Day 3 and 4 are the worst of the week.
I wake up on Day 3 already feeling bad. My skin on my body is hyper-sensitive. My skin from neck to waist feels sore when you touch it, and it almost feels like I'm buzzing. Not sure why it's only from the waist up. I can't find any record of anyone else experiencing this side effect. Lucky me.
As long as I'm laying in bed, I feel ok (apart from when Bridger jumps up onto the bed and steps all over me), but once I get up, the nausea and headache set in immediately. I get up and take my meds (Claritin, Pepcid, Ibuprofen) and eat a bagel.
I lay on the couch pretty much all day feeling nauseous, sore, and heachachy.
I don't seem to be having the aversion to food that I had the first two rounds, but I don't really have any appetite, so I eat ramen for dinner around 5. Ironically, simple things with lots of salt actually taste pretty good. Who knew?
Around 7pm, I let myself fall asleep on the couch. I made it through the season finale of The Amazing Race (Yay for Joey and Kelsey for winning!), so I feel like I've been productive. I wake up at 9pm and take myself to bed. Nauseous again, so I switch to Ativan which helps me sleep. Unfortunately, it also makes me very unbalanced when I get up in the middle of the night to pee....which I do several times a night since I'm supposed to be hyper-hydrating. I think I barely missed stepping on Bridger.
Day 4 I don't even get out of bed until about 1pm except for a trip to the kitchen for meds and a piece of dry toast. I just try to lay as still as possible as horizontal as possible. A great time for listening to books on tape. I can't watch anything as even my eyes hurt to move.
Around one o'clock, Husband goes to get a haircut (one of us has to have good looking hair, I guess) and I drag myself to the shower. I've noticed that I don't smell very good. It's amazing how not having hair makes you lose track of when you need to bathe yourself. Also, as if cancer is laughing at me, I notice that I need to shave my legs. No hair on the head, but shaving the legs is still on the list of things to do. Irony abounds.
Afterwards, I crawl back under the covers and continue to curse my stomach. Husband comes home and we watch the Broncos game on his phone in bed. They lose. Hoorah.
Around 5, I feel myself perking up just a bit. Headache has subsided and after taking another Compazine, I'm not feeling quite as bad.
A weird metallic medicine taste is beginning to creep into my mouth, too. This is good and bad. It's good because it means I think I'm moving on to the next stage of nastiness and leaving the main nausea behind. It's bad because it means I will have a metal taste in my mouth for the next few days. I feel like I am in the Chemotherapy Hunger Games. As soon as one challenge ends, the next one rears its ugly head.
When medication is injected into the bloodstream, it also gets into your saliva. This can cause a bitter metallic taste in the mouth and/or can make food taste different. Last round I combatted it with spicy foods for meals and lemon drops in between. Gum, too, seemed to help. I just need to be careful with the candy because I don't want to end up with cavities in addition to the cancer.
So with Day 3 in the books and Day 4 almost over, I'm happy to be moving into the next phase of the week. The next few days will still have nausea in the mornings and headaches in the afternoons in addition to the metal mouth, and will also find me falling asleep on the couch by 7 every night. But these next few days should be better than the last two.
Day 3 and 4 this week were MUCH worse than last week. I am already dreading the next round. My tentative plan is to just start with the Ativan on the night of Day 2 and try to sleep through Day 3 and 4. The next one will be my last round of AC chemo, though, so even though I'll be dealing with it on Christmas, at least it will be the last one.
Every morning I give the cancer a squeeze and see if I can feel it getting any smaller. It would be great to visit with Dr. M on the 24th and have her say the magic "L" word (lumpectomy), but I'm not holding my breath. I still have plenty of chemo to go, though. Things can change.
Still no cocktails for me.
Looks like Husband is having Boulder Beer Shake (one of my favorites), so you should definitely join him.
Cheers!
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Day 2
Day 2 is not usually too bad.
Slight nausea always kicks in first thing in the morning, so I start the day with a plain bagel. Yum.
I'm pretty tired and slightly nauseous for most of the morning, but I manage to knock out a few chores and make it to the post office around 1pm. When I get back I'm exhausted and my stomach is doing flip flops. I hate taking the Ativan for nausea because it knocks me out, so I decide to try the Compazine again. It didn't work the first time I tried it, but this time it seems to do the trick. I lay down on the couch and knock out 3 episodes of the Great British Baking Show (thanks, BFF, for the recommendation!).
When Husband comes home, I rouse myself and try to act a little less slothsome. It doesn't last very long though.
Just as I finish my dinner (pizza - don't judge) the Neulasta injector on my arm starts beeping. Again, I feel like I'm about to blow up. The beeping is a signal that it is about to inject, which takes about 45 minutes. I can't feel anything, but I start feeling kinda bad - I think it might actually just be a mental thing, but it's all the same in the end. I take an Ibuprofen tablet to try to stave off the headache I know is coming, and wait for the injection to stop. I peel the injector off when it's done and settle back onto the couch.
Within 30 minutes I'm passed out. Husband lets me sleep for about an hour and then sends me off to bed. I take a few Senekot pills (hoorray!), gently wash my face (so as not to encourage my eyelashes and eyebrows to fall out), and crawl into bed.
End of Day 2.
No cocktails for me.
Hope you had one. :)
Slight nausea always kicks in first thing in the morning, so I start the day with a plain bagel. Yum.
I'm pretty tired and slightly nauseous for most of the morning, but I manage to knock out a few chores and make it to the post office around 1pm. When I get back I'm exhausted and my stomach is doing flip flops. I hate taking the Ativan for nausea because it knocks me out, so I decide to try the Compazine again. It didn't work the first time I tried it, but this time it seems to do the trick. I lay down on the couch and knock out 3 episodes of the Great British Baking Show (thanks, BFF, for the recommendation!).
When Husband comes home, I rouse myself and try to act a little less slothsome. It doesn't last very long though.
Just as I finish my dinner (pizza - don't judge) the Neulasta injector on my arm starts beeping. Again, I feel like I'm about to blow up. The beeping is a signal that it is about to inject, which takes about 45 minutes. I can't feel anything, but I start feeling kinda bad - I think it might actually just be a mental thing, but it's all the same in the end. I take an Ibuprofen tablet to try to stave off the headache I know is coming, and wait for the injection to stop. I peel the injector off when it's done and settle back onto the couch.
Within 30 minutes I'm passed out. Husband lets me sleep for about an hour and then sends me off to bed. I take a few Senekot pills (hoorray!), gently wash my face (so as not to encourage my eyelashes and eyebrows to fall out), and crawl into bed.
End of Day 2.
No cocktails for me.
Hope you had one. :)
Friday, December 11, 2015
Round 3 - Day 1
Many people have asked about chemotherapy - what do I have to do, how long does it take, how does it make me feel? So I'm going to attempt to capture the day by day for this round. Here we go:
Day 1 - Chemotherapy is scheduled for 10:30am at the Front Range Cancer Specialists Office at Poudre Valley Hospital. For the last 2 rounds, Husband has driven me down and back, but he's been really busy at work lately so I decided to see how it was to take myself.
First thing in the morning I got my "Chemo Bag" together: books, magazines, coloring books, food and snacks for lunch, kleenex, pens, chapstick, headphones and ipod, cup for water. I also take a Claritin and a Pepcid. These two normal everyday drugs apparently help counteract the mind-killing headaches I get from the Neulasta injection. I start them the day before to start getting my system ready. I jump in the car at about 9:15am and head down the hill.
When I get to the clinic, I check in with the receptionist (who sometimes remembers my name, but doesn't' recognize me this time with my koala bear face hat and lack of hair). The nurse comes to get me and weighs me in (my favorite part!). Ironically, before I got cancer I was very aware of my weight at all times and have been working on losing weight for the last, I don't know, 800 years. However, since getting the big C, I've been working out less and eating worse food, and have weighed the same at each session. Of course, I eat a lot less during the first week of each round, so maybe that evens things out. Either way, I try not to think about it too much - except at the weigh in.
After the weigh in, I'm taken back to the Chemo Clinic. It's a big room with 3 different groupings of big brown leather recliners. There are windows all around looking out at the surrounding fields and mountains. One wall has a long cabinet on it where people place snacks to share and things that they are passing on to other patients (hats, books, wigs, etc.) There is a refrigerator in the back part of the room for water and to stash lunch if it needs to stay cold. There is also a coffee machine that creates smells that I personally have trouble with when I'm going through my session. There are also about 6 private rooms where patients can go if they don't want to listen/watch others or if they have a bunch of people with them and they want to have some space to themselves.
I usually pick a chair in the back pod facing out at the mountains. This week there are a lot of people in the clinic. My pod has 3 other patients and 2 associated family members. The two ladies across from me are chatting away about their cancer journey - sharing their symptoms and side effects. They are both on their second to last session of Taxol (the drug I switch to in January). They are complaining about the muscle weakness, restless legs, and nueropathy that is causing them to lose feeling in their fingers and toes. They are also comparing how many nails they have lost to the drug. Super! Things to look forward to. The lady to the left of me has immediately fallen asleep and is snoring lightly. I find out later that she has been fighting cancer since 2009. Her breast cancer spread to her liver. She does, however, assure me that the mastectomy surgery was not that bad. I take what I can get.
