Category Archives: Everyday Life

I’m Back. I think.

by

Well, it’s been awhile. Is anyone still out there? Is anyone reading this? If you’re still out there and reading my blog, thank you.

This blog has been on my mind for awhile. Why did I start it? Why did I stop it? I can’t even really answer the first question so we’ll go to the second question – I was diagnosed with breast cancer on June 24, 2013. That diagnosis sent me into a black hole. I just didn’t function like I used to and lost interest in everything. That is the answer to question #2.

I was released from care last summer (5 year mark) and still no interest in blogging until recently. Until today.

As I was heading into to town today for lunch, I saw an older woman (70+) wearing waders and holding a stabbing device (like a spear) along the side of a creek. She was wading into the bustling creek with purpose. I started wondering what was she looking for? There can’t be edible-sized fish in there, right? Was she looking for frogs? Maybe for her grandchild’s terrarium? Or for eating later? I’m still wondering. Still. Wondering.

As I was driving back to the house after lunch (two hours later), I became struck by another scene. This new scene occurred by the same bustling creek where I had earlier witnessed the woman with the spear. I saw two young boys (maybe 9 & 6), a large toy John Deere truck and a grandma-type person. Both of the boys were wearing rain boots and had clearly been creek-stomping. The younger boy was holding the grandma’s hand and was dragging her along the creek toward the older boy.  The older boy was pushing the toy truck with water sloshing over the sides toward the grandma and the younger boy. This all seemed normal to me until I noticed grandma carrying a sledge hammer in her left hand while holding the younger boy’s hand with her right. Did the boys catch something that needed a beating? What was in the truck sloshing around? A frog? A chipmunk? A lizard? A squirrel? A snake? Did any of those animals require a beating? 

I can’t stop thinking about it. When I’m a grandma will I be called forth to carry a sledge hammer? I surely hope not.

Something New

by

I’ve started something new and I’m really excited about it! Check this out – Jennifer Engledow Photography.

If you couldn’t tell, I’ve discovered something about myself. I LOVE taking pictures. I love everything about photography ~ taking the pictures, looking at the pictures, editing the pictures and showing others my pictures.

With this new enterprise, I’ve been really busy and haven’t had time for writing, Okay, that’s not quite honest.

If I were being honest, I would say that writing has become very challenging for me and I’ve lost the drive to put my thoughts down into words. I think about it a lot and wonder why. Does it have something to do with my breast cancer diagnosis? I think I did suffer from depression at the end of 2013. Was that it? Is it the Tamoxifen doing a number on my brain? Who knows.

I do know that I want to get back to it on a regular basis so consider today my first day back.

And, here is a photo for you to enjoy as well:

IMG_8092

 

 

 

 

Life after Breast Cancer: New Normal Part 2

by

Radiation Fibrosis. What the hell is that? I actually just learned myself. In February, I had started noticing that my left side ached and my left arm had lost a lot of mobility.

From About.com/Breast Cancer

Definition: Fibrosis is the formation of scar tissue. Fibrosis can occur as a result of radiation treatments. While radiation is being given, it affects cancer cells and healthy tissue that is nearby. In healthy tissue, small blood vessels in the area may be damaged or sealed off. When this happens, the affected tissue no longer gets enough nourishment. Radiated healthy tissue may then “fibrose” or scar. That scar tissue will feel firm or may feel like a mass or even like a recurrence of cancer. Fibrosis may also occur naturally in breast tissue that has fibrocystic changes.

In a serendipitous moment in early February, a lovely woman at work who also happens to be a breast cancer survivor asked me if I had started my physical therapy yet for my arm. Physical therapy? She had experienced the same discomfort and loss of mobility and swore by the physical therapy.

So, after contacting my breast surgeon at the urging of my coworker, I was put in contact with a physical therapist that specialized in post-radiation trauma and lymphedema. Man, I’m glad I made that call.

But, as helpful as these sessions have been, they have been a bit uncomfortable.. Let me back up a bit. Last summer, I got used to every Tom, Dick and Mary marking on, taking pictures of, feeling, smashing and viewing my jubblies. Since then, my modesty has returned intact. Returned just in time for new weirdness to begin.

