Life in Boobburgh

Summer Songs!

Summer Songs!

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who needs to lighten up!

It's a music blog, and may I say even if no one else needs one, I do!

I know it's not even Memorial Day (I already have that mix done from last year) but the weather has been screaming summer since...March.  I blame Dick Cheney.

Time to put together the ultimate Summer Song mix!!  I have done a half a dozen of these over the years, but this year, we are going to make one that totally kicks ass.

Here are just a FEW songs to get you started:

Summer Wind by Frank Sinatra

Beyond the Sea by George Benson (yes, I know.  I like Benson's cover better.)

Here Comes the Sun by Richie Havens

I'm Alright by Kenny Loggins (nothing says summer like the classic "Caddyshack")

Soak up the Sun by Cheryl Crow

Now it's your turn - what songs are audio cues for you that say: SUMMER!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Right To Life Blog

My Right to Life Blog

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

This one has been percolating for a long time, and I need to start writing again, so here we go.

If you are here for a discussion about abortion, forget it.  I for one am sick and tired of the emotionally-charged issue of abortion eclipsing the entire concept of rights and life.  As if life is more precious in utero than it is on terra firma.

I want to talk about your rights at the end of your life, not the beginning.  I have some experience here - not on a battlefield.  At home.  Many people would rather come home to die, and if your family has the resources (personal, emotional, financial) to facilitate that wish, you should try.

But the most important thing about the end of life is the right to make your own decisions about how you want your body to be treated.

The death of a family member is awful.  There is no getting around it.  Even when one's theology (like mine) believes that eternal life is the miracle we celebrate our entire lives, the physical body's last breath is still a shock.

The only thing that made it bearable for my family - and we are two generations into this cycle during my lifetime - is that our loved  ones made their wishes known ahead of time.  At a time when they were cogent and rational, and in control.

Maybe there are some of you out there who don't have any control issues.  Bless you.  My genes run rampant with them - on both sides.  Why do you think the Irish and the Italians party so hard?

No one can control their time of death - but you can control the way you die, and believe me when I tell you, it may be one of the only things that keeps your surviving family and friends sane.  That and Hospice (VNA's Hospice Program is a gift from God - no kidding - and if you have the means, you should support them.)

The way you do this - the way you give the greatest gift to your family - is to create a Living Will.  They are also called Health Care Directives.  If you want a gentle, less legal one, go to Five Wishes: http://www.agingwithdignity.org/five-wishes.php

That particular website allows you to print out a document - be sure to check for your state of residence to see if there is anything special you need to do.  Otherwise, google Living Will and [your state/country] and you will find tons of examples.  You do not need to pay a lawyer to accomplish this - although if you are doing estate planning, a good lawyer will make you do one as part of the process.

As most of you know, my Dad died this month.  To say that my Dad had control issues would be akin to saying the sun is kind of hot if you get too close.  Most of his friends can tell you what he wanted at the end of his life on earth (he wasn't a shy guy, either). When he fell last summer, we talked a lot about what he wanted when he died.  He was very clear from the beginning.  I knew exactly what he wanted - and more importantly - what he did not want.  I did not necessarily agree with him (another shocker) but I understood.  He completed all the necessary legal documents to formalize his wishes.

When the time came, it was much harder to follow his directions than I thought.  And it wasn't because we butted heads from the time I could talk.  It was because I didn't want him to die.  I wanted him  here, to drive us all crazy, for a little longer.  

The staff at Shadyside's CICU were wonderful.  They supported his wishes and my duty to uphold them.  (Except for one surgeon - yes, I get that they cut to heal but when the patient doesn't want that - back the hell off the family - it's hard enough, you jerk.  I had to have him banned from the room because he was upsetting everyone,  and frankly, it was hard enough for me and my siblings to stay tough without some insensitive stranger trying to guilt us into something we knew Dad did not want.)

We were able to get Dad home.  We set him up in a hospital bed so he could look out his balcony windows on the town he loved so much.  We would point out all the buildings he helped create, in one way or another.  He recognized the very few of his oldest friends who came to say goodbye.  We kept our promise to Dad that no one would see him at the end.  Bad enough he wasn't in a suit and tie - but he didn't want anyone to see him unable to talk or sit up.  I know we offended a lot of people by keeping them away, but that's what Dad wanted and that is what we did, and we are not going to apologize for it.  If you care about someone, tell them now.

