A Year Ago

A year ago today, I heard the words 'you have cancer'.  My, what a year it's been.  Yesterday was (fingers crossed) the final surgery... a "laparoscopic bilateral salpingoopherectomy".  In other words, I had my ovaries and tubes removed as a preventative measure against developing ovarian cancer, and as part of the post-breast cancer maintenance program to limit the amount of estrogen my body produces, since my kind of breast cancer uses estrogen as a fuel.  No fuel = No cancer.  Or at least, that's the theory.

I've spent the last year with one primary focus:  Getting rid of the cancer and doing everything possible to better my odds so that it never returns.  A whole year governed by doctor's appointments, treatments, and procedures.  A whole year dominated by one thought and one thought only -- 'beat the cancer'.  To now be 'done' seems rather strange.
So, what now?  I hope what comes next is spending the next year getting back to the activity and strength level I had a year ago.  I also hope that the word 'cancer' starts to become less of a day-to-day topic.
So who am I now?  I'm definitely not the same person I was a year ago.  I have become stronger in other ways; I look at the world differently with a new set of filters; I have less patience for drama and instead try to see the beauty in others and in the world around me;  Family, friends, time with my pets, and service towards others is what is important.  I want to take my cancer experience and try to help someone else that might be afraid and in need.  To share my story so that they can gain strength that someone has walked this path and survived.  I started as a Warrior - now I'm a Survivor.  But I don't want to just 'survive'.  I want to 'thrive'.  So that will be my goal for the next year, 5 years, 10 years, and beyond.  Look out world -- here I come!

Pink Boat Regatta

 

Sunday, September 7, was the Pink Boat Regatta.  An event to help raise money for the Breast Cancer Research Foundation - obviously a cause that is rather close to my heart (literally).  Seattle and the Sloop Tavern Yacht Club have been hosting this event for 2 years now, and back in February, the organizer, Ashley, and my husband, Neil, sat down and thought about hosting 2 regattas on the same day.  One in Seattle - the other in Bellingham.

Sunday was the culmination of a ton of planning, heroic volunteer efforts, and an overwhelming amount of monetary support from both communities.  I'm told that they will announce the final amount on October 1, but I think we can safely say it will be well over $50,000.  A-MAZ-ING! 

We even had a news crew from Seattle come up to interview me!  The reporter, Kristin Drew, had gotten wind of my blog (pardon the bad pun) so they included me in the story about the Pink Boat Regatta.  How cool is that!?

 

KOMO 4 News video



 

Finish Line!

223 days -- from the first day of chemo to the last day of radiation.  223 days of grit, determination, challenges, and a few tears.  223 days of being constantly amazed at the love and support that I received. 
Am I 'cancer free'??  Only time will tell -- but for now, we can consider the bitch's ass kicked! 

So what did I do to celebrate?  Pop champagne?  Go out to a really fancy dinner?  Nope... instead I chose to get my WOD on (Workout Of the Day) at the CrossFit X's Ladies Night with 24+ amazing women all cheering each other on.  It's been months since I've attempted any kind of cardio, but this was just what I needed to get back in the game. 

Burning Through Radiation

The radiation portion of my treatment has begun.  35 daily (Monday thru Friday) treatments.  So far - I'm 17 treatments in - there are no visible side-effects.  There's a chance I will get a bit of a sunburn feel to the treated area and also some fatigue, though nothing like the fatigue I felt during chemo.  I'm guessing that the effects of all this will be cumulative, so it may be a couple more weeks before my body catches up to what's happening.
So, what's a typical treatment session like?  Weird.  It's all just weird. 
I arrive at the Cancer Center and head back to the radiation waiting area.  There are some chairs and the usual scattering of old magazines to read.  There is also a table with a puzzle on it, so most of us poke away at the puzzle while we wait.  A large glass door opens and one of the radiation technicians comes out to get you.  They pull a warm blanket out of something that looks like a refrigerator and back you go to a huge room:

They hold the blanket up to you while you strip down to your waist (all sense of modesty or embarrassment has been completely removed from my psyche by now) and then hand you the blanket as you walk over to lay down on the 'bed'.  Between me and the 'bed' is a blue "form".  Before treatment began, I was brought in for a set-up session where I laid down on what felt like a bean bag pillow.  The technician packed the bean bag all around me and then sucked all the air out.. leaving a hard form that forces me to lay in the exact same position for every treatment.
Once I'm laying in my usual position, the blanket gets removed from my right side (there goes the modesty again) and 2 to 3 technicians all stare down at me while one of them has a large remote control in their hand and moves the bed this way and that trying to line everything up.  A light is shining down on me that illuminates a ruler, and the technicians rattle off various numbers to each other.  Once I'm all set the way they like it, they leave the room and that large machine rotates around me and stops in 4 different locations and makes a long beep sound -- that's the radiation beam going off. 
That's it.  From the time I walk in, to the time I walk out, takes about 10 minutes.

So, why am I doing this?  Didn't the chemo kill everything possible?  Well, yes and no.  The chemo goes through the bloodstream and kills off any potential cancer cells it can, but blood doesn't go everywhere.  It doesn't penetrate scar tissue, nor the milk ducts of the breast - which is where my cancer started in the first place.  That's where the radiation comes in.  It specifically targets those areas on my effected side, once again killing cells.  Healthy cells regenerate - cancer cells can't regenerate as quickly, so by being zapped each day, they don't get a chance to regenerate.  All to build up the odds in my favor that this bitch doesn't ever return.

Intermission

The month of June was "intermission" for me.  Chemo was done and radiation was set to begin in July.
I had my last work event to go to.. the Astronomy conference in Montreal, Quebec.  These guys build the large land and space-based telescopes.  Remember Hubble?  Or the big observatories found on mountain peaks around the world?  These are the guys.  Because the things they work on are so large, the exhibit is pretty interesting as they try to show off scaled models.. check out this one made of Lego!

Neil got to join me for the final weekend and we enjoyed exploring the beautiful city and its amazing basilica, Notre Dame.  Montreal feels like Europe but without the long plane ride.  We found the people to be very friendly (and very bi-lingual) and the food to be amazing.

Finals Week

Remember finals week?  A week of one trial after another.  People on campus didn’t talk much – everyone was buried in their books – sequestered in the library – or hunkered down at a coffee shop. 

Sometimes life becomes a series of final exams – designed to test your will – your fortitude – that inner strength that pushes you beyond which you thought you were capable of coping…  that’s what last week was for me.

When I arrived home from Baltimore a couple of weeks ago, my left arm was noticeably swollen.  I mentioned it to my chemo nurse the next day and she thought perhaps it was a result of flying and my altered diet from normal of Neil’s home cooking to eating out on the road.  Over the course of the next week, the swelling went down a bit, but it still felt tight and not quite right.  My next chemo treatment – a week later – I mentioned this condition again to my chemo nurse, and she immediately went to chat with my doctor.  While they weren’t worried anything was life threatening, it was still something I should get checked out.  So the treatment went on as planned and I left with an appointment for an ultrasound the next day.

Friday afternoon, I head in for my ultrasound and there is definitely some kind of blockage going on.  So at 5:30 I get sent to the ER to be administered a shot and get started on blood thinners.  Lovely – just where I want to go on a Friday night.

I arrive at the ER and am escorted to a curtained “room” with a bed and told to hang out.  My neighbor to the right is a woman who has fallen at her house and broke her shoulder in 4 places.  My neighbor to the left arrives via the EMTs – her name is Patricia – a nice little old lady that has dementia and keeps complaining of chest pains (this is her 2^nd time here in 2 weeks) and she answers ‘yes’ to any question posed to her.

Finally, the doc comes to see me and confirms that yes, I have a blood clot – though apparently clots that develop in the arm aren’t prone to be life threatening, but they want to make sure it doesn’t get any worse and I don’t develop any more.  Fair enough.

I get to hang out for a couple of hours and I’m visited by a variety of nurses.  Finally one comes in with my very own ‘home injection kit’ and I’m told that I have to self-administer shots to my stomach twice a day for the next 5 days.  Are you kidding me?  She pulls out a syringe and asks if I want to do it?  Um – no thanks, why don’t you do the first one?

