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Archive for the tag “Herceptin”

You’re a cancer survivor – a bullet list

  • One day you feel a lump in your boob. Machines create images, doctors test a chunk. It’s cancer.
  • People say you’re a survivor the moment you announce your diagnosis. You think, “huh? What’d I do?”
  • Treatment begins in early May and concludes in late December. Start the new year clean, you think.
  • Through it all no one allows you to talk about the possibility of your death. It’s taboo.
  • 6 rounds of chemo didn’t kill all the cancer, but surgeon got the last bit. Radiation to seal the deal.
  • You think about what else the chemo might have missed. In places the docs aren’t looking.
  • You move from the apartment you’ve inhabited for 10 years to a big house with a huge yard.
  • Your brain feels foggy and you’re sure the cancer’s in your brain. It’s not.
  • You finish Herceptin in April, and begin hormone treatment that will last for five years.
  • Hot flashes ensue, along with joint pain that wakes you at night. Your knees sound like Velcro ripping.
  • You gain 15 pounds from the sudden menopause. Dropping to 500 calories a day doesn’t help.
  • You accept being plus-sized, and buy new clothes. Your age has made you invisible anyway.
  • You visit the oncologist every three months for an injection that shuts your ovaries down.
  • The joint pain is so bad your oncologist switches you to a different hormone medication.
  • Your oncologist tells you the new recommendation is 10 years of hormone meds. Not five.
  • Your joints feel better but you gain another 10 pounds in the space of two weeks. Right in the belly.

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  • You go back to college online and take on freelance work for the first time in a couple years.
  • You get a rash on your “bad” boob and panic that it’s Inflammatory Breast Cancer.
  • You consult your posse of  survivor friends. They reassure you, but tell you to go in.
  • It’s not inflammatory breast cancer. Either the antibiotics or steroid cream fixed it. You feel dumb.
  • You pass your first post-cancer mammogram with flying colors. You were expecting bad news.
  • Of your survivor posse, one has stage IV, after “beating it” nearly three years prior.
  • On next oncology visit you complain about weight gain. Obesity increases your chance of recurrence.
  • Doctor switches you back to original meds. You don’t lose any weight and the joint pain returns.
  • You pin all your hopes for the future and redemption for millennia of oppression on Hillary Clinton.
  • On election night you go to bed with a mouthful of marijuana oil before all the votes are in.
  • When you wake up and remember, you briefly consider suicide and settle for stopping your meds.
  • You gain another 20 pounds in anger, disbelief, and heartbreak. You get a safety pin tattoo.
  • In school you study psychology and plan to work with hospice patients and families.
  • You apply to volunteer in hospice, visiting patients. Your Stage IV friend tells you it’s your calling.
  • Your Stage IV friend asks if your brownie troop can come to her house and plant tulips.
  • Before you can gather the girls for the tulip project, your friend goes into hospice herself.
  • On the way to visit you think about what she’ll say. Maybe you’ll make a deathbed promise.
  • She doesn’t speak or open her eyes. You brought a huge bouquet of tulips that seem cruel now.
  • On your first day of hospice volunteer training, your Stage IV friend dies.
  • At the funeral you connect with a coworker from early in your career. She’s a survivor too.
  • That’s four of you, from just one small department in one company. Stats? Or the water?
  • At home you casually talk about what you’d like at your funeral. Your youngest stares at you.
  • You don’t think she knows that cancer kills people. You’d talked about sickness, but never death.
  • After your friend’s death you go back on your medication. Because not to insults her memory.
  • You take on tons of freelance work and study hard. You make money, contacts, and the Dean’s List.
  • Math and a new full-time job defeat you at school and you drop out of college for the fourth time.
  • You go on vacation and don’t take your medication. You don’t bother to start again at home.
  • You move into your dream house in a Norman Rockwell neighborhood where kids roam free.
  • Every night in the new house you dream about cancer. Here’s what you dream:
  • You dream about sobbing and clinging to your mother as you say “Mommy, I think I’m sick again.”
  • You dream about wasting away in a hospital bed, too weak to lift a book to read it.
  • You don’t think you’re psychic or clairvoyant. But what if the dream is a message from your body?
  • Twice, when you’ve dreamed your teeth fell out, you’ve been ill. Mono and pneumonia.
  • A friend dreamed her dead mother told her she had breast cancer. And she did.
  • You say, “I had a weird dream last night” “Was it about cancer coming back? I don’t want to hear it.”
  • You can’t talk to anyone about your fears. You just wallow in it. Silently. Alone.
  • You think about the new house and where you’ll convalesce. You buy a swing chair for the backyard.
  • You plan how to turn your new library into a bedroom and how you’ll watch the birds as you die.
  • You go camping to watch the total eclipse. You wonder if you’ll be alive for the next one.
  • The chest pain gets worse. One day at work you find yourself holding a cold can to your chest.
  • You have trouble catching your breath. You drive to the Emergency Room. You tell no one.
  • Your EKG, blood tests and chest X-ray are all clear. You’re a fool. You’re a hypochondriac.
  • You miss a big meeting, and confess to your boss you’re at the hospital.
  • You don’t want him to think you’re a sick person. You don’t think he knows about the cancer.
  • You’re already the oldest, fattest, most unsightly member of the team. You can’t afford more.
  • Your job is stressful and your brain isn’t as sharp as it was. Is it ageing or chemo or both?
  • Google tells you former smokers have an increased chance of lung metastasis.
  • At your oncology appointment you tell him about your chest pain. He refutes your Google information.
  • Your oncologist orders a CT scan to rule out pulmonary embolism and cancer. Refills meds.
  • He emails you late that night to tell you it’s clear. There’s something in your lung, but not cancer.
  • A regular doctor diagnoses an inflammation in the cartilage between sternum and ribs.
  • Prednisone clears up the lungs, and your eczema, plus your joint pain. But only for a week.
  • You feel relieved that the cancer’s not back so you go ahead with your plans to lead a new Brownie troop.
  • You want to just LIVE, but it’s always there in the back –and often front—of your mind. Cancer.
  • You wanted your life to be more meaningful, but you’ve quit school and haven’t done hospice work.
  • This is how you survive. Living between the recurrence nightmares. Pretending you’re “better.”
  • But deep down you’re convinced that cancer isn’t done with you yet.
  • And the only way to prove otherwise is to die of something else.
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Chemo Tips for Cancer Buddies

cancer_card_by_patchSince I was diagnosed with Breast Cancer in March 2015, three women I know have joined the sisterhood. Two of them found it early enough to get by with surgery plus radiation, but one is about to embark on a few rounds of chemotherapy. She reached out to me for advice and I realized that I actually do have some. And since I’m ostensibly writing this cancer junk for fellow cancer peeps (what? do I call us “patients” “victims” “sufferers”? If you’re currently in treatment are you a “survivor”? What about my friend that beat Stage 2 only to have it metastasize three years later in her lungs, brain, and bones? Is she a “former survivor”? Because you can fight and hold off and delay, but ladies and gents, you don’t survive Stage 4), I do believe it is time to bust out my…

CHEMO TIPS FOR CANCER BUDDIES!

