Yesterday morning the side effects of round five smacked me in the face. I took my place on the couch around 11 am and didn't get up until 3 pm. I'm one big pile of achy hurt - from my teeth to my heels - and Tylenol is a useless drug.
However, darlings, I refuse to complain anymore about this garbage. My daughters are being mostly good about lazy mom, my boy lets me fall asleep on the couch and doesn't mind when I drool all over the throw pillows, and this will all eventually pass.
Frances turns three tomorrow and I gots shit to do.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Mr. Stay Puft
It's day three of round five and I feel like Mr. Stay Puft. Not visibly swollen or otherwise marshmallow-like, but I imagine my limbs being injected by a bicycle pump and my face and mouth stung by a swarm of bees. Walking home from Stella's school I felt 100 years old and was cursing the gaggle of spandexed mommies gaining on me from behind, ready to do their daily bootcamp class. Will take this any day over nausea though.
Other than these gems of side effects and dreaming of hanging Chinese lanterns in doorways all night, post-chemo this time is manageable. My tongue is burnt, my IV hand is still big and blue, but I can take smells and eat breakfast. Was even reading my cancer lit over the weekend, getting ever closer to figuring out what to eat and what not to eat - zeroing in particularly on the estrogen-laden sources of food and sundry all around us.
Read an article in the Globe about post-menopausal hormone therapy and how it's been all but confirmed that pumping extra estrogen into a girl's bod after menses does not do a body good. If 70% of breast cancers are estrogen-receptive, and so many of us have some bad cells kickin' around our fun bags, why mess around there when we don't have to?
I try to think of myself B.C. and how I knew I was tempting fate by being on birth control pills for 20 years, ignoring the paraben labels for too long, and ingesting a host of other estrogens/carcinogens because nothing was immediate. Nothing is ever directly linked. Nothing is 100% confirmed, so let me live and work it all out while trying my best to be better at everything. I'm the first to trumpet that we're all responsible for what goes into our bodies and for sifting through the garbage that comes at us in terms of what's shit and what's not shit to put in there, but how much did I just expect to have my body sort it all out somehow and deal me the cancer card when I was old and ready?
It continues to confound me every time I go to the BCCA and I see patients who are so obese they're immobile, smoking like a chimney outside the building and then cramming back the bags of doughnuts in the waiting room just to get hooked up to an IV to kill the good with the bad. To let someone and something else take care of the problem. Listen, I know I'm a judgy bitch, but mamma mia. Here's me worrying about the percentage of lavender oil in my deodorant.
So I sort things out, teeter on that edge of what will be right for me, what will keep me living to 100, what will let me continue to eat with friends, and what will help me get through the next 10 years of dinners with my kids without making everyone curse my wheatgrass smoothies.
And all I want right now is an ice cream sundae with hot fudge and salty peanuts.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
New cocktail, next chapter
I had my marathon round five session session yesterday, with Docetaxel and Herceptin as the new drugs of choice. These last four rounds are about continuing to kill the good with the bad (Doce) and directly targeting the HER2-positive cancer cells (Her).
It all felt like being in one big experiment and the numbers continue to boggle me. The fact that only 20% of breast cancers show up in women under 50 and 1 in 5 of all breast cancers are HER2-positive, meaning it tests positive for a protein called human epidermal growth factor receptor 2 (HER2), which promotes the aggressive growth of cancer cells, makes me some kind of abnormality already. With the addition of a new low-tech preventative treatment they gave me yesterday, the feeling of "hey, let's try this shit out!" only grew.
Since cancer docs started prescribing Docetaxel (drawn from the yew tree) to chemo patients, it has been known to mess with the usual hair follicle growth and plummet in white blood cells, but it also likes to mess with your fingers and toes, turning them black and causing them to fall off, and sometimes even forever. I remember a few years ago reading an article on the rocker chick Bif Naked, who was going through chemo. The interviewer remarked on her black fingernails and that image stuck in my little lizard brain.
Just last week, my little Victoria cancer clinic began using frozen gloves to prevent blood flow to patients while they're being injected with Docetaxel. I was one of the first recipients of the treatment yesterday and although it was bloody cold and painful, I hope it curbs the black fingernail issue.
