Leslie & Ann - Friendship

Rosie the Riveter and a female astronaut. Galentine's!

Since my retirement, I've been going through many phases, or as I used to call them, hair brained schemes. I have documented my artistic forays, and my blog post output is on the rise. Some of these phases are continuations of love affairs that I have for certain things, like Leslie Knope. Okay, that's the main character of a late 2000s t.v. show called Parks and Recreation. For the people in the blogosphere that are still confused, Chris Pratt got his start here, and as a special feature he manifested a phone call from Steven Spielberg about Jurassic World II. So, once, again, I have something amazing that I cannot contribute to its correct owner, because, I wrote down the words, but not the title of the YouTube video I stole it from. Here it is: 

Leslie and Ann's arc throughout the (first) season ends on a hopeful note, even if their romantic aspirations are both dashed. What's more important than them finding love, is they found each other and form a friendship that will last throughout the rest of Parks and Recreation and reveals that Parks and Recreation was not about how these two women found love but how they found their best friend.

And that's what I love about Parks and Recreation: that it celebrates all types of love, especially between women. Here is a quote from the lovely Rashida Jones (Ann):

Most girls have friends that are like, that's awesome, you're great, how, how can I help you? How can I support your life and make you a better person, or what can we talk about to make you feel better about your own life?

And, yes, most girls do have friends like that. Life friends. I am lucky in that I have two automatic friends that go by the more family-oriented term "sisters", but I have attracted some great friends over the years.

I'm thinking of a particular old
friend that ended up being my
birthing partner!

When you go through a major transition, usually this means adding joy and more love to a life: marriage, birth, anniversaries, college, moving, bringing someone home to dinner. These are the moments that mark a life. But there are other transitions that are not as joyous: divorce, death, health concerns and, to a certain extent, retirement. Well, I can say that those not so cool life events are really working as a team to make my life quite the endurance contest. Well, I am pleased to report that my team of friends are helping and supporting and making me a better person. By just talking, and being there.

The background of this scene is, Leslie is clinically
unable to give a gift that isn't thoughtful and time-
consuming, so her friend made her wedding gown
out of her political good press!

It takes a long time to grow an old friend. I am glad mine are old! I am glad I am old. And retired. And sick, divorcing and still grieving the loss of my best friend ever, my mom. She is giving me the determination I need every day, along with the still living friends. I couldn't choose my mother, but if I could, I would certainly never be able to improve upon the one I was lucky enough to get. I can and did chose my friends, and I would never be able to improve upon the ones I was lucky enough to get.

Bonus friends: April and Donna! Girl squad!

Luck o'the Irish. 

Who Am I? A Rambling Attempt to Figure Out My Life.

6/17/14 2:15 PM I had a minor meltdown at work today where I lost control at a student.  Nothing physical, but that sassy - no, rude - child received the full force of my anger.  I had a similar moment immediately after I returned to teaching after my stroke, and the scary thing about that craze was the instigating infraction was trivial compared to the diatribe it provoked.  I chalked that incident up to what, in essence, was my brain injury.  The thing about a stroke is that it changes you; the essence of who you are is your brain, and your brain is not the same after a stroke.  My brother-in-law is a quadripelegic, so physically he is completely different than he was before his spinal injury, but he is still the same person.  I, on the other hand, look the same as I did before my stroke; it is the inside that changed.

So, back to today.  One of my collegues passed away one week ago, and she was a gentle, caring teacher who lived her life following the model of God.  Because she was suffering from stage IV cancer, her honors class that she intended to loop with for a three-year stint was given to me after only a year.  I'm sure this ripped at her heart, and she would come in during my classes with them often.  Even during her chemotherapy, she continued to come to work, because she lived to teach, and loved her job.  Those of you who know me, know I no longer love teaching.  I did, and in theory I still do, but the joy and love of it has long ago left. 

When I attended her service, I listened to the Rabbi and swore I'd model my life after Mrs. S. and show love, love, love, especially to those poor, hurting children I share a building with.  And then, today happened.  Can I use the excuse of my stroke, which is now five years in the past?  Am I grieving my coworkers loss?  Am I just making excuses?  Who am I?  What do I stand for?

Ladies and gentlemen (are there any male readers out there?), is this an e-midlife crisis?  Should I tweet my pre-menopausal angst? 