  1. Say goodbye to your hair. Don’t listen to anyone (hi Mom) who suggests “Maybe you won’t lose your hair!”. You’re going to lose it. You can cry about it, you can turn it into a party or you can do both. Most people shave their heads when they reach some point of critical wispyness. It’s a matter of taking charge; of doing instead of being done to. Each of my three kids plus my husband had a go at cutting my hair and then using the clippers. And it was fun. It actually was. I believe it really helped my youngest (age six) deal with the way Mommy’s look was changing. I’d imagined a sobbing breakdown once I got a good look in the mirror, but that didn’t happen. It turns out my skull is rather nicely shaped. My Dad reports that my great-grandmother upon meeting me as a baby declared my head “perfect.” IMG_1884
  2. Embrace the bald. Try out crazy wigs. Enjoy hats. Go straight-up cue ball. 99% of the time I keep covered up so as not to freak people out, but if I need special treatment or consideration somewhere I have absolutely no shame about whipping my hat off. You just don’t say no to Chemo Girl. Also, enjoy the benefits of bald. Take super quick showers! Save money on shampoo, conditioner, unguents and elixirs. Take back all the time you won’t be blow-drying, hot-rolling, or flat-ironing! No more bad hair days, baby!

    Rocking the chrome dome during Round 3

    Rocking the chrome dome during Round 3

  3. Embrace the other bald. Enjoy smooth never-need-shaving legs and armpits (remember the quick showers I promised you?). Two more words: Free Brazilian.
  4. Be selfish. Seriously. You can do no wrong right now because you have cancer. You won the Lottery of Suck so you get to take long naps, avoid housework, bail on social engagements, not sign up for shit at the kids’ school, hog the remote, hog the covers, eat the last cookie, and just let everyone else deal with “stuff.” I mean, don’t be a dick. Just…act like a dude for a few months. (Kidding. Sort of.)
  5. Invest in Imodium and flushable wipes. The chemo-shits are bad, yo. You are going to poop like you have never pooped before and your little butthole is going to beg for mercy. So do yourself a favor and baby your bum. I’m serious about the Imodium, too. Keep some with you at all times.
  6. Don’t go to chemo alone. Remember all those people that offered to help when you announced your cancer? Now is the time to take them up on it. Choose someone to accompany you to each round of chemo. Someone to pick your ass up at home, drive you to the hospital, sit with you and amuse you, and then drive your ass back home. If you’re very popular you can have them do shifts. Chemo takes a long-ass time. I planned to do a bunch of stuff during chemo (sleep, do my nails, read), and ended up doing none of them. I chatted with my friends and the nurses, munched on snacks, played with my phone. You know what? I had a good time. I laughed a lot. Take your friends and host a chemo party.

    Me and Amy. Best friends since 1973!

    Me and Amy. Best friends since 1973!

  7. Be a wuss. Look, for no reason at all you drew the short straw and got cancer. You don’t have to be a tough broad or a good soldier or a warrior woman. All you have to do is GET THROUGH IT and you’re a rock star. So don’t try to keep doing PTA shit when you want to curl in a ball and cry. Curl in a fucking ball, girl. You deserve a good cry! If your heart races and you get the cold sweats changing the sheets on the bed? STOP. Sit the fuck down and let someone else do that shit. You have cancer. Or sleep in dirty sheets, who cares! What’s the worst that can happen–you already have cancer! Honestly, here’s a secret. When you have cancer people are required to be nice to you. They’ll tell you you’re beautiful when you look like a damn gargoyle and they’ll tell you you’re brave when you’re a blubbering puddle of self-pity. People don’t judge the cancer-striken. They just thank fuck it’s not them.
  8. Say goodbye to food. If the nausea don’t get you, the chemo-taste will. Food will, for increasingly long periods of time as your chemo progresses, be the enemy. You won’t want to eat it, smell it, or have anything to do with it. And yet it will become your prime obsession. Because you know you need it to rebuild your good (non-cancery) cells, and you haven’t eaten anything except for a raisin in three days. So all day you will ponder this ponder: What could I eat? What could I choke down? Strolling through the aisles of the grocery store can help here. If something catches your eye, take it home. Take three or four or a dozen “maybes” home and try them. Something that was fine last week might be a no-go this week, so keep trying. Chicken broth and dill pickles were the only thing that kept me alive during the back half of chemo. dill pickles
  9. Find what works for you. Now is not the time to try and “power through” anything. If you hurt, take a pain pill. Your doctor will give you the good ones because people don’t fuck around with cancer patients. If your nausea meds don’t work, try another. Try ginger candy. Try pot. Try acupuncture. And if nothing works, just keep reminding yourself that this is not the rest of your life. Chemo comes to an end.
  10. Make friends with chaos. You’re the one that keeps the trains running, right? Who makes the appointments and keeps the social calendar and is the organizer and the arranger and the scheduler and the cleaner-upper. Well, the trains are going off the rails. People will try to “pitch in.” But your immediate family is suffering too. They aren’t running at full capacity either because they’re worried and trying to be strong and crying when they think you’re not looking. So. Do you want to spend 4 or 6 or 11 rounds of chemo feeling like a failure watching the laundry pile up and the homework get left behind and the mess accumulate everywhere you look? You do not. This is where that laminated Cancer Card comes in. You play it and you play it hard. Mostly, you’ll need to play it on yourself. Your bones ache from the bone-marrow booster shot you got to keep your white count from plummeting. Is this a good time to mop the kitchen floor or scrub toilets? It is not. Sit the fuck down, pull up a blanket or a pet and watch a Law & Order: SVU marathon. You can clean your house when your body isn’t involved in chemical warfare with a deadly disease. smile and nod
  11. Smile and nod. Don’t kill. People are going to suggest things to you that will make your blood boil. That refined sugar gave you cancer and that your penchant for peanut butter cups is tantamount to a deathwish. That supplements or prayer/positive thinking or Corn Nuts are more effective at killing cancer than medicine. That drinking smoothies and eating lean protein will help you feel energetic through chemo–never mind that you can’t drink water without gagging. Don’t argue, don’t punch them. Just smile and nod. They do mean well.
  12. Connect with cancer buddies. Find people who have been through it or are going through it. Because they are the only ones who understand what this feels like. And they aren’t the ones sending you emails about how you gave yourself cancer by drinking soda or living near power lines. They won’t change the subject when you talk about being afraid of dying. You can tell them how you REALLY feel, not just “oh, fine.” They won’t discount your aches and pains or try to “solve” you. They get it. Find these buddies and keep them close. And when you’re past this shit and you’re a “survivor” reach out to the newbs and be there for them.

Next time: Chemo Tips for Family and Friends.

Cancer is full of SCIENCE…and Spiderman.

