Like a running back

Watching football today, with all the players wearing pink and the NFL pushing their breast cancer awareness campaign, made me want to write a special salute for my friends who have been dealing with breast cancer. We all have had different diagnoses and have chosen different solutions. But we all have had to face our fears and the uncertainties this illness brings. At the beginning, we are shocked human beings who can't understand what's happening and can't barely grasp what the doctors are telling us. Then, we become super humans who gather strength and energy from the depths of our hearts and souls to deal with it all. At one point or another, we are told our courage is admired, but we struggle to determine how doing what seems to be our only option is courageous. We simply do what needs to be done. Like those running backs, we hold the ball and push through, because moving forward is the only way. We are all at different stages of our journeys. Some of us are still dealing with medication's side effects, some of us have just finished chemo treatments and some of us have just done a double mastectomy. Some of us are finally getting hair to show! But all of us have leaned on each other. Even when some of you have never met in person, you have sent each other emails and made calls. You have offered solutions, alternatives, and tricks to get through treatments. You have offered encouragement and hope. We were thrown into an undesired vortex that now binds us forever. I am honored to be part of your lives. I can't say I hope the future is easy, because we know it won't. But I hope you never forget how strong you really are. I hope the determination that helped you made it through breast cancer helps you face your day-to-day challenges, realizing that every problem has a solution. The frailty of life, which was made so clear to us, is what makes each of us so precious. Let's never forget that.

Just when I thought it was all over...

A couple of weeks back I had a follow-up appointment with my plastic surgeon. I wanted to know if I was all done with this business of reconstruction. I mentioned I had noticed how the implants sometimes did ripple. This is a common thing to happen -- hard to avoid no matter how good your surgeon is. The silicon and the forces of gravity conspire against you. People can see the rippling when you wear a low-cut dress or a bathing suit, and my attitude was: "I had breast cancer. Too bad, so sad, if people think it's weird." But, when the surgeon told me he could do the procedure in the office and I realized I had met my deductible, I gave it a thought. I knew this was the only time I would actually consider doing this. I just wanted to be done. Leave it all behind. But, here I was, contemplating another surgery. • I decided to do it. If I could have it all "look" normal, I would. Why not. I showed up bright and early at the doctor's office. To tell you the truth, I didn't have time to stress out about this. I scheduled from one day to another and didn't give myself time to fret or agonize over it. When the doctor started injecting the anesthetic was when I started wondering: "What the heck am I doing?" The long story short, the whole thing was surreal. There I was, being performed on, wide awake and with my shoes on. At some point I told the doctor I felt like a CSI character playing a cadaver being autopsied! He laughed, even though he thought it was a bit morbid. But it was true. Was this really happening? The doctor cut two slivers of skin across each of my breasts. There was blood and he was masterly putting me back together. A friend asked me if I didn't pass out. But I truly wasn't feeling anything. It was like having an out of body experience! • However, that afternoon, when it was time to clean the wounds and apply antibiotic, as my husband cleaned and applied, I turned around and faced myself in the mirror. Then I almost passed out. For a couple of long minutes the last two and half years came rushing to my head. I did have breast cancer. My body was assaulted. My mind was challenged and tested. I thought it was all behind, but no. Here it was all in my head again. Rushing in every cell in my blood to my head. • I didn't pass out, and my husband just held me there. Both feeling the pain we had experienced and had thought was gone. But we, I, survived. The next day we went to California for our scheduled soccer game trip. By then, my brain had decided we weren't going to worry about it. The last two years were over. We were done. That's it. Clean this mess and pack your bags. We are moving. Tomorrow is another day.

My friend. My sister.

