The Island of Doctor No

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale.  A tale of a fateful trip...to the Island of Doctor No.

The weather began getting rough the day after my surgery when the doctor came into the hospital room to check on my progress.

 I was sitting up in bed, using my laptop to answer emails.  (I was actually kind of proud of myself since I was able, in my drug-induced stupor, to string together real words with real punctuation that almost made sense, you know, kind of like real sentences.)

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

Um,  I'm pretty sure I'm doing emails, but since I've got more drugs pumping through my veins than a former child star on their first Saturday night out of rehab, I could be wrong.

"No." she shook her head and reached for the computer.

"No?"

"No.  You shouldn't be doing repetitive motions with your hands and arms like that after that kind of surgery."

Uh Oh.  I was starting to suspect that the Skipper had just run my boat aground on a really bad island.

"Oh, and you can't drive, cook, clean, wash, brush or style your hair, wear a pull-over shirt, do laundry, wear your contacts, hail a cab or high-five anyone.  At all.  For quite some time.  Seriously."

No hair? No contacts? No computer?  No driving???  Hell no.  Page the Professor.  I am getting off this Isle.  I want to be on a different island.  Hey, how about Fantasy Island?  I could stay there.  No cooking, no cleaning, no laundry. Yeah.  Sign me up for that tour.      

"I'll see you in two days, " Dr. No announced while proceeding to take away my iphone, contact lenses, brush, and hair clips.  "Oh, and stop doing that too."

What?  I was lying there like a slug, now that everything of value or interest had been denied me.  Never mind the Professor.  I'd settle for Gilligan and his bamboo and feather wings.

"Talking with your hands.  Too much arm movement."

Seriously???  But then how will I communicate?  Without my hands, I'm pretty sure I would stutter at the very least, and quite possibly be rendered mute.  Gasp! I couldn't even be a mime!  Oh no!!!

And so began my weeks of exile on the Island of Doctor No.  Stranded without so much as one of Mary Ann's coconut cream pies.  And since I couldn't use my arms at all, according to the mad doctor, I couldn't even shimmy into one of Ginger's four thousand gowns or Mrs. Howell's ostrich plume hat to cheer myself up!

Every week, twice a week, I would arrive in her office, hopeful of a rescue.  At that point, I would have climbed aboard a rubber dingy being towed by Jaws.

Can I brush my hair?

No.

Can I style my hair?

No.

I mean just like this (trying to bend in half and grab the brush and clip with my toes)

No.

Can I take the dog out to potty?

No (okay, so maybe I celebrated in my head just a wee bit over that one).

Can I take the dog out to walk?

No.

Have a normal conversation?  You know, wiggle a finger or bend my thumb when I talk.

No.

Blink?

No.

 Sneeze?

God, No.

Breathe?

No.

At least Gilligan's island had movie director's, vampires and the occasional Harlem Globtrotter drop by to try and spring them.  All I  had was my mother and Tim, who, on a good day made my hair look like it was storm-tossed, and were slowly reorganizing me out of my own kitchen!

Finally, just as I was considering trying to find an ape suit and ship myself off the Island to the Bronx Zoo where I could live out my life eating bananas and picking fleas off my mate, Doctor No began to say...maybe.  All was not lost.

As I feverishly paddled my raft away from the island, Doctor No waved me off, "I'll see you every few weeks now, and soon we'll schedule your final operation."

Oh No!

And Today's SIde Effect Is......

I, am a delicate flower.

If I use a certain hair coloring product that shall remain nameless (only because I cannot for the life of me remember what it's called), my left eye swells up like I went fifteen rounds with the champ, then my right middle finger (which just makes it easier for Tim to see when I flip him off), then my left leg and finally the bottom of my right foot.  So, for one week, I am basically the Elephant Man in drag.

A swig of NyQuil makes me want to party like Lindsay Lohan after a vat of Vodka Red Bulls,   Benadryl makes me jumpier than Rush Limbaugh in a roomful of democrats with no door, and Nair actually leaves the hair, but removes the skin (which I unfortunately learned just in time for my  honeymoon--yeah, honeymoon, woo hoo.  Tim is one lucky man.)

