Therapy...

So Friday was physical therapy day.  I go to Ellis Fischel and receive deep tissue massage and mysofascial release once a week right now.  Trust me, this massage is not the kind you get at Riversong Spa.

I have been to see Miss Genny before. At that time, it was for lymphedema screening and accessment. It's a condition where you have swelling if there's an interruption of the lymph system...people with mastectomies have to protect their arms against it.  But you can get it other places than the arms. This time I asked for an appointment because my radiated puckett was hard and stuck.  (I named my tissue expanders after the plastic surgeon who put them there...Charles Puckett.  Excellent doctor...highly recommended)  I had a strong feeling that he would still look at my skin and puckett and tell me I'm not ready.  I am hoping to begin the expansion part of reconstruction in about 6 weeks. I had to wait at least a year after radiation and I have chosen a year and 2 months before attempting it.   I don't know what magic combo he is looking for.  But I know it is not "rigid and immobile."

I felt kind of awkward, because I wasn't exactly sure what was going to happen this time.  So Genny talked to me for a bit and told me I needed to "disrobe from the waist up".  Yep, I thought that would happen.  So I chucked the top off and sat there waiting.  She turned around and I guess I surprised her with my quickness because she started to hurry out of the room saying she was going to get a "modesty  top" for me.  Girl friend here doesn't have to wear a bra anymore.

The modesty shirt.  Any woman past age 12 that has ever been to a GYN and worn one of those paper split down the front top, knows they do not cover much of anything.  Maybe your dignity, and just barely at that.  So I told her not to bother.  I view these expanders as simply a cosmetic part of my body...kind of like mascara.  You wear it because you feel better wearing it.  Well I have pucketts because I feel better in a dress or top.  But I don't have the relationship with them like you do with YOUR girls.  Frankly speaking, I don't have nipples.  And without them, I feel no need for modesty.  Isn't that weird?  Genny laughed and told me "in a weird way" she understood perfectly.

In case you are wondering, yes they could build new nipples if I want them.  They put a short stubby shape under the skin where looks like a nipple should go.  Kind of like putting a short bullet under the skin...I honestly don't know if they have to expand it or just stretch the skin.  I guess when it quits hurting they tell you its done.  The surgeon does a short surgery that sort of ties that shape into that expanded piece of skin.  And that is your new nipple.  The aerola part is just a cosmetic tattoo.  My doctor asked if I would want to build nipples too.  I laughed.  After 40 years of trying to deal with embarrassing "headlight" issues, why would I bother?  I have considered getting the tattoos though....maybe hearts.

For this kind of therapy you lie on a table.  She has a map in her head that I couldn't begin to tell you about.  But along the areas where the lymph system should be, she massages in that direction to move fluid trapped in the skin.  That's the massage part and it's not bad.  THEN comes the myofascial release.  The best way I can describe it is that she takes a hunk of flesh.  She pinches it and then tries to move it from place to place.  Now its not a hard pinch.  It doesn't really hurt then.  When she tries to move it and something underneath the skin is hard and immobile..she really digs in there and keeps at it until it feels soft, pliable and movable.  It's not deep pain, just a owie kind of pain.  When things are popping and breaking loose, I feel needle prick sensations under the skin.  Between her work and my work at home, I am making good progress.  My skin is softening up and the puckett finally moved to the front.  It had been hanging out my arm pit.  It felt like hiding a baseball under my arm but now it feels almost normal.

I tried to find a photo of a therapist fiendishly squeezing and rolling someone's flesh.  I kept getting spa like photos.  This experience is nothing like a spa.  This image is the closest.  But Genny will pinch more and then kind of roll the flesh between her fingers and thumbs.  The process of rolling and stretching the skin in difference directions, breaks those adhesions and softens the scar tissue under the skin.

So.  *pause a moment here to think.*  What to talk about while this woman is digging around my rebuilt boob.  Well we talk about my husband, his medical conditions, his job, our marriage, my job,  my son, his fiance Mandy, the economy and pretty much anything else under the sun.  I have told her about my sisters.  I have three of them and they have given me much fodder to entertain Genny during this long hour. *evil laugh here*  I told her about my parents and their passing and life without them in it.  :(  I shared about my church, my ladies Bible study and all my peeps in it that I love so dearly.  Genny wishes she could be me.  Can you imagine wanting to switch places with a cancer warrior?  She tells me that "well it's obvious that you are so loved".  Isn't she just the sweetest thing?

Today I told her about my adventures with my new body ball.  She suggested I get one to help work this arm and chest area.  I am not known for being very graceful.  At one point, Mr. Rosey was calling me and two of my sisters the "Point of Graceless"...lol.  Mr. Rosey enjoys watching me as he is certain that sooner or later, and he's betting on sooner - I am going to fall onto my tuckus.  He's waiting with the camera.

She laughs and tells me that we are a fun couple.  That we have fun together.  I had to stop and consider that.  And I agree.  He makes me laugh.  I love my Mr. Rosey.  I am glad when we talk about each other, our delight for each other is reflected to them.  We crack each other up.  Sometimes we are sappy, sometimes we are snarky.  But always there is love.

