Three Beats Two, Right?

What’s new in 2010?

I have three new breasts! I don’t wear them all at once, of course – I just need one, to replace the one that went bad on me.

I keep two of my new breasts in a box on a shelf in my closet. One is a big hollow silicone number, see-through to boot. I wear it swimming and to work out, and wash it off afterward. One is solid silicone, and looks like a small baked ham. It is for dress-up wear. I even have two new black bras to cart it around in, so I am ready for fancy occasions.

My two silicone breasts rest in a contoured plastic container, where they nest together, one on top of the other. As it happens, silicone breast forms – whether hollow or solid – wear little outfits, soft little buntings, and that keeps them from sticking together.

My third breast is a doozy!

A 19-year-old friend found a website called Tit Bits, with knitted breast forms for sale. The site also offered a pattern and showed various designs. When Jenny came home for Christmas from Oberlin -- where she is majoring in organ and geology – she presented me with two new knitted breasts.

One is blue, with whales swimming around it. One is black, for formal wear. The blue one fit perfectly and looks 99 percent as good on as the $300 baked ham. As instructed by the web site, Jenny weighted down the breast form with a metal charm (this one is from Tibet) tucked inside the fiberfill stuffing, so the breast doesn’t try to travel up and out of my bra.

Speaking of traveling, probably I need to wear one of the silicone breasts on planes. Imagine going through security and being asked about that metal object you are trying to smuggle through in your bra…

I wear the blue breast when I’m hanging out at home. Okay, I went to Walgreen’s in it one day, too. I also wear it to Weight Watchers, because unlike my store-bought breasts – which go about 1 ½ pounds each -- the blue one adds no weight at all. Also, it is soft and warm.

The black knitted breast was a tad too small, so Jenny took it back to Oberlin to make it bigger. For spring, she is knitting me a festive breast that looks like a slice of watermelon.

A man I know just got a new shoulder. This is his second one. That’s terrific – but don't three breasts beat two shoulders?

Happy New Year!

A Warm Winter's Night

Baby, it’s cold outside – 7 degrees, to be exact.

Seven degrees – that’s hardly even trying! In spite of wearing plenty of clothes, I feel chilly. The floor-to-ceiling windows in the condo seem to have adopted a “share the air” policy, even with the shades closed. Apparently Maggie the Cat is cold too. She has expressed her displeasure by refusing to watch television with me, and has headed off to bed.

I reject a rerun of a Chris Rock special, surf for a bit and come up with the film version of “Carousel.” Starring Gordon MacRae and Shirley Jones, the movie was made in 1956, when I was 8. I may not have appreciated it at the time, but in later years I came to love “Carousel.” What’s not to like about “If I Loved You?”

I grab a blanket and settle in. The movie is almost over – Louise has just started her ballet on the beach. The beach! As the waves roll in, young Susan Luckey dances with great exhilaration and delight, expressing everything I feel for the Pacific Ocean. I imagine it’s me, dancing my “Hello, I Finally Moved Here” dance on Ocean Beach when I finally get to San Francisco.

Okay, my ballet is not what it used to be -- especially my tour jetés. And that’s the nice thing about dancing vicariously, isn’t it? So Luckey is dancing away, having a grand old time, and she encounters a young carnival barker with his troupe. This part is a fantasy, of course, but this carnival barker can really dance! Who IS this guy?

I hit “pause,” run down the hall and look him up in the Internet Movie Database. In the old days, I would have looked up the dancer’s name in one of my many books on dance or movies, but the books are long gone, and I know the Internet will know.

It’s Jacques d’Amboise!

Jacques d’Amboise is a man from Massachusetts who took a French name. He danced with the New York City Ballet, and later choreographed for the company. He was 22 when he danced in “Carousel.” Just 20 years later, d’Amboise founded the National Dance Institute in New York City, where he dedicated his life to teaching children to dance. His daughter, Charlotte d’Amboise, is also a dancer. Maybe you saw her in “Every Little Step,” the film about the Broadway revival of “A Chorus Line” – or maybe you saw her play Cassie in that revival.

