Hair Today, Bald Tomorrow (and a photo tribute to my hair)

Yes, the hair is gone. And I have to say that losing my hair was the most emotional part of this whole experience so far. My hair started falling out exactly a week ago, a few hours after I had a wonderful massage by a young woman who upon my request (because who doesn't love a head massage?!) spent some time kneading my scalp and running her fingers through my hair. I shudder to think what her hands may have looked like when she finished.

When I went home and showered, I noticed even more excessive hair strands than usual all around the bath tub. Still, I wasn't sure. But by Saturday, I knew. I began wearing a hat on my head as I could no longer control what my hair looked like and because I thought it might keep the remaining pieces in longer. Although I was feeling freakish ( I don't think I actually looked freakish, but this experience of having your hair take leave of your head after 44 years is quite unsettling), I managed to join my family at the Harlem Globetrotters show and take the boys to a birthday party. By Sunday, I felt simply too freakish to leave the house and completely overwhelmed. Some friends suggested a while back that I watch the TV show Parenthood, so I sought out the episode where the mother who has breast cancer shaves her hair after it starts falling out. I cried along with her through the process. Then I felt empowered along with her when she dolls herself up with a wig, and then again when she decides the wig is not for her and walks around bald.

When the show ended, I went to the bathroom and picked up my husband's electric razor. I managed to shave one tiny patch of hair off. Right in the front. Nice move, Amy. I didn't have the heart to shave the rest, so I put my hat back on. Monday morning, I asked my husband Ben to come home and shave my head after he dropped off the boys off at school. He did, and we made it as far as me standing in the bathtub, Ben holding the razor and telling me he "didn't really feel comfortable doing this." Which I totally get. So, between my discomfort and his, we cancelled the shaving event, and I remained a recluse on Monday, drowning in my sorrow and the hair that was falling everywhere.

I have been fortunate to have many saviors , sometimes knowingly and others unknowingly, rescue me at just right the moment during this process. On Tuesday, my friend Rachel was my savior (she'll cringe at the word if she's reading this. We are typically sarcastic and obnoxious with each other). But seriously. She came over and shaved my head. She had never shaved anyone's head before. She made me laugh throughout, and immediately told me I had a nice shaped head (I was afraid I might discover a more alien-shaped head underneath, not that I'm an alien but sort of like the actress in Parenthood....) as soon as the hair was gone. She took me out to lunch and, before she left and while aware she was running late to pick up her kids from school, she stayed around long enough to buy me my wig. I can not tell you how much her help saved me this week.

When I imagined losing my hair several weeks ago, I thought no big deal.  But I was wrong. Maybe it's about the vanity. Partly. But it's more than that. I think it's also about the feeling of losing control. And of saying goodbye and mourning a mane that has been part of you, a partner in everything if you will, your whole life. I have both loved and hated my hair throughout the years. I have spent hours and decades trying to wrestle my thick waves  into straight shiny submission with blow dryers and expensive hair products. Unlike  my feelings about losing my breast, which I wrote about here, this has been really hard. I know it will grow back. I know it may or may not be the same. But I think my hair deserves a loving goodbye tribute like the one I share with you below.

I highly suggest you play this Kenny Rogers song in the background as it will add greatly to your emotional experience. Enjoy.

bald and beautiful babe

The Carol Brady

Samantha from Charlie's Angels

The Dorothy Hamill (I bet you had this too if you're over 40)

Best hair day eva...8th grade. Look at those feathers!

Sleepaway camp. This is my true hair,
and a curious picture. Look closely at the pic behind
Snoopy and Ralph the Dog

Another sleep away picture.
Yesterday was my mom's birthday.
she died from ovarian cancer in 2002.
The day before, on the 9th, was my dad's birthday.
So this is simply a tribute to my awesome parents, who gave me my hair.


That's the end of the retrospective. If you want to see my lovely eighties hair, there's a video here.

Now, for what you've really all been waiting for, the temporary new me.

bald.


