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?

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.

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.

Tired of being bald, and with renewed energy of late, I took a scissors to the wig I've had on the shelf since late September. After trimming and thinning, it looks a little bit more like my own hair and makes a dandy, warm "hair hat" for winter.

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!

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.

Looking Forward

I went to the Cancer Center for my first dose of Herceptin (only) yesterday. I was so fearful just approaching the place that I had them take my blood pressure as soon as I got to an exam room; I thought I was passing out. Upon hearing I had ideal blood pressure, I began to feel much better!

So Doc and I had another good talk. Again he offered that last full blast of chemo, but I smiled and said no thanks. When I quizzed him about why he gave the nasty Taxotere every 2 weeks rather than the recommended every 3 weeks, he went into a long exposé about trials that had been done . . . the bottom line being there is reason to believe Taxotere WEEKLY has the best results, but they didn’t have enough people able to complete the trials! (No kidding.) So instead, data is being gathered on patients who have it every OTHER week. I would have been one of those statistics if I hadn’t quit. (See next blog entry about the woman I met yesterday with the same treatment program I have.)

We talked about my difficulty sleeping with the itching/tingling sensation in my legs. He was reluctant to believe it goes away when I walked around and starts up again when seated or lying down. He as much as said it’s in my head. I can’t deny that allegation; I’ve got my parents’ genes after all (both anxiety freaks). Nonetheless, he is always quick to grab his prescription pad! He recommended Neurontin for neuropathy. I haven’t tried it yet (I’m collecting unused prescriptions) because I suspect the condition is getting better on its own and don’t want to add more chemicals to the mix.

Upon hearing that the pre-meds for Herceptin were just Tylenol tablets and half the dose of benadryl I was getting before, I felt much better about the year of Herceptin in the offing. (No more steroids.) With that, I asked him about my veins holding out and whether I’d need a port. (I’d done some research and my adamant refusal now seemed unfounded.) He said it was up to me or the nurses in the chemo area. When I was good and tired of having my right arm beat up every time, I could request a port and it would be arranged with a surgeon within days.

Once again in my favorite chair, the first nurse gave up trying to IV me, and I was never so pleased to see “the good one” heading over to get the job done. I asked her what she thought about my needing a port. Would I possibly make it to next August without one? Her answer was blunt: No way. “We’re already up to your elbow; there isn’t anywhere to go from here. You’ll either get it now or get it later, so you might as well get it now and make good use of it.” She showed me the kind (from a shoebox of various models) that my oncologist likes to use. It looks like a doorbell button. It’s inserted under the skin – so just a bulge as long as it’s needed. Near the clavicle. Needles and tubes go easily in and out. No muss, no fuss.

I’m trying to schedule port surgery for November 19, so Doc can examine how it’s coming along on the 20th when we use it for the first time with the next round of Herceptin. I am trying to be courageous again.

My anemia improved; no more shots. So if my anemia’s no longer concerning, why am I so incredibly weak?

I don’t recommend trying this, but apparently sitting and lying down for the greater part of 2-3 months renders one quite incapable of walking more than a few steps.

I’m so determined now to get back to health that my mind is a little bit ahead of my body. Last night I wanted to begin my new walking regimen (Doc wants me to work up to 30 minutes of brisk walking daily by the time I’m back in three weeks), so Greg and I set out with the intent of going 10 minutes one direction and 10 minutes back. Shocking as it is, I quickly realized I had to reduce the goal to 10 minutes TOTAL – and even that was very slow and incredibly hard. I had no idea my muscles were so deconditioned. I am more determined than ever. My task this afternoon is to walk to Aldi and back.

(The following blog entry is about a woman I met in the next chemo chair yesterday who shares my particular long treatment program for the same diagnosis.)

Soldiers in the same battle

No two breast cancer stories are the same. No two treatment scenarios are the same. There are as many treatment plans as there are variables. You can’t compare one case with another. I suspect it’s that way with every kind of cancer, whether lung cancer, pancreatic or multiple myeloma. I don’t know, but I’ll never be tempted to compare one person’s stamina with another’s.

With last month being breast cancer awareness month, I felt bombarded with breast cancer stories. At the same time I was seeking conversation with other women with breast cancer in order to decide on my own options. But none of the women I read about or talked to shared my diagnosis. No one seemed to have “mastectomy with node involvement, Stage II invasive ductal carcinoma with hormone-receptive and HER2/neu positive cells.”

Then I happened upon Bonnie in the chair next to me yesterday. She had the same diagnosis, a month ahead of me. Found on routine mammogram, but since her mother had had breast cancer in her 70’s, she wasn’t as surprised as I was. She is about my size. About my age. She has the same oncologist. She was getting Taxotere and Cytoxan every two weeks, too – but she said she couldn’t go on after the fourth round. She felt too, too, awful.

I could have hugged her for sharing her misery! When I told her I had five rounds before I gave up (not to mention two root canals and a hospital stay), she gave me a look that said “you go, girl!” At last I didn’t feel like the biggest wimp in the pool of breast cancer babes!

So we commiserated about the length of our treatments compared to others’. We commiserated about the nasty side effects of Taxotere. We shared our fears about the future and what we’d do when/if the cancer comes back. We talked about how fortunate we were that we didn’t have young children to care for during chemo and that we had nice, supportive husbands. We talked about our abandoned gardens this year. We talked about our “lost summer of 2007.” And we didn’t care who heard us. It just bubbled to the surface.

And yet, she and I are now on slightly different paths. Because (?) Bonnie had only four full chemo treatments, Doc switched her from Taxotere to a less nasty chemo drug and put her on a longer schedule for completing it. (He suggested the same for me after my round 4, as I recall, but I opted to do round 5 instead to see how it went. I didn’t want to start something new and string it out even longer*.)

