Mile Marker 124

Driving down Interstate 90/94, just south of the Columbia/Dane County line is mile marker 124. It's easy to notice because a set of high voltage power lines run almost perpendicular to the highway in that exact spot. I'll be the first to admit that there are certainly more interesting sights to see along the stretch of road. One favorite is the large sign by ABS Global Inc. (Known as the world leader in bovine genetics. In other words, they sell designer moo-sperm.) Prone to change at least once a month, February's stated: "Valentine, I'll love you for heifer and heifer." Gotta love those crazy ABS sign guys. And if you look closely to the west at the exit for Highway V near DeForest, you might just see a pink elephant.



Anyway, I tend to notice ol' mile marker 124 because it proclaims the date of my birth. January 24th. (No, not 1924. I know you were thinking that.) In fact, looking for 124's and even plain old 24's is a bit of a habit for me. I consider it entertainment on the long haul between Wisconsin and my home state of Pennsylvania. It's something to do when the kids are asleep and I can't find my U2's Greatest Hits CD. But the 124 by the power lines has acquired a special place in my heart. I consider it a confidant of sorts. A friend.

I'm something of a homebody, you see. I like hanging out in my town. I prefer familiar surroundings. (One of the biggest wrenches of my life was that move from Chester County, PA to Columbia County, WI, but sixteen years after the fact, I think I'm almost acclimated.) I don't like driving in cities, even smaller cities like Madison. I hate picking my way through unfamiliar territory. Incidentally, I am pathologically afraid of driving around in parking garages. Don't ask. I have no idea.

The point is, if I'm chugging down the Interstate–to Madison or beyond–there's usually a pretty good reason for it. And thus, 124 isn't just a metal sign in the middle of not-very-much. It's a touchstone.

At that very spot, I've grinned ear to ear, music thumping from abused speakers and the wind at my back in the adrenaline-surging beginning stages of vacations to visit hearth and home, friends and family. (Then Chicago happens, and I'm white-knuckled cringing pretty much until I've left Indiana behind.)

At that very spot, I used to shed tears of despair on the way to, and often from, a meeting with the divorce mediator and yet another ugly scene.

At that very spot, I've nodded to 124 with pride over a new accomplishment and bitten my lip with anxiety over a relationship gone sour. Sometimes I just wave at it with a polite smile. I can share things with 124, you see. It doesn't judge me. It doesn't offer advice. It's just there. As am I, for that brief moment.

Lately, 124 is where I grit my teeth and do a gut check. I resolve to get through this treatment, this test, this appointment, this episode with my sense of humor intact. Hopefully my dignity too, but definitely, please God, my sense of humor. Throughout radiation, I've seen it five days a week, twice a day, to and from. I've come to depend on it. I hang in the right lane just to make sure a tractor trailer doesn't interfere with those small, precious moments of evaluation and even silent prayer.

I like 124. If you're ever driving along that section of the Interstate, look for the power lines. Say hello if you don't feel like a dork doing it. Take a second–maybe two–and think about not only where you are, but who you are today, right now.

I've often mused that if I ever write a memoir, the title ought to be Mile Marker 124.

Of course, I'll have to do something interesting first.

What To Expect When You're Not Expecting

I got mad a few weeks ago. Yep, I finally got angry about something. Really angry.

It's about time, you're probably saying. Go for it, Sue! Shake your fist at the heavens and have yourself a good old fashioned snit.

Well, no.

It really didn't have anything to do with cosmic injustices or channeling visceral fear into fury, or even--except in a somewhat roundabout way--cancer.

It was the pregnancy test.

Let me back up.

I met my new radiology doctor about three weeks ago.

Like my hematologist, this doctor is female, young, pretty and very, very nice. The only significant difference is that my hematologist is blonde and my radiologist is brunette.

(In retrospect, this might be a small part of my problem. I could, admittedly, be harboring a repressed resentment for young pretty females who are very, very nice and could probably buy my house and its contents [children optional] with their pocket change. Even overlooking my military chic 'do, there's no escaping my all-surpassing plainness, limited potential and Wal-Mart couture.)

