The First of the Lasts

Three weeks ago was my last chemotherapy treatment. I was supposed to have a one week break, but like Bill Murray said to Chevy Chase in Caddyshack, I wanted to just "cannonball" it. Get it done, out of the way, over with.  Luckily, my blood cells cooperated, and my last chemo treatment went off without a hitch.  The mediport didn't even act up.  It was just like any other day.  Except that the rest of the crowd would be back next Tuesday, and I would not.  Larry and I shook everyone's hand and hugged where appropriate as we left. 

And that was that.

The last chemo.  The first of the lasts that I will be encountering on this cancer journey.  

Next up will be the last radiation treatment, in six or so weeks. 

Then a hysterectomy and oophorectomy, so that I don't have to deal with the possibility of the ovarian cancer that I am at risk for due to the BRCA1 mutation.  Followed by the big surgery--mastectomy and breast reconstruction.  I'm told that they tattoo you some nipples so that you look mostly normal. I'm not sure what normal is any more, but okay.

I'll take a pill for five years to reduce the likelihood of recurrence, since my cancer is estrogen receptive.  I'll periodically have tests to make sure that everything is still okay.  At one point, I'll find myself having the last PET scan, the last MRI, the last blood test.  But then one day, that will be the last of those tests, and I'll be considered cancer free.

But chemo is done, the first of the last, the hardest of my hurdles.  I feel as though I should be finished already, because I never thought I would make it through chemo.  Times when it hurt too much to even drink water, and I wanted to just it to stop.  Times when I was just too tired to get out of bed, even though I really had to pee.  Times when I couldn't button my son's pants because I can't feel the tips of my fingers. Times when I just wanted to quit, to say I was done. 

But I kept going, and got through it. The first of the lasts is done.  Time to climb the next mountain.

picture: free clip art from Google

**while I'm at home and resting, I'm writing.  I just usually forget to hit the 'publish' button, because, cancer.  I'm just now getting around to actually sharing some of what I've written, and trying to read up on some of my favorite blogs.   I hope to catch up some day!

Five Things To Remember When You're Diagnosed With Cancer

I have cancer.  It just showed up one day without permission, and set up shop in my left breast.  Then it hit the road via my lymph nodes, which is what cancer tends to do.  Having cancer has been a huge learning experience for me, although I would have been happy to never know about any of it.  I've read books and talked to people, in my efforts to be prepared.  There are some things that I wish I would have known about cancer before I got it, but we all tend to ignore such things when they don't directly involve us.  Until it happens to us.  I wish that I had known a few bits of information before I was diagnosed. 

1. There are lots of tests.  And they're not the kind of tests you can study for.  I've had several mammograms, plus sonograms, CT scans, MRIs,  and PET scans.  And blood tests, lots of blood tests.  For the last two months, I've been tested way more than I ever would have thought possible. I imagine that I'll have more tests once the chemo starts. And I cannot count the number of men who have seen my unclothed breasts lately.  They're doctors, and it's a simple examination,  but I'm not used to whipping out a boob upon request.  Or having men I barely know fondle my breast looking for the mass that is my cancer, or checking my sutures, or whatever. At least when I was dating, I got dinner and a movie first.

2. There are lots of needles.  If you have a needle phobia, you will either get over it or you will die. Every time you turn around, someone will be drawing your blood, injecting you with something, starting an IV, etc.  Because of the onslaught of needles, your veins will start trying to hide, or they will simply collapse at the most inopportune moments.  Your arms will look horrible with all of the bruising from people attempting to locate veins.  If you end up with a mediport in your chest, that's something entirely new.  You will feel a bit like a cyborg, with that little piece of plastic in you.  But it will take some of the pressure off your veins, so just get used to it. That's where they will stick the needles after that.