I'd like to dedicate today's entry to my friend Britt who today went through surgery to remove a cancerous lump from her breast. When she called me with the news I remembered exactly how frightening the world was when I was told I had breast cancer. Your heart stops and you go into a numbness that you can't explain. "This can't be happening," you say to yourself. But it is. And when all is said and done, you've become a master in your illness and the true challenge begins: Moving on. There are so many things that can go wrong, so many factors that affect your life now, that you find yourself looking in so many directions until you go dizzy. And if you are like me, always anticipating and trying to be prepared for the future, the task is overwhelming. The options, the choices, the not-one-answer-fits-all routine, all is confusing and not helpful. Why did I chose to do a double mastectomy? Why other women don't? How does this affect the future – MY future? There are no standard answers. To me, it made sense to get rid of it all. To other women, breast conservation was a viable option. At the end, we are all left with the consequences of our own decisions. My reconstruction process has been going on since the mastectomy: two years in May. It is still ongoing. Last week I had a second hand of ink. Tattooing ink... And as much as I'd like to say I am going a little crazy getting a tattoo, the truth is that this is the cherry on the top of the reconstruction process. One more treatment and I will be officially done. At least for a decade or so, because the implants are not for life... But, as with anything else, at that point I will just have to do what I have to do and move on. So, despite the sour taste of surgeries and unexpected side effects, Britt, we only have one choice: To push through. You are my sister now, not just a friend. We will have each other to support and to cheer. We will compare notes and ask questions. We will overcome this challenge, no matter what, no matter when. Together we are stronger. Together we will survive.

Pumping Iron

So, this week I went to the gym for the first time since the surgeries. Big deal, you'd say, but really, it was a milestone. Since my latissimus dorsi muscles were repositioned, I had realized that now my chest was part of many movements involving my arms. I knew that, but somehow the weight exercises made me feel strange and were a clear reminder of how my body is no longer what it used to be. How could I explain this? Imagine that every time you do a pull or a push with your arms, a wide, tight elastic band around your chest would contract and release with each movement. Not only was I wondering, "Hm, should I even be doing this exercise?" but I was also hoping nobody noticed my chest pumping iron! You have no idea how weird this is. Before my surgery, one of the assistants at the surgeons office, who is also a breast cancer survivor, showed me how she could make her breast move on command (remember, now there is a muscle attached to the breast). We all laughed about it and made jokes, but now that I can do it myself, well, it's funny in a not so funny way. It's not like I can go around showing everybody my new trick, right? • Stuff like this still catches me off guard. Every time I think I am moving on with having had breast cancer something pops (no pun intended) to remind me that, if I am moving on, I am taking this along. No leaving behind, no forgetting about it. It's more like learning to live WITH it and learning to deal with all its byproducts. Sometimes I am okay with it, sometimes I am not. But, for the time being, I will continue going to the gym — who knows what other tricks I may learn!

Life is never easy

The death of a friend of mine yesterday struck me right in the middle of my heart. The fact that it was breast cancer what killed her makes it even worse. She was my age, we went to the university together and worked together at the local newspaper. She was a beautiful girl with big, bright eyes, whose innocent look had all the boys in love with her. Ah! how many times we talked about boys! • The last time I saw her was at the hospital. In México, if you are in a public hospital you cannot have visitors. So, a nurse friend of my family practically snuck me in to her room. After one year, the cancer had come back. The surgery was brutal, yet, there she was, smiling and happy that I was there. I was yet to be diagnosed myself, so I really didn't know what she was going through, as I would later. She was like: "Can you believe this?" No, I couldn't, and her husband couldn't either. A year before, the doctors had actually found a tumor in that breast first, but after a few months it had disappeared and appeared in the other. They decided to take out only that breast, instead of the two... • After that last meeting, we exchanged phone calls, emails and Facebook messages about alternative medicine, the power of staying positive, and about believing God would deliver. I seem to be having those conversations every other day with many other girlfriends now. We all wish we could hear our bodies when they tell us we are sick. Half the time we don't know why we feel ill, much less what to do to heal ourselves. My friend's death reminds me how fragile life is, and at the same time, of the fullness with which we must live all our days. We can't afford not to. • But for now, my heart aches. The sadness that invades me is like a cold draft that penetrates my bones. She is gone and, I am sure of this, in a better place. A place where there are no pills to take, no hair to lose, no bones that ache, no uncertainties, no questions unanswered. Be at peace, my friend. Your memory will always be with me.