Anyway.

Dr. Brunette called me on a Friday afternoon. "Is this Susan?"

Y'know, when I was an inpatient, I filled out a form that specifically asked about preferred nicknames and I emphatically printed out "Sue." I have no idea why they gave me that form, because everyone there persists in calling me Susan anyway. What a waste of ink.

"Yes?" I answered cautiously. Telemarketer types like to call me Susan too, so if I'm not on one of the Caller ID phones, I am fully prepared not to be me. Seriously, even my parents have been trained by now.

"Hi Susan. This is Dr. Brunette. I understand you're all set to begin radiation on - *pause/papers shuffling* - Monday?"

"Yes, that's right. 11:15."

"Great! Now, one little thing I forgot to mention before is that it's hospital policy to require a pregnancy check before we can administer your first treatment."

I laughed. "There's not a chance I'm pregnant. Believe me, no chance."

"Oh, I know," she answered sympathetically. (She knows? How does she know?! Am I that obviously ugly and awful?) "The problem is, it's hospital policy unless you're in complete menopause or you've had a hysterectomy."

"But- but I haven't even been on a date in five or six years!"

"I know," she repeated with feeling. (What the heck? Are there hidden cameras in my house?! Who is this woman?) "If you'll just come in a few minutes early, it's only a urine test." Because that's supposed to make me feel better about it? I'm used to holding my arm out for a stick. Urine tests demand performance, blood tests require passivity.

" . . . !"

"Okay?" she asked my loaded silence.

I'm not in the habit of arguing with my doctors. Besides, although she didn't say it, there's an element of potential blackmail here. Pee in the cup like a good girl or we won't increase your chance of heart problems, secondary cancers, thyroid issues, tracheal swelling or skin damage by shooting radiation into your chest on a daily basis for several weeks. So there.

. . . !!!

In any case, I acquiesced. I went early, peed into the cup and spent quite an awkward length of time lying on the treatment table in a state of, shall we say, drafty dishabille, while the technicians traded banter about the weather and drew pictures on me in a rather personal location with indelible marker as we waited for the phone call from the lab to give them the go-ahead to blast away.

I will, of course, undoubtedly be billed for a test that merely proved what I already knew.

Oh yes, I know my anger is unjustified and out of proportion. Undoubtedly there are some idiotic broads out there who would be stupid enough to deny a possible bun in the oven. Maybe in the hopes of having an offspring who would a) merit a hefty lawsuit, b) be disabled enough to guarantee monthly checks from Uncle Sam in perpetuity or c) have really cool mutant powers with which to either save the world or to be sold to a carnival for a hefty sum.

Cynical? Moi?

I even admit that they almost certainly ran a preggo check on me in the hospital before they started chemotherapy. I just don't remember that because I was, well, not completely with the program back then. Heck, they could have shoved a turkey baster sized needle into my chest and I wouldn't have complained...

...Oh, heeeeeeeey...

But that's a story for another day.

In the meantime, I would like to inform you all that I am officially... NOT pregnant.

Sorry Pastor, I guess we'll have to cancel that trip to Rome. No Immaculate conception here!

The Art of the Exhale

When I was in the hospital, they initially put me in a ward for the thoracic surgery candidate-type patients. The nurses were awesome, very competent and friendly. I think they enjoyed a patient who, while definitely the worse for wear, wasn't one of the pain-med fuzzy, post-surgical majority. The day after I was diagnosed, (it was understood that I'd be moving from the Thoracic section to Oncology, but they were still sorting out rooms) one of my regular nurses came in and sat with me for a while. She wasn't used to things like this, she said. She hadn't expected that I might have cancer and or that surgery wasn't in the cards. She handed me a box of tissues, but really, she needed them more than I did. Hey, a nurse who can cry over you is a wonderful person indeed, but it's a little unsettling, y'know?

Once I moved to Oncology, I had another visitor. This time, it was the hospital chaplain. Without hesitation, she also handed me the ubiquitous box of tissues, then waited for me to... oh, I don't know. Vent? Bawl? Rage at the universe? Who knows? I didn't bother. I think she was a little disappointed.