10/20/23 1:58 PM 
Okay, Update! It is now 9 years later and I had another meltdown and I am now retired. Very much post-menopausal now. My brother-in-law, the quadriplegic, passed away just before the pandemic. Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around every once in a while, you might miss it.

What is Love? Mike Cafferty

To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer.  That part I like.  But isn't there a bit missing in the traditional wedding vows? Like:

• To celebrate all your little accomplishments, whether it's getting more reward points on a new credit card, fixing the garage door opener, organizing the sock drawer, or surviving another day with that idiot boss.
• To not take each other for granted. Thank them for their small kindnesses and forgive them their little irritating habits. 
• ...

I started this post a long time back and only wrote the part above. At the time, as now, I was 4.5 years into my $$$$$ divorce, and I still didn't know what I wanted from marriage or love or men or even friends. Now, I do. And I want to tell you an inspiring tale to tell you how this happened.

It's about a young man growing up on the South Side of Chicago, still getting his head on straight and the value of hard work. He could and did do anything. Six foot three, athletic, he held his school's swim record for over 18 years.

This golden child was a bit adrift but heading in the right direction when, after a night of drinking, his 18-year-old friend crashed the car in which he was a passenger.

I met him 18 years later, a lawyer with a condo in the newly fashionable West Loop of Chicago, when he started dating my sister. I had just had Tootie Pie, and was crazy with anxiety, and so I didn't learn that much about him aside from the first impressions. Just over a year later, I was a bridesmaid at their wedding, after just having had a stroke. I can tell you that I looked craaaaaaazy on the dance floor with my new hemichoreaic involuntary movement disorder, but, I mean, c'mon, they played Don't Stop Believing.

They had my niece and nephew and they were in love. They were everything I wanted in a marriage: a person that would make me better and I would be better because of it.

Did I mention that he is a quadripelgic? No? Oh, yeah. I forgot. I was busy having post-partum depression and an ischemic neurological event. He had no problem letting me know what he needed from me, which made it easy for me, because I just followed his lead, and I told him what I needed from him (mostly, don't fuck with my sister). He knew what he wanted and communicated and made everything very comfortable and normal. He had years to perfect these things.

My family, minus Tootie Pie, who stayed behind in NYC,
 and of course, Karen and Mike's kids, who came later.

Still, in all the years knowing him, I only had so much curiosity, or, I guess I should say that I didn't know if curiosity would be appreciated. I mean, how many times did he have to go through the story, the one that was catastrophic to him? So, I let my mother be the conduit of information, and so I had only the foggiest idea of what he had gone through.

He had surgeries, bed sores, reduced lung capacity and increased phlegm, been dropped on the floor (numerous times), had a metal halo bolted to his head, catheters in his penis, God-knows-what was going on in the backyard, strangers thinking he was a vegetable, and all other sorts indignities and tortures. All of this medical side of him, which was a huge part, was conducted very secretively; partly, I guess, because he was private, and mostly, I'd assume, to spare people from disturbing situations.

I now know of these things because he realized one more dream: he became a published author of his autobiography. That left one dream, walking. It wasn't to be, because two days after the book was available on amazon.com, he left his earthly body, but he had years of practice with that, too.

The funeral was inspiring, but of course it was. The amount of people that knew him and the love was unbelieveable. The priest had know him since his first days in college. Bagpipes, Irish singers, and a poignant eulogy from my fiercely private sister, who spoke to her young children and somehow, didn't break everyone's heart. He passed way too young, with not enough time. But, the world is appreciably better because of him. And that is the only legacy worth leaving.

My Cancer Story

Last school year was the year of cancer.  I had my annual birthday mammo and PAP smear, because what better way to celebrate one more year than getting a flattened boob and the "slight discomfort" in that other female area?  Well, this year, things went a bit different when my gynocologist left a message on my cellphone on the Friday before the three-day weekend of Labor Day.  After a tense weekend, and another tense week where I left many unreturned messages to his office, he explained that I had abnormal cells.  Not to worry, however, because it is so common and he would simply remove the abnormal cells with a LEP procedure.  A LEP, in my layman's terms, is like a melon baller that scoops out the bad cells.  When I went in for my LEP, the doctor didn't do it, saying that it wasn't a candidate for this procedure.  I needed a biopsy.  The abnormal cells were precancerous.  Okay...

