Eyes on the Prize

July 10th.
July 19th.
These are important dates. July 10th is when I will be done with radiation, done with all this cancer stuff, done with being a patient, and (fingers, toes, limbs, hairs, and minds crossed) done with all this cancer shit!! Except the follow-up for, you know, the rest of my life. But done!! Let the return to normal begin.

July 19th? Yeah, that's the day I'm thinking is the blow-out celebration of, well, all of the above. And I'm thinking big summer barbecue...not that we have a yard that accommodates that, but those are just details. Food, drink, friends, fun, no fatigue. That's the goal.

Okay, so that's the happy stuff. There are a few things I need to do between now and then. Just a few. I met the radiation oncologist today. Nice facility and it really is pretty close to my office. I liked the staff and I liked the doctor. So I think this will work out. The facility is pretty nice too, sort of calming. But I did get my first glimpse of why some folks find radiation psychologically tougher than chemo. For one, some of the patients are delivered by ambulance. There's reserved ambulance parking out front. Two spaces. And two of the patients I saw there were in wheelchairs. (Okay, and I'll tell you this part too-- when I was searching for the picture that I used in yesterday's posting...I came across a picture of a young girl getting radiation to her brain for a brain tumor; the picture came from the family's blog and I got sucked in and read it. She died at 15 years old.) Radiation is really serious and some people have really really serious stuff going on. My breast cancer seems to just pale in comparison. I feel a little like I'm in the emergency room for a common cold. Only, you know, more serious.

Turns out I'll get 33 treatments. 30 to the entire breast and then 3 that they call a "boost" to the specific tumor area. That's right, I get a "boob boost." (The doctor said in all her time doing this no one had ever called it a "boob boost." How is that??? It's so obvious!) And it's just not as good as it sounds. At all. Before I start, I need to get a CT scan--that will be next Tuesday. Then Thursday I get yet another blood test. (Insert weekend of debauchery here; and now you can see why.) After the Memorial day weekend, I go in for a "simulation" radiation session. They will mark me in 3 spots with "tattoos"--yeah, tattoos. And yeah, permanent. Just three little dots (apparently they will look like freckles...sure, sure they will) so they can line up the radiation exactly the same each time. The tattoos aren't on the breast. Which is kind of a relief, although I suppose those would at least be more hidden. They are sort of across the rib cage, right above the waist. I'll keep you posted on that, but suffice it to say I have no tattoos currently. I don't even have pierced ears. I'm kind of a wimp (yeah, that's funny now; but it's true). I'm not liking this part.

The day after the simulation session (so that will be Wednesday, May 27th) I start the radiation. And I go every weekday for 33 days. 33. Days. Which gets me to July 10th. Yep. Every day. Every. Single. Day. Until July 10th.

And here's how it works: Basically, each patient has the same time slot. So I will go at the same time every day. I'm thinking 9a.m. or, um, 9:15. That way I can be radiation girl, and then head into my office and be Lawyer Lady for the rest of the day uninterrupted. You know, after I stop at Starbucks. When I come to the oncology center I just walk in, make sure the receptionist sees me so she notifies the techs that I'm there, and then I go into the changing room area, slip out of my clothes (waist up), don the ever-fashionable hospital gown (open to the back), put my clothes in a locker and then sit and wait out in the little waiting area until the tech comes and gets me. Which shouldn't be too long, since they schedule appointments 15 minutes apart. Apparently the whole appointment takes only about 15 minutes. The radiation itself is very quick, most of the time is spent aligning me. See, I lay on this table thing, arms above my head, holding on to a bar, while they position me to the exact spot. Then they leave the room, zap me, and that's it. I return to my locker, get my clothes, get dressed and get to work. It sort of reminded me of a spa--without the eucalyptus and well, any other luxury. The way you walk in, greet the receptionist, change clothes, use your locker, and then head out to a little waiting room to wait for the masseuse/ manicurist/ facialist/ radiation tech to come get you. They even had a water cooler (I'm supposed to drink a lot of fluids during radiation. Shots anyone??)

