THE BLOG ABOUT NOTHING

I had my 6 month check up today. All clear, no present danger. If you are just coming out of chemo, trust me, you will get you back. It may not be the old you but hey, beggars can't be choosers.

At 6 months my hair is very thick. My Oncologist remarked that she doesn't know anyone whose hair has come back so thick. This would be amazing if it wasn't so curly. I have a full Jew-Fro. I look like George's girlfriend who looked like Seinfeld. Here, see for yourselves:

MOVING FORWARD

I am happy to let you all know that I am no X-Man. I shall not be dueling Wolverine anytime soon, although a bit of a feel-up and tumble with Mr Hugh Jackman, for art's sake only, would not be a hardship. I had my BRCA1 and 2 sequencing done (the test Angelina Jolie did) and it came back with no mutations detected. One less thing to worry about.

I also had my ovaries scanned and checked. All good there too. The lady did hand me the stick and ask if I wanted to insert it myself. No thanks. That would ruin masterbation for ever. Plus WTF?

My energy levels are up. I'm feeling almost close to almost normal. And now for the hair update...
It's been almost 5 months since stopping chemo and here's the latest.

MAKING LEMONADE OUT OF A BALD HEAD

It's now been exactly 3 months since I stopped chemo. I dyed my hair this morning thinking that if all the white fluff was brown; I would have hair. I forgot that I'm still mostly bald. So dying bald = still bald. 

HOUSTON: WE HAVE HAIR

I'm one week short of 3 months post Chemo and I can finally see some real hair growth progress. Unfortunately the hair growth is not limited to my head. My leg hairs, nose hairs and down-there-hairs have all begun to grow. It's like spring on my body. I might just sprout some Magnolias under my armpits. I have to admit not shaving, waxing, tweezing, lazering was the best part of Chemo. Now, if scientists could somehow harness the power of Chemo to just to the areas of hair we don't want, they'd find a cure for Cancer.

My wig still sits in my closet, never once worn, all forlorn. I'm not not a wig girl. I wear scarves when in company and go Godiva when I'm not. I'm so sick of these scarves. Nothing says Cancer Victim quite like a head scarf. I'm so weary of being blatantly stared at. I'm tired of that sad look people throw my way, the one that says "Poor you". And then I have to give them a wry, half smile to reassure them I don't mind their invasion, when all I want to do is give them the finger. Children are the worst transgressors. They have no shame. I was once in an elevator on the ground floor with my then 4-yr-old when an obese man stepped in and pushed 18. Floors 1 to 5 I was praying: "Please, please, please, please don't say anything." Floor 5: "Mommy why is that person so fat?". Floor 6: "Mommy why did you pinch me?". Floor 7 to 18 red-faced, please-let-me-disappear silence. To that man, I am deeply sorry. I know what it feels like to look different, to be starred at, pointed at. I know even though it's often children who are just being children, it still hurts like crap. And crushes. And makes you stay home rather than go out anywhere. 

When you are going through Chemo you really don't care. You are in a fight and all that matters is getting through. When you're coming out of the exhaustion and the draining psychological and physical 100 pound dumbbells on your shoulders are lifting, you suddenly care about how you look. So you check your head every day for new hairs, you count your eyelashes and scrutinize your eyebrows. They say a watched head never grows but I'm seeing progress. 

I went back to gym yesterday. Another milestone. I walked for 30 minutes at a snail's granddad's pace and thought I was going to faint. But I did it. And I'll go back today. For those just starting Chemo know this: you will get your life back. It doesn't happen overnight. It doesn't happen 3 months later. But it will happen. At least that's what I keep telling myself. 


For those who read this blog often or have followed it throughout, I have a feeling I might have repeated some of what I've just written. It's like deja write. But my chemo brain is worse than ever.   I was at Target yesterday and found myself staring at baby shampoo for 20 minutes wondering:"Why?". I still don't know. 

6 WEEKS AFTER CHEMO. IN PICTURES.

What my port looked like. 

Left with one lone, long eyelash. 

 Cancer = really, really expensive gifts from hubby. 

Elvis. My therapy dog. 

New Boobs. Swollen and bruised but looking good. 

6 weeks after Chemo. I have a fuzzy head.
And kids who can't stop rubbing my head like a genie.  

