Throwing Prescription

Spring quarter started last week. We're nearly a week into this funny shaped quarter (funny shaped because it started on a Wednesday, which makes the first 5 days feel short and long at the same time). I've got a relatively light quarter, with just two classes (or four, depending how you count) as well as my union duties. With the break and a new "prescription," I've gotten into the studio every day for about two weeks.

Apparently this many pieces is too many pieces for me to throw on one day (with stiff clay)

Over spring break, I divided my days between firing, glaze, building, and throwing, as well as class prep and union work. On the day I devoted to throwing (and trying out my new Garrity tools), I threw 25lbs of clay, using up the rest of a box of porcelain. While I was throwing the slightly stiff clay, I looked down at my left thumb and noticed that it was very round and puffy, with a little dent in the middle emphasizing how much it had blown up.

The lymphedema sleeve I've been wearing to try to help with the swelling

Of course the "blow up" was from lymphedema, itself a result of all those lymph nodes taken out last June. Without as many lymph nodes, my body's system for removing extra fluid, from a cut or injury or infection, is impaired. Straining or working muscles too much can also, apparently, result in the lymph fluid collecting in the body because it can't get moved out quickly enough. 

I used these "love birds" throwing ribs from Garrity Tool's tool of the month club to make the textures. 

I've been working with an occupational therapist at the Lymphedema clinic since July to try to reduce the swelling that has collecting in my arm, chest, and breast. OT for lymphedema is pretty great, actually. The main thing, besides wearing a compression shirt and sleeve, is lymphatic drainage massage. I have a series of moved I do myself, but when I go in to the clinic, she has a whole bunch of things she does and it's basically just like getting a massage. Very relaxing, with the benefit of improving the swelling, too.

Another Garrity throwing rib made these textures

When I visited the lymphedema clinic after throwing during break, my therapist told me that I needed to spend more time throwing, but for shorter periods of time. So instead of infrequently throwing 25lbs of clay, I should spend about 30 minutes every day throwing. Basically, the idea is to get me back up to where I can handle more throwing. She also ordered me another compression sleeve, because if I throw in it, it gets messy pretty quickly. 

Some small forms I threw with my sculpture clay (not a great throwing clay body) 

I operate better with specific directions, or maybe I just prefer them. If I'm told to "take it easy" or "not do too much" I feel frustrated about how to define "easy" and "too much," so I really like this clear and specific direction: throw 30 minutes a day. And, it has the added advantage of telling me to do something I want to do anyway (but don't always make time to do).

Some small and large forms I threw with the sculpture body

I started last week Thursday, the first day of my clay class(es). It's a 3 hour class, but I don't throw the whole time in any of those classess, especially not on the first day.  I threw at home on Friday and over the weekend, using some recycled scupture clay. The clay includes nylon fiber and grog (ground up fired clay), which makes it a good sculpture body, but a fairly annoying throwing body. This time around it also had bits of metal in it. I need to figure out if that's coming from the pug mill or somewhere else. 

a thrown and hand-build sculpture in progress

The nice thing about throwing at home is that I can work on my sculpture. On the three days I threw with this body, I threw small pieces that I plan to combine into larger sculptures. Because I threw a bunch of sculpture pieces, that gets me back into the studio the next day (or days) to build with those pieces, so that's a good motivator to get me into the studio in general. Because the pieces are small, I don't necessarily need to commit to more time than I have.

one of the small sculpture forms I threw with the sculpture clay

Today I threw at school, both because I don't have any throwing clay ready, and because I wanted to have more bowls ready to trim tomorrow during class. The nice thing about throwing at school is that other people are around. I chatted with some folks in the studio and generally just enjoyed being in the space. The clay is also a lot nicer for throwing and didn't have any bits of metal (though I did find a bit of rock, which is fairly unusual).

the March Garrity tool makes a good paddle for small work

It's also kind of nice to have a time limit. I'm supposed to throw for 30 minutes, which I was able to squeeze in between meeting a student and attending a Teams meeting. But I also didnt' feel like I needed to commit to a huge undertaking. I was able to setup, wedge, throw, and clean up in about an hour. Because the time has been prescribed, I feel like I can just do it and be done.

the Garrity arm tool (full view)

Having a time limit it nice, sometimes, for something that could expand to take up any amount of time--Like writing a blog post. I could let it expand to take up several months of editing and perfecting (like I've done with the last two posts I haven't actually published) or I could set myself a limit, keep it short and be done.

