26. The Post in Which my Coworker Tells me I Should Die

So today I was in the office, and I stopped over at the service desk to talk to a few of the guys that have been really amazing since I started - I walked directly up to DJ and told him I was once again mistaken for someone else for the third time in a week  (albeit no more touching incidents) and did he know of any other chunky butch looking women on base that I look like....

He laughed and said, "No" so I asked him about the LONG line of people at the closed gym across the street.  It's been locked and shuttered like everything else for weeks now, but there's a huge line of people pretending to social distance as they wait.

Speculation was that it might be COVID testing for soldiers.

Here's where things got weird - one of the guys that works at the Service Desk that I don't know very well (I'm gonna call him Steve) started spouting off about how people should not be FORCED to be tested for the virus, because it was an invasive test and a violation of his personal rights.  "Besides - what if they found out I DO have COVID?  Then what?  Are they going to treat me?  No, they're going to put me in isolation which is an even BIGGER violation of my personal rights."

I said, "No, Steve - it's to keep you away from people like me, who have no immune system and can't fight the virus."

Steve:   "Nature has been weeding out the weak for centuries.  Why should the entire economy implode?  Why should I be forced to lose money from working just because you're vulnerable?   Think of it like this - my mother is sick and needs a new kidney.  SHE KNOWS better than to ask me because she knows my answer.  She's had diabetes for twenty years - she's had ample time to change her life and change her behavior and she hasn't.  So why should I be inconvenienced because of it?  Not going to happen."

Me:  "But I have cancer....."

Steve:   "Cancer is primarily caused by people who are either drinking too much, smoking too much or eating too many trans fats.  It's actions and consequences.  Your actions shouldn't cause ME consequences."

Me:  <throwing my hands up>  "I'm out."

Because I had NOTHING I could think of to say.  There is NOTHING that would infiltrate this man's concrete solid belief that my cancer is a curse to everyone here on base, and I should basically just fall on my sword for the good of mankind (and the stock market.)

I spend 11 hours in my office and 13 hours in my room each day.  I don't go to the mess hall, I don't go watch the sports games, I don't hang out with other people, I don't casually peruse the library.  I don't visit one of the many "unofficial" gyms that have popped up since they closed the official ones - I literally try not to do ANYTHING that could expose me to germs that could kill me.  I don't want to inconvenience ANYBODY - I absolutely agree that we need to be creative and think of ways so lives aren't completely destroyed by unemployment - even for me, where my life is on the line, these are  NOT  black or white issues.

All I'm asking is that you let me do everything that I can - and you don't interfere with that.  If you want to go to the beach.  Or go to Starbucks.  Or go mingle with your homies.  I get it.  Just DO. NOT. COME. ANYWHERE. NEAR. ME.  Wash your hands appropriately before you enter the DFAC or the PX.  Wear your mask anywhere that we are within six feet - and celebrate not wearing it when you're on a walk alone away from others.

Live and let live!

25. A MIRACLE (whip)

Today started off with a weird feeling on the top left of my head.  Or rather, hardly any feeling at all.  If I touch it  it feels similar to sunburned skin so I plopped a bag of ice on ot and realized I didn't feel the cold in the one yamika sized spot off center.

I'm not one to panic about medical stuff - I have a morbid curiosity and life and death - so I googled a bit and discovered that this is a normal sign before it all falls out.

My boss is laughing as I'm explaining this to him clasping a drippy bag of ice to my skull and starts spouting something about having his own Friar Tuck on staff.  And I'm trying to explain it's offcenter so that makes no sense, it would be more of a bald French beret - which puts him in absolute stitches.

THEN I got a package in the mail from my sister with chocolates, bacon bits and a jar of MIRACLE WHIP!  (Go away, haters!)

I am in heaven planning all the things I can do with Miracle Whip and MRE'S.  Were there ketchup, I might even call this place liveable.

Monday we start lockdown.  Nobody on or off base.  My boss made sure I am covered for chemo next week - and honestly, the news won't change my way of life much.  I'm already isolated.

