Enough is Enough

Last week I endured my final chemotherapy treatment. Like the others before, it was harsh and I mentally kicked and screamed before and during. Yes, it was my last one and by all accounts, I should be cheering “Hooray! Hooray! I did it!” but it’s difficult to celebrate when still facing the miserable toxin-sponsored days that follow, the weeks/months of lasting effects, and the looming threat of a physician’s advice to do ‘just a couple more treatments’.

For many people, it’s easy to summon logic in deciding whether to do additional treatments recommended by a doctor. And for some, they’d follow the advice of the white-coats no matter what, because they are the “experts”—but that certainly is not me. The doctors and medical staff only know the science, chemistry, medical operation, and statistics (yeah, I said “only”) of what a “couple more” treatments could do for my tumors prior to surgery. What they have no knowledge of is the me of it. They cannot possibly see all the long term effects the poison of chemo may have left or the harm it may have done to any of my systems, and they do not know how low it drops my quality of life.

The chemicals that were pumped through my veins were nothing to take lightly, remember. Every drop that invaded my tissues brought with it a rusty bucket full of life-sucking side effects and haunting long term symptoms. These are highly potent chemicals—so toxic that the specially trained nurses who administer it, are required to wear protective clothing just to handle it, and chemo recipients must take special precautions for 48 hours after each treatment to ensure others don’t come in contact with the chemical agents. So even though I’ve had 8 treatments, the decision to have even one more, is just as serious and horrifying as when I started.

One other point to remember is that chemotherapy is no guarantee. It may be the most widely used cancer management in America today, but it’s never a 100% guaranteed cure. I’ve read much more on the topics of cancer, breast cancer, chemotherapy and naturopathic remedies than I ever wanted, and I’ve learned that many times not only is chemo not a complete end to invading cancerous cells, but it has been blamed for causing some types of cancer. Isn’t that some shit?

After all those heavy considerations above, let’s also not forget that I did eight weeks of grueling chemotherapy. If you’re inclined to judge me because I won’t do more treatments (or worse, encourage me to do more), remember that despite my treacherous dance with chemo, I kept going, all the way to the end of the doctor’s prescribed 8 rounds of Lucifer’s semen. I completed the original plan of chemotherapy and will have surgery—two radical methods of killing the cancer.  

Not facing the torture chamber this week has measurably lifted my spirits. I’ve had such a happy week and can taste a sampling of the joy that life can be again (even ordinariness sounds blissful), and I’m not willing to go back to the dungeon. If, at some point down the road, cancer shows up again then I will work harder to find alternative treatment methods that don’t involve sending Jason Voorhees in through my chest port to obliterate my cells. Hopefully that alternative method will only be offered in a beautiful spa in France.

Chemo-cal Changes

As I approach what better be my last chemotherapy treatment [shaking fist], my fear that I’ve been forever physically changed has not diminished in the slightest. But it’s not just the physical changes. Lately, I can’t help think about the other ways this wretched ordeal has changed me.

As I’ve mentioned in past posts, I’m constantly concerned that I won’t go back to my healthy, happy, able-bodied, never-get-sick, doctor-dodging self. Oh sure, many people have undergone chemotherapy and later went on to live ‘normal’ lives, but enduring 8 weeks of poisonous toxins surging through my system, is sure to have lasting effects, right? Will I seriously be able to overcome the physical revolution—weakened strength, old woman endurance, absence of taste, injured immune system, neuropathy, hair loss, and so on and so on (if you’ve read my blog, you know I’ve been reduced to a dawdling Roger Smith)—that has swept over my body?

What are not so obvious are the social, mental, and emotional changes that come from having your insides corroded with acid and replaced with a weaker, whinier version of what once was.

Socially, I’m viewed differently than I was a few months ago. That’s just the reality of where I am. Before the crippling chemo, when my friends would call or text, we’d talk about our companion animals, relationships, animal rights concerns, social issues or food (lots of food talk)—and enjoy tons of laughs. And when either brother called, we talked about fun things like movies, family, football, my nephew, edibles, and last night’s excitement—depending on which brother. Now, when anyone calls, it’s mostly centered on how I am feeling, what the doctors have said, and how many treatments I still have to go. It’s important and of course relevant to my current position, but damn, it must be so boring for everyone! Who wants to always hear about how sick I am (because you know I’m not shy about expressing the truth of chemo’s side effects)? It’s no wonder some people have stopped asking.

