Diane M. Simard's Blog, page 9

What is Christmas to You?

Season’s greetings! Happy December! Welcome to Christmas party madness!

It’s the most wonderful time of the year, right? Actually, I’m feeling guilt-ridden that Thanksgiving got slighted again this year in the Simard household, since we started taking down fall decorations in mid-November to make way for our annual post-Thanksgiving Christmas decorating binge.

Here is Rene, circa 1969, wearing his father’s (whom we refer to as “Pop”) shirt from when Pop was a Sergeant in the Air Force in the early 1950s. Just nine years later, Rene would be a military policeman in the Air Force, just like his beloved father.

 In typical data-driven fashion, I asked Rene to count how many trips he made up and down the stairs to take the fall decorations back to their resting place and bring the Christmas decorations upstairs. I was ashamed, yet proud, when he announced he made 45 trips and estimates he burned somewhere around 300 calories. Rene calls my creative decorating genes “adorable,” but every year I find myself endlessly apologizing to him during holiday transition time. He has already asked who is going to inherit all these decorations someday, and my mind consistently draws a blank.

A Cotesfield Christmas

Just when and how did my holiday decorating streak emerge? Surprisingly, my ornamental fascinations trace back to my father. Not that there was much Christmas light-decorating competition in my Nebraska hometown of Cotesfield (population 80 when I was a kid), but in the late 1960s, people actually drove to Cotesfield to pass by Milt Moravec’s house.

Me on Christmas morning 1967.

While quaint, ours was nothing like Clark Griswold’s house. To prevent outdoor decorations from blowing over in the frigid Nebraska winter winds, Dad secured three-foot high plastic Santas and snowmen to cement blocks by wrapping silver duct tape around the Santas’ and the snowmen’s feet and through the cement blocks. Massive amounts of extension cords that snaked across the front lawn from outlets in the garage powered both the static displays and the lights in our evergreen trees. Then there was the color wheel, a plastic wheel divided into quarters, with a different color for each quarter, that dad strategically placed behind our house. Behind the color wheel was an industrial-strength lightbulb. When the light came on and the wheel started turning, it became a light show that reflected off our roof. I could never figure out the color wheel’s tie to Christmas, however. Since there was no danger of a snow melt in Nebraska in December, the snow-drenched displays looked far more elegant than they sound. Dad usually unhooked the decorations from the extension cords after Christmas and put the decorations away in the garage, but the rest of the extension cords, which were frozen under at least a foot of snow that didn’t melt until early March, didn’t get picked up until the spring thaw.

Christmas in a small town required extraordinary amounts of planning, since we only got one shot at Christmas shopping for siblings and whosever name we drew for grade school gift giveaway on our one Christmas shopping trip to Grand Island, 40 miles away. Our wish lists for Santa got created by flipping through the dog-eared Sears catalog, also known as the “Wishbook,” that arrived in the mail every November. For many years, I assumed anything that anyone needed could be found in a Sears catalog. All the “stupid stuff” was in the front of the Sears Christmas catalog, but 200 pages of toys and other “cool kid” items were in the back.

Farewell to a Retail Icon

Call me a pathetic, nostalgic wreck, but I still love flipping through mail-order magazines that arrive in the mail, especially during this time of year. There’s something invigorating about sitting and flipping through magazines on a Sunday afternoon, wine glass in hand. Surfing Amazon on a computer just doesn’t bring me the same pleasure. I will forever be a catalog shopper, thanks to my Sears roots.

From the actual 1970 Sears Wishbook catalog!

Unfortunately, Sears appears to finally be on its last leg, and this fall the announcement was made that our closest Sears store, in Southglenn, will be closing in a few months. So, one Saturday afternoon in October, Rene and I paid our final respects. We reminisced about the days when buying home appliances or tools or car batteries or car tires anywhere other than Sears was sacrilege. Since there were hardly any store employees left to staff the cash registers, I stood in the checkout line for 20 minutes that afternoon, feeling like I was attending a funeral.

But life will go on, and Sears, which had its start in 1886 when Richard W. Sears founded a company to sell watches by mail order, will soon take up residence in our expanding bank of memories. Farewell, old friend.

What About Christmas?

What is Christmas to you? Music? Lights? Gift exchanges? Nostalgia? Anticipation? To me, Christmas is about reflection. Of times spent with loved ones who have long since passed, of flubbing up lines in church and school Christmas plays, of spiking egg nog with more whiskey and ice cream than my late mother’s recipe recommends, of stringing popcorn and cranberries for the Christmas tree, and of watching in shocked disbelief as our 80-something-year-old grade school teacher—Mrs. Fernley—took off her wig, swung it around in the air, and danced a jig after our December 1971 Christmas program was over.

Christmas is, and will always be…in our memories, but especially in our hearts.

In closing, thank you for your words of encouragement about my blog posts. I promise to continue sharing stories as long as you would like to read or hear them. May you have more love, joy, and peace in the new year than your heart can possibly handle.

Holiday love and good cheer,

 

Our Wyoming Getaway

Early last month we took our first vacation in over 2 ½ years. This time, the chilly wilderness of northwestern Wyoming came calling. Our destination? Breathtaking Jackson Hole.

Rene and I snuck out of Highlands Ranch before 6 a.m. on a Thursday, escaping our hectic daily routine, thinking that if we left before the city woke up we could make a clean break, avoiding the Denver traffic that somehow seems to get worse by the day. Our strategy worked.

