It’s two days following my second chemotherapy treatment and I am deep into a migraine. A more apt description, perhaps, would be to say that the top of my head is on fire. I am pink from the steroids that must be taken with the treatment. And my hair, which started coming out on Christmas Eve, is falling out strand-by-strand-by-strand. It is time for a second guest blog. This one is from my friend Kathy C. I met Kathy twenty-three years ago when we worked for the same publishing house. She is a freelance writer and has covered everything from travel to parenting.
It is very difficult to write this blog entry because I do not feel worthy to be stepping on this page. I mean, it is my dear friend Juli’s blog, after all, and her story and her suffering. But here goes . . .
My initial idea for this blog item was to post a mini collection of insights from women I know who have survived cancer (and I know more than a handful). I e-mailed them and expected an overwhelming response filled with encouragement and pithy quotes. But I only heard from one person, two others I never got a response from, and the last friend told me she just could not write about the topic at all.
It was just today that it occurred to me that breast cancer must be the most intimate, awkward, and shocking disease out there. It hits with little to no warning, and it hits the most female part of a woman’s body, and it makes some people feel very uncomfortable to know someone with breast cancer because they don’t know what to say or they wind up saying something quite stupid.
From that minute sampling of friends who didn’t write back to me, their non-response spoke volumes about the aftermath of cancer and how emotional healing will take some time. I have the utmost respect for women going through the torture of “treatment” and Juli, your continued openness about what is happening to you and how you feel about it seems to be excellent therapy to release that complex array of feelings associated with this.
What you write about, Juli, helps me and many others to understand what you are going through. The rawness of it all is painful for me to read about, but I thank you for sharing your soul. I hope your blog opens the doors to more women, especially those who are having a difficult time coping. I hope that this blog will encourage other cancer patients to give themselves permission to rant and cry online and laugh as well. Thanks, Juli, for being real.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
I’ve asked friends to fill in for me during the “bad” days of my chemotherapy treatment. This is one of those, as I’m going in for my second session. On these days I’m not only too distracted to write, I’m completely wired as I’ve been told to take five steroid pills the night before. The steroids have to do with the body being better able to absorb the chemicals.
Susan K., a friend and colleague since the mid 1980s, is today’s guest blogger. She is currently managing editor of a Northern California magazine called South Bay Accent.
It’s hard to fill in for Juli since this is clearly meant to be her voice. But I can’t help but think of her during all the controversy about changing the frequency of mammograms. Count me in as one who is upset that the test is being minimized. I’ve had a mammogram every year since my late thirties even though I have no close relatives with breast cancer. As my doctor said, why not? This is a disease that doesn’t just depend on family history or environment. It seems to silently sneak into people of all walks of life and at any age.
Why wouldn’t you want to find out early? I had a false positive one year, and it was tough, having to go in for extra tests, with that pit in my stomach, wondering if my luck had finally run out. Fortunately it hadn’t. But in a strange way, that fear made it even more obvious to me, even more important, to continue the annual routine. What if I had been diagnosed? Just like wearing a seat belt, the test lets you hedge your bets. Sure you might still drive into a wall, but at least you’ll survive to drive another day.
I was shocked at Thanksgiving when my friend Anne, a big-wig lawyer at Kaiser, launched in on how unnecessary annual mammograms are. She said that frequently the cancer would just go away by itself if people didn’t know they had it. Her argument was that the test creates more surgeries that are in themselves more dangerous than the disease. Even my friend Kara—a mellow jewelry maker from wine country—joined in and supported Anne’s opinion. I felt betrayed by the sisterhood.
I asked Kara if she had any friends with breast cancer. No, she said. But when Kara started imagining how she’d feel if any of her friends, several of whom were seated around the holiday table, developed cancer, she suddenly wasn’t so sure of herself.
Juli’s not the first person I know who’s had breast cancer, but I can hope she’s the last.
The problem with the new recommendations is that they do sound too much like another insurance industry ploy to cut costs and reduce benefits. The same day the mammogram recommendations made the news, I got my yearly letter from Blue Cross, telling me that in order to serve me better they’re raising my rates, this time by a whopping twenty-five percent. Does having too many tests lead to higher costs? Perhaps. But I’ve always had ridiculously high rates because years ago I was diagnosed with high cholesterol, and I take Lipitor. Apparently, from the insurance perspective there’s nothing worse than to be diagnosed early and to take steps that minimize future serious consequences. The message is that ignorance is bliss. Oops, sound familiar?
Yes, medical recommendations change all the time. But to pretend that it’s better not to know, that it causes too much stress for us poor women to handle—that just sounds paternalistic. I have my annual mammogram next week. Wish me luck. I just hope Anne and Kara never put off having a mammogram.
Juli, all the best to you.
Susan K., a friend and colleague since the mid 1980s, is today’s guest blogger. She is currently managing editor of a Northern California magazine called South Bay Accent.
It’s hard to fill in for Juli since this is clearly meant to be her voice. But I can’t help but think of her during all the controversy about changing the frequency of mammograms. Count me in as one who is upset that the test is being minimized. I’ve had a mammogram every year since my late thirties even though I have no close relatives with breast cancer. As my doctor said, why not? This is a disease that doesn’t just depend on family history or environment. It seems to silently sneak into people of all walks of life and at any age.
Why wouldn’t you want to find out early? I had a false positive one year, and it was tough, having to go in for extra tests, with that pit in my stomach, wondering if my luck had finally run out. Fortunately it hadn’t. But in a strange way, that fear made it even more obvious to me, even more important, to continue the annual routine. What if I had been diagnosed? Just like wearing a seat belt, the test lets you hedge your bets. Sure you might still drive into a wall, but at least you’ll survive to drive another day.
I was shocked at Thanksgiving when my friend Anne, a big-wig lawyer at Kaiser, launched in on how unnecessary annual mammograms are. She said that frequently the cancer would just go away by itself if people didn’t know they had it. Her argument was that the test creates more surgeries that are in themselves more dangerous than the disease. Even my friend Kara—a mellow jewelry maker from wine country—joined in and supported Anne’s opinion. I felt betrayed by the sisterhood.
I asked Kara if she had any friends with breast cancer. No, she said. But when Kara started imagining how she’d feel if any of her friends, several of whom were seated around the holiday table, developed cancer, she suddenly wasn’t so sure of herself.
Juli’s not the first person I know who’s had breast cancer, but I can hope she’s the last.
The problem with the new recommendations is that they do sound too much like another insurance industry ploy to cut costs and reduce benefits. The same day the mammogram recommendations made the news, I got my yearly letter from Blue Cross, telling me that in order to serve me better they’re raising my rates, this time by a whopping twenty-five percent. Does having too many tests lead to higher costs? Perhaps. But I’ve always had ridiculously high rates because years ago I was diagnosed with high cholesterol, and I take Lipitor. Apparently, from the insurance perspective there’s nothing worse than to be diagnosed early and to take steps that minimize future serious consequences. The message is that ignorance is bliss. Oops, sound familiar?
Yes, medical recommendations change all the time. But to pretend that it’s better not to know, that it causes too much stress for us poor women to handle—that just sounds paternalistic. I have my annual mammogram next week. Wish me luck. I just hope Anne and Kara never put off having a mammogram.
Juli, all the best to you.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
My father likes to say, “Everything happens for the best.” He’s had five major surgeries, one of them for cancer, in five years. And he still says that.
One day I mean to ask him what he took from each of his surgeries that was for the best. In the meantime, there’s something indomitable about that kind of spirit. Father still does volunteer work, still works out at the gym. He whistles and sings, tells jokes, and sends funny stories over e-mail. This month he celebrated his eighty-second birthday.
Dad and my husband are alike in their outlook on life. They have a curiosity about the world, an eagerness to see what new invention, what fun thing, lies around the corner. More than that, they have kind hearts, a willingness to extend a hand to a neighbor, to help a friend or a stranger in need.
It’s an attitude I should like to carry into the new year. I will make more time for friends and more time to be a friend. I will try to carry the Christmas spirit with me year round, for Christmas is not what parties we attend or what gifts we give and receive. Christmas is a warmth, a generosity of spirit we keep forever in our hearts.
So let me not bemoan my health at Christmastide. I will enjoy the lighted drummer boys who stand at the gate of a neighbor’s house. I will savor the last of my mother’s delicious stollen bread and look forward to her spritz cookies on Friday. I will delight in the presence of all my family members who, somewhat worse for the wear this challenging year, are intact and happy to celebrate the season together.
Merry Christmas Everyone!
One day I mean to ask him what he took from each of his surgeries that was for the best. In the meantime, there’s something indomitable about that kind of spirit. Father still does volunteer work, still works out at the gym. He whistles and sings, tells jokes, and sends funny stories over e-mail. This month he celebrated his eighty-second birthday.
Dad and my husband are alike in their outlook on life. They have a curiosity about the world, an eagerness to see what new invention, what fun thing, lies around the corner. More than that, they have kind hearts, a willingness to extend a hand to a neighbor, to help a friend or a stranger in need.
It’s an attitude I should like to carry into the new year. I will make more time for friends and more time to be a friend. I will try to carry the Christmas spirit with me year round, for Christmas is not what parties we attend or what gifts we give and receive. Christmas is a warmth, a generosity of spirit we keep forever in our hearts.
So let me not bemoan my health at Christmastide. I will enjoy the lighted drummer boys who stand at the gate of a neighbor’s house. I will savor the last of my mother’s delicious stollen bread and look forward to her spritz cookies on Friday. I will delight in the presence of all my family members who, somewhat worse for the wear this challenging year, are intact and happy to celebrate the season together.
