r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal
spring 2009 essays
the menopausal warrior queen dictates
7 rules for fighting the evil breast cancer
by tana b. suter
After I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I couldn’t help but notice
circumstances that, when they arose, seemed to strike me as blatantly
unfair. To each I would respond with a dramatic sigh and state emphatically
to anyone who would listen, “There ought to be a rule against that!”
Now as the self-proclaimed Menopausal Warrior Queen, I decree that the
rules that follow are hereby effective immediately and across the universe.
Okay, so I don’t really have that kind of power. But if I did, here are the ones
I would implement with the snap of my noble fingers.
Rule 1: Bad behavior on the breast cancer patient’s part should
not be held against her by others, at least not permanently. Actually,
this rule was in effect for me although I wasn’t badly behaved all the time. I
was at my worst when I was recovering from my mastectomy and breast
reconstruction surgery and my husband was my primary caregiver. After a
week in the hospital, he drove me home and bundled me off to bed, then set
to the design and execution of a well-documented system of round-the-clock
checks, meds, and drain line cleanings that would have impressed Florence
Nightingale. He made sure I ate on schedule. He arose every hour on the
hour, night after night, to lead me to the bathroom since I couldn’t walk
without wandering because of the pain medication. He was the model of
loving efficiency. Since I was unable do much by myself, I really did need his
help. But his unlimited cheerfulness made me want to smack him, so I soon
dubbed him the “Nurse Nazi.”
Luckily, he remained steadfast through my emotional outbursts and did
not hold them against me. His explanation was that my temporary lack of
gratitude was the result of exhaustion, pain, medications and fear which
sounded plausible enough to me. Therefore, I dictate that this rule is now in
effect for all, henceforth.
Rule 2: Anyone who accompanies you to a diagnostic test should
be prepared to dress you once the test is complete. I took a doctor-
prescribed Xanax prior to my MRI biopsy and it did the job because I don’t
remember any pain or discomfort. The tricky part came when the procedure
was finished. I was so out of it that I couldn’t dress myself, so the nurse
called my husband from the waiting room to help me. The jeans I wore had
slipped off quite easily when I undressed to change into a gown. But getting
those same jeans back on proved to be about as difficult as stuffing sausage
meat into a casing, only without the spiffy machine. Ed was able to place my
feet into the leg openings while I sat on the bench, but when he tried to
stand me up my rag doll posture made it difficult for him to pull them up
around my waist. His military training served him well as he draped me over
his shoulders in a modified fireman’s carry, propping me up so he could slide
the jeans over my hips. My giggles over Ed’s groans coming from behind the
dressing room curtain caused the nurse to check to see if everything was
okay. In retrospect, I was grateful that I hadn’t asked one of our male
neighbors to drive me to the test. That would have made the rounds of our
neighborhood at lightning speed!
Rule 3: You should not be held responsible for breaking basic
fashion rules when coming home from the hospital or at anytime
during treatment.
This rule can keep you off the fashion hook for four or five months, at a
minimum. For example, although it was not a combination I would normally
wear, drawstring sweat pants, a blouse that buttoned up the front, and pink
Crocs on my feet were all I could manage when I left the hospital. Since it
was chilly that day, I layered my white terry cloth robe over it all for an
attractive finish to the outfit. The good news is, no one cared because
everyone leaves the hospital looking like hell anyway. And I didn’t care
because… I was on pain meds. Thank God my oldest daughter, ever ready
with her camera, was not there or I would certainly have shown up on the
back page of Fashion Don’ts in a future Glamour magazine with a black
rectangle over my eyes.
Then there are the days during treatment when concocting any outfit,
much less a fashionable one, is just too overwhelming. One afternoon after a
chemo treatment I answered the doorbell looking a bit green while wearing my
trusty terrycloth robe over pink knit pajamas, slippers, and a pink terry
turban on my head. A Victoria’s Secret ad gone terribly wrong. The FedEx
man, polite but wide-eyed, had me sign for the package, then literally sprinted
back to the safety of his truck. Note the common theme of the robe in both
anti-fashion examples. Maybe I should decree that runway designers need to
elevate the style status of fluffy terrycloth robes in next year’s collections!
Rule 4: As a cancer patient, you should not be embarrassed to
admit to the use of unorthodox methods to solve unexpected
annoyances. I submit the example of what to do with your head after you
shave it, that is, if you choose to shave off your hair prior to it falling out
during chemotherapy. A week or so after you shave, some hairs will not fall
out readily, won’t come out when rubbing your head in the shower, and are
also not growing. They feel like little needles and can be pretty uncomfortable
under a hat, scarf, wig or crown.
I presented this dilemma to my husband, ever the willing problem solver.