After we passed Fort Collins we lost KEZW’s radio signal (sorry, Rick), so we switched to Prime Country on SiriusXM as we drove northwest. My musical tastes vary, but I rarely listen to country, except when we’re in Rene’s car, which has satellite radio. Since I only seem to know country songs from the 1980s and 1990s, Prime Country was perfect. We were driving to Wyoming, after all.

As we headed up Highway 191 toward Pinedale, a gentle rain began to fall. The Aspen trees in the groves had already lost half their golden autumn leaves and seemed barely conscious–as if they were about to drift off to sleep. Raindrops flattened in graceful ovals that streaked upward on the windshield, which was suddenly cleaner than when our trip began. Two minutes later, the sun emerged, peeking between billowy grey clouds. Off to the east, juicy, moisture-laden clouds poured down rain in sheets.

The terrain of Northwestern Wyoming is framed by rolling, gentle humps of bluffs. I longed to reach out my arms and swallow up the clean, pristine open space dotted with grazing black Angus and Hereford cattle. In my mind, the year was 1860 and the flat spaces were dotted instead with grazing bison. I imagined scouts looking down from the bluffs on to the vast flatlands. Open. Undeveloped. Unblemished, except for the fences that separated landowners’ land, saying “This is mine.” We stopped in Pinedale and the freshest air I have ever breathed filled my lungs.

We arrived in Jackson in a steady rain and explored the town before settling in to our cozy cabin at the Rustic Inn. Rene, my self-proclaimed “beer snob,” began sampling the local IPAs and we both liked the Melvin IPA from Melvin Brewing. We left early the next morning for Grand Teton National Park with our guide, Anthony, a biology major who grew up in Connecticut. Rene and he enjoyed discussing the highs and lows of New England professional sports teams. “What in the world are you doing in Wyoming?” we finally asked. Anthony said the grandeur of both Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons were perfect for the current stage of his life. What a wise young man.

Anthony drove us around the perimeter of the park, then stopped so we could take pictures from the car of bison grazing by the side of the road. During winter, the area, known as the National Elk Refuge, is home to one of the largest herds of elk in North America that migrate down from the mountains to spend winter in the lower elevation and corresponding milder climate.

After saying goodbye to the bison herd, we went searching for moose. As you would expect, moose hanging out in public means idiot humans are not far away, trying to take photographs from dangerously close distances. Anthony said several moose vs. human “incidents” occur every year in Jackson Hole, particularly during the heavy summer tourist season. We saw several moose from a safe distance, so I put a checkmark next to “see a moose for the first time,” and vowed to return soon to explore Yellowstone.

Anthony took several Christmas card-worthy photos of Rene and me, but what I loved most about the Grand Tetons was the sparse–yet friendly–number of tourists. We drove through every season of weather but hit zero traffic jams the entire trip.

Fresh air, snow on the mountaintops, bison, moose and good beer. To top it off, about 90 percent fewer people live in Wyoming than Colorado.

It was a perfect getaway.

Next time:  Shopping from the Sears Christmas catalog!

Best wishes for a blessed Thanksgiving filled with peace and love,

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October: The Start of a Sentimental Stretch

Here come the sights, sounds and smells of October! What a magnificent part of the year in Colorado. Dry leaves that crunch on the sidewalk during brisk early-morning walks. Mild days and chilly nights. Pumpkins, the scent of cinnamon and cloves, and roasting root vegetables. Football season and my official weeknight switch from sparkling water with lime to hot tea with lemon while Rene and I sit in the comfy lounge chairs in our library to read and watch TV.

October is the start of a three-month stretch that builds to an enchanting crescendo on Christmas Eve. Christmas Day, that holy day, is a let-down. It’s the last day of hearing beloved carols, there are no more gifts under the tree and all there is to watch on TV are reruns, a burning fireplace log or pro basketball games. Plus, it is day one of my annual dread of a week’s worth of work to take down all the decorations in our house.

This will likely not come as a surprise, but music is a critical component to my schmaltziness. My late mother was a music teacher, and her very musical side of the family, the Andersons, often became our own choir whenever we attended church together and belted out the hymns.

Thanks to a musical heritage like that, I am ecstatic that Denver station, KEZW AM “EZ 1430,” is back to playing the timeless music I grew up with. Seriously, where else can you hear The Carpenters, Tom Jones, John Denver, Herb Alpert, Johnny Mathis, Carole King, Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons, Judy Collins, Nat King Cole, Steve & Eydie, The 5th Dimension, The Beach Boys, Frank Sinatra, Glen Campbell, The Righteous Brothers…I need to breathe! To my dear friend, fellow syrupy sap and KEZW station manager, Rick Crandall, a heartfelt thank you for literally bringing back the soundtrack from my early childhood.

In even truer musical dork fashion, over the years I have compiled a playlist of songs that inspire me, relax me, or make me laugh. Some of my playlist songs are cheesily hilarious. For example, this summer I was cutting back dead leaves from the houseplants in our sun room when “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” by Meatloaf played on my playlist that streams throughout the house. I actually sat down to listen to the lyrics and have a hysterical laugh.

As I pondered the brilliant tongue-in-cheek irony of comparing — you know what — to a baseball game, I wondered at what point in time songwriters stopped telling such memorable stories. For example, those classics like “Cats in the Cradle,” “What’s Going On?” (the Marvin Gaye version), “Rock and Roll Heaven,” “Ode to Billie Joe” and “Both Sides Now” always make me stop and listen. The arc of the song is either bad news, a surprise or a revelation, then the song goes back to the chorus as it fades to the end.

