No Regrets

Sitting here, I have often wondered if I should have zigged when I actually zagged. I wonder if that would have made a difference in my life, or if it was already pre-destined. I mean, really how would any of us know the outcome, had we changed even minor things in our lives? Would we still be in the same place or would life have been dramatically different? Would I have had better health? Would I have had the job of my dreams? Would I be living where I know I belong and want to be instead of where I am? Or is my life right now the best it can be and perhaps it's to be a lesson for me to learn?

I’ll never really know the answers to any of these questions and I can’t live my life in regret. None of us can; it would be incredibly counter-productive. Besides, the good things have been really great and the bad things, well…they have made me and my family tougher and I believe more empathetic to others. It has given me, at least, that feeling of “I’m not alone.” Not that I like the “misery loves company” thing, but as I’ve gone down my own road, I realize that everyone has something in their lives they deal with and it has humbled me.

So, in keeping with the theme of not being alone, I thought this would be a vehicle for others to use on those days when you think everyone else’s life is perfect. No one’s life is perfect, though some can put on a really great face to make you think so.

Cops, Robbers and the Kentucky Derby

First of all, let me say that not all women are cracked up to be a cop. I include myself in that, as well. But it didn't stop me from trying to be one. A friend of mine who was a detective in a local police department encouraged me to take the test for CSO. After all, it was just a Community Service Officer position. No tough stuff here. So it took the test and in 110 people, I came in 4th, then aced the oral and psyche exams and voila...I'm a CSO.

Now mind you, the CSOs in MY town mark tires for parking in a fire zone, gather wayward ducks and return them to the pond, and direct traffic around fender benders. Well, this wasn’t Kansas anymore, Toto. This was the big city and I was getting ready to become a Jailer. I was so excited. I had no idea what kind of arena I was going to be stepping into. I was already in the midst of empty nest syndrome with my daughter gone away to college 300 miles away and my son who was getting ready to leave the nest, too, in June, 2006. It was perfect timing for me to leave my home-based business and get out and about with people, albeit with criminals and druggies.

Who would have thought I was going to be strong-arming inmates and kicking the asses of the incorrigible ones? I thought I was going to be walking elderly women across the street or giving tickets to kids with no helmets. Yes, everyday I would put on my man suit, kick-ass boots (literally) and walk into my new career as a Jailer. Wow, now this was a new adventure I hadn’t planned on.

Staying up throughout the night on 12-hour shifts, intaking prisoners, searching them for weapons and drugs and hoping they were going to cooperate before throwing them into their cell. bLet me tell you, there are things I witnessed that are now burned into my retina. I have had more than my share of conversations with gang members, trying in my own way to “scare them straight.” Hmm, one of us was rather naïve, to say the least, and I guess that person was me.

As well, not only did I work in a very adversarial position, carrying my handcuffs and pepper spray, I worked in probably the most germ-infested, disgusting, odorous conditions anyone could ever work. It can honestly be said that I am now a germophobe. Thank God for Purell. The stench was something no human should ever have to endure, even the criminals, except they were the ones bringing in the foul odors.

How could I be doing this kind of work when I have owned a home-based business and had my real estate license? I often wondered that as I was strip searching a meth addict or jumping on an inmate who was fighting, along with three other Jailers. What brought me to this particular place in time? What the hell was I thinking? Sometimes God speaks in to us in mysterious ways because in May, 2006, I was blessed with an injury. Not any injury, mind you, but that of the staph infection kind.

It turned out that while manhandling a female prisoner that did not want to leave the comforts of our jail, I scraped my elbow ever-so-slightly on one of the bars; perhaps the only one that actually had killer germs hanging on with a death grip. I didn’t think anything of it, only that I was glad to finally remove this woman from our confines. She was an alcoholic and a meth addict and had nowhere to go and I was the only one she would listen to. Go figure.

Three days later as I was preparing myself to make my annual Mint Julep and watch the Kentucky Derby by myself, I noticed what appeared to be a huge red clown nose on the end of my left elbow. It occurred to me that this was probably not a good thing. I think I was less sore with the after-effects of birth than with touching this awful appendage.

When I turned backwards to get a better look at it in the mirror, I could see this bright red LARGE stripe traveling up my left arm. What the hell is that? After calling Urgent Care and seeking advice, I was instructed to be seen in the emergency room. This was a great idea because I was diagnosed with a fast-moving staph infection that was so advanced, I was told on several occasions that I was going to lose my arm. Now I have to confess to you that I am very fond of both arms, but I am left-handed and this is my left arm. My right arm is no good; it's just there to balance me out. Ugh.

This was going to be a long day and I missed the Derby. I still can't tell you who won that year. I was in the hospital for a week with my arm held over my head for reasons I still do not understand, but when you're stuck to an IV dripping copious amounts of morphine, you really don't see any reason to ask questions. A week later and many medications to take home with me, I was sprung. I was so glad to see my own digs. Due to the seriousness of the infection, the specialist instructed me not to return to my job at the jail. I can honestly say that I wasn't very upset about this. I truly believe wrestling criminals was never my calling. However, when one (germy) door closes, another one opens, right?

Boobs, Family and Demanding Answers

After being off work on disability with my injury for a short while, we decided to take a trip to Hawaii with our two kids and their significant others. It was time to just regroup and relax together. It had been a very stressful time for us and this was also a send-off for Brent before he, too, left for beautiful Santa Barbara for his photography.

The trip could not have been any better. The weather was perfect in the 80s, everyone got along and the food...well, to die for, except for the luau. Most of us went back to the condo and made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We quickly found out it was not the best luau for the money. We dropped over $700 on that luau for the six of us and 90 percent of it was fish, which my daughter refuses to eat. I love fish, but most of this was raw. Sorry, can't go there. It was incredibly expensive and tasteless, but the show was beautiful.

