The Final Gauze

It is February 2009, one year and eleven months since I first found a breast lump, my last bit of surgery tape finally fell off as I showered last evening. Of all the things for me to celebrate, not a clean bill of health, not an end to painful shots and weekly poisoning, or removal of my "badge of courage", the protruding plastic port in my chest and neck, the moment that last stretch of surgical tape loosened and fell in the shower, I felt a rush of total freedom.

While I can't guarantee that I won't ever deal with cancer again, and I know that within a couple months I am due for two or three more small procedures, I am at least finally free from the binding of special bandages, wraps, compression garments and performing acrobatic tricks in the shower to keep incisions dry. I'm free from the smell of healing wounds, of tubes to drain, of bloodstained cloth that has stuck to me for fifty-two days and fourteen hours. Don't think I didn't count them just for effect.

I feel similar to when I got my braces removed in eigth grade. Instead of a beautiful set of pearly white teeth, perfectly straight and ready to model for the next teen magazine cover, it was just me with bloody gums staring back in the mirror, my thin lips still a bit crooked and too disappointed to smile. Since then I've learned to enjoy these unphotogenic traits as "character" and now I own five character-rich inches of new and improved flesh that will be in vogue for any surgeon's office waiting room.

After my first ovary removal, I learned to like the deformed umbilicus that accentuates my belly fat. You see, the ugly scar was necessary to save me from painful and embarrassing stomach cramps by removing a blood-filled clown-faced tumor. (I kid you not, it looked like "Jack" without his hat and maybe a punched up bloody nose). At least my body had a sense of humor.

But my fun with cancer is coming to an end. My hair has grown back, my scars are itching under the thick applications of scar cream I apply several times a day, and I can no longer give a nod of understanding to the woman in line behind me at Walgreen's, who's bald head is poorly hidden under a floppy hat.

Now that I'm done, I don't think I'll be picking up any pink souveniers as a reminder of my ordeal. I won't be buying a breast cancer license plate that reads "HLL KTY" like my neighbor at the apartment complex or write any words of encouragement on the back of my car window to show the world I was part of the race. The guy behind me on his cellphone does not need a reminder to do self-breast exams and I'm sure the rest of you have already gotten the message from yeast packets to yoghurt labels to pink ribbon foot callous removers, something in every isle of the store. This is not the type of solidarity I seek in life, not through illness, not the fear of death, not even coming together to fight and conquer the horrible injustice disease ravages on our human race.

I don't want to give cancer any more lip service than it's already stolen, no more pressure for atonement or to find God, no more control over my diet, no more time, and no more cause for excuses why I haven't called, written, or come by. I smiled at the lady at the Walgreen's. I wanted to tell her, "I know what you are going through. I was once just like you." But I know that's not true. She has her own battles and her own fears, maybe nothing like mine.

I offered to let her go ahead of me in line, not that I thought she was too sick to wait. No, when they opened a new checkout at photo, I had rudely rushed ahead of her (because I could move faster). I offered her item-filled cart a place in front of my dinner of gummy bears and diet soda, partially out of guilt and because I gambled that she would allow me to stay ahead of her anyway.

Her scalp shone glaringly under the hat brim. Her illness was as conspicuous as if she'd walked in bare headed, hogging the shampoo isle with her cart, eyeing cheap hairbrushes and clips like a sugar-starved child. She was calm and seemed very nice, but I couldn't help imagine her clawing at her temples and screaming "Why me!" while she kicked in circles on the floor, or cackling angrily as she chucked boxes of hair dye. "You, get out of my aisle, you!"

I didn't analyze the items in her cart, but I hoped she'd found the "Sleeping Beauty" isle, that all drugstores should be equipped with. I hoped she would find that miracle pill to erase a year and a half of unhealing boo-boos, that she could take something and instantly restore confidence in her health, allowing sleep and effortless understanding from friends and family. I hoped the pill would spare her any discomfort, politely telling strangers to go about their business of being rude like it was any old day in her life. After all, she was like any old slob in line, like me, eyeing discounted bottles of imitation vanilla extract as the unwitting clerk struggled to unlock the register, fumbled with the merchandise, entered and re-entered code after mind-numbing barcode to void purchase.

As a cancer survivor, I had earned my right to glue myself to the endless wall of candy hoping to find the no-calorie bag that would take care of my sour-fruit, peanut butter, salty-chocolate, butter toffee, chewy, gummy craving. Now I just hoped the effort was worth it. I had driven so far out of the way.