Merry Christmas Everyone!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Three days before Christmas I called my oncologist. Is it possible, I wanted to know, to reduce the intensity of chemotherapy? I described the symptoms following my first treatment: four days of bone pain, fatigue to the point of not being able to cross the street, and the two-day migraine that flattened me. The doctor said these were side effects of the neupogen shot I’d been given to raise my white blood cell count. On the next go-round, December 28, 2009, we’re going to try not giving me that shot. I hope it works.
I’m thinking, in particular, of the two-day migraine I experienced. At its worst, I realized I had no medicine in the house to treat a migraine and was too incapacitated to fetch it. I had a doctor at my HMO telephone the prescription into the pharmacy. My mother picked it up and delivered it to my bedside.
When my mother arrived that day, we both burst into tears. “Two days ago I was trying to have a day of normal activity,” I told her. “It’s so frustrating. One normal day lands me in bed with migraine.” She hugged me, then sat and chatted for a while about everyday things.
Others in my life have provided me with exceptional stability and good humor during my bout with breast cancer. But I cannot imagine going through it without my mother as my friend. Some years back, a dear friend of mine lost her own mother. “When that happens,” she said, “you’re never the same.”
The women on my mother’s side live into their nineties. My grandmother reached the age of ninety-one. My mother’s sister, my aunt Mary, is ninety-four. I hope my mother lives well into her nineties. I am, in fact, counting on it.
I’m thinking, in particular, of the two-day migraine I experienced. At its worst, I realized I had no medicine in the house to treat a migraine and was too incapacitated to fetch it. I had a doctor at my HMO telephone the prescription into the pharmacy. My mother picked it up and delivered it to my bedside.
When my mother arrived that day, we both burst into tears. “Two days ago I was trying to have a day of normal activity,” I told her. “It’s so frustrating. One normal day lands me in bed with migraine.” She hugged me, then sat and chatted for a while about everyday things.
Others in my life have provided me with exceptional stability and good humor during my bout with breast cancer. But I cannot imagine going through it without my mother as my friend. Some years back, a dear friend of mine lost her own mother. “When that happens,” she said, “you’re never the same.”
The women on my mother’s side live into their nineties. My grandmother reached the age of ninety-one. My mother’s sister, my aunt Mary, is ninety-four. I hope my mother lives well into her nineties. I am, in fact, counting on it.
Monday, December 21, 2009
I’ve just finished reading Boats in the Night. A slender but stirring volume, it’s about the Danish resistance to the Nazi occupation of their country during World War II. The book is special because it was given to me by a Danish friend whose own father was a resister. The central figure in Boats in the Night is a man who today, it turns out, resides in the same Northern California town I do. His name is Knud Dyby, and he is ninety-four.
The story begins on the ninth of April, 1940 when German army units cross into Denmark. German paratroopers land throughout the country. A German merchant ship full of soldiers docks in Copenhagen. All this happens at 4:15 a.m. while the Danes are asleep. To avoid casualties, Denmark’s King Christian X and his government capitulate. A negotiated occupation exists from 1940 to 1943 during which Denmark assumes the role of “model protectorate.” Acts of sabotage to damage the German war effort are routine at this time.
The resistance takes hold in earnest in late 1943 when word leaks out that Danish Jews will be rounded up and transported to Nazi concentration camps. The Danes are able to negotiate safe harbor for the Jews in Sweden. It’s getting them across the channel to safety that’s treacherous, and where Dyby plays such an important role.
Dyby serves as a go-between who arranges passage for Jews and resisters hunted by the Germans. He helps skippers prepare their boats to secretly transport the Jews. Should the Germans catch them and their human cargo, all would certainly be killed. Dyby even makes one boat passage himself. By war’s end, most of Denmark’s 8,000 Jews have been rescued and sent to freedom.
There’s a photograph in the book of Knud Dyby pointing to his plaque on the commemorative wall in the Avenue of the Righteous of the Nations at Yad Vashem in Jerusalem. His eyes look like they’ve seen much. In the book’s final pages, he recalls his resistance friends and colleagues who died during the war: “They are dead now,” he says. “I speak to their memory.”
I learned, as I researched my novel, The Still Voice, that those gentiles who helped the Jews during the second world war are called “righteous.” In my story, Sophia and her fellow Edelweiss Pirates never consider themselves righteous. They know what they are doing is right and, like Dyby, they keep on doing it.
The story begins on the ninth of April, 1940 when German army units cross into Denmark. German paratroopers land throughout the country. A German merchant ship full of soldiers docks in Copenhagen. All this happens at 4:15 a.m. while the Danes are asleep. To avoid casualties, Denmark’s King Christian X and his government capitulate. A negotiated occupation exists from 1940 to 1943 during which Denmark assumes the role of “model protectorate.” Acts of sabotage to damage the German war effort are routine at this time.
The resistance takes hold in earnest in late 1943 when word leaks out that Danish Jews will be rounded up and transported to Nazi concentration camps. The Danes are able to negotiate safe harbor for the Jews in Sweden. It’s getting them across the channel to safety that’s treacherous, and where Dyby plays such an important role.
Dyby serves as a go-between who arranges passage for Jews and resisters hunted by the Germans. He helps skippers prepare their boats to secretly transport the Jews. Should the Germans catch them and their human cargo, all would certainly be killed. Dyby even makes one boat passage himself. By war’s end, most of Denmark’s 8,000 Jews have been rescued and sent to freedom.
There’s a photograph in the book of Knud Dyby pointing to his plaque on the commemorative wall in the Avenue of the Righteous of the Nations at Yad Vashem in Jerusalem. His eyes look like they’ve seen much. In the book’s final pages, he recalls his resistance friends and colleagues who died during the war: “They are dead now,” he says. “I speak to their memory.”
I learned, as I researched my novel, The Still Voice, that those gentiles who helped the Jews during the second world war are called “righteous.” In my story, Sophia and her fellow Edelweiss Pirates never consider themselves righteous. They know what they are doing is right and, like Dyby, they keep on doing it.
Friday, December 18, 2009
May your days be merry and bright . . . My head hits the pillow filled with the strains of Christmas music. In my dream, I’m standing in the shower. The songs of the season are piped in. Suddenly, I’m wrapped in a black sticky shroud. It’s my own hair, and it’s melted over my body. Such are the happy holiday dreams of this chemotherapy patient.
Every breast cancer patient comes to know that the most widely used chemotherapy drugs cause hair loss. What she also comes to know is that losing one’s hair usually follows the second treatment in the cycle. My second treatment is December 28, 2009. Wild horses will have to drag me back.
A friend told me that her mother, a licensed psychotherapist, practiced something called desensitization to lure her to the second chemo. In psychology, desensitization is used to lessen someone’s fear of a situation by exposing them to it either in reality or in their imagination. As my friend and her mother lived some distance apart, her mother “conditioned” her by telephone. She’d spend twenty minutes having her daughter visualize a beautiful garden. The next twenty minutes, she’d have her picture herself taking the chemotherapy. So it went, back and forth until she felt able to keep going.
As I have no psychotherapist in my hip pocket, I’ve chosen to visualize the Aegean Sea. My husband has promised me a trip to Greece when this is all over. I’m already planning it in my mind. The Aegean is a deep blue-green. I’m on a sailboat, in a new swimsuit, with a figure better than I had in my twenties. I’m a golden brown. And I’m sipping bubbly drinks while munching raspberries and brie. A white shroud, made of a light chiffon, shields me from the sun’s rays. Breast cancer is in the distant past, an evil cast out of my life forever.
. . . And may all your Christmases be white.
Every breast cancer patient comes to know that the most widely used chemotherapy drugs cause hair loss. What she also comes to know is that losing one’s hair usually follows the second treatment in the cycle. My second treatment is December 28, 2009. Wild horses will have to drag me back.
A friend told me that her mother, a licensed psychotherapist, practiced something called desensitization to lure her to the second chemo. In psychology, desensitization is used to lessen someone’s fear of a situation by exposing them to it either in reality or in their imagination. As my friend and her mother lived some distance apart, her mother “conditioned” her by telephone. She’d spend twenty minutes having her daughter visualize a beautiful garden. The next twenty minutes, she’d have her picture herself taking the chemotherapy. So it went, back and forth until she felt able to keep going.
As I have no psychotherapist in my hip pocket, I’ve chosen to visualize the Aegean Sea. My husband has promised me a trip to Greece when this is all over. I’m already planning it in my mind. The Aegean is a deep blue-green. I’m on a sailboat, in a new swimsuit, with a figure better than I had in my twenties. I’m a golden brown. And I’m sipping bubbly drinks while munching raspberries and brie. A white shroud, made of a light chiffon, shields me from the sun’s rays. Breast cancer is in the distant past, an evil cast out of my life forever.
. . . And may all your Christmases be white.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
When I started this blog, I was reaching out for moral support after my breast cancer diagnosis. When I wanted to quit writing, my surgeon told me she thought it was helping a lot of people. So I’ve stuck with blogging. It’s been tough to do since the chemotherapy regimen began. I’ve been vertical two days out of the past ten.
I keep thinking about the main character in my novel, The Still Voice. Sophia contracts scarlet fever at a regional sports fest in 1941. Highly contagious, she winds up in the hospital over Easter. This is the scene with Sophia in the hospital during the holiday. Her mother Brigitte, and sister Petra, have come to visit. Sophia is trying not to feel sorry for herself:
They both looked so pretty, Brigitte in her blue knit suit and Petra in her apple green dress with lace collar and cuffs. Sophia squinted through the tempered glass to bring them into better focus.