So it should not have been a surprise when I morphed into a cross between the bride of Frankenstein and, well, Frankenstein what with all the drugs that have been pumped into my system lately.

First up: The Rash From Hell.

Day one after the operation I had what looked like a sunburn on my right arm.  By day two, the doctors all looked at me like I was boarding the Titanic with my steerage ticket clutched firmly in my rashy little hand.

Hint: If doctors start talking about something called Stephen Johnson's disease, run, because you are just one blister away from doing guest appearances on Today, Good Morning America, The View and Dr. Oz, where  you can be a true inspiration to all the other poor schmucks whose skin is peeling off faster than a g-string at a strip club.

From there, I broke out in rashes over the next month from every cream, lotion, potion, pill, drink of water, and breath of air that I took.  I was starting to make the "boy in the plastic bubble" (a John Travolta movie or Seinfeld episode depending on your age) look like the cover model on Health and Fitness magazine.

Next:  A Pufferfish Imitation

My face decided to join the party and swelled up from the chemo (?) landing me in the ER for three hours of just about the most fun you can possibly have outside of a lobotomy.  The good news is that after testing, poking and prodding me like I was the first alien to land in Area 51,  they informed me I would probably survive and sent me home with Benadryl.  Benadryl??? Really???  I look like Marlon Brando in The Godfather, and you are giving me Benadryl?????  Um, I don't have a medical degree, but I'm pretty sure I could have come up with that one on my own.

And finally:  A Life Threatening Reaction (maybe)

To complete the trifecta of side effects,  (and for my next trick, watch me pull another rash out of my hat!) my legs rashed up. And down.  And all around. 

Only it wasn't a rash.  Oh no. Not something as simple as that for me.  The chemo had apparently attacked my blood vessels and broken each and every one.  Oh goody, a second chance to make the medical books.  Stephen Johnson watch out!  I am about to have something much more impressive than peeling skin named after me. Once I get on the talk show circuits, they won't even remember your name!!! Ha!

And so all of this has led me to make a decision:  I am going to wrap myself in bubble wrap and sit in the corner of a padded room for the next few months.

I'll Take Door Number Three, Please

I never thought Angelina Jolie and I would have something in common.  Well, if I did, I would have hoped it would be that we both dated Brad Pitt, not that we had both had a double mastectomy.  And this is why I don't play the lottery.

But, what's done is done, and so I decided to make watermelons out of lemons. 

"How big do you want to go?" the plastic surgeon asked at our first pre-surgery meeting, taking out her magnifying glass and looking for my chest.

"How about you  start pumping me up and stop right before I tip over," I suggested.  "And if you're looking for someplace to take it from, can we start with my backside and thighs?"

Giving a long-suffering sigh, she then proceeded to list my actual options.

Option 1:  We rip open both your stomach and chest, pull muscles, fat and blood vessels  up through your ribcage and make a new chest out of bits and pieces.  It only takes an entire day to do this, about sixteen years to recover, oh, and the best of all is that it doesn't make your stomach look any smaller, but your chest will be exactly the same size it is now, which is non-existent.

I'm not sure who looked greener, me or Tim.

"Uh, that all sounds really neato peachy keen, but is there an option 2?" I mumbled weakly as the blood all rushed from my head.

Option 2:  We rip open your chest and back, pull blood vessels, muscle and fat through your body to the front and make you itty-bitty tiny little bumps that are even smaller than what you have now.  More good news: Really long surgery, really long recovery time and even more scars! 

"Okay, so before I totally lose consciousness, why do people sign up for these options?" I gasped, wondering what the human equivalent of PETA was and how I could contact them and turn this woman in as number one on their hit list.

"Well, there is no foreign material in your body," she patiently explained.  "It's all natural."

Natural???  I'm sorry, I think I blacked out and missed the part that was natural.  Was it having my belly button on my chest or turning my back into my front that was natural? 

"And is there another option?" I croaked weakly, hoping that there was and that it didn't involve knees, toes or elbows protruding from the top of my shirt.

Fortunately, there was.

Option 3:  Implants which can be prepared for during the initial surgery, but it will take several weeks or months before the final implants will be put in and it will mean a second, outpatient operation.

She had me at implants.