He suggested the typical male answer to most all of life’s problems – duct
tape. My first instinct was to snap back at him: “Are you crazy? It isn’t
enough that I am bald? Now you want me to rip the skin off my head??”
(This was a holdover from the bad behavior highlighted in Rule #1.) But I
managed to hold my tongue and, after conceding that this stuff was used in
wartime to patch bullet holes in helicopter blades until repairs could be made,
decided that I didn’t have much to lose if I was careful. And I had to face the
cold reality that none of my ideas had worked.
Per his instructions I cut a 9” length of tape, wrapped it around my palm
and the top of my hand, sticky side out, then slowly and gently rolled my
covered palm across my head where the needle hairs were. Sure enough,
many of them came out without any pain while my skin remained intact. As I
performed this exercise Ed sat in the bedroom anxiously awaiting the results.
I walked out and stated ruefully, “As much as I hate to admit it, this actually
works.” After a few more duct tape treatments, I progressed to my Sheltie’s
pet roller for the less stubborn hairs. These two techniques got me to the
point where I had no more needles and no more hairs falling out and sticking
to my pillow or turban. Therefore, I order that we will no longer be
embarrassed to share our unusual (okay, weird) solutions with others who
might benefit.
Rule 5: Staying with the hair theme, wigs need to be cooler. I don’
t mean better styling, although President’s wives must be popular images for
some wig designers because one made me look like Mamie Eisenhower while
another channeled Pat Nixon. The wig I finally selected was a stunner and was
comfortable enough when I bought it in mid-October. That is, until my first
serious hot flashes began after I started chemotherapy. Then, all I wanted to
do was strip off everything – my clothes, the wig – and do it fast. Since that
kind of behavior can get you arrested out in public, I sucked it up until the
flash was over. But over a period of four months I went through several
packages of batteries for my personal hand fan. That sweet little device
saved me from becoming bald jail bait. So forthwith, wigs will help us look
terrific while containing a cool gel lining in the net cap so we can survive
climate change, both personal and global, while staying on the right side of
the law.
Rule 6: Steroids and adjuvant hormone therapy should not result
in weight gain. Here’s another one where the drug universe really sticks it
to us. Although I didn’t have a weight problem before, once I started my
second round of chemo accompanied by steroids, I packed on 13 pounds
before I could bat my skimpy-eyelashed lids. It didn’t help that I was moving
less because of bone pain, fatigue, and winter weather, and my steroid-
induced appetite evaporated any attempts at portion control. But the
appearance of my ballooning alter ego was definitely unwelcome. And, for the
record, I was still bald.
As the effects of the chemo drugs faded, and the weather started to turn
warmer, I began an exercise regimen to strengthen my body, doing a little bit
at a time, and progressing as I felt stronger. Just about the time I started to
feel like I was hitting my stride, my oncologist initiated a one pill per day
hormone therapy which will continue for five years or more. One of the most
common side effects is – yes, you guessed it – weight gain. You have to love
the irony here. It’s not like we need help gaining weight as we mature and
our metabolisms downshift after menopause. I am dutifully exercising and
watching what I eat, as well as how much, and am feeling 100% better and
looking fitter and firmer but really, this rule needs to happen – NOW – before
I gain another ounce!
Rule 7: When you ask for the curly hair chemo, then you should
get curly hair on the regrowth. I spent my entire life begrudging my two
brothers their curls, while my hair was stick straight. That’s another rule that
I should have taken care of long ago. (Did I mention I am the oldest, and had
to put up with them both, so they owe me?)
But I digress. When I heard that many survivors’ hair grows back curly,
I saw my chance. I explicitly requested the curly hair chemo mix from my
oncologist, who appraised me with a puzzled look, nodded, and said vaguely,
“Aha.” Now as I examine the current quarter inch regrowth that nominally
qualifies as my crowning glory, there is not one curl to be seen. The hairs are
baby soft and delicate, and there are many more silver representatives than
before. What is that all about? But not a damn one is curly. So let’s revise
this evolving rule: Curly hair chemo, if requested, means you get curly, non-
gray, luxuriant tresses as your regrowth, and this goes double if you have
two ungrateful brothers who have curly hair and the gall to complain about it
in your presence. Now that’s a kickin’ rule!
In summary, I don’t mean to be a complainer. But if these rules were
effective today, coping with breast cancer surgery and treatment could be
rendered significantly more straightforward and certainly less maddening.
