Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Sunday, December 16, 2007
No news = Good news
It’s been three weeks since I’ve blogged. I’m now halfway through radiation. So far I’m not showing signs of fatigue or burning skin, just a little painless reddening.
Meanwhile I’ve continued to heal from chemo side effects. My energy’s good, the anemia is going away on its own, the weakness in my legs is gone, and hair is slowly re-populating my head. I’ve lost some pounds and am almost back to pre-diagnosis weight.
I continue to have numb fingertips and tearing eyes – but I have an appointment with an ophthalmologist this week to see about stenting my tear ducts. Apparently taxotere (my nasty chemo drug) caused scar tissue that blocks the flow of tears into the sinuses so I’m constantly crying.
The port is now painless and works like a charm for both blood draws and IV herceptin. The nurses were right: I wish I’d had the port from day one. I could have avoided chemical burns to my veins and a lot of unproductive needle pokes. If I’d had my treatment at St. Elizabeth’s rather than AMC, I would have had port placement as a matter of course before starting chemo. I’m not sure why that’s not the case at AMC.
As promised, the herceptin seems to be without side effects – so will be little more than a nuisance every three weeks until next fall. There is still hormone replacement therapy to experiment with, but I guess we’ll finish radiation before starting anything new.
With life returning to normal, it seems my blog has run its course in telling my breast cancer story for now. I shall miss it and am on the lookout for a new writing focus.
Thanks for the tremendous show of support over the past several months. I have never felt so loved (despite being downright unlovable at times) or enjoyed so much attention. I hope I’ve shed some light on the treatment of breast cancer – and for heaven’s sake, ladies, be faithful about self exams and mammograms, okay?
Meanwhile I’ve continued to heal from chemo side effects. My energy’s good, the anemia is going away on its own, the weakness in my legs is gone, and hair is slowly re-populating my head. I’ve lost some pounds and am almost back to pre-diagnosis weight.
I continue to have numb fingertips and tearing eyes – but I have an appointment with an ophthalmologist this week to see about stenting my tear ducts. Apparently taxotere (my nasty chemo drug) caused scar tissue that blocks the flow of tears into the sinuses so I’m constantly crying.
The port is now painless and works like a charm for both blood draws and IV herceptin. The nurses were right: I wish I’d had the port from day one. I could have avoided chemical burns to my veins and a lot of unproductive needle pokes. If I’d had my treatment at St. Elizabeth’s rather than AMC, I would have had port placement as a matter of course before starting chemo. I’m not sure why that’s not the case at AMC.
As promised, the herceptin seems to be without side effects – so will be little more than a nuisance every three weeks until next fall. There is still hormone replacement therapy to experiment with, but I guess we’ll finish radiation before starting anything new.
With life returning to normal, it seems my blog has run its course in telling my breast cancer story for now. I shall miss it and am on the lookout for a new writing focus.
Thanks for the tremendous show of support over the past several months. I have never felt so loved (despite being downright unlovable at times) or enjoyed so much attention. I hope I’ve shed some light on the treatment of breast cancer – and for heaven’s sake, ladies, be faithful about self exams and mammograms, okay?
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Some have asked how radiation’s going. I’ve had only two of thirty treatments so far, so no side effects yet. But for the curious, here’s my description of a radiation treatment.
My treatments are every weekday at 2 pm. I chose afternoons; who wants to ruin a perfectly good morning?
I was shown the routine on Day#1. Go directly to the changing room and strip from the waist up. Then don a hospital gown – or in my case, a warm fleece cape* that I bring in with me every day – and head for the women’s waiting room. The treatments are typically on schedule, so not much of a wait before a technician comes to take me to the treatment room.
It’s a large room, basically cold and empty except for the huge machine in the center that I affectionately call “The Voyeur.” The Voyeur is an external beam radiation robot called a Varian. (There are two things blaringly wrong with this photo. First, the patient has hair; second, she is not shivering and naked from the waist up.)
After my cape comes off, two female technicians position me on the narrow board extending from the machine. To position me the same way each day, they line me up using the three tiny tattoos I was given during my first “simulation” appointment. I have both arms raised above my head. It is chilly. I keep my winter hat on.
