I want to lodge a complaint. A formal one. I have had enough of the strange woman who appears in my mirrors. She must now leave. Go away to where she came from. She is not welcome. In fact, she does not look like the woman in my brain at all. You know the one: she's smart and beautiful and chic and, above all, thin. The one in the mirror just looks, well, middle-aged. She has this extra tyre that she carries around her waist, and she has cellulite on her legs, plus a problem with leg hair. And talking about hair, you should see hers! I think she may be considering an Afro, as her hair just curls and curls and curls, like a permanent gone bad. I am sure if you try to bounce something off her head, it will bounce mightily - there is just so much spring there. At least she had something done to the colour. At one stage she looked a bit like my 80 year old aunt. Now the colour is more in keeping with the image of the woman in my head.
I really don't know what to do to get rid of this woman. She is like a bad rash: all over. I have taken her to Curves, and gone swimming and walking. I have put her on a diet and taken her for tests. She does not seem to get the message. She stays in my mirrors.
It is so annoying, that I have taken to comfort eating.
So now I would like to lodge a formal complaint: please take this woman and return the original!
Monday, September 5, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
HONESTY
People will often tell me that they like my honesty. That I am straightforward and happy in my own skin. What they don't know, is that edit what I say a lot before it leaves my mouth. It is basically a case of "Don't mistake what I am saying for what I am thinking".
I am often amazed by other people, and I think my amazement has increased during the last year or so - because of being diagnosed with cancer and surviving chemo. So often I look at colleagues or other people and am completely astonished by what they think are important. They remind me of chickens scratching in the dust for food: peck, peck, peck, cackle, cackle, cackle. Then I have to work really hard on my editing skills. And if you as me for my opinion, I will give it to you. If you don't ask, I probably will still give it to you, but I will try to do it with as much compassion as possible.
So when I say, "Actually, I sent an e-mail on 23 June 2011 and you were one of those who did not read it, although it was delivered", I in fact want to say, "You sit on your lazy behind and attend meetings and talk a lot and earn a fat salary, but when it comes to doing the actual work - for which you are paid and I am not - you do nothing." Or I feel like saying, "Honey, that hair style is doing absolutely nothing for you - perms went out of fashion in the 80's", but I don't. Instead I say, "Do you like it?" If you ask me for my opinion and I say, "I do believe that matter is best discussed outside the meeting," I may actually be thinking, "You are being rude to your subordinates in front of your equals and that is a measure of your integrity. You should try to control yourself so that you don't make a fool of yourself."
People think you are being honest when you say things like, "I don't like my sister's boyfriend", or "I don't agree with you", but be really honest now: how many times would you have liked to say something really nasty to someone and you did not? Maybe you felt like slapping somebody, and then you said, "Please allow me to reprogram you neurologically."
In my opinion, the truly worthwhile moments in life, are the ones where people are completely honest with each other on an equal and compassionate level.
Today I had one of those moments. I simply said to someone, "I can't believe how that man is talking to you." He answered, "If you are the gardener, you must be quiet", meaning that if you are at the bottom of the ladder, you don't have much of a choice in how people treat you. I then said, "This is just my observation and take it for what it is worth, but you should not be a secretary. You don't like detail." He looked at me and told me about his passion in life. And I said, "If you are not following your passion, you are hurting your heart. You need to be a manager." Then he said, "I would have paid lots of money to hear those words. Today I got it for free. I will remember it my whole life."
Just one moment of honesty.
And that simply means: a moment of truth, without pretence, without pecking and cackling.
I am often amazed by other people, and I think my amazement has increased during the last year or so - because of being diagnosed with cancer and surviving chemo. So often I look at colleagues or other people and am completely astonished by what they think are important. They remind me of chickens scratching in the dust for food: peck, peck, peck, cackle, cackle, cackle. Then I have to work really hard on my editing skills. And if you as me for my opinion, I will give it to you. If you don't ask, I probably will still give it to you, but I will try to do it with as much compassion as possible.
