Category Archives: Breast Cancer

End of Shit

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The other day I was in the waiting room at my plastic surgeon’s office. The appointment was just a quick check so that he could see how my skin was reacting to radiation toward the end of treatment.

While I waited, I flipped though a beauty magazine, lingering longingly over pages of young, scantily clad women with impossibly perky boobs. I was interrupted by three persons entering the waiting room, two women who vaguely resembled one another and a man.

They were joking around rather loudly and weren’t being very British so we easily struck up a conversation. Turns out one of the ladies was there to get her nipple tattoos as the final stage of her reconstruction, having been through double mastectomies, chemo and radiation. It was great to see another lady out the other side of it all. It had been about two years since it had all happened for her. She was chipper as could be.

The other lady was this woman’s sister, and the man, her sister’s husband. They had come along for moral support and to watch all the magic happen.

The lady said that when she was done with her treatment, she’d had an “end of shit” party. End of shit. Isn’t that the perfect way to describe it all? I think so. Now I don’t know if she coined a term there or if “end of shit” is a British thing. Maybe someone British can tell me. Meanwhile, either way I like it. I’ll have to have me an end of shit party too.

But now I am on break. Summer vacation.

I had my final radiation Friday at noon. One more time on Trilogy (see Meet Trilogy if you haven’t met her), my arms overhead, envisioning my super heroine with flowing cape and hair, standing hands on hips atop a hill and sending white-hot fire from her eyes into the enemy below.

That was what I usually conjured during treatments. That and I couldn’t help but think of the old Raid television commercial in which cockroaches spontaneously combusted with a “pow” and a cloud of smoke, after yelling: “RAI-AID?!!!”

In any event it was weird to have that last treatment. So much of my time has been devoted to getting through “the shit” and really it was sort of anticlimactic when it was all over. But nice nonetheless. Nice to be DONE.

I spent the rest of the day packing, or to be precise, overpacking for our summer trip to Cape Cod. I had trouble narrowing down the summer outfits because in London we have had so little summer that I wanted to cram in as many light and colourful ensembles as possible before we have to pull out the coats again.

When I’d finished with the clothes, I rifled through my four-inch thick medical file folder to find the ID cards for my expanders. I put them in my handbag along with our passports and a letter from my reconstructive surgeon just in case I set the metal detector off (see Things I Am Prepared to Say to Airport Security if this doesn’t ring a bell, so to speak).

Actually my doctor wrote two letters. The first one was to me:

Dear Emily

I do not think Style 133 metal base valves set off airport alarms. I do not want to see you wrestled to the ground, dragged off to custody, being forced to watch the Olympics from a prison cell. Nonetheless I am emailing in a second note a letter that could be produced if there were problems. Safe journey and lots of love.

Kind regards and best wishes

Yours sincerely

It’s definitely the best letter I have ever received from a doctor. And the only funny one. And I have a lot of letters from doctors, most of which I have amassed in the past seven months.

The second letter was a basic statement that I have been under his care and have these gizmos in me and that if there are any issues the airport folks can reach him on his cell.

Soon enough, Saturday morning was upon me and with it the moment of truth. I inched forward in the security line. Plunked my iPad and MacBook Air and plastic baggie of liquids and pastes into grey bins, removed my belt with chunky metal buckle and awaited my turn. The kids went through first. Nothing. Then me.

And of course my tits totally set it off.

“Step over here, madame,” said the security dude. “I need to tell you something,” I said. “I have these prosthetic devices… I have a letter,” I replied. He ignored this and just waved me toward his female associate for a pat down.

I assumed the position and again started to explain myself. But by the time I got to “I have a letter” she had completed her pat down and sent me on my way. So I never got to produce the letter. At least I have it for the way back just in case the folks in Boston are skeptical that I am an evil fembot bent on world destruction.

We had loads of time to kill at Heathrow because we had left an hour early in case the men’s cycling road race caused any traffic delays. So we enjoyed breakfast in the British Airways lounge, watched some Olympic coverage and browsed the shops.

The flight itself was uneventful. I accepted a glass of champagne before take-off to toast my end of shit.

For lunch I ordered the special “Olympic-inspired” fish pie and then had afternoon tea (sandwiches and scones) a couple hours later even though I wasn’t really still hungry. I have trouble turning away food, even on an airplane.

We breezed through customs and made it to my in-laws’ house in Wellesley, where we were to retrieve the Subaru wagon and drive to the Cape, relatively quickly.

After using the facilities, we were about to head out when our five-year-old, who was sitting in the front seat of the car while she waited for the rest of the family, announced that the rearview mirror had “fallen off.” My immediate reaction was that she probably pulled it right off while screwing around in there. My secondary reaction was that I didn’t fancy spending an hour in an auto body shop waiting for the damn thing to be repaired after a seven-hour transAtlantic flight and with a two-hour drive ahead.

