Coming to the End

Seems this whole cancer thing may be coming to an end soon. Well, my whole cancer thing. At least we hope, right? I've still got 7 radiations to go, but it's been almost 7 months since I made my way into the doctor's office to have a thickening lump in my right breast checked out. There is a way in which it just seems like that time has flown by--and I'm amazed at everything I've been through. And in another way, it's almost hard to remember time when I wasn't dealing with The Cancer. Little things will happen that point out how much time has gone by and how Cancer really does suck away all your time (not to mention energy). For example, I was at Barnes & Noble on Friday and found out my Reader's Advantage card had expired. How can that be? I'm in bookstores all the time. Nope, it expired. In December. Right. I haven't been there since December. 7 months ago.

Chris and I were also talking about our upcoming trip to Chicago, which is a little bit business (I'm going to a conference and Chris has two Forgotten Grapes wine tasting events) but we're also swinging down to Springfield, Missouri to visit parts of my family for a couple of days and we'll have a day and a half or so in Chicago to play, so it's a little bit vacation too. Then I realized that while I've of course missed a few days of work here and there for The Cancer, other than the Monday we took off for our La Jolla weekend of decadence, we haven't been on vacation in over a year. Don't get me wrong, I realize lots of people don't go on vacation for a lot longer than that. It's just that we're not those people. Much like being in bookstores a lot, we also travel a lot. We get away as much as we can, whether it's weekends in San Diego or San Francisco or wine tasting in France, we kind of like to go. That's why we have a townhome and no real yard--our money goes elsewhere and we don't have a lot of "house" to take care of. Surgery, chemo and radiation have really put a damper on the travels. We canceled our trips to France of course, but also to Napa/ Sonoma and never did get to even finish up plans for a long weekend in Cambria and the Central Coast of California before The Cancer intervened. Wow. I miss traveling!

Another thing has got me thinking about the fact that this Cancer treatment drama is coming to an end and that's this blog. Some of you have even asked--what happens to the blog when the treatment ends? And fellow blogger Sara (Sara in Vermont--- check it out!) had early on mentioned to me that when the breast cancer "odyssey" ends, the blog will too. She learned this herself when she had a Sara Meets Australia blog that ended when....well, Sara was no longer in Australia (she's back in Vermont--you got that, right?). Treatment ends July 14th (The Machine willing) and the Survivor party is July 19th. Then I get an entire one-month break before I go for check-ups with Drs. Glaspy (oncologist) and Karam (surgeon; you could not have forgotten this!) on August 14th. I assume then I will learn what my follow-up care will be. At this point I understand it will be every 3 months. I'm hoping I get to talk to a nutritionist also. Even though me talking to a nutritionist my have the same effect as me walking into a church (cue the lightning), I think it would be a good thing to do. I believe this every 3 months thing goes on for a few years. And of course, I'm not considered out of the woods ("cured"?) for five years (although apparently with my kind of cancer--triple negative--there's a higher chance of recurrence but it peaks at three years). So what do we call the end of treatment and therefore the end of the blog?

I sort of like a different date as the "end" of the blog. December 15th, 2010. It's the day Chris and I hop on a plane for Maui. But it's also the 365th day since I walked into the doctor's office complaining of that dang-blasted (and doctor-excised) lump. Kind of a year in the life of a breast cancer patient. But then, what will I be posting for the next 5 months? (I realize that Chris's hair growth even when combined with my far less spectacular hair growth does not an exciting blog make.) I suppose I'll know more (and probably post less) once I have the follow up appointments. In the meantime, there is only one thing to do. I must take it to the readers!!

Yep, there is a new poll over there to the right. Vote now. Vote often (I'm kidding; you can only vote once...per computer).What makes sense as the end of this blog? You will note this blog has a much shorter polling period--that's because one of the options is to end the blog with my final treatment. There are some other choices, but it does seem the blog must end. Sorry, but I'm not willing to have a recurrence of cancer just to keep blogging. Besides, Chris and Rachel and I have been talking about getting our Words & Wine blog going (wine, writing, books, France...stuff like that; or drunk ramblings, it's a TBD thing right now), so there is always that to turn my attention to.
P.S. The picture at the top is from one of our trips to France (we're in the Rhone Valley). Sometimes I like to reminisce about our travels...and having hair longer than Chris's.

BaldiLocks

This was a big weekend for baldness. Or, well, semi-baldness. See, in continuing my attempts at positive thinking I'm figuring the hair will start growing back any day now. Okay, okay, any week now. So I won't be bald that much longer. Now, I'll have stubble, and then a serious crew cut and other sundry short-short styles. And of course, there's the "it will be darker and curlier" phenomenon. But the point is, I won't be bald for that much longer and since I don't ever plan on being bald again (not that this adventure was planned...or virtually any other part of my life as it is today...let's not think about that for too long....), I decided we needed photos to preserve for posterity exactly what my skull looks like. And, you need an update on how Chris's hair is looking too. So here you have both of us.

Not a bad photo considering Chris is actually the one taking the photo (yep, it's the arm out with camera pointed in the general direction of our heads do-it-yourself shot usually seen in vacation photo albums). So you will likely notice two things. 1) Man, does Chris have a lot of hair. A lot. I will never catch up to that, and 2) I didn't lose all of my hair. Sure, 95% of it, but there are some strong little guys just hanging in there. We had buzzed it down to about a 1/4 of an inch back on March 13th, just before it really started falling out. So now those hairs have grown to be about an inch long. No reason to shave them, and I kinda admire their fortitude. When I get out of the shower and dry my head, these hairs stand straight up. Chris calls it "little hair, BIG attitude."