ONE MILLION DOLLARS AND A LASER SHARK FOR SOME HAIR

3 weeks from last chemo and I still look like Dr Evil's daughter. 

DONE

Apologies. I know I should have updated this blog sooner. As my dear friend Duckie pointed out my readers need a happy ending. You absolutely do. You have been wonderful, supportive, caring readers. You've left me messages of hope, encouragement and strength. I've survived this surfing on waves of positive vibes.

Here's the thing. Chemo has short circuited my cerebrum. This is about the 9th time I'm trying to write this. Words are not flowing freely. I mean "I've survived surfing on waves of positive vibes". Who writes that badly? Turns out I do. Me and aging hippies doing that free writing course in Haight-Ashbury.

My chemo fog is bad. Very, very, very bad. (Insert your own adverbial phrase please 'very' is all I can muster.) Please forgive me if my wit is witless, my sarcasm lost on myself and my sense of irony so literal that, unlike Alanis, it's not ironic, don't you think? Where were we? I have no idea.

I'm done with chemo. I had my last round just under 2 weeks ago. The usual side effects, plus some lovely new ones: My feet are constantly freezing cold, my finger nails look like crinkly potato chips and my skin has gone so thin that my temporary breasts have shifted to almost under my armpits. Attractive right?

But I'm done. So from here on I can focus on recovery and move on. I still have one more operation where they'll replace the afore mentioned underarm boils with Grade-A, Hollywood tittys. I'll also be on Tamoxifen for at least 5 years. Side effects include night sweats, hot flushes and mood swings. So it's essentially menopause. Great. 

I'm moving from cancer victim to cancer survivor. And that, my lovely, loyal readers, is the Happy Ending. I'm riding into the sunset with my bald head slathered in SPF100. Yeeeha.

DONE

I will be updating the blog from time to time to let you know how I'm doing and to post pictures of my slow growing hair.  

HAVING A BAD HAIR DAY.

HAIR UPDATE: 
As you can see there's not much to update. Funny thing is those hairs you see are actually new ones.  My hair is growing back, even through Chemo. But as my oncologist brutally said: "Don't get too excited, they'll also fall out." That's cancer summed up for you. Don't get too excited. 

RECURRENCE RATE OF WORRY: 99.999%

My final Chemo session is next week Thursday. I've never looked forward to nausea, fatigue and pain with so much enthusiasm. I can't wait. One more time in that chair. One..last...time. Final. Done. Hasta la vista Cancer. You won't be baaaack. 

Or at least I hope it won't come back. I wonder if there's a cancer survivor out there who doesn't worry about recurrence? Will I forever question every ache and pain I have? I suspect the answer is yes. For one thing I have a Jewish heritage. All that persecution has made us nervous wrecks. We worry because it's ingrained in our genetic make-up. We are because we Oy. Jews are why webmd.com is so successful; why doctors drive Porsches; why your mother will make the following comment: "I can't believe you have cancer, I've probably got it." Ashkenazi Jews (my tribe) can one up their fellow yids in the "I'm probably dying" stakes. Turns out we may carry a genetic mutation of the BRCA1 and BRCA2 (tumor suppressers on a good day) genes linked to an increased risk of breast and ovarian cancer. I'll cross that desert next year. 

Then there's the internet. They've got my number. I used to have pop up mommy and Gap ads, now I have cancer ads. It's so hard not to click onto an article titled: "Cancer, what are your chances?" (Not good if you don't take their product)  or "Soy/alcohol/ dairy (whatever is the latest cancer link to be discredited later) linked to breast cancer recurrence." Too much of anything isn't good, even information. 

Then there are people. And you can't avoid those. Well meaning folk who, the second they hear you have or have had cancer, just have to tell you the story of their uncle/aunt/brother's girlfriend's sister who's cancer came back. Like the Cat. 

Having cancer should come with the following disclaimer: Warning being cured from cancer may cause worry, sleepless nights, paranoia and anxiety. Some patients report an overwhelming feeling that cancer is stalking them. If you experience any of these symptoms you are probably completely delusional. 

My grandmother (who passed away from breast cancer in her late 80s) had this to say about life: "It all goes so quickly." And it does. 
Cancer had taken enough of my precious time from me. I can't let it take anymore. When worry and neurosis creep in I'm going to find a way to block them. Like you would an unwanted Facebook friend, you know the one who is always posting pictures of gerbils in tutus. I'm pressing that button in my over-thinking, over-analyzing head. Cancer you are officially de-friended. 

