I Can't Use Technology and Others Woe Is Me Crapola

I have been terrible at keeping up with my blog the past few days...

Which now that I think about it, have snowballed into a two week draught of bloglessness. I hate excuses so I won't fill this entry with the millions of reasons I wasn't blogging. Because mostly, they are just that: excuses.

But that is neither here nor there because I have not completely forgotten my blog and I'm here now, writing away.

So, I got a new phone. If you know me personally, you know that I am probably suffering from Asperger's because I do NOT handle change very well. That paired with my inability to be substantially technologically coherent, I have spent a lot of time reading about "how to use an Android." Because yes, I upgraded from my old school, Zack-Morris-style, telly to a sleek and fully loaded "smart phone" which has more whistles and bells than I can handle.

My Android has "apps," which I must admit my Grandma (literally) told me about. Yes, my Grandma knows more about technology than I do. This phone pretty much does everything but wipe my rear end for me (and really, it should because let me tell you, technology doesn't come cheap).

One night last week, I was laying in my bed. I probably should have been doing homework or blogging or doing something productive but instead I decided familiarize myself with the Mecca of technology in my life-- my phone. Somewhere between realizing my phone is constantly tracking my longitude and latitude (which is totally creepy... tell me the government isn't running my life, without my knowing...) and that I am able to read any newspaper in the world at the touch of a button, I stumbled upon "Google Sky Map."

Not only can my phone tell me when Sidney Crosby farts (compliments of my Pittsburgh Penguins App) but it can track the constellations and then display them on my screen in relationship to where I am.

Wouldn't you know that the stars which form the "Cancer" constellation are directly above my pillow every night.

I am currently preparing to do the first part of my two part teaching field experience. I have been prepping myself to teach the literary elements to love-crazed, pimply faced, hormone induced teenagers. But what I was not prepared for was the literary element which found its way into my life while I was supposed to be doing anything but scanning the sky with my Sky Map App: irony.

Luscious Lash Boy

With my recent "news" lingering in the rafters of my obsessive compulsive mind, I have finally found some inner peace. But this was not achieved over night. It has been a few days since I have posted because I really wanted to let the facts marinade in my brain. Some conclusions have been made, but mostly I have realized that I am blessed.

I am blessed to have the ability to know that I carry the BRCA gene and therefore can be preventive should I ever notice a change in my body. I am blessed that there will be panel of doctors monitoring me. I am blessed to have family and friends who are supportive. I am blessed to have a strong faith in God.

But one of the conclusions I drew over the past few days, aside from what I've already stated, I am blessed to have a supportive and loving "other half."

I started college in the Fall of 2006. My first class was Psychology 1501 held in large lecture room in Debartlo Hall. With about 150 people filing into the warm lecture hall, I was just hoping to find a good seat. I sat down in the first empty seat I saw, next to a guy who seemed nice enough-- dark brown hair, big greenish/brownish eyes, eyelashes that any woman would envy, green flat brimmed hat (backwards) and some pretty nice high tops. I immediately noticed how cute this guy was, but pretended not to notice. This was my lucky day, I thought to myself.

Class let out and I whipped out my campus map (like a true freshman would). I navigated to Ward Beecher Hall for what would be my first of many English classes. I sat down, pulled out my hot pink folder, matching notebook and pen. Then the really cute guy from Pysch walked in and sat down next to me. I'll admit my stomach did a few flips, but I attempted to play it cool. However, that lasted about 30 seconds because being what I like to refer to as bold (and other's might refer to as obnoxious) I looked over at Mr. Luscious Lashes and said, "Hey, you were just in my Pysch class. My name is Danielle." Luscious Lashes blushed. He responded, "Oh?! Ok. Erm, my name is Corey."

Over the course of the semester we exchanged phone numbers, did homework together and came to the quick realization that we both play sports for YSU. Even more ironically, we quickly learned that we were both on pitching scholarships (he for Baseball and myself for Softball). We began to build what I like to refer to as a flirtatious friendship. But nothing came of it.

A few semesters rolled by and we kept in touch via Facebook, but nothing serious. I briefly dated a schmuck on the Football team. At the same time my Psychology friend, Luscious Lash Lover Boy (Corey), I had found out, was dating some girl from another university. But nevertheless we kept in touch.

Finally, Football schmuck and I broke up. I was briefly devastated. That Fall I stumbled into a Baseball party where I saw my Psychology love, Corey, being a wall flower. Having liquid courage and being newly single, I waltzed (some will argue staggered) up to Corey and reminded him of when we had Psychology and English together. He giggled. Gosh, his laugh is cute, I thought. Then he batted his big long luscious lashes and told me that he was surprised I remembered Freshman year Psych and English because he doubted I would remember this very conversation in the morning. I assured him I would remember.

