toilet seats

For years in the past, present and most likely the future, women complain when men leave the toilet seat up.

I am grateful to Rick's mother for training him to put it down.

But with chemo the roles have been reversed.

My chemo is so toxic that I was told to wash and dry the toilet seat twice after I used it in case I left perspiration on the seat. I wouldn't kill the person who used it next but it wouldn't be good for them either.

Rather than worry about it I started using the rim. And I left the seat up for Rick. When he sits down he puts the seat up for me.

After three days, the nurses said the toxicity will have passed. 

But will our confusion over gender roles and toilet seats?

Never the same

"Life is never the same after you have cancer," J said.

We were in my old bedroom with the woman who will provide my prosthesis and my sexy new underwear.

J was referring to the fact there is a missing breast and sometimes pain in the arm. There is also the niggle that maybe, just maybe somewhere inside the body a nasty little cell will set up housekeeping.

J is right, but life is never the same after lots of things:

• Having a child
• Marrying
• Changing homes, towns, states or countries

The list is endless.

Meanwhile neurotic me won't have the underwear I want immediately because I can't get the sets I want until the new catalogue comes out next month. I really feel uncomfortable if my underpants do not match my bra and I want pretty underwear. It can be cotton or something else, but I want pretty.

Meanwhile I have a plan B on temporary balancing of my chest with my old bras and matching panties.

 
No matter what happens with my underwear, I am not a refugee facing winter in a tent with an uncertain future.

I would add that this is a detail not a problem.

Me and the train

When I was a little girl, my grandmother read this to me many, many times. This little engine was able to bring milk to all the good little boys and girls in the city where another bigger engine had failed.

Never mind that I hated milk, I was impressed that the train kept saying, I think I can, I think I can over and over.

In response to yesterday's post where I admitted being discouraged, someone wrote "You CAN do it"
I don't think I can, I know I can. All without drinking milk.

Helicopter Husband

Helicopter Husband

This is a dueling blog. My version follows

When I first came to Europe to start our relationship, D-L's friends, as well as her daughter, warned me vociferously not to "hover" around Donna-Lane in the manner of a protective boyfriend/fiance/spouse. After all, she had lived on her own for years, decades, and not only was well capable of fending for herself, she has the sort of alpha female personality that tends to do first and communicate later. For the first few months (maybe even now), I was fearful that I would say or do something to offend her independent spirit and she'd send me packing.

Circumstances have changed recently, albeit temporarily. Since July, D-L has been going through chemotherapy treatments following both gallbladder and breast cancer surgery. The chemicals leave her pretty fatigued most days of the week (after a good day or two immediately following a treatment) and most hours of the day. She does well to sit at the computer for maybe an hour before she has to crawl back into bed to rest and ease her shakiness.

I've transitioned from being her toy boy to being the family chef, butler, opener of the heavy door (that sticks halfway) between our bedroom and the bath, and steady hand when walking up a flight of stairs or through the hospital corridor on our twice-weekly visits.

Because she has passed out once and almost a second time from low blood pressure, I am rarely out of earshot or more than a few feet away. Yes, I hover. So a few days ago D-L dubbed me her "helicopter husband." Like a "helicopter parent" who is over-protective of their kid. (I was that too - when my daughter was learning to drive as a teenager, I first took her to a large, empty parking lot. Since the car we had at the time "idled" at about 20 mph, I saw no need for her to touch the gas pedal!)

Donna-Lane vows that once she is through the chemo and the radio, she wants to balance the scales by waiting on me for awhile. I'll settle for turning in my rotor blades and returning to our normal no-hover lifestyle. 

 

Helicopter husband

My mother could have created the manual for the helicopter mom a half a decade before the term was created. I hated being over protected.

Fast backward to three years ago when Rick and I were getting together. My friends who approved of him and actually thought he might be good for me took him aside and said, "Don't smother her. Give her freedom. She's very independent." The underlining message was "Or you'll be history."

My daughter added another message, "And she'll steal your socks."

He believed both. Some of his socks disappeared. He didn't hover.

Then I developed breast cancer. I made sure he attended all my appointments, although in most there was only French spoken and I had to translate. He had said this is a motivation to speed up his learning process. I wanted him to not feel left out.

We went thru the bad news, the good news, the bad news, the good news. They think they got it all. Chemo and radiation would be preventative.

After surgery, I still was able to maintain my full independence. But with chemo, I was less brave. There have been times walking across the room has left me without energy. Doing chores that should be ordinary were/are exhausting. Unloading a dishwasher shouldn't leave me shaking, but it does on the bad days.

He took over.

"You are a helicopter husband," I've told him as he worried about leaving me alone. For whenever I was weak, his blade rotated at full speed making sure I don't faint on him as I did one day.

He didn't deny it. 

Now chemo is almost at an end. Radiation will be tiring but not like this. In a few months I will regain my strength and we will be back to normal. I've promised him that I will do the cooking for months rather than our alternating under our previous arrangement.

"We'll see," he said. 

I hate being dependent, wanting to do stuff but not having the energy. I have learned that it is okay to ask for help, to not always be 100% strong. I have learned that having a hovering, helicopter husband is a good thing when needed.

Because on my good days, when I do feel normal, he lands his helicopter and shuts off the hover mode, I know our lives will resume.