When one decides that the only measures they want at the end are relief from pain and to preserve one's own dignity, there comes a time when there is nothing to do but wait and pray.  I am not going to sugar coat it - it's brutal.  We found ourselves counting his breaths, then counting the seconds between breaths.  I held my hand over his great heart and felt it falter and then pick up a strong beat.  I held his hand and I grieved because I didn't want to lose him again.  

And we waited with him.  We promised he would not die alone.  We promised he would not have pain.  We promised we would protect him from anyone seeing him at what he considered his worst hours.  We prayed and we talked to him and we assured him that he had trained all of us well enough to pick up his work.  We promised him that his time for fighting was over - that we would continue to battle on his behalf so he could rest.

There are no words to describe how hard it was.  If we had to settle arguments over his care, or his wishes, I never would have survived it without a total breakdown.

And in the end, the greatest way to show our love for him was to honor and respect his wishes.  We could only do that because we knew exactly what those were.  I found great strength in taking care of him the way he wanted, no matter how emotionally painful it became.

I am now asking you, my friends and family, to allow your loved ones to honor and love you in the same way.  Nobody wants to talk about end of life issues.  Tough shit.  You have to do it any way, and you have to do it now, while you are healthy and rational.

It will be your last and greatest gift to your family.  I know.  I kept my promises.  It was one of the toughest things I have ever endured, but I am proud that I didn't disappoint my Dad when he needed me most.

 

 

 

 

What's Good for the Boob...

What's Good for the Boob....

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

It's been awhile since I blogged.  This is because I simply cannot keep up with the bullshit.  If someone had told me - even two years ago - that we would be re-fighting about birth control, I would have laughed.  Now I grind my teeth and wonder WTF is going on.

Let me just say this to our Guv, and to all those other men who think they can be blase about what does or does not get shoved into a woman's body against her will.

Let's play a game.  It's a variation on pin the tail on the donkey, a favorite of children's parties for decades.

It's easy because all you have to do is close your eyes - and everyone knows once you close your eyes, it doesn't matter what's done to you because you can't see anything.  Kind of like when my sisters told my little brother he could go outside in his underwear, and as long as he closed his eyes, no one could see him.  What followed involved a lot of crying, and it wasn't my brother's tears.

Anyway, here's how we play - you go into the "doctor's" office - which might be a closet, or an alley but what do you care - you cannot see anything any way.  Then you drop your pants.  No peeking! Then your "doctor" shoves things up your ass and you have to guess what they are before they are removed.  

Afterwards, you can get your prescription for hard-on meds, or the results of your prostate exam, or your blood pressure reading, or any diagnosis that might require antibiotics, or painkillers, or any other non-OTC meds.  I mean - if you are dumb enough to let yourself get sick, then you should be willing to take one (or more) for the social order if you want to get well.  If you had just abstained from things that someone else knows are bad for you, you wouldn't be in this, uh,  position in the first place. 

Who is voting for these creatures?  

I thought the civil rights challenge of my generation was supposed to be LGBT equality.  Enough with the homophobia, people.  Get over it.  Time has illustrated that your house on the culdesac is safe from marauding bands of gay banditos in colorful minivans with the sole intent of ruining your marriage.  And for that fabulous visual, we thank you, Lewis Black.

Instead, there is a group of people who seem bent on setting women's rights - and all civil rights - back about a century.  And here is the scary part - other people appear to be listening to them!  Is it selective blindness or deafness?  Is it ignorance?  My favorites are the ones who claim to be constitutionalists.  Good grief - one of the primary purposes of our independence was to be sure our rights rested with the People - not the federal government.  Not even Jefferson or Franklin - who were well-known fans of inserting things at every opportunity - would be able to make sense of this kind of crazy.

Finally, let me just say something about the position of "Right to Life".  Because there seems to be some real confusion about what this means these days.  If, by right to life, your vigilance ends when a human exits its mother's uterus, then you are missing one helluva chunk of the "life" part.

Abortion is a heartbreaking issue.  Nobody gets up one day and says - hey, I think I will go about getting myself an unwanted pregnancy so I can have my reproductive system ripped up, along with my emotional health.  Most women who have to have medical assistance to end a pregnancy do so with great sorrow.  Did you know that if you have a miscarriage - through no fault of your own - and within the sacred bonds of marriage - even if you only had sex in order to have kids and you didn't even enjoy it - you have to have a procedure to remove the balance of the tissue before it becomes necrotic and causes an infection that could render you sterile.  This procedure, under most of these proposed statutes, is considered an abortion.  

