In my ever-more-inked-up appointment book, you now find the jotting "PT."

I will have ongoing physical therapy for my right arm and shoulder. Because of the surgery, the removal of lymph nodes and the reconstruction, my upper body is about as stiff as I figured I'd be at 90. I often continue to feel a deep ache that stretches from my chest wall into my very center. Nerves and muscles were altered or cut by the surgeon's scalpel and my innards, as we hicks say, have been disrupted.

To add insult to this injury, I now have a bona fide Jiggly Grandma Upper Arm. (Let me quickly add only one of them--the right arm--has gone all old lady on me.)

The good news is that with some focused attention, it should all go back like it used to be.
Essentially, it won't be any worse than it ever was.

So that I will continue to be able to lift my clean dishes out of the dishwasher and onto the top shelf of the cupboard, I now do a series of exercises several times a day and will have multiple sessions with a physical therapist.
Before my first PT appointment, I filled out the several pages of a health questionairre. One query asked, "What is your goal in coming here?"
And then I wrote something that would have been a typo if I would have been typing. (Er, excuse me. Don't want a Grandma vocabulary to go with that arm. I should have said...not 'typing'...but 'keyboarding.'

(BTW--how come today's typos aren't called keyboardos?)

(Sorry for the digression.)
(And all the parentheses.)

Back to the my goal for physical therapy.
I meant to write that my goal was "Mobility."
Instead I wrote that my goal was "Nobility."
And as I smiled ruefully to myself and scratched out a correction, my mind seized onto that word...nobility...and I immediately thought of my Grandma Shock.

(Yep, that was her real name. My mother's maiden name was Shock.)

(Are parentheses on sale or something?)

Now I'm going to digress about my grandmother for a bit, so here is an illustration to break up the text and make the blog somewhat visually stimulating and also to provide you a mental picture of her.

This is a photograph of me (circa 1989) with my beloved grandmothers. This is the back porch of the house I grew up in in Jackson, Ohio, where my parents still live.

From left to right: Dorothy Shock, my maternal grandmother. Jill Burger, my mother. Auguste Burger, my paternal grandmother. And that's me with the five-footer when she was a two-footer. (She had just gotten up and I can almost smell that hot-baby-post-nap scent in that sweet fold in her neck!)

(In most pictures of me that were taken in this era, I sport a heinous perm and wear black acid washed jeans. No kidding. And the saddest part is, I thought it looked bitchin!)

I come from good peasant stock as perhaps the faces in this picture reveal. On both sides I am descended from a hard working, plain speaking, decent lot. We have no airs or pedigrees or strings of numbers behind our names...and we admit to a bit of suspicion of those who do.
That said, I now know that I am descended from nobility. Yeah, me, the gym teacher's daughter from the sticks: I am of noble birth.

At the time this picture was taken, my Grandma Shock was a 26 year breast cancer survivor.
She was diagnosed in 1963. She once told me that when she found the lump, my own grandfather told her to ignore it.

She did not. She was not the Ignore It type.
In 1963, there were no pink ribbons, no races, no support groups. No special cancer clinics, no reconstruction surgery, no hopeful clinical trials. Women were called 'victims' not 'survivors.' Furthermore, The words "breast" or "cancer" were seldom spoken aloud and never in tandem. Well bred people and newspaper obituaries didn't even mention cancer when it was the cause of death;

it was termed "a long illness."

Grandma Shock's surgery was what they called a radical mastectomy. From practically under her chin to her waist, from her sternum to her bicep, every corpuscle the scalpel could find was cut away. They took the tissue under her arm as well, including all of her lymph nodes.
That was followed by an intensive course of radiation.

Go back and look at the picture. Notice Grandma Shock's right hand.

She could wear the prosthesis in her bra and conceal her poor scarred chest, but she could not hide the ravages of the side effects of her disease. Because she had no lymph nodes, she lived with constant lymphedema. Her right hand and arm were always swollen. That word hardly describes it--her arm was bigger and heavier than her thigh. If she got a cold, it would be throb with fever. It was uncomfortable every day.
And embarrassing. I have very few pictures where you can see the swelling. She was quick to turn her body so that the offending arm was hidden or tucked behind her back.

