Changes

Mini Me went to school this year. As you may recall, we’ve homeschooled up until now, and it’s been an adjustment, but it was time. She’s done pretty well with school, gotten good grades, survived being called a loser for helping someone else, made some new friends, become known for her graffiti art skills, and narrowly escaped getting in trouble for possession of a Sharpie. She’s got some teachers she loves, and some that she could take or leave, and none that are really bad. However, this grading period has landed her in a health class with a teacher who is a cancer survivor. Mini Me knows this because the teacher has mentioned it in class. Every. single. day.

I know a couple of people like that, too. Thankfully, I’m not trapped in a room with them for an hour 5 days a week. I would be hoarse from singing “la-la-la-I-can’t-hear-you” all the time. So, I feel Mini Me’s pain, but it also makes me laugh, because, well, better her than me.

Anywho, so this whole kid-going-to-school thing has left me without a day job, so to speak. Over the holidays I worked a seasonal UPS job (more on that at a later date), and I’ve been doing some freelancing, which is fun. I’d like to do some more of that kind of thing, and the way to get better at writing, and also to keep the flow going, is to keep writing. So, my goal is to write every day. At least every week day. That won’t always mean I’ll write here, but it will probably increase the frequency of my posts, which, let’s face it, have been pretty darned infrequent over the past few months. Of course, some of that is because I don’t have any funny cancer stories to tell since I’m not very cancery these days, and The Foob has gone to Florida for the winter with all of the other snowbirds. I can only get so much mileage out of those quarterly doctor appointments with Dr Birhiray.

That leaves me with a few options for this blog. I could write about whatever strikes me as funny in regular, non-cancer life. Or I could write about food. We all know I love that. I could write deep, inspirational posts. Okay, yeah, that’s probably going to happen, with the frequency of a leap year or something. I could just retire, but I do enjoy the blog, and my readers so I don’t really want to do that. And as I said, I think I need the exercise anyway.

What say you, my readers? Any of the above? A combination? Please let me know.

Pink Ribbon Overload: Permanent Reminders

My friend Jody sent in these two entries, with the following comment:  “I think you should get a pink ribbon tat & navel ring to celebrate Breast Cancer Awareness month!  Here are a few for you to check out!  If you don’t like these, don’t worry…they come in many different styles!”

 You know, Jody, I was just thinking to myself the other day, “Why Self, can you believe you haven’t had a surgery, or any other sort of invasive cancer-related thing for nearly a year?  I mean, gee Self, pretty soon you might just forget you ever had The Cancer and go back to a normal life.  You know, aside from the implant, and the 10-inch long scar, and the newpple that’s made from a piece of your groin, there’s really nothing to remind you of the year you spent your summer vacation being bald and having no eyebrows.  You know, Self, your memory is pretty bad, thanks to the Tamoxifen you take every night.  How will you ever remember the summer after chemo when you only had one boob, and had to find a Foob compatible bathing suit to wear to the water park?”

 I was really worried.  I mean, gee, if there’s one thing I never want to forget, it’s the ridiculous constipation that chemo causes.  So, Jody, I was SO glad when you emailed me the pink ribbon tattoo.  Of course!  Here I was planning to get my newpple tattooed to look more natural, and all along I was missing a grand opportunity!  Why, with a pink ribbon tattoo on the noob, I’ll never forget about The Cancer.  But gee, I just don’t know.  It seems like such a waste to put all the awareness someplace where only I can enjoy it.  So, I’m thinking perhaps I’ll go for the always classy neck tattoo. 

 Jody also suggested the navel ring.  There again, who’s gonna see it?  Hubster?  Oh Honey, trust me, he’s already aware of The Cancer.  Of course, given my penchant for the gaudy, there’s a good chance that gravity would have the Flava Flav sized ornament I’d pick stretching out my belly button, and swinging between my knees like a Focault pendulum. Still, just to be on the safe side, I think I should probably get a pink ribbon belly shirt to go along with it.   Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find one of those online though.  A tube top might work, too, but I haven’t seen one of those either.  Dang it.  Maybe the belly button ring isn’t such a good awareness tool, after all.