I had a biopsy on a Wednesday in mid-October.  I had told my assistant principal that I would be back in on Friday, but something told me that morning to stay home one more day.  And then the doctor called, asking me to come in because he had forgotten some post-operative instructions.  Uh-huh.  I was extremely doubtful of his pretense, and of course, my instincts were right.  I didn't have to suffer the typical hour-long wait; I was seen immediately.  Double uh-oh.  He told me I had cancer.  I remember writing this down on my notepad: "I have cancer", as if I might forget this nugget of information.  He then took out a medical diagram of the cross-section of the female reproductive system.  You think you understand everything down there, but once a doctor says the word "cancer", nothing makes sense anymore.  I couldn't locate the cervix on the drawing, nor remember what the purpose of it was, other than it dilates during birth.  I couldn't understand why the cells that were precancerous after the PAP had suddenly become very-much-so-cancer.  My husband accompanied me the next day to get the important information.  I needed a radical hysterectomy. 

That weekend, I googled cancer and learned about stages, and scary things like survival rates.  It was frightening.  My mother told me that I wanted a laproscopic procedure, because the healing time was reduced.  My onocologist (saying that was new) said I had stage IB cancer.  That was good news.  And I would need a laproscopic radical hysterectomy.  To quote my sister, a hysterectomy was okay because "that thing's been nothing but trouble".  I needed to get a PET scan, to determine if the cancer had reached my nodes.  The PET scan was an absolute delight!  Yes, it involved not eating for a day, and being pricked many times to find my vein, and drinking vile radioactive iodine water, but I was put in a room with a reclining chair, a blanket, and a television, ALONE.  I felt like I was at a spa.  The PET scan came back "pristine", meaning that the tumor they removed during the biopsy probably was all that was necessary to treat the cancer, but the doctors were still concerned that it may be in the nodes microscopically.

So, the hysterectomy was on.  Since I had a stroke four years prior, I needed clearance from my PCP and neurologist.  The neurologist sent me to his Doppler tech, who detected a heart murmer, so I needed to visit a cardiologist.  Finally, it was the day, my mother was here from Michigan, I had taken my meds and prepped my colon, out the door at 4:30 am, and they discovered a UTI.  It was a no-go.  Another round of clearances, and finally, a week before Christmas, my surgery went off without a hitch.  And, on New Year's eve, my onocologist told me that the lab did not find any cancer in the nodes, and I was cancer free.

Lovenox, nurses visits, having to get help to get out of bed; it was just a bit too reminiscent of my last convalesence.  Foley bags were new, though.  But, on the plus side, I did get to drop off and pick up my daughter from school, and in doing so, I met a great many of her classmates's parents.  We even found a Daisy troop!  All in all, if it wasn't for the burden of fearing imminent death, cancer was relatively easy.  I realize this is not the case for everyone, but the recovery, and again I'm speaking for me only, was far easier than for my stroke. 

So now I'd like to formally go on the record that I no longer want to try everything once.  Some things I do not need to experience include:

• cardiac arrest
• hostage situation
• scrapnel wounds
• irritable bowel syndrome
• plane crashes
• flesh eating disease
• pulverized bones
• gunshots
• nail gun through brain
• whatever is happening in this picture

This list is not comprehensive, of course.  I just needed to put that out there.

I am Cancer-Free

This will be my last post on cancer.  I no longer have it.  This part of my life is over.  Ovah!  Forevah!  This post is full of graphic information, so if you want all the details, read on.  If you don't need the play-by-play, just know that I am cured of cancer, and that's all you really need to know.

I had my radical hysterectomy on December 18th.  It was a six-plus hour operation that I awoke from around 9 p.m.  I was petrified about deep vein thrombosis, a blood clot that occurs after surgeries and can kill.  Since I had a stroke less than four years ago, I was at increase risk for blood clots.  Yeah!  So, after one night lying down, I was up and around the next morning.  After being instructed on foley care and Lovenox injections (again), and a screw up about visiting nurse service, I was discharged.  For those of you who don't know, a foley is a tube inside your bladder that leads to a bag that collects your urine.  Or, at least, that's the idea, but sometimes is doesn't work as expected and pee ends up on the living room floor, or so I am told.  One excruciatingly bumpy car trip home, and I've been recovering ever since.