The cover

When Chris asked me if I would agree to be the October cover of Reno magazine my response was: "I don't think so." They were looking for a breast cancer awareness month cover. I told her I was sure there were other women out there who were much better cover stories than me. But Geralda called me and wouldn't take no for an answer. That's what friends are for! So, here I am, the October cover of Reno magazine. I had never been a cover story like this before, where a really cool photographer comes to your house and spends a good chunk of the day taking photos of you and the reporter sits to talk to you for a couple of hours. I really never know what to say when I am being interviewed. As much as I always have an opinion about stuff, I am not very good at speaking on the record. So, it really was a great thing that Geralda was writing the story, because she is an awesome writer who can make sense of anything, including me. • Besides the first OMG-reaction: I am on the cover of a magazine! — and after being thankful for Photoshop and airbrushing techniques, I was absolutely flattered and honored. I don't know if I am a good role model, or if I am courageous enough, but I know there are times when your only option is to move forward. And I so wish all women battling breast cancer (or any other cancer or illness, for that matter) are able to do what it takes to do so. We can't afford to think about ALL possible consequences and alternative case scenarios. We can only take one step at a time and imagine a world free of cancer and illness in front of us. I encourage everyone to not be afraid to ask for help, and to BE of help to a friend in need. A beautiful world is made of an accumulation of small, kind acts. Make sure you add your part.

Let the Race begin

Last night a friend of mine and I attended the team party for the Susan Komen Race For the Cure. It was very lively and the organizers did a great job rallying everybody. This year I registered a team called Life Curves, named, obviously, after this blog. And I would love it if you all decided to join my team! Last year's top fundraiser was Tim Jitloff. Some of you skiers from Nevada may recognize the name, he participated in the Vancouver Olympics last February. So, as of right now, we are only second to him! isn't that cool? I hold no dreams of being in this position too long. Last year he raised more than $7,000!
But I would be so honored and excited if all my friends, close and far, joined my team! 75% of the money raised stays in Northern Nevada and the rest goes to research. I hope some day cancer is no longer an illness we fear. Any type of cancer.

Also, I would like some suggestions for the team slogan. I was thinking something like "LIFE CURVES--Because you have to hit anything that comes your way, and win!" what do you guys think? I am not very good at this stuff, so I will gladly accept much more cool ideas!!

Thank you for your friendship and your support. Let's scratch year one down.

http://komennorthnv2010rftc.kintera.org/

Year One

Today a year ago it was confirmed that I had a cancerous tumor in my left breast. It is hard to believe it has been a year already. In a way, 2009 moved very slowly. All I remember is being on a daze for most parts. The anguish of making the decision to have a double mastectomy and the feeling of loss was overwhelming. The process of reconstruction has been long and painful. At the end of January I had the last full-blown surgery and, even thought this was supposed to be the easiest surgery of all, I found it harder to bounce back. It could've been the cumulative effect of surgeries, anesthesia and all that, but it seemed like both my body and my mind were simply exhausted. The lack of sleep caused by anxiety or medications (or both) rendered me even more vulnerable. I couldn't cope with the minimum amount of pain. Because, yes, there was new and more pain. In an effort to smooth out some tissue bumps under my arms, I have now two scars about 5 inches long that run from my beautiful new breasts towards my back. Those scars, although progressing as they should, to me they are taking too long to heal and make it difficult to sleep comfortably. My back and my shoulders and my neck have weakened, and it all becomes a vicious circle. I am in pain so I don't exercise, and I don't exercise because I am in pain. I sometimes feel angry that I feel so weak. It takes all I have to bring me back to a place where I can face one day at a time and not feel distressed. And although sometimes not very graciously, I have learned to find strength from every corner of myself and my environment. I have found friends in the most unexpected places, and I have been blessed with love and support from all the people who surround me, my home, my workplace, the organizations my husband and I volunteer at, even from people I have never met. So, at the year one mark, I want to thank you all, family, friends, supporters, care givers, cheerleaders all, for being here for me through this difficult time. You have given me the support to keep going. • I won't be diagnosed cancer free until four more years from now, and I know there will be other rough patches on the road. But for right now, I am hopeful and grateful.

The cherry on the top

Tuesday at 6 a.m. I go in for reconstruction surgery part 2. This surgery has elicited many jokes from both husband and close friends, although the whole thing is not really that funny. You see, when one has a mastectomy, the whole breast is removed. After the implants are put in place, the boobs are in place as well, but that's it. Smooth, perfect-to-wear-without-a-bra boobs. So now it's time for the lights to be turned on. You can only imagine why this can be funny. :) I am a little anxious before the surgery, but I am not nearly as obsessed with the details as I was with the previous surgeries. And I really don't know why. I figure the surgeon has done this a million times and I can just let him do the best job he can. How does the surgeon form a new nipple? Imagine an incision similar to a three-leaf clover, where the two side leaves fold toward each other to form the cylinder and the top one to cover the top. Then he fills the inside of the cylinder with skin grafts and some other fatty tissue, and sows it all back together. After 6 months or so, when the skin has completely healed, the aureola is tatooed on, and then the job is finished. Or at least until it's time to replace the implants, because, you know, they don't last a lifetime. I figure I should really consider running for Ms. Senior Nevada, given the odds that I will be a perky 80-year old...