The next morning while praying to the porcelain God and coming to the conclusion that being legally aloud to consume alcohol does not mean one is responsible enough to hold it all down, my phone began to sing my favorite Third Eye Blind song, Never Let You Go. I flipped open my phone to read the message. "Betcha don't remember talking to me yesterday..." It was Corey! I immediately responded, "Of course I remember!" And I did. I mean geeeze, I wasn't out of control, people!

Anyways, a lot of texting began to happen between myself and Luscious Lash Lover Boy Corey. In fact a few months of going on dates went by and we decided that we should be exclusive.

Two years later we are still going strong.

I am blessed to have Corey in my life. He has been a shoulder to lean on throughout this entire cancer process and now with my BRCA "news" he continues to be rock solid. I don't know where I'd be without him. He is always there for me. He will listen to me babble on and on about my worries but he never ceases to be a voice of reason. He is supportive and loving when I am being a pain in the butt and cranky. He wipes my tears and replaces them with courage and optimistic thoughts. Finding out about the BRCA gene rocked my world for a few days, but he helped me remember why I wanted to know in the first place.

Most guys probably would have run for the hills having seen the emotional side effects that watching my mom go through cancer generated, but not Corey. The harder life gets, the stronger he & I become.

It is often said that girls look for a man similar to their father. I thought it would be impossible to find someone even comparable to my dad. But it is clear that I've found just what I am looking for in Corey.

Like Mother Like Daughter

My mom and I have always had a lot in common. Some may argue that it is because she was one of the people who raised me, but I do not think that is the sole reason for our similarities.

When I was younger my mom taught me how to shave my legs, braid my hair, apply make up tastefully, play "hard to get" and act like a lady. Growing up I went to her for advice about friends, school, how to minimize break outs, and silly high school "relationships" (which really were more or less note passing shenanigans in the hallways than anything to be labeled as a relationship). As I've gotten older I go to her for advice about my two year relationship with my college sweetheart, my never ending pursuit to attain a degree in an area which I love, and how to keep the cellulite to a minimum. Regardless to what I throw at her, she always has intelligent, reasonable advice which I inevitably follow.

My mom and I have never been anything short of best friends. I literally tell her EVERYTHING. While she is still the mom and I am still the daughter, our relationship is more like that of sisters. We share clothes, laughs, books and ice cream.

Throughout my 22 years of living, I have always heard how much I resemble my mom, not only in the most obvious of ways, like, our hair and eyes and dimples, but even in our personalities.

But today I got my phone call from UPMC concerning my genetic testing. Turns out that my mom and I are not only extremely similar in our physical appearance but also in our genetic make up as I have tested positive for the BRCA (cancer) gene.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, this means that at age 35 all of my lady parts will need to be removed as a preventive measure. I will have to undergo a series of regular screenings including mammograms and probes (ugh) and blood work (ughhh). But I knew all of this prior to my screening and realize that I now have more control in my health than I did before because I chose to be proactive.

In hearing the news, I really had no reaction. Literally, I was numb. (Bear in mind this news was broken to me just before dinner time today.) It is not as if I actually HAVE cancer but that my odds are greatly increased. I am not entirely sure that I have digested the news, so please excuse that I have no real reaction to record right now.

What I do know is that I grew up in a house with a very strong woman, who showed me that faith and family can take you through the most difficult and challenging of times. I am going to follow my mom's example and rather than fear what COULD happen, I am going to deal with what I can control...

AntSy

My mom is doing wonderfully! When I mentioned to my mom that I was going to blog today she told me to inform the blog world about her cat scan (standard protocol, basic check up). She had to gag down a very disgusting drink which would make her insides glow. When I asked her to tell me more about it she said, "Well, there was a very nice old couple in the waiting room..." In keeping my mom's wishes, I have informed ya'll about her cat scan and I will be certain to let everyone know its results once we know; however, since this is not all that interesting of a story on it's own, I thought I'd share with everyone my angst in waiting to hear back about my BRCA gene from UPMC.