So when I say, "Actually, I sent an e-mail on 23 June 2011 and you were one of those who did not read it, although it was delivered", I in fact want to say, "You sit on your lazy behind and attend meetings and talk a lot and earn a fat salary, but when it comes to doing the actual work - for which you are paid and I am not - you do nothing." Or I feel like saying, "Honey, that hair style is doing absolutely nothing for you - perms went out of fashion in the 80's", but I don't. Instead I say, "Do you like it?" If you ask me for my opinion and I say, "I do believe that matter is best discussed outside the meeting," I may actually be thinking, "You are being rude to your subordinates in front of your equals and that is a measure of your integrity. You should try to control yourself so that you don't make a fool of yourself."
People think you are being honest when you say things like, "I don't like my sister's boyfriend", or "I don't agree with you", but be really honest now: how many times would you have liked to say something really nasty to someone and you did not? Maybe you felt like slapping somebody, and then you said, "Please allow me to reprogram you neurologically."
In my opinion, the truly worthwhile moments in life, are the ones where people are completely honest with each other on an equal and compassionate level.
Today I had one of those moments. I simply said to someone, "I can't believe how that man is talking to you." He answered, "If you are the gardener, you must be quiet", meaning that if you are at the bottom of the ladder, you don't have much of a choice in how people treat you. I then said, "This is just my observation and take it for what it is worth, but you should not be a secretary. You don't like detail." He looked at me and told me about his passion in life. And I said, "If you are not following your passion, you are hurting your heart. You need to be a manager." Then he said, "I would have paid lots of money to hear those words. Today I got it for free. I will remember it my whole life."
Just one moment of honesty.
And that simply means: a moment of truth, without pretence, without pecking and cackling.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
NORMAL
So apparently I am back to normal. Well, that's what everybody says when they see me. "Oh, you look so good!" is what I hear constantly.(Wonder what they expected? Really don't want to know what's going on in other people's minds!) Or: "I loooooove your hair style!" As if I had gone to the hairdresser and said: shave off! I want to see how it grows back...
Can't blame them, though. I look normal. If you see me, you won't know that somebody had cut off my left breast and that it was stuffed with silicone. You also won't know that my right breast was lifted to go with the foob, and you won't know that I am minus one nipple (areola, as my plastic surgeon so sweetly called it. It's a bit like the day the oncologists asked me, "Do you still have a womb?" And I had said, "A what?" Never thought of myself as having a womb, never mind an areola. Sounds like a place in Italy.)
But what people don't know, is that life has changed irrevocably. I may look normal on the outside, but things are different. I see it on a daily basis. So far I have noticed the following:
Somebody said to me today, "Just don't rock the boat and don't be stressed." I laughed. Stress is a chemo needle. Stress is definitely not somebody being obnoxious or involved in a power struggle.
So yes, I am back to normal. I go to work, I laugh, I play.
But somewhere inside of me, I know that nothing will ever be normal again.
Can't blame them, though. I look normal. If you see me, you won't know that somebody had cut off my left breast and that it was stuffed with silicone. You also won't know that my right breast was lifted to go with the foob, and you won't know that I am minus one nipple (areola, as my plastic surgeon so sweetly called it. It's a bit like the day the oncologists asked me, "Do you still have a womb?" And I had said, "A what?" Never thought of myself as having a womb, never mind an areola. Sounds like a place in Italy.)
But what people don't know, is that life has changed irrevocably. I may look normal on the outside, but things are different. I see it on a daily basis. So far I have noticed the following:
- I prefer to shower. I used to love a bath, but now I stand in the shower and let the water wash over me. I also play with the water like a child, and love the life-affirming splash it makes on the tiles of the shower. It might, of course, have something to do with the rather large shower we started using shortly after the mastectomy, or it may be that it reminds me of the little things that were so important after the first op: just being able to feel water all over my body, instead of having bird baths.
- I used to be like the princess-and-the-pea, the one who could not sleep, because she felt a pea under the seven mattresses all through the night. Just a speck of something in the bed would have me going for hours trying to sort out the sheets. Now I get into bed and I ignore whatever is bothering me (or would have bothered me) and get on with business. Sleeping, of course. What did you think?
- I have turned into an extrovert. I don't quite know how this one works, because even though I am exhausted over weekends, I still want to spend time with my friends. Being with other people and talking to them and listening to them, has become one of the most important activities of my days. Last night we celebrated my husband's birthday. We were eight people all together at a local farmer's market, and we were the life and soul of the party! I know in my heart that the introverted me will always be there, but I don't quite know where she is.
