I can get behind these. Figuratively speaking, of course!

Warning: This entry can only be described as crass and goofy.

Today we took a jaunt over to our old haunts (Brookline, MA, where we lived for 13 years) to visit a local and well-known vendor of ladies' intimates. I now own support bras. They are less uncomfortable than I thought they'd be, and make me look a little bit like this lady.

 (That's a Giant Robot named Aphrodite A, from a Japanese anime called Manzinger Z (also known as Trantor Z). Yes, her breasts are missiles. Yes, her pilot is a teenage girl. Yes, she only has the two weapons, and once they are fired she is weakened and helpless. Yes, the Manzinger Giant Robot has a lot more weapons, is piloted by a teenage boy, and always has to resue poor Aphrodite. Yes, there are bad guys and a mad scientist. Very silly, I know, but you'll never, ever forget Aphrodite A, will you?)

While there, I spotted a calendar put out by a group called All4One, which is four charities who do stuff for people with breast cancer. Most importantly, they provide free post-surgical bras and prostheses to underserved (read: poor) women. And every year they ask BRAtistes (sorry) and celeBRAties (sorry, sorry) to create art objects shaped vaguely like bras, make them up as a calendar, and auction them off at a gala Event.

See the galleries here.

Some of the bras are really art; others, even when they don't somehow have the Art vibe, are quite witty. I bought the calendar, and will investigate the charities involved further. If they deserve support -- and certainly their goal is small enough and worthy enough to be achievable and valuable -- I will let you know.

I did take mild issue with a quote from one of the artists. She made a bustier mosaic out of broken china, garnet rough, and other things. She is a breast cancer survivor herself, and wrote about how her life was "shattered" by breast cancer, and the broken pieces in the mosaic symbolize her broken, pieced-together life.

That's certainly one way to look at it. And maybe, if I was facing mastectomy, I'd feel the same. But right this instant minute I do not feel like my life is shattered, or is going to be shattered. I'm going to have surgery, and my left breast may come out of that surgery looking like it's been munched by weasels. Call me vain, but I'm more distressed by the thought of losing my hair as I pass through chemo and radiation.

I guess this falls into the category of, "It takes all kinds." The lady's art is quite good, and I don't need to share her emotions in order to empathize with their expression.

Speaking of which, a good friend has taken a bunch of pictures of me and will share them as jpegs. So I should soon be able to show you my pre-chemo hair in all its multi-hued glory.

You wouldn't think it would be this difficult

I have a sister who's two years younger than me. Back in our childhood, there was sometimes friction between us. I knew she finally forgave me for being oldest when she allowed me to recommend a pediatrician.

That was more than 20 years ago.

She was offering to drive us, and to be with Bravest, and he was being all, "I don't want this to be about me," so (being my sister) she took matters into her own hands. Despite a ferociously busy schedule, she cleared her calendar and then told us she was going to be at the hospital. When I called her, the conversation went something like this:

"Bravest doesn't want this to be about him. So... do you want to be there because you're worried about your sister? Or because your sister would like to have you there?"

A pause.

"All of that."

And why is it so hard to say to the person I used to bathe with every night 53 years ago or so, "It would be a great comfort to have you there. Please come." Or for her to say, "I love you and I want to know what's happening to you."

I don't know why it's hard.

Bravest was laughing at me as I described this conversation, and so I asked him, "Would it be hard for you to say, "I love you and I want to be there for you," to your brothers?

"Well... yes."

Humans. Silly creatures indeed.

And some of us re-shape the hole.

In our search for assistance for Bravest on the day of surgery, today I called the Surgical Patient Relations Family Waiting Room. Why not? It was right there on the letter sent to me by the surgeon's coordinator as the place where he would be waiting for me.

Ooops. Letter's wrong! Because I'm having day surgery (and thus SAVING THE SYSTEM THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS), instead of waiting in a bright, airy, well-furnished room with little side rooms where a patient spouse can even catch some zzs, Bravest will have to spend more than 10 hour in a claustrophobic pit in the basement.

