Don’t drink the Kool-Aid

Kool-Aid dyeing in the sunAidan’s comment was something like, “Gee Mom, this stuff smells really good.” Mom replies, “Yeah, and some people actually drink the stuff.” We, of course, were dyeing with it. I found 4 skeins of undyed worsted in my stash from long, long ago and thought, “What a fabulous kid project.” Sure enough. Kool-aid is way kooler when used as a dyeing device. The kids each got a roasting pan and a baster and straws to apply the color. We used grape, cherry, strawberry, apple ice, lemonade, and black cherry. Here you see them, setting in the sun like tea. I found all of the jars I could and set them on the wall in the garden. As the water inside heats up (no need to pre-boil) the wool absorbs the dye. When you look out and the teal redmann pokies water seems clear with colored yarn, you’re done. If it’s not dark enough, do it again. The yarn smells lovely, too, if only for a little while.

We found that using 1 pkg Kool-aid (or generic equivilant) to 2 oz of yarn to be a decent color. I went for more than that with the black cherry and got nice results. The apple ice was a very nice, pale green.

Hanging skeins of dyed wool.The kids looped a smaller skein around the inside of the roasting pan and made colorways. Bloops of different colors here and there, then we put the plastic tops on the pans and set them out in the garden as well. A couple of hours later, they had set and we hung everything to dry on the screened porch. Looked funny for a bit, but pretty.

First Sock

Cast-on of first sock. I’ve been obsessing about socks. After hearing Stephanie Pearl-McPhee talk and reading her book, I couldn’t get it out of my head that The Sock was somehow my right of passage in the knitting world. I snuck a skein of sock yarn into my purchase at LYS and cast-on in the car while waiting for the kids to get out of school. I thought, “okay, I’m using smaller needles than are called for, I’ll just go by the pattern and not worry about swatching it.” You can hear the ominous music, can’t you?
This seems a little big.The ribbing was lovely and I moved with confidence into rows and rows of stockinette. The yarn, which looked passibly nice in the yarn store, was knitting up completely gorgeous. This color is my season’s obsession…chilli powder red…yum.At this point, I’m starting to see the lovely colors, the many rows of even stitches, and the oddly large circumference. Hmmm…after much denial and moaning and whining, I admit that this sock, if completed, would likely fit a bear.
Frogging the first attempt.Ribbit….frogging is such fun. But undetered, I cast-on again immediately.
Turning the heel.Turning the heel required a bottle of hard cider and chocolate in abundance. But there it is, in all it’s glory. 🙂
Awaiting grafting.The finished sock awaits grafting. Kitchener stitch is a frightening thing. I don’t know why, so don’t ask me, but almost everyone says so. I sat in front of my computer with’s article about grafting in front of me. It turned out okay. Next time it will look perfect.
The finished sock.Done. I was afraid to try it on and wandered around the house holding it for a while. Then Sam started pacing with me, saying “I’m following you until you try it on.” It’s lovely. Okay…so the gauge could still be a bit tighter (I’m still scared of needles under size 2) and there’s a little bump in the toe where my grafting could have been neater, but damn, it’s a nice looking sock.And, yes, I’ve already cast-on the second one.

UFOs Sighted

In the fine tradition of many, many, many knitters I know, I’ve got numerous projects in the making. I find that anything under three means I get bored. I need one for the car (has to be easy to put down when the kids get out of school), a more difficult one at home (this one can involve counting), and a less challenging but more readily satisfying project. Currently these are:

A scarf for my sister…funky side cable requires a little counting but still my car project:

Single cable scarf in wisteria colored cotton yarn.

A very lacey, scarfy, neck tying bit for home…this one is challenging, if only to my eyesight:

Lacey blue scarfin Rowan kidsilk.

A very thick and quick hat that I’ll finish too fast but need three or so of for the holiday gift stash:

A chunky hat of many fiery colors.

Oh…and the latest pair of knucks that I haven’t done the finishing work on:

Mostly finished, red fingerless gloves.

All in all a notable work-in-progress collection. Oh and…shhhh…I bought sock yarn (Yay!).


At first it was just a hobby….

Teacozy for Sam's work pot.Honestly…I never expected it to come to this. I started out knitting in May (2006) as a way to get out of my body and possibly my mind to a certain extent. I was at that place in chemo recovery when you’re not quite ready to get up off the couch, but your brain is antsy and prone to wander down disturbing lines of thought. So I said to Sam one night, “I need a hobby that will require some of my attention while letting my body and mind rest as well.” I decided to try knitting again.