“Happy Easter, honey,” said her mama. “We brought you something. The nurse will bring it in to you.” She held up a basket brimming with colorful eggs.
Squinting, Sophia could make out a stuffed rabbit and an oversized lavender bow. Easter was the second most important holiday in Germany, after Christmas, and one of her favorites. She thought of the year they’d spent it at Petra’s, sitting in a kitchen filled with crocuses and daffodils, learning how to decorate eggs with liquid wax. Afterward, when they’d dyed the eggs, the wax designs had popped out against the richly colored shells.
“Did you go to church?” she asked.
“We went to the Marktkirche,” said Petra. “We said a prayer for everyone. My prayer for Hans was already answered, of course. He’s been transferred to the campaign in Greece. Much safer. I’m so relieved. We miss you. How are . . .”
“The organ in the Marktkirche is so beautiful,” said Brigitte. “You can hear it loud, and with the choir . . .”
Petra peered through the door at her sister. “How’re you feeling, Sophia?”
“I’m getting better. Where are you having lunch?”
The answer was as she’d expected. The family would gather at the home of her brother’s in-laws. She tried to refocus, not feel sorry for herself. “We had to hide in the basement when the bomb fell. Did you see where it landed?”
Brigitte pinched her lips together. “Near the train station. Couple of houses were slightly damaged. No one was hurt.”
Sophia recognized the look in her mother’s eye. She wasn’t being truthful about no one being hurt. No matter, she doubted she was ready for the truth.
“Sis, are you listening to me?” Petra interrupted her thoughts. “When you’re released, you’ll come stay with me in Wieseck. The country air will be good for you. Would you like that?”
She nodded. “I’d like that. After I finish school.”
“Of course,” smiled her mama.
Her visitors chatted a while longer and wished her a full recovery. Then the nurse brought in her basket, and Brigitte and Petra disappeared down the long corridor to the stairs.
Sophia set her gift on a tray at the foot of her bed and walked to the window. Four floors below, she saw her mother and sister standing on the patio near the hospital fountain. They waved and blew kisses. She waved in return, her cheeks wet with tears. It was Easter, and they both looked so pretty.
I keep thinking about the main character in my novel, The Still Voice. Sophia contracts scarlet fever at a regional sports fest in 1941. Highly contagious, she winds up in the hospital over Easter. This is the scene with Sophia in the hospital during the holiday. Her mother Brigitte, and sister Petra, have come to visit. Sophia is trying not to feel sorry for herself:
They both looked so pretty, Brigitte in her blue knit suit and Petra in her apple green dress with lace collar and cuffs. Sophia squinted through the tempered glass to bring them into better focus.
“Happy Easter, honey,” said her mama. “We brought you something. The nurse will bring it in to you.” She held up a basket brimming with colorful eggs.
Squinting, Sophia could make out a stuffed rabbit and an oversized lavender bow. Easter was the second most important holiday in Germany, after Christmas, and one of her favorites. She thought of the year they’d spent it at Petra’s, sitting in a kitchen filled with crocuses and daffodils, learning how to decorate eggs with liquid wax. Afterward, when they’d dyed the eggs, the wax designs had popped out against the richly colored shells.
“Did you go to church?” she asked.
“We went to the Marktkirche,” said Petra. “We said a prayer for everyone. My prayer for Hans was already answered, of course. He’s been transferred to the campaign in Greece. Much safer. I’m so relieved. We miss you. How are . . .”
“The organ in the Marktkirche is so beautiful,” said Brigitte. “You can hear it loud, and with the choir . . .”
Petra peered through the door at her sister. “How’re you feeling, Sophia?”
“I’m getting better. Where are you having lunch?”
The answer was as she’d expected. The family would gather at the home of her brother’s in-laws. She tried to refocus, not feel sorry for herself. “We had to hide in the basement when the bomb fell. Did you see where it landed?”
Brigitte pinched her lips together. “Near the train station. Couple of houses were slightly damaged. No one was hurt.”
Sophia recognized the look in her mother’s eye. She wasn’t being truthful about no one being hurt. No matter, she doubted she was ready for the truth.
“Sis, are you listening to me?” Petra interrupted her thoughts. “When you’re released, you’ll come stay with me in Wieseck. The country air will be good for you. Would you like that?”
She nodded. “I’d like that. After I finish school.”
“Of course,” smiled her mama.
Her visitors chatted a while longer and wished her a full recovery. Then the nurse brought in her basket, and Brigitte and Petra disappeared down the long corridor to the stairs.
Sophia set her gift on a tray at the foot of her bed and walked to the window. Four floors below, she saw her mother and sister standing on the patio near the hospital fountain. They waved and blew kisses. She waved in return, her cheeks wet with tears. It was Easter, and they both looked so pretty.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
I had an uncle I never knew. His name was Helmut, and he was an older brother of my mother’s. Helmut served on a German destroyer off the coast of Norway during World War II. He lost his life in one of the last sea battles of the war when an English destroyer fired on his ship. Helmut is buried in a mass grave somewhere near Bergen. Mother tried to find the site during a visit to Norway some years ago. The Norwegians were not so eager to divulge information. Mother never found his grave.
Once, when Helmut came home on leave from the war, he presented a snapshot of a beautiful Norwegian girl. “This will be your daughter-in-law one day,” he told my grandmother as my mother looked on. The story of his visit led to this scene in my novel, The Still Voice. It takes place in 1941. I think it’s appropriate for Christmas.
Brigitte shoved a cookie sheet into the oven, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to join her daughter in the living room. “Oh,” she glanced at the advent wreath on the end table near her chair. “Sophia, would you be so good and bring the matches in from the kitchen? I just sat down.”
Sophia brought in the matches and lit one of the four candles on the wreath. “Advent is late this year, don’t you think?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the first Sunday is already the seventh of December.”
“Speaking of late,” a crafty smile came over Brigitte’s face, “I need to change if we’re going to look at windows.”
“No rush.” Sophia looked, puzzled, at her mama. “We can go after coffee time. In fact, downtown’s nicer when it’s dark out and everything’s all lit up.”
Her mother flitted into the bedroom to change clothes. Sophia inhaled deeply, taking in the aroma of baking Pfeffernuß (peppernut) cookies.
On the sixth, St. Nicholas Day, her mama had filled the shoe she’d left in front of their bedroom door with Lebkuchen (gingerbread) and Zimtsterne (cinnamon star) cookies. They were both in an unusually festive mood, she thought. Probably because they loved Christmas.
“Aren’t you going to change?” Brigitte emerged from their room in her best dress.
“Ma, it’s just window shopping.” Sophia got up from her chair and started for the bedroom when a knock at the door stopped her.
“Would you get that?” asked Brigitte. “I have to turn off the oven.”
There was the sly smile again. Sophia went to answer the knock.
“Wolfie!” She threw the door wide open and flung her arms around his neck. “No wonder Ma’s been grinning like a monkey all day.”
“I told her to keep it secret,” beamed Wolfie. “I wasn’t sure until the last minute if I’d get leave.” He handed his mother a paper sack. “I stopped to get chestnuts.”
“They’re still warm,” said Brigitte. She poured them into a bowl, sat at the table, and cracked one open.
“Ma, in your best dress . . .” frowned Sophia.
“You have to eat them warm,” said Brigitte. “Sit a minute. There’s plenty of time for shopping.”
“Actually,” said Wolfie, “I made us a reservation at Café Maldaner, so we shouldn’t fool around too long.” He split open a chestnut with his thumbs. “These are good.”
“Tell us about Norway,” said Sophia.
He unfolded his wallet and laid a snapshot in front of Brigitte. “This will be your daughter-in-law one day.”
“Let’s see.” Sophia leaned across the table. “She’s as tall as you.”
“Almost,” he beamed. “She’s classic Norwegian. Very blonde. Long legs. Her name’s Finna.”
“So, this is the one.” Brigitte nodded. “And she will live in Germany?”
“I think so,” said Wolfie. “As for Norway, what a clean, beautiful country . . .”
“Will you have to go back soon?” asked Sophia.
“Yes,” said Brigitte. “How long do we have you for?”
“My leave is quite generous, actually,” said Wolfie. “I have until the twenty-eighth. I’ll miss your birthday, Sis. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. I’m just glad you’re here for Christmas.” She hoped her disappointment didn’t show. People were usually around for her birthday as it fell on New Year’s Eve. She wondered why the navy needed Wolfie over the holiday.
“We’ll have fun.” He handed Sophia a peeled chestnut. “Any word from Max?” He looked, meaningfully, at his mother.
Brigitte clasped and unclasped her hands. “No. We just hear on the radio that our ‘men are fighting bravely on the Eastern Front.’ Of course, we know it’s a very cold winter.”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” said Wolfie. “When the war is over, I want to show you Norway. Bergen is a nice harbor. It’s the second biggest city after Oslo. Green. Brick buildings everywhere. Ma, I know how you love brick. And the fish market! You should see all the types of fish . . .”
While Wolfie waxed on, Sophia changed clothes, making sure to bring out her fox muff.
“I remember that muff,” smiled Wolfie when she came out of the bedroom. “You’ll need it, too. It’s quite crisp out. Are we ready?”
The threesome linked arms as they sauntered toward the medieval city center.
“Wolfie,” asked Sophia, when they’d stopped at a Glühwein (mulled wine) stand near the Marktkirche, “what’s the Bruno Heinemann doing in Norway?”
“We’re there to keep the shipping route open for iron ore from Scandinavia,” he said. “Ah, there’s Hertie up ahead. I always like their window.”
