It's All So Casual Now

Today I go into UCLA for my one year post-chemo check-up. My final chemo treatment was April 30, 2009. In many ways, it's hard to believe it's already a year in the past and in other ways it seems almost like it never happened. I seemed to have moved far away--emotionally/ mentally--from being "Cancer Girl."

Here are some ways in which I know I have moved on:

* I'm driving into UCLA today by myself. In the last year and a half of doctor's appointments, this will be the first one I've gone to without Chris. He's really busy these days with a lot of wonderful things and there is no reason he has to give up an afternoon to be my health escort anymore. Besides, the good and great Dr. Karam will be there.

* I like my hair now. (See photo; Okay, I was on my own...self photos are darned hard to do!).

* I had a phone conversation with a business associate the other day wherein he told me he had moved from "sympathetic" to "empathetic" with my "recent difficulties." I struggled to figure out what he meant and assumed he meant "divorce" (yeah, even though mine was over 6 years ago) and was trying to tell me his wife left him or some such. But no, he meant he'd been diagnosed with cancer recently. I had a moment of "I don't have cancer; what does he mean?" And had to actually remember that I did indeed have cancer last year!

* The first blogs I read on my blog list are no longer the cancer blogs. I still check them, because I feel oddly that I've gotten to know these virtual "friends" and I want to know how they are doing, but I no longer read for information or cancer camaraderie (I am occasionally reminded that I indeed had "cancer-lite" when I read what others have gone through and are still going through). I read the funny, single-chick blogs, the writing blogs, and the food and wine blogs first now.

* I forget to blog. There was a time when this blog was a daily sort of lifeline for me. Now, a week goes by and I realize I haven't blogged at all. Thanks for hanging in there those two of you who might still be reading the blog at all.

I haven't completely moved away from "the whole cancer thing." Chris and I both are still very much involved in The Pink Ribbon Place and in fact this Saturday is the sold-out Pink Carpet Premier event. 400 folks bought tickets at $50 a piece to an exclusive showing of Sex and the City 2 at a local theater. Guests will walk the Pink Carpet in front of a step and repeat banner of sponsor logos, while the local paparazzi snap photos and Chris plays the "what are you wearing" Ryan Seacrest role (I'll be playing Joan Rivers, I'm sure), then they'll head into the theater to enjoy a fruit and chocolate and other goodies food spread, a "swag bag" (absolutely stuffed with wonderful things from our many sponsors) and get a raffle ticket for "Samantha's Super Swag bag" (which has a designer purse, perfume, the use of an S type Jaguar for a weekend, dinner certificates, make-up, hair products, a fresh-water pearl bracelet, and allllllllll sorts of great stuff!). After the movie, there's an exclusive after-party at a local restaurant and bar. Another sponsor is putting on a tequila tasting and the bar will have SATC2 themed drinks (I'm guessing that means Cosmos!). But I have to say, this has been mostly Chris's thing. He and his friend Steve Holquin have done an amazing job of putting this whole thing together--that part of the reason Chris can't go with me to UCLA today. Too much work to do!

I'm no longer Cancer Girl and I'm happy to say I don't think about it much at all anymore. Breast cancer is now just a part of my history. I am glad to be involved in things like the Pink Ribbon Place and I'm looking forward to this event--just as me. Not as Cancer Girl. I think it's kind of a great way to celebrate my one-year post-chemo anniversary, don't you?

 (Is this one any better? I'm kinda smirking here--please don't take it personally--again, it's that self photo thing.)

Still Waiting....

Two remaining issues. That's it. Pretty much. Sort of. There are two issues still lingering post BC treatment. And I don't mean to complain, because really, neither one is too bad, but I'd really rather get over them and move on. And yeah, both are side effects of chemo.

The first is, of course, my hair. As you can see in the photo, it's growing. It's dark and it's growing.  It's lightening up as I spend more time in the sun, but it's not really growing fast enough for me. I'd read that it grows about 1/2" a month. I don't think that's happening. And hey, did you know hair grows faster on the top than the sides and back? It's true. Makes perfect sense too, since the top has to catch up with the sides so we look somewhat normal. If you look at toddlers (not babies...toddlers--when their hair really starts growing) you will see it's true too. They tend to get a thatch up on top and then eventually the sides kick in. If you think about it, the other way around (or even equal growth all around) would look darn funny. So okay, the top of my head has maybe an inch of hair. There's maybe 3/4" on the sides and 1/2" in the back just at the neck. That doesn't seem like a lot of productivity when one considers that I had my last chemo 4 1/2 months ago. I haven't used a blow dryer, a brush or even a comb since March 13, 2009. That's 6 months tomorrow. Not that I miss all that time dealing with hair in the morning (I've put that time to excellent use on Facebook over another morning cup of coffee; brilliantly productive. It could have been yoga, or walking the dog, writing, or hey, getting into the office earlier, but no. I'm not that kind of gal.) So I don't miss dealing with the hair, but I'd still like to return to "me." Folks keep asking me if I'm going to keep my hair short. I guess that's nice--they must think it looks good enough that the answer could possibly be yes. (That or they are asking in the same way one spouse asks another  "is that what you're wearing?" right as the two of you are leaving for a party. Not that that has ever happened to me.) Let me just say, "No. This is not what I'm wearing to the party of life. I'm going to change just as soon as I can."

