Monday, April 23, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
F'ing chemo? You betcha...
I was chatting via text the other day with my SIL (sister-in-law), and she was asking about the next round of chemo that I start on Monday (the Adiramyacin/Cytoxin cocktail). I've just finished 12 weeks of Taxol/Herceptin (that's 3 fucking months -- MONTHS, people), which were really starting to take it's toll on me. Besides feeling like I've had the flu that entire time, I've had other SE's (side effects) as well. Neuropathy in my fingertips, hair loss, nose bleeds, acne and other skin issues, hormonal changes (chemopause) that can wig me out without notice, hot/cold flashes -- those are just to name a few. But this next round... Sigh. I'm really trying to think positive on it because this is the treatment that, when they show the awful SE's of chemo in the movies, is what they portray and what everyone thinks of. My oncologist even told me that they used to give this type of chemo in-patient because patients got so sick. Think of non-stop barfing. Sounds like fun, huh?
Thank goodness times -- and medications -- have changed. I'm told there are some great drugs out there now to prevent chemo-induced sickness. I'll be given about 3 different types of those drugs before they pump me up with the chemo. Can I still end up getting sick? Sure. Will I? I have no idea. I'm hoping not. Most people I talk to now, who have had the pre-meds, haven't. Then there's the shot I have to go in for the day after because the AC makes your white blood count drop so quickly. The shot rebuilds the white blood cells inside your bone marrow. But as a side effect of that happening, your bones can hurt. Everywhere. The pain can range from not bad to debilitating. Again, I have no idea what to expect.
But going back to that text conversation I had with my SIL. She was asking if this round (the 4 bi-weekly treatments I'll have of AC) was my last, after of course, it kicks my ass. Fucking chemo, she said.
Fucking chemo, is right.
But as soon as I read that, it got me to thinking. The chemo is working. My tumors are shrinking. I can tell, and my oncologist has told me the same thing. So, in the end, thank goodness for chemo. There's nothing I like about it (okay, well maybe I like the fact that I don't have to shave my legs at all), but it's WORKING.
I have to keep repeating that over and over in my head. It's working.
I'm going to be freaked out on Monday when I start the AC. I've heard it's called The Red Devil, because it's a red fluid that comes in tubes and has the potential of making you feel like you're in a living hell. It's also hand-injected by the nurse, no IV pump taking care of this one. I'm sure there will be tears on my part (big shocker there, since so much makes me cry anymore), and a boatload of anxiety (thank heavens for Ativan). But, like everything else so far, I'm going to take a deep breath and do it. Did you hear that? I WILL DO IT. I simply have to.
On that note, wish me luck? Or maybe just toss a little good juju into the air on Monday around noon. I'll grab on to it with both hands and hold on tight, I promise. Afterwards, I'll let you all know how it goes...
Thank goodness times -- and medications -- have changed. I'm told there are some great drugs out there now to prevent chemo-induced sickness. I'll be given about 3 different types of those drugs before they pump me up with the chemo. Can I still end up getting sick? Sure. Will I? I have no idea. I'm hoping not. Most people I talk to now, who have had the pre-meds, haven't. Then there's the shot I have to go in for the day after because the AC makes your white blood count drop so quickly. The shot rebuilds the white blood cells inside your bone marrow. But as a side effect of that happening, your bones can hurt. Everywhere. The pain can range from not bad to debilitating. Again, I have no idea what to expect.
But going back to that text conversation I had with my SIL. She was asking if this round (the 4 bi-weekly treatments I'll have of AC) was my last, after of course, it kicks my ass. Fucking chemo, she said.
Fucking chemo, is right.
But as soon as I read that, it got me to thinking. The chemo is working. My tumors are shrinking. I can tell, and my oncologist has told me the same thing. So, in the end, thank goodness for chemo. There's nothing I like about it (okay, well maybe I like the fact that I don't have to shave my legs at all), but it's WORKING.
I have to keep repeating that over and over in my head. It's working.
I'm going to be freaked out on Monday when I start the AC. I've heard it's called The Red Devil, because it's a red fluid that comes in tubes and has the potential of making you feel like you're in a living hell. It's also hand-injected by the nurse, no IV pump taking care of this one. I'm sure there will be tears on my part (big shocker there, since so much makes me cry anymore), and a boatload of anxiety (thank heavens for Ativan). But, like everything else so far, I'm going to take a deep breath and do it. Did you hear that? I WILL DO IT. I simply have to.
On that note, wish me luck? Or maybe just toss a little good juju into the air on Monday around noon. I'll grab on to it with both hands and hold on tight, I promise. Afterwards, I'll let you all know how it goes...
Thursday, April 12, 2012
I miss normal. I miss me.