I also shared with her that her body ball exercises need a "disclaimer" with it.  I will see if I can describe this adequately.  I sit on the ball and then while sitting, I begin to walk my feet forward, letting the ball roll me onto my back.  So the end result is that I am am draped across this ball on my back, my feet on the ground.

It does look something like this but I am to hold my arms out and let them fall back.  It is to stretch the pectoral muscles.  In truth, I look more like this child.  But he looks cute and I did not.

Mr. Rosey walked in on me as I was stretched out in this position.  "oh, Oh!  Stay that way!  I'm coming over." he called out to me.  At which time, I got a massive case of the giggles and fell off the ball.  I told Genny that women needed to know what kind of response their mate might give and prepare how to fall off the ball when they are cracking up with laughter.  Then again, perhaps it is only my mate who sees his wife, laying across a body ball in a stretch and suddenly his libido spikes an interest.  lol

A month ago, Genny gave me something called a "Swell Spot".  It has a shape similar to an oven mitt, so of course I call it my "oven mitt."  If you picture the oven mitt, take off the thumb, elongate the opening about 6 inches, you have a pretty good image of what a swell spot looks like.  I have to wear it under a bra,  not a stretchy comfort bra, but a real honest to goodness squeeze you bra.  The oven mitt is against the skin, the bra tight against that.  What happens is that the quilting of the oven mitt, pushes against the parts of me that are swollen from fluid not moving.  It's a very handy gizmo and it works.  As I move through the day, these quilted channels move against my skin and kind of wave the fluid from the under arm area out into the rest of my body where there are more lymph nodes.  When I take it off, I will have actual divots in my skin showing me that it's been working.  My only issue with it is that it's not disguise-able.  If I wear a scoop neck t-shirt and a lot of t-shirts are, it shows along the neckline.

I ordered my own and it came in the mail yesterday.  I wasn't happy.  They changed the shape of the thing.  It covered more which I guess is good for someone with a lot of swollen surface area. But for people like me who want to live normal and look normal it was a dead giveaway. There is NO way to disguise this one.   It sat higher along the collarbone to the shoulder, then curved under the arm and around to the spine.  It was good in the sense that it covered all of a radiated area.  But it was also bad because it covered a LOT of area.  I showed it to Genny and explained why I didn't like it.  We compared both packages they came from.  All descriptions and numbers matched.  So we concluded that despite the appearance on the ordering site, they had changed the design.  To Mr. Rosey's dismay, I negotiated a swap.  It did me no good to return it if this was what they were now sending out.  But it works and I really needed it.  I just didn't like the new one.  So I gave her my new one and kept the one I had been borrowing for the last month.  Mr. Rosey was incredulous.  According to him, I paid new prices for a used item.  To him, it was the same as paying new price for a car but driving away with a 10 year old one.  To me it was taking a bra back to Walmart and exchanging it for the bra you DO like.  So we are on different sides of the fence.  But I am happy with the one I now own.

I was waiting for the elevator when the doors opened.  What I saw shocked me but I forced myself to smile and not react.  Suddenly I felt so humbled.  The young man on the elevator was surrounded by people who obviously loved him.  I would have guessed him to be in his 20s.  But he obviously had a serious battle with cancer.  He had no face.  He had eyes.  But the place his cheekbones, nose, ears, mouth, both upper and lower jaws were missing.  Swollen skin was pulled to the center where you would expect a mouth to be.  It was cinched up around a gaping hole.  I steeled myself from showing any emotion, smiled and took my place on the elevator.  Their happy voices chattered about the weather and the items in the gift shop.  He stood like a silent giant.  He was rendered unable to speak, eat or even to breath normally now.  I stood there now humiliated and ashamed.  I just lost my breasts and they were trying to rebuild all of that for me.  This young man most likely had some kind of mouth or throat cancer.  He would never enjoy the taste of chocolate, speaking words of love, or the smell of baking bread.

Suddenly my oven mitt showing is SO much less bothersome that I thought before.  Having rebuilt breasts felt like a privilege and surviving cancer is now a reason for joy.

The Books that Speak

Today my writer's challenge is two fold.  One - to commit to read a book.  That is not difficult, as I do enjoy reading.  And now I find myself with plenty of opportunity to do so.  A recent severe thunderstorm produced such lightning that a strike in the neighbor's yard caused cable lines and satellite lines throughout the whole block to go dark.  My husband and I decided to try going "TV free" and only use our internet for the news and shows that we think we must have.  (I do believe that "NCIS and Bones" are essential for my mental well-being, and for him....sports anything.)  It's been very restful to not having loud mouth announcers shouting at me through the tv screen what I must try, what I cannot live without and why I must believe what they tell me to be true.  That could be a whole other post, but today I am focusing on the books.

I am a big fan of Karen Kingsbury and have committed myself to reading and finishing 2 of her books by the end of the month.  Since I have had these books since ...hmmm....at least Dec 2010, I really need to hold to this commitment.  I have many more authors that I love to read, Francine Rivers, Beth Wisemen, Beverly Lewis - yes, I enjoy Amish books.  They inspire me to go clean something or to bake.  Neither one being a bad choice for a homemaker.  I have a good size book shelf filled with both fiction, nonfiction, devotional and motivational books.