- I am fairly fearless. This is actually quite scary, because I don't care what I say, as long as I don't hurt other people in the process. I don't know if this has to do with the chemo, or whether it is simply old age. I heard recently that researchers have discovered that one loses the ability to feel embarrassment as you get older. I don't know how true this is, because I am younger than some of my friends, but I definitely don't get as embarrassed as they do... It may, of course, simply be my personality.
- I am hot all the time. Now there is a simple explanation for this, of course: Zoladex and Tamoxifen. Hot flushes have become part of my life, and some days are worse than others. And then, when I say something about it, I will get advice about how to enhance my hormones. Sometimes I want to shake people. For goodness sake, how old do they think I am? And do they really think that it is normal for a 46 year old woman to be in menopause already? Honey, I want to say, the medication BLOCKS my hormones. If I want them back and not have hot flushes, I simply need to stop taking the medication. But then I am at risk of the cancer cells starting to grow again; so, even though I complain sometimes, I'd rather live with hot flushes than cancer. So there is no way that I am going to take extra medication (and it does not matter how natural it is) to bring back my hormones!
- I can't remember much. I used to forget gossip; now I forget everything. It's a usefull excuse, though!
Somebody said to me today, "Just don't rock the boat and don't be stressed." I laughed. Stress is a chemo needle. Stress is definitely not somebody being obnoxious or involved in a power struggle.
So yes, I am back to normal. I go to work, I laugh, I play.
But somewhere inside of me, I know that nothing will ever be normal again.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
SLEEPLESS IN EAST LONDON
It is the middle of the night (ok, 12:28, if you must know) and I can't sleep. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be able to sleep again without the aid of medication. Because tonight I had thought, I am exhausted and just want to go to sleep. And I had forgotten to take a sleeping tablet and did not think that I need to take one, as I was so tired. So of course I have been lying in bed since 11:30 and am unable to relax enough so that I can sleep.
How does one explain sleeplessness to a person who is asleep before his/her head reaches the pillow? I am constantly amazed at my husband's ability to fall asleep. He will fall asleep in front of the television. He will fall asleep in the middle of a conversation. He simply gets into bed and falls asleep. The moment his head hits the pillow - or even before - he is gone. Then he gets very annoyed, because I can't do the same.
I have always been a bad sleeper, in the sense that I don't sleep when other people sleep. A night person, one could say. Night time is the time when I could be creative, when I could think, when I wrote my PhD and did all my studies. And then I would catch up over weekends, or holidays.
Now, of course, those habits are catching up with me. I am too old to work all night and then during the day too! Currently I feel as if my head is spinning independently from my body. My cat is looking at me as if I am the one keeping her awake, when she can choose to go and sleep somewhere else, instead of in the study. I have made myself a cup of buchu rooibos tea. I hope this will help.
Reconstruction? Yes, the operation has been done and I have the permanent prosthesis and two perky f/boobs. My husband's colleague called me an "intombi" (young girl) recently. I have not been an intombi in a very long time. These days it's mama more often than not.
I am having the grey hairs coloured tomorrow, I mean, later today.
In the meantime I wonder if I should go and do the dishes. No, am too sleepy.
How does one explain sleeplessness to a person who is asleep before his/her head reaches the pillow? I am constantly amazed at my husband's ability to fall asleep. He will fall asleep in front of the television. He will fall asleep in the middle of a conversation. He simply gets into bed and falls asleep. The moment his head hits the pillow - or even before - he is gone. Then he gets very annoyed, because I can't do the same.
I have always been a bad sleeper, in the sense that I don't sleep when other people sleep. A night person, one could say. Night time is the time when I could be creative, when I could think, when I wrote my PhD and did all my studies. And then I would catch up over weekends, or holidays.
Now, of course, those habits are catching up with me. I am too old to work all night and then during the day too! Currently I feel as if my head is spinning independently from my body. My cat is looking at me as if I am the one keeping her awake, when she can choose to go and sleep somewhere else, instead of in the study. I have made myself a cup of buchu rooibos tea. I hope this will help.
Reconstruction? Yes, the operation has been done and I have the permanent prosthesis and two perky f/boobs. My husband's colleague called me an "intombi" (young girl) recently. I have not been an intombi in a very long time. These days it's mama more often than not.