When it comes to being active with friends or family, I’ve pretty much taken myself off the playing field. In the beginning I thought I could (and did) do more. But now that the toxins have been pillaging through my veins for weeks—each additional “treatment” adding to the convoy—I’ve resorted more of a hibernation lifestyle. Through this, I’ve felt the warmth of friends who I never knew had it in them, rise up to my side (making me vegan mac & chz, as one example) during these treacherous weeks in so many ways. Conversely, some folks I hoped would be there for me have proved to be more of the fair-weathered types. I’ve learned so much about myself, my husband’s commitment, the strength of my friends, and the power of medicinal marijuana (truthfully, I haven’t even had the courage to try it during all this…….I know, I know—if ever there was a time, this is it).      

The changes are palpable, both physically and socially. Will I be able to return to “normal”? I really hope to recover from these changes, or grow and blossom because of the strength I’ve gained and bonds I’ve reinforced. Thank you all for reading and supporting me, I couldn’t do it without you. Please don’t forget me, I’m almost done! 

Let's Be Real

This blog serves as a vehicle for friends in other states to know how things are going with my cancer treatment, but I also want it to help others who might be new to breast cancer, to learn from my experiences and know they’re not alone in their journey through hell.

In following that mission, I want to address something that’s more of a social side effect of cancer/chemo. Sorry to those of you who like my more optimistic-toned posts, but it’s time I get this off my chest.

When I first was diagnosed and people around me learned of my “condition”, the news spread beyond those I told in person—it traveled to friends I rarely talk to, acquaintances, and everyone at work (including people who I’d never share my Netflix queue with, let alone my personal medical information with). But I guess that’s how it goes. News travels, good or bad.

So what do I do with those people? People who are suddenly nice to me but who were oblivious to me 3 months ago. Oh sure, I could take the high road and just reciprocate the attention (and I do), but it’s just so fake. It feels like they’re saying, “You didn’t matter at all to me before, but now that you’ve been struck with a serious illness, I’d like to be friendly so I don’t feel guilty if you die”. And conversely, I’m basically saying, “I didn’t like you before either but now that you’re all friendly and in my face, I can’t be an asshole and ignore you so instead let’s be fake friendly.” So interesting how cancer brings people together.

The other group of people who’ve come out of the woodwork and know more about my medical history than I’m comfortable with, are relatives I don’t keep in contact with. We all have those relatives that we’ve grown apart from who we used to see regularly as a kid (and maybe idolized even) but have now become crazy, right-wing, religious pushing, baby-centric, homophobic, deer hunting, animal chewers. Or, maybe it’s just mine. Whatever types your long-lost relatives are, I’m sure you can relate—they’re long-lost for a reason. And how do you deal with someone with whom you haven’t spoken or seen in years (and even then, the last time you did see them, it was the typical forced ‘I-know-nothing-about-you-so-let’s-talk-about-your-kids-and-the-weather’ conversation)?   

Again, I could appreciate their extended hand and allow their well-wishes and prayer promises to fill my heart (and then blog about how I real feel). But the reality is that not only does this seem fake to me—because neither of us has been there for the other in past life-changing celebratory or tragic times. Let alone just staying in contact and knowing anything real about one another. What happens after I’m cured of cancer (there’s my rainbow of optimism)—are we friends now? Do we over look the glaring differences in our social, religious, and moral values? It’s just not realistic, especially for me. I have amazing friends that I love; who are shepherds of the earth; activists for the animals; who have jobs where they help sick people, fight for human rights, shed blood, sweat and tears for animals in need everywhere; that I don’t see, talk to or write to nearly enough. Am I really going to keep a relationship going with someone I don’t respect and have nothing in common more than our family history?  

Call me cynical, close-minded or judgmental if you will. But this is me and one thing I’ve learned is to give my love and attention to those who fill me with happiness, rather than bring conflict and moral corruption. I choose to surround myself with people who love and respect me for who I am everyday and not just on cancer-diagnosis day.