I’ve Been Robbed

Perhaps you guys have seen the recent news story about an American family’s Christmas photo that mysteriously ended up in advertising for a grocery store in Prague.  Apparently, this lady had sent out Christmas cards with the photo of her and her husband and their two kids last year.  Recently, an old college friend of hers was bopping down the street in Prague, when he spotted the life sized image in a store window.  So he emailed her.  Turns out, she doesn’t have a clue how the picture ended up there.  (This scenario immediately made my think of the stolen video camera in European Vacation—but I digress.)

 I can guarantee that, in spite of having posted my picture on here numerous times, this would never happen to me.  Oh, I’m not saying that the Kroger of Lithuania wouldn’t cob onto my picture—you know, The Foob  may be hocking croissants in France this very minute. It’s just that if they did, I’d never know, because I certainly do not have friends fancy enough to be motoring around Europe.  Moody’s friends are lucky to get to the Indiana State Fair on vacation, let alone someplace exotic.   Deep Fried Twinkie, anyone?

 However, I recently discovered that, indeed, someone had lifted a picture off of this blog for use on another website.  A picture of me.  I first noticed this because WordPress keeps track of incoming links.  When I saw this one, I was like, “What is that?” and of course I clicked through to see for myself.  Turns out it’s one of those generic websites that purports to contain info about a topic, but is really just a collection of links to other sites.  Wanna know what this one is about?  Coloring Hair After Chemo.  Wanna know what picture they used?  Well, see for yourself.

 Um, yeah.  I’m bald in that picture—except for the maimed, purple and grime colored, rubber spiky ball I’ve got stretched over my cranium.  That’s great!  You have no idea how funny that is to me.  That somebody earnestly seeking information about coloring the hair they just spent the last 6 months growing would come across that picture just slays me.  Look at me—I even look like I could be trying to sell you something.  “Yes, ladies, with Dr Follicle’s Instant Hair Growing & Coloring System, you too can look like you’ve got a nasty purple spiky ball on your head!  [insert shiny tooth bling here] Simply apply the two-part formula, and then sit back and enjoy a glass of sweet tea.  By the time you’ve quenched your thirst, your hair will look like Molly’s dog chewed a hole in a purple, spiky ball and you pulled it over your scalp!  It’s that simple!” 

 (Also available in Canine  Breath Cancer Black, and Hot Flash Fuschia!)

My Fate Rests in Your Hands

So, the other day I got this letter in the mail inviting me to a breast cancer powwow.  The letter and event brochure came in an envelope with my name and address on it.  You may not think that’s significant.  You may be thinking, “Well, Moody, how else would they address it?  Surely you wouldn’t expect them to just send out a mass mailing addressed to ‘current resident’ would you?”  I’m not so sure that I wouldn’t.  Because the letter itself opened with the greeting: Dear Person with a Diagnosis of Breast Cancer.

 Gee, how do they make it feel so doggone personal?  Amazing!  I feel so loved.

 The letter is signed by Patsy, who took the time to actually sign her name along with her impressive alphabet of credentials, which is obviously more important than taking the time to address me by my name.  Now granted, my name doesn’t normally have a bunch of fancy pants letters after it, but thanks to ol’ Patsy, I can now call myself Moody Foodie, PWDBC.  That is my identity these days, right?  Person with a diagnosis of breast cancer?  Or current resident.  It’s kind of a toss up.

 These items came from Union Hospital  in conjunction with The Maple Center in Terre Haute.  I did my radiation at Hux Cancer Center, so I’m assuming that’s how I got on their list.  Ironically, Patsy makes a point of telling me to “Rest assured that your name and address has been kept confidential.”  My name, you say?  And what might that be?  Hmm?  Current resident?  Person with a Diagnosis of Breast Cancer?  Shhh! Someone might steal my identity!  (And, Patsy, it’s HAVE.  They HAVE been kept confidential.  Good grief, you’re making us sound like illiterate hilljacks.  Dang.)

 I know you’re all anxious to hear about this cancer powwow I’ve been invited to.  It’s called “Celebration of Life”.  Okay, not bad so far, although I have most often heard that phrase used in regard to funerals.  But, I can get past that if it’s going to be some super cool event, right?  Says it’s a “one day seminar to pamper inspire, energize and teach.”  So, it sounds like it has potential.  I mean, pamper sounds like pedicures and hot stone massages, right?  And that thing about teaching sounds good.  I’m all about education.  I bet they’ll be doing sessions about breast reconstruction techniques, and post-chemo fertility issues facing young women, and all sorts of relevant stuff.  

