I spent my discretionary time this weekend working on prep for this year’s edition of Big Bad Con. We had our official launch a few says ago, and we’re very excited!
It will be our second year at the new venue, the Marriott Walnut Creek, and we are planning to make better use of the excellent space. (I was bold and already booked a room.) We received a lot of useful (and mostly heart-warming) feedback on last year’s event, which prompted some changes. Notable items include:
A new board game track with a game library
An expanded program of panels and workshops
More games for teens
Better access to parking and food at the hotel
Quieter space for Games On Demand
An all-digital system for on-site game signups
And probably more stuff I’m forgetting. The con have fantastic staff handling all these projects.
Immediately after Thursday’s announcement, we received many game submissions. I spent much time this weekend approving games and communicating with game-masters. And thinking about what games I want to run…
We also received submissions for panels, seminars, and workshops but we’re holding those in draft form until we have our official guest list finalized. This must wait until after the Kickstarter campaign that will run through May. Still, if you have ideas of panel topics you would like to see on the program, send them in!
Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. [Don’t let the bastards grind you down.]
— Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale.
The rate at which proposed regulation, crafted by the American Far (“Christian”) Right, targets women’s most basic rights has been accelerating over the last several years. Bills that used to be outlandishly unthinkable are now commonplace, what with the Republican Party having wholly embraced the right-wing fringe, especially in its Dominionist flavour.
A protest against proposed draconian restrictions on abortion last week at the Texas legislature was only the most recent to draw parallels with Margaret Atwood’s 1985 dystopian novel about an ultra-Christian future of gender-regulated servitude, The Handmaid’s Tale.
Of course, the upcoming release of Hulu’s series based on the novel has also brought the book to the forefront of pop culture again, but the novel has been increasingly mentioned in news, streams, threads, and conversations about the Right’s treatment of women.
Earlier this week I was reading about the original critical reception to Atwood’s landmark book. It was darkly funny to learn that some reviewers — like the New York Times’ Mary McCarthy (Feb. 9, 1986) — felt its premise was too unbelievable to be successful:
“Surely the essential element of a cautionary tale is recognition. Surprised recognition, even, enough to administer a shock. We are warned, by seeing our present selves in a distorting mirror, of what we may be turning into if current trends are allowed to continue. That was the effect of ”Nineteen Eighty-Four,” with its scary dating, not 40 years ahead, maybe also of ”Brave New World” and, to some extent, of ”A Clockwork Orange.” “
“It is an effect, for me, almost strikingly missing from Margaret Atwood’s very readable book ”The Handmaid’s Tale,” offered by the publisher as a ”forecast” of what we may have in store for us in the quite near future. A standoff will have been achieved vis-a-vis the Russians, and our own country will be ruled by right-wingers and religious fundamentalists, with males restored to the traditional role of warriors and us females to our ”place” – which, however, will have undergone subdivision into separate sectors, of wives, breeders, servants and so forth, each clothed in the appropriate uniform. A fresh postfeminist approach to future shock, you might say. Yet the book just does not tell me what there is in our present mores that I ought to watch out for unless I want the United States of America to become a slave state something like the Republic of Gilead whose outlines are here sketched out. “
It’s worth reading the entire review, it seems like a point-by-point comment on current news, 32 years after publication. It’s hard to believe these days that McCarthy found A Clockwork Orange’s dystopia more likely than the one in Atwood’s “palely lurid pages.”
[Edit: Here are some very current topics touched on in The Handmaid’s Tale which I jotted the last time I read the book:
Patriarchy and kyriarchy
Rise of religious fundamentalism
Feminist reactions to pornography
“Freedom to” versus “freedom from,” and safety versus liberty
Abortion, contraception, and reproductive choices
Self-determination, ownership of one’s body
Right to take one’s own life
Surveillance and information technology
Sexual orientation and choice
Access to education, knowledge as power
Status of and relationships between U.S. and Russia
Public apathy and the creep of authoritarianism
Televangelists and the Christian media industry
And I bet I missed some.]