Anyway, after a week and a half of relaxation, we had to say goodbye to Lauren and her boyfriend, Andrew. It was sad for me. I never like to leave her, but she had to go back to work and school in Santa Barbara and we had to return home. Brent was getting ready to leave in a month or so; therefore, I had some things to take care of before we moved him to his condo.

I began making all of those doctor and dentist appointments no one likes to do, but since we were going to be moving Brent and I was hopefully going to get another job, I had to get these irritations out of the way.

Sometime in the middle of July, I went to the Female Torture Chamber, normally called the mammography machine. I do believe a man invented this, because no woman would ever want to subject herself to such a crude tool. However, I survived. A week later, I received that classic little note that displayed two sentences I'm sure most women have seen, "The results are negative. We will see you in one year." Great, I thought, I don't have to deal with that anymore for a long time.

We went on to move Brent down to Santa Barbara in the middle of August. That was a tough day. I was glad he was located in the same town as Lauren, but I could not believe that my last child had actually flown the coop. How do they keep getting older and dragging me with them? Completely unfair. I should have had another generation of kids. At least the younger ones would be home while the older ones went to college and when they returned home, the younger ones would leave. It was a good plan, but I didn't think of it in time.

A couple of weeks after Brent left and wallowing in my empty nest, I received a call from an insurance investigation firm - right up my alley. They were looking for an Office Manager and I had all of the qualifications. Yay!! I accepted the job. It was a great income, good benefits and a wonderful group of people with whom to work. They were normally out of the office on calls and I held down the fort. This was the same type of work that I had performed while running my transcribing business from home.

It was a great fit. I was replacing the woman who had run the office for eight years. She was moving to Canada to be with her husband, and not looking forward to it, I might add, but that’s another story. We had become fast friends during the two week training period. What can I say? I got up excited about going to work each day. It was a pleasure. I had been there for probably a month before something happened.

I need to tell you this because it is imperative that women know what machines cannot always tell you, or radiologists, for that matter. Let me just say that it is okay to play with your boobies. If I hadn't been bored on this night close to Halloween in 2006, I would not have been playing with them. I know that women are supposed to check our breasts, but really...how many of us really do that? Come on, I'm in a hurry when I'm in the shower and the last thing on my mind is checking my breasts for anything.

Since Halloween was closing in on us, Roger, my hubby, and I always like to put in our favorite spooky (and cheesy) B-movie, Halloween with Jamie Lee Curtis. Okay, so I've seen it probably every year that we've been together and that would add up to a lot of years. I guess that's why I was bored with it that evening. I was halfway lying down on the couch when I had put some lotion on my shoulder and was just patting my chest and rubbed my hand across the top of my left breast for no particular reason. What the hell was that? I felt it again and thought that was odd.

I know I have those lumpy breasts doctors always talk about, but this seemed a little different. It was shaped like a large almond on top and on the front of my breast. It was really hard. Hmm. It didn't hurt; it must not be anything. I didn't say anything to Rog because what was the point? He couldn't tell me what it was and why worry him needlessly when it was nothing? However, I was worried. I do have a worry gene in me. I can't help it; I worry about everything. It's a fault of mine that I've carried my entire life. Gotta get over that.

I made another appointment with my gynecologist, whom I visited just three months prior and told her I found this odd "lump" on my breast. When she saw me, she was sure it was just a cyst...absolutely sure. But she then thought better of it and sent me to get another mammogram...just in case.

Now, mind you, this is not just any mammogram...this is the kind of mammogram that makes you scream Uncle!! I thought the machine must be broken because my breasts could not possibly flatten as much as the machine was trying to make them. Geez!! I yelled, which is not in my nature to do, and tried to have them stop torturing me, but to no avail. They did what they had to do and I had no say in the matter.

After getting dressed, I was seen by another radiologist, who had a grim look on his face. He suggested that I see a surgeon for their opinion on a breast biopsy. He said if he was a betting man, he would bet there was a 60% chance that I had cancer, but he didn't want to commit to anything. No kidding; who would want to commit to that, especially if it weren't true? I tried shaking it off as I left the hospital. It was already Autumn and the days were shorter. It was dark outside and for some reason, I became very afraid walking to my car. I never told Roger this, but as I was walking in the parking lot, my knees just buckled underneath me and I fell between the vehicles. I guess I was more shaken up than I thought. I composed myself and entered the car and drove home singing as loud as I could so I could drown out the noises in my head worrying about cancer.

I made the appointment, but I kept telling myself that it was nothing and I was just taking a precautionary measure. November, 2006, was somewhat of a blur because so much happened to us. I went to the surgeon who said he did not believe it was cancer. Wow, now that was a relief; however, I had not known at this time that he had not bothered to read my x-rays. He felt the area and also thought it was a cyst, and not to worry. Whew, I’m feeling much better now.

But wait, as I was walking out, the surgeon called me back into his office because he had decided to glance at my x-rays before I left. He said that even though he was fairly certain it was nothing, he felt it warranted a biopsy. Great. I went from relieved to nerve-wracked. This doctor came with wonderful references, though, like the God of Surgeons in the Tri Valley. I don't know about you, but it seemed rather curious to me that he looked at my x-rays as an afterthought.

He knew I didn't want to worry my children with the upcoming holidays and he did not feel it was something I needed to do immediately. He said I could hold off until January when the kids returned to school. However, being the worrier that I am, I wanted to get it over and done with. I assumed it could be completed before the kids came home for Christmas vacation. I made the appointment for December 1, 2006. Go figure. This is a date my entire family will never forget.

During this time, I was running back and forth to the doctor and working and not telling any of them yet what was going on, except for Roger. I didn't feel the need quite yet to do so until November 10, 2006. Brent, my son, had returned home that day from school and was at a friend’s house during the day. He was home for Veteran's Day and the weekend, planning on heading back with his friend the following Monday.

