home alone

Banjo Man is partying in Nebraska this weekend, so I am home alone and, I will admit, have felt a bit lonesome since his Wednesday morning departure.  I am used to his chatter.  He cleans up the kitchen and takes out the garbage and drives me places and goes grocery shopping and fixes fruit snacks and assures me five times a day that I look better.

You can understand why the man needed a vacation.

But today I am luxuriating in the silence and pondering the possibilities of long weekend of puttering with my various sewing projects and eating chicken salad sandwiches.   So I am content.

I am making a couple of reversible Halloween banners to give to my two favorite young mothers.  I saw one of these at the Sew Expo and had to make it.

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I’ve had a wonderful time figuring out how to do this.  Trial and error with pinking shears (once I found them)!  And what to use for the inside?  Lightweight interfacing, batting or heavy fusible interfacing?  I tried each one.  The heavy fusible won.  I tore apart my sewing closet to find the various options, which was another fun thing to do.  Driving the car still hurts so I ordered seam binding on Amazon when I normally would just drive down to Walmart (I am saving all of my driving energy for picking up Banjo Man at the airport Monday night).

Today Amazon is delivering new HDMI cords (I called Verizon Fios to replace my SD boxes and was informed they no longer have such dinosaur-like things so I had to go get HD boxes and somehow I ended up with a new router, a $200 Visa gift card and a cheaper “bundle” price, but please don’t ask me to explain how) so I can set up the new tv’s and a standing floor lamp to replace my 25 year old bedroom wall lamp that finally died on Thursday.

Phew.  That was a long sentence.

I’ve learned to do brainy things in the morning because things fall apart after 2 PM.  I’ve been assured that this is pretty typical after radiation, that it takes quite a while for the body to heal itself no matter how much I complain.

It is a beautiful day.  This is supposed to be the last warm (80’s) weekend of the summer.  I just picked a couple of dozen cherry tomatoes and one beautiful zucchini from our mini-garden.  I fed the chipmunks and turned on ESPN’s College Game Day and made another mug of coffee.

Bring on the weekend!  

 

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changing the paradigm

Anyone remember Disney’s “Pollyanna” movie from way back in 1960?  As a 9-year old, I was at first annoyed by Pollyanna’s relentless optimism.  But it was a good movie, it really was.  And I became intrigued with Pollyanna’s creative thinking.  I tried doing it myself for a while, for my own amusement.  But I started to annoy myself and gave it up a few weeks later.

I’m sure my family was relieved.

Which brings me to a week ago, when I stopped feeling sorry for myself (well, not completely–my chest was still painfully decomposing) and got a grip.  A semi-grip.  As I explained to Banjo Man, I’d spent months referring to this time as the “Summer From Hell”.   It had occurred to me–while tearfully sipping my second mug of coffee and thinking about my miserable situation–that I wasn’t being fair.

It actually had been the “Summer That Saved My Life”.

Oh, undoubtedly a lot of very unlucky things had happened:  the tumor being three times the size the doctors thought it was, the malignant lymph nodes, the cancerous involvement of skin, the aspiration in the operating room, the many complications after surgery, the onset of lymphedema and the intense skin damage after radiation.

Shit bad luck.

BUT, as I told Banjo Man, I’d been lucky where it counted:  the Oncotype number, meaning no chemo.

AND…
Two hours after our first visit to the breast cancer surgeon’s office, as I held my mammogram test results and wept with fear over what it all meant, Angela called me to say she was going to get us through this.   Which she did, getting me into tests faster than the speed of light, relaying and explaining test results the minute (I swear) the pathologist read them, prescribing much needed medication and being with us through intense, emotional and often confusing “team meetings” with the breast cancer physicians.   She researched the Oncotype statistics and studies for stage 3 cancer and insisted I have the test despite the other doctors’ objections.  She had my back, as she’d promised she would. How lucky am I?!?

AND…
I’d been surrounded and cared for by a lot of kind and compassionate medical people.  I cannot stress that enough.  Kindness is so important when you’re terrified and falling apart.

AND…
I had so much love from family and friends.  I don’t know how to tell you all what it meant to me.  I was so grateful…and awed.  I am weepy now just thinking about it.  The cards and gifts and prayers and many, many kindnesses have been so appreciated.  You have no idea how much.  

AND…
I had Banjo Man taking care of me.  How lucky am I?