Undoubtedly, because we are both “Tuesday people” we will run into one another again. If not, I have her phone number in case we find more to commiserate about as we move into radiation and hormone therapy. What an instant bond of sisterhood with someone who knows. Of course I’m sorry Bonnie’s had the same rough time of it, but as long as we’re both in this game, I’m oh-so glad we met.

*Yesterday I got Doc to admit that 5 rounds of Taxotere every other week might indeed be just as effective as 6 rounds given every three weeks. This of course made me feel better and I think he gave me points for stubborn optimism.

I've misplaced my good attitude

*
If anyone asks me how it’s going, they’re likely to get a full-blown self-pitying saga complete with blubbering – or they’ll get “I don’t want to talk about it, let’s talk about you.”

Truth is, I'm pretty depressed. While I try to count my blessings (I’m eating well, walking around, still climbing the stairs, taking care of myself and doing the occasional laundry), I guess I had unreasonable expectations about getting well when I stopped chemo two weeks ago.

The first few days after the hospital showed hopeful improvement . . . the weight loss and diminished heart pounding when I climbed the stairs, for instance.

But then the “biting ants syndrome” in my legs returned and one thing’s led to another. (Last Tuesday, recall, my oncologist glibly diagnosed the itching as eczema and wrote me yet another prescription. I knew it wasn’t eczema and didn’t have it filled.)

Sitting or lying down for more than 15 minutes brings on the biting ants. This of course means reading, writing, or movie watching is done in 15- minute intervals. That’s not so bad during the day; there’s always something I can do around the house to keep me moving.

When it becomes a real problem is nighttime…sleeping. Having tried everything else, I’ve finally given in to a combination of pain pills and sleeping pills for a successful six hours of slumber each of the last two nights.

Unfortunately, I blame the pills for returning fluid retention – which for some reason is no longer relieved by water pills. Six of the fourteen pounds of water weight has returned.

Meanwhile, my now-puffy eyes continue to run, my nose bleeds, my hands feel as though they have no skin (they're so tender) and fingertips still threaten to shed their fingernails.

My hope is this will eventually just “go away” – but when I see lack of progress for a week, I naturally feel fearful. Beware of offering encouragement: I may bark at you.

I'm scheduled for IV antibodies (Herceptin for HER2/Neu cancer) on Tuesday, and of course I approach with trepidation. While it's not supposed to be as nasty as chemo, it still requires finding an IV vein and is preceded by two pre-meds to combat side effects, so how innocuous can it really be?

My venting is complete. I am going to try grocery shopping today. I know there are places to sit and rest along the way because I have often smiled kindly at little old men who rest upon their canes on those benches.

Into the Future

Despite a glorious 14-lb weight loss since starting diuretics, my condition seems to change hourly. By the time I think of writing, the prevailing side effect is replaced by some other concern. Nothing as bad as the 2-week toothache or last week’s meltdown, but nonetheless keeping me from normal activity.

Itching continues (my “biting ant syndrome”) and is bad enough to wake me in the night. Sleep still eludes me. Last night I had stabbing pain in one eye. The chemo-burned veins on the back of my hand that had been healed have decided to flare again. My eyes are mattering and tearing. My nose bleeds. My fingertips are tender and tingling. I have small cold sores in the corners of my mouth. The anemia still has me struggling with stairs – and while the weather beckons me to go for a walk, I’m afraid I may not make it back. I miss grocery shopping, but am too stubborn to use an electric cart.

Still, hope is on the way. I saw my oncologist yesterday in followup after the hospital. He wasn’t surprised when I said I was finished with chemo (I did 5 of 6), so we talked about treatments yet to come.

Another blood draw prompted a second injection for red blood cell production for anemia. He called my itching “eczema” and told me to use moisturizer; he wrote a prescription for corticosteroid cream, warning it may irritate my skin because of my current hypersensitivity – so I’m reluctant to try it. He said the itching is likely to continue for six months or more. Just call me Job.

He talked me into continuing Herceptin for now. This is the antibody I’ve already been getting along with chemo. Continuing means IV infusion every three weeks until August. He claims it’s highly effective in eliminating recurrence of my HER2/neu cancer cells. Supposedly it has few side effects (other than possible continued hair loss), so we shall see.

Continuing Herceptin brings up the issue of my veins cooperating with IV placement and fear of a PICC line or “port.” The PICC line is about a foot of tubing up the vein with the open end held in place by tape between infusions. It is often annoying and vulnerable because it’s in the crook of the elbow where there is a nice big vein. A port, on the other hand, would be surgically placed. While more convenient, port placement runs the risk of infection and complication. I am hoping Herceptin is as innocuous as promised and that having an IV every three weeks rather than every two weeks will give my veins more chance to recuperate and cooperate and thus avoid PICC lines and ports.

I need to make the radiation decision, to begin as soon as I commit. This is five days a week for six weeks. The common side effect is fatigue, which in many cases continues for a year after treatment. With my history of bad luck and fatigue, I am of course wary. The radiation oncologist wants to proceed because although my margins were clear after the second mastectomy, they were narrow; cancer cells may still be lurking in the nearby chest wall. I am in process of contacting women who’ve had radiation for breast cancer to learn about their experiences.

My cancer is also hormone-receptive, so treatment requires oral hormones to begin when I’m ready – and continue indefinitely. Because there are three different brands, Doc says surely we can find one that doesn’t give me intolerable side effects. He would like me to try these, at the very least. My low tolerance for drugs tells me my trial may be short-lived, but I’m willing to give it a whirl once I regain strength.

