Category Archives: Chemotherapy

Top Ten Reasons Fighting Breast Cancer Isn’t All Bad

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Reason No. 10:  No need to wax or shave.

Reason No. 9:  No bad hair days.

Reason No. 8:  Get to play the “C” card

Reason No. 7:  Can get away with shameless self-promotion

Reason No. 6:  Excessive self-grooming becomes “a medical necessity”

Reason No. 5:  Excessive retail therapy becomes “an emotional necessity”

Reason No. 4:  Wearing leopard print to chemo

Reason No. 3:  Get to find out who your real friends are

Reason No. 2:  Get away with posting pic of own ass on Facebook

And The No. 1 Reason Fighting Breast Cancer Isn’t All Bad:  Bigger tits in 60 seconds (come on you knew it was coming — read Boob Retrospective if you are mystified)

 

What I Wore To Chemo Today

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My treasured friend Susan of 17 years came all the way from America to visit with me today. That visit happened to coincide with my first of four doses of Taxol (see my last post, Countdown, for details on that). Thus, our visit was conducted in the chemo treatment suite in white leather chairs. Susan is the director of the most prestigious public interest fellowships in the law, “a legal Peace Corps” as described by The Los Angeles Times.

Back in the days of good posture and (naturally) perky boobs (see Boob Retrospective — don’t you want to read it just for the title?), I was Susan’s legal assistant at the New York law firm that established the fellowships. We bonded immediately. She has too many qualities to list in the time I have before the fatigue hits me so just trust me on my compact description — she is HIGH QUALITY in every respect. But I do have to mention some specifics: she is both a philanthropist and a fashionista, has a wicked sense of humour, is not afraid to say “fuck,” is a hot ticket, is highly intelligent and has a true gift for friendship. And that just scratches the surface.

Anyhow, years ago, after I had left the firm and was a One L at Harvard Law School, Susan came to speak to the students about the fellowships. A Two L aspiring fellow had called her with some questions on the application process and Susan had told her to come to the talk and meet me (a built-in resource, having been through the process as Susan’s right-hand gal) so that I could help her and any other public interest students so-inclined.

Susan is very fashionable, but always very tasteful, and she had kindly bestowed upon me a number of designer suits that she no longer needed. She figured I would be wearing one at the meeting to please her and make a good impression on the students. Pale blue Armani, perhaps? Crimson Feraud?

Of course when she showed up I was sitting on the floor in a cheetah print mini dress I got at the ten-dollar store and knee-high boots. Oops.

So last night when I thought about seeing Susan after quite a long stretch of not having seen her, I realised that an appropriate ensemble was in order. I mean I didn’t want to embarrass her again and make her feel uncomfortable in the chemo suite, for Christ’s sake. She flew across an ocean. And to top it off I am bald now, which doesn’t help one’s appearance.

This morning I scoured my closet, keeping in mind that I had to allow decent access to my port site near my left axilla for blood draws and administration of chemo. I selected and then rejected several choices as inappropriate, but finally settled on the perfect kit (look it up, Americans, it’s Breeteesh). At this point of course I was late. So pathetic to be late to one’s own chemo. And to top it off the nifty phone apps I downloaded in order to get a taxi to show up at my door refused to work and the cabs and car services were all popping up with “unavailable in your area” messages. Unacceptable. And there was no “FU I have cancer come anyway” button.

At that point I had no choice and gulped down the rest of my flat white (like a latte but better), wiped the cinnamon from the corners of my mouth with the back of my hand, and dashed out the door to get to the tube. It was raining again and so I put on my silver wellies so I wouldn’t soil my outfit. I had not planned to be sloshing about — thought I’d be cabbing it door to door.  Grrr.

I dashed into the tube, which of course crawwwwwled along. Blasted Northern Line. When I finally reached my stop I catapulted myself onto the platform, ran (yes ran) up two escalators and flung myself outdoors to hail a taxi. I was still a good 15-minute walk from treatment. Luckily I found a cabbie right away. He dropped me off in front of the clinic (most people know it’s a cancer place) and then refused to make me pay for the fare. It was lovely, really, and I was touched if not a little surprised. I mean people get dropped off there all the time and I am sure they usually have to pay. It must have been the combination of my elegant attire and — oh — the fact that he knew I was a cancer patient.

So, I was about ten minutes late. Not fatal. But I was concerned about getting a good seat under the skylight. I practically jumped down the stair case and was scolded by a lady not to rush (good point — headline: “she makes it through four chemos only to hurl herself down a flight of stairs at chemo and end up a quadriplegic”).

The staff ushered me to a nice, sunny pod. I yanked off my wellies, hung my coat up and waited for my friend. I hoped that she would like my outfit. I did not want to let her down. Again.