And then of course there are side effects. Of course there are. Although in my consultation the nurse went through a whole list of questions about my health and what I'd experienced in chemotherapy. And jeez, once I listed out all of the side effects I had experienced, it seems the radiation can't help but be a breeze by comparison. See, from the things I've heard and seen, this may surprise you, but my chemo experience wasn't that bad. I was still working, moving about, going out, etc. Lots of people have it worse. Still, when I had to keep saying "yes. yes. yes." to all the "have you had....[insert horrible side effect]" it seemed pretty nasty. (Bear in mind, my general impression is that chemo isn't as bad as I thought it would be!). Okay, so, the things to know about radiation therapy:

1. Yeah, they call it "therapy."
2. I have to stop the anti-oxidants and vitamin supplements that were so helpful during chemo. Radiation is an oxidant. And in order for it to work...right, I can't "anti" oxidant it.
3. I see the doctor every Thursday. Every Thursday! (Take that chemo oncologist "Absolutely not" woman!!)
4. Fatigue is common (especially with chemo preceding radiation)
5. bone pain can occur
6. the skin in the treated area (right breast, in case you really haven't been paying attention) will get dry, and "burned" --like a sunburn. On my entire breast.
7. I'm to wear loose clothing, no under wire bras, cotton preferred;
8. No temperature changes! (no ice packs--which I can live with; but no jacuzzi??? Again??? They're killing me. Expect me not to leave the jacuzzi over Memorial Day holiday weekend)
9. no lotions, deodorants, creams, ointments etc. But I can and should use Aloe Vera on the treated area.
10. Treatment area may not be exposed to direct sunlight. (Okay, so no topless sunbathing. I and my neighbors can live with this. But the "treated area" includes a part of the chest normally exposed when wearing a bathing suit. Oh, right, they suggest I wear a t-shirt when swimming or out in the sun. Because I'm not attractive enough these days. Maybe I'll wear socks with my sandals too.)
11. No shaving the underarm. But apparently that's okay since the hair won't grow there during the radiation (as it hasn't in two months of chemo).
12. Breast may swell and become painful.
13. Sexual desire or performance may change during treatment. (they don't say what the change might be; we're totally hoping for the best here!)
14. I will not be radioactive (so good to know).

And then they give a bad news/good news post-treatment note: The breast may be smaller (the bad news) and firmer (the good news!) after radiation. I'm sure that's just going to look totally normal--one bigger, flabbier breast and then one little perky one. Great.

Then when I get through all this (party, party, party...hey, it helps to keep my thoughts on something happy in the future), I still have lots of follow-up. I'll be at UCLA every 3 months and at the radiation oncologist two to four weeks after and then every 3 months or so as well. You'd think I had a serious disease or something! Sheesh. Have I mentioned that I'm really squeamish and generally can't handle pain, doctors, needles, hospitals, blood, or pretty much anything medical? Maybe I have to start using the past tense. I couldn't handle those things. Until I could.

Part IV Begins

So that looks like fun doesn't it? That's not me (I don't have that much hair, remember) and that's not the breast being radiated (you do remember your biology don't you?) but the picture does sort of launch us into the mood for part IV of my cancer odyssey wherein I become Radiation Girl. If you're wondering why I say part IV, I break it down like this: diagnosis, surgery, chemo and then radiation. Believe me, getting to the diagnosis is it's own stage--do I need to remind you of the nightmare of trying to get a doctor's appointment, the ultrasound, the mammogram, the biopsy, the MRI? Yeah, it's its own stage.

Tomorrow I have my first appointment with the radiation oncologist. They told me it would take an hour to an hour and a half. Yeah, expect a long post to read on Thursday. I feel ready for the appointment, but in my mind (and I hope I'm not delusional) I'm not starting the actual radiation until after my weekend of debauchery (aka Memorial weekend).

As I head into phase IV, it occurs to me just how long this has all been going on. Almost 5 months now, from my very first doctor's appointment. I haven't really had time to stop and think about that. There's a way in which the time had gone quickly and there's a way in which it feels like a very long time that my life has been consumed by this battle. Today I went back to the very beginning of this blog, when I was first getting diagnosed and letting folks know, and I read for a little bit. Wow. What a long, long "journey" this has been. Reading it now, I can "hear" more fear than I thought I had originally. It's interesting to see how overwhelming the diagnosis (heck the very idea of cancer!) was then-- and now I feel like an expert on breast cancer. Not the medical part of it so much, but the practical aspects of dealing with all the diagnosis entails and all that goes on after. And I was also reminded how many of you have been reading this and commenting this whole time. Thank you all for that. It means a lot. And hang in there with me-- radiation is going to be a long haul too (6 or 7 more weeks).