 Let’s take a look at the brochure together, shall we? 

 Oh.  Wow.  One of the first session options is “Cultivating Support on Your Journey: Using Collage.” Dude, they just used the J word.  And collage?  Collage?  Seriously?  I realize that I am biased, in that I have always and forever considered collage to be the lamest form of art (and I use the term loosely) known to man, but this makes me want to go straight for my eye-poking spork. 

 But it’s got to get better, right?  Surely there’s a pedicure in there somewhere.  Let’s look at our options for the second session.  “Wisdom Circle (Sharing insight): Using guidelines from the Wisdom Circle Format inspired by councils of indigenous people, this circle discussion using a talking object allows us to share wisdom and compassion.”  What kind of Mickey Mouse new-agey crap is that?  Because we all know that there’s no wisdom or compassion without a “talking object”.  <insert eye roll here>  But, hey, if we must use an object to talk for us, I volunteer The Foob.  He may not be wise or compassionate, but doggone it, he’ll sound French as he says, “You do not need Zee Foob, or zee wisdom circle, you need a zinnamon latte—now zuck it up!”

 I’m torn.  Going to this thing would no doubt give me SO much material.  Yet, do I really want to spend a day collaging and getting my weirdness on in the wisdom circle?  This thing is March 7^th, so I have a little time.  Perhaps I’ll leave it to you to decide. 

Misty Watercolor Memories

Occasionally, I blog out of sheer boredom.  This usually happens when I’m waiting at the doctor’s office.  Like today.  Actually, I’m not even at Dr Schmidt’s office.  It’s down the hall.  And it’s full.  Totally full.  That’s okay though.  There are no computers in there.  Instead, there is a TV that’s not always broadcasting something inane, but sometimes is.  I prefer to avoid that if possible.  So here I am.

The computers are located next to the boutique.  You remember the boutique, right?  It’s where I got to try on my Aunt Phyllis’s hair before ultimately deciding I didn’t want a wig. 

The boutique is also where I first met The Foob.   It was like something straight out of an episode of The Young and the Breastless.  There I was…looking for a boob to replace the one I’d lost.  Oh, not a permanent boob.  You know, just a rebound boob.  And there he was—all flesh colored, and triangular, and French.  I knew as soon as I saw him that I must take him home.  Because, without him, my cup would be empty. 

For a while, we went everywhere together, he and I.  I took him mushroom hunting, and he took me to Cirque du Soleil.  Eventually, however, something began to come between us.  Indeed, it was my expander.  And while we continued on, trying to ignore the obvious signs, in the end we had to admit that it wasn’t going to work.

The More Things Change, the More They…Change.

My, my, how things have changed in a year.  This time last year, I looked like this:

 

Yeah.  That’s right.  Like a cancer thug.  You want a piece of me?  You think I’m trying to write a bad check at Big Lots?  Need to make sure I’m not impersonating someone else at Family Video?  Grrr.  Back off, Jack, before I take those hoop earrings off and open up a can on your behind.  Now give me that Sandlot dvd and step aside.

 

 

Fast forward to a year later and I look like this:

 

Okay, maybe only slightly less scary because I have hair.  I have HAIR!  Yay!  You have no idea how glad I am to have hair again.  Especially since it’s cold outside.  Seriously, like, bald wasn’t bad.  I could pull that off.  And the super-butch buzzed look wasn’t too bad either.  But then all the in between stuff that I had going on last winter.  Yikes.  Glad that’s over.

And other things have changed this year, too.

 This time last year, me and The Foob pretty much went everywhere together.  Of course, now, he’s enjoying his retirement.  He’s got that fancy RV that he follows the Grateful Dead around in and all.  That is, when he’s not spending the winter in Florida with the rest of the snowfoobs.  But I cherish those times we had together—primarily because they provided me with so much material.  And so, as a tribute to our friend, The Foob, I present to you last year’s caroling foob entry, originally published December 3, 2007:

 

Isn’t the Christmas season fun? I love all of the festivities this time of year. No other time is so full of joy, giving, and opportunities to rewrite tunes that everyone knows in my own warped little way. I triple dog dare you to join me in a little impromptu sing-along. Don’t give me that nonsense about how you’re at work and you can’t sing with me, you Christmas carol-hatin’ weenie!