I am having the grey hairs coloured tomorrow, I mean, later today.
In the meantime I wonder if I should go and do the dishes. No, am too sleepy.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
RECONSTRUCTION DAY
So, today is D-day. Today I say farewell to the fake foob and hallo to the new foob. Need I say more? Farewell to this uncomfortable blob on the left side of my body. Farewell to the port that cuts into me when I turn onto my left side at night. And, hopefully, hallo to a much more comfortable version of fake. Something softer, that does not push and pull and remind me of reality all the time.
I should have gone in on Thursday already - exactly one year after I had first seen a doctor about the spider in my breast. But there was no theater available. Then they had wanted to move it to last week Tuesday, but I still had to have my annual mammogram and that was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. So today it is. I am not looking forward to tubes protruding from my body again, but I survived the last time and I will again. I am not looking forward to that hot-brick-planted-in-my-chest feeling again, but I have survived before and I will again.
Today they are removing the tissue expander (with port) and inserting a 400ml silicone prosthesis. They will also be lifting the right boob (yeah!) and moving the right areola (I don't have a left one!) into position. More scars. But I am going to have perky breasts for the nest 40 years, hopefully. I am not sure if I will mind the right one going south (again) after 40 years, but one never knows. The left one will stay perky for ever and ever.
All of this sounds scary when I write about it, or think about it, but luckily one can control your mind. I don't think about it. First the Pink Chicks are going to hand out KinderJoy chocolates and sparkling grape juice at GVI oncology here in East London. We are going in support of Irene, who is having chemo today at 10:00. You go, girl!
I have to be at Beacon Bay Life Hospital at 12:00. Not allowed anything to eat or drink, and I am really thirsty! Oh well, what one won't do for new boobies...
Lots of love. I am off on this new adventure.
A
I should have gone in on Thursday already - exactly one year after I had first seen a doctor about the spider in my breast. But there was no theater available. Then they had wanted to move it to last week Tuesday, but I still had to have my annual mammogram and that was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. So today it is. I am not looking forward to tubes protruding from my body again, but I survived the last time and I will again. I am not looking forward to that hot-brick-planted-in-my-chest feeling again, but I have survived before and I will again.
Today they are removing the tissue expander (with port) and inserting a 400ml silicone prosthesis. They will also be lifting the right boob (yeah!) and moving the right areola (I don't have a left one!) into position. More scars. But I am going to have perky breasts for the nest 40 years, hopefully. I am not sure if I will mind the right one going south (again) after 40 years, but one never knows. The left one will stay perky for ever and ever.
All of this sounds scary when I write about it, or think about it, but luckily one can control your mind. I don't think about it. First the Pink Chicks are going to hand out KinderJoy chocolates and sparkling grape juice at GVI oncology here in East London. We are going in support of Irene, who is having chemo today at 10:00. You go, girl!
I have to be at Beacon Bay Life Hospital at 12:00. Not allowed anything to eat or drink, and I am really thirsty! Oh well, what one won't do for new boobies...
Lots of love. I am off on this new adventure.
A
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Monday, December 13, 2010
REFLECTION
Sometimes I look back at this year and I can't believe that it actually has happened. And to me, of all people. Malignant tumour, mastectomy, eight chemos, reconstruction (in progress), all the blood tests, all the drama. But then I check my diary, and I look at the evidence around me (and the tissue expander still where my left boob used to be) and I know: it happened. And I have survived.
At one stage I sat down and thought: I did absolutely nothing this year. My life came to a standstill in 2010. Then I looked through my diary, and this is what had happened to me this year:
23 January: discover lump in my left breast
27 January: visit the GP. She is not concerned, because I had a clear mammogram and ultrasound in August 2009. Prescribes antibiotics. Asks me to wait three weeks and then return if it does not improve.
16 February: go to make an appointment for an ultrasound, and they do the scan immediately. The radiologist says: it does not look good, and I burst into tears.
19 February: appointment with dr Comley, a surgeon, who does a fine needle biopsy. !"£!"% sore - my boob eventually gets removed with the bruise still there.