If your baby dies in utero - and this happens - can you imagine the nightmare of this? If this horror visits your house, you need to have a procedure to remove the fetus- you know - the baby for whom you just finished painting the nursery.  The baby you wanted more than anything. This is also considered an abortion, and you can now double-down on the trauma by having to hear about how you are a baby-killer, complete with video.

And if you are raped, and you want to be sure that there are no permanent injuries to your reproductive system, or assure that you did not acquire some kind of disease, you say YES when the doctor asks you if you want to have a similar procedure.  This is also considered "murder" and therefore verboten according to these self-righteous asshats.

I would like to have about five minutes alone with anyone who thinks any of this makes any damn sense.  But first, they need to spend some time with women who have endured multiple miscarriages, or lost babies in utero, or survived a rape and still get out of bed every day.  I know all these women and they would be happy to speak with you.

And then, if you still think any of these laws are appropriate, we are going to play my new game. Would you like this blindfold on first?

 

 

 

The Killing Must Stop

The Killing Must Stop

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

No boob jokes.  No snark.  I look like the same person, but inside I am a piece of fragile glass, teetering on the edge of stability and shatter.

Yesterday, in Pittsburgh, my town that I love, someone opened fire in a hospital lobby with a 9mm handgun.  Maybe two guns.  I know this happens all over the place, all the time.  But not here.  Not within a few block radius of schools and other hospitals.  

I'm not an idiot.  We have shootings here.  We have tragedies of all kinds.  They are senseless in their own way - gangs, violent crime, relationships gone bad.  We lose young kids here who get caught in the crossfire.

But this one got me.  Partially because my son and many of the young men and women he grew up with were on lockdown in their schools.  I understand the reason.  I accept that it is standard protocol in post 9/11 America.  But do you have any idea what it does to a mother bear to know that she is not only powerless, but forbidden, to protect her own?  Never mind that my cub has been taller than me for years.  Never mind that he has the brains and the strength to take care of himself.
Someone with a gun threatened what is mine to shield and cherish.

Upon reflection, I realize part of my reaction was based on the recent focus on Joseph Kony.  If you have a teenager in the house, you probably already heard about this - these kids have some kind of social media insider network and they were on top of this story a a full two days in front of the media - and in our days of 24-hour news, that is saying something.

Joseph Kony is a Ugandan war lord. For way too many years, he has cut a swath of terror in Africa by kidnapping children and turning them into soldiers or slaves to power his army.  I had never even  heard his name.  Now I see his face.  I see faces of kids who could be mine.  There is a 30-minute movie, and lots of other information out there.  I don't know enough about the organization to post it here (learned my lesson from the Komen Foundation) but I encourage you to at least find out about this evil man.  He needs to be stopped.

Tired of hearing "no" from the alleged powers that be, a group of people started a campaign to raise awareness.  They are calling it "Kony 2012" and their goal is to make this murderer a household name, giving him no where to hide. The International Criminal Court at the Hague has him listed as their #1 War Crimes Criminal.  I think it's a damn shame that I had to learn about his reign of mutilation and horror from my 16-year old, while every "news" source out there is more content to tell you who the Kardashians are fucking this week.  And it's an even worse shame that the only reason the politicians are paying attention to this is because it's an election year and they have a bunch of angry voters to appease. Nauseating.

WHAT THE HELL?

Maybe that is the answer.  Maybe we all have to start talking about guns and killing until we find some answers.  I freely admit that I don't want to talk about it.  Hell, I don't want to think about it. Denial is one of my people's greatest tools.

But this cannot continue.  We cannot abide the killing, on any scale.

We can no longer be content to pray for peace or hope for an end to violence.  We need to do something.  SOMETHING.  And life experience, as illustrated by the Kony 2012 program, tells us that our governments, left to their own devices, will do nothing.  

We need ideas.  We need a plan.  We need to come together to stop the killing.

I have no idea how to do this.  I am asking for help - ideas big and small.  Because alone, we are potential victims.  But together, we can be a force to be reckoned with.  The killing must stop.

New Sex Questions for Boobs

New Sex Questions for Boobs

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who (for once) had boring answers

Recently, I went for my regular OB/GYN exam.  After 40 years, they become routine.  A bit uncomfortable at certain moments (let's just say the cervix does not like to be disturbed, and leave it at that) but no big deal.  I have been seeing the same PA for years.  Love her.  We have similar backgrounds as well as builds.

This time, a new twist.  New questionnaires - and then they asked the same questions in person.  As a lawyer, I assume they are trying to impeach the witness (catch the patient in a lie) but I learned yesterday it has more to do with (surprise) institutional bullshit.  Because no one checks to see if you gave the same answer.

