Emmy Material

Grey's! Shame on you! REALLY??! You are my favorite show! Haven't you beaten the proverbial dead horse last season when you killed off all those poor brain patients - slowly, one after the other - in the clinical trials? Except for on the season finale, that plucky virgin/non-virgin poor man's Jennifer Hudson got to live because she SO WANTED TO LIVE, and because she had a nice smile. You did kill off the deflowering boyfriend and the love of her life, however, and that was kind of rude of you.

I so miss the unexploded-bomb-in-body-cavity, man-and-woman-cojoined-by-wreckage-from-horrible-train-accident, how-many-of-the-teeny-tiny-preterm-quintuplets-will-survive storylines. You know, real stuff that actually happens.

Grey's. Seriously. We may have to part ways. It's not you, it's me.

Ok, who am I kidding? I will probably still watch this fall, soley because my neurosurgeon does NOT look like Patick Dempsey (if he did, I would demand tri-weekly house calls). That "doctor", in and of himself, is a fine piece of ... umm? ... entertainment ...

Following material copyright of www.thesuperficial.com - July 17, 2008

After dropping out of the Emmy race and announcing she "wasn't given the material to warrant a nomination," Katherine Heigl basically s*** in the corn flakes of the Grey's Anatomy writers. And now they're striking back:

*Spoiler Alert*

HER CHARACTER GETS A BRAIN TUMOR.

*End spoiler.*

Did I do that right? Us Weekly reports:

“[Producer] Shonda [Rhimes] and the writers are pissed at her,” the source tells Us. “It’s their way of screwing with her. She won’t know whether she’s going to live or die.”

While I admire the writers for exacting their revenge, I'm a little disappointed. A brain tumor? (Oh, s***, SPOILER!) I mean, is that the best they can do? I was hoping for something along the lines of Katherine's character falling in love with Osama bin Laden. Together they try to make things work while balancing their careers. (He's a terrorist; she's a doctor. Wacky!) And, of course, there'd be several subplots where it's revealed her character hates puppies, freedom and the laughter of children. I should really write a pilot.

Surprise! We're at Outback!

Hey 100% Crazy!

I hope you are, right this very second, partying like it is your birthday! Because it IS. But you knew that.

When we first met, you were not sure you liked me that much. Alright, you did NOT like me at all (you admitted this to me later, well after the friendship had been cemented). Because at the time you were a Refined Serious Law Student working at a Major DC Law Firm so someday soon you could have a Big Legal Career doing Important Legal Work and Making Lots of Money. And I was all long blonde hair and lip gloss, ink still setting on my college diploma. I could (and did) spend an inordinate amount of time discussing matters like whether the toenail polish I was wearing was "too red." Sometimes, in my youth, I could be ... sort of ... vapid. Or something. And we had to share an office. I would borrow the stapler and Post-its from your desk and forget to put them back.

Our friendship did not happen overnight. I think, slowly, you got used to the idea of me in your space, not unlike how gradually a toddler realizes that her new little brother or sister is not going back to the hospital, so they may as well make the best of it and stop hitting them over the head with their blocks (at least while mom is looking). Over time, we bonded over our shared horror of certain firm partners' fashion sense (I mean - an electric blue skirt-suit?!) and our shared hatred of interoffice birthday cakes and certain words (you are one of the only people who not only appreciates, but understands, my visceral reaction to words such as "pot roast" or "moist").

You introduced me to the wonders of the Coach store and sauce spoons at Citronelle and lobster lumps (hold those flippery things!). I knew our relationship was serious when you risked your enviable career to commit a minor trespass on my behalf. You know what I mean. (HEY! I wonder if Cabbage is on Facebook yet? I'll be right back ...)

And then, one day, just like that, the two of realized we had become actual real-live friends. We made excuses to stay late at the office so that we could order dinner together in the conference room with RG and talk about things like how my borderline roommate would steal ketchup packets from 7-11. And we would laugh and laugh and laugh and talk and talk and talk. Sometimes I would talk and talk and talk and you would listen. Then we would IM, because one of us (usually me) still had things to say.