Now that chemo and surgery are in the “done” pile, it’s time to move on to Phase 3 and plan for Phase 4 of this breast cancer “journey.” That’s so obnoxious, isn’t it? A fucking “journey.” A trip no one wants to take. It’s actually more like being an exile or refugee or something. I’ve been exiled from the land of health and forced to haul my cancery carcass up the Cliffs of Chemo and cross the Strait of Surgery in a leaky rowboat…

Eh, who am I kidding; I have health insurance and live in the Pacific Northwest which is where cancer goes to die. I haven’t done any of this on my own. I’ve been Sherpa’d up the slopes like an entitled heiress, and floated across the water Cleopatra-style.elizabeth-taylor-as-cleopatra-in-cleopatra

Phase 3

What happens in Phase 3 is radiation. For that, I need a radiation oncologist. I met mine last week and although he looks like a young Stephen King I’m going to stick to my theme and call him Dr. Spiderman (No, I won’t be hyphenating that, so get over it now).

Spider Man

Because radiation. Obvi.

We’re going to zap my breast and my lymph nodes with 33 days of high-energy x-rays. So I’ll show up at the hospital every weekday for about six weeks. Each beam of zap will last about 20 seconds and the entire procedure will take about 20 minutes. Spidey says since I have olive skin I may just tan and not burn the way many fair-skinned patients do. Next Tuesday I will go in for a “Radiation Simulation” which apparently includes one hour of “education” and an hour of CT scanning and such (not sure what), so that we zap the right bits. What Spidey and his team are going to do is use the map of my insides to program the big radiation machine (or linear particle accelerator) to zap from angles that don’t hit my heart or any other important junk.

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Then shortly after that will be my first date with this bad boy.

linear accelorator

Phase 4 (and the continuation of Phase 1)

Okay, now my phases are getting all confused. Let me try to untangle this. Chemotherapy is over. I started that shit on May 5 and finished my sixth and final round on August 20. But simultaneously with the chemo, I started “targeted therapy” which is the drugs that specifically target the HER2+ aspect of my flavor of cancer. Those drugs are Herceptin and Perjeta. While Perjeta has dropped off the menu, I still get an infusion of Herceptin every 3 weeks, and will continue to get them until May (giving me a full year). This is to make sure the cancer doesn’t recur. The good part of this is that it only takes 30 minutes and I get to see my homies. Seriously, Overlake Oncology has become my Cheers.

Norm

I walk in and the front desk crew says “Christa!” I think that makes me Norm. I don’t see Dr. Captain America every visit, but I did see him last week. He’s not giving me so much crap about my anemia and I even managed to weasel out of a blood test (in exchange for getting a flu shot). This was the first time I’d seen Cap since surgery and it was the day after the Super Friends conference to discuss my case. Cap told me that with pre-menopausal womean (I am considered pre-menopausal because I was still having periods before chemo stopped them) usually get Tomoxifen for five years as their hormone therapy. But…aromatase inhibitors are just a smidge more effective (like 3-4%) in preventing a cancer comeback. But it won’t work if your ovaries are still producing estrogen. (Remember, my cancer was VERY Estrogen-reactive). So, given my age (I’ll be 47 in December) and the stubborn (there was still cancer in my lymph node after all that chemo) and aggressive (the aforementioned HER2+) qualities of my cancer, they think it would be best to go the aromatase inhibitor route. So there are two ways to make that happen. 1. Wait 8 -10 months to see if chemopause ends and Aunt Flo returns or if she’s gone for good. 2. Suppress my ovaries with drugs.

So, that is the plan for Phase 4: Some time after radiation has finished I’ll start getting monthly injections of drugs to suppress my ovaries. And then I’ll take a daily pill that is the aromatase inhibitor. That will go on for five years. FIVE. Side effects can include osteoporosis and joint pain. So before beginning this course of treatment, Cap is ordering a bone density test I guess to make sure my bones are good to start with.

It’s kinda awesome to not be on any drugs at all right now. Well, I mean I guess the Herceptin is inside my body, doing its thing, but I only have to go every three weeks, and I don’t have any side-effects. I don’t have to go to the hospital at all this week, which is refreshing.

Loki helping with the dishes

Loki helping with the dishes

And I feel good! I volunteered to help at my first-grader’s Halloween Party on Friday, and my chemo kitten, Loki, (we found out he was born on the day of my last chemo!) is filling our house with naughty kitten antics and soft kitten snuggles. And MY HAIR IS GROWING!

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I know it doesn’t look like much, but the hair is fine and fuzzy and my head looks just a smidge darker. I’ve still got this creeping dread/anxiety inside, but I’m functioning much better. Still haven’t resumed work on my book, but I made some really good soup the other day.

Pathology, surprises, and what’s next

Since my last post I have calmed down a bit and also found out more information. The first thing I did was go to Dr. Supe’s office and pick up my pathology report. After much Googling, consultation with my billions of breast cancer books, and knowledge I’ve sucked up over the past six months, I had some answers. Then I had a post-op appointment with Buffy the Cancer Slayer and learned more.

Pathology Report post-surgery

Okay, so the good news is Turdy is dead. I will place no flowers on that fucker’s grave. But, I am grateful to him for being big and lumpy and close to the surface. If I hadn’t felt his gnarly ass in my boob, this cancer would probably still be undetected, spreading its shitty, sneaky doom throughout my body.

RIP Turdy

Let’s go through my list of Stuff I Don’t Know and update:

What I don't know

  1. Well, I guess that was rhetorical.
  2. Um…probably not. Here’s why: The nodes that drain from my breast to my armpit were discovered using the radioactive tracer. Dr. Supe examined three of them (the ones that made the Geiger counter click) and took out two. one showed signs that cancer had been there and been killed off by chemo. The other had some stubborn cancer still in it. (probably because the malignant node was so frickin large. Twice the size of Turdy.) So I guess the rest of the lymph nodes looked okay?
  3. A total of 7 grams. 4 for the former Turdy site and 3 for the little scoop where the DCIS was. Here’s what 7 grams looks like: 7 grams of weed
  4. Nope. Nothing left!
  5. We have to assume not, as nothing showed up in mammogram, ultrasound, MRI, or PET scan. My guess is that Turdy’s fat ass obscured the tiny 1mm DCIS. Could there be more? Sure. But we don’t have any evidence that there is.
  6. Buffy says that additional surgery wouldn’t be more lumpectomy or a mastectomy. The concerning area is my armpit, so if there’s more cutting, it would be to remove more lymph nodes. Or maybe all of them in my armpit. There isn’t consensus on that yet…
  7. Well. Because there aren’t many straight answers. Will the cancer come back? No one knows. You can look at stats and probability all day and night but you just can’t predict recurrence. It’ll come back or it won’t. And then you’ll know.