So after sitting down, my nurse comes to "plug me in". You'll remember that I received a port in my right upper chest which I lovingly refer to as my alien. The nurse cleans off my alien with chemicals that smell really bad to me and make me slightly nauseous. My sense of smell has gotten really sensitive and picky during this process. Some strong smells are ok, but most turn me a little green. She tells me to take a big breath and inserts the needle for my IV into the port. There are three little bumps that you can feel through the skin that she aims for. Each time, the needle breaks the skin, but all it takes is a little band-aid when I'm done.
The nurse takes 3 vials of blood to send off for testing. My Complete Blood Count (CBC) is checked to make I'm handling the drugs ok. If I'm not, I would have to get a blood transfusion. I sit and wait (and eat my pretzels) for about 45 minutes until my CBC comes back normal. So now it's time for the drug therapy.
My first two drugs, Aloxi and Emend, are designed to block the signal that causes nausea and vomiting. The Aloxi also contains a steroid (Decadron) to help with general chemo symptoms. Possible side effects of these two lovely drugs include fatigue, headache, constipation, insomnia, hiccups, and loss of appetite. After the first round, I ended up with a horrible headache on day 1 so my nurse slowed down each of these drugs to be administered over about 45 minutes. It's important to be super hydrated during this who process, so I end up wheeling my little IV stand with me to the bathroom at least 3 times during this 90 minutes. I keep noticing people giving me side long looks and wonder about it until I remember I'm wearing my koala hat. It's so busy and there are so many conversations going on in the clinic that I have a hard time concentrating on anything, so I page through the magazines I brought with me, eat my lunch, and eavesdrop on all the conversations around me. Eavesdropping on cancer conversations is not good. It makes me kind of sad, actually, because it reminds me of all the things I have left to go through.
Drug #3 is my first cancer med - Adriamycin. This is one is delivered by IV push instead of IV drip, so the nurse comes and sits next to me and pushes the medication into the IV slowly through a couple big syringes. The side effects for this beauty are nausea/vomiting, bone marrow suppression (which causes a drop in red and white blood cell and platelet production, and makes you more prone to anemia, infection, and bleeding), hair loss (yup, got that one), mouth sores (I suck on ice chips during the delivery of this drug to shut down my mouth cells so they don't suck up the drug), heart toxicity (there is a lifetime maximum of this drug that you are allowed to be given so as to limit this side effect), urine color change (pink pee!), and fatigue. Needless to say, this one is a fun one. It only takes about 15 minutes to administer. I ask my nurse if it's hard dealing with cancer patients all day. She says, "No, dealing with my teenagers is worse." :)
The last drug is another cancer drug - Cytoxan. This one is another IV drip that is given over 90 minutes. By this time, the clinic is starting to empty out. I pull out my phone and watch an episode of NCIS on Netflix. Thank goodness for wifi! The side effects of this drug are nausea/vomiting, bone marrow suppression, hair loss, bladder inflammation, decreased fertility, and fatigue.
At this point, I've been at the clinic about 5 hours. Once I switch over to the Taxol, it will be a lot shorter, but for now it's a pretty long day. Once the Cytoxan is done, the nurse comes over to place my Neulasta injector. Neulasta is a drug that helps my body make more white blood cells and protect itself against chemotherapy complications like infection. Unfortunately, it comes along with mild to moderate bone pain (caused by your blood marrow going into super production). This is what caused my big headaches in round 1 and what the claritin and pepcid are supposed to help with. The Neulasta is given through an injection - or, in my case, through 2"x 1" auto-injector that it attached to the back of my arm. This makes it so I don't have to drive all the way back down to the clinic just to get an injection - which I appreciate. The nurse places the injector and about 30 seconds later is starts beeping like it's going to explode (maybe I've been watching too much NCIS). It shoots a tiny catheter into my arm so that 27 hours from now it can release the medication.
And that's it. Time to go. After my session, I feel relatively normal. It's hard to explain, but it's kind of like I'm buzzing.....or maybe like I've just been pumped full of drugs for the last 5 hours. Either way, I feel ok and walk back out to my car to drive home. It takes about 2 hours before I start feeling bad, so I have plenty of time to make my 1 hour and 10 minute drive home.
I've figured out how to handle the first day effects better and better as I have my sessions. Slowing down the anti-nausea drugs has lessened but not eliminated the first day headache, so I take an ibuprofen to help with that. I've been craving salty food lately, so I help Husband make some frozen Chinese food. My taste buds have been affected by this process, so spicy and salty foods have tasted pretty good lately. I eat a little food and then settle myself onto the chaise of our couch to await the shitty feelings I know are coming. I sip on club soda to keep my stomach from rolling too badly. Mostly I just try not to move. Even my eyes. If I just sit and not move, I can make it through with only mild discomfort. The nausea is almost always just right on the edge, but I just try not to think about it too much. I have a whole regimen of anti-nausea drugs they have prescribed me, but the only one of them that seems to work is Ativan, which knocks me out for about 8 hours if I take it, so I try only take it when I have to....especially when Husband is home. I try to stay awake for him to try to maintain some sense of normalcy. The dogs, too, seem to sense that something is up and try to squish themselves onto the couch next to me. With Bridger being 100 pounds, this is always a little entertaining to watch.
This week I actually stay up to a normal time and watch a few episodes of Top Chef and Survivor. When it's time for bed I take all my little bottles of medication into the bedroom with me and put them on the nightstand just in case I wake up in the middle of the night feeling sick. I also take 3 Senkot-S tablets to help with the constipation. I will not burden you with all the things I've learned about my digestive tract during this whole experience, but needless to say, it has not been a pleasant learning curve.
The one thing that hasn't been affected by this whole thing is my ability to sleep, so I drift off to sleep pretty easily and wait to see how the rest of this week will play out.
So there you go.....that's what going to chemo is like. On the whole, not too terrible, but not pleasant either. We'll see what tomorrow brings....
No cocktails for me today. Seems like it might be a bad idea. Husband bought some holiday beer on the way home. It's description says it has hints of cinnamon -which makes my stomach do a little flip flop just thinking about it. Sometimes just the suggestion of a particular food or smell is enough to set if off.
So I think you're on your own for a cocktail. Cheers!
Day 1 - Chemotherapy is scheduled for 10:30am at the Front Range Cancer Specialists Office at Poudre Valley Hospital. For the last 2 rounds, Husband has driven me down and back, but he's been really busy at work lately so I decided to see how it was to take myself.
First thing in the morning I got my "Chemo Bag" together: books, magazines, coloring books, food and snacks for lunch, kleenex, pens, chapstick, headphones and ipod, cup for water. I also take a Claritin and a Pepcid. These two normal everyday drugs apparently help counteract the mind-killing headaches I get from the Neulasta injection. I start them the day before to start getting my system ready. I jump in the car at about 9:15am and head down the hill.
When I get to the clinic, I check in with the receptionist (who sometimes remembers my name, but doesn't' recognize me this time with my koala bear face hat and lack of hair). The nurse comes to get me and weighs me in (my favorite part!). Ironically, before I got cancer I was very aware of my weight at all times and have been working on losing weight for the last, I don't know, 800 years. However, since getting the big C, I've been working out less and eating worse food, and have weighed the same at each session. Of course, I eat a lot less during the first week of each round, so maybe that evens things out. Either way, I try not to think about it too much - except at the weigh in.
After the weigh in, I'm taken back to the Chemo Clinic. It's a big room with 3 different groupings of big brown leather recliners. There are windows all around looking out at the surrounding fields and mountains. One wall has a long cabinet on it where people place snacks to share and things that they are passing on to other patients (hats, books, wigs, etc.) There is a refrigerator in the back part of the room for water and to stash lunch if it needs to stay cold. There is also a coffee machine that creates smells that I personally have trouble with when I'm going through my session. There are also about 6 private rooms where patients can go if they don't want to listen/watch others or if they have a bunch of people with them and they want to have some space to themselves.
I usually pick a chair in the back pod facing out at the mountains. This week there are a lot of people in the clinic. My pod has 3 other patients and 2 associated family members. The two ladies across from me are chatting away about their cancer journey - sharing their symptoms and side effects. They are both on their second to last session of Taxol (the drug I switch to in January). They are complaining about the muscle weakness, restless legs, and nueropathy that is causing them to lose feeling in their fingers and toes. They are also comparing how many nails they have lost to the drug. Super! Things to look forward to. The lady to the left of me has immediately fallen asleep and is snoring lightly. I find out later that she has been fighting cancer since 2009. Her breast cancer spread to her liver. She does, however, assure me that the mastectomy surgery was not that bad. I take what I can get.
So after sitting down, my nurse comes to "plug me in". You'll remember that I received a port in my right upper chest which I lovingly refer to as my alien. The nurse cleans off my alien with chemicals that smell really bad to me and make me slightly nauseous. My sense of smell has gotten really sensitive and picky during this process. Some strong smells are ok, but most turn me a little green. She tells me to take a big breath and inserts the needle for my IV into the port. There are three little bumps that you can feel through the skin that she aims for. Each time, the needle breaks the skin, but all it takes is a little band-aid when I'm done.