  







    

THE BLACK NIPPLE AND OTHER GRUESOME STORIES

I forget that not everyone who reads this blog knows me personally. I now have readers as far away a Poland. Pretty awesome or should I say dosc niesamowite. I've been asked about my history before Chemo. So here is the not so short and bitter version. A prequel so to speak. 

Cancer Biyatch. 

My journey.

I turned 40 very reluctantly (and somewhat miraculously seeing as I was only 35 the year before) last year in August. At the insistence of my gynie I went for a 40th mammogram. My breasts were squashed, squeezed then screened and a mass was detected in my left boob.

So I went for an Ultrasound. There they found a lovely, oval, smooth lump. The doctor practically pranced into the room saying: "It's a Fibroadenoma don't worry." But of course I worried. I checked about 1000 articles and images on the internet. And indeed, you can clearly see the difference between a Fibroadenoma and a cancerous mass. The cancer has uneven edges, it's no smooth operator. 

Next step was a Core Needle Biopsy Ultrasound because that's what they do when they find any mass.
I wasn't worried until lying on the table, I turned to the screen and saw 2 lumps. Oh shit. And the one looked like all the pictures I had seen of cancer. Double shit. "What's that?" I asked panicked. Nurse: "Oh that's the other lump, we're doing two biopsies you know?" I did not know. No one had told me. I looked up at the nurses and doctors and saw 3 pity smiles. Shit Trifecta. 

My biopsy was on Oct 29th. At 5pm on the 31st, while I was dressing my kids for Halloween, the phone rang. Trick, not treat. A doctor I had never met, in a very happy, matter-of-fact voice told me I have one benign Fibroadenoma mass and one Classic Cancer tumor. Classic cancer? What's that? Does the tumor wear Chanel, pearls and a Hermes Birkin?

The next month and a bit were spent choosing a surgeon to remove the cancer; a plastic surgeon to reconstruct my breasts; an Oncologist to find out what type of cancer I have; setting up a plan, doing an MRI and waiting for results. And waiting for more results. And waiting for other results. 

I had a double mastectomy with tissue expander nipple sparing surgery (I was taking no chances it would come back in my other breast) on January 18th. I was in hospital for a few nights. During that time one of the spared nipples turned black. It looked mummified. So I had a white nipple and a black nipple. I could have been a Stevie Wonder song. Ebony and Ivory, living in perfect harmony. The breast remake. 

Eventually that nipple was removed as it was declared oxygen deprived and dead. So I became a one nipple wonder. 

I hate my tissue expanders. They are hard, turtle-like, saline shells that train your pectoral muscles to handle the eventual weight of your silicone implant, by filling up slowly with saline until they're big enough. They are medieval torture. 

I went home to recover from my op with bloody drains dangling from my fake I-must-I-must-increase-my-bust breasts. Now this is the value of a good man: my husband milked my drains like he was going for gold in a cow milking competition. He did it faithfully everyday, despite his aversion to blood or paper cuts, and he didn't once complain. This was the 'for worse'. 'For better' is coming soon.

The rest of the story is, give or take a painful recovery, more tests, more waiting and some more waiting, in my blog. 





  

SAVING ENERGY

I had my 3rd round of Chemo a week and a bit ago. The side effect that gets to me the most is the utter exhaustion one feels. Pre-cancer I was that twitchy, fidgety person who couldn't sit still for a second. Now all I do is still. I'm still-life with a remote control. TV is about all I can focus on; even reading seems tiring. It's newborn-colic-screaming-baby meets just-run-a-marathon tired. And then some.

Before I started Chemo I remember the nurse telling me to use my energy wisely. She was obviously a Chemo Yoda because she knew. A normal person can throw energy around like it's free. A Chemo patient knows that energy costs you. If you spend it unwisely you won't have any left when you need it. So a trip to Target, for example, may cost you in owie empathy later: "Child, the Neosporin is in the bathroom drawer with the band-aids, fix yourself. Mommy loves you." 