I zip back to the living room (hey, it’s cold…) and resume watching the movie. Of course, I know exactly what happens, so my mind drifts. I think about how much I love dance, and of course that brings to mind Ross Winter, my dear friend and surrogate family member who died in March of 1994.

Then I remember Hope Wurdack’s production of “Carousel” in her years with Theater Factory. Hope’s Mr. Snow – Kevin Chamberlin -- went on to play Charlie on Broadway in “Dirty Blonde” and Horton on Broadway in “Seussical.”

Then, plain as day, in my mind I hear Edward. He’s saying, “The overture to ‘Carousel’ goes on and on – it must be the longest overture in show business!” The day he actually said that was in 1995, when we were in Arrow Rock, seeing the Lyceum Theatre’s production of “Carousel” and seeing Philip, Edward’s twin brother.

Philip died four years ago today.

At this point in the movie, everyone is at the high school graduation, and they are singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” a teary song if ever there was one, especially as Billy kneels next to Julie’s chair and tells her he did love her – and she smiles and starts to sing along.

Suddenly I’m not cold anymore.

All Decked Out

Have I found an apartment in San Francisco?

No – but I have found a deck, a big multi-level wooden deck, a deck perched on the edge of the continent, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I found this deck at Fort Funston, a stretch of craggy cliffs and dunes along Skyline Boulevard, south of Ocean Beach.

I found this deck on Christmas Day, when it was sunny and almost warm, close to 60 degrees in San Francisco. “Let’s go for a hike on the beach,” said my son, Joel. His bride was all for it. I was excited, too. We put on our layers and off we went.

Our first stop at Fort Funston was this wooden deck. When Joel and Patricia were ready to head out on the hike, I decided I needed to sit in the sun, stare at the water and listen to the sounds of the sea instead of scrambling down 200 feet to the beach. Off they went. I hiked to the car to retrieve the baseball cap Patricia had loaned me for the day, and returned to the big deck.

A woman was seated on one of the lower levels, a pregnant woman who had rolled up her shirt to expose her belly to the warm sun. Respecting her privacy, I moved to the other side, on another level, and we sat together/apart in silence, listening to the sounds of the sea.

As time passed, other people came to the deck. Two young men and a young woman arrived. They sat down on the level below me and opened sandwiches. After they ate, the young woman started taking photos of the ocean through a half-full bottle of water. One of the young men lightly mocked her; the other defended her, applauding her creativity.

Two couples showed up with a teen-age daughter and a big woolly dog named Bonnie. Fort Funston allows dogs to romp free of leashes, so many people there had dogs with them. Bonnie was interested in the three young people – probably she smelled the remains of their lunch on the paper wrappings in their backpack.

The sun was so warm, the sounds of the sea so soothing, that I fell asleep for a while. When I woke up, the pregnant woman was gone and one of the couples with Bonnie was showing the other couple how to swing dance, right there on the big wooden deck. The teenager laughed in delight.

More people came and went. Some stopped on the top level for a quick look at the view. One man chased after his dog, which suddenly slipped through the rails of the deck and started bounding down the cliff. When the runaway dog heard another dog barking above the deck, it bounded back up and was reunited with its owner. The barking dog, a little black Yorkie mix by the look of it, raced around the deck drooling on everyone, but in a dog-friendly way. No one seemed to mind.

Out in the ocean, a seal – or maybe it was a sea lion -- popped its head out of the water to stare up at those of us on the deck. A couple of pelicans flew low over the water. A cormorant soared overhead. The sun shone on and the waves just kept rolling in on this peaceful Christmas afternoon.

On another day, I did look at some apartments in San Francisco, scattered throughout several neighborhoods. The one I liked the best, in the Outer Richmond, offered two views of the sea. When I told the fellow from the real estate management office that I am a writer, he said another writer lives in the building. “His home is in Sonoma,” he said, “but he comes here for inspiration.”