Also, Ooops! We don't do that sort of thing here, let me connect you with Patient and Family Relations.

Ooops! We don't have anyone who can help you here, let me connect you with the Patient Coordinator.

Ooops! All we do here is make sure you're going to be safe when you go home, let me connect you with Patient and Family Relations.

At which point I lost it, to the extent that when the very nice fellow who had the misfortune to answer the phone as Patient Coordinator couldn't get any further than I did, he had a social worker call me back.

God bless my former profession. Most people think of social workers as less-exalted psychologists; but what we really are is problem-solvers who will also listen to you rant in order to get at ever-deeper levels of solvable problems. Which is why you find social workers leading the way in fields like cognitive therapy... but I digress.

THIS fine example of a fine group of people went and wrought mightily with the people at Patient and Family Relations, AND the people in the Brechthold Center (the fancy waiting-room for families of overnight patients) and called me back in a very few hours with the following:

1. Bravest can wait in the Brechthold Center, in comfort.
2. People there will make sure he's comfortable and will help him get around if/when he needs help.
3. My surgeon can find him there to tell him how I'm doing.

And:

All this is well within their mandate and should have been known to all the people who spoke to me -- only it's not in writing and we're "non-standard", so no one on the front lines knew how to respond.

I have expressed my sincere thanks, as well as my hope that something will be put in writing for the P&FR standard operating procedures manual. If there is such a thing. If not, I have offered to write it.

After all, you either change the square peg to fit the round hole, or re-shape the hole. And since there are sure to be other situations where a significant other has disabilities and needs special accommodations, and since such is the mandate of the ADA, among other things, AND since this is supposedly one of the Best Hospitals in Boston, they are going to change.

This cancer is going to have Meaning, or I'll know the reason why.

(I'd score this as a win, but we won't know if we've really won until August 9th.)

This stuff is just plain grim

I got the info from the surgeon about where I need to be and what I need to do, and it's kind of grim.

For one thing, I get nothing to eat or drink from midnight the night before. The surgery is at 1 PM.  As in, 13 hours with nothing. Which is a long time. All I can say is, they'd better be hooking me up to a nice big bag of Ringer's Solution well before 1 PM or I will not be responsible for my actions.

And this raises the issue of what to do with/about Bravest. I want him there; I feel safer with him there. On the other hand, I can't very well be making sure he gets lunch -- nor can I be walking him to the rest room if I'm getting radioactive dye injected in my nipple or wire guides inserted in my breast. I think our best bet is to stop by the Family Support desk and see what the nice people have to offer, because Bravest himself doesn't really want to impose on either the Wonder Offspring (WO, for short) or on my sister or any of our friends.

(That's pretty much the way he was when he, himself was sick a couple of years ago. "Tell them not to come. Why should they rush in here just to sit?")

And then, I have to wear something that buttons up the front. I own nothing that buttons up the front. And a support bra. The only such creature I have is a sports bra that pulls over the head and is too small for me anyway. All my other intimates are at least 3 years old and were bought because they were comfortable, which means they're not very supportive. (For you mens, that means they don't so much lift and separate; more like keep from flopping around in every direction.) And yes, this is a poor little rich girl problem; spending some money is all that's required. But not what I wanted to spend money on, at all at all.

We'll figure it out. We always do.

In more comfortable news, last night was so hot that neither of us slept much, and Bravest actually ended up on the floor for the one or two tenths of a degree of additional coolness. So today we went out and bought an air conditioner, the smallest unit I could find on line. It was a mere $99, and it's doing a splendid job. I am really, really looking forward to a good night's sleep.

We've got a date!

August 9th, to be precise. At Brigham & Women's Hospital, which is exactly where I wanted to be. And now that that's settled and the pre-op appointments are all set up, I am hoping to:

• Relax.
• Do some shopping.
• Go swimming in the ocean.
• Maybe get down to the Cape to see some relatives.
• Do a little work to bring in a few dollars.
• Keep cool.

Mmmm... cool.

So Much for Drama

This is one of those posts where I offer my friends and family the opportunity to laugh their heads off at me. If this doesn't appeal to you, please make sure your head is fully fastened on before reading further.

