The Luckiest Unlucky Girl

Rio de Janeiro.  Just the name of it conjures up images of an exotic beachfront, surrounded by an iconic landscape and a city filled with fun-loving people.  I have wanted to go to Rio since I was very young and heard about a little party they like to call Carnival.  Unfortunately Carnival this year is being held in late February, which did not fall during our summer vacation, so Jon and I settled for the next best thing: Rio for New Years.

     Actually, when I booked the trip I mainly was interested because I found cheap flights online.  We didn´t actually know that New Years in Rio was a big deal, but once we started searching for hotel rooms and found 6 night minimum stays and prices that were 3 to 4 times higher than normal, we realized something was up.  A quick Google search revealed that New Years Eve on Copacabana Beach is one of the world´s most well known celebrations.  Who knew?  Well, apparently the 3 million people that gathered from all over the world to watch the fireworks with us along Atlantic Avenue…. but I think I am getting a little ahead of myself.  This blog entry is only supposed to be about the first two days.

     Jon and I arrived in Rio on the 27^th after a very long van ride from Paraty.  Upon arrival, I was a little disappointed by our hotel´s location.  For some reason I thought that the Windsor Copa was in between Copacabana and Ipanema beaches, but it turned out to be located on the far end of Copacabana beach, near Leme and Pao de Azucar.  I had heard that Ipanema and Leblon beaches to the southwest of Copa were the best places to stay in Rio because they are a little more upscale.  I had also heard that Copacabana, despite it´s history as the travel destination of the rich and famous during the 60´s, was actually a little run down and seedy.  Well, once Jon and I emerged from our non-beachfront hotel, we learned that the Windsor was actually right behind the luxurious Copacabana Palace and about a two-minute walk from the main stage for the New Years festivities.  We never once felt unsafe and it turned out to be a fantastic location for what we were in town for, although it was probably my least favorite neighborhood in the city. 

     Jon and I began our afternoon thinking we would just take a quick stroll along the beach and find a little place to grab some lunch.  Since we thought we would only be out and about for a short while I wore my black Capri pants and a long sleeve shirt in order to keep the sun off of my burns from the sailboat.  At first the walk was fun because I was just so amazed that I was actually in Rio and seeing the famous beach that I had dreamed about.  Unfortunately, Jon and I realized about 5 minutes into the walk that the sun in Rio is hotter than hot and the humidity is even worse.  Within ten minutes we were both drenched in sweat.  Also, being that we were wearing the most amount of clothing that anyone has ever donned during the summer in Rio, we stuck out like sore thumbs.  I wished I had put on my swimsuit so that I could be a little more naked and fit in with the rest of the crowd.  Honestly, I have never seen so much nakedness in my life as I did walking down Atlantic Avenue that day.  There were old men in speedos brazenly strolling along the sidewalk with their tennis shoes and socks.  There were wrinkly grannies, teenagers, and pregnant ladies in too- small bikinis and floppy hats.  There were boys from the favelas playing soccer on the beach.  But what I will remember most are the butts.  They were everywhere!  There were women roller blading with their butts jiggling back and forth, women with perfectly tanned butts ordering juice from the kiosks, and women with dimply, cellulite covered butts making their way into the water; apparently women from all over the world go to Rio just to show off their “ass”ets.  Since I have not done a single squat or lunge in over a year and my butt is so white it probably reflects light, I was most definitely NOT tempted to join the crowd.

   Anyway, Jon and I were looking for some non-fried food so we ended up walking the whole stretch of beach in the sweltering heat of the midday sun.  Apparently beach kiosks only sell fried food, beer, and coconuts with straws in them, and that wasn´t quite what we were looking for.  By the time we walked to the end of the beach (1 hour later) both of us were hot, cranky, and extremely hungry.  I reluctantly agreed to eat at one of the kiosks and we sat down completely covered in sweat.  Luckily we looked up and noticed that there seemed to be a shady area with umbrellas and cafes on the promontory that juts out over the ocean.  We decided to give it a shot.  What we stumbled upon was the historic fort of Rio de Janeiro and we happily paid the entrance fee in order to find a possibly shady place to eat.  It turns out that the cafes in the fort complex serve decent food and have an amazing view of the entire Copacabana beach.  Jon and I ordered lots of liquid and finally began to relax while watching the paddle boarders out on the water.  It turned out to be a great afternoon.   When we were done with lunch it was about 4:30 so we still had a few hours of daylight left.  I had read that watching the sunset over Praia Arpoador was something not to be missed.  Neither of us wanted to make the long trek back down the beach before sunset, so we decided to press on to Ipanema.  We found our way to the other famous beach in Rio and discovered that it was basically a sea of humanity, which would have been more interesting if it were less hot.  Jon is not really into crowds, especially on the beach, so I tried to find us a quieter spot on the rock overlooking the beach.  Well, the rock may as well have been an oven because it seemed to be absorbing the heat and magnifying it by ten.  Also, did I mention that Jon and I had WAY too many clothes on?  Well, it turns out that the rock I picked is the most popular place to watch the sunset, so as the hours and minutes SLOWLY ticked by, our viewing platform became extremely crowded.  It made for some great people-watching, but Jon and I were both pretty miserable by this time: we were tired of the sun beating down on us and also a bit bored just sitting around waiting for the sun to go down.  Finally it did, and it was pretty.  We also learned that in Rio it is customary to clap when the sun goes down…. interesting.  The long and short of it is: I´m glad we did it and we got some good pictures, but next time I will go closer to sunset and wear my swimsuit, instead of my winter clothes.  We ended the day on a good note, however, by dining at the Bahian restaurant Siri Mole and Cia where we had the most delicious fish stew bathed in coconut milk.  Amazing!  I highly recommend eating at this famous Carioca spot when you are in town and ordering the molluca de peixe.  A young couple from New York viewed our dish and decided to order it to great raves, so don´t just take my word for it. 

            The next day turned out to be clear so we decided to take the cable car up to Mollo de Urca and Pao de Azucar.  I had been told to go up there for sunset since the view over the city is said to be amazing at dusk, but I was worried that the weather would change and that the mountain would be covered in clouds, the way it had been the evening before.  Luckily we beat the rush of the crowds and did not have to wait too long in line before being whisked into one of the cable cars.  I was soooo excited!  I love fun and unique methods of transportation and I was really looking forward to getting to the top of the rocks.  Luckily it turned out to be worth the hype. The views looking back on the city were phenomenal.  The city of Rio is truly beautiful.  Let me clarify: as Jon contends, the city itself is not beautiful because the architecture is very bland and concrete, but the natural scenery surrounding it makes the city truly magnificent.  From high above on the mountains we spotted the beaches, the lake, the statue of Christ, the national forest, and the favelas.  I could have looked out at that view all afternoon.  The views were so magnificent, in fact, that Jon and I almost shelled out 500 dollars for a 12 minute helicopter ride to get a closer view of Cristo de Redentor and snap the iconic picture of Jesus with his arms wide, embracing the entire city of Rio.  Luckily, one of us emerged from our “I Love Rio” trance and realized that the flight broke down to roughly 50 dollars a minute, and so we decided to save the helicopter for our next trip. 

     Instead we took a quick walk around the neighborhood of Urca at the bottom of the mountain and declared it to be a lovely place to live.  The views of the marina were not bad either.  For lunch we headed back to Copa and ate at a local Italian eatery, La Trattoria.  It wasn´t gourmet, but you could tell that the food was made with love.  After lunch it was time for our afternoon siesta in our air-conditioned hotel room.  Both of us decided to avoid the heat of the afternoon and only go out in the morning and evening.  For the evening, I had planned a trip over to the Santa Tereza neighborhood up on a hill on the opposite side of the city from the famous beaches.  Santa Tereza is kind of the artistic neighborhood and many people say you need to be careful there, but Jon and I quickly fell in love with the place.  We loved the colorful homes, the jovial atmosphere on the streets, and the views overlooking the city.  Santa Tereza used to be reached by a historic streetcar, but apparently 6 people died on the trolley recently, so it was shut.  But Jon and I enjoyed our walk around the top of the hill and especially enjoyed the views from the Parque das Ruinas.  I had already chosen our restaurant for dinner earlier in the day and had made reservations for 8:30.  We couldn´t decide between two restaurants; Espirito Santa or Tereze, both of which were written up in the guidebook for their food and for their views.  In the end we got to experience both, because we happened upon the Hotel Santa Tereza (the location of the latter restaurant) and stopped in their scenic bar to watch the sun go down over the hill and also to have some delicious tropical drinks.  It is here that I will state for the record, that a caiparinha can be both one of the most delicious drinks you will ever have, or also, the most disgusting.  I had a delicious mango martini to start off with and Jon ordered a Bloody Mary.  Then we were having so much fun that we decided to order strawberry caiparinhas.  They were terrible!  Cachaça has a very strong taste that the strawberries did not mask at all.  I felt like I was taking shots of rubbing alcohol… Ugh!  But, since Jon and I had planned to have an evening out in Lapa after dinner, I figured the extra drink couldn´t hurt. 

    We had a really nice evening at Espirito Santa where we sampled Amazonian fare and enjoyed the ambiance of the back patio of the restaurant.   For the second night in a row we happened to be seated next to an American couple who asked us what we were ordering.  Immediately upon hearing the woman´s accent, I said I was from Houston, instead of my usual introduction, which is California.  “Well that´s funny, “ she said.  “We´re from Houston too!”  And then we learned that they had lived in Hong Kong and Japan so we got to chatting about life as an ex-pat.  Which somehow turned into her revealing that she and her husband had gone to Kinkaid, but were probably the only democrats in all of Texas.  (Except for my family, of course).  It was a fun conversation and I mention it because the only people Jon and I befriended on the trip were a wealthy retired couple from Houston.  Maybe that says something about us…

    I had been dead-set on going to Lapa after dinner to experience Rio nightlife, but once we arrived there, we discovered we had not brought enough cash and that neither of us really felt like going out.  So instead, we walked down the street and admired all the young people having fun and wished we were not such old farts.  After a stroll down the row of bars, we decided to take a taxi and head home instead.  (Don´t Judge!)  Going out is never as fun with just the two of you as it is with a group.  If I went back with another couple or just the girls, I´m sure I would enjoy it, but Jon and I just weren´t really in the mood.  Plus, it also meant we could wake up early and enjoy the next day without being hung-over or tired.  So unfortunately I never did make it to a samba club in Rio (shameful…) but I did experience Rio nightlife at its finest a few nights later.  Stay tuned for the next episode! 

