The Angie Gene

Talk about a PR windfall. Angelina Jolie, mega-movie star, humanitarian, celebrity mom and fiancée of an equally famous man has suddenly become the face of the BRCA gene world. And what a gorgeous face it is.

This is very good news. Of course it is pretty crappy news for Ms. Jolie and her family. The same crappy news women all over the world deal with each day. Difficult decisions, uncertainty and major life upheaval come with the knowledge of what it means to have this genetic disorder. I am sorry for Angie, but very glad she chose to share her story and I thank her for doing so in such a public way.

The airwaves are filled with Angelina and people everywhere are discussing her family history, cancer risk, choices and treatments. For all those people I have heard criticize or stand in judgement I would politely like to remind you that she did not have to say one word about this to anyone, ever. It could have remained private. Instead, she chose to tell the world her story.

Thank you Angelina Jolie for speaking out. It matters to women like me who face the thorny array of problems that come with being a BRCA mutant. It matters even more to all those who did not even have a clue this genetic order existed until you spoke up. Your candor will save lives.

The Angie gene. I have it too. And I will keep telling my story just as often as anyone will listen. I hope Angelina Jolie will do the same.

Downsizing. Ups and Downs.

Four weeks ago our home of fourteen years went on the market. Each day I vacuum, polish, scrub and Swiffer every inch of the 3,040 SF “fantastic single-level custom home” my realtor assures will sell at any moment. Until then I am a maid in a fancy hotel who readies the presidential suite and waits. Flowers and fresh fruit are all that remain visible on sparkling kitchen counters. Coffee maker, tea kettle or anything useful? Banished to the pantry. Odiferous bacon, heady garlic, oven-dirtying roasted chicken? Not on the menu. I lurk in the hallway each time the cats enter the laundry room. Every sign of their existence must be eliminated. If the house does not sell soon I will have to enter a rehab program for those obsessed with cleaning perfection.

My simultaneous mission is to sell off half our household without wrecking its ambience. My latest coup? The sale of a fabulous formal dining room set via eBay. Purchased in Hong Kong in 1986, this huge table is made from solid rosewood and is elaborately carved with wine grapes. A beautiful, expensive and unique Asian beauty. Hardly a garage sale item. Somehow I am not surprised this well-traveled table is about to head 3,000 miles across the country to its new home in Long Island, NY. The buyer was willing to pay as much for shipping as the table itself.

Many glasses have been raised over the years around that Hong Kong table. Fabulous meals consumed. Parties, birthdays and holidays celebrated. Memories, good and bad. Five years ago a gravely ill friend with a brain tumor destroyed one of the table’s custom handmade chair cushions in a New Year’s dinner party I would very much like to forget.

Downsizing means letting go and moving on. Along with the dining room table I bid farewell to an antique mahjong table, barstools, bookcases, artwork and more. My “mother of all garage sales” is coming as soon as the house sells. Putting a price on one’s treasures and bargaining with neighbors and strangers is liberating and difficult all at the same time.

Yesterday also marked my final visit to the medical tattoo artist who pronounced her handiwork on my reconstructed breasts complete. My downsized boobs and belly continue to settle and heal. A different sort of letting go of the past and moving forward.

So long to an old friend.

 

 

 

Moving On

Blogging about the world of BRCA decisions, surgeries and recovery has been good for me. Now it is time for a new chapter in life, in more ways than one.

Recently my spouse and I made a huge decision. We are going to relocate to Green Valley, Arizona. Jim will continue to work for a few more years, but all he needs is to be close to an airport now that his accounts are spread out all over the country. We are going to build a new home in a community that should suit us nicely today and in retirement. After fourteen years in our present home and decades in the Pacific Northwest it is time for a change.

Change is hard even when it is good.

The house I live has been my home for longer than anywhere I have ever lived. I will miss this beautiful place. Last week our handyman discovered the crawl space under the house had been invaded by raccoons who destroyed virtually all of the insulation. Just to keep the party lively, a couple of squirrels and some mice joined in to add to the mess. Guys in hazmat suits will invade my crawl space for three days to repair the damage, remove the carcasses and piles of poop. Oy!

Today we bid farewell to the oldest of our three cats. We have known for some time this was coming. Not that it makes things any easier. Just less of a shock. Another big change. I am crying as I write this.