And below, with my new wig, which is actually the kind of hair I've always aspired to have. Jonas wore it like a rock star last night. When he dropped it on the floor as though it was his dirty laundry, I screamed "That's my $350 hair! Pick it up!" No doubt that one will make it into Ethan's memoirs.

Crying at The Croods and other Strange Phenomena

So, chemo. Yep, I started. Had my first treatment on March 21st, exactly 13 days ago (but who's counting). If I recall correctly, I was surprisingly calm on that sunny Thursday morning. At least I thought I was...First we met with my oncologist who went over the treatment protocol and the side effects of the drugs and then it was time to begin. 

I was assigned my recliner, which was right across from a bathroom (very convenient as it turned out the fluids they give you make you "gotta go gotta go right now!") and settled in with my  iPhone filled with music and healing meditations and my books, as I was planning to get a lot of reading done during my 3 1/2 hours or so at the hospital. 

A sweet and apparently well-protected nurse (think full smock and rubber gloves) came over with my bags of drugs, three in total, each of which would get administered one at a time. 

 I can do this. I thought. No problem.

She hooked the first bag up and sat down with some papers.

"I'm just going to go over each of the drugs you're going to get today and the potential side effects," she said as the first drug and its potential side effects began entering body.

I listened for a bit and then suddenly felt hot. And dizzy. "I think I'm having a heat flash or something," I said. 

She calmly called for another nurse, and two appeared. The three of them stood around me , watching me with concern. "How do you feel ?" one of them asked.

"A little hot," I said.

"Turn the meds off," she said to the sweet, side-effects-sharing nurse.

 They stood around me for a while, watching me like a hot, helpless specimen under a microscope and occasionally making a joke or glancing at each other.

"How are you feeling now?" The lead nurse asked.

"Better," I said. "At least I'm not hot any more."

She walked over and looked at how much of the medicine had left the bag and entered my body.  Apparently it was minimal.

"I think maybe you're just feeling a little anxious," she said. "Why don't we give you some Ativan."

Gee? You think? Of course I was feeling anxious. I was having my first chemo AND they were sharing the side effects with me as the drugs were entering my bloodstream. 

"Maybe we can also talk about side effects another time?" I suggested. "My doctor already went over them with me anyway."
They agreed. They gave me the Ativan, which combined with the Benadryl basically put me to sleep. So much for the reading. But I learned a good lesson that day. During chemo, Ativan is King.

The AfterEffects

It's said that you can often predict when you are going to feel bad after chemo, and just as predicted, I started to feel crappy two days later. Not only did I feel tired and perhaps a little nauseous from my chemo, but I got my #$%!**# period (damn you mother nature). And a headache that has lasted me until today...good lord. 13 days, a migraine, off and on, the type of headache where you just want to detach your head and leave it on the dresser for the day.

I talked to my oncologist yesterday and she thinks I might be having a steroid withdrawal headache ( did I mention they give you steroid pills on the morning of chemo?). She says some people are very sensitive to steroids, even a small amount, and need to be weaned off. So now I'm popping a low dose of steroid pills and weaning myself off of them to see if my headache goes away. My friend/husband's cousin who is a breast cancer survivor put it this way: Welcome to the Chemo game. I guess the rules in this game are pretty crazy - trying to connect exactly what is causing what can get confusing and so I'm now changing my profile pic to this (I know, a lot less inspiring than the Buddha but more true to how I'm feeling right now):

As for other side effects so far:

• minimal nausea (I've only taken one pill for nausea, which is pretty damn good). I will say that the feeling is very close to that which I felt in first trimester pregnancy with E. Feeling a little queasy? Eat some carbs or chocolate ice cream. All better. I don't think we have to worry about Amy losing too much weight on her chemo regimen.
• Bad taste in mouth and oversalivating (lovely, yes?). Also had this during pregnancy so there you go.
• A strange mark on my abdomen, slightly itchy, diamond shaped, as though I was kidnapped by aliens and branded.
  