Last week Jon and I officially began our summer break. Having spent my formative years in the northern hemisphere, it seems strange to crank up the barbeque and watch the temperatures soar into the upper 90s around the same time that Dear Ole St. Nick readies his reindeer and sled for his round the world gift-giving tour. But, who can complain about a two month holiday smack dab in the middle of the school year? I surely can´t.
This year Jon and I decided to spend the holidays in Brazil. We had planned to spend a month last summer traveling the country, but those plans were of course, thwarted by the Big C… This time Jon and I had less time to spend, so we decided to concentrate on only two destinations: Rio and Paraty. Paraty (pronounced Parachi in Portuguese) is a beautiful colonial town on the Costa Verde, about halfway between Rio and Sao Paulo. As you know, Brazil is a GIANT country, so on the map this distance seems minimal, but in fact requires a four- hour drive.
As you also may know if you followed my series of desperately pleading Facebook posts last week, before we left Chile Jon and I experienced a bit of a traumatic incident involving our puppies. When I return home, I will devote an entire blog entry to the unveiling of the story of Chingy and Kublai´s Great Escape, but suffice it to say, we spent an agonizing 48 hours pounding the streets of Vitacura searching for our lost dogs. As of this point in time, only one has returned, but I haven´t given up hope yet. Anyway, Chingy was returned to us around 11:30 PM, the night before our 5 AM departure for the Santiago airport. Bleary-eyed, but full of relief that at least one of our doggies will be waiting for us when we return, Jon and I boarded the plane for the four hour journey to Rio. I had arranged for a transfer company, Paraty Tours, to pick us up at the airport and drive us to our pousada in Paraty. Upon meeting the company´s agent in the airport, we quickly learned that in Brazil, much like in Chile, values such as efficiency and customer service do not carry the same weight as in the United States. We were told we just needed to wait 20 small minutes for some more passengers to arrive, but in fact ended up waiting two hours for the van to arrive. Luckily the drive itself along the verdant coast, mountainous jungle on one side, sparkling blue water dotted with hundreds of islands on the other, was worth the price of admission. And, in the end, fourteen hours after we left our house in Santiago, we arrived safely at the Eliconial Pousada in Paraty.
I can´t say enough good things about our beautiful pousada and highly recommend that anyone traveling to the southeast coast of Brazil stay there. When we arrived to Paraty in the dark, Jon and I were a little miffed that the pousada was quite a distance away from the historic center of the town. In fact, it is in a separate beach town west of the city called Jabaquara. At the time we were completely ravenous and wondering how we were ever going to get back into town to find some food. Also the front of the pousada was completely unassuming. Basically we turned down a dirt road of the beach and parked in front of someone´s garage. Great- I thought, Trip Advisor has failed me once again! Luckily when we opened the door next to the garage we were led into a beautiful oasis courtyard complete with lounge area, pool, sauna, steam room, and an amazingly friendly receptionist with a big black and white Dalmation named Louis. Once we transferred our bags to our cute little bungalow complete with hammock and monkeys on the roof, Robert told us there was a great little restaurant right on the beach that we could walk to. Wonderful, we thought! We spent that night at La Luna restaurant, dining by candlelight. In the daylight, La Luna turned out to be a simple beach kiosk, but that night it seemed like a five star eatery. The grilled fish, the shrimp, and all the garlic cream sauce certainly tasted delicious at the time. It was also at La Luna that the friendly waitress informed me that in Portuguese, my name was pronounced Elizabech, which pretty much sounds exactly like “Eliza-Bitch”. Jon found this new pronunciation of my name to be right on the mark. Considering I had spent the last thirty minutes complaining about how hungry I was and how far we were from the city-center, I couldn´t really refute his charges.
Up until our last day in Paraty, the weather wasn´t so great. Dark, thunderstorm clouds hung perpetually overhead, which did amplify the green of the mountains, but also took lying on the beach off of our list of to-dos. Instead we focused on exploring the town and the nearby rainforest. As I said before, Paraty is on old Portuguese colonial town which has been turned into a fantastic tourist destination with a perfectly preserved historic center complete with cobblestone streets and beautiful white buildings with colorfully trimmed windows and doors. Jon and I enjoyed walking around, snapping pictures, and shopping in the many artisan shops that lined the streets. I always knew I would like Brazil, and Paraty confirmed my suspicions. What a magical place! We dined that afternoon at a lovely Thai restaurant that had been recommended to us. Stuffed, we headed back to the pousada to relax in the Jacuzzi, with kindle in hand. All of the stress of the last month quickly melted off my shoulders and into the warm bubbling water. “Ah, yes. Summer vacation is here, I thought.”
The next day was Christmas and Jon and I knew that probably everything would be closed. Luckily Paraty is a town that caters to tourists and so several tour operators were forgoing dinner and presents with the family to take us Xmas orphans on jeep adventures through the nearby National Park of Serra da Bocaina. And here it was on Christmas Day that I learned a second truth about Brazil, which is that people here, of all ages, shapes and sizes, like to wear as little clothing as possible. Our guide was barefoot, bare-chested, and wearing a Santa Hat when he picked us up, along with 5 Portuguese tourists in his bright orange jeep. The day was cloudy again and the sky threatened rain. Robert did not care. His 4×4 capabilities allowed us to zoom up muddy, dirt roads to find hidden spots in the jungle with waterfalls and natural water slides. First we clambered over a poorly constructed suspension bridge with a clearly displayed warning sign (only two at a time). Then we were told to take off our shoes and scramble up some muddy dirt path in order to reach the top of the rocks. Here, we found many people bathing in the water in their butt bikinis and taking turns sliding or surfing down the rockslide to the pool below. I didn´t think this activity would be such a good idea, mainly because I am a total wuss when it comes to trying new outdoor sports. I tried to get out of it by cashing in my cancer card and holding my back in pain, but Jon wasn´t having any of that. So there I was, screaming and sliding down the rock, hoping my new swimsuit would not fall off and reveal my surgery scars. Luckily, the suit stayed on and it was actually an extremely safe and fun ride. We spent the rest of the afternoon clambering around rocks, and marveling at the tiny bikinis and speedos, and their owners who certainly had no business wearing them.
The hard part about traveling on Christmas, (besides missing our families from back home, of course) is that it is always very hard to find a restaurant open. Our jeep tour guide drove us from local village to local village searching for someone to feed our crew. Up a dirt road, next to a chicken coop, we found a woman who agreed to open her restaurant and fry us up some manioc chips and fish. Unfortunately this was to be our only meal of the day because Jon and I could find nothing open within walking distance of our pousada later that night. The owner even called ten places to see if someone would deliver a pizza, but no luck. Feeling pity on us, he handed us two oranges, a kiwi, and a mango, so we spent Christmas dinner dining on tropical fruit.
Our last day in Paraty was definitely the best and most action-packed. When we woke up, we were surprised to find sunny, blue skies, and no clouds in sight. This was a fantastic omen because we were supposed to spend the day on a private sailboat with a friendly, yet crazy, Argentinian named Miguel. The little red boat was waiting for us on the beach outside our pousada and Jon and I waded into the water and climbed aboard. I was armed with sunscreen, towels, and cute new swimsuit cover-up and Havianas (Brazilian flipflops) purchased the day before. Thinking of my beach wedding about to take place in less than a month, I was determined to get an even tan to compliment my white, strapless dress. I applied and re-applied sunscreen throughout the day as we hopped from island to island, sunbathing on the deck of the boat and gloriously floating in the bay whenever we stopped. Paraty Bay contains no less than 365 islands of various sizes; most of which are private, but all of which have beautiful coves of beaches to visit. Luckily Jon and I had avoided the tourist schooner trip by renting the private sailboat so we were able to be by ourselves on the islands for much of the day. The only sad part about the day was that the bay, which is normally clear for snorkeling, was invaded about 6 weeks ago by a green algae that made visibility almost negligible. I hope the algae is a result of something natural, and has not been caused by all of the tourist traffic. For lunch, we sailed to the most inhabited island where we dined on our first green salad of the trip, along with pasteis. Pasteis are basically fried empanadas, but better than the ones in Chile because they are filled with delicious seafood stews and flavorful chicken mixtures. It is then that I learned the third truth about Brazil: they sure do love their palm oil, which could account for the heaviness of the owners of the skimpy swimsuits. It is definitely a culture that loves to indulge. As a result many people are overweight, but they seem to believe the body is beautiful no matter what. No one is afraid of being judged no matter how many belly rolls hang over that brightly colored thong.
On the ride back from the islands, Jon and I both fell asleep which was a total mistake because, despite my care in lathering up with the sunscreen repeatedly in the morning, one of my arms and both of my kneecaps somehow went from pasty white to bright red in about 20 minutes. Mysteriously, none of the other body parts seem to have changed color at all, which is completely annoying. So, yep, here I am three weeks before the wedding: still pasty white with one red arm and two red kneecaps. That wedding dress is going to look amazing!
After the boat ride, Jon and I spent one more fabulous hour enjoying the amenities of our pousada and preparing ourselves for the culminating activity of our Paraty adventure. I had read in the Lonely Planet about a woman named Yara, a cookbook author, who gives cooking demonstrations and serves gourmet Brazilian food out of her home. It is called the Academy of Cooking and is recommended by several guidebooks, Trip Advisor, and the New York Times, so Jon and I were ready to be impressed. Because I am not so good at small talk with strangers Jon and I went into town early to do a little souvenir shopping and grab some pre-dinner cocktails. It is here that I discovered the most delicious drink I believe I have ever had: a ginger, passion fruit, and tangerine fruit juice with cachaça, the national alcohol of Brazil. Yum!!! So we headed over to the Academy of Cooking, which really was just the couple´s home on a side street of the historic town, near one of the churches. The home was lovely and we were greeted with amazing smells as we awaited the arrival of the other dinner guests. We were joined by two other young couples. The first was a Saudi man and his Belgian wife who both resided in Dubai, as well a good-looking couple from West Hollywood. Halfway into the meal we discovered that they were actors and that we were indeed dining with the stars of the hit ABC crime show, Castle. (Apparently the show has been on the air for six years, but I´ve never heard of it. And I watched a lot of TV in China….) Anyway, the conversation was pretty lively as we watched a demonstration on how to properly make a caiparinha and then helped Yara put the finishing touches on the dinner in the kitchen. The only bad thing about the evening was how long everything took. We arrived at the house at 8 and the food wasn´t served until about 11:30. And in that time, all I was offered to drink was the one caiparinha. Poor form for the amount we paid for the meal, I think.
Yara explained to us her vision for the meal, which was called “Fruits of the Land” because she used traditional Brazilian ingredients in new and interesting ways. Apparently she had studied Food History at Radcliffe and had a lot of knowledge about the topic. “Food history… why don´t I have a degree in that, yet?” I thought. Anyhoo, the menu consisted of:

1) Tomato stuffed with manioc flour that had been sautéed in butter, garlic, cashew nuts, and a strong homemade cow cheese, and served with greens and vinaigrette. I was in charge of carving out the tomatoes, stuffing them, and plating them once they were done. Although the plate looked pretty, the tomato was just alright, because I found the manioc flour to be too dry and crunchy. It basically had the consistency of uncooked couscous and I don´t think the tomato was cooked enough.
2) The piece de resistance: a fish filet that was pounded, stuffed with a crab mixture, and rolled tight with a blanched green onion. (I pounded, stuffed, and rolled the fish). The fish was served on top of an easy to make risotto: basically you mix rice with a béchamel sauce and palm oil so that is tastes creamy and sticks together. The fish and rice were served with a delicious creole sauce of roasted peppers, onions, tomatoes, and stock, blended together into a puree. I would most certainly make this dish again!
3) A green salad with mangoes, cashews, and vinaigrette to cleanse the pallet. Good, but nothing special.
4) Caiparinha mousse which was made by the Belgian woman and did not have enough sugar in it for my liking. It was basically like eating a fluffy alcoholic lime gelatin. Not my favorite, but I appreciated the creativity.

All in all, it was a memorable meal, if mainly for the company. Yara´s husband had quite a few interesting (read naïve and inappropriate) comments about the history of Brazil that he chose to share with us as fact. My favorites remarks: Apparently the Portuguese really cared about the native Brazilians and didn´t try to subjugate them under king and cross like the Spanish did… hmmmmm. And also, slaves in Brazil were treated well, unlike in the Southern United States, because they lived in the basement of the same home as the master and not in separate quarters like in the US… another deep head scratcher. The final touch was a comment about how there is no racism in Brazil like there is in the United States. I´d like to ask an African from Bahia how many black government officials there are in Brazil, and get to the bottom of that assertion.
Anyway, despite the wildly inaccurate political commentary, we ended the night without Eliza-bitch revealing her true feelings about this revisionist tale of Brazilian history and emerged feeling satisfied. I learned a new cooking technique: stuffing fish, and Jon learned how to make a new sauce that could go with just about anything. So our thanks go to Yara and her husband for sharing their home with us, and also for giving me an idea for a new business opportunity back in Santiago. I can cook food, Jon can serve and talk about wine, and both of us can completely make up facts about Chilean history and tell them to our guests. Lonely Planet: here we come!

   Here I am, day two of hospital stay, and I am extremely anxious to leave.  My doctors are at loggerheads as to whether or not I actually have an infection.  My older, Chilean, plastic surgeon thinks that I do and is very adamant that I stay here.  Dr. Buhler (my savior) has visited me twice and he does NOT believe that I have an infection.  He recommends I be allowed to leave… So far the only facts that we have to go on are that my breast is red.  As I mentioned before, I do not have a fever, the breast is not sore, etc.  These would be indicators that I do, in fact, have an infection.  The initial test results of the culture that they took on Monday came back negative, but now we are waiting for the first of the 48-hour results to be returned.  Apparently they need to watch the culture over a period of time to see if the bacteria grows or spreads (if there even is a bacteria present).