Me in 8th grade, soon after discovering the wonders of a curling iron!

Although not necessarily considered a classic, “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” was from the ground-breaking “Bat Out of Hell” album by Meatloaf that was released October 21, 1977. The album was produced by Todd Rundgren (“Hello It’s Me”) and is still one of the top-selling albums of all time. When I hear any song from the album, I always think of October because those tawdry, hormone-infused ditties from 8-track and cassette tapes blasted out of the speakers of Camero Z28s, Firebird Trans Ams, Challengers and other muscle cars as they drove up and down main street in Elba, Nebraska, after high school football games in the fall of 1978, when I was in 8th grade. My female classmates and I would clap in unison at the end of “You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth” whenever a car drove by blasting that part of the song as we walked toward Elba’s main street after home football games.

Sometimes I wish it was 1978 and that every month was October. But then I remember — despite obnoxious political ads — how blessed we are to live in this time and place.

I encourage you to celebrate this magical time. Turn on the fireplace and grab a quilt, a mug of hot apple cider and your high school yearbook. Then crank up your favorite tunes from your teen years, curl up on the couch and reminisce. Reach out to your best friend from high school and tell him or her you wanted to say hello and thanks for being your friend. Trust me, you will make their day.

Sentimentally yours,

Prefer to listen to my blog instead? Here it is!

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My Fifth Birthday with Kalamity Kate on “Cartoon Corral”

Summary: My two most memorable birthdays while growing up in Cotesfield, Nebraska, were attending a Rick Springfield concert and meeting Kalamity Kate (Leta Powell Drake), host of “Cartoon Corral.”

Listen to the audio version here:

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Happy birthday to my husband, BFF and twin, Rene!

Fun fact: Rene and I share the same birth date, although we were born in different years. September 1 is our big day, and our birthday typically falls on Labor Day weekend or sometime close to late summer’s first college football games.

It’s the big “five-three” for me this year, and life continues to get more charming.

Menopause? Done.

Arthritis? Absolutely, in my fingers and knees.

Grey hair? Definitely. But every eight weeks those nasty buggers get a brown shellacking.

Lactose intolerance? You bet, but I will spare the unpleasant details.

Colonoscopy? One down, the next one not for another eight years.

The Big Entrance

Fifty-three years ago this summer, I took my time in typical diva fashion to emerge into this world, arriving three weeks late, at 3:30 in the morning. My college journalism professors would be proud, since I still have the newspaper clipping from the Howard County, Nebraska, edition of “The Phonograph Herald,” announcing my birth. By the way, I weighed 7 lbs., 4 oz. at birth, not 4 oz. My birth announcement is no doubt the only time in my life when I will happily publicly disclose my weight.

After reading my birth announcement, some of you may be wondering: What and where is Cotesfield? It’s a speck on the map of time in central Nebraska, smack-dab in the heart of corn and cattle country. My siblings and I have countless memories of growing up in our hometown of 80 people (there are far fewer than that now), attending elementary school in a three-room schoolhouse with one teacher. Many hours were spent hanging out in a treehouse that my oldest brother, Randy, and some friends built from a deconstructed outhouse. Culturally, at mid-day on Sundays we were forced to listen to the “Big Joe Polka Show” on the radio, which my full-blooded Czech father broadcast inside and outside our house. I will share more tales about the antics of bored kids growing up in a small town in future posts!

1982

Yes, it’s birthday time again, another opportunity to reflect and plot my life strategy for the next 12 months. This should not come as a surprise, but my adult birthdays have been far less memorable than those in my youth. For example, my second-favorite birthday was in 1982. I had just lost 10 lbs., I had just broken up with my first boyfriend, and I was ready for a mind-blowing senior year of high school.

A week after turning 17 on September 10, 1982, I handed over my duties as head cheerleader for the Friday night Elba High School football game to the alternate cheerleader so I could attend…a Rick Springfield concert. Rick Springfield, who was often shunned as a “pretty boy” for playing Dr. Noah Drake on the “General Hospital” soap opera, came to Lincoln as part of the 1982 Nebraska State Fair concert series.

The concert took place at the Devaney Sports Center, so after walking around the state fair for a couple hours, my mother, sister (Marilyn), brother (Lee) and I found our seats in the auditorium. After the opening act, the Greg Kihn Band, finished their set, I sat quietly in nervous anticipation as thousands of teenage girls shrieked incessantly. Then my pop-star idol appeared amidst a burst of white floodlights, a striking Zeus-god dressed in a yellow Day-Glo shirt with black shiny pants covered with gold zippers. He reminded me of a honeybee. For the next 90 minutes, he teased and flirted with the front-row girls while he sang from a circular stage that slowly rotated. “I feel like a birthday cake!” he yelled to the crowd as we squealed with delight.

1970

The Rick Springfield concert was a notable birthday gift from my thoughtful mother, but my most memorable birthday was in 1970, when I turned five and mom agreed to let me be on “Cartoon Corral,” a live after-school show that ran weekdays from 1967 to 1982 on KOLN-KGIN TV in Lincoln.

Leta Powell Drake, a.k.a. Kalamity Kate

“Cartoon Corral” was hosted by Leta Powell Drake, a.k.a. Kalamity Kate. Kalamity Kate reminded me of Miss Kitty on the “Gunsmoke” television show with her fiery red hair, but without the beauty mark on her right cheek. At the base of Kalamity Kate’s bouffant and below her earlobes emerged two long braids that stretched down the front of her white ruffled blouse, nearly to her waist. I didn’t understand the concept of wigs at the time, so her hairstyle always bothered me. It didn’t seem possible to have long braids when her hair was bouff-ed on top, unless it was some variation of a mullet.