The irony of sitting in Texas, in the heat of May, with a big lap-full of wool was not lost on me. People said, “Is that a scarf?” with a look of bewilderment. But my son was thrilled to get to pick his own colors and my daughter insisted on running around the house in her headkerchief for days. I was off and stitching.

I say again, because I’ve tried before. A number of times before actually. It’s always seemed too hard, too time consuming, too much counting, too many stitches (and on one notable occasion, it actually made me sea sick). This time it clicked…and since May I’ve become a complete junkie. I have multiple projects in semi-finished states.

Knit french market bag in brown and moss green.

I have a yarn stash, some of which has no project attached (it was pretty….you know what I mean). I’m lusting after particular needles. I know brand names and I’m beginning (and only beginning, I’m sure) to understand the vagaraties and magic of guage.

Since May I’ve knit bags and scarves, critters and cozies, gloves, purses. I’ve felted in my front-load washer with a pair of jeans and many mantras. I’ve ‘wrestled porcupines’; the fine art of juggling 5 double pointed needles with only 8 stitches on them. And, yes, I’ve held my breath while very carefully picking up the 14 stitches that just fell off the end of my Addi Turbo circulars.

Three knit and felted, black, and brown.

There were also oddnesses and failures. Doll-clothes, wrist bands and a gaiter I frogged three times and finally gave up on.

Knitting has been everything I needed it to be and more. I’ve tapped the zen of endless rounds of stockingnette. I’ve found a community of sardonic, oulandish women who knit as well. We laugh and stitch and laugh some more. My children are starting in with knitting mushrooms. My husband is after hand-made socks. And the stash grows…


The Long Road

A year ago today I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Does one celebrate? I don’t really know. I survived the year: Five surgeries (I had sugery on my vocal cords last week), 6 rounds of chemo, odd and irritating illnesses brought on by said chemo, adaption to Tamoxifen and the first onslaught of menopause. I’ve done pretty damned well. I have new hair, new clothes (necessarily), and a whole lot more earings (from the ‘less hair, more jewlery’ phase). I’d go so far as to say I feel okay. That doesn’t mean that hot flashes don’t suck, that my joints are acting like I’m eighty or that I don’t still have days that are a downright misery, but I can honestly say that I’m back in the land of the living instead of living in the land of limbo. All other things will even out and become ‘normal’ over the course of the next year or so.

What happens now…My mother-in-law had a lovely friend who had breast cancer. Her sage advice was something like, “Take the pills and get on with it.” So that’s basically what I’m doing. I walk as many days as I can manage (studies show that walking 30 minutes a day reduces your risk of recurrance by 54%), I take a lot of supplements, I have a j0b in the fall (montessori assistant), and I’m knitting like a fiend. Knitting is good. It’s the closest I can get to meditation. I think it might actually be better, in my case. I’m somewhat occupied, but my mind occasionally wanders. The blog after this will be a knit blog. I’ve got a lot of completed and half-completed projects.

So…this is it. This is the last post. I appreciate the heck out of those of you who have read every one and commented (privately…mostly) and been morally and otherwise supportive. It’s been a long, long year and goodness knows I needed the help. Thanks! So now I begin the long road onward…I’ll see you out there.


Ready Set…Go

Okay…so the race was a little while ago. I’ve been busy. (whoopee).

As it turns out, I walked almost a 10k. The day of the race dawned balmy and bright. I was up early and out the door to make sure Katherine and I were on time for the pre-event festivities, namely photos by various and sundry. After lining up and kneeling on the pavement numerous times, I stretched my reluctant knees and considered my position. My training had not gone as smoothly as I might have hoped. Shingles, insomnia, anemia (not to mention two small people who call me ‘Mom”) had all kept me off my feet more than I would have liked leading up to an official race. However, here I am standing next to a woman who is still in chemo (Wendy) and one who has started 5 weeks of rads (Katherine), both of whom are walking the 10k. Feeling like a wuss, I agree, reluctantly, to go for the 10…reasoning that we’ll be walking slow-ish, it’s a cool morning, etc.

