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.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
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.
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