I'm not sure what the point is, though.  Even today we are still seeing large gatherings of groups - soccer games, football, basketball....  And thanks to the PX getting a small shipment today I GUARANTEE its going to be a weekend of vicarious barbequeing for most.

Me?  I will be in my room making the world's greatest egg salad sandwich all by myself and enjoying it WAY TOO MUCH while binge watching The Good Place.

Quarantine has definitely increased my gratitude a hundred fold.

24. A Formal Complaint

No, no, this has nothing to do with yesterday - my boss is convinced there's some hugely embarrassed twenty year old sitting at his office worrying if some crazy old lady is going to report him for grabbing her.

He's been trying out new nicknames - "Umbrella Avenger"  "Ruth Buzzy II"  "Helga the Axe Queen"

We're good there.  Today I discovered something truly alarming and decided I would take the drastic step of reporting it to corporate.  The exchange follows:


------------------------------

Dear Charles:

I would like to petition corporate to consider Hazard Pay for those of us living and working in Kosovo.

There is currently NO KETCHUP in Kosovo.

And while the masks and PPE that Mike has passed out are fantastic for keeping us safe, one still has to have a WILL to live....

Life WITHOUT ketchup?

Was definitely NOT in my original contract....

Sincerely,

Nikki

----------------------------------------

Dear Nikki:

Hazard pay?   Not a chance.

Would you like me to send you some ketchup?

Charles

-----------------------------------------

Dear Charles:

Whilst I appreciate the kind gesture, I think you've missed the larger picture.

The DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE specifically grants us the right to ketchup.  It's one of those inalienable rights.

Life, liberty....THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.

Ketchup is extremely important in the pursuit of happiness.

The infringement of my rights really should be compensated - as one could also argue that we are being subjected to "cruel and unusual punishment".

I'm not alone in this - have you seen the swaths of protesters?  (photo attached)

VIVA LA REVOLUTION!

Nikki

--------------------------------------------

Nikki:

I have already purchased ketchup and sent it in today's mail so you are not delayed in your happiness.

But no hazard pay.

Charles

--------------------------------------------

Dear Charles:

I would like to petition corporate to consider Hazard Pay for those of us living and working in Kosovo.

There is currently NO MIRACLE WHIP in Kosovo.

And while the masks and PPE that Mike has passed out are fantastic for keeping us safe, one still has to have a WILL to live....

Life WITHOUT Miracle Whip?

Was definitely NOT in my original contract....

Sincerely,

Nikki

23. "The Incident" where I inadvertantly whack a soldier

I know that I'm very lucky to still have my job - between the precarious beginning of this saga which saw me in handcuffs, and the "chemo brain" which normally means I have to ask the same questions twice before I write it down - my company has been AH-MAZ-ING and I am super grateful.  SUPER. GRATEFUL.

So imagine now I'm sitting here running through how I'm going to tell my boss that I just basically walloped a soldier.   (No, this is not steroid or testosterone based - let me explain and set the scenario.)

I'm walking from work to my barracks room - I need to get something to eat because my stomach is feeling a bit nauseous and the only MRE I still have at work is that tuna one that I can't bring myself to open.  Also, since all the local nationals have been sent home - there's nobody doing cleaning around base and it's important we get the trash out before we have a rodent problem.  AND, I haven't left my office in seven hours and I really need some steps.

As I'm walking down the long staircase down the hill, I notice a soldier walking up the other way - not a big deal, of course - but I also notice he's not wearing a mask.  Never seen him before, don't know why he's being so blatant (maybe he's one of the folks signing a petition to remove the mask restriction or maybe he legitimately just forgot to put it on) - but I pull my rain slicker farther over my face, tighten my mask and walk on without a word.

Upon reaching me, he stops and says how are you and GRABS MY ARM.

