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.

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.

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.

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.

Putting the tramp in trampoline

Oh, so much has happened since last week, chiquitas! I bought a rebounder, went to Vancouver with my brood for a laser-fast trip, made a decision on my return to work date and slept on my side for a whole 30 minutes. Cue the angels singing.

First the mini-trampoline. I've been coveting one for as long as I've been hanging out with the c-dawg, but boobies, then hacked-off boobies kept getting in the way of realizing my dream of bouncing my way to nirvana. You see, rebounding (as they say in the biz) is damn near the best form of exercise known to girl-kind (and boy-kind for that matter). It's easy on the fake hip, you can do it while you're yelling at the kids and it gets all the good juices moving in the right direction in the old goddess pod. And when you're trying to dog the lymphadema monster (and ultimately the return of the c-monster), it gives your lymphatic system something to pee its pants over. In a word, it's the bestest.

After a seemingly jet-set stop at a fitness depot in good ol' Langford last week after having lunch with Stella and my parents, I spotted the perfect rebounder, marked down from $80 to $30. Sold. And sold again to my Ma, who has become my biggest fan (heck, she always has been). The thing is now set up in my sun room and I've been tentatively bouncing on it whenever I pass by. It feels mucho strange with my mini-boulders bouncing and yet not bouncing along with me, so I'm easing into it, but it feels good. Like fun and invigorating and calming all at the same time. Yay for me.

Then there's the big V. We decided to take the kids for an overnighter on Friday to visit Pete's mom and get a few visits into the deal. It was half lovely and half excruciating with baby doll Frances along for the ride. She was in turns darling and brutal and far from being a trooper when shoved out of her element. I love that bean of mine, but man, is she ever three.

And work? I decided that by the first week of May, my bod should be in good working order (or good enough) to get me on the communications forklift again. This has been a tough decision. When I left work last year I was feeling like I was at an all-time high professionally but an all-time low personally. There have been a lot of discussions with Pete and ruminations with myself over the past several months about what work should look like, what I want, what's possible, what my long-term plans are (long-term being one year, cuz I can't think beyond that any more). I've changed some of my cellular structure over the past nine months, but I'm still the ambitious, driven gal I was b.c. The only thing that's different is that I feel a greater clarity about what's important and how I want to manage my work and life. That's a very small sentence for some pretty big changes inside of moi.

But really, the most important thing of all is that the other day I was finally able to roll onto my right side and sleep on it for an entire half hour. Miracles are possible, people. They really are.

Have an action packed couple of cancer weeks ahead. Heart scan, Herceptin, regroup with Dr. A, my onc, GP visit, and hopefully a rehab rehash to see what I can do to get to the point of lifting midgets with my withered arms.

And take it to the left, and hold....

Four weeks in and I'm getting tired of not being able to reach for or lift shit. I know six weeks is the magic number for getting some decent mobility back, but the whole "stretch, but not 'til it hurts!" instructions are frustratingly vague.

I can almost reach up (way up!) with my right arm - enough to shave, get a salad bowl, fetch the bag of Hallowe'en treats still lingering in my linen closet. My left is another story. Because one of the "areas highly suspicious for invasive ductal carcinoma" was on the outer edge, they took so much skin on that side that I've got this bat-wing thing going on (goodbye armpit modeling career). I can reach about half as far as my right and it burns, baby.

The numbness is going away on my chest but it's still there on the back and underside of my left arm. The doc says it might always be there, which is less distressing than I thought it would be. It feels funny/painful when I brush my pony out in the morning or when someone grabs me by the arm while I'm trying to shoplift at the Bay, but no biggie. Cancer vs. numbness. We know who the clear winner is there.

Things I'm rather sad about are not being able to do yoga, sleep on my side or lift/carry my girls. Frances has reworded her daily ask from "can you carry me?" to "can you hold me and walk?", thinking I might get fooled, but as cherubic as face is, I know I'd rather wait than risk permanent damage.

I'm doing my exersausages every day, but may end up calling a physio or signing up for rehab at the six-week mark so I can take everything to the next level. I gots marathons to run, people!

The good ol' vegan baking try

Now that I've got my juice on and we've transformed our grocery bills into 90 per cent raw fruit and veg (yes, my children hate me), I've decided to make another leap in the kitchen to see if I can't make my cancer go away forever through top-notch nutrition = vegan baking.

Oh, don't think the mention of me baking all things sans eggs and butter, mostly gluten-free and sugar-free didn't strike fear in Pete's heart. Like me, he believes in indulging in the real thing rather than shoving strange substitutes down your gullet. And shit, man, if you haven't checked out the "alterna" sections of your local grocery haunt lately, it's stuffed to the gills with soy this and soy that - products made to look like something else. I've even tried some of this crap over the past several months. The latest being tapioca cheese. Don't ask.

So I'm still determined to seek out whole foods, not the methadone substitutes to get me through the shakes. But it's been difficult. Eating out is mostly a disaster. Not only do we have to look out for food that might be laden with the mighty peanut so Stella doesn't collapse in closed-throat agony, but trying to get a decent baked good that isn't butter, sugar and egg happy is bloody impossible. So, hell, I love to bake, and my wretched reaching and lifting abilities won't be compromised with mere measuring cups and spoons, so here I go.

After many failed attempts and a cupboard full of odd ingredients, I've finally narrowed it down to a few whole food substitutes (I apologize to all you seasoned alterna bakers out there, but I had to figure this stuff out myself):

Flour = spelt (I also use brown rice, quinoa and Bob's Red Mill all-purpose gluten-free flours)
Liquid sugar = agave (sweeter than refined sugar but lower GI - there's still controversy about the processing of agave, but until the verdict comes down, I'll continue to squirt it into my baking)
Grainy sugar = coconut sap (expensive but worth it - lower GI and delicious)
Eggs = ground flax or chia with a little water does a fab binding job
Oil/butter = coconut oil (good fat, people) or grapeseed oil (neutral and non-GMO)


Despite all the hype out there that it's really easy to bake with this stuff (I swear most vegans have lost their taste buds or their ability to tell the truth... I look forward to your letters), I've had exactly one vegan recipe turn out so fabulous that I'd be happy to serve to friends and strangers alike - banana bread - but even with this one I lowered the sugar to 1/4 c. Next time I'll lower it even more and add some toasted millet, my new favourite crunch.

I will persevere! Today I bought the babycakes cookbook, which uses a lot of the ingredients I listed, and made some raspberry scones. I didn't have enough spelt flour so used mostly quinoa. They're good, but I think they need a little tweaking before I'd share them.

And I promise - if you come to my house, I'll only serve the America's Test Kitchen version of my baking. Next up is my continued attempt to make the perfect vegan chili (without any of that soy nonsense) so I can establish Sing Your Arse Off Saturdays at the McCart-Taylor household every month and guests full of beans, wine and karaoke. Be very afraid.