Mad Hatter

"You don't look like a patient." Said a woman, perhaps my grandmother's age, looking me up and down in the cancer center elevator one day.
"Well, I wish I wasn't," I replied.
"Me, too." She smiled and looked away.

I was already partially prepared for her inquiry as I left the restricted 'patient-only' parking lot, and passed in front of her son's car. I get a lot of looks from a lot of people around there. Some do the same thing, staring to figure out, 'Is that a wig?' or 'What's she doing here?' as if I conned my way into an exclusive club. I even passed up the free fruit for patients in the main lobby one day when I forgot lunch, because I didn't want to deal with the stares or have to explain myself. I walk too fast and smile too much to avoid suspicions of fruit abuse.

In the waiting room they look at me with an, 'Oh, that's too bad,' expression I don't find very helpful, and I'm duped into fairly often. I'll feel someone staring at me, so I'll make eye contact and a friendly nod, then bam!... the pity-hatchet comes down.

In the dairy aisle, a complete stranger emoted a somber 'God bless you,' as I reached past him. At the pet shop window and the radiology department, women said they will pray for me. In some ways I'm touched to experience this side of humanity, or at least I can appreciate it in that way now. At the time I felt it intrusive and unwelcome, a reminder of my illness when I'm just trying to get some yoghurt.

At the restaurant, I think people don't even know I have cancer, but just a bad taste in hats. If they and frightened children stare at me, I don't mind as much... I just continue eating. Little do they know the joy and responsibility of pulling off a costume on an extended daily basis. And if they're afraid, I'm glad. It's the greatest amount of power and benefit that's been afforded me besides the free fruit, and much easier to collect on.

For those of you disappointed in me because you remember my earlier promise not to be a creepy, groaning zombie of a cancer patient (see Living Dead), I'm sorry. I didn't say anything about enjoying the monstrous influence of velour knit. Now, I just have to see if I can scare me up some fruit and a better parking space. They don't call them "skull" caps for nothing.


I should get this one: http://www.artikal.com/w10.htm , or is it a little too Darth Vader. And remember, you cannot "grieve with" someone who is not grieving, though I'm not going to make it into a t-shirt or anything.

"Good" News

Surgery for me! It looks like my first round of chemo has been successful and I'm now trying to schedule a surgery within the month to remove what's left of the cancer cells in my body. I say it's "good" news because I don't really feel like having surgery at the moment. Also, next week and the week after that, I don't feel like surgery. As much as I don't like the thought of renegade cells waking up and deciding to multiply again, next month I still don't feel like surgery.

It's not that I'm overly nervous about it, I mean, I'm knocked out for the thing, and haven't had any terrible experiences so far except bedridden boredom. I just thought the surgery was going to be like a reward after I'm done with all my treatments: the last stop before radiation and then goodbye Cancer Town and its smaller outlying communities... Nothing to look forward to from here except getting stronger, traveling, sitting in the sun without fear of melting, having my vampire teeth fall out...

Instead I have to face the knife once again knowing that my I.V. drip is soon going to be replaced by another chemical onslaught in the upcoming weeks, so, sorry I'm just not overly excited about this "good" news. I am, however, happy to report that the last 4 chemo treatments I received actually did something besides make me feel sick. The cancer is twiddling its thumbs, clearly baffled on what to do next, so we're taking advantage of its confused state and luring it into a pietri dish where it will live out the rest of its days. Maybe it will spend some time in a freezer somewhere, perhaps stained for educational slides, but it will have a new life and a new purpose that does not involve me.

Sayonara, little buddies... sorry you had to go and mutate and get cut out of my life forever. Good luck on the slide table.

Toilet Design

In response that I should design a special "chemo toilet", I felt compelled to enlighten everyone that while dizziness and nausea has been one of my biggest foes especially the first week after chemotherapy, I have yet to throw up even once in my 55 days since first being treated. Surprised? Me, too. Actually, it was the only side effect I had really anticipated (read on!).



The night before my first treatment, I'd written a list of things I thought I'd need: mouthwash, chewable antacids, a kneeling pillow... I left the following items out, but I should have included handy face wipes, hair ties, and an extra bucket next to the bowl (I'm a veteran child vomiter). So far I've had no need for the hair ties since mine is mostly in the shower drain rescue pile. Also unused: handy face wipes, the lined bedside pail, or kneeling pillow for a smooth and comfortable ride.

