Guest Blog: A few of the things learned thus far

Many weeks back (okay, 2 months ago) Nancy gave me guest author status for this blog.  Off and on since then I’ve jotted notes, talked out loud to myself (more than usual) while driving alone in the car wondering what I could offer.  You all know I have a pair of very tall stiletto heels to fill.  What do I say?  How do I say it?  When I stopped over-thinking things, it came to me.  Write what you know.  So I share with you some of the things I’ve learned walking alongside Nancy’s left breast on her cancer journey.

I first met cancer a long time ago.  Cleaning up the kitchen after dinner last Thursday evening the faces of three people I knew years back tumbled before my eyes.  The middle-aged man on the oncology unit at Hartford Hospital where I was assigned in the summer of 1980; who told me some of the best clean jokes (“stories” he called them) I’ve ever heard.  Chemo was inpatient then.  I saw him every day he was there.  “Hey, I got a zinger of a story for you,” he’d say and I knew that he needed an audience to help him laugh and he needed to laugh to get through the mine field in front of him, even as his hospital stays became longer and longer and…..  The friend, mid-treatment for breast cancer, who took in a soon-to-be homeless 15 year-old with a 6 month-old daughter at my request; the two became part of this family because no disease can get in the way of real caring.  The woman in my church, statuesque, who seemed to see every moment with the wide eyes of a young child and shared her excitement with everyone she knew because dammit she wasn’t yielding the wonder in even a second of her life to this disease.  Who each one of you is for me today is so much more than I could have imagined you’d be when we parted 30-plus years ago.    

There is no cure.  Isn’t one round of cancer too much for any lifetime?  When we got the diagnosis this time I was a jumble of emotions.  I thought this stuff was bombarded and it’s only been four years and she’s training for a half-marathon we’re both going to run in Wisconsin in May and we have a new grandchild coming in June and now you’re saying that the Emperor of All Maladies is roosting again inside the woman who completes me and she’s going to have poisons injected into her body again and surgery after that?  Dammit!  When I’d finished a few long and loud therapeutic screams in the basement at a time no one was home, I realized I really wasn’t surprised.  Nor was I really surprised when we found out the Emperor had a much nastier demeanor this time than last.  Early in the first go-round I came to terms with the fact that cancer’s a sneaky lurking disease.  Surgically remove it.  Flood it with targeted pharmaceutical potions.  Fry it with photon radiation.  But no oncologist ever hands out “cured” cards once treatment ends.  They know the truth.  No cure exists.        

Some of what worked before will work again.  One of my roles was, and is again this time, “designated scribe”.  Four years ago we bought a red notebook and I took down all the information we received at every appointment and treatment.  Although I never wanted to look at it again, the same notebook goes with us again now.  Sometimes important information can be forgotten.  Being the scribe also keeps me from fidgeting, spinning around in chairs, or getting my hand slapped by my wife for playing with the medical equipment.  Comedy aside, it helps me stay grounded.  One’s feet need to be firmly planted when facing a foe with someone you love, even if a brief cold sweat comes on every so often.

I have a peeve.  Being called a “caregiver” rattles me a little.  I’m a husband and my wife’s being treated for cancer, and I do what I do for her because of who she is to me and who I am because of her, which goes worlds beyond anything I can understand or even a label.  Maybe that’s why I feel uncomfortable when others – with true well-meaning kindness – tell me how wonderful I am for doing what I do for her during treatment.  I’m not the one going through this first-hand, though I wish it was me and not her.  I do nothing more than any husband with an ounce of integrity and love would do.  I do far less than many others are doing or have done.  I deserve no accolade.  Instead, give it to those who have truly earned it: The little ones I see at Relay for Life who are wearing the t-shirt that says “Survivor”; their Moms and Dads who hold their hands or push them in their strollers during the survivors’ lap.  (Ken tips his hat in gratitude for allowing him to “peeve” all over the page.)

They share something together that we can’t possibly share with them, no matter how close we are to them.  We’re at Lowe's on a summer Saturday, in the outdoor gardening section, debating how many bags of something or other to buy.  “You don’t mind if I ask”, the silver-haired gentlemen says to Nancy, “but are you in treatment?”  (The hairless head gave her away again.)  “Yes, I am” she replies.  He had chemo many years ago, he tells her.  They chat.  His wife and I look on as if we’re watching two veterans of different yet equally vicious military campaigns reminisce about something we’ve only known second-hand.  And it’s obvious that when she talks with her “cancer lady friends” or with someone she meets for the first time in the oncology waiting room for their second treatment, that there’s a connection that only they have.  Of course not everyone’s cancer is the exact same, even if it’s called by a similar name (breast, lung, colon, etc.).  And even if they might be exactly the same and treated in the very same way, not all of them will respond alike.  Still, there’s a knowing and understanding those with the disease (in treatment now or with no evidence of disease for years) seem to share.  And sometimes it’s there without a spoken word between them.

Never yield…Ever.  Emperors are vengeful.  Cross them, send them retreating, and you could be in for another fight, maybe bigger than the last one.  Meanwhile, they try to control you with fear.  “I’m coming back, and I’m taking everything you have; and when I say everything, I mean it!”  Cancer, this Emperor of All Maladies, is the master of fear.  We crossed him once, he’s back again, and there’s no predicting where things go from here.  But living in fear and trying to control what we ultimately can’t control is surrendering to the emperor way too soon.  Fear robs us of our joy.  Fear blinds us to everything that’s wonderful in this present moment, and the next.  Things like dinner outdoors with friends on a summer night while listening to a band play 80s music, spending time with grandchildren and planning a trip to see a newborn grandchild, having Sunday lunch on the porch of a winery, a weekend in Traverse City with no particular place to go, following Le Toure de France each day (and wanting to go watch it live), basement demolition, gazebo construction, margaritas in said constructed gazebo, one playing “straight-man” to the other’s comedian for countless cashiers and wait-staff, “cancer humor” that would shock others so we keep it to ourselves, Sunday kayaking and racing each other up the river, that first kiss in the morning and the last before sleep covers us in dreams.  Surrender any of those to the emperor?  Hell no!  Never!  Ever!  
  
Special thanks to Siddhartha Muherjee, MD, (author of “The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer”, Scribner Publishing, August 2011) for inspiration; Haylee Westenra, ABBA, Crosby, Stills, and Nash, Linda Ronstadt, and many others for their music while blogging; and my Nancy who probably never thought I’d finally get this done.)