A blond breath of fresh air in a red and gold silk scarf, persimmon sweater and chocolate trousers breezed through the door. Susan had arrived. She saw me. She smiled.

What? You were expecting Rene Lezard? Please, people.

Nothing says “cancer, kiss my ass,” like matching leopard print tops and tails.

We killed it today, Susan and I. Easiest bloody chemo I ever did.

Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker.

Countdown

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Hi folks. It is always a little odd how much I enjoy the day before a chemo treatment. It approaches so quickly… and suddenly there it is. That normal Wednesday every two weeks before the Thursday festivities. Unfortunately the weather continues to suck here. It is cold, rainy and windy and not showing signs of improvement. And here I thought having chemo in the spring would be so lovely — sun on my bald head, showing off my bare legs with the latest in shorts. And so forth.

Anyhow, tomorrow I start the big countdown. For the first four chemo treatments I counted up. But those are over now. And I do believe that NASA would agree a countdown is more appropriate for the final four.

Whenever I go for chemo I try to get inside my head and get psyched up to do battle. If you are taking a drug that has bad side effects, you have to focus on the positive: namely, that the positive outweighs the negative and that this drug is exactly what you need even if it isn’t exactly what you want. So when I settle into my white leather chair tomorrow morning at 0900 London time and 45 minutes later my blood work comes back showing a fabulously high white blood cell count indicating “all systems go,” I will do my battle cry.

It goes a little something like this: “Die, motherfuckers.”

Sometimes I wonder if there is even anything bad in there left to kill. But just in case, we’re going in. And they will never see it coming. I feel almost sorry for them (not).

The really great news is that people say my “new” chemo drug, Taxol, is easier for many to take than my previous drugs (AC). But there are still some pesky side effects to watch out for. I read a laundry list of them once but it started to piss me off so I filed that information sheet and now I am starting to forget. But I do remember that they include joint, muscle and bone pain, tingling in the hands and feet, alopecia (I know I am already bald but I do still have eyebrows and lashes to worry about), nail changes, including discolouration and loss of nails (that sounds pleasant and attractive) and well, lots of other icky stuff. The queasiness isn’t supposed to be as bad and I am very excited about that because I get testy when anything interferes with my meals. I love food and I love to eat. And the thing that bummed me out about the first four treatments more than any other symptom was the combination of queasiness, metal mouth and taste bud changes.

What were we talking about? Oh yeah, the new drug, Taxol. Sorry I am tired and my writing today is rather random. I’m gonna go with it.

My cousin was on Taxol a long time ago when it was experimental and she said the joint pain was so bad she had to walk with a cane for a while. But that doesn’t scare me, because if I need a cane I will get a really badass one with a stainless steel skull on the top and a retractable knife in the base and I will go around clubbing people who make inappropriate comments and picking up trash on my street with the knife in order to beautify the neighbourhood (what you thought I would really stab someone? Come on I am not that mean and the riots are over — for now). She also still sometimes has residual tingling from nerve damage. That does make me a bit nervous, pun intended. Tee hee.

So to ward off these ill effects, today I visited the special doctor. The one who does complementary therapy. I had acupuncture, which helped enormously with my fourth and final AC treatment, and also some homeopathy. Phosphorous. I like the idea of that. The idea of sparks, of flames and of powerful energy banishing unwanted sensations. I am girl on fire, like Katniss in The Hunger Games. As I lay with the acupuncture needles in me, I imagined myself floating above the table, aglow with sparks. Invincible. Ready to do battle.

Ready to kill it.

Now don’t get all serious and depressed on me. Tomorrow I have a funny one planned. Promise.

Work It Out

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I realised yesterday that I hadn’t been to the gym in a week. Lame. Could this be because I have been sitting on my bum writing blog posts every day for the last seven days? Yup.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am loving writing. I am loving having the blog. It is so energising, liberating, cathartic, cleansing, fun and different. And I plan to do it obsessively for the foreseeable future. But all this blogging is going to make for a flat ass and that simply won’t do. I need a nice juicy little behind to match my newbs (well, as much as I can have one without plastic surgery at age almost 40). Who says a cancer patient can’t have it goin’ on?

When we first moved to London in late July of 2011 I avoided working out for a few months. I had the usual excuses. “We just moved here.” “I have so much to do.” “I walk a lot so it doesn’t matter.” “I’m not sure where to join.” Blah blah blah. But all that was load of BS. Finally I investigated local gyms in October.

I did a blitz of the workout places in the hood.