Once in place, one technician calls out a number and the other apparently enters it into a computer that runs the robot. I am not allowed to move, looking straight up at the ceiling, so I’m never quite sure what’s happening at this point. In any event, once they do what they do, they scamper out of the room, slamming a thick metal door behind them.
And I am left alone with The Voyeur, who now wakes up and begins to hum indifferently while rotating his huge steely head around my torso. (On busy days, he sees four of us every hour.) Once satisfied with the view, The Voyeur begins to deliver a hum of a higher pitch while zapping me with high energy rays. Close, but no touching! (The rays destroy any remaining microscopic cancer cells that may be lurking in my chest and arm pit. Lord help me if my vital organs get in the way or the machine malfunctions.) The Voyeur does his rubber-necking from several angles – each zap-stop less than a minute, though it seems longer as I try to relax away the fear. “Duck and cover” comes to mind as I brace for each successive attack.
Suddenly the technicians return, I put on my fleece, and I’m outa there. No need for clever conversation. No shared cigarette. Don’t get to stay for breakfast in the morning.
Radiation is a lonely affair. It leaves me cold . . . violated by a mechanical peeping Tom with power to destroy anything in his path.
*made by volunteers for breast cancer patients.
My treatments are every weekday at 2 pm. I chose afternoons; who wants to ruin a perfectly good morning?
I was shown the routine on Day#1. Go directly to the changing room and strip from the waist up. Then don a hospital gown – or in my case, a warm fleece cape* that I bring in with me every day – and head for the women’s waiting room. The treatments are typically on schedule, so not much of a wait before a technician comes to take me to the treatment room.
It’s a large room, basically cold and empty except for the huge machine in the center that I affectionately call “The Voyeur.” The Voyeur is an external beam radiation robot called a Varian. (There are two things blaringly wrong with this photo. First, the patient has hair; second, she is not shivering and naked from the waist up.)
After my cape comes off, two female technicians position me on the narrow board extending from the machine. To position me the same way each day, they line me up using the three tiny tattoos I was given during my first “simulation” appointment. I have both arms raised above my head. It is chilly. I keep my winter hat on.
Once in place, one technician calls out a number and the other apparently enters it into a computer that runs the robot. I am not allowed to move, looking straight up at the ceiling, so I’m never quite sure what’s happening at this point. In any event, once they do what they do, they scamper out of the room, slamming a thick metal door behind them.
And I am left alone with The Voyeur, who now wakes up and begins to hum indifferently while rotating his huge steely head around my torso. (On busy days, he sees four of us every hour.) Once satisfied with the view, The Voyeur begins to deliver a hum of a higher pitch while zapping me with high energy rays. Close, but no touching! (The rays destroy any remaining microscopic cancer cells that may be lurking in my chest and arm pit. Lord help me if my vital organs get in the way or the machine malfunctions.) The Voyeur does his rubber-necking from several angles – each zap-stop less than a minute, though it seems longer as I try to relax away the fear. “Duck and cover” comes to mind as I brace for each successive attack.
Suddenly the technicians return, I put on my fleece, and I’m outa there. No need for clever conversation. No shared cigarette. Don’t get to stay for breakfast in the morning.
Radiation is a lonely affair. It leaves me cold . . . violated by a mechanical peeping Tom with power to destroy anything in his path.
*made by volunteers for breast cancer patients.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Any Port in a Storm
I now realize many people have, or have had, ports – but I was totally ignorant of them before getting one myself. If you’re the curious sort, here’s what I’ve learned.
The port is the size of a quarter, only thicker, and is attached to a soft, flexible tube about 8 inches long. The port is placed under the skin through an incision about 1.5 inches long, the opening of the port “pocket.” A second, smaller incision is made a few inches above the pocket where the surgeon inserts the tube into the large subclavian vein under the clavicle. The tube then continues inside the vein, ending just before the vein enters the heart’s right atrium.
The procedure was painless (with numbing). I was awake, with a small dose of drugs for relaxing. (My male nurse called it the equivalent of a “couple of beers.”) Fortunately, and I’m sure by design, the surgical team’s banter was entertaining so I didn’t concentrate on the sounds of snipping and sopping and such. I also had a “tent” over my face to prevent splattering (?) and keep me from catching sight of the goings on.
