Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Tattoo you

Me and my boob got all planned up today to move on to the next round of the cancer game: radiation. I got to go to a new wing of the clinic (yeeha!) and meet a gaggle of new technicians, who, strangely, all spoke with English accents. It was very business-like, with the techs moving my orb this way and that as I reclined on the CT scanner, all to see how the laser beams of death would need to penetrate my tumours but not my organs.

Dr. K, my radiation onc, stopped by very briefly before I entered the scanning doughnut to check that all was well and I was feeling as comfortable as I could. He's a tiny German man with Christopher Lloyd hair and I'm quite fond of him. By that point, my arm was numb from holding it over my head, my hip was sore and the body form they shoved under me was digging into my baby chick head.

"All good, Dr. K."

The technicians were a bit fussed that leftie wasn't as perky as she could be, but after two babies, two rounds of breastfeeding, and some serious moshing back in the day, one can't expect the same elasticity as a 20-year old might display. Deal with it, techs.

When the 15-minute scan was complete, it was tattoo time. Three little freckles for my chest to mark the spots where the frickin' laser beams would enter every day for five weeks. They felt like painful little IV pokes, but I survived. After a quick and brutal web cam shot to further ID me, I was outta there. I don't have my first radiation session until December 16, even though I complained that it was too long to wait. Seems getting radiation is all the rage these days, so the planners, scanners and lasers are a bit backed up.

So I wait, and once again wonder if every little twinge is growth or recession. T'is the sweet life, I tell ya.

All this tattooing is making me think about getting an actual one when all this is through. I told Pete maybe I'd get a picture of a breast tattooed on my mastectomy site so I wouldn't have to get reconstruction. He didn't seem to think that was a great idea. There's always the spider web on the neck idea, or maybe permanent socks on my feet. All viable options, but maybe I should keep trolling the interwebs for ideas.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Graduation day

My heart scan came back a-ok, so guess Dr. A. will have to find another reason for my speedy heart rate. Went ahead with the Herceptin injection this afternoon and got my diploma from the chemo nurses to show I have officially graduated from chemo university. Sweet.

Next week I begin the prep for radiation post-grad studies, which begins with a CT scan to map out my innards so the death rays don't hit an organ.

And tonight, Pete and I are kid free, my blood counts are great (except for my red blood cells, which are pathetically low), so we're heading out for dinner at the Superior to raise a toast to five months of being friends with the c-monster. Cheers!

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

And... that's a wrap?

Got my CT scan results back today. No cancer in my lungs. There must be a better word than "phew" for that. But Dr. A. isn't happy with what she saw in in there or the fact that I've had this bloody cough for more than a month now. She thinks I may be one of the rare birds who get a particular side effect from docetaxel (one of the chemo drugs) that could affect my lungs long term. If I go ahead with round eight on Friday, the drug could do permanent damage and I could end up with lung issues now or in the future. She even wants me to see a lung specialist now to ensure I don't have any damage that needs to be treated immediately.

Nothing's certain with any of this shit, of course, she's just going on the info she has gathered, the fact that I was otherwise healthy before cancer and what she knows about the drug and its sometimes brutal effects.

Then she asks me what I want to do.

Shit. I know can be opinionated, but at the best of times, I like to think a bit about stuff before I commit to giving my two cents (or in this case my million fucking dollars).

"If I don't go ahead with round eight, I'll be robbing myself of one last hit of the hard stuff to knock cancer on its ass. And if things go sideways later on, I'll always wonder whether one last dose woulda helped me out. But if I do go ahead, I could come out of this thing with flying colours only to end up with permanent lung damage. Not much of a choice here."

Dr. A. just smiled benevolently and stayed silent as she always does.

"I say skip round eight." Was expecting the heavens to open and the goddess of breasts to come down to confirm my decision was the right one, but nothing. All I heard was the doc in the next room saying loudly and slowly to her patient, "Do you feel hungover today or are you still drunk?" Ah, the motley crew of cancer cowgirls/boys.

I know I'll never feel 100% sure about that decision, but it's done. So what does all this mean, other than a very anti-climactic end to chemo? Well, first I have another little peculiarity. I have a rather fast heart rate these days. It was 125 when I went in to get my fever checked last week. It was 112 when Dr. A. checked today. And even though it was still around 100 when I had my first visit before a chemo drug ever entered my veins, Dr. A. is worried the herceptin (the other chemo drug I'm getting these days, and will continue to get for several more weeks) is having an effect on my ticker, which is THE side effect of herceptin.