So here are the new questions:

1.  Are you sexually active?

2.  Have you had any new partners since your last appointment?

That's right.  Look out sluts, you are in for an interrogation.  Virgins, the frigid, and people who are such asshats that they only get off by flying solo need not worry.  I am looking at you, politicians - except if you were prone to tell the truth, you'd have to disclose the whores.  There is more than one form of currency that buys sex, so just because you all learned from idiot Spitzer who used his real credit card (but not condoms - whuh?!) doesn't mean we can't find out.  Remember that decimation of the 4th Amendment you nads called The Patriot Act?  Look into it, pigs.

But I digress.

The first time I saw the sex questions, they were on a written form. I do not make wisecracks on written forms. (See, Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism (USA Patriot Act) Act of 2001, Pub. L. No. 107-56, 115 Stat. 272 (2001) aka The Patriot Act).

I had to grit the good side of my teeth to answer them straight, but I did.

Then, because life is good, they asked me again in the exam room.  Let me point out that they wait until you are covered in the equivalent of half a dozen paper towels before they ask you any questions.  And because this is a teaching hospital, there is always someone else in the room.  This time, it was a computer expert because the office was finally going "live" - meaning they were officially taking all notes on the computer.  It was a mess.  Forget the actual physical exam, this was a logistical nightmare in real time.

And it provided me with my opening.  Because nothing challenges me more than the chance to make stressed out people laugh out loud.

 PA (frowning at the computer screen): "Are you sexually active?"

Me: "Like, every day?  Not since my boob was sliced."

PA (typing the answer and only half listening): "Not every day."  She looks over her shoulder at the IT person: "Is it every day?"

IT person: "No.  I mean, that's not the question."

Me:  "Okay then, I am sexually active.  I'm married."

PA: "Any new partners since your last visit?"

Me: "You mean, in real life?  Because you know, when I see George Clooney in a tux, I really can't predict what's going to happen when I fall asleep."

IT: Coughs to cover the laugh because the PA is still totally stressed out.

PA (Typing then looks over at me):  "Did you say George Clooney?"

Me: "Yes, but not in real life.  I am trying to be totally honest here.  There may have been others during the last year, but I can't tell if that's relevant or if this is like confession and I have to list them all."

IT (crosses herself and has to sit down.  She is obviously RC).

PA (giving me the full eyebrow arch and a smirk): "There's no place on this screen to list them, Kath.  But I would love to hear more about it over a margarita."

Me (to the IT):  "You know, you need more space for these answers if you want people to tell you the truth."

PA (to the IT, and finally starting to laugh): "Ignore her.  She's a smartass."

Me:  "Yes I am.  Is that another question?  Or do you want to know more about my sex life.  Because I am thinking of trying something new once my jaw heals."

Mission accomplished.  They both had to take a seat.  Just for good measure, I mentioned Stephen Colbert making margaritas with a transvaginal ultrasound wand, because if you can't kill that bit with an audience in an OB/GYN office, you don't want to try it at the church Fish Fry.

As a post-script, I learned from my young doctor friend (Happy Birthday, Doc E!) that the fastest growing population segment for HIV and STDs is the elderly.  This makes perfect sense to me because not only do they have no need to use birth control, but when the memory starts to go, every day is the opportunity for a new one-stand, even if it happens to be the same person.  After some awkward phone calls from senior centers regarding my great uncles, I thought this was just an Italian thing.  But with Viagra in the gum machines, everyone can get in on the fun.  But that's another blog.

So, my friends, how about if you answer the questions?  

 

 

 

Boobs With Pliers

Boobs with Pliers - I wanted to call it No Boobs Near My Teeth but was a bit sketchy on how that might translate if you put it into Google.

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, 2 teeth lighter

First off - I was one of those unfortunate kids who had a dentist who didn't believe in Novocaine.  As a result, dentists still scare me - and I don't scare easily.

I love my Dentist - although his office is in deep shit today.  Finally got comfortable with him.  He referred me to another group and they did two root canals in the past three years which were painless and a real relief.

Then there was today.  As I mentioned on Facebook, this blog fucking wrote itself over the last four hours.

Problem #1: X-Rays

My Dentist's office was supposed to e-mail them yesterday.  I stood at the desk while it happened.  Turns out there was a SNAFU with the email address or whatever, and the oral surgeon's office didn't have them.  They just wanted to forget it and give me new X-Rays.  I said no.  I was nice.

Then I called my Dentist and stayed on the phone while they re-sent them.  Confirmed the address letter by letter.  This is me doing this, in the chair on my iPhone.  I was nice.