And the other issue is my feet. There has been some progress. I can now see veins on the top of my feet. They are no longer just inflated sausages with toes; my feet somewhat resemble human feet. I put my tennis shoes on the other day to walk Seamus and my feet just went right into the shoes! A miracle. Previously I was loosening the laces so much that there was hardly enough lace left to tie in a bow (let alone a double knot so the boys don't untie them when I'm playing on the monkey bars...wait, sorry, flashback there....). But they're still fairly numb in the morning (which makes getting out of bed a thrill a minute) and pretty much anytime I sit for awhile. And the ankles are sore enough to make stairs difficult. Weird. But temporary. Like the hair thing, I just have to wait it out.

In the meantime I'm hobbling around with toddler hair.

Too Much Hair

I am back from vacation. But tired. Super tired. So this may be short. But...it's at least an original post and not a repeat. It is however about hair. I'm stuck in a hair rut.

There was a time when I couldn't quite figure out why hair--or more specifically the loss of hair--seemed to be such an overwhelmingly big aspect of this whole cancer thing. Compared with, oh, let's just say, um...the potential loss of life, it seems that losing one's hair temporarily, while not fun or easy, is not the worst aspect of the cancer experience. Yet it certainly seems to be the one most discussed and the one that others (i.e. "other" than the cancer patient) seem to obsess over. I could have paid all my out of pocket medical expenses, if only I had a dollar for every time someone not diagnosed with cancer told me they didn't know what they would do if they lost their hair, or that they would be "really unattractive" without hair, or some such thing. And honestly, it didn't bother me that much when it happened. The thought of chemo (and stay with me here folks, the chemo happens first...then the hair loss) and all it's potential side effects stressed me out a bit more and by the time the hair loss occurred I was ready for that and eventually when the chemo fatigue set in (conveniently, right about with the hair loss) I was happy to have the extra time in the morning (no shaving, no shampooing, no blow drying, no styling and eventually, no mascara necessary).

But that was then. I'm all better now. I have my energy back. I've returned to the regular programming of my life. I'm back at work and my new associate started today, so we're really ready to go all out full speed ahead. And I miss my hair.

I've given up the wigs and the scarves for good and I have enough hair to do that without drawing stares everywhere I go. And as a friend said of my hair "It's a look. It's a style. It's not your look or your style, but it's a look." Which is true--whether it's a lesbian chic look or a "just back from a spiritual retreat in Sedona, how do you like my new beads and isn't it a shame about the rain forest?" look--it is indeed a look. But it's not me. And that's starting to bug me. It's my last reminder of my "cancer patient" status (hey, I don't really notice the scar at "right breast 10 o'clock" and I guarantee you strangers aren't noticing it! Oh, okay, I have the weird foot neuropathy thing but that comes and goes and in the right shoes, no one notices.). Yeah, yeah, I know--the whole odyssey was only 7 months and it was only been a few weeks since treatment ended, but hey, I'd like my hair back now!

Part of this is coming from that fact that I was at an estate planning conference in Chicago and felt a little "off my game" dealing with so many other lawyers (a competitive lot, to say the least). I felt just slightly odd and I do believe I was perceived differently by others. Two sociological findings (or maybe it's the same one?) that are probably not surprising: a nearly 6 ft tall blonde woman in a suit and heels is not easily over-looked or ignored in a still primarily male dominated field; turns out that same nearly 6 ft tall, no longer blonde, nearly hairless woman in comfortable flat shoes (to accomodate her swollen feet) is quite easily overlooked. Although, that was mostly my experience with men. Women were actually warmer than they usually are to me-- although for the most part, that's not the other lawyers--that's the exhibitors and staff for the conference. I won two different "raffles" (you know how the exhibitors at conferences always raffle off things to get you to leave a business card? Yeah, those.) I'm convinced the raffles were not at all random. They liked me because I talked to them (and I talked to them because they talked to me...it's all very meta) and in one case "the cancer" came up and voila' I was the raffle winner! (yeah, I know, I should have gone to every table and used the cancer card. My suitcase wasn't that big. And airlines charge by the pound now.)