These decisions are difficult; I’ve lost a bit of faith in medical expertise and my body yearns for a chance to heal on its own. I am not so fearful of having a short life as I am of having it continually compromised by treatment-induced side effects.

Back in my recliner with laptop

I was discharged from the hospital yesterday afternoon. My oncologist studied my test results and visited with me mid-morning. I was relieved to hear my heart was doing okay (everyone seemed concerned about that). My blood pressure was back to normal. My blood panels were all as expected – except that my anemia had worsened notably in just two days. For that, I was given an injection to boost red blood cell counts.

The initial suspicion of pneumonia has now been reduced to “some fluid in the lungs” that isn’t terribly surprising considering the fluid retention everywhere else.

I went home with yet another prescription for super-duper antibiotics to cover whatever “may” be going on (doc is still suspicious that my tooth may be infected even though I have no pain) – and told to eat yogurt to keep good bacteria around. I also started diuretics this morning to help reduce the fluid swelling. I hope they work, because the swelling has actually made me uncomfortable. My torso is so tight it simply doesn’t want to conform to sitting up anymore! And my legs are not mine; I don’t know where mine went.

Of course with the diuretics there is a chance my blood pressure could plummet again, so Greg has graciously agreed to work at home for a few hours this morning until we see how I’m doing. When my pressure slipped to 72/55 in the ER the other night, I doubt I could have handled calling 911 on my own.

My greatest fear is whether I will get my strength back. I take the stairs slowly, like a tired old crone, and still my heart rate speeds up, my legs burn, and I’m panting by the time I reach the top.

Please be grateful for your healthy body. When everything is working as it should, it is a MIRACLE.

Adventure continues

Written early Thursday morning:

At first blush, Tuesday’s chemo went well and I went home feeling better than any of the other rounds.

I’d had a serious full-hour discussion with my oncologist before deciding to go ahead with chemo that day. He patiently and thoroughly explained his rationale for everything he was putting me through – and schmoozed me by saying he thought I had an awesome, realistic attitude. He also suggested we try eliminating dexamethasone – the steroid that keeps me from sleep and leaves me so hung over. With the new plan, I optimistically settled into my favorite chemo chair yet again.

All hell broke loose later that night.

By 11 p.m. I had shaking chills, 102.6 temperature, and itching from neck to toes that felt like I was covered in angry, biting ants. Needless to say, it was a long night with Greg making phone calls to the Cancer Center and waiting for call-backs from the oncologist on call who was apparently sleeping through his pages. At 3 a.m. we connected and headed for the ER.

After a few hours of head scratching by ER docs who quite likely dread having to see chemo patients, I was admitted to the cancer ward – primarily due to alarmingly low blood pressure, puzzlement about the fever, and suspicion of pneumonia. To me, however, the most pressing concern continued to be the god-awful itching!

Yesterday was a day of tests, IV antibiotics, and SIX different blood draws. Blood draws have become more and more difficult (and dreaded) as needles are limited to my right arm and I’m running out of veins that cooperate. My left arm’s not an option because lymph nodes have been removed.

All test results will be analyzed by my oncologist this morning – so nothing definitive until then. Of course I’ve heard hints of what may be going on, but I refuse to start worrying about any of them prematurely.

In retrospect, I regret accepting chemo round 5 – so round 6 is unlikely to happen. While there are apparently some chemo patients who weather this process without much ado, I am learning there are also plenty of us who give up. (This is something you don’t hear at the Cancer Center, but the cancer-ward nurses are refreshingly candid.)

And the beat goes on. La de da de da.

Return of the Tooth Pain

Were this a work of fiction, repetition alone would render it poor writing, indeed. But alas, reality can be painfully monotonous.

Pain flared again in my lower jaw Friday night, so the visit to Josh and Brenda’s was put off. Instead, we spent Saturday morning getting a complete blood count on the cancer floor at the hospital. (Sadly, the cancer ward was densely populated that morning; my blood draw was done in the hall.)

A few hours later we left with the results: No. The tooth should not be pulled until chemo is complete and blood counts return to normal. Apparently I am too compromised to risk possible infection from extraction, but not too compromised to risk infection from a bad tooth. No one managed to address that one to our satisfaction.

By noon, I was again in the endodontist’s chair for another go at a root canal – deeper and wider than what had been done five days earlier. Again, the tooth was packed with an even stronger medicine and temporarily closed. As of this writing, the pain has settled down. Again, I have to hope this “sticks” for at least a month.

I am sorely tempted to switch to fiction from here on out, as changes to my body that have cropped up this morning suggest truth truly does bite and makes for a depressing read. More on this later.

A Few Good Days

When I got out of the endodontist’s chair yesterday I could have kissed him on the lips! He ground the tooth down; now there’s no way I could feel the pressure pain unless I were silly enough to chew on that side. No more wadded cotton when I try to sleep!

This is GOING TO BE my good weekend, so we’re planning short visits to both Josh & Brenda’s ( and grandboys!) and Jake’s.

Monday, our 10th anniversary and Greg’s birthday, we plan to celebrate with a trip to Fond du Lac to have me fitted for mastectomy bras and an official silicone prosthetic – which should further enhance the future I am once again optimistic about having. (Thank you, Blue Cross, for giving us one preferred provider 45 miles away.)

Oh, Normal Day, help me always be aware of the treasure you are!

Continuating Tooth Saga, or Why I'm Reassessing Chemotherapy

Monday, after the endodontist, I blogged at 6pm, optimistic the toothache might be temporarily resolved until after chemo when the molar could be extracted.

