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| Eye drops add a flourish of color to brighten any ophthalmology waiting room. |
Or what cancer people often want to know is, "can I actually still function?"
Function (noun): ability to function: My stomach-cancer friend was diagnosed and then went in for surgery. They removed his entire stomach. They followed up with chemo but halfway through he said "screw that!", he had gone through enough already, and his cancer was gone anyway, so why deal with chemo? So they stopped chemo, and he's fine. Without any stomach at all. We can take him out for indian buffet and he can eat anything. Except for the last time he was there the buffet was a bit iffy so we've settled for a future in Afghan food. But you get the point. He functions well at lunch functions (Provided that the food is up-to-snuff).
Function (noun): dressing for a function: I seem to be surviving well with my post-surgical colon prosthetic (Oh! That's not a Colostomy Bag, is it? Hold on, is that a Holister 8180 with lock-and-roll design and the updated skin barrier? Lovely choice!).
Stretchy leggings, stretchy skirt waists, long tops to cover. . . But not many jackets do well with those, so winter becomes another wardrobe challenge. (You wondered why your cancer friend didn't take you up on your offer for tickets to the semi-formal winter concert? Probably a functional-clothes issue.) HUGE shawls are lovely. They double-up as blankies-on-the-go (Thanks, Mom!).
Bladder cancer people might need to have urostomy bags--same kind of thing, same kind of wardrobe challenge. (This blog is nothing if not educational!). These bags are flat and discreet until they're. . . not. In an emergency-restroom way. Best invitation for some of us cancer patients is a place with GREAT restrooms, hopefully individual restrooms (where one can access a sink privately, and have somewhere to hang a purse and shawl and maybe a skirt for a minute while they accomplish personal hygiene feats of Olympiad proportions).
dressing for a non-functional function: As an adult, I had the chest of most 12-year-olds.
The first biopsy left me with "Is it Breast Cancer or Ovarian Cancer?" I knew that if it was breast cancer, and I had to have one removed, nobody would notice. It sounds a little flippant, but really, it was true. Bras were never needed for me. Breast-cancer women have a whole life and bras and wardrobe that I've never really understood. I DID nurse 3 children, and put in 7 years of breast feeding. That made it a little more difficult to understand the purpose of other women's big squashy boobs besides the fun factor.
Breast cancer would not have changed my wardrobe one bit. Same with lung cancer, or brain cancer, or many others. Ovarian cancer took away my ability to wear tight-fitting-butt-enhancing-small-sized-long-and-lean GAP jeans. Damn. Not many women could do those well at 50. I could. Aaargh!
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| With me, it was often difficult to distinguish my front from my back. |
So my friend is a scientist, and, when it comes to math and science entering my world, my eyes kind of cross over and I get a fuzzy feeling and blur and yawn a lot. So little did I know that his Science Research just happened to address my own type of cancer! Yay! In short, we're on it. (and he's a good enough friend to simplify the science to where I don't start napping while he's talking). I couldn't function without him!
New clinical trial options await. . .
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| Profuse acne is a side effect of the MEK trial. I feel 15 again! |
And who can resist Dionne Farris' "Hopeless"?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DxDgp1JROs0&list=RDDxDgp1JROs0#t=0
