Brenda's Blog: A Guide to Surviving Breast Cancer

Inner Workings of A Chemo Brain

Monday, March 29, 2010

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

I sometimes wonder if I’m plagued with one of those trendy alphabet disorders like “OCD” or “ADD” that are favorite topics of morning talk shows. Or maybe the wiring in my brain temporarily short-circuits, causing the bimbo wires to mingle and override the common sense wires. Personally, I think it’s chemo brain, a result of my eight rounds of chemotherapy for breast cancer. Regardless of the underlying cause, foods packaged in neat cardboard boxes, like Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, seem to trigger a response that makes me assign them human characteristics. <PREVIEWEND>

Most of us have personified an inanimate object by pointing out the "shapely legs” of a chair, or by calling an old pickup truck “a good old girl” or “a beauty,” but I have expanded the bounds of anthropomorphism one step further: I behave as though dried pasta has feelings. This condition typically happens when I open a box of macaroni and pour the contents into the pot. I imagine the stranded pieces of pasta glued to the bottom of the box are devastated at being left behind while their box mates go on to seek their destinies, tumbling and boiling together, soon to be a satisfying meal for hungry diners. I feel sorry for the macaroni left behind and find myself ripping open the box to free them, scraping away the remnants of glue and cardboard, then pushing them onto their boiling center stage.

When this happens, I know my husband wonders if I have lost my mind, but I prefer to believe my reasoning abilities are creatively expanding their horizons: The macaroni have been together since they were first extruded from Kraft’s giant pasta machines, then spread onto conveyor belts to dry. I see the blue and yellow Kraft boxes, newly crimped and formed, jockeying for position, one after the other, their labels facing the same direction, ready to be filled with newly made macaroni. One by one, cheese packets are added, boxes are sealed, then packed into larger boxes for shipping. By the time the macaroni reach my stove, I imagine how disappointed these pasta orphans must be, stuck to the bottom and denied their birthright of being “the cheesiest.”

Maybe I’ve watched too many dancing boxes of popcorn and singing colas while waiting for a movie to start, but I take comfort from the great architect, Louis Kahn, who said “a brick wants to be something more than a brick. It wants to be a great building.” Macaroni wants to be more than a dried glutinous mass. It wants to be a meal, amazing and creamy until the last bite.

My husband says bimbos and macaroni have a lot in common. He smiles knowingly as he pats the top of my head. “They both want to be more than they are, but their brains are stuck to the bottom of the box.”

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Losing Your Fingernails to Chemo

Monday, March 22, 2010

Did you know chemotherapy can make your fingernails turn black and fall off? As if a diagnosis of breast cancer isn’t bad enough, my oncologist gave me that gruesome tidbit the morning of my second chemotherapy. He also warned me not to cut my cuticles and hangnails and not to floss my teeth until after I was finished with chemo. In addition, he suggested I avoid manicures, pedicures and the use of artificial nails all together.

Because our immune system is compromised more than usual during treatment, defending us from both the cancer and the chemotherapy, any nick or cut especially on our fingers and in our mouths, could result in a serious infection requiring antibiotics and/or hospitalization. By the way, “Lilly,” who is battling ovarian cancer on The Young & The Restless, was given the same cautionary fingernail warning by her “doctor.” Yes, I watch The Young & The Restless. There! I’ve said it, and I feel better now. <PREVIEWEND>

Before chemo, my nails had a tendency to split, and I was prone to have hangnails. The thought of them getting worse during treatment and not being able to do anything about it became a huge concern. Somehow I got the idea to buy cuticle cream. What magic stuff. Everyday after my second chemotherapy, I rubbed cuticle cream into my nails and cuticles and everyday, my ragged hangnails visibly improved and my nails got stronger.

At every subsequent doctor’s appointment my oncologist would inspect my nails and say, “Maybe next time,” implying that between now and my next chemo, my fingernails might give birth to Swamp Thing and begin to fall off. And at every appointment thereafter, he was amazed my nails looked better and better.

I’ve sometimes wondered if the nightly massaging with the cream not only repaired my cuticles and nails but increased blood flow to my nail bed as well, thus keeping them from falling off. There are several cuticle creams on the market. If you’re going through chemo, pick the one with the least fragrance so it lessens your chance of becoming nauseated by the smell. Cuticle cream is one of the best things I discovered during chemo and is something I continue to use, and my nails look great.