I hit him with the umbrella in my right hand so hard it broke the umbrella and screamed, "HOW DARE YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!" like some crazed rape victim.  I honestly have no idea why it came out that way - this is not some repressed PTSD memory coming out, just complete SHOCK that someone I don't know who is NOT covered in a mask would actually put his hands on me when I'm doing EVERYTHING I CAN POSSIBLY DO TO NOT DIE HERE.

Walking on at a double pace, I didn't even look back at him or think to get his name so I could proactively report it to my boss.  Double timed it back to my room, had a wee cry, and headed back to work to tell my boss.

I'm sure the young man meant nothing - I'm just so used to NOT being within six feet of everyone, and to be touched so forcefully was a bit disarming.

I think I might rename this blog:  "Breast Cancer - the path to my Criminal Record"

Oh SIDE NOTE - my hair started falling out today.  It caught me off guard.  I've been preparing for it, I just thought it would be on my head or my face - I just didn't think about ALL the places on your body where your hair can fall out and it was a little distressing......

Charting Side Effects and Dates Only (No stories)

Diagnosis - February 28 (Friday)

Surgery - Friday, March 13th

Treatment 1 - Friday, April 10th (Good Friday)
     Doxorubicin amp 120 mg, Cyclophosphamid amp 1200mg
     Day 1 - None
     Day 2, 3 - Teeth hurt, sharp pains in the ear (like an ice pick)
     Day 4,5 - Mild nausea if I don't eat
     Day 4-8 - Chemo Brain (forgetful, writing things down really helps)
     Day 8 - mild chills, tiredness
     Day 9 - extreme chills and shaking, major headache - I feel like i'm dying (not exaggerating)
Day 10 - Sunday - more chills, minor fever, headache
Day 11 - Monday - low grade fever - feeling bleh - no chills
Day 12 - Tuesday - actually feeling good today - then my hair started falling out - in unexpected places
Day 13 - Wednesday - feeling good - rough night (lots of pain where they took out the lymph nodes - Dr. Sermaxhaj is going to have the surgeon come take a look at it when I come in for round 2)

Day 14-18   mild fatigue

Day 19 - Tuesday - head hair starts falling out rapidly

Day 21 - Friday - my pillow looks like a dog bed.  chemo moved to Monday due to today being a holiday

Treatment 2 - Monday, May 4th
     Doxorubicin amp 120 mg, Cyclophosphamid amp 1200mg
Day 1 (treatment day) - mild nausea, fatigue, frequent urination
Day 2  (Tuesday, 5/5) - nausea, fatigue, extreme sleeplessness (steroids?), frequent urination
Day 3 (Wedneday, 5/6) - nausea (even though still on anti-nausea meds and steroids), fatigue (from not sleeping), eating cautiously
Day 4 (Thursday, 5/7) - last day of anti-nausea meds and steroids, teeth pain, nausea, constipation, cranky, tired
Day 5 (Friday, 5/8) - horrible nausea, fatigue, constipation, begging for the sweet release of death
Day 6 (Saturday, 5/9) - slept 12 hours - feeling a ton better on all fronts
Day 7 (Sunday, 5/10) - slept 12 hours - feeling good

22. Chemo Week One

It's been an exciting and anxiety fueled week.  The number of cases in Kosovo have quadrupled, and the government that hasn't collapsed is enforcing police state like restrictions that keep people off the streets except for 90 minute staggered windows for essential errands.

Don't misunderstand, it hasn't changed life ON base much in terms of daily routine - but the anxiety has never been higher.

All our dining facility workers who are local nationals have been quarantined and replaced with temporary troops.  The guys at our help desk next door have been exposed to people who have been directly exposed to the virus.  Everyone is sitting around quietly waiting to see who, if anyone, gets sick.  

I spend the day closed up in my office and my evening closed up in my barracks room.  It's just SO MUCH. SO, SO MUCH.

A week after my first dose of chemo I am definitely struggling with fatigue and nausea.  It's worse when I don't eat, so I try to have bland snacks on hand.  Today is the toughest so far, and this is only week ONE. Seventeen to go - if I am lucky.

