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.
Friday, July 25, 2008
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?"
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