The author of the challenge explains that as writer's we need to keep reading new material.  Not necessarily to write on those topics or to gather new concepts.  But instead to just keep a steady stream of new words, images and concepts flowing into our brains so that the well we draw from does not become stagnant with only our own content.  Eventually, after using the same words, concepts and images you will run out of new things to say.  She then asked us TWO -  to tell about our favorite book.

If I desired to go all spiritual upon your head, I would tell you the Bible is my favorite book.  My Bibles are very precious to me.  The Word is precious.  But without the book I want to share with you, I would never have read The Holy Bible.

I was nine years old when family was taking a round about way to Florida.  My parents loved to camp and never drove "straight" to a campsite.  You can make that trip in probably 12 - 14 hours if you keep driving.  But they would meander around large cities when possible and choose the most obnoxious little hole in the wall places to stop, shop or camp in.  That is yet another story.  My point here is that we were stuck in a hot camper for multiple hours on end.  So mom purchased a book for me to read on the way.  I got to choose the book.  I chose Heidi because I had watched the Shirley Temple version in movie form and had some idea what the story line would be.

Up to this point I would not say reading was difficult.  But it was also not fun.  Words sat flat on a page and were very uninspiring to that nine year old.  Reading gave me headaches and eyestrain.  It never gave me joy or interest or any imagination.  Until Heidi.

I started reading Heidi and suddenly a new world opened up in front of me.  I no longer saw just "words" but the words created pictures in my mind.  I didn't just read Heidi.  I saw Heidi.

I saw the mountains, and felt the breezes, smelling the flowers.  My heart swelled with tenderness when the gruff grandfather began to extend kindness to the delightful little girl.   I cried the tears when deceitful aunt Dete spirited Heidi away from her beloved grandfather.  I ached with loneliness for Heidi as she missed her loved ones.  I felt such pride when she bravely encouraged Klara and taught her to reach for her dreams.

Heidi unlocked books for me.

When I turned the last page and found it was indeed the last page, it felt as if I had said goodbye to a long lost friend.  I read and reread this book, simply because of the joy it gave me.  Even when I was familiar enough with the story, that I knew what would happen next, I still smiled in delight.  I turned turned the pages to find that Peter had arrived with his goats to take Heidi with him to the pastures.  I would begin to feel sad long before the words came to explain that Grandmother was blind and Heidi bitterly wept.  I felt the frustration at the unbending will of the governess Frauline Rottenmeier and would want to kick her for her hatefulness to the sweet little Heidi.  I read the story so often the binding tore lose and  barely held together.

Over the next years, I would also discover the worlds of Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew, Cherry Ames, The Hardy Boys, and in time Grace Livingston Hill romances. (The only romance my parents would permit.)  But I would always remember that it was the book Heidi by Johanna Spyri that unlocked the mystery of words and books for me.

I lost track of what happened to Heidi, as I grew in age.  Eventually I looked to books to expand my mind and broaden my views.  I would read to educate and to mystify.  I developed a love for reading that surpassed any for movies or tv shows.  

The fall of 2010 was a difficult time for me.  My mother was dying of liver failure brought on by her breast cancer treatment.  At the same time, I was diagnosed with breast cancer of my own.  Just 11 days after the massive surgery to remove my breasts and cancer, my mother stepped into heaven.  She died peacefully with all her daughters together under the same roof.

The time had come for us to go through the rest of the belongings and decide what must be done with everything.  My sister Becky lifted an old tattered book from the box it had resided in all those years.  I gasped when I saw it.  I whispered to her, "I think that's my Heidi book."

Becky flipped it opened to the inside cover and chuckled.  "I would guess so since you scrawled your name across each page.

 Gently, I opened the broken spine, separating pages and held it to my heart.  It now hold a place of honor on my shelf.  

"Heidi", the book that unlocked the joy of reading for me.

I'm streaming!

Now THIS interesting. I am to write my stream of consciousness….which is apparently code word for “spaghetti brain.” That’s what I call it anyway. It refers to that book that Men are Like Waffles and Women are like Spaghetti.  See the book listing here  And it is true that women can seamlessly transition from one topic to the next without using turn signals, while we leave our men still sitting at the stop light waiting for the light to turn green.  

Regardless, I am to write my chain or strings of thought without too much processing and no editing.  The theory is that this is good for those critical times when you need to relay information but don't have time to real writing.  And it's also a good way to get something out of your head and onto paper.  But serious writer's do not consider this writing, no matter how fun it may be.  I am permitted to correct spelling and grievous errors in grammar.  But I am to leave the thoughts as they are.

Today I am up at the ungodly hour of 0500 or 5 am for those  who don’t read military. No particular reason other than I woke up and didn’t get back to sleep. If I lay away more than 30 minutes I get impatient. I commonly refer to these hours before 7 am as “before God gets up”. As a child, I thought the sun would not rise until God got up. Yes I know my theology was a little warped but I was 7. Cut me some slack. 