On a tangent here: You are the BEST gift-giver I have ever met. On the surface, it seems like giving good gifts might be a shallow remark about you as a person. But, it is not. It is a reflection of how you care so very much about the important people in your life that it brings you joy to give them That Perfect Thing -- that thing they would LOVE, but may not get for themselves. Just this past Easter, you sent me the most gorgeous bouquet of rainbow orchids. Like a party in a vase! When I asked why - for Easter? - you said that I deserved to have something pretty and nice for myself. Just because you wanted to.

I would be remiss if I did not tell you that I think you are one of the most elegant, generous, and supportive people I have had the pleasure to know. I treasure our long friendship so very much. I value and respect all of your advice and your selflessness with your time and spirit.

And ... you totally crack my ass up. I hope we are still laughing together when we are old, old, old ladies (even older than right now).

Hugs (and shit) - J

NO EASY ANSWERS

I am in a rough place right now. I am tired, and sad, and a little bitter. I am trying to go through the motions, and hope it will be alright, but am having a tough time putting on a cheery face. I am, as a result, also having a hard time ignoring the YELLING CAPS LOCK FUNCTION ON MY COMPUTER, either on my blog or my personal emails. I am eating brownies in numbers not recommended by either the American Medical Association or the National Diabetes Board.

The reason for the angst, the CRAZY CAPS TYPING and the chocolate binges: As of two weeks ago, I no longer have a simple neoplasm, mass, or lesion. I "officially" have a non-simple diagnosis: Brain Tumor (inoperable). My job, my life: it is all about semantics.

I am on a watch-and-wait treatment plan for a ... Jesus Christ ... brain tumor. Did I mention the inoperable part? How do doctors even consider something a "treatment plan" if there is no actual treating being done? Nationally Ranked Tumor Board #1 votes scans every three months. Nationally Ranked Neurosurgeon #2 votes scans every year. The only solid consensus is that surgery, given the tumor location, is not viable. As explained to me, over and over, cutting through all that "good brain" will likely kill or disable me. Both options would impair my ability to enjoy either fudgey baked goods OR THE CAPS LOCK FUNCTION.

My June 2008 MRI showed a mass that measured twice as large as it did in November 2007, though there is some debate as to whether that is a significant measurement. November scans were done at UMD. The most recent, at Hopkins. Not even the MRI machines can agree.

None of the neuro-people even know what kind of tumor it is because tumor type cannot be definitively diagnosed without a surgical biopsy. But - they have all guessed (in an educated fashion, I would hope) - AND NONE OF THEM HAVE SAID THE SAME THING. One of my first opinions had me dead at six months, another in the same time period was going to send me home to forget about it and watch "Friends" reruns -- something about laughter and medicine. My cell phone has SIX neurosurgeons' phone numbers programmed into it. I would wager that the general, non-tumored public does not even KNOW a single neurosurgeon.

I guess I should get on with my life, my job, my kid, my fattening desserts and MY RECENT ENJOYMENT OF THE CAPS LOCK KEY, but ... I almost drove into my son's school (more on that later), sometimes I cannot see - only for a second, like a long blink (more on that later), I am forgetting common words, like broccoli (more on that later), I am having large muscle spasms (more on that later). And the fatigue ... the fatigue ... like a bad case of the flu with a side of the flu, at times, I feel like I am seven thousand years old (no more on that later). None of this seems to excite any of the neurosurgical people, probably because I am much much better off than 99.9% of people with brain tumors. But for how long? HOW LONG!? There is no concrete answer. Months, years, decades?

I posted the essay below because it explains the nebulous, frustrating and inexplicable medical reality better than I can right now, and people, who care, keep asking (thank you, to those who ask - and care - I appreciate it).

Bravo to the eloquent author, Neal P. Levitan, Esq. Please take it away, sir:

Copyrighted material: National Brain Tumor Society (2008)
Survivor Stories - Searching for Consensus
By Neal P. Levitan, Esq.