Another part of this is coming, I'm sure, from the fact that I met several of Chris's really nice, really accomplished friends in Chicago. And since they are his friends from college (read: Princeton, so we're all clear on where I'm going with this) they are way younger than me. So I was feeling a little...um...well...let's just say old, stupid and ugly. Not for long (the old and stupid part anyway) though, because they are very nice and interesting and not at all judgmental (and, well, bright enough to understand the whole cancer thing). But again, the hair thing bugged me. I would just prefer not to look odd. Especially when meeting people who don't know me any other way.

I actually had a dream last night that I had hair. Not a dream in which I appeared with hair, but a dream wherein Dream Teresa realized that her hair had suddenly grown to shoulder length and was blonde again. Dream Teresa then realized she needed to style it or cut it or do something with it. Dream Teresa then ran about (outdoors mostly, because dreams can't ever make sense right?) trying to find the appropriate styling tools. That part of the dream was much like the "I have a test and I can't find the classroom I'm supposed to be in" dream that we over-achieving geeky folks who looooved school have. Eventually Dream Teresa settled on foaming up an entire can of mousse and lathering that into her hair (a sign that real life Teresa has watched Chris struggle with controlling that massive tsunami of hair of his one too many times).

I warned you--I'm in a hair rut. Or maybe this was a hair-rant. Either way, it's over for now. Must get sleep.

The photo is to let you know a) what the hair "look" is currently (and oh yeah, I threw in some artsy bead jewelry), and b) that my vacation was enjoyable and I did get to spend time with the Missouri branch of my family. That's my younger brother Jay and his son Lucas in the photo. Because when else will the 3 of us have matching hairdos?

PS: a note about "potential side effects" of chemo. Read the "potential side effects" of aspirin. Or cold medicine. Scary stuff. And yet you still take those things. Okay, so the side effects warnings for chemo are a bit more extensive, but it's the same basic premise--the effects are potential and each of the effects have happened to someone. But they don't all happen to everyone on chemo. And they don't all happen at the same time. And many of them never happen to many people. (That was just for anyone--D-- reading this who might currently be contemplating the side effects of chemo. ;-) )

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.

I May Have the Hang of This

This week (if all goes well tomorrow), I believe, will be the first week since the start of chemo, that I was able to put in 5 eight hour days of work with no naps, no doctor's appointments, no medical emergencies, no blood tests, no phone calls with nurses, no special foods, no metallic taste in my mouth, and no pharmacy visits. Plus, I wore the same (red) wig the entire week and thus did not need to explain "chemo" or "cancer" or pretty much anything to anyone. I just got to go about my normal days, feeling darn close to normal. Other than the feet thing, and of course the bald thing (but it's not like I'm the one looking at me all day or night), and the fact that I'm reading a breast cancer memoir, there isn't much that reminds me of my status as "breast cancer patient." I was so much not thinking about my patient status that I only just tonight remembered to make my blood test appointment at my favorite hidden Quest Diagnostics location. I'm all set for Tuesday. Okay, the fact that I can't drink wine which really pisses me off, does remind me of the chemo/cancer status, but that's only an issue when I come home from work and Chris has made some fine meal that really needs wine with it, or just, you know, when it's evening and I want a glass of wine. So anyway, I think I'm getting the hang of this chemo thing. Just in time for my last round. Now only 6 days away.

And in great anticipation of that milestone, Chris and I started planning our mini-vacation in San Diego/ La Jolla (now May 15th to 20th) and our huge/gigantic/ cannot wait for it/ lounging on the beach sipping umbrella drinks and ignoring Christmas Maui vacation. A friend and client was spectacularly kind enough to give us a week at their ocean-front condo December 20th to 27th, so that really got the planning going. We're considering a few days on the big island ahead of time--it's way cheaper to fly out on December 15th or earlier, as it turns out. So hey, we're up for a few extra days. As we're planning it I keep saying stupid things like "yeah, but I'm supposed to stay out of the sun" or "what if I don't have the energy to walk up to see the volcano?" And Chris has to remind me that come December, I'm no longer "cancer person."(Of course, that still leaves the second question entirely relevant.) So an odd dichotomy there--it's not on my mind all the time, but apparently my status as "cancer/chemo person" is now ingrained. I can't quite see the end yet. But it's true. It will be over then! I will even have hair at that point. Short, darker and probably curlier hair, but hair! Did I mention I can't wait for this trip?