Here are some more things I’ve learned and realized in the last week:

  • When Dr. Moviestar called in March to tell me my biopsy was bad news and that yes, it was cancer, he told me it was Stage 2. Of course that was before a zillion more tests and scans. What no one told me (and I guess I didn’t ask, though I did speculate) was that once Turdy Jr. was discovered in my lymph node, my breast cancer was Stage 3. Which is scarier than Stage 2 and maybe it’s better I didn’t know until I flat-out asked Buffy. Still. Yikes! The survival rate takes a pretty large dip between Stage 2 and Stage 3. From 93% to 72%.
  • I think my terrible reaction to Dr. Supe’s phone call about the path report is due to unrealistic expectations. I expected to hear something along the lines of “you are cancer-free” or “there’s no evidence of disease.” Which equals remission. (Cancer is never “cured.” Sort of like addiction; substitute “remission” for “recovery.”) Why did I think that? Partially I think because my doctors never discussed possible outcomes with me. Never gave me a range of what could be the result. Did I ask? Maybe not. What I did do, a few months ago, was watch Season 4 of Parenthood in which Kristina Braverman gets breast cancer, goes through treatment and SPOILER comes out the other side healthy. parenthood-monica-potter-peter-krauseShe and her husband Adam sit in her doctor’s office after surgery and chemo and he tells her “You are cancer-free.” (Or that’s what I remember happening). So, to me, that’s how the narrative goes. Prince Charming rides up, kisses your dead lips and BAZINGA! Princess Life! Naive? Yes indeed.
  • I asked Buffy if one more round of chemo would have knocked out the remnants of Turdy Jr in my lymph node. She told me that I’d had the most chemo I could have. So I felt relieved that I hadn’t taken Dr. Cap up on his reluctant offer to lower my dose. And also felt a little bit badass. Like I took all there was to take. My chemo was dialed up ALL THE WAY and I got through it. Go me.
  • What I kept focusing on was the presence of cancer. A tiny DCIS in my boob and some extra-stubborn cancer in my lymph node. Forgetting the fact that those two bad boys were cut out of my body. Not inside it any more. Gone.

So here’s what’s next. Tomorrow, all my doctors (Supe, Cap, Buffy, the radiation oncologist, and whoever else) will review the pathology in a “multi-disciplinary breast conference” and discuss what they should do with me. Yes, it’s every woman’s nightmare: people who have seen me naked will be talking about me behind my back. They’ll discuss the armpit surgery and if they think it would make me healthier/safer/less likely to have a recurrence than just going ahead with radiation (which starts soon), continuing Herceptin until May, and hormone therapy (which starts after radiation ends and lasts five years). One of those Super Friends is supposed to call me after the meeting and let me know what went down.

3947706-super+friends+hall+of+justice.jpg

To be honest, I am more leery of the armpit thing than a mastectomy. The more lymph nodes you take out, the greater the risk of lymphedema, which apparently sucks big donkey balls, and they can’t do much about it. But, it’s not like I get to choose. My armpit is being a dick, not my boob.

As for the surgery recovery, Buffy snipped my little stitches and even I have to admit I am healing like Wolverine.

FullSizeRender (9)I still can’t immerse my boob in water for two more weeks and she warned me not to lift weights (ROFL). The grody part of my fingernails is growing out and should be gone in another month or two.

IMG_3287

My hair…well, let’s just say it’s slow going. I still haven’t had to shave my legs.

The chemopause is worse than ever. The hot flashes are pretty fucking terrible. Buffy says that given my current age and the age my mom was when she started menopausing, I probably won’t come out of chemopause, but will just slide right into legit-old-lady-menopause. So, yeah. It’s not like I was going to have more kids, but this is kind of a tough one. However! She told me that exercise and acupuncture can help with hot flashes, and if those don’t work she or Dr Cap can prescribe something for me.

I still have a terrible battery-acid pine cone in my belly. Well, that’s what it feels like. I chalked this up to chemo nausea long ago, but the chemo’s been over for two months today (!) and the pine cone is still there feeling prickly and gross. I think it’s a ball of anxiety and my next step (well, one of my steps in there amongst radiation and Herceptin infusions) will be to maybe talk to a shrink about that shit.

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Meanwhile! I have lots more energy than I used to. I changed the sheets on the bed without getting winded and I’m doing almost all the stuff I did before. I can eat food and smells don’t bother me and I’m excited about stuff. Like the Star Wars trailer, and my new kitten Loki, and the Halloween party I’m going to this weekend.

Loki Day One

Bad Blood – A Short Delay

hemoglobin-respiratory-molecules-one-molecule-can-bind-up-to-four-oxygen-molecules-34888190This might be the only blog post on the Internet that’s not about T Swizzle. By “bad blood” I mean that my actual blood in my actual body is bad. It’s anemic and my hemoglobin is waaaaay too low. This whole time I’ve been so worried about my white count and if it would get so low it would delay my chemo schedule. So, there I was, at the hospital for my very first Herceptin-only “maintenance” infusion. Feeling like a recent grad visiting her old high school during the first week of school. You know, feeling pretty good. Maybe a little smug. My appetite had just returned and I’d had sushi for every meal for two days. (Except breakfast of course, because I don’t do breakfast. Breakfast food is beyond delightful. It’s eating it in the morning that I object to.)

Delicious Sushi

Anyway I get in there for my appointment that’s supposed to last 30 minutes. And I discover that Dr. Cap has snuck me onto his schedule. “He probably wants to yell at me about my magnesium,” I groaned to the nurses. (NOTE: Dr. Cap doesn’t “yell.” He might actually be incapable of raising his voice.) I can’t remember if I wrote about this before, but my magnesium was wicked low right before my last round of chemo so Cap put me on 800 milligrams a day of the stuff. And I was really good about taking it. And YET this was not reflected in my blood panel! How, I asked, could I be ingesting two 400 mg tablets of that crap every day and it not show up in my blood?! Cap told me to eat magnesium-rich foods. Well, at that point I wasn’t eating jack shit, so I just kept taking the pills and took long baths in magnesium sulfate (bath salts, baby) which I’d read that you can absorb through the skin.

Now, I’ve been anemic for basically ever, which doesn’t make sense to me. I eat red meat. The only veggies I like are the green ones. There’s no frickin’ reason for me to be anemic, but I am. I was a decade ago, I was while pregnant with Allison, I was 18 months ago at my regular doctor, and I have been throughout chemo. Everyone and their dog told me to take iron pills. And I ignored them because they upset my stomach and clog up the works. If you know what I’m saying. Hashtag no poop. Anyway, I wasn’t worried about it, but apparently I should have been.

Because Dr. Cap told me that my hemoglobin was too low for surgery. *sad trombone* To tell you the truth, I wasn’t even sure what the hell hemoglobin was. My first thought was a Spider-Man villain. Apparently that’s not quite right. It is “the iron-containing oxygen-transport metalloprotein in the red blood cells.” It looks like the fourth of July!

hemoglobin  Dr. Cap said we should delay surgery for a few weeks and I needed to start taking the iron supplements seriously. He told me that the official call on surgery belonged to Dr. Supe (my surgeon), but with hemoglobin that low (7.5 if you’re curious. Normal range is 11.3-15.5) it just wasn’t safe. He told me that if the iron supplements didn’t raise my levels we’d have to give me someone else’s blood. Yikes. So I’m taking the dang iron pills and they suck. But I take them twice a day. Surgery has been rescheduled for October 8.

The good news is that my heart is just fine. This is confirmed by an EKG and an echocardiogram. There wasn’t any damage from the Herceptin.

A couple days after starting to take the iron (and more than three weeks passing since my last chemo!) I had an excellent day. I felt good. I ate food. I had energy and did a bunch of housework. I did, however, have a bit of a meltdown at the party store. Gunny and I went to get a Harry Potter costume for Allison and I found this cool pink lady wig.

