbon and where he was filling it in. I could feel him going over certain areas repeatedly for extra shading. I could feel him trail off the ends of my ribbon to make them look frayed. It was so meditative for me and I won’t lie–I was so glad I took those Vicadin beforehand!

I knew we were getting to the end and I was glad because I was beginning to grit my teeth each time he rounded over the top of the ribbon. I was also making a low, gutteral sound each time the vibrating needle came close to the base of my skull. You know what it feels like if you put a massager on the top of your head? That’s what it felt like in a weird way only with pain involved. The vibrations from his needle would come up the back of my skull and travel all the way across the top. I couldn’t help but think what it must feel like for some people who get their whole skull tattooed–wait–I don’t want to know about that–I was ready to be done. And just like that–we were. I stood up and looked at it in the mirror. I couldn’t believe it. Jeff came and told me, “Good Job” and gave me a quick kiss. I was in awe. I loved it. I absolutely loved it. It was a part of me now. There was no escaping it. I was branded for life.

A Work In Progress

A Work In Progress

There are new pics over in Flickr Photos. I spent way too long trying to get them in chronological order–it just wouldn’t work. They are going from last to first?? Click on more pictures and you’ll see the album sitting to the right–that is in order. I am letting go of it so I can move forward. Enjoy.

Started Tracking on 12-1-09

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Just a nerdy History major and Cosmetologist with a love of all things vintage and a passion for books

bodyandsoulnourishmentblog

Welcome to my site to find inspiration and nourishment for the body and soul

my alaskan odyssey

when you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there.

Go Circa Mundi

Every Exit is an Entry

andymcoaching

Canoe and kayak coaching for the aspiring paddlesport enthusiast

A wee walk

brian and martina's outdoor blog

a sense of place

Ronnie Hughes

Exit Booted

a travel blog by tokyoaaron

The Paddler ezine

Magazine for white water, sea and expedition kayaking and canoeing paddlers

Kayakwriter's Blog

Writing and photography on the outdoors, sea kayaking, camping and dogs.

souzzchef

Adventures in food, travel, and backcountry kitchens

The Impatient Traveler

Impatiently awaiting the next adventure

travailsonatandemwithboo

Father and daughter cycling duo swapping pedals for paddles to kayak the length of the longest lakes of Wales, England and Scotland.

from victory road

a journey of faith, art, and life

Ticket to Adventures

Travel blog from around the world, near and far.

The Wallflower Wanderer

The true adventures of a timid world traveler

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