The Price of Free

My last chemo was four weeks ago – four weeks!!  Most days it felt like it would never end, and yet now that it’s over I can look back and say, “It wasn’t that bad.”  In hindsight, it really wasn’t that awful.  Rough days?  Yes.  Painful and unpleasant?  You betcha.  But you do what you have to do – everything you can – to keep this beast from coming back, so in that sense it was wonderful.

We celebrated my final chemo with nothing special in particular – no Boob Fairy, no crazy wigs - none of that.  In the last four years my path has crossed with too many people living with end-stage cancer; they will spend the rest of their lives getting chemo, hoping and praying that this treatment will be the one that gives them respite, perhaps remission for a few weeks or months or maybe even years…  And I’ve come to know too many women for whom chemo failed them, and they are no longer with us.  So while I was glad to be done with this phase of treatment, I didn’t feel a reason to celebrate this time.  When the nurses blew bubbles in my direction as Ken and I left the infusion center for the last time, the moment was anticlimactic and a little scary.  I’d been down this hall before (last time in a glitter-and-pink tutu) and yet here I was again.

In Breastlandia, there are no guarantees.

My hair started growing back a couple of weeks before that final chemo.  Like an angelic halo resting upon my head, the white hair is short and sparse and wispy, yet it catches the breeze and I feel it move softly with the wind.  The next day I got up and ready for work, rushed out the door on the last morning of steroid high, eager to get as much accomplished as possible, knowing that Frickin’ Friday was just around the corner.  About half way to work I reached up to scratch my head, itchy with new-growth hair…

…and realized I’d forgotten to grab a hat.  Or scarf.  Or an ugly wig.

This happy accident is how I decided to stop color-coordinating my wardrobe and head coverings, and simply go topless at work.

It was surprisingly uncomfortable that first day – for me, and I suspect even for a couple of others (though I could simply be projecting my own insecurities on to them).  I mean, it’s been pretty obvious for the last few months that I’ve been having a Bad Hair Day – or rather a No Hair Day – as pretty head coverings became my fashion statement.  I only wore head coverings at the office, nowhere else; the moment I made it to the car my hat or scarf came off and my scalp welcomed the sunshine and cool breeze.  But that lack of head covering, the naked baldness, left me feeling incredibly vulnerable and aware those first few days.  My first meeting was agonizing; the first encounter at the elevator with a group of coworkers was intimidating; the moment I came around the corner to chat with a friend was a little scary.  But I continued onward, and now, four weeks later, I’ve worn a scarf only twice (and that was because it looked freakin’ awesome with my outfit!!)  No one seems to bat an eye anymore, and while I can reaction-watch from behind my giant sunglasses, I don’t bother to know or care what others think.

Except when they feel the need to tell me what they think.  For some reason, my baldness gives some people a boldness to say things they might not otherwise say in polite conversation.  Or, at least, that ain’t how my mama raised me.

You may have noticed I tend to use humor to deflect those hard and painful emotions.  All the feels, and all that stupid stuff.  There are so many simultaneous and conflicting emotions that sometimes I simply don’t know what I’m feeling.  Or I don’t want to admit it, show it, or deal with it.  As time goes on, I find myself more closed off and less inclined to want to talk about (much less think about) what it is I’m feeling.  It’s part of why writing these blog posts has been such a challenge – I’m kinda-sorta over the whole, “Oh, I have cancer…again…” crap.

Because sometimes, the conversations go something like this:

Friendly-but-not-friendy coworker:  “Hey, how are you feeling?” <insert sympathetic sad-faced look here>  “You look…great, really.  Are you still doing chemo…?  No, you’re done?  That’s great!”

Me, trying to be friendly:  “Thanks, yeah, I’m glad to have that behind me.  Onward and forward!”

Her:  “Did you have surgery yet?  My friend had surgery when she had breast cancer – cut off her boobs, both of them!  Are you cutting yours off?”

Me:  *blink-blink*     *crickets*    “Um…well, no not really…  I’m having surgery in a few weeks…” (Wait, why do I feel the need to answer these questions??)

Her:  “You should just cut them off, you know...”

(at this point I’m trying to figure out how to end this conversation in a friendly-but-not-friendy way…and once you’re at the bottom of the well like Desmond on Lost, you’re only going to be rescued by a smoke monster or a golden retriever…)

Instead, I take a deep breath and decide this is an Opportunity for Growth and Learning, so I hear myself gently explaining that a double mastectomy is huge surgery, isn’t always necessary, sometimes it’s a choice…

“But you get a free boob job out of the deal, right?”

And there’s this moment of conflict – my heart is breaking because I’ve paid a pretty frickin’ high and hefty price for this “free boob job”, and my head is screaming to MAKE A JOKE, SAY SOMETHING STUPID AND FUNNY or the tears are going to roll down my face and I’m going to be standing here in the sixth floor kitchenette, bald and vulnerable and exposed and topless on a thousand different levels, and the only thing I can think of to say at that exact, painful moment is,

“Yeah.”

And I walk away.

I can’t be mad at her – I’ve used those exact same words, that same emotion, when describing the need for my mastectomy.  Then, when I finally chose the DIEP procedure, I’d throw in the fact that I’d also be getting a “free tummy tuck” out of the deal, too.

Sounds funny in my head.  Not so funny when I hear it coming from others.  (And yes, those are the words people use in conversations - “cut ‘em off” and “get rid of them” and “they’re trying to kill you!” and “if it were me I’d do it in a heartbeat” and “why would you even think twice about it?” and a multitude of other comments that are both incredibly insensitive and brutally honest).

But I set the tone for these conversations.  I’m responsible for how they go, and for how I respond.  It just surprises me how I can feel so many different things all at once, and I recognize it’s my own personal grief process getting in the way of the words coming out of my mouth.  Much easier to respond, to joke, to set a tone I dislike, than face the very real and very painful emotions that come with this necessary but difficult decision to remove an important and vital part of my body.

Even now, with all I’ve been through over the last four years, I find myself shaking my head in wonder and confusion, still shocked it’s come to this.

On Frickin’ Friday we get the call that surgery is scheduled for July 21st - unilateral mastectomy with immediate DIEP reconstruction.  The DIEP flap procedure – or Deep Inferior Epigastric Perforators surgery – is an autologous tissue transfer.  It uses a flap of abdominal tissue – skin and underlying fat, as well as blood vessels – to fill the empty pocket of skin that will remain after the breast tissue is removed from Lucy.  The oncological surgeon performs the mastectomy, removing the breast tissue through an incision that also removes the left nipple (“the”?  “My”.  For now it’s still “my left nipple,” dammit).

