"Your results are just bizarre."
"You are quite the enigma." I think I'll make that my new yoga mantra. (Ohm...I am quite the enigma...ohm.)
Wow, doc. Could you make me feel anymore...special? These are actual comments my oncologist made yesterday when I saw him during my chemo session. Did he ever kill my Benedryl buzz.
My original endometrial tumor was a grade 1, which means very a slow growing, non-aggressive, typically non-metastasizing tumor. My pelvic lymph nodes were all negative. Everybody seems confused as to how I ended up with cancerous endometrial tissue in my lungs. Hence, I'm an enigma. I don't find that particularly comforting. It makes me think a piece of my story is missing.
(Perhaps it's time for a second opinion. Not that I don't think my doctor is experienced and good, I just think it might be time to go to a larger cancer center that may have seen other cases like mine. However, my Google searching was not particularly fruitful last night.)
This is my oncologist's plan for when I finish my sixth chemo session in three weeks. I'll have a PET scan about 2 1/2 weeks after that last chemo. Then I'll schedule a consult with a thoracic surgeon who is experienced with pulmonary surgery and cancer. He'll render an opinion about a possible surgery to remove any remaining nodes in my lungs, if my current chemo regimen hasn't removed them already.
If the thoracic surgeon doesn't think surgery helpful, then I would likely start another round of chemo, probably with different drugs.
To sum it all up, a lot is up in the air, depending on how my next PET scan (probably March 6th) looks. If all lung nodules are gone (and there's no new cancer), then I'm in remission. If nodules are still present, I'll either have surgery or start a new round of chemo...or who knows, maybe both.
Deep breath. One day at a time.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Five sessions of six done and dusted
I had a good day at chemo, but I'm really, really tired. I also met with my oncologist during chemo. I'll update you tomorrow. We talked some about what's next after the sixth session coming up in three weeks.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
I'm doing it my way
Last month, I went to the American Cancer Society's Look Good, Feel Better seminar and was practically chastised for not wearing my wig...and false eyelashes. Hey, I've got ten eyelashes left on each eye. What do I need with falsies? And for me, wearing a wig just doesn't feel honest...nor is it very comfortable, even with the Coolmax wig liner they insisted I get.
I'm a hat and scarf girl. I'd rather accessorize than hide. Besides, it's kinda wonderful how nice complete strangers are when I go out in public with my scarf on my head and my peach ribbon on my lapel. It's perhaps the only perk of going through chemo. I'm not about to forgo that opportunity. The guy at the Burger King drive-thru even told me today that I was looking very glam, in my black cloche hat with my grandmother's brooch accentuating the brim. (Yes, I know I shouldn't be eating fast food, but at least it was chicken...not a burger, no fries, and nothing but water to drink. So, hush up.)
I've been reading other cancer blogs lately...lots of breast, prostate, and lung cancer out there. I haven't yet found another gynecological cancer blog. What I have found is a lot of anthropomorphizing of cancer, as if it was some sentient being determined to colonize the human race. A devil to be exorcised. Please. Cancer is biology. Terribly unfortunate biology, but biology nonetheless.
Today, a friend asked me if I was angry at my cancer. No, I'm really not. I'm angry that my life has been derailed. I'm angry to think that my children might have to grow up without me, that my husband might have to be a single parent. I'm angry that stage IV cancer means there is no cure, just a hope for remission, a very long remission. I'm angry I'll be a cancer patient for the rest of my life. I'm angry with my situation but, no, I'm not angry at misprogrammed cells in my body.
I don't believe that my getting cancer is part of some larger plan, some life lesson to be learned or test to be passed. However, I do believe I can learn from this experience.
I don't believe that merely being positive will influence my outcome...but I do think being resolved will. I am resolved to be that patient that just wont let anything drop until I get a satisfactory answer. I am resolved to exorcise my stress with activity, connecting with others, meditation and getting good rest. I am resolved to keep my children's lives as normal as possible for as long as possible. I am resolved to accept every emotion I feel during this journey. I am resolved to keep reading and writing.