A few weeks later, after I was cozily ensconced back in my home sweet home, the phone rang. It was a nurse who worked for my insurance company, assuring me that "We're in this together." (Presumably as long as the premiums continue to arrive in a timely manner.) We went over my treatments, my meds, how I was feeling, what side effects I had or could expect, etc. etc. etc. And then she asked how I was handling my depression.

"If it happens, I'll let you know," I assured her.

"It's only natural," she soothed, apparently still reading from a script that I'd unwittingly deviated from. "Has your doctor prescribed anything for it?"

"Uh, not unless you count the Lorazepam." (Lorazepam, by the way, is an anti-nausea medication, but it works mostly by knocking you unconscious for four hours. Thus, it is also considered an anti-anxiety medication.) "If I need anything though," I added, "I'll definitely ask."

There was a long silence at the other end of the line, then she clarified. "You're not depressed?"

"Cartwheels in the streets? No," I said. "Depressed? Also no. It is what it is."

Which has, in a way, been my catch-phrase through the entire mess. It is what it is.

Now to be completely honest, I did give depression a try about ten years ago. Post-divorce, I was so depressed that I was practically catatonic with it. I never even went to a doctor or counselor, because, you know, no one cared about me anyway. *Snurfle.* All it did was give me raging indigestion. So yeah, I'm not going to sink into a blue funk over cancer, but shouldn't I, at the very least, have been scared out of my tiny little mind?

Over the weeks and months, even a few of my closest friends have given me the doubtful eyebrow twitch and expressed a belief that I am not emoting as honestly as I ought. I haven't bawled, or shed more than the occasional private tear, or raged at the unfairness of the universe. Instead, I've cracked jokes and played video games. My friends don't think it's... well, healthy.

In fact, it got to the point where I was starting to wonder about that myself. It's not that I don't care. It's not that I'm not concerned. And though I am serene in the knowledge that my Redeemer lives and that there is undoubtedly a niche for me in Heaven, that doesn't mean that I haven't earned the right to at least a moderate hissy-fit or two here on Earth.

This is what I've come up with.

I've spent the majority of my years working, in some capacity, with horses. (Oh come on, you knew I'd bring horses into this, right?) From summer camp, to riding lessons, to stable management school, to actually managing a stable, to giving riding lessons to kiddies, to training and mucking and grooming and even owning a succession of four-legged carrot-crunchers myself, I have dealt with horses on and off for thirty-three years.

Horses are reactive creatures. What's more, they're prey animals. Lions and tigers and bears, (oh my!) think that our equine friends taste mighty fine . Naturally therefore, horses are always instinctively on the lookout for the next bug-eyed horse eating monster. (Especially the tricky ones shaped like trees, rocks or plastic grocery bags.) At the first hint of danger, most horses will gather themselves, leap into the air, bolt for the horizon at Warp factor 9, and ask questions later.

Horses, to be succinct, are paranoid freaks.



So, what's the worst thing a human can do around a horse?

Show fear.

When you're trotting along on a brisk October morning and a flock of birds erupts from some nearby trees and your horse's head shoots up in the air, ears at rigid attention, and he plants his feet, bunches his muscles and snorts a triple exclamation pointed countdown for launch, what does the smart rider do?

Exhale.

Sigh.

Relax.

And then, just maybe, if you're lucky, ol' Thunderguts will pause a moment and think things over. Hmm. Rider isn't scared. Rider is... bored? This is boring? Why would– oh. Oh! Those are birdies! Oh. Ha. Yeah. Oops. This is embarrassing. Uhm, we can trot again, right? Yeah, okay. Sorry.

On the other hand, if the birds explode from the trees and you snatch up the reins and start shouting, "Whoa! Whoa!" I can guarantee that your hayburner will be making tracks for the next county. Maybe you'll still be on board when you get there. Maybe not. The fact is, your tension and quick movements and shouting only reinforces the scariness of the situation. My rider is freaking out and she's a carnivore who eats cows in a bun!!!! Eeeeek! Those birds must be piranhas with wings!!! We're all gonna dieeeeeee!!!! Time to jet!!!!!!!!

