A Thank You Post

So I invited some friends and family members to read what I have written here. Everyone said nice things and encouraged me to continue. Not that I really expected anyone would have the ta tas to tell me, "hey Ame, maybe you should consider another hobby. How about piano lessons? Knitting? Meditation?" So thanks for the encouragement.

A friend sent me this photo announcing a new coffee flavor at a Minneapolis cafe. I wonder what the 9-day notice is for? Some yucky images come to mind. And who would want cancer coffee anyway.  But I like the sound of "Amy's Blend." Thank you, Clever, Friend, for sending the photo.

You may have noticed that now I have the blessing of my friends and family to keep writing these silly posts, I have nothing to say. As for so many "artistes" my inspiration comes at 2:30 in the morning. I write long, amusing paragraphs in my head during many hours of lying awake in the dark. As the sun begins to rise, the creativity and I drift away. So maybe I'll just report the news.

Last night I watched as much as I could stand of the academy awards. Abandoned the effort at about 9:30. Embarrassing and dull at the same time. I wish I were Natalie Portman or Anne Hathaway. I bet they don't have breast cancer. I have a crush on the Colin Firth. I doubt he would fall for a bosomless, middle-aged Yankee hag.

On the health front, I'm feeling OK. Taking longer walks, shuffling a bit on the cross country ski machine, stretching. My chief complaint is a tightness around my chest that feels like multiple wraps of duct tape squeezing the life out of me.

By the end of this week I should know more about what I am facing for treatment, but I will be enjoying many months of chemo at the very least. Can't wait.

I told my 18-year-old son yesterday that his mother no longer has boobs. Can you imagine that conversation?

Mommy: Hi darling. How's school? How's things with the girl friend? Can't wait to see you next week. By the way, the maternal mammaries are history.

18-year-old son: What's that mean?
Mommy: I had a double mastectomy.
18-year-old son: What's that mean?
Mommy: The surgeons removed the breast tissue. (I thought that was better phrasing than, "They chopped them off.")
18-year-old son: Did it hurt?
Mommy: Not too much. Lots of women with breast cancer do it. It's no big deal. (She says, bravely.)
18-year-old son: How do you feel? (He says, nauseatedly)
Mommy: Flat as a board. (That was probably not the answer he was looking for.) I'll be okay (more bravery). If I want, I can go back to the surgeons to have them build new ones. (Lightheartedly)  So now what time will you be home on Friday? (Off topicly)

That's another thing I don't like about cancer. It's kind of gruesome. Especially for the kids.