Me: You don’t need to lose weight.

Mom: I do too! I have a wheat pouch.

Me: You mean a wheat paunch?

Mom: Yes because all of our wheat is generically mutilated.

Me: You mean genetically modified?

Mom: I just hope it works.

Buh-bye

I took my last 20 mg pill Saturday, commemorating the occasion by washing it down with water from a wine glass, but not before dropping it on the kitchen floor where it rolled under the stove, precariously close to two boric-acid laced roach tablets. Determined to see my prescription through to the end, I called the five-second rule, moved the (cheap, featherweight) stove, dusted the pill off and swallowed it, bringing my “adjuvant therapy” to a close.

I recently expressed concern that once I stopped taking the drug tasked with keeping the evil-dividing cells at bay, I would feel like a sitting duck with nothing shielding me from recurrence. But then I got an email from my favorite, former oncologist (never thought I’d have a favorite oncologist but there it is).

“Don’t worry about stopping the tamoxifen,” the brilliant doctor wrote in reply to my post. “The effects are long lasting, kind of like having to diagram sentences when you were in 7th grade.”

At the time, I didn’t remember diagramming sentences in any grade, but now I do.

I thanked him for the reassurance.

Going off of Tamoxifen won’t be all bad. When I first started taking it in the spring of 2007, I was lambasted with hot flashes, sometimes up to 20 in one day. I was smokin’ hot; a real hottie; downright sizzling! Broken sleep became the rule. And along with the Zzz’s went monthly periods. That’s what Tamoxifen does — throws you into the merriment of a menopausal state. And if you’re already close to menopause, it can push you over the edge, which, from a recurrence standpoint, can be a good thing. (In fact, women who finish Tamoxifen and are still pre-menopausal may benefit from being medically-nudged into menopause — a discussion for them and their doctors.)

But overall, I had it easy. My hot flashes eventually evened out, this past year dwindling in frequency and intensity, becoming more like heat waves than streak-inducing sweat-fests. Some people have such debilitating side effects from Tamoxifen they can’t take it at all.

So now what? My current oncologist has tested my levels of follicle-stimulating hormone (FSH) and luteinizing hormone (LH), and I’m not near menopause, which means I will most likely resume periods and all the bloaty, crampy, acne-inducing sexiness that comes with them. But maybe, if I’m lucky, these heat waves will go away and I can get some decent sleep.

It could take months for anything to happen, if at all. So I’m just going to enjoy not having to hassle with a monthly prescription, or track receipts for taxes or the health insurance nazis, or worry about having enough pills to cover a trip, or to remember to take a pill at all.

One less pill to answer

Not a bad way to spring forward. Not at all.

Health Savings Accounts. Think about it. The money people put away to pay for things like cancer, chronic conditions, dialysis, laparoscopic surgery. It would be less horrible if these two narcissistic, power-hungry fuckwads were, say, stealing money to solve a children’s cancer drug shortage or fund a food for Crocs exchange program to not only feed the hungry but save millions from retina damage.  But as it stands, stealing from people who are already suffering is like making your date sit through The Notebook; it’s just mean.

And what did they do with all that loot?

“Blackburn typically directed a Canopy employee, or occasionally Banas, to transfer Canopy funds to his bank accounts or to pay for his personal expenses, including credit card balances, luxury car purchases, and funding his account with a private jet company. Among Blackburn’s luxury car purchases with Canopy funds were the following: two 2010 Range Rover SUVs, a 2009 Bentley, a 2008 Lamborghini, a 2010 Lamborghini, a 2009 Rolls Royce Phantom, a 2009 Aston Martin DBS, a 2009 Bentley Continental, and a 2009 Ferrari 430. Blackburn also paid for personal home renovations, bought sports tickets and purchased jewelry and watches using misappropriated Canopy funds.

Banas used misappropriated Canopy money to invest $300,000 in a nightclub. Banas also spent $400,000 between 2007 and 2009 on other personal expenses.”

I’m not really a Lamborghini girl, so I guess it turned out for the best.

I didn’t have much money left in my account when their filthy paws ransacked my HSA provider in 2009, but other people did. Miraculously, it looks like we’ll get our money back, although not sure when.