It's not foolproof and it's not fail-safe, but the relaxed approach beats out the panicked one 999 times out of 1,000.

So, you practice. You practice the exhale. When the excrement hits the oscillation in the tiny little mind of your loyal steed, you learn not to take the time to evaluate what the "danger" actually is. By then it's too late. No, at the first sign of tension, you perfect the practice of sighing meaningfully. You learn how to relax your muscles and sink down into the saddle and become just a little heavier under the weight of your utter boredom in the face of the unexpected. You learn to center yourself.

And eventually, when he finds himself (or herself) not being eaten by those vicious plastic bags and menacing rocks, your horse starts to pick up the same habit. He draws his confidence from the rider on his back, or the hands on the reins, or the schmuck at the other end of the lead rope.

He learns to exhale too.So maybe, just maybe, my lack of reaction isn't really a lack of reaction at all, but just a long established habit. Maybe all those years with the horses taught me an invaluable coping skill that I never realized I had until my friends started bugging me about how much I wasn't... well, bugged.

Maybe in a small way, I've learned the art of the exhale.

The Do's And The Don't's. Part I

Once again, I'm belated with my updates. My best friend, Janet, calls periodically and snarks at me about it. This is as it should be.

Truth is, I had a nice lengthy post written and waiting to go. I was actually wandering around the 'net looking for a nice public domain picture to slap onto it before posting, when a little voice in the back of my mind said, "Wait. It's not ripe yet." When the inner-editor speaks, I usually listen, so we'll take that one back to the drawing board for a while.

In the meantime, I thought I'd list a few do's and don'ts of hospital etiquette that I discovered along the way. These ought to be common sense no-brainers, but you'd be amazed...

For the Patient:

DON'T order eggs for breakfast. I don't care what hospital you're in. The eggs will not be warm when you get them. For that matter, I'm not entirely certain they'll be eggs.

DO sleep when the opportunity arises. Sleeping through the night is not going to happen, because of those inevitable "vitals checks" and visits from the vampires, so if you can, nap like you've never napped before.

DO ask questions. In fact, badger someone into giving you a notepad and pen so you can jot down your concerns as they pop into your head. The things I didn't remember to ask during morning rounds could fill up a blog entry all by themselves.

If you happen to be on oxygen, DO be careful while shampooing in the shower. Trust me, that air pressure will shoot the water right up your nose and power-wash your sinuses!!!

DON'T forget that there are other patients around you. When you see a stampede running down the corridors with the crash cart, that's probably not the time to buzz the nurses' station to ask for more ice in your water pitcher. Okay, I'm exaggerating a little, but there really are times when it's not "all about you."

DO question the unexpected. If you're being given a pill that doesn't look like any of yesterday's pills, ask about it. If you hear or see something weird, push the call button. In all seriousness, during my first night in Oncology, I heard a crashing noise and assumed someone dropped a chair. Fifteen minutes later a nurse discovered that the man in the next room had fallen down while trying to get to the bathroom. I felt about two inches tall.

DO be honest. It's a hospital. The stiff upper lip schtick isn't going to impress anyone. Be up front about how you're feeling. If you're in pain, say so. If you're hungry, thirsty, constipated or the other extreme, nauseated, depressed, uncomfortable or dealing with insomnia, don't keep it to yourself. Sometimes there's nothing the nurses can do but sympathize, but quite often there are things that can be done to alleviate the problem.

DON'T get too attached to a specific television show. If you do, I guarantee that all future tests and procedures will be scheduled during that time.

For the Visitor:

DON'T overstay your welcome. Seriously, it's not that we patient-types don't love and adore you, but between the tests and the drugs and the vampires visiting in the middle of the night and, oh yeah, being sick, we get tired pretty easily. Don't let our politeness fool you. If we look like we're totally zonked out, give us a hug or a kiss or a pat on the head and be sure to check out the cafeteria on your way out. Just avoid the eggs.