This was good for quite a while. The early mile or so was quite paced as we were in a pack of hundreds. After breaking free of the multitudes, we set off at a clip, down Congress, across the river, turn on Oltorf….here’s where it starts to lose continuity for me. I was tired and realized we were half-way there (yes, the irony of reaching the 5k mark and realizing right where I was). But I pushed on as Kathryn was happily chatting next to me and Wendy was in the lead. “No problem…I’m drinking plenty of water and it really isn’t that hot yet.” As we passed the 5 mile mark, I realized we had been walking for just over an hour (good pace) and were coming up on another fairly big hill. All of a sudden, confidence waned. I looked at Katherine and said, ‘That hill looks a bit intimidating.’ We slowed and let Wendy and her friend Marc pull ahead.

I hit the hill…and the hill hit back. I was, in fact, the only person in our 120+ person group to require medical assistance. I just stopped breathing properly. Silly me. My blood pressure went through the roof, my oxygen uptake went waaaaay down. Anemia a big way. After a rest and some oxygen, I felt better. The paramedics were very sweet, but asked surprisingly hysterical questions like:

“Do you have any health problems, mam?”…my answer, “You mean other than the cancer?”

“Are you taking any medications”….my answer “You’re kidding, right?”

In the end, they offered to 1) take me to the hospital (no thanks), 2) drive me in their cute little cart to the finish line (really, no thanks) or 3) follow me like a guardian angel while I walked it out. I chose 3, but Katherine and I peeled off before reaching the finish line to go to the car. She had a son and a ball game and we were a wee bit late.

It was a good experience. I walked about 5.2 miles and I now, definately, know my limits. If you don’t push your limits you’ll never really find the edge and next time…who knows…I might be able to go farther.


In with the hair…out with the port

The port is gone…long live the port. I must say I was reluctant to have surgery, but not at all sad to see it go. Having a port-a-cath was a great stress/vein/pain saver on the long chemo road, but I’m happy to have the bump off my chest. In an extremely anti-climactic surgical procedure, the port came out in under 20 minutes. After such a grueling ordeal, the fanfare was minimal.

Now I get to get on with it (as so many people seem eager to see me do). My hair is coming back, albeit too damned slowly for me. My eyelashes and eyebrows made a mass departure after the last round of chemo and are now all coming back in at once. For the first, and presumably only, time in my life, I have thick eyelashes. I suspect by the time they’re full length, some of them will have gone and I’ll be back to my normal set.

In the same way, all of my body hair is re-emerging. This is a bit reminiscent of prepubescence, which makes me feel wierd. No period, downy leg hair and back to a size B chest. Hmmm…odd. The adjustment to my post-cancer body has officially begun. I’m certain that every woman who has gone before me has had the same challenges to face. But in America we don’t talk about many things. Taboos and prudish attitudes prevail in keeping most women from discussing with their families, doctors, and even each other the difficulties we face after emerging from surgery, chemo and (for some) radiation. I’ve had whispered conversations with newly found ‘bosom’ buddies about hot flashes, sleepless nights and -gasp- sex. And we really whisper. Noone wants to say out loud what plagues us most during midnight insomnia. We all lie awake, imagining we are the only one, mostly because the books aren’t talking, the websites aren’t talking, even our practitioners aren’t talking. You women who are reading know what I’m talking about. Some of the men may too. I’m a 36 year-old woman, going through rapid menopause. Mmm, mmm, fun.

In happy news, the genetic testing came back negative. Yay! This means that 1) I can stop worrying excessively about my daughter’s future health, 2) I don’t need to go have my ovaries removed (against probable ovarian cancer if the results had been positive) and 3) I got pissed off again. Alright, alright – I know this was good news. I was happy and relieved. I was. Really. But then I got back to, “Okay, so why the hell do I have cancer?”. And I drank half a bottle of wine by myself for the first time in a year and called some friends and griped a lot, woke up with a horrid hangover and got on with life. Fit pitched. Next topic.

I’ve been training with a group called Move Through Cancer. This organization is geared toward helping cancer patients (and their families) get back in shape and stay there after/during treatment. Right now we’re training for the Texas Roundup 5/10k in late April. We get together every week to walk or run and talk about how to improve our health and decrease bone density loss (a real problem for women in early, forced menopause). And it’s nice to be around a group of people who understand that you have to really work to walk a mile on some days and a small flight of stairs can leave you huffing. I’m still debating about whether I’m doing the 5 or 10k at this point. I suspect a decision will present itself the day I officially register. 6 miles still seems like a long way, but I’m getting there.