Once the mastectomy is complete, the plastic surgeon moves in and makes an eye-shaped incision across my lower stomach to harvest the necessary tissue.  After removing a small portion of rib, the blood vessels from my abdomen are micro surgically attached to vessels in my chest; this keeps the tissue alive and healthy.
The entire surgical procedure itself is long and complicated – typically 8 hours.  The first couple of days post-surgery will be in the ICU, with a total of five days in hospital.  This allows the surgeon to monitor the breast tissue for signs of rejection, necrosis (tissue death), or infection, and perform immediate surgery if there are any complications.  Additionally, the abdominal scar is large and poses its own challenges.  It is, in essence, an abdominoplasty (or, in layman’s terms, a tummy tuck).

I’m a very visual person and couldn’t really comprehend the size of the abdominal incision until a fellow DIEPer suggested I take the tips of my thumbs and place them on the top of my hip bones – that pointy area that’s pretty much on your sides.  That is the width of the incision.

Kinda feeling like Humpty Dumpty falling off the wall…..

Unlike a “boob job,” breast reconstruction after mastectomy is very rarely a “one and done” procedure.  For me, this is the first of potentially four procedures (possibly more, possibly fewer, depending on complications and choices I make along the way) to complete the reconstruction process.  There will be scar revisions of my breast and stomach; fat grafting and maybe a lift of Ethel for symmetry; a surgically created nipple and areola tattoos.

Here's to hoping my plastic surgeon can put this cracked egg back together again.

Also unlike a “boob job,” recovery from this surgery is a long and complicated process.  After five days in hospital I’ll be released home with drains, a body wrapped in compression garments, a recliner to sleep in for a few weeks, instructions not to stand up straight for at least two weeks, no lifting, heavy moving, twisting, stretching, or reaching, and NO driving.  If all goes well I’ve been told I could be at “75% at 6 weeks,” and my plan is to return to work at eight weeks.  Fingers crossed for no complications like tissue death, incision opening, infection, or whatever else could potentially go wrong.

So yeah, it’s a free, insurance-paid-for boob job, with a tummy tuck and a little lift for Ethel.

I’d give anything to have two natural, saggy boobs and a tummy pooch from childbirth and dating Ben and Jerry, instead of “cutting them off.”

I’d do anything to not have to make this choice, even when the choice was pretty much made for me.

I’d pay anything not to have to pay this price – with my body, my time and energy, my spirit, my future.

Nothing’s ever truly “free.”

Be Present

The alarm goes off at 5:00 am this morning, and I roll over to see the sun preparing to rise outside, listening to the birds already singing out their morning wake-up calls.  I close my eyes again and sigh, inhaling deeply – spring is finally in the air.  I take a moment to appreciate the moment and a new morning, before my eyes fly open and I remember the day.

Another Manic Monday.

I got a call last Wednesday afternoon from UofM to discuss scheduling an appointment with the surgeon who would be performing my mastectomy.  After a brief conversation with Betty regarding my current treatment status and recent scans, she informed me they wanted to see me next Monday for – again – the All Day Clinic.  But before they could do that, they needed my two most recent CT scans – on disk.  And while UofM can get electronic reports from my hospital and oncology center, they cannot get images and scans.  No – I would need to pick them up from my hospital and bring them to Ann Arbor, preferably NOW, so they could be loaded into the system and the radiologist could read them prior to tumor board and clinic the following Monday.

What I don’t tell Betty is that when she called (at 1:30 in the afternoon) I had just stepped into an important meeting with my director, only to politely step out to take her call.  I am all kinds of annoyed.  Seriously – you need them today?  I ask if I can bring them tomorrow and Betty says they need to have them today to have them uploaded tomorrow, so no – they need them tonight.  Or, more precisely, before the office closes at 5:00 pm.  I mention where I’m sitting at the present moment (looking out my sixth-floor window and wondering if I could magically grow wings or learn to teleport in the next few minutes) and I hear the crickets chirping at the other end of the phone.  I sigh, and promise to have the disk to her by 5:00.  In turn, she promises to call me later in the afternoon with the time of the appointment on Monday.

I call my hospital and ask for copies of the disks; they can’t guarantee they’ll be ready by 3:00 but they’ll do their best.  I return to my meeting, beyond frustrated.  I can’t concentrate on the task at hand because my life is once again disrupted by cancer and inconsideration and rudeness and poor planning not on MY part…  *sigh*

I reach for the chain around my neck and stroke the pendants that hang there every day, and protect me every night.  I breathe deeply, I let it go, I get back to this moment.

Leaving work at 3:00, I fly (alas, not literally) to Jackson to pick up the disk, and arrive at the Cancer Center at 4:45 pm.  Surprise – everyone except the intake receptionist has left for the day, including Betty.  So – I probably could have gotten the disk to her at 8:00 am the next morning, but okay, I’m already here and the task is done.

Success.

Whatever.

Late the next afternoon I receive another call from a friendly voice at UofM, reminding me of my appointment at 9:45 on Monday morning, and another appointment at 2:30 on Monday afternoon.

“I don’t have an appointment yet,” I say to the caller.  She informs me the appointment was made late yesterday afternoon and I was informed of this via phone call.  I really, REALLY want to argue with her – nay, I want to bitch-slap UofM for that poor planning and inconsideration thing, but instead I just let it go…

Two appointments on Monday, five hours apart?  I ask the caller if there’s any way the appointments can be closer together so I don’t have to take an entire day off work.  “No, sorry,” she says.  “It’s Clinic Day, that’s how the appointments are scheduled.”

Clinic Day?  No, no, no…no.  I did Clinic Day three months ago, for the second opinion.  I don’t need to do another Clinic Day – do I?  But after talking with yet another scheduler, I am informed that yes, I do need to do another Clinic Day, which will start with a mammogram at 9:45 am, and a meeting with my surgeon Dr. S at 2:30.

I laugh out loud.  A mammogram to see the cancer that has never, ever, EVER showed up on a mammogram – not the first time, not the second time, not after a wire was placed directly into it.  I tell the scheduler this, she doesn’t seem to care.

So basically this will be a waste of everyone’s time.  And a half day off work I just can’t afford to take.

Can’t wait to say, “I told you so.”

I spin around in frustration, fire off a nasty text to Ken to let him know he needs to up-end his whole world, too, and after a minor temper tantrum I set myself straight and get back to work.

Friday through Sunday Ken and I spend in Traverse City with Stephanie and Josh.  We relax, we splash in the lake, we explore restaurants and vineyards and distilleries and downtown shops.  We drink, we laugh, we get sunburned.  But most of all, we Live.  In the quiet moments in between, in the joy of simply being together, we live beautifully and fully, grateful for and present in each and every moment.  Sunday afternoon comes much too soon and our mini-vaca ends – but I take the happiness home in my heart.