But there are little bright moments that remind me everything is going to be okay.  Facebook messages from my nieces Aspen and Aubree, my beautiful friend Andrea cutting her hair in support (and rocking it!), Skype with my Mom and Princess Peanut.  There are little tiny acts of kindness every day that keep my hopes up - Shawn picked up lunch for me today, Celia made everyone bacon and eggs for breakfast, Shem picked up a thermometer out on the economy for me.  These little things mean EVERYTHING.  Your kind words on Facebook and all those ridiculous memes - I love them!  Thank you.

Until hugs come back into fashion, I am sending you all heartfelt gratitude.

21. Covid Comes to the Homestead

We knew it would happen - we just didn't know when.  Friday, as I was getting my first dose of chemo, we had our first confirmed cases of Covid-19 on base.  There is a lot of rumor and speculation about who and where and how many - but the number of cases in Kosovo OVERALL have more than doubled this week, and at least 40 of them were attributed to our little town.

So....in this screenplay that is my current life (because it's far too SURREAL to be REAL) we now have added conflict.  The constant risk of infection.  But rather than zombies, we have a ton of young soldiers who feel immortal acting stupidly - the same way we acted stupidly when we were young and invincible - forgoing distancing rules, daring the God of Corona to defy their strength of) will!

(Incidentally - if my life were truly a screenplay, and you weren't allowed to play yourself in it - who would you cast as YOU?  Or ME?  I'm soooooo curious to hear your thoughts!)

Ominous music begins to build in the background.  All the dining facilities are closed.  We've been reduced to pre-distributed Meals-Ready-to-Eat (MRE's).  Mail has ceased in case packages carry the contagion.  If you see another person walking down the dirt roadways on base, if they don't IMMEDIATELY increase their distance to at least 15 feet there's a sense of danger and malicious intent.  Nobody makes eye contact.

Actually, this dramatic scenario sounds more interesting than my actual life right now.  I'm isolated 24/7 for my own protection - either in my office if I'm feeling up to it, or in my barracks room.  I've been fighting some mild side effects from the chemo - but so far, nothing too awful.   (Ask me tomorrow when my anti-nausea drugs and steroids have run out and I may say differently)  My teeth hurt and it feels like someone is jamming an ice pick into my ear, but really - that's not so bad compared to what I've read about online.

When I'm too tired to work - I nap, I read, hang out on YouTube, paint, write notes to the people I'm missing, and daydream about all the things that I'm going to do when the treatments are over.  When the borders have opened.  When the virus is somewhat under control.  When hugs are allowed and not a perceived attack.  When clothes don't have to be discarded in a mud room to prevent infection from entering the house.

It does seem so very surreal this world we're living in right now.  But WHATEVER comes next, I can see amazing things ahead.  I can see us continuing to appreciate the folks keeping us going during difficult times (health care workers, sanitary workers, mail carriers) - I can see us tipping waitresses better because we actually appreciate the opportunity to sit down for a meal at a restaurant.  Broadway shows are going to be a miraculous evening of magic that right now seems virtually impossible, but yet we WILL find our way back to that joy and that light.

It may look a little different - I REALLY hope it does.  I'd like to keep experiencing the beautiful air, and the gorgeous seas.  But whatever it is, we will come through these trials stronger for it.

20. A Day Out with Shem (aka First Day of Chemo)

My coworker Shem very graciously agreed to drive me to my first Chemo appointment.  Even though the doctor said I should be able to drive, he didn't think I should have to go alone my first time.   I respond, "That's cool.  Thanks."  but secretly I'm doing this ridiculous happy dance on the inside because truthfully, I'm frightened of the unknown.

We get into the car and I am anxious.  I say, "SHEM!  Tell me a joke!"

Shem:   "I don't have any jokes.  My father never allowed us to be funny."

Awkward silence.

You have to understand, Shem is one of the sweetest guys I've met her in Kosovo - and he's actually funny, just not in the "Dad joke" kind of a way.  He's incredibly hard working and I feel lucky to call him a friend - and today he really was a great friend, even without the jokes.

