"I haven't seen anything new on your blog lately, is everything all right?", "Are you still writing?", "You don't write anymore." Into my head pops that gooey Barbara Streisand/Neil Diamond duet "You Don't Bring Me Flowers". Let's see Bab's and Mr. Spangly Shirt go through four months of chemo and keep showing up with posies! I've got posies! They are rattling around in my brain - I just don't have the energy to actually write them down! It makes me cranky. You probably already picked up on that. As crabby as I am, it pleases me that people want to read more. So, here goes . . . Thursday was my final chemo! I was giddy as they dripped the toxins in one last time. My Dr. told me I should be proud that I made it through all six. They couldn't do one more - too many of my bodies systems are no longer bouncing back. I can't say that "proud" is the adjective I would have chosen - maybe "fubar". They certainly take you to the brink. I am lying on that brink now, like a wet dishtowel. Sunday was my birthday. I woke up at one point to find a shiny balloon tied to my wrist. My daughter thought that would be nice. My son wrote "Happy Birthday!" on the balloon. As sweet and adorable as all that was, I couldn't help but feel like the 100 year old tchachki in the corner with the pathetic, sparkly balloon tied on in an effort to jeujze it up. We decided to simply postpone any birthday celebrations until I am up and about again. If it is still floating, I'll have to put my sparkly balloon back on.
So much has happened since I last put my thoughts down, I don't know where to begin. After my 5th chemo, I did an MRI for the surgeon to get a good picture of what she's going to be operating on. Imagine my amazement when what they found was NO visible invasive cancer at all! As difficult as the chemo has been, it has certainly done it's job. What does all this mean? Do I have to do the 6th chemo? Yes. Is there still surgery involved? Yes. I had non-invasive as well as invasive cancer. Although non-invasive is good - it can't be touched by chemotherapy. What are my odds of another cancer starting up in the other breast? Unfortunately, fairly high since my maternal grandmother died of ovarian cancer. Mine is a hormone driven cancer - so it's going to be a double mastectomy to reduce the risk of recurrence. They will do reconstructive surgery at the same time. You know the old ditty "All's I want fer Christmas is ma two front teeth..." - change the lyrics a little and add some hair - that's all's I want. My daughter told me last night that she can hardly remember what I look like with hair. She only remembers that it was fat. I love that description! Me and my fat hair!
It is almost two weeks since I wrote those last two paragraphs and things have changed a bit. As it turns out, my oncologist wants to do radiation therapy. That may compromise the reconstructive surgery happening simultaneously. I should know in the next week, just what the plan is. I am trying very hard not to think in terms of - I have to have radiation, but that I get to have radiation. My cancer is being treated aggressively, and that gives me the best chance against further metastases. I am struggling with looking at my situation with a "glass half full" attitude. I am getting there - it's just that right now, I'd like that glass to be half full of vodka. Give me a few days to process it all, and I will want ginger ale again.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Adding Insult to Injury
Two words . . . abrupt menopause. That's right, one more fabulous side effect to add to the list. Can I just say that one more time? It rolls off the tongue so nicely - abrupt menopause. At least a dozen times a day now, I have these intense hot flashes. Being completely bald currently, I have an image of my head being like a light bulb - white hot and glowing as if someone has switched it on. There's no warning, and seemingly no particular thing that brings it on. But suddenly, it feels as if a room full of people could read by the light of my head. Either that or I've just gotten one heck of a good idea!
The particular type of cancer cells that invaded my body have hormone receptors. This is actually a good thing. They now have drugs that attach specifically to those hormone receptors - so they target the cancer cells directly. As swell as this is, it does bring about menopause. There's no easing into it - you are just there! I receive that drug along with the old tried and true chemo that shreds everything in it's path. There is a third drug in there that attacks all fast growing cells. Cancer cells are crazy, fast growing cells. Unfortunately, so are skin cells, blood cells, hair follicle's, your digestive tract, and your sinus passages. Hence the runny nose, general barfiness, baldness, anemia and fatigue, and on the bright side, surprisingly soft skin. It's like having a head-to-toe exfoliating mask on! Your skin is always playing catch-up and replacing the old with new soft stuff. If I could somehow bottle just that side effect, I could make a gazillion dollars here in Hollywood, where all the celebs would pay big bucks for really soft skin!
Did I say hot flashes? I must now revise that to normal flashes. The hot flashes are so frequent, they outnumber the times when I am a normal temperature. My oldest son walked into the kitchen today and caught me with my head in the freezer. I'm pretty sure he is convinced that I've gone round the bend. My daughter, who walked in moments later, and ever the pragmatist exclaimed "You're wasting cold air! But while you're in there, could you get me a popsicle?" She's going to do just fine in this world.
The particular type of cancer cells that invaded my body have hormone receptors. This is actually a good thing. They now have drugs that attach specifically to those hormone receptors - so they target the cancer cells directly. As swell as this is, it does bring about menopause. There's no easing into it - you are just there! I receive that drug along with the old tried and true chemo that shreds everything in it's path. There is a third drug in there that attacks all fast growing cells. Cancer cells are crazy, fast growing cells. Unfortunately, so are skin cells, blood cells, hair follicle's, your digestive tract, and your sinus passages. Hence the runny nose, general barfiness, baldness, anemia and fatigue, and on the bright side, surprisingly soft skin. It's like having a head-to-toe exfoliating mask on! Your skin is always playing catch-up and replacing the old with new soft stuff. If I could somehow bottle just that side effect, I could make a gazillion dollars here in Hollywood, where all the celebs would pay big bucks for really soft skin!
Did I say hot flashes? I must now revise that to normal flashes. The hot flashes are so frequent, they outnumber the times when I am a normal temperature. My oldest son walked into the kitchen today and caught me with my head in the freezer. I'm pretty sure he is convinced that I've gone round the bend. My daughter, who walked in moments later, and ever the pragmatist exclaimed "You're wasting cold air! But while you're in there, could you get me a popsicle?" She's going to do just fine in this world.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
An Out of Body Experience
I believe in one of my latest blogs, I mentioned wanting to crawl out of my own skin. Well, you know how your mother always warned you . . . be careful what you wish for, you just might get it? I do believe, without my express permission, my own body tried to do precisely that - crawl out of itself. IT decided to make this wish, a reality for me . . . at Ralph's Grocery Store. One might think, for such an advanced experiment, that one might wait until one was in the comfort of one's own home - wouldn't one? Apparently one wouldn't, or at least didn't. Squeamish readers need read no further, as I am truly amazed that my head didn't simply collapse today, and I intend on sharing the details forthwith. I know, it's like trying to turn away from a bad wreck!
So, it's my 6th day post chemo, and I am usually bouncing back fairly well by the 5th day - not so this time around. I was still moving rather slowly yesterday, and started to claw my way back out today. I am also going stir crazy, so I decide a small trip to the grocery store would be restorative. (Not to mention, we were surviving on cocktail onions and stale bread at this point - any amount of food in the house is a good excuse not to have to go to the market!) Imagine, finding a trip to the grocery store a little slice. I certainly never had that attitude pre-cancer. Life is an attitude adjustment, isn't it? In any case, I arrive with my small list and head to the bread department. My nose, which inexplicably dries up in the first week following chemo, chooses this moment to start running again. I keep packets of kleenex in my purse these days, and think "Great - the nose is back. I hadn't missed it - oh well." But it doesn't just start dripping. I mean, it's truly like somebody left the faucet on full-bore. I am going through my tissues like . . . yeah, I'm drawing a blank here . . . like somebody with an incredibly runny nose. I may have to get a box of tissues off the shelf and rip into it as I am dangerously close to using up my entire pack, and I'm not even to the 2nd aisle! I'm trying to look semi-normal, while pushing a cart, smiling at other shoppers, getting different breads off the shelf, and holding a tissue over my face. At about this time, I realize that it's really cold in the store. I mean really cold. Is it cold . . . or do I have chills? Are those just chills . . . or do I have stomach cramps? My nausea was mostly gone by the 4th day . . . am I going to be sick?