The first place was the most convenient and by far the weirdest. It was a small neighbourhood gym about a six minute walk in amongst the lovely houses of Belsize Park, which is the only reason I can think of to justify the exorbitant membership fee. (No offence if you own this gym or you have worked out there since you were 12 — different strokes for different folks, people.) I walked in. The reception had a low ceiling and the first thing I saw was a cafe. Assaulted by the aroma of coffee and pastry. I don’t need to be smelling that shit when I am in workout mode.

I was taken on a tour. I cannot even describe the different rooms I went into, all on different levels and connected by various narrow stairways and hallways and doors and really just a labyrinth of British bizarreness. No way in hell I would have remembered what was where. And the cardio room, which I sort of remember, was totally 1980s and not my vibe. Even if I had been a good sport about the confusing interior I would certainly have fallen down the stairs at some point and injured myself. And the low ceilings and labyrinth thing and 80s mirrors made me feel like Alice in Wonderland on a bad acid trip. Not for me.

Then I tried the gym in the O2 centre, which had recently been purchased by Virgin. It was large and more Americanised than the little gym. It seemed to have a lot of decent equipment and a variety of classes. But I didn’t get a friendly vibe about the place — it was rather vanilla and commercial. The decisive factor really was that it was too far for me to walk to and I knew I would never haul my ass there, thus resulting in a colossal waste of funds and influx of self-inflicted guilt. Nope.

The third and final gym I checked out was a smallish place across from the Royal Free Hospital, which is an NHS hospital. This gym is housed in an old armoury and the downstairs used to be a shooting gallery. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That’s right; I’m liking it already. And at this point I don’t even know I have cancer. The place has very high ceilings because the building is shaped like a barn. It is not shiny and new but it is clean, has a lot of good equipment and the staff is friendly. (In American staff is singular, people. I like to mix things up to keep you on your toes.)

And there is zero glitz factor. I will not be running into scathes of perfectly coiffed blonde mommies who have come to “glow” after the morning drop off. Thank God. Au contraire, there is a real diversity of people in this gym — different races and from very young to quite elderly and all sorts of physical types, folks with disabilities — you name it.

The manager explains that they are about to get a new German cardio/weight training circuit that will be centre stage. Each member who subscribes to this program will get a personalised chip card, which after an initial set-up, when stuck into each machine, will cause it to adjust automatically to your body. A cylinder of bubbling water in the middle of the circuit tells you when to change machines. Did I mention it also has pretty coloured lights that tint the water while you watch? Oooh ahhh. You are supposed to get a complete workout in only 35 minutes, the time it takes to complete two rounds on the circuit.

Well, folks, after hearing about this I’m sold. The Germans are efficient and know how to make shit and the circuit seems like the ticket for me. Oh, and I can walk to this gym in under ten minutes or take the bus and be there in five if I’m lazy or it’s hailing.

I start working out. The circuit is good. Within a couple weeks, I begin to see results. A couple weeks after that, I find my lump. I keep working out, taking a break only for Christmas holidays (you know what I did over vacay if you read my first post, Halfway Through Chemo… How Did I Get Here?). The day after my diagnosis, my husband plays hooky and we both go to the gym. I am a little fragile, but with him by my side and my body wrapped around those machines I hang tough.

Throughout the month of January, I kill it. Go to the gym and do that circuit regularly, and also throw in some yoga at an airy venue in Primrose Hill. I start to get sort of ripped. I feel strong and fit and powerful. Gearing up for war.

I decide to tell the gym staff about my diagnosis and impending surgery. (The poor manager is so shocked when I tell him he is speechless for about a minute.) The people I tell are super supportive and assure me that they will help me through it, making whatever adjustments are necessary to my training throughout the process.

My last workout is February 5, two days before surgery. It is a Sunday and I walk to the gym from Hampstead Heath where I have left the girls and Bill and two other families sledding and throwing snowballs. (What? That’s totally normal for London.) On the way I spot cute pyjamas and a bathrobe in a store window. I buy them so I can be fashionable while strutting up and down the hospital hallways. Then I go for that last workout. I kill it. I’m good. I’m in a good place.

No question that I recovered from surgery more quickly because of that German circuit. And even though I couldn’t pick up my kids much less carry a grocery bag for weeks after the surgery, I gradually recovered. Now I don’t even remember what I felt like two months ago. Because I am back there, killing it, bald as a cue ball and with my machines set to about half of what I was doing pre surgery.

But it don’t matter. I will keep going back. Through the chemo, through it all. Whenever I can. Because no fucking cancer is going to keep me from getting a little more bootylicious.

Are you still sitting there? Reading this?

Get off your ass and get to the gym. What’s your excuse?