Yet she was always fashion conscious and was proud to be a little bit vain. She had a difficult time finding clothes--long sleeves were often too tight to contain her arm and short sleeves revealed the unsightly condition. "Oh, this arm!" she would say in exasperation during a fruitless shopping expedition.

That was about as much complaining as I ever heard from her.

I wish I had more details of exactly what she experienced with her breast cancer. She wasn't afraid to talk about it, but she never brought it up. It was simply part of her life. I never heard her feel sorry for herself; she always seemed so grateful that she lived despite losing her breast. I think she found it a hard bargain but a fair trade.
I now contemplate the fear that must have been her daily companion. She had no chemotherapy to lengthen her odds for a long life, no regular scans to scout for a recurrence, not even a mammogram to provide proof that her other breast was not a time bomb. For a whole generation of breast cancer survivors, the high tech imaging tht we take for granted was the stuff of sci-fi, about as realistic as a robot maid.
Instead of medical reassurance, she had faith and grit. And she cultivated the ability to seek and find joy in the day...in a snapdragon, an excellent canasta hand, a visit with family.

My grandmother was a housewife feminist, who had a charter subscription to Ms. magazine. We had a summer--I think it was the year I was 9--where we played miniature golf every time we were together. She loved James Bond movies and gardening and the daily crossword puzzle in the newspaper.

She was not the Salty Old Dame kind of Grandma, the sort who would flip the falsie around like a Frisbee. With her well-modulated voice and shy smile, she had a kind of elegance, a dignity. She was instinctively what few women aspire to be today: she was a lady.

We were not much alike, but we were deeply devoted to one another. I have felt so close to her in the past few weeks. Her spirit hovers near me and frequently comforts me.

I was so lucky to be her grandchild. So lucky to still have her alive and vital in my memory bank. She lived 35 years after her diagnosis and mastectomy surgery. She did the crossword puzzle on the morning of the day she died, at age 93. It was not cancer that claimed her.

How I wish I had asked more direct questions about her experience. How did she bear it? How did she come to peace with it? How did she not become bitter or fearful or neurotic?

How did she remain so noble?
Honestly, I would give anything I own...everything I own...for fifteen minutes in her presence, to hold her dear inflated hand and have a woman-to-woman conversation with her.
But this is all impractical yearning and neither of us, my Grandma Shock and I, are impractical women.

If I pause, comb my memory and really think about it, I know that even if I don't have the answers to my specific questions, she showed me what I need to know.

How I need to be.
I have her brave example. If she could face it in the unsympathetic early 60's, then I can certainly do it now.

She endured. I am of her line. I will too.

And here's one more photograph (circa 1990) to again break up the text. This time I have the six footer and the five footer with me. And, sadly, there is photographic evidence of my grave fashion errors of the previous decade. Why in the world am I smiling?? 

For those of you not going to Prince tomorrow night at the Target Center, ZibraZibra is playing right across the street at First Avenue with HarMar Superstar and Seymore Saves The World.
This is an album release show, but not the kind that comes on disc, tape, or wax. The album, titled 777, is being released digitally, so if you go to the show don't forget to bring an ipod, computer, robot or spaceship to take the record home on.

Doors open at 6:00 PM and the price is only 12 bucks (a pretty sweet deal, especially if you're planning on staying for the Prince afterparty and you hate breast cancer)

Yes that's right, this show is also a breast cancer benefit.

For more information check out ZibraZibra at myspace.com/zibrazibra or www.first-avenue.com

Next week, my youngest...the four-footer...the Spunkiest Nine-Year-Old in the Seven If Not The Twelve County Metro Area...will go to church camp for the first time. Sleepaway Camp. In the woods--far away!

She's tingling with excitement and anticipation about this adventure. Her older siblings found church camp to be among their happiest and most memorable experiences and she's ready to be chime in with her Me-Too on this.
But I don't think she quite comprehends what church camp is.

From all that The Bigs have said over the years, she understands that it's Fun, of course. That there are songs and cool counselors and sleeping bags. That it smells like pine needles and bug spray and that melty-Hershey-bar

S'more/campfire scent.