Partisanship has been increasing over the past 25 years. The Republican Party now controls the U.S. Presidency, Senate, and House of Representatives, as well as the “trifecta” (governorship + both State congressional houses) in 25 state legislatures, the senate in 12 more states, the house of representatives in six more states, and governorship in eight more states, and soon the ninth and deciding seat on the U.S. Supreme Court. The trend is clear, and it is frightening.
Credits: Photo by Nan L. Kirkpatrick, as seen on Vulture.
Part of my entertainment last weekend when I was in the hospital was to watch SS-Gruppenführer Milo Yiannopoulos lose traction. First, there were Larry Wilmore and Malcolm Nance telling him what’s what on “Overtime With Bill Maher.” Heads-up: you need to wade through the opening bullshit before you get to the good stuff. Then there was NAMBLA(1) Chair Yiannopoulos’ own recent words finally being acknowledged for once, and finally Laurie Penny’s post-mortem.
But amusing as it was, there was a background to this that infuriated me throughout: the continued treatment of Yiannopoulos and his droogs, and the validation of his odiousness as just what everyone is really thinking. It peeked through in Penny’s reluctant tenderness for “Peter Pan” and the “Lost Boys,” but it was shoved front and centre in Bill Maher’s handling of him.
Milo Y constantly spouts racist, misogynist, ableist, transphobic shit, but the (alt-)Right only flinched when he sounded too much like their idea of gayness. They don’t give a shit about protecting children but they do have a knee-jerk reaction for the Gay Man Preying On Their Sons. BFD, nothing new in the Log Cabin’s closets; but we, the liberals, #TheResistance, we should not normalize any of this. I was appalled to hear Maher join in the denigration and mockery of trans persons rather than tell Milo he’s not edgy — just a narcissist piece of crap that doesn’t deserve to be humoured. Thank you, Larry Wilmore, for taking the burden on yourself.
Meanwhile, the rest of us have to come to grips with the Maher type of liberal, spouting old garbage like it’s 1974 or something. Look at them in the face or in the mirror: the privileged, gated community, comfy, bougie liberals; the not-my-backyard, not-my-problem liberals; the All-Lives-Matter liberals; the white women who voted for trump; the TERFs and the SWERFs; the “race realists”; the I-got-mine-Jack liberals.
Let’s not BE them. Let’s not be this clueless, let’s not insulate ourselves in our little corner of privilege like a bit of blanket allowed by those hogging all the riches and power. Let’s respect human beings as we want to be respected. Let’s fight to protect the rights of women, persons of colour, refugees, children, DREAMers, disabled people, trans persons, Jewish, atheist, Muslim, LGBTQ, and any number of artificial divisions I’m forgetting right now.
Trans persons are not confused: they want to be treated like full human beings, be protected from assault, and have their bodily autonomy respected.
Black people and persons of colour are not reverse-racists: they want to be able to get decent education, employment and housing, their children to have the same chance of surviving a police encounter as if they were white, and a shot at the famed American Dream every once in a goddamn while.
People advocating for marriage equality are not asking for new rights: they just want to form a family on their own terms with the same protections heterosexuals receive under the law, including some simple peace of mind.
Refugees are not terrorists: they’re fleeing terrorism, state-sponsored violence, persecution, famine and other calamities, and they get extensively vetted before they are even allowed a visa.
Immigrants are not rapists and murderers: they’re hard-working people trying to make a better life for themselves and their families in a country that shows them little but contempt but is all too happy to exploit them for cheap labour.
Muslim beliefs are not any more threatening than Catholic, or Baptist, or Latter-Day Saint ones: the Quran speaks words that are dang similar to those of the Bible or the Book of Mormon.
People with disabilities are not a burden, nor are they inspirational: they’re us(2), needing to marshal our strength and use life hacks when it’s not a hip Buzzfeed article.
And cis women do not need need to be protected by the law from trans women — they need to be protected from cis men. Their rights, their autonomy, their safety, their health care, their paycheck need to be protected from greedy old cis men in Congress and in the White House.
What part of this is hard to understand?
(1) National American Milo-Boy Love Association. Return.
