Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Grandma Gwyneth

The hot flashes have begun. I had them when I was pregnant, but it was a growing uterus and not one putting up a closed for business sign that was to blame. Either way it's a hormonal shift, but this one makes me feel a tad prematurely aged.

So like my secret girlcrush and snob extraordinaire Gwyneth, I've enlisted the help of Tracy Anderson to make me feel more 38 than 58. I worked out this morning, in my home no less, for the first time in years and will no doubt have a big pain in the arse (and abs, and arms, and calves) to show for it tomorrow. Perhaps not wise to begin this course of action a mere three days before round four, but it's the first time I've felt up and at 'em enough to get moving in any way beyond a long walk or bike ride.

So while my ladybits shut down (forever? for now?) I will recapture my yute in other ways - with arms like Madonna to punch the c-word in the other c-word.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Work it, girl

I've been meaning to write a post about work for a long time, but my thoughts come in spurts rather than wholly formed sentences and for a writer, that's just plain annoying.

I had lunch with three rockin' colleagues from work yesterday and it was lovely. They gave good talk, good laughs, and bestowed me with the kind of open-armed generosity that gets me all choked up later (cuz I'm Italian) but lets me be all stoic in person (cuz I'm also Irish and Danny Boy wasn't playing in the background). When I'm in my rocker watching reruns of Murder She Wrote, I'll never forget the awesomeness of the people I work with. It makes me speechless.

Leaving my job so suddenly in June was hard for me and I continue to think about the stuff I did and still want to do that gave me pride, the opportunity to connect with peeps across the country and still live in the city I love with the people I love. There's really no other place like it. What I let myself do b.c. (before cancer), though, was tip the scale way too far in the work direction while forgetting how to do the things in my personal life that let me feel a sense of patience, quietness, friendship, love, freedom and ultimately health.

And let me be clear. I let this happen and I'm by freakin' far not the only sap who does this on a daily basis. Shite, man, we all do to some extent, and I let that extent be maximized instead of under my control. Did I ignore the signs because I didn't prioritize them? Um, yes. Am I bonehead for doing that? Doublemint yes. But a big part of that idiot died on the day of my diagnosis.

I am in the infancy of trying to figure out what kind of person will come back to work when the time comes. And I'm a zygote when it comes to figuring out what work in general will mean for me in the bigger picture, post-cancer, and how I want to contribute to this world and still pay my bills.

This shite has made me question everything, but one thing I'm sure of as I look forward to another meet up with colleagues on Saturday? That in my kindest of writing moments I could not have made up the giant orb of support I get every day from work. It's baffling and wonderful and deserves a giant breakdance of love.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

I'm okay, you're okay

I read somewhere, just after my diagnosis, that one day soon I'll wake up and not have the c-dawg as my first thought of the day. It's true, it does happen. Not every day, but I've chalked up enough clear-headed wakeups, noontimes, evenings and nights that I now have these mini moments of panic where I think, am I taking this jerk seriously enough?

At chemo, kicking back with a mag, some saltines and my iPhone, the distraction is momentary. I need only look around me, at the other bald heads in various stages of the disease to see it doesn't fuck around. I get big doses at medical appointments and blood draws, where I get this focused medical attention that makes me feel simultaneously loved and otherworldly. I have this rockin' library now that I can only devour in small bites because... well, because it makes me feel like I have cancer. I get a solid week every three weeks of feeling like ass and wondering if I'll ever enjoy another glass of wine, a banana, a good tooth-brushing, a solid sleep, a bloody steak again. And my family, who is so used to my lack of hair and having me around more often that it's almost one big normal scene now.

And then I read about the husband of the MP who suddenly discovered a football-sized tumour in his gut and is hoping beyond hope that a recent bone marrow transplant will prolong his life. I hear about the wife of a celeb who got cancer three years ago and finally "succumbed", as if to an ever-present temptation of death. I discover stories upon stories of men and women who get the aggressive kick of cancer, like me, and chemo doesn't work. And I panic.

I get so caught up in trying to live a normal life and not making everyone worry about the "what ifs" that I forget that this could all turn to horseshite in an instant, in so many ways. Should I be praying to Saint Philomena every night? Should I be doing something to remind myself daily that this ain't no ordinary life? It's exhausting to even think about, on top of my obsessions with food, cosmetics, exercise, work, money and Mad Men.