• A tiny bit of neuropathy, in which my hands get red and itchy. I thought it was dry skin at first but now realize it's not and can stop slathering myself in Lubriderm.

Short and Sassy!

And really, that's all that's worthy of mention. So far. But what about my HAIR you ask? The doctor predicted it would fall out around day ten. But I still have it. And it's short. I cut it short in preparation and to make the transition less potentially traumatic (not to mention if all my hair came out I probably wouldn't be able to find my children. Have you seen how thick my hair is??). And I also went to pick out a wig. Say what you will about wigs; some people love 'em. Some hate them. I don't know where I stand, really. But I feel like a need to have one just case. Not sure how my bald self is gonna feel.

 AHHHHHHH! It's Hideous!

I took one picture of myself trying on a blonde wig at the wig store. I only tried it on because I liked the style; not the color. It's simply awful, but I'll share as it will probably make you feel better about yourself.

And, finally, let me address my emotional well being. I'm thinking it might be a bit dicey at the moment. It must be, because I cried during the movie The Croods last Friday. If you haven't seen it or heard of it, here's a brief description:

This prehistoric comedy adventure follows the world's first family as they embark on the journey of a lifetime when the cave that has always shielded them from danger is destroyed. Traveling across a spectacular landscape, the family discovers an incredible new world filled with fantastic creatures -- and their outlook is changed forever.

Crying at a kids movie is OK if it's something like Bambi or Toy Story 3 (if you're a parent and you didn't cry at the end of that movie there is something seriously wrong with  you emotionally. Just sayin'....)

But really..The Croods??  I totally didn't see it coming. We got to the movie late (anyone who knows me knows this never happens) and I had to squeeze into the last two seats in the second last row of the balcony. J sat on my lap and E sat to my right. I could barely even see over J's head and was having a hard time following what was going on so it's not like I felt emotionally invested or anything. But we came to

a scene where the dim-witted father has to toss every member of his family across a great and stormy divide (I think they were jumping to the sun or something- as they were always looking for the "light" all the time and trying to stop hiding in caves) and that's when the waterworks started. 

Was anyone else in the entire theater crying? I wondered. Or was there just something seriously wrong with me? Were my defenses down to due to chemo? Was it my hormones? I casually wiped my eyes with my sleeve. I told my husband that evening about my crying over dinner and he laughed at me. Well, we laughed together.

But then, the next day, I was reading Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart and I had an epiphany. Take a look at these excerpts from her chapter called "It's Never too Late":

"It struck me that if all of this is really a dream (life), I might as well spend it trying to look at what scares me instead of running away."

AND

"Sometimes it seems we have a preference for darkness or speed. We can protest and complain and hold a grudge for a thousand years. But in the midst of bitterness and resentment, we have a glimpse of maitri. We hear a child crying or smell that someone is baking bread. We feel the coolness of the air or see the first crocus of spring. Despite ourselves, we are drawn out by the beauty in our own backyards."

So you see what I'm getting at? The seemingly benign Croods is actually a movie with a powerful Buddhist message. Get out of your caves everyone! Run toward the light! Enjoy your life while you can!

What do you think?

It's either that or I'm becoming emotionally unglued.

Contest Winner and Countdown to Chemo...

We have a winner in the first-ever "I had a Boob Once Contest!" Let me say that all the entries were wonderful and so very much appreciated.

I do have to give the first prize, however, to Amy Cooper Rodriguez (whoop whoop!),  not simply for the comic relief of Ellen's clip "Dennis Quaid Needs a Tailor".......but also for her sheer persistence in sending me things to smile about. Amy, may your life forever be enriched and blessed by Will Ferrel's portrayal of a serious seventies newscaster and philosopher. Email me your address.


As for the runner's up - coming in in second place is Janet P. for this video called Laughing Yoga, which made me spit out my coffee. Watch it, although not while you're drinking anything.

And in third place, we have Barbara for her true story (I love funny, true stories!)  called "The Lorax," which can be read in the comment sections here.