(2) I woke up at 2am, remembering this sentence and hating it. It sounds like I’m comparing living with a disability to having a bad day; that’s not what I intended. What I mean is that people with disabilities are ordinary folks like us us, not strange others, and that many of us will deal with disabilities in our own lives at some point; moreover, much of the help required — for example, under the American with Disabilities Act (ADA) — is very modest, not the insurmountable barrier some people imagine. Return.
Although we had planned to spend Presidents Day weekend at DunDraCon, I was concerned about a cold that was leaving me severely short of breath and occasionally dizzy last week. I saw my general practitioner because I had been told to watch out for symptoms like shortness of breath. She gave me antibiotics to avoid the cold turning into bronchopneumonia. But although the cough rapidly got better, the breathing and dizziness didn’t — I was panting from merely getting up and walking to another room. So on Friday morning when my doctor called to check back, she said I should go directly to the Emergency Room.
A few hours later I had had an electrocardiogram, a CAT scan, an echocardiogram, ultrasound of the legs, and multiple examinations, as well as being hooked up with an intravenous heparin drip for blood thinning, electrodes to monitor my heart, a pulse oxymeter, three catheters in my arms, a sphygnomanometer cuff for frequent blood pressure monitoring, and a nasal cannula for oxygen.
Doctors said the CAT scan showed “multiple, extensive” pulmonary embolisms, and the echocardiogram indicated that my heart was enlarged on the right side from overwork to pump blood through the obstructed alveoli. On the plus side, my physical strength, blood pressure, heart rate, respiration rate, and even oxygenation were generally good, no clots were found in my legs, and I had no chest pains at any point.
I was at one of these tipping points when the benefits and risks of two different treatments seem to exactly even out.
In a moderate case, the treatment would consist of administering heparin to prevent further clots, then allow the clots to dissolve gradually, transitioning me to another blood thinner like warfarin for long-term maintenance. The risks in this are primarily associated with clots starting to move before they’re small enough and causing cardiac problems.
In a severe case (i.e., when things are dire and you can’t really f– them up much more), the treatment would be the administration of a tissue plasminogen activator (tPA), often referred to as a clot-buster. The risk then is to cause catastrophic internal bleeding, particularly in the brain — such as a stroke.
In the end the primary doctor, a pulmonologist, was very cautious. She sent me to the Intensive Care Unit instead of a regular room because clot-buster treatment can only be administered in the ICU due to the risks. I was monitored at all times with a heparin drip, but the tBA treatment was not immediately administered. It was crazy busy in the ICU with some acute cases (fortunately, I was in the quieter wing) so it was only in the evening that the doctor was able to come back and talk to me. Since my vital signs were strong and I had even eaten dinner (I was SO hungry by then, having left home without even breakfast), she decided to keep me on heparin but supervised in the ICU for the moment.
Thus ended Friday night, with me sleeping in the ICU, nurses watching me and blood samples being drawn every few hours. Despite the severity of the case, I was by far the “healthiest” looking patient in ICU. Two things that made the nurses chuckle: I asked for a sleeping mask, and I was the only one well enough to eat an actual breakfast on Saturday morning. By Saturday afternoon I was allowed to get up, take a few steps around the room, sit up in a chair for a couple of hours. I spoke to the doctor a few times throughout the day. In the evening I was well enough that she transferred me to the Transitional Care Unit (TCU); she just wasn’t willing to risk a stroke if she gave me the tBA.
So I got to TCU in time for the night shift. Because the ratio of nurse to patients is much lower there, the doctor told me with some insistence that I was not to wait at all if I needed even the slightest help, but immediately use the call button to summon a nurse. So I did. In fact, I try to be the most obedient and courteous patient around, but when I need help, I ask firmly. I had to, because there were a lot of distractions during my stay in TCU!
When I was wheeled there, the room across the corridor from mine was already the site of a commotion. The patient there was a woman who appeared to be suffering from dementia, along with whatever other problems were being treated. She was having hallucinations at times, she would not comply with the personnel’s instructions, she would not let them take her stool-stained garments, she yelled, etc. Several nurses and aides were tied up with her case at all times. Their patience and gentleness was truly amazing, but they were clearly very tired.