DON'T rub our noses in it. Really, there's a time and a place to bemoan our situation and the impact that this is going to have on our lives forever after and all that stuff. This is not that time.

DON'T engage the nurses in conversation about our condition/prognosis while you're hanging out in our hospital room! Also, don't tell them amusing little anecdotes about our childhood/love-life/whatever. If we wanted them to know these things, we'd probably have mentioned them ourselves. Honestly, the person who has to measure my urine output is not going to be interested in my first hospital visit back when I was in the second grade.

DO send cards. E-cards, when hospitals allow them, are awesome good fun. One day I got over forty of them!

Unless you're instructed otherwise, DON'T shy away from small physical acts of affection. A held hand or a pat on the shoulder is often worth a thousand words and a handful of Vicodin. We feel weirded out enough by the tubes and needles and ugly gowns already. Don't make us feel more self-conscious, okay?

DO listen, if we want to talk. Otherwise, don't pressure us about our "feelings." Sometimes it's just nice to yak about a particularly stupid customer at work or what the dog did to the carpet or something else totally not cancer related.

Unless you've had the exact same illness, DON'T presume to tell us that you know exactly how we feel. Also please, please, please DON'T regale us with horror stories about your Uncle Fred who had cancer back in '72.

DO research our illness, by all means, but DO keep your findings to yourself unless we ask you to share. By the same token, don't assume you know it all. You'd be amazed at how many people I know who've said, "Well thank goodness it's NON-hodgkins!" (Newsflash: Hodgkins was historically considered more curable than non-hodgkins, thus the need for differentiation.)

I might add more later, but I'm going to ask my loyal readers to chip in. What advice do YOU have?

We Interrupt The Blog To Bring You A Brief Announcement:

Remission.

Yep, as of a PET scan on Wednesday the 21st, the doctor says that I'm "officially in remission." I'll still be going through radiation as a precaution, but the signs are encouraging and the news is pretty good.

Yesterday, the 24th, I turned 41. Not a bad present, if I do say so myself.

It's Just A Cold . . . Right?

Every year, I get at least one nasty cold. You know how it goes. Kleenex become an endangered species in your house, you're achier than a 1990's Billy Ray Cyrus song, and then there's that nagging cough that always seems to hang out a lot longer than any other symptom. To me, the coughing has always been the worst part of it. It's embarrassing. A nuisance. A pain in the patoot. But eventually, inevitably, it fades away.

Plus, I think as I've grown older, I've started to develop a few allergies. In years past, when I earned my keep by slinging around horse manure and such, I lived in a world of dusty hay mows and heavily shedding ponies without so much as a twitch. These days, I can barely drive past a particularly green field without pausing for a sneeze and a blow.

Then there was the flood. On June 7th of 2008, my slice of Wisconsin was hit with a deluge of rain that backed up the storm drain in the alley behind my house, filled up my garage, totaled my car, rolled up the back yard and made itself comfy in my basement. It was a disaster beyond anything I'd ever imagined. I don't even live in a flood plain! As the water kept coming, my daughter and I salvaged what we could from the basement until I noticed that one of the electrical outlets was doing a terrific imitation of a kitchen faucet. After that, we went upstairs, stood out on the deck and watched kids in a canoe paddling down the alley. The damage to the area was catastrophic enough that in less than 48 hours, FEMA crews were out and about. It was referred to as "the hundred year flood," something that you only see once in a lifetime, if that.

Five days later, it happened again.

That time, secure in the knowledge that my kids were on high ground at the ex's house and that anything that I cared about in the basement that could be destroyed had already been destroyed, I played my guitar, goofed around on the computer, hung out with the dog, occasionally wandered down the basement steps to rescue anything that might be floating by and waited for the walls to collapse. (Luckily they didn't.) The next morning, I discovered that there were sections of my four foot tall chain link fence that were completely submerged. It took about three days for the water to be pumped out and away by city workers. (We won't even discuss the broken sump pump that I had to hit with a broom every ten or fifteen minutes day and night, or the endless squeegee-thons.) The clean up is still ongoing and my basement still looks like it was hit by a bomb.