Today was Clinic Day.  The first mammogram ended with – surprise – nothing showing up.  An hour later the second mammogram – different machine, different angles, more pain and frustration – and hopefully something showed up.  I was never told.  Three hours later we’re released for lunch and a quick visit with my parents, and then we’re back at 2:30 to meet the surgeon.

It’s a quick meeting, meant to discuss the mammogram and schedule the upcoming surgery.  Instead, we’re told the surgery can’t be scheduled until their radiologist has a chance to compare and contrast the two most recent CT scans.

Disks of which I dropped off five days ago.  Because it was urgent they be loaded into the system on Thursday in preparation for this very moment.

Uh-huh.  Well.  Okay.

The problem lies in two areas on the new CT scan that are confusing and require further evaluation.  Long story short – Ken and I met with our oncologist a week ago ostensibly to discuss a transfusion.  Bloodwork showed my hemoglobin was really low, but not quite at the point where he wanted to do a transfusion (so no goblins for me!)  He did, however, bring up the CT and pulled out the results.  He let us know he contacted the radiologist directly to discuss the report and asked for an addendum.  Good news – everything that was there before, is now gone.  The radiologist attributes previous lung lesions to inflammation/infection and radiation fibrosis.  His report noted no hilar or mediastinal lymph nodes present.  On the other hand – there’s a new lesion in the lung.  And an area in the anterior mediastinum that was previously 1.3 cm (which, in the previous report, was noted as being a mediastinal lymph node) that is now 1.6 cm.  The radiologist gives lots of radiology-speak and ultimately determines this could be a goiter (holy cow!!)…..or a mediastinal lymph node.  But……you just said there were no enlarged lymph nodes……to which my oncologist replied, “I’m not a radiologist, I’m not sure what this means, but if another radiologist were to give you an opinion on this, I’d be happy to hear it. For now, I’m not concerned.”

Well okie-dokie then – we won’t be concerned, either.  But thanks for the suggestion – we’ll be bringing this up with the radiologist at UofM…

…which brings us right back to where we are right now.  Besides the goiter/lymph node thingy in the middle of my chest, UofM is also concerned with an area in my left axilla – under my arm where lymph nodes were previously removed to check for spreading cancer.  The radiologist notes a 1.5 cm area that “could be a seroma, or a hematoma, but a lymph node cannot be ruled out.”

Erg.  We got answers…but also maybe a couple more questions.  Or, at least, more stuff to explore.

We’re not concerned, or worried, or afraid, or even Going There.  Because it’s too important to focus on and be present in this moment, right now.  We smile and say, “Okay, sounds good,” when the surgeon promises to call in a couple of days with a surgery date, after the radiologist has reviewed and consulted on the films.  We’ll hear from him when it’s time.

We drive home and talk about tomorrow – the sixth (and final!!) chemo.  My mother asked me earlier if I was excited, and without thinking I say, “No.”  Ken and my father laugh in understanding; my lovely mother was confused.  I smile and tell her gently that yes, I’m excited for it to all be over with, but no, I’m not looking forward to going into those days of feeling really crappy – even if it’s the last time (I swear it’s the last time).

I notice myself stroking my pendants again.  I breathe deeply and consciously let go of the dread and fear about tomorrow, and instead focus on the beautiful day that is unfolding as Ken and I drive home.  Blue skies punctuated by fluffy white clouds to our left, dark clouds swooping in to our right.  Raindrops fall from time to time as Ken and I alternate between chatting, and silent thought.

Stephanie made this pendant for me last weekend; her friend K mentioned that during yoga class I talk about being “present in the moment”, and that it’s a challenge we struggle with every day. The past is already gone; we cannot change it but we can learn from it.  We can plan for but cannot control the future, and even the best laid plans can go awry.  All we have is this moment, right now, in which to live fully and freely.

So when I feel the frustration setting in about having cancer yet again…or the need to influence the appointments and surgery and every moment of every day, I am reminded to Be Present.  In those moments I am able to breathe deeply and freely, and can let it all go, finding much joy in the moment. There is a sense of freedom and peace in accepting that I have little to no impact over those things that are not in my control.

This is the gift of the present.

Tomorrow is another day.

Time to Play Catch-Up

*spoiler alert*  I'm having a particular challenge with chemo brain of late; I can't promise that anything I write below will make any sense.  My apologies in advance.

Squirrel.

I've started a few blog posts but quickly abandon them as they became...well, not what I wanted to say, rather what I felt compelled to say.  Sometimes, I feel like I've already "said everything" the first time around and I wonder why I continue to write.  I post complicated and confusing treatise about the technicalities of how cancer changes - even with jelly bean visuals, it's less about my experience and more about how I got here...which is guess is how the journey began, so maybe it's relevant...

Well shit.  Maybe I'm just lazy.  Or overwhelmed by all that seems to be happening at this point in the game, so much so fast, and yet everything moves at a snail's pace.

Begin at the beginning, I suppose.

Three weeks ago was chemo round #4 of 6 - well over the hump and on my way down the other side.  Two more to go, finish line in sight.  It was a low-key, run-of-the-mill chemo day with a twist - post-appointment brunch at Bob Evans instead of Bennies at Chilango's.

We met with our oncologist before chemo and discussed the Past, Present and Future.  I'm tolerating chemo fairly well so far; no serious infections or other problems since that first awful round.  While the third round of chemo brought another (slightly milder) case of folliculitis, nothing else exciting.  I did learn, however, that I have a significant case of anemia, which helps explain why I've been so tired lately, and why running and even yoga has become more difficult to endure (and remove some of the guilt I've had about decreased energy).

My MO recommends red meat (which I don't particularly care for) and spinach, nuts, eggs, cheese to increase my iron intake.

Swell.  This doesn't necessarily jibe well with my current low-fat, high veggie and fruit diet so necessary in battling TN breast cancer.  But I relent and promise to increase my iron intake - anything to help me feel less exhausted.

I ask about the CT rescan.  If you remember, I had a CT just after diagnosis but prior to excisional biopsy, ordered as a "staging" scan, ostensibly to see the size of tumor in my breast as there was confusion between what we could feel, what the ultrasound showed, and what the core biopsy samples revealed.  The CT also revealed two mildly enlarged lymph nodes - one hilar, one mediastinal, which sit in the middle of my chest behind my brestbone - as well as a lesion on my left lower lung lobe.  There is a nodule in my right lung that's just hanging out and no one is concerned at all about - it's small, doesn't appear to be interesting, and apparently nodules in lungs are not uncommon.  Confession time:  for those who don't know me well, I am a former smoker (we all do dumb things in our youth...and maybe again when we get older...but then we wise up and stop being dumb, at least about smoking) so it's possible this is related to that...or to breathing the air...or being alive...lung nodules are not uncommon and are not a concern until and unless they become larger than 1 centimeter, or begin to change over time.

