Mass Effect

I don't usually broadcast to the world how much of a geek I am. Most people who know me are well aware of this fact but I typically do my best to avoid doing or saying anything that reminds people just how geeky I really am. That said, I have to announce that I absolutely love Mass Effect! I've been waiting for this game to come out on the Xbox 360 for a long time now, and since getting it for Christmas I can't go a day without playing it. It is visually amazing, as near to life-like as possible for a game console. When you first begin to create your character it is slightly alarming to see such a lifelike face staring back at you. (Thus illustrating the paradox that the more realistic the characters become the creepier it is to play them.) Once you get over the "whoa" response, you get to make your characters features to your liking. The best part about the game is that it looks cinematic during actual game-play, and my character is in every scene right down to the small scar that I chose when I made her. It is so sweet it makes me giddy. Taking place in space it has a galaxy that you can explore at your whim. You can follow the main plot straight through or go off on your own and visit strange new worlds, and seek out new life and new civilizations. Well, there's really not much of the last two because the worlds that are open to exploration are largely unsettled. It's not limitless, but there is certainly a degree of freedom to the game that is unusual for most console games. The only downside is that it is RPG heavy. In other words, you do a lot of talking to people and no where near as much fighting as games like Halo or Call of Duty, which are all fighting. There's a lot of dialogue and a lot of different choices you can make to direct the dialogue. You can be super nice, an asshole or somewhere in between and the people you talk to will act accordingly. You get the same information no matter how you play it, but the tone of the conversation definately changes and sometimes it is harder to charm the information out of a character then it is to threaten them and vice versa. If you like that sort of game and own a 360 I highly, highly recommend buying Mass Effect. It's just plain awesome. Now I'm off to play! Later!

Junk and Despair

Peter and I are pack rats. We have so much crap that our drawers and closets are overflowing, and our whole house is just one big mess. Looking around the room I can see the disorganized closet in full view for anyone to see (it doesn’t have a door). There are boxes, paper, bags, doll clothes I want to sell on Ebay, a large blank canvas painting, and a big picnic basket full of Christmas presents that need to be wrapped. My desk is littered with photographs, notebooks, knickknacks and doodads, papers, pens, and of all things, a paper mache mask. There is a dead monitor in the corner next to my mom’s old sewing machine. Our art supply cabinet looks like someone set a bomb off inside and now half of what it should neatly contain is actually on the floor. Paid bills, receipts, and instruction manuals are stacked on top of the filing cabinet because we’re too lazy to actually put them inside it. There are two more canvases in the room; paintings that are never quite finished enough to make it onto a wall. A drawer overflowing with Peter’s projects sits in the middle of the room. There is a stack of old newspapers, an old telephone, cameras, cords, headphones, and boxes of computer shit we never use and will never need to use. This is all in a room probably a little bigger then your typical office cubical, and doesn’t include Peter’s desk behind me (I’m afraid to look). When we finally get fed up with the crap our closets can no longer hold the shit gets tossed into the basement. Except for camping gear and holiday decorations, most of the shit down there is never wanted, needed, or seen ever again. I hate living like this. I feel uncomfortable in every room, and all the useless clutter is oppressive and depressing. Peter says we have higher priorities then keeping neat and organized. I just feel lazy, dirty, and completely overwhelmed. I have plenty of time on my hands yet I sit in this pathetic mess every day and do little to improve it. Even as bad as this house makes me feel I am still not motivated enough to roll up my shirt sleeves and get to work. I have lots of excuses. Foremost of them is that I don’t want to do it alone. Just thinking of how much time and effort it would take to get this house in good shape exhausts me. I would also have to prepare myself for an all out battle with my husband. Hard to believe, but Peter is worse then I am. The amount of truly useless crap he holds onto astounds me. Whenever I suggest we get rid of things he says he wants to at least try to give some of it away first. Not only do I doubt that anyone would want any of this shit, I feel that we’re beyond that. If it were possible, I’d have one of those big garbage bins delivered and I’d just throw it all away. It might be wasteful and bad for the environment, but right now my own personal environment is so toxic and polluted that I’d be more than willing to do it. So, overwhelmed with the amount of work to be done, and knowing the resistance I will get should I attempt a major overhaul of the entire house, I wallow in self-pity and despair. We need an intervention. We need help…serious help. Any volunteers?

A Sad Realization

I've realized that I became the person I least wanted to be, the person who becomes their diagnosis. My daily life was spent thinking about and reacting to chemotherapy. "How do I feel now? Am I too tired to clean the kitchen? Damn this chemo for making me feel so tired." I spent time researching my options, talking to friends about how things were going, talking to absolute strangers about how things were going. People wanted to talk to me and spend time with me because I was sick, because I could die. Now in the absence of chemotherapy and in the face of remission (short or long-term) I feel completely lost. I have no sense of self anymore. What am I if not someone sick from chemo? Who am I if not someone who has cancer? No one calls anymore to see if I'm alright or to grab up every moment of what precious time I have left. I have time on my hands and nothing to fill that time with. I am boring, bored, and completely beside myself with fear and anxiety. I have already been chastised for feeling this way. People who still have cancer, who are still staring into the face of death and trying to beat it away with a stick, have told me to essentially get over it and start living life again. I contend that I was living life more when I was sick then I ever did before or since. I may not be staring death in the face anymore, but it is near-by, a shadow on my mind. It lurks, it waits, and it will be back. No matter how hopeful everyone is about my future I know it will be back. No one has Stage IV breast cancer go into remission indefinitely. But if they are lucky enough to have it go into remission at all they should count their blessings and enjoy it. Right? My death sentence has been temporarily revoked and I should be living my life to the fullest. Right? Not as easy as it sounds. At least not for me.