No matter where I end up living, I now have a deck where I will find inspiration -- a big multi-level wooden deck, a deck perched on the edge of the continent, overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

On the Road Again

Good news – Highway 40 is open once again, which means now you can get from here to there without making a plan in advance.

More good news – My detour on the road to San Francisco (a new bout of breast cancer) is under control. Surgery was six weeks ago and the side effects from that surgery are responding to treatments I can live with, in contrast to treatments that were driving me crazy.

Okay, crazier.

Something else to rejoice about: I’ve revised my ideal deadline for moving. When I put the condo on the market last May, I wanted to move NOW. Once I had made the decision, I took steps to make that move happen. It didn’t, even after I spent money to neuter (um…neutralize) the place, carted out 46 boxes of books and displayed folded towels in the master bath that resembled folded towels you might see in a spa.

Over the months that followed, more than 40 people toured the condo. Some were neuter (er…neutral) about it. Some disliked it; some loved it. One woman wanted to buy the condo and all the art on my walls, as is, but had to sell her place first. (That hasn’t happened.) One man stood a long time in the dining room, imagining hardwood floors here – a lovely vision. Then he left and never called back.

“Frenzied.” That’s how one friend described my state of mind as summer turned to fall and I realized that somehow, in spite of my specific intention and superlative force of will, I still lived here. Okay, I admit to frenzied. Also frustrated and annoyed and yes, startled.

“I’ve started to think maybe I have a loser condo,” I confided to another friend. She didn’t buy that, and suggested I consider making condo affirmations. “Pretty condo, good condo, nice condo,” I crooned as I walked through the rooms. (That always works on the cat.)

Nothing changed.

People came, people went – and it’s likely that these same people were tromping through the other 32 condos for sale in Creve Coeur. No one made an offer on mine. Then along came cancer, dropping into my life like a huge red stop sign. I stopped, but I immediately started mapping out an efficient detour, much as we all do when confronted with an unexpected traffic jam on a favored route.

“Your condo did not sell because you needed to be here, with friends and doctors you know, as you went through surgery,” said one person. Or maybe it was two. No – I think I heard that at least three times. Yet as far as I know, the condo does not now and never did know that I got cancer.

In any case, that’s all in the past now. I feel terrific, I look pretty good and I’ve decided to aim for moving to San Francisco by June – a much more forgiving deadline than NOW.

That said, if you know someone who would like a new condo for Christmas (with all appropriate tax breaks), send them to: www.soldinahurry.com/SOLDINAHURRY.COM_2/Coeur_de_Royale.html

Thanks!

What's Up Your Sleeve?

Does your left hand know what your right is doing?

For four days, my right hand was doing everything. My left hand – and forearm and elbow and upper arm – were all bundled up, wrapped to reduce lymphedema, a swelling that is common in women who have lymph nodes removed during surgery for breast cancer.

This bundling process, provided by an occupational therapist with special training in treating lymphedema, starts with a full-length gauze sleeve. More gauze is wrapped around each finger. Then comes a layer of cotton batting, followed by large pieces of foam rubber. Next is a wide band of stretchy gauze. Last comes not one, not two, not three, but four layers of stretchy bandages, all taped down.

Next? Me, whining.

Never mind that my left arm looked as though it had been ripped off the Michelin Man and transplanted onto me. I could barely bend my arm. It was heavy. And I had exactly three shirts in my closet that would fit over the thick bandages. Still, in order to combat the swelling and encourage my lymphatic system to start working correctly again, I was to go about wearing the tape, bandages, foam, batting and gauze wrappings for 23 hours a day. Staring in shock at my newly immobilized limb, I asked my therapist if I could type. She was sure I could.

I couldn’t.