I called my father-in-law at the Cape and asked if he kept any crazy-glue in the house. He admitted that the mirror had fallen off before (more than once) and that crazy glue wouldn’t work. At that point my husband emerged from the basement with a roll of duct tape.

So we duct taped the thing on and set off for the Cape. It wasn’t perfect but it held all right. And we made it.

It’s nice to be back in America in a cozy, familiar house with the ocean breeze and the outdoor shower. A welcome change of venue for my end of shit.

I suppose that technically there is more shit ahead since I have further reconstructive surgery, but that doesn’t really count as “shit” because it will be happy times to improve my rack so that I, too, can possess impossibly perky boobs.

Meanwhile, now that I have killed it I will have to find something else to do with my time. But one thing is certain. I am going to keep blogging. Because there is no end of shit about which to write.

Things I Am Prepared to Say to Airport Security

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In a recent e-mail, my mother-in-law asked me whether she thought my saline boob expanders — if you don’t know what I am talking about think of them space savers for my implants — would set off the metal detector at the airport on account of their magnetic ports. I credit myself with thinking of a lot of things but this had not occurred to me. And I doubt it will happen. Nevertheless, in the spirit of the Boy Scouts, I have decided to be prepared.

I have thought about what to say to the authorities should bells go off when I step through, having handed over my watch, belt and iPhone.

Feel free to vote for your favourite.

Option 1: “Stand back; bionic tits coming through, people.” I mean Jaime Sommers has nothin’ on me. Cue corny bionic sound effects and slow-mo.

Option 2: (Said when wand is passed over each breast and sound indicates presence of metal.) “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet; the dude behind me has a metal asshole.”

Option 3: “Oh, those are just my 24-karat tatas. I like to travel in style.”

Option 4: “Take cover! They’re gonna blow!” (That one probably isn’t a good plan because it would likely subject me to rough handling and possibly even a cavity search in a small windowless room, causing me to miss my flight).

And Option 5: (If I get the pat-down rather than the wand.) “Ooh, baby don’t stop. That’s more action than they’ve had in six months.”

What? Yeah, I know. I’m a weirdo. But one has to have a sense of humour about these things for Christ’s sake.

Tumour in a Blue Bag

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In case you were wondering this is not a take-off on Devil in a Blue Dress, but it would be cool if it were, eh?

A while back I decided it would be prudent, or as my British dermatologist likes to put things, “sensible,” to see an oncologist at the Dana Farber Cancer Institute (the “DFCI”) in Boston during our visit to the US. Arranging for such an appointment may not sound like a big deal but let me tell you, it was.

Because all of my reports, imaging, pathology and histology stuff is over here in London, I have to transport not only myself to Boston but all of it as well. And this is why, yesterday, I found myself walking down the street carrying sections of my tumours on slides in a blue plastic bag.

I would have liked the hospital here to take care of all of this for me, but somehow that didn’t happen. The hospital (which is a world-famous cancer centre, by the way) didn’t seem to do this sort of thing and although it is apparently used to receiving a great deal of biological materials via international mail it doesn’t seem to happen much the other way around.

So anyhow, the samples I requested (because the DFCI wanted to review them prior to my appointment) ended up in my breast surgeon’s office and I got a phone call that it might be best if I just came and picked them up in person and simply took them with me on the plane to Boston. Somewhat bewildered but nonetheless pleased that the requested materials had been made available promptly, I agreed.

After I ended the call, I imagined myself going through airport security at Heathrow and having my carry-on bag searched. “And what pray tell are these, Madame?” The guard asks suspiciously. “Oh those. Those are just sections of my right tit. I like to carry them around with me when I travel.” Hmmm. No thanks. I thought the better of the plan. Called back and asked if they could do the mailing from the breast surgeon’s office. But their mail room didn’t use one of the carriers that the DFCI had listed as acceptable. So I went and picked the damn things up after all and out I walked onto Harley Street, tumours in hand.

As I ambled along, gently swinging the blue bag, I had irrational thoughts of accidentally leaving it somewhere — all physical evidence of my disease being lost forever. I descended into the tube at Warren Street and boarded my train. I clutched the bag in my right hand and my purse in my left and looked around. Satisfied that no one was about to wrestle my plastic baggie of tumours away from me, I pulled from my purse my latest addiction, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, and read a few pages during my brief ride.

I alighted at my stop (the British like to use the term “alight” rather than “get off” because it sounds fancier) in Belsize Park, triple checking that I still had the bag. When I got to my house I put the bag right on my desk so that the cleaning lady wouldn’t mistake it for trash or recycling and heave it outside. And there it now sits. Awaiting dispatch.