I'm feeling pretty good by the way. I had a hideous hive breakout on my face last night, but I took two Benadryl, had a great night's sleep and it was almost all cleared up by the morning (but uh, yeah, I'm thankful for foundation and powder). Tomorrow is the end of my "danger zone" time. In my usual fashion I'm sure I will be expecting to instantly feel better and have more energy first thing Thursday morning. A girl can hope. We leave for La Jolla and a fabulous weekend Friday afternoon, so I'd like to feel good. Is that really so much to ask?

Oh, and it seems many of you found the photo of Chris and me (and my bald head) to be quite touching. I do too but I worried about posting it (and the other bald one). I decided though that really, it's cancer we're fighting...it can't really be a cancer blog or any kind of cancer narrative without showing the most obvious effect of the chemo. So, given where we are (Chris, me and all of you reading this) in this cancer odyssey, that's now the photo over to the right in the "information/ about me" section. Until we move on to the next stage---which I like to think of as the return to normal.

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 Definition of Insanity

I know, I know...doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. That's the definition of insanity. I get it. But here's the thing...I wasn't actually expecting different results. I got no further than "Hey, this martini tastes good" (Wednesday night) and "Hey, this wine tastes good and it's an Italian restaurant, how can I not have wine???" (Thursday night). So I do not expect you to have sympathy or be surprised when I tell you of the hives breakout. There are hives. They've broken out in the usual spaces--chest, face, legs, stomach. It's as pretty as it's been the last several times it's happened. But hey, this should be the last time. Let them have their fun.

I'd be more concerned about the hives, if I didn't have to concentrate so hard on walking on the only 2 square inches of my feet that aren't painful. My right foot appears to have ballooned to the size of your average neighborhood cat, while my left is more in the range of a German Shepherd. I can barely put shoes on these monsters. This happened last time and I recall it lasted several days. I'm hoping to return to normal by Monday.

This weekend should be exciting as well. Saturday starts the chemo "danger zone" for the very last time. The next four days are when my white blood cell counts are lowest and I'm most susceptible to all the bad things in this world. In the past three sessions this has meant horrific white blood cell crash, extreme hives outbreak, swollen feet, sore/heavy bones, digestive insanity, and general very tiredness. Woo hoo!! You gotta love the weekends! At this point we have plans to simply take it easy tomorrow and then Sunday I'll be heading into the office to get caught up on a few things. That's the plan, subject to change with any outbreak, inability to get out of bed, fever, or well, sudden rage. But again, I must point out...this is the last time!!!! These next four days are key, but I am 12 days away from being officially done with chemo and off all restrictions. I can't even decide what I want to do first. I think it will likely involve a jacuzzi and a bottle of champagne. And we may have to throw in some of those very dangerous strawberries as well.

In the meantime, some updates... 35 countries and 43 states (plus D.C.) have now been subjected to this blog. Finland, South Korea, Serbia, and Bulgaria are all over it, but do you think South Dakota or Rhode Island can be bothered? No. No they can't. Alabama is also playing hard to get--it's like they're Delaware or something. Don't even get me started on Mississippi.

Also, the epiphany blog is still open and needs your help. There appears to be a clear leader on the votes for which epiphany I will likely have...but it's a three horse race as to which epiphany I actually should have. And I have to say, I'm surprised at the results so far. If you haven't voted, or you have and you've changed your mind, scroll down on the right side and place or change your vote. Remember there are two items to vote on so keep scrolling to get to the second one. I can't be left to my own devices on this epiphany thing. A three-way tie is not going to be helpful!

(oh, and that picture to the right? Google search for Epiphany brings up this photo--apparently there is an Orthodox Epiphany celebration on January 19th each year and it involves ice water. But this sort of seems like me being lead to an ephiphany. Totally comfortable.)

Spoiled Brat

Okay, so now I feel like a brat. And a spoiled one at that (actually, I sort of look a lot like that picture right now too--that's me in the reddish wig, swollen, bloated, flat shoes on my puffy sore feet, trusty dog at my side. Yep. That about covers it). But, I believe I have shaken my 48 hour rage so I am hopeful, as I'm sure you are, that the ranting has ceased. Although, I'm shocked how many of you thought my meltdown with the gardener was funny...perhaps picturing it was funnier than living it, but trust me, I was woman on the edge. I was probably dangling over it, actually. I'm wondering if the gardener will even come back or if I have another chemo casualty on my hands. First it's the hair, then the wine, then the gardener....