Post Treatment Anger

As promised…

About two weeks ago, I finally got mad. I mean really mad. For the past 7 months, I haven’t had time to be mad. I’ve been too busy surviving surgery and chemo, etc, etc. But then I started to get past all of that and it hit me…over-whelming anger. All of this sucks. You don’t get time to contemplate the unfairness of your situation until long past your initial diagnosis. And I remember telling Sam sometime very early on, “At some point I’m going to get very angry about this and I think you’d better be prepared for it.” So, here it is…

The problem here is many-fold: who do I get mad at? what do I do about it? what am I really mad about in the first place?

I think the last is the easiest to answer, but I’m going to answer it with a question: Why the hell did I get cancer in the first place? I don’t smoke. I don’t drink (once a month isn’t considered drinking). I’m in good shape. I exercise. I eat extremely well, including being a vegetarian and a compulsive organic shopper. I had two children fairly early in life, both of whom I nursed for over 18 months a piece. And I have absolutely no family history of cancer, anywhere, for generations. Statistically speaking, I’m very low risk for getting cancer at all…So Why?

Well, a number of possibilities spring to mind, most of them having to do with the environment we live in, especially in the United States. It’s in the water we drink, the food we eat, the milk we were told was good for us as children – industrial chemicals. Even though I stopped buying non-organic food some time ago, the major risk factors associated with pesticide consumption happen during childhood, when concentrations are higher by body weight and the immune system is still immature. Though the US government won’t admit it, chemical pollution is probably at the root of a great many cancers in this country. I found a factoid online somewhere during my many hours of reading: Asian women triple their chances of getting breast cancer when they move to this country. Riddle me that. The amount of pre-menopausal breast cancer is on the rise and the government is not only not paying attention, they’re trying to slogh it off. Better detection methods, they trumpet. But most women don’t find their cancer through high tech detection…they find it putting on their bra to go out jogging, or in the shower, or leaning over to look in the mirror. Gagetry gets us next-to-nowhere. Hell, all the biopsies and MRIs and Sonograms and Mamograms I went through completely missed two out of the three tumors that were actually present in my breast. And I found the first one.

What do I do about anger? Well, apparently I wait. I talk to my therapist. I talk to my husband and my friends and my family. But mostly, I go find the little pink pills and wait it out. What else do you do? It’s not like I can go wallop someone on the head for giving me this awful condition (it’s not a disease – it’s not). I can rant and rave here and try not to take it out on my kids (bless them – they seem to react to me being stressed by driving me up a wall).

Who do I get mad at? Ah…this is the really tough one, I suppose. It’s not the doctors/nurses/support staff, though that would be easy. It’s certainly not my family and extended support network. In this, I have to become a conspiracy theorist, an anti-capitalist, a soap-box diva. I’m going to blame it on government, big business, and the bottom line. Because all three basically say, “We can’t fix the environmental problems in this world. It would cost too much money.” Well, for some of us, it’s costing a lot more…it’s costing us our lives.

My very helpful and informative oncologist, Dr. Sandbach, discussed my various extended treatment options with me the last time I visited the office. We determined that 2 1/2 years on Tamoxifen was the best place to start and he handed me a prescription. I took the prescription home and proceeded to stare at it for a week. I used it as a bookmark. I didn’t get it filled. Yes, yes, yes, I knew exactly what I was doing, but some part of my brain just wouldn’t allow me to get up and drive to the pharmacy and fill the silly thing. You see, I want to be done. I don’t want to be a cancer patient for the rest of my life. But in this, as in many other things lately, I don’t get a choice. Sam finally talked me into going and filling it and after actually having it in hand, taking it wasn’t really a problem, but I resent it.

Heaped onto all of this muck is the fun, fun, fun of still battling the mighty fungus (thrush) and the fact that yesterday I was diagnosed with shingles. Both of these happen to a lot of chemo patients. Your immune system is compromised, so the baddies move in. It actually helps to know that, otherwise I might be tempted to add persecution paranoia to my list of personal issues. But shingles sucks. Basically, you had chickenpox as a child and the virus stays on in your system. When your immune system hits rock bottom some of the virus moves up into the nerves near the skin. In my case, I have a little patch of spots (looks just like chicken pox) on the left side of my neck that started out being itchy, but are now very painful. The doc at CFM prescribed some anti-virals, which should shorten the course of the outbreak and keep it in check, while hopefully sparing me permanent nerve sensitivity in that area. And presumably, as I’m a fairly healthy individual normally, this will be the only outbreak I have and then it will be over. Knock on wood, spin three times and spit. My luck hasn’t been the best lately.