 

Armpit Wig

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If you read my last post, “Cold Cap: From Rapunzel to Rambo,” you will know that I shaved my head in early March after trying out a number of different hair lengths. Hard to believe that I have been bald for that long already. Harder still to believe that I will be bald for my fortieth birthday on May 12. Not exactly what I had in mind when I thought about “fabulous at forty.” I need me a Lady Gaga “do” right quick. After I post today maybe I’ll run out and buy a light pink bob with fringe (that’s Breeteesh for bangs).

Before chopping my hair for the first time after my surgery, I began to contemplate a wig. I figured I would wear scarves most of the time (which I do) but it is nice to have a back-up plan should one want hair.

I asked around. Everyone recommended synthetic hair. Human hair is very expensive and you have to style it (i.e. wash and condition it, blow it dry and then make it be-have, baby), whereas synthetic hair is low-maintenance, requires less washing and will snap back into shape as it dries naturally on its wig stand. You don’t want to blow-dry a synthetic wig. It might melt.

With both kinds there are limitations. But a good synthetic wig can look pretty realistic.

My wonderful, kind and generous friend Kate had flown over from the States to accompany me to my first chemo, after which I felt okay. So we decided to have a “fun with cancer” day and go wig shopping right after treatment and lunch.

We cabbed it to a tiny establishment in Kensington touted as the go-to place for chemo patients desirous of a wig. They had a good selection and a nice saleswoman helped me try on many different styles and colours.

What not to buy became clear pretty quickly. I have a rather small forehead, so a heavy fringe (you should know this word by now if you have been paying attention) didn’t suit me. Also a no-no was anything too dark as it washed me out — not a good look when one is a cancer patient.

I felt a little bit like Goldilocks on the first two tries, except that I wasn’t in a house of bears and I didn’t have curly gold locks and I wasn’t eating porridge. Nothing was quite right. I just wasn’t feeling it. Too short and helmet-y made me look like a soccer mom (not my thing, really). Too long dragged my face down and wasn’t practical. About chin length seemed to work well…

We finally appeared to strike gold, or rather copper, when I tried on a chin-length ginger (that’s Limey for red head) number with great movement. But when they pulled out the same wig in the nice rich brown colour I wanted, it was slightly shorter and sort of poufed out at the wrong place. Foiled again. At this point I had had enough and was starting to get frustrated. Also, I began to feel tired from the chemo and all the decision making. If you think that a trip to the department store to buy new skinny jeans is tiring try purchasing new hair after chemo. It’s really a bit draining.

So we packed it in and went home. Wigless.

The next morning I had more surgery to install a portacath into one of the major arteries in my chest so that chemo going forward could be administered via the port. This avoids damage to the veins in the arm, which can happen after repeated treatments, so lethal is the shit they pump into you. Following that I was too sore and tired to go wig shopping again anytime soon and the next day, Kate had to fly back. So there I was, still without a wig and on my own.

After a few days I felt better and was back at it. I went to a well-known major department store. They sold wigs and hairpieces in two places, on the ground floor and in their posh salon, upstairs. I decided after my initial disappointment and frustration to think outside the box and try some wigs that didn’t really resemble my real hair. Trying too hard to match it didn’t seem to be working out for a couple of reasons. For one, synthetic wigs are mostly straight, whereas my own hair is wavy. They had some wavy ones but they looked pretty 80s and were lame. Also, getting the same colour is an impossibility.

Anyhow, I decided I was approaching it wrong and needed to have more fun with the process. I tried on a platinum blonde Marilyn Monroe (it was pretty hot, actually). “Happy birthday, Mr. President…” I tried on a human hair brunette wig just for shits and giggles, but the hair was very thick — probably of Indian origin — and it just looked weird on me. I liked a dark red one, definitely a contender, even in the red, but not enough to buy it.

I have to admit I have always had a platonic crush on Ginger from Gilligan’s Island. She had great jugs and was such a tease (did the Professor ever get on that?). So something kept drawing me to the red ones.
But I wasn’t quite sure/ready so I noted the style number and went upstairs. When I got to the salon it was the wig lady’s day off so I tried on a couple half-heartedly, including a severe salt and pepper bob which made me look about 50, and another red number. Then I made an appointment with the wig specialist for the very next day.

That morning was a Thursday and I began the day with a visit to my plastic surgeon for a little instaboob (see the end of my blog entitled Boob Retrospective if that doesn’t make sense).  I returned to the store with my husband in tow. The wig lady was good. She was a stylist and had worked in the industry for years, including on fashion shoots, and then developed an interest in helping cancer patients with alopecia when her own mother was diagnosed. She sized me up and pulled out three or four styles she thought would suit me. I tried on yet another red number, shoulder length with light fringe and long layers. Great colour and movement, but not sure. Then she whipped out a very chic, chin-length deep brunette bob. I put it on. I posed. I became European. I became… Gabriella. I envisioned myself strolling down the street in Florence with a large Prada bag and a small dog, nodding to the men who were blowing kisses and whistling as I passed. Che bella…

It was by far the best one I had tried on and, as the wig lady pointed out, it was “me” even if it wasn’t really me. My husband didn’t like it at first, but when I tried on some others and then reemerged with it he came around. So I bid him ciao and set about making my purchase. I got the works. Wig stand, special brush and Revlon shampoo and conditioner for synthetic hair. The wig lady took me downstairs to get the VAT off my purchase — I had to fill out a form that said I’d had a mastectomy and voilà, VAT-free wig. I ought to get something out of this, no?