Bee tee dubs it looks like dogshit on me. I have olive skin and it doesn't go with pale pink. :(

Bee tee dubs it looks like dogshit on me. I have olive skin and it doesn’t go with pale pink. 😦

Now that it’s Halloweentime, all the cool wigs are out and since I’ve got barely a hint of stubble on about 1/3 of my head, it looks like hat and wig city for a good while. I said something to the cashier about how the wig was for me and blah blah bald head and she told me she’d had breast cancer twice. They’d missed something the first time and she got more lumps and had to go through all the treatment again. “You’re going to be okay,” she told me. And I got all teary-eyed. And I asked her “Are you able to make plans for the future?” and as I said this, I lost it and started crying and–thanks Herceptin Drip–my nose ran right onto my shirt. She leaned across the counter and hugged me. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “I promise. I swear to God it’s going to be okay.” Then she gave me her phone number and said to call her if I wanted to talk.

You just never know when you’re going to break. And I don’t know if I was crying because of cancer and future and will I EVER have peace of mind or because Antoinette at Everything Party reached out to me with kindness when she didn’t have to. BTW she told me that it took her a while, but now she is able to think about and plan for a future.

First Day of 1st gradeSchool has started again, and with the homework packets and library books, Allison brought home the first cold of the season. In the old days, pre-Cancer, everyone would get sick to some degree while I would have a half-day of sore throat and then be fine. My immune system was a rockstar. Well, no more. I got pretty sick. Not go-to-the-doctor sick, but sick enough to stay in bed and watch Columbo episodes on Netflix. I’m feeling better now, but that cough/cold knocked me on my butt for a few days–and just when I was feeling good again!

sick and Columbo

I don’t have to go back to the doctor until the first week of October for a pre-op consult with Dr. Supe, and then my Herceptin action the next day. So in the meantime I will concentrate on whipping my blood into shape, getting Glitched out in paperback, and maybe perhaps I hope doing some work on my next Lexy story which I haven’t touched since July 7.

A Heart, a Mole, and a Limerick

It’s been a sort of eventful (and yet not) couple of weeks. There have been a couple scares, some new side effects, a milestone, some experimentation, and a minor epiphany.

Tasting and Smelling

First, I haven’t quite figured out how to deal with the nausea. It’s much worse this round, but as before, I’m not actually vomiting…I’m just nauseous all the time. Maybe weed would help, but I’m not willing to trade barfy for high at this point. If I were face-down in the toilet I’m sure that option would be more attractive.

Still, it’s very odd. It feels sort of like a mixture of pregnant and hungover. The constant low-level nausea is just there…ever-present like a tiny fetus in my gut. It’s accompanied by an excruciatingly sensitive nose. I can smell everything in exquisite detail and most of it makes me want to yak. And when I say I can smell everything I mean it. I can smell morning breath from across the room. I can smell YOU right now, reading this. I can detect whiffs of the soap you used this morning and the mint you ate after lunch.

Crime LabParadoxically, my sense of taste is completely whackadoo. One evening last week I got a sudden and very strong craving for pizza. Specifically, Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza. Thinking I was turning the corner on my nausea/chemical taste issues, I ordered one for delivery (sans sauce because tomatoes give me heartburn now). I opened wide and took what was meant to be a nearly orgasmic bite. And tasted…nothing. Nada. I haven’t been that disappointed since Santa failed to deliver Crime Lab back in 1970-whatever.

But then there are good surprises as well. Cantaloupe, for instance, which is one of my favorite things to put in my mouth. Cantaloupe has to be just right. The flavor is so subtle that if you have a slight cold you won’t be able to taste it. Or if it’s not quite ripe. I got some cantaloupe the other day with the thought that it probably wouldn’t taste good, but what the hell. I took the first bite and was overwhelmed with sweet flavor. It was the highlight of my day. It was THAT good.

can-dogs-eat-cantaloupe

Mole Hunt

Here’s something that wasn’t good. My youngest, Allison, is blonde. We’re not sure why or how, because everyone else in the family is dark. Some family members were blonde as very small children, but grew out of it. It remains to be seen if Allie will keep her yellow hair or not. My point is that I don’t know what to do with a blonde head and have always been super wary of the sun. Those corn silk locks don’t seem to offer any protection and so I’m hardcore about making her wear a hat in the summer. A couple of years ago I found a large-ish (relative to her four-year-old noggin) mole near her ear and have kept a close watch on it. Last Wednesday while washing her hair I saw what I’ve been dreading: the mole has changed. Where it was once uniform in color and perfectly round, it has suddenly shown all the signs of a potential melanoma.

IMG_1960Basically, my baby’s mole flunked the ABCDE test. Herewith:

  • A – Asymmetry (lopsided is bad)
  • B – Borders (blurry, uneven is bad)
  • C – Color (different shades are bad)
  • D – Diameter (larger than a pencil eraser is bad)
  • E – Evolving (change is bad)

So, Gunny and I resolved to take her to the pediatrician ASAP and put her to bed. Then I opened the freezer to get a popsicle and burst into tears. Those heaving, silent “Don’t mind me, I’m breaking down” sobs. Because cancer can take me, but it better not lay one turdy tendril on my child. Because I will burn this world down.

The pediatrician agreed the mole is “suspicious,” and has referred us to a dermatologist at Seattle Children’s Hospital. Once Tricare approves it, I’m hoping to make the appointment for a Tuesday. Just in case we run into Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson on his weekly trip to visit sick kids. You gotta find the upside wherever you can.

Side Effects

In honor of some fun new side effects I have composed this limerick:

There once was a lady named Trix
Who found herself in quite a fix
Her gums were receding
Her ass, it was bleeding
And she still has four rounds left of six!

Also, my nose is running in what is lovingly called the “Herceptin drip.” Yaaaaaaaay.

My Heart

In my last post I mentioned that I’d been having some shortness of breath. The next day it concerned me enough to call Dr. Cap’s office. He had me come in and Gunny and I spent two hours there. First, I had two panic attacks before I even saw the doctor. I haven’t had one since, well, I guess since I met Gunny seven years ago, but I used to have them fairly often and once severe enough to land in the ER where the nurses nodded knowingly when I told them I worked at Microsoft. “Oh, we see Microsoft people all the time for this.” Anyway my heart rate was too high for Dr. Cap and he sent me to the lab for a blood draw to check my iron. My iron was fine but my postassium was low. He decided that we’d check on my heart a little sooner than planned so this Monday I had another echocardiogram which was absolutely fine. So my heart is in good shape and I don’t know what the shortness of breath was about and haven’t experienced it since.

My Hair

What about your bald head, Christa? Oh, I’m glad you asked. So here’s something I didn’t expect: my head gets a little bit stubbly every few days. But only in patches. So if I hadn’t shaved my head I would still have hair, but I would also have bald patches, which I think we can all agree would not look very cool.

IMG_1993

I’ve decided I like the idea of wigs more than I enjoy wearing them. So I’ve been going naked-headed most of the time inside the house and rocking some hats out and about. These are the two I like best:

IMG_1985 IMG_1995

And now for the good news. At long last, after more than three months, I’ve started working on my novel again! The second Mike Malick mystery You Go To My Head is back on track. I’m not promising a release date yet, but at least the wheels are back in motion. It feels really good to be creating something again.