About two months ago, I had to attend "chemo class". They went over the types of drugs I would be receiving and the potential side effects of each. I forget which drug it was, but one of them could cause either constipation or diarrhea. I remember thinking to myself, oh Lord, don't let it be constipation. At about the same moment I had that thought, the nurse stated, "Most people get constipated". Insultingly, I am not special, and have been like most people. It usually only affects me that first week after chemo, and then things seem to normalize for the next couple of weeks until they blast me again, and off we go on the side-effect tilt-o-whirl. So, imagine my surprise when standing there in the bread aisle, it becomes crystal clear to me that I have to go the the bathroom now! Trying to look unconcerned and sunny, I move, let's just say. . . briskly, to the ladies room. There is a dad standing there with two or three little kids. One child comes out, the next one sidles in, completely oblivious to my distress. Of course, they do stare at the lady with the slightly crazed, plastered-on smile on her face. I can't just stand here, I think. (I'm starting to pace around the eggs.) Pacing around the eggs is drawing attention, or at least I imagine it is, I'm definitely feeling a little nutty doing it. The dad is still waiting at the bathroom door. For the love of Mike - I swear he has about sixteen children milling about his legs now! It's probably just two, but I'm feeling a little panicky at this point. I'm near the frozen food section. I need waffles. I'll get waffles to take my mind off the impending explosion, and then the dad should be gone. It works! He is gone! I barely make it in time. You know how during the Tudor reign, one of the punishments for bad behavior was to remove a persons entrails while they were still alive? I liken my experience (only slightly, because I tend to be a little dramatic) to that. I hear my mother's voice "Be careful what you wish for . . ." At least I'm not thinking about my runny nose any longer. I feel grateful to escape the bathroom intact. (There's that dramatic flare again!)
Well that was kind of horrible - but now I feel pretty good. I can finish my shopping list! (Why didn't I just go home - because I'm an idiot.) Actually, I got through my list quite nicely after that and got in line. The nice young man at the register was moving with less than zero urgency for the amount of people in the store. As he is checking my items, at a glacial pace, I start to feel the merest hint of the chills again. To say the least, this gives me the chills. Maybe it really is just cold in the store. My kids always want to wear parkas in there, even if it is 100ยบ outside. Nope. There are those, now familiar, cramps. CHECK FASTER YOU MORON! Did I say that in my head, or did I use my "outside" voice? I'm pretty sure it was inside my head - no one is staring. I'm humming a tuneless tune, feeling a little singy and panicky. OK. There is no way I'm going to make it home. I start weighing my options. Do I just dart out of line pretending I forgot one more item? No, "nice young man" is actually handing me my receipt - perhaps I can make it home. (I reiterate, I'm an idiot.) I turn to collect my parcels and figure I'll just head to the bathroom once more, and then leave - never to show my face in Ralph's again. If it is even possibly imaginable, the bag-boy is even slower than the nice young clerk. Out of my mouth comes (very smoothly, I might add) "Would it be alright if I leave my cart here for a moment? I'd just like to run to the ladies room before I head out." "Sure", says the nice young man, "No problem." Why was I so hard on him before - he's such a nice young man. The bathroom is, of course, about three football fields away. As I walk, or should I say "fly" to the bathroom, I am now praying that I make it in time, as the chills and cramps descend upon me like some . . . really heavy item. (I've got nothing again.) I can see the bathroom! Now I start praying that there is no one in line for it. Clear! Thank you God. Worse than the first time, I am fairly certain several major organs bid a fond fare-thee-well to their comfy spots in my body. Can I just crawl under a rock now, please? No - I still have to collect my groceries. I drag my drained body from the store, unload my groceries and head home. My cheery children, so happy to see me, help unload into the house. They have no idea what I've been through - but I feel like a small war zone unto myself. It's all sooooo bad. How can I not share it? May I just say "thank you" and "I'm sorry" for allowing me to share my special day with you?
Two chemos left. Bring it on.
So, it's my 6th day post chemo, and I am usually bouncing back fairly well by the 5th day - not so this time around. I was still moving rather slowly yesterday, and started to claw my way back out today. I am also going stir crazy, so I decide a small trip to the grocery store would be restorative. (Not to mention, we were surviving on cocktail onions and stale bread at this point - any amount of food in the house is a good excuse not to have to go to the market!) Imagine, finding a trip to the grocery store a little slice. I certainly never had that attitude pre-cancer. Life is an attitude adjustment, isn't it? In any case, I arrive with my small list and head to the bread department. My nose, which inexplicably dries up in the first week following chemo, chooses this moment to start running again. I keep packets of kleenex in my purse these days, and think "Great - the nose is back. I hadn't missed it - oh well." But it doesn't just start dripping. I mean, it's truly like somebody left the faucet on full-bore. I am going through my tissues like . . . yeah, I'm drawing a blank here . . . like somebody with an incredibly runny nose. I may have to get a box of tissues off the shelf and rip into it as I am dangerously close to using up my entire pack, and I'm not even to the 2nd aisle! I'm trying to look semi-normal, while pushing a cart, smiling at other shoppers, getting different breads off the shelf, and holding a tissue over my face. At about this time, I realize that it's really cold in the store. I mean really cold. Is it cold . . . or do I have chills? Are those just chills . . . or do I have stomach cramps? My nausea was mostly gone by the 4th day . . . am I going to be sick?
About two months ago, I had to attend "chemo class". They went over the types of drugs I would be receiving and the potential side effects of each. I forget which drug it was, but one of them could cause either constipation or diarrhea. I remember thinking to myself, oh Lord, don't let it be constipation. At about the same moment I had that thought, the nurse stated, "Most people get constipated". Insultingly, I am not special, and have been like most people. It usually only affects me that first week after chemo, and then things seem to normalize for the next couple of weeks until they blast me again, and off we go on the side-effect tilt-o-whirl. So, imagine my surprise when standing there in the bread aisle, it becomes crystal clear to me that I have to go the the bathroom now! Trying to look unconcerned and sunny, I move, let's just say. . . briskly, to the ladies room. There is a dad standing there with two or three little kids. One child comes out, the next one sidles in, completely oblivious to my distress. Of course, they do stare at the lady with the slightly crazed, plastered-on smile on her face. I can't just stand here, I think. (I'm starting to pace around the eggs.) Pacing around the eggs is drawing attention, or at least I imagine it is, I'm definitely feeling a little nutty doing it. The dad is still waiting at the bathroom door. For the love of Mike - I swear he has about sixteen children milling about his legs now! It's probably just two, but I'm feeling a little panicky at this point. I'm near the frozen food section. I need waffles. I'll get waffles to take my mind off the impending explosion, and then the dad should be gone. It works! He is gone! I barely make it in time. You know how during the Tudor reign, one of the punishments for bad behavior was to remove a persons entrails while they were still alive? I liken my experience (only slightly, because I tend to be a little dramatic) to that. I hear my mother's voice "Be careful what you wish for . . ." At least I'm not thinking about my runny nose any longer. I feel grateful to escape the bathroom intact. (There's that dramatic flare again!)