Overall, my session just tipped the 3.5 hour mark and started 1.5 hours after I arrived. It was all about waiting for a chair on a busy Friday afternoon and then waiting to see if there would be allergic reactions to anything. No allergies, thank the goddesses, but all the tampering with my IV vein left me with a lovely blue hand. Thankfully the nurses were in good spirits and chatted me up to keep my mind off the possibility of stopping breathing or blowing up like a pufferfish.
Side effects so far have been minimal. I'm on my speed-like steroids to keep any nausea and lingering allergic reactions at bay, but still fell into a coma on the couch as soon as I got home. I downed a Gravol and some preventative Tylenol for the promised flu-like symptoms and crashed into bed for the fullest 8 hours of sleep I've had in forever. Had a normal bowl of cereal this morning with my chaser of steroids and feel relatively normal, if not a little hungover.
The girls stayed at my parents' place last night and today is Frances' first day of ballet. I'm determined to see her twirl around in all her pinky, frothy goodness.
It all felt like being in one big experiment and the numbers continue to boggle me. The fact that only 20% of breast cancers show up in women under 50 and 1 in 5 of all breast cancers are HER2-positive, meaning it tests positive for a protein called human epidermal growth factor receptor 2 (HER2), which promotes the aggressive growth of cancer cells, makes me some kind of abnormality already. With the addition of a new low-tech preventative treatment they gave me yesterday, the feeling of "hey, let's try this shit out!" only grew.
Since cancer docs started prescribing Docetaxel (drawn from the yew tree) to chemo patients, it has been known to mess with the usual hair follicle growth and plummet in white blood cells, but it also likes to mess with your fingers and toes, turning them black and causing them to fall off, and sometimes even forever. I remember a few years ago reading an article on the rocker chick Bif Naked, who was going through chemo. The interviewer remarked on her black fingernails and that image stuck in my little lizard brain.
Just last week, my little Victoria cancer clinic began using frozen gloves to prevent blood flow to patients while they're being injected with Docetaxel. I was one of the first recipients of the treatment yesterday and although it was bloody cold and painful, I hope it curbs the black fingernail issue.
Overall, my session just tipped the 3.5 hour mark and started 1.5 hours after I arrived. It was all about waiting for a chair on a busy Friday afternoon and then waiting to see if there would be allergic reactions to anything. No allergies, thank the goddesses, but all the tampering with my IV vein left me with a lovely blue hand. Thankfully the nurses were in good spirits and chatted me up to keep my mind off the possibility of stopping breathing or blowing up like a pufferfish.
Side effects so far have been minimal. I'm on my speed-like steroids to keep any nausea and lingering allergic reactions at bay, but still fell into a coma on the couch as soon as I got home. I downed a Gravol and some preventative Tylenol for the promised flu-like symptoms and crashed into bed for the fullest 8 hours of sleep I've had in forever. Had a normal bowl of cereal this morning with my chaser of steroids and feel relatively normal, if not a little hungover.
The girls stayed at my parents' place last night and today is Frances' first day of ballet. I'm determined to see her twirl around in all her pinky, frothy goodness.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
el doctor está loco
My day before has been about relief, shopping and realizing all doctors are not created equal (some are indeed more equal than others).
At my arm poking session this morning at LifeLabs, I was more than a little disheartened to see my vein girl was again young and sweet. But boy, was she a master. A tiny poke and immediate gold. I complained that my heart scan poker was a beast and she laughed and said, "Come on in here for all your IVs from now on." Oh that I could, fine wench.
Shopping was really the only activity that could have followed a lab visit, so off to Sephora to buy some Korres all-natural face wash and moisturizer and the Gap to take advantage of a ridiculous sale - nabbing two sweaters for $50. Ah... that feels better.
Pete met me at the BCCA for my 1:30 with a stand-in doc - Dr. S - who turned out to be quite the prize. As soon as we waltzed in, late and hurried looking and quite surprised himself to be there, I decided I wasn't into a boob reveal today. He was a bit of a doppelganger for Tom Green. Unshaven, thin, and a bit wild in the eyes. And not in a sexy way. The good news was that my Neutrophils were 3.4. Rockin' good times. And now I've convinced myself that my green/carrot juice combo, green tea and giant mug of water before blood tests do the trick for boosting my results. 3.2 is in the normal, everyday walkin' around range for white blood cells, so suck it, cancer.