Meanwhile I need a clean pair of socks, and when he isn't looking I'll check out his drawer.

Helicopter husband

My mother could have created the manual for the helicopter mom a half a decade before the term was created. I hated being over protected.

Fast backward to three years ago when Rick and I were getting together. My friends who approved of him and actually thought he might be good for me took him aside and said, "Don't smother her. Give her freedom. She's very independent." The underlining message was "Or you'll be history."

My daughter added another message, "And she'll steal your socks."

He believed both. Some of his socks disappeared. He didn't hover.

Then I developed breast cancer. I made sure he attended all my appointments, although in most there was only French spoken and I had to translate. He had said this is a motivation to speed up his learning process. I wanted him to not feel left out.

We went thru the bad news, the good news, the bad news, the good news. They think they got it all. Chemo and radiation would be preventative.

After surgery, I still was able to maintain my full independence. But with chemo, I was less brave. There have been times walking across the room has left me without energy. Doing chores that should be ordinary were/are exhausting. Unloading a dishwasher shouldn't leave me shaking, but it does on the bad days.

He took over.

"You are a helicopter husband," I've told him as he worried about leaving me alone. For whenever I was weak, his blade rotated at full speed making sure I don't faint on him as I did one day.

He didn't deny it. 

Now chemo is almost at an end. Radiation will be tiring but not like this. In a few months I will regain my strength and we will be back to normal. I've promised him that I will do the cooking for months rather than our alternating under our previous arrangement.

"We'll see," he said. 

I hate being dependent, wanting to do stuff but not having the energy. I have learned that it is okay to ask for help, to not always be 100% strong. I have learned that having a hovering, helicopter husband is a good thing when needed.

Because on my good days, when I do feel normal, he lands his helicopter and shuts off the hover mode, I know our lives will resume.

Meanwhile I need a clean pair of socks, and when he isn't looking I'll check out his drawer. 

It stopped

"Call the coup feu," my landlady said to my complaint that it felt as if my hands were on fire, a reaction to the Taxol chemo treatment.

She wasn't the first. My physio had said the same thing when I had had radiation only none of the burning predicted  happened.

I'd heard that even doctors had recommended a coup feu, a person you telephoned to relieve pain.

After a sleepless night, I did.

She immediately put me thru to her daughter whose English was much worse than my French, but I gave my name, address, birthdate in both languages.

I was handed back to the mother and we spoke French and understood each other without a problem.

She told me to be still.

Nothing but quiet for I don't know how many minutes. I felt my hands cool.

"Call me back if you have more problems," she said.

 When I told my oncologist, she raised her eyebrows. "I don't understand how it works," she says."But I've seen it work in burn units."

I don't understand either. I don't care. My hands are still cool. 

Tuesdays and Thursdays

A guest post by my husband.

Thursdays, lately, have been the best day of the week. Tuesdays have been the worst.

In between, on Wednesdays, Donna-Lane receives her weekly chemo treatment.

By the way, the treatments are almost done. Depending on how the doctors interpret her condition, next Wednesday could be D-L's final chemo. Fingers crossed. It would be what I'm calling a super chemo, the equivalent of 3 or 4 treatments in one - with a different chemical than she has been receiving - and will likely make her very tired for days or even weeks afterward. But it should not have the side effect she is having now of burning hands and numb fingers and toes.

The day after each chemo treatment, Thursdays, tend to be relatively good days. D-L has reasonable energy for much of the day and sometimes into Friday. That may be due in part to the slight dose of cortisone they give her with the chemo drip.

But by Friday afternoon, certainly Saturday, the cortisone is probably worn off because the fatigue catches up with her. She'll be able to sit at her computer and work for maybe an hour or so, but then she hits a wall and needs to crawl into bed and pretend to read, often falling asleep within minutes.

By Tuesday, a week after the chemo treatment and the morning we head to the hospital for the weekly blood test and oncologist consultation, Donna-Lane's energy level is at a low ebb. One time, a few weeks back, she passed out from low blood pressure and we called the paramedics. By the time they arrived, she was back in bed resting, and her vitals were sufficient so there was no need to go to the hospital. This past week, she had the severe light-headed sensation again but fortunately did not pass out.

It was good that Christmas Eve was on a Thursday. We spent a great day in Hermance strolling through the village and along the lake. Christmas morning, Friday, was pretty good too.

Now it's New Year's Eve, a Thursday, and we're hoping to spend it with friends. Maybe not as late as midnight, but that's okay. The new year will arrive whether we're awake to celebrate or not.

It's been a challenging year in several aspects. There have been positive developments - my Permis B, a new job in Geneva for someone very dear to Donna-Lane, a publication date for her new novel (Murder in Schwyz), and during treatments she managed enough energy to finish editing a non-fiction book for a former colleague. Instead of traveling around Europe, we've found joy in driving along the edge of the lake or along a ridge where we can see a panorama of the lake, the city, and the mountains beyond. 

Most important, D-L is beating the cancer ... for the second time. 

We're looking forward to a return to 'normal' in 2016, as if the two of us could ever do 'normal.' Certainly we're eager to spend more time in our other home in Argeles-sur-mer and to seeing, in person, friends we've only been able to keep up with online.