The second big baldness-ish adventure was that I went out in public in just the head scarf. Hey, it's hot out. I do have the hives/ allergy issue and I just couldn't see bothering with a wig just to go to Target and my office (even though odds are high I'll run into someone I know at Target). So, I just went with the scarf. When I'm on a project (like shopping!) I forget what I'm wearing and what I look like, so it's not really that big of a deal. (I probably would however, be acutely aware of it were I out and about bald...and somehow I expect there'd be stares to remind me. A nearly 6 foot tall bald woman is not likely to slip by unnoticed in too many places). But I did notice at one point that the scarf is a "cancer sign" and that certain women can recognize it. I'm sure I would never have given it a second thought prior to my diagnosis if I had seen a woman in a head scarf like mine. Just as I wouldn't have really noticed the super short, dark hair as anything other than a very practical hair style choice. Like sensible shoes (Hey, not my choice, but I can see the appeal for others). But today, twice, I noticed women--both in their 60s or so-- looking at me with this sort of knowing, kind smile. I didn't quite understand it the first time, but the second time, the woman made eye contact and I suddenly realized--ah, she recognizes the "cancer sign." She's "been there, done that" so to speak. It was actually a nice feeling. There is a good side to the "Cancer Club." I felt oddly supported, and she didn't even say a word. Just smiled.

So there's a photo of the head-scarf look. Just so you are in the know and can be supportive when you see "the look" too. The next photo...well, it's unmistakably the Chemo Coif.

All in all, this was a good weekend. Physically, I'm not back to 100% (and not just because of the hairdos) but emotionally and psychologically, I felt really good this weekend. Lots of energy and productivity. In many ways I just felt normal. And normal, like the five loads of laundry I did, has never felt so good.

The Fat Lady keeps Singing (Part II)

(For those of you who haven't checked out the blog since before April 30th, know that this is part two of the May 1st post. It will make more sense if you scroll down and read the one right before this first. Confusing, I know. But it's your fault for not checking in on me every single day).

When we left off, I was in the chair for chemo #4. And here were the suicidal beanie babies to guide me through the last one:
The one on the right is actually from my view, looking up from in my chair. It's a millennium angel...which I guess means she's been hanging out there for 9 years now. Hanging...get it? Arr.

The one on the left pretty much says it all. The bear's chest is embroidered with "It's Going to Be Okay." You know, as he hangs over a person getting infused with poison. Touching, isn't it?

There were actually 3 empty chairs in the room this time, so I had a selection. I chose the one in the back corner that I had described as "the suite" during my report on chemo #1. And while it was a little roomier, it also was way too close to an AC vent, and Chris kept having to move so they could get back to the files in the corner. Oh, and the chair was broken so the footrest didn't lock in place. We didn't discover all these problems until I was hooked up and well underway. I didn't miss my usual chair though--there was a woman sitting in it and she was barefoot. Her feet were dirty and this was really creeping me out. Eventually, she moved to the private room with the bed instead of a chair (I overheard that she'd been in the hospital during the week and was fairly weak; I felt a little bad about my feet concern). I was happy for her getting moved to the bed. I was also happy for me, I'm not going to lie. I hate dirty feet. It's just a thing I have.

Anyway, I get settled into the chair and the infusing starts (it's now 11:30), and I start sneezing. Not a lot, and again, there's the arctic air blowing directly overhead from the AC vent, so it's not surprising. But the whole room says "Bless You." Except Chris. Chris says "Yeah, we're just back from Mexico, but it's all okay." Luckily everyone had a good sense of humor and laughed. Because swine flu in a chemo patient? Not such a good thing.

The chemo itself was rather uneventful. Chris was able to run out and do an errand or two and pick himself up a real lunch. I wrote, had some lunch and did some reading, but I didn't sleep except for about 20 minutes. The whole thing lasted until just about 5:30. Chatty Cathy showed up around 2 for her appointment but they had messed up scheduling her and there wasn't enough time to give her the 4 hour chemo that day so they re-scheduled her for the next day. Psychologically, that's a tough one; you have to gear yourself up for chemo day (note my lack of sleep the night before) and the office really, really shouldn't do that to a person. Particularly annoying since when I left at 5:30 there was still a gentleman there that had 45 minutes to go. So they could have done Cathy's chemo as well.

I had seen people "graduate" from chemo before--the nurses and doctors give a "certificate" and take a picture of you with the graduation cap. Ummm....not so much for me. They couldn't find the cap or the camera and it was already after work hours. So no big fanfare. Marilyn and Nancy did hug me and tell me to stop by and say hi when I come back to see the doctor. I think I'll just send them cards of thanks--I'm not coming back to that doctor!

I will leave you with this, which was posted on the wall next to my chair in the corner (the parentheticals however are added by me (T) and Chris (C):

TOP TEN LESSONS FROM CANCER

1. Cancer does not equal death. (I'm pretty sure people have died from cancer. T.)
2. It's Okay for a grown man to cry. (And apparently required for a woman. T.)
3. Tomorrow does not stretch forever. (Chemo just feels like it does. T.)
4. Life is Precious. Each Day is a Gift. (why is that a cancer lesson--see number 1. T & C)
5. There are positive ways to deal with negative emotions. (say, a t-shirt that says "I have Cancer people, Back off!"?)
6. There is no such thing as false hope.
7. It's true: from adversity comes strength. (Given my life thus far, I should be approaching superwoman status.)
8. There is life with cancer and life after cancer. (again, I'm pretty sure people die from cancer. So, isn't the life after cancer a little dependent on your religious beliefs? This makes me wonder about #6 as well. T.)
9 It takes a community to be a victor. (But it only takes a surgeon to be a Victoria. -C. Yeah, that's all C.)
10 Laughter is truly therapeutic. (Finally, something we can agree on. C & T)