The Tattooed Lady

So.  Today, at the age of 59, I got my very first tattoo.

See if you can guess what it is:

This?

No?  How about this?

Hmmm…what about this charmer?

Ok, I’ll tell you….TA DA:

It’s that little black dot in the middle.  There are three others as well, but I can’t show you those because they include naughty bits.  They are the markers for my radiation treatment, which will probably begin next week.  I have too many co-morbitities to be a candidate for chemo, so we are hoping radiation, along with hormone therapy afterwards, will eradicate any errant cancer cells.  I will have a treatment every day, five days a week, for over six weeks.

In an icy cold MRI room, on a hard plastic table, I was set up for the procedures I will receive.  My arm was held over my head in a brace and I have to keep my head turned as far to the right as possible to avoid irradiating my face.  The area that was measured and marked off is relatively large, to include the lymph nodes in my neck and armpit.   Holding still for over a half an hour, my muscles started to spasm and then I was tattooed so the radiation can be aimed at the exact same spot each time.  Lying there, I had a few tearful moments as I was overwhelmed by the enormity of what was happening.  I still cannot believe I have cancer.   Oh, and we’re still pursuing the whole spot-on-the-liver thing, I have to go for another MRI next week.  I am just so weary of being a sick person.

I have to say, though, everyone at the Radiation Oncology Center was kind, pleasant and helpful.  My doctor is relaxed and friendly, he reminded me of B.D. Wong, except he is Korean, not Chinese.  He was incredibly reassuring and empathetic.

Who knows, maybe when all this is over I will treat myself to a new tattoo.  One of these would be my cup of tea.

My new theme song:

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We Wuz [Practically] Robbed

My nice plain and simple laptop table arrived yesterday and I am quite happy with it. Its contemporary little self is not a perfect match for my very girly room, with its lace and oak and floral prints. But that’s ok. It is light and unobtrusive and convenient and contributes to tidiness, so it qualifies as a winner.

I sat in the den last night putting it together, chatting with my friend Dan the Computer Genius while he installed the second hard drive in my laptop in as many weeks. Pleasant, quiet company, a sense of accomplishment with the table set-up, relief at the restoration of my laptop, it was the perfect evening for a geek like me. Although I am still cranky about the hard drive. But I am working on that.

Even more sadly geek-like, I was knackered after all that exhausting enjoyment. But I stayed up with my restored laptop on my nice new table. Fell asleep sitting up in bed until an un-Godly crash in the basement woke me up at 3 am. It sounded like someone was breaking in!

I staggered to the kitchen as fast as my spastic legs would allow and shoved a chair under the basement doorknob. Ah, the cleverness of me. Turned on ALL the lights. Shrieked and screeched up the stairs to Mary Kate. Stood there holding the walls with my heart pounding!

She stumbled down from upstairs while I pantingly told her I thought someone had tried to break into the basement. I told her there was a huge crash, as though a window had been broken and something had been knocked over. She steadied me while I backed up onto my bed.

Then she looked at me and actually said “Did you go down and check?”

There is no end to the amusement my children supply me with.

While we were sitting in my room talking, we heard another noise. That was it, we called 911.

A very kind dispatcher kept us on the line while the police were sent. This was Mary Kate and I with the phone, whispering to each other. I’m sure the dispatcher couldn’t hear us, because I believe the technology to hear callers discuss underwear in a whisper has not been developed yet. “Here hold this for a minute, I have to put a bra on.” “Ok, but hurry, I have to put one on too.” “You’ll be fine, just cross you arms over your chest!” “I can’t let a police officer in here when I am not wearing a bra!” “They’re not looking at your chest!” “Oh, not my chest, just yours?!?!” Knock, knock. In unison: “Just a minute!”

An adorable plain clothes cop comes in, asks a few questions, his partner pops through the front door too. I show them my high tech burglary prevention tool, chair-under-the-knob. They refrain from comment, but I could see they were dead impressed. I’ll probably have a job offer next week.

And then, as this young guy turned the knob on a door to the completely unknown and potentially really dangerous, the true seriousness sank in. I had such respect and gratitude for him. For both of them. Mary Kate and I backed up towards the dining room as the basement door opened.

“Plaster.”, the first cop said. “Wow.”, the second cop said. I peered over their shoulders to see that the ceiling over my basement stairs had collapsed. There was an ankle deep layer of 3 inch thick, 80 year old plaster from the back door, down the stairs, and splayed out across the basement floor.

They still checked out the whole basement. I guess in case the plaster thing had simply been a clever burglar ploy. But no one had tried to break in. The ceiling had merely checked out.

Safe from having my laundry stolen. Phew!! But a whole new thing to repair. Sigh.

My theme song:



For you on e-mail:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8RXJc199zFk

Weigh In

At the gym I go to, The Scale is in a private little cubby, backed by a wall of opaque glass blocks. That little bit of glass wall faces the pool area. When I am in the pool, I can see the fuzzy outlines of other women weighing themselves.

I have been eyeing The Scale for several weeks now. It has been looming, its shadowy figure beckoning through the glass.

No, I’m only kidding, it hasn’t been beckoning, it just sounded so nice and dramatic to say that.

But I have been looking at it. Of all the women I have seen weigh themselves, no one has run screaming from the place. So yesterday, I took a deep breath and inched on.

Holy Mother of God.

Now I know why no one runs screaming from the place. They are too busy reeling in horror and trying to cling to some shreds of dignity as they adjust to the brutal reality that The Scale is clearly off by about 50 pounds.

Granted, it could be worse. I could weigh 1000 pounds and I don’t. But it feels as though I may as well.

This is going to take for-freaking-ever.

I cannot be like Jessica, who writes a great blog at http://allabouthabits.com/ and documents her weight as well as her losses. Jessica is brave and honest. I am cowardly and deceitful. Even with myself. I could never tell anyone what I actually weigh.

But, hopefully, the losses will mount and I will share those. That is the one good thing about yesterday’s frightful revelation. At least I will be able to see how much I am losing. If I don't die of mortification first.

Oy vey.