Things went downhill with Dr. S. when I launched into my list of questions:
1) Do I have to take any of my anti-nausea drugs before round five, or just the dexamethasone that I started taking this morning?
"This morning... you mean yesterday? Oh wait - right - your chemo is tomorrow! Uh. What were you taking before? Uh. No. Dexamethasone should be all."
2) What are the immediate side effects of Docetaxel and Herceptin. I've heard your fingernails can turn black and fall off.
"Um. Haven't heard that. Just trying to think what the long-term effects are for Doce... Doce... Right, Docetaxel. Been a long time since I've done breast cancer rounds."
3) My cancer twin S told me that it's not worthwhile to get a pap when you're going through chemo - that your results could be skewed somehow. True?
"Um. Hmmm. Haven't heard that. I would think it's the opposite - get it discovered now while you're on chemo and the drugs are killing everything bad. Not sure though. Interesting thought."
4) I'm a bit worried that if I have surgery next, which will put me around Christmas time in the hospital, that I'll get the B-team surgeons because it's the holidays. Will I get Dr. R and Dr. T no matter what? And if I have radiation next, do I have to worry that the cancer might grow in that time because rad is not as hardcore as chemo?
"Good questions. Hmmm. Not sure about that. You'll have to ask Dr. A when you see her next time."
Actually, that last response was the eventual response to every question. The guy couldn't get out of the room fast enough, and his cursory checking of my heart rate/breathing/lymph nodes made me feel like I was in some bad rom-com and he was pretending to be a doctor so he could meet the pretty girl with cervical cancer next door.
Brutal.org
So now I'm going to call the chemo desk and double check everything he bumbled his way through re: meds and side effects. As I'm learning more & more... trust no one.
At my arm poking session this morning at LifeLabs, I was more than a little disheartened to see my vein girl was again young and sweet. But boy, was she a master. A tiny poke and immediate gold. I complained that my heart scan poker was a beast and she laughed and said, "Come on in here for all your IVs from now on." Oh that I could, fine wench.
Shopping was really the only activity that could have followed a lab visit, so off to Sephora to buy some Korres all-natural face wash and moisturizer and the Gap to take advantage of a ridiculous sale - nabbing two sweaters for $50. Ah... that feels better.
Pete met me at the BCCA for my 1:30 with a stand-in doc - Dr. S - who turned out to be quite the prize. As soon as we waltzed in, late and hurried looking and quite surprised himself to be there, I decided I wasn't into a boob reveal today. He was a bit of a doppelganger for Tom Green. Unshaven, thin, and a bit wild in the eyes. And not in a sexy way. The good news was that my Neutrophils were 3.4. Rockin' good times. And now I've convinced myself that my green/carrot juice combo, green tea and giant mug of water before blood tests do the trick for boosting my results. 3.2 is in the normal, everyday walkin' around range for white blood cells, so suck it, cancer.
Things went downhill with Dr. S. when I launched into my list of questions:
1) Do I have to take any of my anti-nausea drugs before round five, or just the dexamethasone that I started taking this morning?
"This morning... you mean yesterday? Oh wait - right - your chemo is tomorrow! Uh. What were you taking before? Uh. No. Dexamethasone should be all."
2) What are the immediate side effects of Docetaxel and Herceptin. I've heard your fingernails can turn black and fall off.
"Um. Haven't heard that. Just trying to think what the long-term effects are for Doce... Doce... Right, Docetaxel. Been a long time since I've done breast cancer rounds."
3) My cancer twin S told me that it's not worthwhile to get a pap when you're going through chemo - that your results could be skewed somehow. True?
"Um. Hmmm. Haven't heard that. I would think it's the opposite - get it discovered now while you're on chemo and the drugs are killing everything bad. Not sure though. Interesting thought."
4) I'm a bit worried that if I have surgery next, which will put me around Christmas time in the hospital, that I'll get the B-team surgeons because it's the holidays. Will I get Dr. R and Dr. T no matter what? And if I have radiation next, do I have to worry that the cancer might grow in that time because rad is not as hardcore as chemo?