In addition to the noisy neighbour, other rooms had multiple visitors, and I could hear everyone’s televisions. Possibly because of the number of elderly patients, the wing was kept much warmer than the ICU so I was sweating like a pig. Nevertheless, I was grateful that the nurses told me they would trust me to call for any help I needed and allowed me to keep the door to my room closed for the night. And yes, I could hear the agitated patient and her cohort of personnel throughout the entire night. I was grateful I had my iPhone and earbuds to have some soothing sounds covering most of this. After my 3AM blood draw, instead of going back to sleep immediately, I spent a couple of hours making a music mix on Spotify!
I finally slept again for a few hours, until I was awakened on Sunday morning for more monitoring, sampling, and the sounds of Jesus TV coming from neighbours’ rooms (soon to be replaced by super-violent-movie sounds!) But happily, once the lab results came back I was switched from the heparin drip to Lovenox injections every 12 hours and warfarin tablets in the evenings, much less cumbersome. I was also allowed to do without the oxygen cannula for most of the day, so I had fewer pieces of equipment interfering with comfort.
Edmund was actually with me for much of the time, unexciting as it is to sit in a hospital chair. Since we live only a few minutes away, he was able to come and go for meals, errands, and checking on the cats. He brought me dark chocolate-covered pretzels and raisins, fresh blueberries, and flowers. Throughout the weekend he kept up this shtick with live reports from the “game convention” which made me laugh.
Since I could hear everyone’s televisions, I played music and sang along when I was alone — as confirmed by the pulse oxymeter readings, this actually helped me get nice, long, regular breaths. The nurses chuckled again and encouraged me to continue (I told you they’re dedicated!)
On Sunday afternoon I was allowed to take a couple of closely supervised walks up and down the corridor; it was nice to stretch my legs. I spent a second night in TCU, a little quieter noise-wise though the agitated patient started again on Monday morning.
But after breakfast and a couple more walks, the doctor came to talk to me. Because I had someone at home with me and because I showed good comprehension of, and compliance with, medical instructions, she said she would let me go home but sternly admonished me to treat this as if I was still in the hospital: bed rest or sitting quiet, no activity until my blood prothrombin time (coagulation rate) is in the right range and the clots are dissolved. And by early afternoon on Monday, I was home. Hurray!
It was so nice to be home, without wires and catheters, and buried instead under a pile of purring cats! Valentine, in particular, has been keeping a close eye on me. It’s been a luxury to sleep in my own bed and be able to take a shower at last!
I’m in contact with the anti-coagulation clinic pharmacist for dosage adjustments. I must report any unusual symptoms, of course, and come in to the lab for blood sampling every couple of days. The best guess right now is that the tamoxifen I started taking in late January to prevent cancer recurrence is what precipitated the problem (pun intended). I have follow-up appointments scheduled with my general practitioner and my oncologist.
I want to say thank you to all my friends for their encouragements and kindness. I know some of you wanted to come visit me in the hospital, but I just wanted to rest most of the time. The care I received was stellar, but I still wouldn’t call it a fun place to hang out at! And thank you to all the ER, ICU, and TCU nurses and doctors, who were so kind, respectful, and competent (and in some cases, funny!)
TL;DR: Play materials for a Fate hack of Dark Heresy. Enjoy.
A year ago, I was planning on running demo games at conventions featuring the Open Content from War of Ashes: Fate of Agaptus. The Advanced Conflict rules, which are now also available from Randy Oest’s awesome Fate SRD website, are intended to support miniatures as an integral part of of Fate. Since we have approximately 30,000 points’ worth of miniatures in the house — you think I’m kidding, but I’m not — it seemed like the grim, gothic future of the 41st millennium, as seen in the Warhammer 40,000 miniatures combat game and the Dark Heresy role-playing game, was a perfect match.
Of course, health issues soon forced me to cancel my convention plans, but now that I am recovering and convention season is upon us, I decided to go back to packaging the game for quick-start.
