Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Bringing up baby

I'm nesting like a mofo to prepare for my return to work, but there ain't no baby to push into the arms of a stranger for eight-hours a day. Very strange feeling. Cancer's all grown up and leaving the house soon to be replaced by...?

Last week I had my leftie pumped up one final time to compensate for some inevitable radiation-induced skin shrinkage (there's a sentence I never thought I'd type). So I'm done with my plastic doc for another six months or so, when I'll go back to the hospital for a day-time implant implantation extravaganza. These rocks are mine all summer, which means Hawaii will require some bathing suit action soon. Sweaty, poorly-lit changeroom shenanigans ensue.

I'm still not used to my bod in clothes (you know, cuz I'm a nudist at heart). Everything I put on looks so demure! And after 20-odd years of looking like a ho-bag in everything tight, I'm having to learn about what simply looks flattering rather than minimizing. My wardrobe is pathetic, but amazingly, I'm able to repurpose some of the shirts I used to bust out of and they look normal now. Fo shizzle.

The tamoxifen seems to be having no side effects on much of anything, so although my skin is still horrific from the Herceptin (and will be until I kick the H-bomb in September) and my range of motion on the left side is still pretty pathetic, I'm feeling fairly fantastic lately (impending cold aside). But I tell you - this Easter business can try a girl's sugar/crack addiction. When you purge the high-fructose corn syrup from your life, it's startling how you can hear the angels sing, but one chocolate egg can put you back on the street corner begging for just one more hit of HFCS to get you through the next hour. So I toss that bidness in the garbage. It's the only way to get over it.

All of this going back to work stuff is again forcing me to reflect on what exactly I've gotten out of this cancer shit. It's unbelievably easy to slip back into old habits, old thought patterns, old ways of dealing with everything. Not doing all that stuff is the effort. So I'm still trying to reinvent everything - I really am - without tiring my neck out from all the navel-gazing.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Rock-a-hula luau

I don't know if it was my last post, the shite spring weather we've been having or the fact that my canceritis has that familiar "she might be dead in a year" quality to it, but something inspired my family to book a trip to Kauai with me this August. And I couldn't be more gob-smackingly giddy about it.

My little four-person brood, plus my parents, plus my brother and his family from Edmonton, plus my brother and his family in Victoria are all heading to the Garden Isle this summer to strap on our coconut bras and perform the final number from Grease 2 (don't pretend you haven't seen that masterpiece). Cousins playing in the surf! Barbecued mahi-mahi! Spam breakfast sandwiches from McDonald's! People who won't think I'm insane for packing a juicer in my carry-on so I don't have to eat said spam sandwiches!

S'all good. And I don't even care that cancer may have/did play a part in getting everyone together on foreign soil. I think it's rockin' good times.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Ode to my family


Here's the thing - I actually have a pretty great family. Even before all this cancer shizz came down the pike. I mean, we don't sit around singing kumbaya or anything, but we do laugh and talk and keep each other totally honest amongst all the bullshit that can fly around.

I feel completely fortunate not to have to dissect a bunch of mind game crap or bad feelings on a daily basis because of crummy parents, wretched siblings, a horrific extended brood, a narsty husband or intolerable kids.There have been moments of no sunshine coming out of our arses, but we're mostly just happy to sit around, drink red wine and make fun of each other.

When the cancer train stopped at my station we all recognized the front end from the stop it made at my Ma's bod a few years ago and the history of it throughout my family. We're not unique and certainly not better than the bad cells are relentless. Despite not yet knowing whether I have the BCRA gene yet, I know enough about cancer now to know that this line of disease is likely not based on a shared DNA mutation but rather a shared lifestyle and general non-George Burns-like hardiness.

So when I started going all juicing freak and diet and exercise changeup on everyone, I fully expected a tut-tut, isn't she adorable in a cancerous dying kind of way reaction from my fam. I know I get that from some people - like, good on her for doing what she needs to do to get healthy, but that's not me. And really, I would've been fine to be my own little island of wellness warrior, shunning all things debauch in the name of living past 40. Cuz it's easy for me, right? I mean, it's not easy, per se, but I have a motivation. I have a great big kick in the ass reason to do all this shit. Plus I've been off work and for the most part, not bed-ridden. So good on me for making an effort.