So while it really was a Summer From Hell in so many ways, it saved my life.  And I have stopped being angry and resentful (most of the time) and am looking ahead to being normal again.

I have decided I no longer have cancer.  It’s been cut out of me and burned out of me, right?  A brutal cure.  According to all of the medical research and statistics, the five years of Arimidex should keep it from coming back.  I wanted to ask my oncologist when I could say, “I had cancer” instead of saying, “I have cancer”, but she was so fixated on my radiated chest I lost the opportunity to discuss it with her.

It’s not completely over.  I have one more physical therapy appointment.  A follow up with the radiologist in October.  A meeting with the oncologist in December.  A check up and mammogram with the surgeon in February.  I will be dieting and exercising and wearing my compression sleeve and doing “Yoga For Breast Cancer”.  I’m a little nervous about this new medication and its possible side affects, but I’ll deal with whatever comes next because nothing involves a scalpel.

The “Summer That Saved My Life” is over and it is time to eat pumpkin pie and break out the tequila.  I wish you could all celebrate here with me.

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My new dish towel, because in my world you can’t have enough dish towels.

 

 

Posted in a more pie opinion, family, friends, rhode island, the cancer fight | 5 Comments

if you like numbers

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My friend Pat sent me this.  I think it’s pretty interesting.

But I am easily entertained on my computer these days, having little contact with the outside world.  I long to get dressed and drive out of the woods and get myself a Spicy Italian sub, with provolone cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, green peppers and red onions, please.  Toasted?  No, thank you.  Vinegar and oil?  Yes, please.

One of these days…

Tomorrow I go to physical therapy.  Please pass the burn pads.

Yesterday I walked three laps around the driveway.  I intend to do that again today.

One step at a time, right?

 

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a monday in september

Just some notes on what’s going on here.  In no particular order.

My skin is healing, but I am still unable to get dressed and leave the house or see anyone.  But the pain has lessened and my spirits are higher.  I have some new medication for the pain and it helps me sleep.

I’ve learned I can accomplish something for about two hours a day and then I have to get on the couch, put my feet up and rest.  This is quite the boring lifestyle.

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At this rate this new quilt won’t be finished until 2020.

Harley Chick delivered squash soup, fresh bread and a pair of pumpkin socks to me Saturday.  I was not able to get dressed to say hello, but the gifts were much appreciated.  Squash soup is an all-time favorite.

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Love this soap!  Sent by my daughter-in-law, it is wonderfully soothing for aggravated (and radiated) skin:

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We are devastated by Nebraska’s overtime loss to Colorado on Saturday.  We thought we were going to have a pretty good offense this season, but we don’t.  We are all sad.

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Oh, Scott.  What the heck is happening????

Son Will is hiking in Zion for several days, along with an overnight in Las Vegas, as part of a bachelor party getaway.  Of course, after having seen the movie HANGOVER two times, we cautioned him against stealing Mike Tyson’s tiger and entering wedding chapels with prostitutes.

Oh, how funny are the old folks!!

Watching this reality tv show on Bravo has gotten me through this summer from hell.  Banjo Man can’t remember the name of it and calls it “Deep Water”.  I am endlessly fascinated.MV5BZGRiNDVjNDAtZTk4Zi00Mjk4LTlhYzEtZmNmMWFmYWU2NzE2XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMTQxNzMzNDI@._V1_

There are multiple seasons, plus a spin off (BELOW DECK MEDITERRANEAN with Captain Sandy.  Luckily there were several marathons on Bravo and I was able to DVR about 54 episodes.  Not kidding.

I love Captain Lee.  He doesn’t put up with any nonsense from the crew.  Imagine a world where bad behavior = consequences!

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Captain Lee and Kate, who produce a lot of hysterical one-liners.

Banjo Man is painting the basement floor.  This is a huge job, but he is thrilled to have a project for the weekends.  And it is looking good!  We combined five cans of old white/cream paint into one huge bucket.  No trip to Home Depot to buy new paint!  Hurray!

Next week he’ll fly to his 60th high school reunion in Nebraska.  How did we get this old?  He’ll have such a good time, as his siblings will gather for a little mini-reunion on the same weekend.

I’m staying home, which is a good place for me to be.  But I expect to feel a lot better–dare I say back to normal?–by then.

Lastly, here’s another meme from my friend Pat:

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better

There is a distant light at the end of my little tunnel.  I am healing.  I am down to only one “open” area on my chest.  Imagine that.  Only one!