An Epiphany

That’s sort of my takeaway from the whole cancer experience thus far: being grateful for the small things. The kindness of a friend. A sunny day. The flavor of ripe melon. I’ve discovered that Death doesn’t have to come very close at all to make Life taste very sweet.

Chemo – Round 2 Roundup

Okay, it may be a bit early to call this a “round-up,” but I couldn’t resist the alliteration. I really really need to get back to work on my book. Here’s the pattern that’s emerging with me and chemo:

Day 1: Get chemo. My spirits are good and I feel pretty normal.

Day 2: Go to hospital for Neulasta shot. Maybe do something while I’m out and about (This time I met my brother at the bookstore and we took a twins selfie.)

Twin baldies

Day 3: Get any shit done that needs doing in the morning because energy is going to be in short supply. This time I got my daughter off to school and then went grocery shopping. Then took a two hour nap. Then went to the marijuana store. Slept for another two hours. Cooked dinner. Passed out for the night.

Day 4. Nope. Just nope. Barely got my carcass out of bed. It was like this: Make Allison’s lunch. Lie down for five minutes. Help her pick out clothes and put toothpaste on her toothbrush. Lie down again. I barely got her little butt out the door before I was all done for the day. I got out of bed to use the bathroom and that’s it. For future reference, let’s just write off Day 4.

Day 5. Spent the first half of the day in bed, but emerged in the late afternoon for some social contact. I took a Percocet at bedtime and slept for a glorious 11 hours. It was so so so good. Did I mention glorious?

Day 6. Slept until 10am or so, but remained awake until bedtime!

Day 7. Actually got dressed and put on makeup. I’ve gotten out of the habit of giving a shit about makeup since I started working from home four years ago, but with my head all bald I feel like I have these huge alien eyes that are looking really sad and as if they are pleading with me in the mirror, maybe emitting some sort of plaintive alien sound like “bleep?” So I put stuff on the poor things. All the stuff: concealer, shadow, liner, mascara. I intended to drive up to the elementary school to take Allison her raincoat (weather app said 20% chance of precip and she’s only wearing her Darth Vader hoodie!), but by the time I was dressed I was feeling exhausted and short of breath. That may be the anemia talking, so I should probably take one of those goddamned iron pills Dr. Cap is so keen on.

WEEEEEEEEEEED

So, you’re probably wondering about that trip to the marijuana store, yeah? Here’s what: First of all, recreational pot is legal in Washington state, so I don’t need a prescription or anything. What I could have used is a little research though, because I got the totally wrong thing and the dude behind the counter was as derp as I am. What I purchased was a dropper bottle of marijuana “tincture” for putting under one’s tongue or adding to edibles. Since I’m massively barfy–much more so this time despite having two different meds for nausea (Zofran and Compazine)–I am not interested in edible anything. My thinking was: if these weed-drops make me feel like eating again I will scarf hella brownies no matter what’s in them.

full_spectrum_tinctureThe dosage for the drops was “approximately 10 drops.” The bottle contained four “servings” and cost 45 dollars. I put about 4 drops under my tongue and swallowed. I didn’t get a flavor because all the available varieties would give me heartburn. So it tasted like liquid weed. Then of course I read the instructions and it said to put the drops under your tongue and hold for 60 seconds before swallowing. So I did another 4 or 5 drops. Remember, we’re still in the recommended dose range of 9-10 drops, so don’t get all fluffy with me. Then I got tired and slept for a couple hours. When I woke up, I was stoned. I haven’t actually smoked pot since E3 2007, so I’m practically a newb again. Here’s me, stoned. Squinting and tired. Like my eyes would barely open. I cooked dinner with my eyes at half-mast and wolfed down two servings of pasta and a fudgsicle. And a piece of pie. Then I passed out. So, I’d say it cured my nausea, but it was not worth the squinty-stoner effect.

I’ve come to find out that the variety of weed I used was exactly the wrong thing. For nausea you want something high (hehe) in CBD not THC. But what am I–a weed chemist? I’m not sure I want to try again and will probably give the remainder of my drops to my mom so she can see if it helps her rheumatoid arthritis.

CANCER PERK: If you’re gonna get chemo, do it in the summer! My legs are as smooth as a baby’s ass with zero effort! Hooray for sundresses!

HAIR

The novelty of being bald has pretty much worn off, which is a pity because this is going to be the state of my head for quite a while. If my last chemo is in, say, August, I might start to see baby chick fluff in late September or October. I’m kind of used to being bald around the house, but I put on a hat when I go to the bus stop or when the pizza delivery guy comes to the door so I don’t shock anyone with my chrome dome. My mom came over yesterday to take Allison for a play date and while she’d seen photos of my head on Facebook, this was her first time seeing it in person and while she put on a brave face I could see her heart breaking just a little. I’d feel the same way if it was one of my kids. It’s one of the slides in a PowerPoint of horror that goes through every parent’s head: your kid sick, mangled, molested, missing, dead. That carousel of terrible eventualities that you can never erase.

The good news is that I wore that sassy purple wig on Day 2 and all the ladies at the hospital loved it. So did people at the bookstore. One woman crossed the store to tell me how much she loved the bright color.

STICKER SHOCK Each round of my chemotherapy medicine costs sixty-one thousand dollars!

CANTHER THUCTH

My youngest has been singing a series of songs with a common theme: she hates cancer and it sucks. Normally, I’d probably tell her not to say “sucks” but cancer can kiss my ass. She’s missing her two front teeth so her song is sung with an adorable lisp. Sample lyrics:

Toothless AllisonOh, canther you are the wortht thing in the world
and I hate you tho much.
You are a pieth of poop
and you thmell like thtink.

Now I’m tired again, so I’m going to stop. I’m confident that each day I will feel a little bit more energetic and a little less barfy and I’ll be able to enjoy (or at least make it through) the whirlwind of end-of-school-year events with my Kindergartner.

Chemotherapy 2 of 6 – Getting the Hang of It?

IMG_1934My oncology office is becoming like Cheers for me. I walk in and everyone’s happy to see me. My 19-year-old daughter Callahan accompanied me for my second round of chemo and I’m pleased to report that my master plan to encourage her interest in health care is totally working. She’s registering at Bellevue College in the fall and is interested in a few of their excellent programs. Right now the front runner is Nuclear Medicine Technology. I’m so proud of her and know she will rock that.

I saw Dr. Cap first and we talked about how I was feeling. I told him my weirdness about the nausea getting worse the second week so he decided to add a drug called Emend to my IV, which is supposed to be especially helpful with “delayed nausea.” Side effect =constipation. So maybe it will balance out the poop firehose situation (which actually abated a couple of days ago). He’s not happy with my continued anemia, but is understanding that iron pills don’t do my barfy tummy any favors. He asked me to try to take one every other day and I agreed to ponder that.