 

    I continue to be extremely frustrated.  There is absolutely no reason that I need to be here receiving 24-hour care!  What a waste of resources to have a perfectly healthy person paying 800 dollars a day to receive a total of 4 hours of care a day…. and also what a tremendous cost to my insurance company.  The only reason I am here is so the nurses can drip in the antibiotics, which would be the treatment regardless if I have an infection or not.  For most of the day I sit here wondering why I am here.  To those of you who may think I am not taking this situation seriously enough: I completely understand the doctor´s reasons for wanting to be cautious considering my medical history.  I certainly would not be happy if I have an infection and they have to remove the implant.  That would mean that I would again be breast-less for the next 3 months before I could have another reconstructive surgery.  It would also mean I would be breast-less for my wedding.  The stakes are, indeed, high, but Dr. Buhler believes the redness could simply just be my body´s way of reacting to the foreign substance in my body, rather than a sign of an infectious disease.  Regardless, he informed me that nurses can come to my house to administer the drugs, which I am most certainly going to push for today.  This way I can go to work for part of or most of the day, which is what I want to do.  

 

An update: The doctor who specializes in infections just came to visit me.  He also remarked that the blood work came back negative and that the wound looks clean, etc.  It looks like they are going to let me leave and get the antibiotics at home.  Mission Accomplished!! ( I hope)

Yesterday started out like any regular Monday.  Unfortunately it ended with me in tears, throwing a no-holds-barred temper tantrum in the doctor´s office.  Despite my passionate and sorrowful pleas, here I am, back at Clinica Alemana, pissed off and swollen-eyed, wishing I was at school, or really anywhere that they doesn´t serve you sickeningly sweet peach nectar “juice” with plain, salty rolls for breakfast.  Perhaps you are confused.  I guess I should start at the beginning….

 

     After school on Monday I headed to the clinic because the doctor was going to take off more of my surgery bandages.  I haven´t been able to get my upper body wet for two weeks now, so I was looking forward to being able to wash my hair standing up.  Alas, when he began to take off the bandages, he noticed that the bottom and side of the left breast was really red, which I´m guessing, from the doctor´s reaction, is not normal.  It was a little sore to the touch, but I felt fine, and I certainly didn´t have a fever or any of the other usual signs of infection.  First Dr. Schwember removed the stitches from the scars around the nipple, which was an unpleasant process.   Then he proceeded to scrape off the thick layer of scab that had formed over the surgery site.  (Also, not the most fun activity I´ve ever taken part in….)  After replacing the gauze over the fresh wounds, he said I needed to do an ultrasound of the breast to see if there was liquid still left in surgery site.  If there was, he was going to have them puncture the wound and extract the liquid.  “That sounds like JUST the thing I want to do on my Monday evening,”  I thought to myself.  ¨That will be soooo much more relaxing than the mani-pedi I scheduled with Shannon.”

 

   The doctor also mentioned I would have to use my Chilean patience, since the mammogram department was fully booked for the evening and they weren´t going to be able to squeeze me in easily.  I immediately crossed my pedicure appointment off my list of to-dos, knowing I was in for a long wait.  When the nurses on the mammogram floor told me that I should go grab a “café-cita” and that they would call me when they were ready, I knew that the wait was going to be at least an hour and a half.  I was correct.  Later that evening, I strolled back to the mammogram center and the crowd had thinned out for the most part.  I was not happy to be back there, being that the last time I was there I discovered a large tumor in my breast.  I kept looking around at the other patients, trying to figure out who else had received bad news that day.  I spotted a woman in a black shirt with red eyes, clutching some engaging pamphlet titled ¨Get to Know More About Breast Cancer¨.  Yep- there she is, I thought, wanting to go up and hug her.  Instead, I just gave her a knowing half-smile and left her alone in her misery.

 

        They finally permitted me to enter the ultrasound room, where the doctor was nice and gently rolled the ball around on my wound.  He declared that there was only a thin layer of liquid trapped inside and that they probably wouldn´t have to puncture it to extract the liquid.  He told me to sit still while he called Dr. Schwember to confirm.  When he came back, he said that even though there wasn´t much liquid, the doctor still wanted to take a sample of it to the lab to find out what kind of germs were inside.  At this point, I began to lose control of my emotions.  I was super annoyed, first of all.  “Why would I need to extract the liquid if there isn´t really much to begin with???”I questioned.    I went outside to consult with Jon and the tears began to fall.  I did not want a large needle going anywhere near my breast that night, or any night for that matter!  I felt as if the doctors were simply trying to torture me, and hadn´t I been through enough already??  Jon convinced me that I needed to have the procedure done, so I dried my tears and tried to act like a 32- year-old woman instead of a blubbering baby.  I slowly took off my shirt again and dutifully positioned myself on the same table where I had had my biopsy a year ago.  They rolled me on my side and out came the anesthesia needle, followed almost immediately by the long, skinny needle that was going to hunt around in my breast until it found the liquid trapped inside.  Although it didn´t hurt too much because most of my nerves in that breast are shot, I could definitely feel the pressure of the needle poking this way and that as I watched them search for liquid on the ultrasound screen.  The doctor kept moving the needle and saying to his assistant, ¨There, did you get some?¨ She kept replying ¨No¨.  This must have gone on for what seemed like 10 agonizing minutes.  Finally I asked if we could stop, and the doctor said, ¨Why?  Does this hurt?¨  It was all I could do to stop myself from responding, because all I really wanted to do was leap off the table, pull the needle from my body, and jab it over and over again into his breast and see if he liked it.  Thankfully, I simply clenched my jaw and let the wave of anger pass over me instead.  Miraculously, the nurse was able to extract some of the liquid (about 2 or 3 mm worth) so that they would have something to take to the lab.

 

     Off we went to the lab, which was pretty much empty.  I was in one of the worst moods I´ve had in awhile and when my phone rang twice while I was trying to fill out the paperwork, I decided to ignore it.  Jon couldn´t answer because I knew it was in Spanish and he would have to give me the phone anyway.   The third time, we answered, and it was Dr. Schwember´s office wondering where I was.  I was supposed to go back and see him after I took the samples to the lab.  I told the nurse I was on my way, just delivering some samples, and marched back upstairs.  I certainly was in no mood to face Dr. Schwember- the man who had ordered the puncture procedure to take place, even though the ultrasound technician had told me it was not necessary.  All I wanted to do was go home and forget all about the evening.

 

     Unfortunately, Dr. Schwember greeted me with the news that even though we won´t have the lab results for the next few days, I need to be admitted into the hospital that night for antibiotic treatment.   I guess I hadn´t really thought all of this through and certainly didn´t expect to be hospitalized.  Like I said, I felt FINE.  I told him, “No, sorry, I can´t.  I have to work,” and swung my purse on my shoulder to get ready to leave.  He said, “Look, Elizabeth, you´ve had chemotherapy, radiation, and two surgeries on that breast. We have to be really cautious about this infection.”  “No S##$!!!,” I thought.  “I know that I´ve had chemo, and radiation, and surgeries… That is precisely why you should leave me the F#$! alone and let me go on with my life, especially when I feel perfectly normal.” He let me cry for a little bit and then began writing the order for hospitalization.  I asked him how long I would need to be there, and he replied, nonchalantly, “Probably five days or so.”

 

    “FIVE DAYS!!!!” I screamed in Spanish while banging my fists on the desk in disbelief.  “No!  I refuse!  I can´t go to the hospital for five days!  I have a job.  I´m a teacher! I have students!  I have dogs that need to be fed!  This is ridiculous!”

 

Yep… I totally lost it.  “There goes any shot of me getting a job for next year,” I thought.  I wanted to scream and cry and throw things, and I´m pretty sure I did.  I was done being patient and dutifully following doctor´s orders, all the while silently enduring embarrassing and invasive medical procedures.  I no longer wanted to play the brave cancer patient role by staying positive and optimistic.  Instead I was intent on letting everyone in that hospital know that “Elizabeth Swift Timms was THROUGH with being nice!”

 

 

 

     Well… as I´m sure all you parents out there know, crying and screaming about how unfair life can be, doesn´t really help one make mature decisions.   So after I went home to gather my stuff and call my boss and write up my lesson plans for the next few days and inform my family and hug my dogs and pack up my movies, I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be in the hospital for a few days.  I was probably going to miss Thanksgiving.  People were probably going to think this was all cancer´s fault and that it was a bad idea for me to start working again… when in fact, I got a freak infection from a surgery that I had a less than 2% chance of getting.  And P.S.  I STILL FEEL FINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

      I passed the night sleeplessly since the antibiotic they gave me caused me to break out in a heat rash and violently scratch my scalp for an hour until I decided I couldn´t take it anymore and called the nurses in.  Yep- I´m allergic to the antibiotics.  Great!  And this morning the doctor came in and offered to give me pills for my “anxiety” and looked at me like I was a freak-show.  “How is your mood today?” he asked.  “Fine,” I replied, since I didn´t know what else to say.  “I can tell you´re not fine.  I can give you pills for that.”  And I violently shook my head “No” and tears fell from my eyes again.  I just wish someone at this hospital would look at my charts, see all that I have been through, and treat me like a human being who has been through a LOT this year and maybe, just maybe, treat me with an ounce of sympathy.  Just because I am pissed off and don´t want to be back in the hospital after I just got out a week ago, doesn´t mean I have a psychological problem.  It just means, that for right now, right this second, I can´t take any more… and you should be able to understand that.  Harumph!!!  I am attaching an article sent to me by a friend that I can really relate to on days when my mood is low (like today).  I highly recommend reading it.     

 

http://www.slate.com/blogs/xx_factor/2013/11/25/depression_after_cancer_chemo_sucks_and_we_shouldn_t_expect_cancer_survivors.html

 

 

 

