My bilateral prophylactic oophorectomy (Or… ten years after my mother died of ovarian cancer I take action to not follow in her footsteps)

My mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer on April 11, 2000.  On April 11, 2004, exactly four years later, she died. I still miss her every day.
In 1993 I had a hysterectomy due to large fibroids. I’d already had four children and my uterus had served me well, so I had no real issue with removing it.  The consent form that I’d been asked to sign included an oophorectomy (removal of ovaries) along with the hysterectomy. Rebel that I am, I crossed out that section and wrote that I was NOT consenting to the removal of my ovaries which, at the age of 36, had plenty of life and love (read: libido) left in them.  The nurse chewed me out and told me that I was not allowed to cross off sections of the consent form.  Seriously!?  It’s my body!
I was given another consent form to complete “correctly.”  On this one I wrote, “wake me up if you want to touch my ovaries.  No consent to oophorectomy given!” Needless to say, I kept my ovaries. And I’m glad I did.
Eleven years later, after Mom died of this deadly cancer that has no real symptoms nor any reliable screening method, I began to ponder the idea of having my ovaries removed.  At first, I just became highly vigilant about yearly CA-125 blood tests (the best screening available, but actually useless as a reliable screening tool) and trans-vaginal ultrasounds.  I felt that this was the best I could do and I wasn’t quite ready to give up my ovaries just yet.  My doctor and I had an on-going conversation, spread over the years, accompanied by blood tests to show where I was in menopause – just beginning, in the throes of it, or all the way through it.
This summer, the blood test showed that I was all the way through menopause and out on the other side. I pictured an old, shriveled lady on a cane when I heard that and I may or may not have had myself a little pity party in the car while I sat in the doctor’s parking lot.
At this point, my ovaries that had served me so well for so many years were deemed useless and I made the decision to have them removed prophylactically – maybe next summer.  As I discussed this with my family, the consensus was ‘why wait?’  So I set off to find the very best surgeon to do the job.  (Hey, we’re in Seattle!  The very best surgeon IS definitely here; I just had to identify who it is!)
After some research and conversations with those in the know, I decided on Dr. Pam Paley, whose is THE star in this field.  When I met with her, she said that my surgery would be the easiest of her whole week, as she normally deals with cancers that are already doing plenty of damage.
We set a date of January 7, 2014. 
Easy-peasy! Right?
Well, once I heard what the prep for surgery was to be like, it felt like more of an ordeal.  But that’s because I’m a wuss. My instructions were to stop eating at noon on Sunday (for a Tuesday surgery!). I could only have clear liquids on Sunday, to be followed on Monday morning with that vile GOLytely stuff. 

(Banana for scale.)  (Bad Reddit joke…)
That GALLON container comes with about a cup of salty chemicals at the bottom.  When water is added, it turns into a gallon of gooey, slimy, salty liquid. It comes with something the company calls a flavor packet but you should know that the flavor packet did exactly NOTHING!
Here’s my PSA for how to get through the prep phase of pre-surgery or pre-colonoscopy:

1. A few days before you are instructed to stop eating solids (in my experience, this has been about two days for pelvic surgery and one day for a colonoscopy), start eating lightly.  No red meat, no hard-to-digest foods.  I had chicken soup, applesauce, bananas, toast, etc.
2. Also a few days before the fast and colon clean-out, make sure you have or go out and buy the following:
1. LOW-SALT chicken broth (The one I bought had just 70 mg of salt. Right next to it on the store shelf were broths with up to 1000 mg of salt, so read those labels carefully!)
2. Jolly Rancher sour apple hard candies
3. Other gummy candies
4. Other clear juices.  (“Clear” means you can see through the juice when you hold it up to light.)  Vitamin water, Snapple, and ginger ale are also great.
5. Liquid or powdered flavor enhancers.  Go for the strongest they have!  I chose acai berry, but I was allowed red liquids.  If you’re having a colonoscopy, you will be asked to avoid red liquids, in which case maybe go for tart and tangy, like lemon-lime.
6. Clear minty mouthwash.
3. The night before you are to begin the GOlytely stuff, mix in the water and refrigerate it.  You can mix in the flavor packet if you want; it really won’t make a difference. 
4. When it’s time to drink the stuff, try some of the following hints (and remember, you’ll drink enough of it that you can try new things for each couple of glasses):
1. Fill a glass with ice.  Insert a WIDE straw.  Pour the GOlytely mixture over the ice.  Add a flavor enhancer if you like.  Mix well. Put the straw way at the back of your mouth and CHUG!
2. Immediately after you finish the liquid take a swig of mouthwash. It will take away the salty flavor of the mixture you just drank.
3. Then suck on a Jolly Rancher.
4. Don’t do this over the sink if you have ever puked into a sink!  The association might be more than you can bear!
5. My favorite way to drink the GoLytely was to heat it with an equal part chicken broth, microwave it to hot, but not so hot that you’d have to sip it daintily, and then CHUG that.  This felt great after all the icy cups of cold stuff and it tasted FAR better! In fact, it tasted just like salty-but-not-too-salty chicken broth!  Had I known how much better this was, I probably would have done this for the entire gallon.
5. Now you wait.  I waited for a few hours thinking that I’d done something wrong and I would never poop. And then, suddenly: (We got Cards Against Humanity for Christmas from Elisabeth’s boyfriend, Danny.  This is the one I pulled out first when the gift arrived on the day of my colon prep.  How’s THAT for serendipity?!)
6. I was told to buy baby wipes for use on this particular day. That worked fine until a few hours in and then it began to sting!  I suggest flushable Wet Ones without the stingy chemicals.
7. You’re through the worst of it now, but you can’t stop until you “run clear.”  I was still drinking boullion and pee-pooping (that’s what it feels like – peeing from your butt!) TWELVE hours after I’d taken the first swig!

Just when I was just about finished with the bowel cleanse ordeal, Elisabeth showed up with a gift pack for me!  Mmmmmm – bittersweet chocolate, raw almonds, a coxy-comfy shirt, slipper socks, and some Burts Bees facial wipes and lip balm. What a sweety!

Elisabeth, who is a neuro ICU nurse at Swedish Medical Center, had volunteered to spend the night at our house and get up at 4 AM to take me to the hospital, stay with me there as necessary, and take me home, hopefully on the same day – though a hospital bed had apparently been reserved for me “just in case.” 
I think Tom was just as grateful to Elisabeth as I was! Early in the morning on “chug day,” after a day of fasting, I was going through my normal morning routine of feeding dogs and hubby and making Tom’s lunch, when I got light-headed and collapsed onto the floor. I didn’t faint, I just had to lie down right then and there.  Tom left the room, but I wasn’t sure why.  Was he finding his phone to call 911? I called to him, “I’m OK…” so he would unnecessarily call 911.  He came back with… a PILLOW!  So sweet!  So compassionate. But so… well, not nurse-like. 
Elisabeth and I left for Evergreen Surgical Center very early in the morning. 
I have to say that I am SOOO impressed with Evergreen Hospital’s Surgery Center!  From the second we arrived, we were surrounded by kindness, compassion, knowledge, and professionalism. 
And creativity! Look at this passport that guided us through the process:


With the amazingly kind and compassionate staff and the surgery passport, we were off to a good start and I felt great.
Then came time for the IV insertion.  I have a history with IV insertion and hidden veins.  Remember this?  Knowing there would likely be an issue with finding a vein, I tried to prepare myself in a few ways.  I drank lots of water until exactly midnight before the morning of surgery, knowing that veins are easier to find if you’re well hydrated.  I also got a prescription for ONE Xanax tablet, to be taken upon arrival to the hospital, knowing that, based on my history, this part would be full of anxiety.  I took only half of the Xanax – which turned out to be a big mistake! 
The nurse tried to inset an IV first on my left hand.  Nope, no go.  I started to shake.  Then she went for the right hand, even numbing the site before poking around.  Again, no go.  In a tribute to what a great nurse she was, she then turned down the lights and asked everyone to be still and quiet for a bit.  That did help.  But what really helped is that she went out to find my anesthesiologist, asking him to do his magic – which he did on the first try.  Elisabeth was VERY impressed!  I didn’t look.
The anesthesiologist then gave me more “calming meds” in the IV and off we went to the operating room.  I remember looking at a HUGE machine in the corner of the room and asking if that was “my robot.”  “It sure is,” he said… and then I was out!   
I’ve had issues with waking from anesthesia before.  I’ve been incredibly nauseous, groggy, and just plain “yukky.” Thanks to the conversation I had with this anesthesiologist (before he gave me more “calming meds”), I wasn’t nauseous at all upon waking!  He gave me a patch to wear behind my ear (which is still there, the next day).  I woke up slowly and gently.  Thank goodness, because the anesthesia is what I was most scared of!
The surgery only took about an hour and a half, thank goodness.  I was wheeled back to Elisabeth and we slowly got ready to go home.  Everything ran completely smoothly and I can’t speak highly enough about Evergreen Hospital’s Surgical Center.
I also can’t speak highly enough about my daughter-nurse, who took such great care of me!  Tom came home to take over when Elisabeth had to leave for her shift as a *real* nurse, and he brought each of us a half-dozen roses!