The nurse takes 3 vials of blood to send off for testing. My Complete Blood Count (CBC) is checked to make I'm handling the drugs ok. If I'm not, I would have to get a blood transfusion. I sit and wait (and eat my pretzels) for about 45 minutes until my CBC comes back normal. So now it's time for the drug therapy.
My first two drugs, Aloxi and Emend, are designed to block the signal that causes nausea and vomiting. The Aloxi also contains a steroid (Decadron) to help with general chemo symptoms. Possible side effects of these two lovely drugs include fatigue, headache, constipation, insomnia, hiccups, and loss of appetite. After the first round, I ended up with a horrible headache on day 1 so my nurse slowed down each of these drugs to be administered over about 45 minutes. It's important to be super hydrated during this who process, so I end up wheeling my little IV stand with me to the bathroom at least 3 times during this 90 minutes. I keep noticing people giving me side long looks and wonder about it until I remember I'm wearing my koala hat. It's so busy and there are so many conversations going on in the clinic that I have a hard time concentrating on anything, so I page through the magazines I brought with me, eat my lunch, and eavesdrop on all the conversations around me. Eavesdropping on cancer conversations is not good. It makes me kind of sad, actually, because it reminds me of all the things I have left to go through.
Drug #3 is my first cancer med - Adriamycin. This is one is delivered by IV push instead of IV drip, so the nurse comes and sits next to me and pushes the medication into the IV slowly through a couple big syringes. The side effects for this beauty are nausea/vomiting, bone marrow suppression (which causes a drop in red and white blood cell and platelet production, and makes you more prone to anemia, infection, and bleeding), hair loss (yup, got that one), mouth sores (I suck on ice chips during the delivery of this drug to shut down my mouth cells so they don't suck up the drug), heart toxicity (there is a lifetime maximum of this drug that you are allowed to be given so as to limit this side effect), urine color change (pink pee!), and fatigue. Needless to say, this one is a fun one. It only takes about 15 minutes to administer. I ask my nurse if it's hard dealing with cancer patients all day. She says, "No, dealing with my teenagers is worse." :)
The last drug is another cancer drug - Cytoxan. This one is another IV drip that is given over 90 minutes. By this time, the clinic is starting to empty out. I pull out my phone and watch an episode of NCIS on Netflix. Thank goodness for wifi! The side effects of this drug are nausea/vomiting, bone marrow suppression, hair loss, bladder inflammation, decreased fertility, and fatigue.
At this point, I've been at the clinic about 5 hours. Once I switch over to the Taxol, it will be a lot shorter, but for now it's a pretty long day. Once the Cytoxan is done, the nurse comes over to place my Neulasta injector. Neulasta is a drug that helps my body make more white blood cells and protect itself against chemotherapy complications like infection. Unfortunately, it comes along with mild to moderate bone pain (caused by your blood marrow going into super production). This is what caused my big headaches in round 1 and what the claritin and pepcid are supposed to help with. The Neulasta is given through an injection - or, in my case, through 2"x 1" auto-injector that it attached to the back of my arm. This makes it so I don't have to drive all the way back down to the clinic just to get an injection - which I appreciate. The nurse places the injector and about 30 seconds later is starts beeping like it's going to explode (maybe I've been watching too much NCIS). It shoots a tiny catheter into my arm so that 27 hours from now it can release the medication.
And that's it. Time to go. After my session, I feel relatively normal. It's hard to explain, but it's kind of like I'm buzzing.....or maybe like I've just been pumped full of drugs for the last 5 hours. Either way, I feel ok and walk back out to my car to drive home. It takes about 2 hours before I start feeling bad, so I have plenty of time to make my 1 hour and 10 minute drive home.
I've figured out how to handle the first day effects better and better as I have my sessions. Slowing down the anti-nausea drugs has lessened but not eliminated the first day headache, so I take an ibuprofen to help with that. I've been craving salty food lately, so I help Husband make some frozen Chinese food. My taste buds have been affected by this process, so spicy and salty foods have tasted pretty good lately. I eat a little food and then settle myself onto the chaise of our couch to await the shitty feelings I know are coming. I sip on club soda to keep my stomach from rolling too badly. Mostly I just try not to move. Even my eyes. If I just sit and not move, I can make it through with only mild discomfort. The nausea is almost always just right on the edge, but I just try not to think about it too much. I have a whole regimen of anti-nausea drugs they have prescribed me, but the only one of them that seems to work is Ativan, which knocks me out for about 8 hours if I take it, so I try only take it when I have to....especially when Husband is home. I try to stay awake for him to try to maintain some sense of normalcy. The dogs, too, seem to sense that something is up and try to squish themselves onto the couch next to me. With Bridger being 100 pounds, this is always a little entertaining to watch.
This week I actually stay up to a normal time and watch a few episodes of Top Chef and Survivor. When it's time for bed I take all my little bottles of medication into the bedroom with me and put them on the nightstand just in case I wake up in the middle of the night feeling sick. I also take 3 Senkot-S tablets to help with the constipation. I will not burden you with all the things I've learned about my digestive tract during this whole experience, but needless to say, it has not been a pleasant learning curve.
The one thing that hasn't been affected by this whole thing is my ability to sleep, so I drift off to sleep pretty easily and wait to see how the rest of this week will play out.
So there you go.....that's what going to chemo is like. On the whole, not too terrible, but not pleasant either. We'll see what tomorrow brings....
No cocktails for me today. Seems like it might be a bad idea. Husband bought some holiday beer on the way home. It's description says it has hints of cinnamon -which makes my stomach do a little flip flop just thinking about it. Sometimes just the suggestion of a particular food or smell is enough to set if off.
So I think you're on your own for a cocktail. Cheers!
Saturday, December 5, 2015
A Toast
My stomach churns as I think about heading into Round 3 of chemo.
This round wasn't horrible. At least that's what I tell myself.
I mentioned this to Husband today and and he said, "Really? You spent 6 days straight on the couch."
Hmmm. I stand corrected.
But nothing was really horrible. An extended course of Claritin headed off the horrible headaches that caused me the most problems during Round 1. Otherwise, I managed to escape with slight nausea and a slight headache for most of the first week.
My eating wasn't quite as affected by this round as it was by the last. I was able to break away from my "white food" diet a couple times. This round I was lucky enough, though, to experience a huge change in my tastebuds (I could eat things, but they didn't taste very good) and a lovely metallic taste in my mouth for the first week. Thank god for the friends who sent me lemon and peppermint candies to counteract the taste.
The second week has been ok, too. I've been run/walking 3-4 miles most days, and generally feel pretty good. I usually have to eat a couple small meals throughout the day to keep my stomach settled. Afternoons usually find me with a headache and a little more fatigue, but at least I haven't been passing out on the couch at 7pm like I did in Round 1.
So, overall, not horrible. But not great either.
Round 2 has, however, brought about the end of my hair. It was coming out in clumps, making a mess, and causing me great distress, so last Saturday I decided to take control and shave it off. Thanks to the support of BFF and Husband, I got through it with no tears.
I will admit that, although there were no tears at the actual shaving, the process of losing my hair is the hardest thing I've gone through so far. As a woman, a lot of my identity and self-image has been built around what I look like with hair.
I am not fond of myself with no hair. I do not enjoy the shape of my head. I will never "like" the way I look with no hair. Right now, I don't even have a nice cleanly shaven head. It's patchy and falling out at different rates depending on where it is on my head. It makes me look sick. And it makes it impossible for to fool myself into thinking that everything is fine.
However, after a week of being depressed and feeling sorry for myself (and a super pep talk by Husband), I have decided that I will get through it.
I am not fond of myself with no hair. I do not enjoy the shape of my head. I will never "like" the way I look with no hair. Right now, I don't even have a nice cleanly shaven head. It's patchy and falling out at different rates depending on where it is on my head. It makes me look sick. And it makes it impossible for to fool myself into thinking that everything is fine.
However, after a week of being depressed and feeling sorry for myself (and a super pep talk by Husband), I have decided that I will get through it.
I have had to do many things I haven't liked in my life. To date, I have gotten through them with grace, success, and courage. This is just another thing. I don't have to like it. I just have to get through it. And, in the process, I will own it.
I will wear many wonderful hats.
And I will break out the purple wig for special occasions.
Perhaps I will have a cocktail. I'm thinking hot chocolate with a little Bailey's Irish Cream?
I think you should have one, too.
A toast to my hair.....and while I'm at it....a toast to all the wonderful people who are taking care of me. Thank you for keeping my spirits high and thinking of all the things I haven't. Cheers!
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Being Thankful
My hair started falling out yesterday.
It's been a full week since I've had any real side effects from the chemo. I tend to get tired around 3pm (pretty reliably) and occasionally still get nauseous first thing in the morning and headaches in the afternoons. But I've been eating real food (YAY!) and feeling generally like myself. I even ran 3 miles this morning (although at a super slow pace).
So the hair thing was a little bit of a shock. But it's right about when they said it would happen - between 14-21 days - and I'm 15 days out today.
I've been trying to tuck my hair into hats and get used to seeing myself with no hair. It's weird though. I may just avoid mirrors for a few months.