This week has not been the most fun week of my life, but in a way it was cathartic, as it signaled the final step in my long journey to recovery. On Tuesday afternoon I received reconstructive surgery on both breasts in an attempt to make my body look normal again after my mastectomy last year. Some people may think a boob job is nothing to get upset about, and in the days leading up to the surgery, I wasn´t too worried about it, either. However, it turned out to be a bit more stressful and scary than I originally thought. For the past four months since radiation my doctor has been filling my temporary expander with saline solution in order to stretch the skin and make room for the permanent implant. Sometimes (although I seriously doubt it) the expander looks good enough that the doctor doesn´t need to replace it with an implant. After my first few fillings, however, it was clear that I was going to need another surgery to replace the expander. My left breast wasn´t even close to being in the same anatomical location as the right one. In Jon´s words, this morning, so you know I´m not exaggerating, “Your left breast was AT LEAST four inches higher than your real one.” I had this round, hard as steel lump sitting just underneath my collarbone, next to my armpit. In fact, the expander was so off that the entire mound of saline was situated above my nipple. This may be too graphic for you, but it was almost as if the nipple was folded under the breast. Super awkward and Frankenstein-like! I´m sure you can imagine what having a gruesome looking breast like that does to one´s self esteem. Luckily, through this process, I have learned to care less about what I look like, mainly because there truly was nothing I could do about it. During the winter season I was able to hide the breast discrepancy by wearing a padded bra and adding tissue on the bottom of the left one. I don´t think too many people noticed, because I stayed away from tight t-shirts and/or cleavage bearing ensembles. There was, however, one awkward moment while playing in my first soccer game at school (which I wasn´t technically supposed to be doing…. OOPS! Sorry Dr. Majlis!). I was wearing a sports bra for the first time and I had padded it so the breast placement wouldn´t be as noticeable, but after running around a bit and sweating, the padding totally shifted and began sticking out of the bra. It became very obvious that my boobs were not normal. Of course, Jon only let me know how awkward it looked till after the game. Awesome! Not to mention how naked I felt taking off my wig in front of the students for the first time and sporting my shock of dark, curly, unmanageable, post-chemo coif. So that was the beginning and end of my serious exercise attempts. In addition to my realization that I wasn´t going to be toning up my muscles any time soon, about three weeks ago I looked at the calendar and discovered I had less than three months to go until my wedding. There was no WAY I was going to ruin my beautiful strapless gown with this weird left mound sticking up out of it. So I went to the doctor and pointed to my chest and said, “You know, doc, I´m getting married in January. Is there anything we can do about this situation going on down here…?” He immediately agreed that it was time for my reconstructive surgery. So we went over my options, which turned out to really only be ONE option: a silicone implant. I had previously done research about reconstruction and had learned that although silicone implants were still the most common form of breast replacement, that there were other, newer procedures available. There are two different “flap” procedures that can be done. In these procedures the doctors take fat and tissue from your stomach, butt, or back and put it up into your breast. Although these procedures sounded good to me, (a little tummy tuck wouldn´t hurt me these days), they require a lot longer recovery time than just a simple implant. And what with the wedding coming up so soon, and my school schedule, I just couldn´t afford the time to have a complicated surgery like that. So I settled for the implant and asked for three days off from school. Maybe someday in the future, if I feel like having another surgery, I could choose one of the flap options. On the day of the surgery, I went to work as normal. The previous week had been incredibly busy. Friday night Jon and I had our “Welcome to the Jungle” belated Halloween party and Saturday night I performed a Glee number with five other faculty members in the school´s inaugural gala for the fine arts center. Both events went well, but they required a LOT of energy. So, in truth, I hadn´t had a lot of time to mentally prepare for going back to the hospital and facing the operating room again. According to Google, there is a fancy name for fear of hospitals called nosocomephobia, which I am now entirely sure that I have. This is because everything I have done in a hospital never turns out the way I had planned and often includes anxiety fueled twists and turns. For example, leading up to the surgery, I had to pass several medical exams, both as a form of post- cancer check-up, and also to ensure my body was healthy enough to undergo anesthesia. I had various blood and urine tests, an ultrasound of my stomach, lungs, liver, and ovaries, as well as an EKG for my heart. Unfortunately two of the exam results were a little scary. While having the ultrasound of my vital internal organs, the doctor declared that there was, “nothing to worry about! Everything was fine.” “Phew- what a relief!” I thought, as I hurriedly wiped off all the blue goo and headed back into work. Unfortunately, as I was driving back to school, I got a phone call from some fast-talking secretary at the clinic saying that the doctor needed me to come back in to do some more tests. I asked, for what, and she replied using some words in Spanish that I didn´t know, so I told her I wouldn´t be able to come in till the following afternoon, due to my busy rehearsal and work schedule. As I hung up the phone my entire body went cold and I immediately began shaking like a leaf. I was distressed. More tests is never a good thing… I certainly wasn´t ready to end my blissful last six months of health and head back into the land of cancer-ville, which is what I was worried was happening. And of course, I did the one thing that a panicking daughter should NEVER do; I forgot about the three-hour time difference between Santiago and Houston and called my mother at 7AM her time. It was clear that I had woken her up, and there I was, crying and telling her I needed more tests and that I was scared and didn´t know what to do. And then, my phone service cut out so I couldn´t even end the conversation properly, nor could I reach her until the end of the school day. Sorry, Mom! For the next day and a half Jon and I, and obviously my mother and father, worried and worried. We narrowed the mysterious Spanish word down to either the liver or the ovaries. We were praying that it was the ovaries, because while I was having the ultrasound the technician asked if I was pregnant. I replied no, and she remarked that the ovaries were quite enlarged. Then I told her I had breast cancer last year and was taking tamoxifen on a daily basis. Then she said, “Aaahhh, it´s probably just your body reacting to the changes in the hormones, then.” This somewhat relieved me since I knew that I hadn´t had my period since taking the tamoxifen, so I figured that maybe I had ovarian cysts and that was what the doctor wanted to take a closer look at. Being relieved at possibly having ovarian cysts might seem like a strange reaction, but when compared to cancer, well…. When we returned to the clinic the following day I brought Jon with me for moral support. We had already been through the scenario of, “what if the cancer is back?”, and he vowed that no matter what, we would get through it together. When I lay back down in the exam room the doctor came in and told me that yesterday he found three small nodules in my liver that he wanted to take a closer look at. The day before, the doctor had used a new ultrasound machine and he was finding it difficult to examine the nodes with the new technology. He proclaimed that it was probably nothing, but he just wanted to be sure. My breath quickened and I clenched my hands as he passed the cold plastic ball over my body. “Toma aire. Aguantalo. Botalo y respire normal,” he instructed over and over again, while he took pictures with the machine. After a few minutes he said that indeed, they were just normal liver nodules that many people have, and that I was fine. I did not have cancer again. He apologized for worrying me, as he knew from my medical history that being called back in for more exams probably had alerted my senses. Jon and I headed home and breathed a huge sigh of relief that the dreaded day of my cancer returning had not yet arrived. After the stress of those exams I simply tried not to think about the surgery or anything medical at all. When I carried my overnight bag into the hospital, though, and began the tedious process of checking in, I was suddenly hit with the weight of this new surgery I was having. What if my body wasn´t strong enough to handle the surgery? What if my left breast will never look like a normal body part again? How will I feel when I wake up after the anesthesia? Ugh… too many thoughts and too many worries, and suddenly I felt totally unprepared for the surgery. I worried I hadn´t asked enough questions and that maybe I should have had a different procedure done. Were they going to lift up my other breast in order to make them more even? What size were they going to make the breast? Where were they going to make the incisions? I realized that I hadn´t asked any of these questions and I began to panic again. There´s nothing more frightening than going into a surgery not knowing what is going to happen to your body. To make matters worse, when I handed my entrance orders to the nurse she read, “reconstructive surgery on the left breast with a silicone implant”, and she looked a little puzzled. “Well, aren´t you going to be having anything done on the right, to make them look more even?” “Shit!” I thought. Well, of course I want them to look even, but that´s not what I had previous discussed with the doctor, and so now I felt totally unprepared for the surgery. Dr. Schwember had already been in to draw funny blue lines and circles all over my breasts and already the anesthesiologist was there to have me sign off on the anesthesia drugs. I started completely freaking out and crying and the poor, pint-sized nurse, Blanca, kept trying to comfort me, looking genuinely shocked that this woman with the awkward haircut who had voluntarily checked herself into the hospital for a boob job, was now sobbing out of control. The anesthesiologist managed to calm me down and explained that I was experiencing a PTSD of sorts. After all that I had been through, being back in the hospital gown and preparing for surgery would obviously be very upsetting and bring back lots of unwanted feelings and memories. She promised to bring the doctor back in to explain everything to me again and got me to stop crying. Dr. Schwember returned and explained that, in addition to the implant on the left side, they were going to put a small implant on the right side as well, to help stop the natural effects of gravity on the breast over time. He acted like he had told me this all along, and that I just wasn´t remembering the details correctly. I was entirely positive that he had NEVER mentioned doing any kind of surgery on the right breast, and knew that I had written down everything exactly as he had told me on the hospital entrance forms. Eventually I agreed to have surgery on the right breast in order to balance out the implant on the left. I had to sign new forms. After all of this miscommunication, the nurses continued to prep me for surgery by asking me to remove all of my nail polish and makeup and to don the absolutely horrible blue hospital panties that resemble a much too tight diaper. As I was stripping myself down to the bare essentials, the anesthesiologist re-entered the room to declare that there was an abnormal wave on my EKG exam, and that she needed me to take another test, “just to make sure”. The operating room staff had already arrived to wheel me down into surgery, but she stopped them in their path and told them they would have to wait. The EKG machine appeared and an extremely incompetent elderly nurse attempted to get the machine to take a clear reading of my heart for approximately 20 minutes. She plugged and unplugged the machine various times, and clucked and clucked while unsticking and re-sticking the round pads to my body. She declared that she needed to use a different machine, so off she went, and again, I waited. Another nurse came in to administer the second EKG exam, and this one successfully printed a report. The operating staff took this opportunity to wheel me down to the surgical unit, since it was now approximately one hour past the time that I was supposed to start my surgery. Upon reaching the surgical unit with all of the various nurses and doctors running around in scrubs and plastic shower caps, I began to get rather nervous once again. The staff parked my hospital bed in the middle of the entrance way and left me there. Several women with giant red lips read my chart and asked if I was Mrs. Swift, Elizabeth. I said my apellido was Timms, not Swift; but yes, I was that same patient. I also informed them my doctor was waiting on some EKG results so that they wouldn´t take me into the surgery room too soon. The friendly nurse with the biggest lips decided to wheel me into the recovery room for “safe keeping” until the doctor came to find me with the results. After they parked me in a remote corner of the room where my nerves continued to get the best of me, I waited about 15 lonely minutes before anyone seemed to notice me or ask why I was there. After about 20 minutes, my anesthesiologist came sprinting into the room declaring that the wave was still appearing on my EKG and that the cardiologist had requested that I do an echocardiogram. At this point I totally almost lost it again, because now I was worried that there was something wrong with my heart. With all of the drugs that I take, heart problems wouldn´t have been out of the ordinary; I just didn´t want to deal with an ailing heart now. I wanted to be healthy and happy, successfully have my surgery, and attend my wedding with no worries. The anesthesiologist ordered two of the surgical assistants to place me in a robe and wheelchair me up to the fifth floor for the exam. She also ordered that they should hurry since they were keeping the operating room open just for me. So off we went sprinting down the labyrinth of hallways, searching for the doctor who was waiting to tell me whether my heart was strong enough for surgery or not. I was freezing. This was not entirely a surprise, being that I was barefooted, and wig-less, dressed in a flimsy hospital gown, with an even flimsier robe to protect me from prying eyes. The echocardiogram doctor was waiting to examine the heart and after finally finding a spot below my ribs where he could successfully view the heart without the expander getting in the way, we began the exam. After 20 minutes he declared my heart to be very healthy. He said the abnormal EKG results were probably caused be interference from the expander. That made sense to me, and now I was ready for them to just go ahead with the surgery already. It was supposed to be a 2-3 hour surgery with 2 hours of rest in the recovery room and it was already 6:00 PM. I knew Jon would be worried if I didn´t come back to the room before midnight. I was in a much better mood as they raced my wheelchair back down to the operating room where it seemed like 20 people were surrounding the operating table, awaiting my arrival. I clambered up onto the green cloth and hoped the drugs would take effect sooner rather than later. The anesthesiologist tied a very tight rubber tube around my right arm in an attempt to find a vein in my right hand where she could apply the anesthesia. I knew from past experience that finding a vein in my right hand was a difficult process, and indeed, the anesthesiologist was not successful. She jammed the needle into my hand over and over, wiggling it this way and that and causing tremendous pain. At one point, she removed the needle and blood began spraying out of my hand and dripping down onto the floor. “Dear God, I thought. Please stop the torture and give me the drugs in my port, already.¨ She tried, unsuccessfully, a few more times and then resorted to applying the gas mask over my mouth, and as I got dizzy I heard Dr. Buhler say they would fix it when I was under. With needle in hand, he stood over me as I thankfully passed out. When I awoke, the breathing tube was still down my throat and I began coughing and gagging, praying they would remove the uncomfortable tube. I passed out again. The two hours in the recovery room passed quickly and soon I was back upstairs with Jon completely drugged out and, thankfully, not in too much pain. I stayed in the hospital two very long days while Jon continued to work and I watched an interminable amount of TV and graded essays. I went through the now-familiar procedure of hiking up the thigh-high compression tights until they cut off blood circulation to my lower limbs, getting the painful anti-coagulant shot in my stomach at 5: 30 in the morning, and being awoken by nurses at what seemed like the most unnecessary times to give me medicine and take my vitals. The height of ridiculousness came at midnight on Wednesday when a nurse actually woke me up in order to give me a sleeping pill. “Listen lady, I´ve been asleep since 9:30. I most certainly do not need you to wake me up in order to give me a sleeping pill!!!¨ A few times I pretended to be asleep even when they were poking and prodding me, just so that they would take the hint and leave me alone. But I guess it´s their job, so I really shouldn´t be too critical. Anyway, come Thursday I was begging to be allowed to go home and relax in comfort on my couch with the doggie-doos. They obliged and, after forgetting to give me my medicine, they reluctantly let me leave the hospital. Now, two days later, here I am back at the Clinica, with surgical drain attached to my left breast while receiving my anti-body treatment. Good times! As for the breasts, they do look 100% better than they looked before, primarily because they are both now in roughly the same position on my body. They are not perfect: I would guess the left breast is about a full cup size smaller than the one on the right, but now I will at least be able to wear my wedding dress without embarrassment. I´m not sure bikini season is in order yet, but hopefully when the swelling goes down and the bandages are taken off I will learn to live with my new look. According to Jon the doctors ended up just giving me a lift on the right side instead of an implant, but I was never informed of that, so I will have to ask myself when I go to have the drains removed on Monday. I am still a little upset about the surgery, because my breasts used to be one of my few body parts that I actually liked. I know now that no matter how many surgeries I have, they will never look the same. Although they look better than they did five days ago, they just will never look the same. It seems superficial, but it still isn´t a fun reality to deal with. Of course, the prognosis could be worse, so I shouldn´t complain. It is just a fact of my new, post-cancer life. And it still is a pretty great life, despite the complications!