I felt a lot better Wednesday afternoon after my physical therapist informed me that I had the worst radiation burns she had ever seen in all of her years of treating breast cancer patients.

That announcement made me feel less crazy, less of a whiny hypochondriac who couldn’t hack the basic side affects of a few weeks of radiation.

It is cloudy and 62 degrees here in Rhode Island.  We’re expecting some wind and rain leftovers from hurricane Dorian tonight and tomorrow.  I have celebrated the end of hot weather by making another mug of coffee, eating the last two mini-muffins and cleaning out a closet.

I love cleaning out my clothes closets, but it was especially fun this morning because I tossed out my ugly mastectomy, button-down blouses and various other ugly post-surgery tops.  Now I don’t have to look at them hanging from the rod.  They have pissed me off for the last time.  In another week or so I can probably get rid of my “radiation tank tops” (destined for the garbage) and go back to regular clothes.

A multi-year collection of v-neck t-shirts also went into the donation bags.  Obviously those days are over.  By next summer I’ll know what I can wear without feeling self-conscious.  Honestly?  It’s the last thing in the world I worry about.

Banjo Man went to a lot of effort to roast a whole chicken last night.  He squeezed lemons for juice, zested them (four of them!) and on and on.  He was a bit disappointed with the results and, as he has recently discovered roasted supermarket chickens, has decided that buying them already roasted is the better deal.   The chicken was ready around 9 PM, when I was on my way to bed, but he ate a leg and said it wasn’t worth all the work.

We are not doing well with cooking, but Banjo Man’s sisters have given us a gift certificate for a food-delivery service.  Now that I am starting to want to eat again and we are no longer eating our main meals at Cracker Barrel or Denny’s, it’s time to take advantage of having meals cooked for us.  Frankly, we’re exhausted.

I still haven’t decorated with my pumpkins yet, but maybe tomorrow I’ll have another little burst of energy.  My son Will reminded me that my body is sending all its resources to healing my body from radiation and there is nothing leftover.  I hadn’t thought of it like that but it makes sense.

My friend Pat sends me funny memes about fall.  Here’s one:

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So true!

 

 

 

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greetings from the dark side

I haven’t blogged for a week because I have been in Hell.  Hell.  Capital H.

There are various degrees of Hell, of course.  I’m not comparing my situation to trying to survive a massive hurricane in the Bahamas.   I’m talking about my own little personal version of Hell.  And I haven’t blogged about it because I am whiny and angry and miserable.

I thought I’d avoid letting those feeling spill out on the blog, but…here I am, my radiated chest and I, baring it all.  Not for sympathy–please, no–but just to share, I guess.  And if someday you know someone going through this you will understand her anger and why she can’t leave the house.

It has been two weeks since my chest (collar bone to armpit) was radiated.  The following five days of radiation were spent zapping a different place:  my incision, which is about 12″ long.  Last Wednesday was my final day of that “boost” radiation and coincidentally I saw my oncologist that morning.  We were to discuss the endocrine therapy and my future.

I didn’t think she’d be so happy to see me (July’s meeting had been long and tense), but she gave me a hug and cheered the Oncotype test and its miraculous number three (“that is your lucky number from now on”) and was warm and friendly.  And then she saw my burned chest and gasped.  She grabbed her phone and took a picture to text to my radiologist.

“She needs to know about this,” Dr C. said.  “She might not want you to have radiation today.”

As if anything was going to stop me from having my final zap?  No way!  I had a giant box of chocolates for the radiation technicians in my tote bag.  I would not be driving up back up to the Cancer Center any time soon.  It was OVER.

I explained that the radiation was not hitting my chest, that it hadn’t hit my chest for a week, that yes, the burning was getting worse and Dr. L, the radiologist, had seen me a week ago.

“She needs to see this today,” was the reply.

She asked me how I was feeling and I explained that at first I’d been tired but as the radiation went on I’d had more energy and was even continuing physical therapy.  This earned me another horrified look.

“You’re stretching?  Stretching?”  She peered at my very red and swollen armpit.  “You shouldn’t be stretching.”

I left the examining room with a prescription for Arimidex, which I will take for at least five years, and instructions to hold off on physical therapy until my burn healed.

I went downstairs for my last treatment.   The technician looked at my chest and said, “Yeah, you’ve got it bad.  It’s gonna take a month, no way around it.”

(A month.  A month?)