To celebrate I bought some new make-up and by then I was so high I practically skipped out the door. On the tube I came up with a new MasterCard commercial to sum up my day:

Stylish new wig: £383
New NARS make-up: £85
Bigger tits in 60 seconds: Priceless

I went to the girls’ school to pick up Isabel and her pals and bring them to hip-hop class. I tried on Gabriella in the locker room at the hip-hop place and a friend snapped a pic.

That evening when I got home, I assembled the wig stand and opened the shiny box containing my new wig.

Something was not right.

What was that smell? I looked around the room, inhaled again. I sniffed my armpit. Nope, it was not I. I looked down at Gabriella. Could it be? No….

I picked her up, had a sniff. Oh, fuck. Gabriella smelled strongly of armpit. And not my armpit, mind you. Someone else’s armpit. Definitely female, due to the slight undertone of musky perfume. I frantically turned her around in my hands and inhaled every inch. The offending areas were the crown and down the right side.

The horror, the horror!

My mind was racing. “What the hell am I going to do?” I thought. I tried to think of a tactful way to phone the store and explain that my brand new wig smelled just like armpit, but not my armpit. To a British person. I considered saying nothing and washing Gabriella to see if the smell would come out. But what if I removed the tag and that didn’t work? Then they might accuse me of imparting the armpit smell myself. Maybe they would think I was into something kinky and was wearing the wig in the wrong place. I decided to sleep on it, my buzz from the day having been thoroughly killed.

The next morning I decided to come clean. I called the salon and thankfully reached the wig lady. “Er,” I stammered, “I have a sort of a strange issue that I need to discuss with you.” I explained that although I was thrilled with my purchase, I had gotten the wig home and noticed a peculiar odour emanating from it. I held my breath. “Oh bring it right in,” she responded. “I’ll take care of it.” Phew. She said she would either have it cleaned or get me a new wig, which might take over a week if it wasn’t in stock. I felt hot prickles go up my back as I recalled my experience at the first wig shop where the “same” wig did not fall the same way as the first one. I feared I might never see Gabriella again. And would have to start all over.

But that afternoon I took her back and handed her over. I left. Wigless again. I felt I had lost a good friend.

A week later I got the call. It was the wig lady. Gabriella was ready for pick up. She had gone back to headquarters and been washed and styled by their top stylist. I smiled.

The next day my friend, Susan, a terrific gal and a fellow Houstonian (I was born there), emailed with intentions of visiting that very store and did I need anything? I hesitated. “Well, actually,” I wrote, “my wig is ready to be picked up. But the thing is, you would have to smell it before you leave the store, you know, to make sure that it is really clean and fresh.” I bit my lip. Maybe this was too much to ask of a friend, even a very close friend. “I’ll do it,” she wrote. Hot damn.

She emailed once she had the goods in hand. “So, did you smell it?” I asked. “Oh yeah,” she wrote. “I smelled it so hard I probably got snot on it.” “As long as it is your snot,” I replied. “I’ll do a DNA swab when you get here.”

Now that, people, is a true friend. It just doesn’t get any better than that.

The doorbell rang. It was Susan. She handed Gabriella over. I lifted the lid and took a whiff. Fresh and clean and completely armpit-free.

So the morning after we shaved my head I put on Gabriella and left the house. I went to lunch, alone, at Le Pain Quotidien on Marylebone High Street. Leaving the house with a wig on and nothing under it for the first time was a strange experience. I kept having to remember to move my neck. “Oh God,” I thought. “Everyone knows. Everyone knows I am wearing a wig.” I tried to ignore these concerns and ordered. Then I struck up a conversation with a nice young couple who had a new baby. I reminisced about my girls when they were babies. “How old are they now?” The man asked. “Five and seven,” I said. “Oh you must have been really young when you had them,” he responded.

Dude, you just made my day. Made me feel like we can kill it, me and Gabriella together.

Cold Cap: From Rapunzel to Rambo

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Once we know I need chemo, I meet with my oncologist for the second time. He’s an extremely personable and energetic Kiwi at one of the top places in London. He informs me that they have these “really great” cold caps that you can use throughout chemo to try and keep your hair. He looks at my thick wavy mane and determines I am an excellent candidate.