24 February: I hear the words: I am sorry, but we found cancerous cells.
26 February to 28 February: we go for a visit to Cape Town. See my parents and sister.
29 February: bone scan, ultrasound, x-rays. Good news: the cancer has not spread to my bones or other organs.
29 February: I meet my plastic surgeon, dr Andre Keppler, for the first time. He explains the procedures to me.
9 March: left breast mastectomy.
13 March: discharged from hospital
15 March: visit dr Keppler for follow-up
17 March: drainage tubes removed
19 March: see dr Comley to discuss the pathology report.
25 March: stitches removed
29 March: my first meeting with my first oncologist, dr Colleen Cox.
1 April: my first foob fill with dr Keppler
16 April: chemo one and Zoladex number 1. My twin sister comes to visit from Germany.
23 to 25 April: we go to Cape Town for my parents' 50th anniversary.
7-9 May: we go to Cape Town for my husband's birthday. My hair is falling out.
10 May: blood test and chemo 2
28 May: blood test and chemo 3
17 June: blood test. The oncologist informs me that I will be unable to go to Europe for the conference, as my white blood count is too low. Chemo 4 gets postponed. I receive my first Neupogen injections and have to inject myself.
21 June: blood test. Everything now fine. Go figure. We go to the Grahamstown festival for a couple of days.
24 June: Chemo 4. I celebrate the end of Adriamicyn and Cyclophosphomide by wearing a blue wig and taking alcohol-free sparkling wine and biscuits to the chemo room. Friends come to visit and celebrate with me. We leave for Cape Town the next day.
13 July: blood test
15 July: Chemo 5. I wear a platinum blonde wig to the chemo room. Zoladex injection number 2.
22 July: follow-up blood test ordered by Dr Malan, the locum oncologist. Back to Neupogen. Dr Sidhlu puts me on sick leave for two months.
26 July: blood test. Everything fine.
4 August: blood test. Getting everything in order to go on sick leave.
6 August: Chemo 6. I wear a rasta wig to the chemo room
13 August: Blood test. I fail, again. Neupogen injections.
14 August: I am a speaker on the panel at Survivor's Day.
15 August: I witness in church.
18 August: foob fill
25 August: blood test. They can't fine veins, and when they do, no blood comes out.
27 August: chemo 7. I dress up as Minnie Mouse.
3 September: blood test, again. The nurses are now drawing blood from my left arm, as they can't do it in my right arm anymore. The left arm, of course, should not be used, as it may cause lymph oedema. I fail the test, again. Neupogen injections. Only three this time.
6 September: Follow-up blood test. My veins start closing up when I think about the blood test. Everything fine.
15 September: pre-chemo blood test. All clear.
17 September: CHEMO 8! I dress up in pink and we party in the chemo room.
23 September: blood test. Another fail and more Neupogen. At R4000 for 5 injections (of which I use 3 to 4 at a time), this is getting really expensive...
24 September: I start crossing the country with a 1400 bakkie and a trailer loaded with boxes for my mother-in-law in Cape Town. My godson goes with to keep me company.
27 September: I have a follow-up blood test in my home town. Everything clear.
2 October: return home.
4 October: start work again.
15 October: follow-up visit with oncologist number three, dr Heunis. Receive Zoladex injection number three, and start using Tamoxifen.
30 October: Make a speech about the gratitude alphabet at the cancer tea. I wear a pink wig.
5 November: I have a birhtday gratitude tea to thank all my friends for their support. We collect money for the Pink Chicks Cancer Support Foundation.
3 December: I put mascara on for the first time since July. Yip, my eye-lashes are coming back!
Inbetween all of this I wrote a conference paper, marked student assignments, finalised my work, had a paper published (Yeah!), cooked food and played with my goddaughter(s). Oh, and three of my children's poems are being published in an anthology of children's poetry, and I organised an overseas trip, cancelled an overseas trip and reorganised the trip for December. We are leaving on Wednesday!
No too shabby, huh? In fact, I think this is all very impressive!
At one stage I sat down and thought: I did absolutely nothing this year. My life came to a standstill in 2010. Then I looked through my diary, and this is what had happened to me this year:
23 January: discover lump in my left breast
27 January: visit the GP. She is not concerned, because I had a clear mammogram and ultrasound in August 2009. Prescribes antibiotics. Asks me to wait three weeks and then return if it does not improve.