Standing in front of Hertie, Sophia didn’t know where to look first. There was a train that carried Santa through an elaborate village, a rotating Ferris wheel, and a hot-air balloon whose bountiful basket rose and fell with little puffs of air. Everywhere, white lights twinkled and reflected off glittering snow.
“See how everything moves,” laughed Brigitte. “Even the angels turn around the top of the pyramid.”
“I hope Helga has her pyramid out this year,” said Sophia. “Hers is fantastic.”
“That reminds me,” said Brigitte, “Helga wants us to be there at six o’clock, Christmas Eve. She’s putting up Rebeka and Georg, of course. I can’t believe she’s offered to put up Petra and the twins.”
“There’s not much choice, is there?” asked Wolfie. “She can hardly send them packing.”
“It sure is different with the men gone,” said Brigitte.
“What am I?” asked Wolfie. “Cold potatoes?”
“No.” She took her son’s hand. “You said you wanted to stop at Hettlage. We should do that before they close.”
Wolfie’s former coworkers were as glad to see him as he was them. His onetime boss recommended several items for Sophia, including boots and mittens. For Brigitte, there was an assortment of coats. One after another, Hettlage’s employees stopped by to visit.
“Bergen is beautiful,” Wolfie repeated to each one. “It’s west of Oslo . . .”
“Wolfie, how about this one?” Brigitte modeled a black cloth coat.
“Isn’t there one with a fur collar?” He turned to talk with a former colleague. “Now, Tromso is much farther north . . .”
“That’s Petra’s style,” said Brigitte. “Anyway, there aren’t any. I’ll take this one.”
“We’re having record cold this winter,” said Wolfie. “No furs?”
“Can I have this?” Sophia was captivated by a blown-glass ballerina.
“Boots would be more practical,” said the saleswoman.
Crestfallen, Sophia put the ballerina down.
“If she wants the little figure, we’ll take it,” said Wolfie. “It’s Christmas, after all.”
“Hettlage isn’t the same without you, Herr Brandt,” said the saleswoman as she folded Brigitte’s coat in tissue paper. “What’s it like?”
“Well, Norway is . . .”
“No,” said the young woman. “Serving on a destroyer. What’s it like?”
“The war has gotten serious,” said Wolfie. “More than that, I’m not allowed to say. I do miss the pretty girls, like yourself.”
The saleswoman blushed as she handed them their purchases.
“Thank you for my present, Wolfie,” said Sophia as they cycled through the revolving door.
“You’re most welcome. Now, on to dinner.”
“Just like old times,” said Sophia. She and her mother linked arms with Wolfie for the walk to their café.
As they passed Karstadt, they stopped to press their noses against its display window. A sleigh ferried Saint Nicholas above a small village where lighted wreaths twinkled red and green in the shop windows. The bell in the chapel tower swung to and fro and, everywhere, flakes of shimmering white snow contrasted sharply with the brown slush under Sophia’s feet.
“Come, you two,” said Brigitte, “I’m hungry.”
At Café Maldaner, Sophia dawdled near the display shelves at the front, where tins of tea kept porcelain Santas company. The host appeared and led the trio to a table below the carousel horse.
“I’m famished,” said Wolfie. “Everything on the menu looks good.”
“I know what your sister and I are having,” said Brigitte. “Let’s order.”
Once, when Helmut came home on leave from the war, he presented a snapshot of a beautiful Norwegian girl. “This will be your daughter-in-law one day,” he told my grandmother as my mother looked on. The story of his visit led to this scene in my novel, The Still Voice. It takes place in 1941. I think it’s appropriate for Christmas.
Brigitte shoved a cookie sheet into the oven, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to join her daughter in the living room. “Oh,” she glanced at the advent wreath on the end table near her chair. “Sophia, would you be so good and bring the matches in from the kitchen? I just sat down.”
Sophia brought in the matches and lit one of the four candles on the wreath. “Advent is late this year, don’t you think?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the first Sunday is already the seventh of December.”
“Speaking of late,” a crafty smile came over Brigitte’s face, “I need to change if we’re going to look at windows.”
“No rush.” Sophia looked, puzzled, at her mama. “We can go after coffee time. In fact, downtown’s nicer when it’s dark out and everything’s all lit up.”
Her mother flitted into the bedroom to change clothes. Sophia inhaled deeply, taking in the aroma of baking Pfeffernuß (peppernut) cookies.
On the sixth, St. Nicholas Day, her mama had filled the shoe she’d left in front of their bedroom door with Lebkuchen (gingerbread) and Zimtsterne (cinnamon star) cookies. They were both in an unusually festive mood, she thought. Probably because they loved Christmas.
“Aren’t you going to change?” Brigitte emerged from their room in her best dress.
“Ma, it’s just window shopping.” Sophia got up from her chair and started for the bedroom when a knock at the door stopped her.
“Would you get that?” asked Brigitte. “I have to turn off the oven.”
There was the sly smile again. Sophia went to answer the knock.
“Wolfie!” She threw the door wide open and flung her arms around his neck. “No wonder Ma’s been grinning like a monkey all day.”
“I told her to keep it secret,” beamed Wolfie. “I wasn’t sure until the last minute if I’d get leave.” He handed his mother a paper sack. “I stopped to get chestnuts.”
“They’re still warm,” said Brigitte. She poured them into a bowl, sat at the table, and cracked one open.
“Ma, in your best dress . . .” frowned Sophia.
“You have to eat them warm,” said Brigitte. “Sit a minute. There’s plenty of time for shopping.”
“Actually,” said Wolfie, “I made us a reservation at Café Maldaner, so we shouldn’t fool around too long.” He split open a chestnut with his thumbs. “These are good.”
“Tell us about Norway,” said Sophia.
He unfolded his wallet and laid a snapshot in front of Brigitte. “This will be your daughter-in-law one day.”
“Let’s see.” Sophia leaned across the table. “She’s as tall as you.”
“Almost,” he beamed. “She’s classic Norwegian. Very blonde. Long legs. Her name’s Finna.”
“So, this is the one.” Brigitte nodded. “And she will live in Germany?”
“I think so,” said Wolfie. “As for Norway, what a clean, beautiful country . . .”
“Will you have to go back soon?” asked Sophia.
“Yes,” said Brigitte. “How long do we have you for?”
“My leave is quite generous, actually,” said Wolfie. “I have until the twenty-eighth. I’ll miss your birthday, Sis. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. I’m just glad you’re here for Christmas.” She hoped her disappointment didn’t show. People were usually around for her birthday as it fell on New Year’s Eve. She wondered why the navy needed Wolfie over the holiday.
“We’ll have fun.” He handed Sophia a peeled chestnut. “Any word from Max?” He looked, meaningfully, at his mother.
Brigitte clasped and unclasped her hands. “No. We just hear on the radio that our ‘men are fighting bravely on the Eastern Front.’ Of course, we know it’s a very cold winter.”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” said Wolfie. “When the war is over, I want to show you Norway. Bergen is a nice harbor. It’s the second biggest city after Oslo. Green. Brick buildings everywhere. Ma, I know how you love brick. And the fish market! You should see all the types of fish . . .”
While Wolfie waxed on, Sophia changed clothes, making sure to bring out her fox muff.
“I remember that muff,” smiled Wolfie when she came out of the bedroom. “You’ll need it, too. It’s quite crisp out. Are we ready?”
The threesome linked arms as they sauntered toward the medieval city center.
“Wolfie,” asked Sophia, when they’d stopped at a Glühwein (mulled wine) stand near the Marktkirche, “what’s the Bruno Heinemann doing in Norway?”
“We’re there to keep the shipping route open for iron ore from Scandinavia,” he said. “Ah, there’s Hertie up ahead. I always like their window.”
Standing in front of Hertie, Sophia didn’t know where to look first. There was a train that carried Santa through an elaborate village, a rotating Ferris wheel, and a hot-air balloon whose bountiful basket rose and fell with little puffs of air. Everywhere, white lights twinkled and reflected off glittering snow.
“See how everything moves,” laughed Brigitte. “Even the angels turn around the top of the pyramid.”
“I hope Helga has her pyramid out this year,” said Sophia. “Hers is fantastic.”
“That reminds me,” said Brigitte, “Helga wants us to be there at six o’clock, Christmas Eve. She’s putting up Rebeka and Georg, of course. I can’t believe she’s offered to put up Petra and the twins.”
“There’s not much choice, is there?” asked Wolfie. “She can hardly send them packing.”
“It sure is different with the men gone,” said Brigitte.
“What am I?” asked Wolfie. “Cold potatoes?”
“No.” She took her son’s hand. “You said you wanted to stop at Hettlage. We should do that before they close.”
Wolfie’s former coworkers were as glad to see him as he was them. His onetime boss recommended several items for Sophia, including boots and mittens. For Brigitte, there was an assortment of coats. One after another, Hettlage’s employees stopped by to visit.
“Bergen is beautiful,” Wolfie repeated to each one. “It’s west of Oslo . . .”
“Wolfie, how about this one?” Brigitte modeled a black cloth coat.
“Isn’t there one with a fur collar?” He turned to talk with a former colleague. “Now, Tromso is much farther north . . .”
“That’s Petra’s style,” said Brigitte. “Anyway, there aren’t any. I’ll take this one.”
“We’re having record cold this winter,” said Wolfie. “No furs?”
“Can I have this?” Sophia was captivated by a blown-glass ballerina.
“Boots would be more practical,” said the saleswoman.
Crestfallen, Sophia put the ballerina down.