I told him I can’t feel the tumor at all and invited him to feel for himself. He said he’d be fine just listening to my heart and lungs. And there you have it folks: for the first time in my life a boy didn’t want to touch my boob. *sad trombone*

Callahan and I settled into the last remaining chemo chair in the infusion suite. It was hoppin’ in there! The downside of the busyness and the extra meds was that we were there for a little over 5 hours which was much longer than expected. Callahan made a Starbucks run and got herself a coffee and a chocolate croissant for me.

Luckily, we got my next chemo scheduled before the Benadryl this time. But just as I started to feel loopy and sleepy my Dad stopped by so I perked up and didn’t nap.

Baldy, Dad, Callahan

Baldy, Dad, Callahan

My next dose is due the same week as Allison’s last day of school picnic and her birthday and party and Father’s Day. So figuring that I’ll feel halfway human for 2-3 days after chemo, I asked Dr. Cap if it was okay to bump it out a couple days and he agreed that wouldn’t mess anything up. So, the next round will be June 18 and hopefully I will be alert and upright and not spewing from any orifice for the big astronaut party on the 20th. Fingers crossed!

So, here’s another thing. I’m totally bald! Once it started falling out and I had Allison cut it shorter, shit went downhill fast.

11107174_10152889424527616_4227576448692282945_nSo, I decided to make the head shaving a family event, piggybacking on our weekly Game of Thrones gathering on Sunday when all the kids are home.

First, the girls each took a side and cut my hair.

11267997_10152891928387616_3802612572269950073_oThen Gunny got the clippers and he, Allison, and Scott all took a turn. And then I looked like this. Grumpy, but kinda badass?

11267082_10152893535762616_4257956941048514178_n

Then Gunny got his safety razer and shaving cream and made me smooth as a baby’s bum. It’s chilly!

11165171_10152891965232616_1653922367904671844_o

But I have some Buffs I bought at REI (serendipitously during the Anniversary Sale!) and I now have three fun cheap costume wigs in wild colors.

Three Wigs

Side Effects – The Straight Poop

It’s been a full week since my first chemo treatment, so I’m going to dish the details on what it feels like. And it’s not going to be pretty. Rather than engage in image-crafting or build some kind of Trixiebrand, I’m just going to put it all out there. It might make you uncomfortable, and if you want to scroll on by, that’s cool. But maybe you’ve just been diagnosed or maybe your mom or a partner is about to have chemo and you just want someone to give it to you straight. If that’s the case, I’m your huckleberry.

Huckleberry

In The Beginning

Propped up by steroids (I was prescribed two tablets per day for three consecutive days starting the day before chemo and also received steroids intravenously) I felt pretty good the first couple of days. On Day Two I got up, went to the hospital for my Neulasta shot and then shopped at Target, wrote a lengthy blog post, and made dinner for my daughters. In retrospect, I was shockingly productive!

I wasn’t hungry and felt mildly nauseated, like morning sickness. My bones were a bit achy, but not unbearably so. I spent Day Three on the sofa getting caught up on Mad Men. I’m a bit concerned about Don Draper…

Draper window

A Downhill Slide

On Day Four, the diarrhea began. Here’s where you’ll want to stop reading if you’re squeamish. How to describe the chemo-shits? Hmmm. Let’s say my butt is a soda fountain like at a fast food restaurant. soda fountainThe button for Solid Poop is marked “out of service.” The button for Liquid, Yet Still Recognizably Fecal Matter is covered by a Post-It note that just says “Sorry.” There’s no ice, no Fanta; there are only two selections:

  1. Firehose of Antifreeze
  2. Tar Drip

If you saw this stuff on the sidewalk you wouldn’t go, “Someone shit on the sidewalk!” you’d look up and wonder what the hell alien sludge had fallen from space. After a couple dozen rounds of this, you may find yourself sitting on an ice-pack in hopes of soothing the ring of fire.

On Day Five my mouth turned on me. Everything tastes like burning. Water tastes bad. Between the nausea, knowing what will happen on the other end, and the fact that nothing tastes edible…there’s not a lot of incentive to consume food. tastes like burningExcept that I know I need to. I’ve got to rebuild the good cells that are collateral damage in this cancer-killer cocktail. People tell you lots of things you should be doing. Eating lean protein. Exercising (!), drinking smoothies.

Fuck that.

If the only thing I can choke down in a 24-hour period is a piece of toast, a shortbread cookie, and two bites of vanilla pudding? That’s what’s for dinner.

Worse Yet!

I thought I was doing pretty well, considering, until I actually attempted something more taxing than shuffling to the hammock on the back patio. Because this fatigue…damn.  Sitting up for an entire episode of Law & Order SVU was too much for me. I got winded halfway through folding a load of laundry and stopped.  I take hot baths to soak my achy bones (it’s worst in my hips/pelvis) and rest my head on Allison’s plastic whale that covers the faucet—a leftover from her baby days. When my hair is wet it feels too heavy for my head.

So, on Mother’s Day, I got my first taste of real life: Brunch at 13 Coins with my whole family and some friends. Table for 10. This was my arrangement, by the way. I set this up knowing it would be post-chemo and all that. So I don’t blame anyone else.

I did make an effort. I put on a dress! I put on mascara! I’d meant to straighten my hair (or at the very least, work through some tangle-curls) but ran out of time. I felt car-sick on the way to the restaurant and we almost had to pull over. Then the walk from the parking garage almost did me in. The service was super duper slow and I snapped at the waitress that I needed water NOW. I was just weak and miserable and my French toast (late, and cold btw) was unappealing. I gave away my bacon. The worst part was I felt like a terrible hostess. I just didn’t have the energy to keep the conversation going. I sat at the end of the table and wished I was home in bed. The looks on my family’s faces as they saw me struggling through the meal was sort of heartbreaking. I feel like I let everyone down.

Show me your war face!

Show me your war face!

IMG_1794

That’s when I knew: I am a huge wimp. I know some people spring up from chemo and go back to the office. They drive their kids to activities and they put dinner on the table. I am not that woman. I am a pale lump that spends 20 hours a day in bed contemplating my choices:

  • Will drinking a couple swallows of water trigger a Bathroom Event?
  • Is my headache due to caffeine withdrawal? Caffeine will bring on heartburn and I can’t have that.
  • My bones ache, but I took extra-strength Tylenol one day and spent the entire night with a heating pad on my gut for the stomach pain. Do I dare dip into my remaining Percocets?
  • I’d really REALLY love a good night’s sleep, but if I call my doctor and ask for something will he think I’m a drug-seeker and put me on the naughty list?
  • How did I become such a goddamn wuss?
Trending Upward

The good news is that I think the worst has passed! Sunday night I ate soup. I’ve learned what will trigger the killer heartburn (caffeine, orange juice, carbonated drinks) and avoid it. Monday I ate two meals of actual food (both lovingly prepared by my sweet and patient husband who has really gotten more than he bargained for with that “sickness and health” vow) and felt stronger. Last night I broke down and popped a Percocet and got a refreshing sleep. I actually woke up before the alarm, got out of bed and got Allison off to school. Right now, I’m sitting upright at my desk in my office writing this blog post. This is a definite improvement.

Chemotherapy 1 of 6 – The Toxic Bride

Yeah, I wish!

Yeah, I wish!