I'm thinking I'll go with my gut on this, because damn, September 3 and the last of my effing brutal nausea-inducing chemos is creeping up quickly and I'd like to enjoy a glass of vino before then.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Parabens for the twins

I've been mulling over the paraben phenom for a few years now, but until I was diagnosed I hadn't committed my brain to anything organic, for my underarms or any other body bits. Now I'm getting all worked up.

Parabens are an oft-used preservative in all the cheap and expensive things that make us smell and look good. There have been a billion tests that prove parabens show up in breast tumours, which may mean nothing but the fact that the buggers leak through our pores and get under our skin. The freaky thing is, they've also been proven to mimic estrogen, which means if you already have cancer cells in your body (which many of us do), they could prove handy little fertilizer.

So a girl finds out she's got a couple of cancer eggs taking up residence in her breast, which happen to be estrogen-receptive, and the first thing to go into the garbage is the Dove pit stick with the lovely grapefruit smell. It's been trial and stinky error finding a good natural replacement, but I did me some research, I did, and found out that Avalon Organics deodorant spray was tops and selling out all over the U.S of A.
You'd think being in former hippie-ville would guarantee me access to some of the junk, but alas, Avalon everywhere and none of the spray gold. Fortunately, my dear cousin was down in the States recently and brought me back a couple of bottles of the stuff and it's indeed fabulous. The thing is... I actually think the chemo has killed (temporarily?) my sweat glands. Either the stuff is so good I'm flying to Avalonville to become a robot spokesperson or stinky pit sweat is taking a hiatus along with my hair follicles. Strange indeed, but can't complain.

The next thing, of course, is to unload the rest of my paraben-laden products, which does pain my cheap little heart a tad. The handsoap and hand lotion are in the middle of transitioning to Avalon. The dishsoap is all Method all the time. The body lotion is Korres (thank you, Sephora). The bald head moisturizer (oh yes, I do have some) and kids' body wash is Kiss My Face. But that merely scratches the surface of this committed product hog's cupboards.

If you have any recommendations, let me know, otherwise I'll keep trolling the intertubes for paraben-blasting products that don't leave me smelling like the Victoria hippie I'm slowly turning into.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

What not to say

Since being diagnosed, I've received some fucking amazing phonecalls, emails, visits and general lovely support from family and out-of-the-past friends, colleagues and casual acquaintances. Almost everyone says nice things, even when they don't really know what to say, but I've also had a few doozies over the past two months. My top three:

"Oh wow. I had an aunt/cousin/mother/wife who died from breast cancer..." Apparently, this one isn't an obvious no-go, cuz I've gotten it more than a few times.

"Really? Gosh, I hope I don't have it." A touching, vaguely viral-feeling variation on the "it's all about me" syndrome.

"Your mom looks weird." Okay, technically this was something I overheard from a five-year old kid in Stella's summer camp, but believe you me, this little punk was talking himself into a good pummeling on the top field at 3 o'clock. Instead, Stella just replied, "she's not weird, she just has cancer." S'my girl.

So, continue to ask questions about cancer, don't ask questions about cancer, talk about the weather, the latest shite-looking rom-com from Drew Barrymore, the breakthrough angiogenesis research you've been poring over, your blisters, my wigged out self, your wigged out self, but don't ask me how long I've been given or who I'm leaving my dog to when I kick off. Capiche?

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Waiting for humpday

By this point last time I think I was getting ready to scarf some Triple O and make haste with the lingering nausea of round two. This time around I may have dabbled in BLTs on day two, but the edge of varminting is as close today as it was several days ago, if not worse.

I have the girls this week, and I really shouldn't complain. It's the only solid post-chemo week that I'll have them to myself, but fuck, I wish I could do stuff with them without feeling like a hurl is just around the corner. They've been pretty great so far - minus a handful of inexplicable meltdowns from Stella that are rocking the neighbourhood - but my itinerary isn't exactly inspiring. We get out. We bake. We bead. We clean. We walk. No dear diary stuff here. But the fact that I refuse to take any more anti-nauseants makes it all so tenuous.