I leave with a prescription for 5 days of shots and pills and told if I hurry, I can make it to the pharmacy before they close.

Test #1 complete.

The next morning, I open up my little injection kit and just stare at the little needle.  Really?  For once, I’m grateful for the added padding around my mid-section, so I pinch a good inch, swab it with alcohol, pick up the syringe and take a couple deep breaths…. 3 – 2 -1 – Go.

Test #2 complete.

Sunday morning I take Neil to the airport – he’s off to Austin, TX for a conference.  I meet a friend for coffee and then head home to mow the yard.  Mom and Dad are due to arrive in a couple of hours for a visit.

The next couple of days are spent visiting with the folks and just hanging out.  They take off around lunchtime on Tuesday and I head off to meet up with Dr. Chemo to talk about my blood clot.  Turns out he’s not too concerned – he’s sorry it happened but knows that with my chemo almost over, this won’t be happening anymore.

I came home and made some cupcakes – I wanted to make something special to take to the chemo nurses on Thursday for my final treatment.  I spend the evening just hanging out with the dogs and turn in around 10pm.  As I turn out the light, I hear a strange noise from the backyard.  The dog door has opened, but it didn’t shut properly and now there’s a weird noise coming from the gravel below.  I get out of bed and look out the window, trying to see something in the darkness.  What I see makes my heart stop – there is Mocha, my dog of 14+ years… her back legs aren’t working and she is pulling herself through the gravel and off into the bushes.  I race down 2 flights of stairs with the other 2 dogs in hot pursuit and I pause at the back door just long enough to pull on a pair of old sailing boots.  I get to Mocha before she’s managed to drag herself under the depths of a spiny, thorny bush and the poor girl is in a panic and absolutely covered in beauty bark.  I manage to pick her up and carry her upstairs (thank you, CrossFitX).  I call the emergency vet and they agree that I should bring her in, so off we go.  X-rays are taken and nothing very decisive is learned, so blood work is done and her protein levels are very low.  This leads us to believe that there may have been a tumor that ruptured and the resulting internal bleeding weakened her enough that her already weak backend couldn’t function.  They want to keep her the rest of the night to monitor her and will continue to check her blood every 4 hours.  I’m to return at 7:30 the next morning to transport her to my vet so they can perform an ultrasound and we can hopefully find out more.

I get back home after midnight and Mambo and Murphy are both on edge.  I send an email to the office to let them know that I won’t be to work the next day and then fall into bed.  At 5am, I get a text from my friend, Pam, asking me what is wrong with Mocha?  I tell her what I know and she agrees to meet me at 7:30.  Back at the emergency vet, we’re told that Mocha was stable through the night but that she had not tried to stand at all, so they prepare to carry her out to my car.  Suddenly, from the back we hear an exclamation, and here comes Mocha walking through the door!  She had heard our voices and, in typical Mocha fashion, wanted to come out under her own power.  Stubborn old broad!  She got to where I was standing and then collapsed.  No worries, Girl – we got you.  I try to thank the vet, but the tears are too close to the surface and my voice just cuts off to nothing.  She says ‘I hope you’re able to have more time with her’.  Dear God, I hope so too.