Read the full article here.

Thanks to the good guys for putting the bad guys away: Patrick J. Fitzgerald, United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois; Robert D. Grant, Special Agent in Charge of the Chicago Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; James Vanderberg, Special Agent in Charge of the U.S. Department of Labor Office of Inspector General in Chicago; and U.S. District Judge Ruben Castillo. And the Securities and Exchange Commission’s Chicago Regional Office that assisted in the investigation.

And JB & Tony? Enjoy your time in prison!

Update: I’m saddened to report that the day before he was scheduled to begin a 15-year prison sentence, March 19, Jeremy Blackburn took his own life. Read the story here.

Cupid, holed up in a tree over a south Austin food trailer park Valentine’s Day morning, pierced hundreds with bows intent on inspiring love among Austin’s breakfast-taco-eating crowd. But instead of love, his actions have inspired redness, pus and pain.

“I was just sitting here on this stump eating an egg, chorizo and cheese on flour, when I felt the sting,” said 23-year-old Colt Pickett. “Next thing I know, my left butt cheek is swelled up like a watermelon!”

Thirty-three year-old Cyndi Saddles, who was chowing down on a black bean, avocado and pico on wheat was mid-bite when she felt her ankle start to swell. “I coulda sworn it was a fire ant, you know? What with the oozing. But doc says not.”

Pickett, Saddles and dozens of others are being treated at a nearby urgent care clinic for bacterial infections caused by dirt on the metal tips of Cupid’s bows.

“It’s just irresponsible,” said Vladislav Gutierrez of the Austin PD. “Everyone knows you’re supposed to dip those things in Purell first. “I thought love was supposed to heal all wounds, not cause them” said Gutierrez. “Chubby lil’ fuck needs some time behind bars to rethink his approach.”

Attorneys for Cupid, who is being held in a Travis County jail without bail, had no comment but neighbors say he has been increasingly lax with his equipment.

“He used to take great pride in cleaning and polishing his arrows, storing them in a velvet-lined wooden box in the hall closet,” said 76-year-old Corky Stubbs who lives next door to Cupid in Austin’s French Place neighborhood. “But something’s happened. When he comes home from a piercing, he just flings them on the ground by the front door.” Stubbs also described Cupid as having “put on weight” and smelling “like rum.”

While victims will experience minor pain for a few days in addition to taking a course of antibiotics, at least one of Cupid’s arrows wasn’t shot in vain.

“My nurse is smokin’ hot,” said Pickett. “It could be worse.”

MOM: Oh, you really should see it. Really uptown. They had some beautiful dresses…and talking mannequins…

ME: Talking mannequins? That’s kind of creepy.

MOM: It was creepy but you should see it! …and they had corsets…Madonna’s corset….and some really naughty things.

ME: Naughty things? Like what?

MOM: Naughty things; stuff that shows their privates.

ME: What do you mean by privates?

MOM: Oh, you know, their private parts — their private crotchies. And codballs.

ME: (silence)

MOM: And then they have that awful matrix stuff.

ME: Like Keanu Reeve’s The Matrix?

MOM: No! (groans at my inability to comprehend) Like matrix. Isn’t it matrix? Where they like pain?

ME: You mean dominatrix?

MOM: Yes, yes…(ignoring my reaction)…And then they would have something really beautiful draped over something awful like a garbage can (more groaning)…

ME: Oh, interesting.  Maybe that was the point, to have that contrast.

MOM: Yeah; stupid.

You grab a couple of empty grocery bags because you’re all environmentally conscious like that and don’t want to take up unnecessary plastic bags from the store (you also only flush on the second pee when you’re home alone — your secret — because you think you’re giving the earth an extra drink of water, which might leave a few gallons in a stream somewhere, just long enough to hydrate a gazelle, and to grow a dark ring of mold in your toilet bowl).

You walk the 20-25 minutes to the store listening to This American Life on your iPod, cutting through the streets of your neighborhood as the sun goes down. You notice how dingy some of your neighbors’ windows look, and judge their yard art.

“WTF with the blue glass gazing balls? Weirdos.”