I started thinking of my list of chores to complete before my sister arrives tomorrow evening. So I got up, made my husband a breakfast burrito of egg and sausage for which he is quite grateful. Although I did notice him glancing at the clock when I awoke him to tell him I had made breakfast for him. I know well enough that he was weighing the choice of a hot breakfast or sleeping another 20 minutes. His love for eggs and sausage wrapped in a warm wheat tortilla won out.  Meanwhile, I’m inhaling a Diet Pepsi that happened to be sitting in my fridge, nice and cold. Don’t know how it got there, but it’s not there now.

I have three baskets of laundry to put away and 2 more downstairs in the machines. And I have to get those blasted invitations printed today. You know, how these print them yourself invitations seem like such a good deal? I’m just not quite certain of that anymore. By the time you buy the invitations – they aren’t too badly priced. But then ink…which is outrageously priced! It cannot cost this much to manufacture ink! They have been putting it in ball point pens for 50 or more years! Then there is the 200 hundred times you have to print and reprint because nothing in the box gives you orientation or margins so you have to start guessing and printing…which uses up another cartridge of ink. THEN you get to assemble the puppies…print, slip the sleeve over them, wrap the ribbon around them and attach the bow and the little pearl BEFORE you can even insert the invitation into the envelope. Which you still have to address and take to the post office. Now I’m questioning “is it ever appropriate to include that the bride and groom are registered at these stores?” So if you are single and hope to get married, put this in your little hope chest…BUY printed invitations. You can even do it online. Even if it looks like it will run a $100 or so, DO it. It will cost you less in time and frustration! By the time I felt it was all aligned and even, I was ready to CHEW those invitations!

I laugh at myself just a bit through all this, because I have been losing weight. If you don’t know me well then I will share that I can afford easily to lose about 40 more lbs. The thing is, I’m just not trying that hard. So then I started to worry when I realized I had dropped 10 lbs since Jan 5th when I last saw the doctor. Mr. Rosey tells me that I don’t realize how much food I am turning away. I turn down offers of ice cream or frozen yogurt because I simply just don’t want it.  Cakes and cookies – not so much.  I am actually leaving food on my plate which is BIG achievement regarding my food issues. But with all that, don’t think I’m this wonderful diet following nutrition fascist. Just ask the bag of Robin Egg candy I inhaled yesterday. Oh that’s right, you cannot because I ate most of them and hid the rest. Am I the only one who believes that if you hide the cookies or candies that you will somehow forget that it is there? Meanwhile, I have to repurchase more Robin Eggs for the kid’s Easter Basket. 

Which reminds me I need to be hunting for the best price on Ham as that has been the request for the dinner. I would prefer to have grilled pork steak, but tossing ham in the slow cooker works as well. Back to the losing weight, the reason I  was concerned about the weight was the fact that I had not been trying very hard and still lost the 10 lbs. Then when you put the ever hulking threat of more cancer, even losing weight becomes something to investigate rather than celebrate. But just in the last 48 hours I was taking my meds and stopped to look at them. One of my meds is commonly prescribed to assist people in weight loss as well as the prescribed use of the drug. Mr. Rosey says that is an “off label use” of the medication.  Like Benendryl is an anti-histamine, but many take it as a sleep aid.  And that explains my frequent bouts of nausea and lack of appetite.

I need to remember to make appointments for a check up this month and another eye exam. For the first time in my life, I find that I’m needing reading glasses to thread a stinkin’ needle. Sewing pearls on the veil is blinding my eyes. That’s me, the mother of the groom… and the bride…walking down the aisle blind as a bat.

Now Mr. Rosey needs a wash cloth and towel, which are still downstairs in the laundry room. Can you answer this? WHY do men routinely step into the shower without grabbing a towel or washcoth? I have tried to convince him to use my netted scrubby dohickies. But noooo....thats gross he claims. You reuse the same wad of netting on all your body parts over and over. I tried to convince him that its NETTING...there is nothing there for germs to attach to but won't hear of it. So he requires wash clothes to complete his business. Yet he continuously… *OK.  Maybe not continuously*… jumps in there without grabbing one and it’s not a problem today because I am already awake. But next time I am still sleeping and he yells from the bathroom....Rosey honey?! I forgot the washcloth and can you grab a towel too?  I may well strangle him with the towel! That's not the only thing....I can tell you how many times he climbs a ladder and then yells...Rosey hon?! Can you bring me a light bulb? Now tell me. Who climbs a ladder to change the light bulb but neglects to take a one up the ladder with him? Men. That's who. They seem to have some kind of blood flow issue between the thought and the doing. 

So I will cut short my spaghetti brain and retrieve his towel and his washcloth for him. Until something else impacts my brain that I must share with you, tootles and so long.

I am WOMAN, Hear me MOW!

This morning I mowed.  Now that may not sound like ground breaking news to you but let me tell you this…it was a something of a triumph for me.

I suspect that every person who undergoes a cancer treatment desires more than anything else to feel normal.  To do a normal thing just like your neighbor is doing.  These are things you might not think about as a whole, healthy person. After a bilateral mastectomy, you have to figure out how to get out of the stinking bed without screaming.  Your chest muscles have received the ultimate insult.  Cut on, peeled and torn open, then everything is stitched shut.  Got a mental picture of that?  NOW try to raise your poor self out of that bed.  Figure out how to raise food to your mouth without pain, and comb your hair?  All this takes determination, exercise and endurance.  You are rewarded with the ability to wash your hair, and take care of your own toileting needs.  Trust me, those two things ALONE make you feel like a million bucks!  You keep doing the exercises and keep attempting to do just a little more than you did last week.