It's my daughter's 8th birthday coming up. We're doing a small tea party. Usually I go full Martha on birthday parties. I make cakes and cookies from organic scratch, I put together elaborate crafts and games. Not this year. This is the year I met Little Debbie. Her pastries and cakes come off a grocery shelf and there's nothing homemade about them. I'm serving up large doses of corn syrup, artificial flavor and red 40 in exchange for kid noise levels. I'm buying whatever is pink and edible from the Kroger Bakery in exchange for "Happy Birthday to you." You do what you gotta do. 

FALLEN EYEBROWS.

Vanity is a strange beast. Here I am with no hair on my head, pus-oozing sores on my chest, red smudges on my face and a recently developed tremor in my right hand (which makes me the cocktail shaker du jour) and the only thing I care about is my eyebrows.

I'm nothing without my eyebrows. They are perfectly thick, dark, round, clown brows. I do not pluck. My eyebrows are what other woman want. And I say this with truthful conceit. I know it because it was drummed into me by perfect strangers my whole life. And now they're falling off. My physical self-esteem dropping follicle by follicle at a rapid rate. 

And, on top of that, my long eyelashes are going faster than donuts at a Weight Watchers convention. Luckily I have lots. Of eyebrow and eyelashes. So I'm hoping I don't lose them all. My grandmother used to collect her fallen hair and use it for buns. They did that in the old days. War mentality. I am considering collecting mine and supergluing them onto my skin. Trouble is a slip of the hand and I'm Frida Kahlo. 

A quick, unscientific survey on Google (despite my doctors, nurses and mother telling me not to ever Google any of my symptoms for exactly the reasons I'm about to unleash) uncovered some women who were 6 months post Chemo and still eyebrowless. Even worse, I found a group of women whose hair, eyebrows and lashes never grew back. And they all pointed fingers at one of the Chemo drugs I'm using: Taxotere. 

Now I know that getting rid of cancer trumps everything else. But sometimes you're tested. You're really, really tested. I mean what if I just snuck away? Maybe the cancer wouldn't know. I'm told it was a stupid cancer to begin with. A highly aggressive cancer that, by all logic, should have made its way to my lymphs, but was too dumb to figure out how. So maybe if I disguise myself and move it won't find me? And I'll get to keep my eyebrows.

The thing is that I'm a fighter. I've never been the kind of gal to just let things slide. And so, despite the now very real possibility that I'll lose the eyebrows I love, I'm going to carry on with Chemo because I have a list of things I love more: my husband; my kids; my family and my friends. Last night this was cemented in stone for me. The kind the mafia use. We were out at one of our favorite restaurants and there was a group of girls and boys in their prom outfits. They all looked like movie stars. I want to see my girls in their prom outfits. I want to spend ridiculous amounts of money on their dresses, hair and make-up. I want to see the boy who picks up my daughter in a Prius Limo and comes face to face with my 6ft8 giant of a husband laying down the law. The kind the mafia use. 

Ultimately you don't fight cancer not to die, you fight for the memories you deserve to have when you eventually do. 

Eyebrow bald spots and missing lashes. 

LUCK OF THE CANCERISH

I've been thinking a lot about luck. My thinking was triggered by one of the woman I've meet on a cancer website. These boards are where we go to get help, advice, support and friendship based on the common denominator that we're all down on our luck. Which is pretty much the understatement of the year. We're black cat crosses as you walk under a ladder onto a crack breaking a mirror in the process bad luck. My comrade in breast cancer commented that, after all she has gone through, luck has to start going her way. I couldn't agree more. We're overdue some pot-o-gold, marshmallow-charms-in-a-cereal-box, 4-leaf-clover luck. 

When I first got diagnosed every one of my doctors, family and friends told me how lucky I am that they found it early. They failed to understand how unlucky I was to get it in the first place. There you are, happily going about your life, when THUMP a piano falls on your head in the shape of a 2.2cm, stage 2, grade 3, invasive tumor. And I'm lucky?? Fuck you all. And I say that in the sweetest possible way. 

I think that people try to see the positive in your situation. Yes you got cancer but it could be worse. You're lucky it wasn't bigger, badder, in the lymphs, in the margins. You Chemobiyach (Not my real name) are the luckiest person alive. But, after pondering this wisely with hand rubbing chin, I've come to the conclusion that it's a backwards way to think. Something crappy still smells like crap no matter how much Febreze you spray around. For me it's obviously the cancer, but this goes for every really horrible situation out there. It is what it is. Bad life luck. Don't let anyone tell you any different. 