Tom is staying home today to take care of me – and also to build a kitty condo for these three, who are keeping me company in bed today…

And now I’m ovary-less, but I have five rather pesky, painful holes in my belly.  But I have no regrets and I’m glad I decided to have these dried up eggs removed! I can’t say what I’ll die from someday, but it won’t be uterine or ovarian cancer, that’s for sure!

Hole-y mole-y!

I have often advocated regular visits to the dermatologist for “mole checks” on this blog.  Until my brother-in-law, who has melanoma, urged me to be checked for suspicious moles, I’d never seen a dermatologist.  But his situation (Interferon treatments for an entire year, hoping for a 10% chance of a more positive outcome) jolted me out of my procrastination and I finally found a dermatologist and went in for a “mole inspection.” 

At that first appointment, Dr. Voss found four suspicious moles.  She removed and biopsied them and called me back to take deeper tissue from two of them that showed irregular cells.  I have quite the scar on my chest, which affects the necklines I choose to wear these days, but I do NOT have cancer.

A few months later, I returned for a follow-up check and lo and behold, another suspicious mole was removed.  My latest follow-up appointment was scheduled for January 5th – the day after my accident – so obviously that was cancelled.  Now, normally I’d probably space and not re-schedule (after all, it’s just a check-up…), but in this case I knew better and I rescheduled for when I knew I’d be mobile enough to get to the office.

Good thing, too.  Because yesterday FOUR more moles were removed, and today my forearm looks like this:

That wound is nothing – and yet, fear of that silly superficial scratch is what had prevented me – a redhead, no less – from being checked in the first place!  How stupid is that?!

So this is your call to action.  Pick up the phone and make an appointment with a dermatologist for a mole check NOW.  Do not wait.  Don’t wait till you read just five more blogs.  Don’t wait till after dinner.  Don’t wait till you’re near a phone.  Don't wait till you feel like it. 

Just do it.  NOW.  Right this minute!

And if you’re in the Seattle area, I can recommend Julie Voss at Northwest Face in Kirkland.  You’ll even have this view from the parking lot (bring a sandwich and have a picnic!):

Form over Function

I'm 52 years old and I don't think I've ever had bright red toenails until yesterday, when Kat offered to paint them for me. Hey, if my foot doesn't work right, at least it can look halfway decent!

If my ever-swollen left foot ever fits into a shoe again, it will be a miracle!

A melanoma quiz: which of these moles is suspicious and which is not?

My doctor will remove one of these moles in a few weeks because it concerns her as possibly being pre-cancerous.  The other one doesn't bother her in the least. 

Can you identify the worrisome mole?  If you can't (and I sure couldn't!), you should make an appointment with your own dermatologist for a full-body mole check -- especially if you're a redhead like me, or fair-skinned. 

This chart should NOT take the place of a personal check-up, but it might help you in identifying suspicious moles: So really, will you do it, please?  If you need a specific personal prod, do it for my brother-in-law who was diagnosed with melanoma last March and has been enduring a year of debilitating Interferon treatments (it's like having the flu for a year) in an effort to improve his chance of survival by 10%.

Oh, and the mole Dr. Voss will be removing is the one on the lower left.  How did you do?  Did you guess correctly?  One of the other moles she'll remove is on my left ankle, not more than an inch away from one of my surgery scars!  How's that for sigh-inducing chutzpah?! 