Cancer updates

Last year about all I wrote about was cancer. I realized this weekend that it’s been a long time since my last cancer treatment update (in early October). Part of what got me thinking about it is that twice this past week a colleague didn’t seem to recognize me. I wonder if it’s because my hair looks so different. 

My curly hair this morning

For a while I'd been posting regular selfies during my treatment, in part because I didn't have all that much else to do, and in part because I kind of wanted to track the visual changes, which, aside from the hair were relatively minor. After I finished chemo, my hair started growing back, but at first it was a lot whiter than when I'd last seen it. Now I think the new growth is darker, but I didn't trim the white, so it has kind of a frosted look. It grew back slower on top, which makes for some weird length, but the most unusual part is the chemo curls.

this, apparently highly toxic, soft pastel from my daughter's drawing kit is taunting me

Apparently chemo damages the hair follicle, twisting it, which results in curls. That’s the explanation I’ve found, but it raises questions for me about naturally curly hair. Regardless, the curls are pretty normal for folks who’ve had chemo. They last 6 months to a year but can last longer. As someone whose straight hair never held a curl before, I’m enjoying having natural curls and even though the length is all over the place (thanks to the hair delayed regrow the on top), I’ve decided to keep everything I’ve got and enjoy it as long as it lasts.

boing boing curls

The curls have just reached the point where they make little spirals, or, as I would have called it when I was a kid, “boing boing curls.” If you wish for “boing boing curls” as a kid, you might just get that wish fulfilled after chemo 30 some years later. I'm pretty sure that as a kid I would have specified long "boing boing curls," but, as chemo ended in April, I may be getting close to the end of that type of growth.

the sculpture (right) as I left it at Christmas

The fact that I'm most interested in the hair, and I've been writing almost exclusively about my students' work for months, now, probably tells you what you need to know about my health (boring is good). I have been done with “active” treatment since September. In January I had my last meeting with my radiology oncologist who seemed to think my radiated skin looked good. She officially "released" me from her care, surprising me because I didn’t realize I was still under her care. The only hiccup was that I complained about some joint pain and that worried her (which worried me).

the other sculpture that I left even less complete over Christmas

In January I had my first post-surgery mammogram and that came back clear (about which I am much chiller now than I was then--when they didn't call with the results the next day I called them and told them they had to tell me or I'd worry all weekend). I also had my last weekly lymphedema appointment at the end of January. Which means that in February, I have no scheduled medical appointments of any kind! This is the first month since August of 2021 when I haven't have a medical appointment (or lots) related to my breast cancer!

both sculptures finished (and trying to keep the cats out at this point)

I‘m not done with treatment or appointments. I’m on five years of a daily pill and a shot every three months to stop my hormones. I have more lymphedema check ups, but they're spaced farther apart. At the start of March I have a pair of appointments my new oncologist and to get blood work to make sure the hormone stuff isn't causing major trouble. (Just the normal trouble of hot flashes and all that unfun menopause stuff.) Though some of them are decidedly not fun, I think that the symptoms have been fairly manageable. I can work just fine, I'm sleeping fairly well and I’ve gotten back into a sort of exercise routine of running with my daughter and doing some video workouts. I even went to yoga twice this month. 

old work and new work before and after glazing/firing

Mostly I’ve been focused on teaching and union work. In December I started some sculptures in my home studio that took ages to finish, not least because I got COVID when I was visiting my brother’s family at Christmas. But I finally finished building them and they are ready to fire whenever I get around to loading a kiln. This weekend I finally glazed a batch of functional work from who knows when. And that's all I've got, because between the glazing and the union and the classes I've told myself I'll squeeze in some rest this weekend!

Cancer: The Year In Review & What's Next for Treatment

cw: cancer and some times when it felt hard

The pictures below are a mostly chronological record from diagnosis to end of chemo. This one above is how I look today. It might be morbid or strange, but from when I was diagnosed I wanted to track how the experience looked (and, as it turned out, how a smile probably makes more difference in how I feel looking back at these than even the loss of hair--though I am happy to have that back, too).