“If she wants the little figure, we’ll take it,” said Wolfie. “It’s Christmas, after all.”
“Hettlage isn’t the same without you, Herr Brandt,” said the saleswoman as she folded Brigitte’s coat in tissue paper. “What’s it like?”
“Well, Norway is . . .”
“No,” said the young woman. “Serving on a destroyer. What’s it like?”
“The war has gotten serious,” said Wolfie. “More than that, I’m not allowed to say. I do miss the pretty girls, like yourself.”
The saleswoman blushed as she handed them their purchases.
“Thank you for my present, Wolfie,” said Sophia as they cycled through the revolving door.
“You’re most welcome. Now, on to dinner.”
“Just like old times,” said Sophia. She and her mother linked arms with Wolfie for the walk to their café.
As they passed Karstadt, they stopped to press their noses against its display window. A sleigh ferried Saint Nicholas above a small village where lighted wreaths twinkled red and green in the shop windows. The bell in the chapel tower swung to and fro and, everywhere, flakes of shimmering white snow contrasted sharply with the brown slush under Sophia’s feet.
“Come, you two,” said Brigitte, “I’m hungry.”
At Café Maldaner, Sophia dawdled near the display shelves at the front, where tins of tea kept porcelain Santas company. The host appeared and led the trio to a table below the carousel horse.
“I’m famished,” said Wolfie. “Everything on the menu looks good.”
“I know what your sister and I are having,” said Brigitte. “Let’s order.”
“Ah, Mama,” said Sophia, “I’d like to choose my own.”
“Well, little Miss Independence,” said Brigitte. “You have a few days to go yet before the stubborn teenage years.”
Wolfie cupped his mother’s hand in his. “Let her go. There’s our waiter. Make up your minds.”
When the waiter had taken their order, Wolfie turned to his sister. “I’m amazed by your letters. Ballet, acting, singing. How do you keep up with it all? Have you thought of perhaps focusing on one? Actually, if you chose one to excel in, you might get ahead faster.”
“Let her have fun,” said Brigitte. “She’s just a kid. Maybe she won’t end up doing any of those things. Maybe she’ll be an executive secretary.”
Sophia scowled. She loved her family, but on this they needed to butt out. She was going to be a ballerina. Or perhaps a famous soprano like Erna Sack, the German Nightingale, who sometimes stopped in at the Baba Bräu restaurant. She hadn’t yet decided which.
***
“Well, little Miss Independence,” said Brigitte. “You have a few days to go yet before the stubborn teenage years.”
Wolfie cupped his mother’s hand in his. “Let her go. There’s our waiter. Make up your minds.”
When the waiter had taken their order, Wolfie turned to his sister. “I’m amazed by your letters. Ballet, acting, singing. How do you keep up with it all? Have you thought of perhaps focusing on one? Actually, if you chose one to excel in, you might get ahead faster.”
“Let her have fun,” said Brigitte. “She’s just a kid. Maybe she won’t end up doing any of those things. Maybe she’ll be an executive secretary.”
Sophia scowled. She loved her family, but on this they needed to butt out. She was going to be a ballerina. Or perhaps a famous soprano like Erna Sack, the German Nightingale, who sometimes stopped in at the Baba Bräu restaurant. She hadn’t yet decided which.
***
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The fact that one of the drugs administered for my chemotherapy, Cytoxan, is a derivative of mustard gas intrigues me for a couple of reasons. The obvious first is for the mere fact that something so toxic is used as a medicine. The second reason takes some explaining.
In researching my novel, The Still Voice, I spent some time boning up on the first world war, or the Great War. That sounds like a paradox as my story is set during World War II. However, one cannot study the second world war without looking at the first as the seeds of WWII were sown in the Great War. And it was the Great War that saw the first use of mustard gas.
It is commonly believed the German army was the first to use nerve gas. In fact, it was initially deployed by the French against the Germans in August 1914. Germany learned well, though, and became the first to use chemical weapons on a large scale.
Mustard gas was first used by the German army in September 1917. It took twelve hours to effect its victims and blistered their skin in big mustard-colored pocks. The eyes of those exposed became sore, and they began to vomit. The gas attacked the bronchial tubes and caused internal and external bleeding.*
So onerous was the use of poison gas that in the Geneva Gas Protocol of the Third Geneva Convention, signed in 1925, the signatory nations condemned it as uncivilized and agreed not to deploy it in future wars.
As a child growing up in Germany during WWII, my mother remembers her own mama receiving instruction in putting on a gas mask, then donning the mask to run through a gas-filled room. The Germans were that afraid, so many years later, of that type of warfare. My mother was to receive the training at a later date. It never happened. And nerve gas was not deployed as a battlefield weapon in WWII.
So how does a mustard gas derivative work as an anti-tumor drug? It is used to treat breast, ovarian, and other cancers by damaging the DNA of the cancer cells when they are in their “resting phase” (not dividing). Because Cytoxan disrupts their division, the cells die. However, since the drug cannot distinguish good cells from bad, it affects normal cells in the blood, mouth, digestive tract, and hair follicles. Cytoxan is said to have a less drastic effect on the normal cells because they “divide more slowly and are better able to fix DNA breaks than cancer cells.”**
One of my friends received the same regimen I am getting. She is a sixteen-year cancer survivor. Evidently, it works.
*Source: http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/FWWgermanA.htm
** http://breastcancer.about.com/od/chemotherapydrugs/p/cytoxan.htm
In researching my novel, The Still Voice, I spent some time boning up on the first world war, or the Great War. That sounds like a paradox as my story is set during World War II. However, one cannot study the second world war without looking at the first as the seeds of WWII were sown in the Great War. And it was the Great War that saw the first use of mustard gas.
It is commonly believed the German army was the first to use nerve gas. In fact, it was initially deployed by the French against the Germans in August 1914. Germany learned well, though, and became the first to use chemical weapons on a large scale.
Mustard gas was first used by the German army in September 1917. It took twelve hours to effect its victims and blistered their skin in big mustard-colored pocks. The eyes of those exposed became sore, and they began to vomit. The gas attacked the bronchial tubes and caused internal and external bleeding.*
So onerous was the use of poison gas that in the Geneva Gas Protocol of the Third Geneva Convention, signed in 1925, the signatory nations condemned it as uncivilized and agreed not to deploy it in future wars.
As a child growing up in Germany during WWII, my mother remembers her own mama receiving instruction in putting on a gas mask, then donning the mask to run through a gas-filled room. The Germans were that afraid, so many years later, of that type of warfare. My mother was to receive the training at a later date. It never happened. And nerve gas was not deployed as a battlefield weapon in WWII.
So how does a mustard gas derivative work as an anti-tumor drug? It is used to treat breast, ovarian, and other cancers by damaging the DNA of the cancer cells when they are in their “resting phase” (not dividing). Because Cytoxan disrupts their division, the cells die. However, since the drug cannot distinguish good cells from bad, it affects normal cells in the blood, mouth, digestive tract, and hair follicles. Cytoxan is said to have a less drastic effect on the normal cells because they “divide more slowly and are better able to fix DNA breaks than cancer cells.”**
One of my friends received the same regimen I am getting. She is a sixteen-year cancer survivor. Evidently, it works.
*Source: http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/FWWgermanA.htm
** http://breastcancer.about.com/od/chemotherapydrugs/p/cytoxan.htm
Monday, December 14, 2009
The week following my first chemotherapy treatment was pretty much a lost one. There were a few debilitating days and a few with little energy, save for the mind racing with “was gonnas.” I was gonna decorate a bit more for Christmas. There was the sturdy box I was gonna buy for the present I’m bringing to my book club gift exchange.
I am pleased with the things that did get done. Though it felt silly to put our tree up right after Thanksgiving, my husband and I did. Now, I’m grateful to have it to look at. I bought gifts and wrapped them earlier than ever. The cards were sent out three weeks ago. I’ve never gotten them out so soon.
This coming week is one for rebuilding strength. I’m still learning things that will carry me there. For example, I was surprised to learn from the chemotherapy nurse that the toothpaste I use for sensitive teeth has alcohol as an ingredient. Apparently, most toothpastes contain alcohol. For someone with an intolerance to the stuff, like me, it’s good to know of a “safe” toothpaste. It’s called Tom’s of Maine.
The nurse also surprised me by recommending teas to help with digestion, constipation, etc. Imagine an HMO suggesting tea. The brand I’ve tried is called Traditional Medicinals. I still giggle when I think of the night my husband and I brewed their “Smooth Move” blend. Try it sometime. It works.
Lotions to keep the skin from drying out have always been too much of a bother for me. They’re necessary now as the chemo is a dehydrating agent. One lotion that quickly goes into the skin and is fragrance-free is Lubriderm. Of all the designer moisturizers, I like this plain one best.
The Whole Foods supermarket chain has an article on its website that’s useful, too. It lists foods that build the immune system. Shitake mushrooms have been found to increase white blood cells, and these “shrooms” are very yummy. Beef is a source of zinc, which helps white cells and antibodies reproduce more quickly. Bacteria found in yogurt helps fight the bad bacteria in the digestive tract. The Whole Foods article can be found at http://www.whole-food-supplements-guide.com/foods-that-build-your-immune-system.html.
Yes, siree. It’s good to be back among the living. I look forward to seeing you around the neighborhood.
I am pleased with the things that did get done. Though it felt silly to put our tree up right after Thanksgiving, my husband and I did. Now, I’m grateful to have it to look at. I bought gifts and wrapped them earlier than ever. The cards were sent out three weeks ago. I’ve never gotten them out so soon.