The bandages on my left hand kept hitting all kinds of weird keys. My right hand was happy to go it alone for a while, but then that arm would start to burn and cramp. Meanwhile, my left arm alternated between itching, throbbing and feeling hot. Surgery, post-op annoyances, wrestling with the drain, dealing with extra fluid at the wound site and learning how to maneuver a breast form all were a cinch compared to living with this!

I was scheduled for two weeks of therapy appointments. Each week day, I was to unwrap my mummy arm in the morning, shower and then head -- unbound -- to my appointment. There, after a massage to stimulate lymph drainage, I was strapped back in. What about weekends? Well – I was told I could take off the bandages and shower on weekends if I could wrap my arm back up properly. Hah!

I couldn’t.

Lymphedema is not curable -- I learned this on my first day of therapy -- but it can be managed. If treated early enough, sometimes a mild condition will reverse spontaneously. If left untreated, symptoms may include severe fatigue, a swollen limb, fluid accumulation in other body areas, discoloration of the skin, infection and eventually, deformity. An extreme version of lymphedema (one that involves microscopic parasitic worms) is elephantiasis.

To reduce the risk of my wee bit of lymphedema running wild and out of control, my therapist said on the second day of therapy that the prescribed treatment would be to wear a compression sleeve every day and to bundle and bandage my arm every night -- for the rest of my life. I just looked at her and said, “No.”

I couldn’t.

I went home that day with my left arm immobilized and my mind and spirit pulverized to a fine powder. Since Oct. 7, people have been telling me things I do not want to hear. Since Oct. 7, I have been moving passively through the medical world, a patient expected to be compliant. Since Oct. 7, my sense of myself as a healthy, active individual has been under siege.

On the third day of therapy, the lovely young woman who truly wants the best possible outcome for me discussed an alternative to night bundling – specifically, an elaborate, expensive compression sleeve. She also showed me daytime sleeves that come in bright, crazy colors, as though making a fashion statement with a sleeve would make wearing it more appealing.

The fourth day was Thanksgiving. Time spent with friends and some delicious food pierced my gloom for a short time, but through the day, though people said, “Have a nice holiday,” I couldn’t.

At 3 a.m. on the fifth day of therapy, I woke up and could not get back to sleep – a rarity for me. At 5 a.m., I unwound every layer and freed my arm some four hours earlier than prescribed. At 10 a.m., I dragged in to therapy and announced that we needed a new plan, a plan that would allow me to take good care of my arm but that also would allow me to move through the world as myself.

The therapist hugged me. Next, she measured my arm and reported that the swelling was down by half. Then she told me that if I could find a medical supply store that stocked an off-the-rack compression sleeve that met her standards, I could buy it and try going bandage free, as long as I wore the sleeve during my waking hours.

I could. I did. I am. And it's just fine!

Arch(ery) Comments on Whipped Silicone

No archery!

That’s what a Pat Sitter squealed a couple of days after my mastectomy. Okay, I was prancing around the living room, pretending to shoot arrows at the neutral-colored walls.

“I’m being an Amazon,” I explained. “You remember – the Amazons purposely cut off one breast to make themselves better archers.”

The Amazons, in case you don’t remember, were a nation of all-female warriors in classical and Greek mythology. Legend has it that they cut off their right breasts so they would be able to use a bow more freely and throw spears without the physical limitation and obstruction of a pair of 38DDs.

Ruled by a queen named Hippolyta, the Amazons spent a lot of time making war (not so much making love) but they also were said to have founded many towns, among them Smyrna, Ephesus, Sinope and Paphos.

My friend reminded me that I am not now nor have I ever been an archer, much less an armed warrior. Besides, taking part in a war (or even founding a town) was not on the list of permitted activities during my recovery from surgery.

Replacing the stretchy post-surgical camisole was permitted, and I made that a priority. Shopping for a temporary front-close bra was straightforward enough, but learning about the array of “breast forms” (which is easier to say than “prostheses”) turned out to be hilarious.