They sent the wrong X-Rays.  Because I have a small mouth (loud, yes: big, no - it confuses people) they couldn't get a good shot of the back teeth so I had to get an X-Ray on the big, more powerful machine that takes a panoramic shot.

Oral surgeon tells me no big deal, I just need to have another X-Ray.  I declined again.  Mentioned the cancer thing and directives from the oncologist (no unnecessary XRays).  I was still nice, but firm.

I called my dentist's office AGAIN.  They told me they couldn't find the other XRays and that they had been deleted.  Wrong answer. I explained that they were not permitted to delete medical records, at least within a 24-hour period, and that the XRays had to be there.  They promised to look.  I was civil, but determined.

Dentist's office calls Oral Surgeon's office to tell them they simply did not have the XRays.  Oral Surgeon says they have to take a new XRay.  I refused and explained why.  This time, I was more intransigent than determined.

I called my dentist's office AGAIN.  Directed them to the exact computer the tech used to take the XRays, reminded them of the time frame yesterday afternoon and told them to find the damn thing wherever it was misfiled.  At this point, nice is out the damn window, my blood pressure is going through the roof, and I am ready to rip someone a new one.  I did not do that, but I did make my displeasure evident. Without swearing.

Eureka!  Five minutes later they called me back.  Duh.  They found the XRays - exactly where I said they would be.  I kept them on the phone until the Oral Surgeon got the right ones.  Dentist's office is apologizing profusely.  I told them we'd discuss it later.  

Problem #2: Anesthesia

So - I was supposed to have nitrous oxide with a local anesthetic.  In that order.  This is because half the time the injections for the local are more painful than anything.  Getting a shot in the roof of the mouth is a bitch - no cushion there.

Oral Surgeon tells me there has been a mixup - no anesthesiologist there, so no Nitrous Oxide.  I called bullshit immediately because I know you don't need an anesthesiologist unless the do something that is injected.  Oral Surgeon tells me that it is their (UPMC - the Dark Overlord of Pittsburgh health care) policy.

By this time I am visibly shaking.  Can't tell if I am have a panic attack for only the second time in my rather eventful life, or it's just rage.  Either way, Nurse #1 notices and tells me I should not have the procedure done today.  I should wait and come back Saturday to have it done with real anesthesia. She shows me the XRays and explains why.  

Now THAT is the proverbial straw.  

Me: "Please bring the surgeon in here now."  Nurse #1 leaves to get the surgeon.

Enter Tech #1: "Well, I need to set up your tray, so are you doing this procedure today?"

Me: " Not until I talk to the surgeon."

Tech: "Well I need to know now.

At this point, I take off my sunglasses (the lights in there exacerbate the headache from the tooth, so I have had them on for over an hour) and give her a look.  I learned this look from my old man.  Tech actually took a full step back.

Me: " I know this is your job, but you need to listen to my words.  See this yellow paper (the informed consent form)?  Until I sign this, you cannot touch me.  I am not signing it until I get some straight answers.  I am sorry if it upsets your schedule, but this is non-negotiable."

Tech leaves to get Nurse #1.

Nurse #1 says the Surgeon is doing an exam and will be in shortly.  I hear her out in the hall talking to Tech #1, wherein Nurse advised Tech that she checked my chart and that, as they were beginning to fear, I am a lawyer.  I never saw Tech #1 again.

At this point, in an effort not to blow a gasket, I am on Facebook.  My status update: "The nice Kathy has left the building.  Advocate Reschini is here now."

I started doing every calming exercise I know. Lamaze. The breathing thing.  Praying the whole time. When I felt tears running down my face and couldn't keep my hands from shaking, I even called for the big guns, Michael and Gabriel, the Archangels.  I prayed for calm and not to hurt anyone.  It was a very bizarre sensation.  I could feel the rage building, feeding the fear and panic - the whole circular thing.  Scary - because my temper scares even me.

To make a long story tolerable, I will cut to the chase.

I had two teeth yanked out of my head with a local anesthesia only.  Non-fused roots.  I have the teeth, and it is a damn good thing I didn't see how big they were until after it was over.  

And just to show that Mother Nature knows what she is doing, I am sure the adrenaline from the rage helped me manage the pain.

Why did I do it this way?  Because I am not pumping my body full of unnecessary narcotics for two more days because UPMC is fucked up.  Because the pain was intolerable over 36 hours ago and getting worse, even with the painkillers.  Because I had no real alternative for treatment.  Why?