    

 

     A year is comprised of 365 days, 8,760 hours, 525,600 minutes and countless seconds.  Depending on your circumstances, a year can drag by as slowly as a thousand dreary afternoons waiting in line at a civil service office.  Or it can go by so quickly that you feel the force of its breeze as it races past your face.  Looking back at this particular series of 365 days, I am struck by how much can change in a year and yet, manage to stay exactly the same.

     This week, October 1^st, marked the one-year anniversary of my cancer diagnosis.  Even though I have managed to lock away many of the horrible and fearful moments of the past year, I know I will never be able to forget that particular day.  Just as all those living in the United States will never be able to erase the eerie images of fire engines rushing down deserted Manhattan streets, and pieces of office paper drifting lifelessly in the air, I will never forget October 1^st.  Although I don´t remember exactly what Jon was wearing or what song was on the radio as we drove to the doctor´s office, I remember exactly the way the doctor´s blue eyes stared at me compassionately, yet firmly, as he told me that not only did I have breast cancer, but that it was very advanced and had already spread throughout my bones, lungs, and liver.  I will never forget how surreal it was to hear that my spine was severely compromised by lesions and that I was in danger of being permanently paralyzed.  I remember how my voice trembled and wavered as I tried to answer his questions about how to proceed.  I remember how forcefully Jon gripped my hand when he led me to the car and how intensely the sun blinded me as I sat on my patio and wondered how I should tell my family.  I remember hearing the horror in my mom´s voice and my sister´s sobs in the background as the words came flooding out.  I remember crying until my body was completely numb and falling asleep that night with my arms wrapped around my dog.  I remember thinking about what death would feel like.  “Would it hurt?  Would people remember me?  How would my family recover?”  I remember realizing I would never make it if I continued to think that way and forced myself to stop thinking altogether.  Fortunately, miraculously, I still haven´t had to confront those thoughts, even one whole year later.

         To help commemorate my cancer anniversary Jon had secretly arranged different activities for each day of the week.  Colleagues sent me songs, e-cards, flowers, and wore pink in my honor.  Coincidently, October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, so Santiago is hosting their annual Race for the Cure event this Sunday in which I, and several others, will be participating.  This is to be followed by a brunch at our place (cooked by Jon) to thank everyone for all of the support this year.  As I realized what Jon had done, I was very touched.  He truly is the sweetest man.  But also, I was a little embarrassed to have people continue to go out of their way for me, even though life has pretty much returned to normal.  If you didn´t already know that I had cancer, there is absolutely no way you could have guessed that I am still wearing a wig and that the reason I didn´t play in the faculty soccer game was because my bones are too weak.  That is how normal my life has become.      

     As poignant proof of just how differently this week played out compared to the same week last year, the week of September 28th- October 5^th was a particularly active one on my calendar.  It started off on Saturday with a cupcake baking session, followed by a wedding celebration for our friends Meredith and Regan, as well as a hung-over Sunday morning on my couch.  On Monday, 140 7^th grade students and teachers went on a field trip that my teaching partner and I had planned to a mosque, synagogue, and church.   On the same Monday I also passed a frustrating hour asking my afterschool Model United Nations club if they really thought “wikianswers” was the most credible website for researching Russian statistics on child labor.   Monday evening I also watched Jon´s 6^th grade basketball team scratch and claw at the Alliance Francaise team that was, on average, at least 5 inches taller than every boy on Jon´s team. 

     On the actual day of the anniversary, Tuesday, I took a friend out for a tasty birthday dinner.  Wednesday afternoon I finished the day with a 90-minute planning session for our first faculty Glee club performance in November.  Afterwards I sped home to prepare a simple dinner for ten, because I was hosting a book club gathering with the author and his family in attendance.  Thursday and Friday I spent two extremely long days individually helping students with their first compare and contrast essays and desperately attempting to manage computer lab behavior for my class and my partner´s class, since she was absent.   At the end of the day on Friday I finished typing in the descriptors for our social studies department rubric while simultaneously texting Jon that he needed to pick up our wedding invitations that had just been delivered to the administrative office.  It was finally the end of the week and part of me wanted to change into my party shoes and go out dancing in celebration of all that I am still able to do, despite having had Stage IV breast cancer one year ago.  However, since my lower back aches according to how exhausted I feel, I decided to give in to my new normal life. “Wow! I cannot wait to sit my ass on my couch, watch some TV, and go to sleep early…” I decided.  

     As I left the Middle School office and wearily hoisted the green Jumbo bag full of Tupperware that contained the leftover department meeting snacks and Lunch Bunch meal I was responsible for bringing that day, I glimpsed one of my former high school students standing outside the library.  I had taught this particular student my first year at Nido, and he absolutely loved history, particularly wars.  In tenth grade he was a scrawny boy, extremely short and thin, with huge glasses and a high-pitched voice.  Now, looking at him, I could barely recognize the tall, facial haired senior who asked me in a deep, booming voice, “Ms. Timms?  Is that you?” 

     To me, it seemed like just yesterday that I had listened to him ruminate on the tactical reasons why America was justified in dropping the atomic bomb on Japan. Contrarily, he looked as though he had seen a ghost.  He had no idea I was back at the school and was genuinely shocked to see me.   We stared at each other for what must have been a minute or two, both trying to recognize each other despite the physical changes that the year apart had brought.  In the past 8,760 hours since I had seen him last, the student had obviously been through the life altering physical changes associated with puberty.  I, on the other hand, had experienced a year filled with cancer drugs, radiation, inactivity, and facing my own mortality.  The combination of these factors had aged me in subtle, yet noticeable ways.

     After a slightly awkward moment while he looked at me quizzically as I explained that indeed, I was back, but teaching in the middle school, he looked at me with sadness, yet also hope.  “Miss…. are you all better now?” he asked. 

I thought for a second and a tear almost fell from my eye as I smiled.  “You know… I AM all better.  Thanks for asking!”

This isn´t the sexiest title I´ve ever come up with, but I do have some more cancer related information to impart to you, so this will have to do. Today is Saturday and here I am, bright and early at Clinica Alemana, receiving my antibody treatment. Jon was a trooper and set the alarm at 7:00 so he could walk the dogs and gather our various Apple gadgets in preparation for the long morning ahead. Luckily the outpatient oncology wing is open Saturday mornings until 1:00, so if I get here at 8 I can just squeeze my five-hour session in. This is great because it will prevent me from having to miss class time during the school day. But also unfortunate because every third weekend I will be waking up early and spending a good chunk of my weekend in the hospital. Unfortunately, the oncology secretary was very reluctant to schedule me in since my treatment takes so long, which I found very frustrating. Work with me, people…. Work with me! Anyway, so far it has been a quiet morning. The oncology nurse rode the elevator up with us from the parking lot and Jon and I are the only people here, typing away in silence. Strangely, I somewhat enjoy my treatment times because it gives me a chance to sit and breath and think about life. It also gives me some quality time to write. In addition to keeping up with this blog, I am also thinking about writing a fictional novel about teaching, so that is exciting as well.
This week I also began the final stage of my regular preventative treatment regimen. I am now taking a daily hormone therapy pill called tamoxifen. Hormone therapy is a standard treatment for all women whose cancer is estrogen positive (HER+). According to the internet, tamoxifen, along with Herceptin, is considered one of the biggest breakthrough drugs for breast cancer patients. Basically, it is an anti-estrogen pill that binds to the hormone receptors in the cells so that the cancer cells won´t. Not being a science person myself, I find it fascinating that this small, round, white disk of a pill that I take every morning with a swig of water and a swallow of banana is currently fighting off potential cancer invaders. Amazing! Of course Dr. Majlis told me precisely nothing about the drug or its benefits/drawbacks and so I had to do my own research. Like usual, he said there were no side effects and nothing to worry about. I decided to get a second opinion from my fellow breast cancer patients by posting a question on the internet boards. I found out that for many women the drug basically simulates menopause and the women have terrible hot flashes, night sweats, and nausea in the mornings. For the first few days I felt these symptoms as well, but they have subsided as of late. In addition, some women have gained about ten pounds as a result of the pill. Awesome! Just what I need five months before my wedding… Thank you, cancer drugs!
Which then made me realize that I really need to figure out whether or not I can start exercising in order to combat this potential ten extra pounds. It has been very difficult to get a straight answer from my doctors here about what kinds of exercise I am allowed to do, and so I have been doing my own research on this topic as well. Whenever I feel like I might not have been given all of the information I need in regards to my health or my treatment, I always go to the women on my breast cancer apps for additional support and information. For example, when the radiologist told me a few weeks ago that I should never again use my left arm to exercise I thought, “Hmmm… forcing your arm to limply hang from your shoulder socket for the rest of your life can´t possibly be the only solution for the thousands of women who´ve had lymph nodes removed during their surgeries.” So I asked the ladies on the app and came back with an overwhelming number of responses that indicated that limiting exercise was an outdated philosophy regarding lymphedema. In the United States, most doctors now recommend working with a physical therapist doing stretches and exercises to strengthen the arm. They also prescribe a lymphedema compression sleeve to wear while exercising so that it would force the fluids that could possibly build up to circulate through the arm. So I put Randi to work attempting to procure me a compression sleeve at UCLA hospital where she works. Last weekend I was gifted a beautiful box with a smiling blonde woman on the front wearing her nude compression sleeve with a cute spring outfit. Well, after Jon and I attempted to tug that thing onto my arm I decided that I was less enthused with the aesthetics of my new accessory, but happy that I can now exercise without worrying if my arm is going to swell to the size of an elephant´s limb, which can apparently happen. In my last meeting with Dr. Majlis, I mentioned the compression sleeve and somehow got him to recommend that I use one when I “make exercise”. So, whew! Now I can wear it without worrying that I am going against my doctor´s recommendations.
The third breast cancer related news of this week is that I have again started the reconstruction process. You may recall that before my radiotherapy my plastic surgeon had begun filling my expander, but then had to remove the liquid before radiation could take place. I then had to wait a month after the radiation for my skin to properly heal so they could begin the process again. On Monday Dr. Schwember filled the expander with 50 CC of liquid, which he will do every Monday for the next four or five weeks until the left breast matches the one on the right. Unfortunately I had forgotten how painful the expander is for the first few days after a filling. Remember the soreness and tenderness of tightening your braces? Well, it´s like that, except it affects all the skin and muscles in your upper torso, shoulder and neck. The weight of it is very heavy and it is basically as hard as a rock for the first few day,s which makes it very uncomfortable to sleep, bend over, cough, laugh, or really do anything which involves chest movement. I can´t wait to feel like that for the next month! But I know the end result will be worth it, hopefully. Sometimes the muscles and skin don´t stretch the right way, depending on how good of a job the surgeons did, sooooo we won´t really know until more liquid is put in. Currently most of the liquid is sitting pretty high up on my left shoulder, just under the collarbone, so I hope that it falls a bit. Most women who have a singular mastectomy often have to have a lift done on the other side to make the breasts match. I´m assuming that will be the same for me. We shall see. And thus ends one of my least interesting blog posts yet. Stay tuned for more adventures of cancer Eli! Hopefully the next one will be less scientific….