This coming week is one for rebuilding strength. I’m still learning things that will carry me there. For example, I was surprised to learn from the chemotherapy nurse that the toothpaste I use for sensitive teeth has alcohol as an ingredient. Apparently, most toothpastes contain alcohol. For someone with an intolerance to the stuff, like me, it’s good to know of a “safe” toothpaste. It’s called Tom’s of Maine.
The nurse also surprised me by recommending teas to help with digestion, constipation, etc. Imagine an HMO suggesting tea. The brand I’ve tried is called Traditional Medicinals. I still giggle when I think of the night my husband and I brewed their “Smooth Move” blend. Try it sometime. It works.
Lotions to keep the skin from drying out have always been too much of a bother for me. They’re necessary now as the chemo is a dehydrating agent. One lotion that quickly goes into the skin and is fragrance-free is Lubriderm. Of all the designer moisturizers, I like this plain one best.
The Whole Foods supermarket chain has an article on its website that’s useful, too. It lists foods that build the immune system. Shitake mushrooms have been found to increase white blood cells, and these “shrooms” are very yummy. Beef is a source of zinc, which helps white cells and antibodies reproduce more quickly. Bacteria found in yogurt helps fight the bad bacteria in the digestive tract. The Whole Foods article can be found at http://www.whole-food-supplements-guide.com/foods-that-build-your-immune-system.html.
Yes, siree. It’s good to be back among the living. I look forward to seeing you around the neighborhood.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Of all the possible side effects from chemotherapy, the one I wound up with following my first treatment was bone pain. The pain is caused by one of the chemical agents in the chemo, Taxotere, and an injection of a drug called Neupogen. The Neupogen shot boosts the white blood cell count so the patient is able to fight off infection. Interestingly, Neupogen is made using the bacteria E coli. I’d received two of the three scheduled injections following chemotherapy when I told my oncologist that the bone pain was debilitating. Thankfully, he cancelled the third shot before I received it last night.
Funnily enough, it was a story about cancer of the bone, told me by one of my sisters-in-law, that reinforced the wisdom of taking chemotherapy. A woman in my sister-in-law’s circle had not had chemo following her bout with breast cancer. The cancer returned to her bones. I know how painful that would be.
When the surgeon reports she got all of the tumor out, the lymph nodes are clear, and tests show no metastases elsewhere in the body, that does not mean the cancer is gone. When I met last week with Dr. Frank Stockdale, co-founder of Stanford University’s Combined Modalities Breast Cancer Program, he noted that the average woman with stage one breast cancer has a twenty-five percent chance of it recurring anywhere in the body. A woman with a high grade tumor such as mine (grade three), has a one-in-three chance of having it return within a ten-year period. That makes the case for chemotherapy. Period.
Dr. Stockdale noted that in Europe, surgery, radiation, and hormone treatment only would be given for a stage one tumor less than two centimeters in size. I asked what sort of results Europeans are getting with this. “They’re willing to accept a fifty percent reduction in risk of recurrence,” he said, “where in the U.S. we’re getting a seventy percent reduction in risk. So they’re willing to accept that. There are lots of reasons. Some are economic and some are philosophical.”
I asked Dr. Stockdale about long-term damage to the body from chemotherapy. “You have to realize,” he said, “you only get four treatments. Most of the toxicity that is long-term is in the cumulative phenomena. It’s total dose related. The cumulative doses for the treatment your doctor has recommended for you are tiny.”
Only four treatments. I wish they were already behind me.
Funnily enough, it was a story about cancer of the bone, told me by one of my sisters-in-law, that reinforced the wisdom of taking chemotherapy. A woman in my sister-in-law’s circle had not had chemo following her bout with breast cancer. The cancer returned to her bones. I know how painful that would be.
When the surgeon reports she got all of the tumor out, the lymph nodes are clear, and tests show no metastases elsewhere in the body, that does not mean the cancer is gone. When I met last week with Dr. Frank Stockdale, co-founder of Stanford University’s Combined Modalities Breast Cancer Program, he noted that the average woman with stage one breast cancer has a twenty-five percent chance of it recurring anywhere in the body. A woman with a high grade tumor such as mine (grade three), has a one-in-three chance of having it return within a ten-year period. That makes the case for chemotherapy. Period.
Dr. Stockdale noted that in Europe, surgery, radiation, and hormone treatment only would be given for a stage one tumor less than two centimeters in size. I asked what sort of results Europeans are getting with this. “They’re willing to accept a fifty percent reduction in risk of recurrence,” he said, “where in the U.S. we’re getting a seventy percent reduction in risk. So they’re willing to accept that. There are lots of reasons. Some are economic and some are philosophical.”
I asked Dr. Stockdale about long-term damage to the body from chemotherapy. “You have to realize,” he said, “you only get four treatments. Most of the toxicity that is long-term is in the cumulative phenomena. It’s total dose related. The cumulative doses for the treatment your doctor has recommended for you are tiny.”
Only four treatments. I wish they were already behind me.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Two days after my first chemotherapy treatment, muscle fatigue has set in. I feel as though I’ve exercised strenuously and pulled every muscle in the body. The one thing my husband and I didn’t purchase for me was the powder that helps deal with that. Ah well, such is life in Chemo City. I asked friends to fill in for me on days like this. One such is Julie P., a woman I met when we worked for the same publishing house twenty-some years ago. Julie went on to work for the Los Angeles Times and Forbes Magazine. Today she lives and freelances in San Francisco, Calif.
I’m filling in for Juli while she’s having chemo treatments. I was touched that she would ask.
I have to confess, my reaction when I heard of Juli’s diagnosis was all too standard: shock that a friend—a contemporary—had cancer. After all if Juli, who had been healthy, took care of herself, and looked at least ten years younger than her actual age, could get cancer what about me? Compared to JC, I’m a slacker. Mine was a typical boomer reaction, both narcissistic and delusional. (How can we get sick? We’re not that old.)
Never mind that the Bay Area reports a higher than average rate of breast cancer, one that scientists still insist is mere coincidence. And that cancer runs in both my mother and father’s families. My paternal grandmother died of pancreatic cancer when she was only forty-seven. Her daughter, my aunt, received a clean bill of health at her annual physical only to discover a few months later that cancer cells in her cervix had spread to liver and would kill her before the age of fifty. And, six years ago I cared for my mother, a non-smoker, who was terminally ill with lung cancer. Her longtime doctor had said her coughing spells were due to asthma; by the time cancer was found she had only months to live.
So I have more than a passing acquaintance with cancer. I have seen the terror in the eyes of those who are diagnosed, how it devastates the body, and I have felt that strange mixture of relief and grief when a loved one dies of this ugly disease. I remember when a hospice doctor asked me if my mother had made peace with death. The man was young and earnest and I liked him. But his question made me angry. No, she hasn’t made peace with it, I told him. She wants to live and she thinks if she prays hard enough she will have a miracle and be spared. The young doctor backed away. I don’t know whether he was shocked by my answer or the ferocity with which it was delivered. He wanted my mother to have a tidy end. As her daughter and one of a clan of fierce women, I knew she would not go quietly.
So how do I explain that I had my first mammography this year at the age of fifty, even though my health insurance would have paid for screenings after forty? I rationalized that since no one in my family had been diagnosed with breast cancer, I was safe. I have since discovered that most women diagnosed with breast cancer have no family background of the disease. Juli who is more sensible than I when it comes to her health, caught the cancer in its earliest stage and her prognosis is good. I will cheer her on as she undergoes treatment and I will take better care of my own health. I will not let my dumb luck run out. I owe it to my husband, a kind and loving man, and my nine-year-old daughter who has yet to hear all the stories of our fierce women.
I’m filling in for Juli while she’s having chemo treatments. I was touched that she would ask.
I have to confess, my reaction when I heard of Juli’s diagnosis was all too standard: shock that a friend—a contemporary—had cancer. After all if Juli, who had been healthy, took care of herself, and looked at least ten years younger than her actual age, could get cancer what about me? Compared to JC, I’m a slacker. Mine was a typical boomer reaction, both narcissistic and delusional. (How can we get sick? We’re not that old.)
Never mind that the Bay Area reports a higher than average rate of breast cancer, one that scientists still insist is mere coincidence. And that cancer runs in both my mother and father’s families. My paternal grandmother died of pancreatic cancer when she was only forty-seven. Her daughter, my aunt, received a clean bill of health at her annual physical only to discover a few months later that cancer cells in her cervix had spread to liver and would kill her before the age of fifty. And, six years ago I cared for my mother, a non-smoker, who was terminally ill with lung cancer. Her longtime doctor had said her coughing spells were due to asthma; by the time cancer was found she had only months to live.
So I have more than a passing acquaintance with cancer. I have seen the terror in the eyes of those who are diagnosed, how it devastates the body, and I have felt that strange mixture of relief and grief when a loved one dies of this ugly disease. I remember when a hospice doctor asked me if my mother had made peace with death. The man was young and earnest and I liked him. But his question made me angry. No, she hasn’t made peace with it, I told him. She wants to live and she thinks if she prays hard enough she will have a miracle and be spared. The young doctor backed away. I don’t know whether he was shocked by my answer or the ferocity with which it was delivered. He wanted my mother to have a tidy end. As her daughter and one of a clan of fierce women, I knew she would not go quietly.