Birthday

As of 11:30am today I am 29. It's sad, but it means I'm alive so woohoo!

Halloween

I've been thinking about how sad Halloween is these days. Peter and I went out like we usually do to avoid answering the door. Not that there are tons of kids around our place. The ones that do live here go to all the shops and grocery stores for their trick or treating. We walked to a restaurant and as we entered two families with small children in toe entered ahead of us. One couple had their kids dressed up, as a dinosaur and a duck, and the other couple had their kids in their normal clothes. The kids in costume were so young they seemed oblivious. The kids not in costume were scared of the other two. I commented that it seemed kind of silly to spend money on costumes when kids are too young to remember them. Peter said he thought it was for the parents...that dressing up kids in super cute costumes makes up for some of the chaos of day to day dealing with kids. I suppose there's truth in that, and I'm sure I was dressed up in silly costumes that I don't remember. I really feel bad for the kids who go to the stores instead of door to door or who end up trudging through the mall because it's too cold and too scary out there in the real world. I remember how much fun it was to be out with my friends after dark, roaming through the neighborhoods high on sugar. I remember the houses we were afraid to go to and the ones not to be missed and the candy trading at the end. There were years it was so cold we'd pile into our parents' cars every few houses to get warm. There were years that we ran from house to house to escape the rain. Halloween was an adventure, and a parentally sanctioned opportunity to live on the wild side. The rest of the year we were indoors before dark, in bed before 8:00, and were generally supposed to be well behaved tiny members of society. Kids these days are missing out. The mall may be warm and dry and safe, but it isn't a little taste of wild freedom in an otherwise boring life.

Chemo is Over...for Now

Last Friday I got the results of my latest CT Scan. Pictures looked good...that's about 6 months of good pictures. Then I had another discussion with Dr. Lee about stopping chemo, and this time I decided to stop. I have two full months off. Two months to enjoy life again....but....in two months the cancer could come back, so I'm not jumping up and down for joy over this. I'm actually more scared now then I ever was about chemo. And sadly, changes that happened gradually also improve gradually. In two months I won't have enough hair to really do anything with besides wear a hat. In two months my weight will only begin to return to normal. In two months I probably won't have new nails or no chemo brain or no menopausal symptoms. Life will be almost as it has been for the last 2 years...only I won't get really sick every month. Oh, and I have to have a Herceptin treatment every 3 weeks as a maintenance therapy, so I'll keep my port for now.

Why I Kept My Maiden Name

I’ve was asked recently why I didn’t take Peter’s last name, so I thought I’d take a moment to answer that touchy question.

First and foremost I kept my last name because my mom told me to. When she married she didn’t keep her last name and suffered an identity crisis as a result. All her life she’d been Linda Martin and then suddenly she disappeared and was replaced by Linda Trammell or worse, Mrs. Trammell. Who was this Linda Trammell? Did she like sports and the same music? Did she want kids and a career? What were her dreams, her likes, and her dislikes? She always said she’d regretted not hyphenating her name (she would never have been as brazen as to not take my dad’s name at all) and so when I got married and kept my last name I did so for her.

This is what I tell people when asked about my decision and usually it’s enough to suffice, besides, who wants to argue with a woman’s dead mother? However, I’ve learned that telling this in Peter’s company gets me into trouble. He’s never been particularly pleased that I didn’t take his last name and isn’t going to let me take the easy way out. In his opinion, if I’m going to keep my name in part as a social statement, then I damn well better make it (even in mixed company with people I’ve never met and might be offended, irritated, or generally put off by the whole truth). So here’s my statement: I’m a feminist.

Ooh, it’s the big scary F-word. Often associated with bitchy, overly aggressive women who wear power suits, or worse, men’s clothing, and refuse to shave or wear make-up on the grounds that it’s society’s way of keeping women psychologically barefoot and pregnant. I am not that woman (although some would certainly argue that I can be a wee bit bitchy). I am usually dressed in feminine clothing, and if I had a better body I’d have no problem dressing up my assets even more. I like shoes and wear make-up because it makes me feel better about myself. Some call this lipstick feminism, some call it feminist-lite, some call it pathetic (men and women), and some call it an excuse to be bitchy when the mood suits (men).

However, saying I’m a feminist as a means for explaining why I didn’t take my husband’s last name isn’t really an explanation, the explanation lies in why taking a man’s last name upon marriage has never seemed right to me. Historically, changing one’s name meant the change in ownership from one’s father to one’s husband. It was legally binding. A father couldn’t take his daughter back without ramifications no matter how much of an abusive a-hole her husband was. In this modern era, I find the symbolism oppressive although 90% of married women disagree with me. Some would argue that following this logic, keeping one’s maiden name indicates the continuation of a father’s ownership. I would argue that growing up with your father’s last name and keeping it perpetually doesn’t have the same psychological impact as being branded with a new last name as a grown woman. In response to this dilemma some women change their name’s to their mother’s maiden name (preferring to be associated with their mother) or make up their own last name. I didn’t do either of these things for the reason I mentioned originally…identity crisis.