So this past week the Spring semester began and because I happen to love school, it was a lot of fun. At school I live in a 6 bedroom house with 5 other girls whom I am very good friends with, making the whole going to school bit even more fun. Surprisingly, we all get along really well, like, 95% of the time! The house we live in, for those of you who do not know, is what I like to refer to as "Brady Bunch Chic." Let's just say that while it is a perfect home for six undergraduates with very miniscule incomes, it would need some serious overhauling should "real" adults ever want to buy it. In the 1960's this house would have been the cream of the crop, a top of line home with 6 full bedrooms, all with closets, three bathrooms, a massive basement, two fireplaces, and an inter-home speaker system, hard wood floors. All on a corner lot with an attached garage and fenced in backyard. But time has worn on and unfortunately, the previous owner's sense of paint color & standards of up keep were a far cry from substantial. The windows are old and drafty, the roof will need replaced in the next year or two, the toilets are so wide that I think Richard Simons could do aerobics on the lid, the water pressure is sub-par and for the better part of the first semester, a raccoon --whom we affectionately named Ricardo-- was nesting in the attic.

So there I was earlier this week, laying in my full sized bed in my hot pink room unable to fall asleep at the Brady Bunch house. I began to think that perhaps I should bust out my Kindle and get in some reading. I turn on my hot pink bedside lamp which is placed on my great-grandmother's white bedside table. I begin to read. Every few chapters I look at the clock, surprised I am unable to sleep still. And then out of the corner of my eye, I spot something black on my Barbie-Dream-House-pink painted walls. I tell myself to remain calm but that plan may as well been flushed down our poorly plumbed toilets because within seconds I was on my feet screaming and jumping. What I had spotted inching around my room was an ant. In the middle of January. WHAT THE!?!

For anyone who might know me personally, I am two things, both of which make this situation even more wild than it seems: 1.) a neat freak and 2.) terrified of anything that spans from the insect way of life.

I immediately move my entire bed, bed side table, lamp and everything else remotely close to the ant as far away as I can. I spray an entire can of Raid on the wall. And the ant dies. Thank God.

My 8 am teaching class the next morning came in a hurry, needless to say. I thought for sure that the minute my day was complete I'd be able to relax and go to bed early. But instead, I found myself (on the other side of my room than the initial intruder) and staring up at my ceiling. Was I still worried about that ant? Yes. But more so, I realized that my mind was not really all that focused on the ant(s) that (most likely) was/were marching in two by two through my window. Rather, I was thinking about whether or not my BRCA gene was going to come back positive or not.

All week I have been patiently awaiting the phone call from Darcy the geneticist at UPMC who counseled me prior to my decision to be screened for the BRCA gene mutation. Within the next few days I will know whether I too carry the gene. So this is a very long winded and round about way to say that I blame cancer for making me spot an ant in my room and basically convulse with fear and spray massive amounts of toxins on my bedroom window.

In a way, the ant and cancer have a lot in common: neither are welcome in any home of mine, they cause me to lose sleep and have a lot of anxiety but while they are there you have to stay strong until you can beat the living snot out of them with powerful chemicals.

Yes, I just compared ants and cancer. This is a result of 108 credits of English courses.

Brohas

For the past 18+ years there have been these two, smelly hooligans living across the hall from me. If you haven't heard, their names are Zach and Andrew and to this day my parents claim that they are my brothers. Okay, obviously they are my brothers-- one look at them and it is easy to see we are related.

In the picture above they are cute and silly. But don't let them fool you, they are now (basically, kind of) adults and no longer resemble the two lil' nuggets in the picture you see here. Rather, one is a freshman in college and the other is a senior in high school. Their main interests are listening to music with "mad bass" and spending their time watching Will Farrell movies or hockey games. They speak in tongues or what my dad likes to refer to as "cave man talk." For example I might say, "Andrew, how was your day?" and his response will be, "mm k" (which apparently means OK). Zach, on the other hand, has recently grown past his cave man speaking days and not only speaks in full out sentences but almost enjoys conversing!


Growing up I have always adored having two lil' schmucks around. They are good company and prior (and post) to their cave man talking phases, they are rather funny. I have always taken great pride in telling everyone how talented they are at hockey, how smart they can be at school and how they can be such good people. On top of all of that, I love them to pieces.

What is some what ironic is how the three of us have so much in common but we are still very different. While we are all hard workers and love sports, I am the most outgoing. Zach and Andrew are both really funny, but Andrew is much more outspoken and Zach is very shy at first. Andrew is so easy going, we have to check him for a pulse from time to time, where as Zach and I are much less easy going. I am some what of a neat freak but neither of the boys could care less about being neat. So it makes perfect sense that when mom and dad sat us down to tell the three of us that mom had cancer, we all reacted in different ways.

