Three years and counting…

Happy NED day to me.  Happy NED day to me!  Happy No-Evidence-Of-Disease day to me.  Happy NED day to me!!!!

Wow how time does fly.  We’re already back to the end of October and I am celebrating yet another NED day.  This is only my third one, but I always seem to be in a contemplative mood on my NED day.  Perhaps it’s because, I know what could have been if Joe had been deployed when my tumor reared its’ ugly head.  I still go back and read my previous blogs/posts.  It’s amusing to me to see what I wrote about - what seemed or was important. 

It’s funny too that I still remember writing those comments, emails, and blogs, curled up in bed, bandaged, sore and nauseated.  I had to type with only one hand in the beginning as my left arm was in a sling.  Dr. C didn’t want me using it for a few days after surgery due to the incisions and the swelling in my underarm and arm from where he had to take out my lymph nodes.  I remember that incision and area hurting a lot more than the actual mastectomy incisions.  It’s probably because he had to dig around in my armpit to get the lymph nodes out, whereas with my mastectomies, he just cleared the breast tissue off of the chest muscles.  I know that it was probably a lot more involved than that, but you get the gist.   

Three years.  Wow.  I look at all three kids and I’m amazed at how they’ve grown and changed.  Josie isn’t a baby anymore; she is still so curious, but has more mature thought processes.  Jamie has gotten taller and I can now see the bone structure of his face changing as he enters adolescence.  He is still reflective and quiet, but has so much going on in his head.  Michelle is almost as tall as me and wears the same size clothes as me now.  She has learned some hard lessons in middle school, but there are days when I can see light at the end of the tunnel.   They all have inherited our sense of humor and enjoyment of discourse and debate.  Dinner conversations have gotten more and more lively and sophisticated with each passing year. 

Three cherished pets have gone across the Rainbow Bridge and two more have joined the family in the past three years.   Even though it’s been two years since my beloved Sneakers died, I still sometimes look up, expecting him to come padding toward me making his little chirpy meows.  We, as a family, put Tessa to sleep this February.  It was a conscious decision to help her along before she was in horrible pain like Sneakers was.  Although I know it was just days before that day would have happened, I’m still so incredibly sad.  We were all with her and the kids handled it so well.  I miss her sweet little presence daily.  I look to the end of our bed expecting to see her sleeping there and I get a little catch in my throat when I realize that she won’t be there ever again. 

Murphy was Michelle’s cat who, since we moved to Georgia, had been getting progressively meaner and naughtier.  We tried to give her as happy a life as we could, but unfortunately, it made little difference.  Michelle made the very brave and adult decision to put Murphy to sleep earlier this month.  Joe and I were with Michelle and Murphy in the end.  I know that Michelle wrestled with her decision, but as we told her over and over, she and we had done all that we could to help Murphy, but to no avail.  Words and hugs don’t mend a broken heart so easily, but we did our best.  It was one of those parenting moments that sucks; letting your child experience pain and hurt, but not doing anything to stop it from happening. 

I’m so thankful we have our furry boys to ease the loss of both Tessa and Murphy this year.   I can’t even imagine a home of mine without animals in it.  Three years ago at this time, Beau was probably a roly-poly, fat, fuzzy, little ball of energy, gamboling around with his siblings.  Louie wasn’t even on the horizon; his mom was probably just a kitten herself.  Providence brought both boys to us and with us is where they’re staying.  And, as our house always seems to have not just three kids, but three pets, one more will most likely find its’ way to us sooner or later. 

Joe and I have soldiered on, appreciative for each anniversary, but busy parenting the kids and keeping the household running, as well as ourselves, literally.  We’ve had our ups and downs, but who doesn’t?  We don’t talk much about our little cancer adventure or its’ effects, but my Becky quietly pointed out to me when we were there for Ironman Wisconsin last month, that while Joe may seem a bit crusty on the outside, he is all soft and gooey about me on the inside.   Let’s hope that he has lots and lots more years of being gooey for me!

I went for my regular check-up earlier this month and, to be honest, it was a rather boring appointment.  Boring is good.  All of my blood work came back fine and my tumor marker is holding steady at 12 (anything under 40 is okay).  After my February appointment, I graduate again to only seeing my oncologist every six months.  Whoo hoo!!!!

In the words of the Steve Miller Band, “Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'

Into the future.”  And that, my friends, is a very good thing.