With that out of the way, let's get on to more serious matters, like chemo treatments, which begin this Thursday. Most people, when they hear this, want to know how I'm feeling. First of all - let me emphasize that the answer to this question moving forward will depend on when you ask me. Think of my dramatic shifts in emotions as something akin to a palette of the seven dwarfs. On any given day, I might be : Grumpy(Yep), Sleepy (for certain), Bashful (once the hair is gone), Dopey (chemo brain), Sneezy (if I get a cold), Happy (yes, I will be happy, hopefully, much of the time) and um...that's six. Oh, and Doc. Seven.  I thought I remember there being a Scaredy dwarf but a Google search proved me wrong. Folks at Disney, if you're listening: you need a Scaredy dwarf. I suggest replacing Doc, who serves no emotional purpose really for people with cancer, with Scaredy.

So, for the past 24 hours, I'd say I've been feeling a wee bit Scaredy, kind of like my friend Grover, here.

Fortunately, like Grover, part of me knows that what I'm scared of might not really turn out to be all that bad. Just like before surgery, when I imaged how awful it was going to be - I might wake up under anesthesia on the table but no one would hear my screams! Or my recovery would be agonizing!-  none of which turned out to be.

But the unknown is scary.

One of the seemingly dumber things I did on the afternoon I got the shocking news that the cancer cells had made it to my lymph nodes was to sit in a darkened bedroom with my laptop and read celebrity obituaries for 2012-13. Why? I  have no idea. Interestingly, this was not an upsetting experience - except in the use of the word "battle." Repeatedly, those that died were said to have "lost their battle" with cancer. The word "battle" pissed me off, as it sounded so harsh and bloody and tragic. The phrase also implied that those who died were, well, losers. They'd "lost."

I have no intention of fighting a battle. Some of you have said or written to me, "Kick cancer's ass." That's OK. I don't mind the idea of "kicking cancer's ass," but I plan to kick cancer's ass with loving kindness. I plan to go all Buddha-like on cancer's ass. So I've armed myself (no wait! see how easy it is to fall into the collective battle metaphor ?) I mean I'm readying myself with guided meditations and Pema Chodron's book When Things Fall Apart, in which she writes things like "Chaos should be regarded as extremely good news." And "The next time you encounter fear, consider yourself lucky." And, finally, "Every day, when things get edgy, we can just ask ourselves am I going to practice peace, or am I going to go to war?"


So I'm going to try to practice peace. I'm going to practice trying to stay in the present moment. And to breathe.
And to attempt to stop predicting the future.
And to whistle a happy tune

And on my really bad days,  I will hide under my moldy green happy place blanket until I'm ready to come out.
This, my friends,will be the new me (minus the long ears and hopefully the enormous belly.)

Looking good, huh?  

The First ever I had a Boob Once Contest!

Really! I'm having a contest. Because that's what people do when they have cancer blogs.

I must begin by thanking everyone for their wonderful gifts and generosity over the last several weeks. Aside from people shopping for me, watching my crazy children and dropping off incredible meals and gluten free treats, I also received a very modern and funky header for my blog. This was a surprise gift from Lori, my talented artist/designer friend and aunt-in-law? (she's married to my husband's uncle; you figure it out).
I am lucky that Lori enjoys designing boob-like headers in her spare time.

About a week ago, I also received a thoughtful gift in the mail  from my friend Martha, which included the spiritual and life-affirming book, When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron, along with a copy of the "Unrated, Uncut and Uncalled For!" edition of Will Ferrel's Anchorman, the Legend of Ron Burgundy.Unfortunately, I already owned this movie, and while I know what you're probably thinking right now ("No one can own too many copies of Anchorman!"), I decided two was just too much for me. When I asked Martha if she wanted to return the DVD, she suggested I pay it forward. So that is what I'm doing.
With a contest.