Otherwise, I've received a few good pieces of news in the last week. A visit to Dr. M (my oncologist) last week revealed that the tumor appears to have shrunk a little in response to the chemo. I say appears because the first time she measured it was relatively soon after my biopsy and things might have been swollen. So measuring now may not be comparing apples to apples. But at least it hasn't gotten bigger. This is good news.
I also went in on Thursday for an MRI guided biopsy of the lesion in my right breast. Anything smaller that 6mm can't be seen with an ultrasound or a mammogram, so doing a biopsy of this spot required going back into the MRI machine and toughing it through one of the most uncomfortable procedures I've had to date.
Imagine laying on your stomach face down so you can't see anything with your sternum propped up on a hard piece of plastic (no padding) while holding your arms up above your head.
Now do that for about 35 minutes while they wheel you in and out of an MRI (and by the way you can't even move a little bit or they may end up sticking the needle into you in the wrong place), numb up your whole boob and then stick a needle into you.
I imagined it was a yoga pose and practiced deep breathing. "Get comfortable with being uncomfortable".
The news came back good, though. No cancer on the right side.
*Phew*
So tomorrow is chemo day #2. Because I'm trying to get to Thursday as my treatment days, we went a little longer between treatments this time than we normally will. I go on Wednesday this week because who really wants to spend Thanksgiving in the chemo clinic? Not me. But after this, we will be on Thursdays. I guess I should be thankful that I got a few extra days of feeling normal before descending back into the toxic fog.
Last time I had no idea what to expect, so I had nothing really to fear. This time I know what's coming, and although I think I'll be able to fend off the headaches this time, the chemo has a cumulative effect. Which means that side effects get worse each time......so again, I have no idea what to expect.
I am dreading the visual nausea I get from looking at food (Good thing Thanksgiving is the day after treatment!), but have stocked up on the staples I know I can eat. I also happen to be on furlough from work this week and next week, so at least I can just lay around and do nothing guilt free.
I must say, though, that going through this process during the holiday season is giving me a whole new perspective on being thankful for what we have and on appreciating this simple things in life. I hope my dilemma may help you all appreciate those things a little more, too.
Mostly though, I have developed a whole new appreciation for the immense amounts of love I have in my life and for the amazing people that I am blessed to know. I have been overwhelmed by the amount of support, love, and humor that has come my way. Emails, texts, videos, cards, gifts, care packages, flowers, and visits. It's humbling. And it is truly what keeps me going. Thank you to each and every one of you that has spent time thinking about me. It means more than I can ever say or ever repay.
I am constantly being asked, "What do you need?" and "What can I do?".
I have what I need. You all.
You are doing what I need you to do. You are being supportive. You are making me laugh. You are keeping my brain distracted from all the poison that is being pumped into me.
You are reminding me that no matter what happens in this world - love is the answer.
Love heals. Love conquers all. Love wins.
Be thankful for the love you have in your life. More than ever, I know I am.
And now, I am going to have a Thanksgiving cocktail because I can.
I suggest you have one, too.
Cocktail pairing: a nice glass of Murphy's Law Riesling. Cheers!
Friday, November 13, 2015
Feeling Human
Day 5 of chemotherapy.
I feel like a human today.
A very hungry human.
A very hungry human that cannot eat anything because everything she looks at makes her nauseous.
*sigh*
Chemo has been an interesting adventure so far. Mostly because a) I hate being sick, b) I hate being dependent on others, and c) I hate not being in control.
So I guess I should get over that.
So here's how it went:
The chemo clinic is set up to be a nice, comfy place to get toxins pumped into your body. I got to pick a recliner, and then the nurse inserted the catheter into my port which delivers the IV meds directly into my subclavian artery.
The first two bags they hooked up were anti-nausea drugs. They each took about 20 minutes. There is a chance that these drugs can cause headache, as well as a host of other side effects just as bad as the cancer drugs. But I guess its worth it to decrease the nausea.
The third drug the nurse pushed directly into the IV line. This was the first cancer drug - Adriamycin. The cancer drugs kill the fast growing cells in your body. These cells include cancer, hair, and cells like those in your mouth that are replaced quickly. So, since this drug has the possibility of causing mouth sores, I was provided with a popsicle - a green one - to suck on while the drug was being administered. I guess cold stops the cells from absorbing anything new, so with ice in my mouth the mouth cells are less likely to take in the poison. And I got a popsicle.
The fourth drug, Cytoxan, is the other cancer drug. This one took about an hour to drip during which I beat my husband at a nice game of Travel Scrabble (ha ha!).
And then I was done. Easy, huh?
I actually felt pretty good when I was done. No big deal. So we went to Costco and proceeded to buy lots of easy to fix food so that Bryan can feed himself when I'm sick and/or fatigued.
On the way home, things started going down hill.
By the time we got home I had a raging headache, chills, and a stomach that was trying to be anywhere except where a stomach should be.
Prior to my chemo session, I was provided with a whole protocol of what to do in case of nausea, so I started through the list as quickly as I could. First pill - Compazine - didn't work. Thirty VERY long minutes later, I tried the second - Ativan. Ativan is an anti-anxiety drug, but it is also a known reliever of chemotherapy-caused nausea. So not only does it make your stomach feel better, but it makes you feel less stressed about your stomach feeling better. It also "may cause drowsiness" which is medical speak for "It will make you pass the hell out". Which I promptly did. I woke up 6 hours later to no nausea, a slight headache, and a slightly worried husband. And then I went to bed.
Day 2 I felt fine. I went to work. I talked to people. I laughed. Ha ha ha. I actually ate dinner. This chemo isn't so bad!
Day 3 I woke up with a slight headache. I did a few chores around the house. I walked 3 miles on my new treadmill (thanks, husband!). And then the chemo beast reared its ugly head. Like the flip of a switch, I felt like crap. I took an Ativan for the nausea that had just moved in, laid down on the couch, and promptly passed out. Five hours later I woke up to the worst headache I have ever experienced. Every piece of food I looked at made me want to throw up. I tried Tylenol to no avail. I proceeded to lay and whimper on the couch. And then I went to bed just to stop feeling what I was feeling. Blah.
The headache woke me up on Day 4. It alternated between my ears, the top of my head, my temples, and my sinuses. No let up, no relief. I felt like my head was being stabbed repeatedly. I still couldn't look at food, so I ate a dry piece of white toast to keep my stomach from turning. Yum.
Day 4 was also the day for my plastic surgery consult. Lucky me. So not only did I feel like shit, but I got to go talk about the best way to chop off and replace my breasts. The doctor did not endear himself to me when he walked into the exam room and said, "So how can I help you today?"
Really??
He asked a few more stupid questions that I took as flippant and then I repaid him by bursting into tears. Take that!
He excused himself to bring himself up to speed on my case (i.e. actually look at my MRI) and then came back in apologetic and serious and regained my confidence by actually showing that he knew what he was doing. Based on my case, he recommended double mastectomy with a bilateral LD flap procedure. This was basically what I was expecting, so it wasn't too much of a shock. Even though right now I only have a confirmed tumor in my left breast, the right one has an undetermined spot that doesn't show up on mammograms. So how do you track that one? Go in every 6 months and have an MRI? No. Apparently, you just get rid of the breast so you don't have to worry about it and get two matching replacements.
The replacement surgery has lots of options to it, but because I will probably have to have radiation therapy afterwards, it is to my advantage to have a procedure that reuses some of my own tissue. Long story short, they take a large piece of the latissimus dorsi muscle from your back, slide it to the front of your body, and use it help remodel your new breast. Big scars everywhere. Decreased strength in your back for the rest of your life. Not a boob job. I won't go into more detail, but you get the idea.
This is where you have the conversation with yourself about self image and the value of normality. I've had it with myself. It doesn't make any sense.
So all of this occurred while my head was throbbing and I felt like I wanted to die. Perfect.
The one good part of the day was discovering that McDonald's Mango Pineapple smoothies are actually something that taste great and don't make me want to vomit.
After all this fun, I went home, placed a call to the chemo nurses begging for help with my headache, and went to sleep.
The next 8 hours were a blur of trying not to move so as to not get sick and not make my head throb any more then possible. I even tried putting ice packs on my head. Oh....and I was starving but couldn't eat anything.
The nurses eventually called me back and told me to try......wait for it......Ibuprofen. Really? But it worked. I woke up from my next nap with no headache. Hallelujah!
So that brings us to today. Day 5. Me feeling like a human being. I can move my eyes without suffering. I'm not nauseous. I still can't think about food without feeling a little sick, though. So far, I've been able to handle white toast, ginger ale, canteloupe, and, surprisingly, pumpkin spice muffins from Costco. Baby steps, I guess.
I'm hoping this will continue through the next week or so. I've got a check up with my oncologist on Monday to see how I'm handling things. (Hah!) I don't have another chemo session until the day before Thanksgiving which, if it follows the pattern, may mean that I'll feel ok for the holiday.
At least I know more about what to expect now. So I guess I'll work with it and just keep trying to feel human. Definitely something I've come to appreciate more lately. Funny how it takes things like this to remind us of the simple things. You're welcome. :)
There is no way in hell I can even think about having a cocktail right now.
But you should definitely have one for me.
I feel like a human today.
