“How to Work Like a CAT” 2012 Calendar is Out

By Yul, Adele, and Cole

Regular readers know that Karen is “out of the loop” today, so we are taking the initiative to let you know that our publisher, Willow Creek Press, did a new calendar for 2012 unbeknownst to us, and it goes on sale this week.

We found out yesterday when UPS dropped a big box of them on the front step. The new edition is beautiful, even if we weren’t invited to be in it.

 

NOTE: The cover picture here isn’t quite accurate. What’s written on the chalkboard is different on the actual calendar. Go figure.

Anyway, we hope it cheers Karen up to see that we’ve plugged for the calendar here when she gets back. The calendar is a stunning, full-color irritant for corporate zombies in your workplace and makes a great gift for dumb co-workers who haven’t figured out they can stop working like dogs. (Not to mention that Karen could use some royalties to pay her upcoming medical bills.)

It’s available at Amazon for 20% off.

Lumpectomy, Here I Come

By Karen

At least, I think it’s called a lumpectomy when they remove a chunk of breast. In my case, a chunk of benign cells behaving badly.

Getting surgery scheduled ASAP was like, oh, pulling a breast out of a mammography vise. I only managed to get my slot in the OR after some kind staff member at Virginia Breast Center heard the jerking around their surgery scheduler gave me — which included the priceless line, “The system’s down and we always leave at 2 on Fridays” — and took it upon herself to get me on the books as soon as the “system” was back up so I wouldn’t have to spend the weekend in suspense and probably delay the procedure another week.

So this morning I went over to St. Francis for PAT. That’s hospital-speak for pre-admission testing: blood pressure (sky-high), temperature (normal), EKG (beating), blood work (red).

Nobody had mentioned to me heretofore that last week I should have stopped taking my vitamin D, calcium supplements, and fish oil, so whatever they were doing that will be bad for me now is done. And since my surgery is scheduled for 2:30 p.m., even if I eat dinner at 9 pm. on surgery eve, I’ll be approaching 18 hours without food or water when they roll me in, so knocking me out won’t take much effort.

I also learned I’m not having any of that minimally-invasive, less painful, faster recovery, new age voodoo stuff you see in ads.

All that gentleness is for wusses who can’t withstand a stereotactic biopsy with only a dab of local anesthesia. Not me.

My doctor is cutting into my breast with a good old-fashioned scalpel and slicing that hunk of troublesome tissue right out of there.

And if I’m not 100% unconscious when she lays into me this time, readers, you will hear my screams, no matter where you happen to be.

Breast Biopsy Results: It Wasn’t Nothing

By Karen

Last night I removed the gauze from the biopsy site and my breast didn’t look too bad. Big bruise and old blood, but no ooze. Took my first post-biopsy shower this morning and was feeling pretty good about things when the doctor called with the results.

The didn’t find cancer, but I do have atypical ductal hyperplasia, which is defined as a “premalignant lesions of the breast ducts.” The doctor described it as a suspicious proliferation of normal cells that could become cancerous.

Since I’m childless, my breast ducts have never been called upon to do a damn thing, and THIS is how they repay me. It wasn’t enough to be cursed with freakishly large breasts that prohibit me from buttoning blouses, wearing belts, and having men look me in the eye.

So the next step is to have those “cells gone wild” removed and hope to God the doctor doesn’t find anything else.

I’m waiting to hear when I’m scheduled for outpatient surgery, which I expect to be some time next week. At least the doctor’s going to let me sleep through this round and the stitches will be internal.

And on another positive note, I’m feeling less murderous toward the doctor who first evaluated my mammograms and started me down this horribly scary path. If I manage to avoid breast cancer, I just may have to thank him for saving my life.

Biopsyville: You Don’t Wanna Go There

By Karen

Yesterday was B day. After reviewing my growing mammogram portfolio, the doctor said, “I don’t think it looks like cancer, because cancer shows up dense and black, and yours is white.”

She also shared that it’s at “8 o’clock” in my right breast, and 7 mm, or about the size of a pencil eraser. She couldn’t feel it.