Just Call Me "Whimpy" (Whiney and Limpy)

TEN whole weeks after my fall, I'm still swollen and often purple, and I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever wear a left shoe again. 

I'd like to say that I'm well on my way to walking again -- and I know that day will eventually come -- but I'm still not putting my full weight on my injured foot, even using both crutches. 

It was icy and snowy in Seattle today, just like it was on January 4th, making it seem as if very little progress has been made since my fall. 

I know that's not true, of course, and thinking back to that first week after the accident, I know that much progress has been made.  But I think it will take a warm spring day for me to really notice.

POST Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome

In an encouraging, but short-lived burst of energy yesterday, I decided to hand wash some of my favorite sweaters. I'd been planning to do this since the holidays and, until yesterday, it just wasn't even an option -- or a necessity, since I've been living primarily in sleep pants and camisoles for the past two months.

As I gathered the sweaters I wanted to wash, I came upon a beautiful scarlet (crimson?) cashmere sweater.

I took it off the shelf, unfolded it, and wondered where this beautiful sweater came from. Why was it in my closet? Who did it belong to? Where did it come from? Was it a gift? It must have been, because I could never afford a cashmere sweater like this one.

As I stood there, it slowly -- very slowly -- came back to me. The day before my accident, I had brought a box of items to the local Goodwill store and, having a few minutes to kill, decided to go into the store and browse a bit. That's when I found this sweater! I tried it on, loved it, and bought it... along with... along with... damn, I couldn't remember.

Along with... wait, it's coming back to me.

Dishes? Corningware? I went into the kitchen and opened the cabinet. Yes! Ah ha! Along with these:

At that point, I began to recall my entire trip to the Goodwill store, something that I had completely forgotten until the sweater in my closet touched off the memory.

My injury occurred a full day after my trip to the Goodwill, yet I'd forgotten all about it. Why? What else had I forgotten?

Suddenly, something my boss had asked me about was beginning to make sense. A few weeks ago, he'd wondered about the status on a particular detail of a particular project. I'd drawn a complete blank and had no idea what he was talking about -- something that's bothered me ever since, because I pride myself on never dropping balls in my project management work.

I went back through my e-mails, looking into the issue my boss had inquired about, and there it was: at 11:35 PM on January 4th, I received an e-mail asking me to look into the issue. I'd begun to do just that, then decided to take a short break to take Shasta for a walk with Tom.

Instead, I fell and broke my ankle -- and dropped that ball.

Is this how post traumatic stress manifests itself? Did I simply lose a day of memories here and there around the time of the accident? Why would I lose memories from before the accident, instead of after it? And why do I have a few selected crystal clear memories about the accident itself?

I remember having both hands over my face as a way to try to deal with the pain. (Huh? Why?) I remember Tom whispering into my left ear, "You'll be OK, Sweetheart, help is on the way." (I know why I remember that -- because we don't normally use endearments or pet names for each other, and his use of "sweetheart" made me gush, even through the pain.) And I remember Peter, who has EMT training, coming outside to help, and feeling immediately that I was in strong, capable hands as he asked me to squeeze his finger... and then I didn't let go, and I held onto his hand. I remember absolutely needing to get off the steps and lie flat so I could put my head back because I felt like I'd pass out, and Peter gently helping me move into that position.

And, triumphantly, I remember the ER nurse at the hospital telling me I wouldn't remember her -- and I definitely do! (But damn, what was her name?!)

I can't explain any of this -- especially since I had no head trauma, so I can't understand why my injury messed so strangely with my memories. But I guess that's the mystery of post traumatic stress syndrome, and why it elicits more questions than answers for so many people.

Oh, no! Say it isn't snow!

I'm Steppin' It Up

This is what I've been scared of for the past two months.  I've made it up these steps that lead to my office once or twice since my injury, but mostly on my butt and always with people there "to catch me."  (Ha!  I'd take us all straight down if I were to fall!)

Today I arrived at the office alone and stood at the bottom of the steps alone (and snapped this photo as I pondered my fate)...  

