I Have Chemo

Lately, amidst my negative outlook on my current situation, I found myself wondering why I’m not one of those “I can beat this!” cancer patients. You know, those women in the media wearing pink t-shirts with big smiles, waving their fists at their seemingly endless cancer-fighting strength. Given my normal ‘life is beautiful’ outlook, those who know me might be wondering where that sunshiny gal is now. She’s still here, but currently being held captive like a circus animal in a dank dungeon, only allowed out at gun point to perform at the seldom out-of-the-house appearances—work, infrequent friends’ visits, and when forced to chit-chat with strangers in public at the dog park and grocery store.

My confidence in “beating” cancer is definitely strong. Arming myself with education on nutrition, herbal remedies, and available treatments covered by my insurance (and if I’m being honest, a dash of denial since the cancer hasn’t produced any symptoms—it’s easy to think you’ll outlive something that doesn’t hurt), has given me a positive outlook on becoming “cancer free”.

It’s the demonic chemotherapy I’m not sure I’ll outlive. His poisonous talons have gripped not only my physical wellbeing—tearing apart my body’s strength system by system, but also my mental spirit. I can’t think of one structure inside me that hasn’t been negatively affected by the fury of chemo. Well maybe my hearing….I guess my hearing is the same. I will spare you the nauseating details (you’re welcome) here, but feel free to email me for my complete gruesome list (especially if you’re one of those who thinks chemo only produces fatigue and queasiness).  

I wasn’t exactly okay with chemotherapy to begin with. If you’ve read my previous posts, you know I strongly favor natural healing remedies over chemically compounded drugs. And chemo is the worst of the worst. Not only is it a drug, but one in which my body is duped before it enters and attacks. And now that I’m in the middle of my treatment, I’m even more NOT okay with it. Almost daily I consider that undergoing chemotherapy was a huge mistake.  

So, as someone who’s suffering through the debilitating side effects of 3 venomous drugs pumped into my chest port weekly, which were likely tested on rabbits and Beagles in torturous ways with no benefit to them, and rendering me useless as a wife, friend, relative, worker and activist—no, I’m not one of those women who’s taken by the deceiving and over-funded pink ribbon campaign, wearing a Save the Ta Ta’s bracelet and shouting catch phrases like “I’m a survivor” and “Bald is Beautiful”.

What I’m fighting now, is the chemo not the cancer. While my tumors are reacting to the powerful poisonous potions, my body is in the battle of its life against the toxic regime. Sure I was diagnosed with cancer, but what’s more detrimental now—I have chemo. 

Three Down

After a rough couple of weeks, struggling with gross symptoms and questioning my ability to see this battle through; last week’s treatment day brought some much needed optimism. I met with both doctors treating me—the traditional oncologist and the naturopathic oncologist. Both had good news and positive offerings. While I did hit a small set-back, this third visit to the center gave me the lift I needed and I may have found God as well.

First, the not-so-great news. Upon drawing my blood, they found that my neutrophils % was very low at 0.70 where 1.70 – 7.0 is the normal range. They labeled me “Fabulous”—wait, no, that wasn’t the word. It was “Neutropenic”, that’s sounds right. This means I’m at great risk if I contract any kind of infection before my white blood cells can be replenished. And to aid in replenishing them, I’ll need to administer the obnoxious at-home injections for 5 days instead of 3 days like usual. The evil symptoms those damn injections bring apparently mask the good work they’re orchestrating inside my bone marrow. Yet how can something that’s so absolutely vile to me, be helping?

Additionally, I was given a list of precautions to follow while my wbc-soldiers are reloading. Among the list is avoiding crowds and sick people, not eating raw foods, avoiding scratches and cuts to my skin (because I would otherwise seek them out?), and avoiding construction areas (surely this is to avoid cat-calls from workers with slow-moving-bald-lady fetishes). Needless to say, it’s been a rough, painful, symptom-full, and boring past few days.

On to the good news (or potentially good, I should say). During my visit with the naturopathic oncologist, we were given some much needed encouragement through supplemental and nutritional education. It seems my good diet and continued natural remedies will significantly increase my chances of killing the existing cancer, decrease my chances of recurrence, and healthfully support my body while the battle burns on. As this intelligent yet earth-minded man offered advice on natural care for my body—while expressing resentment for a medical system that pays little to no attention to diet—with his waves of white hair and neatly groomed silver beard—both R2 and I realized he no longer looked to us like Kenny Rogers, but more like how we picture God. And certainly God would have much to say about the American healthcare system and the benefits of natural remedies.