Back to that Young & The Restless thing… Since I’m generally a couple of weeks behind, please, don’t anyone tell me how Sharon learns the terrible truth about Adam.

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Nipples, Rocks & Raisins

Monday, March 15, 2010

©Brenda Coffee. All rights reserved.

I imagine most people don't realize a mastectomy also involves removal of the nipple. At first the fact I had only one nipple didn’t bother me, but as my mastectomy and reconstruction began to heal, and I started wearing Lycra tops with built-in bras to the gym, it became obvious to others.

You can tell when someone, usually a guy, is looking at your breasts. One day I was aware a guy at the gym had locked onto my breasts like radar. I watched as his eyes darted back and forth from one breast to the other. Then he stopped in mid-lift, barbell suspended overhead, with a startled expression like he’d just seen Bigfoot, and I knew... It had finally dawned on him. “She’s only got one nipple.” Of course I thought it was hilarious and began to laugh, which made him forget what he was doing and drop the barbell on his foot. After that I decided it would be a good idea to look for a nipple substitute. <PREVIEWEND>

A friend told me about a website that sells rubber nipples that stick on your breasts with small suction cups. You have your choice of pink or brown. I chose pink and placed my order. When they arrived, I opened them, eager to “stick” one over my nipple-less breast and see how it looked through my clothes. Oh, my stars! I don’t think so! First of all, their idea of pink was a neon pink suitable for use as a ‘Flamingo Crossing’ sign. And second, it stuck way out, like a landing site on a hummingbird feeder. I threw the rubber nipples away and began what I called my ‘nipple collection.’

Desperate times call for desperate measures. One evening I really needed a nipple to wear with a certain outfit and pondered possible substitutes. The solution was found in an old box of raisins in the refrigerator. Don’t laugh. It was great. Even I couldn’t tell the difference. From there I moved on to dried cranberries and rocks. Yes, rocks.

One day I was halfway down the driveway when I realized I had forgotten my raisin, so I hopped out of the car and found a small piece of gravel. Looking at my reflection in the car window, I put the rock in place, adjusted it until it was even with my real nipple, then got in the car and drove away. Problem solved.

FYI, my plastic surgeon subsequently constructed a nipple from the surrounding breast skin and later tattooed it. What an amazing procedure. It looks so real. I have since discarded my nipple collection, except for the raisins. My dog, Goldie, ate them.

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Your Health Needs a Smile:)

Monday, March 08, 2010

I have always been a positive, happy person, even in the face of inescapable adversity, but the last 10 days have been trying, sometimes to the point I’m not sure my joking, silly self will find her way home. Not being comfortable with this “down” Brenda, I have taken some of my own advice and gone in search of things to laugh about, starting with myself.

This week’s Blog photo always cracks me up! It is a self-portrait taken while I was in the dentist’s chair. It’s one of those faces mothers warn their children not to make for fear they’ll freeze that way. While that didn’t happen, once again, that toothy face made me smile and has made me feel better. More importantly, it’s made me think about the power of a smile. <PREVIEWEND>

We’ve all heard laughter—we are smiling when we laugh—is the best medicine, and research indicates that is true. Smiles make us feel better about ourselves, help us cope with stress, lowers blood pressure and improves our immune system. Smiling also releases endorphins, which act as natural painkillers, plus serotonin, which influences mood, memory and social behavior. Sounds to me like a smile should be the first “drug” we take in the morning.

Smiles are of no value to anyone unless we give them away, even to ourselves in the mirror. While smiles are free, at times they are worth everything to those who receive them. Have you ever noticed how readily a young child smiles? Unlike some adults, whose smile looks like it’s been hastily pulled from their pocket and pasted onto their face, a young child’s smile is instant, genuine and filled with pure delight.

Children are happy, inquisitive, little love sumps. As a matter of fact, it just occurred to me we haven’t sat behind a child at church for the last two Sundays, so I’m hereby putting our congregation on notice: Hang on to your children next week, cause I’m gonna’ smile me one.