2013 Ironman Wisconsin - Redemption!

Ironman pack

Thanks to some dear friends (you know who you are…), Joe and I went to Wisconsin for his race by ourselves this year.   The last time he raced Ironman Wisconsin, I flew up with the kids the day after my diagnosis.  That time I think I was so focused on making sure everyone was gonna be okay.  This time,

however, I was a nervous wreck, leaving the kids behind as we traveled out of state.  This year, the excitement of race activities was the main focus.  I was healthy.  Joe was healthy.  The kids were healthy.  Life was and is good.

I had two leisurely flights up to Wisconsin, but I hit the ground running once I got there.  The first night was the Endurance Nation, Joe’s IM team, dinner.  Many people from the team had kept tabs on my cancer adventure from afar and Joe was happy to finally “show me off”, healthy and happy.  Gosh, I really dislike meet and greets, but I gritted my teeth, wore the outfit that Joe asked me to – a very flattering low-cut dress that Becky had picked up at Goodwill and had given to me because it didn’t fit her.  I wore it even though I would have MUCH preferred to have attended in jeans and a t-shirt simply because I knew it was important to Joe.  I ended up having a nice time and made some new friends.  We definitely sat at the “fun” table and I noted that I was not the shyest person in the room.  Whew!

The next day, Joe really really really wanted to take me on a ride to show me the bike course.  I really really really was very neutral about it until Becky made a very insightful comment.  Thanks, Beck!  She pointed out, as only very old and very dear friends can to one another that Joe was so adamant about showing me the bike course because he wanted to share part of his race with me.  Aha!  I then went willingly along for the ride, a beautiful ride in the gorgeous fall countryside of Wisconsin and thoroughly enjoyed myself.  I marveled at the HUGE hills that he would be riding, the lovely wildflowers and at the weathered old barns and cows in the pastures.  My mind took a thousand pictures of all the beauty around me. 

The night before the race came quickly.  Becky and I plotted our best viewing spots and planned our own race day agenda.  Joe, had his planned out to the “T”.  He even had labels on his nutrition bottles as to when he was to drink them.  He ate and showered.  I put on his tri-tats (his race #s) and sunscreen and sent him to bed.  About midnight, I realized he was up.  He was due to get up at two to take in some nutrition so I was confused as to why he was up so early.  Joe was not up to eat, but up to, well, throw up.  After that, he was up every hour, on the hour, to throw up until we officially had to get up.  It was not shaping up to be a great start to a very important race. 

Three years earlier, Joe had raced Ironman Wisconsin, three days after I was

diagnosed.  He was really looking for some redemption, as he did not have his best race that day.  We were both on such an emotional roller coaster that day, trying to get through the day and not think about what was to come.  This year was supposed to be different.  I was healthy and done with treatment.  Joe was fitter, stronger and faster. 

Not one to quit, we headed to the race venue.  I calmly told Joe that I thought he should race; to let go of his plans and salvage what he could.  Secretly, I was thinking about all the stories I’d read and heard of athletes who overcame illness to have fantastic days.  If Joe could get through each leg of the race, I felt sure he could have a great day.   I didn’t tell him that though; no matter how he did, I wanted him to know that I was proud of him for even getting out of bed and getting down to the venue. 

Tri-sherpa duties start early!  Love my Becky for being there with me!

I truly am in awe of people that do full Ironman races for fun.  While I don’t doubt that I could do an Ironman, I have no desire to.  I don’t want to train that hard.  I don’t want to be away from my family that much.  I don’t want to put that much stress on my joints that are already beaten up from years of overwork and then cancer treatment on top of that.  And, I am too lazy and undisciplined to train that hard.  So, I am the consummate cheerleader of my friends and family that race Ironman particularly, Joe.

My favorite Ironman!  Both of us healthy and happy. :-)

He was almost as pale as me!

Zippping up the wetsuit

By the time we got to the swim start, Joe was looking slightly better.  On the way, I ran into a friend from high school that I had recently reconnected with via Facebook.  She now lives in Madison and was going to be volunteering at the race and then getting in the volunteer line to register to race next year (IM MOO is a VERY popular race!).  Of all the THOUSANDS of people down that the lakefront, I ran into Julie!  I stopped to chat for just a minute causing me to get separated from Joe and Becky and almost caused me to miss giving Joe some last minute encouragement and zipping him into his wetsuit.  While it was great to see Julie, I caused Joe more undue stress than he really needed that morning.   Sorry, Joe!

Can you guess what he just saw?