Stella is across the street right now, playing with her friend. Frances is having a blessed nap. And I'm downing fibre, fruit and water before I collapse in front of a bag of Hickory Sticks to give into the one shred of food craving I've been able to muster. No sign of hunger yet for this round. Eating to stave off the blowtorch taste in my mouth and be social with my girls. And if anyone mentions round four coming up in two weeks, I will likely load my close-range slingslot. Be warned.

Monday, August 16, 2010

The connection

Part of this whole cancer mess comes with the oft-asked question "anyone else in your family have it?" Yeah, you could say that.

My dad's mom died of breast cancer after barely finishing raising a huge brood of kids. My mom had breast cancer less than five years ago and it was discovered only because of other medical issues hitting her over the head that would no longer be ignored. It was whipped out of her quickly with a lumpectomy and radiation but she continues to deal, first with a bout further south and now with ongoing hormone therapy. There's my dad and his incorrigible Irish skin and various touch-ups from the dermatologist. There's my brother and his wily digestive tract with pre-cancerous hoo-ha. I had a very minor tussle myself with some pre-cancerous partygoers before Stella came along, but I had those babies smoked out.

Then there's my mom's mom. She died of brain cancer when I was eight. It's not something I like to think or talk about much, lo 30 years after the fact. She died in the room next to mine while I was at school with my cousins. I have memories of headscarves, a weakening bladder, her fear of a car wash once, increasing episodes of tears and frustration from a woman I otherwise never saw cry.

In the middle of one night, closer to the end, she was calling my mom's name over and over again until I finally roused myself to plod down the hall to see what she needed.

"Irene, I have to use the bathroom," she said when she saw me. I was more than a little freaked out that she didn't recognize me, but marched over to my parents bedroom to get the right relative.

I'm glad I was at school when she died, but for several nights I had visions of her at the end of my bed, in her headscarf, coughing her cancer cough.

It's the thing that terrifies me now in my quiet moments when I really get a look at my bald head or think of what the end looks like. She was in her 60s, also far too young to get the hell out of here.

So yes, cancer does pop up in a few other places in my family, thank you very much.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Sunday of love: part trois

I'm going to have to pull something outta my arse for this Sunday's love list. I feel like shite, it's 150 degrees in my living room, and the peach I just cut up is a poor imitation of the bounty I left behind in the Okanagan last weekend. Here goes nothing.

1. My parents. Let's start this off sucky, shall we? My mom and dad earn the top spot every day, but let's make it official and say a huge thank you for taking on Stella and Frances on another dual over-nighter when they've had a houseful of guests for a month and a particularly busy Friday and Saturday. You let me enjoy my Gravol-induced sleep and I owe you and love you more than you know.

2. Iced tea. It saves my parched gullet when water tastes like garbage and makes me somehow forget it's mostly sugar.

3. My iPhone. Trite, to be sure, but I have TG and KS to thank a million for the gifting and activating, and Apple for making it awesome enough to allow me to escape during the 60-minute injection extravaganzas every three weeks.

4. Christopher Nolan. I escaped the heat o' the house last night with my man for a couple of hours to catch Inception. Groovy flick, and a reminder how much I loved Memento and the last Batman for messing with my mind.

5. Tilda Swinton. She calls her own shots, no? A bit of lovely amongst the beige, platform-heeled starlets and I'm so looking forward to seeing I am Love.

Ok. So pulled a few out. Now let me be while I spray my face with water and shove it in front of the fan.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Harder, better, faster, stronger

Round three soon to be fully under my belt, with a difference this time. I was reading up on "fixing" blood test results before last Thursday's poke and downed a gigantic glass of water, a huge mug of green tea and about two cups of green and carrot juices mixed together. Perhaps all a bit coincidence, but my neutrophils (type of white blood cell that figures prominently in your immune system) ended up being a normal person's level when they shouldn't have been.

So Nurse Jane was happy with me and she jacked up my processing time to 30 minutes from 60 for the second half of my cocktail on Friday. She neglected to tell me, but was observing my sniffling and nose-blowing toward the end - a sign of the speedy injection.

"I like to get 'em in and get 'em out," she said. Indeed.