Dr. L (radiologist) caught up with me in the hall.  She looked at my chest and said, “It’s extreme but normal.  Keep using the cortisone cream and the Silvadene.  The worst is the two weeks after the radiation stops and then it plateaus for a while before it heals.”

She was very cheerful.  I wanted to strangle her.  If I’d known what was ahead, I might have.

This is the same woman who sweetly cautioned, at the beginning of radiation, “You may experience some redness during treatment.”

Some redness?  My skin looks like it was blow-torched.  Fortunately for her, the real pain began the next day, when the blisters opened and my chest became a red, weeping wasteland.

And it still is.  According to one article I read, these aren’t technically burns, though they look and feel like burns.  Radiation temporarily destroys the body’s ability to make new skin, hence the open wounds.  Until new skin is produced, you’re screwed.

I had to go out on Friday for a bone density scan.  That was no big deal, except that I had to get dressed.  I was there and back within an hour.  Wearing a blouse was excruciating and I dug out the Percocet when I got home.  On Sunday Banjo Man drove me twenty minutes south to Westerly to CVS.  I had remembered Retired Mountain Lady’s cure for burns:  burn pads, sometimes called “Hydrogel” pads, and I hoped I could find them and they’d be the answer for the blistering open skin in a particularly bad area below my collarbone.

I was also determined to go to Michael’s and buy a mini-muffin pan (after a search here at home I realized I had taken my old pan to the lake).  I wanted to bake pumpkin muffins, a back-to-school treat, for Angela and Jeff’s children.  I wanted to do something normal.  (You’ve never heard of self-medicating by baking????  It’s a thing.  Especially with cream cheese frosting and orange sprinkles.)

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How cute is this?

Banjo Man said he knew I was in pain because I didn’t want to go out to lunch.  No, I said.  I just want to go home and get naked–and not in a good way.  I want to take a pain pill and make muffins and cry and stick burn pads on my blisters.

Okay, he said.  I’ll be in the shed.

Thank God for his shed.  And his tomato plants.  He can escape his miserable, shivering-in-pain, mad-at-the-world wife for long hours.  It’s good for him.

So as I wait for this to heal itself, I alternate between organic aloe vera gel, Silvadene, Aquaphor and Calendula salve on my skin.  I try something different every hour, depending on the pain, itching, etc.  The little burn pads cover up the worst of the blisters and, because I am going to physical therapy today (my armpit has healed so I think it’s okay to stretch it) I am going to use a large aloe-soaked pad my daughter-in-law sent me to protect the wounds from my shirt.  Ibuprofen helps a lot, and I use the occasional pain pill for when it’s really, really bad and I need to sleep…or bake muffins.

Today marks two weeks, the two weeks that I was told would be the worst of it.  I’m waiting for some kind of miraculous end to this before I self-destruct and end up in a strait jacket, highly medicated and staring up at a hospital ceiling.

I’d like to say that I have vowed to stop complaining and whining, but I’m not there yet.  I drink a lot of water and I get plenty of rest watching dvr’d episodes of BELOW DECK.  I have no appetite, so Banjo Man slices melons and strawberries to tempt me to eat.  I nibble.  I sew.  I play Wordscapes on my phone.  I chat with Banjo Man at least forty-seven times a day.  The topics range from tomatoes to chipmunks to Chinese tariffs to Nebraska football to chicken salad recipes to the Funny Grandson’s flag football adventure to…well, you get the picture.  A visit with Banjo Man is always entertaining and, thank God, distracting.

So there you have it.  The stupid Cancer Saga continues.  I should be more cheerful next week.  Fingers crossed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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the last day

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I took this picture last Friday, when I was feeling pretty cocky about how I got through  fifteen rounds of radiation without suffering too much.

I had been warned that after the fifteen sessions on my chest (which you see in the photo), the worst of the rash and pain would come.  That doesn’t make sense, does it.  But it’s true.  It is so true that I am beyond miserable, with open sores and itching and pain that won’t stop.

Today is the last day for all of the radiation, the end of the daily trips to Providence.  I will complete the five “boosts”, given to the previously unradiated skin around my incision.  So far my skin has survived the onslaught.  Which is something to be thankful for.

I am bringing the radiation team (there are a bunch of them) a giant box of Sweenor’s chocolates as a thank you gift.  They were all so kind.

I will also meet with my oncologist and get my prescription for the endocrine therapy drug that will prevent the cancer from returning.  I think there’s a bone scan scheduled.