Our day of tri-sherpaing was fast and furious.  After we saw Joe join the queue of other racers at the swim start, we staked out vantage points on the Monona Terrace and even toyed with the idea of going on to prohibited parts of the terrace (namely a roof overlooking the bike transition area) for even better vantage points.  We, along with Mark and one of Joe’s teammates’ wife, Sheri, went out to the bike course and joined the throng of people on one of the major climbs where I again ran into Julie yet again, who during the course of our short time together, got to witness the flashing of the Frankenboobs (an IM MOO tradition).   Bless her!  She took it all in stride and so, apparently, did the guy riding behind Joe.

Sheri - a great tri-sherpa

Wheeze, much?

Joe had told me about the climbs; that they were really like the Tour de France with people crowding the cyclists while wearing crazy outfits, the music, the energy.  WOW!  He was not kidding.  It was insane and insanely fun, despite the need of my inhaler once I got to the top of the hill.

 

Becky and I, at Sheri’s suggestion (BTW, Sheri was an absolute hoot to

hang out with and really got into the spirit of our tri-sherpa duties.), got a gig volunteering in the medical tent while Joe was on the bike and part of the run.  We had the wristbands of POWER!  Our bands said we had “All Access” and they weren’t kidding.  We could go anywhere just by flashing our nifty wristbands.  It was like Ben Kenobi when the storm troopers were looking for Luke.  “You can’t go there.”  <Flash of the wristbands>.  “Oh, sorry.  Go ahead.”  We didn’t abuse the privilege, except at the end of Joe’s race to go into the finishers’ chute area.   More on that later…

During our stint in the medical tent, Joe came in on the bike and headed out on the run.  The medical tent happened to be situated right next to Run Out so we just trotted out of the tent, watched him run by, took a few dozen pix, I gave him a kiss and a hug along with some encouraging words, and back to work we went.  He’d made it to the third and final leg with plenty of time to walk the marathon if he needed to.  He was staying fueled and hydrated without it coming back up so we were optimistic that he’d finish despite the rather dicey start to the day.

When our time was over, we hopped on our bikes and headed out onto the run course.  Madison is such a bike-friendly town, it was easy to navigate (and we had Becky’s mad navigation skills and phone), and so we were able to see Joe and lots of his EN teammates several times on the run.  Joe told me to tell every ENer that I saw to go get their “cheeseburgers”.  Only two of them got the inside joke.  Ah well, at that point in the race, I doubt I’d have a sense of humor either.

The last time we saw Joe on the run was at about mile 23.  Based on his paces, we knew he could get a PR (personal record), but he wasn’t in a mood to talk.  Each time before that, when I asked him how he was, he’d responded, “Better than expected.”  This time, however, I think he just mumbled something about being in his “dark” place.  Me being me, I pedaled alongside him, chattering away, ignoring his very intentional ignoring of me.  I didn’t take it personally, as I knew he was focused.  I’ve been to my own dark place and, it ain’t pretty! 

We left Joe after about mile 24 to go drop the bikes off at the car and still have time to get to the finish line to see him cross.  Suddenly, we saw Joe go over us on an overpass at a much faster pace than we expected.  Kicking it in to fifth gear, we got to the car, threw the bikes on, locked them and then sprinted to the finish line.  NO kidding – we were probably putting down a five minute mile for the last quarter of a mile to the finish line. 

Little did we know it, but we were running parallel to Joe as he crossed.   I heard Mike Reilly announce “Joe Matchette”, but then he said some random city in Illinois after his name.  “That couldn’t have been Joe’s name then,” I thought.  Becky assured it was and that the city I heard was for the racer immediately after Joe (a lot of racers come in at that time).  We flashed our super special wristbands, moved into the finishers’ chute area and suddenly Becky spotted Joe, already with his finisher’s medal around his neck being led to me by a sweet volunteer who realized I was Joe’s wife. 

Joe had earned a five-minute PR and smashed his previous

A proud job WELL-DONE!

Wisconsin time by over thirty minutes.  Despite my abhorrence of hugging him when he’s hot and sweaty from a workout, I threw my arms around him and kissed him soundly.  I wish that Becky had gotten a shot of that to compare to the one she had previously snapped three years ago.  This year’s shot would have shown joy and excitement as opposed to 2010’s shot of us in which a trained eye can see the tension and anxiety.   Redemption indeed. 