Yesterday afternoon I flopped on the bed, the coolest room in the house, and dozed on and off until Pete brought me some homemade chicken broth. The worst was again between about 4 and 9 pm but no varminting. So again, bravo, Emend. I dozed on the couch for a bit and then downed some more anti-nauseants and rolled back into back for a pretty great sleep.

This morning I still felt off, but managed a handful of dry cereal and a peach. Around lunch time I craved the ever-loving pickles and bacon again so Pete took me on a drive and we ended up at Spinnakers. Great pub. Awesome BLT. Pickles by request. Ate the whole damn thing, which could not have happened on day two of round one or two. Again, do I thank the neutrophils?

I have this image of some 1980s video game playing in my breast - asteroids or space invaders. I tell ya. My skin is clearer than it's ever been. My armpits are smoother than a baby's. And despite it all, I'm still growing a bit of hair on my legs, my eyebrows are still clinging and I'm still ovulating to boot. The simultaneously random and specific destruction is endlessly interesting to me, but I'll be damn happy when I move past round four and onto the less sickly-feeling rounds five to eight.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

I'll have a breast and a thigh

Yesterday was confusing, thought-provoking and more than a little monster movie-like.
I met first with Doogie Howser, my new cosmetic surgeon. I swear I have less and less a need for the niceties before I strip to my skivvies to give us all a good look at my loot. Dr. T was young and fresh, not at all what I expected from the premier boob man in the city, but there you have it.

He had his assistant take glamour shots of my chestal area (head not included) and take some measurements for his Carissa file and then he poked around himself, checking out my gut and butt to see how much flesh there was to fashion a new set. He chastised me briefly for having ample decolletage without the accompanying ample booty and showed Pete and me endless photos of pre-, post-, and (oops, flip past these horrific ones quickly) a few during-op women with huge scars on their tummies, various frankenboobs and a few implants. All curiously missing nipples.

Pete was a bit more traumatized than me - he said it was like lifting up someone's sunglasses and not seeing any eyes. I thought it looked like someone had censored out the good bits, and I was curious about the process to create the headlights. Apparently they gather up some flesh (by hand? special nipple crimping tool?) and then tattoo the area around it.

"Much more civilized," Dr. T proclaimed. "They used to take skin from the labia to make it look natural."

Seriously.

The short of it was that I went in there with one decision in my brain (bi-lateral mastectomy - so both gone - and simultaneous reconstruction from my own flesh) and left with a different one (single mastectomy and simultaneous reduction on the other side with reconstruction on the left later from an implant).

Anyway, turns out I don't have enough extra flesh to create any boobies of substance and the flesh of my flesh option can equal an eight-hour surgery and at least six weeks of recovery. Ouch. Before my body was compromised by chemo I might have considered the long surgery, but something about getting cancer makes me now consider things like relatively small percentages (complications in this case) rather more seriously. With the implant option, surgery may take only one or two hours and recovery is much shorter.

Do I really need both removed and recreated right away? What's so bad about implants? Which decision will make me feel less like offing myself in the recovery room post op?

My confusion was confounded at my oncologist appointment later the same morning when I learned that the chance of getting ductal carcinoma in my other breast is in the single digits. So removing both now seems extreme, but fuck, man, cancer is extreme, no?

The rest of the oncologist appointment went well. The stand-in doc was pleased that I had already noticed one lump getting smaller. The efficacy of these blasted chemo treatments will determine whether radiation or surgery must follow. Not enough shrinkage=radiation before surgery.

I haven't fully made up my mind yet, but guaranteed I'll be obsessing over my potential new set for the next several months.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Frankenboob

Tomorrow morning I have an oncologist appointment to get felt up, measured, analyzed, to see if the killer drugs are killing the right cells as well as the wrong ones. I can already feel one tumour getting noticeably smaller, so that makes me feel like the full-body Nair (sans Nair) treatment I've been getting is paying off.

And just before my onc appt. I have my first consultation with a plastic surgeon. Even though my surgery won't be until December or January, my surgeon wanted me to meet with the breast man early so I could... pick out the boobies I want? Not sure, but looking forward to whatever it is he'll want to chat about because it reminds me that I will eventually get to that stage, even as I dread round three on Friday.

Last week in Osoyoos I was checking out the ladies by the pool like a 14-year old boy. Do I want tiny Kate Hudson ones that I can bounce around, go bra-less, sleep on my stomach with?