She also has heard that there's God stuff, but it's not boring.

When you ask her about what she's thinking about going to camp, she locks onto one particular detail like she's a thirsty wood tick.

There's a bathroom on the bus!
It's a long ride to the North Shore and my little camper and her co-campers will ride in style. The church contracts with a commercial bus company to provide transportation. And, wisely, considering they are hauling dozens of child-sized bladders, they use a bus that has A Facility in the back.

Hey! A bathroom on the bus! Wow, right!?!
Basically, the four footer can't quite imagine or visualize what's at the end of the bus trip. That's all as hazy as the morning mist hanging over the lake. Will she make friends? Will she be homesick? Will there be bears, as she has heard rumored?

Not sure about that.

But, as I think I mentioned, there's a bathroom on the bus!

As I continue my own journey, I think about the parallels between what my little girl is about to experience and what's directly ahead for me.
I begin chemotherapy next Thursday, July 12th. I admit that I feel a corrosive, gut-eating fear about this. I read the pamphlets about the drugs and the chemo accounts in books and I hear about the experience from others who have gone through it. But even as I am counting down to it, it seems unreal. A part of me still can't believe that there isn't some way out of this. That there isn't someone else I could pay to do this for me.

Yeah, it's irrational.

Sometimes I even think that maybe I shouldn't do it. That it just doesn't make sense to poison myself in order to be cured.

But then my intellect trumps my fear and I remind myself of just how lucky I am to have the doctors, pharmacology and science to treat and defeat this disease.

I remind myself that I can do this. I must. I will. And I'll appreciate every blessed drop, for the chemo drugs will ultimately allow me to live the long life that I so desire. It will allow me to claim a future that is cancer-free.

Still, I have to work hard not to get hung up on the symptoms that may follow the administration of the chemotherapy. We've all heard the horror stories; some of you reading this may have experienced them or watched a love one suffer. Miserable nausea, often followed by weight gain because of the steroid anti-nausea medication. Hair loss, which I am assured of. Fatigue--a level of cosmic exhaustion that cannot be anticipated. Aches and pains. So-called 'chemo brain' which drops a fog over cognitive thinking and memory.

My doctor and others who have done what I am about to do assure me that, these days, chemotherapy can be well managed. People known to be truthful tell me that the misery is far, far less than what patients experienced in even the recent past. That, while it's no one's idea of Fun, it can all be tolerated.

All I can think about right now, though, is the bathroom on the bus.

I can't think about what will happen when I get to my destination--which is the other side of the chemotherapy. I don't know exactly what happens then. I am preoccupied with the first, next leg of my journey.

For my daughter, it's the focus on the novelty of the bus biffy. Me, I think about sitting in a room with an IV drip. I am focused on how I will fare, because everyone reacts to the chemo cocktail differently, depending on their own unique body chemistry.

I truly wish that my first chemo session was behind me. It will be a relief to know exactly what the experience will be and to have faced it. For me, it seems the unknown is the bear in the forest.

"The first chemo tells the tale," the kind-eyed nurse reassured me just this morning. "Once it's done, we'll know how you react. We'll see how you do and tinker with what you'll need to take care of you and make you feel good." She smiled sympathetically. "Everybody talks about the people who react badly. You don't hear nearly as much about the vast majority of patients, who do just fine."

I will be among that number, I'm sure. I will do just fine. I spend a fair amount of time these days, calming my restless mind and staying upbeat--or, when I can't do that, keeping my spirit in neutral. I want to be tough, not a complainer or a whiner. I want to accept this and not fight it.

I want to use the damn bathroom on the damn bus and get on with the journey so I can experience what church camp will be like. That's what I really want.

* * * * * * * * *

I have not written much in the past week. I have had a number of medical appointments--physical therapy for my arm, body scans, blood work. Between running around, working, and focusing on gathering my internal strength, I have made less time to ruminate on the blog.

I hope this will be a space where I can continue to process what I'm experiencing with those of you who are interested in hearing about it.