I'm doing this thing my way.
I'm a hat and scarf girl. I'd rather accessorize than hide. Besides, it's kinda wonderful how nice complete strangers are when I go out in public with my scarf on my head and my peach ribbon on my lapel. It's perhaps the only perk of going through chemo. I'm not about to forgo that opportunity. The guy at the Burger King drive-thru even told me today that I was looking very glam, in my black cloche hat with my grandmother's brooch accentuating the brim. (Yes, I know I shouldn't be eating fast food, but at least it was chicken...not a burger, no fries, and nothing but water to drink. So, hush up.)
I've been reading other cancer blogs lately...lots of breast, prostate, and lung cancer out there. I haven't yet found another gynecological cancer blog. What I have found is a lot of anthropomorphizing of cancer, as if it was some sentient being determined to colonize the human race. A devil to be exorcised. Please. Cancer is biology. Terribly unfortunate biology, but biology nonetheless.
Today, a friend asked me if I was angry at my cancer. No, I'm really not. I'm angry that my life has been derailed. I'm angry to think that my children might have to grow up without me, that my husband might have to be a single parent. I'm angry that stage IV cancer means there is no cure, just a hope for remission, a very long remission. I'm angry I'll be a cancer patient for the rest of my life. I'm angry with my situation but, no, I'm not angry at misprogrammed cells in my body.
I don't believe that my getting cancer is part of some larger plan, some life lesson to be learned or test to be passed. However, I do believe I can learn from this experience.
I don't believe that merely being positive will influence my outcome...but I do think being resolved will. I am resolved to be that patient that just wont let anything drop until I get a satisfactory answer. I am resolved to exorcise my stress with activity, connecting with others, meditation and getting good rest. I am resolved to keep my children's lives as normal as possible for as long as possible. I am resolved to accept every emotion I feel during this journey. I am resolved to keep reading and writing.
I'm doing this thing my way.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Could be worse
Most people think life sucks, and then you die. Not me. I beg to differ. I think life sucks, then you get cancer, then your dog dies, your wife leaves you, the cancer goes into remission, you get a new dog, you get remarried, you owe ten million dollars in medical bills but you work hard for thirty-five years and you pay it back and then -- one day -- you have a massive stroke, your whole right side is paralyzed, you have to limp along the streets and speak out of the left side of your mouth and drool but you go into rehabilitation and regain the power to walk and the power to talk and then -- one day -- you step off a curb at Sixty-seventh Street, and BANG you get hit by a city bus and then you die. Maybe. - Denis Leary
For some, Denis Leary may be a bit of an acquired taste, but I think he's hilarious.
Friday, January 18, 2013
The details of my diagnosis...a cautionary tale
Warning: I'm going to discuss some of the graphic details of how I came to be diagnosed with endometrial cancer. If you're a premenopausal woman, I especially encourage you to read this entry. If you get squeamish with discussions of menstrual cycles and women's reproductive anatomy, perhaps you should skip this one.
For at least a year before my initial diagnosis, I had symptoms of endometrial cancer. No, I didn't ignore them. The symptoms were simply the same any perimenopausal woman could have, periods of extreme heavy menstrual bleeding. We're talking a day so heavy each period that I'd have to change super plus tampons and heavy flow overnight-sized pads -- yes I was using them both at the same time -- every 45 minutes to an hour. Most days like that I wouldn't leave the house if I could manage it.
In November 2011, I talked to my gynecologist about the heavy bleeding, which he agreed was a classic perimenopausal symptom. We talked about possible treatments to ease or get rid of the heavy bleeding so I wouldn't feel captive in my own home once a month. He gave me some literature to take home and consider my options.
Four months later, I return for a consult to get the process underway for a uterine ablation, a treatment that involves basically cauterizing the blood vessels of the endometrium, either with laser or hot water. Fifty-percent of women receiving this procedure never have menstrual bleeding again. Most of the remaining fifty percent have very light bleeding until menopause takes over. Sounded good to me.