Now at Northshore Vet, we talk to Dr. Colleen Coyne.  She tells us that she’ll take Mocha upstairs with her to the surgery area and let her hang out with her for the morning until the 2 other vets can perform an ultrasound.  So now we wait.  Pam and I head off to a local coffee shop and are soon joined by Michele Bodtke.  Together, they try to keep my mind off what my heart is dreading.  After a couple of hours, Pam heads home for a bit and Michele and I head downtown to grab a sandwich.  Just as we are entering the restaurant, my phone rings and it’s the vet.  So, standing on a sidewalk, with both of our heads tilted toward the cell phone, we listen.  The ultrasound suggests carcinoma tumors on her gallbladder, her spleen, her left kidney, plus an enlarged liver and lymph nodes.  It doesn’t take a trained oncologist to see the writing on the wall, though we are given various surgery options if that is a route we wish to pursue if I feel the need to prove what my heart is already telling me.  We thank her and ask if we can have an hour or so to talk things out.  We’re told to take whatever time we need, so we head into the restaurant and our poor server has to deal with 2 crying women.  After a solid hour of talking through all the options and discussing whether waiting for the next day so Neil could also be present was the right thing, we came to the conclusion that what was best for Mocha would be to quietly end things today.  We communicate our plans with Pam and the 3 of us rendezvous at Northshore Vet.  “Mocha’s Posse” has arrived.   We are escorted upstairs and meet once again with Dr. Coyne to let her know that I have made up my mind and am confident that we are doing the right thing at the right time.  She lets me know that she doesn’t have any commitments that evening, so if we wanted to take Mocha home for a bit, she could come by the house after work and take care of things there.  That was the best news I had heard in the past 18 hours, so we loaded Mocha onto a stretcher and I brought her home.  The next couple of hours were wonderful.  She laid down on her favorite pillow in the sun and we all sat around and petted her while she napped.  A little after 5pm, Dr. Coyne and a vet tech arrived and it was all very peaceful.  Mambo and Murphy both got to sniff her and say their respective doggie good-byes, as well as her human family.  I couldn’t help but wonder at the irony of it all… that Mocha passed on the eve of my last chemo treatment.  God gives and God takes – her vigil over me was complete.

I pick Neil up from the airport at midnight and once we’re home I head upstairs to fall into bed.  The day I have long dreaded is done.

Test #3 complete.

The next morning, I am solemn but collected.  Though my heart is heavy, I am at peace that I did the right thing at the right time. 

I spend the morning finishing up the cupcakes for the nurses and then it’s time to head to the anti-coagulation clinic to have my blood numbers checked.  They check out within the range they are hoping for, so from there it is on to the Cancer Center.  There are 2 other women that are also on their last treatment, so it is a party atmosphere when we walk back to the infusion area.  The cupcakes are a huge hit and are quickly devoured by the wonderful staff.  As the pump alarms go off for the other 2 ladies, signaling the end of their final bag of whatever chemical they have had to endure, there are claps and cheers and tears all around.  There aren’t as many folks left at the Center when my final alarm sounds, but the cheers, joy, and elation I feel is not lessened at all.  The nurses hand me a Certificate of Completion, signed by them all and I walk out of the infusion wing for the final time.  This horrible, life-altering part of my cancer journey is done.

Test #4 complete.

What is next only time, fate and the miracle of modern medicine will tell…but I am strong, and in the words of Neil’s boss, Tony, ‘they can’t make it hard enough….’

Bring it!

A Week of Ups and Downs

I realize that it's been quite a while since I've posted here and I do apologize.  Life has been busy - good, but busy.

Here's a quick catch-up for just last week alone...

Sunday/Monday/Tuesday
Mom and Dad come for a long overdue visit.  Haven't seen them since Christmas, so there's much catching up to do.  Our time together is wonderful and Dad and I always seem to communicate better when we're working on a project together - it's been like this since I was old enough to hold a flashlight.

Wednesday
First day back in the office this week and it's full steam ahead.  Our Baltimore event is only 3 weeks away and there is still much to be done.
After work, I head out to meet up with a lady that will introduce me to a horse she is thinking of selling.  God and the Universe work in the most mysterious ways... About 3 weeks ago, I was going through my old mare's things and the memories made me realize how much I missed that old part of my life.  A week later, I mention this to the lady that gives my dogs their 'day of beauty' (AKA dog bath) and she tells me she knows a lady that has an 11 y/o Arabian gelding.  And now, here I am headed out to a barn to meet 'Tailor' the horse and his trainer, Zabrina.  The meeting goes well and I even have a chance to climb on and walk around a bit.  It's been 9 years since I've been in a saddle, but it was the best feeling in the world.  I agree to come back again on Friday.