For me personally, not changing my name also had a bit to do with aesthetics. Even though I did not change my name, merely thinking about it results in silly smiles, or pointing and snickering. Kim Popp brings to mind that annoying song, “Umm Bop.” Kimberly Popp sounds like a brand of popcorn. While we’re at it, Trammell-Popp sounds like a British Popp band (and is the main reason for not hyphenating). Peter has had a lifetime to get accustomed to jokes made about his name, and is generally good natured about it. I doubt that the rest of my married life would not nearly be enough time for me to be comfortable with it. It takes thick skin to handle a name like that and I don’t have skin that thick.

Finally, consider how much work it is for a woman to change her name (and then change it back again should the marriage end up in divorce). Signing one’s name on a marriage certificate is the easy bit. What follows is endlessly standing in line and notifying everyone and their neighbors of your new name. A woman has to get a new license, passport, credit cards, deeds, insurance, and more while nothing in a man’s life changes other than a ring on his finger.

There are, of course drawbacks to not changing my name. Disdain from men and women alike are chief among them, but that I can deal with. Being called Mrs. Trammell is kind of weird, but not nearly as bad as when Peter is called Mr. Trammell, so I can’t complain. All things considered, I don’t regret my decision. I’m happy being Kimberly Anne Trammell and will never change my name for any man, even the one I love best of all.

I was once asked if I thought that women who took their husband's last names were oppressed or lacked a sense of self-worth. This gave me pause. I know plenty of women who change their names but seem to otherwise be quite independent of their husband. Children are the primary reason because having a name different from your child's does create problems. I've also been told they do it out of love, or tradition, or because they just don't care. I think what it comes down to is that I don't look down on other women for changing their names, but I would think less of myself if I had my name changed.

Breast Cancer Awareness Month and too Much Pink

I'm posting this again because it's worth getting the word out. (Not that anyone reads my blog.) People think they should buy something that's pink to support breast cancer, but do they ever wonder just which chairities get the money and how much money is actually going to those charities? It seems to me that companies are more interested in their image then in helping the fight against breast cancer. The one that gets me is Yoplait, which (according to the http://www.thinkbeforeyoupink.org/ website) donates ten cents for every pink yogurt lid mailed back to the company—it would take 4 lids just to make up for the price of the stamp. So while I want people to be involved in fighting to end breast cancer it worries me that in the end the only people really profiting are the companies, not patients and survivors. Still, there is some benefit to a world awash with pink items...it gets the word out that breast cancer is still deadly to many women (and a few men) and maybe someday it needn't be so.

Sick and Pissed Off

I'm beginning my rare three weeks of freedom from treatment with a cold. Given my weak immune system I figure this will take me at least two weeks to kick. So that leaves me with one week to enjoy, and that isn't any different then what I usually have so I'm more than a little depressed about it. I'm also depressed because it seems someone has lost all of the really great photos of my mom. We pinned them to poster board to display at her wake and ever since they've been missing. I had hope that my dad had them stashed somewhere, but a search of the boxes of photos he had in storage turned up no results. My last and final hope is that they're with her ashes, which are also in storage (it's a long story) but I didn't think to look there at the time. Still, it's a long shot and in all probability the pictures are lost forever.

Not Feeling Insightful

I haven't been feeling insightful lately. In fact I've been feeling rather reclusive. I don't know why this is. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I'm depressed and that makes me more depressed because this is my favorite time of year. I love cool Autumn days and nights full of cleansing rain. I love sitting and listening to the wind playing with my wind chimes, the hollow wooden tubes banging against one another in a low melody. I love curling up with a good book, a blanket, and a cup of tea and wasting away an afternoon. I love to watch the browns and beiges of summer turn to red and yellow and orange. I love the quiet winding down of the year before the cold, dismal winter. Yet, I feel like it's winter already.

I Have a Shiny New Port

So I've survived yet another surgery, not that there was really ever any risk that I wouldn't. It's really more emotional survival. I found a pain killer I can use! It won't work for major surgery but for this one it's just fine. The worst part about this surgery is my tape/glue/bandage allergy. My chest is all red and swollen from where the bandages were. I just took them off today so it looks particularily nasty, but on the plus side I also showered today so I'm feeling human again. I skipped chemo the day after and postponed it for a week. Dr. Lee was out of town so I did it without his okay. He'll just have to deal. My body. I get to do what I want with it. Kinda. Because my schedule is all messed up now. I'll have treatment three weeks in a row followed by three glorious weeks off. Whatever will I do with myself? Oh, and I have super good news...I have money! The government is going to give me money because I can't work. It's only half of what I was making when I was working, but it's better then nothing. I'm not going on any lavish vacations, but I might buy a new rug for the kitchen...and maybe a new pair of jeans.

never forget, and forever uphold the ideals of democracy

On this, the remaining minutes of September 11th, 2007, I give you a part of the Gettysburg Address by our 16th President, Abraham Lincoln.