A very hungry human.
A very hungry human that cannot eat anything because everything she looks at makes her nauseous.
*sigh*
Chemo has been an interesting adventure so far. Mostly because a) I hate being sick, b) I hate being dependent on others, and c) I hate not being in control.
So I guess I should get over that.
So here's how it went:
The chemo clinic is set up to be a nice, comfy place to get toxins pumped into your body. I got to pick a recliner, and then the nurse inserted the catheter into my port which delivers the IV meds directly into my subclavian artery.
The first two bags they hooked up were anti-nausea drugs. They each took about 20 minutes. There is a chance that these drugs can cause headache, as well as a host of other side effects just as bad as the cancer drugs. But I guess its worth it to decrease the nausea.
The third drug the nurse pushed directly into the IV line. This was the first cancer drug - Adriamycin. The cancer drugs kill the fast growing cells in your body. These cells include cancer, hair, and cells like those in your mouth that are replaced quickly. So, since this drug has the possibility of causing mouth sores, I was provided with a popsicle - a green one - to suck on while the drug was being administered. I guess cold stops the cells from absorbing anything new, so with ice in my mouth the mouth cells are less likely to take in the poison. And I got a popsicle.
The fourth drug, Cytoxan, is the other cancer drug. This one took about an hour to drip during which I beat my husband at a nice game of Travel Scrabble (ha ha!).
And then I was done. Easy, huh?
I actually felt pretty good when I was done. No big deal. So we went to Costco and proceeded to buy lots of easy to fix food so that Bryan can feed himself when I'm sick and/or fatigued.
On the way home, things started going down hill.
By the time we got home I had a raging headache, chills, and a stomach that was trying to be anywhere except where a stomach should be.
Prior to my chemo session, I was provided with a whole protocol of what to do in case of nausea, so I started through the list as quickly as I could. First pill - Compazine - didn't work. Thirty VERY long minutes later, I tried the second - Ativan. Ativan is an anti-anxiety drug, but it is also a known reliever of chemotherapy-caused nausea. So not only does it make your stomach feel better, but it makes you feel less stressed about your stomach feeling better. It also "may cause drowsiness" which is medical speak for "It will make you pass the hell out". Which I promptly did. I woke up 6 hours later to no nausea, a slight headache, and a slightly worried husband. And then I went to bed.
Day 2 I felt fine. I went to work. I talked to people. I laughed. Ha ha ha. I actually ate dinner. This chemo isn't so bad!
Day 3 I woke up with a slight headache. I did a few chores around the house. I walked 3 miles on my new treadmill (thanks, husband!). And then the chemo beast reared its ugly head. Like the flip of a switch, I felt like crap. I took an Ativan for the nausea that had just moved in, laid down on the couch, and promptly passed out. Five hours later I woke up to the worst headache I have ever experienced. Every piece of food I looked at made me want to throw up. I tried Tylenol to no avail. I proceeded to lay and whimper on the couch. And then I went to bed just to stop feeling what I was feeling. Blah.
The headache woke me up on Day 4. It alternated between my ears, the top of my head, my temples, and my sinuses. No let up, no relief. I felt like my head was being stabbed repeatedly. I still couldn't look at food, so I ate a dry piece of white toast to keep my stomach from turning. Yum.
Day 4 was also the day for my plastic surgery consult. Lucky me. So not only did I feel like shit, but I got to go talk about the best way to chop off and replace my breasts. The doctor did not endear himself to me when he walked into the exam room and said, "So how can I help you today?"
Really??
He asked a few more stupid questions that I took as flippant and then I repaid him by bursting into tears. Take that!
He excused himself to bring himself up to speed on my case (i.e. actually look at my MRI) and then came back in apologetic and serious and regained my confidence by actually showing that he knew what he was doing. Based on my case, he recommended double mastectomy with a bilateral LD flap procedure. This was basically what I was expecting, so it wasn't too much of a shock. Even though right now I only have a confirmed tumor in my left breast, the right one has an undetermined spot that doesn't show up on mammograms. So how do you track that one? Go in every 6 months and have an MRI? No. Apparently, you just get rid of the breast so you don't have to worry about it and get two matching replacements.
The replacement surgery has lots of options to it, but because I will probably have to have radiation therapy afterwards, it is to my advantage to have a procedure that reuses some of my own tissue. Long story short, they take a large piece of the latissimus dorsi muscle from your back, slide it to the front of your body, and use it help remodel your new breast. Big scars everywhere. Decreased strength in your back for the rest of your life. Not a boob job. I won't go into more detail, but you get the idea.
This is where you have the conversation with yourself about self image and the value of normality. I've had it with myself. It doesn't make any sense.
So all of this occurred while my head was throbbing and I felt like I wanted to die. Perfect.
The one good part of the day was discovering that McDonald's Mango Pineapple smoothies are actually something that taste great and don't make me want to vomit.
After all this fun, I went home, placed a call to the chemo nurses begging for help with my headache, and went to sleep.
The next 8 hours were a blur of trying not to move so as to not get sick and not make my head throb any more then possible. I even tried putting ice packs on my head. Oh....and I was starving but couldn't eat anything.
The nurses eventually called me back and told me to try......wait for it......Ibuprofen. Really? But it worked. I woke up from my next nap with no headache. Hallelujah!
So that brings us to today. Day 5. Me feeling like a human being. I can move my eyes without suffering. I'm not nauseous. I still can't think about food without feeling a little sick, though. So far, I've been able to handle white toast, ginger ale, canteloupe, and, surprisingly, pumpkin spice muffins from Costco. Baby steps, I guess.
I'm hoping this will continue through the next week or so. I've got a check up with my oncologist on Monday to see how I'm handling things. (Hah!) I don't have another chemo session until the day before Thanksgiving which, if it follows the pattern, may mean that I'll feel ok for the holiday.
At least I know more about what to expect now. So I guess I'll work with it and just keep trying to feel human. Definitely something I've come to appreciate more lately. Funny how it takes things like this to remind us of the simple things. You're welcome. :)
There is no way in hell I can even think about having a cocktail right now.
But you should definitely have one for me.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
The Scar Project
This finally put words to some of the things I that have been going through my head.
I will be fine.
But I will never be the same.
More images from the The Scar Project:
I will be fine.
But I will never be the same.
More images from the The Scar Project:
Friday, November 6, 2015
Peacocks and Aliens
I have a little alien in my chest.
Yesterday was port day! Yay! You may be asking yourself, "What the heck is a port?" I had no idea until just recently. Here is what it looks like:
Just like there's a little alien in there waiting to burst out! Very weird. The port serves as a receptor for the IV of chemo drugs that they'll be putting into me every other week. There is no permanent opening (which is how I thought it worked), so they'll punch through every time. Again, very weird. The catheter attached to it goes straight until one of my arteries so there is no lag time to start killing baddies. So it's lump vs. lump. May the best lump win.
Oh, and did I mention that gave me a free pair of sweet socks with the little grippy dots on the bottom? They're blue. Free stuff rocks.
Chemo starts Monday at 11 so Bryan and I went and did our "chemo teach" the other day. We watched a 45 minute video (complete with a Powerpoint Notes handout) and then went through all the details with Nurse Amy. Long story short, the next 8 weeks are really going to suck, and then the following 12 weeks will suck less. The first combo of drugs will cause nausea, hair loss, constipation, fatigue, and a host of other fun side effects. Eating, apparently, will also be a challenge because the chemo makes everything taste different. I was told not to eat anything I like during the first week of each round because I will quickly not like it anymore. Also, no fatty or fried food. Less sugar. Cocktails, though, are allowed on a limited basis. Thank god.
The second drug, which I start in January, doesn't cause nausea. Big step forward there. But because it is administered every week instead of every other week, the fatigue could be the biggest hurdle. It's cumulative, so as I move on, it will wear on me more and more.....especially in the evenings. Luckily for me, one of the best ways to combat fatigue is to exercise. I say luckily because I was afraid I was going to lose all of my fitness during this ordeal. I will probably lose a lot of it, but it's nice to know I'm allowed to push myself a little and that it will actually make me feel better. My wonderful husband has oked the purchase of a cheap treadmill to put in our spare room so I can work out easily at home. Party bonus; it has also inspired him to clean all his stuff out of the spare room. SCORE!
So because my hair will start falling out a week after I start chemo, I decided to cut some of it off. I read that it is less traumatic that way. And that thinning hair is less noticeable when your hair is short. So off it went.
It may be less traumatic to watch short hair fall out, but getting to that point was pretty traumatic in itself. The poor girl at Aveda that got my case didn't know what she was getting herself into. She was pretty new and I asked her to dye my hair blue and cut it all off (it's very short in the back). And on top of that my hair is super thick and pretty wavy.
The poor baby started out by messing up on the blue. The dark blue dye she put in my hair caught onto the blonde highlights I already had and turned them aqua. So I ended up with multi-color hair that looked a bit like a peacock. I actually really like it now, but she was distraught that she had messed up. She called over everyone she could find and tries several different methods of scrubbing my hair to try to get the aqua out. I admit that I cried a little. But then an enlightening thing happened.....