Minutes later, the pain returned with a vengeance. Apparently the numbing hadn’t worn off when I blogged. I tried Tylenol, but two hours later it was intolerable. Greg called the endodontist. He suggested we try to control the pain until morning, suspecting the storm would blow over. The jaw bone was very bruised and sore, he said. Alternate Tylenol, Ibuprofen, and hydrocodone; something every two hours.

By 9pm the pain was manageable. Fearing it might get out of control again, I set the alarm every two hours to dose up as prescribed.

Throw in a two varieties of antibiotics on top of that, an inability to eat, and by noon the next day I was a mess. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that poorly. Crawly-clammy skin, headache, nausea, dark thoughts, and I swear I could smell chemicals oozing from my pores. Hypersensitive to every odor; everything was making me crazy. Poor Greg. He was home with me that day.

I considered the ER, but since there was no way I’d allow anyone to poke, prod, or hook me up with anything chemical anyway – I was prepared to choose death by misery over fear of medicine.

Around 6 pm I remembered electrolytes might help (duh) and sent Greg for Gatorade. I drank 24 ounces over the next few hours and started to come around. Don’t know if it was the electrolytes or the wearing off of drugs, but I felt better and attempted sleep again Tuesday night. I’d doze for short periods with nightmares about dying in pain of terminal cancer. Waking, I’d think “Oh God, it was only a nightmare” – only to remember it wasn’t . . . entirely.

Wednesday, still hypersensitive, I had to get out of the house. (Have you ever felt so sick in a place you wanted to walk out and burn it down behind you?) Kay graciously agreed to pick me up and allowed me to camp on her couch most of the day. What a relief to be somewhere else and distracted.

The tooth pain is tolerable if I don’t touch upper and lower teeth – so I’m still using the cotton wad on the good side. I can’t chew because of course that would mean contact and zinging pain. (I’m good at swallowing small bits without chewing now – though with all the drugs nothing tastes right anyway so there is the advantage of weight loss.)

Tomorrow I re-visit the endodontist to have the tooth ground down so there is no possibility of contact; then I should be able to chew on the other side until the damned molar can be pulled.

What I’ve learned: 1) I HATE DRUGS!! They make you very, very ill. They cause a chain reaction of nasty things to happen to your body and mind. With two chemo rounds to go, I’m again giving treatment serious thought. 2) If you’re on a pain regimen and there’s a possibility of sleeping through a dosing, CHOOSE SLEEP.

Chemo and Dental Work

. . . so this morning I wake up and decide I’ve had enough of this toothache. Anne (Greg’s sister, former dentist) had encouraged me to not wait for a root canal over the weekend, but alas who was I to ignore my dentist and oncologist and find myself an endodontist and just get-er done? Today I felt stronger, so decided to see what I could accomplish on my behalf.

I did manage to get an appointment – and after explaining the past week in detail, the endodontist agreed that oncologists don’t always know what is considered “invasive” dental work.

We proceeded and soon determined the troubled tooth was not the tooth my dentist had suspected of needing a root canal. (One wonders why I had a non-troubled tooth filled last Wednesday, but what’s done is done.)

Halfway through the root canal (numbness never felt so good), he stopped the procedure and explained there was not a good possibility of success. The tooth was cracked deep into the root. Options were to complete the root canal and hope for the best, or seal up as much as he’d done in the hope that the pain would not resurface until chemo was over and the tooth could be extracted.

When I said I didn’t gave a damn about the molar (farthest back), he said he felt best with that solution.

Questions remain: Will today’s procedure keep the pain at bay long enough to get through chemo? And will my body’s ability to heal be sufficient to allow the pain to abate in a few days as would be the case of a “normal” patient?

I no longer count on my body to behave normally, but fool that I am, I continue to be optimistic! Tomorrow should tell which way I’m headed. Good sleep to all of us.

When pain pills are no longer your friends

I shall try not to exaggerate the unpleasantness of the past few days.

On Friday morning, Day 3 after chemo (Days 3 and 4 being the hardest), I realized my tooth pain had not been dealt with at the dentist’s the previous Wednesday. Pain was intense, high-pitched. I called my dentist, reminding him he needed to contact my oncologist before further action. He promptly called the Cancer Center and we waited for a return call.

Four hours of pain later, Greg is home early from work and on the phone to see what’s happening. Of course no one at the Cancer Center has yet called the dentist – and no one has bothered to let us know my oncologist was off that day. Greg is, however, put in touch with one of the oncology nurses who tells him there are no red flags on my chart and my dentist should feel free to proceed with whatever antibiotics and anesthetics he deems necessary.

Fortunately, my dentist is persistent in wanting to speak to an oncologist – and is having a concurrent conversation with the oncologist on-call – who tells him Day 3 after chemo would be the very worst time for a root canal. I should, instead, be put on antibiotics and pain pills until Tuesday. At that time I am to have a blood draw to determine if my white count is adequate for a root canal.

Late Friday afternoon, I finally begin two different antibiotics and oxycodone for pain. I am told to sip protein smoothies through a straw (these pretty much suck at room temperature which is all my tooth can tolerate) and to keep up my fluids. I have secured an appointment for a complete blood count on Tuesday.

By this time, the combination of normal chemo poopiness (fatigue, bone aches, feverishness) along with the high-pitched scream of my tooth should anything, even my tongue, come in contact with it, is truly getting me down. I want nothing more than to be slid into a soundproof tube of unconsciousness. I try to will myself into oblivion, but sound creeps in. Attempts to translate sound into what it represents is more work than I care to do, but my mind insists on translating nonetheless. When I drift into sleep, my teeth clench and I am instantly zinged to full alert. This goes on for about twelve hours.