I slipped out for lunch a little early to do the required blood work prior to surgery. I had not been back at work more than ten minutes when Roger called me in a panic. He said Brent and his friend, Ryan, were in the emergency room (of the hospital I had just returned from) and that Brent had broken his elbow in half. In half!?!? What???? I zipped out of the office without so much as a goodbye and drove with my hair on fire to the hospital, and Rog was doing the same thing from the opposite direction.

When we arrived, I was strangely calm; probably because Brent was in a massive amount of pain and his joint was sticking out of his skin and Roger had just arrived, knees wobbly. I was in the middle, holding both of them up before a nurse came and helped me with the situation. I've never seen anything so ghastly.

Broken Arms and Breast Cancer

Brent was in so much pain, it was horrible to watch. They wanted him to straighten out his arm, but he couldn't. He screamed in pain and I screamed inside. Rog was very lightheaded. He can't stand seeing our kids in pain. The medical staff couldn't give him enough medication to dull the exacting pain in his right elbow.

My son, my son. What happened? His friend, Ryan, had driven him to the hospital (rear ending a car on the way). He was obvioiusly a little shaken himself, but he described the incident. They drove home together from college and went to Ryan's house first to unload his belongings. He lives up in the hills and all of the streets are very steep. While they were there, Brent decided (in his 18 year old brain) that it would be a good idea to jump on Ryan's skateboard and ride, even though he had never ridden a skateboard in his life. What met him at the bottom of the hill was an unyielding curb and a vehicle with an elderly couple who stopped short. Thank you God.

Needless to say, Brent had surgery and had pins, screws and plates inserted. He needs a card to inform airline officials when he flies now. He obviously was not going to be on his way back to school, as he was taped up, stitched up and put in a Robocop-type cast...not your average cast. I knew that since he was not going back to school in the next couple of weeks, he might end up knowing about my little biopsy coming up on December 1. He was getting better and wanted to return to Santa Barbara, even if he couldn't return to school until after Christmas. It sounded like a good plan because I did not feel it necessary to worry him, as well, about me.

As a matter of fact, he was planning on leaving December 1, the same day as my surgery. What a perfect plan. Toward the end of November, however, I took Brent to see the surgeon who had done such a wonderful job on his arm. Wow, things just get better and better. The surgeon told us that Brent needed to be admitted to the hospital because he had a staph infection hanging onto the metal in his arm. What are the odds? Are we doomed to staph infections? What's the deal? We could only do what we could do.

Brent went into the hospital and took some massive amounts of medication until his surgery to clean out the site on...you guessed it...December 1, my biopsy date. Well now, hasn't this turned into a family affair? Poor Rog had to be the tough one now because he had to drive us both to the hospital and run from one room to another. I believe he would have preferred to have been on holiday or been a castaway anywhere at that moment. The stress was overwhelming for him, I'm sure.

The nurses were surprised at the mother-son team in their surgery prep area. To this day, the nurses that I see still ask about him. I guess he made quite an impression. Anyway, luckily, they were able to catch Brent's infection in time and he was going to be on the road to recovery once again, but not going back to school. He was down for the count for awhile and that was to be the beginning of the end of his Santa Barbara education. He lost the momentum and didn't really care for Santa Barbara.

As for me...I must tell you that if I described the mammogram as torture, I stand corrected. Nothing quite compares to the lead-up to a surgical biopsy. This is the stuff horror films are made of.

I wanted Roger to be with Brent because I assumed this was a walk in the park and I didn’t want Brent to be afraid. After all, I thought I was just going to be prepped for surgery, right? Yeah, right. For those lucky people who have never had to go through this, I hope you never do in the future. I was placed in the same room as I was when I had the last mammogram. Once again, they flattened my breast out to something not quite as thick as a pancake. The funny thing was, the radiologist could not find the lump on his machine; I had to grab his hand and direct it to the very large, obvious lump sticking out from my chest, which by the way, had grown exponentially.

Now I don't know why it was necessary to do the following procedure without local anesthesia, but there I was, stuck in a machine with nowhere to escape. These two rather sympathetic-looking radiologists jammed three long steel rods in and around the lump in question. It was like one of those comedies where someone is sitting in the waiting room and they hear blood curdling screams come from inside the office. Yes, that was me. I don't really know how many people ran from the office, but I can tell you, I would have...I wish I could have. I've never been stabbed before, but I believe that was probably what it would feel like if someone were doing it, not in the name of medicine.

I recall being somewhat awake during the procedure and singing...and telling jokes. Something about morphine turns me into Joan Rivers. It was a comfortable feeling at that time and in my brain I felt that surely I did not have the dreaded cancer. Surely it was another lumpy breast. That was on a Friday and I was able to go home, rest up and make it to work the following Monday. Boy I had quite a story to tell them. I was feeling very confident because another woman confided in me that she had gone through the same thing and of course, it was nothing.

On December 6, 2006, I had an appointment to see my surgeon to obtain the results. I believed we were going to be there ten, fifteen minutes tops. Roger wanted to meet me there, so I decided that we would have a lovely lunch afterwards. I told him he didn’t have to be there, but he was adamant about it.

I could tell that Roger was very nervous; so nervous that he made me nervous. I really couldn't understand why because this was just to confirm that I was fine, yeah? This particular doctor does not have a way with words, being that English is not his first language. Great doctor, horrible communicator. He walked in and before he said hello, he looked me in the eyes and said, "You have cancer. It is very large and very aggressive; in fact the most aggressive cancer you can get. It is a grade III."

What? Who the hell is he talking to? It couldn't be me, could it? I'm sorry, can you repeat that? I was too busy trying to keep from fainting to hear everything you said. Roger couldn't look at me. I could tell he was stunned, but maybe I was just looking through stunned eyes. How in the world can I have a large, aggressive tumor, more than 3 centimeters, and a grade III, whatever that means, when I just had a mammogram three months prior and was told I was fine by the radiologist?