I miss normal.
I miss feeling good.
I miss my hair.
I miss my taste buds.
I miss the energy I used to take for granted.
I miss the feeling in my fingertips.
I miss leaving the house without having to decide whether to wear a scarf or a wig on my head.
I miss my imagination.
I miss... God, there's so much more.
What it comes down to is that I simply miss me.
Yesterday and today kind of tossed a few of those things that I miss right back in my face. I visited with some great friends at this year's Romantic Time's convention (which is being held here in Chicago) -- then I came home and got really sad.
I didn't want to feel so worn out at my publisher's party last night. I didn't want to sit on the sidelines and watch everyone else out on the dance floor having fun. I didn't want to drink water instead of having a glass or two of wine. I didn't want to have to go to bed as early as I did.
Don't get me wrong -- I loved all the hugs. The gentle hands rubbing my back. I loved everyone telling me how good I looked, even though I hate that there is a reason they wanted to tell me that. I loved meeting those people in person that I've known for years only online. I loved seeing all the friends I've made at all the conventions I'd attended before. I loved the laughs I shared. All of that was so great.
It's just that I miss the old me. The girl who would do up her hair just-so before the party started. The girl who would've had at least one glass of red (and hell, probably more) before the night was over. The girl would would've been out on that dance floor shakin' her groove thang until the party was shut down, the girl who would've then moved on with the other party-goers to the bar or lobby to just sit and talk (and maybe have another drink).
I miss that girl, damn it. I miss the hell out of her.
I'm told she's still around, somewhere inside me. She may come out the other end of this cancer gig the same, and she may not. I don't know what to expect, and I'm not going to lie and say that doesn't freak me out a little.
Something new pops up for me every day, whether it be an emotion, a side effect or something else I have to struggle through. There is no normal for me right now. My old normal will never be again, and I get a little wiggy when I think too hard on what my new normal has in store for me. For now, though, I don't have any choice other than to take a deep breath and try to accept what I've been handed. A lot of the things I miss are temporarily gone, I understand that. My hair will fill in. My energy level will build up. My tasted buds and my wilted imagination will make a return appearance. I'm just hoping that the girl I miss, the old me, I just hope that she decides to comes back to me, too.
I miss feeling good.
I miss my hair.
I miss my taste buds.
I miss the energy I used to take for granted.
I miss the feeling in my fingertips.
I miss leaving the house without having to decide whether to wear a scarf or a wig on my head.
I miss my imagination.
I miss... God, there's so much more.
What it comes down to is that I simply miss me.
Yesterday and today kind of tossed a few of those things that I miss right back in my face. I visited with some great friends at this year's Romantic Time's convention (which is being held here in Chicago) -- then I came home and got really sad.
I didn't want to feel so worn out at my publisher's party last night. I didn't want to sit on the sidelines and watch everyone else out on the dance floor having fun. I didn't want to drink water instead of having a glass or two of wine. I didn't want to have to go to bed as early as I did.
Don't get me wrong -- I loved all the hugs. The gentle hands rubbing my back. I loved everyone telling me how good I looked, even though I hate that there is a reason they wanted to tell me that. I loved meeting those people in person that I've known for years only online. I loved seeing all the friends I've made at all the conventions I'd attended before. I loved the laughs I shared. All of that was so great.
It's just that I miss the old me. The girl who would do up her hair just-so before the party started. The girl who would've had at least one glass of red (and hell, probably more) before the night was over. The girl would would've been out on that dance floor shakin' her groove thang until the party was shut down, the girl who would've then moved on with the other party-goers to the bar or lobby to just sit and talk (and maybe have another drink).
I miss that girl, damn it. I miss the hell out of her.
I'm told she's still around, somewhere inside me. She may come out the other end of this cancer gig the same, and she may not. I don't know what to expect, and I'm not going to lie and say that doesn't freak me out a little.
Something new pops up for me every day, whether it be an emotion, a side effect or something else I have to struggle through. There is no normal for me right now. My old normal will never be again, and I get a little wiggy when I think too hard on what my new normal has in store for me. For now, though, I don't have any choice other than to take a deep breath and try to accept what I've been handed. A lot of the things I miss are temporarily gone, I understand that. My hair will fill in. My energy level will build up. My tasted buds and my wilted imagination will make a return appearance. I'm just hoping that the girl I miss, the old me, I just hope that she decides to comes back to me, too.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Finding the humor... some way
I'd like to use this post to go back a little and fill in some of the cracks from my first post. If you read the comments, you would've seen Maggie's that mentioned I forgot to talk about my FTD campaign. It's kind of a funny story...
