Neimans Here I Come

The day after round 3, I begin my day with another preschool tour. The school and director are lovely. I can't believe I have to apply to so many schools and pay tens of thousands of dollars for Miles to play for a few hours a day. Oh - and did I mention that Miles wouldn't even be going until 2010? Geez . However, I'm hoping that being pregnant with cancer somehow makes me more diverse and appealing to admissions directors, or at least makes them feel sorry for me (causing Miles to get into a great school). After the tour, Boris drives me home and I immediately get into Nitasha's car and we head to Tower for hydration.

My nurse for the day asks the usual questions about how I'm feeling. Am I nauseous, vomiting, able to eat, have any numbness or tingling in my hands or feet? No, no, yes, no. After I'm hooked up to my i.v. I turn to Nitasha and ask her if in a million trillion years she ever thought she'd be sitting here with me. "Not in a million trillion," she says. A tall blond woman in a pink coat comes around with a basket full of snacks. There are often volunteers at Tower offering the patients the most unhealthy, processed foods imaginable. They flaunt baskets full of Doritos, cookies, chex -mix and the like. I think it's hilarious. I guess if anyone deserves to eat that shit, it's us, but now that we know how healthy foods can help us in the fight for cancer, I think it's bizarre. But nice in an unhealthy way. When the tall blond woman in the pink coat offers us the loot in her basket, I smile and kindly say no.

Nitasha and I talk about her upcoming wedding and the planning that needs to be done (my dream, her nightmare) and we take out our delicious lunch from Clementine's (courtesy of Deb who was supposed to come to hydration with me but got sick). The tall blond woman in the pink coat comes over and asks where our lunch is from. We tell her Clementine's. "Of course!" she says. "I knew it wasn't from somewhere that delivers here." Then she asks me what I'm being treated for. "Breast cancer," I tell her. "What!?" she exclaims. "I can't believe I've been ignoring you. You just looked so good that I assumed you couldn't be on chemo for breast cancer. I thought you were here for blood or something. Is that your hair? How many rounds have you had?" she says in a single breath. She tells me that her name is Karly and she shows me a picture of herself bald and hooked up to an i.v. "I'm a survivor of 7 years. Would you like to go to a lunch at Neiman Marcus?" I want to do anything involving Neiman Marcus (especially if it includes a popover from their restaurant) so I quickly say yes. I answer her questions and shock the hell out of her when I tell her I'm pregnant. She's effusive with the compliments so I give her my email address and she says she's going to get information for me. I don't get to speak to her again because when she hands me the brochure for her organization, "Bossom Buddies," I'm on the phone with my brother who I've completely forgotten has taken Norman, my cat, to the vet.

Just in case my own health issues aren't enough to keep me occupied, I also have 2 sick cats, ages 11 and 12. Mattie has heart disease and has been on beta-blockers for about 1 year. She's doing remarkably well considering that I forget to give her her morning pill every morning. Literally. Last year while pregnant with Miles, Norman underwent surgery for his urinary tract and then developed diabetes. I had to give him 2 shots of insulin a day. Now I love Norman very much and he loves me and only me, but he will kill anyone who fucks with him. Especially when they're wielding a needle. It was fun. Miraculously, I (and the insulin) cured him of diabetes and the shots only lasted for 2 months. However, about 1 month ago, I noticed that Norman was drinking excessive amounts of water again so I had the vet come to check on him. More important than the excessive drinking is the excessive (and I think intentional) peeing around the house and in our bed. Yes...in our bed. It turns out he's got a hyperthyroid and either needs daily pills for the rest of his life that could have negative side effects and will need constant monitoring or a vet can inject him with radioactive iodine and he's done forever. I ask if it will fix his peeing problem. If not - I'm not sure I can keep Norman with everything that's going on. But I'm an animal lover and love Norman and opt for the iodine treatment. Seth had taken Norman for his treatment and has informed me that all has gone well so far. Phew.

When I'm done with hydration, I ask Nitasha if it's rude to throw away the Bossom Buddies pamphlet. It's full of wonderful stories of older women which is great, but not so helpful to me. "I don't really want a 50 year old buddy," I say as I toss the pamphlet into the trash. Before she takes me home, Nitasha takes me to Vantage Center for Radiation Therapy, where I'm to meet with my second radiologist for a consult on Friday. I have paperwork to turn in so that I don't have to come early. I run in to the office, hand my paperwork to the man at the front desk and turn to leave. A super chic, tall blond woman in a fabulous outfit stops me and smiles. "It's Karly. You're following me," she says. She gives me a kiss on the cheek, tells me she'll see me soon and hops in to her new Mercedes.

Neimans...here I come.

The next morning I feel okay enough to drive myself to Cedars for the duplex scan of my left arm. I've arranged it so that I can go to Tower for day 3 of hydration immediately after the scan. I'm late as usual so instead of wearing my wig as planned, I only have time to tie a scarf around my head and fly out the door. 10 minutes later, I'd be thrilled that I was in my scarf. As I'm driving, I'm also talking to my Mom (bluetooth, of course) and using a tape roller to get cat hair off of my clothes. I'm almost at Cedars when I notice a police car's flashing lights in my rear view mirror. Fuck. "Mom, I have to go. I'm being pulled over." I'm not driving fast and have no idea what I've done.