Early Saturday I am able to get a few hours’ sleep and awake happy to hear the puppies in our neighborhood greeting each other during morning walks. I know there is hope. For several hours I am able to do some emailing, watch a movie (thanks for a good one, Ralph!) and catch up on laundry.

That’s when I start to feel nauseated. Soon I am vomiting -- room-temperature smoothies no less. Greg is on the phone with the Cancer Center again, and I am started on anti-nausea meds in order to get the pain pills and antibiotics down. When I become sleepy, Greg ingeniously presents me with a wet pad of cotton fabric to put between upper and lower teeth on the good side, so there is no possibility of contact between upper and lower teeth on the achy side. I sleep Saturday night.

Today I continue the room-temperature smoothies (smoothies are now nasty concoctions accepted only out of necessity), the wad remains to prop my teeth open, and I have given up on pain pills because they only give me bad dreams.

Greg and my brother (who missed the vomiting my mere minutes last night) tell me I now look like that “smooth, white cancer victim.” Not the emaciated kind, though – the puffy kind.

So tell me, is there another world out there somewhere?

Toothache Continues...

Yesterday's blog mentions my dentist trying to patch an area of decay so I wouldn't have to have a root canal until after treatments are over. Well....it seems the patch wasn't effective, so today's challenge will be to figure out what needs to be done next. And of course it's Friday, so there will be a weekend to endure. Painpills and antibiotics, I assume??? I've never had a root canal -- but somehow a root canal in my present state sounds truly nasty.

4 down, 2 to go!

When I get through this chemo/radiation thing, I never want to hear the words “side effect” again.

Today is Day Two after my fourth round of chemo. I slept last night! I’ve learned not to waste a perfectly good sleeping pill the night of chemo, so I always look forward to dosing up and going to bed the second night.

Last weekend was supposed to be my good weekend, so Jake came to visit. (I have photos of him in my wig that are quite flattering!) I spent a good share of the weekend with either dry, burning eyes – or with uncontrollable tears blurring my vision. When I closed my eyes for any length of time, mucous formed at the corners. In the morning, my eyes had to be soaked open. Just when I was beginning to think I’d have to spend the rest of my treatment with my eyes closed, the problem cleared up on Monday night. (This is a blocked tear duct that easily becomes infected. If it hadn’t cleared up, the solution is surgical insertion of a teeny-tiny stent.)

On Monday I had a nasty toothache, but of course with all the weird stuff going on with my body, I hoped it was just another side effect that would go away. When I saw the nurse practitioner onTuesday before chemo, she urged me to see my dentist – because it sounded to her like a nasty toothache!

So chemo with a toothache was a special treat. Fortunately, I got my favorite chemo chair (view of the outdoors and no TV) and was soon joined by one of the women I’d met at the “Look Good Feel Better” gathering two weeks ago. Julie and I had been emailing since we met, so it was nice to run into her in person. She is a gem of a person, younger than I, very positive, and is just a few treatments behind me. While side by side in our chairs, she had the same scary throat-closing reaction to Taxotere that I had at my second round – but more severe, poor dear. The nurses said the reaction is very rare, but Julie and I now find that hard to believe.

My infusions went without incident, but I felt more weak and whacked out afterward than ever. This, they tell me, is because my body is being worn down a little more with each treatment. Not to mention I still had the piercing toothache. I am also now slightly anemic, so am increasing protein intake and hoping for more energy.

I was so grateful to see my dentist yesterday. He fit me in for an x-ray in the morning and patched me with a filling underneath a crown in the afternoon. We’re hoping I can delay a root canal until after cancer treatment.

Once again, I’m optimistic about the future. Now that I’m slowly learning that the side effects come and go at random, there’s a little less anxiety. ‘Just have to go with the flow and enjoy the good moments, like everyone else. But here's a warning about my new look: My brother came to visit this morning. The first words out of his mouth were "Oh, yes, you ARE a little fatter!" It's a good thing I love him so much.

Denial: One of God's Greatest Gifts

With all the hardships others endure, I feel a little bit shallow, really. But humble and honest person that I am, I have a confession to make: I completely lost it today after a conversation with one of the nurses at the Cancer Center.

I called the Center because my next chemo is just around the weekend-corner and I felt cheated out of the “good week” I was supposed to have between rounds. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what I should just put up with and what I should be reporting to them.

So today’s list for discussion read: 1) bleeding nose and gums; 2) ongoing skin breakdown at infusion site; 3) continuous “pins & needles” sensation to hands; and 4) weight gain – listed in reverse order of anxiety level.

I now understand why my oncologist and nurse practitioner are careful to avoid words that may be construed as even remotely empathetic. The reason is this: The nurse I talked with this morning was very empathetic – and I ended up blubbering like a baby. She was very willing to listen to my concerns, but assured me that “all of those things are just part of what we call the ‘CC’ – or ‘chemo crap.’

She said the sensation in my hands is neuropathy; the prelude to losing my fingernails. She confirmed that my chemo drug leaves most patients with tissue-thin nails that eventually peel away.

She said the constant weight gain I’ve been experiencing despite much-improved eating habits is par for the course; it’s not unusual for a woman with my chemo regimen to gain 30 or 40 pounds during treatment. (If you know me at all, you realize that this, to me, is totally unacceptable. With my 5’2” frame, I have a pretty good idea how many sizes 15 pounds represents; I never ever want to know how many sizes 30 or 40 pounds represents!)

I asked her why she thought my oncologist failed to mention these particular side effects. He guaranteed I’d go bald, after all.

She said “He’s a guy. His treatments are aggressive. His job is saving lives – and he doesn’t think fingernail loss and weight gain is any big deal . . . he probably forgot.” She dispelled my anger; her voice told me she understood and felt as badly as I did. I don’t even know her name, but her candid and caring manner was commendable.