But allow me to digress here a moment to more fully consider Anchorman, which in case you are not familiar with it, is a heartfelt and deeply moving portrait of a newscaster in the 1970's. If you are like me, you wonder almost daily why this film was never nominated for an Academy Award. I received my first copy of the movie this past Christmas (along with my very own Ron Burgundy stylin' t-shirt) after asking my husband to buy me a Will Ferrell collection for viewing during my recovery from surgery. What I had in mind was one of those three-in-a-box collections, but he ended up buying me a total of 11 (yep. count 'em. 11) Will Ferrell movies, including one that doesn't even have Will Ferrell in it: Dodgeball. 

If you've never watched Dodgeball, be warned: unless you like explaining awkward things to young children, do not watch this movie with young children . My boys happened to come into my bedroom one afternoon while I was  watching the film. Although I knew I should turn the movie off, it was only a few days post-surgery and I was  too tired to go through the hassle of lifting the remote off the night stand and pushing the STOP button. The boys happened to join me just in time for the scene in which the underdog team - led by Vince Vaughn- receives the wrong  uniforms last minute and is forced to wear them for the big game, as depicted below.

The boys stood on the bed, their heads cocked, stares blank.
"What kind of uniforms are those?" five-year-old J asked.
I struggled for an answer and then told him they were "like Batman's costume, except you know,  with less fabric." He appeared to accept this response, and began rooting for the team "in the superhero costumes."

You may be asking yourself right now, why the hell is she talking about any of this? This has nothing to do with cancer or a blog titled "I had a boob once!" On the contrary, it has everything to do with it. One of the other definitions of "boob" is a stupid person. And every one of the movies mentioned above, particularly Dodgeball and Anchorman, is, well, about individuals who are pretty stupid. So see how this brilliantly comes full circle?

As for my contest (if anyone is actually still reading this blog) here are the details: Make me laugh. Leave me a funny comment or steal something funny  (meaning you don't have to be the author of it) and share it with me on Facebook or Blogger. You can also share a quote about humor. Like this one: "A sense of humor can help you overlook the unattractive, tolerate the unpleasant, cope with the unexpected and smile through the unbearable." -Moshe Waldoks (never heard of him before but he sounds like my kind of rabbi...)

Whoever makes me laugh the hardest or inspires me the most gets the video (I'm  willing to mail it to anywhere in the world - in case this contest goes global, which I suspect it might).

Or if all this is too much work, you can even just say hi. It's possible you could still win.

Small print: Contest entries accepted until Midnight Friday. Don't all jump at once...

A few things I've learned thus far and want to share

A few months ago I wrote the word "Patience" on a yellow sticky note and posted it on my refrigerator. I can't recall why I wrote it - was it for my kids? My husband? Myself? It was well before i was all caught up in this cancer thing, but now, of course, the word  takes on much greater meaning (as does the groovy electric guitar magnet although I'm not sure why).

This past week I found out my cancer was worse than they first thought. I was under the impression that surgery would likely be all the treatment needed, but not so.The good news is that my cancer is very treatable; I am one of the lucky ones who is "triple positive," which is the best kind of breast cancer because they have the drugs to treat it. Those who know me and my somewhat morose nature understand that I've never been called" triple positive" or probably even just "positive" in my life, so this could also be considered a compliment.

Of course, it was not easy hearing this news, particularly in the awkward and awful  way it was delivered (I won't get into that here, as my new "triple positive" persona does not like to focus on the negative) but I will share a few things I have learned the past few weeks:

•  Doctors  do not know everything; they are not super heroes. Perhaps I unconsciously believed this myth because my father is a retired physician. Growing up, the man could cure anything that ailed me with the right medicine, and our cabinets were stocked with various concoctions  While my father, now 84, continues to be one of my biggest heroes (he spit in the face of some Nazi youth as a kid - pretty cool, huh?),  he is only human. As are all the doctors who have treated me so far. Still, a couple I've come across could use a refresher course in compassion and clear communication, but I negatively digress...


• The mind is a strange and powerful tool. I wholeheartedly believe that all the happy place preparation and trance work I did before surgery helped me recover so easily. On the contrary, while i was getting   some scans done this past Monday, I had David Soul's song (remember him? Hutch from Starsky and Hutch?) "Don't Give up on us Baby" stuck in my head. I have no idea why, but it added a level of torture to the experience that I was not expecting.
  