Then I took a deep breath, planted my crutches (which I have to double up, since I hold on to the railing for dear life with one hand) and embarked upon my uphill battle.

My laptop is essentially my office and it, along with a few files and a notebook, travels with me in my backpack, which probably weighs about 12 to 15 pounds altogether.  That totally throws off my center of gravity -- which is an important consideration when climbing stairs using crutches.

I started in on the rhythm which takes all my concentration: plant crutches... hold railing... steady...lean over step... step up with good foot...bring up injured foot... steady again.  Plant crutches... hold railing... steady...lean over step... step up with good foot...bring up injured foot... steady again. crutches...hold railing...steady...step up.

When I got to the top of the steps, I turned around and snapped a photo of my achievement:

It might not look like much to you, but I felt like planting a flag, declaring myself victorious, and calling home from the top of the world!

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

(Presenting the contents of tonight's fortune cookie.  This must be referring to NEXT winter...)

I Get Around!

But not easily.

I got my knee walker just a few days after my surgery and I've loved it.

With the knee walker, I can move around quite quickly and have both hands free.  This allows me to cook, clean, move things from place to place (thanks to the basket), and to be out and about.

The limitation of the knee walker has been that I can't get it up and down steps, so I can't bring it with me outside the house without help.

But I love my knee walker like Tom Hanks loved his Wilson ball in Castway -- it's almost taken on a personality of a faithful, ever-present friend.

Now that my cast has come off and I've been instructed to gradually put more weight on my foot using crutches, my knee walker has become... well, a bit of a crutch!  I want to keep using it, but I must not.  Doctor's orders insist that I must rely more on these damn things...

...and if we're gonna make another Tom Hanks movie analogy (must we?), these things feel more like the broken lunar module in Apollo 13 -- I have no choice but to count on them and I just hope they'll get me where I need to go without launching me further into some strange orbit that I can't recover from (oh, that's bad... sorry!).  I feel unstable on these crutches and just hope, every time I plant them, that they "hold."

I'm supposed to put weight on my foot now, beginning with 20 pounds last week and adding another 20 pounds every three days.  That works alright when I have my storm trooper boot on...

...but I'm trying to spend more time moving my foot around (very important at this stage), which requires that I spend more time like this... 

... and even touching my foot to the floor just feels weird.  Weird, weird, weird!  My first reaction, when I tried to put my bare foot flat on the floor, was 'Uh oh... they put this back together all wrong' because my foot wouldn't even sit flush on the floor.

This is a huge part of my rehabilitation right now:

Each evening Tom massages my foot and moves it around to slowly increase my range of motion.  For some reason the massage is more painful than pleasurable, probably because my foot is still quite swollen.  But it definitely helps, especially with increasing my range of motion each day.  For now, this is the extent of physical therapy (other than our initial PT appointment at Harborview), but in the next few weeks I'll be paying someone to say to me, "No really -- this is supposed to hurt."

Gee, I can't wait.

On Monday I'll be returning to work full-time again.  I went back twice last week and braved that steep, scary staircase.  The second time I did it, I told my boss that I'll probably just work from the Microsoft building closest to our office (Microsoft is so amazingly, wonderfully handicapped accessible!) because I carry a heavy backpack with my laptop and files, and going up those stairs with crutches and my backpack, which throws off my center of gravity, is just downright scary.  Can you imagine if I went tumbling straight down them?  I'd be starting all this over again... at best! 

My first post-surgery bath: blissful, bubbly, blog-worthy (yes-huh!) -- and dedicated to Lynn!

My dear friend Lynn stopped by unexpectedly yesterday, shortly after I returned from the "reveal" (cast removal) at Harborview Medical Center.  It was great to see her again and I apologized profusely for not yet returning the dishes in which she delivered that delicious dinner a few weeks ago.  (I'd been meaning to do that!) She she didn't have time to chat but wanted to drop off "a little something," knowing that I'd soon be taking my first post-surgery bath -- and how much I've been missing my nightly bath. 

This is what Lynn bequeathed upon me:

Thanks to Lynn, I just had the most gloriously wonderful bath, actually immersing my foot INTO the water and soaking it (and all of me) for a very long time!  Yes, I did keep thinking about how much work I have to do and how I can't afford this indulgence, but I tried very hard to quell those thoughts... over and over again.  It wasn't easy getting in and out of the rub (think about it - how do you climb out, keeping your weight off one foot?!), but it was well worth it and I do believe I'm back to my nightly bath ritual.