My gynecologist wanted to schedule me for a hysterosonogram before performing the ablation so that he could get a good look at the anatomy of the inside of my uterus. During a hysterosonogram, the cervix is dilated to allow passage of a small catheter into the uterus, while ultrasound is used to guide the catheter and record the results. Once the catheter is correctly positioned, the doctor injects through it a saline solution that inflates the uterus and allows its internal anatomy to be seen.
Immediately, my gynecologist saw something suspicious, a 5-cm long ribbon-like tumor growing out of the lower part of my endometrium, the inner lining of the uterus. On the spot, he decided to take a biopsy of the growth to send out for pathological study.
The pathology report took a week to come back, and it indicated the tissue examined had hyperplasia with atypia, basically cell overgrowth with suspicious looking cell nuclei. The report also ominously said it could not rule out malignancy. So, the pathologist couldn't say it was cancer...but he couldn't say it wasn't either. My gynecologist immediately refers me to a gynecological oncologist, and I am fast on my path to becoming an official cancer patient.
Forty-seven year-old women aren't supposed to get endometrial cancer, much less stage IV. Though endometrial cancer is the third most diagnosed cancer in women, it's largely considered a curable cancer because it mostly presents in its early stages in post menopausal women, in whom vaginal bleeding is obviously abnormal and in whom surgery possibly combined with pelvic radiation results in a cure.
This wasn't the case for me. In retrospect, I was probably already in stage IV when my gynecologist first found the tumor inside my uterus. No one can say how long that tumor had been growing there, its symptoms being masked by my monthly menstrual cycles.
I've since discovered that I had several risk factors for endometrial cancer, factors I'd never heard about or was not warned of within the context of cancer development.
1. I was overweight. Fat cells act as extra storage tanks for estrogen, and endometrial cancer is quite frequently associated with elevated levels of estrogen. Testing on my tumors reveal that they are both estrogen- and progesterone-receptor positive. The estrogen in my fat cells fed my cancer. I've read research that shows being overweight makes women ten times more likely to develop endometrial cancer.
2. I had polycystic ovarian syndrome. This caused me to have highly irregular menstrual cycles with long periods of unopposed estrogen. As discussed above, too much estrogen feeds tumors.
3. I started having menstrual periods before the age of 12. Again, it's that increased exposure to estrogen that's the culprit.
Other risk factors that I didn't have but are important to know about include:
1. Never having been pregnant.
2. Never having taken birth control pills.
3. Having taken Tamoxifen for the treatment of breast cancer.
Finding published research about the treatment of stage IV endometrial cancer is very difficult. There are two reasons that I've come across. Primarily, most women are diagnosed in stage I or stage II and are essentially cured by their treatment. Second, women with stage IV endometrial cancer aren't typically around very long after being diagnosed, so it seems rather difficult to get them enrolled in clinical trials long enough to collect much helpful data. Sigh.
My hope is that since I'm much younger than the average woman with endometrial cancer and since I have no other health issues that I'll be the statistical outlier. That's how I'm focusing my energy.
So, dear readers, I encourage all of you premenopausal (and especially perimenopausal) women who have an increased menstrual flow and who meet some of the risk factors listed above to insist your gynecologist investigates further. A hysterosonogram is not a big deal...and who knows how different my prognosis might be today if I had known to ask for one a year earlier.
For at least a year before my initial diagnosis, I had symptoms of endometrial cancer. No, I didn't ignore them. The symptoms were simply the same any perimenopausal woman could have, periods of extreme heavy menstrual bleeding. We're talking a day so heavy each period that I'd have to change super plus tampons and heavy flow overnight-sized pads -- yes I was using them both at the same time -- every 45 minutes to an hour. Most days like that I wouldn't leave the house if I could manage it.
In November 2011, I talked to my gynecologist about the heavy bleeding, which he agreed was a classic perimenopausal symptom. We talked about possible treatments to ease or get rid of the heavy bleeding so I wouldn't feel captive in my own home once a month. He gave me some literature to take home and consider my options.