All together now….

You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not pout
I’m tellin’ you why
Santa Foob is coming to town!

He sees you when you’re peeking
Trying to see which one’s fake
Though he looks natural under clothes
He’s a Foob for goodness sake!

So, you better watch out
And look me in the eye
He’s callin’ you out
‘Cause you’re not too sly
Santa Foob is coming to town!

There—wasn’t that FUN?! Isn’t it reassuring to know that all my creative genius is used for good, instead of evil?

Looking for Hair Tongs in All the Wrong Places

And now it’s time for another look at those crazy search engine terms.  You know, the ones people are apparently googling that somehow cause them to end up here.  I wasn’t planning to write about them again so soon, but they’ve just been so doggone funny lately, that I had made a mental note to write about it in the near future.  But not quite yet.

That is, until I glanced at them this morning.  And when I saw that someone had gotten to my blog by searching the phrase “how to blow dry hair after mastectomy” I thought to myself, “Okay, that’s it, I’ve got to blog this today.  Pray tell, o searcher of this phrase, are you wondering how to go about blow drying your copious chest hair?  Has Tom Selleck had a recent mastectomy? Just curious.

And then there’s this gem: “does richard simmons have breast implant”  Gee, I know I’ve got Richard Simmons hair, but I never realized I was going to have a boob just like his, too.  Yay me.  I draw the line at sequined tank tops and stripey short-shorts, however.  So, if you ever see me looking like this, it’s time for an intervention.

Believe it or not, we haven’t had a pork fritter search in about 5 days.  We have, however, had a search for the Spelterville Inn, which is almost the same thing since, as everyone knows, it’s home of the tenderloin the size of Rhode Island.

Then there are the cryptic phrases, “bald people doomed” and “tiny hair tongs”.  Gee, I don’t even know what to say about those two, except to wonder if the tongs are for grasping tiny hair, or if they are actually made of hair.  Are the tongs tiny, or are they normal sized but constructed from tiny hairs.  And finally, was the author really searching for tweezers?  Perhaps she has chemo brain and can’t remember what they’re called.  “What are those things that you use to pluck your eyebrows?  I can’t think of what they’re called, but they look like tiny tongs…” 

Of course, on any given day, some lame-o ends up here after searching for things like “swim suite show boob no top” or “bathing suit boobs” or “little boobs water park”.  Okay, first of all, you pervs, the least you could do is learn to freakin’ spell suit.  As in swim SUIT.  Not suite.  Which is an entirely different thing altogether.  Second of all, I bet you were about 31 flavors of disappointed when you got here and saw that the closest thing I had to a boob shot was a picture of a fake boob with a face.  Serves you right.  I hope your search for water park boobs landed you right smack on this entry, where the sight of Gertrude and Margaret in mastectomy suits left you blinded, and scarred for life.

She Gave Me Woht-tah

As you all know, on August 14^th I had surgery to place the tissue expander under my pectoral muscles.  I’ve been asked by some folks what the expander is like.  They want to know if it’s like an implant.  The answer is no.  It is not like an implant.  It is like a man’s wallet.  Seriously.  It has approximately the same size and rigidity as a wallet.  An angry, painful wallet. 

The angry boob wallet will gradually be filled with saline in order to stretch out a place for an implant to go.  No, this is not the same procedure that is used for the standard breast augmentation.  In that case, the implant is stuffed under the breast tissue, but on top of the muscle.  Remember, I have no breast tissue on that side.  The remaining skin does not have an adequate blood supply unless it’s attached to the muscle.  So, the implant needs to go underneath. 

Dr Grasee added some saline when she placed the expander, and because of that, and well, the fact that there’s a wallet in there, I had a little mini-boob immediately.  It’s kind of cool, except that now I really can’t wear The Foob.  This wasn’t a big deal when I came home from the hospital, because when I went out, I simply tucked my drain up in my bra to fill out that side.