"But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

Alice in Wonderland

I'm feeling a bit like Alice these days. After I learned that I had cancer, I met the White Rabbit, or rather, a doctor in a white coat who looks like the Chinese-American version of the absent minded professor. He was explaining to me the direness of my situation and then he said something which made me laugh and from that moment I placed my life in his hands. When he told me he would do everything possible to make me well again, I followed him down his rabbit hole. What I discovered was no Wonderland in the traditional sense; rather this Wonderland is a world of endless tests, scans, needle poking, and chemotherapy. Every two weeks I spend several hours with the Mad Hatter, the March Hare, and the Dormouse, but we have saline solution instead of tea. The Caterpillar is a CAT scan technician, who clearly lives a rather interesting life judging by his numerous tattoos. The Duchess is a woman in the billing office I've only ever spoken to on the phone. But throughout my journey in Wonderland I've never met The Cheshire Cat. Never once has a person with an eerie yet beguiling smile told me the truth about Wonderland, that, "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." It is madness to poison the body to make it well, and yet it works for some, so I keep coming back to this Wonderland, and will until the Queen, breast cancer, is dead or she takes off my head. What worries me is that I'll be stuck here for the rest of my days, that I'll become a permanent resident of Wonderland, ever searching for that illusive, disappearing cat with a half-moon smile.

Why I Think Hospitals Suck

This list is in no particular order.....

Food. While the food at Northwest Hospital is the best hospital food I've ever had, it's still hospital food.

Piss and shit inspections. I had to pee in a "hat" so they could measure my output. I was also not supposed to flush the toilet, but did anyway. When they discovered this I was reprimanded, but that didn't stop me. I was willing to pee in the nasty, stinky, hat, but I draw the line at shit inspection.

Every couple of hours they come in and take your blood pressure, your temperature, and your pulse. Notice I don't blame the Nurses Aides that have to do this; it's just lame that it has to be done.

Hooked up to iv's. After so many rounds of chemo you'd think I'd be used to it, and to a certain degree I am, but it still sucks. Especially at night.

A really, really uncomfortable bed that makes lots of noise. Despite wonderful advances in bed technology, they're still lumpy and made my back and neck ache like crazy.

Nurses and/or assistants who have only a limited understanding of English. I know this sounds racist, but after what I've been through I can't help but be a little peeved. It just seems wrong to put someone in charge of your health and well-being who can't understand most of what you say to them.

Said before, saying again....people employed to take blood draws that can't find a vein to save their lives. I've decided they're sadistic and like to watch people squirm.

An entire staff of people who have no clue what's going on, and yet are entirely in control of your existance.

Being told that you'll have surgery at 12 and not able to eat until afterwards, and then being told the surgery will be later and you'll still have to wait.

Being told day after day that even though you feel better you will have to stay another day.

Loud people in near-by rooms who hoot when the M's score, say "rock on" when their food is delivered, and tell every person that comes into their room about their cool iPhone. I wanted to walk in his room and explain to him the concept of an "inside voice".

Crappy televisions. What's the point of giving me a bunch of channels I don't have at home (Animal Planet rocks!) but on a blurry tv with terrible sound?


....and that's the small corner of hell I've been living in since July 13th. Home now and hoping never to go back but know it's bound to happen sooner or later.

Ode to Shadow

Wolves were my favorite wild animals until I started learning about bats. They still draw my awe for their extreme wildness, their power, their beauty, their sense of community, their important and necessary part in the food chain, and their struggle against all odds to not become something of myth and legend. So when I met one, well he was really only half wolf, I fell in love instantly.

His name was Shadow and he lived in Canada with his people in their home on the edge of a wildlife refuge. This place was so remote it was only accessible by boat despite being completely connected to the mainland. They didn't breed him, (it's illegal to own or breed wolves or part wolves in the US, but I'm not sure what Canadian laws are) they merely provided an excellent home for a creature that would otherwise have been destroyed. Shadow was so gentle and kind and proud and protective that the only thing wolfish about him was his body.

My dad was staying at the home of Shadow's people to take care of him and his pal Bear (dog had huge paws!) while they were on a safari for a month. The whole family went up to visit Dad and once there I pestered my dad to tell me all he knew about Shadow. He told me stories about Shadow chasing away skunks, vandals, coyotes, and even a bear. Every time a boat passed too close to the dock he'd jump up from his place just inside the front door and run as fast as a greyhound down the dock. To see that massive black dog fly down the dock was impressive; to hear him bark was down right bone chilling.

Even as old as he was he still protected his home with all his energy, and that was despite nursing an injured paw. When my little niece stepped on it accidentally he jumped up and barked in her face. Just one bark, one loud, bone chilling wild wolf bark. He couldn't help it, and you'd do the same thing if someone stepped on your injured foot. She couldn't help but be scared, and started to cry. Her mom picked her up and sat with her to calm her down and Shadow followed them and sat at their feet with his head between his front paws. Once my niece calmed down and understood why he had barked she got down and sat next to him to pet him gently. He put his big ol' wolf head in her lap and looked at her with his soulful eyes begging her to forgive him, and I walked away with tears in my eyes.

I spent a good deal of my time up there hanging out with Shadow. He made a nice pillow and liked that I provided a shield from the wild and crazy youngsters running around. As you can see from the picture, when he lay down and stretched out he was almost as big as I was. In the other picture he is sitting in his spot with a full sized couch behind him. I just found out recently that he passed away, so this is my tribute to the gentle wolf that stole my heart.