So yes, I'm looking ahead. Planning some things. Focusing past last chemo and over radiation (not wanting to think about that yet. One thing at a time.) It's helping.

Oh, and Seamus is feeling better today too. And that of course, makes me feel much, much better.

Let the Chemo Begin!

I'm home, resting comfortably, as they say. And all in all things went pretty well with chemo round 1. Tomorrow is the real test, but I'm happy to know I didn't start feeling nauseous and vomiting right away. I'm sure you are happy to know that too.

So the day started, as all days, nights, hours, minutes and seconds must,with Seamus. He gave me his best "good luck, stay strong, chemo's nothin'" cuddle and then we took him over to Shawna D. and Destiny. Then we were off to the oncologist's. Not at 9a.m like we thought, for the 10 a.m appointment that we scheduled with the "non-training" nurse. Instead they called last night to tell us we had to be there an hour earlier to meet with the doctor before the 10a.m chemo appointment. So we had to leave at 8a.m. Yet another thing non-training nurse did not know.

We arrived about 5 minutes late thanks to traffic (but hey, that's their fault, we tried to schedule a later appointment!). And then another 5 minutes late driving around searching for parking. Which doesn't exist. Popular place. Chris dropped me off and then parked here:
(photo is taken from the back of the building--look way down to the palm tree in the center; yeah, our car is past that.)

Good thing he dropped me off, because of course there was more paperwork. A questionnaire about my health. My favorite part was the "Do you consider yourself to be well?" Huh? I'm um, here for chemo. Is this actually a psychological test? But the super good news upon arrival (and after paying the $804.60; yeah, they're all over the money part) was that we met with the nurse practitioner Traci Young (that's her in the picture below to the left; and yep, that's me in my paper top!). And now I know why everyone thinks Wilshire Oncology is so awesome. It's the nurse practitioner--and she's primarily who I'll be seeing from here on out (we learned the doctor is leaving for Switzerland shortly for a couple of weeks; right. Today. We learned that today.) We were able to discuss with Traci all of our concerns (the ones you careful readers know so well--the fast-talking doctor, the "wig program" and the lack of training; I did manage to hold my tongue over the holiday decor). Traci was wonderful and did explain that on both occasions I had not experienced their normal process. She herself normally does the introductory meeting and the doctor comes in at the end and does the "you're having chemo and you'll lose your hair" bit (which is pretty much all she did with me). And the non-training nurse I got is the only one on staff that has only RN after her name. As opposed to RN OCN. And I bet you can guess what the OCN stands for. (Hint: we were in an Oncology office).

I passed the exam (healed up enough from surgery; blood work looked good) and we were off to the "Infusion Room" (the formal name; we all know they mean "chemo room.") Well, not so fast...it was packed full and we had to wait for a chair. So why'd they make us come in early, again? Anyway, eventually, we got our chair assignment--right by the door and in a corner, which is actually a good thing. I attempted to live blog, but alas there was no wireless internet acces. There was a network called "JesusSavesUs00825" but alas, Jesus has it security protected, because you know I would have tapped into that network, just for you, my readers awaiting a live blog (I pretend you were all sitting in front of your computers all day just waiting for the post to pop up). So I did the next best thing--I wrote it in time-stamped format in Word. So here's what was going on:

10:25--finally in a chair in the infusion room. There are 10 chairs for patients; 6 guest chairs, plus a few random stools (best chair seems to be the one in back corner--it was like a suite--occupied by a woman with her entourage of friends). Oddly, each chair has what appears to be a suicidal beanie animal hanging from it. Which is comforting. also, there are angels, bears dressed as angels, and dolphins for "artwork." Oh, and quilted squares displayed, oddly, behind glass. Chris dubbed these the "In the case of emergency break glass" blankets. In lieu of those, they did give me a heated blanket, which is super nice.

10:40--lots of prep time involved. The needle dispenser thingy is in my hand/vein and all taped in. Not too bad. I can type anyway. And they gave me a sedative--they like to do this on your first time, but I think they just wanted to make me stop talking/ joking. I think that because they offered one to Chris. Practically insisted.