You pass the fire station and are disturbed by the fact that every time you walk by, no matter what time of day, you never see a single firefighter using the gym equipment. You make a mental note to check the batteries in your smoke alarms. And buy an emergency ladder.

As you do when you’re on foot, you notice how fast people drive and are glad you’re only carrying empty grocery bags and not pulling a baby in a Radio Flyer.

Traffic picks up as you approach the intersection in front of the grocery store. As you wait at the crosswalk, you gaze at the lights and feel refreshed that you are out, moving your body, getting the blood pumping while also making good use of your time by running an errand, and saving on gas you crunchy earth muffin, you.

“Better than watching mind-numbing shit TV shows,” you think, TV shows you will watch the next day on Hulu.

The hip urban store is bustling. People are gathering and eating in its various corners, others are perusing the aisles, filling their carts. A familiar song plays overhead and you’re inspired.

“Give to me your leather, take from me, my lace,” sings Stevie, and you think, “Yes! I will get these brussel sprouts,” even though they weren’t on your list.

You see someone you know across the way in Fish. He’s on his Bluetooth. You don’t feel like talking and turn away before he sees you.

You wander to the dairy section in order to buy some non-dairy, some fake cheese. Looks suspect but since you’re over 40 now and are basically falling apart, you want to try alternatives, maybe add a year to your life. Through the digestion of fake cheese. You have high hopes.

You hear the person you know on your heels, still talking on the Bluetooth. You turn away again and he walks past, yammering.

You grab a small bottle of olive oil. And some natural organic tortilla chips because you can afford some salty fried chips now that you’re eating fake cheese. And since they’re organic they’re probably good for you.

You add some soup to your bag, which makes it heavy. “You have a long walk ahead of you,” you think. “Better wrap it up.”

You make your way to the register. Amazingly, the person you know passes by you a third time, still talking on the Bluetooth, not a single grocery product in his hand. Incredibly, he still doesn’t see you. You chuckle to yourself and shake your head as you reach for Amy’s organic frozen burritos, two for $5.

You walk up to the register. Put the plastic separator dealio on the belt and lay out all of your goods. When you’re done, you proudly put your grocery bags on top in a demonstrative display of environmental consciousness, as if to say, “Brought my own bags, people! Superiorly less wasteful, that’s me!”

And then it hits you: your wallet with your cash and debit and credit cards are sitting on the chair by the front door of your apartment, a 25-minute walk in the dark away.

On the walk home, empty grocery bags under your arm, you think about how those groceries would have been too heavy to carry, and how that fake cheese probably tastes like the tongue of your tennis shoes, or crap. And that it’s all probably for the best.

This is my brother-in-law talking, in the car on the way to my Mom’s house after being discharged from the hospital in early December.

This is meant to be funny because I was in the hospital two years before at pretty much the exact same time.

And three years before that, albeit two months earlier in the year.

“We were just thinking that maybe next time, you could pick somewhere more… tropical,” suggests my sister. That way they could hit the beach while I slept off the anesthesia; see the sights while my incisions healed.

While I’m going to do everything in my power to prevent a hospitalization encore (diet, exercise, never leaving my apartment), certain miseries like Kardashian Barbie Dolls, another Nick Cage Ghost Rider movie, and bowel-blocking adhesions (like the ones I just had), are out of my control.

Coming soon to disenchant in a theater near you.

But should God, the Universe, Mother Nature, Fate and/or Jeannie be listening, I hope you’ll consider my two cents when doling out future medical crises. Basically, I’m putting in for a downgrade on dramatic health issues and an upgrade on the geographical location of any future health care delivery.  If you absolutely have to sling something my way, consider:

-Blisters in Paris. When you have miles of city to cover, blisters hurt. And in Paris, in the spring, in open-toe shoes?  Blisters would make the ugly American even more disgusting. It’s suffering but with chocolate croissants and fromage.

-Laryngitis in Prague. It would suck not be able to talk, especially if the toilet in my historic Art Nouveau apartment overflows.

-Insomnia in Brazil. Probably the most painful of the three, can you imagine being up all night in such a place? Mercy — that’s what I’d need.