Stingy Neddles

When I was young I frequently went on weekend excursions with my best friend Jamie, her mom Lisa, and her little brother Mikey. One weekend in early summer we all piled into Lisa's Chevy Blazer and we took off for Whidbey Island, a frequent destination. This trip we were picking up Jamie's older brother Jesse, who lived with her dad, and bringing him back to the mainland to stay for a few weeks while her dad took an extended trip. When we got to the house we were immediately dispatched outside and out of Lisa's hair for the rest of the afternoon.

With little else to do, we agreed to let Jesse lead us on a hike through the rolling pastures and evergreen forests that make Whidbey Island so picturesque. The weather was sunny and warm but windy as the island typically is. Jesse took us straight into the pastures, weaving over, under and through barbed wire fences. Despite the barriers, we didn't see any livestock, so I wasn't paying very close attention to where I was stepping until I planted a foot into a slick pile of manure. To step in manure is embarrassing enough, but as I tried to step out of it I slipped and dropped a knee into the mess. Now thoroughly mortified and smelling not so pleasant I desperately wanted to return home. I was afraid of getting lost and since no one else wanted to turn back I reluctantly continued on the trek.

I was relieved when we finally reached our destination, a lovely evergreen forest smelling of pine and moss and blessedly free of piles of cow manure. My relief shortly turned to dismay as the skin on my hands, arms and legs began to sting like crazy and white bumps began to appear. It felt like I imagine acid would feel on one's skin, and that in fact was the case for we had just tromped trough a patch of stingy nettles, a short leafy plant native to the Northwest. I had never felt their legendarily painful sting before I was shocked by the agony and immediately began crying. I was not alone in my misery; Jamie was also in pain although not crying as I was. Mikey, who was very little at the time, was wailing at the top of his lungs at the pain. Jesse was indifferent to our discomfort, and seemed to have conveniently managed to avoid the vicious plants. Now I definitely wanted to return to the house as quickly as possible, and was not alone in the sentiment. Jesse assured us that it would take as much time to get home if we continued on so we did. Needless to say no one was having fun anymore. I had managed to stop crying, but just barely. Mikey was inconsolable and hysterical. Jamie was irritated with all of us.

Jesse led us to a shallow icy cold stream that numbed our skin and dulled the pain. Mikey finally calmed down but continued to cry and I was simply relieved to wash some of the cow manure off of me and lessen the pain. Unfortunately we faced a new problem. Mikey wouldn't leave the stream bed because as soon as the water warmed up to our body temperature the pain returned just as painful as before. We still had a ways to go and Mikey wouldn't budge. With sunlight fading fast we knew it wouldn't be long before it would be too dark to see well in the depths of the forest so we spurned Mikey on despite his reluctance. The rest of the journey was a blur of pain, frustration, and bad tempers.

Upon returning, Lisa was furious with Jesse and accused him with intentionally taking us through the nettle patch. He spent the rest of the night in his room, but that didn't seem like a suitable punishment to me. Mikey was immediately placed in an oatmeal, baking soda, or some other equally soothing home remedy bath. I was forced to remain a stinky mess but Lisa did offer to wash my pants for me. Eventually Mikey finished his bath and since neither Jamie nor I wanted to go third, Lisa made us bathe together. I felt a little awkward taking a bath with someone else because that wasn't something I normally did, but the relief from the stingy pain was worth it. I have never been so reluctant to leave the bath tub in all of my life.

Getting Poked (Warning, this is about needles!)

When you're sick you get poked with needles a lot. Before my first treatment I had a port-a-cath surgically implanted in my body. It's this donut shaped device located over my right breast just under my skin that's attached to a tube that is inserted directly into my artery. It makes chemo infusions way easier and as a result there's less damage to the veins in the arm and less chance that the toxic chemicals will do tissue damage. So, after I got the port I thought I wouldn't have to get my arm poked anymore, but alas, I was wrong. Every time I go in for treatment they have to take blood samples to determine if I'm healthy enough for chemo. Every time I get a scan done I have to have an IV so they can inject me with dyes.

And here's the heart of this rant. Why can't they ever get it right?

Lab technicians are specially trained to draw blood, and most hospitals now employ people who are specially trained to insert IVs and rove around the hospital doing just that. So if these people are specifically trained in the fine art of needle poking, why do they still mess up my veins? Don't get me wrong, there are some who are masters of their craft. One tech at the Cancer Center ("Dann the Mann") has never once missed my vein, but of the two others one has missed it every time and one has missed it a couple of times. Today for my CT scan I had an IV inserted by one of those roving specialists, and this was the third time I'd seen this woman and the third time she's missed my vein.
Missing the vein or poking all the way through a vein hurts, some times it hurts a lot. Once about 10 years ago one of the nerves in my arm was pricked and damaged by a needle during a blood draw. It took about a year, a painful year, for the nerve to heal. Things are worse now because ever since my mastectomy I'm not allowed to have any pressure put on my left arm. No blood pressure cuffs and no turnicates allowed. So my right arm takes the full brunt of constant poking and frequent mishaps.
Today, as I'm nursing my aching arm and watching the bruise appear I wonder how it is that hospitals continue to employ people so completely incompetent at their job.