But here's the thing... my family has actually embraced all this crap. Not just my husband, as he puts up with me spooning algae into his mouth. Not just my girls and their daily shot of green blood. Hella, not just my mom and dad and their complete transformation, at almost 70 (sorry, Ma) and 75 years old, into juicing, nearly vegetarian, rebounding, vitamin-taking, kick-ass oldies.

This mutha goes beyond my original five-person band to my cousins, who are making such big changes in their lives in the name of "what the hell, I'll try this, too" and my aunt, who is lookin' so glowy and healthy lately, to my brother and sister-in-law who juice every day and buy organic like a couple of insufferable gen-Xers, to my bro and sis-in-law in Edmonton, who feed me countless wellness ideas and sparked the great detox in January.

They're all kinds of awesome, to be sure, but the best part of all is that they still let me hang out with them so we can drink red wine and make fun of each other.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

They tried to make me go to rehab

The slap upside the head from cancer has been pretty monumental for my bod and my brain, but I try my very pinkie-swear hardest to keep things in perspective and count my shoe collection in gratitude. I could be swiped clean from this earth by a bus or vat of piranhas, without the luxury of a year to think about it, so there, cancer, you're not the worst this world has in store.

Now that I'm mostly able to sleep at night, drink my green blood, not yell at my kids or shout at people driving Volvos (that last one is really hard, tho), I'm moving on to the pasture that is my wretched goddess pod. From the poor imitation of a pixie on my head to the 20 lbs I've lost since bulking up during chemo, the bat-wing underarm and high-water mark river rock breasts I now sport, it's been a glamourous party. Saying nothing of the forced menopause in the summer and now the continued messing with my hormones with Tamoxifen. So it's time to ditch the old Carissa and create the shell I need to move around and kick some serious street-fighting arse.

I went for my first hour-long speed walk the other day with the girl cousins and was impressed I could hoof it in fairly decent time, so endurance is not a problem. Then yesterday I submerged myself with a gaggle of women in their 70s and 80s and got my waterfit on. At first I was all, "suck on it, bitches, I can exercise circles around you!" while they all tut-tutted about my short hair and lack of osteoporosis. About mid-way through the hour we got out the floaty dumbbells and I floundered around in the water like a freshly-caught marlin. Not a pretty sight.

By the end of the hour, my non-existent abs and weakling arms were so tuckered I had to ask one of the oldies to wash my hair in the shower. So I was cocky, yes. And immediately afterward I signed up for a rehab class to get some Cameron Diaz arms going tout de suite. But if they make me lift more than five lbs I'll cry.

I haven't figured out what I want to do on a regular basis to keep my bod from slipping into oblivion, but with my rebounder, my jogging cousins and the swimming pool of antiquity on my side, I'm hoping to get into some routine by the end of the month. And then there's Varla, my purple cruiser, gifted to me by my man for my last birthday. She made me feel less like a 38-year old chemo patient than a young(ish) bald chick on a bike, so I'll dust her off soon and take her for a spin.

Friday, April 8, 2011

The great hormone debate

As I sit here typing, my little moon rocks bigger than they were when I woke up (now with more saline!), I've put to bed yet another damned if you do, damned if you don't decision.

I saw my onc on Wednesday and she was all glowy (as glowy as she can be) about my progress and the state of my boobzillas and even complimentary about my resilient ovaries, chugging away so soon after the end of chemo. She wrote me up a prescription for Tamoxifen, an estrogen-blocking drug, and told me that a study on the use of Tamoxifen vs. the use of Tamoxifen + an aromatase inhibitor (which induces menopause in pre-menopausal women) has just been completed, the results likely to become public in a year or two. The aromatase inhibitor would block all estrogen floating around in my bod and end the production of the eggmeisters. It can lead to early osteoporosis, so fun with fake hips at 45. No thanks.

Then I was on my way, tripping happily over to the cancer clinic pharmacy to stock up on Tamoxifen when Dr. A. came rushing over to tell me that on my little side effects handout there was a mention that Tamoxifen can cause endometrial cancer. Well, there's nothing that a cancer cowgirl likes hearing more than "this could give you more cancer". Then it tweaked. My mom took tamoxifen and was diagnosed with endometrial cancer two years later. It was swiftly removed, but still. I told her this and gave her gigantic pause. Which gave me gigantic pause. Which gave the pharmacist gigantic pause, so my Tamoxifen prescription was shelved.