Well that was kind of horrible - but now I feel pretty good. I can finish my shopping list! (Why didn't I just go home - because I'm an idiot.) Actually, I got through my list quite nicely after that and got in line. The nice young man at the register was moving with less than zero urgency for the amount of people in the store. As he is checking my items, at a glacial pace, I start to feel the merest hint of the chills again. To say the least, this gives me the chills. Maybe it really is just cold in the store. My kids always want to wear parkas in there, even if it is 100ยบ outside. Nope. There are those, now familiar, cramps. CHECK FASTER YOU MORON! Did I say that in my head, or did I use my "outside" voice? I'm pretty sure it was inside my head - no one is staring. I'm humming a tuneless tune, feeling a little singy and panicky. OK. There is no way I'm going to make it home. I start weighing my options. Do I just dart out of line pretending I forgot one more item? No, "nice young man" is actually handing me my receipt - perhaps I can make it home. (I reiterate, I'm an idiot.) I turn to collect my parcels and figure I'll just head to the bathroom once more, and then leave - never to show my face in Ralph's again. If it is even possibly imaginable, the bag-boy is even slower than the nice young clerk. Out of my mouth comes (very smoothly, I might add) "Would it be alright if I leave my cart here for a moment? I'd just like to run to the ladies room before I head out." "Sure", says the nice young man, "No problem." Why was I so hard on him before - he's such a nice young man. The bathroom is, of course, about three football fields away. As I walk, or should I say "fly" to the bathroom, I am now praying that I make it in time, as the chills and cramps descend upon me like some . . . really heavy item. (I've got nothing again.) I can see the bathroom! Now I start praying that there is no one in line for it. Clear! Thank you God. Worse than the first time, I am fairly certain several major organs bid a fond fare-thee-well to their comfy spots in my body. Can I just crawl under a rock now, please? No - I still have to collect my groceries. I drag my drained body from the store, unload my groceries and head home. My cheery children, so happy to see me, help unload into the house. They have no idea what I've been through - but I feel like a small war zone unto myself. It's all sooooo bad. How can I not share it? May I just say "thank you" and "I'm sorry" for allowing me to share my special day with you?
Two chemos left. Bring it on.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
My Chemical Romance
It's a love/hate relationship. I love that it's killing the cancer and shrinking the tumors, I hate what it does to the rest of my healthy body. They dripped the poison that is making me well in my veins once again today. That means only two more trysts to go - I think it is mostly a summer fling! Certainly, there will be some ugly residuals, but it's best that we call it quits soon. I usually feel pretty good the day of the drip, but today is new and special. My feet are numb and my eyes feel like they are full of little crystals. I am decidedly emotional and weepy. Who doesn't love being around an emotional, weepy, numb-footed woman. Oh, I know . . . me! I am sick of being around me. If I could crawl out of my skin right about now, before the symptoms get worse, that would be a very good thing. I am wallowing. Sue me.
Last night was fun. I had a little pre-chemo get together with my wonderful gal-pals. I tried to think of the most decadent thing to have before crashing - so we had martini's and pie out on the patio. It was most delicious and very perfect seeing so many of my lovely female friends surrounding me. They sent me off in an iridescent, protective bubble to face one more treatment. Thinking of it now makes me wallow a little less and smile at the memory of good friends coming bearing sweet treats and flowers and love and laughter. Once this whole ordeal is over, I hope we can continue to meet up just because it is good for the soul. There are already grand ideas for the pre-surgery party. Bernadette thinks we should all bring boob food - anything shaped like boobs. There are catchy-phrased invitations being bandied about - "Ta Ta Titty", "Audios Aureole", "Bye Bye Boobie"! Any suggestions to add to this list are welcome! I suppose you can choose to laugh at this or cry. Mostly I try to laugh - the crying helps a little, but not like the laughter. I much prefer to find the lighter side, the dark side is scary and deep.
School starts up again in just over two weeks. I am dreading it. My next chemo is the very first week of school. How am I ever going to keep up with the grueling schedule? Two different schools, two different drop-off's and pick-up's. HOMEWORK! How will they ever get through without my pushing and nudging along? I can't even walk up a hill right now, let alone take an interest in school work. Dear Lord, protect my children while I am unavailable to them.
Today is one day post chemo. I go in for hydration and an injection to boost my white blood cell count. The plethora of drugs streaming through my system are making me feel a little drunk - I have to choose my steps carefully. This will certainly look good as I try and get my children to school in a couple of weeks. How long can I fool people into believing I'm working on my Foster Brooks imitation. Maybe I should just let rumors run rampant that the whole ordeal has turned me into a raving alchoholic!
Last night was fun. I had a little pre-chemo get together with my wonderful gal-pals. I tried to think of the most decadent thing to have before crashing - so we had martini's and pie out on the patio. It was most delicious and very perfect seeing so many of my lovely female friends surrounding me. They sent me off in an iridescent, protective bubble to face one more treatment. Thinking of it now makes me wallow a little less and smile at the memory of good friends coming bearing sweet treats and flowers and love and laughter. Once this whole ordeal is over, I hope we can continue to meet up just because it is good for the soul. There are already grand ideas for the pre-surgery party. Bernadette thinks we should all bring boob food - anything shaped like boobs. There are catchy-phrased invitations being bandied about - "Ta Ta Titty", "Audios Aureole", "Bye Bye Boobie"! Any suggestions to add to this list are welcome! I suppose you can choose to laugh at this or cry. Mostly I try to laugh - the crying helps a little, but not like the laughter. I much prefer to find the lighter side, the dark side is scary and deep.
School starts up again in just over two weeks. I am dreading it. My next chemo is the very first week of school. How am I ever going to keep up with the grueling schedule? Two different schools, two different drop-off's and pick-up's. HOMEWORK! How will they ever get through without my pushing and nudging along? I can't even walk up a hill right now, let alone take an interest in school work. Dear Lord, protect my children while I am unavailable to them.
Today is one day post chemo. I go in for hydration and an injection to boost my white blood cell count. The plethora of drugs streaming through my system are making me feel a little drunk - I have to choose my steps carefully. This will certainly look good as I try and get my children to school in a couple of weeks. How long can I fool people into believing I'm working on my Foster Brooks imitation. Maybe I should just let rumors run rampant that the whole ordeal has turned me into a raving alchoholic!
Monday, August 11, 2008
You Know What's Weird . . . ?
You know what's weird? Life just moves on. Finding out I had cancer was this catastrophic moment in my and my family's life. It was a big deal all around for two or three weeks - and then regular old life squeezed itself back in. Rude. Once we got accustomed to the realization, it simply became part of the fabric of what we have to deal with now. The treatment is all laid out for me, and I am in the midst of it, counting down the number of weeks until it is finished. It is certainly a grind at this point. I know that I am weary of it, my family must be very weary of it - only they don't get the luxury of showing it. How tacky would that look? Getting irritated with me for laying around so much, sick of me looking sick and complaining about my funky side effects, not pulling my fair share of the work. I get all of the "How are you doing?" concern from people. They have "boo-boos" and times when they aren't feeling well, but I have cancer. They are not allowed to show those things. There's no polite way for them to voice those feelings. No matter what their aches and pains or illness's or needs - I HAVE CANCER. It trumps all. It's not fair - not fair for anybody.