Random observations while they mix my chemo cocktail: It's a small room and the chairs are all around the sides of the rooms, so of course we're sort of all staring at each other. So, um, what's the etiquette? What do you say? "I'm new here"? Or, "Come here often?" Or, "What are you in for?" Hard to know. Nonetheless in the chit chat I learned that there are two ladies here with me who are also breast cancer patients and getting a similar cocktail to mine (with one additive and over more time). They've both lost their hair and were wearing really nice, natural looking wigs. And both were redheads. Currently, anyway. Then there is Elizabeth a very cute 24 year-old but not a patient. She's there supporting her mom, who also had breast cancer. But she was also there supporting us, apparently. Elizabeth brought in a tray of cookies for the nurses and patients (cranberry and oatmeal--very tasty). She's actually studying for a history course, but poor thing is seated down by Chris and I and is apparently distracted by our constant commentary and joking. She says it's making her day go faster. Because she's sweet like that. She needs to be introduced to the great and good Dr. Karam.

There is of course the husband of one woman patient (the only patient that I think is younger than me) who has been on his phone doing work the entire morning. Just right in the middle of the infusion room. Not a care in the world--for anyone else. Understandable if he was a heart surgeon, on-duty police officer, or you know, his wife was in labor (and clearly, she was not). Instead he was discussing moving furniture and palettes and delivering doors, and inventory--stuff that no way could wait until, say, later in the afternoon, after his wife finished her first chemo treatment. Yeah, the wife is new here too. And she's pretty darn chatty herself--"God has a plan" has been overheard on two occasions so far. I'm going to be certain not to be seated next to her in the future. I think that's in god's plan. She's chatting to the entourage women (while her husband continues on the phone and her step-dad quietly reads Woodworker's Magazine). The entourage is silent --but one of them has on a lavender sweater that buttons down the front and she has inexplicably left the last few buttons open above her waistband. So a belly that should not be exposed, is. Ew.

12:30 pm--I'm half way through the first bag o'chemo and so far I feel fine. Blood pressure is fine, I'm not queasy or itchy or any of the things they keep asking me about. So far, so good. I have another half bag and then a full bag of the other chemo to go, so still a long way, but at least I'm starting out well. (Woman next to me has been ill and vomited into the trashcan between us, so I feel lucky. Well, lucky-ish). The lone man is sleeping and did seem to be having problems with on of the drips, but everyone else seems to be doing pretty well. It's a little like ten little Indians, but with a better outcome. We hope.

12:40pm--Chris is getting out the crackers and cheese for our second little snack. I think the other patients are jealous.

12:50pm--okay, chatty Cathy of God's plan? She's a junior high P.E. teacher. This explains my reaction to her. It is similar to my reaction to my own junior high PE teacher--one of us needs to leave. Chatty Cathy is a colon cancer patient. And I know how many inches of her colon she had removed. So does the rest of the room. And no, no one asked.But the husband finally left. Doors to be delivered and all.


1:00pm -- Okay bag 2 has started. 90 minutes to go. But apparently this one--the Cytoxan--doesn't usually have reactions so I'm at the "easier" part. Really, it hasn't been bad. It's a psychological thing really. If I don't think about it I can almost forget it. We're chatting with Elizabeth, making jokes and eating (now its a peantur butter and jelly sandwich also). Not bad. Oh, okay, there's a needle and tube int he back of my hand and taped down, with the tubes running up to a bag and a monitor clicking, wheezing and beeping, and yeah it's pumping poison into me, but like I said, if I don't think about it I'm fine. I'm wanting wine with my cheese and crackers, but the G2 Grape Gatorade is going to have to substitute for now. I think Chris thought the grape part would fool me.


1:15pm--me and my IV pole made our way over to the restroom. There's a sign above the toilet: "Chemotherapy patients please flush twice." How's that for a stark realization this is poison we're dealing with.


1:25pm--a few folks have finished up and get to go home, including Elizabeth and her mom. I'm new here though, so I"ve got a little extra time to go.


1:30pm-- I sneezed so they got worried I was having an allergic reaction. I don't think so. I sneeze a lot normally. Plus I'm getting a little cold (temperature wise, not sick), so that's all it is. But now they gave me a warm blanket to wrap my chemo hand and arm in. This makes the typing difficult.


1:40pm--we're down to 5 Indians. Of course one of them is chatty Cathy. She's a lot too perky for my taste. She's busy trying to make this all sound fun and like a big goofy adventure. And Chatty Cathy is on her cell phone too now.


1:53pm-- I'm feeling a little tired. I think I'm going to take a nap.

______

I'm pretty sure I did indeed nap then. And by 2:40 it was all done. They unplugged me, went over the medications, my next appointment and sent me on my way. As I said, I feel pretty good so far (it's now 7:15pm). But I do have to show you what amused Chris for most of the day (well, when he wasn't amusing the rest of the patients with his joking). Two things, really-- the Suicide panda and the Heaven's Gate for Fluffy Toys:









I think they need to re-think this. And I guarantee you that by the time Chris was done making jokes about these they were considering it. And none of my fellow chair people will ever look at these beanies the same way again.