Kalamity Kate usually wore a navy blue vest and skirt with tan fringes around the edges and bottom. Light brown cowboy boots completed the outfit. She was known as “The West’s Only Lady Sheriff.”

The highlight of “Cartoon Corral” was when Kalamity Kate dragged around a microphone and cord that she had to whip around and between children, interviewing kids age 10 and younger seated on wooden benches who traveled from all over Nebraska to be on the show. During the interview portion of the show, she asked typical beauty pageant questions: age, hometown, and desired career field. In the early 1970s, most of the girls interviewed on the show wanted to be ballerinas or stewardesses, and the boys wanted to be astronauts or football players. All the kids wanted to hold the microphone while they spoke, but Miss Kate kept the microphone in a death grip. Interviews were followed by more cartoons and some type of lecture about sharing, being tolerant of annoying siblings and being kind to parents and grandparents.

My Big Debut

The day before my birthday, mom drove Marilyn, Lee and me 150 miles to Lincoln to stay with our cousins, the Breckenridges, who lived near the University of Nebraska campus. I was teeming with excitement. It was my fifth birthday, I was in the big city and I was going to be making my professional television debut—the highlight of my childhood. While we walked in the rain from the parking lot to the television station, I felt butterflies in my stomach and could hardly stand the anticipation. We entered through a special side door for “Cartoon Corral” participants, and in front of us was the set. Thick black cables were strewn along the floor, attached to silver metal boxes that were connected to two TV cameras.

As we carefully stepped over the cables to avoid getting electrocuted, I saw my heroine in the distance. My heart stopped. There she was, leaning up against a wall, dressed in green coveralls and…smoking? She looked like Kate the car mechanic! I suddenly realized my experience was all for show, that my celebrity host was a character who didn’t exist outside of “Cartoon Corral.” The discovery made me uncomfortable and I became nauseously nervous.

From there, everything began to go off script. Apparently, Sept. 1 was not a popular day for birthdays, because only a few kids were in the studio. After I got seated in the front row, Marilyn and Lee got recruited to be “fillers” in the back row of benches. Another painful blow. I was not going to be the only one in the family on TV.

Kalamity Kate emerged just before showtime, looking like she was ready for the rodeo. The bright lights went on and I couldn’t see a thing. Miss Kate said her welcome and introduced a cartoon, then she went off camera. Five minutes later, it was show time again and the lights went on. I was in a fog—nervous and scared. She started her interview routine, whipping the cord in-between kids. When she got to me, my mind went blank.

“Hi! Where are you from?” she asked.

“Cotesfield,” I blurted out.

“Oh. And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

I panicked, remembering that I had forgotten to think of a sophisticated career choice, so I gave a standard answer.

“Stewardess.”

Oh No!

That was it. My TV debut had been ordinary, anything but memorable. I looked down and a shock of disappointment streaked through my body. I had forgotten to show my prop! In my hands was a purse my grandmother Moravec had crocheted out of purple yarn with the bottom half of an empty white dish soap bottle as the base. Why hadn’t I shown my masterpiece to the millions of viewers watching so they could see how crafty my grandma was and I could be remembered? I had missed my moment. Yet another failure in a lifetime of goofs.

The interviews were finished and Kalamity Kate introduced more commercials and cartoons. Then, the dreaded hamburger moment arrived. McDonald’s always supplied hamburgers for the birthday kids and we were supposed to eat them while the cameras continued rolling. Never mind the fact that McDonald’s delivered the burgers an hour before the show began. Kids typically don’t eat quickly, and I was the finickiest of the finicky. I took one bite and couldn’t eat any more. I was sick with disappointment.

After the final commercial break, yo-yos were handed out to the birthday kids. Some of my fellow birthday colleagues started showing off with their yo-yos, doing the loop-to-loop and walk-the-dog and other tricks. Somehow, all my yo-yo did was get hung up in knots on the way back up. After the show was over and we left the station, mom had to stop and buy yo-yos for Lee and Marilyn.

Lessons Learned

Overall, my television debut was a wake-up call. I learned that:

Even on my birthday, I can be scatter-brained and uncoordinated. But I ought to keep trying my best.

I should give every performance my all, but not expect everything to go according to plan when the bright lights go on.

My heroes and heroines aren’t always who they appear to be on screen, but their impact is perpetual. Kalamity Kate is a life-long role model for me, and no doubt for other children who grew up in central and eastern Nebraska in the 1970s.

Cold hamburgers are nasty.

.Make every day as special as your birthday!

Ca 27.29 Biomarker: Be(a)ware

Summary: Some breast cancer survivors, like me, are routinely tested for a tumor biomarker, Ca 27.29. Elevated test results may be an early indicator of recurrence. Or maybe not.

If you prefer to listen to my blog, please click on the start arrow below.

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Hello, It’s Me….

Time for a bonus mid-month post! Actually, I want to share details of a roller-coaster couple days I had last week. Please let me know at diane@2gassociates.com or leave a comment below if you have any suggestions or feedback. Thank you!

The Crown

So, this story starts in early June, when I went to my dentist to have a molar in the lower left side of my mouth re-crowned due to decay forming under the old crown. Soon after losing my baby teeth many years ago, I began to suffer the consequences of inheriting my father’s bad teeth genes. Despite faithful flossing and brushing, plus trips to the hygienist every four months, my chompers have been doomed from the start.