     Have you ever had one of those days that are so full of joy that you just want to bottle the euphoria up in a jar and save it forever?  Last Sunday, teetering on my skis high atop a snowy mountain in the Andes, I wanted to do just that.  There I was, 10 months post-diagnosis: healthy, happy, and enjoying some of the most amazing scenery that surely must exist on our planet. 

     This weekend, Jon and I joined my best friend Randi, her fiancé, and father at Portillo ski resort located near Mt. Aconcagua (the highest mountain in the world outside of Asia) on the road to Mendoza, Argentina.  Although Portillo is only a two-hour drive from Santiago, it might as well be a world away.   Even though Santiago is surrounded by mountains, on busy days I forget to notice them.   The tallest peaks are often shrouded in smog, making it hard to distinguish their outline from the grey nothingness of the sky.  And yet, they are always there, a reminder that not everything in the world is ugly or difficult or created by man.  Ever since my diagnosis I have made a more concerted effort to pick my head up from the daily grind and notice things like beautiful, clear-sky days, fantastic pink and purple sunsets (the smog helps with these), and rays of sun glinting off the Santiago skyline.  However, some days my feet are tired from standing in heels all day, and my raging, teacher’s headache prevents me from noticing them.    

     Saturday, the day we drove to Portillo, was gloriously sunny with not a cloud in the sky.  I am not a religious person, but the sight of the Andes peaks covered in fresh, powdery snow never ceases to take my breath away.  It was almost as if God, or Buddha, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, had painted those majestic white cones themselves for mile after mile on a background of heavenly blue.  They were absolutely perfect!  Sometimes, when nothing is going your way, it is hard to remember how amazing life can be.  But, just a short drive from my house you can escape the pollution and endless lines of cars filled with people darting from endless task to endless task and you can immerse yourself in glorious mountain scenery.  This year, I’ve decided, I must do more of that!  In fact, I have already pretty much planned every possible vacation from now until February.

     This may seem a little manic to you, and maybe it is, but I have never felt so much joy before while adding things to a calendar.  It’s like every time I add another thing, whether it be a Halloween party, or a vacation in Rio for New Years, or even a simple dentist appointment, it means that there is something for me in the future to look forward to or plan for.  Ten months ago I was living basically day-to-day.  I couldn’t even plan a week in advance because I didn’t know what doctors appointments I needed to attend, what torturous medical test was coming on the horizon, or how I was going to feel after my treatments.  I feel very lucky that I can now look at a calendar and tell you with a good amount of certainty what I’ll be doing on a particular day.   This gives me a great deal of comfort and reassurance that my life is back to normal.       

     After spending a weekend in winter paradise with Jon and Randi, I also realized that not only am I lucky to be living, but that I’m lucky to be living the particular life that I lead.  One of the scariest things about growing up is hoping that you made the right choices in life.  Did I choose the right college?  Did I make the right friends?  Did I make good, healthy decisions? Did I pursue the right job?  Did I marry the right person?  Did I make the right decision about moving abroad? 

     During my twenties I questioned these things over and over and drove myself crazy thinking what my life would have been like had I taken a different path.  I now feel very certain that I am happy (mostly) with the decisions I’ve made.  Although I definitely made some bad choices along the way, I’ve tried to learn from them with varying degrees of success.  One of the best decisions I think I’ve made is my decision to become an international teacher.  I love living abroad.  Although I am no longer as close with some of my friends and am sad that I don’t get to see my family as much, I have had so many travel opportunities and experienced so many amazing things during the last five years that I can live with the consequences.  I most likely will never buy a house, settle down, and raise a family the traditional American way and I’m okay with that.  Although I often have to say goodbye to people and places that I love, I like the excitement of knowing that someday I might live anywhere in the world.  I’ve done things and seen things that most people only dream about.  And in that way I’m SO lucky.  I’m also lucky to have had friends and family visit and share my traveling experiences with me.   

     But, let’s go back to the euphoria of this particular weekend.  Sunday was my third time ever on skis.  Although I’m athletic (or at least I used to be…) I wouldn’t really say I’m all that coordinated.  I fall often and without warning.  During soccer and softball season my knees and the tops of my shins were basically one continuous, bleeding rug burn.  Needless to say, skiing presents certain challenges, especially when taking on and off the skis.  Jon also isn’t a regular skier, but he’s certainly more experienced than me, and on Sunday he offered to stay on the bunny slopes with me until we worked our way up to one of the more difficult runs.  Normally I’m not very coachable and I get easily frustrated, especially when I’m not good at something.  Luckily, my first three bunny hill runs went very well, and despite the aches and pains in my calves and ankles, it appeared I was ready for a more difficult challenge.  So up the ski lift Jon and I went with Randi, Matt, and her dad in tow.  The view from the top of the slope was gorgeous!  A storm was approaching which somehow made the mountains seem even more out-of-this-world; it truly felt as though we were at the highest point on earth. 

     After stopping for some photo-ops, off we went down the mountain.  For the first 20 minutes I was doing well, zigzagging from one side of the run to the other, cutting the skis appropriately to help me turn, fully in control of my speed.  Randi was in front leading the way and videoing my skiing success.  Jon was behind, cheering me on and telling me when to turn, etc.  Normally that kind of obnoxious encouragement would bother me, but for some reason, on that day, I found it completely endearing.  How did I get so lucky to have such a wonderful best friend who brings me lymphedema compression sleeves and bras without underwire all the way from LA to Chile?  And more importantly, how did I find such a kind, patient, supportive man to fall in love with me?  He puts up with all my ridiculousness and loves me still.  And in five months time I get to celebrate my relationship with him on a beautiful Caribbean beach.  And then, in May, I get to stand beside Randi as she weds the love of her life on a beautiful beach in Malibu.  So much to look forward to!

     On the car ride home I felt exhausted yet exuberant.  Although I didn’t quite make it all the way down the 2.7 kilometer run, I was still very proud of myself.  My energy gave out about ¾ of the way down and I knew there was no way I was going to make it the rest of the way down.  In the end a nice American ski patrolman helped me walk over to the nearby road and I hitched a ride back up to the top of the mountain.  I was slightly embarrassed at giving up, but in all fairness, it was the longest run Randi or her dad had ever been on AND it is the same run that the national US and Austrian ski teams use for their training runs, so I don’t feel so bad about not completing it.  There was no time to sulk.  Instead, I put my tired feet up on the dashboard and watched the beautiful Andes mountains glide past my window on our way back to town.  “Yes, indeed, life is quite grand!” I thought.   

It´s official: Friday, July 12th, I finished active treatment for stage four breast cancer!!! After eight cycles of chemotherapy, a mastectomy surgery, 25 days of radiation, and ten months of emotional hell, I can now focus on putting cancer in my rear view mirror and attempt to regain a sense of normalcy in my life. I am officially a breast cancer survivor!!!! Of course Jon and I celebrated the occasion, along with my 32nd birthday, but the event, on the whole, was rather anticlimactic. Although I am extremely happy to be done with the chemo and radiation, the disease has forever changed my life, and I will never really be done with treatment.
I will always have a chemo port sticking up under my collarbone, I will always have a giant scar under my armpit, and I will still need to go in to the hospital every three weeks for blood work, check-ups with my oncologist, and antibody treatments FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE…. The antibody drugs carry no side effects, so that´s good, but the problem is that from here on out, I will have to plan my life around these treatments, which take five hours minimum, and can only be done in the city in which I am residing. This means that I have to be very careful about planning my vacations and scheduling the times that I am out of the country so that it corresponds with the weeks that I am not having my treatment. For example, I figured out that if I continued doing my treatments on Fridays, I would have been scheduled to do a treatment on January 17th, the weekend of my wedding in Mexico. Not ideal…. Luckily I can fudge and shift the days of the treatment for a few days in either direction without it being a big deal, so I can sort of work around any potential conflicts, as long as I know them far enough in advance. I (somewhat jokingly) asked my doctor when they would be able to give me the antibodies in pill form so I can take them wherever I want, and he basically replied, “Stop your bitching. At least you are here to take the medicine!” Okay, okay: he didn´t say that exactly, but I know that´s what his half smile/ half shrug meant. So pretty much that´s my new default mode whenever I feel like complaining about something: “It´s gotta be better than being dead, so I just need to shut up about it and deal.” Which can be a helpful and stress-relieving mantra in many ways, but also is very difficult to pull off. Let´s face it, human beings like to complain (or at least I do) and I´m sure Jon would say I´m not doing a very good job at reducing my number of complaints… haha!
In other big news, last week I returned to work to begin the 2013-2014 school year. So far it has gone well and I know that I will be very happy in middle school. I like the energy; I like the creativity; I like the devotion to professional development. The kids are so much younger than I remembered, but also very curious about learning which is nice. No one has rolled their eyes at me yet and asked why they have to do such and such assignment. But I must say, that preparing to return to the classroom gave me quite a few weeks of anxious moments. This is because, after nine months of basically sitting on my ass, returning to my normal life again poses a number of challenges. In preparation for the school year, I cleaned out my closet to find what clothes I needed to begin afresh. Since I have not worn work clothes in close to a year and have been living in one pair of jeans and hooded sweatshirts for most of the fall and winter, this was not a fun task. Although I am losing some weight, I certainly do not fit into the six pairs of size four work pants that I own. In addition, all of my size small tops are extremely snug and uncomfortably tight around my left arm where I had the surgery. Let´s not forget the undergarments… since reconstruction has not yet begun I am having trouble finding a bra to wear. Since the surgery, I have mainly been going without one except for a brief number of special occasions. In the end I decided to just stuff one side of the bra until the doctors make them even again. But it´s not very comfortable and is most certainly the first item of clothing I remove when I get home in the evenings. Luckily the Chilean Gap carries the same “Curvy” work pants as in the United States so I was able to solve my clothing dilemma.
And then there was the question of what to do with my hair: I do have hair again- just not very much of it… It definitely is not long enough to style, has a weird texture, and is a strange, ashen brown color. Some people have urged me to just go without the wig when school starts so the kids can get used to my short hair from the very beginning. Unfortunately, I´m still not that comfortable with my appearance to do that. As a woman, I know we are judged on how we look and I want to look as good as I possibly can, and if that means I have to still wear the wig, then I´m going to wear the wig. I wish I could be brave like many of the older women who go to their hospital appointments bald or with patches of thin, post-chemo coifs, but I don´t think I´m quite ready. When people look at me I don´t want them to think about cancer and the horrible events of the past year, but to just treat me normally. Once I have a legitimate hairstyle a la Anne Hathaway or Michelle Williams, then I will be proud to throw off the wig and bare my head to the world, but that might be another month or two before that can happen. Jon insists that other people don´t care about my hair and that I´m the only one worried about it. And that may be true, but throughout this journey I´ve done my best to hide how the disease has affected me physically, so why would I stop now?
So those are the more superficial issues I´ve had to deal with. Obviously returning to work carries some serious emotional ramifications as well. I am thrilled to pieces that a maternity position opened up in the middle school in social studies and that everyone has been so welcoming to me. I was very nervous that I would feel strange, or out of place, or not really needed. I most certainly didn´t want people looking at me with pity, and luckily nobody has. Knowing what to say to someone when they return from something traumatic is always difficult. Basically you have three options. You could choose to address the elephant in the room and risk upsetting the person. Or you could kind of tiptoe around the subject by asking nicely, “How are you doing?” and plastering a big smile on your face. Or you could choose to ignore the “C” word completely and just talk about other things like summer vacations or students or lesson plans. Of course, there are also people who probably have no idea what happened last year and so they go about their daily lives and don´t say anything at all.
I realize it is human nature to avoid conflict, and so, for the most part, people have chosen to go with options B and C, which is fine with me. I, too, have always been one to avoid conflicts at all costs. If there is a difficult conversation to be had, I am usually the first to sweep it under the rug, gloss over it, or attempt to shrug my way out of it. Unfortunately, it is difficult to do this with something as life altering as a diagnosis of stage four cancer, so I am having trouble coming to grips with my new reality. It´s not as if I want people to talk to me about cancer every day; but, in a way, not talking about it at all makes me feel like I lead a secret life. I am both Ms. Timms, 7th grade social studies teacher, and Eli, cancer survivor. It can be difficult to juggle these two separate identities. For instance today I had to leave school early for my antibody treatment and I was hoping I didn´t run into anyone because then I would have to explain where I was going. And then they might worry that I´m still sick, and then I would have to go into details about the difference between chemo and Herceptin, and then they might start treating me differently. So here I am after a long day at work, getting my life-saving medicine dripped in, and waiting until the five hours are over so I can go home and relax for the day.
The other day I had another one of those out of body experiences that I have been having since learning about my disease. After my first day back at school, dressed in my heels and surrounded by kiddoes asking the usual first day questions like, “Can I borrow a pen?”, it almost felt as if I never left. It´s as though I blinked and none of the horrible things of last year took place and that life is just the same as it always was. And sometimes while I´m laughing at some joke in the teacher´s lounge during lunch I can fool myself into actually believing it. But of course that isn´t true… I DID have cancer, it was very serious, and I am damn lucky to be here.
I know I have to face the reality that I am never going to live a normal life like everyone else lucky enough to be healthy. For instance, my radiologist just told me that I´m NEVER going to be able to do exercise with my left arm because of my risk of lymphedema. That means no lifting weights, no kickboxing, no pilates, no yoga, no push ups, no cross fit… none of it, EVER…. I know most of you are thinking, “So what??? I don´t enjoy doing those things anyway”… But for most of my life, I was a very active person. I enjoy lifting weights, I enjoy kickboxing, I generally like using my left arm. I know it´s not the end of the world and I´ll be able to find other ways to exercise, but it´s still kind of a blow. Even when wedding planning, I can´t really pretend to be normal. Most brides-to-be usually don´t have to worry about explaining to the wedding dress sales person why they are wearing a wig or why one of their breasts is missing, but I do. Usually brides don´t have to research how many months it takes for post-chemo hair to grow. They also don´t have to worry if their breast reconstruction will be done in time to fill out the strapless gown they have purchased. But this is part of my new reality as a survivor.
One of the most difficult things about trying to return to normal life is figuring out how to react when cancer is mentioned in a movie, or in a book, or in a conversation, or in a news article, or in one of the many places that it frequently arises. Most people just breeze over it because the word “cancer” doesn´t carry any personal meaning for them. Unfortunately I tense up every time I hear it. If the word is being mentioned, it means that either someone is dying of cancer, suffering from cancer, or something is being described negatively as “a cancer”. Either way, it brings me to a dark place. For at least ten minutes afterward I can´t help but think of the statistics for stage four patients: less than 5% of people make it past five years… and it makes me very sad and nervous about the future. I´ve now reached a point where I can envision myself living my life at least until January 19th, but until I get another clean pet scan result, I won´t be able to think a lot further than that.
So in short, returning to normal life as a cancer survivor is both a tremendous blessing and a curse I wouldn´t wish on anyone. On the one hand, it means that I won´t take one mundane day of hitting the alarm, getting dressed, driving to school, teaching classes full of acne-scarred twelve year olds, driving home, making dinner, and walking the dogs for granted. I love being part of real life again. I like going to sleep knowing that there is a reason I need to wake up in the morning. On the other hand, it also means that I have a mental battle to fight pretty much every day, and most of it is going to be done solo. No one wants to hear about cancer day in and day out, and to be frank, neither do I. But I also can´t pretend to be someone I´m not. Cancer is, and forever will be, a part of me. I just hope that I can use my experience for good and that I will be able to help others who´ve faced a similar situation get through it. Everyone has a cross to bear, and this is mine. I´m glad I have this blog to share my feelings with. It is a tremendous relief.

