An improvised life

My pericarditis broke through yesterday, to use my cardiologist’s term. I noticed the subtle but unmistakable chest pain on inhalation, and didn’t need to see a doctor or even have my vitals checked to know what was going on. Pericarditis is inflammation of the pericardium, or sac around the heart. In its moderate form, it causes pain on inhalation; in its more severe form it can cause tamponade. This is when the pericardium is rigid or inflamed enough that it squeezes the heart, restricting the heart’s ability to pump. Consequently, blood pressure falls, and heart rate rises as the heart tries to compensate for reduced efficiency by pumping faster. I first contracted pericarditis in February, when it landed me in the hospital for two extended-stay-deluxe visits. This is my fourth recurrence. I have become so familiar with the symptoms I can almost guess my blood pressure and heart rate. So I’m starting the cycle over with high-dose steroids to beat back the symptoms, and t

The technician who did my initial mammogram last June looked familiar – she lives in our neighborhood and takes walks with her family. If she recognized me, she didn’t say so, a silence I appreciated as she coaxed my breasts and torso into a series of awkward poses. Finally, she asked me to have a seat in the inner waiting area, but to stay in the bathrobe in case the radiologist wanted more images. I waited, relaxed and comfortable, availing myself of the tea and magazines thoughtfully provided. When Lorie returned, she called me in for more images. This time we worked at squashing my armpit – site of the offending lump – into submission. Picture trying to turn your armpit inside out: it just wasn’t meant to work that way. Lorie was gentle and apologetic. And supremely poker-faced. My friend MK MacNaughton debuted an art show at the Juneau-Douglas City Museum a few weeks ago, and sent me a version of the exhibit printed on card stock. Called “Secrets,” the show features M

Cancer and cancer treatment somehow failed to make a real impression on me; assuming the cancer didn’t kill me, I figured after treatment I would return to my normal level of physical function and ability. But with last month’s hospitalizations, I experienced the new and unsettling reality of a possibly chronic condition affecting my ability to inhale, along with everything that requires a good solid breath of air. I felt vulnerable and disheartened, unsure of my recovery, overwhelmed by blood draws, recurring symptoms, and the accompanying pharmaceutical armada that arrived. Last Thursday, as I started the third week of my tapering dose of corticosteroids, the now-familiar chest pain returned. At radiation I asked the staff to take my vitals and sure enough, my blood pressure was down and my heart rate was up: pericarditis symptoms were back. By Friday I had taken another spin through the ER, which is a pretty handy one-stop shop when you need a quick echocardiogram,

A friend recently wrote sharing news of her partial victory in a difficult divorce. I sensed a wariness in her tone, which suggested no one greet this bit of good news with too much enthusiasm. I responded to her:   “In my experience of trauma and transition there are no big moments of closure, victory, or exultation. It is a process, tiring and winding, up and down, internal and external, non-linear. Sometimes others want to inject these artificial, wishful concepts – especially ‘closure.’ You are wise to quietly head off too much cheerleading from well-meaning friends and family who may not understand the ongoing nature of the process.” This circuitous, unpredictable trajectory has been the theme of the past month for me. I was cruising along, maybe 95 percent done with my cancer treatment, when an ominous chest pain set in on February 1. A cascading series of medical mishaps and other setbacks put me in the hospital for the better part of the month (that’s just an expre