A month after my new crown was cemented in June, I began having headaches that started in my temples, then slowly progressed down to the newly crowned molar. To say the tooth was throbbing would be an understatement. After chugging whiskey straight out of the bottle one night while in excruciating pain, I decided to try journaling, which helped me get through chemo nausea. Here’s a quick excerpt:

Every three seconds, I feel like lightning strikes under my tooth. Zap, throb, throb. Zap, throb, throb. The downbeat strikes like glass exploding against rock.

Why is there no relief? Can agonizing discomfort learn to be ignored? Am I losing my mind? Please, help me think about anything but pain.

It’s Just a Sinus Infection

I convinced myself the pain was my annual sinus infection, which usually arrives in early autumn. When I bent over to pick green beans in my garden – the absolute best part of my summer – I nearly fell over from inner ear pain. So, I scheduled an appointment with our physician’s assistant, who said my eustachian tubes, which control middle ear pressure, were likely clogged. However, she also suggested I have the problem tooth checked by my dentist.

Green beans R us!

Amidst all this, on July 31, I had my routine quarterly check-up with my medical oncologist. My blood counts and blood pressure were normal, and we enjoyed a pleasant visit. I told her about the annoying sinus infection, which I assured her was seasonal, although early this year. Two days later, on Thursday morning, I made an appointment with my dentist for the following Monday. The throbbing tooth pain had subsided, but it hadn’t gone away, so I finally decided to have it checked.

Later that Thursday afternoon, I received a call from my oncologist’s office, letting me know the results of a test for a tumor biomarker they track, called Ca 27.29, had just come in.

“Your marker has fluctuated up and down within the acceptable range since you finished treatment three years ago, but now it’s elevated outside the normal range.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It could be an early indicator of recurring breast cancer. You need to have a PET scan right away.”

Stuck in Quicksand

My mind went blank from shock – just like three years ago when I received my cancer diagnosis via a similar phone call.

Ten minutes later, the hospital called to schedule the PET scan. I assumed the rapid response meant that cancer was likely back. I agreed to have the scan on Tuesday morning of the following week.

I quickly rearranged my Tuesday schedule, including lunch with a dear friend who is a wicked-smart patent attorney with a Ph.D. in physiology. She responded quickly to my explanation of the reason for needing a PET scan. She was concerned that the Ca 27.29 biomarker was possibly indicating something not at all related to cancer. She then sent me an article from a doctor-approved cancer website that confirmed her suspicion.

Although I also began to suspect the PET scan was likely an over-precautionary measure, all weekend I felt like I was gradually sinking in quicksand, angry that cancer might back. Nothing made me feel better. Not even picking green beans.

The following Monday after work, I went to my dentist appointment. After an x-ray of my re-crowned tooth, my dentist told me the tooth was abscessing, and that I needed to have a root canal the next day.

“That’s so weird!” I exclaimed. “It hurt like crazy a couple weeks ago, but hardly at all since then. I thought the pain was due to a sinus infection.”

“Well, you might also have problems with your sinuses, but this tooth could launch into a full abscess with much worse pain at any second,” he said.

I walked out of the dentist office, referral in hand, and immediately called the endodontist to schedule the emergency root canal.

“We can get you in tomorrow afternoon,” said the kind receptionist.

While I drove home, I tried to imagine what could possibly be worse than having a PET scan in the morning to see if cancer had returned, only to be followed a few hours later by an emergency root canal.

Who lives this kind of a life?

Me, that’s who.

Good News!

I’m so elated to report that my PET scan results came back normal. According to the test report, the Ca 27.29 biomarker was likely “tripped” because of “mild hypermetabolic activity and a left submandibular lymph node most likely related to inflammation from dental disease…”

My week from hell and all that anxiety were caused by a dying tooth. I found out the results of my PET scan an hour in to my nearly three-hour root canal, when Rene called the endodontist’s office and asked the receptionist to tell me the news. Since I had a rubber dam in my mouth and a sleeping “comfort puppy” in my lap, all I could do was stream tears of joy.

Yes, But It’s Still Not Over…

That darn root canal is only half finished, by the way. Apparently, the root tips of the molar have scraggly crevices that the endodontist couldn’t reach before he needed to call it a day. So, I’ll be going back to him in early September for another two hours. I’m calling my next appointment “Root Canal Part Deux.”

The Happy Ending

One of my Bye Aerospace colleagues was on a well-deserved family getaway to Kona, Hawaii, during all my drama. I sent her daily text updates, cursing about the psychological torture I was experiencing. On her first day back in the office, she gave me the coolest gift I have ever received. It’s a wood cutting board in the shape of a surfboard.

“When I saw this, I just had to get it for you. Like no one I have ever met, every time you fall off the surfboard you always climb right back on and try again. Your resilience is amazing.”

The surfboard now hangs in the hallway from the garage to our kitchen, a visual reminder of my trials and turmoils, not to mention my stubborn naivete. But it’s also a reminder to get back on board and keep living. Thank you, Christina!

A Sneak Preview

I have been whining about cancer for months, and unfortunately, I continue to experience the after-effects of my breast cancer experience in new, mind-numbing ways. I’m ready for a peaceful break, so let’s have some fun. My next post will be my birthday blog….and you’ll be introduced to Kalamity Kate.

Until then, I’m going to keep raising my whiskey bottle to good dental health.