After I had my mammogram and ultrasound, they gave me copies to take with me when I visited the breast surgeon. I couldn't read a mammogram if you asked me to (even though I could clearly see the area where my tumors were, but the angles and what's up or down? Nope.). The ultrasound, however, came out a little more clear to me. But it was my middle daughter who noticed that one of the tumors, the HER2 positive one, the one that pretty much grew within that month between my SBE's (self-breast exams), was in the shape of a duck. Well, I decided to name the thing Daffy. Fuck the duck, I'd say. Daffy, the little bastard, is going down. Mari Freeman, who has been one of my rocks through this whole thing, found a picture for me of Bugs Bunny shooting Daffy's head off. I found the picture to be hilarious, and absolutely perfect. I mentioned this on my Facebook page, and thus the FTD campaign was born.
Good new is? The Herceptin -- the drug specifically targeted toward HER2 tumors -- is working. After about three weeks into chemo, I couldn't feel the hard lump anymore. Some thickening of the tissue where it was, yes. But not the hard lump. At six weeks, I saw my oncologist and he said the same thing. Thickening of the tissue, but no lump. I'm quiet about this good news. I LOVE that the chemo is working. I hate being on it, but you know what I mean. I guess I've just had so much bad news this year that it's hard to let the good in and celebrate. Does that make sense?
At my visit with the breast surgeon, she scheduled an MRI. Tara Nina, in the comments, mentioned that she's an MRI tech. Bless you, Tara. If I would have to deal with people like me every day... Sheesh. Yep, you guessed it, I'm claustrophobic. Terribly. I hate flying because you're shooting through the sky in a tiny metal tube. I hate crowded elevators because I'm always the shortest and I just KNOW everyone else is taking up all the air inside there. I'll wait forever at a packed event to leave so I can avoid that mad rush of people who typically tower over me. But none of those things compare to how I felt during that MRI. Holy hell. The surgeon even gave me Valium -- the lowest dose I imagine, since it didn't help AT ALL. I had to come out of the tube 3 times. Each time I waited until that itch inside me couldn't be ignored anymore. It took a lot of talking to myself, and keeping my eyes closed tight, to make it through. I know more MRI's are in my future, and now I know to ask for a bit bigger dose of Valium. Better living though chemistry -- that's the new motto in our house!
At the appointment with my oncologist (which I had during the worst snowstorm we had this year -- how's that for drama?) he ordered a CAT scan to check for tumors elsewhere in my body. This was a big one for me, since my sister passed from end stage pancreatic cancer in June 2005. I was assured by my oncologist that breast cancer can't travel to the pancreas, but still. Scary to say the least. I'd had a CAT scan before, but I forgot how the contrast injection made me feel. As soon as it was pumped in through the IV, my heart nearly beat out of my chest and I had a moment of whooooa, I can't breathe. That lasted only a few seconds before the rush hit lower. The contrast seriously makes you feel like you've wet your pants! It's the oddest feeling, I swear. It's something to get a little laugh at, and it would've been funnier if my heart hadn't been racing the way it was. Something to keep in mind for the next time. And yay, the CAT scan came back clear. Another one of those good news things that I keep close and hold tight.
My onc also ran a blood test for the BRCA 1 & 2 genetic markers. Women who test positive for the BRCA genes have an 80-90% chance of having breast cancer in their lifetime, and a 10% chance of developing ovarian cancer. Men who carry the gene are at risk for pancreatic and prostate cancer. Because of my sister's cancer and because of my young age at diagnosis, I was a candidate to have this test done. It's a very expensive test, and most insurance companies require some sort of history or other factors for them to cover the cost -- which just sucks. I'm a big believer that every woman should have this test done, but with a price tag of $3600 (yes you read that right), that's not feasible. If the test came back positive, my treatment plan would've included a double mastectomy and having my ovaries removed. Drastic, but necessary. Thankfully, my BRCA 1 & 2 came back negative. I don't carry the gene.
Treatment update: I'm halfway through my weeks of treatments (20 weeks, 16 treatments)! I had #10 out of 12 Taxol/Herceptin infusions yesterday. I receive a few premeds beforehand to combat nausea, etc, one of which is Benadryl. The combo of the Benadryl and the Ativan I take makes me so sleepy. I came home afterward tired and irritable, but because of the steroids they give me during the premeds, I couldn't nap. Ugh. I feel pretty good today, knock on wood. It's usually day 3 or 4 after treatment when I feel the full effects of the fatigue. Only 2 more of these to go, then I move on to Adriamyacin/Cytoxin. It's called the Red Devil, and it's the chemo that has the potential to make me sick. Not looking forward to it at all, but it's all one day at a time, right?
Yep, one day at a time. That's all we can do.