• If you read my post on the whole blanket of luv thing, you probably won't be surprised to hear me say that I'm not really a big believer in angels and that sort of thing. However I am beginning to suspect that there really might be some little angel-like creatures here on earth, like the PERFECT friend who calls you at just the right moment--immediately after a horrible doctor's appointment, for instance (you know who you are if you are reading this). And then there's all the other little angel-like people who have come to my rescue thus far with their kind words and gluten-free treats and high carb, sodium-rich delicious dinners (we'll have to revisit this when I'm going through chemo but so far it's been great!).
  
• Patience, as the note on my refrigerator continues to remind me, will very much be in order the next several months. I have already started to give up some things I was very much looking forward to - or as my triple positive persona would say, "postpone" some things I was looking forward to this spring and summer. I will just have to do them later. 

• Finally: Benadryl and writing DO NOT mix. I tried to write this post earlier this week and got very frustrated because I could barely write a coherent sentence. Then I remembered I was taking Benadryl due to a rash I got from my antibiotic. So I thought I'd share this with you in case you are trying to write an essay or blog while on Benadryl. Then again, if you have successfully written an essay or blog while on Benadryl or other drugs, I'd love to hear about your experience and perhaps read it, so do share. I'm also wondering if any famous writers wrote anything while on Benadryl. Like Fitzgerald or Hemingway? I Googled "Hemingway and Benadryl" but did not come up with anything (although I found this interesting story about Hemingway's drinking habits - He did not like to drink while writing. It does not say anything about taking Benadryl while writing however). Then again, did Benadryl even exist then? If not I hope these writers didn't have allergies.    

The terrible, horrible, blah blah,very,very bad day

Exhibit A

Alright. We all knew this was coming. I didn't need the MGH brochure informing me "Most people feel upset after breast cancer surgery...common feelings are worry, anger and loss..."  to know i was eventually going to lose it emotionally. I'd lost it once already back in November, around the time of my initial diagnosis, the seams gradually splitting on my way to Boston to teach a writing class called "Getting all Emotional." (Yes, that was the real name of the class. You can't make this shit up)  Fortunately,  I made it through the class without crying or yelling "I HAVE BREAST CANCER!" at the ten or so innocent strangers who paid for a class  to learn about writing emotions, not to watch their instructor have an emotional breakdown. But by the time I was home in bed, I was a runny mess. I tried to wake Ben up a few times, shaking him, repeating his name, but he was in serious hibernation mode. So I gave up and somehow, eventually, comforting myself, fell asleep.

This past Sunday's breakdown could possibly have been avoided had I not decided to read up on chemotherapy Saturday night. I have a tendency to do things I know I shouldn't do, that likely won't serve me well (like reading that Atlantic anesthesia article, remember?). So i went to bed with all the possible chemo side effects swirling in my unconscious. This was on top of the fact that my mother-in-law had gone home on Saturday leaving with me with my husband (god bless the poor man) as my main caretaker. We pretty quickly butted heads over something trivial in the morning and the next thing he know I was a blubbering mess crying that I wanted my mommy. Literally. My mother died of ovarian cancer a little over ten years ago, and I can say, even when I birthed my two children, I was never filled with such mother longing as I was on Sunday. Staring at me however at that moment was not my mother, but my husband, with his own stresses and pressures and  testosterone. I continued to blubber for much of the morning and we continued to argue until I stood up and yelled "JUST SAY YOU'RE #$%#$ SORRY!" at the  man for whatever the heck he was supposed to be sorry for at that moment, and he apologized. (BTW, Did I happen to mention that losing a boob apparently can bring on your period and other hormonal nuttiness? Surprise.)