     Neither my mother nor I seem to remember where the nickname Mimsa actually came from.  I vaguely recall it being an adaptation of the name Simba, the adorable cub in the Lion King.  I clearly remember falling in love with that movie and requesting the Elton John soundtrack tape ad nauseum on several years´ worth of family road trips.  Regardless of its origin, the name, Mimsa, has been the title of affection for my mother for a long time.  I am particularly grateful to her this past year, as she has spent a great deal of time with me in Santiago during the course of my treatment.  When I was first diagnosed, she flew down a few days later to be with me for my first three chemo sessions.  At that point I was frightened to death and had no idea how my body would react to the treatment or if I would pull through.  She visited again in April for my surgery, and I was again grateful because Jon needed to work and I needed help walking the dogs, dressing, and doing various other mundane things.  And lastly, she has been visiting for the past two weeks since Jon returned home to see his family and I continued with my radiation treatment.

     This last visit has been more of a mental health visit for me because I think I would have gone completely crazy from boredom and loneliness if I had been left here in Santiago with nothing to do but go to Clinica Alemana every day and huddle up on my couch afterwards under a blanket.  All my friends here have gone back to the states for the summer, so I would have been living like a hermit.  Having to undergo twenty-five straight days of radiation has forced my life into a somewhat “Ground Hog Day”-like pattern.    Every morning I wake up, take a shower, accompany the dogs to the park, and get in the car to drive the 3 kilometers down Amerigo Vespucio and up Avenida Vitacura to get to the clinic.  I pull the car into the underground parking and take my parking ticket.  I always park on the same floor and usually am able to find a parking spot easily.  If I am ever running behind, though, the parking lot is chock-a-block full and I end up spending at least ten minutes circling and circling, waiting for someone to leave.  I hustle to the radiation office on Piso -1 and wave hello to the same receptionist wearing the same neon green shirt and ruby red smile.  I sit myself down next to the same two patients I see every day and am called into the back almost immediately upon arrival.  I usually change in the same tiny, drab dressing room, turn the key in the lock and settle myself down on the machine.  I listen to the same radiation beams going about their cancer-killing business and attempt to think about anything and everything except radiation or cancer.  After the six minutes of treatment the attendants enter the room, tell me to “Baja tus brazos” and I hop off the table and turn to the attendant with a smile, “Solamente queda ____ días….”  Today I was happy when I was able to say “Only four days left!  Vamos a tener una fiesta!!!”

     To tell the truth, radiation hasn´t been so bad: Luckily I have not had very many reactions to the radiation: I feel only slightly fatigued, have no burns to speak of, and have been able to do most, if not all, of my daily activities. The only annoying thing is that it is a total pain in the butt to go in every day and do the same thing over and over and over again.  I will be very glad to be done with it.  I have to admit I am somewhat proud and a little shocked that my body has stood up so well to all the treatment.  Many people go through this same process with different results, so I really can´t complain much.  Granted, my body has taken its fair share of beatings, but on the whole, I feel pretty strong and healthy.  A year of inactivity has definitely changed my appearance, but I think that under the circumstances, I have held up fairly well.  I am, however, excited to start exercising for real again when the radiation is over.  I have six months to get myself into wedding dress shape.  We shall see.  If only my hair would grow a little bit faster….

       One of the side benefits of having all this time off from my regular life and having my mother come down to live with me is being able to spend quality time together.  We have labored over 1500 piece puzzles and daily NY Times crosswords.  We´ve laughed our heads off while answering ridiculous responses to the questions on my Family Feud App and spent a lot of time exploring Santiago and the surrounding area.  I think I mentioned previously that Santiago, itself, doesn´t have too many tourist attractions.  It is a fabulous city to live in and there are a number of really fun things to do if you hop in your car and drive for an hour or so in any direction.  However, I do believe that after these last two weeks, my mom and I have scraped the barrel clean in terms of finding anything worthy of doing or visiting within a three-hour radius of my house.  I feel both of us have become experts on the Región Metropolitano and Valle Central of Chile, so now I think I will impart that travelling wisdom onto all of you.  I guess if you never plan on visiting Chile or South America or dislike reading descriptions of travel destinations you can probably stop reading now.  But if you live here or ever think you might venture down this way, here are some sight-seeing recommendations.

     When people visit Santiago they normally stay for about two days and then head off to one of Chile´s other more famous regions of natural beauty like the lake district, Patagonia, or Atacama.  While in the city, they explore the Plaza de Armas, Palacio Moneda, the Mercado Central, Cerro Santa Lucia, and the Parque Forestal.  They also visit the Bellavista neighborhood and take the funicular up Cerro San Cristobal to see the Statue of Mary and get a birds-eye view of the city.  The latter is particularly spectacular at sunset or on a non-smoggy day when the snow-capped peaks of the Andes are in full view.  This quick romp through Santiago is usually accompanied by a visit to a winery, the Cajon del Maipo, and/or a trip to the coast: either Viña del Mar or Valparaiso. When visiting Santiago, you MUST do all of the above. 

   Of all these things above you would be remiss if you did not spend a few days and nights wandering around the hills of Valparaiso, the artsy port city located an hour and half west of the capital.  I have done a lot of travelling in my thirty years and Valpo is definitely one of my most favorite cities I´ve ever visited.  However, I urge you not to drive there for the day and look around.  The port area and business center of the city at the foot of the hills are pretty seedy, dirty, and might be a turn-off for visitors.  However, once you get up into the hills with the colorful homes, beautiful street murals, and views of the ocean, it is complete magic.  If you have been to Valparaiso and didn´t like it, please talk to me and I will tell you where you need to go, because it is simply an amazing city.  There is nothing else like it in the world!

     But, I digress: the list that follows is for those of you who have five days or so to stay in Santiago, or are returning on your second trip, or are living here and trying to find something to do on an empty weekend.  These things are not really listed in the guidebooks, and, if they are, they aren´t given more than a few lines of description.

 

 

Ten Hidden Gems of the Santiago Area:

 

1.    Casablanca Wine Valley-

     As you know, Jon and I love our wine and are both self-proclaimed foodies, so this is why this activity is listed as number one.  Unfortunately, when most people think of Chilean wine, they think of Concha y Toro.  It is by far the biggest and most well known Chilean winery.  We could even buy their Casillero del Diablo line in Dalian, China.  I´m not knocking Concha y Toro completely because, compared to Great Wall vinegar wine, it was fabulous, but there are much better vineyards to visit within an hour´s drive of the city.  The Casablanca Valley is definitely my and Jon´s favorite place to taste wine and it´s only about a 50 minute drive west on the Ruta 68 to Valaparaiso.  Most of the wineries are located just off the highway, and for most of them, you can stop in and do a tasting without making a reservation in advance and without having to do a tour of the property.  This is very rare in Chile…. 

Our favorite wineries in the area include the following:

Veramonte– The first one off the highway from Santiago.  Try their Sauvignon Blanc and their Primus blend.  Fabulous!  

Emiliana- This is an organic winery with a light and modern tasting room and llamas on the property.  Pretty much all of their wines are great but we particularly love their Coyam blend, the Signos de Origen White blend, and their surprisingly refreshing and dry Gewurstraminer (rare in Chile).

House- (previously House of Morande) This restaurant and tasting room, right next to Emiliana, serves delicious food and good wine and has a charming outdoor patio.  We recommend spending a few hours for lunch and doing the wine-pairing menu, which is totally fabulous, but will require someone to sober up before driving home.

Casas del Bosque– Beautiful winery off the highway, through the town of Casablanca.  They also have a decent restaurant with wine pairings and all of their wines are of high quality.  We thought about getting married here, but realized the flight to Chile was a little too expensive for all of our guests

Viña Matetic– This one is a little off the beaten path on the road to Algarrobo, and difficult to find, but worth it.  Their restaurant is fabulous and very scenic.  The wine is expensive and just okay (except the Coralillo Pinot Noir which is great!!) If you are willing to spend some serious bucks for a luxurious weekend getaway you can stay in their quaint boutique guest house (La Casona) which comes included with activities, wine tasting, access to their lovely outdoor pool, gardens, and fire-pits, as well as your very own private chef cooking you dinner

             *Honorable mentions go to:

Viña Indomita– with great views of the valley from high atop their hill., it has a ridiculous Hollywood style sign and tasting room that looks like a castle.  Despite the kitsch, it is a good place to have lunch if you like onion soup

Estancia el Cuadro- About twelve minutes off the highway, the drive there is scenic and tranquil, and its grounds are stunning.  It also offers horseback rides, a museum, and its All-You-Can drink, three course lunch is a great deal; although the food is not quite as good as the other restaurants mentioned

**If you want to visit all the wineries and spend the night I recommend Hotel Casablanca which is really cute and has a Jacuzzi shaped like a large, wooden wine barrel.  If you stay the night the only restaurant open for dinner in the area is Macerado which is a tasty, upscale restaurant in an old house in town.  The wine list includes small, boutique wines from the area and the food, especially the smoked rabbit and wild boar, is adventurous and top-notch.  