You’ll notice I’ve avoided overused conditions such as the flu and food poisoning. B-o-r-i-n-g. You can only talk about diarrhea, barfing and fever so much — trust me, I’ve done it. With these suggestions, and others if you want to brainstorm, you still get to meet your “suffering” quota, I just get to recuperate in a more suitable atmosphere, i.e., a place where food comes on a plate, not in a tube stuck up my nose.

I know the powers-that-be don’t owe me anything but if you’re listening, I’m over the whole hospitalization thing, you know? Been there, threw up that. Choose someone else next time, like someone from the heinous crimes block in prison or the DMV. I don’t want to do an encore.

Day 7: Tuesday, Nov. 29

Enema! Like pepper spraying protestors, only soapy water, from behind. Mwah-ha-ha! Hold 30 minutes. Manage one. Run.

Don’t. Entirely. Make it.

Humiliation! Hooligans! Little effect. Grasp hope, dignity.

Previous day’s x-rays unimpressive. Bit o’ barium through, but slowly.

Walk halls, suck on hard candy, start Reglan drug, all to stimulate protest eradication. Right arm off limits. Left taking beating. Second IV. Running out of veins.

Right arm off limits due to lymph node removal from mastectomy in 2006.

Small client project, introduction of ice chips and Mom disrupt monotony, save sanity. Back rub by Sis combats increasing soreness.

Day 8: Wednesday, Nov. 30

Week since occupation began. Goons holding out. Menacing jackwads!

At doctor’s request, second opinion doctor visits. Looks like Friar Tuck, bald with bedskirt of long graying hair. Repeat my history. Stethoscope to bowel, quiet. Thinks ileus vs. physical blockade. Could resolve on own. Surgery unlikely. Happy, confused.

Second NG tube falls out. Don’t alert nurse. Smile.

Unexpected third doctor visits, young female gastroenterologist. (Where was she last Friday?) Repeat my history. Stethoscope. Lo! Suspects physical blockade– hernia, maybe adhesions.

“Would like to do a rectal. Now.” Ask Mom to leave room. Roll to side.

“Bear down.” Muscles work fine. Wants CT enterography.

Another enema. Futile.

Nauseous, barf. Feel better. NG tube #3 installed. No tears. Larger tube empties stomach faster, hurts throat more. Stop talking, avoid swallowing, spit in cup. Curse evildoers.

NG tube. Necessary evil.

Left arm spent. Picc line (peripherally inserted central catheter) installed in vein inside upper arm. Lidocaine numbs, no pain. Installer hums entire time. Picc = one stop for blood draws, fluids, meds and “groceries,” aka TPN (total parenteral nutrition), aka food! Finally! In room-x-ray confirms picc placement.

CT dude brings three bottles of barium for CT enterography prep. Stomach emptiest since admitted. Favorite nurse injects two bottles into NG tube. Feel fine, no nausea. Cray cray tech wheels me to CT. Rambles about how miserable NG tube looks, she could never do it, “Too much of a gag reflex.” “Please shut up,” I say in head. Images taken.

Send client headlines. Tuckered. Will CT confirm once and for all?

TPN: like a milkshake only not at all.

Day 9: Thursday, Dec. 1

8:30-ish. Doctor No. 1 calls. CT contrast good! Blockade certain. Exploratory laparoscopy today– minimally invasive camera into abdomen. Could be adhesions–scar tissue from emergency appendectomy in 2009, which coincidentally, occurred just before Thanksgiving. Reluctant to be cut, anxious for answer, to lose tube, to end protest.  Surgery time TBD.

Knock. Big Bird-ish lady + 3 accomplices in scrubs enter. “HI! WE’RE THE SKIN TEAM! WE’RE HERE TO CHECK YOUR FEET AND YOUR HINEY!” Blue gloves on.

Accomplice removes my footies, examines heels. Roll to side, Big Bird parts gown. “YOUR HINEY LOOKS GOOD!” Hold Mom’s incredulous gaze.

10am: Walk. Pass nurse; “When surgery?”

“No order yet…” Start more client headlines.