Thanks Lynn!

From a purple cast to a Darth Vader boot

Just as I anticipated, my cast was removed this morning: 

Not that I compared or anything, but Jessica (the other patient in the room who, it turned out had surgery the same day I did) had a cast that was vastly prettier than mine!  For obvious reasons, she kept her cast!  Isn't it pretty?  She also happens to work at Microsoft as -- you guessed it -- an artist!

So I'm going to do something very brave here.  Something that will prove that I'm comfortable in my own shedding, wrinkly, swollen, hairy, stinky skin.  I'm gonna post photos of my leg soon after it came out of the cast. 

I hope you haven't just eaten.

You're thinking I'm being overly dramatic, aren't you?  You're thinking that it really doesn't look all that bad.  Right? 

Well, brace yourself.

Now don't get all third-grade "Ewwwww...coooties!!" on me, but there you have it. 

Of course, one of the first things I did when I got home was this: 

It felt maaaavelous!  I followed that up with some of this:

 

And then I proceeded to massage my foot and attempt to move it around, per doctor's orders.  Any movement at all was excruciating and completely indiscernible to the naked eye.  Really, I tried to point my toes, even just a little, but they simply wouldn't move.  And rolling my ankle from side to side...

No, I can't even write about it yet. 

So this is what I'll be living in for the next 6 weeks:

It's very Darth Vader.  Even the name of it -- "AirCast" -- reminds me of Darth Vader's airy, scary breathing!  But the name comes about because I actually pump air into it, which provides both cushioning and support.  My instruction today was to put 20% of my weight on my foot using crutches to walk, and then increase the weight-bearing by 20 pounds every three days.

So as of today the healing process is out of the doctor's hands and in mine (or rather, in my feet).  If I use my scooter as I have been, I simply won't heal, so I need to start walking with crutches and moving my foot, no matter how much it hurts.  Wish me luck!

How Being Broken has Mended Me

Tomorrow, almost two months after walking out my front door to take the dog for a walk and breaking my ankle instead, my cast will be removed. Immediately after my accident (in the ambulance, in fact), all I could think about was the need to call my boss and tell him that I most likely wouldn't be in the office in the morning. When I was told that the break was a bad one and would require surgery and six to eight weeks completely off my foot, I was at first in shock and then defiant.

"I don't have six to eight weeks," I insisted. "Not an option!" As a dedicated and consummate Senior Project Manager working on Microsoft projects, I am in charge of scheduling resources and following timelines to the tee for a very demanding client -- and breaking my ankle definitely was not in the scope of work!

No can do. Sorry. This injury doesn't fit into my schedule at this time. Thanks anyway.

The thing about project managers is that we seem to think that we can manage our own lives with the same control and finesse with which we manage other people's projects. That night, as I lay on the gurney in the emergency room, in agonizing pain with a foot that flopped awkwardly sideways, I began to realize that sometimes we can do neither.

The need for surgery allowed me to escape the pain -- both physical and emotional -- by focusing on a few project management tasks, such as finding the best surgeon in the Pacific Northwest, Dr Benirschke and scheduling surgery at Harborview Medical Center just four days after my accident.

I knew I was in good hands, but still, I had to insist to Dr. B, over and over, that "I really don't have time for this!" Clearly he'd heard it before and challenged me, sarcastically, yet lovingly, to get up and walk away if this didn't fit into my life's schedule.

Point well taken.

I spent four loopy days here...

....allowing me plenty of time to think. Even then, my thoughts were dictated by an I-don't-have-time-for-this attitude. And even in the hospital, I was in constant touch with my boss and co-workers, insisting that I'd heal faster than the average patient and that, fear not, I'd be back to work very soon.

I was obviously delusional, Percoset or no Percoset.

During the following week, I could neither think nor move without incessant, painful throbbing, and it was only then that I began to accept that I might not be as invincible as I'd made myself out to be, and that this injury might have a grip on me that I couldn't shake just by wishing it away. I was forced to accept that I had no choice but to slow down, stay quiet, let go -- and be grateful.