Afternoon tea at the Athenaeum

“Get yourself a bob,” he twangs. “With all that hair piled on top of your head the cold will never reach your scalp and it won’t work.”

Okay. So I decide to chop it. I had had long hair for well over ten years because the last time I cut it short was when I was a summer associate in Paris. I take the tube to my Hampstead hairdresser, waltz in and blurt out “hi I have cancer and need chemo so you have to chop off my hair.” Followed by a toothy smile.

He looks at me, pauses briefly, sighs and then sets to it. Very cool. No drama.

There is something liberating about cutting your hair and knowing that it won’t really matter if you aren’t thrilled with the results. You have to do it so you do it. And well, the ends were a little crunchy from years of highlighting and dyeing to conceal a generous sprinkling of salt in my pepper.

I emerge from the salon, the new me. Send pics around and everyone claims to like it — even prefer it — to my old hair (I hope later the same is said about my new vs. my old boobs but as we know from my last post that’s a tall order).  But I digress…

I consider the cold cap. How it works is: they put a plastic cap with below freezing liquid in it on your head and this reduces blood flow to the area which prevents the chemo from reaching the hair follicles. I am told best case scenario my hair will probably thin at least 20% even with the cold cap.

I conduct personal research.

Of my cancer buddies who tried it, each gave up after one or two tries because (a) it was excruciating to have a below freezing cap on your head for hours (shocker) and it gave them migraines and/or (b) the smell of the conditioner they slathered on to prevent the cap from sticking to the hair nauseated them (delightful).

Chemo for me consists of four doses of AC (doxorubicin a/k/a “the red devil” and cyclophosphamide) followed by four doses of Taxol, each given every two weeks on a dose dense regime. So sixteen weeks of treatment in all.

Here’s the catch: if the cold cap works and I retain a good amount of hair through the first half of treatment, I will have to switch to a weekly dose of Taxol for the second half and tack on four extra weeks. Why? Because Taxol when given biweekly is done on a slow drip over three hours and you cannot tolerate the cold cap for that long.

Then my friend Beth raises the possibility of a scalp metastasis if the chemo drugs do not reach the scalp. Shit.

I ask three top oncologists on two continents about this possibility. They say that scalp metastases are rare but it is a theoretical risk.

I do some math:

Freezing cold thing on my head (with loads of icky-smelling conditioner) + 12 weekly treatments vs. 4 biweekly for 2nd half of chemo + possibility hair will fall out anyway + possibility of not killing some little fucker hiding out in my scalp = NO WAY JOSE.

Sorry, but it just isn’t the honey badger way.

I inform my oncologist and the nurses at the chemo treatment suite that, no, in fact, I do not wish to try the cold cap. “Are you sure? You know your hair will fall out, don’t you?” Umm, yeah. I kinda got that. Thanks. I’m not putting that thing on my head. Fuggetaboutit.

It is just hair. It will grow back. And this way I get to go all GI Jane when it starts to fall out and maybe try out a mohawk, at least for a few minutes. Come on, you know you have always wanted to try the ‘hawk.

So I do my first chemo with my perky bob sans cold cap. The treatment suite is pretty swanky. One level under ground but cleverly designed with skylights so it is sunny (when there is sun in London) and nice white leather adjustable chaises longues. People bringing round tea and biscuits. Free wifi. It ain’t a bad place to be, really. If you have to be there. I feel like Dr. Evil in my own little underground lair (except with skylights).

A nice lady comes by who is visiting a friend having been through chemo herself. She has a cute short hair cut. “You should really cut your hair short before your next treatment,” she offers. “It’s easier if it isn’t so long when it starts to go.” I agree. I’ve been warned that when it starts to go, it goes FAST.  And I don’t want to be pulling out long pieces in the tub or walking down the street on a windy London day and have the bloke behind me get a mouthful. Ew.

So a couple weeks later, off I jaunt to Hampstead for new hairstyle numero dos.

This is the shortest lasting hair cut of my life. It lasts exactly five days. On the fifth day I shower and pull out about one quarter of my hair. I am prepared for it, as much as one can be, but still it is disconcerting. I make my husband come deal with it. He does, no questions asked.

The next night I rally the troops, sanitise the shaver my cancer buddy friend lent me, get the shears and get busy. I enlist the girls. Bill is skeptical about their involvement. “But that way it will be fun and silly.” I explain. “You can’t just have mommy show up with a shaved head.”

Although this may seem to represent great wisdom and creativity on my part, I have come to this conclusion after our five year old burst into tears following each of my new haircuts, shrieking “I HATE it! You look POOPY!” And proceeded to bawl and spit (seriously) and carry on. Luckily I have a good sense of humour and thought this was funny, especially when after an hour both times she came up and said I looked great.