In the course of five minutes, I was told how bad my cancer was and had to make a decision before he and his staff went to lunch on whether I wanted a lumpectomy or a mastectomy. In fact, if you recall, the surgeon originally told me I could have waited until after Christmas to have that biopsy. Now I am being told by this same surgeon that if I did not take action immediately, I could actually be dead by spring. I take longer wondering what to eat for dinner.

I couldn't comprehend what he was saying and Rog took the lead. Thank you for my husband, God. I know he was trembling inside, but he calmly and effectively took over and asked questions and confirmed the diagnosis, if only because we really had not expected it. So what should I do? They're getting ready to go to lunch and I have to tell them NOW if I want to put a hole in my breast and guess if they got it all or if I wanted them to deform my body by hacking an entire breast off.

I was sitting there and began to laugh because I recalled growing up, I had matured much quicker than the other girls. In fact, my nickname in grade school was "headlights." How ironic is that? Known for my breasts and now I'm deciding to have the doctor remove the entire, severely sick left breast that I've known all my life.

After the shock of it all, I realized what was harder than hearing those words and making that decision was having to tell my kids and my parents. I knew my kids would be worried but they would feel somewhat comforted by the fact that we tried to keep ourselves composed when telling them. Well, I actually was not the one. Roger called Brent, then called Lauren and told them both that I had a "slight" bit of cancer and it was going to be fine. We wanted to downplay it because what would be the point of scaring the Hell out of them? They were 300 miles away and needed to devote their time to their studies or work or just having fun. The guilt would have killed me if we demanded that they come home. There was absolutely no need and no reason for it.

However, a much more unsettling moment was figuring out how to tell my parents. I don't care how old you are or how old your kids are, hearing bad news about one of your children is the worst thing imaginable. And knowing my parents as well as I did, that would be doubly hard, because they have always been worriers and rather over-the-top in the parent arena. Best parents ever, but please don't give them bad news about their kids or grandkids. And you guessed it, Roger once again was voted as the person to deliver the news to them.

He has such a calm, reassuring voice. I knew how much he didn't want to make that phone call, but I just couldn't do it. I was much more afraid of their reaction than the cancer. When he called and spoke to my mom, she screamed and threw the phone and my dad, the voice of reason. He calmly took the information, asked questions and in his own calm, reassuring way, realized that he and Roger were the only ones in their right minds that could lower the stress of the situation. Thank God again for the men folk of our family.

Let's Do It

I made the decision to undergo a mastectomy on December 20, 2006, which in a bizarro sort of way is a new life beginning. It was like at the moment they remove this breast, I will be cancer-free; well, I hoped so anyway.

On this morning, Rog and I drove to the hospital, not saying a word to each other. It all seemed so surreal. I was trying to be strong, but when we were called into the prep room to get ready for the deed, I couldn't contain my emotions. Maybe it was all a huge mistake. Maybe he read someone else's results. My head was swirling.

After surgery, I looked like a mummy because they had wrapped me so tight with so much gauze, I was worried they may have removed other parts of my body and forgot to tell me. I had more morphine and let me tell you, that was some powerful juice.

The funny thing about this type of surgery; they take the person in, who by all rights is still shocked at the diagnosis, remove their breast, then kick them out 23 hours later. I was still high on drugs and Roger hadn't even arrived at the hospital yet. It was 7:30 a.m. and three nurses were in my room trying to explain how to use the drain, how to clean it, how to clean myself, what to do, etc., etc., etc. I was on MORPHINE!!! Come on, did they really think I understood anything they just rambled off to me?

I quickly learned that no one really tells a mastectomy patient anything of any worth. Like, what are you supposed to do when you actually finally dress yourself and you are lopsided? Where do I go to get the right type of bra? Who sells fake boobs my size? Is this how I am supposed to live forever? Oh my God, I’m overwhelmed and confused.

To be frank, if I could figure out how to make a living advising the thousands of stunned women who go through this every year, I certainly would. Many of them have family and friend support; however, not practical support as I've mentioned. Family and friends would like to advise you, but they don't know where to go any more than the afflicted person knows. Sure, you can get brochures from your surgeon, but they do not go into detail about what your life will be like in the aftermath. It's much more common than I thought that women like me get an awful diagnosis and an irreversible surgery and then are basically left at their doorstep to figure it out themselves. Cruel and unusual punishment.

But being that I had some awesome friends, they took it upon themselves to find people that had gone through this kind of crisis, which by the way, isn’t that rare. It’s like buying a new car and getting on the road only to notice that everyone else is driving the same car. Honestly, until you have cancer yourself, you don’t realize how many people are really afflicted. This is an epidemic that isn’t really played up enough, at least in my opinion. Seems to be an environmental issue that no one is looking at. Hello Chernobyl....

Anyway, as we drove around the corner to arrive home, I counted 21 Poinsettia plants set beautifully around our home and huge red ribbons placed on all three trees in the front yard. It was gorgeous. My neighbor, Sue, knew how much Christmas meant to me and we hadn’t had time or the inclination to buy a Christmas tree. She felt that was a personal thing to pick out a tree, so she and her family decided to cheer us up with these beautiful plants. What a great friend she is, as are others that helped me through this difficult, odd and extremely stressful time.

21st Birthdays and Bald

Once I was home, I was surrounded by Roger, Lauren and Brent. They were all home to help out for a couple of weeks. We celebrate on Christmas Eve and instead of the traditional drive to my parents' home, everyone came to our house in pajamas. Good thing because there was no way I was getting dressed that day. My surgery was only four days prior.