Four months later, I return for a consult to get the process underway for a uterine ablation, a treatment that involves basically cauterizing the blood vessels of the endometrium, either with laser or hot water. Fifty-percent of women receiving this procedure never have menstrual bleeding again. Most of the remaining fifty percent have very light bleeding until menopause takes over. Sounded good to me.
My gynecologist wanted to schedule me for a hysterosonogram before performing the ablation so that he could get a good look at the anatomy of the inside of my uterus. During a hysterosonogram, the cervix is dilated to allow passage of a small catheter into the uterus, while ultrasound is used to guide the catheter and record the results. Once the catheter is correctly positioned, the doctor injects through it a saline solution that inflates the uterus and allows its internal anatomy to be seen.
Immediately, my gynecologist saw something suspicious, a 5-cm long ribbon-like tumor growing out of the lower part of my endometrium, the inner lining of the uterus. On the spot, he decided to take a biopsy of the growth to send out for pathological study.
The pathology report took a week to come back, and it indicated the tissue examined had hyperplasia with atypia, basically cell overgrowth with suspicious looking cell nuclei. The report also ominously said it could not rule out malignancy. So, the pathologist couldn't say it was cancer...but he couldn't say it wasn't either. My gynecologist immediately refers me to a gynecological oncologist, and I am fast on my path to becoming an official cancer patient.
Forty-seven year-old women aren't supposed to get endometrial cancer, much less stage IV. Though endometrial cancer is the third most diagnosed cancer in women, it's largely considered a curable cancer because it mostly presents in its early stages in post menopausal women, in whom vaginal bleeding is obviously abnormal and in whom surgery possibly combined with pelvic radiation results in a cure.
This wasn't the case for me. In retrospect, I was probably already in stage IV when my gynecologist first found the tumor inside my uterus. No one can say how long that tumor had been growing there, its symptoms being masked by my monthly menstrual cycles.
I've since discovered that I had several risk factors for endometrial cancer, factors I'd never heard about or was not warned of within the context of cancer development.
1. I was overweight. Fat cells act as extra storage tanks for estrogen, and endometrial cancer is quite frequently associated with elevated levels of estrogen. Testing on my tumors reveal that they are both estrogen- and progesterone-receptor positive. The estrogen in my fat cells fed my cancer. I've read research that shows being overweight makes women ten times more likely to develop endometrial cancer.
2. I had polycystic ovarian syndrome. This caused me to have highly irregular menstrual cycles with long periods of unopposed estrogen. As discussed above, too much estrogen feeds tumors.
3. I started having menstrual periods before the age of 12. Again, it's that increased exposure to estrogen that's the culprit.
Other risk factors that I didn't have but are important to know about include:
1. Never having been pregnant.
2. Never having taken birth control pills.
3. Having taken Tamoxifen for the treatment of breast cancer.
Finding published research about the treatment of stage IV endometrial cancer is very difficult. There are two reasons that I've come across. Primarily, most women are diagnosed in stage I or stage II and are essentially cured by their treatment. Second, women with stage IV endometrial cancer aren't typically around very long after being diagnosed, so it seems rather difficult to get them enrolled in clinical trials long enough to collect much helpful data. Sigh.
My hope is that since I'm much younger than the average woman with endometrial cancer and since I have no other health issues that I'll be the statistical outlier. That's how I'm focusing my energy.
So, dear readers, I encourage all of you premenopausal (and especially perimenopausal) women who have an increased menstrual flow and who meet some of the risk factors listed above to insist your gynecologist investigates further. A hysterosonogram is not a big deal...and who knows how different my prognosis might be today if I had known to ask for one a year earlier.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
I have cancer, hear me roar
Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, 'I will try again tomorrow.' -Mary Anne Radmacher
People have sometimes used the word courageous to describe how I've handled my cancer diagnosis. But, that just doesn't seem right. Choosing to deliver a baby without an epidural is courageous. Jumping in front of an armed intruder is courageous. Standing up to injustice is courageous.
