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Part II: April Foolery: How Chemo Carol and Star T

2009-06-02T00:29:42-04:00

March Madness, April Foolery but May we continue... Mais oui (of course!)…

Part II: April Foolery: How Chemo Carol and Star Trek have a lot in Common.

Now that Duke and the other teams finished their games, March Madness and my six months of chemotherapy treatment were over! With March Madness finished, quiet again reigned supreme in my home—except for the screams of frustration when my computer back up drive developed a short in its circuitry that took out more than just its memory. Though computer crashes are NEVER funny (and I should know as I have had so many of them), the timing did seem to mirror my own loss of memory and functionality and was playing out like a bad April Fool’s joke.

Reggie, my dear computer man who keeps me up and running, had been warning me for a very long time that there would be a time when spit and glue would no longer hold together my computer and more drastic help measures would need to be employed. He was vindicated. I was feeling a bit like my computer—patched over and under but still with broken innards and a central system that was disassociated from its ability to process material. It was sad when he carried off my tower and it did not come back.

Now I might have mentioned that my wonderful husband had bought me a laptop when I was first diagnosed so I could continue to use a computer in the hospital. Reggie and my friend Kitt had taken me before my initial surgery to select a laptop so many months before, since with my great technical expertise all I knew was that I wanted a pretty one. I selected a pretty bronze one to use during my confinement. Unfortunately, I did not have the kind of cancer that allowed me to read and write and learn new operating systems, or the kind of treatment that allowed me to watch DVDs while in the treatment chair.

So my new computer remained lonely and was barely used six months later when it replaced my computer tower. Somehow Reggie hooked all my gizmos and gadgets to my laptop. My once sleek brown unit sat on my desktop with wires running around and through it in a maze that made it look like it was starring in a television hospital drama as the patient on life support. It was easy after this mental image to finally name my laptop--- Spock’s Brain. She was named after the original Star Trek episode when Spock lost his brain to a group of childlike women who ran their highly sophisticated society with instructions the brain provided while hooked up to their central computer. Spock’s Brain also had a confusion of programs and haphazardly saved files so though grateful I had some files left after the crash, I could find little of what I had been working on in any order that I understood.

So, besides losing my blogs to cyberspace what does this has to do with cancer? Now that last statement was significant, because my inability to communicate with people through my new computer I suspect had less to do with it and was more because “I could find little of what I had been working on in any order that I understood” because I was understanding so little.

I have been amazed by the strength, composure and resolve of the women I have met in chemo treatment. Less chatty and silly than I have been, they are as a whole an incredible bunch of women. Each with their own lessons to teach, many with great faith which sustains them and wonderful support groups that provide for them, but quite a few with only their own desire to get through the nasty treatments in order to enjoy good health again. But of all the things that surprised me most was how many of them were able to read and do puzzles while being treated.

I have had difficulty with language—both the placement of words, the appropriateness of ideas and the processing of what I hear and read. I complain a bit more than the average patient perhaps, but each word I have written or read in the last few months came after enormous effort. I have tried, but truthfully, I have been able to read or hear very little with comprehension and cannot imagine how other patients continue to do puzzles and read books while “under the influence”.

I have learned through this experience what it must be like to be slightly demented or challenged by stroke or other problems that hinder language processing and communication skills. I will try to be more patient with others in the future who are so challenged. In all the ways that define me, being an amateur wordsmith is one definition of which I have been proud. Not to be able to express myself has been both tiring and frustrating. I have attempted many times to talk on the phone or even socialize and find that I cannot control the words I say and often they are wrong or just plain inappropriate. I am sorry if you were a victim of one of these attempts at conversation, but I thank you all for trying to pull me out of my deep sleep.

It is not until I started to read with some comprehension two weeks ago and started to understand conversations both in person and on the phone that I realized how much I have not been processing previously. But you know, there was a solution for Spock’s Brain. Reggie took her off life support and instead bought her a port into which all the wires and gadgets fit neatly. She seems happier and ready to work more efficiently though some areas of her computer and stored memory are gone, I guess, for good. Guess what—I have two ports--- an IV one above my breast bone and an IP port in my abdomen. I guess there is hope for me yet: I beat Spock’s Brain!

March Madness, April Foolery but May we continue..

2009-05-14T12:54:45-04:00

Prequel:
First, let me say that I am at this moment as fine as I can be --- my cancer numbers are very good as are my CAT scans. Thank you all for your prayers, letters, cards, gifts and well wishes.

Next, let me offer a sincere apology for leaving my readers and supporters in the dark for so long. March was a very difficult month for me and April was a difficult month for my computer. When I finally was waking up from chemotherapy at the end of March, my computer and my back up drive had its own health issues. When my computer finally was better and off of life support, I had lost the March and April articles and most all of my notes. My ability to think clearly and to remember ideas had been severely compromised during the last six months and replacing the thoughts has not been easy…

But please indulge me with just a few outdated thoughts (in an abbreviated fashion) that have carried me through the past few months.

Part I

March Madness means so many different things to many people, but really different things through the eyes of a cancer patient.
1.

For some it means the merriment of the holiday of Purim. I was so very excited that the holiday fell between two chemo sessions so that I could participate in the holiday. Both my children had off from school and it was a treat to have them home for a few days. I usually like to dress up as the character Vashti the Persian Queen who refused to obey the foolish demands of the King. Filled with many metallic drugs, it was easy for me to come up with a costume this year. With the loan of one of Harris’s electric guitars and my magenta wig, I easily became “Heavy Metal Vashti.”The guitar was a bit too heavy for me to carry but the effect pleased me. It was the first time I had been to services in a long time and around so many people. Though I did really well, I scared a few people by my lack of movement control. Maybe I was not quite ready to be in public. I was feeling okay and people were so kind, but a sense that there are really two worlds—one healthy and one very conscious of mortality (and I was a reminder for these friends of the latter) crept into my thoughts. I guess all ill people start thinking silly things—even us perky ones. Well, Purim is a holiday of contrasts and opposites and Cancer Carol (AKA Heavy Metal Vashti) proved it: Sadness mixed with silliness.

2. For others, March Madness is the revelry of St. Patrick’s Day. Savannah is the best place to be for St. Patrick’s Day, for this is a city truly blessed with an appreciation of its Irish heritage and we know how to put on a great festival! But my reality this year was different: because my heaviest drug day fell on St. Patrick’s Day, my chemotherapy schedule was disrupted. I remember being happy that I got to play hooky from the chemo chair but also being worried that my schedule was disrupted. Trust me, a chemotherapy patient does not have to wear clothes to take on the wearing of the green! Luckily, I have had plenty of friends (like Joyce and Frances) to try to keep my spirits up even when I was not able to do a jig myself.