Juxtaposing the grind and the awfulness of this illness, are these brilliant moments of grace and loveliness that are hard to describe. These moments are like bright lights that only show because there was this darkness to place them in. It's not that I want to have cancer, or would wish it upon anyone, but in some weird way it has been a gift due to these beautiful and moving moments. I may never have experienced them were it not for the cancer. Certainly not at this level. People are capable of such generosity of spirit and soul. It moves me immeasurably. It has gotten me to start writing again, and that is incredibly fulfilling. I almost hate to start listing examples, they are so numerous, I will most certainly leave some out. Having said that, I have to share some moments.
The first morning after getting my diagnosis, I went to church. I met up with a couple of women friends who are also going through very difficult issues in their lives. We were all teary eyed and leaning on each other for support. In the midst of this somber moment, my one friend pipes up, "Look at us, are we trying to one-up each other with who has the worst problems?!" We laughed, teary eyed for several minutes. It's weird that you can have a good laugh in the middle of such difficult times. After church, I went in to work to tell my boss and co-workers the news. I work at the church rectory, so it was only a matter of crossing the courtyard and speaking with the priest who had just said mass. He is also my boss. I also consider him a dear friend. I knew I had good co-workers that I enjoyed working with - but this experience has shown me that what I really have are terrific friends who are ready to drop everything and do what needs to be done to help a friend. My dear friend, the father's response was, "What do you need? What can we do for you?" Oddly enough, my response was that I needed to clean my house. I needed to get my house in order, and be with my family. Without a thought about the difficulty this might pose for work, he sent me off to do just that.
The school my children attend is attached to our church. Two of my female co-workers escorted me up to the school to speak with the principal. We had broken the news to our children, and wanted the school to be aware of the situation as well. The principal could not have responded any better. Not only did she hug and cry along with us, she reassured me not to have a single worry about my children. They would watch out for them and take care of them. That is exactly what I needed to hear. Their school environment is like a second home, and I know they are well taken care of.
The care and concern that came pouring in was like an avalanche of love. I felt like my entire community had circled the wagons around my family. People had masses said in my name. Cards, flowers, food, e-mails, books, help, time . . . the list go's on. My mother-in-law came to stay with us. She called me and said "I don't want you to worry about a thing. I'm going to come and take care of you. You can get rest, I can cook and help with the kids, and you will get better." She has done just that. It is an incredible ease on my mind that while I am out of it, there is a second "mom" to step in and help take care of my family. I'm sure it is quite a heavy burden, this burst of crazy kid energy to deal with - but she moves along like it's second nature and just takes care of business. I don't know that I can ever express to her enough what a huge help this has been. She has certainly gone way above and beyond and holds a very special place in my heart forever.
Victoria. Want to cut your hair off? She'll take you! Need a wig? She'll find the best place and take you! Pre-chemo breakfast? Trip to the movies? Watch your kids? Take you to the doctors? Eternal cheerleader extraordinaire? You guessed it. Victoria.
Bernadette, Eileen, Edna, Roxane, Bridget, Chris, Deirdre, Claire, Victoria, Jennifer, Judy, Kathy, Sheila (I know I'm leaving names out - there are so many amazing women in my life!) These crazy, wonderful, fabulous women threw me a "Cancer Shower". Yes, you heard that right - a cancer shower! They showed up with scarves on their heads, gifts in their hands and shared good food and good friendship for an evening. They made cancer seem very small compared to their large generosity - not to mention, a really fun time! I love them all. As an aside, Bernadette knits chemo-caps and makes chemo-pops like the wind!
I have a new friend. She is a most lovely person that I thought of as a friendly acquaintance until recently. I knew her mainly through my husband - but now I am fortunate enough to know her a little. And what I now know is that she has an enormous capacity for caring and concern - a spirit so generous, I am overwhelmed. Not only did she spend time listening to my ramblings and responding - she did double duty by listening and responding to my husband as well. Like clockwork, she arrives on my doorstep with enough fabulous food to feed an army! (cinnamon rolls to die for!) Every time chemo arrives, she slips in like the stealth food-bomber, and makes sure my family is well-fed while I am unable to care for them. One of the most memorable days this entire summer for my children, was the day they spent with her and her family at the beach, and at her home. She has opened her home and her heart, and I must say, it is easy to waltz right in! I hope you are all lucky enough to find a friend like Sharon.
My chemo buddy, also known as my sister Helen. She hauls herself out of bed incredibly early so that she can drive an hour to my house and then another hour to my Dr.'s office and then sit 4 to 5 hours through chemo with me. She is extremely organized and keeps all my meds and appointments straight. After all that, we still have to get me home, and then she has a long drive, usually through rush hour traffic, to get herself home. What can I say? Chemo buddy sounds so trivial. Chemo triathlete is more like it. Love and thanks to you, my dear sister.
Father Ed. You know, he is a whole story unto himself - look for a future blog-piece to list all of his antics! It's weird. If you had told me a few years back that I would have a priest as a good friend, or that I would have stories and "antics" to write about, I would never have believed you. You know what's weird . . .? All of it. It's good weird and it's bad weird - but it's all just so weird!
Juxtaposing the grind and the awfulness of this illness, are these brilliant moments of grace and loveliness that are hard to describe. These moments are like bright lights that only show because there was this darkness to place them in. It's not that I want to have cancer, or would wish it upon anyone, but in some weird way it has been a gift due to these beautiful and moving moments. I may never have experienced them were it not for the cancer. Certainly not at this level. People are capable of such generosity of spirit and soul. It moves me immeasurably. It has gotten me to start writing again, and that is incredibly fulfilling. I almost hate to start listing examples, they are so numerous, I will most certainly leave some out. Having said that, I have to share some moments.
The first morning after getting my diagnosis, I went to church. I met up with a couple of women friends who are also going through very difficult issues in their lives. We were all teary eyed and leaning on each other for support. In the midst of this somber moment, my one friend pipes up, "Look at us, are we trying to one-up each other with who has the worst problems?!" We laughed, teary eyed for several minutes. It's weird that you can have a good laugh in the middle of such difficult times. After church, I went in to work to tell my boss and co-workers the news. I work at the church rectory, so it was only a matter of crossing the courtyard and speaking with the priest who had just said mass. He is also my boss. I also consider him a dear friend. I knew I had good co-workers that I enjoyed working with - but this experience has shown me that what I really have are terrific friends who are ready to drop everything and do what needs to be done to help a friend. My dear friend, the father's response was, "What do you need? What can we do for you?" Oddly enough, my response was that I needed to clean my house. I needed to get my house in order, and be with my family. Without a thought about the difficulty this might pose for work, he sent me off to do just that.
The school my children attend is attached to our church. Two of my female co-workers escorted me up to the school to speak with the principal. We had broken the news to our children, and wanted the school to be aware of the situation as well. The principal could not have responded any better. Not only did she hug and cry along with us, she reassured me not to have a single worry about my children. They would watch out for them and take care of them. That is exactly what I needed to hear. Their school environment is like a second home, and I know they are well taken care of.
The care and concern that came pouring in was like an avalanche of love. I felt like my entire community had circled the wagons around my family. People had masses said in my name. Cards, flowers, food, e-mails, books, help, time . . . the list go's on. My mother-in-law came to stay with us. She called me and said "I don't want you to worry about a thing. I'm going to come and take care of you. You can get rest, I can cook and help with the kids, and you will get better." She has done just that. It is an incredible ease on my mind that while I am out of it, there is a second "mom" to step in and help take care of my family. I'm sure it is quite a heavy burden, this burst of crazy kid energy to deal with - but she moves along like it's second nature and just takes care of business. I don't know that I can ever express to her enough what a huge help this has been. She has certainly gone way above and beyond and holds a very special place in my heart forever.