So how did I shake my rage? Well, with help from all of you of course. First, I appreciated all the comments and emails. I assume those of you who found my behavior completely deplorable were at least tactful enough to keep that thought to yourselves. And I think the pink clique long ago stopped reading this blog, so they don't even know how truly disappointing I was this week. The rest of you though seemed okay with my raging. Perhaps even amused. Then there were the phone calls--my dad, brother, younger sister and several friends were brave enough to risk life and limb to unwarranted verbal attack by attempting to speak with me. I haven't actually returned most of the calls though, because I've actually been busy (and sleepy) and I wasn't....well...feeling sociable.

And then there were the surprises. DWIGHT TATE truly risked life and limb by stopping by my office in person to check in on me today. Now that's bravery. Then CURT KNUDSEN also dropped by to check in on me and he came bearing gifts! (An excellent tactic to be sure). He brought me a beautiful giclee print by a friend of his that depicts three hands holding glasses of wine clinking together in a toast. It is very appropriately called "To Life!" How can I not smile at that? Then, in perhaps the bravest move of the past 48 hours, JANE and FRANCIS CARNEY had Chris and I (and Seamus!) over for dinner. The ultimate rage defeater was put into action--they pulled out all the stops by offering up food, a fabulous martini and a new book (which is not a cancer memoir--it's T.C. Boyle's new one "The Women"-- really hoping one of the women does not have breast cancer!!). They even responded to my odd craving of vegetables with a pesto tortellini, julienned veggies, a salad, asparagus risotto and then, because they care about Chris too, a steak! The bonus news is that all of the food tasted good to me, didn't cause queasiness, and the martini was just perfect! First one I've had since a few days after my surgery (3 months ago now). Yeah, yeah, so there may be hives. Maybe. But I'm thinking not. See that? That was positive thinking right there. Yeah, who's back, baby?

I also now have an appointment with the radiation oncologist. May 13th at 10:30 a.m.. Hey, at least it's not a Friday the 13th this time! That's my initial consultation which apparently takes an hour to an hour and a half. Wow. That's a lot of consulting. My right boob isn't even really that big. But I assume we'll have a plan at that point. I further assume it will not disrupt my Memorial Day weekend of debauchery plan (which really isn't a plan so much as a concept at this point). The only slight problem was that the office is no longer located where I thought it was (and where their website still says it is). They've moved further away. Still closer than anything else I found, but not quite the quick little trip with drive-thru Starbucks bonus I was planning on. Eh, it's only for 5 weeks.

I will warn you ahead of time so no one worries I jumped off the ledge I've been hanging out on--- there will be no post tomorrow (Thursday) night. Instead, you should all be reading ForgottenGrapes.com. All his postings are good, but I'm quite fond of this one (the grape and the pop culture icon). Chris and I will be in LA meeting with our LA Writers group for the first time in quite some time (we're slowly attempting a return to normalcy here), so I know there's no way I'll have the energy to blog when we get home. But I didn't jump. I'm coming around. Heck, I've got a fabulous weekend in La Jolla coming up in just about 10 days. I'm all kinds of happy.

I'm Trying

Yeah, that's not really how I'm feeling. But I'm trying. My funk continued through the hot, sweaty, insomniacal (new word; but it works) night and right on through the morning. I even attempted to take some of it out on the unsuspecting gardener. Because really, is the "Dog in Yard" sign on the gate not enough of a reminder to close the freaking gate??? No, no it isn't. But the bald hysterical woman screaming "shut the f*&^ing gate!!!!" from the upstairs window? This is enough of a reminder to get the gate closed pronto and just before the banshee beagle was unloosed. Unfortunately, the gardeners were also enough to set Seamus off on a howling frenzy that was going to explode my already fragile and tenously contained head, and he would not be dissuaded from his fury (after all, he had my lead to go on). There was nothing for me to do but go to work and vent and vent and vent to my poor friend Laureen--who is also my paralegal and therefore at least gets paid to listen to all my crap. Then we did the adult thing and drowned our moods in Wendy's cheeseburgers. That actually helped. Maybe it was the venting, maybe it was the cheeseburgers, or the Dr. Pepper, or all of the above. But it helped. I felt mildly better. Enough to at least get some work done. And a client called, just to check and see how I was doing--which was really nice and totally unexpected.