Doing another ultrasound, she decided it might be a harmless lymph node and gave me 2 choices:

Stereotactic biopsy on the spot.

or

Wait 6 months and be tested again.

Since this ordeal has revealed my high intolerance for cancer, I opted for the biopsy. But the only way to do it without rescheduling was to have it under local anesthesia only. The doctor acted like this was no big deal, and ran off to arrange things.

The Virginia Breast Center uses the Mammotome® torture biopsy device.

Mammotome® describes how it works very matter-of-factly and, tellingly, without video. Nor could I find a depiction for you anywhere else.

Here’s how it went down for me…

I climbed onto a very high table to lie face down with my right breast hanging through a hole, sort of like a car on the lift at Jiffy Lube. A technician sat under the table.

Lying down was almost a deal-breaker because I had trouble finding a position that didn’t feel like I’d end up with broken ribs. I was under strict orders NOT to lift my head or shoulders or pull back during the procedure.

For yet more mammography, my breast was smashed on both sides so excruciatingly hard, tears began to flow. This pressure was maintained for the duration.

Next, they administered local anesthesia. I never saw any of the needles, but last night I found a Band-Aid over my right nipple. I can only assume a needle was inserted into my nipple opening, and that’s what it felt like.

I was now audibly sobbing while someone held down my back.

Whatever numbing ensued, it wasn’t enough. As the thicker biopsy needle went into the top of my breast, I felt burning.

Now I was hyperventilating and I think I screamed once, but they warned, “Don’t pull away or we’ll have to start over,” so I had to surrender to the unspeakable pain while the Mammotome® “gently vacuumed and cut” inside my breast and left behind a little present, a “safe, tiny device” of unknown composition, to mark the spot forever.

After they removed all the needles and loosened the vise, they cleaned and bandaged me, said something about a “large hematoma,” and told me it was now time for…are you ready for this?

MORE MAMMOGRAMS!!!!

I thought they were fucking KIDDING. But no. They needed to document my new microchip, or whatever it is. From now on, I assume if I ever get lost, I can wander to the nearest vet’s office to be scanned and reunited with my cats.

The final mammographer went easy on me because I was wobbling. They had me sit down and drink a glass of water before letting me drive home.

I could have used a fifth of vodka.

Today, gauze still covers the incision, and that Band-Aid’s on my nipple. I can see some blood. I’ll be able to more fully assess the damage and take a shower tonight.

If you’ve had any trouble following this, let me put it in a nutshell:

A stereotactic biopsy under local anesthesia is like having a large man in work boots stand firmly on your breast while he shoots it point-blank with fine-gauge nails.

They said they got a good sample for the biopsy (no doubt!), and I’m supposed to hear the results on June 23. I’ll let you know how that goes, and I hope it’s the end of this.

‘Twas the Night Before Biopsy…

By Karen

Just when you think it can’t get much worse, you get that phone call…

Me: “Hello?”

Mom: “Daddy and I just read your blog.”

WHY??!! My father won’t touch computers. Just last week, I tried to give my mother my Nook (so I could get the color upgrade) and she SWORE she NEVER reads. They’ve never shown more than a passing wisp of interest in Cats Working, and I could probably count on one hand the number of times, combined, they’ve ever read it. Yet suddenly they’re curious. 

I must have been acting suspicious at their house on Father’s Day. It couldn’t have been anything I said, because I said very little. My sister was there.

My mother’s slightly confrontive tone instantly flashed me back to a day in the ‘70s when my father announced he’d been reading my diary and advised me to burn it because it wasn’t exactly brimming with praise for my mother.

Me: “Yeah, so?”

Mom: “What’s going on?”

Were my last few posts in Chinese, or did she really expect me to recite it all AGAIN for her benefit?

I gave her the Reader’s Digest version, which turned into a third-degree about what the doctors told me, what I asked the doctors, are the doctors any good, yada, yada.

The fact is, all the players in this game are total strangers. My gynecologist’s office is getting the results, which will probably go straight into my file because he doesn’t know me from Eve. The first time he’ll see them will be in those seconds he stands outside the exam room door before he does next my Pap smear some day.