The police officer approaches my car and asks for my driver's license, registration and insurance. As I hand him everything I ask him what I've done. "Are you distracted?" he asks. I burst into tears and sob "Yes. I have cancer and am pregnant and I'm late for my zillionth scan. I have another lump that no one can identify." He stares at me without saying a word. I keep crying. And I discretely move my scarf a little so that he can see there's no hair underneath. Then he tells me that I blew right through the stop sign at La Peer and Clifton. "You know how busy that intersection is," he says. "Yes," I sob. "I'm so sorry." He tells me that I need slow down and drive more carefully or I won't live to get better. Then he hands me back my driver's license, registration and insurance card and returns to his car. I take a deep breath and keep driving while thinking that he would have gone straight to hell had he given me a ticket.

The duplex scan is in the Cardiovascular/MRI wing of the Imaging Center at Cedars. It's the dungeon. No windows or natural light at all. I wait and wait and finally am escorted to a dark room where a technician explains the scan to me. It's basically an ultrasound of the entire arm that looks at blood flow and my veins. He starts asking questions about why I need the scan and when I tell him he responds "well that must have shocked the shit out of you, to put it in professional terms." Indeed. He tells me I must be used to ultrasounds as he squeezes thick, gooey gel onto my arm. It's true, except I don't usually want to shower afterwards since the goo only touches a tiny part of my body, not an entire limb. He periodically turns on the sound which I find disgusting as I can hear my blood moving around but he explains what he's looking for and looking at.

We discover that our sons were born 1 week apart. His son's name is Cole and I suggest that Miles and Cole start a jazz band. I have no clots and everything looks normal. As he starts to tell me the signs I should watch for that might mean I have a blood clot, I wonder how I'll know whether any of them mean I have a clot, or am just pregnant and on chemo. Most of the symptoms include swelling in the arms and legs - both caused by my two competing "conditions."

Before I leave, he reminds me that I cannot be tested too often and can't be too cautious and urges me not to let anyone convince me otherwise. "I'm real good at being my own advocate," I assure him. "You don't need to worry about me making a stink if I think something is wrong." He also tells me that they can make some really nice boobs nowadays. "True," I say. "But mine are pretty damn nice." He wishes me luck and I head to Tower.

I'm led to what I perceive to be the worst chair in the treatment center. It's on the side I don't like (for no explainable reason), at the very end of the hallway directly across from the men's bathroom. I have no cell reception. It's giving me a headache and clearly won't do. Before I settle into my chair, I ask the nurse if there are any empty chairs elsewhere. She's says there aren't. I don't like that answer so I excuse myself and take a walk around the room. As I head to the side of the room I do like, I see 3 empty chairs in my favorite spots, right across from the nurses station. I see Anne. "Anne, you have to help me. I'm in the worst spot ever and it's making me sick. Can you please tell the nurse to let me sit in one of these chairs? And by the way, why did she tell me there are no empty chairs?" I ask. Anne says of course I can take one of the chairs, I'll just be stuck with her as my nurse. "Oh, boo." I say. "You're only my favorite, but I'll try to deal." I sit down, notice I have cell coverage, and feel much better. I relay the seating situation to Boris who responds that I'm high maintenance. Me?

Halfway through hydration, Anne asks me if I wouldn't mind showing my bald head to a 21 year old girl who is going to be starting chemo soon. I almost rip the i.v. out of my arm as I speed off after Anne forgetting my i.v. is plugged into the wall. Oops. Dana is tiny and looks so young I'm shocked. She's sitting in her chair covered in a blanket and I introduce myself to her and her father. I remove my scarf and say "see, it's not so bad. You could have a really nicely shaped head." She smiles and agrees. Her father asks me how far along I am. I pat my belly and say 5 months. His eyes widen. "I meant how far along are you in your treatment. Um, you can be pregnant?" he questions. "That's what they tell me," I say. I tell him I'm halfway through cycle 1 of chemo but explain I have 12 more rounds after Miracle is born. Then surgery and radiation and more surgery. "There's not much else to say except it sucks," I tell Dana. She nods in agreement. I ask her what she's being treated for. "Sarcoma," she says. "I need 48 rounds of chemo. It's every 3 weeks for 3 days." Fuck. We chat a little more and I tell her that if there's anything I can do to let me know and let her know about some support groups for young cancer patients. I'm so sad. She's just a baby. And as bad as my situation is, I have the most amazing support group. A rock star husband, loving friends and family, and of course my baby boys (who don't even know they're providing me with the best support and hope ever). My friends aren't in college and don't get drunk at bars every night. I wonder how supportive 21 year old's are.

My great Uncle once told me that as terrible as I may think things are, there's always someone whose situation is worse. He's right.