Chewable antacids, alcohol-free mouthwash, and super-antacids have been most helpful, while vegetable laxatives, stool softeners, witch-hazel pads, and anti-inflammatory hemmoroidals have been devine, but I have no need for remedies for vomit that doesn't go right back down. So no, I will not be designing a new face-user-friendly toilet. And the other kind has already been all invented out w/ night lit, self-cleaning, automatic flush, wash, and dry models available (no t.p. necessary). What I would like to invent is a prune that tastes like a cheese and green chile covered bean burrito to improve my bland, cancer diet, but that could cause other rush-to-flush problems. At least it would sell more toilets.

Click here for toilet heaven. http://www.dailyherald.com/story/?id=51063 http://www.cancerhelp.org.uk/help/default.asp?page=311#hints

Day 21: Round 2 - I'm Not Perfect

I prepared for my second dose of chemo drugs alone. Non-cancer people can only come as a guest the first visit, and after that, have to wait in the lobby. Me? I have an all-access pass to the fun, though, unfortunately the other members aren't really up to doing much. I usually end up reading a magazine.


This week there were a few new people and the red-scarved woman, but I couldn't help but be surprised to see a younger person on the other side of the room, and feel disturbed that he was in there and also suffering from Down Syndrome. Why I found this especially sad, I don't know. I don't know anyone's circumstances in the chemo-room, so I can't really be giving any awards for the most heartbreaking story.

First of all, I had to overcome my surprise, "How did he get cancer?" Stupid, right..., as if he already had his limit of debilitating conditions? Excuse, me... God... he can't have cancer, he already has Down Syndrome.

His mother sat in there with him and I wondered how she felt about her son, who already had a shortened lifespan, sitting in the chair in front of her with poison villing his vein. I wondered how he got it, what he had, and if she'd dealt with this before. Her posture revealed nothing: not helplessness, not fear, not hope or resolve. She didn't speak, at least, not loud enough for me to hear from a body length away.

But her son did. He had the same confidence of other people I'd encountered with his condition. He spoke with opinion and without embarrassment, and clearly, was in control.

There were indeed issues with his care like, from what I could overhear, convincing him to drink something other than sports-drinks. You have to drink water and tons of it to keep crystals from forming in your liver and to prevent further damage to cells. That means, you have to give up a lot of fun and/or sugary beverages when you have cancer, otherwise your kidneys, liver and bladder will drag your body out of bed in middle of the night and tie you to the back of a garbage truck. He wasn't going for it, but that was probably true for half of us in there.

The chemo room got quiet, then slowly emptied out, and I decided to ignore my young chemo neighbor like I ignored everyone else and refocused on the hallway and my own drip bag. It was the least I could do. Afterall, he and his mother weren't sitting there wondering about me. At least, they never said so. And as for having more than your share of challenges, I guess, I mean I know, you can never compare yourself to someone else. For all I know, he could have the advantage.

The actor Chris Burke from "Life Goes On" did so much to change public opinion about persons with Down Syndrome. If you've never known anyone with the condition, or seen the show, check it out. http://studentclubs.winona.edu/winonan/11-1-00/burke11100.htm

Cancer Schmancer

No, it still hasn't hit me, even after my third treatment, that I have it... the big "C"... b-b-b-b-breast cancer. I expected cancer to hit me sometime in my life, sure. I thought by the time I was 60, probably they'd find a polyp and have to hang me upside down by it and maybe shake out a few beer bottles. I watch enough t.v. health shows to know that this is in fact possible.

I religiously watch a show that begins, "The most incredible species on the planet... is human" and has all sorts of genetic mutations, amazing survival stories from bizarre illnesses & drug reactions, reconstructive surgeries, and I'm sure there's an episode in there on beer bottles. I'm hoping my sick obsession does not have ill-effect on my recovery, as it would seem a being that spent so much of her time gawking unsympathetically at the misfortunes of others, would be due her share of deformity. Karma, there is still time. I'm ready for you.

Actually, besides a sick curiosity, I also am seeking the knowledge one can glean from graphic internet pages about possible diseases, surgeries and their outcomes. I not only want to prepare myself for the possible future, but have access to countless other victims of lifealtering diseases to compare and comfort myself, that at the very least, I am not nearly as bad off and they seem to be carrying on well enough, as well as a faceless picture can emote.