So, of course when I started coughing in late June or early July, it had to be from mold in the drenched basement. If it wasn't that, it was a cold. Or maybe allergies. Nothing serious. And if I felt a little run down, well hey, wouldn't you?!

But then, I started having these breathless moments. Climbing stairs took on a new level of difficulty. Lifting cases of soda at work took a lot more effort than they should have, given that the clean up should have added muscle, not taken it away. Strangest of all, my right arm started to hurt when I let it hang down naturally. I mean, really hurt. A web search of my list of symptoms made me laugh out loud. It indicated lung cancer. How silly is that? I don't smoke!

Well, I don't!

On August 1st, I'd had enough. After all, if I had fungus growing in my lungs or something, maybe it was worth checking out. To illustrate how un-sickly a person I am, my call to the doctor's office involved a data bank search and the news that my doctor had left the firm three years ago. However, they got me in pretty quickly to see a physician's assistant.

She was nice. Asked a few questions. Agreed that on a scale of 1-10 my cough was a 78.4. Bronchitis, she guessed, or maybe pneumonia. It's not like I had a fever or anything. It's not like I was really sick. I was still going to work every day, right? No fever, right? So, she gave me a five day course of heavy-duty antibiotics, an inhaler, some pills for the cough and sent me on my way.

I cannot remember if she ever listened to my chest. I know that she never ordered an x-ray. It never even came up in conversation.

On August 8th, on the verge of a long planned vacation, I called back to the doctor's office and talked to their "Triage Nurse." I explained, between coughs, that I'd taken the antibiotics but I was feeling worse. Could I, I wondered, still make the trip to Pennsylvania or . . .

"Oh yes, go," she told me. "You have to give the drugs time to work. It's only been a few days, so go and enjoy yourself."

So, I did. Coughing all the way and probably scaring a few close friends and family members with my spectacular hack-a-thons. My folks offered to send me to their doctor, but I declined, for no good reason. Looking back, I can admit that I was literally dying on my feet, but y'know, I didn't want to be a bother or anything.

On the way back, I blacked out briefly while driving through Chicago. Not optimal. But, I had to work the next day, so I soldiered on, made it home, wheezed through a long night, went to work as planned, and immediately afterward drove myself to the local Urgent Care Clinic, coughing and breathless and wobbling apologetically. "I can't get any air," I wheezed by way of introduction. Urgent Care upgraded me to the Emergency Room. Stat.

The doctor on duty was a nice guy, short cropped hair and professionally courteous without being stodgy. He listened to me huff out my history and hauled out his stethoscope. Deep breaths, he said, listening to my back. I did my best. Then he moved around to the front. Deep breaths, he said again. Again, I did my best.

After a moment, he took the stethoscope away with a puzzled look, disassembled it, reassembled it and tried again. Deep breaths.

"I think we need an x-ray," he finally mumbled. Twenty minutes later, we were standing in front of a computer screen looking at the results. Where my right lung was supposed to be, there was a white expanse of . . . stuff. The left lung, clear of debris, waved to me cheerily from the monitor. Of my heart, we could see maybe half.

In a state of shock not dissimilar to my own, the doctor admitted that he'd guessed I had a touch of pneumonia right up until he tried to listen to the right hand side of my chest and . . . heard absolutely nothing.

Nothing at all.

Blood(thinners), Sweat and Tears

This post isn't exactly about cancer, but since you can trace the causes directly back to it, I reckon it's fair game.

Here's the deal. I have this tumor in my chest. (Anterior mediastinal mass, for the lymphoma-fluent among us.) It's pretty well reduced as I type, but at its peak, it was big enough to substantially interfere with little things like . . .oh, breathing. And circulation.

Somewhere between the discovery of the tumor and its eventual identification, I came down with, quite literally, a massive pain in the neck.

During the first days of my hospitalization, I remember sitting on a gurney and wincing as a technician ran an ultrasound probe over the ouchiest area on the left side of my throat.

"See anything?" I asked innocently.

"Oh yeah," she answered. "You've got a really big blood clot in your jugular vein."