Thursday
Work first and then 'chemo day'.  Today is Treatment #10.  I meet Neil at the Cancer Center and it's Nurse Dana today. Once again, the port flushes just fine, but refuses to give any blood back on the return.  So they poke me in the arm to get the vial they need to run the labs, take my vitals, and then we wait for the lab report to come back.  The numbers are all good (white blood cell, red blood cell, neutrophils, etc.) so that means we can proceed with the day's treatment.  Pre-meds first - mostly a big dose of Benadryl and then we wait 15 minutes for those to make their way thru my system.  Afterwards, it's an hour long drip of the chemo drug, Taxol.  We are done a little after 6pm and head home to dinner and dogs.

Friday
Another crazy day at the office.  I think I managed to cram 5 days worth of work into 3 this week.  But my reward is to head out to the barn at the end of the day and meet back up with Tailor and Zabrina.  Zabrina is already warming up Tailor when I arrive and then hops off and l hop on.  Our lesson goes well and I head home with an ear-to-ear grin.

Saturday
Up early to meet Pam for a dog hike and then it's back to the barn for another session with Tailor and Zabrina.  We try the outdoor arena this time (Tailor's first time out there) and he does great.  How wonderful to be out riding in the spring sunshine!
I dash home to meet up with Neil and then we pack up for a weekend in Seattle.  The dogs are dropped off at Pam's for a 'sleep over' and then Neil and I head down to attend a wedding... the daughter of a dear friend.  The wedding is beautiful - the weather is perfect - the dinner and company were wonderful.  And then the music started and all these beautiful people started dancing and I lost it.  Suddenly, I was tired of being "sick" and tired of feeling "different" and tired of going through each day like none of this matters and that I'm stronger than all of this.  Yes, I am strong, but every once in a while, there's a chink in the armor and the true emotions bleed through.  I ask Neil to quietly get me out of there and I'm a sobbing mess by the time we reach the car.  The tears help to cleanse the demons and after a few minutes, I feel my resolve return.  I sleep soundly and awaken to a beautiful sunny morning... it's a new day.

Sticker Shock

The medical bills are starting to trickle in and I've been getting notifications from my insurance company on other bills that they have processed.  Let me just pause right here to publicly thank my employer, SPIE, for offering such amazing health insurance!!  I've already met my deductible for the year, so as long as everything is approved, it should be paid at 100%. (fingers crossed)
In perusing the Explanation of Benefits pages, I start adding up the charges for my first month of chemo treatments (2 total, plus 2 of those Neulasta shots that were used to keep my white blood cells from plummeting too far).  Grand total just for that?  Over $20,000!  Are you kidding me?  Doubling that will get us to the end of February and I still have 3 more months of weekly sessions to go!  

So far, I'm feeling pretty good on the Taxol treatments.  My next infusion (#2 of 12) is tomorrow.  I still feel fatigued when I try to exert myself, but the dreaded nausea is gone.  Thank you Lord!  I actually felt good enough (ha!) to get up at 5am yesterday and get to my 5:30am CrossFit class.  I hadn't been to that group since January 3rd and if was wonderful to see the folks again, though my performance was definitely humbling.  The strength and stamina of old were gone - replaced with a weak, winded shadow of my former self.  But even though I only did half the workout, it still felt great to be back.  And the ridiculously sore muscles I feel today just make me smile.

The Next Phase of Chemo Begins

The dreaded 'AC' portion of my chemotherapy is done and now I'm on to 12 straight weeks of Taxol.  According to the nurses, this phase should be a walk in the park compared to the AC.  Let's hope so!  The biggest fear was a slight chance of a major allergic reaction to the Taxol.  Yesterday was my first infusion, so they packed on the pre-meds (a heavy duty Benadryl type product) and then watched me like a hawk as the first of the Taxol went in.  Thankfully, there was no reaction, so I'm good to go.
I am finally seeing a light at the end of this tunnel.  Yahoo!

Milestones

I reached a milestone yesterday... the last treatment (#4) of the 'A-C' (adrimyacin/cytoxcin combination).  And today will be my last Neulasta shot.  Now it's a 2 week wait while my body crashes and comes back to "normal", and then 12 straight weeks of Taxol treatments.  These (according to the infusion nurses) are a 'walk in the park' compared to the A-C treatments, so keep your fingers crossed.