First, the pitch:
Fate of the Inquisitor
Inquisitor Lucanus has led you, his retinue, to the Hive World of Corundum IV amidst an ongoing Genestealer invasion to retrieve a priceless relic from the foul xenos. Now the Inquisitor has disappeared during a brutal firefight and the ensuing cave-in, and you are chased by a Genestealer cult. Will you find your master again? Complete his mission? Call for help? Or die bravely but pointlessly?
I made templates for nine types of player characters, using a playbook format like the one used in games Powered by the Apocalypse (PbtA). The rules are pure Fate SRD, but I hope the playbooks make character creation quick and easy for time-constrained one-off games.Each comes with a choice of names, looks, customizable aspects, and stunts. The playbooks include:
Sister of Battle
I also modified the appearance of the blank character sheet from War of Ashes: Fate of Agaptus. Then I made a cheat sheet of the Advanced Conflict rules I am using, and a table sign. All of these are available on Google Drive.
I have not yet put any effort into creating well-formatted single-page folding sheets because I expect mistakes may be pointed out and it’s easiest to update text prior to layout. Also, not a big priority right now.
Today I had a follow-up appointment with the surgeon to check on progress as I heal. Edmund kindly accompanied me, though it’s tedious for him. It was slow-going because the entire computer system was affected with unusual lag, and every appointment was running late.
The doctor blessed my progress, warning me that healing would continue to be slower than normal as long as I was on some of my post-cancer medications. She also gave me a prescription that had to be compounded at the hospital pharmacy, and the necessary paperwork to extend my disability leave.
I decided to take care of the paperwork first, hoping this would give plenty of time for the pharmacists to prepare my prescription. When we got to the Release of Medical Information Counter, there were a LOT of people waiting; the number being served was 11, and I was assigned No. 25. We sat down to wait but a quarter of an hour, we were still on No. 11. Edmund suggested that he stay to provide my paperwork, and I go check in at the pharmacy to make sure the order was in.
So I got to the pharmacy, checked in, and was told it would take about 45 minutes. Edmund and I started a turtle race for who would get done first, and I decided to keep him entertained with tales of my adventures.
If you’re wondering, it took me a total of just over 90 minutes from the moment I checked in at the pharmacy to walk out of there. Edmund finished first with 15 minutes to spare, but since he’d already waited waited at least that long before I got the the pharmacy, it’s probably a draw. That said, the personnel was very nice and diligent, they checked on me a few times, it’s not their fault the place was packed and the computers were sluggish. Yes, we could have decided to come back later, but I didn’t want to restart the clock…
The welcome note with President Obama’s signature!
He was my president.
A production 24 years in the making… Citizen Pain! Yes, that’s how long I lived in the U.S. under work visas, then under spouse visas as a resident immigrant. Becoming American has never been something that appealed to me on an emotional level (I’m Canadian, I don’t have to fake it!)
But in recent years I have come to realize just how many rights which I thought applied to residents do in fact apply only to citizens: the right to legal representation, for example. And immigrants can get in trouble for a lot of legal activities, such as supporting civil rights groups, marching and protesting, or using certain privacy software like Tor or Signal. As my attorney and friend said, you can be right about the issue but you’ll still get in a mountain of trouble.
So this year I decided to bite the bullet, particularly since I was hoping to vote after over two decades of paying taxes. Unfortunately, a lot of immigrants had the same idea and my application, though sent in April, was not processed in time. But in the weeks since the horrible November 8 election, the Obama administration worked hard to child-proof the country, including processing as much of the immigration backlog as possible. It was my privilege to be sworn in today as a citizen, on the last tenure day of the president I admired so much.
The oath ceremony took place at the historic Paramount Theatre in Oakland, California, and 1,240 new citizens from 91 countries were sworn in. (I understand that throughout the country, this week was a marathon of such events, thematically linked to Martin Luther King Jr. Day.) We were also able to apply for a U.S. passport and voter registration, so I took care of these items.
