The Big C

I have the Big C the kind of which is destined to rapidly approach the Big D very soon. The Big C is Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC). A particularly nasty and ferocious type of cancer and one not well known. IBC represents 1-3% (some sources say as much as 6%) of all breast cancers making it a rare and dangerous ruffian. It does not usually present as a lump, although that is what led me to pursue a doctor visit.

I had a spot on my right breast where my cats had jumped on me - twice. It was bruised and sore for a few weeks then seemed to heal. That was in late March.

In April, I had a lump form in about the same place. It was very hard and very easy to palpitate. Thinking that I had a cyst form from some deep bruising, I kept checking it and wasn't all that worried because I could move it and pinch the skin on top of it. Cancer tumors are not supposed to be able to move and you're not supposed to be able to pull the skin around them.

July came and the lump became rock hard, large enough to see pushing up against the skin of my breast. No pain, but the breast around it was tender. I knew I should get it looked at, but was crazy busy with life and my insane insomnia kept me up all hours of the night so that I could not function during the day. By August, friends were badgering me to go get it checked and I promised I would.

The last week of August, an itchy red, raised area appeared on the underside of my breast close to my arm pit. With my mirror, I could see that my pores looked like someone had reamed them out with an ice pick and the adjoining skin was rough and rippled. This was August 25th.

I couldn't get an appointment for two weeks. The redness, swelling and roughness spread to my nipple then up to cover the area where the lump was. My nipple started feeling like leather, began turning inwards, and the itching drove me nuts over the weekend. I decided not to wait for the appointment and walked into my clinic on September 1st.

My GP prescribed Keflex anitbiotic just in case it was a bug bite. I knew better and so did he. He's been to school and specialized in oncology before he came over to general practice. I'd spent hours on the internet Googling skin rashes, spider/insect bites, contact dermatitis and breast skin disorders. I hit the images toggle and there was my breast, second row down, second picture from the left. The picture title was "Inflammatory Breast Cancer".

By the time I got to see the doctor, I had a pretty good idea that the antibiotic wasn't going to do dick. And it didn't disappoint. My follow up was September 10th. I said, "This is the bad one, isn't it"?

"It may be," he said noncommitally. I saw the look exchanged between him and the nurse. He told me I'd had to have a diagnostic mammogram and that he was referring me to a breast specialist. I resist.

Mammograms are a tiger with a diamond studded collar to me. It may be touted as cutting edge diagnostic, but it's a wild card. Why bombard an area prone to cancer already with a known carcinogen? I don't see any radiologists or other medical professionals moving to Chernobyl so I gave mammos up for Lent seeing as how the ones I did have I suspected of destroying some perfectly movie star stand up bosom musculature that were my pride and joy. Also. I was immediately scheduled for a sonogram and then an MRI after each and every mammo. Why not cut to the chase and save some time and money?

"An oncologist, right?" I asked just to clarify. "Yes". I give in to the diagnostic mammo since I cannot see an oncologist and get a definitive diagnosis until I do.

I'm sitting in the hall next to his office and I hear the conversation he has on the phone talking to the scheduling clerk. "The referral is rule out IBC with palpable mass". I know what that stands for.

To be continued.

Jaws

Another sleepless night. I spent it going out with the flashlight trying to get George to answer me. I was in a total panic mode because I thought that this would be my fourth death in under a month and a half, and my fifth in less than half a year.

I could see her up on the dormer roof curled up totally still, but she wouldn't respond to my calls. I waited for first light because I thought I was going to have to go up there somehow and bring down a body. Mature, Rubenesque women have no business climbing up on roofs! And my neurons just might have decided that it's time for one of my spaz-outs sending me off of the overhang waving to the neighbors.

Then... glory! When I went out and called to her a little before 7:00 a.m, she pops up and wags her tail cat fashion, happy to see me, ran over to the edge of the roof and jumped down! She somehow had managed to get her jaw unlocked during the night. Maybe just relaxing in sleep or exhaustion did it. She was hurt yesterday afternoon after the Paradise Cleaning Crew left. I just cringed every time I looked at her up there with her jaw jacked wide open, head down and drool coming fast and furious. That must have been painful for her.