Because I live in a medical monopoly.  UPMC is the only game in town.  And frankly, they don't give a shit about patient care, or the experience of the Docs. You really want to know how the system operates?  Ask your Doctor about contract negotiations.  I got the inside story while I was in for my breast cancer surgery, and it will make you sick.  They are cutting salaries of experienced docs and surgeons so they can replace them with younger, less experienced docs because they can pay them much less.  As if UPMC, the "Non-Profit", isn't making record fucking profits that go up every damn year.

Shit - this is way too long. Let me just say one more thing.  This is why I never carry a weapon of any kind.  Other than my brain as connected to my voice.  I feel a little bad about being mean, BUT if a group of people -  who have a sworn and fiduciary duty to provide CARE  - are going to put me in a position where I am actually shaking with rage, then everybody else in the room is going to be shaking too.

ARRRGGGHHHHHH. 

 

 

 

 

 

Post-Op Boobs

Post-Op Boobs

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who has one and who was one

Had my post-op appointment yesterday.  Everything went fine.  I will now report to the Hillman Center's High Risk program.

Which reminds me - I need all my aunts, uncles and cousins with any cancer history to e-mail me the details, please.   I am going to be part of a study on heredity and breast cancer and I need to take all the info with me.  Your name will NOT be included, just our relationship.

Okay - so the PA (love her - and if you don't know the Physician's Assistant at your Doc's, you really need to wake up) checks the incision and makes a few comments about whether I have been lifting weights.

Me: "Well, you just can't quit training for triathlons."

PA: "Ha ha.  You understand what subcutaneous layers of sutures are, right?"

Me: "Oh yeah.  My Dad's head was totally open to the skull last year and I saw all kinds of shit."

PA: "Okay, wow."

Me: "Yeah, that's why I am not picking at the sutures that are sticking out like a bee's stinger.  I learned from that."

PA: "Well, I guess we're grateful then.  I am going to let the doctor yell at you because I can't keep a straight face."

Me: "Fair enough."

PA: "Plus, thanks for the cookies."

Me: "Finally, the truth comes out."

Enter the Doc.  She says "Hi, Thanks for the cookies- you didn't need to do that, now let's take a look"

Me: "I love cookies."

Doc: "Good try.  Want to tell me what you've been doing to test my careful work here?"

Me: "Nothing personal, Doc.  My people aren't really good at following instructions."

Doc: "Uh huh."  Then the Doc starts talking to me in a very stern voice about how I didn't do any real damage, but I was back on serious restrictions, and not to be messing around with my health.  Her voice started rising a little, and then she paused and looked at me.

Me: "Yeah, I know and I'm sorry.  I am behaving better now."

Doc: "Usually when I yell at a patient,  they look a little scared or at least intimidated."

PA: "It's true. She hardly ever does this."

Me: "Listen, you have no idea what I deal with every day, in terms of yelling and nutty behavior.   I grew up on this stuff.  If I got upset every time, I'd be a drooling mess by now."

PA (trying not to laugh): "Well, THAT's a nice picture."  

Doc (trying not to laugh): "Okay, okay, as long as you listen and do what I tell you from now on."

Me: "Nothing personal Doc, but I hope I never see you again in my life."

PA: "Bwah!"

Doc (full-out laughing at this point): "Absolutely understood!"

Then the PA gave me a note to go to a secret hideaway to get fitted for a special bra and camisole.  You have to have 'script to even get the number.  I'm very excited about it and I have all kinds of ideas about what to put in there.  But that's another blog.

REMEMBER - learn from me:

1. EARLY DETECTION saves lives - do your monthly self-exam and get an annual mammogram.

2. DIGITAL MAMMOGRAMS made the difference for me - they never would have found it so early without this technology - when you call to schedule your mammogram, ask if they have digital machines and use them.

3.  LISTEN to your doc.  Your body will want to return to normal right away.  You will want to do the same.  But it turns out (duh) there is a real reason for imposing limitations and if you don't heed them, you will pay for it in terms of more extensive recovery.

xo

 

 

 

 

Post-Op Boobs

Post-Op Boobs

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who has one and who was one

Had my post-op appointment yesterday.  Everything went fine.  I will now report to the Hillman Center's High Risk program.

Which reminds me - I need all my aunts, uncles and cousins with any cancer history to e-mail me the details, please.   I am going to be part of a study on heredity and breast cancer and I need to take all the info with me.  Your name will NOT be included, just our relationship.

Okay - so the PA (love her - and if you don't know the Physician's Assistant at your Doc's, you really need to wake up) checks the incision and makes a few comments about whether I have been lifting weights.