3. But for most people March Madness means basketball! As my husband and I both have some Duke connections, March Madness is always an important time of year. Under the influence of my chemo drugs, I came up with a list of fifteen ways that chemotherapy is like basketball, but gratefully I can only remember a few of these really sick comparisons to relate.
       a. Specialized equipment and staff is important to both.
       b. Patients wandered in and out of the chemo room all morning, but since there were only four chemo chairs in our room, they were reserved for “the final four”.
       c. Both have rim shoots.
       d. Conversely, sometimes when you are throwing up, you miss the rim
       e. You can’t take the sessions too seriously or you will never get over the setbacks.
       f. Each player has individual talents that they bring to the team but teamwork is necessary to overcome obstacles.

(By the way if you can think of some others, please feel free to write to me and let me know if I can print them!)
4. By the end of March, I was slowing waking up from a really uncomfortable month of chemotherapy in time for Teal Ribbon Project’s March 29th Cancer Answer Health Fair and Lunch-N-Learn. I came in a wheelchair as movement was increasingly difficult for me and I could never quite figure out how to use a walker. I was there to help set up but was excused early so I could go home and rest by incredible friends and their volunteers who did it all. I was surrounded by volunteers and health care professionals who gave up their Sunday afternoon to get the message out that cancer can be preventable, discernable or curable. It was the first truly sunny lovely day of spring, so our health fair did not attract as many people as we could accommodate, but we had so many successes. Each person whose screening directed them to early treatment, or who learned something about HPV vaccinations or early warning signs for disease is one more person that might be spared the chemo chair. March maybe wasn’t so mad after all!

March 3, 2009 - A WIN-ing Solution...

2009-03-03T15:56:34-05:00

....on that Age Old Question of how to
Stretch the Lessons of Lycra to Empower a New Generation

Panty girdles. I knew nothing about panty girdles. I was a straight A student until home economics. Squirming in my chair in Mrs. Corbin’s 7th grade home economics course I wasn’t sure I wanted to know anything about them either... nor how to cut the crusts off my bread when I made sandwiches for company. And though I dreamed of a class like woodshop where design form follows function, instead I was learning about products whose designed function was to squeeze my form. I was miserable: I wanted to take carpentry and maybe auto-mechanics—but back then it was assumed all girls wanted to learn cooking and sewing and that all boys needed to take industrial arts.
“All well-groomed, young women wear Lycra on their thighs.” Her words fell as hollow on my ears searching for meaning then, as that sentence still echoes in the caverns of my mind today. Even if that was the supreme affirmation of womanhood, it still did not sound like a practice I would ever willingly try to master.
As I recall, even as early as 4th grade, I think, I did not want to conform. For sports, my girlfriends and I were given a jump rope and were allowed to mil about a concrete yard; the boys got basketballs on a court. When I brought in a rubber ball so we could play punch ball—a crude form of baseball prevalent on the streets of NY-- the teacher confiscated it and wanted to know who was promoting “such unladylike behavior.” There was a sense of solidarity when all the girls confessed to this crime; so we were punished together, but this little defiance made us smile. Maybe that moment, decades ago, was really how the WIN concept was born.
As some of you MorningStar supporters know, The Women’s Independence Network (WIN), inaugurated by MorningStar January 2007, was created to provide mentored opportunities in the cultural, performance and fine arts, in order to empower emerging female artists. Within three months we had our classes, shows, workshops and exhibitions for that incredible WINFest weekend during National Women’s Month and I said aloud to myself on March 29,2007 for the very first time that I thought I might have cancer.
I laughed off the fatigue, the bloating, the weight gain and loss, the irritable bowel and urinary symptoms (all classic signs of ovarian cancer) as stress from putting on that terrific festival and continued to abuse myself by immediately running Children’s Film Camp which started the next day. I didn’t tell anyone and though I am very good at going to the doctor for regular check ups, I figured I could wait until my next scheduled appointment that next fall.
Two years later, March 29th, 2009 MorningStar Arts is hosting our Teal Ribbon Project’s most ambitious event: the Finding Out & Facing Up Lunch-n-Learn for the Under 25 Set (12:15 to 1:15 PM) and the Cancer Answers Health Fair (1 to 4PM) both at the Jewish Educational Alliance here in Savannah and free and open to the public as MorningStar events have been for the last 20 years. The luncheon is free to the first fifty young people who sign up on this web sight or by calling in to the JEA (912-355-8111) and especially the under 18 year olds are welcomed to bring your parents or guardian to learn about how it is now possible to prevent—yes prevent—up to 95% of the risk of cervical cancer risk. The health fair will continue throughout the afternoon with opportunities for men and women to learn about ways to keep bodies healthy, to check for risk of certain types of cancer and to meet some of the health care providers and resource organizations for those of you who have already been stricken.
I am grateful that many of the emerging artists who worked on WINFest are helping me with commercials and promotions for this event. We still are working to empower ourselves—but this goal—to empower women (and men) to seek medical attention when they know something about their wonderful bodies is awry—is deadly serious.

Over the years, Lycra has won my respect, but I still don't want to hear about it anymore than I want to drag myself to seminars or programs about cancer—but information is power. Like Lycra, I have become more flexible with age. Learning how to assess risk and seeking early diagnosis would have been preferable to sitting in the chemotherapy room. I know this now.

Women in the 1970’s gave up the hope of an Equal Rights Amendment that would guarantee their equal treatment in the work place. But in the last thirty plus years with the help of Title IX, equal access to education and sports have created a generation of young women who feel that they can accomplish anything and be whomever they wish to be. Now we need to tamper that feeling of freedom with a little bit of caution: learn to listen to our bodies and keep ourselves healthy in the process of continually becoming: it’s a WIN-ing idea.

Feb. 24, 2009 -Lessons Learned Romper Room

2009-02-24T07:44:33-05:00

Are you of an age that you remember the Romper Room? No? Vaguely? Well, boys and girls, Miss Carol wants to tell you special people a short tale. Long before there was a SpongeBob Squarepants under the sea, a Wiggle in Australia or the neighborhoods of Sesame Street or Mr. Roger’s, in the late fifties and early sixties I was introduced to the magic of a small room. Not our small, neat living room that housed our modern miracle (a small black-and-white television), but the magical room I entered when I watched that one-and-only television weekdays on a show called the Romper Room.