A week and a day after the surgery, the foley was removed.  One day after the foley was taken out, I started leaking.  Gushing, actually.  It started on a Thursday, but not in full force.  It was just a sneak peak; not the full package.  Friday, around 4 p.m., was when it began to pour.  I remember the time exactly, because Mr. Murphy made sure that the serious issue began precisely when my onocologist left for the weekend.  So, I had to wait until Monday to see the doctor.  She told me it wasn't urine, which was good, because the idea of peeing oneself, even after a surgery, is disturbing.  During this doctor visit, she gave me the results of pathology: no signs of cancer in the lymph nodes.  I was cancer-free.

The gushing lasted for one week exactly.  It was either lymphatic or peritoneal fluid.  We will never know for sure which, since it ended before I could get my urogram CT scan.  So that's the whole dramatic tale.  I was aware that I had cancer for two and a half months.  I went from the sinking feeling when the doctor who performed the biopsy needed me to come into the office for the results (uh-oh), to morbidity, to relief in less than three months.  So it's been another crazy emotional ride.

I made a promise to my daughter that if the surgery was successful and I was cancer-free, that we would get her a pet mouse.  So, a week ago, we went to Pet Palace and welcomed two new white mice into our home.  The sequence of pictures I took with her and one of her mice is so joy-filled, it really was the capping event of blessedly happy news.  Now, hopefully the tumor-prone mice will stay cancer-free!

Would You Rather...

How Conditions Requiring Hospitalizations Stack Up

There are clear distinctions between conditions that require hospitalization.  Consumer reports surveyed one woman who experienced three different ailments that led to hospital admission.

Our models: Our childbirth model was a 2007 natural, premature delivery.  Like the other conditions, this was unplanned.  The stroke was a 2009 carotid artery dissection, which was even more unexpected than the other two conditions.  And the cancer was a 2012 cervical stage 1B, with a preventative radical, laparoscopic hysterectomy.

The acquisition of the conditions all start with sex.  In the case of childbirth, the responders remember exactly the onset of the condition; it was at the Jersey Shore, on a warm summer’s day, and we had just steamed up the...in any case, it scored high.  With the stroke, acquiring the precondition was as easy as being born, since it is a genetic condition.  The exact moment cancer was obtained cannot be determined, and any positive feelings that may have resulted in gaining the condition was negated by many angry exchanges between responders and spouses, so it receives a lower score.

The stroke, being a complete surprise, required zero advanced preparations, scoring highest on this criterion.  The cancer was diagnosed three months prior to the surgery, and required a litany of doctors appointments and a charming bowel prep, practiced twice.  The childbirth was diagnosed less than six months before the hospitalization, and involved normal baby and birth preparations, as well as honeymoon and marriage planning.  Marriage planning was complicated by girth of bride and stress of parading down aisle visibly pregnant, so it received the lowest score.

The stroke registered the most negative after-effects of the three conditions.  The joy that the responder’s child brought outweigh the stress and worry of offspring.  Cancer will hopefully just be a small blip on the radar, requiring diligence and attention for the rest of the responder’s life, but not affecting her with any long-term negative effects.  Stroke affects the brain, and since the cause cannot be pinpointed, will stress out our responder for the rest of her life.

The length of hospitalization was longest for the stroke, and unbelievably shortest for cancer, however, the hospital stay was rated as the best for childbirth because the recovery of both mother and baby was quick and comparatively painless than that of cancer.

The mental anguish related to the conditions associated with childbirth were thought to be severe at the time, but the anxiety and stress were more severe for stroke and cancer.  The duration of the pain was less for childbirth was much less than for cancer or stroke, but the intensity was much, much greater.

Update on My Cancer

They are developing a cute tumor and bottle
of Calcium Citrate for the Abominable Prep
musical number scene.

It's the holiday season, so sit by the fire, grab some cocoa, and let's talk about cancer.  It's a great story.  Rankin Bass may decide to animate this classic holiday tale soon, so you can say you heard it here first.



Not radical, dude.