The dictionary defines consensus as a "collective opinion" and "general opinion or accord." My very first encounter with an irresolute opinion was that of a neurologist reading a CT scan in 1982, who diagnosed me as having either a stroke, dementia, or a brain tumor. The diagnosis was further refined after a week-long stay and many additional tests at the Massachusetts General Hospital when I was told I had a tumor in my left temporal lobe that appeared to be very close to the speech center and right motor strip; it was probably a slow growing astrocytoma or mixed glioma, and was probably infiltrating the "good" brain cells with its characteristic octopus-like tentacles; thus the risk of a bad surgical result outweighed potential benefits. The conclusion: I had an inoperable brain tumor. A wait and observe approach was recommended. Although I had tremendous faith and respect for my doctors, I felt I had to take my own initiative to investigate my disease and to manage my own health.

Thus began an extensive search for answers. With the help of a loving family and supportive friends, I garnered the strength to seek additional opinions, and to hopefully find the latest and best treatment modality. I quickly realized that such a search was very idealistic: there was no collective opinion or single new treatment. Rather, I encountered vast disagreement about my disease and the proper course of action to defeat it. This was, at first, very unnerving!

The myriad of treatment options suggested ranged from immediately starting radiation therapy to having a biopsy to determine the exact pathology. One doctor said that "the tumor was there to grow," and recommended immediate partial resection rather than waiting until it became more infiltrative and perhaps more aggressive. Another warned that a partial resection in and of itself may make the remaining tumor more aggressive. Still others recommended new (and in the mid 1980's, experimental) forms of radiosurgery, and one doctor said that regardless of what action I took, I would not be alive in five years.

I also struggled through numerous medical periodicals and research studies, many of which had varied results and conclusions. This further confounded my attempt to ascertain the primary treatment available for my disease.

With all of my research and through all of my meetings and conversations with some of the most renowned neurologists and neurosurgeons in the country, I could not find consensus. What was imparted to me during this process was a wealth of information. With each new consult I learned more about the disease and became better equipped to ask more informed questions. Becoming well acquainted with the different schools of thought on my tumor type, I came to view each new resource and the multitude of information collected as part of a learning curve that would assist me in making the most important decision of my life. While I could easily have been frustrated by the lack of consensus, there was some benefit from all of the disagreement in that I learned about the risks and potential benefits of each treatment option. In the end it was this process that enabled me to evaluate the treatment choice with which I would be most comfortable.

Regrettably, not everyone diagnosed with a brain tumor has the opportunity of time; some are faced with life-and-death decisions which may be ultimately made for them and not by them. For many patients, however, there is some opportunity to learn more about the disease and varied treatment options. The fact that different protocols are available may be regarded as a positive factor; considering that apart from statistics that tend to eclipse the individuality of a person and his illness, there really is no way to guarantee how a particular treatment will affect an individual or his disease.

The challenge of coping with the absence of consensus certainly can be daunting. At first it can seem to pre-empt all hope for recovery. It may be possible to mitigate this negative spiral by focusing on the management of your situation, hopefully with the assistance of others that you are comfortable with. First, it is critically important to maintain a positive attitude and never dismiss the power of hope. Next, it is necessary to secure as much information as possible from reliable sources, including unbiased caregivers as well as patients and families who have knowledge and experience with the same tumor classification. It is similarly important to logically discuss and analyze all of the information obtained with family and trusted friends.

The final step, and in my opinion the most crucial, should be accomplished with a delicate balance of determination and respect. Challenge your physicians to respond to the opinions of their colleagues as well as to your own concerns, so that all of the issues are clear to you or someone you can rely on. Only then will you be armed with the resources necessary to make a decision in the absence of consensus.

Today, I am a thirteen year post-treatment survivor. Fortunately, for those going through a similar experience to mine, the combination of specialized organizations such as the Brain Tumor Society and the internet revolution make it much easier to access information about treatment options, to locate other patients with similar diseases, and to receive support and guidance, than ever before. Such organizations exist to provide help and purvey hope. Hope is an invaluable asset to us all in coping with illness, as well as with the frustration of not being able to identify a single best treatment option. And, hope becomes even more vital when affirmation as to the most appropriate measures for managing your disease does not exist.

Missing The Point

We are at a loss for how to keep Ethan in his own room at night. We have tried time-outs, reassurance, bribes, tying him to the mattress ... we are out of ideas. Without fail, we wake up in the morning (usually around 3 a.m.) and he has wedged himself right into the middle of our bed. And by middle of our bed, I mean he is sleeping on my back (I guess there is also some sort of Oedipal thing at play).