We will never know what caused Joe to vomit so profusely the night before and morning of the race.  He thinks that he over-hydrated and therefore, got his electrolytes all out of whack.  We doubt it was food poisoning, as no one else got sick.  I think he had a bad case of nerves.  He had such a bad experience in 2010 (getting my diagnosis right before the race, pushing too hard on the bike and then bonking on the run) that he put a lot of extra pressure on himself to do well this year.  Regardless of what caused his upset tummy, he rocked his race, putting the demons of 2010’s race to rest!  I couldn’t be prouder of him!

Thanks to Scott for getting this screen capture!

SOOOO proud of my Ironman!!!!

Med-tent for some ice for his knees

ENers that came out to watch the very last finishers come in

A well-deserved beer!

Time to celebrate!!!!

The Ironman sleepth.

Tweet Tweet

No, we did not get a bird to add to our menagerie.  Really?  Come on.  Those of you that know me know that I, like my maternal grandmother, DO NOT like birds.  Well, I enjoy watching them in the wild, but having them in my house is a totally different story.  I have an irrational fear of birds; ask my mom to tell you about the “killer pigeons” at Faneuil Hall in Boston if you don’t believe me.

I have officially jumped onto the Twitter bandwagon.  As with Facebook, I did not join Twitter willingly, but did so out of necessity and at the prodding, well, really shoving of several friends.  Joe is racing his fifth Ironman on Sunday – Ironman Wisconsin in Madison.  He always rents a nifty GPS tracker thingy that, in theory, shows us where he is on the bike or run course during his race.  Alas, technology being what it is, it’s not always accurate and for those of you that want to know the blow by blow of how he’s doing, it doesn’t’ paint much of a picture.  And, it doesn’t show Joe specifically in all his glory or misery, just a little icon of a cyclist/runner dude on a map. 

“Why not just post to Facebook,” you ask?  This chick doesn’t do F/B on her phone and I’d look pretty ridiculous toting my bright pink MacBook around the rural suburbs of Madison and in downtown Madison proper trying to find Wi-Fi hotspots.  Besides, not everyone that wants to track Joe does either or might not have a F/B account on their PC. 

Always one that’s slow to adopt the newest social media, I hadn’t even considered “tweeting” until my BC pal Erin recommended it when we finally got to meet in person this summer.  She will be volunteering at the race and urged me to tweet since I didn’t Facebook on my phone.  I mentioned the idea to several other friends who all thought it was a wonderful idea.  Of course they did; they are tweeters.  Even Joe, who doesn’t tweet, agreed.  Gulp.  Okay… I guess I needed to bite the bullet and set up an account.

In our house, we have two methods of learning new technology or anything new for that matter - the informed, slow, methodical way or the bang-the-puzzle-piece-until-it-fits way.  You can probably guess which camp I belong to.  Here’s how the convo went down yesterday with Joe who is already up in Madison preparing for the race:

           

Gen: “I suppose I should set up a Twitter account.”

Joe: “Yeah.”

Gen: “Do you know how to do it?”

Joe: “Well, you probably should download the app and then Google it on your computer to see how to do it.”

Gen: “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Here’s what I did:  I downloaded the app on my phone and proceeded to open it.  Surely there were directions with the app, right?  It’s not rocket science. 

I figured out very easily how to send my first tweet – The Ironman has made it to WI.  Awwww.  Wasn’t it cute?  I figured I should send my first tweet about Crazy Joe since he was the reason I was tweeting in the first place. 

When you open the app, it prompts you to look for other tweeters that you might know, so I did.  The app told me that I didn’t have any friends in my contacts that tweeted but then it gave me an extensive list of people I knew and suggested I “follow” them.  Big Mistake!  All of a sudden my phone started acting like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, spewing verbiage of 144 characters or less from people that I had stupidly agreed to “follow”.  I had obviously done something wrong.  I didn’t want to know about someone’s sister’s husband’s cousin’s kid who had gone on the potty for the first time!  UNINSTALL!  UNINSTALL! 

Okay.  Breathe.  I can do this; even kids as young as Josie tweet.  Surely I was still smarter than a third-grader.  I rationalized that if I reinstalled the app, all of the threads would disappear.  WRONG!  Alrighty.   Maybe if I just left the Twitter account alone for a while they would disappear.  Wrong again!  They actually multiplied like rabbits. 