I let Isabel take the first whack at it with the shears. No turning back. After a while I start to resemble a concentration camp victim. Bill and I don’t like that part much. So it is time to speed up the process and whip out the shaver. Strangely, I enjoy it. I feel powerful. I do feel like Demi Moore in GI Jane (except taller and I’m not getting paid millions). At Isabel’s suggestion, we do a mohawk.

After snapping a few pics for posterity we shave off the ‘hawk (my hair is falling out so quickly we kind of have to — otherwise I totally would have kept it for a while).  This is London, after all. No better place to be an anonymous nutter (that’s “crazy person” for you British English challenged).

And there we are. The cold cap can suck it. Because I am killing this look.

The best part? Charlotte comes up to me the next day and says “Mommy, bald is your best look.”

A Chemo Haiku

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I am tired so let’s make today’s short and sweet, shall we?

I like to think of chemotherapy as napalm for cancer. Because napalm conjures flamethrower warfare, however, perhaps Agent Orange is a more apt metaphor. Particularly since it was a defoliant.

Of course, that chemo nukes the patient is somewhat problematic, but I can handle it. Just get in there and kill any fast growing cell you find and be done with it. Death to the old bad cells. And, alas, to a lot of the old good cells. But lo, this brings me to today’s submission: a chemo haiku.

Chemotherapy
The ultimate spring cleaning
A new me will blossom

Thank you, Kate, for inspiring today’s blog with a picture of angelique tulips bursting forth. Now if only this crap, London weather would improve I might see some blossoming in my own garden in the near future.

Assaulted at the Global Festival: Things Not to Say to a Cancer Patient

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I am feeling good.  Looking good.  I have on make-up AND my new Missoni headscarf in a colourful chevron stripe — did you know that turbans and headscarves are en vogue right now?  Lucky me.

My mom is in town visiting and it is a Sunday.  We go to the girls’ school for the biannual Global Festival.  The gymnasium is chock full of delicacies from around the world.  And it is a good day so I am on my second plate of food.  I graze, zigzag and chit chat.  Run into people I know, watch the performances on stage including an astounding Crouching Tiger-esque routine with two little kids and a couple of long hard sticks.  These kids look invincible.  I like it.

I am normal.  I am just hanging out.

Until… “Oh, dear are you having chemo?”  A matronly English woman holding a plate of scones is addressing me.

You are fucking kidding me, lady.  “Uh, yes.”  I say.  Other responses pop into my mind.  “No I am just chic and wearing a headscarf.  I am a spring pirate.  I have alopecia.  I am muslim.”

The woman is still standing there.  Looking concerned.

The woman proceeds to ask about my treatment, my cancer, inform me that she had chemo for breast cancer as well a few years ago, ask if my oncologist is Prof So-And-So, blah blah blah.  Then the clincher:  “Well don’t be surprised if you feel depressed after it is all over.  And you won’t feel at all normal for at least a year, maybe even eighteen months to two years after.”

Gee, that is helpful.  Now I feel better.  I look at the scones.  I consider sneezing on them.  The interaction seems to drag on for another five minutes and then is blissfully over.

Mom is pissed.  I tell her not to worry.  I have nothing to do with her, Mom.  She ain’t me.  And that is just her story.  And you see that’s when it hit me.  Her story ain’t my story.  Nobody’s story is my story.  And vice versa.

I have met enough people who have been through this to know that everyone’s story is different with some similarities along the way.  Learning about someone else’s personal experience may provide guidance or comfort.  But it should never be flung in one’s face unsolicited — to what end?  Especially if the message is negative.

“You will feel like shit.  Shittier than you think.”  That’s the takeaway?  I’ll pass, thank you.  On the advice and the scones.

I asked myself why this woman approached me.  Did she see me and think “that woman is going through what I went through.”   Maybe.  She certainly wanted me to know that I was going to have a really hard time.  Just in case I didn’t know.

But I was just hanging out being me, eating some weird Iranian thing that I grabbed from the Iranian table without asking what it was.  And I didn’t ASK her.

So here’s some advice:  Don’t ask don’t tell.  That’s right, if I don’t ask then don’t tell me.

Don’t tell me I will have a harder time than I think, that I will get x, y and z side effects, that my energy level will suck for over a year.  Of course if I want to know I will ask you and then all bets are off.  Fire away.  Tell me everything.

One day I’ll tell you all the other dumb shit people, most of whom have never had cancer themselves, have said to me.  By then I know the list will be longer.

Meanwhile I plan to kill it, recover and move on.  However long it takes ME to do so.  But I’m planning on a speedy recovery just to prove the scone lady wrong.

