I'm going to have to pull something outta my arse for this Sunday's love list. I feel like shite, it's 150 degrees in my living room, and the peach I just cut up is a poor imitation of the bounty I left behind in the Okanagan last weekend. Here goes nothing.
1. My parents. Let's start this off sucky, shall we? My mom and dad earn the top spot every day, but let's make it official and say a huge thank you for taking on Stella and Frances on another dual over-nighter when they've had a houseful of guests for a month and a particularly busy Friday and Saturday. You let me enjoy my Gravol-induced sleep and I owe you and love you more than you know.
2. Iced tea. It saves my parched gullet when water tastes like garbage and makes me somehow forget it's mostly sugar.
3. My iPhone. Trite, to be sure, but I have TG and KS to thank a million for the gifting and activating, and Apple for making it awesome enough to allow me to escape during the 60-minute injection extravaganzas every three weeks.
4. Christopher Nolan. I escaped the heat o' the house last night with my man for a couple of hours to catch Inception. Groovy flick, and a reminder how much I loved Memento and the last Batman for messing with my mind.
5. Tilda Swinton. She calls her own shots, no? A bit of lovely amongst the beige, platform-heeled starlets and I'm so looking forward to seeing I am Love.
Ok. So pulled a few out. Now let me be while I spray my face with water and shove it in front of the fan.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Harder, better, faster, stronger
Round three soon to be fully under my belt, with a difference this time. I was reading up on "fixing" blood test results before last Thursday's poke and downed a gigantic glass of water, a huge mug of green tea and about two cups of green and carrot juices mixed together. Perhaps all a bit coincidence, but my neutrophils (type of white blood cell that figures prominently in your immune system) ended up being a normal person's level when they shouldn't have been.
So Nurse Jane was happy with me and she jacked up my processing time to 30 minutes from 60 for the second half of my cocktail on Friday. She neglected to tell me, but was observing my sniffling and nose-blowing toward the end - a sign of the speedy injection.
"I like to get 'em in and get 'em out," she said. Indeed.
Yesterday afternoon I flopped on the bed, the coolest room in the house, and dozed on and off until Pete brought me some homemade chicken broth. The worst was again between about 4 and 9 pm but no varminting. So again, bravo, Emend. I dozed on the couch for a bit and then downed some more anti-nauseants and rolled back into back for a pretty great sleep.
This morning I still felt off, but managed a handful of dry cereal and a peach. Around lunch time I craved the ever-loving pickles and bacon again so Pete took me on a drive and we ended up at Spinnakers. Great pub. Awesome BLT. Pickles by request. Ate the whole damn thing, which could not have happened on day two of round one or two. Again, do I thank the neutrophils?
I have this image of some 1980s video game playing in my breast - asteroids or space invaders. I tell ya. My skin is clearer than it's ever been. My armpits are smoother than a baby's. And despite it all, I'm still growing a bit of hair on my legs, my eyebrows are still clinging and I'm still ovulating to boot. The simultaneously random and specific destruction is endlessly interesting to me, but I'll be damn happy when I move past round four and onto the less sickly-feeling rounds five to eight.
So Nurse Jane was happy with me and she jacked up my processing time to 30 minutes from 60 for the second half of my cocktail on Friday. She neglected to tell me, but was observing my sniffling and nose-blowing toward the end - a sign of the speedy injection.
"I like to get 'em in and get 'em out," she said. Indeed.
Yesterday afternoon I flopped on the bed, the coolest room in the house, and dozed on and off until Pete brought me some homemade chicken broth. The worst was again between about 4 and 9 pm but no varminting. So again, bravo, Emend. I dozed on the couch for a bit and then downed some more anti-nauseants and rolled back into back for a pretty great sleep.
This morning I still felt off, but managed a handful of dry cereal and a peach. Around lunch time I craved the ever-loving pickles and bacon again so Pete took me on a drive and we ended up at Spinnakers. Great pub. Awesome BLT. Pickles by request. Ate the whole damn thing, which could not have happened on day two of round one or two. Again, do I thank the neutrophils?
I have this image of some 1980s video game playing in my breast - asteroids or space invaders. I tell ya. My skin is clearer than it's ever been. My armpits are smoother than a baby's. And despite it all, I'm still growing a bit of hair on my legs, my eyebrows are still clinging and I'm still ovulating to boot. The simultaneously random and specific destruction is endlessly interesting to me, but I'll be damn happy when I move past round four and onto the less sickly-feeling rounds five to eight.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
I'll have a breast and a thigh
Yesterday was confusing, thought-provoking and more than a little monster movie-like.