And though it takes time, you do start to pick up pieces.  It begins with folding laundry, and doing dishes.  They are things you have known how to do for several decades at least.  But between chemo, then surgery and radiaton?  You have not done it for a year.  And even a few things you have done were a major undertaking.  Each step to normalcy is a giant step.  Soon you find you are able to mop and vacuum, dust, do all the laundry and scrub the bathroom.  About this time you question “WHY did I work so hard to regain THESE skills.”  And it occurs to you that it might have been beneficial to remain “too weak to push the vacuum”  at least when anyone was watching.  That ship sailed and the other members of the family are much too eager to celebrate your achievement…by allowing you to mop and vacuum every room in the house.  But I digress.  The object of recovery is to regain the strength to conduct your normal activity of daily living. 

So March has come around and since it has been the warmest March in my recollection, everything is in bloom.  Even the dandelions.  Yes and the grass has now surpassed the height of my Pomeranian.  Poor dear has had to learn how to leap grass clumps in a single bound.  It is time to mow.  Last year, a neighborhood boy mowed my lawn while I recovered from radiation burns.  He is such a sweetheart.

Mr. Rosey has a neurological disorder in his arms for which he receives IV therapy every 4 weeks.  His ability to mow, relies on how long ago his therapy was and how well it “took” this time.  I always enjoyed mowing …although it was on a riding mower.  We considered all the requirements we would need in a push mower.  I have to make concessions for the fact that I do have seriously altered chest muscles.  It was hard for me to pull the starter cord before my surgeries.  So the first need…an electric or key start mower.  Second need…a power drive to help me push.  Off to the hardware store and after plunking down THREE HUNDRED and fifty dollars, we took home this massive black machine, guaranteed to chew through the toughest weeds.

This thing was so advanced that Hubs and I looked like newborn fools, standing around the driveway, staring at the machine in wonder. Have I mentioned that this is the FIRST brand new mower we have EVER had in 32.5 years of marriage?  Always the standard, walk and push, used, reconditioned mowers for us.  But this time, our special needs outweighed the desire to be frugal.  I asked, “how do you start this thing?”  “There’s a key” hubs told me.  


This new gizmo, was so space age that we went diving for the manuals.  We added the oil in the oil dohickey.  We added gas to the gas tank…the only change in that was THE PRICE OF GAS!  (Do you recall the cute little squeal that R2D2 makes on the Starwing fighter when he got singed by a laser blast?  You got that?  That’s the sound my husband makes every time he pulls up to a gas station.)  We had to buy a 2 gallon gas can because neither of us can lift our old 5 gallon one.  $7.50 of gas, and baby we are cooking with…well... gas!  

We turned the key and nothing.  Oh.  We are supposed to push the red thingy three times, two seconds apart –such a complicated mower.  And he turns the key again.  A couple chugs and then nothing.  This went on for 15 minutes, by which time we were both sweating like farm hogs, feeling snarky and as stupid as an Ozark hillbilly in the city.  Who buys a mower smarter than they are?  Out of frustration, the man turned the key and let the starter squeal.  To our astonishment, his fit of frustration made the thing start!  Apparently the starter is SUPPOSED to squeal as it starts up the engine.  We had been letting go of the key too soon.  He took a couple swipes around the back yard to give our Pom, Leia some room to play and take care of business.  But he was toast after that.  His IV treatments were this same weekend and his med head was pounding like tympani drums.  When I saw he was as pasty as pancake batter, I ordered him to quit.  He obeyed.

Bright and early this morning, I located my mowing shoes from the back of the closet, tossed on my capris and chose a soft cotton bra to soak up the sweat I knew I would shed.  A ratty shirt and off I was off to the outside.  And... then back in to grab the sunscreen to spritz the side of my neck that had been radiated.  And a cotton sunhat to protect my neck and chest from sun rays.  Although at 8 am those rays were still a little on the weak side.  But precaution vs. regret, I followed the post radiation rules.  I turned the key, let it squeal and it roared to life.  Then every sleeping person on my block rose up and cursed me.  I supposed with all this power, a lot of noise is required.

Initially I had thought to mow the back yard, but we have this annoying triad of cherry trees.  After the third time I felt the swipe of trees branches across the face, I was ready to rise up and proclaim “Yes Father, it was I who chopped down the cherry trees.”  I don’t know why we keep them…they produce the most sour, eyeball puckering cherries we have ever had the misfortune to bite into.

I decided to leave the back yard for the man when he feels better and I pushed the heavy, black monster to the front.  I may have to name the thing, “Shaq”.  I fired it up again and began to plot my pathway down to the street, and turn.  Along the street and turn.  Back to the house and turn.  The orchestrated dance of lawnmowing.  Oh the beauty, the power, and the sweat.  Thank you Lord for whoever thought to put the power assist on a mower!  I had worked up a sweat, but with each push, each unwelcome burn of my under used muscles there came a sense of empowerment.  I may not be fast.  It may not be the prettiest cut, but I am MOWING the yard.  Just like a normal person.