By this point, I needed to get dinner going so I put my phone aside, hoping that the stream of tweets would slow to a trickle while I went back to being a techno-not-so-savvy mom.  When I finally got a moment between threatening the kids with DIRE punishments for misbehaving while Dad and I were in Wisconsin, giving our dear friend Corin the non-Reader’s Digest version of what goes down in the Matchette Casa on a daily basis and dealing with my neurotic pre-travelling self, I sat down to check my email on the computer.  Lo and behold, there was a nice email in my in-box welcoming me into this century and asking me to confirm my Twitter account. 

Aha!  Yet again, Joe was right.  I should have just done the whole sign-up process on the computer because here was where you could choose to “unfollow” the innumerable threads that Twitter and every other warm-blooded creature with access to technology want you to.  I unfollowed faster than the aforementioned rabbits can multiply.  I have a hard enough time keeping track of my buddies on Facebook.  I did not need the added pressure of doing so on Twitter as well. 

Knowing that even the Pope tweets, I figured I could get this.  I worked on my profile, uploading a picture of Joe and me, putting a short description of who I was and then thinking of a “handle”.  I was schooled on Facebook when I blithely announced that I was now going to be tweeting, but did no provide my “handle”.  What to choose…?  GenMatchette@GenMatchette just sounded silly.  MrsCrazyJoe@GenMatchette?  Genzee@GenMatchette?  “Well,” I mused, “how do I identify myself, how do people know me and how can I come up with something catchy so that people will remember it?”  SandInMyBoobs@GenMatchette.  BINGO. 

As soon as I posted that to Facebook, I had buyer’s remorse.  This is also why I’m still undecided about a tattoo.  I like the idea of one, but I can’t decide where to put one and what to get put.  Should I have done, “GenMatchette@SandInMyBoobs” or should I just leave it as is?  The pressure!  Please, feel free to chime in.  I truly welcome your advice at this point. 

In the meantime, I’ll try to get a handle <g> on this tweeting thing.  As with most things, it will be a work in progress.  If you decide to follow me, 1.) Don’t follow me to closely as I have a tendency to weave and fall down sober or not, and 2.) If you suddenly can’t find me, try me at “GenMatchette@SandInMyBoobs”.  

When a rest day really isn’t

We had a race last weekend - the GA Veterans’ Triathlon in Cordele, GA.  It’s a great little sprint, except for the overabundance of gnats (cheap, easy protein if you want to put a positive spin on it), and about an hour from the house.  The course is flat and relatively easy to navigate.  All in all, it’s a great race for beginners. 

I have been training for this race (when don’t I?) although not nearly as hard as Joe has been.  But then, I don’t have an Ironman in four weeks.  My hamstring is finally healing so I’ve been slowly adding some speed work back into my runs.  I actually swam 3000 yards on Monday just to see if I could.  Joe was swimming in the lane with me at the base pool and that’s what he was swimming so I figured, why not.  That’s the longest swim I’ve ever done, even more than what I’ve done for my half-Ironman races.  Yay me!  I’ve been continuing my bike trainer rides, but feel like I’ve been losing ground.  I can’t hold the power/numbers that I’ve been able to before.  On outside rides, I can keep up with most of the folks I normally do, but I feel weak.  Hmmm.  Perhaps a bit of overtraining you say?  I’ll ponder that on my next ride.

Since the race was Saturday, I decided to take Friday as a pseudo rest day.  Like most days, I took Beau for a walk after I got the second shift, aka, Josie on the bus for school.  Yes, our kids are already back in school.  They actually started back on the first of August, significantly shortening our summer break.  Anyhoo, since I’ve been trying to cut down on my transition times, I figured I’d walk the dog in my running shoes, but without socks.  I’d broken out a new pair since my last race and wanted to be sure they were broken in enough.  I slathered my feet with Body Glide (a sports lubricant for all you non-tri peeps) and away we went. 

My feet felt fine for the first two miles and then, my heel started to hurt.  Sure enough, when I pulled my foot out of my shoe, I had a nice blister on my heel.  I had rubbed it so raw before it started to really hurt that the skin was just barely hanging on; the blister had long since burst.  I was still a half of a mile from home.  Uh-oh.  Not a great way to get ready for a tri that was going to be in a lake with all kinds of who knows, well, I didn’t want to think about it!  Walking hurt too much, but running wasn’t too bad.  My running shoes are designed for running on the balls of your feet (YAY, Newtons), something I already do when I run, but not when I walk.   Who knew it would make such a difference?

Back to my pink Newtons - the blue ones were no bueno!