The Romper Room came into my living room every weekday so that I learned right and wrong manners and safety rules from mascot Do Bee and the bad habits to avoid if I didn’t want to become a Don’t Bee. I also watched Captain Kangaroo several locally and nationally produced shows, but the Room and its lovely hostesses, (one at a time, but often different from the ones telecasting in different cities) held a special place in my heart. Miss Louise and her ilk taught me to march around my room with purpose, to listen, and then to sit very still while her “Magic Mirror” was out looking right at me (I hoped) through her television screen and into my living room.

Many of the hostesses were recruited former kindergarten teachers in the days before pre-school classes, and had the most wonderful voices and demeanors when they ended the show with:

Romper bomper stomper boo
Tell me, tell me, tell me do---
Magic Mirror tell me today
Did all my friends have fun at play?

Then as if by magic she would recite the names of the boys and girls she saw through her television and from her magic mirror. Oh how straight and tall I would sit right in front of the screen so she would see me being a Do Bee quiet sitter!

But you know my readers, as adults, sometimes memory and reality collide. I went on YouTube the other day and saw some clips of the actual television shows (very few survive). But the magic mirror looked like a plumbing tool that was made over in a recycled art project that Ms. Judy and I might have come up with for our girl scout troops years ago. The later versions of the show had psychedelic colors emanating from the mirror’s rim (which still would have been in black and white or shades of gray on our small television), but in the few clips I saw—“she” that wonderful angel on television that I saw one little boy in her studio try to kiss, did not call my name. Over the many years and cities and countries, I am sure my name was called many times—but not last night as I searched the internet clips. Oh the later hostesses included names and then each said something like “and all” her “special friends”, but if your name wasn’t called, I remember thinking last night, maybe I wasn’t being good enough and I should have tried harder. WHOA! I never remember feeling badly about my name’s omission until now...but I did last night and it is going to ruin my chemo day if I can’t snap out of it fast. So it is worth a late night ponder. And I decided two things:

Sometimes I would so much rather be like everyone else who is not so special as to be singled out. Sometimes —as in a cancer diagnosis-- it is better not to be singled out for recognition. But more about this self pity and how I conquered it in my next blog.

And my second thought was more positive. Sometimes as an adult maybe—even for a short while you lose your sense of imagination, your sense of wonder, your sense of feeling special—especially if you think of yourself in that other special category: Cancer Carol or Chemo Carol. I do not want to be a Don’t Bee, so I will put on my funny socks, my odd hats and my smile and head off to meet my newest group of friends tomorrow and do it not because I expect recognition, but because I want to and it is the right thing, for me, to do.

For being in the chemo room can be really depressing yet I try to cheer myself up by making jokes, wearing funny hats or wigs and some antics that I guess are not very appropriate to the somberness of people in this stage of life—but I can’t help it. One of my doctors was concerned because another one thought my behavior, since learning of my cancer, was inappropriate. It seems I am too happy for a cancer patient and sometimes my demeanor and smiles seem not to be a good fit for the hospital and chemo room. I think they misinterpret my attitude: it is not because I am glad I have cancer, nor that I am such a happy person all the time, but everyone has something they deal with and this chronic problem just happens to me mine. But I share this problem with so many people and I really do feel better when I can cheer up some of the other people I meet when they are having a bad or sad day. I need to keep thinking that my condition is chronic nuisance—not terminal and terrible and that all the horrible side effects will be worth a reprieve some day that will allow me to live out some, if not most of the rest of my life, without having to come back to this Romper Room Again.

I meet wonderful people who have Been There and Won That (hence the name of two of MorningStar’s Teal Ribbon Project Free Cancer Answer Seminars with local inspirational stories of people who have come through the cancer maze) and those that are in the chemo room now with me starting or continuing their journeys with cancer. Many come in to the room and seemingly without complaint get hooked up to these IV machines filled with the right elixir to hopefully put their disease in remission. I am in awe of their strength because, I always seem to complain (I can be a big baby about needles and there are lots of those) and I feel if I can make up for my Don’t Bee behavior with a few hellos and smiles when I can, then Miss Louise might be proud of me after all.

You Tube Links:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bBxeCV0bIcU&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BSuWW-m2UzY&NR=1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=td1KAgrYUGA&NR=1

Feb. 2, 2009 Sleepless in Savannah

2009-02-03T10:26:33-05:00

On the couch......Life as a Sofa Slug

My friend Herbert laughed at the thought of me holding court for visitors from my couch. I try everyday to get up out of bed and do at least one normal routine thing like feed the feral cats that grace my yard or make myself a bowl of cereal... but often all that effort lands me on my couch with several soft toys tucked in the cushions for when I need emergency cuddles. Then I wait. I wait for sleep, I wait for an idea to write down, I wait for my eyes to focus so I can read, I wait for the motivation to get up and do something to exercise my wasting muscles, I wait for this waiting period to be over.

I had a wonderful cat once. Chesspiece was 23 pounds and the terror of my neighborhood-- keeping dogs at bay and checking out my neighbor’s garden protecting it from mice and critters like a National Guardsman on duty. He developed an appreciation for corn and would go through garbages looking for cobs to suck and roll on. Anyway, the point is that when he was ready to go to the great catnip field in the sky, he walked away from home and on a walkabout in the woods behind our apartment. We were sad, but I had heard of animals wandering off to quietly pick their place and time. After three days he came back because he was ravenously hungry. He lived an active life and happy cat life another year or so until he died of a stroke. But each time I just sit on my couch and wait for an impulse to move, I think of Chesspiece just waiting... and waiting... and waiting for something to happen. Life (not even his death) happened without him getting up and actively making it happen.

But it is not so easy to move about on all these drugs I need to take. I am not sleepy but sooo tired. I never understood this type of fatigue when my friends—or even my dad went through this. Oh, I am not depressed about this, I know this is normal for any person recuperating from surgery or illness, but it does take some getting used to—not just for me, but I think for my friends and business associates who are used to me jumping on any invitation to do something, or go somewhere.

But I am unable to motivate any action even when people stop by on one of my 6 to 8 good days a month. My neighbors and friends and family have been terrific. When people drop off food or cards or other wonderful thoughtful tokens to let me know I am being thought of and prayed for, I sit up on my couch covered with my wonderful blanket and I try to smile and converse for awhile before I just need to rest. It is so rude, but I really can not help it.

Seems odd that I can be too tired to move, yet not able to sleep. My mind can be so full of ideas, but sometimes I have no language to express them. My body hungers for exercise, yet I am shaky and can not move and sometimes my mouth—that overactive motor--- is too tired to formulate the words that my brain is thinking. The reality is that it is such an effort to communicate, that even when I have something to add to a conversation, I just close my eyes and listen instead, before I drift off to my dreams.