To be honest, the ceremony was a little odd, because U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services personnel are trying to be nice, joyful, congratulatory — and until this moment, none of us applicants have seen them be anything but suspicious, stern, and disengaged. As my friend Sean Nittner put it, it’s like having the Department of Motor Vehicles throw you a party! Also, when they were listing the 91 countries of origin, they forgot Canada. Dudes!
After the ceremony and various paperwork, we moved next door to Tiera Mia Coffee for our first caffeine of the day. We took a table in a corner and were having a nice conversation between my husband Edmund, my friends Sean and Dorene, and me, waiting for another friend, Marc, to join us. But then a weird incident happened.
First, this tall guy approached our table and just loomed over us, staring at Sean who asked if everything was okay. The guy said yes, still glaring; Sean gave a few polite words (something like “Good, I’m glad. You have a good day, now.”) It was said in his typical courteous way, didn’t sound snarky in the least. The guy went back to his table and we forgot about the incident.
Then maybe 30 minutes later, he got up, marched to our table and shoved his sandwich (and knuckles) in Sean’s face, then flipped our table in Sean’s lap! Cups and plates went flying, we were splashed and so were our table neighbours, and we all jumped to our feet yelling “What the hell! Why did you do that?” Without answering, the guy spat in Sean’s face, twice! Then he grabbed his skateboard and stomped off, never explaining himself.
The cafe manager called the police and a couple of officers showed up a few minutes later, took down the stories, and viewed the cafe’s surveillance camera footage. The best we can guess is that it was a case of mistaken identity; the guy did not give the vibe of someone looking to pick a fight with anyone, just with Sean.
After some cleaning up and new drinks, and telling the whole story to our friend Marc, we moved a couple of blocks up the street to Agave Uptown, an Oaxacan restaurant where I had made a lunch reservation. Happily, we encountered no further weirdness, and all felt like we had had enough for a while.
As a newly minted registered voter, I plan to keep the phone red-hot with calls to political representatives. Until now my opinion has never mattered; if you’re not a registered voter, your signatures and calls don’t count. But I do plan on being counted now. And I know calls are much more effective than form letters and Internet petitions. So I will use my new citizenship, oh yes I will.
Unsurprisingly, my gaming in 2016 was affected by my health issues. I had medical appointments, minimal energy, and because of a suppressed auto-immune system, I avoided large gatherings like conventions and in-store game days. The only convention I attended was my beloved Big Bad Con in October, and I still had to have regular naps in my hotel room! The games I did play, I tended to play repeatedly at home, online, or with a small group of close friends. The length and complexity of games I could play was often reduced — even the size, since we played games with a small footprint on a surgical tray in the infusion room during chemotherapy!
By December 31, I still ended up with 47 different games in my list, down from 62 in 2015. Let’s start with some summary numbers:
My game types were divided between about 55% tactical and strategic play (2 miniatures games, 13 board games, 11 card games for a total of 26 different titles) and 45% narrative play (19 role-playing games, 2 storytelling games, and no live-action role-playing game this year, for a total of 21 titles). This does not reflect the respective amount of time or number of instances I played each; I have not been tracking this level of detail.
Games I labelled “storytelling” rather than “role-playing” included Fiasco and Downfall.
The distinctions between board games and miniatures games or board games and card games can be blurry, such as in games like Yggdrasil or The Dresden Files Cooperative Card Game.
Some 28 of these 47 different games (60%) were new to me: I had never played them before 2016. And of these new games, 5 were playtests (18% of the new games or 11% of the year’s total.)
To my chagrin, only 6 (13%) included at least one woman among the designers (Megan Bennett-Burks, Emily Care Boss, Peggy Chassenet, Caroline Hobbs, Anna Kreider, and Emma Larkins.) I’m unable to track persons of colour among designers, though I believe there are a few (e.g., Christopher Badell, I think?) I want to do better in supporting diversity.
I also rated each game subjectively, from 1 to 5 stars:
Among the 19 games I had played before, the average rating was 4.0 — no surprise there — with my favourites being Night Witches and Sentinels of the Multiverse, each scoring 5 stars.