Honestly I only got one side of the yard done.  I quit when the muscles started to shake like jello, and the burn in my buttocks and thighs reminded me I had not done this in 2 years!  If I wanted to follow through on my plan to mow an hour each morning, I had to pace myself.

So I came in, slipped off the grass stained tennis shoes, got a bottle of water and sat down to regale all who would listen that I. Mowed. Some. Grass.  Thank you very much!  J

Assignment 15 - Write a post involving a recipe or a process, but try to infuse the post with your personality or thoughts.  Don’t over think this one.  Brushing your teeth, cooking macaroni and cheese, and grocery shopping are all seemingly mundane processes, but they are intriguing when we see them from your perspective.  Word to the wise, steer clear of the “and then I” syndrome. 

Precious Friends

I had such a good day last week.  It started with Physical Therapy with the blessed Ginny.  There might not be as much joy in that experience.  It hurts a little and leaves me sore.  But on the scale of unpleasant things, it doesn't really register.  Radiation...THAT registers really high on the scale of unpleasantness.   But we did accomplish some goals in the session.  I hope it will be enough to continue with the plan for reconstruction.

But then the day got much better.  I joined a beloved friend for an afternoon of chat and decorating cookies.  She makes the prettiest cut out cookies that I have personally seen.  It may not be up to Martha Stewart standards, but like I said...prettiest around.  They look like they came from the Bakery shop in the square.  I have attempted it numerous times and flopped.  So I went to watch her and find out what I was doing wrong.  Turns out I was doing a few things that did not help me create pretty cookies.  For starters, take a seat.  I had been standing a steel work table, which made completing the next step less likely.  Number two?  Take your time.  See, I tend to get tired of standing and impatient with how long it is taking me and I start shaking the sprinkle bottles.  Soon there is flying sugar all about and not so pretty cookies.  I learned to set the cookie on a paper plate and use the plate maneuver my cookie around.  Holding the knife to pull the icing forward works better than pushing it around.  When Mrs. Rosey's friend told me to work it like cake icing, I understood immediately.  Then I watched her put the sprinkles into these cute little ramekins.  Who knew it was better to grab a pinch from the bowl and drop it where you want, rather than shake the heck out a bottle?

We sat these decorated cookies aside so the icing will harden.  That allows them to be stacked in a pretty box to present to a wonderful neighbor boy who mows your lawn out of the goodness of his heart.  Oh.  That's right.  The cookies we decorated were for Rosey's friend to give away.  But I walked away feeling confident that I COULD do this as well.

Do you like how my photos form an exclamation point?  Oddly I thought that decorating cookies would be stressful.  But we sat, a breeze blowing in the window and ceiling fan spinning overhead.  We applied our efforts to the naked cookies, and chatted about life and loves.  Stresses and deadlines just melted away as two friends reconnected and enjoyed an afternoon together.  The only thing to make it perfect would have been a cup of tea.  And I totally forgot to suggest it!

God bless our special friends and all the special joys they bring to our lives.

Five Minute Friday: LOUD

Five Minute Friday...today's challenge. Today we are supposed to go over to The Gypsy Mama's blog and write about whatever prompt she has... her 'Five Minute Friday'. You write for 5 minutes, 'no editing, no over-thinking, no back-tracking'. And this terrifies me. But I'll push forward... Today's word is 'Loud'... Go.




I was so proud to be there.  A couple weeks ago, my husband and I attended the county caucus to vote on delegates for the district and state caucus assemblies.  My own son wanted to be a delegate so we intended to be there and add two more votes to his count.


The caucus was not as scary as I expected.  Turns out the people of Callaway County are just respectful and polite.  They were nothing like the people we saw on news broadcasts.  So the business of electing delegates began.  One of his friends was going to nominate him for this honor.  The chairman asked that everyone tell who they will nominate and give a short two minute declaration why they would be a good choice.  Mr. Rosey and I had decided not to elect because it was our first visit and we were afraid.  *In other words, we chickened out.*  I don't know exactly who nominated my son, but I remember thinking they are not doing it right.


First of all, they should elect him because I'm his momma and I said so!  But also because he is a "good boy" with a heart of gold.  He used to love History as a home school student and imagine my surprise that after he graduated out of high school, he kept on studying History.  This man child of mine, can quote speeches and spout out Presidential quotes as if I read them to him in the crib!  He came to the conclusion that our political society was an Old boy's club, stuck to traditions of the past.  He has decided our government needs fresh blood and he was stepping forward to learn from the grassroots level.  I was once his teacher but now he schools me.


Then came the moment for his own speech detailing why he was a good candidate to represent the people of our county.  He stood so tall and spoke clearly and loudly enough for everyone to hear him.  He did none of the I think....ummmm....like.....well...  No MY son stood and said I am a good candidate.  I was educated at home by the best mom in the world *OK, maybe he didn't say the best mom...but I know he meant to say it*.  I was brought up in a conservative Christian values home.  I believe that...and he went on to emphatically announce his beliefs and why they made him a good candidate.  He was determined, he was concise and he was firm.  He ended his speech loudly proclaiming why our sitting president should be removed from his office.  He was the only one to receive an applause!