For graduate school I wrote a play adaptation of Tolstoy’s novella the Death of Ivan Illych. The focus was about changes one had to make in the translation—from Russian to English, from novella to play genre, from 19th century to 20th. It has taken 25 years, but I understand Ivan Illych better now than I did then—in his illness he had become an observer of life—not a participant. Illych survives in a different existence to everyone else’s (consider other such characters like Kafka’s metamorphosized character or Star Trek’s Spock in a parallel universe) with a different set of rules and time signatures. Slowly as his disease progresses, Illych is unable to relate to the other conversations and events around him. I did not realize it, but he was holding court “ Restless from his Room in Russia” the way I am now “Sleepless from my Settee in Savannah”.

I was talking to my friend Arnold who mentioned about sitting up awake unable to move after his cancer treatments awhile back. Too tired to focus on reading, yet too awake to sleep. I am sad he had suffered through cancer, but so relieved to hear someone else say this. So one sits and waits for the next visitor, the next set of minutes connected to a new hour of new possibilities or for night to come and justify getting back into bed, in order to start all over tomorrow.

But maybe I have been sleepless in Savannah for awhile. Maybe I never understood this about my friends and challenges their illnesses created. I never really understood how someone could not snap themselves out of a depression and just start living, or choose not to be bi-polar or not be pleasant after a chemo treatment that was making them better; maybe I needed cancer to teach me that maybe I have been awake and yet asleep to the needs of my friends and family without knowing it all these years. Maybe that is what I needed to learn from this experience: to give my friends my full attention when they need me, and to wake up and come home hungry enough to give my own wonderful life another chance.

Jan 29, 2009-Part 3:Does color really matter?

2009-01-29T07:10:47-05:00

Is perception reality?

Does hair color selection really matter to whom you are as a person? While in ninth grade, I remember asking a good friend what color her hair would be if she hadn't started bleaching it blond. Her playful response was, “mousy like yours!” Less mousy and more gray recently, unless I was acting a part onstage for which a wig was called, I never thought about coloring my hair. But now, with no hair of my own to color, this is a question I might be able to answer for those that are curious. So I promised to answer from my limited perspective the decades old question: do blonds have more fun?

Before I started chemo, I bought a brunette wig to handle my few public appearances. Such an occasion arose on my birthday early January, when my family had made donations to a charity event that featured comedian Richard Lewis. I tried my wig on the day before our event and my husband thought, that similar to my normal hair, it looked like a possum had crawled on my head and gone to sleep. I was told that hairstylist Charles Ennis of Horst & Co. donates his time to help cancer patients with such issues, so I went to seek his advice. While there, I couldn’t help but notice a brownish-blond number. Why not? I can pretend to be anyone I want now.

Charles placed the wig on my head and both my husband and he said for the first time since entering the salon, I really smiled. That was enough for my husband to buy it for my birthday, and me to wear it out the next night. Many people came to say hello to us in my first public outing in two months, several did not realize it was me, and a few, I think, shunned my husband out with “this blond” when his wife was ill!

Thanks to the magic of the Konter –Weiland family’s gift to our community (the show) and the sensitivity of JEA Director Adam, I was ushered back stage before the show to meet Richard Lewis as my special birthday surprise. I had a great few minutes and even got a birthday kiss! How fun! I thought, “cancer is so liberating...” Whoaaaa.... what? What a stupid thing to think. But there that thought was, and I had not been on drugs in four days! Maybe it is not about the color of my wig, but how one feels about the color.

Am I really less inhibited as a blond or do I just feel a sense of freedom play-acting someone else for awhile? Does play-acting someone else make it easier for me to feel like I am not really a cancer patient? So maybe the real question for the cancer patient again is one of perception and reality. By extension does being treated like a patient make you feel like a patient ? More importantly, when I treat myself like Sick Chemo Carol, am I more vulnerable and less able to tap into the power of the medicines trained professionals use to heal the parts of myself that I still control?

Last night, MorningStar and Savannah Jewish Federation hosted it’s first Cancer Answer Health Talk* to a crowd of about 75 people. I was so happy that I could turn my disease into an event that could help other people. During the question and answer period, someone asked a question that did not seem to have a medical answer: could finding out you have the BRCA gene for cancer make you eventually develop cancer? In other words, is there any evidence to suggest that having the perception that you will get cancer makes that come true? I was elated: I am not the only person who thinks like this!

I could finally finish this blog, I thought, because my ideas about perception were not so crazy. If something as simple as wearing a blond wig could make me less inhibited, surely willing myself well (or conversely worrying myself into sickness) was not so far fetched. But the more I thought about it, my premise was wrong: does knowing you have disease make a difference in the way you live your life and should it? No. Life should not be about fooling myself into believing I am healthy and nothing is wrong, but living each moment the best way I can. Easy to say—hard to do.

Exasperated about some nonsense last summer I said aloud, “I need to retire.” My daughter responded “you can't.” Thinking she was acknowledging that I was indispensable to my causes, I felt quite self important, until she followed with, “You can't retire because you don't have a job.” True it has been a long time since I accepted money for expertise in any field to which I have a university degree, but all these years I busied myself with jobs I thought were important. Maybe that is the illusion.

In retrospect maybe the world would be okay without one more project and with one more quiet blessing at a sunrise... even from a blond.

Jan 16, 2009 - Answer to Blog Quiz

2009-01-26T13:46:15-05:00

Ovarian cancer is a type of cancer that affects the ovaries in women. It is often referred as the "silent killer" because symptoms do not often appear until it is too late for effective treatment. However, experts have identified three symptoms of ovarian cancer that may aid in early detection. Women should watch out for:

Feeling full quickly after eating or difficulty eating
Abdominal bloating and/or pelvic pain
Frequent urge to urinateExperts recommend that women who experience these symptoms daily for three weeks or longer should see their doctor.

There are other symptoms of ovarian cancer that don't appear until the disease has progressed to advanced stages. These symptoms include:

Changes in bowel movements (frequency and consistency)
Pain during sexual intercourse
Persistent fatigue
Abdominal weight gain
Sudden weight gain or weight loss

Keep in mind that these symptoms are also signs of many other conditions. If you are experiencing these symptoms, please see your doctor.

Ovarian Cancer Symptoms
What are the Symptoms of Ovarian Cancer?
By Lisa Fayed, About.com

Jan 19, 2009 Part 2: Does color really matter?

2009-01-20T06:37:27-05:00

Is perception reality?

I watched a wonderful concert live from the Lincoln Memorial yesterday. We are One was a wonderful attempt to start off the Inaugural events with entertainment that carried a serious message: if we perceive a change in the air than it may become reality. It does not matter who you voted for during election season, because all of us Americans have a stake in believing that each of us can make a difference.