Why are the sessions weird? Essentially, twice a week I’ve been receiving a breast massage. What’s not to like about a breast massage, right? Um, it’s not sensual. Have you ever had a deep tissue massage? Twice a week I get a deep tissue massage on my boob, armpit and side. It hurts like hell.

Ladies, I know you know how uncomfortable a pap smear is. That awkward chat with your OBGYN doctor about your weekend plans trying to ignore the fact that she’s examining your hooha? What if that moment lasted three times as long?

With my physical therapy sessions, the massage part lasts about twenty to twenty-five minutes. That’s A LOT of awkward conversation to be had. Sometimes I run out of things to say. For those that know me well, that may come as a shock. However, for me, the silence is worse than the rambling chatter so I ramble. On and on and on.

My poor therapist. She sure is a good listener. Do I owe her a parting gift? I mean, I’ve been seeing her intimately for two months now. Is there protocol for our eventual good-bye?

Aside from the awkwardness, the treatments have helped me tremendously and I’m so glad my coworker repeatedly urged me to make that call. My husband said  “What if you hadn’t called your breast surgeon?” I don’t want to think about it – it’s made that much of a difference.

My new normal is a pill box (I didn’t think that would happen for another twenty years), daily stretches and strengthening exercises, doctor appointments with my medical oncologist every six weeks, mammograms every six months and appointments once year with my radiation oncologist. I’m working on accepting my new normal because, as it was brought to my attention the other day, it’s better than the alternative.

I do look forward to the day when breast cancer isn’t always on my mind.

Eventually, that day will get here.

 

 

 

 

The End is Near

by

IMG_1351 IMG_1352

Our bathroom drama is over. These are pictures of my new bathroom shower and I’m really happy with it!

However, you should stay tuned because we will be doing the kids’ bathroom near the end of the month and that should generate some more drama. Our house projects never go smoothly. Ever.

For other positive news, I only have four radiation treatments left! My last treatment is Friday, September 6th. This goes without saying so, of course, I’m going to say it anyway – I can’t wait for this to be over!

It has been a surreal time in my life. It’s strange getting up every morning and starting your day with radiation therapy. I think about three hundred strangers have seen, touched, stickered and/or sharpied my left breast. Okay, maybe not three hundred, but at least fifty. And, it’s just weird. That’s all. Why so many? Beginning in August, there was a new student observer in the room each day with the techs as they lined me up for Thor. The techs would ask, “This is Jane or John, a new student. Is it okay if they observe your treatment?”

Sure. Why not? I don’t want anyone to feel left out.

But, I will say that everyone at the Cancer Center has been wonderful – I cannot complain about my care.

The side effects are really settling in – the fatigue is crazy! Also, my breast and armpit are soooo burned. And, I have scar tissue in my left armpit from my breast surgery. How does that happen? How did the scar tissue migrate from my breast to my armpit? Ah, the wonders of the human body.

This scar tissue is causing pain when I use my arm which wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to use it. But, when you have a working arm, it’s hard not to use it. So, I may I need physical therapy.  What will a physical therapist do to my armpit? Does anyone know?

So, what are you in PT for? Oh, recovering from knee surgery? Cool. What am I in here for? Me? Well, scar tissue in my armpit. Yep.

I started having sharp pains in my right breast a couple of weeks ago, but they have since subsided. I think my right breast was having sympathy pains (and, she may be a little jealous of the attention-stealing left breast). But, no worries. She’s just a drama queen.

Let’s pour a glass of wine and say a toast.

Here’s to the end! [sip]

Cheers! [gulp]

Oh, Yes He Did!

by

That silly plumber. Yep, he said it. (To get caught up, read this.)

“Mrs. Engledow, we have another problem.”

As he was blathering on and on and drawing pictures in an effort to get me to grasp the situation, my mind began to wonder and a demonic grin appeared on my face. I grabbed the wrench that he placed dangerously close to my hand, conked him on the head with it, and then chased him out of the house screaming profanities like a drunken sailor. Then, I . . . . . I snapped out of it and politely asked him what he proposed to do about this new “situation”.

