I am as amazed as anyone that this french twist comb works on my fine hair. Melissa at Stone Bridge Hair Accessories demonstrates how to do it. Melissa inspired me to give it a try, but I purchased it from France Luxe because she doesn't sell outside the UK. For extra holding power, you could use spin pins and then add the comb.
But enough with the hair. I couldn't wait to share the epiphany I had this week about the joy of breathing. You'd think I wouldn't need a refresher course in the pleasure of being alive, but as you know, sometimes the bastards grind you down. I already wrote about my silly computer trauma. In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing, yet it still made for a rough week.
Thursday I visited the dermatologist for my annual check-up. My husband is one of the pink people with lots of little glebs and blebs, but I have darker skin and have fared pretty well in the sun wars. But I go every year for the big naked look-see, because I respect cancer. I figure, well, I got it once when I least suspected it, so I should be vigilant about everything.
I saw this particular doctor for the first time last year, and I remember him being amazed I was an ovarian cancer survivor. If you read through my archives, you'll learn I actually had primary peritoneal cancer, which is pretty much the same thing as ovarian. If it's a drive-by, I say ovarian. If I'm sitting next to you on the airplane, I'll tell you everything if you ask nicely. Or maybe I'll just tell you anyway, because I am working on an e-book about my experience, and I'll be posting some excerpts from time to time. Consider yourself warned. My encounter with the dermatologist may or may not make it into the book, but telling this story is a public declaration of my intent. No backing down now.
So, the doctor walked into the room as I sat there naked and draped in a flimsy paper robe, and the first thing he said was, "You're the ovarian cancer survivor."
Me: Yes, 13 years next month.
Him: Wow. You're lucky.
Me: I know.
Him: They must have caught it early.
Me: No, it was advanced. Stage 3.
Him: You're really really lucky.
Me: Believe me, I know.
But sometimes I have to be reminded! He asked me a lot of questions about my surgery and treatment and was surprised they had Taxol "back then." I said absolutely, I had a chance encounter at a golf course of all places with a researcher who helped develop the drug, and he said I was the poster girl for Taxol. It was approved for use in 1992, so by the time I needed it in 1999, they had worked out the optimum cycle.
Following the surgery to remove as much cancer as possible, I had a cocktail of Benadryl, Taxol and Carboplatin infused every 21 days for six months. I've been fine ever since. Benadryl is an anti-allergan, and I am pleased to let you know it was one hell of a rush when shot directly into your vein. The rush didn't last long, but I looked forward to it just the same.
Anyway, I passed the dermo exam. Another stroke of good fortune. No bad moles. I have mild rosacea on my face, you almost can't see it, but he gave me the name of a cosmetic dermatologist who can laser it off if I want. I'm thinking about it.
It was a good visit, and I'd go back again right this minute just to hear him say how lucky I am. Sometimes I imagine that I carry around cancer in my pocket like an emergency dollar bill. And sometimes I just have to reach in my pocket and fish it out to remind me that every minute of every day is a gift. I wish I had learned all this important stuff in some other way, but I ignored all the little sticks. It was the big stick that got my attention.
For those of you who are better with sticks, I think the thing to remember is that whatever we're doing, wherever we've been and wherever we're going, no matter how bad it gets, we're lucky. We're really, really lucky.
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