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.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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