Apparently, the manufacturer of our tub and it’s plumbing parts has been out of business for long time and we are one of a very few households in our area that still has this outdated plumbing. Yay, us! We feel so special. So, according to our plumber, the solution is to order yet another special part from a supplier located somewhere in Pennsylvania. And, that means that we get another visit from the plumber!

The same plumber has been in and out of our house for over an entire month, so I think that implies that he’s become part of the family. What do you give someone on your one month anniversary? A house key and a drawer? I can’t remember. If you know, send me a note.

I also followed up with our easy-going tile guy to find out when he will be installing our shower shelves and towel rack, and I have yet to hear back from him. I guess it’s a good thing that we still owe him money. I’m assuming that he’ll want the rest of his money, right?

The one good outcome from this last plumber visit is that we can now use our shower! We can’t take baths, but I can’t remember the last time I took a bath so we’re good. Assuming that his proposed solution of ordering special parts from Pennsylvania actually works, we will be able to take baths by next Thursday if we choose to do so. And. . . . maybe I will.

Oh, and we may also be finished with this episode of “House of Horrors”. Keep your fingers crossed.

Leaky Faucets and Red Wine

by

Can I just say, “Fricka, fracka, fudgesicle!”

Homeownership is both a blessing and a curse. At the moment, we are in the curse stage. This tale started innocently on July 2nd with a leaky bathtub faucet. This innocent leak has turned into a $1,000 nightmare. Here we are on August 9th and we still can’t use the shower in the master bath.

Thirty-year old houses can be tricky, but come on! We have a tile guy that I think used be a surfer in his previous life because time seems more like a guideline than a rule and we have a plumber that can’t figure out our thirty year old tub. To borrow a phrase from one of my husband’s cousins, “You only have to be 10% smarter than the tool.” I can see what he means now. (Thanks, Mark!).

If I hear, “Mrs. Engledow, we have another problem” ONE MORE TIME, you may see me on the evening news in handcuffs being dragged from my house while my bewildered children are seen in the background sobbing on the front porch.

Of course, this is all happening as I am going through my radiation treatments. I just want my own shower back. Is that too much to ask? I don’t think so, right?!

Right! Let’s relax and have a glass of red wine. Shall, we?

Red Wine

Three Strikes and . . . You’re Rejected

by

IMG_8742During the past year, I was invited to join a writing group. At first, I was resistant because I didn’t consider myself a real writer. All of the others in the group are either working on their MFAs, have an MFA, working on novels, or have been published.

My claim to fame? This blog. That’s it. But, my friend countered every one of my concerns, claimed that I was a writer and encouraged me attend one of the meetings. So, I did.

It was a little intimidating at first because they had the advantage of knowing each other already. But, of course, I was being silly because they were great! Over the past year, I have really enjoyed getting to know them.

At the last meeting, I read a short piece. Everyone seemed to love it and encouraged me to submit it for publication. There are, it seems, a bazillion online magazines available to those that desire to be published. You just have to convince the magazine that your piece is the greatest thing since sliced bread. Apparently, that is really, really hard to do.

However, I thought, “What the hell?” After receiving some online magazine recommendations, I did it. I submitted my piece to three lucky ducks. And. . . . . . . . I waited.

One by one the declinations came in (as expected). I mean, come on! It was my first time trying. It would have been a complete fluke to receive an acceptance on my first submission. Just so you know, these wonderfully smart, witty, clever writers in my group receive rejections once in a while too. And, that’s hard for me to believe because they are really talented.

So, I’m back to self-publishing. Here is the piece that I wrote for the group and I hope you enjoy it.

Bad Boys and Bad Books

“Who could ever really be attracted to a character like that? He’s really despicable. And, the plot? The plot is horrible and that’s being kind,” my friend exclaimed in an extremely irritated voice.

“Then, stop reading the book! You can’t get that time back,” I and the others at the tabled responded.