Ready? Good.

Today we went to see the surgeon at Dana-Farber, with a view to scheduling surgery. I had written out a whole long list of questions, and we got there in plenty of time for our 11 AM appointment.

The surgeon was an hour late, which gave us many opportunities to overhear the conversations around us -- particularly the folks right behind us who were playing a protracted round of My Chemo's Worse Than Your Chemo, to the non-delight of their involuntary audience.

Shortly after we were settled in the room, the surgeon came running in. "I'm SO SOORRRRRY!" I was taken aback because in all my years of consuming medical services, I've never had a surgeon -- a faculty member at the Harvard Medical School no less -- apologize to me for anything. I mean, where does the doctoral dignity go from there?

This lady apparently doesn't rely on the fear/deference of her patients to make her feel like the Big Woman On Campus. She sat down, and we had a brief conversation about what I wanted to do and what she thought was advisable. Turns out that if I want the surgery at one of the two hospitals she works at in Boston, I will have to wait till mid to late August, but if I want to schlep down to Braintree during rush hour, I could have it done next week.

Oh, I said. It's day surgery.

Oh yes, she averred. Three hours or so of prep, two hours of surgery, an hour of recovery time, and home again. She even uses dissolving sutures, so there's no post-op trip to get the stitches out.

And the little self-indulgent fantasy I had of people tiptoeing respectfully into my (spacious, flower-filled) hospital room, moving past the gently buzzing pumps and glowing computer screens to press my hand and whisper their affection -- that little fantasy sighed and died.

Instead, I get to make sure there's clean sheets on the bed for me to crawl between when I get back home. And the next day, other than a little soreness, I should be as good as ever. I can even take a shower. No heavy lifting and no swimming for two weeks, by which time we should have the pathology report. In other words, the hard part isn't the surgery -- the hard part is the chemo. I might need help with one grocery store run, but that's it.

Heck, I don't even need to get pre-approval from the insurance company. It's day surgery, and I only need approval for hospital stays.

How totally deflating.

(I did speak to the surgeon about wanting copies of everything, which she totally understood. She also immediately printed out copies of my blood tests and chest x-ray, and told us exactly how Bravest would be involved in the process on the day of. And she gave me a hug as we left. No Dignified Doctors, no Hospital Room Drama -- as a soap opera, this whole event is made of fail.)

Oh, I opted for Boston. Even if I left home at 6:30 AM, I couldn't be sure I'd make it to Braintree by 9:00. So it will either be Brigham & Womens or Faulkner Hospital. The latter has been famous for breast work since the days of Susan Love. Either is cool with me.

Undermining The System from Within

You know, if the medical professionals of this great nation ever decided to speak with any sort of unity, we'd have single-payor health care faster than you can say "Michelle Bachmann is crazy."

Witness our session today with the skin doc, who did a little frosting of a spot or so on Bravest's psoriatic bod and (GASP) suggested that the psoriasis might be made less bothersome by a little sun exposure. A very little.

Since Bravest and I see this fellow together (so I can receive instructions and be made aware of problem spots), there is a certain amount of what might be called marital persiflage.

Doc: "Things OK at work, any unusual stress...?"
Bravest: "Oh no, we've retired." Bravest often uses the Royal or Publisher's pronoun, don't ask me why.)
Lirazel: "I'm afraid the only stress in his life is caused by me."

Which was taken as a joke, until it was my turn and I had to tell the doctor about my own situation. Which, of course, is stressful to Bravest, though probably not the cause of his increasing psoriasis.

It turns out that the BRCA gene variants (which I do not have, remember?) also have a role in skin cancers. Otherwise, I have nothing to worry about -- dermatologists don't even get involved in the treatment of radiation side-effects any more, as the targeting of the treatments has gotten quite precise.

And then we got into a discussion of the Boobeaucracy, and he nearly stopped being a doctor as he shouted, "Les societies d'insurance: A la LANTERNE!"  Or words to that effect.

There are a LOT of businesses making big money off of breast cancer, and the doctors all know it.