Because I've never had cause to think about what my regular heart rate is and I'm only 38 so haven't had a shitload of tests done on my heart as part of growing older, I have no real history to offer her. So she won't give me another dose of herceptin until I have another heart scan, which will be tomorrow morning at 7:30 am. The lovely tin injection and 45 minute repose on the machine. Love.

If that turns out to bring bad news, then who knows what next.

The other change is that radiation will now need to happen stat. Technically, I'm ready to receive it as early as Friday, but have had no prep, no tattoos, no body mold, no "teach". But if there's one thing I've learned about carrying the cancer card, things get fucking done around here, man, with no messy wait times.

So... um... I'm finished with chemo then? My hair can begin officially growing back (although I already have some decent sproutage already), I can move to a new wing of the cancer clinic (I hear the wi-fi is terrible in radiation, though) and get to know a new set of cancer wizards. So, yay! This calls for a new pair of sexy and hard-to-walk-in shoes... oh wait.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

I heart shopping

Another one of the lovely side effects from the c-dawg is the feeling of an extreme belt-tightening on ye olde bank account. My basics are being taken care of, to be sure, but beyond that, I've had to train myself to ignore my Visa and live like a nun.

Thing is, it's awfully difficult to ignore the call of Captain von Trapp sometimes. And I swear, I was really looking for a cheap winter hat to cover my baldie. Instead I let myself feel crappy for a moment about my CT scan today and came home with these:


You see, there's a Christmas party coming up, and I refuse to look anything like cancer girl (except for perhaps donning a wigmeister for the occasion). The hat can wait, as can paying off my Visa.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Münchausen mania

Took a little unplanned trip to the hospital and cancer clinic on Friday. After a month of barking like a seal and checking my temperature religiously, I finally registered the dreaded threshold number this morning. I was sitting all pathetic-like in my living room, reading and drinking sencha tea, dreading the hot dog day festivities I had promised to lend my time to at Stella's school, when I felt my temp spike and my eyes droop. After a quick check under my tongue, I confirmed the magic number at 38.4.

The cancer clinic told me to come to the hospital for blood and urine cultures and a chest x-ray, then set up an appointment with an onc for a follow-up this afternoon. Lovely Pete came home from work to drive me and I shivered my way through the trip, feeling like a cancer patient. The x-ray was uneventful, except for the six (!) layers of clothes I had to remove to reveal my chest to the machine.

The blood culture was a new thing. Two different pokes, many, many vials and then mixing even more of my blood in four special mini-Tabasco bottles filled with some kind of sludge to tell whether I had an infection.

When I arrived at the cancer clinic I was treated like royalty. Special room away from the chemo riff raff, favourite Chilean nurse, even favourite onc (not my usual Dr. A.). While we all waited for the preliminary results of my bloodwork and x-rays, I had a million more tests, questions and temp checks, which did not produce the 38 degrees. I was beginning to feel like Baron Münchausen, but Dr. B. made me feel like I was a little less sociopathic.

He told me about three potential scenarios: I wasn't tolerating the Docetaxel well and may have to skip treatment #8; I may have a lung infection that has to be treated with antibiotics (he doubted this one because he said he saw nothing on the prelim x-rays); or, I could have a viral infection that my body is too damaged by chemo to fight off. He said if my white blood cell count turned out to be too low, I may have to stay in the hospital to be pumped full of fluids. Woot woot!

Finally the official x-ray and blood results came back. My white blood cell count was fine and my neutrophils were at 9 (normal range is 5-7), so my body was doing a good job of fighting whatever was going on. The radiologist's report showed something small in my right lung that they couldn't rule out as an infection. So Dr. B prescribed a hardcore, normal person's antibiotic to kill it (which will again kill the good stuff in me, too) and recommended I get some acidophilus to repair the good bacteria in my system. No hospital. No cancellation (yet) of round #8. He also ordered me a CT scan for next week to get a better look at the infection in my lung to rule out any other nasty stuff before next Friday. The last time I had a CT I sneezed through the whole scan, so let's hope I can keep it together next time.