I met first with Doogie Howser, my new cosmetic surgeon. I swear I have less and less a need for the niceties before I strip to my skivvies to give us all a good look at my loot. Dr. T was young and fresh, not at all what I expected from the premier boob man in the city, but there you have it.
He had his assistant take glamour shots of my chestal area (head not included) and take some measurements for his Carissa file and then he poked around himself, checking out my gut and butt to see how much flesh there was to fashion a new set. He chastised me briefly for having ample decolletage without the accompanying ample booty and showed Pete and me endless photos of pre-, post-, and (oops, flip past these horrific ones quickly) a few during-op women with huge scars on their tummies, various frankenboobs and a few implants. All curiously missing nipples.
Pete was a bit more traumatized than me - he said it was like lifting up someone's sunglasses and not seeing any eyes. I thought it looked like someone had censored out the good bits, and I was curious about the process to create the headlights. Apparently they gather up some flesh (by hand? special nipple crimping tool?) and then tattoo the area around it.
"Much more civilized," Dr. T proclaimed. "They used to take skin from the labia to make it look natural."
Seriously.
The short of it was that I went in there with one decision in my brain (bi-lateral mastectomy - so both gone - and simultaneous reconstruction from my own flesh) and left with a different one (single mastectomy and simultaneous reduction on the other side with reconstruction on the left later from an implant).
Anyway, turns out I don't have enough extra flesh to create any boobies of substance and the flesh of my flesh option can equal an eight-hour surgery and at least six weeks of recovery. Ouch. Before my body was compromised by chemo I might have considered the long surgery, but something about getting cancer makes me now consider things like relatively small percentages (complications in this case) rather more seriously. With the implant option, surgery may take only one or two hours and recovery is much shorter.
Do I really need both removed and recreated right away? What's so bad about implants? Which decision will make me feel less like offing myself in the recovery room post op?
My confusion was confounded at my oncologist appointment later the same morning when I learned that the chance of getting ductal carcinoma in my other breast is in the single digits. So removing both now seems extreme, but fuck, man, cancer is extreme, no?
The rest of the oncologist appointment went well. The stand-in doc was pleased that I had already noticed one lump getting smaller. The efficacy of these blasted chemo treatments will determine whether radiation or surgery must follow. Not enough shrinkage=radiation before surgery.
I haven't fully made up my mind yet, but guaranteed I'll be obsessing over my potential new set for the next several months.
I met first with Doogie Howser, my new cosmetic surgeon. I swear I have less and less a need for the niceties before I strip to my skivvies to give us all a good look at my loot. Dr. T was young and fresh, not at all what I expected from the premier boob man in the city, but there you have it. He had his assistant take glamour shots of my chestal area (head not included) and take some measurements for his Carissa file and then he poked around himself, checking out my gut and butt to see how much flesh there was to fashion a new set. He chastised me briefly for having ample decolletage without the accompanying ample booty and showed Pete and me endless photos of pre-, post-, and (oops, flip past these horrific ones quickly) a few during-op women with huge scars on their tummies, various frankenboobs and a few implants. All curiously missing nipples.
Pete was a bit more traumatized than me - he said it was like lifting up someone's sunglasses and not seeing any eyes. I thought it looked like someone had censored out the good bits, and I was curious about the process to create the headlights. Apparently they gather up some flesh (by hand? special nipple crimping tool?) and then tattoo the area around it.
"Much more civilized," Dr. T proclaimed. "They used to take skin from the labia to make it look natural."
Seriously.
The short of it was that I went in there with one decision in my brain (bi-lateral mastectomy - so both gone - and simultaneous reconstruction from my own flesh) and left with a different one (single mastectomy and simultaneous reduction on the other side with reconstruction on the left later from an implant).
Anyway, turns out I don't have enough extra flesh to create any boobies of substance and the flesh of my flesh option can equal an eight-hour surgery and at least six weeks of recovery. Ouch. Before my body was compromised by chemo I might have considered the long surgery, but something about getting cancer makes me now consider things like relatively small percentages (complications in this case) rather more seriously. With the implant option, surgery may take only one or two hours and recovery is much shorter.
Do I really need both removed and recreated right away? What's so bad about implants? Which decision will make me feel less like offing myself in the recovery room post op?
My confusion was confounded at my oncologist appointment later the same morning when I learned that the chance of getting ductal carcinoma in my other breast is in the single digits. So removing both now seems extreme, but fuck, man, cancer is extreme, no?
The rest of the oncologist appointment went well. The stand-in doc was pleased that I had already noticed one lump getting smaller. The efficacy of these blasted chemo treatments will determine whether radiation or surgery must follow. Not enough shrinkage=radiation before surgery.