I immediately got emotional and didn't take the time to absorb anything they said other than 'mom has cancer.' Zach was inquisitive, asking questions that would help him put the pieces together more clearly. In fact, Zach was all bent out of shape that his ovaries had cancer too... until he realized what he said and then laughed hysterically. Nothing like lightening the mood. Ha ha! And Andrew was silent- completely silent.

As time went on and we all had our time to digest what had happened, we came to terms with it and we were all there to support mom. I'd venture to say that whole ordeal has made the three of us much more close, and I have to admit that I love that.

Eventually, we found out that mom's cancer was caused due to the BRCA gene that can be passed from generation to generation in families. As I detailed in my last post, I had to go for a handful of tests because I am considered high risk. What I failed to mention is that Zach and Andrew are both high risk for having the BRCA gene as well, even though they are boys. That being said, they too will have to be tested for the gene mutation but are not required to do so until they are 40 years old. Apparently, in men it is far less likely that they will have the particular gene mutation that runs in my family and even if they do, it won't be until they are middle-aged that this gene will (most likely) make a difference! Zach and Andrew would be high risk for things such as prostate, pancreatic or breast cancer.

So, lucky for them, when I came home from Pittsburgh after having passed out and lost sleep over potential prodding, I inform my brothers that they have to get their blood work done too but not until they are 40. They both roll their eyes and laugh when they hear how I passed out when they were taking my blood. For good measure I threw in the details about their having to have a prostate exam when they do reach the big 4-0. Neither of them reacted. So I ask them, "are you aware of how a prostate exam is conducted?" Both look at me with blank stares, which most likely indicated that they were not even listening. I give them a detailed explanation to which their response was turning up the TV louder. Regardless though, TV at decibel 100 or not, it is a relief to know that both Zach and Andrew will also be monitored for the BRCA gene.

Wigless Woman

My mother has always had awesome hair. To the right is a picture of her before she was diagnosed with cancer, still sporting her famous blonde locks in a photo just before the boys went to Homecoming in Fall of 2009(Andrew on the left, Zach on the right).

In March of 2010 mom got diagnosed with stage 3C Ovarian Cancer. Since May 2010 mom has been sporting a wig, albeit this wig had a striking resemblance to the style which she had prior to her diagnosis--it was still a wig. It was constantly causing her grief: was it on straight? Was she sporting a comb-over? Was her hairline receding without her knowing? Was the back of it sticking straight out? Would the wind whip it off? With removable hair any combo of these scenarios was completely possible. Between Dad, Zach, Andrew, Grandma and myself we were able to keep mom's wig in place, the part where it should be, hair line naturally placed and the back of it laying flat. Below is a picture of Mom and Dad at lunch in June 2010, mom sporting her wig. Pretty dang close to her real hair style, but still not the same.As the chemo continued to take her hair, she continued to (grudgingly) sport the wig. For about 6 months, day in and day out, mom would wear her wig (which she hated) because she felt it made her look like less of a cancer patient.

It is here where I must digress. I no longer feel terrible when I wake up to hair looking like that of Cruella Deville, styled by Edward Scissor Hands. Rather, I just thank God that I have hair poking out of my head. I remind myself of the day I shaved the last of my mother's hair off in May, as it was all falling out anyways-- I think to myself, "Danielle, you may have dark, nasty roots projecting out of your scalp, but at least you have hair that is healthy and growing. (And supposedly dark roots are in, whatever E! News?! When does having undergrowth 12 shades darker than your "natural" hair color resemble anything that can be classified as trendy or, "so-Hollywood?") I often think back to the times when my mom didn't have a speck of hair on her body and yet she was not complaining... even when her wig would slip around on her lil' head and her part would land somewhere in the center on her scalp causing her to resemble a youthful Farrah Faucett.

Monday marked the first day where mom sported a wigless look out in public. And it got rave reviews. Although some of her students did not seem to realize that it was even her until she told them it was her. (Kids, breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and if you don't eat it, you will not be energized enough to recognize your teacher--whom you've had for 2+ years.) To the left is her picture with her most recent new 'do which is the perfect frame for her beautiful face. It took a lot of courage for her to whip off the wig for good, march down the halls of HC High School and teach a full day of classes without her "hair." Especially considering that most high school students are very very honest people. But everyone was more than complimentary about her new look (and how could they not be?!) making her adjustment back to a life with "real" hair that much easier.

I'd have to say that seeing mom lose her hair was not easy, but watching it grow back in has been more than fun. Every couple of days/weeks we get to try out a new style!