I'm still coughing like an idiot and muddling through the hours with a blazing headache, but my chills have subsided for now. I swear I didn't make up the 38.4, even if it was nice to finally get a bit of attention for what ails me.  Just don't get me started on what that other "nasty stuff" could be. For once I don't wanna know.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Conjuring up some cravings

We're going on one solid month of this wretched cough and fever and it's getting me down today. The layers and layers of clothes, alternately shivering and sweating in bed, the endless coughing jags at night and all day. Enough already.

I finally broke down and saw my GP yesterday, which makes it the first time ever I've seen my GP for a cold. I'm officially Woody Allen. She did all the necessary checks and declared me sick with a cold, but not likely infected with anything. "Turn on your humidifier," she recommended in her no-nonsense way. She wrote me out a req for some bloodwork to see where my Neutrophils were at, but I don't have the energy or inclination to get it done today.

After weeping like a little girl into my green juice this morning and having Stella tell me on the way to school, "It's probably just your cancer AND a cold, Mommy," I decided to lay low today and try to conjure up some cravings on my quick trip to the grocery store. That's the annoying thing about working the usual culprits - caffeine, sugar and white flour - out of my system over the past few months. Cravings, even when you want to cuddle up to them, are buried a little deeper.

What I really, really want is a huge steaming bowl of Shao Lin noodle soup from Broadway in Vancouver with a plate of the gigantic bready dumplings they serve. The chances of me getting that or even traipsing down to Chinatown to seek out an alternative are nil. So I reached deep in the frozen food section and like any other red-blooded Canadian girl, tossed a bag of french fries and some perogies into my cart. Potatoes much? To top it off, I'm making macaroni and cheese tonight, so if you see a bald chick walking around with an acute case of carb face, you'll know I've emerged from the deep.

Now let me get back to my tent on the couch to read Vogue, watch Gossip Girl and generally do all the things that add zero value to my life. I need a break from the sick, y'all.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Don't leave me, chemo!

Recovery from round seven has so far been slower than usual. We're nine days in now and I'm still punking out in the evenings with a slight fever. I have the cough that never ends and although my teenage acne is subsiding, thanks to some recommended hydrocortisone cream to counter the allergic reaction, I haven't quite burst out singing to "I feel pretty" yet.

I have only one more round of this beast to go, but already I'm feeling a bit anxious about leaving it behind. To start with, it's giving cancer the biggest kick in the arse it's going to get before being cut out of me. I have a lovely aggressive type that likes to do its own thing in a big way, so the end of chemo feels to me like leaving the front of the store unattended for a few weeks. Stupid idea, right? Apparently chemo, like a good security guard, continues to mind your merchandise long after it ends, and as much as I like to say I have one more round left, I still get another three months of Herceptin pumped into me after round eight. Herceptin isn't great for one's heart, but it'll leave the rest of my body relatively intact (save for the cancer).

So radiation should begin sometime in mid-December, along with the three-week schedule of the Herceptin injection, then surgery in the new year (January? February?). It's the surgery part I'm beginning to obsess about again. My mind still changes daily about what the final surgery decision will be so I'm trying to get completely focused on ending chemo and spending the two months or so before surgery getting my body in the best shape it has ever been so recovery will be swift. Right now I'll assume that radiation will make me sore and tired, but that's it. And the day that I no longer dwell on freakin' side effects? Madre de dios. Let it come to me soon.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

The vegification of the vegged out

Another crappy night with Miss Frances, courtesy of the time change + the absence of her soother. For close to a year we've been talking about shipping the silicon monster to a fictional character named Wibbly Pig. After watching Stella give up the thumb spontaneously last Christmas, I was determined not to push girl #2 to leave her oral fixation behind prematurely. So for months we've been dancing around the fact that it's just not cool to be three and still sleeping with a pacifier.

Then last Wednesday, less than two months after her third birthday, she said to me after breakfast, "I want to send my soo-soo to Wibbly Pig now." So we did.

She's mostly been a good sport about it, but wakeful as shite. So since she came back from staying with her grandparents on the weekend I've been stumbling around in the middle of night with all my brutal aches and pains getting water and trying to convince her that her bedroom is not scary. She rewards me by waking up super-early to greet the daylight savings day with me with a bucketful of tears. Awesomeness.