16 February: go to make an appointment for an ultrasound, and they do the scan immediately. The radiologist says: it does not look good, and I burst into tears.
19 February: appointment with dr Comley, a surgeon, who does a fine needle biopsy. !"£!"% sore - my boob eventually gets removed with the bruise still there.
24 February: I hear the words: I am sorry, but we found cancerous cells.
26 February to 28 February: we go for a visit to Cape Town. See my parents and sister.
29 February: bone scan, ultrasound, x-rays. Good news: the cancer has not spread to my bones or other organs.
29 February: I meet my plastic surgeon, dr Andre Keppler, for the first time. He explains the procedures to me.
9 March: left breast mastectomy.
13 March: discharged from hospital
15 March: visit dr Keppler for follow-up
17 March: drainage tubes removed
19 March: see dr Comley to discuss the pathology report.
25 March: stitches removed
29 March: my first meeting with my first oncologist, dr Colleen Cox.
1 April: my first foob fill with dr Keppler
16 April: chemo one and Zoladex number 1. My twin sister comes to visit from Germany.
23 to 25 April: we go to Cape Town for my parents' 50th anniversary.
7-9 May: we go to Cape Town for my husband's birthday. My hair is falling out.
10 May: blood test and chemo 2
28 May: blood test and chemo 3
17 June: blood test. The oncologist informs me that I will be unable to go to Europe for the conference, as my white blood count is too low. Chemo 4 gets postponed. I receive my first Neupogen injections and have to inject myself.
21 June: blood test. Everything now fine. Go figure. We go to the Grahamstown festival for a couple of days.
24 June: Chemo 4. I celebrate the end of Adriamicyn and Cyclophosphomide by wearing a blue wig and taking alcohol-free sparkling wine and biscuits to the chemo room. Friends come to visit and celebrate with me. We leave for Cape Town the next day.
13 July: blood test
15 July: Chemo 5. I wear a platinum blonde wig to the chemo room. Zoladex injection number 2.
22 July: follow-up blood test ordered by Dr Malan, the locum oncologist. Back to Neupogen. Dr Sidhlu puts me on sick leave for two months.
26 July: blood test. Everything fine.
4 August: blood test. Getting everything in order to go on sick leave.
6 August: Chemo 6. I wear a rasta wig to the chemo room
13 August: Blood test. I fail, again. Neupogen injections.
14 August: I am a speaker on the panel at Survivor's Day.
15 August: I witness in church.
18 August: foob fill
25 August: blood test. They can't fine veins, and when they do, no blood comes out.
27 August: chemo 7. I dress up as Minnie Mouse.
3 September: blood test, again. The nurses are now drawing blood from my left arm, as they can't do it in my right arm anymore. The left arm, of course, should not be used, as it may cause lymph oedema. I fail the test, again. Neupogen injections. Only three this time.
6 September: Follow-up blood test. My veins start closing up when I think about the blood test. Everything fine.
15 September: pre-chemo blood test. All clear.
17 September: CHEMO 8! I dress up in pink and we party in the chemo room.
23 September: blood test. Another fail and more Neupogen. At R4000 for 5 injections (of which I use 3 to 4 at a time), this is getting really expensive...
24 September: I start crossing the country with a 1400 bakkie and a trailer loaded with boxes for my mother-in-law in Cape Town. My godson goes with to keep me company.
27 September: I have a follow-up blood test in my home town. Everything clear.
2 October: return home.
4 October: start work again.
15 October: follow-up visit with oncologist number three, dr Heunis. Receive Zoladex injection number three, and start using Tamoxifen.
30 October: Make a speech about the gratitude alphabet at the cancer tea. I wear a pink wig.
5 November: I have a birhtday gratitude tea to thank all my friends for their support. We collect money for the Pink Chicks Cancer Support Foundation.
3 December: I put mascara on for the first time since July. Yip, my eye-lashes are coming back!
Inbetween all of this I wrote a conference paper, marked student assignments, finalised my work, had a paper published (Yeah!), cooked food and played with my goddaughter(s). Oh, and three of my children's poems are being published in an anthology of children's poetry, and I organised an overseas trip, cancelled an overseas trip and reorganised the trip for December. We are leaving on Wednesday!
No too shabby, huh? In fact, I think this is all very impressive!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