Now with our nationally renewed commitment to service, to self-improvement and with an assurance by our government that our systems are strained-- but not broken-- and worthy of our support, our patience and our belief in them, maybe wishing away bad times does work. I personally have always believed that perception is reality, and while I watched the faces of the people lining the packed Washington Mall and Reflecting Pool area cheering for the stellar line-up of singers and speakers and military bands, I felt a sense of hope reflected in their cold faces.

Cancer patients are like that too. The thought of a new treatment, a cure, a new research, a new mindset will have the most level-headed of us trying copper bracelets, lavender soaps under our sheets or magic music to control our cancers—or are least our fears-- about cancer. Which brings me to my question: is it the color that really matters when it comes to believing in what is best for improving our reality?

Among two e-mails of warnings I received these last two weeks dealt with the colors red and green. The red seems logical because it was based on the experience of several chemo patients and I thought it had to do with cancer agents in the chemical red dyes that are used in food processing. I was told that while in chemo, to avoid foods with red in them. I was warned against red meat—being a vegetarian that was hardly a problem for me. The answer to the question why to avoid them surprised me: because. It was noted that cancer treatment causes an aversion to the color red, so avoid eating it or even wearing it.

At almost the same time from an international source, I got a similar warning about the color green. I though maybe it was like a polar opposite thing and that it was the same warning but from across the ocean. Actually this was a bit different. From my new friend Yaron in Israel, he writes: to “please stay away from green colors (growing). This is not the time for that...” This struck me as odd at first because, actually, biblically this is a time for the celebration of the birthday of trees (a Jewish holiday called Tu B’Shevat) and a holiday upon which our own American Arbor Day custom is based. But upon further reflection, I guess in these environmentally friendly times, it is not wise to stimulate the growth of cancer cells by encouraging them with the color green. It again seemed logical.

Okay, now maybe I will follow these bubbemieses* because who knows, they might be true, and if I believe something is working-- like my chemo treatments-- I might be able to actually feel positive enough about their effects to want to continue with this difficult drug regimen, but the real question I promised to answer in my last blog is the one that social anthropologists have studied through the decades: do blonds have more fun? But before I tackle that one, I need a chemo break..... so I will leave you, my friends with this: so maybe—especially right now--reality must be perception and vice versa.

So thank you all for your suggestions, and last night, I slept with my bar of soap under the sheets, I am now putting on my cancer bracelet, and I am off to chemo in my blue outfit with my Walkman full of positive chemo sounds and a big smile.

-------
*Bubbemieses in Yiddish translates to “grandmother’s tales" or in this case folkwisdom which may or may not be accurate.

Jan 13, 2009 - Does color really matter?

2009-01-13T09:35:34-05:00

In this electrically charged inaugural season there has been a lot written about color: blues and reds and blacks and whites—but I had a different set of color issues: teals and pinks, reds and greens and brunettes and blonds!

As many of you were watching the ball drop to issue in this new year of hope and change, you may not have been aware of new laws going into effect for drug representatives by their own governing association to prevent them from providing giveaways deemed inappropriate for educational purposes. Okay, so pens with drug logos on them aren’t educational unless you are using them to write notes on a lecture about drug therapy, but I think there are many educational uses for a teal ribbon or bracelet on a card identifying the warning signs of ovarian cancer * (Can you name them—answers revealed in part 2).

That is why I must applaud the Komen Foundation. What a fantastic job they have done to make learning about and testing for breast cancer sexy. Twenty years ago I remember whispering about mammograms and self-examination and then only in adult conversation. Then major women’s organizations, like Hadassah started printing self-exam shower cards. But the successful marketing campaigns of the geniuses at the Komen Foundation have us marching for cures (in Savannah by the way the Race for the Cure is April 18th, 2009) and trying to “Save the Ta-Tas” by buying T-shirts and paraphernalia. And yes they have all types of ribbons and bows—there was a pink ribbon on my cream cheese tub this morning—and even on yesterday’s yogurt and M&Ms!

But what about the teal—and all those other terrifying cancer colors? Maybe we need anew marketing agent to make ovarian cancer sexy too. But cancer isn’t sexy, nor a joke, but something definitely to be learned about so you can understand your risk and that of your loved ones. Then understand and pay attention to your body, seek a doctor’s advice when thingy’s in your body don’t feel or function correctly and then get those diagnostic tests—even if insurance companies do not see the need for them!

I have to be in my chemo chair in a half hour—but by the week’s end I hope to reveal the answers to my quiz, and explain about the battle of red and green (no not the December holiday season vs. Valentine’s) and the brunettes and blonds!

Check back and hope to hear from you soon as well! Thanks for your words of encouragement... they help!

January 6, 2009 ~ All on a Golden Afternoon

2009-01-06T09:14:28-05:00

“Mommy, play this game with me.”
“Not now sweetie, mommy’s busy...”

Gosh, can I ever remember saying that! It was so difficult in their formative years to find the time to be “in the moment” with my children. I did play with them all the time, but I was thinking about the meeting I just came from, and the presentation I needed to make, or juggling all our busy schedules, but I so rarely just let myself go and play.

A friend who will speak at one of our February Cancer Answer Seminars told me her year of cancer treatment was one of her best—not because of the disease or the horrendous treatment, but because of a renewed sense of priorities. I understand a little bit more now about living my life than I did a few months ago. I know that time is not seeing how many chunks of activities I can cram in the day; time is more about moments: those to be forgotten and more importantly, those to be cherished.

Like Alice in her own confusing Wonderland, I am enthralled by all the sounds, sights and smells around me on the day I finally awake after each chemo round. The treatment takes eight days, but it takes almost three more before I wake up. My husband says he can tell it’s really me again because I smile. All I could think about when he said that was trying to remember the words to the song All on a Golden Afternoon while I was on stage in a second grade play because my friends, who played the flowers in my garden, were all trying to make me laugh as I wandered among them. Well, my real garden is overgrown with fall leaves and my plants mostly dead from the cold spells and neglect—so today my husband suggested a picnic in the park.

Yes this is a chemo-off week and I awake and shower (BY MYSELF!) and dress and even eat and today had the energy to picnic with my husband in the park and take a walk around Lake Mayer.
Of course, I needed to sleep for two hours on my return home, but the point is that while I was there—I was just there. I didn't worry about the reception for the MLK concert on January 13, or the publicity for the January 27 Cancer Answer Seminars, nor even the funding and registration for the Avishai lecture and workshop on February 5—I just walked and talked and looked and held hands and I saw the most amazing things.