How I did this when I went back to work a couple of years ago is beyond the beyond, but different times now, folks, and I have the days to nap and otherwise schlep around the house in my slippers as the wind whips around my neighbourhood.

I'm really, really trying to wrap my head around a new veggie life. I'm immersed in the China Study right now, which talks about the scientifically-proven benefits of a plant-based diet (stats, y'all). Very interesting, and everything is taking hold in small steps, but I still can't conceive of the "I went vegan overnight" statements I read from the hardcores out there. It's a process for me. And man, do I know how lucky I am to be able to figure it all out while I'm not working.

So despite still feeling like garbage, I managed to juice yesterday and today. It tastes divine, it's doing divine things for my bod, and if it helps me get closer to eliminating the need for tasty animal flesh from my diet, then bring it on. Pete is being such a good sport about all this. He wants to try everything, and occasionally rebels against a meatless menu, but knows this is all good stuff for us. He drinks my juice like it's the best thing he's ever tasted and offers a break from the nicoise salad-making to traipse us all over to White Spot for a veggie burger. A keeper, he is. Now whether I'll turn him into a veggie or not remains, people, but the needle has shifted.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Taking a sickie

Decided to give in to the wretchedness today. Made it on the walk to and from Stella's school, giving the usual "good, good!" reply to the chorus of mommy requests for my state of the nation post-round seven. Even made it to Thrifty's for some muesli and salad nicoise ingredients. Why I'm making a salad for dinner on a day when Frances got up at 4:50 a.m. and I feel like eating nothing but bread and jam is beyond me, but there you have it. I'm focused.

But moving my body like the oldest woman in the world and have the spotty skin of a 14-year old boy to go with it. Haven't had a pimple since this whole chemo parade started more than four months ago, so don't quite know what to do with this vicious case of hormone overload. Assuming it's a side effect. Ignoring it like a good student of cancer.

Haven't juiced yet today and feel the poorer for it. I've got a bucket full of beets, carrots, apples and celery on my back deck and a fridge full of peppers, spinach, chard and lemon. My beautiful new juicer, which is a miracle of plant-squeezing loveliness, is beckoning me, but my fingers are so torn up from the peeling and cleaning it's only a matter of time before a bacterial infection takes hold.

So I took a nap at 10:30 a.m. and just got out of a hot bath after doing nothing in between but eat some leftover leek and potato soup and watch an episode of the Barefoot Contessa. Ugh.

To sum up? I feel wretched today and I'm wallowing in it before I have to trot off to pick up the girls for Stella's hip-hop class this afternoon.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Feeding the dexa monster

I punched through round seven yesterday with all my Friday chemo cousins and what seemed to be the D-team of nurses on duty. There was a lot of "oh, which round are you now?" and "what do you do with the frozen gloves?" and "hmmm... I don't seem to have the right [insert med supply item here]". Glad it wasn't my first round or my veins and I would be ready to bolt.

I did get one decent answer out of my nurse. I've been a bit stressed at the ultra-high neutrophil levels my bloodwork has been returning the past two times and all I could find on my reluctant web searches were two maudlin options - bacterial infection or cancer spreading. Joy. I had asked Dr. A. last time whether I should be worried, but she said no. I wasn't satisfied. I asked my nurse yesterday and she said the pre-chemo steroid I take, Dexamethasone, was commonly responsible for a spike in neutrophil levels, especially if you first start taking it before you get your bloodwork (which I did). Relief.

So I did a little investigating on my friend Dexa and it's an interesting one. Besides the usual treatment of inflammation and recreational use for some athletes, it's also responsible for a huge increase in appetite (check) and is used in some third world countries by prostitutes who want to fatten themselves up quickly and charge their customers a higher rate for more flesh. With the pancakes I downed yesterday morning at John's Place and the pecan pie and peanut butter cookie at 10 pm at QV's last night, I think I'm on my way to upping my rates a little more, too. But we won't tell my naturopath about that stuff on the food diary I agreed to fill out.