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When Mothers & Daughters Role Reverse

Monday, March 01, 2010

When I was 12, my father died of cancer. People didn’t talk openly about cancer then except for occasionally whispering the “C” word and certainly not in front of the children.

While I knew my father was sick, no one ever told me what was wrong with him, or why he was in the hospital for prolonged periods of time. In fact, I never even visited him, nor did the issue ever come up. During the times he was home, I was rarely allowed in his room, and then for only short periods of time where I sat on the edge of the bed, and we made small talk, like strangers. <PREVIEWEND>

The day he died, I was at my piano lesson. I remember my piano teacher gasping into the phone and saying, “Don’t worry. She can stay here as long as you need.” Of course I knew it was mother, calling to say my father had died, but once again, no one told me anything. Several hours later, as I sat in the back seat, mother and a neighbor drove me home as they spoke in quiet shorthand.

After he was buried, and the friends and relatives had gone home, mother and I role reversed. She became the daughter and I became the mother. Almost immediately she retreated to her room, shades pulled, rarely getting dressed or coming out of her room, a zombie zonked out on grief and Valium. I was the one who went to the grocery store, taking small amounts of money from her purse, riding my blue bicycle down the street, past the bowling alley to the store, buying only enough food to fit in my bike’s small wire basket.

I rode to the hardware store, bought chain locks for the doors, used my father’s drill, just as I’d seen him do, and installed the locks because mother was afraid. I made sure the boy down the street mowed the lawn; I babysat for the couple on the corner to earn extra money and continued to get straight A’s. That is until periodically, mother would come out of her room and arbitrarily decided to parent me, knowing nothing about my life, how I was doing or that I was a great kid.

By my senior year of high school I had gained 20 pounds and was failing some of my classes. Even so, I managed to get two college scholarships but accepted the one in town and lived at home because mother needed me. After the first semester of my freshman year, I gave up my scholarship, got a job and a tiny apartment—the only way I knew to get away from her.

Except for the six months I went through chemotherapy, our roles have remained the same. However during those months, she sent me books about prayer and clippings and tapes she listened to about God. She was uplifting and supportive, urging me to see myself surrounded by God’s light, whole, perfect and healed. She even stopped signing her cards with the word “Mother” in quotes and simply signed them Love, Mom, as though on some level she knew she was mothering me, not the other way around. As soon as I finished chemo, she resumed her all too familiar “Mother” signature, and if I mention having had breast cancer, she looks at me like I’m speaking Swahili.

Mother is needy, in ways I’ve never been able to make right for her, and as the parent in our relationship, I sometimes feel like I’ve failed her. She ruins every family gathering, getting up from the table, going as far as to fly home because she is not the center of attention or has gotten her feelings hurt about one thing or another. She has never wanted to know about my life, interrupting me in mid-sentence with "I thought we'd go to the tea room for lunch," as I’m trying to tell her something of major importance to me. In recent years, I’ve been able to blame her dementia for her lack of interest in me. Last week I tried, again, to tell her about my website and my Blog and all the wonderful women and families I am meeting from all over the world. She paused for a second and looked at me, then said, “the salad here is not as good as it used to be.”

So, I will continue to be the mother, this week moving her closer to me as she retreats further into her world of dementia. I am grateful God gave us those six months and hope she enjoyed being the Mother as much as I loved having one. Perhaps one of the reasons my website ministers to breast cancer families is that as painful as it is, I don’t want other children to be in the dark about their parent’s cancer; I don’t want adults to stop talking when their children enter the room.

Our children know more about what goes on in our house than we could ever imagine, but they are not mature enough to know how to put things in their proper perspectives. Regardless of the situations we find ourselves in, we must find ways to talk to our children. In some cases, children may not be comfortable discussing their feelings with us, or they may try the “tuff kid” route, but if we, or they, are having trouble coping, with anything, we need to find a minister or a counselor who will listen to every member of our family and help us work through it. Whatever we do, let’s not sit on the edge of the bed and just make small talk.

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Cinco Vidas

Debbie's Cancer Blog

Divine Caroline

Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer

Rear Window

Inner Workings of A Chemo Brain

Losing Your Fingernails to Chemo

Nipples, Rocks & Raisins

Your Health Needs a Smile:)

When Mothers & Daughters Role Reverse

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