3 hours into my hair appointment I was watching this poor distraught hairdresser beat herself up over messing up the cancer lady's hair and I found myself saying, "Don't worry about it.....it's just hair." And I realized it was true. It's just hair. It's going to fall out. And I'm going to deal with it. And it will come back. I will probably cry when it falls out. But it will be ok.
It will all be ok.
I definitely needed a cocktail after the hair adventure.
I think you should have one, too.
Cocktail pairing: Boulder Beer Shake (because chocolate and beer are a perfect pairing for mental trauma. Yummmm......)
Yesterday was port day! Yay! You may be asking yourself, "What the heck is a port?" I had no idea until just recently. Here is what it looks like:
Just like there's a little alien in there waiting to burst out! Very weird. The port serves as a receptor for the IV of chemo drugs that they'll be putting into me every other week. There is no permanent opening (which is how I thought it worked), so they'll punch through every time. Again, very weird. The catheter attached to it goes straight until one of my arteries so there is no lag time to start killing baddies. So it's lump vs. lump. May the best lump win.
Oh, and did I mention that gave me a free pair of sweet socks with the little grippy dots on the bottom? They're blue. Free stuff rocks.
Chemo starts Monday at 11 so Bryan and I went and did our "chemo teach" the other day. We watched a 45 minute video (complete with a Powerpoint Notes handout) and then went through all the details with Nurse Amy. Long story short, the next 8 weeks are really going to suck, and then the following 12 weeks will suck less. The first combo of drugs will cause nausea, hair loss, constipation, fatigue, and a host of other fun side effects. Eating, apparently, will also be a challenge because the chemo makes everything taste different. I was told not to eat anything I like during the first week of each round because I will quickly not like it anymore. Also, no fatty or fried food. Less sugar. Cocktails, though, are allowed on a limited basis. Thank god.
The second drug, which I start in January, doesn't cause nausea. Big step forward there. But because it is administered every week instead of every other week, the fatigue could be the biggest hurdle. It's cumulative, so as I move on, it will wear on me more and more.....especially in the evenings. Luckily for me, one of the best ways to combat fatigue is to exercise. I say luckily because I was afraid I was going to lose all of my fitness during this ordeal. I will probably lose a lot of it, but it's nice to know I'm allowed to push myself a little and that it will actually make me feel better. My wonderful husband has oked the purchase of a cheap treadmill to put in our spare room so I can work out easily at home. Party bonus; it has also inspired him to clean all his stuff out of the spare room. SCORE!
So because my hair will start falling out a week after I start chemo, I decided to cut some of it off. I read that it is less traumatic that way. And that thinning hair is less noticeable when your hair is short. So off it went.
It may be less traumatic to watch short hair fall out, but getting to that point was pretty traumatic in itself. The poor girl at Aveda that got my case didn't know what she was getting herself into. She was pretty new and I asked her to dye my hair blue and cut it all off (it's very short in the back). And on top of that my hair is super thick and pretty wavy.
The poor baby started out by messing up on the blue. The dark blue dye she put in my hair caught onto the blonde highlights I already had and turned them aqua. So I ended up with multi-color hair that looked a bit like a peacock. I actually really like it now, but she was distraught that she had messed up. She called over everyone she could find and tries several different methods of scrubbing my hair to try to get the aqua out. I admit that I cried a little. But then an enlightening thing happened.....
3 hours into my hair appointment I was watching this poor distraught hairdresser beat herself up over messing up the cancer lady's hair and I found myself saying, "Don't worry about it.....it's just hair." And I realized it was true. It's just hair. It's going to fall out. And I'm going to deal with it. And it will come back. I will probably cry when it falls out. But it will be ok.
It will all be ok.
I definitely needed a cocktail after the hair adventure.
I think you should have one, too.
Cocktail pairing: Boulder Beer Shake (because chocolate and beer are a perfect pairing for mental trauma. Yummmm......)
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Winner Winner Chicken Dinner
Well, the results are back!
(Drum roll please......)
I still have cancer.
And....wait for it.....it's worse than we thought! TA DA!!
I really should just stop having tests done.
Ok, so it's not quite as dramatic as that. It could be a lot worse. But I have been upgraded from Stage II to Stage III. Why is that, you ask? Well, for the answer we go to the results of our friend, the MRI.
I got the MRI to confirm the state of the second lesion that was found by the folks at the Breast Diagnostic Center. (This second lesion, by the way, was totally missed by the folks at the Estes Park Medical Center. Note to self.) However, the MRI confirmed that there actually is no second lesion. It's just one big-ass lesion that you can't see in its entirely on an ultrasound. So.....the lesion is now bigger than 5 cm all together which puts in into the Stage III zone. Yay!
The PET scan turned up a few little goodies, too: a "questionable" spot in my right breast (to be biopsied at a date to be determined soon) and a possible spot in one of the lymph nodes under my breast bone (which should be taken care of by the chemo).
So what does all this mean? Nothing new, really. It just confirms what I was already thinking was going to have to happen.
The PET scan indicated that the lesions are fairly metabolically active, so they should respond to the chemo. There is a chance that the chemo will shrink the main lesion, but probably not enough to have a lumpectomy since the damn thing is now too big to be a space station. The lesion is in two different quadrants of the breast, so that's the magic pathway to a mastectomy. Because there is a possible spot in the right breast, we'll have to wait for the biopsy to see if I'm the grand prize winner of a double mastectomy. Winner winner, chicken dinner.
Just a few more mighty things for me to wrap my head around. They've been coming at me pretty steadily lately. Stage III drops the 5 year relative survival rate from 93% to 72%. Up to this point, I've pretty much been ignoring the survival rate. 72% is still pretty good, but does get me thinking about life just a little bit more. The sunrise this morning, by the way, was fantastic.
All of this also makes the idea of double mastectomy and double reconstruction all that much more real. I'm not afraid of surgery, but this will be a big surgery. I guess a lot of women with breast cancer opt for the double M just for the symmetry of reconstruction. I'll have to think more about that.
So this week is turning out to be a very full week. I have a echocardiogram on Monday. This is meant to get a baseline read on my heart health since there is a very small chance that the chemo can cause heart problems. Monday, though, is also my hair cut day. I'm headed to the hair salon to get my hair chopped shorter to as to prepare for the Great Fall Out. There will probably be some hair dye administered, too. Just sayin....
Tuesday will probably end up being port day. They'll need to put a port in for easy administering of the chemo. I don't think this is a very big deal, but it's something to do.
Wednesday is "Chemo Teach" day where they tell me about all the wonderful procedures and side effects of the chemotherapy. I've been doing a little research on my own, and the Doctor M has enlightened me a little, too. One of the fun decisions Bryan and I got to make the other night was whether or not we wanted to have children. Because that's an easy one to answer, right? Chemo will probably cause infertility and early menopause, so if we want kids we'll have to do some egg harvesting (all these terms are just awesome, huh?). Bryan and I have never really been on the baby train, but it does get a little harder when you realize you don't have the option to change your mind later on.
Chemo will probably start at the end of the week. And there on....
So I'll be in chemo for the next 6 months or so. Which also means that the training schedule for work that I was hoping to invigorate this winter will also have to wait. I've had my personal work goals on the back burner for the last year or so while I babysat the Rocky Mountain National Park Centennial Celebration. Since I won't be able to travel to help out with trainings at other NPS sites, I won't really be able to move forward with my professional goals for probably another year. But apparently I'm not supposed to worry about that. I have cancer. Why should my professional life that I've been working to build for the last 15 years be important to me? (Please note the sarcasm in my virtual voice).
But life is about impermanence. Things are never what we plan. Enjoy the day. It was a beautiful sunrise.
I think I need a cocktail later (maybe a beer for the Broncos game).
I think you should have one, too.
P.S. Hanging out with men who have been drinking beer for 4 hours at a Beer Fest and listening to them try to make me feel better about having breast cancer is possibly the funniest thing (and sweet in a very funny way, too) I have ever heard. Nuff said.
(Drum roll please......)
I still have cancer.
And....wait for it.....it's worse than we thought! TA DA!!
I really should just stop having tests done.
Ok, so it's not quite as dramatic as that. It could be a lot worse. But I have been upgraded from Stage II to Stage III. Why is that, you ask? Well, for the answer we go to the results of our friend, the MRI.
I got the MRI to confirm the state of the second lesion that was found by the folks at the Breast Diagnostic Center. (This second lesion, by the way, was totally missed by the folks at the Estes Park Medical Center. Note to self.) However, the MRI confirmed that there actually is no second lesion. It's just one big-ass lesion that you can't see in its entirely on an ultrasound. So.....the lesion is now bigger than 5 cm all together which puts in into the Stage III zone. Yay!
The PET scan turned up a few little goodies, too: a "questionable" spot in my right breast (to be biopsied at a date to be determined soon) and a possible spot in one of the lymph nodes under my breast bone (which should be taken care of by the chemo).
So what does all this mean? Nothing new, really. It just confirms what I was already thinking was going to have to happen.
The PET scan indicated that the lesions are fairly metabolically active, so they should respond to the chemo. There is a chance that the chemo will shrink the main lesion, but probably not enough to have a lumpectomy since the damn thing is now too big to be a space station. The lesion is in two different quadrants of the breast, so that's the magic pathway to a mastectomy. Because there is a possible spot in the right breast, we'll have to wait for the biopsy to see if I'm the grand prize winner of a double mastectomy. Winner winner, chicken dinner.