That’s how it was when I went a couple of weeks ago for my post-op appointment.  It didn’t even occur to me until Hubster mentioned it that once the drain was out, I’d be pretty flat on that side.  “Did you bring anything to put in there?” he asked.  Oops.  Hmmm…What can I make a mini foob out of?

Fortunately, we had a few minutes before my appointment, and there was a Meijer nearby.  Gettin’ my Macgyver on, I said, “Let’s swing through Meijer, and get some cotton balls and one of those shoe try-on footies.”  The result looks less like our friend The Foob, and more like a prosthetic Quasimodo.  But, it serves its purpose nonetheless.

Yesterday I went back to Dr Grasee’s office for my first fill.  I had read that she would use a magnet to locate the port on my expander, but my attempts to find it using refrigerator magnets had failed.  (Yes, I did try to stick refrigerator magnets to my chest.  This was Angie’s idea, and would have been stinkin’ hilarious had it worked.)  So, I asked Dr G how she would locate the port, and she confirmed that she’d be using a magnet.  I then proceeded to tell her how I’d tried to find it with a refrigerator magnet—I like to establish my reputation early, and reinforce it often.  She chuckled and asked me why I wanted to find it.  No reason, I told her, I just wanted to see if I could get a magnet to stick.

Dr G put 80cc of saline into the expander, which is roughly a 1/3 of a cup.  Hubster got to literally watch the new boob grow before his very eyes.  It has been a little sore, but it’s really nothing compared to the pain I had from surgery.  It is not, however, comparable to the muscle pain one might have from a hard workout, which is what Dr G and Tricia the nurse said it would be like.  It’s more comparable to how I felt after some really bad bike wrecks as a kid, where parts of me were bruised and scraped and hurt to move. 

 ***

Now that you’re all up-to-date, I’d like to announce a new contest.  Or, maybe not a contest so much as an opportunity for some audience participation.  As we ALL know, October is breast cancer awareness month.  If you’ve read me for a while, you know that in the past I’ve poked fun at all of the pink ribbon hype that October brings.  So, I thought it might be amusing to see what kind of ridiculous pink ribbon infested products everyone can find.  I’d love to be able to post one each day in October.  Witty commentary is encouraged.  Email your photos to me at themoodyfoodie@gmail.com

Bathing Suits

Last Thursday I went up to see Dr Grasee for my pre-op appointment.  It was really pretty uneventful, and there were no changes in the plan so we’re still on for Thursday, August 14^th for the expander placement surgery.  August 14^th also happens to be my one year chemoversary, so it’s like I’m celebrating my chemoversary by getting a new boob—or at least the start of one.  And, when I told Susie the date, she said, “That’s Norm’s birthday—-you’re getting a boob for Norm’s birthday! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

I cannot wait.  Being a uniboober is just such a pain sometimes, most especially during swimsuit season.  I thought the mastectomy camisoles & bras were dowdy, but hey, at least they’re under other clothes.  Not so with the ginormous, blue flower print, high necked, baggy, garments that scream, “Hi, my name’s Opal and my favorite pastimes are shuffleboard, canasta, and wearing clip-on sunglasses.” 

I hadn’t even been to the pool until last week, and since I’d hadn’t invested in one of those beauties, I had to resort to pinning The Foob into my tankini top.  Rest assured, he was not happy.  Especially when he found out that not only were we NOT going to the Riviera, but that he would be pinned into a regular swim suit.  “Zee Foob must have zee special suit for zee swimming,” he said in his snotty, fake French accent.  “Well then,” I replied, “The Foob needs to get himzelf a J-O-B, because those things are nearly as expensive as they are ugly.”  And so, I didn’t get a special foob-approved suit, planning to just make due.  After all, summer is winding down, and next year I won’t be lopsided.

Then we decided to try to squeeze in a trip to Holiday World before my surgery.  I love Holiday World, and my favorite part is the water park.  It has really big water slides, and in my mind’s eye I could envision a day of shooting down the various tubes and funnels before landing with a high speed splash in the pool at the bottom.  Unfortunately, I could also envision going to lost and found to see if anyone had turned in a foob because mine shot off somewhere between the top and bottom of the Zinga.