So how do I explain that I had my first mammography this year at the age of fifty, even though my health insurance would have paid for screenings after forty? I rationalized that since no one in my family had been diagnosed with breast cancer, I was safe. I have since discovered that most women diagnosed with breast cancer have no family background of the disease. Juli who is more sensible than I when it comes to her health, caught the cancer in its earliest stage and her prognosis is good. I will cheer her on as she undergoes treatment and I will take better care of my own health. I will not let my dumb luck run out. I owe it to my husband, a kind and loving man, and my nine-year-old daughter who has yet to hear all the stories of our fierce women.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
When I was a child my family lived for a time in northern Maine. Once in a while little carnivals would come around. Pitched in a field on the edge of town, their amusement rides were rickety, their animals bedraggled, and their trappings slightly tatty. We loved every bit of it.
One thing I recall in particular were the “sideshow” exhibits, which are probably illegal today. They featured—invariably—the bearded lady, a two-headed boy, and pygmies with snakes. I expected, on my first day of chemotherapy for breast cancer, to feel a bit like the sideshow freak. “Step right up. See the diseased lady hooked up to the IV. Watch her dance around the room in delirium.”
Well, yesterday’s treatment wasn’t anything like that. From the start, the nurses and doctors were all fun and cracking wise. Everyone on the floor was there for the same purpose and was extremely kind. My husband, with his relaxed sense of humor, stayed with me all day. And it was a long one. We were there nearly six hours.
I did get off to a rocky start, I have to admit. When my nurse couldn’t find a good vein for the IV and had to remove it, I cried. My oncology doctor came in and asked how I was doing. “Terrible,” I told him. “I hate every bit of this, every step of the way. I still resent that this has happened to me.” My husband lightened up the mood by telling a funny story. When the treatments began we were all smiling. That’s the kind of day it was--up and down.
The actual treatments through the IV were all in clear bags and looked like gels. The slow drip began with a saline solution to flush things out. This was followed by Pepcid, to guard against acid reflux from the chemo. The next drip-drip was a mixture of steroids and sleep agent (go figure). Actually, the steroid was to reduce inflammation in the body. The sleep agent was to relax the patient for the chemotherapy drugs, which were delivered last. Along the way, the nurse explained a lot of things, gave me a two-pocket folder of information, and sent in a pharmacist to explain the raft of pills I was to take home. So far, the day after chemo, the only pill I’ve taken is Tylenol. Hooray!
I am a bit woozy, my face and neck are flushed from the steroids, and I’ve visited the bathroom a few more times than normal. I also keep looking around in a sort of paranoia. When do the other possible symptoms show up? The doctor talked about mouth sores, discoloration of skin and nails, hair loss, nausea, vomiting, rash, fever, fatigue, fluid retention, low blood cell counts, shortness of breath, poor appetite, bladder irritation and bleeding.*
I’m to use an electric razor, so as not to nick the skin and cause infection. I’m to avoid crowds and gatherings where I might catch a cold. Yet, the nurse said they don’t want me to “live in a bubble.” Ha! And happy holidays to you, too!
*Today's blog may contain more information than some want to know. I’ve included it because part of the reason for the blog is to help anyone newly diagnosed with breast cancer. One really has no idea what to expect. It is, indeed, a life changing event.
One thing I recall in particular were the “sideshow” exhibits, which are probably illegal today. They featured—invariably—the bearded lady, a two-headed boy, and pygmies with snakes. I expected, on my first day of chemotherapy for breast cancer, to feel a bit like the sideshow freak. “Step right up. See the diseased lady hooked up to the IV. Watch her dance around the room in delirium.”
Well, yesterday’s treatment wasn’t anything like that. From the start, the nurses and doctors were all fun and cracking wise. Everyone on the floor was there for the same purpose and was extremely kind. My husband, with his relaxed sense of humor, stayed with me all day. And it was a long one. We were there nearly six hours.
I did get off to a rocky start, I have to admit. When my nurse couldn’t find a good vein for the IV and had to remove it, I cried. My oncology doctor came in and asked how I was doing. “Terrible,” I told him. “I hate every bit of this, every step of the way. I still resent that this has happened to me.” My husband lightened up the mood by telling a funny story. When the treatments began we were all smiling. That’s the kind of day it was--up and down.
The actual treatments through the IV were all in clear bags and looked like gels. The slow drip began with a saline solution to flush things out. This was followed by Pepcid, to guard against acid reflux from the chemo. The next drip-drip was a mixture of steroids and sleep agent (go figure). Actually, the steroid was to reduce inflammation in the body. The sleep agent was to relax the patient for the chemotherapy drugs, which were delivered last. Along the way, the nurse explained a lot of things, gave me a two-pocket folder of information, and sent in a pharmacist to explain the raft of pills I was to take home. So far, the day after chemo, the only pill I’ve taken is Tylenol. Hooray!
I am a bit woozy, my face and neck are flushed from the steroids, and I’ve visited the bathroom a few more times than normal. I also keep looking around in a sort of paranoia. When do the other possible symptoms show up? The doctor talked about mouth sores, discoloration of skin and nails, hair loss, nausea, vomiting, rash, fever, fatigue, fluid retention, low blood cell counts, shortness of breath, poor appetite, bladder irritation and bleeding.*
I’m to use an electric razor, so as not to nick the skin and cause infection. I’m to avoid crowds and gatherings where I might catch a cold. Yet, the nurse said they don’t want me to “live in a bubble.” Ha! And happy holidays to you, too!
*Today's blog may contain more information than some want to know. I’ve included it because part of the reason for the blog is to help anyone newly diagnosed with breast cancer. One really has no idea what to expect. It is, indeed, a life changing event.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
We are fortunate, here in the San Francisco Bay Area, to have access to some of the most brilliant minds and research centers in the world. This week, I was lucky to be able to meet with Dr. Frank Stockdale, co-founder of Stanford University’s Combined Modalities Breast Cancer Program in Palo Alto, Calif.
The time spent with Dr. Stockdale, whose focus has been on breast cancer for the past forty-two years, answered many questions, raised even more, and went by much too quickly. I would’ve loved to have spent some time asking why, for example, the incidence of this cancer is high in some parts of the country and not in others. Much of what we discussed had to do with my particular case. But there were some items of broader interest.
I asked why breast cancer comes. Dr. Stockdale said, “Most, eighty-five percent, are sporadic. There is no reason.” This much researchers do know: The mammary glands are stimulated to grow with the estrogen (menstrual) cycle. After the cycle, the glands regress. After so many cycles of growth and regression, little errors in the DNA can creep in. These errors are replicated each time the glandular cells grow and shrink back. The end result can be cancer—the more cycles, the more years of growth and regression, and the higher the chance for errors to creep into the DNA.
I wondered whether birth control pills could cause breast cancer. Doctor Stockdale said there is no evidence to suggest they have an effect on breast cancer. He said, “They do probably prevent cancer of the ovary.”
Can a breast cancer patient ever really be cured, I wanted to know, or is there always a chance it will return? His answer was, “There’s always a chance it will come back. But you markedly reduce those chances by taking treatment now. If you look at the national data on deaths from breast cancer, since about 1985 they’ve been going way down. The only real explanation for that is adjuvant treatment because the disease is the same disease.”*
“I think you’re going to be cured,” he told me. “Your chances are approximately between eighty-five and ninety percent. That’s pretty good for a serious disease.”
Thank you, Dr. Stockdale. I’m glad for the opportunity to meet with you.
*Adjuvant therapy usually refers to hormonal therapy, chemotherapy, radiation therapy, or immunotherapy added after surgery to increase the chances of curing the disease or minimizing symptoms. Source: www.healthsystem.virginia.edu/uvahealth/peds_oncology/glossary.cfm
The time spent with Dr. Stockdale, whose focus has been on breast cancer for the past forty-two years, answered many questions, raised even more, and went by much too quickly. I would’ve loved to have spent some time asking why, for example, the incidence of this cancer is high in some parts of the country and not in others. Much of what we discussed had to do with my particular case. But there were some items of broader interest.
I asked why breast cancer comes. Dr. Stockdale said, “Most, eighty-five percent, are sporadic. There is no reason.” This much researchers do know: The mammary glands are stimulated to grow with the estrogen (menstrual) cycle. After the cycle, the glands regress. After so many cycles of growth and regression, little errors in the DNA can creep in. These errors are replicated each time the glandular cells grow and shrink back. The end result can be cancer—the more cycles, the more years of growth and regression, and the higher the chance for errors to creep into the DNA.
I wondered whether birth control pills could cause breast cancer. Doctor Stockdale said there is no evidence to suggest they have an effect on breast cancer. He said, “They do probably prevent cancer of the ovary.”
Can a breast cancer patient ever really be cured, I wanted to know, or is there always a chance it will return? His answer was, “There’s always a chance it will come back. But you markedly reduce those chances by taking treatment now. If you look at the national data on deaths from breast cancer, since about 1985 they’ve been going way down. The only real explanation for that is adjuvant treatment because the disease is the same disease.”*
“I think you’re going to be cured,” he told me. “Your chances are approximately between eighty-five and ninety percent. That’s pretty good for a serious disease.”
Thank you, Dr. Stockdale. I’m glad for the opportunity to meet with you.
*Adjuvant therapy usually refers to hormonal therapy, chemotherapy, radiation therapy, or immunotherapy added after surgery to increase the chances of curing the disease or minimizing symptoms. Source: www.healthsystem.virginia.edu/uvahealth/peds_oncology/glossary.cfm
Saturday, December 5, 2009
A good neighbor, Chris, is of Dutch ancestry. She’s been following the fears I have posted on this blog related to undergoing chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer. She sent me the message below through e-mail. I shall take it to heart.