I guess it was a NOVA program "Ghost in Your Genes" that was most informative on any genetic causes to my disease. Besides having a gene that predisposes a person for one condition or another, there are genetic markers, carbon molecules that attach to DNA strands in a cell and affect which genes are active. For cancer patients, these genetic markers could have developed from chemical exposure, artificial hormones, smoking, and the almighty bottle. Even caffiene is a no-no. But thanks to modern medicine, these genetic markers that can be passed down from generation to non-asbestos exposed generations, can be removed somewhat successfully with some experimental treatments.

At least one or two of my medications will involve some kind of trick on the body through ingested hormones and chemical confusion. Luckily, neither of these, nor any other treatment to enter my system, is enough to convince me that I have cancer and, especially, not anything that would cause me to say the word, b-b-breast. That kind of talk is only necessary when someone is sick, which I am not. Don't let the tubes and lack of energy fool you.



http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/teachers/activities/3413_genes.html


http://health.discovery.com/

Brain Swells

No, this is not about my gigantic ego. During my second or third chemotherapy treatment, I learned it causes my brain to swell and push against the sides of my skull. That's why I feel dizzy and need to take anti-nausea medications which mess up my digestive system and so on and so forth. I also think it's making me a bit s-l-o-w, but that's our little secret. For all you know, I typed all this in twelve minutes, one-handed. lkji fukytm.

Chemo number four is coming up tomorrow, and I'm excited about what this means for the old grey matter. All those jiggly twists and turns will hopefully be getting a rest after this last dose of Adriomycin/Cytoxin, and I'm thinking that will bring relief to the rest of my body as well. My brain seems to be the leader, and I think it's been recruiting other body parts in its revolt. Either that, or it's just REALLY lazy and has been leaving it all up to my spleen, who we all know to be an idiot.

While my brain is at high tide I can... forget that I'm driving, forget everything you just said, get super cold tingles up my torso, or have my ears burn unexpectedly. During these last few weeks my dreams have been extremely boring, usually drawing off of whatever t.v. show I watched before going to bed. One night I thought I had to pick out a sparkly ball gown to prepare for the next work day. I won't tell you what I was watching.

I get flashbacks of places: the Golden Gardens dog park in Seattle and different every-day things I would have been doing if I still lived there. I had the same mental impressions when I was there and thinking about Phoenix, but now I can see the leaves on the trees and look all the way up to the sky. If I wanted to I could imagine it like a peel-and-stick stage adding people, fuzzy hats, and turn on the late-night spot lights to flood the puddles. I can see my shoes in the dirt swallowed up by my pant-legs, and my long hair in my eyes as I bend down to pick up a ball, but it all makes me a bit sad.

Don't tell anyone, but I'm really worn out with this cancer thing... seriously. I hope I get my brain back. My cerebral functions with about as much normalcy of a Felini film, with much less action. And do me a favor and let me know if you think my eyes are bulging out more than normal, will ya? I thought I could feel one of them touch the inside of my glasses. Thanks.



http://www.futurepundit.com/archives/002244.html

Muscle Marathon

My first chemo treatment was a holiday weekend, so with an extra day of rest under my belt, I was surprised my first day back at work was so difficult. I barely made it the whole day, leaving an hour or so early to run a work related errand. My way down the stairs I felt all my muscles were sore as if I'd been on a full-body bicycle the entire day. My skin felt sunburned anywhere that had received any pressure throughout the day: from sitting, my seatbelt, crossing my legs. I was both frightened and amazed, like a scientist trapped and watching the experiment unfold from the inside.

I thought to myself, 'how am I going to do this every day for the next six months?... and this is supposed to get worse?' I honestly thought it was as good as it was going to get at that moment, and wondered how anyone could possibly walk around with cancer. "Three days... tops," was all I thought. And luckily, that was about all it lasted.

Once home, my muscles seemed to beg for rest, but when I tried to lay down the tension just continued to build. So irritable and frustrated, I finally had to give up trying to rest in order to ease the pressure. Practically crying from annoyance, I bent down on my hands and knees and tried a crude "dog pose" from pictures I'd seen of people doing yoga. The stretching helped. I moved to a different position and stretched again, not feeling the expected relief from the soreness in my body, but the act of doing something about my discomfort made all the difference in my mind.

That night I went with my dad to the air-conditioned mall to walk out as much nervous energy as I could. The next day my muscles felt better, but I fell out of sorts even faster. Within the first four hours on the job, the computer screen began to trigger a kind of amnesia, and to stay alert I had to get up and walk around. After a few minutes I realized my day at work was done and made a mental note of my new capacities. I definitely was not the super cancer patient I wanted to be and didn't really know what this meant for me. If I couldn't work, how would I pay for the chemotherapy treatments plus more surgery and radiation?