I had my "radical" hysterectomy on Tuesday afternoon into Tuesday evening.  I tell people that natural childbirth is the most extreme of any extreme sport, but radical hysterectomies are not radical in the 80's tubular or gnarly sense.  They just suck.  Better to just keep getting those pap smears, ladies, and if something turns up, hope you can get a LEEP.  I am thankful that this will likely be irradicated for my daughter through vaccinations.   It's truly amazing how the anesthesiologist can just knock you out, and it's unlike sleep.  I guess the closest analogy would be a blackout, where you just lose time.  The time continuum jumps for one person.  It's very strange.  Anyhow, I felt good when I came to around 10 p.m.  My husband was there.  I had no sleep Tuesday night, and Wednesday was a frenzy of activity.  I was very down, since my husband did not make any contact until 11 a.m., but a priest visited me and I met a therapy dog in the hallway.  Man, can animals improve my mood.  The poor thing, a seven-year old black lab, was dressed in a Santa Claus suit, and he had no real joy in his eyes, but selfish me didn't care.  Petting an animal has always been on my top ten list of activities.



Toomey Tumor will be the featured
character in "It's a Cervical Cancer
Christmas, Toomey!"

I am home now.  I can finally catch up on whether DeQuan is the father of adorable eight month old Traynesia (awwww!).  My daughter was with us the first night, which always brightens my mood.  She stayed at her Oma and Opa's house last night, since my husband went back to work today.  I feel good.  The abdominal pain has subsided considerably, and I'm moving more and more like a human.  I slept for almost twelve hours last night.  I am hoping to find out about the lymph nodes on the day after Christmas.  Hopefully, this huge medical drama is behind me.  But, like my other medical incidents, they're never really OVER over, you know?  You're always wary, and ever mindful of the next possible calamity.  I keep thinking, well, I'm getting my health problems out of the way early, that's good.  But is this just the new normal?  I hope this is it now.  May my next hospital visit be to the morgue, in at least three decades.  I feel the need to mention the timeline.  All in all, I could do without the drama. 

Thank you everyone for your thoughts and prayers; it does help.  And, I'd also like to mention Tig Notaro and Marjorie Gross, for making cancer, if not funny, at least ridiculous and eye-rollingly annoying, at just the right time.  Don't buy in bulk.  "I used to use the word “someday,” but now I figure someday is for people with better gene pools."  I will never forget the humor they brought me.  I will let you know the diagnosis on Wednesday.  Happy Holidays!*

EDITOR'S NOTE: I will not find out the results from pathology regarding cancer in the lymph nodes until Friday, January 4th.  Bummer!

Bucket List for When the Bucket Moves Closer

On the episode of the Office, when Kevin finds out he may have skin cancer, Pam contemplates what she would do if she found out she had a week to live. 

“If I knew I had a week to live, I would probably go to Europe…and South America…and the Grand Canyon…and I would want to see the Pacific Ocean. It would be a busy week."

Like Pam, there is quite a bit I want to do yet in this life, and like Pam, I assumed there would be plenty of time to do it.  Now I'm not so sure.  Most of my bucket list involves travel, but not all.  Please indulge me while I list some things I want to do before I die:

• See a moose in the wild
• Visit Scandinavia, especially Norway
• See the rain forest
• Learn how to throw pottery and blow glass
• Take a gastronomic trip through India
• Swim with a marine mammal
• Have an occasion to dress in a princess ballgown
• Slovenia, Slovenia, Slovenia
• Raise a chicken
• Pink Forest, Ireland and Green Lake, Austria
• Quit my job and have a successful business
• Cinque Terre, Italia
• Have an extended family vacation on the beach
• Become a grandmother
• Have a goat farm
• Live in France or Germany with my daughter
• Visit the Far East
• Have a crazy difficult hike/scramble up a mountain
• Visit Polynesia and Hawaii
• This...

Okay, the last bucket item does not need to necessarily be GC, but any funny, polite, handsome, smart, wealthy man will do.  Is there a Make-A-Wish Foundation for middle-aged moms?  If I live to 88, I am exactly middle age.  I have, at most, 20 good traveling years in front of me, and then it's time to raise goats and have a pet chicken.  So what am I waiting for?  Like most people, it is too expensive, my husband is too difficult to sway, and I figure I still have time.  But, the list above is not comprehensive.  It's time to book the trip to Fiji, NOW!

If You Can Make it Here...God Love You!