Oh, look a shiny squirrel.

We decide to do the CT scan after chemo #5, so that we can discuss the findings at our last appointment three weeks later.

No professional I've encountered has seemed the least bit concerned about what these things - called "incidentialomas" because they were found incidentally on a scan meant for something else - are, or what they represent.  Not my surgeon, not my MO, not even my second opionion docs at UM.  My radiologist, however, keeps sending me nastygrams in the mail insisting I follow up on these "concerns" with my doctor, which I do - except (as already stated) he doesn't seem concerned.  But he also really does want a rescan - I don't have to twist his arm about this.  Hmmm, Sherlock (*slowly stroking chin with one eye squinty*) - What does this mean?  He tends to keep things close to the vest, so I'll have to wait this one out.  In the meantime, until it's something, it's nothing, and that means I leave it at the clinic door and move out into the sunshine and warm air (which, as we all know, turns to snow a few days later....and the squirrel thinks it's time to hibernate except I keep petting it and calling it Sally, and now it can't escape...)

A day after chemo #4, I catch a new-to-me curveball:  unrelenting nausea (even warm Vernor's wasn't touching this).  The presecription meds can (and for me, DO) cause wooziness; taking it makes daily functioning a bit of a challenge, and that includes the commute to work, enduring countless meetings, staring at spreadsheets for hours on end, and driving my happy ass back home.  It's at moments like this that vomiting and diarrhea actually sound preferable in some perverse way.  Alas, those never materialize, but by Friday the nausea is gone.  Just in time for the highly anticipated Day In Bed, which bone and joint pain and an excruciating headache, thanks in large part to the Neulasta.  The next couple of days are rough, as excepected, but by Monday I start to feel more normal (as normal as a girl who keeps a glittered squirrel by her side).

On Monday I meet with the genetics counselor at UM.  Her role is to record my family history of birth, death, illness and disease, and complete a complicated genogram.  From there we determine whether there is reason to continue forward with blood work to test for breast cancer-related genetic testing, including BRCA1 and 2 tests.

Except, as I point out to her and her lovely student assitant - I've already had the bloodwork completed, and the report returned a few weeks ago.

She is genuinely surprised by this turn of events.  A quick scan of my file reveals no report.  I explain it was completed at UM by their path department; she goes to look for the report, leaving me with the student who is uncomfortable and wants to ask questions but instead we spend a few moments in silence.  The counselor returns and says she cannot locate the report.  Instead we spend a few moments discussing other genetic variations I had not already been tested for, and after reviewing my familial history she mentions something that stands out to her:  my grandparents are of Russian, Polish, and English decent, having emigrated to the U.S. in the early 20th century.  She explains that the CHEK2 mutation is often found in those of Russian/Polish/Northern European descent.  We discuss, I ask questions, and in the end I decide to send another blood sample off to Ambry to determine if there are other variations we need to be concerned about.  It doesn't make a difference to me, but I'd like to know for my childrens - and for their children's sake.

On Friday we meet with our intended plastic surgeon, Dr. M with UM.  He is gentle and kind and incredibly both personable and professional.  He knows I am interested in doing a unilateral mastectomy (Lucy, you got to GO girl!), and that I don't want implants.  His specialty is DIEP flap, which harvests tissue and fat from the belly and places it in the empty breast cavity.  There are pros and cons with this - as with any  surgery.  The pros are a natural-feeling breast that will have warmth, be soft, and look very similar to my other breast (eventually).  It will gain and lose weight as I do.  It won't look round or unnatural, as many implants often do.  The risk of infection and rejection is far less than for implants as there is no foregin body involved.  And, yes, the bonus of this surgery is a tummy tuck of sorts (although having cancer isn't nearly a good enough reason to get a flat stomach, so I'm on the fence about whether this is a pro or a con).

Then again, on the con side is the length of surgery - 8-10 hours and two surgeons.  A 5-day hospitalization, with a two-week at-home recovery during which I can do very little. I'll have three drains to wear for those couple of weeks, too - two in my belly area, another in my breast.  No showering while the drains are in (*insert sad, icky face here*)  Because of the extensive abdominal surgery and arm limitations, getting in and out of bed is a challenge so it's been recommended we get a recliner for me to sleep in.  Dr. M. shares that it will be very important that I don't stand up straight for at least a couple of weeks post-surgery, as the hip-to-hip abdominal incision needs time to heal.  He also explains I could be back to 80% by 6 weeks and return to work at that time, or I could wait a couple more weeks "just to be sure".

So - eight weeks recovery.

But wait - there's more.  As in, this is not a "one and done" surgery.  Three months after the first, I return to Dr. M (who, besides being incredibly kind and personable, also looks incredibly like Taye Diggs, which makes listening intently to all he has to say both easier and a bit of a distracting challenge at times...Sally, get out of here!!)  The second surgery is an outpatient revision surgery to clean up any scars that need work.  In my case that second surgery would also likely include a breast lift on Ethel, for symmetry's sake.

As I stand there with my top open for Dr. M to review the girls, he looks from left, to right, to left, and back to right again.  He gently grabs my belly flab (thank you Ben and Jerry!!) and says, "which one are we trying to match?"  I already know what he means.  My left breast - with all the tissue removed from biopsies and lumpectomies, enduring 6 weeks of radiation - is actually larger and more firm than the right, which has developed a sad little sag and a slight downward tilt to her nipple (I'm 52 and have nursed children - it was bound to happen).  Dr. M has enough tissue to create one breast, but not two.  He offers there are other options to create a second breast, should I desire that - using tissue from my inner thighs or my upper buttocks.

What - no more chubb rub?  No more Kardashian-like butt shelf from which I can easily serve drinks?

Sounds like an awesome idea - except I've seen the surgical photos and the thought of more extensive surgery just to have Ethel as perky and popular as Lucy seems like a lot of work.  Instead, Dr. M suggest we could do a lift and fat grafting (aka liposuction) from those areas, into Ethel, to achieve more symmetry.  I'm comfortable with these ideas, and know that we'll know more once we get through the first surgery.  This only requires a two-week recovery period, and hopefully no drains.

The third surgery, six months later, is to create nipples using the CV flap.  And the last surgical procedue would be to have the nipple tattoed back on - Dr. M. PA apparently is an incredible artist.