Well, I'm happy to report that all my days are not spent huddled and shivering in a corner, and for the most part, this level of the muscle marathon has not returned in my three treatments since. "Normal" brain functioning starts to return about 5 days after treatment, varying w/ sleep and further complications (see '...When Blood Levels Drop"), and the muscles relax, for me, at precisely the same speed. But I have LOTS of other terrible tales of disturbing and perplexing symptoms and side effects, so don't wimp out on me now! We haven't even gotten to the hot flashes!

Do your stretches.
http://www.yogacards.com/yoga-pose-cards.html

Living Dead

Since my chemotherapy drugs are busy killing a lot of my good cells in the process of eradicating cancer, the effect is kind of like being half dead. For weeks now, I haven't had a temperature above 97.7 F, and it's been as low as 96.6 F. My skin has a strange thin and smooth feel like a supple saran wrap, and the color is slowly turning to a silver hue, much like my fellow patients in the chemo-room.

My first treatment I came into the chemo-room somwehat excited: young, rosy-cheeked (greasy) and ready to try out the new port-o-catherter device in my chest. For some reason I like being attached to a bag hanging from a pole and slowly dripping things into me. Perhaps it's from my first surgery's intravenous saline drip that kept me hydrated the 2 hours I waited for the surgeon to show up and cut me open.

That I.V. was much more convenient than taking the time to lift a glass or bottle to my lips, pursing them around the vessel, and making the effort to swallow. So when I first saw the vinyl-coated easy chairs lined up next to some I.V. poles, I felt right at home. I chose the one smack in the middle of the room and the end of the hallway, equadistant to the two bathrooms but close to the corner windows, within earshot of the nurses' glassed-in room, and able to peak around at the other patients. I'll be really disappointed to find someone else in my seat come Friday. REALLY disappointed.

I don't think anyone really wants my chair, but we'll see. There are some shady looking characters in there with me. The first time, there was a woman in her 70's and a grey-haired man in his 60's on either side of me, both greyish blue with angular facial features that caught the light. The red scarved woman was fully reclined and motionless as a concrete mannequin. The man moved and smiled when he talked, eerily animated for the half-undead.

Midway through my treatment, a woman in her 40's slowly shuffled in, hunched and hanging painfully on her wheeled walker. She was the greyist and most obviously ill of anyone there, she shrieked horribly when the nurse tried to access her veins. "Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! OWWWwwwwwwwwwwww! You hurt me!" She yelled and slowly succumbed to the gentle drip of the drugs.

I couldn't imagine myself turning this way, into the living dead. I chomped on my little snack bag which slowly started to tasted like oil, salt and talcum powder and flipped through a magazine FULL of healthy, smiling people... ahhh. I saw the grey sheen start to show through the thinning skin of my arm weeks later as the sun shone through the car window. Since then my eyes have sunken in from lack of sleep and my cheeks are decidedly mummy-like, but I promise, if I do nothing else as a positive cancer representative and role model, I'll try not to act so creepy, even if my hats & wigs do scare some of the littler people. Mmmm, I mean, ahhh... people... fresh, plump, healthy, lively people.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-2956447426428748010

Cancerfun Run: October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month

I hope all of you will join in the numbers of people running/walking/and vicariously exercising (through their wallets) in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. Ironically enough, the one in my town is on my 32nd birthday (my favorite number). Join me, if only in spirit.

I can't tell you the far-reaching power of the Susan G. Komen's efforts, not only in fundraising for the treatment of breast cancer, but in educating men and women of the prevalence of the disease, providing a positive outlet for survivors and family members affected by it, and advertising the need for regular self breast examinations and early-detection through yearly mammograms. Without the annoying onslaught of t.v. spots that has sparked so much conversation on the subject of Breast Cancer, I know less people would have sought help and treatments would be much further behind.

