Category Archives: Breast Cancer Humour

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.”

Boob Retrospective

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The other night my husband turned to me and asked me if I ever miss my old boobs. My initial thought was to turn the question back on him and ask whether he missed my old boobs. But after a pause, I responded: “no, they were bad.” And I meant it.

I mean, I liked my boobs a lot before I found out one of them had cancer in it. Even though after two children they were not at their prime. (But they were still pretty good). After that I just sort of developed a surgeon’s mentality about them. Cut the bad shit out. Kill it. Please.

Hmmm. Let me reflect on my boobs. We had a long history. Well, sort of. It took them an awful long while to make an appearance. I went through puberty at 14 and didn’t have much to show in the way of boobs until then. By then I was a tall skinny kid without any curves and had suffered lots of jokes about anatomy throughout grammar school. “Hey, Emily, I’ve got a joke that’s so funny it’ll make your tits fall off. Oh, I see you’ve already heard it.” Hardee harrrrr harrrr. This really happened. I am not making it up.

I did not care for changing in the locker room for gym class. Most of the other girls had purchased bras (or desperately needed to) and had some hips going on (I didn’t — still don’t but that’s another story). I got impatient and finally went to a department store and bought a bra anyway. I found the thing about ten years later in the attic in a box of old clothes. It was white shiny polyester and about the size of a double eye patch. I remember when I bought it I showed it to my friend Beth and she remarked that it was baggy. This was true. Ouch.

In ninth grade they finally showed up. Overnight the commentary from the opposite sex went from banal remarks about their absence to “hey looking perky today.” In spite of myself I smiled shyly and blushed. Let’s face it; I was proud finally to have them and not going to pretend I was offended that someone noticed.

They were good. Smallish and neither too close together nor too far apart. A nice projection. And yes, perky.

Highschool was good. They were about a B-cup. They had some fans.

College, also good. I filled out a little more and was a solid C.

After college I worked as a legal assistant at a large New York law firm. I was known as bright and for my “posture.” I was able to wear dresses and tops without a bra and still look good. Not at the law firm! Geez!

They were good in law school. Of course I was still in my twenties… I bought a tight dress at Betsey Johnson in Manhattan after first year. A gal from Jersey trying on clothes too said “you have great boobs. Are they real?”

After law school I clerked for a judge in New Orleans. Her fast talking, animated and hilarious courtroom deputy at the time referred to my boobs in his Louisiana drawl as “the rack” and asked frequently after them as a surrogate for asking how I was. “Hey, Em. How’s the rack?” They were a nice D by then.

There was also the “decoy eye” incident, whereupon a man with strabismus entered the chambers and asked to speak to me about something procedural. I came out and talked to him for about ten minutes (during which it became clear that no one could help him because he was dumb as a post). After he had left, the judge’s assistant said that she had had to leave the room while we were speaking because she was so uncomfortable. I said “oh, yeah. I know what you mean. He was so dumb and I couldn’t help him understand…” She replied that no, in fact, she had been uncomfortable because he had been staring at my breasts the entire time we were speaking. “What?” I replied. “Are you sure? He was looking me in the eye the whole time.” Without missing a beat, the courtroom deputy chimed in “that was just the decoy eye.”

I wore a strapless dress to my wedding. It was fabulous. I purchased the white strapless bustier bra at a posh shop on the Upper East Side in Manhattan, had it altered to fit the rack just so and then sewed into my dress so there would be no wardrobe malfunction. And this was before that Janet Jackson incident.

During pregnancy, my boobs started creeping into scary letters of the alphabet, and when years later I unearthed the underwire bras I wore in the eighth and ninth months I was amazed at their size. They resembled two fabric salad bowls connected by a strip of material rather than the double eye patch I started with.

After the birth of our first child, I remarked that each boob was larger than the child’s head. Granted, she did have a small head. But still. I snapped a pic of myself holding my child with much of my boob strategically covered by one hand and sent it to a pregnant friend. She pinged back “I am SHOCKED. SHOCKED by the size of your boob.”

When I went to a postnatal yoga class about two weeks after giving birth, my adorable and tiny yoga instructor took one look at me and said “I see that your milk has come in.” Read: stay back or you might take me out with one of them things.

After giving birth to Isabel, a maternity nurse remarked that she thought “I was going to have quite a supply.” Indeed she was right. I nursed each of my babies for about a year and appeared to have enough leftover to feed several other children.

And after Charlotte was weened they were a little deflated but really still nice boobs. I was still able to wear some dresses and tops sans bra and look good.

So now I ask myself again: do I miss my old boobs?

I guess what I would say is that I think of them fondly. We had a good run.

Now when I watch television or a movie and there is nudity I don’t see breasts the same way I did before. I am more attuned to the shape, the projection, the way the breasts move or don’t move when the actress moves her body. When I take the tube (this is the London underground train for those who aren’t familiar) and a young lady with attractive boobs gets on I admire them more than I might have before. I try not to look for too long.

I miss softness and movement and that natural slope.

What I have now are my temporary boobs. Because I had immediate reconstruction after my bilateral mastectomies in early February, I have “place holders.” They are filled with saline and are making a nice pocket for my permanent silicone implants, which I will get, if all goes well, later this year. They look pretty good. Even in a bra you can’t tell. But they are hard and they do not move. I mean at all. I could jump off the top of a truck and the things wouldn’t budge.

But I do get to do something special. Every once in a while, I go into see my reconstruction surgeon and he expands them suckers with another 50 ccs of saline each. This takes a very little time. And I leave his office with bigger boobs. Instaboob. Bigger tits in 60 seconds. Think of the fortune that could be made if this service were available for normal women.

I am fembot hear me roar.

I get to try before I buy. The newbs will have more projection and softness and movement than my tempies even if they won’t be the real real thing. And they will never sag. I will be the hottest mama in the nursing home. Still killing it in a low-cut dress with no bra. Hooah.

 

 

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.