Me: "Well, you just can't quit training for triathlons."

PA: "Ha ha.  You understand what subcutaneous layers of sutures are, right?"

Me: "Oh yeah.  My Dad's head was totally open to the skull last year and I saw all kinds of shit."

PA: "Okay, wow."

Me: "Yeah, that's why I am not picking at the sutures that are sticking out like a bee's stinger.  I learned from that."

PA: "Well, I guess we're grateful then.  I am going to let the doctor yell at you because I can't keep a straight face."

Me: "Fair enough."

PA: "Plus, thanks for the cookies."

Me: "Finally, the truth comes out."

Enter the Doc.  She says "Hi, Thanks for the cookies- you didn't need to do that, now let's take a look"

Me: "I love cookies."

Doc: "Good try.  Want to tell me what you've been doing to test my careful work here?"

Me: "Nothing personal, Doc.  My people aren't really good at following instructions."

Doc: "Uh huh."  Then the Doc starts talking to me in a very stern voice about how I didn't do any real damage, but I was back on serious restrictions, and not to be messing around with my health.  Her voice started rising a little, and then she paused and looked at me.

Me: "Yeah, I know and I'm sorry.  I am behaving better now."

Doc: "Usually when I yell at a patient,  they look a little scared or at least intimidated."

PA: "It's true. She hardly ever does this."

Me: "Listen, you have no idea what I deal with every day, in terms of yelling and nutty behavior.   I grew up on this stuff.  If I got upset every time, I'd be a drooling mess by now."

PA (trying not to laugh): "Well, THAT's a nice picture."  

Doc (trying not to laugh): "Okay, okay, as long as you listen and do what I tell you from now on."

Me: "Nothing personal Doc, but I hope I never see you again in my life."

PA: "Bwah!"

Doc (full-out laughing at this point): "Absolutely understood!"

Then the PA gave me a note to go to a secret hideaway to get fitted for a special bra and camisole.  You have to have 'script to even get the number.  I'm very excited about it and I have all kinds of ideas about what to put in there.  But that's another blog.

REMEMBER - learn from me:

1. EARLY DETECTION saves lives - do your monthly self-exam and get an annual mammogram.

2. DIGITAL MAMMOGRAMS made the difference for me - they never would have found it so early without this technology - when you call to schedule your mammogram, ask if they have digital machines and use them.

3.  LISTEN to your doc.  Your body will want to return to normal right away.  You will want to do the same.  But it turns out (duh) there is a real reason for imposing limitations and if you don't heed them, you will pay for it in terms of more extensive recovery.

xo

 

 

 

 

Boob Control

Boob Control

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who has a female reproductive system and is therefore qualified to be the Decider

I know I said I was going to try to stay out of politics - but this one crosses all political parties, subdivisions, and inclinations.

Knock, Knock.

Who's There?

A Man Who wants to control your Uterus.

Go Fuck Yourself.

And that goes double for a RELIGIOUS man who wants to control my uterus.  How about getting your own cat houses in order before you bound into my bedroom?   The unfortunate reality is that most religious institutions wouldn't know a moral high ground if it were on a relief map in their laps. Yeah. I DID put it that way, because after all, I must be totally driven by penis envy.  Riiiiiiiight.

Earlier today on Facebook, I posted the following image along with the following message:

 

"Memo to all elected officials and those who aspire to same: This country needs jobs. We checked and no one's Uterus is hiring. So get the hell out of our reproductive systems and do some actual WORK to put Americans back to WORK."

See, I think it should be about controlling the boobs aka idiots from saying and doing things that will set the entire world back about a hundred years and less about what goes on in my Va-Jay-Jay and the surrounding community of my own body.  

For purposes of discussion, let's refer to all male politicians (and some idiot women who need to turn in their estrogen and take one for the team, I am talking to you Liz Trotta, just saying) as "Senators".  Just because.

Do you see me evaluating a Senator (former, current or future) in terms of how his johnson functions?  You do not.

Do you see me requiring that said Senator watch films on impotence, protected sex or HIV before he can get a prescription for Viagra or Cialis?  You do not.

Do you see me requiring Senators to wear ice packs when they ride bikes so it doesn't impact their sperm count?  You do not.  

Do you hear me requiring that the Senators impanel a committee to discuss the general use and prohibition of any activity related to their beans and weiners?  You do not.  Blech.

Those kinds of invasions and violations of civil rights would be ridiculous.

Naturally, in order to avoid a rise in blood pressure that would blow one of my eyes out of its socket, I am going to try to make fun.  Because Mel Brooks said that is the very best way to take down a villian - make him a joke.