I am truly thankful for all the men and women who endured so much in even the last ten years, when drugs and detection were not as advanced, when side-effects were unbearable, and out-patient treatments were just not possible. Without them, such refinements could not have been made. The quality of my life during my treatment and my prospects for the future have greatly benefitted. Publicity from the Susan G. Komen Foundation, I believe, has been the largest kick-start in awareness for breast cancer. I hope people continue to support it and that through Breast Cancer research, treatment and prevention for all cancer will improve.

http://cms.komen.org/komen/NewsEvents/index.htm

Incognito: The Weight

From March 2005 to January 2007 I suddenly started gaining weight, especially distressing to my pant seams. I don't know if it triggered the onset of my cancer, or if it was because I was developing cancer, but the 40 pounds that appeared in less than 2 years was not a typical occurrence for my body. In fact, I had weighed within a 5 pound range for about 10 years, and felt I hadn't changed my habits enough to account for the lack of control I had over it.

There were some things doctors and I attributed to it, turning 30 with all the metabolic changes that implies, going on birth control pills (a few months only, but right before the scale began to slide). I was also under a lot of stress. Besides being 30, the other factors had been intervening "constants" in my lifetime that had barely phased the scales before. In fact, stress had typically been my diet pill, exercise buddy, and napping coach.

I had just bought a condo in a hilly part of town, walked my dog about twice a day, walked to and carried my groceries from across the street almost daily, and up and down the hills again to the internet cafe regularly. My biggest caloric vice was strong beer, but like I said, pretty much a constant in my current life and had even cut down just as the pounds arose. Unfortunately, as sweat poured out, fat stayed in, and I just kept getting bigger.

Before the first fat year was up, I decided my condo, repair, and pet bills were too much. Plus I think my place was haunted by a man in dark blue coveralls. Perhaps he is the one who rigged my car to break down in the middle of a bridge during rush hour. In any case, and for lots of other reasons, I needed to move back near my family again. I decided to ignore the thickening changes I suddenly noticed in my left breast, until my condo was fixed up, sold (in 4 days, mind you), and I was safely home to face the consequences.

I would feel bad for waiting to get checked out, if my eventual caregivers had actually taken me seriously. Even after a tumor had formed from the thickening tissue, a link was not made between my increasing fatigue, recent weight gain, and a family history of ovarian cancer. My young age was seen as no cause for alarm, and I was told to wait and get it imaged again in 6 months. An elective early removal of the growing rubbery mass determined once and for all, my cancerfun fate.

The tumor is now gone, but the weight, sadly enough, is still half there. Of course, not the most pressing of my problems anymore, it's still a factor in my ever-changing identity. It's difficult to tell people in a new-again town that you're just learning to dress several extra inches, and that when you're dancing... yes, there is some skeletal movement happening somewhere beneath those layers. It was even more difficult to tell myself to accept my new appearance, ditch the split-seamed trousers, and start acting like I wanted people to look at me at all. Ultimately, I had to take the chance that this was the best I was ever going to look again, and told myself I better make the most of it. With just that attitude, wouldn't you know it, the pounds started coming off.

So, good luck to you and your latest identity crisis. May your journey be as enjoyable as my latest shoe-shopping spree and your insecurities a mere hiccup. Check out the following links to see my former haunts...

My beloved, old condo: http://needtoknowseattlecondos.blogspot.com/2007/04/new-on-market-1928-bering-building.html
SR 520 Bridge, Seattle: http://k43.pbase.com/o4/96/635896/1/55651215.SR520Standardemailview.jpg

Hello Leukine: When Blood Counts Drop

On a Friday, following an unwelcome drop in my white blood cells count, I was introduced to the lovely, bone marrow stimulating Leukine. Indeed Leukine has some lovely side-effects: like you've been hit in the side of the arm with a baseball at the injection site. This lasted 3 days after the first injection. The next two I received were considerably less painful and long-lasting, the three shot regimen prompting me to switch my blood test appointments to Wednesdays to avoid another weekend lapse in treatment. (Tip #1)

Hopefully this will eliminate the need for the antibiotic I took in the meantime and continued for 7 days. Enough pills already! No fresh produce allowed, no restaurant meals, no close contact with people... if it weren't for the Leukine shots and the extra infections I got, I would hardly get out.

I almost cried when the nurse started describing the Leukine effects: flu/fever like chills and pains, and bone pain, especially in the sternum, that could feel like a cardiac arrest. I've always wondered what that felt like! I popped a sleeping pill and asked a friend to stay me that evening, in case it was more than I could bear. When I woke up, I found the pain to be mild and only periodic, which walking around a bit seemed to relieve. (Tip #2)

But my real disappointment was, after weeks of shear house-arrest from surgeries and my first chemotherapy dose, I couldn't safely be in public. Luckily for my own mental health I didn't listen, and had my own fun going "incognito" with a mask over my mouth and nose, kept my distance, and supplimented with enough obsessive compulsive hand-sanitizing to spur a street corner act starring a monkey that circles his ears and points at me. Whatever. By Wednesday the blood levels were back up, and I was ready to face the side-effects of the anti-fungal pill I took night before.