Then my mother said the thing I most dreaded…

“When’s your appointment? I think I should go with you.”

NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

Subconsciously, I’ve been on edge since the ultrasound. I wake up every morning having dry heaves, and my blood pressure yesterday was 150/90-something. Thanks to the sketchy grasp of the situation I’ve been given so far, and its leisurely timeline, I want to scream whenever I think of it. And now I should be subjected to my mother embarrassing me like a 5-year-old in front of the breast cancer specialist (who may be someone I’ll need on my side if this doesn’t go my way)?

Well, I squashed that idea like a cockroach. However, I will give my mother credit for one thing: I feel calmer. Compared to dealing with her (don’t get me wrong, I know she means well, but we don’t have a good track record), this biopsy now seems like a piece of cake.

Next Stop: Breast Biopsyville

By Karen

This morning, I showed up early at St. Francis Hospital for my second mammogram in a week, and they were still talking as if the ultrasound was optional.

(I’m naming some names now to provide customer service feedback in case they ever Google themselves.)

After my last post and testimonials from a few women who have had iffy mammograms, I felt pretty sure a biopsy was in the cards.

When I questioned the necessity of the re-mammo, I was shown last week’s x-ray compared to last year’s. As it turns out, the white spot I noticed on the screen last week was at least a year old (but had earned the “all’s well” letter previously).

It looked to me like the lower left corner of the spot had shifted a bit. You know, the way a suspicious mole might — if it’s cancerous.

So, I let them mash and zap my right breast twice more, a little harder this time, and I was told to sit and wait for the results.

But instead of getting results, I was taken to the ultrasound room with no explanation. I could only assume the mammogram hadn’t been good.

Ultrasound is painless, but when the tech was finished, she laid a dry washcloth on my breast while I was still lying on the table and told me to wait like that for the doctor, in case he wanted to “watch her” scan some more.

So that’s how I received the next news: Flat on my back in front of a strange man with a face rag partially covering my naked, slimy boob.

He had an accent like Eric Ripert. He couldn’t say for certain what the spot was — “80%” sure it’s nothing — but it needs a biopsy to be certain. A “stereotactic” biopsy, he specified.

When they start throwing words like “stereotactic” around in conversation, you really feel as if they’re stuffing you like a dumb piece of meat down the rabbit hole.

The ultrasound tech was a nice young woman and acknowledged the scariness of it all when we were alone again. She gave me contact information for the Virginia Breast Center and said she’d notify my gynecologist. First good news I’d heard all morning — my primary care doctor and his minion who kicks patients to the curb seem to be out of the loop so I can deal with that situation later.

My biopsy is June 21. I think it’s going to be plain vanilla, on the advice of the Breast Center person I spoke to, a 10-year cancer survivor who has done and seen it all. She told me a stereotactic procedure would be much worse and possibly require stitches.

Here’s hoping I land in the 80% category and it really is nothing.

Abnormal Mammogram

By Karen

It’s going to be one of those weeks. I’m preoccupied with cat-sitting a neighbor’s long-haired freak who roams the neighborhood and refuses to comprehend how a litterbox is used so I can keep him safely indoors on my watch.

And then this morning, I had a contentious conversation with my primary care physician’s assistant where she told me to find another doctor. I’ve been seeing this doctor since 2000.  My offense was that I questioned why a recent routine visit they initiated to get my cholesterol prescription refill was coded as “medical care” that my insurance wouldn’t cover, instead of as a “wellness visit” that would be covered. My out-of-pocket was slightly over $200. I’m sorry, but I consider a doctor’s summons when I’m not sick so he can bless my continued use of a medication he prescribed to keep me healthy a ”wellness visit.” So shoot me.

While I was still trying to calm down, the hospital where I had a mammogram last week called. The right breast looks suspicious, so it needs to be smashed and x-rayed again — with a possible ultrasound chaser. God only knows what all this is going to cost.

I instinctively feel like I’m OK, but I’m still a little freaked out. This has never happened before.

But I’m not completely surprised. When I was getting the mammogram, the breast was up on a screen and I saw a white spot right in the middle that didn’t look like it should be there.