Among the 28 new games, the average was of course a little lower, 3.4; my favourite new games were Masks and Venture City, each rating 4.5 stars, and my least favourite were Exploding Kittens and Haiku Warrior, each earning only 1 star.
I played with a total of 46 different people, 21 of which were new to me (46%.)
As you might have guessed, the last several weeks have been harder on my morale than my body. The last stretch of the American presidential election was hugely stress-inducing, and the results were soul-crushing. I know my friends know what I’m talking about, I heard it in their words and read it in their posts. Except for the most upbeat of topics — my gaming group, Thanksgiving, and the good progress in my treatment — I have been unable to write anything in over eight weeks. I keep thinking of words in my head, it’s all there, but I’ve been unable to put them down in writing.
Two months ago, I was cautiously optimistic. I thought we would probably get a weak Clinton victory, then some incremental building on the cautious progress made under the Obama administration; against this backdrop, I was expecting to focus a lot of energy on my geek communities, and particularly the gaming community, as I returned to health.
Then the world changed. I’m still not ready to unpack this event, but the result is that people previously known as “Gamergators,” “MRAs,” “pissing booth warriors” and “some racist trolls in the bottom drawer of the Internet” now feel emboldened to take their assholiness for a stroll in real space. Suddenly, it’s not just in a few compartments of our lives that we can meet with acts of hatred from people we don’t even know. After what most of us considered a shitty year, 2017 looks like it will be even worse. I met January 1st more downcast and apprehensive than I ever have in my life.
My backlog of writing is not helped by the fact that I feel I will be discussing many unpleasant topics this year. Indeed, in late October and early November before I sank into depression, I was planning to start writing a series tackling some of the successes, failures, and possible paths forward for diversity in tabletop gaming and related geeky pursuits. I feel this is more needed now than ever, but I don’t know how much justice I will be able to do to the topics.
Nevertheless, I can’t just roll over and play dead. It’s not the first time I have dealt with depression, and I will deal with it this time again. In fact, I was hit by a wave at about the same time the year before, when my kind and benevolent employer unilaterally cut my hours and stripped me of my benefits. You know what got me out of the ditch? Cancer. That’s right, sometimes it’s not an improvement in circumstances that serves as the ladder to climb out of a hole, but a disaster you have to respond to. And 2017 looks to be quite the disaster, so I might as well hold on to that to climb.
Happy New Year, folks. Me, I take pride in the fact that I managed to write this post without too much profanity.
This week I just crossed the third big milestone of my cancer treatment: the last of the radiation therapy treatments.
All throughout I diligently applied moisturizing cream three times a day, and indeed my skin did not show any lesions until the night before the last treatment, when an area started peeling. This is important because skin lesions in the burn areas, especially if they weep liquid, can require stopping treatments and delaying until the skin has healed. It’s not good for treatment, it’s painful as hell, and it prolongs the misery. So I was very careful to follow instructions!
Just like any heat burn or sunburn, the skin continues to redden after the injury, then cracks and peels. The care instructions I received tell me that the worst point should be about seven to ten days after the last treatment. The worst spots are typically at the location of skin folds (for breast cancer, that’s under the arm and the underside of the breast) and at the beam’s entry points.
Right now, the underarm area, which also the location of the lymph node biopsy incision, has started peeling “dry” (“dry desquamation” in medical parlance), and growing new skin, so it’s very tender but I keep applying the radiation cream and it’s doing well. The underbreast area, also the location of the primary lumpectomy incision, is peeling “wet” (“wet desquamation”) and I have to apply a prescription ointment, silver sulphadiazine, twice a day. I’m popping ibuprofen a few times a day…
As I mentioned before, throughout the treatment Kaiser Permanente’s personnel was so very kind, helpful, and professional. On the last day they gave me a cute certificate of completion. I am scheduled for a follow-up visit in a few days, the same day I have my next infusion of Herceptin.
In more fun news, my hair has grown back enough to use in my avatar — but my head gets cold in winter weather! I compromise by wearing a headband to cover my ears when needed.
I have a small surgery scheduled for the first week of January to take care of some indirect consequences, but all in all, I’m doing well.