11:30am: New man in scrubs, nurse, and doctors 1 and 3 enter. Time to go. NOW. Scramble–email client: “Sorry, cannot complete task!” Text loved ones: “Surgery now!” Shut down laptop, mobile wifi. Scrubs man unattaches bed, nurse unattaches IV.

OR prep room: Tell anesthesiologist drug history. Repeat name, birth date five thousand times. Beg nurse: if new NG tube, install smaller size, please!

Shaking. Noises. Rolling. Flashes that I’m back in room. Disoriented. Hear talk of wiping something out of my hair. Sleep.

Wake. Spacey. Sis tells me what happened. Sleep. Forget.

Wake. Phlegmy. Achey. Sis repeats findings. Blockade caused by adhesions from 2009 appendectomy. Spliced up. One grown to abdominal wall. 2 ½ hour surgery. Answer, yay! Recover now?

Not sure what was in hair, suspect goo from 4^th NG tube in OR. Gross but smaller size; small victory.

Shuffle down hall w/Sis. Back massage. Broken sleep.

Day 10: Friday, Dec. 2

Something up, and not stomach contents. Not nauseous. NOT! Protestors gone. Take that, fuckers! Must have gas/poo to be sure. Mom every ten seconds, “Any rumblings?” C’mon, fart for Mama…

Doctor okays NG tube removal. Hallelujah! Wash hair. Wonky from anesthesia. Shuffle through hall. Watch “Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead” documentary. Sis & Bro-in-law visit. Walk. Back rub. Sleep.

Dear friends and clients sent flowers, brightened room.

DAY 11: Saturday, Dec. 3

4-something am: walk.

5:19 am: Rumbling?

5:20 am: Blockade down! BLOCKADE DOWN! “MOM! WAKE UP!”

Nurse: “Another patient moved a bowel this morning too.” Yay for us!

Doctor says possible discharge Sunday. Cleared for clears. Order chicken broth, Italian ice, sorbet, water, apple juice. Body: “WTF is this stuff?” Piercing cramps in repy. Don’t care. Morphine, constipator. Boo! Swith to regular anti-inflammatory.

Keep walking, keep things moving. Apple juice. Walk. Apple juice. Walk.

DAY 12: Sunday, Dec 4

Protestors sooo gone! HA! Clears for breakfast. Doctor visit. Stethoscope. Good noise. Upgrade to solids for lunch: omelette, chocolate cake. Take bites. If stays down, go home. Chew carefully. Shrunk stomach, full fast. Discharge likely! Mom to store to get lo-to-no-fiber, soft foods. Sis, bro-in-law to retrieve.

Wait for doctor approval, watch old “Knut and friends” documentary about polar bear’s first year at Berlin Zoo. Unfamiliar, but enjoy story. Just before end, nurse comes. Hit Pause.

“You can go. Just need to get the paperwork and you ready.”

“I CAN GO?”

“You can go.” Removes picc line, asks, “What are you watching?”

“’Knut and friends.’ It’s about…”

“Oh, yeah. He dies.”

Deflate.

“Yeah, something happens to his brain and one day he just falls flat in the water and dies.”

Watch rest of it anyway. Sign papers.

Civilian clothes. Jeans on, no zip, protect incisions. Move slow, move out. Bro-in-law, Sis haul stuff, flowers. Tech wheels me past patients not leaving today. Perspective.

Mom had list of all things we’d do over Thanksgiving. Hospital not on it. Know I’m lucky. If pilgrim, would be dead by now.

Mom's Thanksgiving activity list, lots of eating. The irony.

]]> http://denataylor.com/2011/12/occupy-dena-the-protest-in-my-gut-part-ii/feed/ 0 http://denataylor.com/2011/12/occupy-dena-protesting-adhesions-succeed-in-blockade/ http://denataylor.com/2011/12/occupy-dena-protesting-adhesions-succeed-in-blockade/#comments Fri, 16 Dec 2011 06:18:09 +0000 Dena Taylor http://denataylor.com/?p=1230 Part I (Wed-Monday)

I’ve been remiss. Absent. Immersed in the Lost Thanksgiving; the Twelve Days of Sickness; the numbing void that ended up being 10 days in a hospital room with bad cable and reruns of Unsolved Mysteries. Here are highlights. They include talk about poo. Consider yourself warned.