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The left. And the right.

It's two days before the surgery. My shoulders hurt more than usual but it could all be work related. Nothing like being on deadline to take your mind off thoughts of cancer and surgeries. Seriously. My therapist last week pointed out that my brain was clearly in overdrive, so much so that she could see it spinning around all the way from across the room. Earlier this year I learned how my left brain tends to take over my body as a mad wedding planner. It's amazing: always thinking, rationalizing, analyzing, thinking strategy, plans of attack, exit strategies.... the whole deal. And apparently the right brain is a bit suffocated. All I want to say is: "Dude, wake up! fight for your turn! I have no time to make special accommodations for you. If you don't speak up, don't blame me. I just live here." • As you can imagine, lately I have been a bit exhausted. It's hard to figure out how to take what's happening to my body and what's coming. As far as I understand, cervical dysplasia is quite common. Several of the women I know have had it and have had the same, or a similar procedure, done. (By the way, I have to note that in my last blog I incorrectly named the procedure. The correct name is LEEP, for loop electrosurgical excision procedure.) On the other hand, the beheading of the ovary is not as common, it seems. I was reading some women get emotional distress after having this done. It's interesting how you get attached to your organs, isn't it? What bugs me the most about a lot of these issues is that the common practice is to just take the parts out. But then you are on your own when it comes to deal with all the consequences for the rest of your life. Particularly with the female reproductive organs. The feel I get from the doctors is: "You are alive. You don't have cancer. Just put up with whatever happens afterwards." Is it just me or there's something wrong with that picture? Why are we always told to just deal with it? And why do we DO that? As I told my other oncologist, the medical community doesn't seem to be extremely helpful to women dealing with after-the-excision type of issues. Most women I know have found help, relief or new ideas on how to best deal with things from other women, not their doctors. It seems like you have to acquire your own internet medical degree in order to take care of yourself. Otherwise you are on your own. It's pretty scary. • So, here I am, trying to figure out the best way to say goodbye to my loyal right ovary. "I really didn't want to do this, but the doctor insists..." "Look at it this way: no more bleeding!" or "Well, it's not like I could afford to get pregnant now!" I am really trying not to think about what will happen and what could happen, but, like I said, the left brain has taken over. God save the right.

Detour ahead

A few days back I was thinking I needed to update my blog, and I remember thinking that I really didn't have much to add keeping in line with the original theme. So, I started thinking possible ways to re-route, if you will, my blog. Well, today I had an appointment with the gynecologist who would be monitoring me in regards of the effects of Tamoxifen in other parts of my body. As it turns out, it seems I have pre-cancerous cells in my cervix. So the theme stands, unfortunately. • The shock of the news was not a new feeling. It seemed all too familiar, yet I still didn't know what to think. It's interesting how your mind works in situations like these. My brain was defiant: "This is not going to get me. Been here, done that. Cancer is not going to get the best out of me." Yet my body was terrified. "Now, what?" The doctor described the procedure (which is at the hospital but out patient) as coring an apple. "Nice thought," I thought. The good news is that if the margins are clear, I am okay. Sounds familiar? I started to think my body was playing a nasty joke on me. But I am just not in the mood for jokes. Now, I feel like I felt several weeks ago: confused and tired. Very tired. I am still exhausted from the last ordeal and I really don't have much energy to face anything like this, but, I have no choice. I will have to. So, detour ahead.

Anticipation

Tomorrow is my birthday. Not a milestone in the number, but definitely one that feels different. It's hard not to think about all those sayings asking you to enjoy the present day because you don't know what you'll have tomorrow. I never thought to be on this road. About four or so years ago a few friends were eating dinner at my house. When the conversation turned about breast cancer, one of them said: "What the statistics say, is that one of us (we were eight) will have breast cancer." I remember wondering who would that be. So, I got the short stick, and here I am. First thing on birthday morning I go to see the surgeon so he can take some sutures off. My breasts are much more comfortable with the implants than they were with the expanders, but the pain hasn't disappeared. I really try not to think about it as much, but it's really tiresome to every day, every hour, every minute, every night, feel the stinking pain. Of course it is not as bad as it was, but it is. At least the rest of my body has decided to move on and pretends the pain isn't there. My head is clear and yesterday I was able to ride my stationary bike for half hour at a strong pace. I am looking forward to PT again next week. Eighty percent of my body is so ready to move on! I am starting to crave perfect nights where I sleep the whole night and I am not sore moving myself around the bed. I don't know when that's going to happen. But I am ready. This birthday is a different one, for sure. But, then again, I am alive, celebrating.