The radio show will continue to be a place where I go to get away from some of This. On my first show back after surgery, I promised you that I would not turn The Kevyn Burger Show into The Cancer Show. I want to talk, laugh, and get snarky like always. I need it--and need you to help me have fun!

For those of you who would like to hear a more personal, me-focused take on my experience, I offer the written word on the blog. The blog is meant to be an alternative way for me to interact with FM107 listeners. If what I write here is of little interest to you, I hope you will simply bypass the blog and will continue to listen to the show from 9 to 11 Monday through Friday. I hope to still be behind the microphone most days.

I do not want to become the face of breast cancer in the Twin Cities. I have become a reluctant expert on this disease. But, really, who would want to be the face of this disease? Who would want to become the go-to Survivor Girl?

I do realize that I am in an extraordinary situation...that, because I have lived my life on the public airwaves, I am in a unique position to raise awareness about breast cancer. I could do some good here. I could and I should.

To be honest, I don't yet know how--and when--I can use that position. I'll figure that out as I go. Right now, my sole focus in on healing and staying strong. So stay tuned and know that I'm pondering what my move will ultimately be.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you who have sent your prayers to me and my family. We feel the power of that wave of good wishes.

I know that many of you offer a positive thought or blessing in my direction as you cross the river. I feel it. I feel it. I feel it and I humbly thank you.

I never crossed the bridge today.

On these summer mornings, I particularly relish crossing the Mississippi River as I head into the station. When I'm in the middle of the bridge, suspended over the water, I make sure that my head swivels from right to left, north to south, to take in the majestic vision of that storied ribbon of water.

Too often on my morning commute in the past, I would arrive at the parking lot at work with no memory of making the drive--I had coasted in on autopilot.

Right now, I'm working on and learning to be 'more present' in my every moment...to be less distracted, to appreciate each task for the pleasure in it, to give up the idea that multi-tasking is a worthy, efficient accomplishment.

I'm changing. This is good.

I want to be more alive in my own life, less distracted by the illusion of busy-ness and productivity. I want to slow down and stop coasting on autopilot.

I've only been back at work for two days, so I'm hardly stuck in the old routine. And I really, really want to be back on the air. The contemplative cocoon I've spun for myself to inhaibt in the days since surgery has served me well, but at some point, this extrovert can have too much silence and a good thang could go bad. I needed very much to return to my familiar post and the work that I love so much. I needed the stimulation and laughter that I find in the broadcast booth. I was so content, being back in my chair and on the air on Monday and Tuesday. I found it comforting that, in the midst of so much change, my ability to talk on the radio has remained a constant.

But right now, the only way I can do my work is to work differently. My post surgery fatigue demands that I show up later, leave earlier, let the show flow with less preparation. Be more myself, more spontaneous. Like its host, the program is in transition.

As part of my determined effort to work less and sleep more, I now leave for the office at 8:00 am--I used to take off at 6:00. This time switch gets me into the thick of rush hour traffic for the first time in years.

I felt particularly cheerful this morning as I walked out my back door, coffee in hand. I noticed a squirrel scampering on my back fence, admired the purple petunias spilling out of the clay pots on my patio. I turned the key, popped the car into reverse and tuned into Ian without Margery. Ah. Feeling centered and content, I turned out of my driveway and soon was heading north on 35W.

As I approached the turn from 35 to eastbound 94, I noticed the red brake lights on the car in front of me. I braked.

Fortunately, I was not going too fast, not tailing too closely.

Unfortunately, the car behind me WAS going too fast, WAS tailing too closely.

My eyes flicked to my rearview mirror. In slow motion, I saw the vehicle behind me--which I swear looked more imposing than one of those monster trucks with the two-story-tall wheels--looming large.

I'm about to be rear-ended, I thought. My mind froze around one word. I braced myself and muttered, "Oh, heavens to Betsy!"

(Actually, I didn't mention heaven or Betsy. I know there are words that broadcasters who value their jobs do not use on the airwaves. I don't know if it's dangerous to use those words in a blog that appears on a broadcast website. I'm not taking any chances...a prudent policy seems to be: if you can't say it on the air, best not write it on the blog.)

The huge car--which later shrunk to being a cherry red Nissan--hit me. Hard.