The bummer is that I continue to have port problems.  The darn thing gets clogged and although the nurses can get the saline to push thru (because I can taste it), they can't get any blood on the return.  So we spend time while they inject some kind of 'draino' equivalent into it and then wait an hour for it to do its job.  In the meantime, they stick an IV into my arm to do my blood work (numbers have to be high enough or they won't go forward with the chemo) and start administering all the pre-meds.  I meet again with my surgeon, Dr. Kaufman, next week.  I think he just wants to make sure I'm still breathing, so I will definitely mention the port issue.

Last Wednesday night was "Ladies Night" at my CrossFit box.  It was my first attempted work out in over 3 weeks and boy howdy, have I gotten weak!  It was supposed to be 3 rounds of 5 different exercises, performed for a minute at each 'station'.  I made it through 2 rounds and was completely out of gas.  It's hard not to be disappointed, and it was a definite reality check as to how much these treatments really take out of me.  On the other hand, it was great to see all the ladies and feel part of that community again.

A Big Slice of Humble Pie

My support group never ceases to overwhelm, amaze, and humble me right down to the stubble on my head.
This Saturday, there is a CrossFit competition at a neighboring "box" (remember, we don't call them 'gyms') to help raise money for a local high school kid fighting cancer.  Members of the box I belong to (CrossFitX) are going there to compete, show support, and have a bit of fun.  I truly wish I was feeling strong enough to join them.
To show a bit of team spirit, the owner of CrossFitX had some t-shirts made and mentioned that there was going to be a "pink theme", in honor of me.  I was definitely touched.  Last night, lying in bed and doing a last scan of Facebook before I turned off the light, I saw post after post of my CrossFitX friends changing their profile pictures.  Our shirts had come in and the image brought me to tears.

Thank you Team CrossFitX for all of your love and support.  I am a better, stronger person - both inside and out - because of all of you.

A short hall pass to San Francisco



In case you don't know me, I'm an exhibition manager for The International Society of Optics and Photonics - and no, we don't make eye glasses.  Basically, I'm a logistics person.  Ever been to a boat show, or a home and garden show?  Ever wonder how all those exhibiting companies get placed where they are? Or who orders all of the aisle carpet, signage, access guards, floral, and such?  Yeah, probably not, but that's what I do.  And our biggest event is being held this week in San Francisco. When all of this first started, I was completely bummed that I may not be able to go to this event.  I've been going for the last 17 years - it's part of who I am.  It's what I do.  So I was more than thrilled that the nurses said it would be okay for me to go, as long as I don't do anything stupid.  Um.. define "stupid"?  :-)
I flew in on Thursday and came home on Monday.  Just enough time to help out with the move-in and set-up, and to have a chance to see some folks that I've known for years, but only see once a year.  It was so good to see these people and let them know I'm alright.  It was a much needed boost to both my mental health and my inner spirit.  There were some tears when I was packing up to leave, but I'm so glad I had a small respite from the Cancer World.

I do have to relay something that happened to me on my way home.  I was standing at the airport gate in San Francisco - just leaning against a pillar, waiting for them to start the boarding call, when a woman approached me and placed her hand on my arm.  She asked if I was a 'fellow sister fighting the fight?'.  When I replied that I was, she gave me a hug!

This 'club' obviously has more than it's fair share of members - and I'm just beginning to meet them.

Can't take credit for the photo - thank you Google Images

 

And There Goes the Hair...

The scarf was just Step 1... after 2 days of seeing my hair come out in clumps and feeling the itchiness under my scarves, I realized it was time to just do away with it.  Friday night we had dinner at Michele and Bart's and I asked her if she could help a girlfriend out.  Michele has been cutting Bart's hair since the Navy days, so if anyone knows her way around a pair of clippers, it would be her.  We finish up a lovely dinner and then head down to the basement.  I guess a part of me feels sad - part of me understands that this is just part of the journey - a time to bond with my fellow cancer brothers and sisters.  So here I am... with less hair than when I first entered this world.