We noticed a tree full of cormorants—large birds often seen displaying their feathers in the sun. We counted fifteen-- which is a little scary if you have seen Alfred Hitchcock’s version of what birds really do when they are together. Okay, maybe not as scary as the boats anchored in the lake missing its captain and seemingly only powered by the flock of birds all facing Southwest. These Polly Pirates maybe were something out of a Stephen King novel, but it was very funny, nonetheless.

Our pictures aren't great, but there was also one who had caught a round little sunny in its narrow long beak. The fish’s silver scales glistened in the sun as the fish slapped it senseless against the water’s surface. My husband thought it was trying to figure out how to get this silver dollar sized pancake into its test tube sized beak. I thought it was delighting in the sounds the fish made against the water—like a symphony before his meal. As he tired of the activity (or the fish tired of the fight) he tossed, gulped and swallowed and just sat there as before, basking in the sun.

We saw a mother and baby turtle basking in the sun that were camera shy and people—lots of people--- power walking and jogging and actually smiling to one another as they passed. Some expended even more energy and said, “Hello” to the other health conscious crowd members.

But this is one time I am not health conscious. I am maybe the one person in the park that is not thinking about my health, or lack of it, at this moment. I am just there, in the moment, enjoying the sights and sounds and smells of life.

Children can do that and now I learned that cancer patients can too. When I am in that chemo chair, I think of nothing else but the drip of those fluids, but next Monday, maybe I will think instead of being at the park on a golden afternoon and smiling.

Jan 2, 2009 - Looking back and Forging ahead

2009-01-02T17:20:13-05:00

Have you ever wanted to play a joke on someone so badly that you giggled just at the thought of it?

I am not a particularly funny person. First, because of my poor memory skills, I can not tell a joke to save my life (not such a funny phrase these days). Anyway, people, like my dear friend Herbie, love to tell me jokes because I never remember the ending; so, he can, in effect, never exhaust his string of jokes, because I will always laugh at the unexpected punch line.

Second, I am the kind of person unusual, and therefore funny, things happen to (okay, cancer is not so funny). Now, being a January baby, I guess I always have one eye to the past as I move on to new adventures. I certainly would like to put cancer away neatly with last year’s unused resolutions, bad memories and sad events and start fresh for the New Year, but that is not exactly in my power. What is in my power is to make new resolutions. So I guess if I was making new resolutions, I would say I need to laugh more.

I do find humor is the most bizarre places, but I am not creative enough to initiate humorous action.

Not so this time....this time a joke so perfect loomed in my hairless head and gave me such joy in the planning! I squealed at the mere thought of the perfect details and could not wait to enlist my sister Marla as my partner in crime when the excruciating silliness got the better of me and I could no longer contain the devious plans.

The plan centered on the fact that my children were coming home during their school break to help me through my chemo. I took my second round of chemo during the eight days of Chanukah: my family tells me my body did much better accepting the treatment and I have many nice pictures of our beautiful candles during the holidays.

These pictures will help me form wonderful memories of candle glow but little else for the last ten days as chemo tends to help me forget many things, some not worth remembering. For example, I thought I slept through my chemo treatments: my daughter describes my recounting my marches on Washington, placing Clementine oranges on my nose to look like Rudolph, and my generally inappropriate behavior in the chemo room as no laughing matter.

The kids were incredibly wonderful as they cared for me. I was truly nervous about this because I did not want them to see me so vulnerable. They accepted my frailty and, each in their own way, guided me to find blessings and hope even during this Chanukah. So now they were unsuspecting and ripe for my prank!

When they were little and they wanted to know how I knew about something they had done, I always told my children that mothers are so smart because they have eyes in the back of their heads. Finally I had an opportunity I have been planning ever since I learned I would lose my hair: to show them the eyes! With my sister Marla’s help we planted the eyes and I walked around until they noticed.

My son thought it was funny—my daughter thought I was being a little childish...great start to keeping my new year’s resolution.

So now, a dozen days after starting my last chemo round, I am awake and the day is beautiful. So, with eyes for hindsight and the New Year for promises unspecified—let’s laugh!

12/21/08 - Its a Little Bit me...

2008-12-22T07:07:00-05:00

... A Little Bit You, Too

Now I have written about my hair before—but today’s experience was different. So for those of you who have been writing to me about how brave I am—I am not, but thank goodness, being relatives of the very intelligent ape family, we all have developed coping mechanisms. I guess that is why I needed to tackle this next hurdle with a little help from my childhood idols, the Monkees:

Walk out,
Girl dont you walk out
Weve got things to say
Talked out, lets have it talked out
Things will be okay

Girl
I dont want to find
That Im a little bit wrong
And youre a little bit right
I said girl
You know that its true
Its a little bit me, (a little bit me)
And its a little bit you... too

Dont know... just what I said wrong
But girl I apologize
Dont go... heres where you belong
So wipe the tears from your eyes

Girl
I dont want to find
That Im a little bit wrong
And youre a little bit right
I said girl
You know that its true
Its a little bit me
And its a little bit you... too

Oh girl
I dont want to find
Im a little bit wrong
And youre a little bit right
I said girl
You know that its true
Its a little bit me
And its a little bit you... to

Its a little bit me
Its a little bit you
Girl dont go
No no no no no
Girl dont go
No no no no no
Hey girl

From the very beginning I knew cancer and chemo was not about the hair and even had decided to precut and shave so that I had control, at least, of that aspect of my life. Okay, intellectually I was prepared to lose my hair because of the chemo drugs, but I would decide when and where. Not true however. For I had decided to shave my locks after my children had already seen me with short hair, but a funny thing happened on the way to getting ready to go to the airport to pick up my daughter—my hair decided to travel on its own.

I was in the shower by myself: a simple pleasure I could not do at all at first after my surgery, and then limited to assisted washings until a week ago. The water sheeted dark across my shoulders and continued to flow down to the drain. I wiped the soap from my eyes, but that did not immediately bring recognition of what was happening. My hands were webbed with hair and I was caught and vulnerable like a fly in a spider’s view. And despite all my resolve, the water flowing down my face did not all originate from the spout. I could not help but think my daughter would never get to see my short haircut, because it was floating down the drain.

Men and women deal with thinning hair all the time, many entertainment and sport celebrities shave their heads on purpose, and many religions have rules about covering that most exotic of appendages. I remember years ago being hysterical when a young caller on the radio asked to hear that sexy song by the Bee Gees, Bald Headed Woman. The DJ was perturbed, but after asking the boy to sing a refrain, realized the boy misheard the words to More than a Woman. I keep thinking of that tune and the erroneous lyric “bald headed woman, bald headed woman is me...” and am so happy that I have an anthem! It’s really so silly to make such a fuss about hair!