Spermologer

A person who studies sperm? Not exactly. It's either a person who collects and studies seeds or a person who collects trivia. I am well known for collecting bizarre, random, and often useless facts, for example, there are twelve different ways to break a $1 bill. The fact that perplexes me is whether or not it is correct to call a single fact a sperm. If this is so then why are sperm called sperm? Are they also random, useless facts? I imagine all the facts I know swimming about my head, their little tails propelling them through the fluid of my brain searching for something to impregnate. In a standard deck of playing cards, clubs is the only suit in which all three face cards have two eyes. Does this fact mean that I am already pregnant? Am I continually pregnant, each fact pushing me further along until some moment in the future when my swollen brain expels everything it knows? Or do I become pregnant with every single fact and give birth to that fact every time I impart it on others? Is one of my children the fact that Illinois Ave is the property landed on most in Monopoly? I've begun to feel the oppressive weight and responsibility of the facts. It is important that people know that the average person spends roughly three years of their life watching commercials, for knowing this fact might prevent it from actually happening. Trivia has also ruined my social life. When friends are up for a night of Trivial Pursuit, the first person they invite is the one that knows that Beethoven's 9th symphony is roughly 70 minutes long, and that's why the maximum recording time on a compact disk is 74 minutes. For every other social gathering, I'm the last on the list. No one wants to be around someone pregnant with facts for the fear that one of them might burst into an otherwise lighthearted conversation. I've begun hiding my facts, refusing to let them out. I'm dying to tell someone that Pez was originally a peppermint candy invented in Austria, and is short for pfefferimnz. I've become a secret reservoir of forgotten knowledge that the world is better off not knowing. My head is overflowing with sperm.

What is Creative Non-Fiction?

When I tell people I write Creative Non-Fiction they usually have no idea what I'm talking about. It's a new genre that has yet to be fully defined. There's a lot of debate about what counts as CNF, but for my purposes I like to view it as fictionalized truth or embellished reality. Sometimes I stretch reality so far that it seems fiction, it is fiction in that it could never possibly be real, but it always has a basis in fact, truth, or my perceptions. I know that doesn't make sense. Frankly I don't get it either. So if you read some of my "creative non-fiction" and wonder how a particular piece even qualifies, ask away and I'll attempt to elaborate. You'll also notice that prefer the short format or even the short short format. They read as anecdotes of life and that suits my purposes just fine because my life is only interesting anecdotally.

Fat and Puffy

Whenever I see another woman who is obviously undergoing chemotherapy I can tell just by looking at them whether they have breast cancer. It's not mystical; it's physical in that many of us look more like we've gorged on one too many McDonald's hamburgers then like we're undergoing chemo. This is due to many factors, the largest factor being that the chemo drugs used to specifically treat breast cancers tend to cause weight gain. In addition, there have been great strides in developing medications that ease or prevent the stomach problems that cause so many cancer patients to lose weight. I take four medications designed to make my stomach problems less severe. While I'm grateful to have these drugs, there's one drug I wish I didn't have to take. It's a steroid called Dexamethazone, and like many steroids, weight gain and swelling are unavoidable side-effects. In addition, chemo causes many pre-menopausal women to go into menopause with all of its related symptoms. On the plus side I no longer have periods on the negative side I have hot flashes and weight gain. If that wasn't enough, many of us suffer from Cushing's syndrome, a condition that causes swelling and puffiness. The end result is a chubby, puffy, and usually bald woman who can hardly recognize herself in the mirror anymore. For those of you participating in the Race for the Cure, be prepared to see a lot of women chubby, puffy, bald and decked out in pink.

What brought all of this on? A bizarre experience. I have a lot of those now. I'm like a pregnant woman that gets her stomach rubbed all the time by perfect strangers. They see my baldness and think social standards of personal space and privacy don't matter. My most recent bizarre experience happened in the middle of the mall. I was sitting by myself, resting and people watching while my sister-in-law finished shopping, when a woman came up to me and put her hand on my shoulder. "Do you have cancer?" she asked. It was a dumb question, and the answer in my head was, "No I'm making a fashion statement by shaving my head and my eyebrows and plucking my eyelashes." What I actually said was, simply, "Yes." Then she said, "I just saw two other women who have cancer." I knew who she was talking about because I saw them too. They were both fat, puffy, and bald like me. The woman continued, "I have cancer too." She was not fat, puffy, or bald and therefore either was just beginning treatment or she didn't have breast cancer. "It's rampant," she added. I was dumbfounded. Where had she been all her life that the fact that so many people have cancer was shocking to her? "Yes," I said, pausing for effect, "it is." To this she responded, "Well, God bless you." As an atheist I didn't really care if God blessed me, but out of politeness I was about to say, "You too," when she added, "And me too." Then she wandered off leaving me stunned. I couldn't believe she actually blessed herself.

Note: My friend Stephanie has pointed out to me that I should have been more sympathetic to the poor woman, who might have been recently diagnosed and a little overwhelmed. Stephanie is right and now I feel bad, but I promise to be more considerate in the future.

I Hate My Kitchen!