Getting Past the Prodding

Yesterday was my dreaded high risk screening at the Hillman Cancer Center in Pittsburgh, PA. My appointment was scheduled for 11am, so by 8am mom and I were out the door and on our way to the 'Burgh.

Being that it is January, we were getting hit with a bit of snow so our truck down 79S was a lil' more blustery than usual. After 2.5 hours and finally convincing my mother to put the cruise above 55mph, we had made it to the city. The GPS is bellowing in our face to TURN LEFT IN 300 FEET! My mother immediately whips the car left as I am yelling that we are not supposed to be turning for 300 more feet. We veer right. We pull into the exit of the Hillman Cancer Center because my mom seemed to have missed the entrance. The valet parking dude was trying to keep a straight face as we get out of the car.

11am on the dot rolls around and Carmen, the nurse, calls me back. Mom and I get up and head down the hallway, following Carmen. She directs us into this little room with a table, four chairs, computer and a ton of filing cabinets. At this point I am a nervous wreck because I am under the impression that very soon I will move rooms and undergo the ovarian sonogram which entails a probe. And as far as I knew I was also scheduled for a mammogram. Just as I begin to break into a cold sweat there is a knock at the door, in enters Darcy, the Genetic Counselor. Darcy introduces herself and begins detailing for us what it means to be high risk as well as how the BRCA (the cancer gene which runs in my family) can be passed from generation to generation. So far my mom, one of my mom's cousins, my grandma, both of my grandma's sisters, and my great grandma have tested positive for the BRCA gene. After about an hour with Darcy, mom and I spend an hour discussing with the Dr. Zorn (an Ovarian and Breast Cancer Oncologist) all of my options: do I want to be tested for the BRCA gene? Do I not want to know if I have the gene? If I do get tested, and I am positive, what will I have to do? But the best news of all is that I am too young to be probed or mammogrammed, even being high risk! WOOO!!! Apparently, I have to be 25 to undergo probing. AMEN.

I decide that I want to get the BRCA gene test done. I want to be as proactive as possible. All I have to do is give 8 viles of blood and the hospital will send them off to be tested in Utah, the exact place where my mom had her's examined. Because my mom's BRCA gene is located in her DNA at cell number 3248, that is where mine would also be located, should I too carry the gene. Wild stuff.

I get moved to another room and a very small lady comes in to draw my blood. Small lady and I begin to chat as she is tying a rubber band around my arm. When she goes to swab the butt-crack of my arm (inner-elbow) with rubbing alcohol I inform her that I used self-tanner and it may come off orange. It does. We begin to chat about tanning and how it is so terrible, which is why I love self-tanner so much. She agrees. Next thing you know, we are already 5 viles deep. However, this is where it begins to get interesting. I start to feel very strange. Small lady keeps asking me if I feel okay-- I lie and say "yes, small lady." Then on vile 6 I fall out of my chair and onto the floor. Small lady (somehow) pulls me up onto the table/bed in the room. I open my eyes, small lady is very concerned that I just passed out. I tell her not to worry. Once we finish collecting the rest of the viles of blood, I am determined to get the heck out the hospital. I tell her I am ready to go, she cautions me that I should wait a bit longer to leave. I don't listen.

I go out to the waiting room where I find my mother. Mom takes one look at me and says, "Danielle, are you okay?" I lie again. "Yes." Apparently at this point my skin was basically opaque and my lips were white. We venture to the elevator where I ask my mom if should would be so kind as to hold my purse. Within seconds my head falls back and I am on the floor of the elevator. Thankfully there was a nurse in the elevator with my mom and I. Nurse lady and mom drag me off the elevator and into a chair. I have no recollection of this. When I finally wake back up there is nurse lady standing on one side of me and mom on the other. These two are rubbing wet wash cloth on my face to which my response apparently was, "be careful not to mess up my self-tanner!"

Mom manages to get me into the car and we stop at Panera for lunch. I almost pass out in the bathroom but don't. After lunch I am finally feeling back to myself, which I think was a relief for mom because I really don't think she should have been trying to drag her 22 year old daughter around in her arms.

All goes well from there and we even did a little shopping on the way home.

In two weeks I will know if I do or do not carry the BRCA gene. If I do not I will go about my life like a regular person. Should I carry the gene then I will have to get probed (dang) and mammogrammed (double dang) once a year, every year until I am 35, which is when I would have a full hysterectomy. After 35 I will still have to have a yearly mammogram. Also, I would have to get my children tested for the gene because they too would be at risk for having it. Crazy stuff, but it is amazing what medicine can do these days.

I will be sure to let everyone know how my BRCA test comes back!