Anyway, Ben and I moved on, but I was still struggling to keep the tears in check. I even cried through Will Ferrel movies. Ben wisely decided to take the boys bowling and after they left, I had this strange compulsion to watch my sisters' wedding videos. I wanted to see my mother. I wanted to be "near" my family. So first I put in my sister Jacqui's video, which I hadn't watched since the evening of my mother's funeral. And there was my mom  alive and well and beaming in all her my-first-daughter-getting-married-to-a-nice-Jewish-boy glory. Potentially, watching this video could have swayed me either way emotionally, but as I had suspected, it made me feel better, not worse.

I saw other lost relatives too, my aunt Helen and uncle Harvey, and many of those who are, thankfully, still living but not nearby. By the amazing power of 1990's VHS converted to DVD, I was back in the womb of my sometimes dysfunctional but unique and special family. One particular highlight was my great Uncle Phil, (now gone I'm sure) but in his eighties on that day back in 1990-something, tap dancing and singing like a young man. What could be more inspirational than that, I ask you!? Except maybe this clip of me giving a very moving toast at the wedding -  I hope this provides  you, my peers, the same hope and inspiration for the future of our children and womens' hairstyles that it provided for me.






The icing on the cake of this rebound from despair was when my boys returned from the bowling alley, excited to share with me the prize they had won, my gift (exhibits A and B), also known as the lovechild of Barney and Jaws.

Exhibit B

"I pulled it out of the claw game!," J said, beaming with pride.
 I'd always told them those things were a rip off, no one ever wins. But this time J had proven me wrong, and now I have a new "adorable" sleeping buddy to help me through my darker moments.


p.s. Monday was a better day.

How'd we all Do?

Since many of you have been emailing me and asking for updates, which I very much appreciate but can't keep up with, I figured I'd just cover it quickly here.

Tuesday:
The day started just like any other: I got up, rubbed special cream on my boob, and sealed it in saran wrap. Then Ben and I dropped the boys at their school and drove to MGH for my surgery. Yes, we were late. Anyone who knows us knows we are time-challenged (this was what I told the elementary school principal last year when she called because my kindergartner was late a lot). In our defense, on Tuesday, there was still a lot of snow on the ground and people were driving like schmucks. So it was mostly out of our hands and nothing like the time Ben decided to stop and get a coffee at Starbucks while I was well into labor with E.

Anyway, on this occasion our tardiness did come with benefits; we were expedited through all the pre-surgery stuff.  Before I even had a chance to potentially freak out over what was about to happen to me, I was in the operating room, well sedated, and then completely asleep.Next thing I knew I was awake in some room where the clock said 7 pm and Ben was at my side. I think we had some conversation but I remember little of it as I kept falling asleep as Ben tried to talk to me (nothing new). I do remember him watching some nature channel on the TV that had no voice over, which was an odd but I suppose respectful choice. He then changed the channel and started watching a teen jeopardy championship, which we both agreed was more like an SNL skit. Then I slept as best as I could until morning (more from noise then from pain).

In the morning, I was visited by periodic strangers requesting a quick peep show. The plastic surgeon who came by was impressed by her own work, which I take as a good sign. Everyone kept asking me how my pain was and I kept saying, "I don't really have any pain." They attributed this to the nerve block I was given before surgery. As the day wore on, however, they started to doubt it was still the nerve block. I finally ate something, peed about seventy times (do some people really have trouble peeing after anesthesia because I apparently had the opposite reaction) and felt well enough to go home. Since coming home yesterday, I have taken Tylenol twice, more for discomfort than for any actual pain.

I can identify only two possible reasons I have been so lucky in my recovery thus far:

Theory A)  I was so well protected  under my moldy green blanket of love and healing that nothing could hurt me (thank you very much everyone! You did great. I think I even had a vision of Matt Damon in a teal sweater fighting Brad Pitt for my attention while visiting my happy place)
AND

You can really find the strangest shit on the Internet

Theory B)  in a strange turn of events, I really am a bionic woman now. A bionic woman who needs a lot of sleep, but more powerful nonetheless.






p.s. this blog would likely be funnier if I was on some serious pain meds...