Headwear

Well, it was bound to happen... this morning when I was toweling off after my shower, I noticed a more-than-usual sprinkling of hair on the shower floor.  Hmmm.... I'm starting to shed like Mambo does in the spring!  I bend over and shake my hair a bit, and sure enough, a small shower of hairs float down to the floor.
So today marks Day 1 of the 'Scarf Look'.  I figure I may as well start getting used to it, and no sense leaving a trail of hairs wherever I go today.  :-)

Meltdown

I guess I was due for one at some point during all of this, and so last Thursday was my 'meltdown moment'.
I had gone in for a quick blood draw in the afternoon - they want to check my numbers every week to make sure my white blood cell, red blood cell, and platelet counts are in the 'happy' ranges.  Mine were so happy that I got a sticker on my lab report.  Those folks will try anything to keep the levity up in that place, so I have to admire them.
Nurse Tara has obviously been at this for some time. She is efficient, kind, compassionate, and knowledgeable.  She has a bit of time to chat, so I take advantage of that and ask some questions... 
I find out that even if this cancer goes away forever, there are still some residual effects that I will need to contend with for the rest of my life.  Because of the removal of the lymph nodes, I can never have blood draws or blood pressures taken from my right arm again.  I also learn that the 'cocktail' I'm on will have a cumulative effect....I may feel great now, but chances are good that I'll be feeling pretty lousy during the month of February.  And then she asks if I've been given a 'portable vomit bag' yet?  Um... no.  Really?  Off she goes and returns with a handy little bag and 3 masks that I'm to wear when I fly.  Reality is going to suck.
Later that night, it's just me and the dogs hanging out at the house.  Neil has a board meeting at the yacht club and won't be home until late.  I keep thinking about all that Nurse Tara said and I can feel myself getting down.  I open a lovely bottle of Syrah, curl up with Mambo on the couch, and treat myself to a small TV marathon of Downton Abbey episodes.  By the time Neil gets home at 10:30, I'm a sobbing, mildly inebriated mess.  So much for being Strong Like Bull.
The next morning, the sun comes up and my positive attitude returns.  "F" You Cancer.  You're not going to get me.
.

One down... Fifteen to go

Today was Day 1.  Treatment Day.  To say I wasn't scared out of my britches would be a lie.  It's the fear of the unknown.  Everyone can tell you their story, but to really know... you have to walk in their shoes.  So here I go......
My appointment was at 8am.  I think I'm the first one here, cuz it's really quiet.  Actually, it's kind of nice.  I check in with the nice lady at the front desk and she takes Neil and I back to the 'Infusion Waiting Area'.  Nice.  They have a bookcase there with lots of paperback books for us to read as well as magazines.  There's also a coffee and snack area that is at our disposal.  Everything is complimentary... they want to make sure we're as happy and comfy as possible.  Neil and I both notice a flyer on the coffee table that is advertising for a free cooking class, put on by the resident nutritionist AND my very own Dr. Chemo!  Seems Dr.-Easy-on-the-Eyes has also graduated from Le Cordon Bleu culinary school!  Talk about your over-achiever.  What the heck... sign us up!
We get called back by Nurse Wendy and as she sits us down and starts hauling a pile of plastic wrapped items from a cupboard, explains that she had breast cancer about 10 years ago, so she's been there.  I feel bad that she's had to go through this, but also comforted by the news as well.
The first hurdle is to get the needle into the port -- but because I just had the port installed, everything is swollen and it's tough to figure out where to poke me.  First, she gives me a shot of Lydicane to help numb the area -- so you're giving me a shot, so I don't feel the next shot? -- um, ok.  Then she shows me this thing that looks like a great big thumb tack with a tube on on the backside.  She presses all around to try and find the edges of the port so she can stick the thumbtack in the middle of it, but she's worried that she's missed.  Her voice keeps going up in octaves as she's talking, and I can feel my hands getting clammy. She doesn't waste any time in calling over another nurse who quickly steps in and takes over.  I glance up, and Neil is already standing out in the hallway, out of the way.  In about 2 seconds, the second nurse has it in place and they are getting a good blood flow return, so they know they are "in".  Okay, now I can start breathing again.  They tell me that in the future this will be MUCH easier since the swelling will be down.  Let's hope so!
Okay, now the fun can begin.. first up are 3 bags of steroid anti-nausea drugs.  Welcome to the Big Guns.  (Dexamethasone, Palonosetron [aka 'Aloxi'], and Fosaprepitant [aka 'Emend'] for you chemists out there)
After all of that, Nurse Wendy arrives with another nurse and they are carrying this large clear yellow bag that has 'Toxic' warning signs all over it.  It looked like a huge Mr. Yuck bag.  It's a safety precaution that all chemo drugs are confirmed by 2 nurses to make sure that the right drugs are going to the right patient.  Cool.  Everything checks out and we're set to begin....