"Good questions. Hmmm. Not sure about that. You'll have to ask Dr. A when you see her next time."
Actually, that last response was the eventual response to every question. The guy couldn't get out of the room fast enough, and his cursory checking of my heart rate/breathing/lymph nodes made me feel like I was in some bad rom-com and he was pretending to be a doctor so he could meet the pretty girl with cervical cancer next door.
Brutal.org
So now I'm going to call the chemo desk and double check everything he bumbled his way through re: meds and side effects. As I'm learning more & more... trust no one.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
I'm a hormonal mess
Despite being susceptible to all things germ-related right now, I've been spending a helluva lot of time around sick people this week. Monday with my GP, Tuesday in nuclear medicine at the hospital for my heart scan, and today with Stella at a different hospital for a respiratory test to see if she has asthma (she does, but will likely outgrow it).
The heart scan yesterday was, well, unpleasant. As soon as I was greeted by miss young and friendly I knew I was doomed. With my shy veins I've become a champion pain-ignorer with the countless IV shenanigans to this point, but even I had to wince after three painful poke and digs while Nurse Cutesy panned for gold.
"Weird - I get a bit of blood each time but then it goes back in!" Um yeah. It's called NOT finding a vein, sweetheart.
While she was snaking around in my inner arms with the needle, I spotted another, no nonsense and very capable nurse I'd had for a couple of scans back in June and I was this close to being all entitled-like and asking to switch up. But alas. The champion prevailed, I kept mum and my inept one finally found a portal.
The worst part, though - and honestly, it's been the worst part of this whole cancer mess - was the nausea. When you get a heart scan, they inject tin into your veins to get the read they need from your valves, etc., and as soon as it went in, a lovely metallic taste lit up my tastebuds and I had to choke back the varmint yet again. I had to wait 45 minutes for the tin to do its stuff and then once I was settled on the scan machine, a different nurse withdrew some blood, waited another 10 minutes and then reinjected it into my IV. More tin. More chunks in my mouth.
When the three 15-minute scans finally got underway, I was choking back tears instead of barf. They come from nowhere these days, like the related hot flashes. In my everyday life I feel pretty great - gettin' shit done, cooking dinner, walking, mentally beating this cancer crap - but I can tear up at the most random things. Yesterday it was the sight of an old man cleaning his glasses while he was in the waiting room in nuclear medicine. This morning it was Stella telling me I looked cool with my peach fuzz hair growing back. "No - I actually mean it!" she insisted.
I am no longer in control of when and where I get all sucky and it, well, sucks.
Does it end? If this menopause is permanent, will I always be an emotional mess? Seriously - I'm not the crying type. I once reached a rather low point of hormone-fueled crying while listening to Easy to Tame by Kim Mitchell when I was eight months pregnant with Stella (believe me, it took everything in me just to write that sentence). I swore then and there that I'd never live by my hormones again and never ever listen to classic Canadian rock stations.
So keep your orphaned kittens, your sick babies and your reunited relatives away from me, dammit!
The heart scan yesterday was, well, unpleasant. As soon as I was greeted by miss young and friendly I knew I was doomed. With my shy veins I've become a champion pain-ignorer with the countless IV shenanigans to this point, but even I had to wince after three painful poke and digs while Nurse Cutesy panned for gold.
"Weird - I get a bit of blood each time but then it goes back in!" Um yeah. It's called NOT finding a vein, sweetheart.
While she was snaking around in my inner arms with the needle, I spotted another, no nonsense and very capable nurse I'd had for a couple of scans back in June and I was this close to being all entitled-like and asking to switch up. But alas. The champion prevailed, I kept mum and my inept one finally found a portal.
The worst part, though - and honestly, it's been the worst part of this whole cancer mess - was the nausea. When you get a heart scan, they inject tin into your veins to get the read they need from your valves, etc., and as soon as it went in, a lovely metallic taste lit up my tastebuds and I had to choke back the varmint yet again. I had to wait 45 minutes for the tin to do its stuff and then once I was settled on the scan machine, a different nurse withdrew some blood, waited another 10 minutes and then reinjected it into my IV. More tin. More chunks in my mouth.
