27 June 2012

And So The Tables Are Turned

It's my turn, (again) to sit in the Kettering Hospital waiting lounge, in an uncomfortable chair, watching my battery power wane and checking my cell phone and the beeper for updates.

We've lived in Dayton for six years and this is the seventh surgery between the two of us.  (I'm not counting the kids, who have each had one.)  That seems like a lot. I guess a little bit of cancer and a little bit of arrhythmia will do that.  When we look back on our lives, I sincerely hope we can say that our forties were our worst decade health-wise.  Dan is in the new heart center, instead of the old surgery center so I was not sure what to expect.  I was hoping there were going to be recliners in the waiting area but no dice.  It's even worse than the big area downstairs, which at least has the extra fat chairs (disguised as love-seats,) on which I can actually lie down.  I am thankful for the WiFi.  But the coffee bar is a hike away.

His procedure is routine, like all of our surgeries.  And it's the fourth time in the last few years I've been in this situation, so even the scenario is getting to be old hat.  When he got his knee fixed in January, I was still bald.  It was a different experience to be on the waiting end while still recovering from chemo.  A lot of that comes from the reactions of people I encountered when they realized I had cancer.  Now my hair is back and I look healthy and my life is back to where it was before, everything is much more familiar, with peoples' reactions being normal, not extra polite, extra patient, and extra compassionate.  (A word here - if everybody treated everyone else like they had cancer, this world would be a much nicer place.)

I haven't been posting much because I'm settling into this new normal.  My foobs are feeling less foreign, although I still can't tell when they are touching something or someone.  Last weekend while I was putting together Ikea furniture my right foob was contracting with every turn of the screwdriver.  They do that because the implants are beneath the muscle, so when my chest muscles are flexed my foobs contort.  The kids think it's hilarious.  Me, not so much.

My (chemo/tamoxifen induced) menopause is driving me nuts.  I don't sleep well, my hot flashes are frequent and severe, I'm incredibly moody and my temper is short.  OK, so basically the new normal differs from the old normal only because of the hot flashes.  And I'm beginning to anticipate them.  I get a cold flash first, sometimes severe, that prompts me to put on a hoodie or get under the covers, only to tear off and out of the layers in a few minutes when the hot flash hits.  I've only recently noticed this and I'm working to limit my chills.  If I can stop my body from thinking it's cold, maybe I can derail the hot flash process.  I imagine I would need to move to San Diego (average temp. 70 degrees,) for this to work well.

My brush with bad health has lit a fire under my expanding ass.  I am running again, for the first time in ten years.  Well, not running, more like jogging, only not quite that fast, like an extremely brisk walk where I (somewhat) lift my feet.  I can feel my cardio health improving, and my legs are stronger, and this exercise makes me tired and hungry.  I eat like a horse, which accounts for the fact that I still have my cancer weight, (the "chemo 15") in spite of logging over 25 miles a week.

Cancer has also spurred me on to try new things - yoga (jury is still out on that one,) belly dancing (love it,) strange colors in my hair, (love some, like some, hated the Raggedy Ann red,) Torah study, (interesting...)  I'm still jealously guarding my time, and dreading jumping back into the volunteer pool. Still, I am moving forward with some projects of my choosing, such as The American Cancer Society's Relay For Life.  If you are so inclined, please sponsor me!  I chose this event for a couple of reasons: first, it's local, full of my local peeps and the Moms Club of Oakwood walks a team every year.  I joined the team as a thank you for the help the Moms Club offered while I was recovering from surgery and chemo.  Second, The American Cancer Society is the red-headed step-child to the more commercial events that raise funds for cancer.  We all know the kerfuffle about Komen's politicization of funding grants, and Avon is a big pink behemoth as well.  Besides, having been through it, I can tell you that cancer sucks.  And not just breast cancer, but all cancer.  To sponsor me in this walk, click the link above, (the highlighted text.)  Thanks for your support.