Four days after surgery

A friend of mine who had the second surgery the same week I had my first, told me this one was a piece of cake...compared to the first one. And she was right. The experience at the hospital was different because last time I passed out before they even took me out of the waiting area. And I didn't wake up until I had been in my room for almost four hours! This time I even moved myself to the operating table and centered myself on it ("Grab the edges of the table and center your butt on the table," said the anesthesiologist). That was the last thing I remember until I woke up in the recovery room. These experiences are a bit frightening, and waking up after anesthesia is just weird. But, in the end, surgery went well. And after battling a little with my high blood pressure, they sent me home Friday around 1 pm or so. Now I have to wait two weeks before I can do light exercise with my arms (I hope typing is considered less than light exercise...) and when I see the surgeon this week I'll find out when can I drive again. The other thing that is interesting, is that the pain in my chest doesn't overwhelm me as much as it did the first time. Even though all day long I am in some kind of pain, the rest of my body feels healthy, and my head is clear. I think being familiar with the pain makes it easier to deal with it now. • My mom goes home tomorrow after being with me since April. This has been the longest she has been away from my dad and the grandchildren. It will be sad not having her around but I consider myself blessed to had been able to enjoy her company and care throughout this mess. There are still other surgeries to think about, but not for three more months at least. Right now I just hope the pain stays down so I can gain some sense of normalcy soon.

Claudia 2.0

The time is here. Thursday is the designated day for my next surgery, the one that will bring you Claudia 2.0. The journey to this date has been a little stressful because I didn't realize I had to schedule the surgery way in advance in order to hit the dates I wanted. But, how would I know. It's not like I do this all the time. So, instead of getting new boobs towards the end of August I get them at the beginning of September, just on time for my birthday. The whole scheduling of the surgery wouldn't be a big deal except I had to change my mom's plane ticket twice, and she is really about to have a nervous melt down. She is so ready to go back home. Taking care of a sick person is harder than anyone can imagine. But I venture to say BEING the sick person is even harder than expected. You continue to feel crummy and tired and upset, whereas the rest of the world has moved on. You are old news, dude. The second half of my recovery has been somewhat more difficult than the first part because of this. The medicine makes my body act and feel in strange ways at random times. One day I am full of energy and the next I can barely move my bones ache so much. The weirdness is sometimes amusing, too, like when my chest went through a few days of random spastic shakes. Have you ever had your leg wake you up at night when it shakes out of the blue? Like that, except this is daytime at the office and it is your chest jumping out of your body, like a bolt of electricity hit them. It's both quite annoying and fascinating. Human bodies are such beautiful, complex machines. I remain amazed to the fact that I have two "dead" spots on my sides, where the lateral dorsi muscle was repositioned, that despite the fact I have very little sensation there, they ache and burn and hurt. How can something you don't feel, hurt? • Today I was listening on NPR's Fresh Air an interview with two young women who had cancer. One of them, Kairol Rosenthal, had a blog entry that really resonated with me. She asked if people (cancer people) liked to be called strong. She says: "I’ve surmounted these challenges not because I’m strong, but because the alternative means dying." She also quotes a woman she interviewed for her book, Everything Changes, who said: “The last thing I want is people cheering me on because I had a disease that I didn’t want, was miserable getting through, and wish I never had. That should not be my moment of fame.” In the last four months I've had many thoughts about this. You feel like you do what you have to do, just because it is the ONLY thing you can do. And when you compare your illness with other people you meet, you realize you are a wimp that barely went through anything worth mentioning. It's hard to feel like a superhero. Yet every day, every morning, every night, you battle the aches, the stiffness, the pain, the tiredness of being tired. The fact is your life changed and now you have to shift with it. There are no other options. I look at my breasts, shaped by two half-inflated bags inside me, watching how the skin has expanded to make room for such foreign objects. What was mine is not there anymore, but my skin did what it had to do: it gave me room for yet two other foreign objects that will replace my own. I am not strong, but I will move on.