Day 1: Wednesday, Nov. 23^rd  8:30am: an angry protest of stabbing pains, mild nausea manifests in my belly. Would have thought appendix had ruptured if that mess had not already been removed in 2009. Must be gas. Struggle to work, eat rice cake, sip water, and lame attempt at walking it off.

2am: nausea intensifies and prevails. Instant relief.

Day 2: Thanksgiving Day, Nov. 24^th  7am. They’re back, bastards! Douse them with sips water, bites of bread. Have morning constitutional (will be last for over a week). Lug self onto morning flight to DFW to spend holiday with Mom. Misery. Surprised and somewhat sorry I don’t hurl on talky lady next to me.

Thirty-minute drive to family suburb. Protestors leap frog through stomach in what feels like Dansko clogs. Dehydrated. Skip Mom’s for local eCare. IV for fluids, anti-nausea, pain meds. Doctor suspects gallstones. Ultrasound tech finds gas instead. Dr. decides it’s gallbladder spasm. Embarrassed.  Should have waited it out. Prescriptions. Overhear it’s Dr.’s last day.

Feel great for 2 hours. Jackhole protesters must’ve given up!  Sip water, leek soup, bites of rice cake. Miscreants return with campaign of piercing pain, nausea, acid reflux, and barf. Feel better! Maybe now they’re really gone. Sleep upright on loveseat, only comfortable position.

Day 3: Friday, Nov. 25^th   Nothing in stomach since Tuesday. More hungry than nauseous. Demonstrators gone at last! But family certain they’ll return. Call to eCare proves futile: “We’ve done all we can.” Mom’s local doctor unavailable. Sis calls from holiday trip, suggests nearby hospital. Feel it’s overkill. Relent while able to drive.

ER doc suspects small bowel obstruction. Demonstrators constructed blockade? IV for fluids and drugs. Giant donut hole CT scan. Doubt suspicion. Mortified I’ve been duped by world’s most persistent gas.

Scan confirms obstruction. Occupation real! An emergency. Must be admitted. In menacing twist, need nasogastric (NG) tube inserted through nose, down throat to empty stomach to relax bowel. Morphine to ease insertion pain. New guy and EMT observer enter room. Guy attempts NG insertion. Hurts like mofo. He doesn’t push, says my nares are small. Tries pediatric size. Hurts! Stops. No tube today. Mine are the smallest nares he’s ever seen. I feel dainty.

Rolled to fifth floor, corner suite.  Admissions nurse with Thanksgiving festooned roley cart takes history. Answers Mom’s questions with tone reminiscent of constipated Mother Superior.

New doctor. Repeat story. Never heard of gallbladder spasm. Incredulous and disappointed NG tube not in. Doubts dainty nares. Standing order to insert tube if nausea and barf return.  Mom stays night. Can’t believe this is happening.

Home barfy home

Day 4: Saturday, Nov. 26   Protestors up all night, probably celebrating winning blockade. Assholes. Feel like poop, which is ironic, since nothing remotely poopy has happened in 2 days. Doctor irritated NG tube not installed. Two nurses install without morphine. Guess nares aren’t small after all.  Tears, gasps, pain. One nurse apologizes the other never says hello. Suggest protestors expand demonstration by occupying her. Stomach starts emptying via intermittent NG suctioning.

Blockade may be mechanical (a physical thing, think adhesion [scar tissue] hernia, gallstone) or paralytic ileus (pseudo-obstruction, think bacterial, viral, or food poisoning). Ideally the latter and will resolve on own. Can take days. Cutting is last result.

Long miserable day, night. Hydrated but no food or water or comfortable position. New anti-nausea med knocks me out. Late night blood draw, temp and blood pressure check. Calve compression prevents blood clots.  Loud beeping when IV bags empty, time indiscriminate. Bag of antibiotics added in case of infection.