Life in New York has recently been, how should I put it?  Wacky?  Cuckoo?  Doolally?  Kooky?  Of course, we finally had the "storm of the century" that the scientists (or, as the right likes to call them, pessimists) have been predicting for a while.  So, I feel okay buying beachfront property now, since the next destructive hurricane is pencilled in for around 2110.  Thank goodness!  Many of my friends' and coworkers' lives were shattered, and many more of my fellow New Yorkers were coping without amenities that we, in this country, take for granted such as power, fuel, heat, food, and water.

I'll see your hurricane...

...and I'll raise you snow and
 a cold snap

And then, just over a week later, we were struck with a Nor'easter.  People endured, but many trees that survived the hurricane just gave up at that point.  It was frigid, and my heart went out to those who still did not have power.

On top of all of this, which was layered on an already tough job as a working mom, I am trying to deal with my cancer diagnosis.  Since my biopsy, for which I was out for three days, I have since taken another day to get doppler images and sonograms so that I can get neurological clearance for my radical hysterectomy.  I was to take a day last week Monday to get that clearance from my neurologist, but school was cancelled all week, as was my hard-earned appointment.  This week, the students returned on Monday, but they were out again on Tuesday for Election Day.  Happily, my school allowed teachers to volunteer on this day rather than go in for professional development.  Next week Monday is Veteran's Day, so another day off, and on Tuesday I get my PET and CT scan, plus hospital medical clearance.  I go back on Wednesday, but then I'm off Thursday to get my Primary Care physician's clearance and my makeup appointment with my neurologist.  Then, finally, finally, I'm clear for takeoff and I take off (lots of takeoffs there) another two days at least for my surgery.

I'm surprised I'm in as good a mood as I am.  Some of my optimism is from the huge outpouring of love that I've received since getting my bad news.  Some of it may be from the unity that communities usually feel in the wake of a disaster.  I feel like I've become accepted from my coworkers; schools in New York City tend to have a hazing period where many of the staff give newcomers a hard time.  I figure it must be like joining the army: the first few months are torture, and if one can get through that, then they want you on your team.  Like teaching isn't hard enough without those people who are unpleasant and unhelpful!  All but the most barbaric woman have softened towards me.  Trust me, when you are the most uncivilized person in a NYC public school, you must be very, very, very rude.  It's true that if you can make it here, you'll make it anywhere.  It's only in the toughest of tough towns that, in order to win appreciation and kindness from my coworkers, I needed cancer?

My Friends, Cancer and Jury Duty

So, as if this week has not been filled with enough awful news, I got summoned for jury duty.  Carefree, summertime me got the original letter in the middle of summer break, and, without a second thought, said "defer".  It seemed like a good decision at the time.  In all the confusion and stress of this week, I almost completely forgot that I was supposed to phone to see if I would be called up yesterday.  It was around 11 p.m. Sunday night when the summons that I am using as a bookmark fell to the floor.  Ugh!  I called, and I did not need to report on Monday.  But, after nearly forgetting to call again last night, this time remembering at 3 a.m., I was called in. 

Jury duty is never fun.  Parking around a courthouse is next to impossible.  In my extremely muddled state, I mindlessly, automatically and 100% mistakenly got on to the Long Island Expressway.  The only thing worse than being on the LIE during rush hour is being on the LIE during rush hour by accident.   From the traffic on the on ramp, I longingly looked down at the completely clear Queens Boulevard where I was supposed to be.  In the jury duty waiting room, Regis and Kathy Lee or Kelly or Michael Strahan or whoever was blaring from a television.  Maybe I'm getting old, but nothing drives me as batty as a blasting media source.  Airports have them, hospital waiting rooms, any place where the public may turn to rioting masses due to the horrible conditions and the breath-taking lack of interest in dealing with issues with any speed or concern.  The public must be subdued, and television seems to be the drug of choice.  We are no longer even allowed the option of a quiet activity like reading.  Remember when people would read?  Not on a screen, but words on paper?  Anyone?