The world we live in.

The last few days have been interesting. Two days in a row I had appointments with two oncologists. I had concerns on regards of the effect Tamoxifen (the hormone therapy drug designed to decrease my chances of having the cancer comeback) would have in other parts of my body. The first doctor was a well known gyno/oncologist doctor in town, who, by some accounts, is the best in town. I don't even know how to describe the interview with him. It was the end of the day, he probably was tired, but he had a completed disregard for my concerns and my emotions or worries. His approach was simple and pragmatic. Do you want to be dead or alive? What if you have hot flashes, vaginal dryness, urinary track infections - and at worst, fibroids in the uterus bigger than a 4-month fetus or uterine cancer? Put up with it! (his words). Our goal is to prevent the cancer to come back, so, what if you have to deal with this? • I knew going in that my choices were almost non existent, but I certainly didn't think he could be so dismissive. At one point, when he said the side effects of the drug weren't that bad, I said: "not according to some women I've talked to!" to which he replied that maybe he was being a little insensitive because he wasn't a woman! Just a little? I thought. • The other oncologist didn't have better alternatives for me, but he was at least kind and empathetic. He was willing to look into whatever options I was bringing to the table and to not dismiss my worries as plain stupidity (How could I be worried about hot flashes and vaginal dryness when I could be cured from cancer?!) • But what is really troublesome is not just that I went through this, because my case is possibly one of the best-case scenarios withing the worst (getting cancer), but that other women who have to experience more suffering in order to be cured are dealing with insensitive doctors like this one. Does it really have to be this way? Can't they really understand that you are full of worries, fears, anxiety, and that you're just trying to cope in the best way you can? • And so you realize that this is a journey in which you walk alone on the road, sometimes accompanied, sometimes not. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it's hot, sometimes is pleasant — very much like Forrest Gump when he jogged across the country! Some people stay with you alongside all the time, while some others dropout and go do something else. But you keep on running, because that is all you can do.

Now what?

As time goes by it's harder to write about my cancer battle. The most traumatic experiences seem so long ago (it's been a month since the surgery, almost to the day) that what happens now just doesn't seem blog worthy. • Every day is a new pain, every day has a different challenge to overcome. I wish I didn't have such low tolerance to pain, mainly so I could stop taking pills. • Pain is such an interesting thing. It pokes, pinches, grabs, suffocates, annoys... Waking up with a tight chest and a stiff back is tiresome. It takes me all morning to have a sense of owning my own body. Some days I am not even sure I own my mind, either. And on the days when I get "filled," I can barely move around without pain. When parts of your body have been moved around or taken out, the brain seems to not know what to do. The doctor told me I needed to remember my body was confused, and that as a result my brain was sending me messages that didn't make sense. This makes sense, but there's nothing I can do to help my brain, and that makes things more difficult. • It's amazing how our bodies work to protect themselves and to make everything function the way it should. It's amazing too, how one's mind has to work to help the body figure out a plan B. So, no, that muscle is not there anymore, can we use this other one in place? So, yes, this muscle shouldn't be there, but, can we please make some room and make it look like it does? • And I thought I could have time to rest...