Dumb and Dumber Questions and Comments

I put my foot in my mouth ALL the time.  To be truthful, most of the time it is both feet.

I recently tried to compliment someone on a dress they were wearing and I told them that  I never would have picked out that dress if I had seen it on the hanger.  There is no fixing something like that. "Uh, yeah cause that dress is uglier than a baboon's backside.  But not on you. Oh no.  You totally make it work.  Hey, did anyone ever tell you that you look just like Cindy Crawford in that dress? Yeah, it is from her 'dresses that should never be worn outside of communist Russia, circa 1935 line.'"(sigh)

So I am always glad when someone else jams their foot in their mouth.  I hate being dumb alone. Fortunately, I seem to have a lot of company recently.

After one single dose of chemo, my hair abandoned ship and so I got a wig.  I took it to my salon where they cut and colored it to look just like my own hair.  Or so I thought.  Apparently, my stylist thought I wanted to look like Honey Boo Boo at the Miss America competition (ie: really big hair.  No, I mean REALLY BIG hair.  Like, "Raise the bridge, she's coming through" hair.  Like, "Dear God, did a racoon die on her head?" hair.  Like, "So if you were standing next to the Eiffel Tower, which of you would be taller?" hair.

Not long after, I was meeting a friend for lunch who greeted me by saying, "Wow, so is that a wig? It looks really good from a distance."

Uh.  Thanks?  And up  close it looks like...???

I flat-ironed it that night.  And then washed it, blew it dry, flat-ironed it again, rinsed and repeated.

But one of the best questions I have encountered is on every form I now have to fill out at doctor's offices:  So you have cancer:  Do you suffer from depression or anxiety?

I was just diagnosed with cancer.  OF COURSE I am depressed and anxious.  Cancer is a total buzz kill.  Did you think I would be happy and carefree?  I mean, really?  Do you even need to ask that question???  I think maybe you should just take that as a given in a cancer patient. Hint:  I am NOT the one sitting in the office whistling Zippity Do Dah!

Tying for first place with that was the guy from the insurance company who called and left a message on the phone telling me that since I was diagnosed with cancer, I can now be offered "perks."

Really??? Perks??? Jackpot!!!  If I had known there were "perks" involved, I would have gotten cancer YEARS ago!!!  So, what exactly are we talking about here?  Sunglasses to protect everyone from the glare off my bald head?  Or maybe a really nifty pill case shaped like a Pez dispenser for my medicine?  How about a Louis Vuitton  drip bag for the I V?   Yeah.  They might want to rethink their wording.

At least it's comforting to know I don't always have the biggest mouth (or feet) in the room!

A Year in the Life (in 1000 words or less)

Obviously, the blogging twice a week thing did not work out for me, but I think I may be sliding in just under the wire on blogging  twice a year!

It's not that I haven't had anything to blog about.   Hmmm.  Let's see......I've been ticked off by the cable company, phone company, yard people, dry cleaners, sales people, telemarketing people, Tim, assorted other family members, friends, strangers, pretty much anyone living, a few that are dead and some that are currently living, but that if they keep annoying me will soon be dead.  The usual stuff I blog about since it is cheaper than a good psychiatrist and less time consuming than finding one on YELP!

I've travelled a bit.... Paris and Africa most notably, though I'm sure if I really think about it, I can come up with some bizarre things that have happened to me going no further than down the street.  A trip to the drugstore can quickly go from a stroll through Mr. Roger's Neighborhood to Nightmare on Elm Street in the blink of an eye for me.

I've also been busy having cancer this year.  This is sure to generate a lot of blogs, as most of the things about this disease have and continue to really tick me off.  I have a whole new set of people in my life who keep trying to tell me what to do that I need to blog about or I will have to rip off their arms and beat them to death with them (oddly, cancer has not really made me less violent).  At least since they are doctors, they can sew their own arms back on and keep poking at me like I am some giant science experiment (which I kind of am since I have had totally strange reactions to pretty much every drug they have pumped into me.  Go figure--bad reactions to toxic substances.  Hmmmm.  So there are people who have good reactions to poison?)

Anyway,  I now have plenty of fodder for my blog, and lots of stored-up angst, so the twice a week thing should work out just fine as therapy.