At the start of October, it has been just over a year since I first felt a lump in my breast, thus putting in motion a year of medical appointements, tests, consults, and treatments. The other week my count was that I'd been to well over 100 medical appointements this year. In fact, I think it's been over 100 days of appointments, and many times there were several different medical tests, meetings, or procedures in a day.

The picture I took in my office a day or two after diagnosis. I was pretty terrified and this was as happy as I could force my face to look. Looking back on it I vividly remember how I felt (not great).

My 100+ number includes 20 weeks of chemo with 16 infusions, sometimes three appointements in one week, with the blood work and doctor visit, infusion, and growth factor shot on three consecutive days. Three different days of surgery, which includes 6 separate surgeries, at least 3 surgeons, and three hospitals, plus the initial biopsy. We took 7 trips to Seattle for consults, operations, scans, and other appointments with specialists. I believe 4 or 5 of those were overnight trips.

The picture I took during one of my last workouts before chemo started in December. I felt morbid, but I also figured I'd lose all my hair and most of my strength and kind of wanted to see how drastic that change could be (spoiler, I lost all the hair and a significant amount of strength, but it was never as bad as I imagined it would be).

There were also 33 days of radiation, plus several days of meetings or appointments to plan and take images (CT) for the radiation treatments. I counted 18 or more Lymphedema Occupational Therapy and Physical Therapy appointments, but I didn't write all of them down.  

During one of my first infusions (obviously, as I still had hair). Alison had trimmed my hair fairly short because I was told I'd lose it, but was too chicken to shave it. I kinda still thought I might not lose it all.

As of today it's been nearly 15 months since I first consulted my doctor about symptoms, 12 months since I asked to see another doctor, and a little over 10 months since I was diagnosed with invasive breast cancer.

The day I started losing my hair. I wanted to remember this day as funny and shocking, and it was, but it was also downright scary (I screamed in the shower when the hair started coming out).

Though I think the way they say it is that I am done with "active" treatment, I'm really not done with treatment or with medical appointments. I met with my oncologist last week to consult about what's next. I also had a lymphedema appointment and a PT appointment last week and another of each this week, which makes me question how people use the term "active treatment" (I feel fairly busy, at least).

 I really hated how it looked to have the hair thin like this and felt better once it was shaved off. Also, though I promised my nephew it wouldn't hurt to lose the hair, it kinda did (sorry Cam, but it didn't hurt much).

The meeting with the oncologist went more or less as expected. In December, both sets of doctors (Yakima and Seattle) had said that I'd be on some kind of hormone therapy pill for 10 years. I knew a bit about what the options were and had looked into them online and asked about them in some breast cancer support groups. Because my cancer was hormone positive, limiting the body's production of estrogen or limiting how the estrogen can be used by the body should limit the cancer's ability to come back or grow.

Sean came with me to nearly every infusion and has also been pretty incredible with his advice or his calm and reasonable response to things that scared me. 

My oncologist gave us two options for what kind of hormone therapy I'd be on. Sean asked which was better and she clarified that one had very slightly better risks of recurrence so we are doing that one. I will start taking a daily pill called Femara (which sounds like an off-brand female superhero to me) and I will also be getting a shot of Lupron (her werewolf sidekick, obviously) once every three months, if the insurance company approves it. The werewolf sidekick also comes in 1 month and 6 month shots, so the insurance company may dictate one of those instead.

After we shaved my head, I had a hard time getting used to the bald. It didn't help that my shirt appears to be an inch above my actual shoulders here.

Femara is an aromatase inhibitor that, I believe, keeps the estrogen from being accepted or used. I think the Lupron is to reduce the amount of estrogen in the body. They both come with potential side effects. The ones my oncologist highlighted were bone pain (been there), hot flashes (done that) dizziness or vomiting (hello again), and fatigue (I know you), as well as osteporosis (a new member of the team). My flippant reaction is that I've had most of these side effects already, how bad could it be? My justifying reaction is that I am fairly young for breast cancer and fairly active, so the osteoporosis shouldn't be as concerning for me and exercise appears to be the recommendation for fighing fatigue, so that's me in a good position going in. My panicked reaction is that all of that is better than more cancer.