At the hospital, we were about 30 minutes early, but the doctor saw me and waved me over.  He looked at my hair and said, "Miss Nikki, not everyone loses their hair with chemo." very gently.

I said, "Well, I did."

Again, my sense of humor is completely lost and he takes me into a room down the hall.  He says, "I'm sorry I made you wait (about 15 seconds), but I wanted to make sure you have a room of your own.  That you don't have to share."

Understand, that prior to their independence twenty years ago, they were treated BADLY.  Like, REALLY badly - so they view Americans as the Good Guys that helped them in the revolution.  This pervades their attitudes to this day, and the people here are amazingly kind.

Nurse puts in the needle.  First, I get a drip of antihistamine drugs.  Then I get something for anti-nausea, which is good because historically I KNOW it's going to be bad.  I throw up at the thought of throwing up.  I can barf on queue (for real - no fingers down the throat or anything) - how I wish that were in any way a marketable skill.

Then...THE RED DEVIL.  He's got this nasty red chemo dripping into my veins and my wonderful doctor starts talking about the "disagreement" between him and the American doctor.  They have different strategies, but he assures me he'll do whatever I want.  I'm like, *I* AM NOT GOING TO CHOOSE!  Good Lord, I have had ZERO days of medical school and WAY TOO MUCH TIME on WebMD.com to make good decisions!

I start sucking on ice and popsicles.  The popsicles were yummy, but they're the stick kind that you have to kind of destroy your teeth to open - and they had gotten slightly melted in the cooler on the drive to Pristina.  So when I tried to open the first one, I dripped red melted popsicle on the hand with the infusion going.  But I didn't move my hand because I kept kinking the tube, so I just left it there not thinking that when the nurse came in twenty seconds later and saw all the red SHE ROYALLY FREAKED OUT.   (To be fair, chemo drugs will destroy your innards if they escape out of the vein, so this was an appropriate reaction)   I had to pull out another popsicle and the empty wrapper before she understood I was just messy.  She tutted at me, shook her head and marched back out.

The second chemo drug took an hour, and then they flushed the vein with plain saline for awhile before they unhooked me and let me go.  And I am feeling......fine.   Like, perfectly fine.  Not tired.  Not nauseous.  Not anxious.  Just.....fine.   I know it worked because I'm peeing a lovely orange color, which provides a little whimsy to my afternoon.

I feel like I should feel bad.  But I don't.  At least not physically.  It strikes me as I'm leaving the hospital that my N95 mask Neal sent to me for protection is better than anything any of the healthcare professionals are wearing.  That hurts my heart.  But I also know that NO Covid-19 patients are being treated here, and that my immune system is destroyed - and that social distancing has gone to hell at Camp Bondsteel.

I call Shem.

Shem shows up with the car in FULL HAZARD gear - he's got a mask on, he's got gloves on, he's got protective eyewear on - and I'm trying to convince myself that he's doing this out of an overprotective desire to keep me germ free.  But he's acting like I'm radioactive.  So we turn up the radio.  It's 3:40 pm.

At 7:00 pm, six hours after chemo began, I am sitting anticipating the agony.  The misery.  The EVIL HOUNDS OF HELL COMING TO SUCK THE SOUL OF MY OPTIMISTIC SPIRIT.  But I feel nothing.  Maybe a weird taste in my mouth.  But nothing yet.  I start getting ready for bed.

By 9:00 pm I am growing impatient.  WHERE IS THE PAIN?  THE AGONY?   THE HORROR?  I start getting ready for bed and grab my book.  Good grief, I've felt worse after donating blood.  This is going to make a SUPER boring blog.   So I hop into bed with a book.