2.    Sewell-

     Sewell is a UNESCO World Heritage site (Chile only has 5 in total) and I am always shocked that more people haven´t heard of it. It is an old mining town high in the Andes outside of Rancagua.  You have to take a bus tour to visit and they only run on Saturdays and Sundays, weather permitting.   But the buses pick you up at Parque Arauco and another locale in Providencia, so it´s easy enough to get there.  The drive to the mining town is quite harrowing with hairpin turns and huge drop-offs on either side.  The town, itself, is rather reminiscent of the ghost towns of the western United States, except with shockingly high mountains on all sides.  I truly, have never seen anything like it, and it gives you a good feel of what life is like for the thousands of Chileans that make their living working in the country´s mines.  The only downfall is that the tours make you stop for a mediocre lunch at a country club afterwards and later take a tour of a local village where there´s seriously nothing to see… I recommend sleeping through that part. 

3.    Barrios Yungay, Concha y Toro, and Brazil –

The Spicy Chile tour group offers three different walking tours of Santiago.  If you are looking to hit the main sites of the city in one day I recommend taking their Good Morning Santiago Tour as it is free (with tips for the guide) and most of the guides are well informed and speak good English.  Their best tour of the three, however, is known as the Patrimonial Route, and it takes you through three barrios that you might not otherwise visit: Yungay, Concha y Toro, and Brazil.  These neighborhoods are unique, historic neighborhoods with old, European-style mansions and plenty of character and street art (a la Valpo).  The plazas are great and it was really interesting seeing the earthquake damage to many of the historic churches.  My favorite stop was the French peluqueria (hairdresser) in Yungay, which also houses a French restaurant with quirky antique furniture and knick-knacks on the walls.  An excellent way to spend an afternoon in the city, and I would love to go back and try the restaurant.

 

4.    Cachagua Beach-

Cachagua Beach is located between Maitencillo and Zapallar.  Zapallar is by far our favorite beach town to visit as it has a gorgeous cove of white sand with blue, blue water, amazing homes, and a scenic (but overrated) restaurant.  The hidden gem here is to visit Cachagua Beach, about 5 minutes south of the city by car.  The beach here is also stunning and very reminiscent of towns like Carmel and Pebble Beach along the Northern Californian coast.  I´m sure the houses are equally as expensive as it is where the rich and famous Chileans come to vacation.  The really fun thing to do is visit the penguin island, which is a few meters off the coast and, if you bring binoculars, you can see the hundreds of penguins that hang out along the island´s edge.  Apparently you are supposed to be able to ask local fishermen to float you out to the island to get a closer look, but I´ve been three times so far, and had no luck.   There is also a very scenic walkway along the rocks on the shore that is covered in beautiful flowers in springtime.  Idyllic is a good word to describe it. 

 

5.    Villa Grimaldi and the Museum of Memory and Human Rights-

   If you are interested in modern Chilean history, particularly what took place during the Pinochet dictatorship, you MUST visit these two places.  The Museum of Memory and Human Rights is in the city, on the edge of Parque Quinta Normal.  The museum is very thorough and has fascinating videos documenting the coup of 1973 against Salvador Allende and the bombing of La Moneda.  There are also several rooms containing testimony of those tortured in various hidden places throughout Chile during that time period and a moving display about the mothers of the desaparecidos. The museum finishes with some video clips of the NO campaign, the plebiscite that voted Pinochet out of office in 1988.  The movie, with the same title, was up for best foreign film, and is well worth a watch, especially if you are coming to visit.  The museum is quite large, however, and there is so much material that it is impossible to do in one visit.  I will definitely be back…

   Along the same vein, you can also visit Villa Grimaldi, which was one of the dictatorship´s torture centers located in the mountain town of Peñalolen in the suburbs of Santiago.  Although most of the buildings including the central villa and the prisoner cells were torn down, there is still a lot to see.  The grounds of the villa were converted into a Peace Park with many beautiful memorials to the victims and other symbolic elements that inform visitors of the awful events of the Pinochet era. 

 

6.    Cementario General-

     If you are interested in cemeteries – (I know, I know…. Super Uplifting!) then the large cemetery in Recoleta, on the other side of Cerro San Cristobal is definitely well worth your time.  My mom has a thing for visiting cemeteries, which I used to find kind of creepy, but can now understand due to their historical value.  Throughout the years we´ve trekked through graveyards in Athens, Paris, New Orleans, Deadwood, and Atacama together.  The Recoleta cemetery in Buenos Aires gets a lot of hype, but I truly think the one in Santiago is better for many reasons.  First of all, it´s HUGE and built like a city for the dead with wide, tree-lined avenues and huge mausoleums.  Pretty much anyone of note in Chilean history is buried in this cemetery so I found it quite interesting trying to spot their graves.  The website has a good map and you can search for specific people in order to find where they are located.  Most of all, the place is a great place for photo-ops!  Together, my mom and I have trekked through graveyards in Athens, Paris, New Orleans, Deadwood, and she said she has never seen one like Cementario General.

 

7.    Los Andes- 

     Los Andes is a small town at the foothill of the Andes, on the road to Portillo Ski Resort and Mendoza, Argentina.  If you ever get a chance to drive across the border to Mendoza, I highly recommend it; although don´t try to do it on a busy day during a holiday weekend or you will spend at least 6 hours at the border…  Anyway, Los Andes is worth a day visit because it has a cute Plaza de Armas and a scenic church in town, as well as a little-known Archaeological Museum with a nice, if ageing, display containing historic relics from the different regions of Chile.  The highlight is a 1600 year-old mummy and her baby, perfectly preserved her: she still has her original hair, clothes, and even toe nails!!!  I seriously think that one mummy, hidden away in a tiny museum, was worth the drive.  On the way home, you should stop at the Santuario de Santa Teresa de los Andes (Auco), a religious pilgrimage site for many in the region.  Despite the repetitious prayers being chanted at full blast by a monotonous voice through several loud speakers, the visit is pleasant.  Climb the hill behind the monastery to get amazing views of the snow-capped Andes and the entire Aconcagua Valley.  I think it would be especially amazing at sunset.

*The area also has several wineries including Errasuriz and Von Seibenthal, which I have not visited yet, but have heard good things about.  I am anxious to do the wine pairing meal at Errasuriz sometime in the next few months

8.    Quintay-

     There are many beach towns along the Chilean coast near Valparaiso, but I would like to highlight this one for it´s stunning scenery, authentic feel, and really interesting whaling station. My mom and I visited Quintay in conjunction with a trip to Isla Negra, Pablo Neruda´s home on the coast.  Isla Negra is already on many tourists´ radar for good reason, but it might not be worth a drive out just to see the house.  To have a full day of visits take the coastal road north from Isla Negra through El Quisco to Quintay.  Bordered by pine forest on one side and steep cliffs on the other, the drive rivaled the scenery of the Pacific Highway in California, yet we were practically on the road by ourselves.  There are several sharp turns and steep ascents, so it is not a good idea to drive it after having a pisco sour!  When we reached Quintay we ate lunch at one of the local seafood restaurants.  These restaurants are popular with Chileans, but are really only worth going for the view.  There are also three scuba diving outfits here, so if you want to dive, I guess this is where to come.  The most interesting part about our visit to Quintay was our surprise visit to the whaling station at the end of the cove.  I knew nothing about the huge whaling industry in Chile and the fact that at its height, the tiny town of Quintay brought in 1600 whales per year!!!  The photos and placards (although in Spanish) were very informative and I was fascinated by learning more about this horrible example of the effects of human growth and industrialization on our planet. 

 

9.    Talca and the Maule Wine Region-

      Wine regions abound off of Ruta 5, the highway that travels south from Santiago to Puerto Montt.  In order, going north to south, you reach the Maipo, Cachapoal, Colchagua, Curicó, and Maule valleys.  Most gringos know only about the Colchagua wine region near Santa Cruz and so, instead, I am focusing on the Maule region.  This is not to say you shouldn´t visit Santa Cruz.  I really enjoy staying at Janine´s B&B, Vino Bello, and eating dinner at her Italian restaurant nearby.  Our favorite wineries in the region include Viu Manent (excellent horse guided tour and wine tasting complete with scenic restaurant and excellent Malbec licoroso), Montes (buy the Montes Cherub Rose), Montgras (You can make your own wine), Viña Santa Cruz (Stunning grounds with a cable car up to the top of a mountain and host of interesting local events like horse carriage races), and Casa Silva (delicious steaks on the patio beside the polo grounds).

     However, if you´ve already been to Santa Cruz a few times you might want to venture further south.  My mom and I recently spent the weekend in Talca, in the heart of the Maule Wine Region.  I am mainly putting this destination on the list due to the potential I think it has, rather than how much we actually enjoyed our visit.  When we went we had TERRIBLE foggy, cold, and rainy weather, which prevented us from ever seeing the mountains.  In addition, the region was hit hard by the 8.8 earthquake of 2010 and any building made of adobe was completely destroyed, including all of the historical buildings of interest.  However, if you visited the region in the spring or summer I think it would be a great place to pass a few days.  The area is in reach of two spectacular national parks (Siete Tazas and Arcos de Lircay), which we were unable to go to due to the impassable dirt roads.  There is also apparently a beautiful train ride from Talca-Constitucion that is written up in all the guidebooks.  I love trains and have never been on one in Chile, and apparently this is the most scenic one, so I would like to go back just for that.  In addition, I think if you did a little more research you would be able to find several good wineries to visit, since the region is the largest producing region in Chile.  In our two days there, we only visited two because we got lost for quite a while on some tiny back roads trying to find the handicraft village of Rari.  We finally made it and had a very special experience buying horsehair crafts from a little old lady in the living room of her home.  Priceless!  Anyway, I will give the region another go at some point when the sun in shining, if only to be able to eat lunch again at the Miguel Torres winery just north of Curicó.  Their tasting menu is extremely delicious and filling!

 

10.  Barrio Italia-

     The last hidden gem on my list isn´t written up at all in either my Lonely Planet or my Rough Guide books, but is worth a walk around if you are looking to pass a pleasant afternoon in Santiago at a café or do some antique shopping.  This is kind of the artist district of the city and has interesting boutique stores and tons of antique dealerships.   Their online website has a detailed map of the specific historical buildings, shops, and restaurants in the area which is really handy.  If you do visit Barrio Italia you definitely need to visit the Casa Museo Eduardo Frei Montalva.  My mom and I had no idea who he was when we stopped by the house, but it turns out he was one of Chile´s most famous politicians and president immediately prior to Salvador Allende.   The small house contains very interesting relics including gifts given to him by many modern world leaders from around the world including Queen Elizabeth, De Gaul, and LBJ.  We had a really informed tour guide (in Spanish, mind you) and were presently surprised and a little embarrassed that we had no idea who this guy was!!!  Our visit was the equivalent of going to visit one of the presidential libraries in the United States and we really enjoyed it.

And that concludes my attempt at travel guide writing.  I´m not really sure what to call it except Santiago and Central Chile: Through Eli´s Eyes.  I hope someone out there found this of useJ And if not, I enjoyed archiving my explorations of the unique aspects of Chile with my fellow history nerd mother.  I love you, Mimsa!  Thanks for being the kind of mother who drops everything when a daughter is in need and for keeping my spirits up when I most needed it.  I am truly “blessed”.  Hahahahah!