The Countdown Begins

Today was a good day. I'm sure that's because it was mostly a non-cancer patient day.

Many of you emailed or posted comments about my blog post last night and my really, really bad day yesterday. I'm glad it made you all laugh. It made me laugh too. Hysterically. No, really hysterically. When I was writing it the absurdity of the whole day, this whole disease just sort of hit me and I laughed so hard I was in tears. You know that kind of laugh where your face is contorting and you can't stop it or pull it back into shape? Yeah, that kind. Right. Hysterical laughter. But it was pretty cathartic. I think I slept better last night than I've slept in the last two months. I woke up feeling pretty good and with more energy than I've had in awhile (Okay, so, dad, the mega-reds mega-greens and mega-vitamins may indeed be working; but I think the release through laughter helped too.) I went to work, wrapped in the beautiful periwinkle soft shawl/wrap that Chris's mom and dad gave me Sunday night (it's a very happy color) and I got a lot done. I think I'm in good shape for what's to come. I even got a couple phone calls from clients just checking in to see how I was doing (it's nice when a client cares about their lawyer!), and a couple of cards in the mail--and one with a California Pizza Kitchen gift card!! (Thanks Susan and Elisa!!).

I also got a Facebook message from a friend of a friend (who is now my friend too) that has been going through this whole breast cancer thing at just about the exact same timeline as me (her surgery was the day after mine and she was actually the first person I emailed post-surgery to say "eh, not so bad."). She read yesterday's post and emailed me with some great websites for wigs--and hey they look pretty good and the prices were low enough you just may see me as a redhead, a brunette and then a blond. Wigs for all my moods. Thanks Ursula!

Much to my surprise, I also got a call from Wilshire Oncology that Blue Cross has indeed approved my chemotherapy. So, I'm all set for chemo this Thursday at 10a.m. Tomorrow I go pick up my prescriptions and my wig (I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to name "her"--expect a poll on that too) and tomorrow night I start the anti-nausea medication. (I have a suspicion I won't be blogging tomorrow night...so you'll all have a chance to get caught up on your reading!) Chris will be doing the preparatory grocery shopping based on what we've surmised--because lord knows we had to figure it out ourselves. Between the materials UCLA had given us, the book the good and great Dr. Karam gave me, and our many prior conversations with doctors, it does seem that it comes down to this: there isn't really a chemo diet/nutrition plan. It's just about controlling the side effects. So really, until we know how I react, we won't know what diet restrictions I have or what foods/ liquids might help. I can drink coffee. I can have a glass of wine now and then. I have to avoid some obvious problem foods like sushi, mushrooms, rasberries (hard to wash), etc. Bascially, that's to avoid getting an infection of any kind since my immune system will be shot. Common sense will suffice.

People keep asking me if I'm afraid. I really don't feel afraid. A little anxious, but mostly, I'd just like to get to Friday night. There's a lot riding on Friday--the day after the treatment is usually the "worst" day and will give me an idea what I'm in for. I'd like to be at the point where I know that. I feel prepared and that's really all I can do.

Thanks again for all your thoughts and support. I'm bringing my laptop to chemo and will blog from there if I can. I'm wondering if they'll let me take pictures. If they do, you can count on it!

Today's picture is the last of the Boobie Bash photos. VALERIE ZUCKER worked so hard to get the photos to me (not to mention working so hard at the party itself), she deserved a featured photo. Plus, I want a happy photo. A Cosmo-induced pink happy photo. So I can stay in my happy place these next 48 hours.

What's With Oncologists Anyway?

Today I got the "second opinion" (I'll explain the quotes in a moment) from Dr. Bosserman in Rancho Cucamonga. An exhausting day. Chris and I both took naps when we got home. But before I delve into all that....you're a fickle crowd aren't you? First I get "mentions" (okay, they may have been complaints) that I'm wordy. So last night, I took pity on you (and yeah, on me) and only put up a really simple almost-only-pictures post. And only 28 of you even bothered to check in on me...as opposed to the over 100 page views a day that had been occurring. The drop-off started with Chris's post and I tried to blame him (he's willing to take the blame, but it's becomes sadly obvious that's not the case). So I realize...you're bored with my cancer! Yeah, me too. It's like I've got nothing else....for 6 more months. Hey people, cancer can't always be funny.