Tip #3: Don't be a dolt like me and risk getting sick from other people. I had the odd experience when I opted to use just a portable ionizer instead of a mask, of a guy breathing in my face from behind a counter and asking if it smelled like salsa. Of all the people in the room to receive this honor, what possessed him to test my ofactory skills? Some would call it "Bec-luck," and if you knew what that meant, I'm sure you'd agree... I am one Bec-lucky girl.
http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/drug-information/DR600065

Round 1

The following is an edited excerpt from another blog of mine, describing my first chemotherapy treatment. I will expound upon this topic in subsequent treatment postings, but for now this is for your general information:

"Yesterday was the first treatment of Cytoxin (nice name, I especially like the suffix) and Adriomycin (probably spelled wrong.) These are my cancer drugs. They did not give me anything to improve spelling.

Along with the Adriomycin, they gave me a popsicle to enjoy before injecting the IV, to keep the blood vessels constricted in my mouth and prevent sores. Before this and the start of the Cytoxin drip, I was given anti-nausea meds and a steriod through the IV... the steroid, perhaps, to give me an appetite and improve energy levels. I didn't ask. It did, however, do both, which was annoying when I got home and felt repulsed by food yet compelled to eat, tired but unable to sleep.

Another setback was a slight allergic reaction to the Aridromycin, which was cured w/ a little Benadryl. At the end of the day, despite the sheer number of drugs in my body, including 3 additional anti-nausea drugs, additional Benadryl, and a laxative, I felt relatively free of the dreaded symptoms and side-effects and was able to sleep through the night. I also had a calcium pill for good measure.

The "port" was not painful to use. They sprayed a super-cooling mist which freezes the area temporarily, and just popped the IV in when I exhaled quickly. At first I hated that I would know exactly when she was going for it, but I felt no pain whatsoever in the initial puncture. 2 Thumbs UP.

All in all, it was a good experience. I'm bringing a "good vibe" into the cancer centers and hoping it stays that way... Just 7 more of these treatments to go. No picnic for sure, but I'm much relieved. It could have been so much worse."

As per usual, here is your link to find out more about chemotherapy treatments, how it works and its effects: http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/chemotherapy/CA00029

Incognito: The Hair

A great many people lose their hair during cancer treatment. It's one of those "telltale" signs when you see a pink bandana over a bald head. In fact, just yesterday I identified a fellow patient at quick glance from a car window, from the loose scarf and high forehead alone. I did not wave.

Losing one's hair: man, woman, teen or child, is pretty well understood to be a bad thing. Besides being a factor in one's identity, the loss of hair for any reason is a sign of declining health and vigor... at least where your scalp is concerned. And little things like sun protection and disguise for a bumpy looking freak-skull are easily taken for granted.

Typically after the first dose of Chemotherapy, hair starts to fall out within 6-10 days . This is because the drugs work by attacking and hopefully killing, any fast growing cells in your body: Hair (sometimes ALL of it- eyelashes, eyebrows, ALL of it), blood cells, and even fingernails (rarely) are afftected. My freak-skull held on to the hair for 15 days before letting loose down the shower drain, and is still holding for the most part (for now).

Luckily, I'm curious to map out my head once and for all, and am prepared with wigs, hats, and scarves galore, for every mood and occasion of laziness, without much mourning. I could MAYBE convince people I went reddish-brown w/ pink highlights the night before, but growing the extra 9 inches of hair is a stretch, even for the most persuasive of people.

Convincing everyone it's still me will be even harder. My whole identity disappears the moment I pile the plastic fibers on my head, and even to myself, the appearance embodies an entirely different personality, a sassy one. The good news is, my hair will grow back. The bad news is, it won't be until completion of 6 months of treatments, and perhaps an entire year before it regains full coverage.

By that time, I could actually be a straight haired brunette. By some freak of science, the new hair is not guaranteed to return as normal. So, why did I pick red? Baby, because it's FABulous.

http://www.authorviews.com/authors/hunsicker/excerpt.php
http://www.theage.com.au/news/in-depth/the-bald-truth/2007/02/21/1171733842124.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1