I haven't fully made up my mind yet, but guaranteed I'll be obsessing over my potential new set for the next several months.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Frankenboob
Tomorrow morning I have an oncologist appointment to get felt up, measured, analyzed, to see if the killer drugs are killing the right cells as well as the wrong ones. I can already feel one tumour getting noticeably smaller, so that makes me feel like the full-body Nair (sans Nair) treatment I've been getting is paying off.
And just before my onc appt. I have my first consultation with a plastic surgeon. Even though my surgery won't be until December or January, my surgeon wanted me to meet with the breast man early so I could... pick out the boobies I want? Not sure, but looking forward to whatever it is he'll want to chat about because it reminds me that I will eventually get to that stage, even as I dread round three on Friday.
Last week in Osoyoos I was checking out the ladies by the pool like a 14-year old boy. Do I want tiny Kate Hudson ones that I can bounce around, go bra-less, sleep on my stomach with?
Do I want Jennifer Aniston ones that I still fit into an off-the-rack bikini, shove into a tight dress, alert the coast guard that I'm coming to shore with? Or do I want the the C-cups of my late teens, when I could use them to distract boys from the fact that I was really a cold-hearted lass not worth tangling with? Oh, my yute.
Not quite sure yet, but whatever I end up with, they'll have to do some mighty good shaping and moulding to get them looking more human and less frankenboob. I have my doubts.
And just before my onc appt. I have my first consultation with a plastic surgeon. Even though my surgery won't be until December or January, my surgeon wanted me to meet with the breast man early so I could... pick out the boobies I want? Not sure, but looking forward to whatever it is he'll want to chat about because it reminds me that I will eventually get to that stage, even as I dread round three on Friday.
Last week in Osoyoos I was checking out the ladies by the pool like a 14-year old boy. Do I want tiny Kate Hudson ones that I can bounce around, go bra-less, sleep on my stomach with? 
Do I want Jennifer Aniston ones that I still fit into an off-the-rack bikini, shove into a tight dress, alert the coast guard that I'm coming to shore with? Or do I want the the C-cups of my late teens, when I could use them to distract boys from the fact that I was really a cold-hearted lass not worth tangling with? Oh, my yute.Not quite sure yet, but whatever I end up with, they'll have to do some mighty good shaping and moulding to get them looking more human and less frankenboob. I have my doubts.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Sunday of love: part deux
This week is hurtling me toward round three on Friday, just when I'm feeling good enough to drink a beer and enjoy chocolate again. Drats. Another Sunday love-in is in order.
1. My family. Yes there are some messed up Ital-Irish tendencies in there that only a double dose of the Pope could cure, but there is no better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than doing absolutely nothing with my kin.
2. A Year in Provence. I know, I'm late to this book, but damn it was good. And sometimes it takes a little of the C-dawg to get a chance to think about all the tomes on one's almost forgotten list.
3. Pete's sense of direction. If it were up to my personal compass skills, we'd still be driving around Osoyoos looking for the on-ramp home. And yet, strangely, Pete's autistic-like talents in this area went through some kind of kryptonite reversal whilst in Vegas and I somehow led us around in that bizarro town. Go figure.
4. BC Ferries beef barley soup. The kitchen that gives all mortal humans acute diarrhea somehow produces the best galldarnit beef barley soup concoction this side of the Mississippi.
5. Driving through the University to get home. Students bustling about with ratty backpacks, 1970s maze-like buildings, some of the best drinking years of my life, bunnies.
A lovely week of holiday-making behind me, no bacterial infection in sight, a fridge stocked with immune-boosters. I'm as ready as I'll ever be to swim through the next four days of freedom.
1. My family. Yes there are some messed up Ital-Irish tendencies in there that only a double dose of the Pope could cure, but there is no better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than doing absolutely nothing with my kin.
2. A Year in Provence. I know, I'm late to this book, but damn it was good. And sometimes it takes a little of the C-dawg to get a chance to think about all the tomes on one's almost forgotten list.
3. Pete's sense of direction. If it were up to my personal compass skills, we'd still be driving around Osoyoos looking for the on-ramp home. And yet, strangely, Pete's autistic-like talents in this area went through some kind of kryptonite reversal whilst in Vegas and I somehow led us around in that bizarro town. Go figure.
4. BC Ferries beef barley soup. The kitchen that gives all mortal humans acute diarrhea somehow produces the best galldarnit beef barley soup concoction this side of the Mississippi.
5. Driving through the University to get home. Students bustling about with ratty backpacks, 1970s maze-like buildings, some of the best drinking years of my life, bunnies.