“I know. You’re right, but I can’t stop.”

With all of our most powerful best friend mojo, she still could not be persuaded. She had to finish it, and possibly read the two sequels. It was a national phenomenon and she wanted to know what it was all about.

Why would my friend put herself through this? Why couldn’t she dump this book? Why didn’t our mojo work?

I’ve experienced the sensation of making that one emotional and undeniably intense connection with a story where it grips me in its unrelenting embrace for hours and hours. Then, reality slaps me in the face with “Mom, I’m hungry. Mom, I need clean clothes.” My response? “MOMMY’S READING!”

I know my friend has experienced this same feeling with a book to the point where her family is wandering around in dirty clothes dumpster-diving for food. So, for God’s sake, why?

Then, it came to me. Bad books are like bad relationships. Hear me out.

The first encounter: You walk into the bookstore with a purpose. You’re looking for latest cerebral recommendation by the Fresh Air book reviewer, Maureen Corrigan. But, wait. Your eyes lock on to something. It’s a picture of a seductively styled monochromatic necktie. Something in your brain is triggered. You recognize this cover and then you remember that everyone wants one. Well, shouldn’t you want it too? Then, your heart starts pumping violently when you realize that it’s calling to you. It wants you too! So you flirt with the book by cradling it gently in your arms, flipping through its pages, and smiling coquettishly as you read the jacket cover. Then, you think, “Screw the so-called ‘good’ book. I want this one!”

The rose-colored glasses are cracking: It’s a cold and windy January afternoon and you have nothing to do. You grab your cup of coffee and sit in your favorite worn leather chair so you can have some alone time with your current book.  After the last time together, you were a bit disappointed. Expectations are high that it will be better this time and you will have a meaningful connection. You inhale sharply, your heart races, and you open the book anxiously. After a few pages, you realize something. “This son-of-a-bitch hasn’t changed one freakin’ bit!”  You slam the book shut, throw it on the floor and storm out of the room.

Best friends have gone by the wayside:  Pretty soon this novel is coming between you and your besties. You start declining offers to do things with your friends so you can eagerly get back to your book. Then, they eventually stop inviting you out afraid that you will talk about or bring along your annoyingly bad book. When you do attempt to whine to your friends, they beg you to dump this irritating novel and find one that treats you better. This is the last straw, they’re tired of being ignored and exhausted by the constant droning on and on about how awful it treats you, how unbearable it is, blah, blah, blah. You’re now this close to being one of those girls in high school that dumps their friends for the boyfriend.

The voice in your head is getting louder: Every minute you spend reading this sad, horrible book is a minute wasted. Pull yourself together, chica! You could be spending your precious time reading a novel that makes you smile, feel warm inside, long for your next encounter, that leaves you breathless and that welcomes you with a warm embrace the next time you caress its pages.  

The end is near: You are not a quitter, damn it. But, then, you finally have an epiphany and it forces you to see the relationship for what it is: an emotional tar pit. It must come to an end. You tell yourself that it’s better for everyone – you, your gal pals, your family, and your friends on Goodreads. You sadly place the book in the donation pile and sulk. It’s the weekend so you hole up in your house in your favorite reading chair and wallow in self-pity, red wine and a container of mocha chip ice cream. You begin to ruminate. “Why did I fall for that obvious and seductive cover? Why couldn’t I see the book for what it really was? Why didn’t I listen to my friends and end it early? What if I never find another good book that treats me right?”

I used to be like my friend. I would put up with a crappy book to its horrible conclusion due to my pathological need to finish things. Then, one day, as I was forcing myself to read a particular mystery novel that came highly recommended, I had an epiphany.  Books are for enjoyment and this book was NOT enjoyable. That’s when I said to myself, “You have to schedule appointments to go to the bathroom, get little sleep at night and you’re wasting time reading this twaddle?! What the hell is wrong with you!?”  At that moment, I made the decision that this horrendous, unreadable book was no longer my master. I tossed it into the donation pile unfinished.

That, my friend, is freedom.

What do you think?