When the three 15-minute scans finally got underway, I was choking back tears instead of barf. They come from nowhere these days, like the related hot flashes. In my everyday life I feel pretty great - gettin' shit done, cooking dinner, walking, mentally beating this cancer crap - but I can tear up at the most random things. Yesterday it was the sight of an old man cleaning his glasses while he was in the waiting room in nuclear medicine. This morning it was Stella telling me I looked cool with my peach fuzz hair growing back. "No - I actually mean it!" she insisted.
I am no longer in control of when and where I get all sucky and it, well, sucks.
Does it end? If this menopause is permanent, will I always be an emotional mess? Seriously - I'm not the crying type. I once reached a rather low point of hormone-fueled crying while listening to Easy to Tame by Kim Mitchell when I was eight months pregnant with Stella (believe me, it took everything in me just to write that sentence). I swore then and there that I'd never live by my hormones again and never ever listen to classic Canadian rock stations.
So keep your orphaned kittens, your sick babies and your reunited relatives away from me, dammit!
Monday, September 20, 2010
Final days of freedom
I got a call from my GP's office on Friday to tell me I was due for my yearly physical. The thing is, I was supposed to have my yearly physical back in March, but with my work schedule at the time, I was having difficulty scheduling something that also coincided with being in the middle of my cycle, which is when docs like to check for abnormal cervical cells. In short, didn't ever make the appointment, found the lump in May and the rest is recent history. I think we can all imagine the regret on that one.
So now they're trying again to get me in, knowing full well I'm going through chemo, to what? Also see if I have cancer down below, too? Are you fucking kidding me? I want to make that appointment as much as I want to go back to that dream I had last night where I was making a presentation in my full baldness and a bathing suit. Wretched.com.
Turns out I had to go to my doc today anyhow to get a school form signed for Stella's peanut allergy. She was actually quite lovely and asked me tons about how I was doing and the meds I had been taking. It didn't make me want to come back for my physical, however, but I'll go eventually. Just let me get round five under my belt.
With three free days left and feeling 100%, my hair beginning to grow back in this very stylish baby chick fashion, and my white blood cell counts likely plummeting as I write this, I'm a bit nervous about Friday. It's the first of my four final rounds on a new cocktail. This time it's Docetaxel and Herceptin, the latter drug which is notoriously hard on a girl's heart, so I have to get a second heart scan tomorrow to establish another marker for my heart health. The initial worry with Friday's first round of this new cocktail is that I'll have an allergic reaction, so I have to begin taking a steroid a couple of days beforehand to reduce the likelihood of this.
Good fun.
In the meantime, I'm taking advantage of feeling 100% by getting back into reading about c-stuff, cooking and baking more (bought coconut oil today to experiment with some vegan recipes) and drinking a glass here and there to remember what it feels like not to have a burned out throat and mouth. Heaven.
So now they're trying again to get me in, knowing full well I'm going through chemo, to what? Also see if I have cancer down below, too? Are you fucking kidding me? I want to make that appointment as much as I want to go back to that dream I had last night where I was making a presentation in my full baldness and a bathing suit. Wretched.com.
Turns out I had to go to my doc today anyhow to get a school form signed for Stella's peanut allergy. She was actually quite lovely and asked me tons about how I was doing and the meds I had been taking. It didn't make me want to come back for my physical, however, but I'll go eventually. Just let me get round five under my belt.
With three free days left and feeling 100%, my hair beginning to grow back in this very stylish baby chick fashion, and my white blood cell counts likely plummeting as I write this, I'm a bit nervous about Friday. It's the first of my four final rounds on a new cocktail. This time it's Docetaxel and Herceptin, the latter drug which is notoriously hard on a girl's heart, so I have to get a second heart scan tomorrow to establish another marker for my heart health. The initial worry with Friday's first round of this new cocktail is that I'll have an allergic reaction, so I have to begin taking a steroid a couple of days beforehand to reduce the likelihood of this.
Good fun.