Don't worry, this story has a happy ending; we'll get there eventually.  Just yesterday, I worked all day trying to secure an appointment with my neurologist, whom I need to give medical clearance for my scheduled radical hysterectomy.  He is a busy man whose first available appointment was January 8th of 2013, so an assistant did major juggling to get me in tomorrow.  And then there is the referral issue that I won't even mention.  I was dreading having to reschedule it, given the hassle it was to schedule it the first time.  Jury duty is notoriously difficult to shirk.  And, so, with trepidation in my heart and five minutes on my meter, I got my break.  With unbelievable speed, I was first in the jury duty problem line, and two minutes later, I was excused, no questions asked.  The cancer card is coming in handy already.  I called school, to tell them I would be coming in, and I was told not to; they already had a substitute.  Free!  At 10:30 in the morning!  And so, the song of the day, with lyrics modified by me:

Cervical cancer and whiskers on kittens
Summons for juries and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things

I am also singing "Hooray for Hollywood", I imagine because the word "hooray" is in the title.  I am a sick, sick person.  In mind, not in body.  Okay, in mind and in body.  But more so in mind.

Social Media - Start from the Beginning

What was that second thing you said? 

My last post dealt with my newly diagnosed cancer, which I decided to post about it on Facebook, and I thought I'd explain my reasoning.  We've all read the status updates that say something that indicates that a major life event has occurred, but was not announced on Facebook.  Statements such as "Second ultrasound shows six toes" or "We're legal!  Got certificate in mail and changing name today!"   I end up confused as to what the protocol is for this scenario.  Does one "read between the lines" and bust out the congratulations or the condolences, or should I question the friend about the initial announcement?  It's as if, at a party, you start a story with "So, when I had the triplets six years ago, I noticed there was a new supermarket so close to the house.  Have you been to it?  It has the best croissants"  Your friends will certainly agree about the croissants, but they'll want you to back up to the part about the triplets.  It reminds me of the confession scene in Moonstruck:
 
Loretta Castorini: Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession.
Priest: What sins have you to confess?
Loretta Castorini: Twice I took the name of the Lord in vain, once I slept with the brother of my fiancee, and once I bounced a check at the liquor store, but that was really an accident.
Priest: Then it's not a sin. But... what was that second thing you said, Loretta?

And so, since I will obviously be referencing the cancer in future posts, I decided to start at the beginning, rather than slipping it in between insignificant events.  I rather not answer everyone's questions one-by-one; maybe it's the teacher in me.  I'll teach everyone once, and if you have questions, ask them in front of the group.  Maybe someone else has the same question.

How Does One Announce Cancer in the Digital Age?

I now need to change my blog's blurb to include "surviving a stroke, marriage and cancer".  I was diagnosed this week as having stage 1B cervical cancer.  That stage is low and has very high survival rates, which is encouraging, although it is most likely still a low stage because the doctors have not  tested enough yet to ascertain whether it is actually more advanced.  I am somewhat relieved to know that the size of my tumor generally warrants optimism that the radical hysterectomy I must undergo will cure me completely.  Actually, the radical hysterectomy is the better option: if tests show that cancer is in my lymph nodes, then I will need radiation.  I guess, as kids, we say we want to experience everything.  But, God, if you follow this blog, I can do without the radiation experience, okay?  That is one thing where vicarious living will certainly suffice.

Teal Ribbon :
Meaning: This color is a symbol
for ovarian, cervical, and uterine
cancers as well as sexual assault,
polycystic ovarian syndrome,
and tsunami victims.  What fun! 

When the results of my biopsy were brought to my attention, of course, I started crying.  There were two reasons for my tears: my daughter and my mother.  The only thing worse than leaving a young child motherless is leaving a mother childless.  I can do things to help my daughter after my death, but there is nothing to console a mother who loses a child.  When my student was killed at thirteen years old, nothing, nothing will ever erase the screams and desperation of his mother as she arrived at his wake.  Never should a child precede his mother in death.  So, Mom, I love you, but you're going first!

Let's back away from the edge of darkness for a moment, to look at the bright side of things.  Just as modern medicine saved me once, I have very competent professionals on my side, and every reason to believe that I will emerge from this to live to see my daughter reach adulthood.   She was more interested in the timing of my surgery (two days before Thanksgiving) than in any of the concerns that we adults have.  "How many days are in November?  November is a long ways away.  What holiday comes first, Halloween or Thanksgiving?"   And, then, she pushes her torso up on her shoulders (this was in bed) by standing on her tippy toes on the headboard and challenges me to push her down.  She'll take anyone's mind off the heavy details.