But I was alone in the house and hair continued to stick to my body as the water continued to sheet down. The thought entered my mind that I looked like a monkey. In general, I am not prone to less than a positive outlook about anything, but had a minor meltdown. I quickly got out of the shower just in time to hear the phone ring. At that moment my husband called and, as always, my helpmate talked me through my vanity by phone. He then did something so wonderful, he actually left work to give me a hug. How wonderfully powerful love and affection can be. I have been so blessed to be virtually hugged by so many of you during this process with your kind words, deeds and thoughts. Let me tell you in case you did not realize how important that is to someone’s recovery: that is true medicine.

But I covered my head with a hat and my mind wandered often to what I would find underneath when I took it off -- all night and into the next day. I started to think of all the people I knew who were bald. I started to think of young cancer patients who are not ashamed because so many people in their lives might look like they do and because they had not the time in their lives to become vain. Then I thought of people caught in the nightmare of WW II and being shaved before work camps or worse --the gas chambers. None of them had choice.

But I am so fortunate. I still could choose this one thing to do for myself before I started my chemo regimen again tomorrow. So I decided to wash my hair again knowing full well that the rest of my tresses might succumb at the mere suggestion of a dripping faucet. I knew I needed a way to cope especially when I remembered that I looked like a monkey the first time. I could not help but laugh and ran to find a CD of those wacky mop- top Monkees who always seemed to get into trouble and find their way out with a song. Their happy music seemed so appropriate now that I had decided to do the total hair-be-gone thing. The first song that came up was It’s a Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You and thinking of all my friends who have given me courage, I laughed in the water and thought , “this is perfect!”

I guess chemo—over the eight days of Chanukah—really is the best gift I can give myself this year. Have a great holiday.

Teal Ribbon Project

Happy Hanukkah!

Dec. 18, 2008 ~ Today I almost felt like myself...

2008-12-18T16:33:58-05:00

...Who knew that could feel so good!

Chemo sucks and I fully support everyone staying clear of cancer so they do not go through it! But today—nine days after my last chemo medicine for the first round, I had a pretty normal day, including a shower, dog walks for my trusty sidekick Speedy-Gone-Doggie (who is not so Speedy after 13 years and is often called Speed-Bump by my sister who thinks that is a more accurate portrayal of his activity level as the dog of the house), and a trip (with the help of friend Ann) to the post office. I ate a grapefruit supplied by friend Toby and even conducted a limited amount of prep work for MStar’s cancer seminars beginning in late January.

I had a friend tell me that her cancer year was one of the best of her life—not because of the horrendous disease and the treatment, but because it taught her important lessons about her life, her priorities and her appreciation for the simple pleasures in life--- like showering yourself... or walking the dog. Maybe this was a lesson I needed to learn—to pay attention to those things in life that are too precious to waste---like a sunrise, the laughter of a child, or the smile of a friend.

Now that I have waxed Hallmark, I want to leave you with the smile of this friend. Several of my friends wrote encouraging messages on paper chain links which was delivered by friend Fran last week. This “Links of Love” was my baby sister Davie’s idea and Marla, as always, made it happen.

Thanks to all of those who facilitated this wonderful chain that I wrapped around myself like a hug and it immediately made me feel better. I plan to beat this cancer and use the chain next fall as a decoration in my sukkah** to remind me of my many blessings.

Thank you all for your continued thoughts and prayers, for all the help offered in my behalf—the gift of friendship you give to me. I start awful, terrible, hopeful, blessed chemo again on Monday, the first day to the last of Chanukah—what a gift to give myself this year!

**Sukkahs were used as temporary shelter while in the desert for 40 years after escaping Egyptian bondage and in ancient Israel while gathering last fruits from the fields during harvest time. During the Jewish fall harvest festival of Sukkot (also called Feast of Tabernacles or Booths) we reflect on wandering in the desert, the blessings of the harvest, and mystically connect with the idea that life on earth is temporary, just as a hut is a temporary dwelling ! This always has been my favorite holiday!

Cancer Sucks

2008-12-15T11:50:43-05:00

Following is an exerpt from a friend's blog. I have edited it but if you want to read the entire article go to: Thoughts.com/wings12/blog/

CANCER SUCKS: Lessons learned from the sidelines..

Cancer Sucks! Yes it does, not just for those who find themselves engulfed by it, but by those around them and close to their loved ones. Yes, cancer sucks. Statistics say 1 in 3 people will develop cancer in their lifetime. That really closes in your safety circle. 1 in 3…

When a very good friend was diagnosed with ovarian cancer I began to tally my circle. 1 in 3 is optimistic. If I imagine 1 in every three people I am close too will develop cancer, my circle is closing in fast. Will I be 1 in 3 to someone else?

What can anyone do? Cancer is a multi-headed monster. But one must face their monsters not back away from them. Run your marathons, walk your walks. Buy yellow bracelets, pink ribbons and teal T-shirts. Save the Ta-Tas, Stand up for Cancer...It does some good. Is shows you care. But I have discovered a new awareness:

• Life is too precious to have such terrible odds. 1 in 3 is too many. 1 in infinity is too many...
• It’s not really the cancer that kills you, it’s the politics behind the research and drug development, it’s the insurance mongols looking at stats not people. They are the real cancer. The disease is the result of the bottom line. If we can put man on the moon.....

• Cancer whispers ever so softly at first. You need to listen to your body. Don't wait for the cancer to start screaming at you. Get tested, if you suspect something is wrong, make your doctor listen. If he/she doesn’t, find another doctor. Trust your gut! Cancer whispers, listen!

• There are no easy answers.

• When you lose someone to cancer, awareness lasts a lifetime

• Cancer sucks

12/12/08 ~ A Hair Affair

2008-12-13T19:20:22-05:00

Early on I had decided to cut all my hair off in preparation of losing it. I had several reasons for doing this. This was the plan:

First, I pride myself in thinking that I am not very vain. I know that hair will grow back as I had experienced about once every seven years when one of my sisters would corner me in a bathroom and play beauty parlor (yes this happened more than once) or to my daughter’s dismay, when over my sink, I trimmed my own hair by chopping off a pony tail or two to make shoulder length short hair out of the long and scraggly mess.

Then, my sisters came up with this fantastic idea of a sister's wig. My hair will fall out (by best estimates on chemo day 21) and I was going to shave it and donate the hair, but was told my hair was not long enough to benefit cancer children. My aunt suggested I use my hair to make my own wig. Not having enough, my sisters all cut off ponytails as a Thanksgiving gift, to add to the amount I could produce for the wigmaker.