Victoria. Want to cut your hair off? She'll take you! Need a wig? She'll find the best place and take you! Pre-chemo breakfast? Trip to the movies? Watch your kids? Take you to the doctors? Eternal cheerleader extraordinaire? You guessed it. Victoria.
Bernadette, Eileen, Edna, Roxane, Bridget, Chris, Deirdre, Claire, Victoria, Jennifer, Judy, Kathy, Sheila (I know I'm leaving names out - there are so many amazing women in my life!) These crazy, wonderful, fabulous women threw me a "Cancer Shower". Yes, you heard that right - a cancer shower! They showed up with scarves on their heads, gifts in their hands and shared good food and good friendship for an evening. They made cancer seem very small compared to their large generosity - not to mention, a really fun time! I love them all. As an aside, Bernadette knits chemo-caps and makes chemo-pops like the wind!
I have a new friend. She is a most lovely person that I thought of as a friendly acquaintance until recently. I knew her mainly through my husband - but now I am fortunate enough to know her a little. And what I now know is that she has an enormous capacity for caring and concern - a spirit so generous, I am overwhelmed. Not only did she spend time listening to my ramblings and responding - she did double duty by listening and responding to my husband as well. Like clockwork, she arrives on my doorstep with enough fabulous food to feed an army! (cinnamon rolls to die for!) Every time chemo arrives, she slips in like the stealth food-bomber, and makes sure my family is well-fed while I am unable to care for them. One of the most memorable days this entire summer for my children, was the day they spent with her and her family at the beach, and at her home. She has opened her home and her heart, and I must say, it is easy to waltz right in! I hope you are all lucky enough to find a friend like Sharon.
My chemo buddy, also known as my sister Helen. She hauls herself out of bed incredibly early so that she can drive an hour to my house and then another hour to my Dr.'s office and then sit 4 to 5 hours through chemo with me. She is extremely organized and keeps all my meds and appointments straight. After all that, we still have to get me home, and then she has a long drive, usually through rush hour traffic, to get herself home. What can I say? Chemo buddy sounds so trivial. Chemo triathlete is more like it. Love and thanks to you, my dear sister.
Father Ed. You know, he is a whole story unto himself - look for a future blog-piece to list all of his antics! It's weird. If you had told me a few years back that I would have a priest as a good friend, or that I would have stories and "antics" to write about, I would never have believed you. You know what's weird . . .? All of it. It's good weird and it's bad weird - but it's all just so weird!
Friday, August 1, 2008
WaitingWaitingWaiting
Half-way mark. Three chemos down - three to go. Thank goodness, I don't know how long I can keep up the "good attitude" cancer girl version of myself. As the effects of the chemo become cumulative, it's hard to stay upbeat. I'm waiting for my Doctor to call me in for an appointment now. I'm waiting to hear my prognosis. I'm waiting for good news. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm tired of feeling tired. I'm tired of trying to make everyone around me be OK with all this. (This is, I'm certain, a responsibility I put on myself.) Cancer makes some people uncomfortable - and I try to put them at ease. I have this image of myself tap dancing really badly as fast as I can, with a much too big smile on my face. My sparkly costume has a big rip in it, so I'm smiling too big and I'm dancing too fast to try and take the focus off the big rip. I'm tired of having to ask for help. I'm tired of having things that used to give me pleasure, now give me frustration. I'm tired of feeling like a drain on my family. A multi-faceted drain. A drain on our normal lives. A drain on our resources. A drain on our time. It's all pretty draining. I have big drain chemo brain.
I hear the tumors are shrinking and the metabolic rate of the cancer cells is slowing. This is good news. It is not, however, specific news. I cried happily when I got the news, but now I am stewing. Did the tumors shrink a lot? Or just a little? How slow are the cancer cells growing? Why are they still growing. Shouldn't we have shut them down by now? I want us to be on "mop-up" duty at this point. We just need to to be cleaning up all their lifeless cancer shells and kicking them out! I'll endure the rest of the chemo so that the tumors can shrink away to obscurity. That's what I want. Maybe that's what I'll get. My fear is that they'll say - "They are not shrinking fast enough - we have to do more chemo." My mother had a friend pass away recently. At the funeral, her husband spoke and said that his beautiful wife had endured 82 rounds of chemotherapy. Eighty-two rounds. I'm dreading the three I have left. Eighty-two rounds.
My appointment with the doctor was at 2:40 p.m. It is now almost 4:00 p.m. Waiting,waiting,waiting. I'm not upset, I was grateful when she squeezed me in when I was diagnosed. Apparently, she admitted two new patients today, and that put her behind. They are lucky patients, I wish them well. However, more time to stew and now more favors to ask. Can my husband get out of work early to pick up the kids? If not, can my friend keep them longer? My son is supposed to go to a birthday sleepover - is it OK if he's late? I will definitely be sitting in Friday night traffic. Let me guess - waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting. Bring it on.
I am fully exhausted. My mind and body are drained. Every scary, stewed thought I had has been assuaged by my doctor. The tumors are shrinking significantly! We are kicking their lifeless cancer shells to the curb! It is really good, she tells me. When I was diagnosed, the metabolic rate in my breast was 4.4. Normal is 2.3. I am currently at 2. What a beautiful number. I love 2. When my oldest son was only 6 years old, he was a tiger cub in scouts. He was in some sort of contest, and he leaned over and said to me, "I hope I come in 2nd, I really like the red ribbon." I thought it was the cutest thing on earth at the time - he wanted to be #2! I hadn't thought of that in years, and now it comes crashing into my brain with such happiness! Also, he did come in #2, and we still have that pretty red ribbon! We're number two! We're number two!
I've stopped tap dancing and stewing for now. Probably a good thing - it doesn't sound like a good combo. Just three chemos to go! We are now just making the tumors teeeeeeeeny-tiiiiiiiiiny. My last chemo is September 25th. Three to four weeks after that should be surgery. The smaller those tumors are, the smaller my surgery will be. Also, they tell me that about a month after your last chemo, your hair starts to come back. That is totally going to mess up my kids plans for me to be Dr. Evil for Halloween.
I hear the tumors are shrinking and the metabolic rate of the cancer cells is slowing. This is good news. It is not, however, specific news. I cried happily when I got the news, but now I am stewing. Did the tumors shrink a lot? Or just a little? How slow are the cancer cells growing? Why are they still growing. Shouldn't we have shut them down by now? I want us to be on "mop-up" duty at this point. We just need to to be cleaning up all their lifeless cancer shells and kicking them out! I'll endure the rest of the chemo so that the tumors can shrink away to obscurity. That's what I want. Maybe that's what I'll get. My fear is that they'll say - "They are not shrinking fast enough - we have to do more chemo." My mother had a friend pass away recently. At the funeral, her husband spoke and said that his beautiful wife had endured 82 rounds of chemotherapy. Eighty-two rounds. I'm dreading the three I have left. Eighty-two rounds.
My appointment with the doctor was at 2:40 p.m. It is now almost 4:00 p.m. Waiting,waiting,waiting. I'm not upset, I was grateful when she squeezed me in when I was diagnosed. Apparently, she admitted two new patients today, and that put her behind. They are lucky patients, I wish them well. However, more time to stew and now more favors to ask. Can my husband get out of work early to pick up the kids? If not, can my friend keep them longer? My son is supposed to go to a birthday sleepover - is it OK if he's late? I will definitely be sitting in Friday night traffic. Let me guess - waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting. Bring it on.