This blogger sucks

I had never had a surgery of this magnitude and now I realize how naive I was thinking I would have all the time in the world to be online (or watch movies, read books and magazines, clean my office desk, etc...) But, here I am, trying to be hipper than what I really am! :) The best news since last week is that my oncologist cleared me from doing chemotherapy. We were SO happy and relieved! Tim and I later shared with each other that in our heads we had decided we weren't doing chemo unless the doctor gave us a reason the size of the world (dying would have been one), but he didn't. The Oncotype dx test done in my tumor revealed I had 7% changes of recurrence, so, based on my complete numbers and the data available, the cancer doctors in charge of making these recommendations were comfortable allowing me to do only hormone therapy. Which, it means I will take a pill for five years and I have secondary effects such as cancer of the uterus, but, nothing major. Ha! So, as soon as I get my batteries charged, I will be doing research on Tomoxifen and related drug friends, to see what alternatives I have, if any. • On the other hand, my progress has been steady and good. All doctors were impressed with my scar healing ability and the fact I had almost no bruising at all. The drains were taken out last Monday and, although I was prepared for unbearable pain when they yanked the tubes off my sides, I felt absolutely nothing. It was like a dream. The nurse had the hands of God handling my body. Amazing. Then yesterday my masage therapist was able to help me release my shoulders and I felt so good last night I almost couldn't believe it. This morning I woke up with a huge headache, but it's starting to clear. I am always surprised I could have a headache or any other pain taking the drugs I am taking, but, I guess it truly is possible! • The pain thing has been interesting. My chest doesn't feel as tight as before, but those of you who had had surgery understand the sharp pains of healing. It's like being a voodoo doll...• Some of my friends are ready for me to shed my homeless outfits (wearing Tim's flannel shirts) and get some nice dresses. I, on the other hand, am happy I can squeeze my arms into my own t-shirts! But I will oblige and will try to dress a little nicer. At least I am not carrying around two bags with tubes by my sides anymore! • So, life goes on. I feel blessed to have landed in the hands of very good doctors and to have such a great family and friends. What else can one need in times like these?

Week two

It's been now a week and 4 days since the surgery. I can't quite say I feel fantastic, but I guess I feel considerably well given what I went through. The whole thing is almost like a bad dream sometimes. For most parts I have been able to sleep at night in between pills and today I am starting to reduce the amount of pain medicine to see if I can handle the discomfort without actually being in pain. Last Wednesday most of the stitches came off (the knots, I guess, since the rest will just be absorbed by my body). My mom didn't quite approve the stitching pattern, she thought they seemed uneven and random! Leave it to a perfectionist mom to say such things.... My two drains are doing well, and I hope they'll be able to take them off next week. Although I am REALLY NOT looking forward to having them yanked out like weeds from my sides...(ay ay ay!) Last week a friend took my mom and I to a nearby park and I walked for a bit there. We are going there today again. I usually feel fine until I don't. Funny how that happens, uh? So then I have to sit down and breathe. You always read about how being diagnosed with cancer changes one's life. I can't say I have reached that corner, but one thing I can say: It has allowed me to enjoy my husband's, my mother's and my kids' attention much more. But not so in a self-centered manner, rather, in a way that makes me more thankful to have a mother and a husband and kids near me. It makes me want to tell everyone how much each of us should enjoy the company of the people who love us and not take them for granted. I have also been flattered by having so many people being kind to me and my family. We sometimes don't realize how many lives we touch by what we say and do every day. We all have such power to make others feel better or happy! Thank you to all of you who have been there for us. Thank you for the words you've said and sent, thank you for the flowers and the food, thank you for just checking up on me. You all make this journey a bit less difficult. Thank you!

S+4 –Homecoming by SM

Our fourth day in the hospital started very well with a long walk and doing breathing exercises. Then, Claudia had a little set back; pain is a mysterious creature. Just when you think you’re done, it pops up. After some bed rest and a little medication assistance, Claudia was up and at it again. She took her first post-surgery shower and felt marvelous. What a sense of rejuvenation comes from a shower. Surgical areas looked fine. Late in the afternoon, after a bit more of a rest, Dr Dahan (a wonderful doctor) met with us, reviewed all the charts, gave Claudia another exam, then ok’d her release. Hurray! No more hospital cots for me; Claudia was excited too. So, we packed our belongings quite an ordeal and a near impossible task without the assistance of our great friends and family (Bob, Connie, Sandra, mama Ortega). One small note here, Hummer’s are not good pickup vehicles for those being discharged from the hospital. Thank goodness for Bob’s sedan, easy in and easy out.

We finally arrived home about 5pm last night. After a couple of trips picking up medicines (SM only) and short dinner, we relaxed the evening away and turned in early. The turning in process involved multiple iterations and configurations of pillows, blankets, and assorted support paraphernalia. But, we finally settled into an arrangement and turned off the lights. A good night’s sleep! We still had some late night and early morning medication episodes to attend too, but much better than the hospital routine.

Claudia’s continued resting today and improves by the moment. Whistles and text messages allow for constant attention when she’s retired to the bedroom as getting up and moving around are still a bit of an ordeal. This too will pass in time.
I tried for more pictures and video, but unfortunately none of my efforts turned out very well. Claudia says she may be up on-line by tomorrow and taking care of her updates directly. God Bless to all for your kind thoughts and support as we navigate through these trying times.