Well, I did it! Got through my very first chemo session! Honestly, it was a breeze. The first one was long (5 hours), since I had to do long doses of my targeted therapy (Perjeta and Herceptin) for the HER2+ flavor of my cancer. But the next five rounds will only be 3 hours each.

Basically, I sat in a recliner and slept, played games, snacked, and read a little. It was like flying business class to NYC except I ended up where I started.

Here’s how it went down:

First, I met with Dr. Cap and he was disappointed that we didn’t yet have the pathology report for the MRI-guided biopsy I had the day before. He called the lab and they weren’t ready. Then he got on the phone and conferred with my surgeon (Who needs a new nickname. He’s so much more than “Boobcutter”). They agree that it was okay to go ahead and start treatment now. What’s in my left boob didn’t set off the PET scan, so it could be a pre-cancerous duct or something that we’d just keep an eye on. There’s a tiny clip in there now, so they’ll know where to look in the future. (This brings my shrapnel count to three: one in Turdy the main tumor in my right boob, one in Son of Turdy the ginormous malignant lymph node in my right armpit, and now this left boob business.)

Anyway, Dr. Cap isn’t happy with my iron levels and he wants me to take iron supplements.

“Yeah, but then I might not poop,” I say.
“Well, the diarrhea from the chemo will probably balance that out.” He grins.

Gunny and I wore pins!

Gunny and I wore pins!

Cleared for take-off I choose the best chair in the infusion suite. Off in the corner, next to the windows, across from the blanket warmer. One of the chemo nurses “accessed my port” to start the IV. This was by far the most painful bit of the entire cancer carnival so far. I think I mentioned that I have an extra-thick collarbone and my surgeon had to go pretty deep to get the central line connected. Anyway, the needle she started with was too short, and she thought she could get it to connect better if she pushed down on my chest. It felt like being stomped on by a horse. I only had that surgery ten days ago, lady! Easy! So she gets a longer needle and it worked fine and I chilled out.

She waited patiently while I took my round 1 selfie.

IMG_1759

And then the party began. First bag was a cocktail of anti-nausea medication and steroids. Then came the Benadryl. Luckily my husband was still there at that point because a nurse came around to set up appointments for the Neulasta shot (which stimulates bone marrow to produce white blood cells), a blood draw, and Round 2. I was pretty loopy by then and Gunny handled the appointment-setting. Then he went off to watch the new Avengers movie for the second time so I could nap.

My chemo nurse swapped the Benadryl bag for an hour’s worth of Perjeta. This is the HER2+ killer that still has new-car smell. It’s sort of companion treatment to Herceptin and makes it work harder and more effectively.

I listened to the Great Gatsby soundtrack on my iPod and slept for about an hour.

When I woke up it was time for 90 minutes of Herceptin. This is the shit that is going to save my life. If you want an entertaining look at the discovery of this wonderdrug, watch Living Proof. It stars Harry Connick Jr as Dr. Dennis Slamon who is a hero much more impressive than Iron Man or even my beloved Thor. It has a semi-dippy “Let’s put on lipstick before our cancer drug trial” montage (It IS a Lifetime movie) but it’s otherwise great. Inspiring.

I spent most of this time on my phone keeping up with what I can only describe as the most monumentally awesome thing a person could have happen to them. One of my friends, Kari Toyama (who is just a stellar human being as well as being cool as hell) spearheaded a campaign to have friends post selfies and signs with the hashtag #lovetrixiefuckcancer. So all day I was inundated with more love and support and laughter than I could ever have imagined. Take a look:

kari ToyamaMichelle Obama Shannon I don't always desktop battle wonder jbb Steve Morgan desktop awesome drawing batle Kitty Match Made in Halo puppies! Groot Kristin JVB Max D JamMarcella Dirty Diva Nikki Lexi Kiki Nelly Cory Mom Katie Tara Tyler Philip Josephine Carolyn Kathleen Trisha Angel and Alex Doc Sam Hollywood sign The Boss Alison

I have some un-fun remnants of working in the video game industry, but THIS, my god. THESE PEOPLE are the gift of those years. Kari said to me “PSH it was nothing.” I’m sure you’ll agree that nothing could be further from the truth. It was EVERYTHING.

A glimpse at my Twitter feed yesterday.

A glimpse at my Twitter feed yesterday.

Go ahead and blow your nose and wipe those tears. I’ll wait.

After my targeted HER2 antibody drugs, it was time for the heavy duty shit. The actual chemotherapy. One hour each of Taxotere and Carboplatin. I ate half a peanut butter sandwich and drank water. Oh, and some Swedish Fish. My husband returned from the movies and I started reading a book my friend Kim recommended: A Kind Worth Killing.

This precious thing is Allie the Feel-Better Fairy. Thanks to my dear friend Nori. <3

This precious thing is Allie the Feel-Better Fairy. Thanks to my dear friend Nori. ❤

And then, it was over. I got home in time to meet my baby at the bus stop. I was kinda worn out, and lounged in bed and read. Not much appetite for dinner, but I did my best. I had an ice cream sandwich for dessert.

So here’s a couple things I learned about chemo that I didn’t know before:

1. You are allowed to pee! They can unplug your IV from the wall and you can run on battery power and shuffle your ass to the potty hauling your drugs on a pole. Comes in handy when they’re filling you full of liquids.

2. For a couple days post chemo, you are TOXIC. All of your bodily fluids contain chemo drugs and you don’t want anyone to get any on them. What does this mean? If I have night sweat, I gotta sleep alone. After using the toilet I have to shut the lid and flush twice. TWICE! I feel like I’m murdering the Earth! The most surprising though? NO SEX. Kinda wish they’d warned me about that one the night before so I could store up. But yeah, the chemo nurse said no sex at all for a few days and no unprotected sex for about 8 days. WHO KNEW? Talk about unfuckable!

So how is my toxic ass doing today? Not bad. I felt a little bit queasy when I woke up, so I got up, popped a Zofran and went back to bed. My chemo nurse (and also the amazing Ann who blogs at Breast Cancer? But Doctor I hate Pink and wrote this super helpful Top Four Tips for Getting Through Chemo post) both said to take meds at the first twinge of queaze, so I did. Thanks, ladies!

I went to the hospital this morning for my Neulasta shot. It can cause bone pain, so they have you take Claritin (yes,

I told her she was like our beloved Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson when he does his weekly visits to Children's Hospital.

I told her she was like our beloved Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson when he does his weekly visits to Children’s Hospital.

the OTC allergy drug!) beforehand. My daughter came with us to see the place Mommy goes to get her medicine and everyone smiled to see her. She says it’s not scary and she wants to go back. We’ll see.

Next up is a blood draw on May 15 to make sure my white counts are okay. It was really sad yesterday to see a woman come in for her chemo all sassy and joking around only to be sent home for low white counts.

Then, Round 2 happens May 26.

In the meantime, I’m hanging in there. I’m still riding the steriod high that kinda props you up the first couple of days, and have heard that days 4-7 are the worst. I will keep you updated, and I’m not going to be polite. For now, I await the coin flip: which will come first, puking or diarrhea, or BOTH?

Thank you for all the love and support!

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