When I came home this evening, I tried to be more judicious in my choices. So I did nap (an hour and a half). Chris made a nice gazpacho for dinner (I've been craving vegetables; don't ask. I don't know.). And rather than read or watch anything that might set me off, we watched American Idol (love me some Adam) and then Dancing with the Stars. Pretty innocuous stuff. And yet, they had this dance performance by Macy's Dance Stars and I found myself watching it and thinking "yeah, whatever. A bunch of talented, pretty, perfectly diverse, young healthy, beautiful kids in yet another showy performance. Who the hell cares? Why does this matter? Get off the stage. Stop wasting my time." Right. 'Cause I was in a hurry to get to the substantive and intellectual celebrity dances?? Yeah, I don't know where I was going with that, but I can tell you I was bitter! I did at least recognize it and laugh at myself a little. So this is progress, right? Maybe? Anyway, sorry for the rant. And um, this rant too.

But in medical news, Dr. Karam has checked out and given the "okay" regarding the radiation oncologist conveniently located by both my office and a Starbucks (very key for daily radiation). I'm in the process of getting my records faxed over to her so we can set up the consultation and I can learn what I need to do for phase three of this cancer odyssey. Yip. Eee.

I Hate Cancer

Have I mentioned that before? That I hate cancer? I don't think I have, actually. And maybe I'm a little slow with this, but I have to say, I was pissed off at cancer all day today. I've been pretty honest on this blog, so I'm not going to lie now. I was not happy today. Not at all. I think I was probably a big baby all day long (at least in my internal monologue; luckily I wasn't dealing with too many people today). Maybe because I can see the light at the end of the chemo tunnel and I'm just all kinds of anxious to get there, everything that's in my way is just really, really annoying. I'm tired of being tired, I'm tired of having to figure out what wig to wear and how long I can stand it, I'm tired of only being able to wear two pairs of shoes (swollen painful feet), I'm tired of not looking normal, I'm tired of medications, tired of soreness, tired of not being able to eat or drink what I want, tired of not being able to do things, tired of sweating like an animal all night, tired of insomnia, tired of being a "patient" with special needs and restrictions, and I really, really feel bad for Chris having to put up with 1/2 a girlfriend these past six months; he never complains, but he's got to be pretty darn sick of all this too. I'm sure he'd like a normal life back soon too. So I just keep apologizing to him, and probably, that's even more irritating, not to mention pathetic. (I'm also sure the pink clique would be extremely disappointed in me for venting all of this. Cancer dork again.)

And I think I need to give up Facebook. Otherwise, I'll probably really go over the deep-end reading about everyone else's vacations and meals and drinking binges and health and happiness!! Instead I'm posting passive aggressive status updates about my bone pain. Take that, happy people!! (Don't worry; I'm sure tomorrow I can return to being a well-balanced non-selfish person who is happy for her friends' happiness. It's just not happening at this moment. Sorry.)

Continuing my spiral this evening, when I got home instead of taking a nap (which would have been the smart and necessary thing to do) I picked up the book I've been reading and finished it. And what was I reading? I was reading "What Remains" by Carole Radziwill. You know, the widow of Anthony Radziwill who was Jackie O's nephew, JFK, Jr.s' cousin and best friend, polish prince and guy who died of cancer at age 39, three weeks after John Kennedy, Jr. and his wife Carolyn died in that plane crash. Yeah, that's what I was reading. And they die. They all die (okay, not the author; she's left to pick up the pieces after losing her husband and losing her best friend within the space of 3 weeks). It's actually a beautifully written book, but probably not one of my best choices under the circumstances.

So I put the book down and turned on the television. Hey, American Idol winner David Cook's brother died from cancer yesterday. And Eva Longoria was at a Kids with Cancer fundraiser! Enough.

Dancing with the Stars...take me away.