We had a great time, all 12 of us. My family and Lauren's boyfriend cooked the turkey and I planted myself in a corner. I was enjoying being pampered because I had just been beaten up so badly. I also was enjoying having my hair braided by my niece, knowing that in a few short weeks, I would have nothing to braid. Chemotherapy was rearing its ugly head around the corner and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the days from passing one by one until it was time to walk into the dreaded chemotherapy room.

What I found more painful than beginning chemotherapy was the fact that two days later was Lauren's 21st birthday. That is an incredibly special day. We were going to fly her and a couple of friends to Las Vegas and we were going to meet her there, take them out on the town and celebrate. Funny how life can change at the drop of a hat. I asked my doctor if I would feel normal enough to fly to Las Vegas to be with my daughter. You guessed it; negative on any travel plans. In fact, don't plan anything for the next six months. You've got to be kidding me!! What about work? What about visiting my kids in Santa Barbara? What about my hair? My God, my hair!!!

Lauren completely understood, as we knew she would, and went to Vegas without us, celebrating and worrying at the same time. That wasn't how I planned her 21st birthday. She was okay with it, but I can’t believe I missed her birthday. It still bothers me three years later, but I had no choice in the matter. My life has been taken over by doctors, medicine and cancer cells.

To give you an insight into what chemotherapy is like, you'd have to understand that you are sick first. If you don't feel sick or can't comprehend the magnitude of your illness, then it would be impossible for you to agree to have doctors and nurses poison you and bring you to the brink of death, only to pull you back, and then allow them to keep doing that to you for four months.

Prior to starting chemotherapy, the powers that be prescribed me an arsenal of drugs, including some horrible steroidal-type drugs that were supposed to keep me from becoming nauseous. At least, that's what they said. Not only was I nauseous, but I felt like jumping out of my skin and running down the street. Sometimes nothing is better. In addition, each pill was more than $1,000 each and in three months, I had hit my limit on prescriptions. Don't you love insurance? I would have preferred the nausea to being unable to be covered for my medications.

Sitting in a chemo chair for four to six hours each time you visit is actually quite comforting. In fact, I felt more like I was surviving this disease than dying of it while I was having my poison fed to me intravenously. Rog never missed an appointment. He was by my side with music, books, food and drinks, but the drugs they would slip me before actually starting the chemo would normally make me so groggy, I was unable to enjoy any of these little treats. Once we became familiar with the people who would almost always be the same patients scheduled on the same day, we would trade intimate details of what we were going through, how the chemo made us feel and what our prognoses were.

It is true that misery loves company, but at the same time, it is also true that sitting in that room with all of these brave - and scared - lovely people gave you hope that you, too, were going to beat this little beast trying to insinuate itself into your bloodstream. There were always ups and downs during this time in my life. I had just completed my second treatment when I noticed that my hair had become brittle. Anyone who knows me knows how important my hair is to me - much more important than that damned breast that has caused me so much aggravation.

I heard there was a man who specialized in breast cancer patients and helping them to get through the hair loss. In fact, he said that it would be much more positive for me if I went ahead and shaved it myself. That way, I would at least feel in control of something. I can't say that I actually felt that way, but what I can say is that going into this salon with my hair and leaving with none and a creepy wig in a bag was almost more than I could take.

A very dear friend of mine knew how much this was upsetting me and was with me during the visit. Such a strange feeling came over me. I was fine until the clippers touched my head and then the waterworks burst through. I was inconsolable. We came home and I was terrified to show Rog my bald head. My friend helped me put on the wig and comb it. I felt like Norman Bates, but with a neon sign on top of my head saying, "Yeah, this is a wig!" What an awful feeling to think that people are staring at you not because you have cancer but because you think they all know you have fake hair.

I must tell you that the wig situation did not last very long. I tried two different styles of wigs and tons of scarves but I looked like a cancer patient trying to hide that I was a cancer patient. I decided that it just wasn't my thing, so I opted to wear baseball hats. I never used to wear them, but realized that I looked pretty damned cute in a baseball hat. I never felt the stares after that. Maybe because I felt better about myself.

Work and Pain

I kept in contact with my boss, the owner of the company, during this time. I was the only one to hold down the fort, so to speak, and told them I could try to come in a few days a week. I knew I was really unable to because the chemotherapy was really taking its toll on me. The person I had replaced in that job as Office Manager called me to say that she was going to help me through this ordeal; not to worry. She had already sold her home, had money in the bank and was taking some time before looking for another job back in the same area. She made me feel secure in the fact that she would be my substitute while I was going through treatment and this way, they wouldn't have to look for someone to take my place. What a grand idea!

The idea that she would do that for me was such a load off of my mind. I called in to work fairly often; a couple of times a week. I began noticing that the owner and his sister-in-law who was the accountant, acted differently on the phone. They seemed to avoid certain topics and I became very frustrated by their secrecy. Finally, I called in and my boss answered. I told him (even though the doctor had not released me) that I could return to work the next week full time. He stammered and stuttered. It was then that he confessed to what I had always thought but couldn't conceive happening; the woman I replaced who was so kind in working for me until I returned wanted her job back...and she got it. I was let go.

Yes, it's legal. I had not been there more than a year and they didn't have enough employees at the time to cover my loss. I understand why they did what they did. I cannot understand why she did what she did. A friend. Someone I felt connected to and trusted. Someone I kept secrets for and laughed with.

All the time she was calling me to find out how I was feeling now seems like such an empty group of words. It was as if she was gaining information to use in her argument to win back her job. I guess it worked. I hope she thinks about her choice everyday. So who is going to hire a bald, one-boobed person with absolutely impeccable skin? That is one thing I can say about chemotherapy; it blows out anything that may have even slightly resembled a bump or blemish. My skin was the smoothest, softest, cleanest skin I had ever seen. It was incredible. If only the rest of my body looked so good.