So I have this bright idea that the beginning of kindergarten this fall can coincide with the purchase of a new bed. Right now, Ethan has a very cool bed in the shape of a race car, but it is small, and he is starting to lop over the edges. We go to the furniture store to check out bunk-beds. Ethan is so excited - the height, the ladder, the novelty - he decides bunk-beds are AMAZING and cannot believe we are just now considering one.

When I ask him his thoughts on this bunk-bed purchase, he is overjoyed, "That would be SO great!! Then the WHOLE FAMILY could sleep together in MY room!"

Good To Know!

Ethan told me this morning, randomly, that a Great White shark is "larger than a pick-up truck but smaller than a luxury SUV."

Wonder how much it costs to gas up a Great White shark?

Happily (?) Married

Dear Husband,

Happy Anniversary. On our wedding day seven years ago, I was worried about Very Important Stuff. Like whether the square Swarovski crystals on the bodice of my dress caught the light in photographs, whether my pink lipstick looked too tarty with my white dress, whether your notoriously flaky best man would show up on time AND bring his tux, whether it would rain and force our gorgeous outdoor ceremony to be moved inside and whether my deodorant would hold up through the DJ spinning "Shout" and "We Are Family." You know, the Big Things. We said some stuff about sickness and health and richer or poorer. You cried (perhaps because we footed part of the bill); I did not (perhaps because I did not want to ruin my $200 make-up application). We partied and then we went on a trip and came home and opened presents. Yay! You had a shiny brand-new bride. I wrote you notes and signed them "Your New Wife." Life was good ... and easy.

If we could have predicted the next seven years ... we were aware of certain life hurdles yet to come: finishing law school, studying for the bar exam with a baby to attend to, buying our first house, changing jobs, losing two grandmothers to old age, losing one beloved aunt to breast cancer at an unfairly young age.

But it was what we could not have known that pushed the limits: that my mom would get lymphoma and go through aggressive treatment while our son was still an infant, that I would have a high-risk pregnancy and be sentenced to bed rest for one month before delivery, and then another two months after the baby was born. That I would go on to develop the "worst case" of postpartum depression my doctor had ever treated (hey - you know I play hard or go home). You learned that I had the impressive capacity to cry for seven hours straight without passing out. And you wondered whether the shiny, happy woman that you married would ever return. That our beautiful blonde son, so perfect and lovely in so many ways, would develop a life-threatening medical condition which could stop his breathing and his heart within minutes if he puts the wrong bite of food into his mouth. And that it is now a full-time job - to not just parent, but to make sure he stays alive - every hour, every day, every birthday party, cook-out, play date and amusement park trip. That I have had to inject medicine into his little leg - twice - while he screamed and begged and hit me with his little fists because it hurt so badly - and then rush him to the ER via ambulance to save his life. It takes a toll. Some parents have it harder, no question, but some do have it easier.

And then there is what we could NOT possibly have known, and that if you had told me I would not have wanted to say it aloud for fear of jinxing myself: In our sixth year of marriage, I would have $25,000 of MRI scans (literally, I just got our health insurance invoice) and a brain tumor diagnosis. That we now have fights about whether you would miss work to visit me in the ICU and that we joke about things you should not do on dates with your future hypothetical second wife (no bringing half-price dinner coupons on the first three dates; she will run screaming). That I cannot get it out of my head that when you left your last firm it was because the owner and President had just been diagnosed with a brain tumor and the firm was going under. That my best friend, not a surgeon at the time, but still in medical school, told you "Find another job now. He has months." And he did. I recall it was less than three months from diagnosis to his funeral. But before that, he had painful disfiguring surgery and lost his ability to work, and then, to walk and to speak. And this is where I wish I could say something inspirational and uplifting, but you know by now, that I am not a "motivational quote" sort of person.

So I will leave it at this: thank you for sticking around, for better or for worse. And all that jazz. It has been quite a ride, so far. I hope we get to toast to another seven, and then another seven after that. I love you.