So yeah, back to Rancho Cucamonga. I started out very, very grumpy and it went downhill from there. I didn't sleep well (shock!) and we had to drop off Seamus (thanks again Shawna D. and Destiny!) and be in RC by 9:15. Which may as well be 5:15 to me. Actually, 5:15 would have been better--I'm usually wide awake from 4 to 5 each morning. We went to Wilshire Oncology, which is, quite surprisingly, not in LA. I have no idea where that name comes from. Nice enough place, although it seems weird, after the megaopolis that is UCLA Medical Center, that one just goes to a regular ol' doctors office for something as all-consuming serious as chemotherapy. The office was way over-the-top decorated for Valentine's Day. Think kindergarten classroom manic pink/red/ hearts/candy decorated. Then imagine every one of the staff (not the doctor; her coat was still white) in some version of pink heart scrubs. I hate that stuff. Hate it. I don't do cute. I didn't do cute in kindergarten (and not just because I was already like five feet tall). Then they explained that they do this for every holiday. Let me do that crepe paper cardboard cut-out godawful colors pukey-cutesy math for you. 12 weeks of chemotherapy starting February 26th. I get St. Patrick's Day (because yeah, everyone wants to be in a green room with scarey leprechauns when hooked up to a machine that feeds them nausea-making fluids...mmmm, tasty), and then I get Easter (because bunnies and chicks and jellybeans are exactly what I'm going to be craving halfway through chemotherapy) and then, the coup de grace...I'll get Mother's Day too! Because the sap that pours out of Hallmark et al for that particular holiday and the forced sentimentality of it all makes my stomach turn when I'm healthy. It's just unfortunate that I won't be sticking around long enough for chemo-fireworks.

Once I got past that and then past the fact that they handed me a "mandatory" binding arbitration agreement (if I sue, no right to a trial...because right, juries love cancer patients and not so much the doctors, and so why wouldn't I give up my right to a trial??? And doesn't the mention of litigation and how they protect themselves from it coming up before I've even laid eyes on the doctor just give you the warm fuzzies? Yeah, me too. Or maybe that was the candy hearts.) Okay, but the place was clean, the staff was friendly and....they had pink donuts. With candy sprinkles. Which by the way, you shouldn't eat if someone is about to take your temperature...I didn't know that. I do now.

I thought at this stage of my breast cancer journey (yeah, everyone calls it that; I'm willing to be extradited) I was past the part where I walk into a room and whip my top off. I've done that so often for so many people I was starting to worry that one day I'd walk into a client meeting and take my top off, or you know, the grocery store frozen food section (which is a lot more like a doctor's office than you'd think). At any rate, I was wrong. Doctors can only see you if you are wearing a paper dress.

I donned the paper dress and eventually met Dr. Bosserman. Who, first impressions, was just a lot smaller than I expected. How can someone who kills cancer be so tiny? She is however obviously extremely competent (she told us so) and I don't think I've ever met anyone who talks faster than I do, but I have now. She completely agreed with Dr. Glaspy and paused for about 10 seconds longer than he did about the "guaranteed hair loss." There was a lot of name dropping (including an attorney that I also know, who is extremely well known for his bad-faith insurance litigation, so I'm kinda wondering why that came up--I think she meant she could get my insurance to approve things very quickly) and a ton of information. But here's the thing...I almost couldn't get a word in edgewise! I'd get half a question out and she'd dive into the answer--sometimes she correctly guessed what I was about to ask, sometimes she didn't, and sometimes...I was stunned into silence and forgetfulness (Of course, today I also walked into Starbucks and forgot to buy coffee, so there may be something else going on).

Call me crazy, but isn't it surgeons who have the bad rap for being ego-maniacs with bad bedside manners? And wouldn't you think an oncologist...you know a doctor who sees only patients with cancer... would be very compassionate? So now I've been spoiled by a surgeon who was compassionate, solicitous, funny and oh-so-calming (and hey, he's the one who had to tell me I had cancer in the first place) and I'm delivered unto two oncologists who both seemed too busy to talk to me, couldn't really see me as person (just a patient), and were, dare I say it, a tad arrogant. And hey, don't get me wrong, I want confidence. I want to know the doctor is good...but it's like they tell you in every writing class "show, don't tell."

An example of the "I don't see you as a person" oncological phenomenon. Both Dr. Glaspy and Dr. Bosserman asked me about my career. Here's how those conversations went:

Dr. G: Where did you go to law school?
Me: Loyola, right here in LA.
Dr. G: How'd you end up in Riverside? (and you could hear the "hell" implied--twice--as in how the hell did you end up in hell?)
Me: Well, I really wanted to ...[at this point he looked down on his chart, started writing, then glanced out the door and stood up]...work with frogs, at a Burger King, where homeless people are my only friends, and then pink. I also like pink. But not really. [That's not what I said, but trust me, he doesn't know that.]

