Tattoo you

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

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

"All good, Dr. K."

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

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

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

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

Graduation day

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

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

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

And... that's a wrap?

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

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

Then she asks me what I want to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I heart shopping

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

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

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

Münchausen mania

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conjuring up some cravings

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

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

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

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

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

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.