I cleaned out the raw spot when I got home, slathered it with triple-antibiotic ointment and hoped for the best.  In the morning, I put a strip of moleskin on it, not knowing that moleskin is not waterproof.  D’oh!  I then put on socks and resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be adding a couple of extra seconds to my transition to put them on before heading out on the bike.  Bummer.

Many of our triathlon group, the Crazy Joes, raced with us.  I love when a bunch of us race together!  I truly enjoy the camaraderie, the smiles and hugs, the sharing of nerves and advice and smiles, and yes, even the good-natured ribbing.  In typical team mom/team cheerleader fashion, I even offered to drag a friend across the finish line, despite my lifting restrictions.  That’s what teammates do for one another.  At the end of the race, we joyfully welcomed a few new triathletes into the fold, something always worth celebrating!

Love when we get to race together!!!

Two thirds of the way through the swim, as the moleskin gently peeled off of my heel and floated away, I knew this wasn’t going to be my best race.  Ah well.  I did better than I expected.  I ended up third in my age group and in the middle of the pack for the entire race.  Joe wanted me to “push as hard as you can on the bike!”  I pushed, but not “as hard as I could” because I didn’t want to bonk on the run (non-tri people translation: fall apart, barf, cramp, all of the above).   I ran comfortably on the run, so again, I guess I didn’t push as hard as I should have.  Oh well.  My life is a series of seconds and thirds, so why mess with a good thing, right?  I’m okay with that, and besides, who wants the pressure of always having to defend one’s title?

Joe, on the other hand, rocked it!  He was 4^th overall and won the masters’ category (non-tri people translation: the old folks).  He then proceeded to put us all to shame by cycling the sixty plus miles home.  I repeat: he has an Ironman in four weeks and the rest of us don’t.  Oh yeah, and this was a “C” race for him.  Seriously – a “C” and he comes in fourth overall. 

My view as I left the tri to go have lunch with friends. :-)

While I didn’t plan any big races this year (it’s Joe’s year), I have several friends that did.  Always the team mom/team cheerleader, I have offered to go on training rides with several.  And that was why I got up early on Sunday.  I wasn’t about to do my usual Sunday twelve-mile run before church since the blister was still oozing, but biking didn’t hurt my heel.  Cori and Roo were riding forty miles.  My bike time was what really hurt me the most during the race, so I decided to add an extra ten miles riding up to the bike store and back.   Cori got necessary training in, Roo got to go on a nice easy ride (for him) with his lovely girlfriend, and I got to do some hill work.  A win-win for everyone!

This is Slow-mode for Beau!

Since I was ready to go a little early, I decided to take the dog outside to play a few rounds of fetch.  Beau loves the exercise and attention and I love watching him run.  Actually, he doesn’t just run, he gallops!  He even sounds like a horse when he charges across the yard at full tilt.  He’s so incredibly fast and fluid and beautiful when he runs.  It’s just so effortless for him.  But… he’s a sprinter!  After about six to ten ball tosses and gallops around the yard or a 2 mile run, he’s pooped… until the next round.  He is not an IronDog – not yet anyway.

It oozed for two days - ugh.

Anyway, I let Beau out and proceeded to follow him out.  And that’s when the patio door attacked!  We’ve got it on a spring closure, but I can’t quite get it to close just right.  Sunday morning, it closed just right – right on my ankle, slicing it open.  Fabulous!  While it wasn’t a large or deep gash, it was right by the already open blister.  Can you say, “ow”?!  Well, the ride must go on so I cleaned it out (I’m getting very good at cleaning out my injuries.), swathed it in gauze and headed out.  Thankfully, like the day before, it didn’t hurt too much to cycle so I was able to get in my fifty miles, even surprising myself by getting almost all the way up “the big hill” in my big chain ring (non-tri people translation: harder gears). 

By Sunday night, I was pooped!  I told myself I’d take a rest day on Monday.  When I was doing the EN Outseason, I really needed those rest days with all of the insane workouts I was doing.  Monday’s rest day was really just going to be so that I could let my ankle/heel, well, heal. 

I dutifully got the youngest on the bus and then took the dog for a short walk and as I walked, I thought.  I thought about why I dislike rest days so much.  I think the reason I dislike rest days so much is it means I have no excuse for not cleaning the house.  Somehow, workouts seem like a good excuse to not clean the house.  Not that I don’t clean my house; you know I do.  I just don’t like to!  I think it’s because I have a touch of ADHD.  I get too distracted when I clean and then wonder why the toilet still has toilet bowl cleaner in it four hours later and why the shower door is covered with a fine dusting of Barkeeper’s Friend.  But hey, I did find that pattern I was looking for.