So, I decided maybe I needed to break down and get a real mastectomy suit.  All I really need is a top, but of course Opal doesn’t like those new-fangled tankinis, so most of the options are one piece.  I know some of you probably think I’m exaggerating when I say these things are ugly, so I thought we’d have a little fashion show. 

First, we have the classic skirted bottom suit.  The neck comes up to your chin, and it comes in blue, blue or blue, coordinating nicely with the target audience’s hair.  This lovely suit can be yours for ONLY $80.  Shuffleboard anyone?

Next, we have a suit that I’m pretty sure was constructed from recycled clogger clothes.  It comes with foob pockets, but has enough ruffles that you could go completely foobless, or take your Chihuahua to the water park, and no one would even notice.  Suggested retail price is $95, but the everyday low price at buttuglybooblessbathingsuits.com is ONLY $80. How DO they keep their prices so low?

Lastly, we have a sassy one-piece-masquerading-as-a-two-piece.  Note the high waisted, girdle-like bottom, and the top with its hot tucked-in look that all the kids are wearing these days.  The description says that this model even affords you the pleasure of wearing your own bra.  I don’t know how many times I’ve been swimming and thought, “Gee, I wish I were wearing my bra under my swimsuit!”  It comes in “moonlight garden sapphire and black” print, for ONLY $80. 

Do you know how many iced caramellas I could get for $80?  A whole stinkin’ lot, that’s how many.  Good grief!  I won’t pay $80 for a suit I LIKE, let alone one of those things.  The good news is that Lands’ End does offer a decent selection of mastectomy suits that don’t make a person look like a polka-dot, ruffle infested, girdle-wearin’ freak.  They also sell mix and match pieces, which is nice since I really only need the top.  They’re not as expensive as those other ones, but I could still buy an awful lot of coffee for the price.

Samsonite—I was WAY off

Went to see the plastic surgeon, Dr Grasee.  That’s pronounced Grah-zay.  The Foob really likes it, because it sounds so French.  He never has cared for Dr Birhiray-pronounced Beer-Hurray—instead, wanting me to find a doctor named Dr Chardonnay-Hurray.   “We are going to zee Dr Grah-zay, no?”  he asked with a smile.  Little does he know that Dr Grah-zay is going to eliminate his job.  You might think he’d catch on once he heard our conversation, but he was way too busy trying to sweet talk the implant samples to pay any attention.  So, for now, he’s very excited about having a doctor with such a French-sounding name. 

When I made my appointment with the plastic surgeon, I imagined how I thought the place would be.  I figured, you know, they’re in the business of making people look better—bigger in some ways, smaller in others—so everyone who worked there would look like Barbie.  Prior to my appointment, I imagined myself sitting in a waiting room full of people uber-plump lips, tattooed make-up, and gigantic boobs, sticking out alike a sore thumb (me—not the gigantic boobs) because I still have my cellulite intact.

I’m happy to report that I was wrong. 

Dr Grasee and company are down-to-earth, regular people.  No barbies or fem-bots in the bunch.   As for the waiting room, well, I didn’t see any other patients there.  I hope that’s not because I’m the first customer.  Although, when I went to write a check for my co-pay they did ask me if I had cash so they could hang their first dollar on the wall… hmmm.  No, seriously, Dr Grasee is about my age.   Or at least she *looks* my age, but really she could be 112 years old and just keeps having her partner give her a face lift every year.  So, at any rate she’s been doing this for a little while. 

Right off the bat, I told her that I wasn’t really interested in any of the reconstruction methods that would use muscle, and that Dr Schmidt had said I was a good candidate for an expander & implant, in spite of the fact that I’ve had radiation.  She said, “Okay, we’ll see when I examine you if I think that’s a good idea.”  So, she went ahead and explained the other reconstruction options, and showed us the various implants.  Then she opened up a binder full of before and after pictures.  It was all I could do to keep from busting out laughing as she showed us photos of 70 year old women’s boobs—I knew that Hubster, while appearing calm on the outside, was mentally trying to chew his eyes off to get away.  That alone was worth the price of admission. Heh heh.

Finally, she looked at and felt my skin, and agreed that it does indeed look really good.  “Okay,” she said, “I’m thinking we shoot for the initial surgery in August, and then plan to do the exchange in December.  What do you think?” 

I thought that sounded just jim dandy.