From across the room I heard a woman ask "WHO is that?  Who said that!"  Let me tell you my darlin', this momma was beaming.  I physically, yes I did, I physically forced myself to stay seated in my seat.  Because with all my heart, I wanted to jump up and with my fist in the air loudly proclaim..."THAT'S my BABY!!"

You Will

Often you are caught unaware. It might be in the mall, it might be at church, it might be in the waiting room of a doctor’s office. You see someone and you have a sudden understanding. Your eyes meet and there is an awareness. And there you are. Confronted with someone else’s pain. And it starts all over again.

I was standing in a crowd of people, when I looked up to see a beautiful young woman standing in front of me. Tears sat not far behind her eyes and her lips trembled. Immediately I put my hand on her arm and asked "what is wrong hon?"

“Tina, I have a lump.” And in that instant, all the chatter muffled, the busyness of others faded away. In that instant, it was only she... and me.

“Will you feel my lump and tell me if it felt like yours?”

Less than two years ago I walked in to a Women’s Health clinic for a routine mammogram. On my 31st wedding anniversary of all things. I walked out with the breast cancer diagnosis.

Totally unexpected, unprepared and truthfully devastated.

I had lost my father to colon cancer. We lost my mother’s sisters to breast and ovarian cancers. My mother was dying from liver failure brought on by HER cancer treatment. In my family, people got cancer... and they died of it.

I had felt as if someone had sucked the air from my lungs and replaced it with lead. I had tried so hard to hold it together when the mammogram became an ultrasound and the ultrasound became a biopsy. The radiologist told me “I am certain this is breast cancer. It may be in your lymph system. I will call with results Thurs. before noon.” I made it out to the lobby where my anxious husband sat alone. I saw him and all my self-control vanished. I let the tears fall as he rushed to meet me in the middle. Holding me in his arms, he made the statement, no longer a question, “they found something didn't they.” I nodded into his shoulder. In those few seconds, our future was changed. It was uncertain.

I had what is called a Lobular cancer. Lobular cancer is the second most common form of breast cancers. It grows in the milk producing glands of the breast. Lobular cancer does not lump up generally. It is flat and spreads, so it is much harder to feel. All these years of self-breast exams, I was afraid each time I would find a lump. I would have the one cancer that doesn't lump.

It usually grows slowly, so by the time it shows up on mammograms its gotten quite large. I would recall that earlier in the summer I had asked my husband, “when did my right boob get bigger than the left one?” I noticed that it was fuller.  I did not know that it is a symptom of Lobular cancer. (Sudden extra weight or fullness, size, dimples or indentations can indicate Lobular breast cancer.) 

I would find out that my tumor was relatively small in size, but it had reached into three lymph nodes. “It’s good fortune that it decided to show up when you had a mammogram,” my oncologist would tell me. “It’s usually there for years before it actually shows up on film.” I trusted it wasn't good fortune, but God.

Being told you have cancer can be equated to being strapped into the bucket seat of a roller coaster.  The conductor throws the switch and there you go. You fly up and down, thrown from side to side, jerking from one pathway to another. You want to hurl. Most of all you want to just get off. But it keeps going…and going...and going. It’s not cute. It’s not pretty.

Suddenly you are facing very important decisions with very little understanding. While there is a glut of cancer teaching out there, nearly all of it is strictly clinical. You learn about types and stages. You learn about treatments and drugs. You learn about surgeries. You learn pretty quickly that so much of this roller coaster ride is beyond your control. Even what you eat will be considered carefully…will that taste good or metallic? Will it stay down or come back up? Your normal diet flies out the window as you contemplate what you have the energy to prepare, or if you have the stamina to chew. My own “whole foods” diet gave way to fast food and packaged convenience foods because that’s all I had the ability to cope with. Except bananas…Banana was the only flavor I could taste beyond the metallic taste that accompanies chemo. Friends and loved ones kept me supplied with banana pops, banana ice cream, and banana bread. You will learn to count minutes and days, dealing with the right now because tomorrow is too scary and too far away. You search for more information about what happens next and you will hit walls.

You Will…

You will lose some friends. You will gain others. You will have some friends that you really wish you COULD lose. You will be stunned by the generosity of one and grateful for the support of many. You will find support in places you least expect it. You will be delighted by the efforts to encourage you. You will confront God. Why me, why now? You will accept that crappy things happen in a fallen world and you just hit the jackpot. You will learn that God loves you just because you are, you. It was never about how good you were, about how long you prayed, how many classes you taught or how much money you gave. You accept that HE loves you just because He LOVES you. You will learn...to accept grace.

You will learn to cope with having cancer. You will cope with the way everyone else copes with your cancer. You will hold your children, your mother, your sisters, while they sob in fear of what you just told them. They will make you promise that you will fight, and you will promise to do your best. You will be brave for them, when inside you want to crumble. You will grieve the loss of your health. Three words changed everything…

You. Have. Cancer. 