Oh. Dear.

"Sooo," I tried to be nonchalant. "Stroke? Heart attack?"

"Oh, don't worry about anything like that," she reassured me. "It's not an artery. It's a vein."

"Really? That's goo--"

"If it moves, it'll just go into your lungs," she said brightly.

"Oh, okay. Whew." Wait. What?!

Thus began my relationship with blood thinners; the better to let the clot dissipate, my dear. Initially, "Fragmin" (dalteparin) was the treatment du jour. It's a dandy little drug, with only two disadvantages for yours truly. First of all, it's an injection. In your gut. A nuisance in the hospital, but even less fun when you're the lucky person on both ends of the syringe. Twice a day. You could play connect the dots on the bruises, trust me.

Secondly, there was a teensy financial issue. When a drug is going to cost seven hundred dollars a month after insurance pays their share, and you're not currently working for your living, it's time to seek out alternatives. And so, after groveling to my nice doctor, I was switched to warfarin pills. Warfarin is a much cheaper alternative, but taking it necessitates trundling to the local hospital every few weeks for lab work and dosage adjustments.

Problem: Warfarin makes me feel cold. Really cold. It's not an uncommon side effect and I daresay if we were smack dab in the good old summertime, I wouldn't mind. When I woke up last Friday morning, it was -19 outside. Farenheit. Sheesh. I'm not a thermostat freak, but the warmest it ever gets in the house is 68 degrees. 64 at night. To my diluted O-positive, that's downright frosty.



Solution: Dress more warmly, you say, and indeed I do. I believe in the power of layers. I have a large collection of hoodies and I always keep a warm hat nearby. Despite that, I still get the shakes periodically and have to run for a hot shower before hypothermia sets in.

Problem: There's another little condition that cropped up after a few chemo treatments.

It's called menopause.

As my doctor sympathetically explained, my body is so discombobulated from the chemotherapy that not even my ovaries know what they're supposed to be doing. I am now the proud owner of raging hot flashes. Oh, the joy!

Now a hot flash, for the uninitiated, is like being broadsided by a riptide of unbearable equatorial rainforest-type heat that instantly wrenches sweat out of every single pore in your body. It lasts for a duration of perhaps a few minutes and then it goes away, leaving you drenched and, in some cases, with your face jammed into the inner recesses of your refrigerator. I personally experience hot flashes at least a few times every hour. Sometimes, it's five or six times an hour. (And then the children can huddle around me for warmth.)

You'd think that my shivery warfarin chills and my inferno-esque flashes would cancel each other out, wouldn't you? In a just world, I should be able to exist in the not-too-hot and not-too-cold internal temperature equivalent of Baby Bear's porridge bowl. Ha.

Imagine, if you will, the experience of trying to sleep by huddling your pathetic frozen carcass under two blankets, a comforter and snuggled up next to a convenient greyhound. Gradually you start to feel marginally comfy and drift off to blissful sleep . . . only to wake up to a clanging internal alarm that indicates that steam is coming out of your ears, and makes a convincing argument at two in the morning that spontaneous combustion might be more than just an urban legend.



Instantly, you kick out from under the blankets and shove the dog off the bed*, but it's too late. You're soaked. I mean, soaked. Not just you, but everything you happen to be wearing. Also the pillowcase. And the sheets. Yuck. And just as soon as you notice how disgustingly damp you are, the flash is gone and you have leaped from Amazon humidity into Arctic permafrost.

The experienced sufferer will keep, at minimum, two fresh changes of jammies and a towel within arm's reach. Pillowcases are optional, but only because there is probably not a linen closet in the world that can keep up with a night's worth of flash 'n freeze.

It's enough to make me downright grumpy.

Oh, and according to the doctor, there's a 50/50 chance that with the cessation of chemo, I'll leave the land of menopause and resume the traditional lifestyle, as it were. If so, guess what I can look forward to in about ten years? Well, maybe I won't be on the warfarin by then.

But I bet it'll be in July.

*No greyhounds were harmed during the writing of this blog. And no, I didn't actually shove one off the bed. They're far too heavy.