After I got home from walking Beau, I cleaned the floors.  I folded laundry.  I put away laundry.  I cleaned up the kitchen.  I cleaned the toilets, sinks, and shower.  I was sweaty and I was antsy!  And so, I looked longingly at my bike and made a decision.  I’d just get on and ride for thirty minutes.  Thirty minutes became a full hour workout with intervals.  I rationalized that I needed to do this because I was going to take my bike in to get a small repair done and I might not get it back for the next day’s scheduled workout.  Uh-huh.  That’s what I told myself. 

So much for my rest day…

Where in the world is Dr. C?

A few weeks back, I found out that my favorite surgeon is no longer with his practice.  It’s all been very mysterious and the practice has been very secretive as to why he “left” and where he has gone.  I, along with several of my BC sisters, am irritated, to put it politely.  I know that several gals have been offered appointments with other surgeons in the practice and have flat out REFUSED.  I really need to make my quarterly follow-up with Dr. C, but I’m not even going to bother since I too would refuse to see anyone else. 

I am sure that the other surgeons in the practice are perfectly competent and may in fact be very nice people.  They, however, are NOT Dr. C.  They do not have the rapport that he has with me.  They do not know how my body reacts to surgery or how it heals.  They know from the office staff that I am a nut-job runner/triathlete, but they don’t understand my obsession the way Dr. C does.  

There are several theories floating around as to why he has “left” the practice.  No one has disputed the fact that he is an excellent surgeon.  Maybe he didn’t do his billing or paperwork properly and they were sick and tired of correcting him.  Maybe he saw his patients too much for the practice’s liking and caused it to lose too much money.  Many think that the other surgeons in the practice resented his rapport with all his groupies/patients.  While I doubt we’ll never know the real reason he is gone, I wish the practice would be a bit more forthcoming with information regarding his whereabouts.   I for one want to know! 

It makes me want to cry that he’s gone and no one will spill the beans where he is or why he left.  Dr. C is one of those rare surgeons that is extremely skilled, but also compassionate.  He always has a hug, a joke, a smile.  He is thorough and takes the time if you need it or want it.  He is passionate about what he does.  I asked him once why he specialized in breast surgery.  He responded simply, “Because I have a wife and three daughters.”  ‘Nuf said.   

I credit two men with “saving my life”.  One, of course, is Joe because he found the tumor.  Dr. C is the other one because he removed the tumor, the lymph nodes that it had invaded and all of the breast tissue that it could have wreaked further havoc on.  He treated me gently when I needed it, held my hand when I was scared, teased me when I was feeling well, or chewed me out when necessary.  Even when he chewed me out, I knew that he did it because he genuinely cared about me and my wellbeing. 

I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to see someone else for my care.  I wouldn’t trust them to not “screw things up” or to listen to me and take me seriously like Dr. C does.  While the other docs in the practice maybe just as skilled in general surgery, I highly doubt that they have Dr. C’s skill with boobs and the fragile women whose bodies they are attached to.  Thankfully, all of my surgeries are done for the next eighteen or so years until I need a trade-in for my Frankenboobs.  Still, I’m supposed to see Dr. C quarterly for lymphedema checks, general cancer checkups (aches/pains/weird symptoms), and my annual armpit/chest ultrasounds in lieu of a mammogram.  Because Dr. C has cut and stitched and removed significant portions of my body, he knows what’s normal or not.  And, while I know he can’t always be my surgeon, I’m not ready to cut the ties just yet.   He’s a bit like a security blanket to me and lots of other women.  If he says you’re okay, chances are very good that you really are okay.

I’m not the only one that feels that strongly about Dr. C.  My friend Tracy drives six hours from Florida to see Dr. C whenever she needs a check up.  She’s not ready to let go either.  If Dr. C starts his own practice and it’s not in the area, I will do the same thing.

Dr. C was never too sure about my
athletic endeavors, but tolerated me doing them.

 So, where in the world is Dr. C?  If anyone knows, please tell me.  I’m supposed to see him next month.  

Remission and other cancer terms

(Disclaimer: Please bear in mind that the opinions expressed here are mine and relative to me alone.  I do not intend to belittle or negate others feelings or opinions related to their own cancer diagnoses or identities.)

sur·vi·vor [ser-vahy-ver]

n.

1. a person or thing that survives.

2. Law. the one of two or more designated persons, as joint tenants or others having a joint interest, who outlives the other or others.