A lovely week of holiday-making behind me, no bacterial infection in sight, a fridge stocked with immune-boosters. I'm as ready as I'll ever be to swim through the next four days of freedom.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Sunday of love
I have a bit of a rep for being cranky over grateful, so I figured, hey - what better time to turn that frown upside down than when I'm sailing the cancer ship around the world?
So I decided to turn Sunday nights into a "what I love" kinda moment. Starting today with my first top five list.
1. Bill Murray. Seriously. After a double bill weekend of Lost in Translation and Groundhog Day, this adorable and strange man is on my freebie five list to stay.
2. Naps. I learned from the best, y'all, and my Dad is tops at "resting his eyes." The Irish are notoriously great at napping and for actually feeling refreshed after (you Italians and English know what I mean when I say you go too deep).
3. Planning a trip. The build up is always better than the actual, and damn it's been fun gathering the hickory sticks, extra underwear and trashy books for our trip to Osoyoos on Tuesday.
4. Etsy. I'm a bit of a latecomer to this site, but when I dialed it up on the intertubes a few months back, I discovered a new time sucker and a great way to figure out what all the hippies in Victoria are up to.
5. Roast chicken. I like the basic lemon and garlic type and a high temp and no one does it better than my man. Even though I'm cutting way back on the animal flesh, eating this bird on a Sunday night makes me feel like everything has got to be okay.
Okay, darlings, I do feel better now, so maybe this grateful schtick has something to it.
So I decided to turn Sunday nights into a "what I love" kinda moment. Starting today with my first top five list.
1. Bill Murray. Seriously. After a double bill weekend of Lost in Translation and Groundhog Day, this adorable and strange man is on my freebie five list to stay.
2. Naps. I learned from the best, y'all, and my Dad is tops at "resting his eyes." The Irish are notoriously great at napping and for actually feeling refreshed after (you Italians and English know what I mean when I say you go too deep).
3. Planning a trip. The build up is always better than the actual, and damn it's been fun gathering the hickory sticks, extra underwear and trashy books for our trip to Osoyoos on Tuesday.
4. Etsy. I'm a bit of a latecomer to this site, but when I dialed it up on the intertubes a few months back, I discovered a new time sucker and a great way to figure out what all the hippies in Victoria are up to.
5. Roast chicken. I like the basic lemon and garlic type and a high temp and no one does it better than my man. Even though I'm cutting way back on the animal flesh, eating this bird on a Sunday night makes me feel like everything has got to be okay.
Okay, darlings, I do feel better now, so maybe this grateful schtick has something to it.
Eating my way through cancer
I'm getting closer to figuring out what to eat. There is a shitload of info on diet, exercise, outlook, religion, yada, and I can only wade through a bit at a time before I get to mired in the "shit, I have cancer" moments (yes, they still come).
I found a fabulous book (well, fabulous so far) called "What to eat if you have cancer." It's by a couple of American nutritionists who are able to take most of what I've been dissecting so far (angiogenesis, acid vs. alkaline, veganism, supplements, etc., etc.) and put it together in a rational way with a healthy bunch of chapters on what your cells are doing when they fuck up and form tumours. It's actually a great read for anyone wanting to prevent, so here I'll go and prematurely recommend it.
When I get through to the end I'll post my thoughts on specific foods/vitamins and we can all go through this world a little more informed about the c-dawg.
My lover boy, Pete, is on a morning walk with the kids right now and I'm at the point today of wanting pancakes with blueberries. Am a bit obsessed with the sour punch of unripe fruit right now and have been devouring peaches, grapes and oranges like nobody's business. For a girl who ate but one piece a day pre-cancer, this is a breakthrough, y'all.
I found a fabulous book (well, fabulous so far) called "What to eat if you have cancer." It's by a couple of American nutritionists who are able to take most of what I've been dissecting so far (angiogenesis, acid vs. alkaline, veganism, supplements, etc., etc.) and put it together in a rational way with a healthy bunch of chapters on what your cells are doing when they fuck up and form tumours. It's actually a great read for anyone wanting to prevent, so here I'll go and prematurely recommend it.
When I get through to the end I'll post my thoughts on specific foods/vitamins and we can all go through this world a little more informed about the c-dawg.
My lover boy, Pete, is on a morning walk with the kids right now and I'm at the point today of wanting pancakes with blueberries. Am a bit obsessed with the sour punch of unripe fruit right now and have been devouring peaches, grapes and oranges like nobody's business. For a girl who ate but one piece a day pre-cancer, this is a breakthrough, y'all.
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