Monday I bought Banjo Man a “radiation present”.  I’d heard an ad on the radio for a store that was having a Labor Day special:  buy a tv, get one free.  So I told Banjo Man that after radiation we should go to that store and maybe get an inexpensive television for the exercise room, since we were planning on doing that eventually (sometime in September).

Well, Banjo Man has been trying to convince me that a much larger television would be perfect for the basement living area.  I have disagreed.  But surrounded by big screen televisions and an excited, wistful husband I realized the man should have any damn television he wants.

He’s been through a lot, my husband has.  These past four months have been excruciating in so many, many ways.  “We” have had cancer, not just me.

So Banjo Man (bless his happy little heart) left the store with a 55″ tv for himself— and a “free” 49″ tv for the new exercise area.

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We got to spin the wheel and won 20 tickets to Friday’s raffle.  If we win a tv I don’t know where we’ll put it!

We celebrated his Radiation Present with pumpkin pancakes at Denny’s.  And then we headed home.  It was time for my daily 2-hour nap.

So wish me luck today.  I’ve been looking forward to this day since radiation began, on July 30.  It went by much faster than we thought it would.  I’ve been told it will take a few weeks to feel like myself again.  In the meantime, I’m getting all of my pumpkin decorations out to celebrate the end of this horrible summer.

I send my love to you all.  Thank you for everything.

 

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four to go

Today I will check off another day of radiation.  After this I will only have three treatments left.  Can  you believe how quickly that went?  We can’t.

My skin didn’t become really painful until this Monday, day 13, so I was lucky.  My energy has increased in the last half of these treatments, which is not typical.  It knocked me out those first ten days, but I feel much better now.  Oh, I still take an afternoon nap and we spend evenings on the couch watching tv, but I don’t feel weak and pathetic any more.  Just lazy.

My poor armpit is taking the brunt of the radiation, it seems.  It has a lot of problems due to the surgery and the radiation burn is not helping.  If my armpit could talk it would be screaming obscenities and I would no longer be allowed in Denny’s.  Which would be a shame because this week they introduced their pumpkin pancakes.

The three of us–Banjo Man, daughter Nancy and I–have developed our routines and are getting very good at this.  First of all, the drive to the city seems to be getting faster.  And it’s a good time to chat.  Yesterday I brought a Johnny Gimble cd for the ride home because don’t we all need a little more Texas Swing in our world?

We all love the valet parking at the Cancer Center (I still can’t believe my life includes a Cancer Center).  We arrive fifteen minutes before my appointment with the massive Trilogy machine so there is time to change and grab some water and hopefully a packet of Lorna Doone’s before my scheduled time to get radiated.

I have a card that I scan when I arrive.  I love this card and feel like I’m in the FBI, scanning my ID in order to enter the secret basement room (yes, I’ve been watching MIND HUNTER on Netflix).

Each dressing room has a bench that stores the johnnies and robes.

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I have my favorite print, a white with blue checks.  I don’t use the robes with the maroon trim as it amuses me no end to make sure I match by wearing a blue robe.  Then I make my way down the hall and around the corner to Waiting Room A where I’ll find Banjo Man reading the newspaper and enjoying a cup of coffee and a complimentary oatmeal raisin protein bar.  Nancy will be on her phone and will have saved a seat for me.

Both Banjo Man and NancyK will have snagged a Lorna Doone packet from the tray in case I’m a little nauseous (which doesn’t happen as much now).  There is never much of a wait–barely enough time to drink a glass of water (I either read or dreamed that it was important to hydrate and therefore eliminate dead cancer cells with every trip to the bathroom–I have no idea if that’s true but I’m drinking at least 2 quarts of water a day just in case).

Radiation isn’t painful.  The three tech people are always kind.  But I found it hard in the beginning to bare my poor scarred chest to strangers and–worst of all–tolerate them touching it.  It has been that way from the beginning, when the nurse changed the dressing the day after surgery.  Having anyone touch my chest immediately brings tears.  There are so many different sensations in that area–pain, soreness, itching, aching, numbness–and they vary from inch to inch.  I worked hard at touching it myself, having been told to massage the area around the incision with Vitamin E oil.  That helped a lot, but like everything else with this disease, it wasn’t easy.

With radiation someone is always drawing on my chest with black markers.   They circle the “tattoos” and draw dotted lines.  I still hate it but I no longer flinch or cry at the sensation.  Sometimes they lay cold sticky pads across my entire chest before the treatments.  I eventually became used to that, too.