I'm normally an early riser, getting up and getting to work in my home office (or doing laundry or dishes) before getting in the car and driving to the office. But there simply was no getting up for the first three weeks after surgery. My toes would turn as purple as my cast within minutes and I was forced back to bed, elevating my foot and pacifying my pride. I had no choice but to slow down, to stay in bed, and to just simply rest.

And that's when being broken began to mend me.

I stopped fighting my injury and began to accept it. I learned to enjoy taking afternoon naps with Boo propped on the pillow, wrapped around my cast, or purring under the covers in the crook of my arm. I began to revel in not having to get dressed each morning and hurry out the front door, ready to fight traffic so I could get to work and fight project managers who -- oh, my god -- were in just too much of a hurry and who couldn't slow down long enough to ask themselves whether one extra day to finish a project would truly end the world.

I began to enjoy my mornings without an alarm clock jolting me from much-needed sleep. I began to enjoy watching TV in bed with Tom without my conscience insisting that there's work to do -- GO! And I began to let go of my need for control and revel in and appreciate Tom's devoted and capable caregiving.

I could feel myself letting go and, although I was more physically broken than I'd even been, I began to feel more emotionally quiet and steady than I'd been in a very long time. Suddenly work didn't seem so end-of-the-world critical, and what became life-saving critical instead was the commitment to walk for an hour every morning before work instead of work for an hour every morning before work (once this cast comes off).

I was changing and it was my injury that was bringing me this gift of perspective.

Soon I began to get up for longer and longer periods of time, starting with a few minutes in the living room...

... and eventually making my way down the steps...

out the back door (because I feared -- and still fear -- those outside, railing-less steps!).

As long as I have my cast, I still need help getting my scooter out of the house and into the car...

...but within five weeks of my accident, I was slowly beginning to return to real life, as I attended client meetings at Microsoft and even went out for dinner.

Even being out among the living felt different, though, as I became acutely aware of the availability of access for the disabled -- something I'd been only peripherally aware of before. I came to realize, through personal experience, that a long flight of stairs that pose no problem to 99.9% of the population can mean thousands of dollars of lost wages to one person whose family counts on her to put food on the table and a roof over their heads, and that a handicapped parking space means very little if there's no nearby accessible sidewalk.

Now that I'm preparing myself for the day that couldn't come soon enough eight weeks ago, I'm beginning to lament what I'll be giving up tomorrow when my cast comes off and I "walk" (with quotes, as I'm sure to hobble) the halls of Harborview Medical Center in my new Darth Vader walking boot.

Eight weeks ago I hit a brick wall (or flagstone step) that forced me to go from warp speed to mosey speed. But I'll be returning to full-time, in-office work next Monday and now I'm scared of something so vastly different than the fear that gripped me in the ambulance last January 4th: I'm scared that I'll forget the lessons of the past eight weeks and the peace that I found in the hidden blessing of a broken ankle.

Gettin' a Little Perspective

At almost midnight on January 4th, I was quite literally stopped dead in my tracks (literally stopped, not literally dead!) and forced to get a little perspective about some things in life that desperately needed a bit of examination.

It seems almost ridiculous now that my main thought in the ambulance that night -- other than 'this hurts like a mufu... far more than natural childbirth!' -- was 'I need to call my boss right now and tell him that I won't be in tomorrow.' Seriously. That was my most pervasive thought that night. There were projects than needed managing and I couldn't afford to be absent from work the next day.

It turns out that my timing was horrible and it did have a severe impact on my ability to do my job since two projects were slated to be kicked off on the morning of the 5th and those needed to be re-assigned... which ultimately led to my current part-time status.. which is having profound effects on us financially. But did my career come to a screeching halt and did the world come to a firey end? Amazingly enough, no.

In fact, I gained some much-needed perspective and will be taking some much-needed action in that regard, including the commitment to get out and walk (as soon as I can) for an hour a day instead of being glued to my laptop 24/7 so I can take immediate action on any and every need and potential need a client might have at any hour of any day -- because you know, if I don't, the world might stop turning and we we all be thrown into the depths of failure and despair.

Not.