Alas, until that time comes, we just have to hunker down and fight our way
through it, day by day. To those untouched by breast cancer I say, good
luck, annual mammograms all around, and keep ‘em coming! And to my
brave, survivor sisters: Fight on, Warrior Queens! We can’t back down now
and we can’t let the Evil Breast Cancer win!
spring 2009 essays
the menopausal warrior queen dictates
7 rules for fighting the evil breast cancer
by tana b. suter
After I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I couldn’t help but notice
circumstances that, when they arose, seemed to strike me as blatantly
unfair. To each I would respond with a dramatic sigh and state emphatically
to anyone who would listen, “There ought to be a rule against that!”
Now as the self-proclaimed Menopausal Warrior Queen, I decree that the
rules that follow are hereby effective immediately and across the universe.
Okay, so I don’t really have that kind of power. But if I did, here are the ones
I would implement with the snap of my noble fingers.
Rule 1: Bad behavior on the breast cancer patient’s part should
not be held against her by others, at least not permanently. Actually,
this rule was in effect for me although I wasn’t badly behaved all the time. I
was at my worst when I was recovering from my mastectomy and breast
reconstruction surgery and my husband was my primary caregiver. After a
week in the hospital, he drove me home and bundled me off to bed, then set
to the design and execution of a well-documented system of round-the-clock
checks, meds, and drain line cleanings that would have impressed Florence
Nightingale. He made sure I ate on schedule. He arose every hour on the
hour, night after night, to lead me to the bathroom since I couldn’t walk
without wandering because of the pain medication. He was the model of
loving efficiency. Since I was unable do much by myself, I really did need his
help. But his unlimited cheerfulness made me want to smack him, so I soon
dubbed him the “Nurse Nazi.”
Luckily, he remained steadfast through my emotional outbursts and did
not hold them against me. His explanation was that my temporary lack of
gratitude was the result of exhaustion, pain, medications and fear which
sounded plausible enough to me. Therefore, I dictate that this rule is now in
effect for all, henceforth.
Rule 2: Anyone who accompanies you to a diagnostic test should
be prepared to dress you once the test is complete. I took a doctor-
prescribed Xanax prior to my MRI biopsy and it did the job because I don’t
remember any pain or discomfort. The tricky part came when the procedure
was finished. I was so out of it that I couldn’t dress myself, so the nurse
called my husband from the waiting room to help me. The jeans I wore had
slipped off quite easily when I undressed to change into a gown. But getting
those same jeans back on proved to be about as difficult as stuffing sausage
meat into a casing, only without the spiffy machine. Ed was able to place my
feet into the leg openings while I sat on the bench, but when he tried to
stand me up my rag doll posture made it difficult for him to pull them up
around my waist. His military training served him well as he draped me over
his shoulders in a modified fireman’s carry, propping me up so he could slide
the jeans over my hips. My giggles over Ed’s groans coming from behind the
dressing room curtain caused the nurse to check to see if everything was
okay. In retrospect, I was grateful that I hadn’t asked one of our male
neighbors to drive me to the test. That would have made the rounds of our
neighborhood at lightning speed!
Rule 3: You should not be held responsible for breaking basic
fashion rules when coming home from the hospital or at anytime
during treatment.
This rule can keep you off the fashion hook for four or five months, at a
minimum. For example, although it was not a combination I would normally
wear, drawstring sweat pants, a blouse that buttoned up the front, and pink
Crocs on my feet were all I could manage when I left the hospital. Since it
was chilly that day, I layered my white terry cloth robe over it all for an
attractive finish to the outfit. The good news is, no one cared because
everyone leaves the hospital looking like hell anyway. And I didn’t care
because… I was on pain meds. Thank God my oldest daughter, ever ready
with her camera, was not there or I would certainly have shown up on the
back page of Fashion Don’ts in a future Glamour magazine with a black
rectangle over my eyes.
Then there are the days during treatment when concocting any outfit,
much less a fashionable one, is just too overwhelming. One afternoon after a
chemo treatment I answered the doorbell looking a bit green while wearing my
trusty terrycloth robe over pink knit pajamas, slippers, and a pink terry
turban on my head. A Victoria’s Secret ad gone terribly wrong. The FedEx
man, polite but wide-eyed, had me sign for the package, then literally sprinted
back to the safety of his truck. Note the common theme of the robe in both
anti-fashion examples. Maybe I should decree that runway designers need to
elevate the style status of fluffy terrycloth robes in next year’s collections!
Rule 4: As a cancer patient, you should not be embarrassed to
admit to the use of unorthodox methods to solve unexpected
annoyances. I submit the example of what to do with your head after you
shave it, that is, if you choose to shave off your hair prior to it falling out
during chemotherapy. A week or so after you shave, some hairs will not fall
out readily, won’t come out when rubbing your head in the shower, and are
also not growing. They feel like little needles and can be pretty uncomfortable
under a hat, scarf, wig or crown.
I presented this dilemma to my husband, ever the willing problem solver.