Let me describe my kitchen. I live in an old house in Seattle that is roughly 800 sq ft; in other words TINY. The kitchen is the largest room of the house, taking up about a third of the space. Large kitchens are usually a great bonus, but not in this case…in this case the kitchen is ineffectual and utterly irritating.

To start with, it has only one counter and the space is taken up by the sink and the dish rack I must have because there's no dishwasher (oh the agony!). The counter is also pretty useless because there is not a single outlet anywhere near it. No place for a toaster or a microwave. No place to make waffles or smoothies or mix cookie dough. So my appliances are scattered throughout the room on various pieces of furniture not intended to be in kitchens. The only viable work space for preparing anything is the small table we eat on, and it has to be dragged near the back wall to reach the outlet.

The second source of my frustration is the stove, an ancient 1960s retro monster. It has two small burners (one doesn't heat up all the way), one large burner (crooked), and instead of a second large burner it has a crock pot built in. The oven is small, has only one shelf, and doesn't maintain a constant temperature because the heat escapes from the door. The only thing that is good about the stove is that it is so large it has extra drawers to store pots and pans.

The third issue I have with the kitchen is that a portion of it is completely taken up by the back door, which must be open at all times. What? Let me explain. This lovely old house has the luxury of a laundry room because the owner decided to convert the back porch into an enclosed space. Unfortunately, they took two short cuts when they built it. The first is that they left the original back door in place, doorbell and all, and simply added a second back door. The second is that they didn't bother to insulate the room. So, the door from the laundry room to the kitchen has to be open all the time so that the pipes don't freeze (don't even get me started on what an expensive waste of energy this is). Now we could, theoretically, shut the door during the summer, but we'd need to open it to get in the house so the space behind it would still need to be left open.

My final complaint, and this is really what spawned this rant, is that this relatively large, spacious kitchen has a vast expanse of white no-wax floor. Dirt sticks to it, molds to it, becomes one with it, and it seems that no amount of scrubbing on ones knees for hours will ever get it clean. I have to use a special cleaner and within hours of cleaning it's dirty again. We could get rid of the cats and use the front door to come in the house, but even then I doubt it would make a difference. I spent a good part of today trying to clean the damn floor and I gave up with exhaustion after getting to about a quarter of it. Does that quarter look sparkling and new? Hell no! There's still dirt and grime that no amount of scrubbing can clean. As a perfectionist I find it exasperating that I can't get it clean, and I can only imagine how frustrated I'd be if I had OCD. As a chemotherapy patient I have to be satisfied with how it looks now because I simply do not have the energy to do any better. SIGH

Good news? or is it?

Okay let me recap, about a month ago my CT scan results were questionable. In the words of the specialist who looked at them: "The same or worse." Monday I had another scan and got the results on Wednesday, which are "The same or better." It is clear that the tumor is not growing out of control, and that's a good thing, but what the hell is going on? Well, it's tricky because the two remaining tumors on my liver are each about the size of a pin head. In my doctor's words, "The same person could look at these scans seven different times and get seven different measurements." I've progressed into a gray area where there's no way of knowing if the tumors are active or not. Even though they show up on the CT scan does not necessarily mean that they're alive. They could be empty husks left behind when the large tumor died, or they could be a few resilient cancer cells that are resisting the treatment but too starved to spread out. So, the plan now is the same as it has always been…same treatment and the same schedule with scans every couple of months. If there continues to be no change for several more months then I'll have to decide if I'm ready to stop the chemo and just do maintenance therapy to keep the cancer in remission. It's a scary concept because as soon as my body is no longer toxic soup, whatever cancer cells are still hanging around could then flourish and spread. Many cancer patients have a great deal of trouble transitioning because the fear is always there. The chances of a stage 4 cancer returning are extremely high, so learning to live with that reality will be a challenge in itself. I remember after I was diagnosed with Epilepsy in my teens that I spent a great deal of time in fear of my next seizure. To some degree I've come to terms with the fear, but every morning I still feel a twinge of it (I have waking seizures). The same will be true of cancer, but the difference is that a seizure is unlikely to kill me but cancer is definitely deadly.

Graduation was Funny

When I graduated from college all of my really close friends ended up graduating in the morning ceremony, leaving me alone in the afternoon ceremony. The campus was swarming with people in black robes and square hats and I followed the general flow to the Red Courtyard, the large central courtyard on campus so named because it was made out of red bricks. I wandered around in the sea of black looking for someone I knew to talk to. I spotted David, a guy I had taken several classes with. Originally we met when his roommate was dating my roommate. They had a messy breakup but David and I stayed out of it as best we could and remained friends long after they were no longer on speaking terms. I came up and gave him a friendly hug, more to see him blush then out of any affection for him. He introduced me to the people he was standing with, mostly friends from his dorm. David and I were both Creative Writing majors and we had a lot of similar acquaintances from our classes. It wasn't long before I was in a cluster of people that I knew fairly well.

As the time for the ceremony drew near we were given instructions via a megaphone, the most important of which was to pair up. As soon as the instructions were over I asked David to be my partner and he agreed. With that potential crisis seemly averted I relaxed and went back to mingling. However, when we were ordered to line up with our partners, David had disappeared. Trying not to appear frantic I looked around for him and asked those around me if they'd seen him, but everyone who had seen him had no clue to his present whereabouts. The people with the megaphones were attempting to herd us into line and I had no partner. I didn't want to end up at the end of the line with all of the other friendless losers and end up sitting through the whole ceremony with a perfect stranger. It was then that I saw Erin, a woman I had taken several classes with and knew fairly well. She appeared to be alone so I took a gamble and approached her.