I am fully exhausted. My mind and body are drained. Every scary, stewed thought I had has been assuaged by my doctor. The tumors are shrinking significantly! We are kicking their lifeless cancer shells to the curb! It is really good, she tells me. When I was diagnosed, the metabolic rate in my breast was 4.4. Normal is 2.3. I am currently at 2. What a beautiful number. I love 2. When my oldest son was only 6 years old, he was a tiger cub in scouts. He was in some sort of contest, and he leaned over and said to me, "I hope I come in 2nd, I really like the red ribbon." I thought it was the cutest thing on earth at the time - he wanted to be #2! I hadn't thought of that in years, and now it comes crashing into my brain with such happiness! Also, he did come in #2, and we still have that pretty red ribbon! We're number two! We're number two!
I've stopped tap dancing and stewing for now. Probably a good thing - it doesn't sound like a good combo. Just three chemos to go! We are now just making the tumors teeeeeeeeny-tiiiiiiiiiny. My last chemo is September 25th. Three to four weeks after that should be surgery. The smaller those tumors are, the smaller my surgery will be. Also, they tell me that about a month after your last chemo, your hair starts to come back. That is totally going to mess up my kids plans for me to be Dr. Evil for Halloween.
Friday, July 25, 2008
The Side Effect Sideshow
I swear that each morning I wake up with Mick Jagger's lips. Could that be possible? I always have to look in the mirror - only to find that they are still my lips. A little swollen maybe, but no need to break into "Satisfaction". This is probably good as I'm certain I don't have the energy to do the Mick strut. It's nothing as glamorous as rock star looks - it is blistering and mouth sores from chemo. What a girl won't do for that pouty mouth look.
As fun as the mouth blistering is, the side effect that makes me the most crazy is the constantly running nose and watering eyes. That wouldn't seem so bad, but the constantness of it drives me to distraction. I have asked my husband to go to a hardware store and pick up a couple of spigots to install into each nostril so that I could allow them to run at my convenience. Looks be damned! I'm afraid though that it will totally screw with my new pouty lips look. As an alternative to the spigots, I am threatening to shove a couple of tampons up there just so I can function. Also a good look. Perhaps that could be for just around the house - God forbid I make any Ralphs customers uncomfortable with tampons up my nose.
There are the obvious side effects. Nothing screams cancer like all your hair falling out over a two or three day period. I thought I was so smart - I went and got my hair cut off very short just after my first chemo. It was my own little F-You to the cancer. I thought "Ha-Ha" I took it before you did! Well, "Ha-Ha" right back at me - I LOVED the new cut! I was feeling very Laurie Anderson and a little punk. I got to wear it happily for about a week - and then, out it all came! (ha ha hee hee) funny, funny cancer.
Right after my initial diagnosis - back when my husband was on a rampage to have all the answers NOW - he was telling me that we needed to find out just exactly what type of cancer cells I had. That way we could have a name for it and then it wouldn't hold such power over us. Smart ass that I am, I replied, we could name it Bob. He didn't miss a beat and said we could name it Fucking Bob. I love him for that! Fucking Bob the Cancer. I was happy. We had a name! Fucking Bob has no power over us - he's just an irritant we have to get rid of. But like most fuckers, they don't go away easily. It's a whole process, and a big paper trail. Fucking Bob.
Bald isn't so bad - I thought it would be more traumatic - but on a pragmatic basis - there are a lot of steps to skip during the morning routine. Showers are a breeze. No shampoo, no conditioner, no shaving - soap up, rinse off, out! No hair product, no blow drying (and talk about bikini -ready! I stepped over the line there - TMI - bad habit of mine.) Just pick your scarf to match your outfit and you are good to go! I find dangly earrings a big plus.
The fatigue is weird. You can't make sense of it because you rest and rest and it doesn't go away. It feels like three of those led dental aprons for X-Rays have been wrapped around you, and your head goes into a fog. I affectionately call it Chemo-Brain.
So many side effects - so little time. I'll share more later.
As fun as the mouth blistering is, the side effect that makes me the most crazy is the constantly running nose and watering eyes. That wouldn't seem so bad, but the constantness of it drives me to distraction. I have asked my husband to go to a hardware store and pick up a couple of spigots to install into each nostril so that I could allow them to run at my convenience. Looks be damned! I'm afraid though that it will totally screw with my new pouty lips look. As an alternative to the spigots, I am threatening to shove a couple of tampons up there just so I can function. Also a good look. Perhaps that could be for just around the house - God forbid I make any Ralphs customers uncomfortable with tampons up my nose.
There are the obvious side effects. Nothing screams cancer like all your hair falling out over a two or three day period. I thought I was so smart - I went and got my hair cut off very short just after my first chemo. It was my own little F-You to the cancer. I thought "Ha-Ha" I took it before you did! Well, "Ha-Ha" right back at me - I LOVED the new cut! I was feeling very Laurie Anderson and a little punk. I got to wear it happily for about a week - and then, out it all came! (ha ha hee hee) funny, funny cancer.
Right after my initial diagnosis - back when my husband was on a rampage to have all the answers NOW - he was telling me that we needed to find out just exactly what type of cancer cells I had. That way we could have a name for it and then it wouldn't hold such power over us. Smart ass that I am, I replied, we could name it Bob. He didn't miss a beat and said we could name it Fucking Bob. I love him for that! Fucking Bob the Cancer. I was happy. We had a name! Fucking Bob has no power over us - he's just an irritant we have to get rid of. But like most fuckers, they don't go away easily. It's a whole process, and a big paper trail. Fucking Bob.
Bald isn't so bad - I thought it would be more traumatic - but on a pragmatic basis - there are a lot of steps to skip during the morning routine. Showers are a breeze. No shampoo, no conditioner, no shaving - soap up, rinse off, out! No hair product, no blow drying (and talk about bikini -ready! I stepped over the line there - TMI - bad habit of mine.) Just pick your scarf to match your outfit and you are good to go! I find dangly earrings a big plus.
The fatigue is weird. You can't make sense of it because you rest and rest and it doesn't go away. It feels like three of those led dental aprons for X-Rays have been wrapped around you, and your head goes into a fog. I affectionately call it Chemo-Brain.
So many side effects - so little time. I'll share more later.
Monday, July 14, 2008
My Husband and Every Day is a Gift
So, you get the news that you have cancer. You think you basically know what all that entails, and what you are about to go through - but you quickly find out that you know very little. You see a bit of what other people have gone through, and you see it on TV and in the movies. Come to find out, shockingly, TV and movies are not the place to get solid information. My first thoughts were for my children. I couldn't believe they had to go through this. It was one thing for me to have to endure it, but they shouldn't have to. It made me angry that this would mess with my family. I felt guilty, like I had let everyone down. How dare I allow a cancer cell into my body! What was I thinking?
I was in shock - I was ready to do whatever I was told to do. I was ready to allow that first general surgeon, who gave me the news so delicately, to turn me into the "Uniboober" without really knowing anything! Thank God for my husband Rich. He literally swooped in, like a knight in shining armor, and rescued me from that surgeon's office. He also rescued me from my guilty thoughts. I don't know if he knows how much he saved me that day and over the next several days as it all sank in. He worked the phones and the internet like a demon for probably 12 hours straight the day after the news. I could only see right in front of me - he needed all the answers and he needed them NOW. He managed to get me in to see one of the best oncological surgeons available, the very next day. She was amazing - a night and day difference from that first surgeon. Dr. Kristy Funk. (We love the Funk. You gotta love the Funk.) Dr. Funk confirmed our fears, however, she got us in to see one of the best oncologists in the nation, Dr. Philomena McAndrews. She has over a three month waiting list to get in to see her - but Richard, my knight in shining armor, cut through acres of red tape and had me in there within the first week. The love of my life is also the best advocate I could possibly have in my corner. I'm here to tell you, if there is a job that absolutely must get done, my husband is the man to call. I swear there is nothing he can't do. I know I couldn't do this without him.