It's a lot to process; petting Sally seems to help calm my nerves and keeps me surprisingly focused (even if I end up covered in glitter).  In discussing all of this with Ken, I realized the root of my anxiety comes not just from the fear of all of this surgery (it's a lot - like a LOT of time and energy and attention, and time off work, and recovery, and who knows what the ultimate outcome will be?  And am I worth all this trouble and time and $$ and energy - why can't this just be over?!)  but the reality that this dance with cancer will end far differently than my first - more complication with fewer choices.

And that's when I sort of shut down and just ignore the fact there's a big, fat, glittered squirrel in my living room that's rather needy and eating all the damned chocolate.

In the meantime, life goes on.  We have a Thank You BBQ for those who helped with basement and shed demolition, that ends up as a snow-covered dumpster toss.  Sally subtly suggests that if we're going to drywall the basement, we might as well tear out the ugly drop ceiling in the kitchen...and maybe add that over-oven vent we've been looking at...how about new countertops?  I continue to run but am finding it becoming more difficult with passing days - breathing heavier, legs like lead, shin splints and exhaustion.  Work continues to change and challenge (and with Sally at my side and chemo on my brain, I'm not certain I'm as effective as I could be, but I can usually remember my login password so I figure I'm ahead of the game).

Chemo #5 of 6 was this last Tuesday.  The pentultimate treatment - I can see the finish line!!  My son Michael joins me at this appointment, and blesses me with ice runs and conversation to keep me occupied during the Ice Mitts of Death portion of the show.   He gets to meet my team and be a part of the planning process for the upcoming CT scan (this Friday at 6:20 am - wha?!?!?)  I meet with the PA this treatment as my MO otherwise occupied.  She's a kind and gentle soul and always curious to know how I'm feeling.

I mention that I'm keeping busy but tired, and having a hard time running.  Can't seem to go farther than a block without simply being spent.  I try to get in 2-3 miles on weekends or a nice evening, and have been walking a mile at lunch every day, plus climbing 6-8 flights of stairs twice a day at work - but it's getting harder, not easier.  (*disclaimer here:  It's hard not to go to Dark Places when shit like this happens in Cancerland).

"Well," she says, "your hemoglobin is dropping.  Do you want to see?"

What fresh hell is this?

Those little finger pokes prior to treatment tell me that I started out with a hemoglobin count of 13.5, which is good and normal and happy.  As Ken explains, hemoglobin is like the 18-wheeler of the blood highway, carrying oxygen around the body to keep you going.  Lower hemoglobin means less oxygen delivery, which explains fatigue, muscle tiredness, and my challenges in running, walking, climbing stairs, etc. (I'm counting on it causing my lack of desire to clean, cook, and forgetting to put gas in the car the other day, too...)

On this day, my hemoglobin count is 9, about 75% of what it would normally be.

Apparently Taxotere likes to gobble up hemoglobin, and this is a relatively common SE.  My NP explains that a transfusion would resolve this continued decrease and I would feel better almost instantly, and although they don't usually transfuse until levels drop below 9 I would be a good candidate if I should choose.  She also pointed out that my level will only continue to drop after this treatment, sooooo.......  As I contemplate this for a moment I look over to Mike to see him smiling, remembering when his hemoglobin dropped into the 5's ("how are you still standing up?" his doctor asked), a SE of his kidney disease.  Even he mentioned how much better he felt after a transfusion.  My NP tells me to let them know how I'm feeling next week, and if I'm continuing to struggle they can fit me in.

Off we go to the infusion room, setting ourselves up for the four-hour visit.  My cheeks pink up from the steroids, I settle in to my barca-lounger, and we debate post-chemo brunch options.  It's a typical treatment day; the nauseau starts halfway through this time, but it's manageable.  Otherwise nothing exciting, really, which is always a good thing.

Later that evening, Ken and I decide to hit the Chinese restaurant where Mike works (warm soup sounds delish on the tummy, and Sally likes the little crunchy wontons on the side).  Nibbling my fortune cookie, I read:

"The current year will bring you much happiness."

Seriously, dude, WTF?  But instead I pause, smile at my husband (who always brings me happiness...and Ben and Jerry's...) and realize that yes, even in the middle of a second dance, and nausea and pain and "what-ifs" and anxiety and exhaustion and frustration and inconvenience and huge surgeries and big decisions that I don't want to make - I am truly finding much happiness.

Demolition Creates an Unbroken, Open Heart

On Sunday, Ken and I went to Ypsi to spend a long-overdue afternoon with my parents.  My mom worries about me but we talk on the phone every couple of weeks.  Dad doesn't speak on the phone anymore as he simply can't hear the conversation, and even emails are few and far between.  And I - I'm not the best at keeping in touch with them regularly, so I looked forward to speding some in-person time catching up.  Dad napped most of our visit in the recliner while my sister and I chatted with mom.  As much as I wanted to stay longer, I also needed to get home as I hadn't yet had a chance to do the necessary pre-chemo sanitizing and cleaning of the house, and Ken and I still needed to stop at Briarwood for him to pick up some new work shirts (this is an opportunity that only presents itself once every few years, so I wasn't passing up the chance to go shopping with him for clothes that weren't socks or underwear.  Or socks.  Or underwear.)

It's late afternoon and our tummies are growling, so Ken suggests dinner.  I'm really wanting to get home, but he insists (he enthusiastically bought four shirts with no arguing, so why not celebrate?!)  California Pizza Kitchen, white corn and avocado guacamola, pear-gorgonzola pizza - tummies are now sighing with happiness.  But really, we need to get home, so off we go.

Long day, but still so much to do.  Back in town sitting at a stop light, I'm wondering if I can sneak in a short nap before I get to work cleaning, when Ken shows me a picture on his phone of our granddaughter Nevaeh.  "Look at that," he says.  "It's Vaeh, with The Lady" (a now headless statue so named by Vaeh as a little girl, when she would hug it and profess her love).

"Uh-huh, okay," I said, but really thinking, Why are you showing me this?  Just let me rest a minute.

"It's a nice picture," Ken says, enlarging it a little bit, and I start to see other people in the picture.  On our back deck.  In our lawn furniture.  I'm confused.  "When was this taken?" I say.  I don't remember Mike or Chrissy being at our house...wait, is that Dylan and Sara?  Andy?  Ashley?  Michael and Tori and Stephanie and Josh, wait that's my sister, I just saw her a couple hours ago...like, there's a pack of people in our back yard. Wait, wait...what, when were they at our house...?

"It was taken today," Ken says.  And smiles.  And I'm even more confused when he says, "They've been busy today.  They tore down the garden shed.  And finished the work in the basement.  And cleaned the house."