Just a few more mighty things for me to wrap my head around. They've been coming at me pretty steadily lately. Stage III drops the 5 year relative survival rate from 93% to 72%. Up to this point, I've pretty much been ignoring the survival rate. 72% is still pretty good, but does get me thinking about life just a little bit more. The sunrise this morning, by the way, was fantastic.
All of this also makes the idea of double mastectomy and double reconstruction all that much more real. I'm not afraid of surgery, but this will be a big surgery. I guess a lot of women with breast cancer opt for the double M just for the symmetry of reconstruction. I'll have to think more about that.
So this week is turning out to be a very full week. I have a echocardiogram on Monday. This is meant to get a baseline read on my heart health since there is a very small chance that the chemo can cause heart problems. Monday, though, is also my hair cut day. I'm headed to the hair salon to get my hair chopped shorter to as to prepare for the Great Fall Out. There will probably be some hair dye administered, too. Just sayin....
Tuesday will probably end up being port day. They'll need to put a port in for easy administering of the chemo. I don't think this is a very big deal, but it's something to do.
Wednesday is "Chemo Teach" day where they tell me about all the wonderful procedures and side effects of the chemotherapy. I've been doing a little research on my own, and the Doctor M has enlightened me a little, too. One of the fun decisions Bryan and I got to make the other night was whether or not we wanted to have children. Because that's an easy one to answer, right? Chemo will probably cause infertility and early menopause, so if we want kids we'll have to do some egg harvesting (all these terms are just awesome, huh?). Bryan and I have never really been on the baby train, but it does get a little harder when you realize you don't have the option to change your mind later on.
Chemo will probably start at the end of the week. And there on....
So I'll be in chemo for the next 6 months or so. Which also means that the training schedule for work that I was hoping to invigorate this winter will also have to wait. I've had my personal work goals on the back burner for the last year or so while I babysat the Rocky Mountain National Park Centennial Celebration. Since I won't be able to travel to help out with trainings at other NPS sites, I won't really be able to move forward with my professional goals for probably another year. But apparently I'm not supposed to worry about that. I have cancer. Why should my professional life that I've been working to build for the last 15 years be important to me? (Please note the sarcasm in my virtual voice).
But life is about impermanence. Things are never what we plan. Enjoy the day. It was a beautiful sunrise.
I think I need a cocktail later (maybe a beer for the Broncos game).
I think you should have one, too.
P.S. Hanging out with men who have been drinking beer for 4 hours at a Beer Fest and listening to them try to make me feel better about having breast cancer is possibly the funniest thing (and sweet in a very funny way, too) I have ever heard. Nuff said.
Friday, October 30, 2015
Musings From a Big Metal Tube
Waiting rooms are the worst.
Most of the time I can distract myself from the reality of my situation by staying busy thinking about planning and schedules and supplies I'll need for the next 6 months of fun. However, when I'm sitting in a waiting room, all I can think about is what I'm there for.
And waiting for tests is even worse.
Yesterday I had a PET scan. I've never had any kind of scan except an x-ray, so this whole process was pretty new to me. For a PET scan they inject you with a radioactive tracer that then flows through your body and gets soaked up by your cells. Cancer cells apparently soak up more of this tracer because they are hungry, so when they do the scan cancer cells anywhere in your body show up as brighter or "hotter" areas on the image. (Yup, that means my boobs are hot!) This is probably one of the few times in my life where I'm hoping that no one thinks any other parts of my body are hot.
Did I mention that the radioactive tracer they injected me with came in a big, industrial metal syringe? And that after he injected me the tech told me not to hug anyone or pet any puppies for a couple hours? Awesome.
I then sat in a waiting room alone for an hour waiting for my cells to gobble up the radioactive goodies flowing through me. In the waiting room I was assaulted by the Today Show's Breast Cancer Awareness week festivities. People wearing pink running around obstacle courses or sitting in dunking booths all cavorting for the good cause of "Breast Cancer Awareness". They interviewed a smiling lady who had hit it big on social media when her daughter gave her a pink mohawk in support of her upcoming double mastectomy.
Needless to say, I cried.
Then I laid in a big metal tube for 45 minutes as they tried to hunt down additional cancer cells. Those big metal tubes give you good thinking time, I guess. Although, as I mentioned, I've been trying not to do a lot of independent thinking lately.
What I came up with was surprising even to me. I was thinking about impermanence. Buddhism teaches that all existence is transient, or in a constant state of flux. The Buddha also teaches that all conditioned phenomena are impermanent, and that any attachment to them becomes a cause of future suffering. In most parts of my life I whole-heartedly embrace change and impermanence. It seems, though, when I think about my self-image and my future life, I'm really scared of change. I had a whole plan of how things were going to be that I had become attached to, and now that I'm losing that plan, I am suffering. So, if I were to have coffee with the Buddha, he would probably say to me to let go and embrace impermanence. It might make me happier. That is, to let go of the tangible things I am attached to and embrace the intangible things that are really important - health, love, friendship. Deep, huh? Guess I'll try to make a go of it. Hopefully it wasn't just the radioactivity bringing me clarity.
Today I sat in a waiting room again. MRI this time. But no Today Show thankfully. Again, I cried a little, although I'm not sure why. I think embracing impermanence takes a little time. The whole cancer thing does make you feel pretty alone, too. Even though I have the most amazing group of supportive friends and family, its really just me dealing with the whole impermanence thing. I guess that's just part of it.
The MRI was a little different than the PET scan. I had to lie face down this time with my face in a little donut pillow while the machine clicked and thumped all around me. I tried to pretend I was just getting a massage. It didn't work.
This time I didn't have any deep thoughts. I just thought about the retail therapy I was going to do afterwards. Retail therapy at Target always makes me feel better. I guess that's something that doens't change.
When I get home I think I'll have a cocktail.
I think you should have one, too.
Cocktail pairing: Chai liqueur and irish cream in a hot cup of coffee.
Most of the time I can distract myself from the reality of my situation by staying busy thinking about planning and schedules and supplies I'll need for the next 6 months of fun. However, when I'm sitting in a waiting room, all I can think about is what I'm there for.
And waiting for tests is even worse.
Yesterday I had a PET scan. I've never had any kind of scan except an x-ray, so this whole process was pretty new to me. For a PET scan they inject you with a radioactive tracer that then flows through your body and gets soaked up by your cells. Cancer cells apparently soak up more of this tracer because they are hungry, so when they do the scan cancer cells anywhere in your body show up as brighter or "hotter" areas on the image. (Yup, that means my boobs are hot!) This is probably one of the few times in my life where I'm hoping that no one thinks any other parts of my body are hot.
Did I mention that the radioactive tracer they injected me with came in a big, industrial metal syringe? And that after he injected me the tech told me not to hug anyone or pet any puppies for a couple hours? Awesome.
I then sat in a waiting room alone for an hour waiting for my cells to gobble up the radioactive goodies flowing through me. In the waiting room I was assaulted by the Today Show's Breast Cancer Awareness week festivities. People wearing pink running around obstacle courses or sitting in dunking booths all cavorting for the good cause of "Breast Cancer Awareness". They interviewed a smiling lady who had hit it big on social media when her daughter gave her a pink mohawk in support of her upcoming double mastectomy.
Needless to say, I cried.
Then I laid in a big metal tube for 45 minutes as they tried to hunt down additional cancer cells. Those big metal tubes give you good thinking time, I guess. Although, as I mentioned, I've been trying not to do a lot of independent thinking lately.
What I came up with was surprising even to me. I was thinking about impermanence. Buddhism teaches that all existence is transient, or in a constant state of flux. The Buddha also teaches that all conditioned phenomena are impermanent, and that any attachment to them becomes a cause of future suffering. In most parts of my life I whole-heartedly embrace change and impermanence. It seems, though, when I think about my self-image and my future life, I'm really scared of change. I had a whole plan of how things were going to be that I had become attached to, and now that I'm losing that plan, I am suffering. So, if I were to have coffee with the Buddha, he would probably say to me to let go and embrace impermanence. It might make me happier. That is, to let go of the tangible things I am attached to and embrace the intangible things that are really important - health, love, friendship. Deep, huh? Guess I'll try to make a go of it. Hopefully it wasn't just the radioactivity bringing me clarity.
Today I sat in a waiting room again. MRI this time. But no Today Show thankfully. Again, I cried a little, although I'm not sure why. I think embracing impermanence takes a little time. The whole cancer thing does make you feel pretty alone, too. Even though I have the most amazing group of supportive friends and family, its really just me dealing with the whole impermanence thing. I guess that's just part of it.
The MRI was a little different than the PET scan. I had to lie face down this time with my face in a little donut pillow while the machine clicked and thumped all around me. I tried to pretend I was just getting a massage. It didn't work.
This time I didn't have any deep thoughts. I just thought about the retail therapy I was going to do afterwards. Retail therapy at Target always makes me feel better. I guess that's something that doens't change.
When I get home I think I'll have a cocktail.
I think you should have one, too.