We just put one foot in front of the other and got through the rest of that day. We allowed the news to seep in slowly and went through the motions with our kids. They needed dinner - I don't remember what I gave them, but Rich and I couldn't eat. Other than my husband, the first couple of friends to know the news were the ones watching my kids while I went for my "needle biopsy". My one sweet friend just kept reassuring me that "You're going to be fine, you're going to be fine . . .". She had my boys and offered to keep them and feed them dinner - maybe that's how they ate! I really can't remember. My other dear friend, who was watching my daughter and knew of her ballet performance that evening, leaped into action and made sure that she had the most spectacular, sparkly braids to play Little Red Riding Hood anyone could ever imagine. Her mother had gone through breast cancer a few years back, and she told me these words that I'll never forget. "I don't know if anyone has told you this yet, but, nobody dies from this anymore." "It's going to be a rough patch, and we'll all be there for you, and then it will be done."
These kind acts were just the first of what became a countless number of kind acts. A veritable flood of gifts of every sort came pouring in. Gifts of prayer and positive thoughts, gifts of food and friendship and offers of help, gifts of time and energy and information, gifts I cherish every day. I know we all know this logically - but a life threatening illness makes you truly know that . . . every day is a gift.
I was in shock - I was ready to do whatever I was told to do. I was ready to allow that first general surgeon, who gave me the news so delicately, to turn me into the "Uniboober" without really knowing anything! Thank God for my husband Rich. He literally swooped in, like a knight in shining armor, and rescued me from that surgeon's office. He also rescued me from my guilty thoughts. I don't know if he knows how much he saved me that day and over the next several days as it all sank in. He worked the phones and the internet like a demon for probably 12 hours straight the day after the news. I could only see right in front of me - he needed all the answers and he needed them NOW. He managed to get me in to see one of the best oncological surgeons available, the very next day. She was amazing - a night and day difference from that first surgeon. Dr. Kristy Funk. (We love the Funk. You gotta love the Funk.) Dr. Funk confirmed our fears, however, she got us in to see one of the best oncologists in the nation, Dr. Philomena McAndrews. She has over a three month waiting list to get in to see her - but Richard, my knight in shining armor, cut through acres of red tape and had me in there within the first week. The love of my life is also the best advocate I could possibly have in my corner. I'm here to tell you, if there is a job that absolutely must get done, my husband is the man to call. I swear there is nothing he can't do. I know I couldn't do this without him.
We just put one foot in front of the other and got through the rest of that day. We allowed the news to seep in slowly and went through the motions with our kids. They needed dinner - I don't remember what I gave them, but Rich and I couldn't eat. Other than my husband, the first couple of friends to know the news were the ones watching my kids while I went for my "needle biopsy". My one sweet friend just kept reassuring me that "You're going to be fine, you're going to be fine . . .". She had my boys and offered to keep them and feed them dinner - maybe that's how they ate! I really can't remember. My other dear friend, who was watching my daughter and knew of her ballet performance that evening, leaped into action and made sure that she had the most spectacular, sparkly braids to play Little Red Riding Hood anyone could ever imagine. Her mother had gone through breast cancer a few years back, and she told me these words that I'll never forget. "I don't know if anyone has told you this yet, but, nobody dies from this anymore." "It's going to be a rough patch, and we'll all be there for you, and then it will be done."
These kind acts were just the first of what became a countless number of kind acts. A veritable flood of gifts of every sort came pouring in. Gifts of prayer and positive thoughts, gifts of food and friendship and offers of help, gifts of time and energy and information, gifts I cherish every day. I know we all know this logically - but a life threatening illness makes you truly know that . . . every day is a gift.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Jack The Angel
I met an angel today. He was nothing like any preconceived image I had in my mind of what an angel would look like. He was a big guy - very muscular and "beefy". I would have guessed he was in his sixties, but he mentioned that one of his children was 50 years old, so he must have been older. If I had met him under different circumstances, I would have found him intimidating. He had a shiny, bald-head and looked like he wouldn't back down from a fight.
Almost two weeks to the day after my first round of chemo, my hair started falling out. I was leaving hair everywhere. It was like it was snowing me. I went to wash it in the shower, and there it all was - like a giant hairy ball in the corner of my shower floor. I thought it might sprout legs and start to walk off. I picked it up with rubber gloves and a lot of paper towels as if it were something the cat coughed-up, instead of something I would have put product in and styled if it had stayed put. At first, my hair just looked very thin. Then, when clumps came out, I started looking mangy. The last straw was when I realized that I was distinctly looking like a bad comb-over. So, I went Britney Spears on those last few hundred strands. Now I mostly sport a piratey-look with kerchiefs covering my shockingly white scalp!
I don't know why it bothered me, but those last few hundred hairs I had shaved off, were a little prickly. If I was going to be bald, I wanted my head smooth and clean shaven. I was afraid to do it myself for fear of cutting my head. I have to be particularly careful about cutting myself right now. Not just because of the increased chance of infection and my inability to fight it off, due to the killing off of perfectly healthy blood cells along with the cancer cells - but also because one of the drugs I am on is a blood thinner. I have to take it so that my body won't reject the port that was surgically implanted for my chemo treatments. It also reduces the risk of blood clots around the port. So, even minor nicks, and I bleed a lot. But I digress.
I met an angel today, and his name is Jack. I got a bee in my bonnet about getting my head shaved clean, and I figured the best place to go would be a barbershop. I went to this little shop that I have passed hundreds of times over the years, but had never gone in. I walked in, and of course, I was the only woman in there. I was also probably the only one without a subscription to AARP Magazine. All heads turned and stared at me. It kind of felt like an old western where I walk into the saloon, and for a moment, the piano stops playing, and all conversations halt while the entire room sizes me up - then it all just continues on. Well, after that moment in the barbershop, Jack stands up and says, "Can I help you?" He looked a little menacing, but my unreasonable need to have my head smooth, won out and I stammered "I'm going through chemotherapy, and my hair has fallen out. I was wondering if you could razor shave my head so it will be smooth and clean . . . I'm a little stubbly." There was a moment while Jack took this statement in - and then, I swear that I watched his eyes change. They were hard and wary one moment, and then, they melted and became soft and kind and compassionate. "Of course, I can help you." He escorted me to a chair and wrapped the cape around me. (The one to keep all the hair from going down your collar) He told me that this was the best thing to do and that we were going to make me look beautiful. He took such gentle care and time with me. He put warm shaving cream all over my head and massaged it in. I have to admit, it was a little slice of heaven. He must have gone carefully over my head three times to make sure he got everything and all the while he asked about my family and where I was from and what I did. We chatted about his children and exchanged names at some point. He rubbed my head with some sort of rum and then dusted me with powder and proclaimed, "There, smooth as a baby's bottom!" And it was smooth and soft and had been a profoundly lovely experience. I thanked him profusely and asked him what I owed him. He looked at me with the kindest eyes I've ever seen and said ""Not a thing." I protested . . . no, no, your worked so hard, I must owe you something. "Not a thing - you just go get better." I could barely speak. I stood there a moment and then I just gave him a big hug. While I hugged him, all I could think to say was "You have a customer for life - I will be bringing my boys here." We smiled at each other, and I was on my way. My spirits were incredibly lifted by this lovely act of kindness. I got in my car and cried half the way home.