During my visit with the traditional oncologist (non-God doctor), he revealed his already-in-play plan to hit me hard—which explains why I’ve been getting all 3 chemo drugs at once instead of 2 for six weeks then 1 other for six week—since I’m healthy and young (the only good thing about being in the breast cancer world, is being considered “young”….I eat it up each time they say it). His hope is that my cancer will gravely respond (oh, and the treatment won’t kill me along the way), and I’ll get away with only 8 weeks of treatment instead of 12. That would be a serious reason to celebrate, and was just the boost I needed to courageously march back into battle. Three down and fucking hopefully only 5 to go. 

Time to Give Thanks

I’m long overdue in sending blogratitude out to my besties, homies, friends, posse, and all the good people around me who are making my journey through hell a bit more cheery. I feel the need to change the names of the not-so-innocent to protect the SUPER amazing, but you know who you are.

First, allow me shout out to all of you who text, send cards in the mail, email, send Facebook messages, and comment on my blog. Just knowing people care and are thinking of me, means a lot. It really does. Small (or big) messages of love from a few miles away or across the country are seriously sometimes all I need to keep my head up and feel loved. Thank you.

From the very beginning of this reality, my lovely friend Em was there—took me to my first testing appointment and cried with me in the parking lot after. Since then, she’s been right next to me though all my fears, anger, newly-found-but-definitely-tardy strength, encouraging news, rough lows, and everyday “you can get through this”-es. Em and Blue happily joined my husband in forming my transport trio (or carcinoma carpool, tumor troopers, mammary marshals…..I could keep going). This is a tremendous help to both me and my husband, and is no easy favor. My treatments are at least 6 hours long, in a town outside Seattle—so when you factor in the long drive through rush-hour traffic, sitting bedside in a standard comfort-lacking waiting room chair all day, surrounded by patients with various stages of cancer, and intermittent conversations with me around the IV Benadryl slumber—you’ve got a less than ideal day trip that only a real friend would see you through. All this, in addition to hours of tedious ‘how are you today’ communication filled with ugly treatment grievances and symptom complaints, AND finding MM’s special ginger brew, makes for a true friend hero. Em still seems to see a strong vegan activist in me, which always helps to remind me that this is all very temporary. I can’t thank you enough, from the bottom of my heart.

Blue is the kind of drop-everything-for-a-friend, kind of friend and I am damn lucky to have landed in her life and neighborhood. There’s nothing better than a good friend who also lives 30 seconds away. Blue escorted me to my first MRI and CT scan appointment, waited patiently among the waiting patients, and comforted me through every minute (even texting with me from the waiting room between scans). Her humor and call-it-like-it-is approach to all this is invaluable, especially given how close we’ve become. She sees the real hardship of this for me, yet never hides behind rainbow and sunflower sentiments. From loving and relieving my dogs while the mister and I are in Satan’s infusion playhouse (I mean ‘treatment’), and bringing us healthful comfort food, to wrangling dog-fur tumbleweeds from our home, and lending sincerity in long cancer-centered discussions—Blue is very important to me. Her words, “the only way to get through this is to GO through it” have boosted me during rough moments.

At the first news of my diagnosis, my amazing friend Spiderman, hopped on a plane to Seattle to be with me. For the record, this is not some easy feat for her either—just back to work after a badly broken leg, with debt sky-high, times have been tough for Spidey. But she made her way here; celebrated my last chemo-free week, sacrificed Thanksgiving with her family to be with me and mine, escorted me to my first ever surgery (port placement), and all the while—made me laugh more than I ever have. Seattle could really use a good Spiderman, so get back here soon!

My fast friend at work V3, wasted no time in making me the most savory homemade vegan soups—perfect for someone who feels close to death but needs wholesome nourishment, just in case. Not only has V3 continued to bring me flavorful blends of the best ingredients in soup form, but also brought me the best comfort package a lifetime-Grover-loving-girl could ask for. A handmade soft-as-hell Grover blanket, a reusable Grover shopping bag, and….[drum roll]…a never opened, vintage, collectable Super Grover figure (with phone booth for changing from mild-mannered Grover to Super Grover, naturally). Since I cannot take my 3 foot, 36-year-old, plush, eye-less Grover with me to treatments for comfort, this ‘travel size’ figurine has brought much security during each trip to hell’s torture chamber (I mean ‘treatment’).