How fantastic they are! My daughter added her ponytail over Thanksgiving—but not before my husband went to the barber and presented the tiniest of gray hairs in a tissue. I could not stop laughing—maybe I can glue the wisps on for eyebrows! I love the idea of being surrounded by all the different textures, styles and colors of my family as represented by their donated hair.

Also, I thought cutting my hair would be a lark and that it would help my husband especially, transition into the time when it all fell out. So this was going to happen because this was the one thing about my cancer, I told myself, that I could control.

The reality is a little different:

I was too sick to have it cut last week even though wonderful Delores of Options for Hair and Nails was willing to come to my home, so I waited until most of the nausea went and only fatigue remained and went and got the job done. Friend and girl scout co-leader Judy and sister Marla were there to witness my wild tresses clipped into submission. The cut made my head three pounds lighter and me a little giddy.

And it looked good-- like I remember Gina Lollobrigida looking in those rompy, suggestively sexy sixties movies.

Then it happened. Without my glasses to sharpen the image, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and did not recognize myself. Just a few moments before I was laughing about how cute the cut looked, but then I realized something: I have never-- ever had short hair before. Never, not since I was a toddler. The shortest I ever cut it for business was shoulder length. Joel and I have been together thirty six years and he liked it, but said he does not remember ever seeing my ears!

I never realized, until I cut my hair, how much I associated the part that is "the earth mother/ dancer” in me with having long hair. I came home and put on my Momma Mia tape that my daughter gave me to keep me upbeat during chemo. Though I have been moving very slowly these days (still just a few weeks post surgery) I can see dancers in my head and my toe starts tapping. I can not help myself. But this time nothing. My imaginary dancers did not appear. It is not just the years of swishing it around during a performance as a middle eastern dancer, but the lack of styling and wild abandon of my tresses was in some way also a statement about me—even when I was Hadassah President... even when I was a city commissioner.... even when I play a mommy.

I was thinking though, that having very short hair never stopped Liza Minnelli, one of my favorite performers, from looking absolutely fantastic dancing on stage! Thank you, Ms. Minnelli for providing that happy thought to an otherwise unusual life transition.

All of a sudden, I AM a different person and as Ms. Minnelli says proudly in song, “Yes, and that’s my hair!”

Cancer is tough, but I am trying to be tougher! My toes are tapping.

Shabbat Shalom,
Carol

Teal Ribbon Project

Ohhh sooooo tired.......

2008-12-12T06:23:38-05:00

December 12, 2008

Sorry I have been too tired to write, but maybe Marla's (my sister) words and photos can sub for mine in the blog. I will add something hopefully by tomorrow. I have been horizontal most of the last three days!
Love,
Carol

Carol is doing really well but she is tired and unaccustomed to feeling this way. Today, she actually was hungry and ate a scrambled egg and a piece of french toast for lunch.

She then took a 1 hour seminar on non profits on her computer... and walked Speedy for about 20 minutes. You go girl!

Little by little...she is feeling stronger.

Here are a few photos of Carol with her new do- before and after (taken Tues.) and another one of us celebrating her last day of round 1 of chemo (taken Mon.) and another lovely photo taken last night with Joel...he is just as amazing as she is.

Carol will have blood work on Dec 18th to determine if her next round of chemo can begin as scheduled on Dec 22nd,

Thank you for all of your support.
Love,
Marla

Teal Ribbon Project

12/10/08: One Picture...1000 words

2008-12-11T13:09:43-05:00

Teal Ribbon Project

12/7/08 Repackaging all your well wishes into more

2008-12-08T06:16:03-05:00

December 7, 2008

Thank you all for your kind thoughts. Every day is a new challenge, but I am doing my best.

For my local friends, I am working on a series of lectures starting Tuesday, January 27 (then Feb. 24 and March 31) at the JEA (the Savannah Community Center), that will help people (especially of Jewish ancestry who are prone to the DNA mutation) recognize what options there are in early diagnosis and risk assessment. Eventually I would like to do a "fun" raiser to establish a fund through the Savannah Jewish Federation (www.savj.org) so that finances or lack of insurance coverage will not hinder anyone from getting a BRCA gene test early, if it is warranted. Please look for those announcements and then help me publicize them.

For my out of town friends, I am looking for cancer resources to share with other (Ovarian) cancer patients like teal ribbons, bracelets, information packets, and websites. I received a lovely teal make up bag with cosmetics from an event that I would love to duplicate for local use.

I will also try, as long as I am able, to write a weekly blog.

Thank you so very much again for your continued thoughts and prayers.

Carol

Teal Ribbon Project

12/5/08 The Cat in the Hat

2008-12-07T10:59:31-05:00

December 5th, 2008

My friends are calling me Rocky Balboa Greenberg, but I am only working on my first round of six and so many of these women I am meeting have been here so much longer. On Monday I will have completed my first 8 day treatment regiment of six treatments over four to five months. It is so much more difficult than I thought. I come each day and meet women who with grace and dignity come for the toxins that make them sick yet at the same time are life affirming because as my husband reminds me, " as badly as you feel, the cancer cells feel worse!" I find it difficult be as calm and accepting, but maybe there is a certain wisdom that comes with each time you sit in the chemo chair that I just do not qualify for yet.

We are quickly a band of sisters who share this terrible roller coaster ride. The best I can do is try to keep a smile on my face and keep others in good spirits. My husband thought I did that today just by getting dressed. Of course the special Cat in the Hat inspired socks my sister Linda bought me really added to the outfit. Don't you think?

Carol

Teal Ribbon Project

12/1/08 Day 1

2008-12-02T20:07:08-05:00

Dear friends,

Thank you all for your calls and offers of help. My dad currently is enjoying the sun and fun with my sister Davie in Miami Beach and my sister Marla is staying on to help with my first chemo rounds, with husband Joel as supervisor and chief worrier.

Today I had a second small surgery and my first chemo. After round 1, I was very loopy from many wonderful drugs post surgery and on my way to the chemo room saw this door that said Stretchers Only so I began to stretch. Joel informed me that was not what they meant and maybe I should take his hand and be a little quieter until we got where we needed to be!

It was a long day (8 Am to 4 PM) the most of which I slept through and Joel and Marla watched me sleep-- what exciting entertainment I provided for them! I will repeat chemo tomorrow and they'll repeat their routine tomorrow. I have fluids added Wednesday and Thursday and more chemo on Monday. Then twelve days rest and I start again, if all goes well, on Chanukah. It will be a wonderful gift of life on the holiday of lights if all goes well!

Thank you all for your concern. I am in very good hands. Next update will include info on health seminars starting the end of January on our newest topic: Risk Assessment and Cancer Management.

Love,
Carol

Teal Ribbon Project