Do I want Jennifer Aniston ones that I still fit into an off-the-rack bikini, shove into a tight dress, alert the coast guard that I'm coming to shore with? Or do I want the the C-cups of my late teens, when I could use them to distract boys from the fact that I was really a cold-hearted lass not worth tangling with? Oh, my yute.

Not quite sure yet, but whatever I end up with, they'll have to do some mighty good shaping and moulding to get them looking more human and less frankenboob. I have my doubts.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Sunday of love: part deux

This week is hurtling me toward round three on Friday, just when I'm feeling good enough to drink a beer and enjoy chocolate again. Drats. Another Sunday love-in is in order.

1. My family. Yes there are some messed up Ital-Irish tendencies in there that only a double dose of the Pope could cure, but there is no better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than doing absolutely nothing with my kin.

2. A Year in Provence. I know, I'm late to this book, but damn it was good. And sometimes it takes a little of the C-dawg to get a chance to think about all the tomes on one's almost forgotten list.

3. Pete's sense of direction. If it were up to my personal compass skills, we'd still be driving around Osoyoos looking for the on-ramp home. And yet, strangely, Pete's autistic-like talents in this area went through some kind of kryptonite reversal whilst in Vegas and I somehow led us around in that bizarro town. Go figure.

4. BC Ferries beef barley soup. The kitchen that gives all mortal humans acute diarrhea somehow produces the best galldarnit beef barley soup concoction this side of the Mississippi.

5. Driving through the University to get home. Students bustling about with ratty backpacks, 1970s maze-like buildings, some of the best drinking years of my life, bunnies.

A lovely week of holiday-making behind me, no bacterial infection in sight, a fridge stocked with immune-boosters. I'm as ready as I'll ever be to swim through the next four days of freedom.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Sunday of love

I have a bit of a rep for being cranky over grateful, so I figured, hey - what better time to turn that frown upside down than when I'm sailing the cancer ship around the world?

So I decided to turn Sunday nights into a "what I love" kinda moment. Starting today with my first top five list.

1. Bill Murray. Seriously. After a double bill weekend of Lost in Translation and Groundhog Day, this adorable and strange man is on my freebie five list to stay.

2. Naps. I learned from the best, y'all, and my Dad is tops at "resting his eyes." The Irish are notoriously great at napping and for actually feeling refreshed after (you Italians and English know what I mean when I say you go too deep).

3. Planning a trip. The build up is always better than the actual, and damn it's been fun gathering the hickory sticks, extra underwear and trashy books for our trip to Osoyoos on Tuesday.

4. Etsy. I'm a bit of a latecomer to this site, but when I dialed it up on the intertubes a few months back, I discovered a new time sucker and a great way to figure out what all the hippies in Victoria are up to.

5. Roast chicken. I like the basic lemon and garlic type and a high temp and no one does it better than my man. Even though I'm cutting way back on the animal flesh, eating this bird on a Sunday night makes me feel like everything has got to be okay.

Okay, darlings, I do feel better now, so maybe this grateful schtick has something to it.

Eating my way through cancer

I'm getting closer to figuring out what to eat. There is a shitload of info on diet, exercise, outlook, religion, yada, and I can only wade through a bit at a time before I get to mired in the "shit, I have cancer" moments (yes, they still come).

I found a fabulous book (well, fabulous so far) called "What to eat if you have cancer." It's by a couple of American nutritionists who are able to take most of what I've been dissecting so far (angiogenesis, acid vs. alkaline, veganism, supplements, etc., etc.) and put it together in a rational way with a healthy bunch of chapters on what your cells are doing when they fuck up and form tumours. It's actually a great read for anyone wanting to prevent, so here I'll go and prematurely recommend it.

When I get through to the end I'll post my thoughts on specific foods/vitamins and we can all go through this world a little more informed about the c-dawg.

My lover boy, Pete, is on a morning walk with the kids right now and I'm at the point today of wanting pancakes with blueberries. Am a bit obsessed with the sour punch of unripe fruit right now and have been devouring peaches, grapes and oranges like nobody's business. For a girl who ate but one piece a day pre-cancer, this is a breakthrough, y'all.