Yeah, so, I noticed the other day in my contacts on my phone that it still refers to my mighty, mighty good man David by his first and last name.
Apparently, I think my phone will ring and it will say “David,” and I’ll wonder, “David who? I guess I’ll answer it. Oh, David my husband. That guy. Right. I remember him.”
We like to keep things formal in the MansTracy household. I mean, we’ve only been together for almost seven years and married for more than 5 years. First and last names are still appropriate, right?
In other news, have I mentioned that I dyed my hair? I really don’t have that much hair to dye, but I did it anyway. The gray, to be honest, kinda bummed me out. I’m 44. Everyone knows that 44 is the new 40, and 40 is too young to be gray. I’m not ready to be gray yet. Maybe I’ll never be ready. I’ll always dye my hair red and look like Mona from “Who’s The Boss?”.
Actually, right now I wish I had Mona’s hair.
One of the kinda cool things about coloring my hair now is I can clearly see where hair growing in. The hair growing in is soft and gray. So, in between the red hairs, there are little, fuzzy gray hairs. I can see where the hair is filling in. And yeah, my hair is very curly. A lot of chemo patients say their hair grows back curly, and now I am one of them. For the first time in my life, I’ll have curly hair, just like my mom and sister. I’ll look like I’m related to them. What a treat!
My eyelashes and eyebrows are starting to grow back in, too. By the time the holidays come around, I might look less like a chemo patient and more like a cool, chic woman who chose a pixie cut. It could happen, you guys.
I had some blood work done the other day. That was my first trip to Kaiser in several weeks, which is pretty exciting for someone who was going there a few times a week for six months.
I am happy to report that my blood work looked great, because I love talking about my blood. I have a bumper sticker on my car that says, “Ask me about my blood.” My white cell blood count has doubled since finishing chemo at the end of August. Chemo didn’t ruin everything. My cholesterol and blood sugar levels, and all that crap, are normal. Oh, and I’ve lost a few pounds, too. I’m finally starting to shed what I’ve been calling my Cancer 10. I put on 10 pounds since the mastectomy in January, and I didn’t even bother to try to lose it while doing chemo, because that would be ridiculous. I’ve lost half of the Cancer 10 since finishing chemo. I see no reason I won’t shed the rest in October since a lot of the really tasty Halloween candy isn’t vegan it will be easy to resist.
The blood work result is really great news, because I have one more surgery to go through, and I didn’t want any delays. I know, I know. More surgery. It’s OK to be jealous. This is my reconstruction surgery. The plastic surgeon is going to make me better, stronger, faster. Well, better anyway. I’m too lazy to be stronger or faster. I’ll have fresh, new knockers. I can’t wait to get the surgery over with, because I want to sit on my ass for a week and
watch TV again recover. After this surgery I will be done DONE. And, I’ll have a bunch of clothes I can wear again. I haven’t been able to wear some of my shirts and dresses that show how uneven I am up top. I have a silicone implant on the left side, and a tissue expander on the right side that is larger. On October 8, the doc is going to replace the expander with an implant, and he’s going to replace the left one with a better, slightly larger implant to match the right side. My boobs will be the same size for the first time in a long time. Imagine that! I’m not going to have huge boobs, you guys. I’ll still look like I always do. Sorry to disappoint those of you that were hoping I was going to go full-on “Real Housewives” this time around.
So anyway, it has been hot in San Francisco – uncharacteristically hot. Really hot.
One of the many things I love about San Francisco is that it doesn’t get too hot. Maybe once or twice a year, San Francisco will hit 80 degrees, and the streets split open and everyone loses their mind. It’s complete madness. FYI: No one in San Francisco has air conditioning. Air conditioning in San Francisco is called “opening your windows.” Well, opening your windows doesn’t really work when the city hits 100 degrees.
I don’t want to whine about the weather. There are a lot of other places with way more extreme weather, so that would make me a huge asshole. BUT, I will say that I am ready for fall to start. I have a slew of dresses and knee-high boots that are not going to wear themselves, people.