Lymphedema & Cataracts: The Unexpected Physical Effects of Breast Cancer

For months, I have been advocating to bring more attention to the long-term psychological impact of cancer. But this time, I’m going to share a couple anecdotes about the bizarre physical effects of my breast cancer experience three years ago that are just now beginning to surface. These effects include lymphedema and cataracts.

If you prefer to listen to the audio version of “The Unexpected Physical Effects of Breast Cancer,” please click below:

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I have hesitantly accepted that the physical and psychological after-effects of breast cancer will be present for the rest of my life. Technically, my breast cancer is in remission. With any luck, in February 2020, at my five-year survivor anniversary, I will finally be declared cancer-free by my medical team. Cancer terms confuse me, and like much about the process, some information seems counter-intuitive and contradictory.

What I do know, though, is that my body has permanently changed in several unpleasant ways. Here goes…

Chronic Lymphedema

“Miss Piggy” left hand compared to my right hand.

I have chronic lymphedema in my left hand and wrist. Lymphedema is caused by a blockage in the body’s lymphatic system, which is part of the immune and circulatory systems. There are clusters of lymph nodes throughout the body that serve as filters to attack and destroy germs and foreign particles in lymph fluid.

Since my breast cancer spread to the axillary lymph nodes in my left armpit, a cluster of six lymph nodes in my left armpit were removed during the surgery part of my treatment. Later, months after radiation ended, I found out that the bundle of lymph nodes near my left collar bone likely got “fried” during radiation, because my skin got severely burned in that area and those lymph nodes don’t appear to be working now. As a result, my left hand is perpetually swollen, and swells even more on hot days. I have tried lymphatic massage therapy, used a lymphedema pump, and now I do daily exercises, including rebounding, to stimulate my lymphatic system. But nothing makes the swelling in my left hand go away. My oncology team declared last year that my left hand will likely be swollen for the rest of my life.

Even though I hate having what I call “Miss Piggy hand,” I slog on. I had been wearing my wedding ring on my right hand since late January 2016, when Rene and I attended a dinner party in a warm house and my hand swelled up so much that I barely got my ring off my finger in time. But earlier this year, I decided I wanted to wear my wedding ring on my left hand again. I was determined to stop accommodating cancer.

So, earlier this month, I stopped by the jewelry store where I typically have my watch batteries replaced. When I got to the front of the customer service line, I asked if they could re-size my ring, explaining the reason for my request. “I’m so sorry you went through that,” said the kind woman behind the service counter. “Absolutely, we can help you.” She analyzed my wedding ring and said a few complimentary words about the shape and cut, then asked if she could check the wedding ring finger size on my left hand. I handed her a (fake) ruby cocktail ring that I sometimes wear on that finger, then told her I wanted my wedding ring resized to the same size as the cocktail ring.

She placed the cocktail ring on her ring sizer, then exclaimed in a shockingly loud voice, “You need a size nine and one-quarter! That’s two sizes larger than your current wedding ring!”

At that point, everyone in the store stopped talking and turned to see who the fatso was.

I felt humiliated and angry, but I responded calmly.

“Yes, lymphedema is one of the unfortunate things about cancer – one of the many side effects that no one hears about. To be honest, though, I am grateful to be alive. I just want to wear my wedding ring on my left hand and be normal again.”

“Well, we’re going to have to cut the ring and build up the shank in order to make the ring that much larger!”

“I realize it’s going to be costly,” I said. “But I’d like to have it done. This is very important to me.”

Now, I have always been envious of women who wear size 5 rings or smaller because their fingers are dainty and petite. Unfortunately, dainty and petite have never been words used to describe me. Especially not since breast cancer.

Cataracts

Next, my eyesight. I began wearing glasses and contact lenses in high school, and my eyesight has deteriorated ever since. Thanks to chemotherapy, I have developed cataracts in both eyes. Eight months ago, during my annual eye exam, my eye doctor told me I would need cataract surgery in about two years. But my vision started getting worse earlier this spring, so I went to the eye doctor the day after the humiliating wedding ring experience and learned that my left eye needs cataract surgery now. When the eye doctor asked me to read the top line of letters on the wall with only my left eye, I couldn’t see any letters, just blurry images. I felt like I was trying to read through waxed paper. I could tell she was concerned.

“Did something about my cancer treatment cause this to happen?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Likely the steroids you had to take during chemo made your cataracts develop much sooner. Steroids accelerate everything in your body. You were always going to develop cataracts, but the steroids likely caused them to develop much sooner.”

Ultimately, I decided to take my eye doctor’s recommendation and amp up my contact lens and glasses prescriptions instead of having the cataract surgery in my left eye now. That’s two contact lens prescription changes in less than a year, and likely cataract surgery in both eyes before I turn 55.

Despite all the body drama, I remain grateful. But now I’m concerned again, wondering what other natural aging challenges will be occurring sooner than expected.

Cancer is Never Invited…

Anxiety: Yet another psychological side-effect of the long-term physical impacts of a traumatic health experience.

In Colorado and many western states where wildfires are too common this summer, we often hear the term “burn scar.” The term refers to areas that have been ravaged by wildfires where grass, trees and shrubs have not yet grown back to keep the charred soil from eroding during heavy rainstorms.

I have decided to refer to the lasting psychological and physical effects of my breast cancer experience as my “cancer scars.” A dear friend of mine, who happens to be a graphic artist, came up with the images for a saying I trademarked: “Cancer is never invited, and cancer never leaves.”