Your (slightly used and tattered) Wife

Overprotective

Jeff and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary this weekend. We dated for three-and-a-half years before we made it legal, so I think I should get credit for that time, too. I am all about the numbers.

To celebrate the milestone, we planned to go away to the inn where our wedding was held. We have returned every year for our anniversary, even the year when I was newly pregnant with Ethan and wanted to do nothing but stay home and throw up in the wastebasket, between bites of Ben and Jerry's. This year, I was beyond excited for 600-thread count sheets and a mattress minus its own five-year-old as permanent fixture. (My close friends may recall the recent difficulties we have had convincing Ethan to stay in his own bed at night. He is winning the battle and ensuring, by default, that he will NEVER have the little brother he keeps begging for. On the upside, we are saving tons of money on birth control.)

We arranged for Jeff's parents to watch Ethan while we partook of high-thread count linens and kid-free bed. Ethan has stayed with Jeff's parents in the past, but before we ask them to baby-sit, we always have a serious discussion about whether or not it is worth the headache to try and make plans with them, or whether we just should roll the dice and take our chances with Child Protective Services by leaving Ethan home alone. Without fail, there is AT LEAST one major "issue" that needs to be addressed before Ethan heads up there. And without fail, Jeff and I get so worked up about it, we spend the first day of our trip ignoring each other while we unclench our teeth.

This time it was the guns. When Jeff and I started dating a million years ago, Jeff's dad took me on a tour of their house and proudly introduced me to his cache of weapons --the large gun, the little gun, the mother-of-pearl handled gun, the loaded handgun (stored in the nightstand next to the Kama Sutra manual). When I asked what the nightstand gun was for, he replied, without a trace of irony, "for protection." Which I get -- they live about two minutes from Amish country and it is common knowledge that those crazy Amish are notorious for looting and violence. One can never be too careful.

Fast forward years later, Ethan is born. Before baby Ethan spends time over at his parents, even though Ethan cannot yet hold up his head or focus his eyes, Jeff and I request that the guns be removed from their home. Why take chances with kids and guns? Jeff and I both agree that this is a non-negotiable topic. We talk to his dad, his dad seems to get it, and he tells us he will move the guns to one of his off-site storage units. Fast forward again, five years later, while reading about the recent Second Amendment Supreme Court ruling, it suddenly occurs to me that Jeff's dad owns a garage where he restores old cars. I wonder if this is where he currently stores his guns; I know that while Ethan is visiting, his dad will likely take him to the garage to see the old cars. Jeff and I want to ensure that Ethan is not running around playing at a location which houses an arsenal of unsecured firearms. Call us overprotective.

I ask Jeff to call. This immediately causes Jeff to break out in hives. I am allergic to the environment; Jeff is allergic to talking about anything remotely controversial with his parents. Because they can be mean and scary and have guns. So, after much foot-dragging, he phones and asks his dad where the guns are now stored. It turns out his dad NEVER removed the guns from the home and the guns are in the basement of his house! AND when Jeff asks him, nicely, to remove the guns, for the second time, his dad responds by telling him the guns are in the basement and Ethan never goes into the basement. When Jeff INSISTS that the guns be moved before Ethan's visit, his dad tells him that he can put the guns in the trunk of his car. Which is the same car his dad will use Ethan to drive back and forth to our house ...? And the same trunk where he will throw Ethan's overnight bag ...? Note: the man is not stupid. He has a PhD which he did not get from a correspondence school. The end result: We could not get to the same place on this gun thing so Jeff and I cancelled our trip to the inn at the last minute. I think we probably got charged for it, too, because we cancelled less than twenty-four hours out from the time of our planned arrival. I plan to invoice my in-laws.

The weekend was not a total wash, however. We went to a friend-of-a-friend's Fourth of July party. During the day, it was family pool party time, with hot dogs and popsicles and kids in life jackets and floaties cavorting around the deck. By the time we left after the fireworks, it was full-on grown-up time, with body shots and several couples appearing to fornicate in the shallow end. Not us, I should add. We threw a towel over Ethan's head and bolted. Then we stopped for Taco Bell on the drive home. So that was romantic ...