So I cried raucously , pouted like a toddler, and finally went silent for most of the day. Then I poured myself into a pair of black pants that used to hang on me and went to the funeral of a 56-year old woman I hardly knew who died of cancer . . . cancer that began 5 years ago as breast cancer and was treated with mastectomy, chemotherapy, the works. The church was filled. She had planned her own service. It was creative and filled with love. And she died with 30 or 40 extra pounds that I’m sure she could have done without while still alive and that cremation took care of quite nicely afterward.

I left the church knowing I still had a lot of stuff to do before giving up. And I left knowing that no one loved her less because she’d gained weight.

Nevertheless, I’ve decided that in order for me to continue the work I’m here to do, I shall call on my old friend, Denial! And so I choose to flatly deny that my fingernails will peel away and that I will gain 30 or 40 pounds. I smile in the face of adversity and prove once more that de-nial is, and always has been, much more than just some river in Egypt.

Complaint Department

Okay – so a week ago I was all happy-happy and not complaining. Today I have lurking anxieties that I’m going to share so you don’t continue thinking I’m super human or anything. (You DID think I was, didn’t you?)

I’d read about the possible loss of fingernails and toenails during chemo, but until the “Look Good, Feel Good” gathering the other night, I didn’t know it was pretty much exclusive to one of my particular chemo drugs, Taxotere. Ever since (psychosomatic?), the tips of my fingers and toes occasionally tingle or feel tender, like my scalp before my hair took leave. My fingers are sensitive when I type, which for me is very bothersome. As advised, I cut my nails short and apply olive oil to the cuticles after each hand-washing. If the nails come off, they may or MAY NOT grow back!! If they grow back, they will be nasty looking and ridged for a long, long time. That’s fine . . . I’ll take nasty and ridged!

Another annoying thing the past week is that a blood vessel on the back of my right hand has become chemically “burned up” from chemo. The burn starts at the point of my IV insertion over two weeks ago and travels the pattern of the vein up my arm 2-3 inches. At first it was a thin reddish line, but over the past week has become an angry, dark red, thick line – that today has finally broken through the skin. I watch it for infection and keep it moisturized.

It now seems each round of chemo is going to come with an unpredictable aftermath. This time, though I am sleeping much better, I have less energy. Sometimes when I walk up the stairs I feel I’ve climbed Mt. Everest. My eyes burn and vision is off (we are warned not to get a new prescription for glasses during chemo), so I find myself lying still and listening to music or podcasts more than writing or reading. This of course bugs me because reading and writing made me feel minimally productive and kept me from worrying too much about the ongoing hardships of others in my family right now.

Poop. None of this is unbearable stuff, of course, just “not nice.”

Today is Day 4 after chemo and usually I start to feel more like myself on Day 5, so am patiently hoping for a better tomorrow.

3 Down, 3 To Go

When I walked out of my four-hour chemo Tuesday, I really thought it was going to be an easier one. Having explained to my oncologist beforehand that my most difficult side effect was sleeplessness, he made a change to my “recipe.” He decreased the dexamethasone (steroid) somewhat and added hydrocortisone in its place. He said the hydro wasn’t expected to interfere with sleep as much as the dex – and warned I might experience a little nausea instead.

It is now Day 2 after treatment, and no nausea yet – but I think this one robbed me of energy a bit worse than the first two. Even though I slept quite well last night (though not much at all the first night), I couldn’t imagine leaving the house today. Perhaps because I tried to do too much yesterday in my state of exhaustion? Hoping for a better day tomorrow.

High on Steroids and Having Fun

I didn’t feel quite as drugged up immediately after this last round, so with nausea meds in tow just in case, my friend Mary and I went back to the Cancer Center Tuesday evening (chemo day) to the “Look Good, Feel Better” program sponsored by the American Cancer Society.

My motivation for going was the promise that I’d come away with $250 in skin care and makeup products donated by various manufacturers and recommended for extra sensitive “chemo” skin. What I didn’t think about was how good it would feel to sit in a room with eight other women in various stages of cancer.

Their ages ranged from 37 to 65. As we introduced ourselves and shared our particular brand of cancer, I was struck by the number of women in their second recurrence (undergoing their second series of chemo treatments). Yet another woman was in her third recurrence, with recent lung surgery and undergoing her third series of chemo. Sigh… Those were scary thoughts, for sure. “Wow these women are tough,” I thought. They seemed quite happy and looked healthy.

Three of us eventually removed our hats to reveal bald heads and none of us felt the least bit self conscious. It was obvious we were in this together – and as we got into trying the products (drawing “pretend” eyebrows, etc.) the chatter and laughter was reassuring, indeed. Those of us without hair modeled various head covers and wigs and no one was shy about admitting what “worked” and what didn’t. We all got our choice of knitted hats, too, homemade and donated by volunteers.

Of course I had my camera along, and as the evening progressed more and more of the women asked to have their pictures taken (sporting their new makeup and hats) and asked that I email them copies. New friends abound!

Upon Losing Control of Your Life

The last few days I’ve been experiencing the good part about sickness. The good part, of course, is how good it is to not feel sick! I slept well and annoying side effects are at a minimum. But best of all, I had good conversations with all those close to me who’ve been having genuinely hard times lately (yes, I feel like the “lucky one” much of the time) – and they all seem to have kick-ass attitudes about their hardships right now! You know who you are.

The burst of relief, renewed energy, and clarity of mind produced some “deep thoughts.” (Some of which are, of course, the Jack Handey variety, but I’ll spare you those.)