I am thankful for the compassionate, understanding and concerned people in my life committed to helping my cancer scars heal!

Until next time,

COPE Addresses the Psychological Impact of Cancer

If you would prefer the audio version of this post, we have that too! Just click play below:

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I’m taking the opportunity in this post to step back and share–okay, brag about–what the Center for Oncology Psychology Excellence (COPE) at the University of Denver’s Graduate School of Professional Psychology has accomplished in just two short years.

Before I begin, though, I want to make it clear that COPE is not about me. It’s about those who are directly or indirectly impacted by the shockingly horrific experience called cancer.

As much as I wish this vicious disease would disappear, it’s likely not going anywhere anytime soon. In fact, the American Cancer Society projects that over the course of our lifetimes, one in every three women, and one in every two men, will experience some form of cancer.

The startling realities continue. Not to over-generalize, but there is likely well over 100 different types of cancer. With that, there is also likely not one single cure for cancer. Some cancers, like breast cancer, have multiple sub-categories, or separate classifications. Regardless of the type, stage or grade of cancer, all those different types of cancer are behaving badly. Some are mutating and changing their behaviors. Then there’s the whole cancer gene part of the conversation, plus immunotherapy and other promising new treatments.

Cancer is complex, covert, overwhelming and super scary to experience.

Near the end of my 16 chemo treatments for Stage III breast cancer three years ago, I started searching for a professional counselor to help me address my fears, not to mention my fluctuating emotions. What I learned was that not much attention was being paid to the psychological impact of cancer on patients, caregivers and survivors. Care centers were doing the best they could, but the option of individualized psychological counseling was not a standard treatment protocol for any type of cancer. The reasons varied, but two reasons I kept hearing were:  1) Health insurance typically didn’t cover individualized counseling costs for those experiencing cancer; and 2) Not many licensed practitioners in the mental health field were trained to work with cancer clients.

The insurance challenge was too vast for me to solve, but I wondered whether the lack of behavioral health practitioners for cancer clients was a training problem that could be addressed.

COPE launch in February 2016. Six months of new hair growth!

After asking many questions of the Dean and clinical academicians at the Graduate School of Professional Psychology (GSPP) at the University of Denver (DU), I learned that oncology training was indeed available to licensed behavioral health practitioners and had been for some time. However, most received their training at the post-doctoral level. The eureka moment came when I asked whether any university in the country was offering oncology psychology training at the graduate level, and the answer was no. My next question was, “If more licensed practitioners received such training while still in school, and more became interested in what I’m hearing you call “psychosocial oncology,” would care centers be more likely to make individualized counseling available to uptight, terrified patients like me?”

I will never forget the answer I received from Dr Nicole Taylor, a brilliant pioneer in psychosocial oncology. Her response was, “Oh, absolutely. Without question.”

Two hours after our conversation, I made the decision to team up with GSPP at DU and seed-fund the nation’s first specialty in clinical psychosocial oncology. We named the specialty COPE, which officially launched the night of February 10, 2016, the eve of my one-year anniversary as a survivor.

COPE is already having significant impact. The annual COPE update was recently published, which you can read in its entirety here.

Here are some of my favorite highlights from the update:

In COPE’s first year, it is estimated that COPE students provided 7,000 hours of assistance to patients, survivors and caregivers.
Over 40 studentshave taken at least one COPE class.
Currently, 14 student-therapistsin the COPE clinic at GSPP/DU are working with cancer patients and their family members.
April 2018 was our best month yet at the COPE clinic, with 44 patient visits.
“Earth shattering.” Those are the words my dear friend, Jeff Thompson, Vice President of Government & Corporate Relations at UCHealth, used to describe the potential COPE has for changing the lives of cancer patients and their loved ones. 
Nicole Taylor, who is now COPE’s Director, will be chairing the 2019 American Psychosocial Oncology Society (APOS) Conference in Atlanta in February 2019.
A group of COPE students joined Dr. Taylor in facilitating support groups at Denver’s CURE Ocular Melanoma conference this past spring, as well as the Blood and Marrow Transplant Information Network Symposium.

My heart is bursting with gratitude and thanks for those like you who have supported, and continue to support, COPE as an ambassador, as a donor or as a friend. I am so grateful and humbled by your generosity.

The National Cancer Institute projects that just two years from now, in 2020, there will be 18.1 million cancer survivors living in the U.S. That’s a 30 percent increase from 2010.

COPE, this blog and my future book (which is being professionally edited this summer!) are a spark in what I hope becomes a wave of momentum to keep bringing more attention to the psychological impact of cancer. We need your passion and loving concern–not to mention the will of a nation and world–to unite and help improve the quality of life for those impacted by cancer and other traumatic illnesses.

With sincere thanks,

Transitions

Prefer it on audio? Listen to it below!

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Just what is it about the month of May? High school and college graduations, the completion of another school year, blooming fruit trees and the itchy pollen that seems to collect in my eyes and nose, the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, my brother Lee’s birthday (celebrated with the same vigor as a national holiday), social luncheons, weddings, the Indy 500, Memorial Day weekend…

To me, May is “transition month.” On the front range of Colorado, we typically have snowy or chilly, rainy days early in the month, but by Memorial Day, temperatures begin to soar well past 90 degrees. Mother Nature’s hair dryer flips on, and the humid days of early May are given the boot.