Dr. B: What kind of law do you practice?
Me: I work in death and taxes. I'm an estate planning lawyer.
Dr. B: Don't lots of lawyers do that? That's just wills and trusts, right? [said while staring across the room at a calendar and calculating my next appointment]

Because you know, anytime you mention what someone does for a living, it's endearing and not at all rude to put "just" in front of it. "So you're just an oncologist?" "Ah, I see, you're just a priest?" "Just a stripper?" "You just wrestle crocodiles?" It totally works. Try it.

It wasn't all bad, and I did like Dr. Bosserman (I've got a weak spot for intense professional career-driven women) and she did offer to give me a research article about my particular chemo-cocktail (which isn't as commonly used yet; sort of cutting edge, as I understand it). I just wasn't you know, whipping out the camera, snapping photos and explaining my blog. (Her lawyers would be calling).

At any rate, Chris and I discussed. And discussed more. And basically, it's a tie--that gets broken by the fact that Rancho Cucamonga is only a half-hour drive away and UCLA is anywhere from an hour and 15 minutes to 3 days away. RC also seemed to have much more in the way of supportive programs--for example, they don't just hand me 14 prescriptions. They ask me for my pharmacy phone number and they call them all in for me. They also have a pre-chemo planning meeting with the nurse who trains Chris and I both for about 45 minutes on what to expect and what to do and all that. They also have a wig program and lots of options there. And they were willing to make my appointments now--they're that confident they'll get the Blue Cross approval in time. And one of the frustrating parts of this is not having control of one's schedule.

So, February 23rd at 3pm Chris and I go get chemo-trained. It's like boot camp for baldy. Then on February 26th, I'm in "the chair" and getting the drip for the first time. We picked a Thursday because the sick days will definitely be over by Monday and I'll be back at work. I'm told I'll be slightly nauseous and very tired the day of treatment and then a little more so the next. But should be better Saturday and Sunday (so of course I'm thinking, "well good, then I can go into my office on Sunday and get caught up". If I tolerate it well, I can switch to chemo on Fridays and still be back to work on Monday. This is the great and grand plan.

Oh, and we saw the chemo room--most crowded on Tuesdays and Thursdays we're told. And yeah, it was crowded. Nice big comfy recliners that look a lot like the ones you get pedicures in at places called "Happy Nails." Chris can stay with me for the whole time, but I'm not going to do that to him (although he insists on staying the first time at least). Yeah, he's cute like that.
Really, I figure you'll all be right there with me because I can bring my laptop. And if you thought watching Chris's hair grow was going to be a good time...wait until we get to the drip details--drip by drip. I know. I'm excited too.

See you all at the really super cute oh my gawd pink party!!

Things I've learned

You know how when you buy a white car you suddenly notice how many people have white cars? Breast cancer is the same way. Geez, does everybody have breast cancer or know someone who does? Yes. The answer is yes.

And apparently there's a lot a person needs to know to deal with this all (sadly, get the #@%& out of town for treatment was one of the things I learned--note the lag time between "feel a lump" and "Yep, that's cancer"; 25 days.)

So here's my thoughts with this blog... 1) it's my therapy. Yes, it's incredibly self-absorbed but hey it's better than bombarding people with emails about my "right breast 10 o'clock." And it's a better way to update those who might actually care (occasionally, no one is going to care daily!) and aren't squeamish; 2) if anyone else has been through the experience and is willing to share advice, stories, encouragement this is as good a place as any, I imagine (the waiting room at UCLA Medical Center seems a little tense!) so please pass this along to anyone who might be willing to share/ add comments and keep me informed; 3) good lord there is a lot of misinformation out there on mammograms, self-exams and breast cancer in general. If folks only knew the difference between catching it early and not (it's the difference between lumpectomy and masectomy and "chemo-lite" and well, not so light; and that's just for starters!), I assume that those of you who have said to me "I guess I should schedule that mammogram I've been putting off" (you know who you are) might actually do it. So I'll share what I learn and what women should know about this. I caught mine by self-exam (although, truly, Chris deserves and wants some of the credit for the ahem, "exam"). Show the girls some love, ladies.

I'm super early in this whole process. And so far I've only bought two books (and read half of each; Love "Cancer Vixen" by Marisa Acocella Marchetto...who I think is Italian...) and talked to 2 surgeons, 4 radiologoists, a hospital administrator, several cancer survivors, and a whole host of "I had friend who..." folks. I'll sift through and share the good stuff. You do the same.