 

The first one in is the Adriamycine- this is some nasty shit.  It's the one in the big red syringe in the photo above.  The nurse stands behind me and manually administers it into the IV tubing and after every few milliliters, she tests to make sure she gets blood back -- to verify that the stuff is indeed still going direct to the vein and not into any tissue.  Because apparently, if it touches any tissue, the tissue dies.  Lovely.  Well, I have my laptop on my lap and I'm answering emails and never even glance at the stuff.  It's better that way.

Next up is the Cytoxin.  A big clear bag that hangs on the IV tree and takes about 35 minutes to go in.  After all that, I'm DONE!  First chemo is in the books and I'm free to go.

 

Tomorrow I'll go back in for a real quick shot of Neulasta - this stuff tells my bones to crank up their production of white blood cells.

 

Neil brings me home and part of me keeps waiting for something to happen... anything... but really I just kind of feel fuzzy in the head.  Like I've had one too many glasses of wine.  I plug away at work for awhile and then take a short nap.  I wake up feeling a bit better and work a little more.  M2 (Michele Bodtke) comes over for a visit and brings some cheery yellow flowers and a bag full of yarn for me to take with me during my treatments.  It will give me something rather mindless to do and I can knit watch caps (tuques) and give them away to cancer patients or give them to the Mission or something...  it's a good way to give back to everyone that's been giving to me.

I check in with Pam and we arrange to meet up at the off-lead dog area and walk the dogs for a bit.  We don our headlamps and head off into the wind and rain.  The dogs are ON FIRE -- good Lord can Mambo and Murphy run.  Mocha hangs back with Pam and I.  None of the dogs have really left my side since I came home.  I must smell really strange to them.

 

So here we are at the end of Day 1.  Overall, I feel okay.. just tired, but I think that's just from the mental/emotional drain of the day.  The steroids were supposed to make me wired, but all I want to do is go to bed, and I think that's probably a good thing.  My friend, Bart, says that 'sleep is a weapon' and I believe it is.  So I'll make myself a cup of herbal tea and head to bed and let the angels watch over me.

 

Good night World.

 



The port is in place...

January 7, 2014

Is there any way to actually look cute when you're going into surgery? Good grief.

Today was a small surgical procedure to have a 'port' installed in the left side of my chest... basically it's a small device (about the size of a plastic water bottle cap) with a small catheter (or tube) attached. The catheter is guided under my collarbone and fed into one of my larger veins that runs directly to the heart. The port sits just under my skin and will be used by the infusion nurses to administer the chemo, take blood draws, and anything else they think of where they need to 'tap into me'. Basically, it saves them having to stick needles in my arm every week… and you gotta love something that comes with an owner’s manual.  J

The actual procedure went well.  They didn’t put me “out” enough that they had to intubate me, but I was out enough that I don’t remember anything.  Fine by me!

The funny part was when Dr. Kaufman went to talk to Neil after the surgery and asked him:
Dr. K: “does she work out a lot?”
Neil:  “yes, why?”
Dr. K: “her chest muscles were so tough, I had a hard time getting through it… she’s going to be a little sore tomorrow.”

So here’s a shout out to the coaches at CrossFitX for helping to make me ‘Strong Like Bull’.