………………….To be Continued

19. Kosovar update & What to Look Forward To

As of today Kosovo has experienced three deaths from Covid-19 and they are up to 165 cases.  It's a pretty small country, but honestly this number reflects the amazing response the government had when the virus first appeared.  Stores were ordered closed.  Restaurants were ordered closed (not even take out).  The roads were shut down except during specific times so folks could get groceries.  They test the temperature of EVERYONE coming in/out base, in/out of hospitals and medical centers, and social distancing is down right SCARY in how empty the streets and highways are.

Nobody here WANTS to be stuck at home.  But they do it - not because the police are out enforcing it, but because it's the right thing to do.  The virus doesn't just affect the elderly and those with co-morbidities (although they are high risk) - it's hit every age group.  

People are afraid.

*I* am afraid.

I'm about to shoot my veins with poison and eliminate my immune system so the chemo can attack the cancer cells.  But, like my foster country, I am doing what needs to be done.  I have nieces and nephews that I want to see married, and friends that I really need to hug, and adventures to experience.  So right now, I'm doing what I need to be doing - not in ideal circumstances - but utilizing the hand I've been dealt and FEELING GRATEFUL just to have the cards.

Things WILL get better.  For all of us.  They may not be the same - but we will still see joy, and friendship and happiness again.  AND WE WILL HAVE STORIES TO TELL!  Boy, will we have stories to tell!   Trading homemade bread for toilet paper - standing in line for three hours to get IN to Costco - surviving shelter-in-place with kids and dogs and parents - that time Karen accidentally donated $10,000 instead of $100.  So. Many. Stories.  We'll sit around the fire by Christmas and see who can outdo one another with "Tales of Quarantine" and WE WILL LAUGH and cry and just be together.

Until then......

Remember this - when people are on their deathbed, they don't normally talk about how much money they've made (or LOST), or about their debt, or about their struggles.  They talk about their love, their friendships, their triumphs over adversity, the people that were there to share the struggles, the crazy adventures.  Focus on those.  REMEMBER how lucky each of us is.

18. That Time I Got to Play My Dream Role..... (kinda, sorta)

So this week I got to do my best interpretation of Fantine in Les Misérables - it wasn't under the best of circumstances, but it was still a very powerful moment for me.  I'd been planning it for about a week.  My hair has already started falling out from the anesthesia (normal for me) and I knew cutting it off would make the prospect of taking a shower and finding gobs of hair much less traumatizing - so I thought, "I'll cut it off while I'm singing karaoke!  It'll be epic!   Like, the most epic video EVER!"

Hey, I knew I couldn't out-sing the people in the Quarantine Karaoke group (they are AH-mazing) - so at least I can be memorable, right?

Oh.  My.  Lord.

Once I started cutting, ALL the emotions started pouring out.  It was ugly crying, I'm sure.  I don't really remember singing - I just remember the handfuls of hair falling and how all of a sudden EVERYTHING became real.

So.....I posted it.  OF COURSE I posted it!  Is it embarrassing?  YES!  Is it raw, emotional and heartbreaking?  YES!  Is it EPIC?  <shrug>  I don't know.  I can't actually bring myself to watch it.

https://www.facebook.com/knikkihess/videos/10158718597572923

I've adjusted to the short hair though - and though I still reach for the hairbrush every morning and am starkly reminded I don't have any hair to brush - I like the simplicity of it.  It'll start falling out much more quickly as chemo starts this Friday - so I consider this my "transition" haircut.

Am I nervous?  Of course.  I have no idea how MY body is going to respond - but I've had some wonderful mentors - my friends Ben and Marie, my incredibly brave cousin Tammy and her husband, and tons of strangers that have given me encouragement and strength.

I'm ready.  Let's get this chemo party started.

17. Surviving the Apocalpyse (yes, I found my sense of humor again)

4/2

My colleague Shem agreed to drive me to the hospital this morning, since it's a new building I've not been to - and I've been so hopelessly lost the last few times I've ventured out that my boss decided a preemptive escort was cheaper than a search party.  We're driving down the highway, and the ONLY thing that made me believe we weren't in on a post-Apocalyptic planet was the lack of flesh eating zombies.  There were NO cars on the road.  There were NO stores open.  There were NO restaurants doing take-or delivery orders.  Nothing.  