Thus, my first BUMPER STICKER CONTEST!!  The winner will get a gift certificate to Mystery Lovers Bookshop (because not every town has a Fredricks of Hollywood or a Condom Nation).

Here is my first proposal:

HEY!  If you guys don't stop messing with our uteri,

you won't be welcome in the neighborhood.

 

I will be back with more, but first, it's your turn!

Okay, this one  has been rolling around in my head all day:

STOP DICKING AROUND WITH MY UTERUS

NOW it's your turn... 

Here is one for Tuesday:

Let's Talk About Birth Control.  Right after Your Vasectomy.

And here is a paraphrase from a classic SNL Point/Counterpoint:

"Senator, if only birth control had been available when your mother got pregnant with you."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Melancholy Booby

Melancholy Booby

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, teller of boob truths

It has been one week since the surgeon declared me cancer free and about ten days since my surgery.  In the life of a people who have a hard time with the concepts of both patience and moderation, this is an eternity.

So no surprise that I ended up in bed, on pain meds yesterday.  It is totally my fault.  I over did it - more than once - and I did not ask for (or accept) help.  Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa.  

Today's blog is,  therefore, a cautionary tale.  When your surgeon, a woman of skill and trust, tells you that you need to layoff any strenuous activity - no pushing, pulling, blah blah of more than 5 pounds for at least two weeks, and no return to regular activities for four weeks, you should listen.

You should not assume that since the anesthesia as described is similar to a root canal, that the procedure is the same.  You should not assume that since the surgery was outpatient and you had your wits about you when you left, that it is similar to - say, an eye exam where they blow up your pupils and you cannot see for a few hours.  In addition, you should not assume that since you took the bandages off in 48 hours, you can resume to normal clothing choices at the same time.  That would be absurd and only an idiot would come to those conclusions.  Ahem.

This shit is serious.  I am an  intelligent person.  I researched this entire process. I understand exactly what the surgeon did and how much of a divot was removed (that's right, I called and got the exact amount).   I talked to pink warriors.  I thought I listened.  And then my subconscious mind promptly decided that  - perhaps as a coping mechanism - none of those things translated to a need to modify my regular routine.  I acknowledge that I should be docked several IQ points for this, and will take it up with my subconscious later.

I am also bigger than I used to be, thus the falls are harder.  Normally, I just break a toe.  This was more like a roundhouse kick to my own chest, which I'll bet not even Chuck Norris can do.  (Oh Chuck Norris, why do you have to get involved in politics when you are otherwise the greatest source of humorous homages?  I mean, how else could one say: "Superman wears Chuck Norris pajamas" or "Chuck Norris does not sleep- he waits.")

No real damage done, just a day of doing as little as possible and taking pain meds.  Neither of which top my list of ways to spend a Friday.  One of the reasons why is that it provides the perfect opportunity for my conscious brain to realize that the dark cloud of depression is lurking right outside, looking for a way in.

For example, a week post-op, I decided it was time to start wearing regular bras.  For those of you without boobs, trust me when I say that the entire bra culture is a maze of numbers and letters and fabrics and metal and plastic.  The quest for the perfect bra is not for the faint of heart (or anything else) and some day I may do an entire blog on it.  

Suffice it to say that even though I knew to choose a bra without the kind of metal support system normally found in a highway overpass, it was still a mistake.  Big. Yes, I got advice from my survivor friends, but I figured (heh) that since I didn't have lymph nodes removed or even a partial mastectomy, my boob would be different.  It is not.  I am now in search of camisoles with support.  While they help with the surgical issues, they also squish everything in their path, which means my clothes don't fit.  I know, boo hoo for me.  It's not like I normally dress for fashion week.  

Driving is also a bitch and a half because of the seatbelt.  In the interest of not encouraging unsafe behavior, I will not tell you what I do in order to drive without screaming.  Even then, it's uncomfortable.  And yes - there are dozens of people who would be happy to drive me places - many have specifically offered to do just that.  But noooooooooo, much like a toddler, I decided I was going to do it myself.  Repeatedly.  Dumb and Dumber.

So now I am paying the price for my recklessness and have to really take it easy.  Do I need to tell you how much I HATE that?!  Hate, hate, hate, with the fire of the sun, hate.

It's another cost that cancer imposes.  Cancer sucks. Getting a wonderful diagnosis is fantastic, but I lost sight of the underlying battle, and that was a mistake. Never turn your back on your enemy. Like Chuck Norris, it never sleeps.