3. a person who continues to function or prosper in spite of opposition, hardship, or setbacks.

As many of you know, while I was going through treatment, I didn’t care for the word survivor when referring to myself.  I still don’t think that I survived cancer (cue dramatic music) since I never really felt like my life was hanging in the balance.  Perhaps I was and I’m still in denial.  I didn’t need a special label; I knew I would survive whatever I had thrown at me.  Someday I won’t, but for now, I’m too stubborn to not survive. J

I never felt sick or ill before I was officially diagnosed with cancer.  I looked normal, felt normal, acted normal well, normal for me anyway. I had no idea that my body was losing a battle with cancer until we found the lump.  Even then, I felt fine; I just had a pesky lump in my breast.  While that pesky lump spread its pestilence to my lymph nodes and possibly beyond, I was oblivious.  I didn’t know that I was going to have to survive anything.

war·ri·or  (wôr-r, wr-)

n.

1. One who is engaged in or experienced in battle.

2. One who is engaged aggressively or energetically in an activity, cause, or conflict

While I was trying to rid my body of the disease that has pervaded our lives for almost the past three years, I did consider myself a warrior.  A warrior is someone who fights for a cause.  My family, my medical team and I were fighting to get the cancer out of my body.  My cause was my family.  I was not “surviving”; I was too busy fighting and living.  I still am.  Yes, it is a simple semantic difference, between the words survivor and warrior, but one that I differentiate when talking about myself.

While going through treatment, I was not only a warrior but a patient as well.  As much as I don’t like it, I still am and continue to be a “cancer patient” for the next seven years despite the fact that I am now in remission.

re·mis·sion  (r-mshn)

n.

1.                  a. The act of remitting.

b. A condition or period in which something is remitted.

2. A lessening of intensity or degree; abatement.

3.                  a. Medicine Abatement or subsiding of the symptoms of a disease.

b. The period during which the symptoms of a disease abate or subside.

4.                  a. Release, as from a debt, penalty, or obligation.

b. Forgiveness; pardon.

Remission is a wonderful word to a cancer patient.  Every additional year of remission is special; it’s one year further away from when one was sick.  And, it generally means that your likelihood of developing the disease again is lessened a little more. 

Because of the “advanced stage” of my disease at diagnosis and my age at diagnosis, the doctor’s will continue to monitor me for another seven years.  They do with everyone actually, but they are especially keen on keeping close tabs on me, not just because of my cancer staging and age, but because, after three years, they know how strong-willed and independent I am.  They want to make sure that nothing goes unchecked.

I’m a good girl and dutifully go in for my check-ups with my oncologist and my surgeon when they tell me to.  Most of the time, I feel fine; I feel “normal”.  I always hesitate to mention any little ache or pain to them.  It always turns out to be nothing or something very minor, not even related to my cancer diagnosis.  I should feel so loved by those family and friends that have ratted me out to my docs when I hold things back.  Instead, I feel stressed and annoyed that people are making such a fuss over things that are invariably minor in the grand scheme of things.  It bothers me that valuable resources are being wasted on me when there are others that truly have a need of all the tests that I’ve been put through for my little aches and pains since my cancer diagnosis. 

In the past four months I have been poked and prodded and scanned more than I ever was while going through cancer treatment.  I have had a full cardiac work-up, blood work, chest x-ray, bone scan, CT scan and MRI of my brain.  You know what they found?  I was diagnosed with reflux and sinusitis.  Like I told them, it was nothing major.  All that money and time… :-/

Now, I can hear the collective chastising: How could you say such things?  It’s because we love you and worry about you!  We just want to make sure you stick around for a good long time!  I know which of you I’ll probably get the emails from telling me exactly why it was important to go through all those silly tests.  I stand by my opinion though; it’s a waste of valuable resources.  I knew with each minor complaint that it was no big deal.  LOTS of people have reflux and sinusitis. 

I know my body and I know when something is wrong with it.  I wish other people would just trust me in that regard.  I know you all care about me but I really don’t like to worry people needlessly.  If it’s important, I’ll letcha know.  Honest.

** Postscript: I made it through two different courses of hardcore antibiotics to get rid of the reflux and my sinus infection.  While on the antibiotics I was true to form; I had many of the usual side effects (nausea, vomiting, headaches) and the less common side effects – numbness in my arm and hand and extreme fatigue.  The good news is that the reflux and my headaches are almost completely gone and my blurred vision is gone completely.