Niagara, my BFF in Michigan has spent many hours talking me through this new set of worry and concern, and sent a loving care package. Dob has continued to send messages of strength and encouragement via email and in comments to my blog (love you!), my mom sent handmade hats for my newly bare head, CDT brought a much needed bottle of wine and trendy pink gloves, and J-Walker left a delicious plate of vegan goodies on my doorstep and has offered to walk the dogs (which I will likely humbly take you up on). Weetzie brought us the best sweet potato pie I’ve ever tasted for our Thanksgiving feast and continues to invite us along for fun puppy-love walks. Finnamon was a remarkable help in online research for me when I got completely overwhelmed by all there is to read, Choopina gave some real advice early on about dealing with everything from helping friends help me to being a patient, Yobama gave me a sweet gift package, and Pepsimily assembled a thoughtful PETA care package with a card signed by old friends, including my animal hero Ingrid (oh my god…..I’m either really important or really sick, because she signed my card….oh my god).   

My greatest gratitude goes out to my husband. Without him, I’d be a complete pessimistic-joyless-humorless-cry-baby-who’s-lost-all-faith-in-the-world mess. R2, as I’ll call him, has impressively stepped up to the plate, when faced with having a once-spunky and very healthy spouse who now deals with the awful effects of the toxins surging through her veins in a fight to prevent a disease from becoming terminal. This isn’t what he signed up for and certainly not how we pictured our second year of marriage and first year in our dream city Seattle to be. Nonetheless, R2 has risen unconditionally to my side—he’s my comfort, my shield, my logical counterpart, my care giver, my chef (can you call someone who’s culinary skills stop with boiling pasta, a chef?), my nurse, and my medical manager. Never complaining, he cares for me when I'd rather die than let anyone else see me, he gives in when I play the ‘I’ve got cancer card’ (as in, “Can’t we watch The Grinch since, you know….I have cancer?”), and most recently, spent his Saturday night shaving my head in the bathtub while keeping me from crying by telling jokes. He is the most amazing man I know, whose abundant strength is seen each day. I am continuously reminded of how fortunate I am to have him, and will never forget.

To all of you—mentioned above specifically or not—who have helped in big or small ways to see me through this, I couldn’t do it without you. Well, I guess I could, but I’d be much sadder and lonelier (and hungry). Not everyone has this band of friends, and I need you all to know how very much you mean to me.

Thank you for all you’ve done for me and for allowing me to step aside from being the friend, co-worker, sister, and wife you once had to conquer my enemies within. I promise to reenter our relationship with strong purpose and appreciative joy (and baked goods!) when the battle is won. 

Hairless in Seattle

Well, it started last week. I thought I had more time, but after the second chemo treatment, my hair started to fall out.

It started with just noticeably larger handfuls in the shower and during styling. But I knew what was happening. After all, I’ve had this ever-replacing head of hair my whole life. I could tell this was the beginning of a temporary Sinead O’Connor look for me. A forced look yes, but still temporary, I keep reminding myself.

I was a bit in denial at first and tried to keep my hair for as long as I could. It soon became somewhat comical that the hat I wore on my head was not to simply keep me warm, but actually to keep my hair from falling out like the brown needles on a sad Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Before long—in only a matter of 2 days—just looking at my hair the wrong way produced a chunk of hair plucked from the roots.

Thankfully, I stocked up on nighttime head covers, a few pretty scarves, and a bunch of fun winter hats (and every episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, but that has no relevance to my hair loss, I guess).  

And so the time came to shave the remaining thinning, shedding hair. My brave husband, armed with a fully charged electric razor, valiantly removed my pink and brown locks. As I watched the strands fall, I couldn’t help but feel really sad. I didn’t choose this and in fact, I’m still pretty fucking mad about the whole cancer thing. I know I have every right to be sad and upset, but still—I can’t stay mad forever. It’s not healthy and my poor beaten (and now exposed) body needs me to be strong. So, I cried a bit and said good-bye to the fallen casualties of my malignant war. Then took the weirdest-feeling shower ever (having no hair saves tons of time in the shower but sure made my hands feel lost—like Ricky Bobby’s first on-camera interview).  

Easing the pain of my becoming follicle-challenged, my husband shed his punk-fabulous Mohawk and left the security and warmth of his sculpted beard. It’s a sacrifice I’ll never forget and very much cherish. I can’t help comparing us to the Coneheads from SNL, as we look so alien. But we match….and that’s a beautiful thing. 

You won’t see me proudly trotting around town under my newly bald scalp, that’s just not me. This is a very vulnerable state for me and I won’t be showing anyone my new Uncle Fester look. Instead, I’ll be sporting fuzzy caps with pom-poms and warm snowboarding hats for the next couple of months. And when it grows back, I vow to love my hair as it is naturally (or as it is forever altered by the devil’s serum….I mean ‘treatment’).  

What Have I Done??

Once home from my first treatment, I felt surprisingly well. Still dizzy and weak, but otherwise well enough to eat, walk at the park, and laugh. I can do this, I thought. Little did I know, an avalanche of symptoms was waiting for me around the corner of day 3.