One of the last things my dad wrote (he died at age 93) was found in a notebook. My brother framed it, and I have it on the wall in my office. The saying, in Dutch, seems to rhyme and so Dad must have remembered it from somewhere (he had a pretty good memory for such things). I asked the priest at St. John’s in Ross, Calif. if it was a biblical reference about God not allowing us to bear more burdens than we could undertake. But the priest said he was not familiar with such a reference, and Fra Bart had a fantastic memory. I have a bible with cross references for specific words and I could not find anything quite like this saying under “burdens.”
“Een mens lijd dikwijla het meest,
door het lijden dat hij vreest,
dus heeft hij meer te dragen
dan God te dragen geeft.
Een leed dat is, is niet zoo zwaar
dan vrees voor allerei gevaar,
en komt het eens in huis
dan help God altijd mee te dragen naar zijn kruis.”
“A person's burden is often heaviest
for the suffering that he fears
thus he has more to bear
than God can give.
A sorrow that is, is not as heavy
than dreading all sorts of peril,
and if it once comes home
then God always helps one to bear the cross.”
One of the last things my dad wrote (he died at age 93) was found in a notebook. My brother framed it, and I have it on the wall in my office. The saying, in Dutch, seems to rhyme and so Dad must have remembered it from somewhere (he had a pretty good memory for such things). I asked the priest at St. John’s in Ross, Calif. if it was a biblical reference about God not allowing us to bear more burdens than we could undertake. But the priest said he was not familiar with such a reference, and Fra Bart had a fantastic memory. I have a bible with cross references for specific words and I could not find anything quite like this saying under “burdens.”
“Een mens lijd dikwijla het meest,
door het lijden dat hij vreest,
dus heeft hij meer te dragen
dan God te dragen geeft.
Een leed dat is, is niet zoo zwaar
dan vrees voor allerei gevaar,
en komt het eens in huis
dan help God altijd mee te dragen naar zijn kruis.”
“A person's burden is often heaviest
for the suffering that he fears
thus he has more to bear
than God can give.
A sorrow that is, is not as heavy
than dreading all sorts of peril,
and if it once comes home
then God always helps one to bear the cross.”
Friday, December 4, 2009
I asked several friends in my writers' circle to guest blog for me as I recover from chemotherapy treatments. Though my treatments begin next week, I find myself too agitated and unfocused to compose much today. So I'm running the first guest blog. It's from my friend Keri, an award-winning reporter I met seven years ago.
Today I started a new program, “29 gifts in 29 days (www.29gifts.org).” I have to give away something—anything—to someone else at least once a day for twenty-nine days. And I’m supposed to journal about it, and also keep a “gratitude” list.
I won’t go into why I would need such a program—that’s probably a topic for my own blog (soon to appear at www.KeriBrennerCommunications.com). Suffice it to say that my daily life’s “background soundtrack” has been focusing too much lately on what I perceive as my lack or failure or problems. By focusing on giving, I hope to turn off the negative feed and instead add juice to the part of me that is abundant and has something to offer.
So Juli, my dear fellow writer friend for the last seven years, the first gift goes to you: this blog post. You invited me to be a guest blogger for The Still Voice while you are recovering from chemotherapy, and I agreed. So the timing of this gift feels perfect.
Juli, I am so struck by your clear and passionate writing, as well as by your courage in facing your breast cancer diagnosis head-on and with a determination to be proactive in your treatment and your research. But, even you had some doubts about my e-mail recommendation that I was “sending you white light.” What was that, anyway, you asked?
Here’s my best extremely technical scientific answer: white light is the opposite of worry. I’m not sending you worry thoughts; I’m sending white light.
In my understanding of the world, thoughts are the energetic seeds that grow the stuff of physical reality. If your thoughts are full of worry, then you create more worry in the world. Thoughts of white light are for love, good health, abundance, happiness and joy.
I tell my mother in Philadelphia this all the time. When she says, “I’m worried about you,” I tell her, “Don’t send me worry; send me white light.” It took a while to convince her. But now, she does.
And so, in turn, do I to you.
Today I started a new program, “29 gifts in 29 days (www.29gifts.org).” I have to give away something—anything—to someone else at least once a day for twenty-nine days. And I’m supposed to journal about it, and also keep a “gratitude” list.
I won’t go into why I would need such a program—that’s probably a topic for my own blog (soon to appear at www.KeriBrennerCommunications.com). Suffice it to say that my daily life’s “background soundtrack” has been focusing too much lately on what I perceive as my lack or failure or problems. By focusing on giving, I hope to turn off the negative feed and instead add juice to the part of me that is abundant and has something to offer.
So Juli, my dear fellow writer friend for the last seven years, the first gift goes to you: this blog post. You invited me to be a guest blogger for The Still Voice while you are recovering from chemotherapy, and I agreed. So the timing of this gift feels perfect.
Juli, I am so struck by your clear and passionate writing, as well as by your courage in facing your breast cancer diagnosis head-on and with a determination to be proactive in your treatment and your research. But, even you had some doubts about my e-mail recommendation that I was “sending you white light.” What was that, anyway, you asked?
Here’s my best extremely technical scientific answer: white light is the opposite of worry. I’m not sending you worry thoughts; I’m sending white light.
In my understanding of the world, thoughts are the energetic seeds that grow the stuff of physical reality. If your thoughts are full of worry, then you create more worry in the world. Thoughts of white light are for love, good health, abundance, happiness and joy.
I tell my mother in Philadelphia this all the time. When she says, “I’m worried about you,” I tell her, “Don’t send me worry; send me white light.” It took a while to convince her. But now, she does.
And so, in turn, do I to you.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Recently I e-mailed a friend that beginning chemotherapy treatments on Pearl Harbor Day felt like going to one’s doom. She wrote back, “No, no, no. Pearl Harbor Day was the beginning of our fight against the enemy. Look at it that way.”
I can’t help it. When the treatment prescribed for a condition spawns whole books on likely side effects and how to manage them, I still say it feels like doom. The National Cancer Institute (NCI) has produced one such publication. It’s called Chemotherapy and You. This little book lists nineteen potential side effects. Here they are:
I can’t help it. When the treatment prescribed for a condition spawns whole books on likely side effects and how to manage them, I still say it feels like doom. The National Cancer Institute (NCI) has produced one such publication. It’s called Chemotherapy and You. This little book lists nineteen potential side effects. Here they are:
- Anemia
- Appetite changes
- Bleeding
- Constipation
- Diarrhea
- Fatigue
- Flu-like symptoms
- Fluid retention
- Hair loss
- Infection
- Infertility
- Mouth and throat changes
- Nausea and vomiting
- Nervous system changes
- Pain
- Sexual changes
- Skin and nail changes
- Eye changes
- Urinary, kidney, and bladder changes
According to the booklet, some types of chemotherapy cause anemia because they make it harder for bone marrow to produce new red blood cells. The red blood cells carry oxygen throughout the body.
As my regimen calls for shots to be administered to boost the white blood cells, I think the white cell count is more of a worry. White cells are part of the immune system and fight infection. Apparently, about seven to fourteen days after treatment, the white cell count will be at its lowest. Fatigue and depression are common around this time. After this drop in the white cells, their numbers improve until the count is nearly back to normal. Then it’s time for the next treatment. This is, according to my oncologist, part of the reason why taking chemotherapy puts people on an emotional roller coaster.
Appetite changes can occur due to nausea, because the chemotherapy can make the mouth and throat feel sore, or because the recipient is depressed or tired. Ways to manage this include: Eating smaller meals or snacks instead of three big meals a day; drinking milkshakes, smoothies, juice, or soup; and using plastic forks and spoons. This last one surprised me. Some kinds of chemo leave a metal taste in the patient’s mouth, according to the NCI. Eating with plastic can help decrease the metal taste. Cooking in glass pots and pans is also said to help.
I’ve dealt only briefly with the first two side effects, and already I’m scaring myself. I’ll write about the other side effects another time.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
A friend recently gave me a Reader’s Digest cookbook called Eat Well, Stay Well. There is a two-page table in it that lists foods that fight illness. Of course, the foods that fight cancer are of interest to me, so I’ve listed them here:
- Orange and yellow vegetables, which include tomatoes, red bell peppers, and chilies.
- Dark leafy greens.
- Cabbage family vegetables (broccoli, Brussels sprouts, cauliflower).
- Garlic and onions.
- Orange fruits (apricots and nectarines), citrus (including red grapefruit).
- Berries, grapes, watermelon.
- Whole grains.
- Legumes (especially soy) and nuts.
- Seafood.
- Lean poultry.
- Low-fat dairy products.
According to the table, the foods on the above list supply beta-carotene, lycopene, indoles, ellagic acid, other phytochemicals, folate, vitamins C and E, calcium, selenium, and omega-3 fatty acids. I’m the first to admit that about the only thing that’s familiar to me in all this are the vitamins C and E, and calcium. Okay, I have heard of omega-3 fatty acids (found in fish). But as for the rest, I will look up indoles and ellagic acid at a later date.
Somehow, it doesn’t seem right. I’ve eaten copious quantities of most everything on the list (save for watermelon, yuck), and I’m not so fond of broccoli. But I’ve consumed more than my fair share of the rest. Never smoked, don’t drink, take walks every day. Eat healthy, live healthy, die anyway. Or get cancer anyway, as the case may be.
I think, had I known that I would end up with breast cancer in my middle age, I might have done some wilder things in my youth. Maybe I would have smoked pot or dropped acid. Naw, probably not. One can’t fight one’s own nature—especially if it’s a conservative nature. But I could have shopped more often, laughed more loudly, and done more things with wild abandon. Come to think of it, I still can. Once this cancer war is won, watch out world here I come!
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