And that's when it all starts to make sense, in that way that something doesn't really make sense because it just can't possibly be true, and all the words leave my brain and my mouth and the tears start to run down my cheeks except I still can't quite comprehend how this has happened.

I'm calling out the Crew of Angels:  Back Row: Michael, Ashley, Mary, Stephanie Tori, Sara (weilding a mean hammer), Josh and Dylan.  First Row: Chrissy, Nevaeh (with Tori), Mike, and Andy.

We turn the corner on our street and see cars lining both sides.  Pulling into the driveway I see a few familiar faces moving around in the garage, the back yard, coming out of the house.  My daughter Stephanie greets me with the world's biggest hug - and I melt again, crying on her shoulder, realizing the enormity of the gift in front of me.  Our garage is organized, thanks to Tori.  The guys (with some help from Nevaeh, apparently) have dismantled the blue play house/garden shed, which now lays in a pile next to the deck.  Steph says, "Let's go see the basement."

Ken and I had mostly finished the basement ourselves 16 years ago so it seemed like un-finishing it ourselves would be equally enjoyable and fairly easy.  There was a bedroom with no egress window that had morphed into a craft room, as well as a full bathroom that hadn't been used in probably 8-9 years.  The space was fairly unusable as it was, so it make more sense to take out what we had once built and leave the space wide open again - a rumpus room, if you will.  So we'd started the demolition by removing the interior walls - then *bam*, stupid cancer and stupid chemo, and working with the dust and dirt was exhausting and not the best choice, so we sorta stopped halfway through the demo.  The damned basement mocked me and my frickin' diagnosis every time I went down to throw in a load of laundry.  And my sun room - so cold and dark in February, but now bright and warm with spring around the corner - is filled to the brim with all the crafties and assorted storage items from the former craft room.

Today, there was sledging and electrical-ing and plumbing and demo-ing in our basement.  The interior walls are now gone, the old bathroom ceiling ripped out, water pipes capped off, electrical outlets removed, carpet gone.  Nothing left but the wide-open rumpus-y area ready for reconstruction (thanks in large part to Ken's three-page manifesto and painter's tape markings on all things To Be Shit-Piled):

Rumor has it there's a piston in Dylan's gigantic sledge hammer that gives it some extra "oopmh!!"

There is a giant pile of stuff under a tarp in the driveway (now I understand why Ken was talking about a dumpster again this morning...), and another giant pile - our old garden shed - on the side of the deck.  Many stories of the destruction were told that cool and damp Sunday evening (and a few videos captured) but from what I can gather, the shed was torn apart just enough that the boys were able to rock it back and forth, back and forth...until they pushed it over into a heaping pile on the ground (with a few good jumps on the sideways roof from Josh beore Steph wagged the Wife Finger and yelled about health insurance).  Even Vaeh got in a few licks with her hammer:

That moment when Sara had to put the guys in their place because we were almost home...

As Dylan eyed our garage with glee (no, Dylan, we still need our garage, thank you), and I listened to the stories of afternoon adventures, I learn there were more people in attandence that had already come and gone and participated in this blessing.  Friends and family came together and by all accounts, everyone had a blast and no one was hurt.  

So over the last couple of days I find myself still crying gently because I'm overwhelmed by the love and kindness and generosity.  I'm humbled by all of this, and reminded of the attitude of gratitude I often lose in my everyday life.  I realize I forget to give back as much as I receive - and during these journeys I have received more love and gifts of the hearts of others, than I have ever been or will be able to repay to them.  It can be difficult and even painful to receive these gifts when I feel unworthy somehow - it's something I have been doing a lot of deep and painful work on understanding (my Protestant work ethic gets all up in my face too much).  But I know I can pay it forward in other ways, and I am energized to continue doing that in small ways, big ways, each and everyday.  This gift reaffirms my deeply held belief that we are all part of a global community, coming together to help each other not out of need but out of love and care for others, and for ourselves.  The giving is more fulfilling than the receiving, and in the end it all comes back around to each of us as it builds the global community stronger than before.

Every little thing you do for someone else - acknowledge or not - makes a difference in their lives.  Just meeting someone's eyes and smiling, nodding, as you pass on the street, could be the sun that brightens their day.  Saying good morning to less-than-liked coworker, paying for the coffee for the person behind you in line, really listening to what others are asking for (with our without words) and then helping that happen - it's the little things that quickly become the Really Big Things that change lives.....and heal souls and hearts.  The unintended and often forgotten consequnce of this reaching out is that it changes YOUR life, and heals your heart and soul too.  And it comes back around to you at the most unexpected moments, at those times you need it the most.  

So by reading this blog you've become a part of this global community, too.  Find time in the next day or so to smile, say hello, listen to someone else, and create an opportunity for joy and giving.  You'll come away with more joy and peace in your heart than you could have ever expected, and this radiates out into the world like a wave of peace and happiness that will influence those around you.  

Do this for yourself.  Because your heart and soul and spirit and consciousness and YOU deserve it.

And to my Sunday Angels - I love you all and thank you for your help.  Those words feel hollow and less-than-expressive of the gratitude we have, but it's what I have for now.

Thank you.

I Run for Life

I've been remiss in my physical activities of late.  Partly because I haven't physically felt well, but mostly because I've lacked the general motivation to do anything after work and a commute most days, blah, blah - let me grab a little cheese to go with that whine...

Whatever.  I haven't run in three weeks, I've missed it terribly, I've cursed the day I fell in love with it, I've looked forward to the moment I'd get back out there and do it again.

Tonight - finally!  Change into running clothes, head to the gym, twirl the curly stairs up to the track, and find my friend Patty already bouncing along, sweaty and smiley, like an angel in a sports bra.  <insert chorus of heavenly song here>

Patty is an angel, really.  We met during my first time around, when she volunteered at our infusion center.  Her smile and hugs were as warm as the blankets she's wrap me in, while we'd chat and nibble chocolate chip cookies during my visits.  We ran into each other again at the Y where we both particpate in the Turning Point program for breast cancer survivors.  We'd meet on Wednesday evening for yoga or cross training or running the track - whatever we can do to keep ourselves moving and grooving.