Out on my Limbs

That's Meagan over there. Meagan was the last person I saw at the Rancho Cucamonga/Upland oncology place. That's because Meagan is the nurse who gives me the Neulasta white-blood cell building shot on the Friday following chemo. So this was Friday, May 1 at just about 4:45pm (notice it's empty again). Meagan was lots of fun (she always enjoyed and commented on my hair and fashion choices; I believe the "Britney, Bitch" and purple Cancer Vixen shirts scored the highest.) So we can't really blame Meagan for the effects of the shot afterward. She wouldn't have wanted me to suffer.

Notice there was no posting for two days? Wait...you noticed this right? You were worried? Okay, good. I was doing okay on Saturday morning, but by the afternoon the queasiness started. Saturday night was nothing but queasiness, serious nightsweats and a skull ache. I know, you're thinking "that's a headache, Teresa." But no, my skull hurt--like to the touch. Plus, I could hear my blood pulsing throughout my head, loudly. The Neulasta bone pain, which heretofore had really only been a "heavy limbs" feeling, was starting in my head (HA! They say it happens in the larger bones!). Sunday I actually had a client meeting in my office. Ironically, my clients are both doctors and their schedules are difficult, so we agreed to meet on a Sunday. Yeah, the Sunday after my chemo...what was I thinking? I was thinking "It's over!! I'll be fine. Must get back to work. Must earn living." I was okay for the meeting-- 2 1/2 hours, and I was tired but okay at the end. Until I got home. Then I just needed a nap and I had a pretty bad sore throat. By the time I woke up from the nap the bone pain had creeped out to my shoulders and down my back to my hips. Then once again I have the weird foot thing going on--especially in my left foot. The whole outer side of my left foot feels like I ripped a muscle. No cute high heels for me for a bit. [Plus, how cute would it be anyway, limping around going "ow, oh, ow, oww, ohh, ohh, oww" since the bones in my feet hurt too!]

So between the nightsweats (which have come on with a fierceness Tyra Banks would envy) and the bone pain, I wasn't exactly sitting at the computer typing away. I was hanging out in bed reading. Probably, I should have been in bed all day. But that's just not my style. Unless of course I wasn't sick. Then, I'd gladly hang out in bed all day. Isn't it funny how that works?

I'm headed into the office this Monday morning. Mostly, I think I'll be seated at my desk. And popping a lot of Tylenol. Tylenol is my new BFF.

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)

The Fat Lady Sings for Chemo (Part 1)

It's over. But I'm not really the fat lady. Turns out between chemo one and chemo four (last, final, done, never again chemo) I gained a whopping 1 1/2 pounds. Not too bad considering how I ate. Yeah, I wanted to be one of those people who lost 15 or 20 pounds on chemo--but since I didn't want to be and wasn't one of those people who were nauseous and vomiting all through treatment, that was probably unrealistic. Of all the things that happened to me on chemo, nausea and vomiting weren't on the list. (Aren't you happy to read that? I hope you aren't at your desk having lunch or some such; if you are, so sorry.) Oh, and "knock on wood" since technically, I have 2 to 3 more weeks of potential side effects.

So, fourth and final chemo is over. That's the traditional Seamus "good luck" photo. Outfit was chosen by the gifts received--mocha wrap from JIM and TRUDI KERN (these are absolutely perfect for chemo--one can adjust for arctic blast air conditioning, crazy unexpected hot flashes, uncomfortable chairs, and just about anything else without having to worry about sleeves disrupting the tubes and needles. I may have to add this to my helpful tips list); the head wrap was from GARY BERG and RICH GOLD, and I love it; there was also plenty of Biotene gum on hand now thanks to STACEY ALDSTADT and then recently JOHN VINEYARD! Nice surprises guys! And of course, lunch was packed by CHRIS KERN (my usual pbj sandwich, a banana, pretzels and chips, mixed nuts, a banana cream pudding, and fig newtons, along with a Gatorade. No, I didn't eat it all. This was an "emergency preparedness" package. We never know how long we are going to be there.).