Jack is my angel - and he was sent to me just at the time when I needed him most. Thank you Jack the Angel.
Almost two weeks to the day after my first round of chemo, my hair started falling out. I was leaving hair everywhere. It was like it was snowing me. I went to wash it in the shower, and there it all was - like a giant hairy ball in the corner of my shower floor. I thought it might sprout legs and start to walk off. I picked it up with rubber gloves and a lot of paper towels as if it were something the cat coughed-up, instead of something I would have put product in and styled if it had stayed put. At first, my hair just looked very thin. Then, when clumps came out, I started looking mangy. The last straw was when I realized that I was distinctly looking like a bad comb-over. So, I went Britney Spears on those last few hundred strands. Now I mostly sport a piratey-look with kerchiefs covering my shockingly white scalp!
I don't know why it bothered me, but those last few hundred hairs I had shaved off, were a little prickly. If I was going to be bald, I wanted my head smooth and clean shaven. I was afraid to do it myself for fear of cutting my head. I have to be particularly careful about cutting myself right now. Not just because of the increased chance of infection and my inability to fight it off, due to the killing off of perfectly healthy blood cells along with the cancer cells - but also because one of the drugs I am on is a blood thinner. I have to take it so that my body won't reject the port that was surgically implanted for my chemo treatments. It also reduces the risk of blood clots around the port. So, even minor nicks, and I bleed a lot. But I digress.
I met an angel today, and his name is Jack. I got a bee in my bonnet about getting my head shaved clean, and I figured the best place to go would be a barbershop. I went to this little shop that I have passed hundreds of times over the years, but had never gone in. I walked in, and of course, I was the only woman in there. I was also probably the only one without a subscription to AARP Magazine. All heads turned and stared at me. It kind of felt like an old western where I walk into the saloon, and for a moment, the piano stops playing, and all conversations halt while the entire room sizes me up - then it all just continues on. Well, after that moment in the barbershop, Jack stands up and says, "Can I help you?" He looked a little menacing, but my unreasonable need to have my head smooth, won out and I stammered "I'm going through chemotherapy, and my hair has fallen out. I was wondering if you could razor shave my head so it will be smooth and clean . . . I'm a little stubbly." There was a moment while Jack took this statement in - and then, I swear that I watched his eyes change. They were hard and wary one moment, and then, they melted and became soft and kind and compassionate. "Of course, I can help you." He escorted me to a chair and wrapped the cape around me. (The one to keep all the hair from going down your collar) He told me that this was the best thing to do and that we were going to make me look beautiful. He took such gentle care and time with me. He put warm shaving cream all over my head and massaged it in. I have to admit, it was a little slice of heaven. He must have gone carefully over my head three times to make sure he got everything and all the while he asked about my family and where I was from and what I did. We chatted about his children and exchanged names at some point. He rubbed my head with some sort of rum and then dusted me with powder and proclaimed, "There, smooth as a baby's bottom!" And it was smooth and soft and had been a profoundly lovely experience. I thanked him profusely and asked him what I owed him. He looked at me with the kindest eyes I've ever seen and said ""Not a thing." I protested . . . no, no, your worked so hard, I must owe you something. "Not a thing - you just go get better." I could barely speak. I stood there a moment and then I just gave him a big hug. While I hugged him, all I could think to say was "You have a customer for life - I will be bringing my boys here." We smiled at each other, and I was on my way. My spirits were incredibly lifted by this lovely act of kindness. I got in my car and cried half the way home.
Jack is my angel - and he was sent to me just at the time when I needed him most. Thank you Jack the Angel.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Getting The News
So many titles swirl through my head about what to call my ramblings about my diagnosis . . . "Well, This is Ironic", "HELLO - Cancer!", "Are You Telling Me I Have Cancer?", and my personal favorite from my middle son, "OK, What's a Breast?". Yes, searching my brain for the terminology he would understand, I had to confess that I had boob cancer. This, of course, made him giggle. I know, I said, can you believe I have BOOB CANCER?! Now we both exploded into giggles. I must be an 11-year-old boy at heart. (Burp and fart jokes tickle my funny-bone too on occasion.)
When I initially heard that I had some calcification in my breast, I asked, "What's that?" The technician explained to me that it was like a grain of sand. "Maybe I'm like and oyster," I said, "and I'm going to spit out a pearl." She didn't even crack a smile - she probably already knew what she was looking at and for whatever ridiculous legal reasons, couldn't say anything - and therefore found my flip remark, not funny at all. I, on the other hand, thought "Dang, tough crowd, I thought that was at least mildly amusing!" It was a full week later that I got to find out what wasn't so funny. It's a day that I won't soon forget. It was a week and a half before I was to compete in my first marathon. (Raising funds for cancer research - the irony is particularly thick here.) It was four days after my son's 11th birthday. It was two days after my 13-year-old son received a religious medal at the big cathedral downtown. It was the day after my 18th wedding anniversary. It was the same day my 5-year-old daughter had her first ballet recital. I glued a smile on for all the pictures, and she was truly beautiful, but it was not a good day.
It was a moment out of a bad TV movie, and I was the schmaltzy "B" list actress uttering the stunned words - "Are you telling me I have cancer?" The general surgeon I was sent to that day, ostensibly for a routine needle biopsy to check out my calcifications, started talking to me about my "options". There were two. We could just schedule a biopsy, or the better option in his mind, was to do the biopsy and remove the tumors all at the same time, thereby killing two birds with one stone, so to speak, and avoiding a second surgery since he was 97% certain that it was cancer. The drawback, of course, is that you won't know when we put you to sleep whether you will wake up with a breast or not. All of this verbiage is flying out of his mouth and I'm still looking at him like the banjo kid from Deliverance. He finally notices the test pattern look in my eyes and says, "Has no one explained this to you?"
When I initially heard that I had some calcification in my breast, I asked, "What's that?" The technician explained to me that it was like a grain of sand. "Maybe I'm like and oyster," I said, "and I'm going to spit out a pearl." She didn't even crack a smile - she probably already knew what she was looking at and for whatever ridiculous legal reasons, couldn't say anything - and therefore found my flip remark, not funny at all. I, on the other hand, thought "Dang, tough crowd, I thought that was at least mildly amusing!" It was a full week later that I got to find out what wasn't so funny. It's a day that I won't soon forget. It was a week and a half before I was to compete in my first marathon. (Raising funds for cancer research - the irony is particularly thick here.) It was four days after my son's 11th birthday. It was two days after my 13-year-old son received a religious medal at the big cathedral downtown. It was the day after my 18th wedding anniversary. It was the same day my 5-year-old daughter had her first ballet recital. I glued a smile on for all the pictures, and she was truly beautiful, but it was not a good day.
It was a moment out of a bad TV movie, and I was the schmaltzy "B" list actress uttering the stunned words - "Are you telling me I have cancer?" The general surgeon I was sent to that day, ostensibly for a routine needle biopsy to check out my calcifications, started talking to me about my "options". There were two. We could just schedule a biopsy, or the better option in his mind, was to do the biopsy and remove the tumors all at the same time, thereby killing two birds with one stone, so to speak, and avoiding a second surgery since he was 97% certain that it was cancer. The drawback, of course, is that you won't know when we put you to sleep whether you will wake up with a breast or not. All of this verbiage is flying out of his mouth and I'm still looking at him like the banjo kid from Deliverance. He finally notices the test pattern look in my eyes and says, "Has no one explained this to you?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