Perspective is a wonderful thing.

I have two friends who are battling cancer. One is my brother-in-law, who has melanoma and is at the end of a long year of debilitating interferon treatments. His disease has had a profound impact on his family, of course, and what used to be a solid, comfortable, predictable life has become chaos and uncertainty. Overnight, on the day he was diagnosed, everything changed. And then there's my dear, dear friend Kristin, who I have mentioned a few times here. Kristin was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in October, 2004, almost FIVE years ago. She has lost a few organs and parts of both lungs and has continued to fight, determined to beat the deadliest of all cancers -- and she has fought valiantly. Within just a few weeks of her dual partial "lung-ectomy," Kristin was backpacking with her sons in Yosemite! I kid you not; this is the spirit she has! Kristin called me last night and we'll talk again later today. All I can tell you right now is that she sounds very tired -- and this is the first time in 40 years of knowing Kristin that I have heard fatigue in her voice. I'm scared -- for her, and selfishly, for me because I love her so very, very much.

Cancer is so incredibly scary because once it finds you it tends to forever be part of your life, never totally disappearing and forever threatening to grab hold. And me? I have a silly broken foot -- which is quickly healing.

Perspective.

For the past two months, I've lived my life as a disabled person. I need dipped curves and close-in parking and elevators. Stairs are like steep, insurmountable cliffs and terrain is judged by how securely my scooter wheels or crutches can grab it. I need help getting in and out of the shower, I can't play with the dog in the back yard, and I can't quickly grab toilet paper from the garage stash when we run out. I can't run to the store to buy milk, eggs and bread and I haven't taken my beloved bath in far too long.

So many things that I used to do without a second thought now take planning and effort.

But it's a silly broken foot and everything will eventually return to normal. I am so amazingly lucky!

My injury has put so much into perspective for me.

The losses that I sustained with this injury have become gains in so many ways. My gratitude and appreciation -- for both people and circumstances -- run deeper than they ever have, and I know now how truly lucky I am, in spite of a job that has become forced part-time and at risk (because my injury coincided with a dismal economy), in spite of physical pain, and in spite of limitations in mobility.

I long for my bubble bath!

It's now been six weeks since I broke my ankle and five weeks since Humpty Dumpty put me (surgically) back together again.

Lots of things have changed and I've had to make lots of adaptations (tomorrow I'll photo-blog about the dramatic process of getting from the house to the car), but you know what I miss most of all?

THIS:

How to shower when you're in a cast and use a knee walker:

For the first few weeks, you'll probably need help because you're in pain and still learning how to maneuver around. But eventually, try this:

1. Sitting down, (I usually sit on the toilet because it's close to the shower), wrap a dish towel around your cast and tuck it in the top of the cast.
2. Place a large plastic kitchen bag over your cast, past the knee. Pull the drawstrings tight and tape (we use packing tape) all around the top of your knee, sealing the plastic bag.
3. Make sure everything is where you need it:
1. The shower chair should be facing the door -- and it should not be wobbly!
2. Your shampoo, conditioner, soap, shaver, etc. should all be reachable from the shower chair.
3. Your towel(s) should be reachable from your sitting position on the shower chair.
4. Make sure the water is set to come out the handheld wand and that the wand is placed where you can reach it sitting down.
4. Undress.
5. Back up on the knee scooter all the way to the shower, so the rear wheels hit the lip of the shower.
6. Put your uninjured foot INTO the shower, keeping your knee on the scooter.
7. Slowly lean back and sit in the shower chair.
8. Move the scooter just far enough away from the shower that you can close the door, if desired, but within reach from the shower chair. (Are you sure the plastic bag around your foot is watertight??) Urge kitty not to follow you into the shower.
9. Close the door. Turn on the water (you should be able to do this from the chair). Shower! Enjoy -- as much as possible, anyway.
10. When finished, shut off water. Open door, making sure not to push your scooter away. Grab towel(s), which you've placed within reach.
11. Pull scooter all the way up to the lip of the shower again.
12. Stand up on your good foot inside the shower, as close to the lip as possible.
13. Place knee on scooter, then push away from shower, lifting up your good foot once your knee is on the scooter.
14. Be careful of any water left on the floor!