It. Was. Creepy. 

"Shem!  Should we seek out the other survivors or find a place to shelter before the acid rain starts?" I asked frantically.

"What are you talking about?"  He's from Kosovo.  And didn't major in Musical Theater.  Obviously, time for a new tactic.  I took the intelligent route.

"How fast do you think Zombies can actually move?  Would it vary depending on how fit someone was before they turned or would it be the undead strain of the virus that determined their pace?"

"What?  Are you feeling okay?  Oh, God, are you running a fever?  I seriously can't afford to be sick right now."

Okay, so much for small talk.   

We arrived safely at the hospital, and I followed the required safety procedures upon arrival.  They gave me booties for my shoes, a medical mask, and sprayed my arms and hands with some kind of homemade anti-bacterial goo that felt a bit like dishwashing liquid.  Then someone led me up to the office of the Chief Oncologist, Dr. Fatoni Sermaxhaj.  The doctor reviewed my hematology reports from  Acibadem and requested a few tests before he authorized chemo.  "Would you like me to write you a prescription for the tests?  Or would you prefer to just do them here?"

"Let's just do them and be done with it." I responded.  I appreciated that it wasn't a hard sell, but he really caught me off guard with that.  NOTHING is open other than hospitals and grocery stores, and even those have limited hours to correspond with the Kosovo wide driving ban after 1700.

First, I was led down to the laboratory where an incredibly talented nurse hit the vein without any problems whatsoever.  Unfortunately, her talent with a band-aid was less impressive - and she missed the injection site.  So I started bleeding, and trying to catch the blood in my other hand so it didn't drip on the floor.  When I pointed it out to one of the receptionists who were guiding me to radiology, she shrugged at me and kept walking.  It was a very, "DO NOT BREATHE ON ME, but I'm not worried about the blood" kind of vibe, so I just kept walking.

Next, there was a chest xray to make sure there are no abnormalities in the lungs.  I stood up against an xray machine that was SO COLD, I was convinced that my breasts would soon be frozen stuck to the machine (like a kid licking a flagpole) - but thankfully, tragedy was averted.

The abdominal ultrasound they did next was probably my favorite part of the day.  It was unpleasant, but the guy doing the ultrasound was doing his own narration - IN ENGLISH.  So he'd press this metal gizmo into my size really hard and then talk about how beautiful my spleen was, or how the liver was not fatty at all - it was perfect!  He gave me the rundown on the aesthetically pleasing aspects of each of my internal organs so poetically, I felt absolutely brilliant when I moved on to the next station.

Upstairs, the cardiologist also brought out an ultrasound machine to look at my heart.  I was looking forward to his verbal report, but rather than praise my ventricles, he simply said, "You need to stop eating carbs.  NOW.  And salt.  No more salt for you."  When the test is over, he very scientifically explained why eating carbs was incredibly bad for me and what it was doing to my heart.  I worried for a moment that he was going to say I wasn't healthy enough for chemo, but in the end he gave me his approval.

Back to the Chief Oncologist, who read through everyone's synopsis and approved me to begin chemotherapy.  In eight days.  "Would you like me to write you a prescription for the chemotherapy drugs so you can get them yourself?  Or would you like the hospital to take car of that for you?"

"Is there a huge price difference?"

"No, it will cost you the same either way."

"Is there a reason I'd want to get my own drugs?"

"Some people just like to do that."

"Oh.  No, I'm fine with the hospital taking care of that."

He took my height and weight and made some calculations on the dosages.   It'll be two specific drugs given six times at three week intervals - so the entire process will take 18 weeks.  Following that, I'll start radiation therapy - but they can't accommodate this in Pristina, so I'll have to figure out another provider for that later down the line.

Got back in the car and Shem asked me how everything went.  "I have an incredibly beautiful spleen."  I replied.  And we drove back to the base in relative silence.