3. Get ready to glow. I have been injected with radioactive dyes, radioactive glucose, etc.  I have been injected in my arm.  I've been injected right in the breast(Are you wincing right now? Yeah. So did I.), so the dye would travel to the right lymph nodes. No super powers have emerged, much to my chagrin.  And when you're radioactive, it completely screws up your day. You're not allowed to be around people.  If you actually have a family, they have to stay ten to fifteen feet away from you, especially children.  You can't be around pregnant women, either.  I'm sure that if I went to the airport, some alarm would sound. Part of me really, really, really wants to test that theory. After all, I tripped the nuclear detector at the White House; I have a reputation to uphold.

4. You will have all the feels.  All of them.  Think of PMS and dial it up to 11. Emotions that I didn't even know existed have surfaced since my diagnosis.  I'm terrified, sad, angry, and anxious simultaneously.  Half the time I can't even begin a sentence with the word 'cancer' in it; my eyes tear up and my voice suddenly jumps into the upper octaves as I try to fight a sudden tendency to bawl.  Even if I'm not discussing my diagnosis, random things will have me bursting into tears.  It's downright embarrassing. The rest of the time, I just want to punch someone right in the face, for no other reason than I have cancer and they don't.  It's not right, but the emotion is there.

5. Get used to waiting. And waiting. And then waiting some more.  First there's the wait while all the tests are completed.  Then there's the wait for the surgery.  After the surgery there's another wait, so you can heal, and also so they can make sure that the cancer they removed did not expand into the surrounding tissue.  If it did, you have more surgery.  I opted for a lumpectomy, and after two surgeries, they still haven't cut all the cancer out of my breast. So even though I went the easiest route for me, I'm ending up with a mastectomy with reconstruction.  Except I have to wait until after the chemo and the radiation for the reconstruction.  And I have to wait until I've healed from the mastectomy to start chemo. 

Maybe I'm supposed to learn patience from all this.  God could have just sent me a memo. 

I Has a Nurse Navigator

Soon after my diagnosis, I got a phone call from someone who called herself a "Nurse Navigator".  I scratched my head for a bit, since I was still grappling with the idea that I had cancer.  I wasn't sure what the heck I needed a navigator for.  I wasn't going to be sailing any time soon, I snickered.

However, this lady was persistent.  She visited my surgeon, and he had a packet for me, jammed packed with brochures and information about pretty much everything he discussed with Larry and I, from a lumpectomy to double masectomies and breast reconstruction.  She left her card in the folder, so I called her.  I really wanted to know what exactly she 'navigated', because that's how my brain works.

My Nurse Navigator is there to help me with all of the ridiculously complicated aspects of breast cancer treatment, I learned.  She is paid by the hospital to hold my hand, answer questions, even attend doctor's appointments with me.  My first conversation with her was short, mostly because I was busy crying while she was talking.

But then she showed up at the hospital for one of my surgeries.  And she brought me a goody bag, in addition to a pillow to use when I am wearing a seatbelt(yet another thing that I hadn't even thought about!) 

Inside the goody bag were items such as a survivor t-shirt, a hat, and a scarf.  There were also two books about dealing with cancer, one for me to read and one for my husband.  I thought that was particularly awesome, being a book lover.  There was also a planner, and information from the Live Strong foundation(Yes, Lance Armstrong was a very bad boy to many cyclists.  But he did a very good thing when he inspired so many cancer patients through the Live Strong foundation. He gets a pass from me.)

I don't know if other cancer patients get a goody bag, but I hope that they do.  I also hope that Nurse Navigators are available for other cancer patients in other hospitals.  I'm lucky; I went through most of this when my husband was diagnosed with cancer back in 2000.  I have a vague inkling about what my treatment will involve as my foundation.  Other people don't have that, and they may not even realize how much they don't know.  A Nurse Navigator can help with that.  My Nurse Navigator has been very helpful, and more importantly, supportive.  I need that.

Microstories: Sideshow

Come one, come all!

Enjoy!

The Stupendous Sideshow!


Be mesmerized

As they slice away

Piece
After
Piece

Of me.

And I'll never
Miss it,
They say,
As my brain
Grows foggy,
My hair
Falls out.

All in the name of good health.

What’s in it for me?