When I was re-diagnosed Patty was one of the first people I told.  The next day she sent me an email with a link to a video and the words to a song I'd probably heard but never noticed.  "It's on my playlist," she said, "and I never run without it.  I need to share it with you so you know.  So you can run."  And so I put in my earbuds and closed my eyes and listened to Melissa Etheridge's gravely, tender and powerful voice belt out these words with force and knowledge borne of experience:

"I run for hope, I run to feel
I run for the truth for all that is real
I run for your mother, your sister, your daughter, your wife
I run for you and me, my friend
I run for life"

The few times I've run since receiving that email, I've replayed that chorus in my mind - a mantra moving me forward with every step.  Tonight was no different.  Three weeks since my last run, and as Patty whizzed by with her quick steps I started walking the first revolution, willing my body to warm up, to remember, to be with me in this moment.  On the second revolution I start my run...ankle stumble, momentary knee lock, am I wearing a fanny pack?  Oh no, that's just my ass jiggling in time with my pace, it's been a little while.  Breathing in quickly, exhaling faster...  let's walk that third revoltion, shake out the knee a little.  Fourth revolution, muscle memory starts to kick in, my thighs tighten as they engage a little more, my pace increases just a tad, stupid stitch in my side...let's walk that next revolution.

And so it goes for the 16 spins around the track, the mile I haven't run in three weeks.  Three months ago I was pacing at 10:30/mile, increasing my distance and planning for that half-marathon.  Tonight was a mile.  One mile.  But it wasn't a mile - it was my marathon, my ultra, my endurance race, my own personal Warrior Dash.  With every step, Melissa in my head, I carried with me the sisters I know and those I don't.  After a few revolutions my pace evened out, my steps became rhythmic, my breath flowing, the mantra I call out quietly under my breath, the names in my head and my heart:  my dearest friend, my new sister, my BCO sisters far and wide, all those I love, all those I miss.  All of them.  Over and over.  As Patty laps me she smiles, thinking I'm singing, and I am - a song of strength and hope and determination and experience and love.

The longest mile I've ever run - and beyond doubt, my best mile ever.

"It's a blur since they told me about it
How the darkness had taken its toll
And they cut into my skin and they cut into my body
But they will never get a peice of my soul

And now I'm still learning the lesson
To awake when I hear the call
And if you ask my why I am still running
I'll tell you I run for us all."

Up, Up and Awake...in my Beautiful Balloon...

My mother calls it her "Arsenic Hour".  It's that time in the middle of the night when you wake up, body buzzing with anxiety, brain overflowing with thoughts and words and run-on sentences that make no sense but you can't stop thinking and the more you think the more awake you become and suddenly there's no way you're going back to sleep because your head is now swimming but you feel like you're really drowning and thethoughtsjustwon'tstop...

So.  Here it is, 2:46 am.  Would you like a cup of Lemon Zinger with a little honey?

Sleep is just not my friend anymore.  Sometimes we hang out for a few hours, other times we simply wave at each other in passing.  Even pharmaceuticals don't help - much.  Instead I find myself awake with a chemical-induced hangover, watching James Corden singing and driving (eyes on the road, dude!) and Parks & Rec marathons.  500 channels and there's very little entertainment in the middle of the night.

Chemo Number Three is next Tuesday - half-way point, on the downward slide towards being done!!  Happy Dance of Joy!!  It's a milestone to be celebrated, for sure.

And yet there's that little part inside me that's dreading next week, knowing What's To Come.  I've been sick non-stop since my first infusion with one thing or another, and I can't help but wonder what's behind Door Number Three.  I've gotten used to the Steroid-High Wednesday, and Crash-and-Burn Thursday, and Holy Mother of God Help Me Friday, and There's a Light at the End of the Tunnel - is it a Train? Saturday...

It's the surprises that I fear the most.

Two weeks after my first chemo came the infection in my sentinal node biopsy incision, caused by the perfect storm of previously-radiated breast tissue jiggled too vigorously during a long run without a properly-supportive sports bra, coupled with a low-point in my immune cycle.  Whammo - fever, swelling, tenderness, redness, open wound, icky stuff.  Sunday-morning call to the surgeon meant fever-watching and preparations for the hospital (luckily, never to happen), 10 days of antibiotics, and missing my mother's birthday party.  Frustration and tears; I missed this exact same event four years ago because of chemo-induced bullshit.  Of course the surgeon recommended pushing back the next chemo for a week to allow my body more time to heal; luckily my oncologist thought I was healed enough by the next round to proceed on schedule.  The thought of pushing everything back a week pissed me off - I've got a schedule to keep, folks, life plans and works plans and I ain't got time for this!

A few days later, my sisters come to visit on Easter Sunday, and we spend the day basking in the glory of the sun and warmth and blue skies.  A long walk up and down the neighborhood hills (the girls firmly supported in their new Iron Bra, no jiggling allowed!), talking and giggling and being Normal.  In that sisterly way we talk non-stop, so it's no surprise to me that my voice starts to crack and waver, and by the end of the evening I sound a little like Peter Brady when it's "Time To Change".  Monday morning, though, I can't speak at all - and now I'm coughing and feeling bus-hit.  I teach yoga that evening with minimal verbal cues (and wiping my nose in Downward Facing Dog lest I drip all over my yoga mat...again...).  By Wednesday I'm in full-blown viral mode:  nasty sinus infection, voice completely gone, body aches, exhaustion.  Can't waste my sick days on this, though!  I'm up and down for the next week, and by yesterday the worst of it's over with.  I'm left with a clogged tear duct from the sinus infection that means my left eye is gently weeping, all red and puffy.

But wait...

Late last week my head started to itch and burn.  I figure it's the Second Leaving of the Hair, as there are still a few little straggling stubbles hanging around.  But nope.  I see little red bumps.  Within a day there are more bumps, and they hurt and itch; putting anything on my head is agony.  At work on Friday I'm itching my head over my hat; I sit in a cube in a high-traffic area and I can't take my hat off because it looks so bad, so I push it back on my head to relieve the pressure and pain.  I really need to just take it off, but by the afternoon my head looks like it's on fire, covered in angry red bumps that are now blistering and - yes - breaking open.  It hurts to lay my head on my pillow so I sleep (or rather, don't really sleep) propped up in the corner of the sofa.  Benadryl finally gives me relief (and a little sleep) for a couple of nights.  Again, as I'm at the lowest point in my immune system, my body rebels, and gives me the gift of folliculitis, which can be a side effect of Taxotere.  A week later and for the most part the pain is gone, the itching remains, and my scalp looks a little less the surface of Mars.

So I'm bald, with one dripping, red eye that's half-swollen shut, a scalp covered in blisters in all states of healing, still carrying around a box of Kleenex to catch the marathon-running nose...

I've never looked more lovely.  Or is that frightening?  I can't even compete with Uncle Fester at this point.

Ken is out of town next week, so Stephanie's going to hang with momma for yoga, treatment, and the traditional post-chemo Bennies.  Spending time with her will make the entire experience - and whatever surprises lurk behind Door Number Three - completely worthwhile.