My follow-up is in 2 days.

OK, readers. Have you ever been through this?

Cat’s Last-Minute Belmont Picks

By Adele

The last of this year’s Triple Crown races, the Belmont Stakes in New York, is only hours away.

The Kentucky Derby’s upset winner, Animal Kingdom, and the Preakness winner who dashed Animal’s Triple Crown dream, Shackleford, are both running against each other for the third time to see if someone can make it two out of three.

My treats are on Animal Kingdom (whom I also predicted to win the Derby) to win the Belmont.

But if both of those past winners poop out on the 1 ½ mile track, my long-shot pick is Prime Cut, ridden by Edgar Prado, a newbie to the Triple Crown races who has finished in the money in his last 6 races, and won two of them.

May the best horse win and may they all be safe!

Fancy Feast Forgets the Cat

By Adele

Remember that recent Fancy Feast® silent mini-movie where two human twits fell in love, and the guy proposed with a white Persian kitten? If you don’t, go back here where you can watch it and get up to speed.

There hasn’t been a follow-up commercial, but Purina is trying pathetically desperately to make the whole sordid situation a viral ‘Net sensation.

The original commercial left the relationship ambiguous. You couldn’t tell if the couple had gotten married or not.

Now we learn that their names are Sean and Lisa, and they’ve been shacking up.

Purina is has made an interactive circus of their upcoming nuptials on Facebook, complete with Colin Cowie, a presumably British “celebrity wedding planner.” God only knows why he stooped to this gig, since no celebrities are involved, nor are ever likely to be.

“Fans” have already selected Lisa’s gown (a one-shoulder “Hollywood” style) and bouquet (peonies). They’re still voting on her earrings — Colin seems to have a thing for brides wearing massive chunks of chandelier. You need a Facebook account to vote.

All the wedding-related videos are here.

The one thing they never mention — or even show — in ANY of the videos is the damned CAT. Unlike its owners, it’s still nameless.

Note to Purina: Remember, you are trying to sell CAT FOOD. We don’t give a rat’s ass about that stupid couple. They already have “DIVORCE” written all over them.

We only want to know what happens to that kitten. If it doesn’t get a name and a prominent role in the wedding, be warned that you will have to answer to cats, and it won’t be pretty.

A Solution to the Weiner Problem

By Adele

Congressman Anthony Weiner is living proof you should be careful what you wish for. When he put his penis on the Internet, he obviously wanted the world to see it — and now it has. Nobody can stop making jokes about it, and the only ones really suffering are hot dogs, who did nothing to bring this shame upon themselves.

Weiner’s infantile exhibitionism and subsequent lies about it reveal him to be too immature for Congress — and that’s saying a lot. But what’s next? Will he drop trow and run through the Capitol with his ass hanging out like the Coppertone baby?

We now know that a major lobe of his brain is located below his belt, and that’s not where we want to see the laws of this land coming from.

On the other hand, I give Weiner credit for owning his name and the inevitable levity it spawns, unlike a certain unnaturally orange buffoon in Congress who insists “Boe” spells “Bay.”

Anyway, the only reason Weiner’s weiner is news is because people give dicks too much power. Dogs walk around every day with their junk hanging out and they lick it in public, but nobody bats an eye.

Human male genitalia should receive the same dismissive treatment. Stop idolizing it and make it mandatory for men not to wear pants. Let them proudly wave their tiny batons whenever they feel like leading a parade. If they can reach, let’s legalize public ball-licking.

Trust me, I’ve lived with guys since I was a kitten. After you’ve seen one dipstick, you’ve seen them all.

It won’t take long for men to realize how they really measure up. Their urge to grant forbidden peeks will die when the guaranteed reaction is “Meh.”

Sure, I realize this will raise unemployment for exhibitionists, but there’s always Peeping Tom work out there.

Weiner’s weiner is a celebrity because we’ve plastered his erection across the Internet and shown it on every news broadcast. We’re only feeding into his sick fantasies. Enough already. Let’s treat men like the animals they are by pulling off their pants permanently and robbing their dicks of any potential for 15 minutes of fame.