Early this year, around the time of New Year’s resolutions, I provided my handwritten journal a very honest assessment of my life at the time. I was feeling like a hamster in a cage. (The “hamster in a cage” simile, in all of its triteness, is perfect because I was, after all, feeling tired, worn, and stale.)

There was Mary: running, trying to keep up, and making half-assed attempts at fixing this or that for someone else – but feeling only worn down. I yearned for a simpler, slower life. Sheer boredom was my goal. My journal shows a list of ways to get organized and into some sort of routine, making way for the boredom to set in. If I could only get rigidly organized, I thought, I would finally find time to do what I really love to do: Read, contemplate life, and write.

Five months later a quick assessment of my progress was laughable. None of the organization or routine had yet begun. I had failed and found myself merely five months’ more worn down. (Those of you aware of my lifestyle have good reason to wonder how it is I could have felt worn down. I have the ideal job with ultimate flexibility, a husband who makes me laugh and likes cleaning house, a grand lot of varied and creative friends, and no desire for any more of the things that money can buy. I know, I know, but trust me: I was emotionally burdened by the hardships of family and friends whom I thought would disintegrate without me. How’s that for ego?)

Fast forward another four months and it now seems all those wishes I had for my life in January have been realized. Funny how we get precisely what we need when we need it. (How many times had I heard that one?) And who can fear a future that apparently holds only the fulfillment of your deepest desires?

Simply put, the list I had come up with for reaching my goal of more time to read, contemplate life, and write was not working. It required too much effort on my part. Life, however, had something else entirely in mind. And life’s plan required little of me, only that I go with the flow. This summer I’ve been involuntarily swept up in some kind of weird growth spurt. Priorities have shifted without my input, permission or effort – and I am here with more time to read, to contemplate life, and to write.

Stay tuned for more on shifting priorities as the unpredictability of Chemo Round III unfolds tomorrow.

Chemo: 33 1/3 done.

After the nasty time in the chair during the last chemo – and then the days of being both hung over and “acutely aware” from the double dose of steroids – the aftermath of the second round was more tolerable than the first. My roughest days are those followed by sleepless nights, but I’m adjusting to that too.

This being my good week (between treatments), I’ve been a little more sociable, going out for a few hours each day, sporting my new cap from the American Cancer Society catalog (on clearance!). So other than being now completely bald and having tolerable mouth and cold sores, I’m pretty much me.

I’ve noticed two advantages to chemo. I haven’t had to pluck my eyebrows since the first go-round – and the skin on my face exfoliates every morning after my shower. Just rubbing my fingers across my warm, damp skin has dead cells rolling off like teeny tiny rolls of dough. No wonder my face is so sensitive to the sun, it’s always brand new! For a really thorough exfoliation, ladies, I highly recommend several months of chemo.

Now that my hair is gone I quite honestly am appreciating the time (and “product”!) saved. And, NO BAD HAIR DAYS. What’s more, Greg and I think the shape of my head is somewhat attractive. If it weren’t for my aging neck, I could model for the American Cancer Society wig catalog. And God bless ‘em, but eyelashes and eyebrows are still hanging on and look more prominent and beautiful than ever!

(There is, however, one disadvantage to baldness that is easily managed with a warm stocking cap, both day and night. You would not believe how cold it is up there. Even the motion of walking across a room stirs up enough wind to send a chill down my spine.)

And so it goes.

My sister-in-law, Anne, is coming up for the weekend – and I look forward to her good company. Then on Monday, Mary Rogoski is arriving to sit through next Tuesday’s chemo with me. There’s no denying I enjoy the attention. I think Greg shaved his beard and eyebrows because he’s envious of all the attention coming my way, to tell you the truth.

New Man in Town

If you run into this man on the street, you might want to do a double-take.

Yes, this is Gregory's new look as he tries to empathize with his hairless wife. I had to be honest, I wouldn't have done it for him!

Day 3, Round 2

It is Friday, day three after the 2nd chemo. I'm sleeping slightly more than after the last round, but still not enough. I'm optimistic that I won't get as sick as I did last time, although the double doses of steroids have kept me feeling pretty druggy and hung-over since Tuesday. I went for a short walk through the park and around the block last evening and felt as though I had never been there before. I always was a cheap drunk, so why did I think I’d tolerate chemo any better?

I went to a library sale yesterday. It had been so long and it felt so good, but I had a pounding headache by the time I got back home. I guess I must have felt better yesterday than I do this morning, because I would not venture out today.

Since my hair is so short and weightless, it is coming out at a much slower rate than anticipated, though my scalp tingles and today in the shower the water pressure was enough to put tufts of hair on my shoulders. As if three shedding cats in the house wasn’t bad enough.

June to September

One of my readers expressed curiosity about whether I had any inkling I had breast cancer prior to diagnosis. Were there any symptoms?

No. I felt fine.

We were returning from Greg’s mom’s memorial service in Washington State in mid-June. We camped mostly, but stopped one night for a hot shower and a real hotel bed. After showering, I noticed a very slight irregularity in the curvature of my left breast; a small indentation that wasn’t there before.

I instantly recalled an illustration I’d seen in a medical dictionary of a visible sign of breast cancer. With that in mind, I did a self breast exam.

I had never been good about self breast exams. There wasn’t any history of breast cancer in my family, and besides, I thought an annual mammogram was enough. But I knew how to do a breast exam and what to feel for. There had been a silicone breast, complete with small tumor, in the exam room at one of my mamm0grams. I remembered that finding the tumor in the silicone breast had taken a bit of doing, but eventually my fingertips detected a very hard and distinct pea-sized lump.