This May, I experienced many transitions as well. Here’s a recap:

May 5:           

I planted my vegetable garden. If I don’t plant a garden, it ain’t summer.  The largest part of my garden is devoted to green beans. I’m not a huge fan of eating green beans – I just love to grow them. In fact, my favorite part of summer is sitting on my plastic white stool, picking green beans and throwing them in my “harvest basket.” My horticultural goal this summer is to have an epic, eat-your-heart-out Charlie Brown pumpkin patch, located in the spot where our sunken hot tub used to be. Apparently, mice loved to eat the insulation around the mechanics of the hot tub, so two years ago, out went the “mouse house,” up went a retaining wall and in went about 30 bags of mulch and potting soil. This is the year for pumpkins. I can feel it!

May 19:         

The Royal Wedding of Harry and Meghan. I missed it, but apparently it was spectacular.

My excuses for not watching The Royal Wedding:

I needed to sleep. With a 4:44 a.m. daily wake-up call on weekdays, by Friday night I am typically asleep by 8:30 p.m. Ten hours later, I emerge from a coma.
Our DVR died a couple months ago, and it takes a G7 summit and the entire national defense budget to re-program a new DVR into our complicated home audio/video system. It’s a complete waste to keep putting Band-Aids on this 14-year-old mess, so we are now just waiting for the entire thing to die before switching over to an IT-based system. Why did watching television have to get so flipping complicated?
Since I didn’t catch the royal wedding live, watching highlights now seems pathetic.

May 19:         

Rene and I attended the service of remembrance for Stephen Hogan, the Mayor of Aurora (Colorado). Steve served most of his adult life in politics – first as a Democrat, then as a Republican. I did not know Steve well, but I always respected his passion for the city. He was a wise, confident, comforting leader, but his brilliance came from his willingness to listen and to keep planning for the future. Just like me, Steve was born and raised in Nebraska. Insert jokes here if you want, but he had the unique work ethic and dedication that I believe comes from growing up in a rural area, nurturing the land and other resources, contending with unpredictable weather and relying on teamwork to accomplish most everything. At the end of his memorial service, Steve’s request was that we all stand and sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

The week Steve died, he released what some at his memorial service referred to as a love letter to the Aurora community. In his eloquently-worded message, he encouraged everyone to unite in his memory. Here is an excerpt:

“I would respectfully encourage each person reading this message to embrace the honor of public service and continually seek to enrich the lives of our fellow residents. It is in this honor and in this service where leadership and inclusive governance will flourish.”

Amen, Mayor Hogan. My prayers of love and comfort go out to Steve’s wife and my dear friend, Becky, and the entire Hogan family.

May 23:

I attended my first advisory board meeting for QalibreMD, headquartered in Boulder. QalibreMD is a precision instrument R&D and manufacturing small business whose strategy is to transform medical imaging, in this case, magnetic resonance imaging, or MRI. Their technology and quantitative imaging standards can provide an exact diagnosis of what disease is present, at what stage and to what extent in the body. In one infamous case, a patient had to have an MRI done 10 times because each test came back with 10 different results – all from the same MRI machine. This is a problem of inefficiency and a lack of baseline standards for MRI machines, and yet another flaw in our healthcare system. I believe QalibreMD has a solution.

George Bye (right) and I accepted the Denver Business Journal’s

Small Business Award for Bye Aerospace.

May 24:         

Bye Aerospace, the electric airplane company I invested in and have worked at for 10 years, won the “small” category of the Small Business Awards by the Denver Business Journal! Congratulations to our team and to our leader, George Bye. Also, a sincere thanks to Karen Breen at Wells Fargo for nominating us.

May 25:         

I attended a luncheon to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Centennial Airport, where Bye Aerospace is headquartered. The keynote speaker at this classy event was Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger III, who is the retired airline captain who landed US Airways Flight 1549 on the Hudson River off Manhattan after a massive bird strike on Jan. 15, 2009. Congratulations to Centennial Airport, the nation’s second busiest general aviation airport, on their marvelous achievement. We at Bye Aerospace are fortunate to have the Airport Authority’s support, particularly for our Sun Flyer electric airplane program.

May 26:         

We visited the Colorado Freedom Memorial (CFM) near Buckley Air Force Base in Aurora and paid our respects to the more than 6,000 Coloradoans who have been killed in action since Colorado became a state. All the names of those killed are etched in glass panels on the memorial. Rene and I were on the Board of Directors of the CFM foundation before the memorial was built and dedicated in 2013. Rick and Di Crandall, their family and the many volunteers who support CFM deserve our gratitude and thanks for their tireless efforts to honor the fallen.

(Uncle) Rene Joseph Simard, circa 1943

May 28:         

Memorial Day. The day to honor those who have died in all American wars. Rene is named after his uncle, Rene Joseph Simard, who was killed in China near the end of World War II. Uncle Rene served in the U.S. Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to the Central Intelligence Agency. He was a member of the Massachusetts National Guard and was a dark-haired handsome Frenchman with a turned-up moustache. Since Uncle Rene served in the equivalent of today’s military special forces and some records from World War II were accidentally destroyed, the exact details of his death will likely never be known.

Words cannot express the heartfelt gratitude I have for the brave women and men like Uncle Rene and the more than 1.1 million Americans who have been killed in all U.S. wars to defend our freedom. They made the ultimate sacrifice so that we can continue to live in a free country.

What a month of transitions. But honestly, most of my days, weeks and months are like May 2018. Last month offered me a time to grieve, to laugh and celebrate, to honor, to attempt to solve colossal challenges, but most of all, the chance to live my best life.

To life!