I pulled over to the shoulder of the freeway and cautiously stepped out of my car. The other driver--a young woman--was mashed behind her inflated airbag. Her front bumper was in the road, her hood was crumpled, and I could hear a hissing-gurgling coming from the exposed engine.
The damage to my car was minor in comparison--a shredded back bumper and dented hatch.

The Highway Helper came arrived with the orange cones. The other driver got her car on the shoulder of the road. She squeezed out of her car, realized she was unharmed and began crying. She was trembling too hard to write down her insurance information for me. The patrol officer showed up with his clipboard. The tow truck arrived to haul the other car away. I was able to drive my car home.

I called Alexis, told her I wouldn't be in to do the show, and headed home.

I've spent the rest of the day seeing doctors.
Checking in with receptionists, filling out medical forms and flipping through magazines in medical waiting rooms is nothing out of the ordinary for me these days, but today the appointments were all 'squeezes,' doctors pushing their schedules around to accomodate me.

When my car was struck, I was thrown hard against my seat belt. I immediately got a headache and felt a very slight twinge in my shoulder and lower back. Although I did not have a feeling of dread or true concern about any of this, I'm totally freaked out about a)my body and b)my bad luck with my health right now.
I called my primary care physician who recommended that I make immediate appointments with my plastic surgeon and a neurologist.

The plastic surgeon checked my incisions and my implant. (Still feels mighty wierd to write that word and know that it applies to moi!) Both were determined to be intact. Good. The neurologist squeezed my shoulders, tapped my hands with a silver hammer, passed a cylinder in front of my face to watch my eyes track it. He, too, pronounced me fine. Good again!

Call me shaken, not stirred.

All's well that ends well, as my mother says.
But I'm hung up on that instant when I looked in my rear view mirror. When I knew I was going to be hit--but just didn't know how hard, with what force and velocity. I didn't know if I would shoot through my windshield, or if my car would be struck so that it would spin into the adjacent lane, just as a multi-ton 18-wheeler was bearing down.

There was time for one word to form in my brain, to bubble up from my place of deepest fear. The
word was "Please."

Please let me live.

Yes, I'm exhausted right now. It's been a day of reading off claim numbers, accident reports and rushing to doctor's offices. I've talked to several claim agents at several insuance agencies. I took my car to a repair shop and learned that it will take four days to repair what looks like a coupla dents to me.

A busy, tedious, frustrating, exhausting day.
But I'm not bitchin.

My life could have ended today. Right now, I could be in a hospital with critical injuries. In a brief second, my future could have been altered forever. Once again.

But it didn't.

I didn't cross the river today. But I'll do it tomorrow.

"Please" isn't much of a prayer, but it was all I had time for. It was a prayer that was heard and heeded. For those of you who have been praying for me--thanks. The spillover from your prayers might have saved me this morning.

Hot Damn! Mom was back on the air today.

I woke up in time to catch the whole ten o'clock hour while I ate breakfast and it felt great to hear her voice pumping through the kitchen HI-FI again.

Although she's not exactly "back in action" I'm glad Mom has made the choice to do the show as often as she feels able.

Here is a response to this morning's show posted by Mom's long-time friend J.C. Burns.

Here is a link to Andrew Zimern's food and dining blog with a post regarding Mom kicking cancer's butt.

And here is the news in City Pages posted by Mom's friend G.R. Anderson, Jr.

"Last week's news that Kevyn Burger has breast cancer shocked her friends and radio listeners alike. Not just because the FM-107 chat-show host conducted self-exams over the air every month—asking her listeners to play along at home, work, or in the car—but also because the lady seems so damn invincible.

She took to the airwaves for one hour Thursday morning to talk about her illness before undergoing surgery, reconstruction, and chemo. In typical Burger fashion, she was stunningly frank, but her wicked sense of humor bubbled up when she talked about losing her hair and her breasts.

"I got a good rack," Burger said. "I always felt I got a good shake, literally, in that department. I love my hair, and I love my breasts, and now I'm going to lose both."

She wrapped up by vowing to come back, and you can bet that she will."

The river photograph for this post was provided by Missouri photographer Jacob Bruton.