Time to move on.

I will see the medical tattoo artist on the 24th and that will be the very last step in the lengthy process of breast reconstruction. No doctors or other medical types for a while. That is a very welcome change indeed.

Count Catula loved to cook himself in front of the fire.

Gene Discovery, Patents, and the Community

Reblogged from Thoughts from FORCE:

Recently a dear friend sent me a link to an article in the February 1996 issue of Nature Medicine. The article by journalist Adam Marcus covered a media event and panel of women’s rights advocates expressing concern about Myriad’s impending patenting of the BRCA1 gene. Panelists declared unregulated genetic testing to be the coming century's foremost threat to individual liberty. Incredibly, 17 years after the publication of Adam Marcus’ article, the debate is still ongoing—the issue of gene patenting and the consequences of lacking regulation regarding gene patents are still present and as relevant as they were then.

Read more… 955 more words

She Freidman's right on the mark, as usual. I am grateful she works so hard on behalf of families just like mine. Please take a look at her latest blog post.

Nipple Tats and Old Cats

The icing on the cake is how my plastic surgeon described it. Nipple/areola tattooing, that is. As I drove to the medical tattoo artist’s office, it did not feel at all like a moment of celebration or even an opportunity to mark the end of a tumultuous chapter. It has been 14 months since my initial bilateral mastectomy/reconstruction. Today was just another dang medical procedure that I have not been looking forward to one bit. The tattoo artist, one more stranger who wanted to mess with my mangled personal anatomy.

What a pissy attitude, I told myself. Be glad you have decent health insurance and are alive and cancer free. Put a sock in it and go finish what you started, I thought as I waited.

So, I did just that.

No offense to those who love their ink, but I really do not like tattoos. Garish tats and piercings other than normal pierced ears (not those barbaric plugs) make me want to look away. I find them disfiguring. As someone who has been carved up from stem to stern, I have a strong appreciation for Mother Nature’s work and think people should not mess with it too much. Merely my humble opinion.

What I was really thinking about while the tattoo artist’s needle buzzed in my ear was my old geezer cat, Count Catula. We had yet another vet trip this morning. For the last day or so he’s been clawing at his mouth. Sunday night he scarfed down his dinner but puked it right back up a minute later. Not at all the typical kind of barfing he does on a regular basis. His weight continues to decline and his once silky champagne colored fur is drab and clumpy. He will no longer tolerate me combing his scrawny body. So be it.

I let the tattoo artist work her magic, feeling oddly disinterested in making important decisions like size, shape and color. In passing, I asked her if she could fix something that has bugged me for nearly fifteen years. A reminder that I had extensive radiation treatment for breast cancer even though I no longer have those breasts. Four permanent marks that radiation therapists made on my skin to line up the machine that zapped the cancer. Only in my case, three of those marks disappeared in my surgical adventures and all I was left with was the biggest, ugliest most prominent blob of bluish ink that anyone could see if they looked.

When she was done I had to admit that despite the skin being all raw and angry, I could see a more normal looking appearance. That is what medical tattooing is all about. The removal of that annoying radiation tattoo was a bonus.

It will be a week or so before the top layer of skin sloughs off and I can really see what these new nips look like. I’m in no hurry.

Count Catula is sleeping soundly in my chair in the family room where he’s been for nearly six hours. I am in no hurry for the vet to call with test results.

Goodbye Baby-Poop Brown Recliner

Today I said goodbye to the motorized recliner that helped me through last year’s BRCA surgeries. No tears were shed. I hated that thing. My neighbor was happy to purchase the chair at a bargain price. He is having hip replacement surgery soon. I wished him luck and waved farewell to the chair as it headed down the driveway.

So long my friend

Now, if I could just get the hospital to fix their billing error from more than a year ago, my life would be complete.

 

 

 

Saguaro Cacti and Valentine’s Day Gifts

Random thoughts in no particular order:

A few days in Tucson has Mr. A. and me ready to pack our stuff and move there. The Sonoran desert is calling my name.

On Valentine’s Day with my sweetheart on the road, the highlight of the day will be showing my Frankenboobs to yet another stranger. A medical tattoo artist.

Green Valley, AZ on a fine winter’s day.

Ritz-Carlton at Dove Mountain. Only the hamburgers and the view were affordable!