Breast forms – and may you never have to know this from personal experience – come in all shapes, sizes and colors. Here are just a few of the options:

• polyester-filled cotton pouches

• foam forms with nipples

• foam forms without nipples

• silicone triangles

• silicone ovals

About those foam forms without nipples -- if you change your mind later, you can buy spare nipples! One Internet shopping site gave the nod to handcrafted breast forms made from soft fabric pouches filled with bird seed or millet. “In warm climates,” the site cautions, “the seeds may sprout.”

Just what you want – delicate green tendrils snaking out of your cleavage!

Some of the silicone breast forms are heavy. Some are made of “whipped” silicone, which is said to weigh as much as one-third less as the heavier models. The one I brought home weighs about a pound and a half.

(Worrisome thought: Will they believe me at Weight Watchers when I blame my breast form? Will they believe me even if I leave it at home?)

For now, the temporary bra and form allow me to go out looking normal, as long as no one looks too long or too hard. That’s because I am not good at this yet. Occasionally, I peer down my shirt to see if everything is where it should be. When it’s not, I head for a restroom to pull down what has scooted up and push back what has scooted forward.

The “patient care coordinator” I worked with at Medical West assured me that a few weeks from now, when I am fitted for a “real” bra and a breast form that suits me perfectly, I will be able to put them on and go about my day without giving either a thought.

I look forward to that.

P.S. I also look forward to moving to San Francisco -- the condo goes back on the market Monday!

Part of Healing: One Fine Irish Fit

For nine days, I have excelled at passivity. I’ve read, visited briefly with friends, napped, devoured many bowls of many different kinds of homemade soup and watched television. (How about those great “Glee” cast members singing the national anthem at the World Series!)

This morning, I started a revolution.

This morning, I called Wellmark Blue Cross/Blue Shield at the offices in Iowa to discuss the level of coverage provided for mastectomy bras and prostheses. I know that eventually, I will have to stop living in the recliner and begin to engage with the larger world again. I’d like to have the right underwear before that happens.

A customer representative at my health insurance company informed me that though the typical Blue Cross/Blue Shield policy covers the cost of six mastectomy bras/camisoles and two prostheses, my company’s policy covers one bra and one prosthesis -- every two years.

I happen to be grateful that I have health insurance -- but one bra every two years? NO bra – if you wash it -- lasts two years. Also, mastectomy bras are pricier than regular bras. And one of anything is never enough for me!

Quality prostheses run about $250-$300 each, and doctors recommend that you have two in case one is lost or damaged. I’m not sure how a prosthesis might get damaged, but they can get lost. Bobbing in the ocean one day some years ago, I met a woman in hot pursuit of her prosthesis, which had just floated out of her swimsuit and was quickly heading out to sea.

ONE PROSTHESIS? ONE BRA? EVERY TWO YEARS!

“Thank you,” I said to the representative. “I am hanging up now and writing a letter to the CEO of Lee Enterprises, who happens to be a woman.”

Though I doubt that Mary Junck is aware of the skinflint nature of this particular clause in the insurance contract, I am certain that it is my responsibility to tell her about it. So I did.

In the letter, I quickly filled her in on my story. I told her about the phone call to Wellmark Blue Cross/Blue Shield. And then, I wrote this: “I am writing today to ask Lee Enterprises to offer what other companies typically cover for women who have lost a breast to cancer. Thank you for your consideration.”

That’s it. I did not hurl invectives – and I love hurling a good invective – and I did not indulge in name-calling. I want Lee Enterprises to adjust the coverage for my sake but also for the many women who are less likely to be able to afford to buy what they need in order to feel good about living lopsided in a symmetrical world.

I sent copies of the letter to the director of human resources and the director of benefits at Lee Enterprises. I sent a copy to the business representative of The Newspaper Guild, which is my union. Then I alerted my female colleagues, including retirees and women still at the Post-Dispatch, about my actions.

ONE PROSTHESIS? ONE BRA? EVERY TWO YEARS!

Florence wrote back immediately. “Send pix of the two-year bra,” she said. “Must be titanium.”