 

Halfway Through Chemo… How Did I Get Here?

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I am lying awake again.  Damn steroids.  I refuse to check the time — will just make it harder to get back to sleep if I know.  I block out as many senses as possible with earplugs and a blinder.  But I cannot turn off my brain.  Or the steroid-induced rapid beating of my heart.  So I think about this, my first blog post.

It took me this long to get here.  I am halfway through chemotherapy for breast cancer but this journey started in November of 2011 when I discovered a hard, pea-sized lump in my right breast.  I was in the shower.  The classic scenario.  I remember thinking:  what the FUCK is that?  That was not there before.  Could it be something sinister?  Is it as hard as I imagined a tumour would be?  Oh by the way you Americans will have to embrace my UK spelling — if tumour with a “u” or authorise with an “s” bugs you then you might as well stop reading now.  Or shall I say, sod off?

I informed my husband of my discovery.  Killed the mood.  Maybe it’s a cyst.  I’ll give it a couple weeks and if it doesn’t go away I will get everything checked out in the US over Christmas holiday.   We had relocated here from the suburbs of Boston in late July.  Not my first foray into expat life, but my first since I am no longer single.  We arrive across the pond with our two daughters, Isabel and Charlotte, aged 7 and then 4, ready to plunge into a new life, a new adventure.  Little did we know.

But London is good to me, to us.  The girls settle into their new school.  They get scooters.  I make them wear helmets.  Bill begins to settle into a new law office.  I make preparations to continue my interior decoration studies, having left the world of corporate law (mergers & acquisitions) — at least as a practitioner — in New York when we discovered I was pregnant with Isabel and also moving to Boston in 2004.

We are both lawyers.  But I discovered that despite my left-brain dominance, which I sheepishly try to squelch every time I take one of those tests that is supposed to indicate brain dominance, there is indeed a right brain in there (well about 30%) dying to get out.  After falling asleep so many times pondering the absence of good design in children’s spaces  I decide to take some classes at the Boston Architectural College.  This goes very well so I plan to pursue my certificate in London and upon arrival get busy vetting the top schools.  There will be some duplication — they do an all or nothing approach here rather than the uber mom-friendly one class at a time option I was doing in Boston.  I decide on an intensive part-time program that will be complete in one academic year.  For some reason I take out tuition reimbursement insurance just in case, I figure, some relative gets sick or something bizarre happens.  Something bizarre.

The lump does not go away.  I spend much of my Christmas break undergoing tests, first a physical exam which doesn’t raise too many eyebrows but then a mammogram and ultrasound which do.  Finally core needle biopsies of the suspicious areas.  I tell the radiologist performing the biopsies to level with me.  I am a big girl.  She doesn’t pull any punches.  She is “reasonably concerned” there is cancer.  Shit.  I cry a little bit.  I have to pee about four times.  Nerves.  I start to process.  But it always always helps me to get information and begin to process it.  I need to know; want to know.  I will have my answer but not until two days after we fly back to London on New Year’s Day.   I kind of knew though.

On the flight back to London we are four across in business class with the little girls side by side facing backwards and Bill and me flanking them facing forward.  I watch Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.  It is a poor choice for my mood.  I cannot stop looking at the girls’ joyful faces, their bursts of laughter during Winnie The Pooh, their innocence.  How can I inflict myself on them?  I who am their protector.

Bill and I suffer our worst night that night.  At bedtime, I peruse the internet on breast cancer.  Stupid.  I know better.  In the esteemed words of Professor Taub in The Sure Thing, “as the dog who returneth to his own vomit so doth the fool to his folly.”  I emerge from my “research” and wake my sleeping husband.  We fall apart for a few hours.  That and the jet lag make the next days exhausting.  Oh and the questions.  Can we treat this in London?  My initial instinct:  I want to.  We have moved into a charming and cozy house in northwest London and the girls are settled into their school.  We have sold our home in the Boston area.  We have started to gather names of oncologists and hospitals just in case.

We get the call.  It is cancer.  Multifocal in the right breast.  Days of hardcore research on and calls to breast and reconstruction surgeons ensue.  I thank my lucky stars my best childhood friend, Beth, is a plastic surgeon who educated us over the holiday about breast cancer and reconstruction issues even before we had the diagnosis.  I feel I am entering this fight with some background, with some power.  I am already thinking mastectomy.  Maybe even bilateral.  Never want to do this again.  Ever. Ever. Ever.  Just want to KILL IT.

Because that is what I do when I set my mind to something.

Stay tuned for the next instalment, dear reader.

Oh and for those of you waiting for that filthy humour that you have come to expect from me, don’t be discouraged.  I just have to take you there the way I got there.