Cocktail pairing: Chai liqueur and irish cream in a hot cup of coffee.
Monday, October 26, 2015
Big Day
So the good news is......I don't have any cavities.
Apparently once you're undergoing chemotherapy it is dangerous to have dental work done - something about bacteria being released into the blood stream. So I went to the dentist this morning. I haven't been to the dentist in 3 years, so I think I might have been almost as nervous about impending dental work as I was about the cancer appointment.
But, as I said, no cavities!!! :)
The dentist was surprised at the amount of teeth grinding I've been doing. He has no idea.
So the bad news is.......I still have cancer.
Some little tiny bit of me thought I might walk into the surgeon's office today and he would say, "Oh, sorry pretty lady, we read the results wrong. You're perfectly fine!"
Alas, no.
Not only do I still have cancer, but I actually have more than I thought. Yay!
So here's the scoop:
Removal of the big main lump might not necessitate a mastectomy. However, there is a second lesion further back that can not be felt that may or may not be cancer.
If the second lesion is not cancer, I might get away with a lumpectomy. If this is the case, doing chemo first might shrink the main tumor to make a lumpectomy less bad and would take care of the cancer in my lymph nodes.
However, if the second lesion is cancer then it doesn't matter. The whole thing must go. Doing chemo first will still probably cut down on the chances of the surgeon having to remove lots of lymph nodes (which is a bad thing).
All of this depends on the MRI that I get on Friday that will tell me if the second lesion is cancer. I will also be getting a PET scan on Thursday to make sure our extroverted cancer has not been making friends with other parts of my body.
So........probably will be doing chemo first starting in a few weeks. That lasts for about 6 months. Then I'll have whatever surgery is warranted. Also sometime in the next few weeks I will have some genetic testing to see if I have the BRCA1 or BRCA2 mutation. If I do then I will probably end up with a double mastectomy.
So many options! It's like Let's Make A Deal except I don't get to pick the door.
I took all of this in relatively well today, and actually almost made it out of the office without crying, until I was told that Blue Cross Blue Shield doesn't automatically cover MRIs and that I wouldn't know if I would have to pay $4000 out of pocket until after the procedure was already done. Crazy, right? Who says we don't need health reform?!?!
Luckily, the folks in the surgeon's office are excellent and were not phased by my awkward sniffling. They figured things out for me and we made it out into the parking lot before I totally lost it.
We then proceeded to go get our flu shots so I don't come down with the flu while I have a compromised immune system.
Dentist, surgeon, flu shot.
Big day.
Next steps? Meet with the Oncologist tomorrow to confirm when chemo will start.
Hopefully it falls in line with our trip to Hawaii that is coming up in a few weeks......of course that means no snorkeling and no diving for me while we're there. Guess I'll have to come up with something else to do. Stand up paddleboarding? Parasailing? Who knows......
I think I need a cocktail. I think you should have one, too.
Cocktail pairing: Cupcake Petite Sirah.
Sunday, October 25, 2015
A Very Strange Week
It’s been a very strange
week.
On Sunday I ran my first
marathon. It hurt like hell, it took longer than I thought it would, and it
felt REALLY good when I was done. I felt strong. I felt powerful. And I felt
relieved that I had checked off yet another big event on my life list.
The following day I
found myself lying half naked on an ultrasound table at the Breast Diagnostic
Center in Fort Collins hearing the doctor say, “I am quite concerned that this
is a breast cancer.”
A month earlier, on the morning
of the last event of my hugely stressful multi-year project that I was really
glad was finally coming to an end.......I had found a lump in my left boob. It
scared the shit out of me because I knew something was not right. The husband
concurred when I showed him by saying, "That's not good."
I didn't even know where
to go to get a doctor to look at it. I'm 39 and healthy. I just ran a fucking
marathon, for Pete's sake. I don't have a doctor because I don’t need a doctor. Thank god for
cooler heads than mine that gave me a phone number and told me where to go.
So I went to the first doctor.
He felt my lump, quoted me the very low odds of it being cancer considering my
age, health, and medical history, and ordered me a mammogram and an ultrasound.
Then he told me not to drink caffeine in case it was a cyst. Apparently
caffeine makes cysts cranky. Of course this was right after I had downed a
Starbucks Mocha Caffeine Power Bomb.
I should have known this
was a sign of things to come.
I got the mammogram and
the ultrasound and listened to the second doctor (a surgeon this time) tell me
that he didn’t know what it was, but it probably wasn’t cancer. He asked if I
had experienced any physical trauma to my boob lately (really?!?) and told me he thought it
was fat necrosis (which occurs, apparently, after your boob gets whacked by
something). To my knowledge I had not been punched in the boob any time
recently and told him so. He sent me to get an ultrasound guided biopsy.
So that brings me back
to this week.
On Wednesday, I got the
call.
I have breast cancer.
Stage II. It has spread to at least one lymph node in my armpit.
Shit.
I told my boss, a few
people at work, and my parents. Husband told his boss. And I’m already over the
telling people thing.
Breast cancer has become
both a big thing and a normal thing in our society. We see the pink ribbons
everywhere. Professional football players wear pink shoes and pink gloves.
Events screaming “CURE” and “SURVIVOR” in swirly pink letters abound.
I never even thought
twice about it.
Did you know that 1 in 8
women will get breast cancer? I didn’t. And I certainly didn’t think it would
be me. But there you go. I guess no one does.
So now it’s been a few days since I got the news. It’s been an emotional roller coaster as I have come
to accept all of the many horrible things that I’m going to have to go through
in the next year and I’ve rotated through several different stages of
emotional craziness:
#1 – Grief. General
sadness. Uncontrollable crying. An out-of-body feeling that this really isn’t
happening.
#2 – Denial. I actually
said, “This is no big deal. It’s just another thing to get over.” A good sentiment to be sure, but maybe doesn't take into account all the things that are really lying in wait.
#3 – Fear. After almost
40 years, I have just gotten to the place where I am ok with my body. I actually
enjoy wearing a bikini, and have just recently lost enough weight to feel
comfortable in my own skin. The fear that I am going to go back to hating how I
look again for the rest of my life is overwhelming.
#4 - Anger. I am angry
that this is happening to me. I just got over a big stressful year. I have only
been married 2 years and my husband was just getting used to me not being crazy.
I am angry that he is now going to have to go through this, and that we, as a
couple, now have to go through this. And I am angry that this is going to
change everything.
And then I started doing all the internet research. Don't worry, the oncology nurse told me which sites to trust. The research has helped me come to the epiphany that while this cancer will probably not kill
me, it is going to suck. Big time.
Here is some of the research I have found that does not make me happy:
- I may lose a boob. I don’t have big boobs to begin with, but I’m pretty happy with mine, and while I wouldn’t say that I focus a lot of who I am on the presence of my boobs, I’m a pretty big fan of symmetry.
- If they take my boob and I choose to get reconstructive surgery, the most common place to take skin/muscle/etc from is your abdomen. I am very proud of my flat stomach. So now not only may I have one boob, I may lose my abs and have a poochy stomach. The body image thing just keeps getting better.
- Chemo is going to make me gain weight. I can’t even get a disease that makes me lose weight. Body image. Again.
- My hair is going to fall out. I love my hair. I guess the good side is that this gives me an excuse to try out a fun cut and color. I’ve always wanted to go Alias Red.
- My eyebrows may fall out. What?!?!
- My eyelashes may fall out. Double what?!?
- Even if my eyelashes don’t fall out, I cannot wear mascara. I have worn mascara since I was 18. I don’t go out in public without mascara, and now I’m going to have to go out in public with no hair, no eyebrows, one boob, poochy stomach, and NO MASCARA! Shit. Shit. Shit.
· Some things I have decided that do make me happy:
- If my hair is going to fall out, at least its winter. There are fun animal hats with ears that I can wear in winter. Maybe I'll get a penguin hat. Or a lion. So many choices.
- Scars don't really bother me, so I'm not really worried about the scars. But I CAN get a sweet ass tattoo to cover up my boob scars. Turn a thing of asymmetry into a thing a beauty. I actually really like this idea.
These things may all seem very shallow. They kind of do to me now that I read them back, but right now that's the only thing that's real to me. The medical part of things is out of my hands. I have a pretty good survival rate, so I'm not worried about dying. What I am worried about is my quality of life after its all over. That part is very real to me.
So anyway, that's where I am right now. It's been a very strange week. I'll probably continue to bounce back and forth between ok and not ok like a yo-yo for awhile as I try to work all this out. I heard someone say this week that Buddhist teachings tell us that life is about transition, so I'm trying to prepare myself for this transition. Be prepared.
So anyway, that's where I am right now. It's been a very strange week. I'll probably continue to bounce back and forth between ok and not ok like a yo-yo for awhile as I try to work all this out. I heard someone say this week that Buddhist teachings tell us that life is about transition, so I'm trying to prepare myself for this transition. Be prepared.
Tomorrow I go to the surgeon to find out what is really going on, how bad things really are, and what the plan will be.
I
need a cocktail. I think you should have one, too.
Cocktail pairing: A straight shot of something strong followed by a smooth Ad Astra Amber.
Cocktail pairing: A straight shot of something strong followed by a smooth Ad Astra Amber.
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