Courage is the stuff of epic adventures, where the heroine chooses a particular course of action that thrusts her into the belly of the dragon. I don't recall ever making a choice to take on this beast. The battle was thrust upon me, like I suddenly woke up from the dream that was my life and found myself in the middle of the Battle of Hastings. All I'm trying to do is find a little high ground so I can catch my breath.
Today, I went grocery shopping by myself for the first time in a couple of months. It just couldn't wait any longer, and I had to do it. I was fine for the first half of the shopping trip, then the bottom fell out of my energy...right in the frozen food aisle of Publix. I had to truly dig deep to finish and make it to the car. Was that courage? Deciding that I wasn't going to break down and cry out of exhaustion next to the frozen pizzas?
So, courage to grocery shop? I don't know about that. Certainly, it's not the roaring courage of a lion. But perhaps, just perhaps, there is something courageous about quietly confronting my limitations, knowing that there always will be time to rest and tomorrow the sun will rise again.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Pajama day
(Pamela S., I blame you for this entry. You said you wanted more 'ramblings'.)
It's about 5:30 pm, and I'm still in my pajamas. There was nothing required of me today, and I willingly complied. For the first few nights immediately after chemo, I don't sleep so well because I tend to catnap my way through the day, either from just the sheer fatigue or a pill for nausea, or both. And then I want to catnap my way through the next day because I didn't sleep well the night before. It usually straightens itself out by the weekend.
It's hard not to feel guilty telling the boys good bye in the morning while I'm in my robe and slippers, and it's even worse when they come home and find me in the same state. I know they understand, but I still feel bad.
I've built a nest around the reclining chair in the man cave (family room -- or the old playroom, as some of you might remember). At my hands are my iPad (of course), my liter-sized Camelbak water bottle (gotta flush out those toxins), my cell phone and the house phone, television controls if Paul isn't here, my favorite black pashmina wrap, a blanket, various magazines and catalogues, copies of medical reports, greeting cards, hand lotion, reading glasses, and lip balm. I can pretty much survive the day right here.
My crowning achievement today was opening a shipping box containing a replacement pair of my favorite shoes. The box had been unopened since before Christmas. I almost kept the tattered original pair for...I don't know...backup, but saner heads prevailed. My visiting dear friend Andrea strongly advocated pitching them in a manner only a close friend can. I complied.
I spent the remainder of my day surfing the net, catnapping, talking to an old neighbor on the phone, and watching a movie about Hemingway. I forget the name, but it starred Clive Owen and Nicole Kidman.
It's close to 6:30 now, and Paul just arrived home, after picking up six different prescriptions for me from the Walgreens. Let's see what he comes up with for dinner.
It's about 5:30 pm, and I'm still in my pajamas. There was nothing required of me today, and I willingly complied. For the first few nights immediately after chemo, I don't sleep so well because I tend to catnap my way through the day, either from just the sheer fatigue or a pill for nausea, or both. And then I want to catnap my way through the next day because I didn't sleep well the night before. It usually straightens itself out by the weekend.
It's hard not to feel guilty telling the boys good bye in the morning while I'm in my robe and slippers, and it's even worse when they come home and find me in the same state. I know they understand, but I still feel bad.
I've built a nest around the reclining chair in the man cave (family room -- or the old playroom, as some of you might remember). At my hands are my iPad (of course), my liter-sized Camelbak water bottle (gotta flush out those toxins), my cell phone and the house phone, television controls if Paul isn't here, my favorite black pashmina wrap, a blanket, various magazines and catalogues, copies of medical reports, greeting cards, hand lotion, reading glasses, and lip balm. I can pretty much survive the day right here.
My crowning achievement today was opening a shipping box containing a replacement pair of my favorite shoes. The box had been unopened since before Christmas. I almost kept the tattered original pair for...I don't know...backup, but saner heads prevailed. My visiting dear friend Andrea strongly advocated pitching them in a manner only a close friend can. I complied.
I spent the remainder of my day surfing the net, catnapping, talking to an old neighbor on the phone, and watching a movie about Hemingway. I forget the name, but it starred Clive Owen and Nicole Kidman.