My daughter's friend did try to give me some styling advice. Here she is treating a scarf like hair, but I think she'd prefer if I'd gotten a wig.

I asked the oncologist about my risk of recurrence and her response was simply "we don't know" which, I mean, yeah, but... I appreciate that she is honest with me and clear on what we do and don't know, but I also want her to tell me that I'm going to be fine, fine, fine.

I wanted to keep a visual record of how I looked throughout treatment, but I haven't been a fan of taking pictures of myself, so I used cats to make it more fun

Later in the appointment she said "not to be pessimistic, but..." which, I mean, this sentence isn't going to end well. She said that because my cancer hadn't been entirely erradicated by the chemo, that meant that some of it was (is?) resistant to the chemo and that increases my risks of it coming back. Before chemo she had said that my type of cancer was unlikely to be completely erradicated by the chemo, so I felt a bit wrong-footed with the way she talked about it last week. I kinda hoped she was going to say "good job, your body really fought to make that cancer smaller, this is super duper news and you're going to be all better for ever and ever" or something like that. This take on it doesn't change what happened or my risks, but it made me a bit blue for a day, until I got swept up in the manic speed of classes and union and all of Alison's many activities (we spent 18 hours doing marching band stuff yesterday).

Video (poor quality, sorry, I'm not a videographer) of Alison with the AC Davis high school marching band at their second performance of the competition we attended yesterday in Everett. She's playing marimba in front ensemble (near the middle, front) and wearing a mask.

The other thing the doctor said that got to me was that there's another shot they can give me to help prevent the cancer from metastasizing to the bones. My reaction was "sign me up, here's the arm, ready and waiting, let's do this." She wants me to try to superhero duo first to see if I tolerate the side effects before adding the no bone mets shot, so I don't know much about it. I'm anxious to not have bone metastasis, but I'm trusting that she knows what's most important now.

My approach to feeling awkward about selfies and how I looked with no hair was to exaggerate how happy I felt 

Right now we're waiting (again) for my insurance to approve the Femara/Lupron. The standard is to start hormone therapy one month after radiation ends, which would be next week, so as much as I may feel like it, I am not actually late or behind (again, I always feel like this when waiting before/between treatments). When I walked into Northstar last week, I got out my insurance card since it'd been so long since my last appointment. When they didn't want to see it, I realized it had, in reality, been less than a month since I'd been in that same building for radiation treatment.

Another awkward selfie, but one I wanted to take to celebrate and compare how I looked and felt after chemo vs before. I was also pretty relieved that the hair seemed to be the biggest change

I've been told that it is normal to feel kind of abandonded when radiation ends because regular doctors visits end and you're done. I feel done, but I also feel decidedly not done. Waiting in the check-in line for oncology I simultaneously felt like I viscerally did not want to be in that line, like I didn't belong there because I don't actually have cancer anymore and thus shouldn't be taking up space in that line along with folks with scarves on their heads, but also like I didn't actually know if I was done with cancer. It wasn't a comfortable bag of feels.

Feeling more confident with more hair and celebrating the day I was able to lift my arm to 90 degrees after surgery

Today I went to get my COVID booster (I had waited for the ok from my oncologist) and was stumped by the question: Do you have any other health conditions? Um...do I have cancer? I was afraid to say "no" because what if the cancer heard me and started coming back? Or what if the tiny bits of undetectable cancer have survived all this treatment and are hiding inside my body, just waiting for me to say "no, I don't have cancer anymore" so that they can metastasize to my bones or brain or whatever? But also, how can I answer that question "Yes" when they took out the tumor? I'm done-ish with treatment, kinda, sorta. I don't-ish have cancer. How do I answer? The pharmacist probably didn't care much about the answer, but it was an emotionally difficult question for me.

visiting with a fellow cancer survivor at my home for the Yakima Artists Studio Tour

The one piece of good news from the oncology meeting is that the standard for treatment is apparently now only 8 years of pills rather than 10. They want you to take it for at least 5, but realize that the side effects can be pretty severe. At this point, 5, 8, or 10 still seems like a long time to take a pill and get a shot every three months. I suspect that by the next time I find time to write, I will have started the pills and shots.

