I am fierce. I am brave. I am kind. I can do this.

It's been a long week. D isn't home yet, and I and the pups miss him something fierce. Honey heard a truck that sounded like D's old bronco, and she shot off the bed with no notice of her creaking joints to window whining in her "your home" voice.

I finished all my antibiotics for my finger infection last Saturday. The offending finger was almost flesh colored (instead of fire engine red), and the bone numbing tiredness that was probably my immune system's valiant attempt to fight off the little buggers had waned a good bit. Saturday and Sunday passed pleasantly. Pumpkins were carved, seeds were roasted, and the wee ninja (who isn't so wee anymore) helped me make pasta. There was some concern on Sunday as the red began creeping back around the mostly healed wound.

So Monday, I was ordered, guided, shoved towards the urgent care clinic again. This time I called ahead. My heart raced (121 beats a minute) and my blood pressure soared (144/90). (They haven't been this high at a doctor's visit in years.) My favorite doctor wasn't there. Instead, a hulking PA looked at my finger.

Interior: Generic strip mall urgent care clinic. Sterile room, flickering florescent lights overhead.

PA: Why do you think it's infected?
A: It was last week, and the red is coming back. It's puffy.

PA: It doesn't look infected.
A: I have to keep a careful eye on it. It was bound to happen.(said in a joking tone.)

PA: Tell me about this lymph-ditis thingy.
A: (internal dialogue: Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh dear lord. He can't pronounce my disorder and called it a thingy...) I have no lymphnodes under my arm or in my groin. My body doesn't pump lymph the way it should, and my right arm is prone to serious infections. (ID: Why am I telling the PA this, instead of demanding to see another doc?)

PA: Pokes my wound. Does it hurt?
A: I can't feel my fingers.

PA: Pokes my wound. Does it hurt?
A: I can't feel my fingers.

PA: Pokes my wound. Does it hurt?
A: I can't feel my fingers.

PA: Why can't you feel your fingers?
A: Side effect from chemo. (ID: did you read my chart?)

COLITIS!?!!?!

Let's just say I could keep writing, and it didn't go well. I left with a diagnosis of a boil (not what it was the week before), and I was told to watch it. Back at the office, the ladies convinced me to get a second opinion, and I duly consulted another doctor who prescribed a heavy duty topical. By Monday night, the exhaustion crept back. By Tuesday, the red started sneaking around the edge of my finger, and by Tuesday evening, I was waiting at Albertson's, sleepily staring at beauty products under the fluorescent light ready to pick up another batch of pills with a slightly scary side effect.

It's so hard when I am sitting in an exam room with an unhelpful professional attempting to communicate my needs and obviously failing. It takes two to tango, and I know I can get prickly, but sometimes, I just need to feel heard.

During my first run with the big C, I, bald and bloated, stood at the meat counter with my number trying to get lunch meat. A lady, I think it was the lady across the counter smiled at me, and she asked, "How're ya feeling?" All I could get out was, "sick and tired." She bit her lip, and she said, "I know, honey, my dad has cancer. It's hard, but I know you can do it." I smiled at her and said, "Thank you. Good luck to your dad."

If she hadn't been fiercely determined to make my day better, bravely outspoken, and stunningly kind, I would never had made that connection. I would never had heard those words, and I needed them.  A side note: she also reminded me that as a survivor, to family members and other survivors, I am often a symbol of hope, whether I like it or not, and I had better act like one. It's a role that I am sometimes asked to play, and it's one I will take on.

Anyways, during my second run in with the big C, I would chant to myself, "Be fierce. Be Brave. Be Kind. You can do this." I'd chant it as I sat waiting for tests, as I submitted to the chemo chair, as I walked into the radiation room, as I fought to stay mobile and well, etc. I chanted pretty anytime I was doing something that felt I couldn't do.

This week in that bright exam room with that PA who hadn't read my chart or treated a patient with lymphedema before, I chanted it again.

Be fierce. Be Brave. Be Kind. It reminds me that I can get my needs met without being angry, cruel, or detached. I can get it done my way, all sportsman like.