"Hey Erin, have you seen David? I was supposed to walk in with him." I asked as casually as I could muster.

"No, sorry," she said as she looked around without actually looking at me.

The no eye contact was a bad sign, but I forged ahead, "Damn, you can't trust boys to be there when you need them."

Erin chuckled, and then said, "Yeah, I'm looking for my friend Adam."

I figured as soon as Adam showed up I was screwed, but just then a megaphone wielding man came up and told us to get in line. Apparently by standing alone with Erin he assumed we were partners. The megaphone guy wouldn't budge unless we moved towards the line so I grabbed Erin's arm.

"Come on, we'll stand in line together until we can find our friends."

We reached the line and merged in with other acquaintances, none of whom had seen either Adam or David recently. I knew the moment Adam showed up I'd be abandoned and forced to get out of line, and was in a heightened state of anxiety. When Erin called out Adam's name I thought I was going to pass out, but when the guy approached he wasn't alone. Introductions were made and the pretty woman on his arm was apparently a new acquaintance he hoped to get to know better. In other words, Erin was being ditched because Adam wanted to get into this woman's bed. They joined us in line and Erin said something along the line of us being stuck together just as we were ushered towards the gym where the ceremony would take place.
Erin and I took our seats and chit chatted a bit about our plans. She spotted her family who had traveled all the way from Montana see her graduate. I looked around for my family, but couldn't find them. Then the ceremony began, and the school president had only said a few statements when Erin leaned over and whispered to me.

"She sounds just like the teacher from South Park," she said.

"I don't hear it," I said after listening for a few moments for the slow, monotonous drawl of that character.

"You're kidding me," Erin said, "she sounds just like him."

To emphasize her point she began adding that character's signature, "Umm kay," every time the president paused. It wasn't tremendously funny, but a mixture of extreme heat and high anxiety had made me giddy, and therefore I laughed every single time. I don't have a loud laugh, but sitting in a relatively quiet room I was drawing dirty looks from many people around us. This didn't make either one of us stop and by the time the president introduced the guest speaker and took her seat, my sides hurt from laughing so much.

The rest of the ceremony was uneventful until we got up to get our diplomas. We went a row at a time, exiting from the left, making a loop across the stage to shake hands with the president as our names were called, then returned to our seats via the right side. When David's name was called I realized he was only two rows ahead of me. I really wanted to ask him why he had ditched me, but part of me had already guessed the answer and knew he wasn't man enough to admit it. Slowly but surely it was my turn to hand the announcer my name card and go up the steps.

The name cards gave the announcer phonetic clues about how to pronounce your name as well as any honors you had. My card read, "Kimberly Anne Tramel, (like 'camel'), Sigma Cum Laude." As I reached the top of the stage the announcer called my name and a loud shout erupted from directly behind me. The shout was so loud that I was startled and whirled around to see what it was. It took me a few seconds but eventually it dawned on me that it was my family cheering from just left of the stage. Erin was following close behind me and seeing her come on stage I remembered what I was supposed to be doing and turned around to shake the president's hand.

As she took my hand the president said, "Sigma Cum Laude, good job, keep it up."

It didn't occur to me that she was probably tired after shaking hands all morning and all afternoon for the sole purpose of making sure each graduate stood still long enough for a picture to be taken. In that moment of giddy confusion all that occurred to me was, "Keep it up? I just graduated you dumb ass. Umm kay?"

I'm Tired of This

It's late, or early, and I can't sleep. What's worse is I also cannot write. I'm tired. Tired of posting these silly updates on my cancer saga that no one reads. So I'm done. I mean I'll still post because I'm addicted to this self-indulgence, but no more play by play accounts of chemo and life with cancer. I figure I'll have cancer-related news from time to time, but mostly I'm going to focus on more entertaining things.

Calling it quits

I've finally quit my job. It was just too difficult for me to continue such a high pressure job. My boss was frustrated with me. I was frustrated. It was just a bad situation. In the beginning the job was a great distraction, and it kept me upbeat and positive. It has become a major source of stress and that was beginning to have an effect on my health. Finances will be tight, but Peter and I think we can do it, at least for a little while.

This is My Life

The holidays were rough, but I made it through. The last CT scan showed improvement, but Dr. Lee's not ready to call it quits. So, there's still no end in sight. It's finally beginning to take its toll on me. My mind doesn't work as well as it used to. My body is worn out. I've tried to keep these posts positive for the most part, so I've left out a lot of the unpleasant details. Truth is I'm sick and tired of being sick. On top of the treatments, my body has been forced into menopause resulting in hot flashes, night sweats, and all the other wonderful things I didn't expect to experience until much later in life. The weight gain as a result of the steroids (they control nausea) is depressing, and I can't really exercise because my heart has been weakened by treatment. The acid reflux is god awful, I swear one good belch and I'll spew acid. I get up, I work, I come home and crash. This is my life now. I sigh. Forgive me for my self-pity. It's been an especially difficult week.