"Go home and think on this," Dr. A. said. "I can apply to give you the aromatase inhibitor shot, and I'd get approved, no problem, but you'll go into menopause and then there's the risk of osteoporosis... And just because your mother had endo cancer, doesn't mean you're likely to get it."

So I went home. Usually cancer vs. osteo would be a no brainer, but I did some research, talked to a few peeps and had a sleepless night. Why can't someone just tell me what to do?

I talked to Dr. A. again yesterday and asked her to put me on Tamoxifen for one year to start (it's generally a five-year run). From everything I'd read, it's the prolonged use that gets a woman's bits in trouble, so I asked for a biopsy after a year to make sure all is well. She agreed with me and said she also did a bit more research and couldn't find a single case in her files where a premenopausal woman got endometrial cancer from tamoxifen.

"After everything your body has been through the past year, to put you into early menopause and increase your risk for early osteoporosis is too much to ask. The risk of endometrial is small enough to ignore for now."

So there. I feel as good as I can about my decision and I begin the wonder drug tomorrow. It's supposed to come with some narsty feelings the first few weeks, but chances are, I'll be downing it with a bottle of tequila by week four.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Wanted: post-cancer life coach

As the life of "all cancer all the time" slips away from me, to be replaced by a new reality of "cancer as a chronic disease that needs to be managed all the time", I feel like I'm in need of some kind of guru. Problem is, I'm not your typical guru-seeking type. I'm a diehard atheist, heathen, questioner of all things, think most people are full of shite when it comes to most everything, and when they're not, they're generally insufferable types who get all judgey when you eat your fries and gravy in front of them.

I've spent the last 10 months cramming book after website after email after conversation down my own throat so I could move beyond the local medical stuff and the "10 ways to reduce your chances of getting cancer!" headlines on well-meaning mags and e-news sites. If I relied on those two sources, I'd think eating a high-fibre/low-fat diet and exercising regularly were the two magic bullets for prevention. And for some, they might be. But with the rate of cancer going up every year - 84,000 cases for women alone in 2010, which is up from around 50,000 cases 20 years ago - the two risk factors of carrying extra weight and leading a sedentary life have a billion details under them that I'm trying to redefine for myself.

By all accounts, and to break it down to the simplest terms, eating mostly fruit and veg every day and working up a sweat somehow every day, while maintaining some semblance of zen and purpose in your life, are the best ways to stare down the c-monster. If I had received a clean bill of health 10 months ago and had 10 months to learn the same shit, I'd be cutting out the cow's milk products, cutting down the flesh intake, raw-ing up the rest of my meals (juicing, salad-izing) and alternating my days with yoga, meditation and ultimate fighting.

The problem is, I didn't get a clean fucking bill of health 10 months ago, so the c-monster likely has a few small homes set up throughout my bod and I have to kick it up an extra 3,000 notches to make sure those homes don't turn into communities.  Some might say I have no control over that - and certainly my cancer twin's experience shows that hard work and big life changes can still result in some mighty dirty fighting ahead. But I can't live like that. I can't give up.

Here's where I need help. I'm going back to work soon and won't have the time I've had over the past 10 months to do the research I need to do to keep up on the goings on in the health and wellness world. Your typical life coaches either won't be clued in or will tell me shit I already know (now who's the annoying know-it-all?) and the medical community (including the alterna-types) want to either sell me shit, treat an existing problem, or stick me in a room with 40 other survivors who are likely over 60 to us all the same story like we're one big amorphous woman.

I don't need group counseling or daily affirmations, I need someone who's been there and can now make her living telling broads like me not to worry with every jolt of heat or pang in my breast, every headache, every muscle tweak, every night of extreme tiredness, every roast beef sandwich, every cookie, every evening spent watching Gossip Girl instead of running around the block, every application of a chemical-laden beauty product, every non-organic veg, every sleepless night, every longing look at my girls, every throat-catch when I see my husband's concerned face, every examination of the hair growth on my tennis ball head.