Oh yes, and not having to shave for the next year was pretty awesome, as well. You just have to look for the good in all situations. This was pretty good. I counted each day as a day closer to ending the chemotherapy. When I would come home, I would feel pretty well until two days later. It was as if a world war had broken out inside my body. I probably glowed in the dark and didn't know it. Things that I would never have thought about became problems. Did you know that for some people on chemotherapy, drinking a soda can act like pouring acid down your throat? Wish I'd known that beforehand.

When Melissa Etheridge had breast cancer, I could not understand why she stopped her second round of chemotherapy. I had the same type of chemo drugs she had and wondered why she felt it necessary to quit. Now I know and completely understand. Honestly, I'm not sure I would have gone through chemotherapy if I had known then what I know now. Sometimes the fix is worse than the diagnosis. Since then, I have had horrible neuropathy, which is pain and numbness in all extremities. That was the reason Melissa Etheridge stopped; it would have stopped her career. My neuropathy has never left me. For some people, they may not ever get it; others may last a months; still others, their entire lifetime. I hope I'm not in that group. I hate standing out in a crowd.

The end day came, April 18, 2007. Woohoo!! The last day of my chemotherapy. This is definitely a great day. Okay, sure I had to undergo one last time, but it was the end of a horrible chapter. Finally freedom. I still had no job, but I was so happy it was over. We felt that we had been through so much, Rog and I needed to go for a much needed vacation by ourselves. We decided to return to Hawaii, our paradise.

I had found a place - FINALLY - that served one-breasted people. They had breast prosthetics in all shapes and sizes. Unfortunately, mine were a little larger than an average person. Lucky me. I was still able to get fitted for one; it just took a little longer than usual. I then went to a clothing store and had them sew little pockets inside all of my bathing suits so my new little breast could have someplace to call home.

With that being completed, we were off to Hawaii first class. Oh, by the way...if you ever want to get first class seats without paying for it, go in bald and looking pitiful. Take it from me, it works. Two first class tickets courtesy of the airline. Thanks guys.

Roger Hasselhoff

Hawaii was gorgeous, although the chemotherapy made me feel exhausted. No getting around the fact that there must still be some poison flowing through my veins. I was bald, weak, missing a body part, and a little cranky from the flight. As well, we had to wait up to two hours to be registered into our hotel room. I will say the wait was worth it. If you haven't tried sleeping on a Heavenly Bed, you need to do so. Nothing like it.

As I mentioned, I now had my new prosthetic breast all tucked into a granny bra. Not so bad, but we wanted to go to the pool and swim in the ocean. I was already a little gun-shy about walking around hairless with a hat, but to now go in public for the first time in a bathing suit, bald and lacking in the booby area? Ahhh. It must be done, I thought. I'm in Hawaii, damn it and I'm not going to have strangers make me feel uncomfortable. No one could possibly tell anyway, right?

I had a little pocket sewn into my suits so as not to allow it to float to the top as I was diving to the bottom. Perfect. I made it through walking to the pool area and no one took a second look. I gingerly stepped into the water and did a little side stroke, all the while eyeing the left side of my body for any foreign objects surfacing. Wow, this is a breeze, I thought.

I began to get a little more confident, popping in and out of the pool, having a couple of drinks and basking in the sun. We decided after having a few drinks, to move our two-person party to the beach area under a canopy and listen to the waves crash onto shore. We were feeling pretty happy about this time. Rog did a little jog to the ocean and dived into the surf, swimming and floating around. The salt in the water can keep you afloat forever. I didn't want to leave all of our belongings, so I waited for him to make it back to our lounge chairs.

Mind you, I am still very weak and most notably my legs are not the legs I used to have; they were very weak and sometimes would give out on me. However, I couldn't see where that would matter if I'm floating in the ocean. Time to cool off and relax in the water. The undertow was quite alarming. I had forgotten about it from our last trip, but it was probably because it hadn't bothered me then. I was able to make it further out by swimming and then, ahh....floating in bath water. Wonderful.

I was only out there for a couple of minutes when I realized the current was carrying me further out. Eek!! I began to swim toward shore. This was when I realized the reality of my weakness from my treatments. When I got closer to shore, I tried to stand up, but the surf and the undertow kept dragging me back down. I was being hammered by the ocean. It was so difficult to keep my balance when I was being tugged from both sides; the ocean and the sand slipping underneath my feet.

The horror of this was not the fact that I could have drowned right then and there; it was that the surf hit me so hard, it knocked my fake breast right out of my bathing suit and was about to swim away on its own down the shore toward OTHER PEOPLE! Oh, geez; do I save myself or save my boob? You guessed it; I swam for the boob.

About this time was when Rog was reclining, having another beer. He looked up my way and observed the pickle I had gotten myself into. It looked like a slow motion scene from Baywatch with the Hoff jumping from his seat, throwing down his beer, sucking in his tummy and running toward my direction to save me. What a moment. He tried to grab me, but I wasn't having it until I was able to grab my floating breast.

We looked like we were being attacked by sharks the way we were splashing in the water. However, I saved my boob, he saved me and even though several people saw the spectacle, I have to say that it was one of the funniest moments we've had. It could have been the alcohol talking, but we had a really good laugh – at my expense.

Don't Believe Everything You Read...

As we got back to a normal life from a wonderful vacation, Rog went back to work and I began looking for work. One of the most difficult things is trying to find a job when you A) are bald, and B) have had a long period between jobs. The problem with B is that they are not allowed to ask you medical questions; however, if you don't tell them, you have to lie, in which case the lie will probably rear its ugly head at some point.

Anyway, for the most part, I tried telling the truth, informing them that I was no longer ill, blah, blah, blah. They acted very polite about it, but somehow I never obtained employment for a very long time. Could it have been my candor? Could I have shot off my own foot? How would I have lied? Why should I have lied?