And, once you accept that, it's easier to feel that you are indeed due some of the good stuff. Not just due, owed. The universe owes you, and me, a small, green Leprechaun hand-delivered by Fedex. It doesn't have anything monumental, although winning the lotto would make up for the high Oncoytpye score if you're reading this Lady Luck, I'd settle for a day where my toast doesn't burn, the sun shines and my cancer is a distant memory.

PS Happy St. Patrick's Day for the 17th. This blog has nothing to do with the fact that it's around the corner. Lucky coincidence.  

ROUND 2

I had my second round of Chemo last week. It wasn't as bad as before but that's like saying Stalin wasn't as evil as Hitler. Still one has to celebrate the small things. The days following Chemo you do feel like you've gone a few rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson. You're knocked out before the ref counts to 1. But this time I think I got in a small punch of my own. I've bounced back a little quicker and the side effects haven't been all that life-squashing. 

My taste buds seem to be the hardest hit. I simply cannot taste deliciousness or yumminess of any kind. I can taste onion. So that's what I've been eating. Last night I had 3 roasted onions for dinner. My brother tells me onion is good. It  prevents cancer. Smiley face. 

I do have some news. 
When I first started this blog I mentioned that I'd had an Oncotype test. Basically, minus the scientific mumbo jumbo, it tests the chances of your cancer returning and how your cancer will respond to Chemo. When I was first tested my score was low. A mere 10. I chose to do Chemo anyway because my doctors questioned the result. My Oncotype score was retested. And it came back high. 32. Turns out one can have a Sybil of a tumor. A cancer with multiple personality disorder. Luckily she's already on the couch, having therapy with Dr Chemo. 

I'm doing 4 rounds of Chemo. So I am halfway through. Whoop. And nog a pip. I would have celebrated with Champagne and a funny hat but bed, sleep and pain meds seemed a better party. I can sort of make out a hazy light at the end of a long, dark, Annus Horribilis of a tunnel. To those who endure 6 or 8 rounds of this poison. I tip my cancer cap to you all. Respect. 

http://www.breastcancer.org/symptoms/testing/types/oncotype_dx

THE FOGGY FOG. WITH APOLOGIES TO DORA THE EXPLORER.

A friend of mine suggested I write my next blog about what Chemo does to your sex life. After trying a few times I concluded it would be the shortest blog in history. There is nothing to write about. So we're moving on. Sorry Rinkie. 

I have Chemo Fog. A little studied side effect of Chemo that renders your mind stupid. Dumb as, hmm I had something clever to put in here but I forget. Put it this way: If I had to go out to dinner with Paris Hilton, Jessica Simpson and the whole team at Fox News I would be the stupidest person there.

I've twice walked into my laundry room today and completely forgot why I was in there. So obviously Chemo brain does have some merits. But for the most part it's a bit troublesome. I have long periods where I sit and stare at a wall trying to recall what I was meant to be doing. The wall gives no answers. I stare some more. These walls do not speak. If they did they'd tell me where to find my keys/wallet/bag so that I can go out and drive around aimlessly trying to recall where I'm driving to. 

Names are impossible. I write them down in my phone with a detailed description of the person. Husband: Noel. Tall guy 6.8. Makes me coffee in the morning. We share 2 children and a dog.

But where it gets really hard is when I sit down to help my 7yr old with her homework. I have a theory. America is now actively competing with the cleverer nations of the world because somewhere between: Computers help you learn to Computers have Angry Birds, we've lost our standing as one of the world's top 5 clever kid countries. And now they're piling it on to catch up. Well I can't do most of her homework. No, I'm not smarter than a 5th grader, I'm stoopider than a 2nd grader. Last night's homework she had to identity the following: Triangle, quadrilateral, pentagon, hexagon, heptagon, octagon, nonagon and decagon. I knew triangle and octagon, because of Octomom, but the rest I had to google. I blame Chemo Fog. I'm writing to Obama asking that all moms and dads going through Chemo please be excused from homework for the duration. 

It used to be that I could do the 5-things-at-once mom thing. I'm down to one. I can no longer talk, type, make dinner, chat on Whatsapp and pour myself a whisky at the same time. Multi-tasking is a thing of the past. I know what it's like to be a man. 