I won’t bore you with the specifics of the barrage of drugs and supplements I was prescribed around the chemo treatments. But on day 3, I was instructed to begin self-injections of a drug that stimulates my bone marrow to make more white blood cells—to fight infection. This biological encouragement takes place inside my bones, which causes quite a bit of pain. Oh, but don’t worry—they told me that the pain to my bones and joints means its working. Such comfort there.  

The onset of the white blood cell producing stimulation drug on the evening of day 3 mixed with the expected wearing-off of the steroids from treatment day, made for a hellish storm inside my body. Now I’m not one to complain or to solicit sympathy from others, but damn—this was the worst I had ever felt. For me, it was what I imagine it’s like to be a 75-year-old boxer who hadn’t the sense to retire, coming off a foggy heroin trip, who had just been struck by a New York City cab while suffering from the flu. Yeah, that’s about it.  Complete misery.

The worst of it was the continuous fear that I had made a huge mistake. What if I don’t recover from this? What if I’m never myself again? What the fuck have I done? I know others have done this but they aren’t me. I already long to be me again and I’ve just started. I have always been active and on the go. What if this changes me and I never regain my spunk? For all those who want to wash away my doubt with “You can do it!” encouragement, please just allow me to share the reality of my trepidation. In the midst of my 75-year-old-boxer- flu-sufferer hours, all I wanted was to stop it. Never mind. I changed my mind; I’ll deal with the cancer another way. Certainly the cancer won’t be worse than this. But alas, I must move forward. By day 4 my symptoms had died down to a level of cab-struck-boxer but without the heroin fog or flu symptoms. Still not the active, laughing, cleaning, go-get-‘em me, but far more manageable.

Okay, so maybe I can do this. And maintain some normalcy as a wife, friend, dog-guardian, cat-servant, employee, and good standing human? I’ll give it my all.  

Chemovember

Best blog title yet, right? I have to give credit to my husband for that one.

Last Thursday I had the first of 12 chemotherapy treatments. The treatment itself was bearable enough. The center was comfortable and the staff was very professional, kind, and accommodating.

Since this was my first treatment, I elected to be placed in a more isolated space. Maybe once I’m an ol’ pro at this, I’ll spend my time in the open area (called “Tiki Bar” at my center, adorable) where I can socialize with other cancer victims. But for now, I’m still getting used to being this person so I’ll take the room off to the side with the drawn curtains, please.

Grover is my co-pilot.

My nurse accessed the port in my chest where blood was to come out and toxins were to go in. Ouch—still tender from only just being placed and sewn under my skin last week. But he’s good at his job and the discomfort was minimal. In preparation for the release of a vicious chemotherapy assault into my system, the nurse drew blood to be sure my values were normal and strong enough to accept the attack, then started a saline drip into my vein for hydration. One should always be hydrated before entering battle.  

In an attempt to thwart my body’s heroic defense against the chemotherapy drugs, they administered 2 different anti-histamines. Blocking my natural guards (histamine) from protecting against foreign enemies (chemo), the anti-histamines are jesters (or seductive dancers—whichever scenario suits you) sent in to distract the sentries. When this sleepy brigade took over, I had no choice but to surrender into a 30 minute-or-so slumber.

In addition to the antihistamines, they gave me a steroid to prevent nausea and dull my body’s inflammatory response to the chemo drugs. This was good when it was in my system—helping to boost my energy (yet bad when it wore off two days later). Surely my body was wondering what all this preventative build-up was for. I imagine the little soldiers of my immune system realizing all the feel-good stuff must be in preparation for something bad, yelling, “wait…. a… minute…..” right before the tsunami hit. 

When they brought in the chemotherapy agents to be administered in my vein, you’d have thought they were handling nuclear waste. I couldn’t help but notice (and hate) how awfully wasteful this process was. Everything that touched the chemo drug bags were wrapped in extra plastic, and handled with gloved hands. Triple protection. Even the nurse was wearing a disposable gown over his clothes, just to carry the toxins in. Before you hit me with sharp reasons on the need for caution around chemotherapy drugs, I get it. Of course I understand the real necessity in protecting others from this toxin (which is about to be pumped into my veins—just a reminder of how scary this is). I just don’t think it needs to be this wasteful. I am sure that if we wanted to, we could come up with a more waste-less system that’s still as safe. 

This is posted in the treatment center's restrooms.

I was given 3 heavy-hitting chemo drugs. Although I was keenly aware of every drop entering my vein, waiting for some horrible feeling of ill to fall over me, it wasn’t too bad. Aside from minimal side effects of dizziness and weakness, I came out feeling pretty normal. One down, 11 to go.