It's close to 6:30 now, and Paul just arrived home, after picking up six different prescriptions for me from the Walgreens. Let's see what he comes up with for dinner.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Typical chemo day
The alarm went off at 6 am, plenty of time to pad downstairs in my bathrobe and slippers for a leisurely cup of coffee. Paul and I plop down in front of the tv while he catches up on SportsCenter and I check my blog. For an hour, we have the house to ourselves before the boys wake up and begin their morning routine.
At 7:30, Paul and I pull out of the garage, feeling a little guilty about leaving the boys to get ready for the bus on their own. They're 12 now, I remind myself. They can do this. We have trustworthy neighbors on all sides of us who would jump in at a moment's notice, and the boys are proud of the freedom and trust we give them. Still, they're my babies, and I like being able to look out my dining room window and watch them climb on the big yellow school bus.
My appointment for chemo isn't until 9:00, but the unpredictability of Atlanta traffic necessitates leaving lots of extra time for delays, detours, and general driver silliness. We pull in the parking garage at St. Joseph's a few minutes before 9:00, having traveled a grand total of only 18 miles from our house. I get to the chemo suite with plenty of time to claim my favorite chair.
Today, my nurse Miss Alice, a 63 year-old veteran who likes to call us "her girls", gives me a big hug and asks about my Christmas. She liked hers, but she's glad it's over. Miss Alice, quite uncharacteristically, has trouble accessing my port and has to stick me twice. I easily forgive her because I know the drugs she's about to infuse into me will make me not care.
I've got my teal bracelet, my teal socks with the nonskid surface -- good for the multitude of treks to the bathroom over the course of the day, thanks saline -- and my teal and peach prayer beads on. Later, I'll hook up my iPhone and listen to my guided imagery meditations. Right now Paul and I are just enjoying our time together, even if he's on his laptop and I'm on my iPad. It's nice to be comfortable.
It's about 10:30 now, and I'm still getting my pre-meds. Two different ones for nausea, a steroid, Pepsid, and ten times the over-the-counter dose of Benedryl, plus a huge bag of saline. It will be interesting to see how my writing holds up once these all sink in.
My eyesight is starting to get a little fuzzy now, and I'm feeling rather mellow. Just a bit more Benedryl, then the Taxol begins.
OK,Taxol, it's time to get to work. Search. Kill. Destroy. Your compatriot, Carbo, will be along in a few hours to relieve you. Now it's time to stumble to the bathroom - my infusion machine is portable so it goes everywhere with me. The drowsies are here.
Sometime around noon, Paul did my bidding and went to Alon's, a fabulous market/bakery that has a store nearby. Their original in-town location is in the Virginia-Highlands section of Atlanta, where I used to live before I married and moved to the 'burbs. They started out as a little bakery making bread and pastries. Then they added sandwiches, and it took off from there. Now, they're a gourmet food shop, with wines and cheeses from around the world, ready made gourmet delicacies, and still, wonderful sandwiches. Paul bought my favorite, the Tuscany...a heavenly concoction of roasted eggplant (aubergine for you Brits and French), sundried tomatoes, arugula, and goat cheese. I just finished mine and writing about it now makes me crave another one. OK, maybe that's the steroids talking.
I tried chatting on Facebook with a friend while Paul was gone, but that was a disaster. I kept falling asleep while I waited for her to reply. Epic fail.
Also, I tried taking a picture of myself in my infusion chair, but I looked so stoned I decided it best not to share it on the Internet. You never know when I might run for public office.
We're down to the last few minutes now, and one of the nursing assistants handed me my schedule for the next cycle. When I reviewed it, it was nonsense to me. I asked Miss Alice to come over, except I called her Miss Mary by mistake, and explained that something was wrong. The conversation went something like this:
An uneventful drive home, and here I am back in my La-Z-Boy, trying to have a coherent conversation with the boys about their days at school. I need to give up and go to bed.