ALMOST BALD

Joan Rivers is one of my all-time favorite comedians. She has a documentary called: "A piece of work" which highlights just how much work being funny actually is. She works her ass off at funny. Ok, she gets it surgically worked off, but that would be a joke to her. She writes down every single joke she has ever written on a card and catalogs them in an extensive, alphabetized, wit-filled cabinet. P being her largest section. 

I bring this up because it's hard to be funny or make light of a situation that is gut-wrenchingly painful. You have to work at it. 

My wrecking ball to the heart came last night. I was forced to shave down my hair to a near bald becuase it was falling out everywhere: bed; cushions; towels; tables and food. Campbell's Vegetable and Hair soup is not my favorite flavor. Andy Warhol may have missed the ultimate social commentary there, but I digress. 

Knowing this blog is meant to be light-hearted and uplifting I'm choosing to channel Ms. Rivers. She would take one look at my picture and make some wildly uncomfortable, inappropriate joke like: "She looks like she just got liberated from Auschwitz." Oh come on, it's what you're all thinking. Or: "She looks like Justin Bieber age 50."

I really do look like a cancer victim now. Full victim. Not the tough/hot chick with a number 2. And so, when I look into the mirror I have 2 choices: cry or think of a fabulous Ms. Rivers quote: "Kelly (Pickler) shaved her head to fight breast cancer. Britney shaved her head because the Slurpee machine broke. (Just something to think about.)" 

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE MENSTRUAL PAINTING

Chemo is pretty shitty. But, as Brian suggests, we should always look on the bright side. So here's my list. 

Bad: Your hair falls out. Good: Brazilians are free. 

Bad: You feel so sick you can't get out of bed. Good: The Jodi Arias trial is taking forever. 

Bad: You can't use Tampax. Good: You can make period paintings on your pads for fun. I recreated Starry Starry Night in red yesterday, considering selling it on Ebay. 

Bad: You can't get a pedicure or a manicure. Good: You don't have to deal with your brutally honest pedicurist: "What's wrong? You look sick." "Why you have no hair? No look good." 

Bad: You neglect your husband. Good: He dotes on you. 

Bad: You neglect your children. Good: You don't have to go to talent night at the school. 

Bad: You can't drink alcohol. Good: You'll be a cheap date when you're done. 

Bad: You can't taste food. Good: Kate Moss said "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels." And this is your chance to see if it's true. 

Bad: People look at you with pity. Good: You can mess with them by coughing in the elevator. 

Bad: Your hair falls out as you type. Good: It gives you something to type about. 

JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN'T SEE THEM, DOESN'T MEAN THEY'RE NOT OUT TO GET YOU

I've always been a bit of a mysophobe. I fear germs. I see them everywhere; like that kid who sees dead people. It's become worse. I no longer go to movie theaters because I know the person behind me is host to Influenzavirus A through C. If I have to use a public bathroom I do it Madonna style. I wash my hands with OCD frequency. 

Having Chemo takes your phobia to a pathological new level. Your immune system is low. You can't fight germs. You can barely insult them. Your little, white blood warriors have met their Waterloo. And so you have to avoid germs like The Plague. Literally. 

The days following my first Chemo infusion I steered clear of all public places. To me restaurants became Bird Flu hubs; Supermarkets were cesspools of Pulmonary Tuberculosis. Even my kids scared the hell out of me. Because let's face it, kids aren't the most hygienic of people. And, even if you could bathe your kids in sanitizer, you know their friends are still having a jolly good nose pick and then playing clapping games with yours. 

Of course you can't put yourself into a plastic bubble. Although, I did buy those face masks you saw on TV during the H1N1 lets-have-fun-with-the-phobic crisis. Sooner or later you have to venture out. Lucky for me there's that Neulasta shot. It actually elevated my white blood count. So now I have more than I need. Way more. There's a partaay in my body and the white blood cells have invited their whole disease-brawling posse. It's like the Jersey Shore in there, a fight a minute. And I'm all for it. I can go out. I can eat food prepared by someone who may or may not be wearing gloves. I can pump gas. I can handle money. Best of all I can kiss my kids and husband good night. 

Unfortunately white blood cells have a short life-cycle. A partying lifestyle will do that to one. So I'm taking advantage of my Superwoman powers while I still have them. And no evil, viral, fungal or bacterial pathogen is going to take that away from me.