Celebrating my last day of radiation at North Star Lodge

Port-a-Cath Bulbs, Finished

spiky port-a-cath bulb

This year a lot of my studio time has been spent on these port-a-cath bulbs. I've gotten about 33 bulbs glazed, fired, hung, and ready to show this weekend at the Yakima Artist's Studio Tour.

my studio, this afternoon, nearly ready for the weekend show

The Tour includes 8 locations in Yakima and over 30 exhibiting artists. Artworks in a variety of media are for sale. Tickets are $10 each and get you into all 8 locations on any or all of the 3 days of the Tour. Saturday and Sunday, September 3 and 4, studios will be open 10-4. Monday, Labor Day, September 5, the studios will be open 10-12.

crackle texture port-a-cath bulb

The port-a-cath bulbs have been a good fit for my year, both the imagery and the forms. The imagery of the port-a-cath device and the catheter line has been the thing that feels like it best represents the strange experience of chemo and of cancer treatment. 

detail of 9 port-a-cath bulbs on the temporary hanging wall in my studio

A port-a-cath is the little device that was implanted in my chest for delivery of chemotherapy drugs. Instead of starting an IV each time I had an infusion, the nurses at Northstar were able to use the three little bumps on top of the port to quickly insert a special needle into the port and thus start my infusion.

port-a-cath bulbs before the hanging wall was up

The port is a good thing. I hate IVs and I get queasy and faint around needles and the IV always feels uncomfortable and pulls more of my attention than I'd like. I like that, after the very first time, the port access was always easier on me than an IV. 

port-a-cath bulb with multiple base layers

But on the other hand, the port is icky and creepy. I felt like a cyborg, in that I had this inorganic device inside me. The ick factor is raised by the fact that this device is there for the "safe" delivery of poison, so that's a strange thing to contemplate. Throughout this whole cancer experience, it seems so strange that they hurt the patient to help them.

double port-a-cath bulb

To be clear, I'm not objecting to treatment. I feel very lucky to have cancer in 2021 and 2022, in a city with a quality cancer treatment center and expert doctors and within an easy drive to Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. The treatment I've received is so much less unpleasant than it would have been even 10 or 20 years ago. I had high quality targeted treatments that will leave me with fairly minor short and long term side effects. 

carved background port-a-cath bulbs

But. Chemo and radiation are still treatments that kill the good with the bad and I find that to be just a wild idea. I'm grateful for the treatment and the innovations, but I'd still rather not do this. Just like I'm grateful for the port, but I also found it icky and was also happy to have it removed.

port-a-cath bulbs on the temporary hanging wall in my studio

The port was uncomfortable for the first week or two, but then I got used to it. Before it was implanted, I thought it was going to be sticking partly out of my skin, like some kind of easy access charging port with a flip-top lid.  Instead, the whole thing was under the skin and just left a raised area on my chest, as well as a scar where I was cut when it was put in.

port-a-cath bulb with calligraphic catheter lines

I found it particularly creepy that I could feel not only the lump of the port itself and the three locator bumps on top, but also the catheter as it snaked up and then down into my body. The catheter wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it felt strange and, like a missing tooth, I couldn't resist touching that area and feeling that strangeness.

double port-a-cath bulb with the catheter winding inside 

The first time I had the port accessed, it didn't work quite right, so the nurse had me lay back and move my arms around a variety of poses to get the blood flowing through. The idea was to kind of unkink the catheter so it would work right. 

port-a-cath bulb where the catheter line is tangled (this is what I was thinking of when the nurse was having me move my arms)

The contortions worked to make the port move, but thinking about what was wrong and what I was doing to fix it made me faint again. For weeks I worried that doing jumping jacks or stretching might re-kink the catheter, but I never had trouble with it again after that first day.

port-a-cath bulbs where the catheter lines become the bulb itself

Once chemo was finished, the port was taken out, at the same time as my tumor and sentinel lymph nodes were removed. Now I am hyperaware of the scar, which is more uncomfortable than the lumpectomy or the lymph node scar for some reason. The removal scar was done over or into the original scar, so I just have the four scars from this experience (counting the drain scar from the second lymph node surgery).