I was in the surgical room less than half an hour, most of which was prepping. Afterward there was an x-ray to check for proper placement and to make sure no fluid had escaped into the lungs.
Back at home, the freezing wore off in 4-5 hours and I felt as though I’d been shot in the shoulder with the bullet left protruding just under the skin. (I could empathize with grandson Sammy who had surgery to place a medicine pump the size of a tuna can in his lower abdomen. Ouch!)
The next morning, port site extremely tender and a bit swollen, I reported to the Cancer Center for my every-3-weeks Herceptin infusion. Typically before starting there’s a blood draw in the lab to see if blood counts are okay. Now that I had a port, however, the phlebotomist sent me to the chemo nurses who would have a go at drawing blood through my “fresh” port instead.
Off came the gauze, and with one hand behind my shoulder to hold my torso rigidly in place, the nurse came at me from the front with a force great enough to break the tender skin and properly enter the virgin port. The pain nearly sent me through the ceiling! She apologized and explained that usually the port is placed just minutes before it’s used the first time – so the needle goes in when the site is still frozen. For whatever reason, I had the misfortune of having this done when freezing was long gone. Fortuntely the same needle that drew blood would serve to deliver the Herceptin, so I only had to be tortured once.
Blood counts showed anemia again, but until I slip a notch or two lower, insurance won’t cover the cost ($3500) of the shot for boosting red cell production. I was told that eating red meat might help, but more likely chemo was still preventing me from producing adequate red blood cells, so time will tell.
Herceptin infusion went well; now that it’s administered through the port into a much larger vein, it took only half as long to pour it in; no noticeable side effects so far.
Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving and I look forward to hanging out with Josh, Brenda and the boys. Then Friday I have an apointment with an oral surgeon to have my problem molar extracted in time to heal a bit before radiation starts on Monday. Taking care of me is almost a full-time job. I’d rather be shlepping used books.
The port is the size of a quarter, only thicker, and is attached to a soft, flexible tube about 8 inches long. The port is placed under the skin through an incision about 1.5 inches long, the opening of the port “pocket.” A second, smaller incision is made a few inches above the pocket where the surgeon inserts the tube into the large subclavian vein under the clavicle. The tube then continues inside the vein, ending just before the vein enters the heart’s right atrium.
The procedure was painless (with numbing). I was awake, with a small dose of drugs for relaxing. (My male nurse called it the equivalent of a “couple of beers.”) Fortunately, and I’m sure by design, the surgical team’s banter was entertaining so I didn’t concentrate on the sounds of snipping and sopping and such. I also had a “tent” over my face to prevent splattering (?) and keep me from catching sight of the goings on.
I was in the surgical room less than half an hour, most of which was prepping. Afterward there was an x-ray to check for proper placement and to make sure no fluid had escaped into the lungs.
Back at home, the freezing wore off in 4-5 hours and I felt as though I’d been shot in the shoulder with the bullet left protruding just under the skin. (I could empathize with grandson Sammy who had surgery to place a medicine pump the size of a tuna can in his lower abdomen. Ouch!)
The next morning, port site extremely tender and a bit swollen, I reported to the Cancer Center for my every-3-weeks Herceptin infusion. Typically before starting there’s a blood draw in the lab to see if blood counts are okay. Now that I had a port, however, the phlebotomist sent me to the chemo nurses who would have a go at drawing blood through my “fresh” port instead.
Off came the gauze, and with one hand behind my shoulder to hold my torso rigidly in place, the nurse came at me from the front with a force great enough to break the tender skin and properly enter the virgin port. The pain nearly sent me through the ceiling! She apologized and explained that usually the port is placed just minutes before it’s used the first time – so the needle goes in when the site is still frozen. For whatever reason, I had the misfortune of having this done when freezing was long gone. Fortuntely the same needle that drew blood would serve to deliver the Herceptin, so I only had to be tortured once.
Blood counts showed anemia again, but until I slip a notch or two lower, insurance won’t cover the cost ($3500) of the shot for boosting red cell production. I was told that eating red meat might help, but more likely chemo was still preventing me from producing adequate red blood cells, so time will tell.