At 7:30, Paul and I pull out of the garage, feeling a little guilty about leaving the boys to get ready for the bus on their own. They're 12 now, I remind myself. They can do this. We have trustworthy neighbors on all sides of us who would jump in at a moment's notice, and the boys are proud of the freedom and trust we give them. Still, they're my babies, and I like being able to look out my dining room window and watch them climb on the big yellow school bus.
My appointment for chemo isn't until 9:00, but the unpredictability of Atlanta traffic necessitates leaving lots of extra time for delays, detours, and general driver silliness. We pull in the parking garage at St. Joseph's a few minutes before 9:00, having traveled a grand total of only 18 miles from our house. I get to the chemo suite with plenty of time to claim my favorite chair.
Today, my nurse Miss Alice, a 63 year-old veteran who likes to call us "her girls", gives me a big hug and asks about my Christmas. She liked hers, but she's glad it's over. Miss Alice, quite uncharacteristically, has trouble accessing my port and has to stick me twice. I easily forgive her because I know the drugs she's about to infuse into me will make me not care.
I've got my teal bracelet, my teal socks with the nonskid surface -- good for the multitude of treks to the bathroom over the course of the day, thanks saline -- and my teal and peach prayer beads on. Later, I'll hook up my iPhone and listen to my guided imagery meditations. Right now Paul and I are just enjoying our time together, even if he's on his laptop and I'm on my iPad. It's nice to be comfortable.
It's about 10:30 now, and I'm still getting my pre-meds. Two different ones for nausea, a steroid, Pepsid, and ten times the over-the-counter dose of Benedryl, plus a huge bag of saline. It will be interesting to see how my writing holds up once these all sink in.
My eyesight is starting to get a little fuzzy now, and I'm feeling rather mellow. Just a bit more Benedryl, then the Taxol begins.
OK,Taxol, it's time to get to work. Search. Kill. Destroy. Your compatriot, Carbo, will be along in a few hours to relieve you. Now it's time to stumble to the bathroom - my infusion machine is portable so it goes everywhere with me. The drowsies are here.
Sometime around noon, Paul did my bidding and went to Alon's, a fabulous market/bakery that has a store nearby. Their original in-town location is in the Virginia-Highlands section of Atlanta, where I used to live before I married and moved to the 'burbs. They started out as a little bakery making bread and pastries. Then they added sandwiches, and it took off from there. Now, they're a gourmet food shop, with wines and cheeses from around the world, ready made gourmet delicacies, and still, wonderful sandwiches. Paul bought my favorite, the Tuscany...a heavenly concoction of roasted eggplant (aubergine for you Brits and French), sundried tomatoes, arugula, and goat cheese. I just finished mine and writing about it now makes me crave another one. OK, maybe that's the steroids talking.
I tried chatting on Facebook with a friend while Paul was gone, but that was a disaster. I kept falling asleep while I waited for her to reply. Epic fail.
Also, I tried taking a picture of myself in my infusion chair, but I looked so stoned I decided it best not to share it on the Internet. You never know when I might run for public office.
We're down to the last few minutes now, and one of the nursing assistants handed me my schedule for the next cycle. When I reviewed it, it was nonsense to me. I asked Miss Alice to come over, except I called her Miss Mary by mistake, and explained that something was wrong. The conversation went something like this:
Me: I usually have a Day 10 blood draw, where is that?Suddenly, I realized my schedule looked exactly like the schedules for my three previous treatment cycles. Exactly. My brain was just trying to read it in ancient Arameic at first. Another day, I'll write about the phenomenon of chemo brain. Hopefully, cancer cells don't like stupid.
Her: It's right here, sweetheart. See?
Me: I also always have a draw on the Friday before chemo.
Her: (oh-so-kind and oh-so-patient) Yes, honey, it's there. And then your next chemo is on the 29th.
An uneventful drive home, and here I am back in my La-Z-Boy, trying to have a coherent conversation with the boys about their days at school. I need to give up and go to bed.
Monday, January 7, 2013
And finally some encouragement
Just got off the phone with my oncologist...yes, it's after 10 pm. The PET scan shows the lung nodules have stabilized, meaning they haven't gotten any larger...but they haven't gotten any smaller either. And, there's no new cancer. I'll continue with the same chemo drugs, carbo/taxol, for the remaining three cycles.