I figured out what happened: I heard a huge thump and roll on the roof just before I went outside yesterday. That's when I saw her up on the roof trying to get her head up and her mouth closed. The neighbor's white cat was running down from the deck and I shooed him off.

At first I thought that he had done it fighting with her. Then I remembered the thumping noise and went to where she was standing when I first saw her injured. There was a good sized oak branch that had broken the tall prickly pear cactus under her. It must have hit her as she was napping up there and dislocated her jaw. As most cats do when injured, she did not want anything to do with me knowing that I'd be messing with it trying to fix it.

Anyway. She's inside. Napping on my lap. Will stay inside until further notice. And I'll leave the neighbor's cat something else in his food bowl as an apology. Yes. I've been feeding him. You know me and strays. He seems to like it more here than his own home and has been talking to me instead of running away. He might need a snack while he's here.

George has had a rough time. She's used up two of her lives with the tea tree poisoning episode and getting bonked by the oak branch. She's started sneezing furiously the last few days. Not sure if it's the last of the melalueca coming out of her system or what. She's also lost a little weight. Not surprizing with all she's been through.

Anyway. I'm glad to have her back. Relieved not to have to bury another friend. I know that I'm at another crossroads in my life. This sort of thing doesn't happen to me without there being some major life change or move. Examples I gave to my good friend Pam Wood who lives in Randall, North Carolina when she asked if I was getting ready to 'check out' myself:

I'm not too sure that gacking is off the table with all the deaths I've been having. It's crossed my mind with all the souls that look to me leaving. I have been mentally pushed to write my will, clean up this house and get shit simple to handle. I don't want to leave a mess for my posse either. Whether that's for me or Annie, my executor and health care advocate, I don't know. It could be just so that I can get the business out of the way to be freed up.

I've done the purge a number of other times in my life. Every one of them involved a major move: Got rid of a marriage's worth of household stuff, had only what would fit in the back seat of my car alongside a cat, a dog, my guitar and a sewing machine and left Tampa for Atlanta; Sold everything I'd accumulated in Atlanta including complete suites of Basset dining room and Kohler living room furniture and moved to Kansas City; Got rid of a bunch of shit in KC - including some the moving men left in closets and cabinets and moved to Las Vegas; Sold a house in Vegas, got rid of some shit and moved to Salt Lake City; Had Chris, sold all that shit and moved back to Atlanta with Chris so Steve could pursue his classical guitar career; Divorced Steve, kept Chris, sold the house in Marietta and moved BACK to Salt Lake City; Met Jim and bought the ranch in Indianola, then divorced him, left a bunch of shit behind including horses and moved to Pleasant Grove; Left Utah for Tampa and this is where I've plotzed.

Robert at the Aquarius Papers** told me I was at another cross roads in my life. At first, I took it to mean death, but I'm starting to think that it may be connected with another move and life change direction. You might want to look into a yurt for your back yard just in case it's in your direction I'm changing.

I beaded on the strippers bra last night. All done with that. Will post you another picture of progress later on.

(**Whether you advocate for astrology or not, it's interesting to read this man's insightful and hopeful outlook. I found him searching for symbology with all the transitions and getting rid of stuff.

The picture is from the blog "Cat Named Jane", another cat lover. While George is solid white, this is exactly how she looked with her jaw dislocated.)

Angel of Death

Just buried another friend today. Not Sally Jo. Her service was in Georgia last week. She has another one here in Tampa at the Sheriff's office mid April. I'm talking about my old outside tomcat, Skitty.

He's feral, had terrible manners in the house so had to live the bulk of his life out doors. The front porch was his domain. He had a house with a sleeping pad to stay out of the weather and he's been eating me out of house and home for the past few weeks. Then he started losing weight fast.

I found him on the ground unable to move and in a coma Monday. Put him in a box and sat with him until he passed. I buried him in one of his favorite sleeping spots and put a rock over him so the neighborhood dogs don't disturb his rest. I don't want to go into details because I'm still really upset.

I really need a break from all this passing and death. I need a chance to grieve one before there's another. So I guess I could call the last post "Three Funerals and A Wedding" now. I told friends that I'm feeling like the Angel of Death. The good news is that I'm fat and can't fly so I won't be visiting anyone's house.

(Note: The image above is "Field of the Slain" by Evelyn De Morgan, 1916