It seems like everyone I talk to has been affected by cancer in some way, so how can they discriminate. I can't prove it, but they do. While still reeling from having cancer, going through chemotherapy, losing my job, and getting used to a foreign object I had to wear on a daily basis, it was time to do the mammogram again for my right, still intact breast. I was very nervous, as you can imagine, but tried to tell myself that the odds were in my favor. Calm down.

My oncologist told me that if I wanted to, since he was aware how upset I had been, I could go ahead and wait for the radiologist report - the one that they actually send the doctor; not the nice note they send to your home telling you everything is rosy.

As fate would have it, I saw the same technician. She seemed somewhat nervous. She took several x-rays and took them to the radiologist (whom I had never met) to get an okay to release me to leave. She kept coming back and telling me the radiologist wanted more x-rays. Why, I asked. According to the technician, the x-rays were not very clear and he wanted to see better pictures.

Hmm, that was a little shock to my system. I am more easily frightened now. She came back a third time. Now I'm definitely frightened. She would not answer any of my questions but said the radiologist could do so. I waited in the office for more than a half hour for the radiologist to emerge. It's funny, he never did. He gave the technician a short letter to give me that would also be sent to my oncologist.

I opened it and it read, ""Probably benign cluster of calcifications in the right central breast slightly more prominent than previously." Really?!?! Did you catch the "Probably?" I had just been diagnosed with the most aggressive form of breast cancer you can get and I am supposed to take this letter, go home and wait to have another mammogram (like the one in 2006 that completely missed my tumor) to see if anything has grown. Was he high?

My surgeon told me in December, 2006, that if I had waited, I would have been dead by spring. And now this guy says "Probably." Good way to cover his a--. If he would have said it was troubling, and I had gone through another surgery and not find anything, it would have been on him. If, however, he says everything is great and it isn't, well...that would not have been such good news. What did I do?

I figured I might as well even everything out. I've been feeling lopsided for so long, I felt that having a second mastectomy was going to take away my worry and make me feel more normal. And if it was cancer, I could take care of that, as well.

Lucky for me, there was no cancer, but I don't regret having it done. In fact, what the surgeon never discussed with me the first go-round was that I could have had a plastic surgeon in the operating room with me and could have inserted an implant.

There is something that most people don't know regarding breast implants. When you see a woman with huge breasts and know they're fake, the fact is they are adding implants to their own breasts. They already had a starting point. With people in my situation; especially large-breasted women, they are adding implants to nothing. They are placing them underneath the muscle against the chest wall, thereby making them obviously smaller because they start out so much further back than if they were to be placed on top of your already formed breasts. The problem with this is that they only go up certain sizes. There was nothing even close to my own breasts that I could have opted for.

Don't get me wrong, I was excited about having smaller boobs to contend with and not having to wear a bra. Yippee. But this wasn't exactly what I had in mind. Unless I wanted to fly to Argentina and have someone there perform surgery (yeah, right), I was out of luck because the FDA hadn't approved anything like that. Even though my surgeon is on the Board and fought to have a particular implant available for me, there was no way to obtain what I really needed...and wanted.

So I have now gone from "headlights" to "flashlights." I guess I can deal with that. I'm still kicking. I also have more reconstruction ahead of me which has been an ongoing ordeal, but one must make the best of one's situation. If there was anything I could say to women about breast cancer or just a possibility of it would be do not take the word of anyone if you still question your situation.

My mammogram in August, 2006, should have shown this very large 3.5 cm. tumor directly on the front of my breast. It was either overlooked or the mammogram did not find it. Ask for an MRI or a PET scan if there are any questions. Do not wait for that letter to arrive in the mail telling you that you're good until next year; wait in the office until the radiologist either speaks to you or you receive the same letter your doctor receives. Believe me, the letters are profoundly different. Even though a doctor could tell you that you have no idea what you're talking about and that everything is good, make sure this is the case.

As I said, my surgeon (the supposed king of all surgeons) hadn't even looked at my x-rays when he told me it was just a cyst. Had he not had a change of heart, I probably wouldn't be here today. As well, if the dreaded diagnosis is there, definitely make haste and handle it accordingly. This includes immediately asking for a plastic surgeon in the area you can contact, as well as a good oncologist. You want the best and you want them to work in concert with you; no battle of the bands; respect and concern for you and your needs.

Prior to going into surgery, do some investigation. Find out who in your area makes breast prosthetics and mastectomy bras, as well as sewing inserts into your clothing until you have your implants. Find out who may work with breast cancer patients regarding your hair and fitting you for a wig if you choose. There is so much to discuss, I could go on and on about my experiences.

The one thing that I did not expect was that people I didn't know had come to my aid. Friends of friends who had either gone through the same thing or knew someone who had would give me information or a phone call to calm my rattled nerves. One woman actually washed up and gave me all of her scarves, caps and knitted headwear for the cold weather and for sleeping in. Believe me, that came in handy because all the heat was sucked from my head.

Some of my friends were incredibly kind and went out of their way. Sue, the same neighbor who affixed the ribbons to our trees and brought the Poinsettias, came over and brought me little treats or just stayed to talk. It was nice to talk about something other than cancer. Others brought dinners to us, helped clean my house and picked up a few things from the store.

However, no one could have matched the support, love, kindness and strength of my hubby. He was without a doubt the strongest man I've ever known. He was working a ton of hours, trying to make ends meet, paying our regular bills on top of an enormous amount of medical bills. Medical bills that I am still trying to pay to this day. Rog never missed a chemotherapy appointment. On his way home from work, sometimes late due to his business, he would stop and do the grocery shopping. I knew he was exhausted but he didn't stop. He would buy fruits and vegetables and was reading about natural cancer fighting foods and would juice them for me. He became the JuiceMan.