Herceptin infusion went well; now that it’s administered through the port into a much larger vein, it took only half as long to pour it in; no noticeable side effects so far.
Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving and I look forward to hanging out with Josh, Brenda and the boys. Then Friday I have an apointment with an oral surgeon to have my problem molar extracted in time to heal a bit before radiation starts on Monday. Taking care of me is almost a full-time job. I’d rather be shlepping used books.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
A Nice Break!
This morning I proved I could resume washing the kitchen floor on hands and knees, though it’s definitely harder getting up and down than before! I’ve done three days of easy yoga stretching to the DVD Emily gave me (Thanks, Girl!), and I can, most days, walk rather briskly for over 30 minutes. Other days there is still great reluctance in my legs, though the “biting ants” sensation is now only slight when sitting or lying.
My body has taken to retaining fluid when I get anywhere near salty food. Even without the fluid retention, I have ten extra pounds to work on. Range of motion in my left arm is still “too tight” as little Simon would say; I do stretches a few times a day.
I’m very tired of being bald now that it’s colder, but so far all I see is a light covering of white “down” and can feel very sparse bristles in spots.
My fingers continue numb at the tips. My fingernails, cut as short as possible, now have brown spots (once tender, red spots) about ¼-inch from the cuticle. The skin on my hands stopped being super tender about a week ago.
My eyes continue to water, making attempts at eye makeup generally disastrous. If I don’t continually mop up the salty tears throughout the day, I end up with dried salt flakes around my eyes. My nose continues to bleed occasionally and runs copiously when I eat. ???
I no longer need an afternoon nap. I am sleeping well; in fact, I would like to sleep about 10 hours a night.
I had an entire week “off” from medical appointments and made good use of it . . . coffee shops, lunch dates, arranging our new living room furniture.
On Monday I have port surgery, Herceptin IV on Tuesday, and then start six weeks of radiation after Thanksgiving.
There’s still a long way to go – but I have my life back for now and it’s great!
My body has taken to retaining fluid when I get anywhere near salty food. Even without the fluid retention, I have ten extra pounds to work on. Range of motion in my left arm is still “too tight” as little Simon would say; I do stretches a few times a day.
I’m very tired of being bald now that it’s colder, but so far all I see is a light covering of white “down” and can feel very sparse bristles in spots.
My fingers continue numb at the tips. My fingernails, cut as short as possible, now have brown spots (once tender, red spots) about ¼-inch from the cuticle. The skin on my hands stopped being super tender about a week ago.
My eyes continue to water, making attempts at eye makeup generally disastrous. If I don’t continually mop up the salty tears throughout the day, I end up with dried salt flakes around my eyes. My nose continues to bleed occasionally and runs copiously when I eat. ???
I no longer need an afternoon nap. I am sleeping well; in fact, I would like to sleep about 10 hours a night.
I had an entire week “off” from medical appointments and made good use of it . . . coffee shops, lunch dates, arranging our new living room furniture.
On Monday I have port surgery, Herceptin IV on Tuesday, and then start six weeks of radiation after Thanksgiving.
There’s still a long way to go – but I have my life back for now and it’s great!
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Life has become more normal this past week. I am out and about a few hours each day, trying to be active around the house, and sleeping fairly well. Some days walking is easier than others, which still baffles me. Even the annoying side effects that remain have faded into the background of busy days. Wearing rubber gloves around the house leaves me no excuse for chores that might otherwise exacerbate skin and fingernail vulnerability. And a combination of coffee (yes! my taste for Starbucks has returned) and water pills keeps me fairly unpuffy.But alas, today is my first radiation appointment – a “simulation” which I don’t know much about, though I believe it includes an MRI to pinpoint where future radiation will be directed. Now that I’m living again, I am not excited about what radiation may have in store for me, but feel I must give it a go. Radiation goes on for 6 weeks, 5 days a week. So if I’m not home, you’ll know where to find me until shortly after New Year’s.
It is now three weeks since my last chemo – so the plan is to start growing hair again at the end of this month. Unfortunately, a good insulating cover isn’t likely anytime soon, so I’m in search of warm winter hats to get me through the winter.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