Today I'm puffy, my injection site is beginning to balloon and my teeth are getting that good ol' wooden feeling they get, but I'm determined to get out today and walk it off. Before I raid my pantry again, of course.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

You asked for it

My onc appointment yesterday afternoon wasn't as terrible as I expected. Dr. A came through (very reluctantly and couched in all sorts of disclaimers about numbers just being numbers) on some semi-tailored stats, fed through some three quarter-assed computer program from the States. It showed the number of deaths that occur out of 100 women who are my age and have my type of cancer and how that number goes down with each aspect of treatment. I say three quarter-assed, because it doesn't yet account for the relatively recent introduction of Herceptin to the mix, which is showing to have a significant effect on survival rates. Dr. A added that part in herself.

So here's the gist:

If I did nothing but live in harmony with my sweet tumour friends, I'd have a 75% chance of kicking off within 10 years. Which I find an interesting stat, because it means that 25% of women who are my age with tumours bigger than five centimetres who refuse any treatment actually survive past 10 years. Who are these women and how can I meet them?

With the chemo blast, that 75% goes down about 30% to a 45% death rate. Chemo is my friend.

With post-treatment hormone therapy, which includes the Herceptin I get during and after chemo, only about 25% will move on to the hereafter. And surprisingly, radiation only takes it down another 3% or so, so all told, the chances of me taking a dirt nap from this dealio in the next decade is about 22%. Felt completely fine about this news yesterday. I mean really, I could bite it crossing the road to my bulk food store. I could meet my maker (if she exists) if a frozen ball of airplane waste landed on me while I grabbed my In Style magazine out of the mailbox. So a 78% chance of lasting a few more decades after this lovely visit from cancer is totally cool with me.

And man, with the celery, red pepper, tomato, beet, lettuce, lemon and apple juice I'm drinking right now, I'm gonna outlive all the sucker dogs out there.

Three more days of feeling fantastic until round seven. Can you believe it? As much as chemo has been an arse-licker, I know it'll be a breeze compared to the stress of surgery in the new year. So let's drag these last two out a bit, shall we? I much prefer getting my 30% Rockette kick to the face of death than the 3% nose flick of radiation.

Monday, November 1, 2010

A natural woman

After 38 years of near-perfect health (aside from this nasty bout of cancer I have now), I went all anti-Carissa and added yet another healthcare professional to my team roster. I saw a naturopath today, Dr. S. She's young and friendly, lends out her books to patients and gave me her email address. She actually wants me to contact her if I have questions without having to come in for an appointment. It's a revolution, people.

When I arrived at the joint and saw a big cabinet full of pill bottles, I feared I had stepped into supplement central. Not that I'm averse to them - I've been reading up on the good & bad supplements for cancer over the past four months - but I didn't want a new doctor to equal a new monthly bill for pills and powders. With the juicing and the mostly vegetarian diet I'm on now, I'm getting plenty of the good stuff these days without extra help.

Dr. S checked my ears (no potatoes), my temp (textbook), my BP (90/60 - the usual low), my weight (3 lbs lower than my scale - I like her more already), and palpated my abdomen for any alien-like creatures nesting there. We spent about an hour just talking (I said it was revolutionary, no?) about my diet, my family, my stresses, my activity level, my emotions, even my brothers (I said they they were suitably Italian-Irish in their avoidance tactics but gems nonetheless). I talked more about myself in that hour than I have over the past four months of treatment through the cancer clinic and the past 38 years of seeing a GP.

I think Dr. S was a little disappointed that I wasn't a smoker, that I didn't eat Twinkies for breakfast or gnaw on a porterhouse for a bedtime snack, but I threw her a bone with my daily mid-morning consumption of shredded wheat + all bran cereal (but with almond milk, y'all). She asked me to cut that out and replace with steel-cut oats, homemade muesli or honey-sweetened quinoa. I can do that. She also recommended I step up my vitamin D to 2,000 IU/day, boost my vitamin B complex to 50 mg/day, buy some L. Glutamine powder to boost my immunity and recovery time through treatment and gave me some probiotic powder to help repair my digestive system from the chemo blowout sale I get every three weeks.

She didn't load me up with any other supplement recommendations, but lent me a naturopathic guide to breast cancer prevention and care, the address for a blog on wholesome cooking (nourishingmeals.com), told me to email her with any concerns or questions and ordered some bloodwork so she could see my levels across the board and get to know me better. She also said I was doing so very many things right.

In the end I felt validated, inspired and a little more loved by the healthcare industry, and all within a five-minute drive from my house. S'about time, I think, especially since I have to meet with my onc again in about 45 minutes and those appointments are never about making me feel great.