When I ached so much I thought my legs were going to break, he would massage them. When I would cry for no reason - and that occurred plenty - he would try to lift my spirits, even though I caught him tearing up himself. He was a rock and still is. My life would have been so difficult if it weren't for him. I hope he knows how I feel everyday because no words can possibly say how his strength affected me. I'm lucky that he's my husband and the dad to my kids. I am a very lucky woman.

Living and Dying

It's a funny thing about cancer; it makes you think about life and death and makes you appreciate everything you have, even if you didn't like what you had before. The smallest things all of a sudden were grand to me. I don't believe I took anything for granted at this time in my life. Everything was sweeter and brighter, even though I felt like an 18-wheeler had just run over my body, backed up and drove over me again. I couldn't ignore the pain and changes I had gone through completely, however.

It was obvious that things were not going to be the same for me - ever. The neuropathy just kept coming, hitting both legs and arms; the exhaustion I would feel by just driving to the store. Nothing was easy, but it was an easier time than my dad and my beautiful dog, Newman, were having.

In August, 2007, my mom called to say that dad had fallen...again. He had been doing a lot of that in the previous few months, but he always attributed it to tripping on a curtain or getting his legs tangled. I knew that wasn't true, but it sounded better than what I was thinking.

He also began slurring his words and talking in mangled, non-language speech. It was frightening, but I didn't want him to know how I felt. While he spoke to me, he was sure that he was making sense, but nothing about this made any sense. My dad had fought the brave fight of prostate cancer for almost 18 years. During that time, he had radiation, surgeries, an enormous amount of medications and never once...not once did he ever, EVER complain; not once.

I went with him to many of his doctor appointments to watch the men in the white coats place their hand on the doorknob and tell him to get his affairs in order; he had a year if he was lucky. He surpassed not only three doctors' death sentences, but he blew by them by about 15 years added onto his life. Don't ever let a doctor play God because if they were being honest, they don't really ever know. However, now was different.

We all had seen him slowly deteriorating. Even his movie star good looks were starting to wane. He could no longer be told how young he looked or how healthy he seemed. The cancer was finally winning the battle. In August, we called Hope Hospice, who delivered the most caring, informative and humorous people to my parents' door. They would come by to just sit and talk, to give him medicine or to stay with my dad while my mom was able to get out for some sane time, even if it was only to grocery shop. They were great, but they were no match for the cancer and the blood clots we knew were also taking a toll on his body.

During this very upsetting time, I also had to deal with another member of my family that was losing his battle, as well. My ten year old redheaded Redbone Hound-Rottweiler mix, Newman, all 150 pounds of Chewbacca hair. He was obviously in pain and suffering. The year before, he had come down with Trigeminal Neuropathy, which is basically drop jaw. He lost all the feeling in the right side of his face and all of his mouth. He was unable to eat or drink because his tongue and swallowing system had become completely numb and he couldn't even close his mouth.

After going to veterinarians, none of whom could diagnose him, Rog and I found the diagnosis on the Internet. Go figure. I then put him in the truck and drove him to U.C. Davis Medical Center, where they confirmed the diagnosis. They said to either euthanize him or work very hard with him to see if he can get through it.

I worked like never before, feeding him by putting a turkey baster down his throat for food and water. He lost all of his muscles around his large square head. A massive dog was now a shadow of himself, but as miracles do happen, he woke up one morning and ta-da...the neuropathy vanished as quickly as it had come.

Even though he went back to eating and drinking, he was never the same dog as before and he never regained the muscle tone in his head and neck area. Now, I'm watching him go through another painful series of problems and I couldn't bear to watch him suffer again.

On August 28, 2007, I took my beautiful dog, Newman, for a ride one last time. I drove him past the cows and horses he so loved to bark at. I let him lay his head out the window to smell the grass and flowers before going to the vet to end his life. I wonder if we could be as loving with our family as we are with our family pets. I did this act out of love for my baby dog and was with him, holding him as they helped end his pain. He opened his eyes really large, looked at me and he was gone.

I've never loved an animal like that before and never will again. He was special. He was the one I leaned on while I endured chemotherapy. He would lay with me and comfort me with his gigantic head while I lay on the couch in pain. He knew something was wrong and he was there for me, and having him there was my joy.

As I write this about him, I still cry for an animal that I knew and that knew me - and we loved each other.

Unfortunately, everything happens at once. While still trying to recuperate to a somewhat normal person and mourning for Newman, I still had to drive to my parents home, some 25 miles away to help my mom care for my dad. There was nothing I'd rather do, but honestly, it was difficult. Mom was running on empty because she never slept due to helping dad during the night and I was about 25 percent of normal. Between us and Hope Hospice, dad was cared for, but we were exhausted.

I know it's the circle of life and all of that, but watching someone dying that you love, especially someone that was always so strong, vibrant and handsome, was an awful thing to do. He knew he was dying, but didn't want to say anything because he never wanted us to worry.

That reminds me of the time 20 years earlier when he drove himself to the hospital from his job some 45 miles distance because he believed he was having a heart attack but didn't want to alarm anyone, just in case he wasn't having one. He did and we never let him forget it.

During these few short months, I knew we had to do something to get all of his finances in order and to add me as the trustor so I could help anyway I could. Wrestling over taking his independence away was not a job for the faint at heart. People say things they don't mean in the heat of the moment when you are taking the last piece of their life away from them. Even if they know in their heart that you are helping them, it doesn't hurt any less.

Thursday, December 13, 2007, four days before my dad's 79th birthday, Joe Edward Coburn slipped quietly away after opening his beautiful blue eyes once more to glance around the room. He was at peace and I felt he wanted to go; in fact, was ready to go.

He wasn't financially rich, but he led a rich life because he was the most honest, peaceful, loving, humorous, intelligent man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. And he was my dad. There are many words to describe him, but not enough room to write them down. If anyone had a reason to pass through the Pearly Gates, it was him. I love you dad.