You will have anger and denial, sorrow and acceptance. You will be anxious to get on with it. Let’s get the chemo started. Let’s get the wigs and the scarves. You might even celebrate your hair’s “coming out party.” You certainly celebrate the reprieve from shaving or plucking those stray chin hairs. You anticipate each step because it’s one more step toward being over. You will learn there is no wrong way "to do cancer."

You will come to love your oncologist (and if you don’t, find another oncologist). You will let doctors implant things into your body. You will let them pump chemicals into your blood and then more drugs to offset the side effects of the chemicals. You will learn to look at your bare scalp and deal with its nakedness. You will learn a naked scalp gets cold. You will quickly figure out the difference between muscle pain and bone pain. You will learn about ‘Roid ‘Rage. You will find yourself busting a gut in the middle of Kohls Department Store, because someone thought placing pink ribbon products right next to “quick hair dry towels” was a good marketing strategy. You will find humor in the most bizarre places. You will laugh.

You will.

You will agree to let the doctors mutilate your body and remove the parts that are familiar, the parts that are yours. You won’t care because they betrayed you. (Lobular cancer is notorious for reoccurring in the opposite side.) You will learn “doctor speak”, which is what they say when they really mean something else. Like “a longer period of recovery” really means “the most painful surgery of your life.” You will experience that pain, and the burn of it will permeate everything. For a while pain will change your reality. You will learn to sleep on your back and not move. All. night. long. You will juggle drains and tubes. You will figure out how to dress but move your arms as little as possible. You will swallow your humiliation and accept help from your spouse when you discover you cannot even toilet yourself properly. You will learn to look at your scars without regret. You will find (in time) that you don’t require a bra because ONE...You no longer have nipples so headlights are no longer a concern. And TWO...You don’t need the support. The new girls are high and tight. You will feel desperate to be pretty again. And you will.

Yes, you will.

I don’t blame survivors who avoid talking about their experience. It’s hard to know how much to share to someone newly diagnosed. As in all traumas, the retelling requires a reliving. You will feel the anger, the fear and uncertainty all over again. You will feel the effects of chemo again, the trauma of shedding your hair. You will remember how you felt about your bald head, and how you cried when you realized you had lost all your eyelashes. You have to remember the pain of surgery and the shock of realization that your body is no longer familiar.

I often found myself in positions to comfort or minister to other cancer warriors. But it is hard to talk about these things. It’s hard to speak them aloud. Now, nearly two years later I am at a point I am ready to start writing. I am ready to share the experience, to tell the story. But in the midst of the roller coaster ride, in the raw anguish of it; it’s hard to think about it much less write it all out.

In the midst of it, it just sucks.

The roller coaster may never come to an end. But it will slow down and even out a bit. I decided many months ago, with fierce determination I would never be content to call myself a “survivor”.

No. I. am. a. Pink. Warrior. 

I will fight for everyone who must ride this roller coaster. I am a Pink Warrior, prepared to encourage.

I am a Pink Warrior for those who are desperate for reassurance. I am a Pink Warrior for the women who have to ride alone. I am a Pink Warrior for those who need someone to speak in truth and practicality.

  I am a Pink Warrior.

I stood there in the crowded room, unaware of everyone around me. Her eyes were fastened on mine as she watched my face for any flicker or concern as I groped around this girl’s breast. She certainly had a lump and my heart sunk as I recognized its characteristics. What should I do? She will ask me.

You will get an appointment with a breast specialist asap.  You will have a mammogram. You will have it biopsied if they find it suspicious.

Her tears dripped as she looked at her toddling child and told me, “I don’t know if I can do this, Tina.” I wrapped my arms around her and assured her that she will.

She will because her friends will support her. She will because... I will... ride the roller coaster along with her.




2 Samuel 22 : 1 - 22
“The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation. He is my stronghold, my refuge and my savior— from violent people you save me.

“I called to the LORD, who is worthy of praise, and have been saved from my enemies. The waves of death swirled about me; the torrents of destruction overwhelmed me. The cords of the grave coiled around me; the snares of death confronted me. “In my distress I called to the LORD; I called out to my God.

From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came to his ears. The earth trembled and quaked, the foundations of the heavens shook; they trembled because he was angry. Smoke rose from his nostrils; consuming fire came from his mouth, burning coals blazed out of it. He parted the heavens and came down; dark clouds were under his feet. He mounted the cherubim and flew; he soared on the wings of the wind. He made darkness his canopy around him—the dark rain clouds of the sky. Out of the brightness of his presence bolts of lightning blazed forth.

The LORD thundered from heaven; the voice of the Most High resounded. He shot his arrows and scattered the enemy, with great bolts of lightning he routed them.  The valleys of the sea were exposed and the foundations of the earth laid bare at the rebuke of the LORD, at the blast of breath from his nostrils.

“He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. He rescued me from my powerful enemy, from my foes, who were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my disaster, but the LORD was my support. He brought me out into a spacious place; HE RESCUED ME BECAUSE HE DELIGHTED IN ME.

Dedicated to Becky Edwards and Amy Dent - a couple of the world's best cheerleaders
And to the women of WOW.  Your support gave me courage.