He suggested the typical male answer to most all of life’s problems – duct
tape. My first instinct was to snap back at him: “Are you crazy? It isn’t
enough that I am bald? Now you want me to rip the skin off my head??”
(This was a holdover from the bad behavior highlighted in Rule #1.) But I
managed to hold my tongue and, after conceding that this stuff was used in
wartime to patch bullet holes in helicopter blades until repairs could be made,
decided that I didn’t have much to lose if I was careful. And I had to face the
cold reality that none of my ideas had worked.
Per his instructions I cut a 9” length of tape, wrapped it around my palm
and the top of my hand, sticky side out, then slowly and gently rolled my
covered palm across my head where the needle hairs were. Sure enough,
many of them came out without any pain while my skin remained intact. As I
performed this exercise Ed sat in the bedroom anxiously awaiting the results.
I walked out and stated ruefully, “As much as I hate to admit it, this actually
works.” After a few more duct tape treatments, I progressed to my Sheltie’s
pet roller for the less stubborn hairs. These two techniques got me to the
point where I had no more needles and no more hairs falling out and sticking
to my pillow or turban. Therefore, I order that we will no longer be
embarrassed to share our unusual (okay, weird) solutions with others who
might benefit.
Rule 5: Staying with the hair theme, wigs need to be cooler. I don’
t mean better styling, although President’s wives must be popular images for
some wig designers because one made me look like Mamie Eisenhower while
another channeled Pat Nixon. The wig I finally selected was a stunner and was
comfortable enough when I bought it in mid-October. That is, until my first
serious hot flashes began after I started chemotherapy. Then, all I wanted to
do was strip off everything – my clothes, the wig – and do it fast. Since that
kind of behavior can get you arrested out in public, I sucked it up until the
flash was over. But over a period of four months I went through several
packages of batteries for my personal hand fan. That sweet little device
saved me from becoming bald jail bait. So forthwith, wigs will help us look
terrific while containing a cool gel lining in the net cap so we can survive
climate change, both personal and global, while staying on the right side of
the law.
Rule 6: Steroids and adjuvant hormone therapy should not result
in weight gain. Here’s another one where the drug universe really sticks it
to us. Although I didn’t have a weight problem before, once I started my
second round of chemo accompanied by steroids, I packed on 13 pounds
before I could bat my skimpy-eyelashed lids. It didn’t help that I was moving
less because of bone pain, fatigue, and winter weather, and my steroid-
induced appetite evaporated any attempts at portion control. But the
appearance of my ballooning alter ego was definitely unwelcome. And, for the
record, I was still bald.
As the effects of the chemo drugs faded, and the weather started to turn
warmer, I began an exercise regimen to strengthen my body, doing a little bit
at a time, and progressing as I felt stronger. Just about the time I started to
feel like I was hitting my stride, my oncologist initiated a one pill per day
hormone therapy which will continue for five years or more. One of the most
common side effects is – yes, you guessed it – weight gain. You have to love
the irony here. It’s not like we need help gaining weight as we mature and
our metabolisms downshift after menopause. I am dutifully exercising and
watching what I eat, as well as how much, and am feeling 100% better and
looking fitter and firmer but really, this rule needs to happen – NOW – before
I gain another ounce!
Rule 7: When you ask for the curly hair chemo, then you should
get curly hair on the regrowth. I spent my entire life begrudging my two
brothers their curls, while my hair was stick straight. That’s another rule that
I should have taken care of long ago. (Did I mention I am the oldest, and had
to put up with them both, so they owe me?)
But I digress. When I heard that many survivors’ hair grows back curly,
I saw my chance. I explicitly requested the curly hair chemo mix from my
oncologist, who appraised me with a puzzled look, nodded, and said vaguely,
“Aha.” Now as I examine the current quarter inch regrowth that nominally
qualifies as my crowning glory, there is not one curl to be seen. The hairs are
baby soft and delicate, and there are many more silver representatives than
before. What is that all about? But not a damn one is curly. So let’s revise
this evolving rule: Curly hair chemo, if requested, means you get curly, non-
gray, luxuriant tresses as your regrowth, and this goes double if you have
two ungrateful brothers who have curly hair and the gall to complain about it
in your presence. Now that’s a kickin’ rule!
In summary, I don’t mean to be a complainer. But if these rules were
effective today, coping with breast cancer surgery and treatment could be
rendered significantly more straightforward and certainly less maddening.
Alas, until that time comes, we just have to hunker down and fight our way
through it, day by day. To those untouched by breast cancer I say, good
luck, annual mammograms all around, and keep ‘em coming! And to my
brave, survivor sisters: Fight on, Warrior Queens! We can’t back down now
and we can’t let the Evil Breast Cancer win!
pictured, the author