Round 6…Sucked

And having said that….the effects of chemo are not just cumulative…they’re a bit exponential. Of course, the doctors try to tell you this without really stressing it too much (otherwise, it would scare the bejeesus out of you). I don’t think I got back ‘up’ after Round 5. I was still tired and draggy going into the last round. I remember being very resigned. They had a little graduation ceremony for me where they hand you a certificate and throw confetti all over you, but I’m pretty blurry about that as I was doped up on narcotics for the nausea. On the day after the treatment (Wednesday), I drank over a gallon of liquids (I’m not kidding) and I don’t think my body held onto any of it. There comes a point where your digestive tract is so brutalized that it just won’t do any work. So when I went in on Thursday to get fluids, I looked dessicated. The skin had shrunk between the finger bones in my hands. I was ashen and my skin looked flaky. And I felt like an invalid. I absolutely hate that. Fluids on Thursday and Friday was a good idea, but I think Saturday and Sunday would have been a good idea as well. Unfortunately, they don’t do that at my oncologist (probably not anywhere). I think they should really. If you’re going to be in the business of pouring toxins into people you ought to be ready to care for them on the weekends as well. I don’t mean offer regular office hours or doctors visits, but fluids and emergency care…that seems a given. Not so.

Then there were the other things that didn’t show up until the last round. I got rings on my fingernails finally. Kindof like the rings on a tree. One for each round. Much to my dismay, my eyebrows and eyelashes fell out. After holding out all that time, I thought for sure I was going to keep them. And then, a week after, I woke up to black mold on my tongue. I panicked (Sam knows that particular tone to my voice, but not from great experience). I thought I had the plague. I had thrush..badly. I’ve now been on diflucan for almost a month trying to get rid of it (and drinking loads of yogurt, etc). Blech. Apparently, this is very common as well. Yipppee for me.

The Nurse Practitioner at my oncologist calls all of this ‘toxic saturation’. One of the practitioners at my family doctor’s office told me, “The come as close as they can to killing you, in order to kill the cancer.” Charming. I’m still thinking this is very middle ages…bleeding people to pull the bad out of them.

Now the real fun begins. After Surgery, more Surgery, Chemo, Recover, Chemo, Recover, Chemo, Recover, Chemo, Recover, Chemo, Recover, Chemo….we do….not much. I’m going to be on Tamoxifen for 2 1/2 years, and I’m supposed to see my doctor every 3 months, but other than that, nothing. No tests…no, well nothing. This is very disconcerting. For the past 6 months I’ve been doing, doing, doing. And although everything I’ve been doing has been horrifying and difficult, I’ve at least felt like I was actively fighting something. Now, I’m supposed to sit and wait. I feel like I did when I was 6 years old and I was supposed to be going to sleep, while the monster in my closet was waiting for exactly that.

There are other topics that should be here….Premature Menopause, Post Treatment Anger, Return to Life, Genetic Testing, Move Through Cancer….I’ll work through those soon. Watch this space….I’ll be sitting here…waiting.

Round 5

The fact that I’m blogging Round 5 on the morning of Round 6 should tell everyone something. For one, I’ve been too darned busy. For another, I’ve been too darned tired. And for the most part, I just didn’t have much to say that wasn’t gripy or whiny. I know, I’m entitled, but I’m pretty certain noone wants to read it. 🙂

So…today is the day. One last session of drip, drip, drip and I’ll be done (with this part of the process). Everything in this round will be for the last time. Last time with the nausea, last time my mouth feels like old shoe leather, last time I can’t taste anything for a week, last time I’m completely exhausted for weeks but, ironically, can’t sleep. And then it will actually start to improve in ways I get to keep.

Aidan still has a bit of a Samson and Delilah syndrome with my hair. For him, it all comes down to when my scalp starts sprouting. Then I’ll be able to run and play and take them to the park. I’ll be able to come garden at the school again and read them stories at night and help them in the bath. I thought this was a bit quaint when he first came up with it many, many months ago, but he’s not far off. Some of it will be psychological, but a lot of it is timing. I should start to see actual hair grown in about 6 weeks (the first stuff, in 4 weeks, is fuzz and needs to be shaved off again). That really should be when my strength starts to return. And right about then we’ll start looking at having a really big party to celebrate. I promise not to bring the house down.