And now I found an equally hard and distinct pea-sized lump in my own breast. In Lewiston, Idaho, no less. (It turned out that was the smaller of two masses, but I stopped looking when I found the first mass.) Oddly enough, the lump I detected wasn’t near the outward sign I’d seen in the mirror. I’m still not sure if the visible “dimple” had anything to do with the mass, but it was what spurred the exam at any rate.

I was sure I had breast cancer as soon as I felt the lump. It wasn’t a panicky feeling, just a quiet knowledge that life was very likely going to change, at least for many months. The next morning we called my gynecologist’s office seeking advice about how quickly we should return to Appleton for tests. They scheduled an appointment a week away, so we changed our plans to return home for the appointment rather than spending an extra week camping and hiking in Glacier National Park.

We arrived home on a Sunday. My mammography, ultrasound, and biopsy was Monday morning, June 25th. (I learned that day I had skipped my mammogram the previous summer – so my last had been two years ago.) My diagnosis, extensive invasive ductal carcinoma, came the following day.

I had a left mastectomy on July 31st and another surgery August 3rd to remove more skin and tissue for “clear margins.” Two sentinel lymph nodes showed cancer and several nodes were removed. Chemotherapy began August 22nd. I’m two rounds down, four to go. After that, it’s radiation for 6 weeks – and then I’m down to just the continuing IV antibodies until sometime next spring. The antibodies are given because of my tumor’s HER2 status, whatever that means (Greg can explain it; I’ve given up). After that, there’s recommended hormone treatment because my cancer cells were also hormone receptive – which is another condition I’ll leave to the experts to explain.

It’s been a long summer and autumn promises to be equally long. Before I knew I had cancer, life was passing much too swiftly. I did a lot of running, it seems. Now that the pace has slowed, I can scarcely remember where it was I’d been running to.

Going Hairless

This photo is second in a series of still-life shots Katy and I staged during a silly photo shoot last weekend. Our "photo art" features my former hair (cut short in preparation for inevitable baldness) in unusual settings. The photo being replaced today, for instance, showed my hair in a coffee mug -- which seemed appropriate as chemo has mysteriously taken away my love of coffee. Not all of our still-life "hair" shots have such meaning, so don't strain to find the symbolism!

Today's chemo

Katy drove me today, took photos, and stayed a bit before heading to Madison to visit her friends with a new baby boy.

I stayed on to learn that, indeed, no 2 chemo days are the same, despite the same IV drugs. Today's visit slated for 4 hrs ended up taking 6. All the pre-chemo "bags" went well (2 different antiemetics, steroids, and again 50 units of Benadryl to prevent reactions and make me incredibly stupid) -- and then they started Taxotere. A few minutes into it, I noticed my sight darkening and felt a roaring heat creep from my upper chest to the top of my head. Rapidly. I was about to summon a nurse when I felt my throat close. I summoned more earnestly and was immediately attended by 4 nurses eager to kick into action: Disconnect IV, set up oxygen just in case, and call my oncologist. They said my face was bright red. The panic was over in minutes and I started to feel normal (as normal as one is on 4 pre-chemo drugs). No oxygen required.

My oncologist arrived posthaste and ordered a shot of cortisone (MORE steroids) and another 50 units of Benadryl (I became even stupid-er). They restarted Taxotere, but at a slower drip rate. I tolerated Taxotere just fine 2 weeks ago, but at a much slower rate. So they started slow and titrated every 20 minutes until reaching the level it had been when I went into shock. Every time they upped it, of course I waited for my throat to close again. It didn't.

A sweet old lady in the next chair wearing black orthopaedic "Mary Janes" and white anklets had been sleeping before the flurry of activity at my chair. When things settled down she asked to have her chair back uprighted. She later told me she sat up in order to keep an eye on me (thus earning the adjective "sweet"). She has colon cancer. She was 75, but I would have put her at 85. She'd been living alone until May, but now is in a nursing home on a waiting list for St. Paul's assisted living. She was happy and resigned. I contend she is wasting her time at the cancer center.

Paul Van Wyk stopped by during treatment, just before Greg arrived to pick me up. That was SO nice. (Next time, frozen yogurt.)

Feeling well this eve and don't expect to sleep (double steroids). Tomorrow marks 2 weeks from start of chemo -- when my hair is predicted to eject. I don't care, and glad I grizzed my head (sorry G) because going through this hoo-hah while trying to make my previous "do" presentable would be unbearable, to be sure.

Pray for Benda and Josh as they took Sam to Marshfield Clinic today to give THEM a chance at helping Sam.

Chemo, Round II

Yesterday was awesome. Katy and Greg and I played all day and Paul Van Wyk stopped over to drop off his Nero Wolfe DVDs so we could introduce Katy to Nero and Archie and the gang. It was the first day in 14 days that I felt completely well -- no side effects, no weird sensations, no plugged ears. BUT TODAY IS CHEMO DAY.

Labor Day 2007

Little did I realize when we converted our dining room into a library a few years ago how much we were going to enjoy the mornings from our look-a-like recliners! Today is a perfect weather day and the front garden is all a-twitter with goldfinch activity.

Katy is visiting this weekend. Neither of us felt one-hundred-percent yesterday, so it was a wonderful opportunity for her and I take up the recliners with our respective laptops and share favorite sites, stories, and laughs -- and for her to answer all my "idiot computer questions."

Greg, of course, roamed in and out of the room as he puttered with finishing off our upstairs bathroom project -- so what perfection! Katy and I could relax knowing that something productive was happening despite our lethargy.

Today promises much of the same; that is, if Katy ever wakes up.

NOTE: Katy did eventually wake up and we did a series of photos using the pile of hair that was recently removed from my head in preparation for going bald, anticipated sometime this week.