Kristin
After I had my mammogram and ultrasound, they gave me copies to take with me when I visited the breast surgeon. I couldn't read a mammogram if you asked me to (even though I could clearly see the area where my tumors were, but the angles and what's up or down? Nope.). The ultrasound, however, came out a little more clear to me. But it was my middle daughter who noticed that one of the tumors, the HER2 positive one, the one that pretty much grew within that month between my SBE's (self-breast exams), was in the shape of a duck. Well, I decided to name the thing Daffy. Fuck the duck, I'd say. Daffy, the little bastard, is going down. Mari Freeman, who has been one of my rocks through this whole thing, found a picture for me of Bugs Bunny shooting Daffy's head off. I found the picture to be hilarious, and absolutely perfect. I mentioned this on my Facebook page, and thus the FTD campaign was born.
Good new is? The Herceptin -- the drug specifically targeted toward HER2 tumors -- is working. After about three weeks into chemo, I couldn't feel the hard lump anymore. Some thickening of the tissue where it was, yes. But not the hard lump. At six weeks, I saw my oncologist and he said the same thing. Thickening of the tissue, but no lump. I'm quiet about this good news. I LOVE that the chemo is working. I hate being on it, but you know what I mean. I guess I've just had so much bad news this year that it's hard to let the good in and celebrate. Does that make sense?
At my visit with the breast surgeon, she scheduled an MRI. Tara Nina, in the comments, mentioned that she's an MRI tech. Bless you, Tara. If I would have to deal with people like me every day... Sheesh. Yep, you guessed it, I'm claustrophobic. Terribly. I hate flying because you're shooting through the sky in a tiny metal tube. I hate crowded elevators because I'm always the shortest and I just KNOW everyone else is taking up all the air inside there. I'll wait forever at a packed event to leave so I can avoid that mad rush of people who typically tower over me. But none of those things compare to how I felt during that MRI. Holy hell. The surgeon even gave me Valium -- the lowest dose I imagine, since it didn't help AT ALL. I had to come out of the tube 3 times. Each time I waited until that itch inside me couldn't be ignored anymore. It took a lot of talking to myself, and keeping my eyes closed tight, to make it through. I know more MRI's are in my future, and now I know to ask for a bit bigger dose of Valium. Better living though chemistry -- that's the new motto in our house!
At the appointment with my oncologist (which I had during the worst snowstorm we had this year -- how's that for drama?) he ordered a CAT scan to check for tumors elsewhere in my body. This was a big one for me, since my sister passed from end stage pancreatic cancer in June 2005. I was assured by my oncologist that breast cancer can't travel to the pancreas, but still. Scary to say the least. I'd had a CAT scan before, but I forgot how the contrast injection made me feel. As soon as it was pumped in through the IV, my heart nearly beat out of my chest and I had a moment of whooooa, I can't breathe. That lasted only a few seconds before the rush hit lower. The contrast seriously makes you feel like you've wet your pants! It's the oddest feeling, I swear. It's something to get a little laugh at, and it would've been funnier if my heart hadn't been racing the way it was. Something to keep in mind for the next time. And yay, the CAT scan came back clear. Another one of those good news things that I keep close and hold tight.
My onc also ran a blood test for the BRCA 1 & 2 genetic markers. Women who test positive for the BRCA genes have an 80-90% chance of having breast cancer in their lifetime, and a 10% chance of developing ovarian cancer. Men who carry the gene are at risk for pancreatic and prostate cancer. Because of my sister's cancer and because of my young age at diagnosis, I was a candidate to have this test done. It's a very expensive test, and most insurance companies require some sort of history or other factors for them to cover the cost -- which just sucks. I'm a big believer that every woman should have this test done, but with a price tag of $3600 (yes you read that right), that's not feasible. If the test came back positive, my treatment plan would've included a double mastectomy and having my ovaries removed. Drastic, but necessary. Thankfully, my BRCA 1 & 2 came back negative. I don't carry the gene.
Treatment update: I'm halfway through my weeks of treatments (20 weeks, 16 treatments)! I had #10 out of 12 Taxol/Herceptin infusions yesterday. I receive a few premeds beforehand to combat nausea, etc, one of which is Benadryl. The combo of the Benadryl and the Ativan I take makes me so sleepy. I came home afterward tired and irritable, but because of the steroids they give me during the premeds, I couldn't nap. Ugh. I feel pretty good today, knock on wood. It's usually day 3 or 4 after treatment when I feel the full effects of the fatigue. Only 2 more of these to go, then I move on to Adriamyacin/Cytoxin. It's called the Red Devil, and it's the chemo that has the potential to make me sick. Not looking forward to it at all, but it's all one day at a time, right?
Yep, one day at a time. That's all we can do.
Kristin
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