the question

So I was asked the question again - not that I mind the question; sometimes I answer it without being asked. I always thought I was more of a quiet type - apparently that is not true. When they gave me the pre-anesthesia med before a surgery to install my chemotherapy port, every one I passed became my VERY BEST friend - I think I even asked the nurses if I could use the phone. The point is I may like to hear my own voice a bit too much in certain situations - and "the question" seems to be just one of those situations.

The question: "So... (insert their personal story of someone they knew/know with cancer here) but what is chemotherapy like?" It is hard to answer that question - because every patient has a different experience based on their "chemo cocktail" formulated for their specific disease and their reaction to it. I only can tell you how it is for me. My chemotherapy sessions are once every three weeks on a Tuesday and last most of a business day.

They start in the morning after drawing blood from my port (a device inserted under the skin in my chest that is attached to tubing running directly into a major artery to my heart). There are several IV bags that make my "cocktail". After a bag of saline, I get about a forty-five minute dose of antihistamine, steroids and anti-nausea meds. This is followed by the Carboplatinum which takes a few hours - but by then the antihistamine has knocked me out and I am sleeping peacefully on a over sized recliner with a warm, snugly blanket covering me. I usually wake about half way through the Carbo. Sadly, there are an abundance of patients around if you want to start up a conversation. You tend to make friends with those on the same schedule - your monthly chemo cocktail party.

Another nap or some dinking around on the computer, maybe a chapter in a book or a conversation and the final thirty minute bag, Taxol, gets attached to Fred. (Sorry - should explain that one. Fred is my IV pole - we dance together every time I want to get up for some water or to go to the restroom. I figured since he spent so much time dancing with me that he should have a name - and I choice to name him after Fred Astaire as he is a pretty good dancer not to have stepped on my feet once during our sessions.) Then it is over and the fun begins - ok well maybe fun is not the word. But I am going to have to leave that for the next posting.

I got to ring the bell today

Today was my last chemotherapy session - it was number 8. Well, it was number 14 if you count the original treatment too. At Northwest Cancer Specialist they have a new tradition - after your last treatment you announce your success to everyone there by ringing a handheld bell 3 glorious times. I got started late on my 5 hour treatment, so most patients had already returned home. But the ones that were there and all the wonderful treatment nurses applauded loudly, with whistles and hoots and hollers - and I felt strangely proud this time. There was a focus on a completion, instead of an obsession about whether I would have to return again for yet another series of treatments.

It was a bit of a bummer that I didn't get to spend the moment with Jessica, my chemo nurse this round of chemotherapy: she had been sent to another center to fill in for the day. Jess has done a wonderful job at saying just the right thing to help keep my spirits up - as well as administering the chemotherapy. But I rounded the corner and found Amy, my chemo nurse from the first round, who had moved to Arizona. She has returned and taken different position at this center and I selfishly forwent the explanation of why. I immediately hugged her - and she said her blessings and prayers over me while hugging me back. Amy was there in the beginning for me and I have developed a huge emotional bond with her. I don't know how to explain what these nurses do and I hope you never have to find out: but I want you to know that they are heroes in every sense of the word.

So now I am back to the neurotic roller coaster phase of watching - with my new "base scan" being scheduled for sometime in the next month and another appointment with my oncologist in exactly 4 weeks to review the results. I hate this part - I hate most of the parts concerning this journey. But there are some great parts. The people that you meet, the friendships you forge because you both have a unique sense of understanding and the professionals that restore your faith in the humanity of mankind; these are just a few. There is a silver lining, sometimes you just have to set aside the chaos of your own emotions to find it - though I struggle to keep that thought in the forefront of my mind.

a sister's wedding

I am in Astoria, Oregon and very excitedly getting ready for my sisters wedding tomorrow. Now getting ready for a wedding is a both joyous and stressful in the final count down - but being in treatment for cancer adds its own "layer" to the event.

Take for instance the simple task of putting on make up for the blessed occasion. A little tweezing to perfect the brow, a little mascara to lengthen the appearance of the eyelashes, a bit of eyeliner and shadow to emphasis the rest of the eye area are all everyday occurrences for the majority of the western female population. But alas, when our friend Taxol (a drug in my chemo cocktail) is involved, I am required to divorce myself from the western female population and become more akin to a drag show artist. The absence of the brow makes tweezing a bad word - I mean really, leave the 6 hairs on the right brow and 13 on the left brow alone. Hell, I even thought about buying super glue and chasing down the neighborhood long haired rocker kid with a pair of scissors. Oh come on, he would never miss a snipe or two. Then there are the eyelashes - or more precisely, there are NO eyelashes. OK, I may have exaggerated - I have 7 eyelashes sporadically dispersed between the upper and lower area of BOTH eyes. I defy Covergirl to lengthen and thicken that!

So I thought, I have an "ever-so-not-lucrative" art degree, maybe I will artistically apply shadows and liners to give the appearance of lashes and brows. Who really looks that closely anyway? Brushes and shadows in hand, I spend an entire afternoon practicing to get that perfect look - almost. The next morning was not pretty. Eyes puffy and weeping from the simple ingredients that one once so easily applied, I began to rethink my strategy.

All in all it came out OK - fake eyelashes (trimmed to remove the drag queen element), a steady hand with a sharp brow pencil and my wonderful wig stylist brought together a look that no one could tell was not natural. I got my dream to blend in and look normal and my sister was a beautiful bride who more than stood out and looked fabulous. I am very proud of my sister and congratulate Katie and Brian on a wise choice and the most beautiful wedding I have been to.

and so it begins, again

I guess a bit of history would be important at this point - but where to start is always problematic. Last September found myself the same place I was exactly three years ago - well not exactly. A recurrence isn't "exactly", it's a bit worse. I had just gotten comfortable with the doctor's follow up visits and not completely freaking out whenever anything hurt. For example - I would cough, uh oh, I don't have a cold... oh dear, it could be a tumor in my lungs... oh hell, I am dying. Or it would be time for my 3 month follow up or scan and even though I logically know that nothing is drastically different 24 hours verse 48 hours before a scan, the panic ladder would begin. Now, not that I don't have a genetic predisposition for hypochondria as my Mom relishes in her self-proclaimed neurosis; but I had thought I escaped it. And then there was cancer -so that changed too.

Anyway, back in September just before one of those follow up visits, I found a lump in my abdomen and my nightmare started all over again.