port-a-cath bulb with a different style of port (I didn't like this one as much)

Because I found the creepiness factor of the port so fascinating and off-putting, it naturally became a subject of the objects I was able to make during and after chemo. The more I played with the position and arrangement of the catheters, the more I felt like this was an interesting idea to explore.

port-a-cath bulb with textured background

I didn't know what my port looked like, exactly, before it was removed, so I worked from a brochure about port-a-caths that they gave me after mine was put in. In May, when I had it out, I asked for the port to take home, but was a little bit disappointed that mine was a more boring design than the ones I had based my bulbs on.

temporary wall of bulbs in the studio

Making these bulbs also fit into my sometimes interrupted work time, both during chemo when I was sometimes feeling nausea or fatigue and in the recovery time after surgery when I found it difficult to work for a long time in the studio. I can easily work on just a bulb or two at a time. 

plain yellow base port-a-cath bulb 

Unlike when I am throwing on the pottery wheel, I can stop and start the work with more flexibility. I can keep the bulbs wrapped better in between work sessions and there isn't much set up or clean up for working on one of these press-molded forms.

squared off port-a-cath bulb 

In fact, as I was winding down my sculpting work so that I could get these fired and glazed before the upcoming Studio Tour, I kept making new bulbs, which are now in the kiln. It became a bit of a compulsion to keep making. I also made a sprig mold with my real port and wanted to use that on some new bulbs (ones that won't be ready for the Tour).

lots of port-a-caths layered

I colored and glazed these cancer bulbs with the same kinds of bright contrasting and layered colors I used for my abstract bulbs. I feel like the playful and bright color is both joyful (for me) and a bit surprising when paired with cancer imagery. 

detail of hanging port-a-cath bulbs

I didn't want these to be dark, depressing, or sad. I admit that I kind of like the idea of them being creepy or gross, in some ways. I really made them for myself. I really didn't care, at the outset (and still don't I guess) if other people thought they were appealing.

heart-a-cath bulbs

What I think I've found, is that people who have experienced cancer themselves or in their family, especially people who had or have a port, find them interesting. I think they feel like a memento or maybe even an inside "joke" about this intense experience.

detail of installed bulbs

Ironically, though my nephew and I have both been dealing with cancer all year, he never had a port, so this imagery misses him entirely. I mean, he's 3, so presumably the bright colors and shiny texture is appealing, but the poor kid gets a new IV every time he has an infusion.

different type of port-a-caths

I did a couple of minor experiments with another physical object from the chemo process, one that my nephew might be familar with. Every time I had an infusion, they gave me an ID bracelet with my identifying information. Every time I came home, I cut it off, but instead of throwing it away, they started collecting on my desk. 

ID bracelet bulb

Pretty soon I had enough medical bracelets to fully cover a bulb if I wanted. The bracelets were plastic, so I tried pressing them into the clay. The result was just two bulbs with this texture. I think the color makes them work, to some extent, but I have no idea if the results "read" as anything recognizable.

port-a-cath vines

Once the Tour is over, I might have another think about the imagery that applies more broadly to the experience. I am also looking forward to talking with people this weekend when they see this work. I'm looking forward to hearing both from the folks who've had cancer and those who haven't.

heart-a-cath bulb with raised areas where the catheter seems to be below the surface

Months ago, I asked on Facebook or Instagram if people knew what the object was. Folks who'd had a port knew, but others guessed a spaceship or a sprinkler. I may have further obfuscated the form by adding plantlike growths out of the port, or by layering ports on top of one another.

plant-like catheter lines

As of this writing, I am nearly done getting my studio cleaned and getting these pieces out and on display for the show this weekend. Tomorrow night Monika and Chris will set up their work so we can be ready for Saturday.

port-a-cath bulb with raised area suggesting catheter is under the (yellow) skin

If you are in Yakima, join me at my house for the Second Annual Yakima Artist's Studio Tour this Labor Day weekend. My studio will be open 10-4 on Saturday and Sunday and 10-12 on Sunday. 

catheter lines that twist and come off the surface