I know that it's good the cancer seems to be responding, but I'll admit, I was hoping for more dramatic results. I don't want stable cancer. I want NO cancer.
Thanks for all of you rallying tonight. Really gave me a boost.
So, tomorrow I'll behave myself and direct that chemo to begin destroying those nodules.
I know that it's good the cancer seems to be responding, but I'll admit, I was hoping for more dramatic results. I don't want stable cancer. I want NO cancer.
Thanks for all of you rallying tonight. Really gave me a boost.
So, tomorrow I'll behave myself and direct that chemo to begin destroying those nodules.
And wait some more
It's after 7:00 pm here in Atlanta, and I still know nothing of my PET scan nor what chemo drugs I'll have tomorrow. It's possible that my oncologist will still call, but I'm not holding my breath. To say that I'm frustrated and angry is an understatement.
I plan to show up for chemo at 9:00 am, as usual, but they will not stick one needle in me until I speak to my oncologist personally. I'll hold the entire chemo suite hostage. I'll start a demonstration. I'll go on hunger strike. I'll unionize the patients. I'm going Norma Rae on their ass.
I plan to show up for chemo at 9:00 am, as usual, but they will not stick one needle in me until I speak to my oncologist personally. I'll hold the entire chemo suite hostage. I'll start a demonstration. I'll go on hunger strike. I'll unionize the patients. I'm going Norma Rae on their ass.
Friday, January 4, 2013
And so we wait
When I called my oncologist's office this morning to ask about my PET scan results, I found out he's still on vacation until Monday. No news until then.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Pivotal PET scan
They have us packed in like sardines at the radiology imaging waiting room. This will be my third PET scan here and the most nerve wracking. I went into the previous two with great naïveté. This time, the stakes are high.
I'm halfway through the carbo/taxol chemo, so it's time to see if it's working to shrink or get rid of the three small nodules of metastasized endometrial cancer in my lungs. If there are improvements, we'll continue the course with the remaining three sessions of carbo/taxol. If not, then it's back to ground zero and time to try something else.
What's worse is I know the technician will know exactly what's going on as soon as the scan is over, but she can't tell me. I'll have to wait until at least tomorrow to give my doctor time to sift through the papers on his desk to my results. I think I'll take an extra dose of Xanax tonight before bed.
Of course it's no fun that I haven't had anything to eat since midnight, I'm so tired it's all I could do not to fall asleep during the drive over, and I forgot the form with my oncologist's instructions, as well as my insurance card. And, I'll be radioactive until 6:00pm tonight from the contrast solution they inject in me one hour before the scan.
I just want a nap.
I'm halfway through the carbo/taxol chemo, so it's time to see if it's working to shrink or get rid of the three small nodules of metastasized endometrial cancer in my lungs. If there are improvements, we'll continue the course with the remaining three sessions of carbo/taxol. If not, then it's back to ground zero and time to try something else.
What's worse is I know the technician will know exactly what's going on as soon as the scan is over, but she can't tell me. I'll have to wait until at least tomorrow to give my doctor time to sift through the papers on his desk to my results. I think I'll take an extra dose of Xanax tonight before bed.
Of course it's no fun that I haven't had anything to eat since midnight, I'm so tired it's all I could do not to fall asleep during the drive over, and I forgot the form with my oncologist's instructions, as well as my insurance card. And, I'll be radioactive until 6:00pm tonight from the contrast solution they inject in me one hour before the scan.
I just want a nap.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Resolved...
“Life is without meaning. You bring the meaning to it. The meaning of life is whatever you ascribe it to be. Being alive is the meaning." - Joseph Campbell
My resolution for 2013 is simple...to wake up each day aware that I have yet another opportunity to define my life.
On darker days, my life is about acceptance. Those days are neither good nor bad. They just are.
On bright days, my life is about inspiration, reaching out to be a part of something bigger than myself.
And some days, I will simply revel in the ordinary.
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