Day 5: Sunday, Nov. 27   Blockade in full force. Jerks. More of same. Doctor visits. No signs of poo. Stethoscope confirms quiet bowel. Walk halls to stimulate, Mom joins, rests hand on my back to prevent backside exposure. Oncology floor. Still burping, cycling pain, nausea. Kneel on pillow on floor, slump over bed, more comfortable. Mom rubs back, sore from bed. New nurses/techs daily. Mom stays each night.

Day 6: Monday, Nov. 28   Big day. Attempt to catch protesters red-handed! Wheeled to radiation. Barium injected into NG tube. Stomach fills. One shot taken. Remaining taken in room. Very little barium making it through for contrast. Pools in my belly, throw it up. Feel better. Awesome young nurse surprised at volume of tossage, thinks definite physical blockade vs. ileus. Surprised at days without nutrition. Dextrose is added to IV.

NG tube falls out. Thrilled. Second one installed. Wince. Cringe. H8.

Wash hair with instant, stay in shampoo cap. Looks greasier. Sis and bro-in-law back from trip, visit. Watch remaining barium get sucked through NG tube to pitcher. Fascinating and gross.

Been four days. When will this end?

I would follow the recommend course of treatment. I would eat kale. I would do my best, the five-year marker, my saving grace, firmly lodged in the back of my head.

Will kale kure?

Five years seemed like 50 then, and yet here I am, in my fifth year, cancer free.

Party! Right?

Woop!

Not so fast.

First of all, I’m not sure if I’ve actually met the five-year criteria. Is the anniversary date when I got the tumor out in September of 2006, when I had my last chemo in March 2007, or when I take the last tamoxifen pill in March 2012?

Second, it’s not true. Making it five years doesn’t mean cancer can’t recur — unfortunately, it happens all the time.

It’s also important to acknowledge the role of tamoxifen, which many of us pre-menopausal ladies with an estrogen receptor positive cancer take for five years as part of treatment. Tamoxifen, which works against the effects of estrogen, may be the only thing keeping recurrence at bay. Yes, it induces a menopausal state. Yes, it has been the culprit of countless hot flashes, damp clothing and sheets, broken sleep, and some pretty colorful fucking language, but what happens when I stop taking it? What will be protecting me then? Kale?

Kale, take me away...

I believe in the power of diet and exercise but I can’t help but worry that without my white, 20-milligram bodyguard, I’ll be naked to the elements, a sitting duck.

This ambiguous five-year marker doesn’t make you immune to all the other shit life may throw at you either, like the break up of a relationship, the loss of a pet, a Brazilian by an esthetician with a tremor.

Then again, you’re vulnerable to life’s opportunities too, which may actually be scarier to face than reacting to flung poo, but the source of amazing and positive experiences like traveling the world, finding fulfilling work or getting hitched to a partner who loves Celine Dion as much as you do.

A moment in Cortona, Italy

So what, if anything, does it mean to make it five years cancer free? It means I had time. I had time to spend with family and friends; to fall head-over-heels; to travel, go to the movies, drink wine, write. To endure shingles and a ruptured appendix. And to decide whether to say things I might regret, waste food, spend money frivolously, be impatient, snarky and judgmental. And whether to flip a tailgater off in the Randall’s grocery store parking lot.

I haven’t always made the right choice; just ask the guy in the Kia.

Still, I had time, which seems worth celebrating, but how? How do you celebrate when so many people are being diagnosed every day? Right after I was diagnosed, a close friend of mine was diagnosed, she was not yet 40. A couple of years later, a high school friend was diagnosed; then a family friend in her late 50’s; then a fellow writer in her late 40’s; and most recently, a friend who is just 32. I also found out that a former colleague had breast cancer a year before I did, she was in her mid-30’s at the time, and two of my college friends have had cancer — one had a sarcoma in her leg, the other had colon cancer. Miraculously, everyone is doing okay. But that’s just people I know of. There are many, many more with less positive outcomes.

Ugh.

Five years is great but so is one year, one month, one day, one moment. And as hard as it can be to appreciate the moment — to resist looking toward a future marriage, job, vacation, or other desire for fulfillment — it’s all that is certain. So I’m just going to celebrate that, quietly, with as much gratitude as I can muster. And if I’m lucky, I’ll get to do it again tomorrow.

A moment in Depoe Bay, Oregon