Every day when I walk in they ask for my name and birth date.  The other day I announced myself as “Dolly Parton”, which I thought was funny in a couple of ways.  I’m not sure they did, but I have learned that I have to make myself laugh once in a while or I’ll go crazy.

Yesterday I started the “boost” part of this, which is a direct hit of radiation to the area of my incision and about 2 inches around it on all sides.   This means my painful, itchy, red, bumpy chest gets to recover.  Oh, joy!  The doctor made a template for the boost last week and yesterday the radiation techs laid the plastic over my skin (just as you would a quilt pattern), marked the outline of the area with black marker and lined it up with the computer-generated outline on the machine.

And now I have to go, because Nancy will be here in 45 minutes and I still have to shower.  After radiation I have physical therapy and then Nancy and I will stop on the way home for an early lunch before she has to go to work.

Another busy morning here in Cancer Land.

 

 

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it’s still there

Banjo Man found this picture recently.  It must have fallen out of my grandmother’s old photo albums (they fell apart years ago but I saved all the photos) in the attic.

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Is she my great-grandmother, great-great grandmother or great aunt?

I knew that one set of my father’s grandparents lived on Public Street in Providence, so it was fairly easy to find a 1932 Providence street directory online and look it up.  And there was the name of my grandfather’s parents on Public Street!  Family stories said that my great-grandparents (the Winslow’s) grew up next door to each other.  My great-grandfather had indeed married the girl next door, Jennie McIntosh.  Several generations of the family lived in each house.  Sure enough, the street directory confirmed that the Winslow’s lived next door to the McIntosh family.  And supplied the house numbers.

In our treks to the hospital I had pointed out to Banjo Man that I remembered my father saying that his grandparents lived on Public Street, which we cross every time we go to the hospital or the cancer center.  It’s in the neighborhood.

So a couple of weeks ago we decided to see if we could find the house.  And sure enough…

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What do you think?

The roof lines on many of the houses in the neighborhood have been altered to make larger third floor apartments.  But this is the same address as in 1932.  The McIntosh house has either been torn down and rebuilt or lost its third floor and charm along the way.

Now I am searching for an address for my grandmother’s parents.  I thought I remembered someone saying the house had been torn down for a Rhode Island School of Design parking lot and the house had been “off Benefit Street”.  I’ve had no luck with the street directory, so the 1920 census is next.

Genealogy + radiation.  Who knew?

 

 

 

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number 13

I have 20 minutes before heading out the door for the trip to Providence and radiation so I thought I’d give you all an update.  I haven’t blogged for more than a week because this process has been really tiring.  All the doctors, nurses and technicians tell me it’s important to rest, to let the body heal from the daily onslaught of radiation, and that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

I haven’t had the energy to put my dirty dishes in the dishwasher or eat anything but yogurt for dinner.  I have a baby quilt to baste but no energy to thread a needle.

But…things are definitely looking up!  This past weekend my energy returned a bit and my appetite revived itself from time to time.

I even drove Saturday morning.  Let me repeat that:  I even drove my car.  Banjo Man didn’t even flinch when I announced I was heading three miles down the road to the gift shop to buy a hostess gift.  I hadn’t driven since MAY.  I even went to the ATM machine.  And then I came home and took a nap, but what the heck.  I DROVE.

Our favorite Austin musician was in town and we had tickets to his show on Friday night.  He was joined by Cindy Cashdollar, dobro and lap steel guitar queen of the universe.  I stayed home–there was no way I could go to a show that starts at 8:30 pm plus I am still leery of being in crowds and getting bumped–but Banjo Man went by himself and had a great time.

On Saturday we went to a dinner party!!!!  A dinner party!!!!  Our Thanksgiving group met at Ken and Ginny’s for a beautiful evening on their deck.  My mother, brother and sister-in-law joined us, so the evening was a very special one.  I drank half a glass of Prosecco.  It was delicious.

I tried to take a picture.

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I had to try on four tops before finding one that didn’t aggravate the rash on my chest.  I spread hydrocortisone cream and Calendula salve on my chest throughout the evening and that worked.  I’m starting to itch and blister, but after today there are only seven treatments left.

And now I have to go!  Banjo Man is waiting for yet another drive north.

 

 

Posted in family, friends, rhode island, the cancer fight | 6 Comments