In the meantime, I'm taking advantage of feeling 100% by getting back into reading about c-stuff, cooking and baking more (bought coconut oil today to experiment with some vegan recipes) and drinking a glass here and there to remember what it feels like not to have a burned out throat and mouth. Heaven.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Happy birthday mom
Today is my mom’s birthday. If cancer has taught me anything good so far, it’s that having your mom close by when you’re going through shit is beyond a gift. My mom may have brought me up to be a fighter, but that would have been poor comfort without her actual self in the same city. And this isn’t just about taking my girls on the bad nights and just generally coming through on anything I need. It’s about being my friend through this whole thing.
So here’s the thing about my mom. I think she knows how fair, smart, loving, light-hearted, sharp-tongued and unbelievably generous she is. She’s had enough of me complaining in my growing up years about how she always has to see the other side in any dispute to know that she’s a poster girl for empathy. I also think she might know what a supportive, non-micro-managing, honest, emotionally tender but strong influence she’s been on all three of her kids. That’s the thing about my mom. She’s pretty self-aware.
What she may not know is how beautiful she is. I don’t mean that whole you need to know her to see her beauty kind of thing. I mean what a knock-out babe she was in her youth and what a knock-out babe she continues to be. I know she’ll think I’m being silly writing this, but it’s true. I watch her sometimes when we’re talking or when she’s cooking or playing with my daughters or sitting with my dad and I see this Italian queen, with olive skin and a twinkle in her eye and I feel as proud as I can feel about having such a lovely for a mom.
If I’m dealing with the c-dawg the way I am – refusing to give in to the maudlin (most of the time), staying in the moment (usually) and focusing on what it’s all going to teach me about my life (generally), it’s because of her. And not because she had it too, although that’s part of it, but because I want to show her that everything she did for me, everything she continues to give, will be for something.
She was the first person I called when I was diagnosed in June and 37 years into our relationship, she still managed to surprise me. I was barely holding it together and was worried her crying might send me spiralling again. She was upset, to be sure, but she was strong with me. “Aw, shit,” were the first words out of her mouth. Like me, I know she took some time to wallow in it after our call, but one day later, I got this note:
Okay with me.
So happy birthday, mom. You’re a huge-hearted warrior woman and you should know how much I love you while you’re still so here.
So here’s the thing about my mom. I think she knows how fair, smart, loving, light-hearted, sharp-tongued and unbelievably generous she is. She’s had enough of me complaining in my growing up years about how she always has to see the other side in any dispute to know that she’s a poster girl for empathy. I also think she might know what a supportive, non-micro-managing, honest, emotionally tender but strong influence she’s been on all three of her kids. That’s the thing about my mom. She’s pretty self-aware.
What she may not know is how beautiful she is. I don’t mean that whole you need to know her to see her beauty kind of thing. I mean what a knock-out babe she was in her youth and what a knock-out babe she continues to be. I know she’ll think I’m being silly writing this, but it’s true. I watch her sometimes when we’re talking or when she’s cooking or playing with my daughters or sitting with my dad and I see this Italian queen, with olive skin and a twinkle in her eye and I feel as proud as I can feel about having such a lovely for a mom.
If I’m dealing with the c-dawg the way I am – refusing to give in to the maudlin (most of the time), staying in the moment (usually) and focusing on what it’s all going to teach me about my life (generally), it’s because of her. And not because she had it too, although that’s part of it, but because I want to show her that everything she did for me, everything she continues to give, will be for something.
She was the first person I called when I was diagnosed in June and 37 years into our relationship, she still managed to surprise me. I was barely holding it together and was worried her crying might send me spiralling again. She was upset, to be sure, but she was strong with me. “Aw, shit,” were the first words out of her mouth. Like me, I know she took some time to wallow in it after our call, but one day later, I got this note:
I just wanted to let you know that I think I had an epiphany earlier today. I have been moping around, getting teary eyed every time I thought of this damn cancer thing. I now have decided that there will be only optimism and sunshine around when we get together. You are a strong, healthy young woman and with the help of your friends (your dad and I count ourselves as your friends too, you know) we are going to get you through the rough parts. Pete can depend on us for anything needed and we can drop everything at a moment's notice to lend a hand. We can even stay in "nana/poppa's" bed at your house if you need us to, at any time. Okay with you?
Okay with me.
So happy birthday, mom. You’re a huge-hearted warrior woman and you should know how much I love you while you’re still so here.
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