I know such a gal doesn't exist. I know it's me who has to keep coaching myself through all this jazz (saying nothing of the gazoodles of support I get from countless family members, friends and acquaintances), but man... lately (and I know it's mostly the recent news from my cancer twin) I've been feeling awfully in need of a good dose of "do this, don't do that" from a wise woman guide. And I'm willing to pay, y'all.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Twin pain

Out of respect, I won't go into any details about the shit my cancer twin is going through right now, but if there's such a thing as sympathy pain, I feel it for her. She's a lovely, conscientious, witty, brilliant fighter woman and I know with everything in my bod that she'll sock the c-monster in the nutz and show all us chumps what it means to be determined. Love you, S, and want you to know you can so do this.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Strong like bull

Yesterday I had another heart scan, or MUGA (multiple gated acquisition) for those of you in the biz. I was a bit tweaked about having to get my umpeenth IV after last week's routine blood test when the tech told me my veins had callouses, and my Herceptin injection three weeks ago when the nurse dug so deep down such a wrong turn that I felt the pain in my toes. Up until recently, I've been little miss sunshine about getting needles and IVs, but my blood superhighways are seriously fatigued after almost a year of constant poking and I've become a tad squeamish.

So I settled down for the heart scan IV, prepared for the worst, but the tech was so nice and efficient and got me a warm blanket to heat up my arm without being asked. Her poke was quick and painless and I practically french-kissed her from sweet relief. When she injected the tin substance I got flashbacks to my chemo days and how narsty the taste is, so I popped a mint and waited my requisite 45 minutes amongst the hospital riffraff.

My heart scan tech ended up being the same dour woman who did my first ultrasound and oversaw my biopsy last May after I had the mammogram to end all mammograms. The same woman, who after running the US wand over my left breast 600 times, had the loveliness to mutter, "uh, sure, no one is in line after you" when I asked to get my shirt back on in the ultrasound room rather than shuffle shakily over to the changeroom.

"I just looked at your file and it looks like I did your ultrasound and biopsy last May."

"Um, yep."

"I don't remember that. We get so many people through every day."

"I'm sure."

And there's your lovely bedside manner times two. Cuz there's nothing a cancer cowgirl likes to hear more than "you are unmemorable" after going through a year of shite. She couldn't have just said, "how have you been doing?"??? Shit, man. Lots of very sweet doctors, nurses and techs, but then...

Which brings me to Dr. B, my stand-in onc who ordered the scan (part of a regular three-month check-up while on the wonder drug Herceptin). He called me this morning to tell me that not only are my results good enough to go ahead with yet another round of the H-bomb this afternoon, but my heart function actually improved by 5% since last time. Side effects be damned, y'all. I'm strong like bull.

I'm getting super stoked about a bunch of things now. First, it'll be six weeks on Monday since my surgery. I'm going to start bouncing with even greater tramp-like energy, begin taking some of the superfoods I've been harvesting lately from the shelves: maca powder, spirulina tablets, and next E3 Live, which is this super-expensive blue-green algae frozen stuff you add to your juice. I've been looking for this stuff for months and finally ordered it online today. And finally, water aerobics with the old ladies of Caddy Bay, me wearing my first new bathing suit as a small-boobied one!

Diet-wise, I've been all over the place lately as I try to settle into something that's sustainable, enjoyable and fast when it needs to be. I think the family meals, weekly shopping and veggie storage are finally where they need to be (and that's a big statement in itself). My immunity level is superhero sized, judging from my last bloodwork. The only thing that still needs consideration, especially since I've been eliminating almost all animal prods from my intake (half from lack of desire and half from conscious choice), is my hemoglobin level (combo of iron and B12). It's low, which is not unusual for a veggie, but my daily B12 vitamin isn't cutting it, so I have to figure out a way to get a boost without taking an iron supplement. I broke down and had a roast beast sarny the other day (hormone-free, y'all), but need a more permanent solution.

The other thing that's been bugging me (other than the ongoing soy controversy) is the whole flax seed controversy. It contains plant estrogen, which either blocks or feeds estrogen-receptive breast cancer. It's another one of those things that'll either turn out to be very bad or very good when all the dust settles. So work it out, scientists.

It's a fuck of a lot of work trying to figure out how to live to be 100 when the c-monster will forever be nipping at my heals, but it's been bloody interesting. There's really only two things on my mind today, though. My cancer twin and her latest waiting period and the kind and rational work advice this morning from the loevely D.O. I heart you both.