So, prepare yourself for a long posting. This was an interesting day all in all. First, we were an hour late to my appointment. Yeah, an hour. Ooops. the first 1/2 hour of lateness was because I absolutely could not sleep the night before, so when I finally fell asleep the last thing I wanted to do was wake up and get out of bed. I kept pushing it figuring I could get ready in 45 minutes, 30 minutes, 15 minutes....yeah, not so much. I can't even get coffee in 15 minutes. Then we raced out the door, took Seamus to Shawna D. and then I realized that in my rush I had forgotten to take the anti-nausea steroids. And those are, you know, kinda important. We had to turn around and go back home. This goes to Chris's point after chemo #2. At #1 we were like parents expecting a first child--we did absolutely everything they told us to do and then some. Perfect, model patients. By #4, I'm barely remembering to get my blood test, forgeting vitamins and anti-oxidants, not exercising, and then forgetting the medication! I don't know too many people with 4 kids, but I imagine you get more relaxed by the time the fourth one rolls around and it's an altogether different experience (Laura B. and Monica W.--feel free to chime in here! You may be the only people I know with 4 kids!!).

Being late meant we had plenty of time waiting around in the exam room, me in my paper vest and Chris with camera and notes ready. So now I can share with you the types of notices that are in the exam room. We've laughed at these each time, but never had the time to copy them down. Until now. So, in case you wondered what sort of support groups were available and why I didn't go, here's the only two that were advertised all during my treatments.

1. "I Can Cope" Cancer Support Group.
1st & 3rd Weds. each month 10a.m-12pm.
For Adult Cancer patients, friends and family
Enhance the skills needed for self care
Understanding feelings and relationships
Discovering resources and Celebrating Life.

2. "Sharing Support Group for Young Women with Cancer"
(for women under 40)
7 to 8:30 pm Mondays
This addresses the special needs of women under 40 diagnosed with cancer, such as dating, raising small children and working will be addressed.

You see my issues here? In the first class, apparently these are adults without jobs. They meet at 10a.m? On a Wednesday? Whereas in the second they meet in the evening--so I guess the retirement age for people with cancer is 40. Wish somebody had told me that before. And in the first--if we're enhancing our skills for self care, why are our family and friends there? And why are "discovering resources" and "celebrating life" connected? I don't even want to think about the exercises for celebrating life. I'm betting there was hugging. And crying.

As for number 2, really? Dating is going to be an issue during this? I'm not thinking bald, sick and exhausted is a time for dating. Especially if you are also taking care of children and working! And note, the over 40 doesn't address the "special needs" such as working.

But there you have it, the support that was available to me...er, um, not me. Others.

Eventually Traci, the nice, competent nurse practitioner came in to see me. Note, not the doctor. We saw the doctor scurry down the hallway once, no doubt in an effort to avoid me and my annoying requests to actually speak to her. But that was the sole contact with her on my very last appointment with "her" (ever!!). So in one consultation and 4 chemo treatments, I saw the actual oncologist exactly twice. A grand total of, I'd say 30 minutes. And that's being generous, unlike the doctor herself.

My exam went fine and I was given the "all clear" to return to normal eating, drinking, jacuzzi'ing and other activities after three weeks. Hello, Memorial day weekend of debauchery!! I now switch to the radiation oncologist and all follow up care will be through Dr. Karam and Dr. Glaspy back at UCLA (home, sweet home!). So other than today's trip back for my Neulasta shot...I'm all done at Wilshire Oncology. The nurses and the nurse practitioner were great--and that's really who took care of me, so all in all I suppose it went well. The doctor however was so incredibly frustrating and cold and uncaring that it really made it a more difficult experience than was necessary. I can't say I'd recommend the place. Besides, she clearly has more patients than she can handle (which, I suppose explains why she doesn't handle them!). But here's a photo of me in the infusion room with the two wonderful nurses who did care for me and did a great job. That's Nancy on the left (2nd and 3rd chemo rounds--which means she's the one that got stuck with me for the allergic reaction/ closing down the place chemo; and she never lost her cool or her sense of humor) and Marilyn on the right (1st and 4th chemos; Marilyn is a breast cancer survivor herself and extremely kind and caring--she even called to check in on me after my first round!). Notice we were even color coordinated?

This is perhaps an even longer post than I expected (have I mentioned the steroid high I've been on?) . And I've got to get some lunch and Chris and I (and Seamus) have to head back to Rancho Cuc for the Neulasta bone shot. All of which means...this will be done in two parts. I'll finish this up later. Really, it'll be worth it. I haven't even got to the part where the "Top Ten Lessons from Cancer" were displayed in my chemo area. Or the part where Chris "entertained" fellow chemo recipients with swine flu jokes. See, I bet you can't wait. I'll get it posted later tonight.