How terribly odd to carry around my cancer in a bag. Those bad bits of me that were, only six months ago, on the inside of my body, slowly growing and threatening my health, my life. I’m looking at the bag right now. I feel rather smug. Sort of like “ha ha, asshole. You are so low that you are in a second-hand, rather crumpled, blue plastic shopping bag and that is all you deserve.”

I spent part of the day wringing my hands over whether to use FedEx or DHL to dispatch the goods and what to write on the customs form. It demands a value. What should I put? Worthless? Priceless? The lady at the DFCI who deals with international patients (which I now am on account of living in the UK and having international insurance) suggested that I write in $1.00. One dollar for my cancer cells and their unique characteristics. One dollar for the thing that has changed my life forever.

As much as I don’t want them lost in the mail I can tell you that they don’t deserve to be valued at one red cent. They are dead. We cut them out and killed them and squashed them between slides and put them in plastic cases in a blue plastic bag. Now they are just specimens. Just evidence of what was.

You know, it’s funny. Years ago, right after my husband and I moved from our small apartment in New York City to the Boston area he joked for no apparent reason one day “your bosoms arrived in the mail.” Not knowing the odd significance of this prognostication we both thought it was wildly funny — albeit totally random. Now I am about to mail my bosoms to Boston while I take British Airways. It’s pretty weird, people.

 

Off Duty

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Two weeks from today, provided there are no airplane delays, riots, floods or unwelcome and unforeseen side effects (such as a right thumb the size of a blimp) from treatment, I will be eating my breakfast in the United States of America (say that with a Southern drawl, please, emphasis on the “YOU”).

After those two short weeks I will have completed not only chemotherapy but also radiotherapy. Of course my treatment will technically continue for some time because I am now on Tamoxifen (endocrine therapy) and will remain on it for the next five years. I waited for two weeks after getting the prescription before popping the first white tablet because there are different schools of thought regarding whether to begin this drug subsequent to or concurrently with radiation. Some business about the theoretical possibility that cancer cells may be less active while on Tamoxifen and thus radiation somewhat less effective. But then there’s the whole get your body the protection of the Tamoxifen as soon as possible argument. I opted for “in the middle of” radiation, not wanting to carry the burden of an all or nothing decision and because it didn’t appear that anyone else was going to decide for me.

Taking that first pill was sort of weird. I kept staring at the box of tablets on my night table. I felt like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix in that moment before he considered whether to take the red or the blue pill and forever change his life. Go down the wormhole. This drug is powerful and it is excellent protection for those of us who had/have oestrogen-positive tumours, but many powerful good things come with a price, such as putting a woman through early and sometimes irreversible menopause. That may not seem like a big deal if you are already of a certain age or you are male and just don’t “get it” but to a forty-year-old who always thought she would have a third child it is not nothing. It’s unnatural and odd to think about such things before their due.

But I did it. And have been on it for a week now. I don’t think I have noticed anything (probably too early) apart from the occasional hot flash (hot flush if you are Breeteesh but to an American a hot flush might denote something else entirely, if you catch my drift) in my face, which could be totally unrelated. The chemo may have knocked me into temporary menopause in any event, so the effects of the Tamoxifen may go less noticed for me. Time will tell.

So this is how these two weeks will go: I will finish radiation, dutifully schlepping to the London Clinic for treatment every morning, and meanwhile I will begin to pack for our trip. Every day I will run my hands over my now slightly fuzzy each day slightly fuzzier scalp (it is irresistible) to monitor my salt ‘n’ pepper chia growth (see previous post). I will stare at my brow bones and lash lines in search of baby fine hairs. I will take my once daily Tamoxifen. And then that Friday will come and I will be done with radiation and about to fly across the ocean for, I think you will all agree, some well-deserved r&r. Off duty at last. Not even thinking about the further surgeries down the road some months away.

But it occurs to me that I will not really be off duty. Ever. I will relax and, not having to undergo any treatment other than that pill every morning, my stupid fucking breast cancer will fade from the forefront of my mind. But it will never really go away completely. Even after the Tamoxifen part is over. I figure every year it will get a little bit easier and occupy a little less thought depending on what else is going on in my life and in the lives of those around me. It’s just part of the deal now. I, like so many before me (and with me), some of you who are reading this right now, will have to lug it around even when it becomes almost imperceptible, virtually weightless.

I’d love to have your thoughts on this. How does it feel one year out? Two years out? Twenty years out? Do you have scars or tattoos that you see every day in the mirror and do they remind you every time? Or don’t you even “see” them anymore? Do you worry every time you have a check-up or a scan? Do you laugh at cancer jokes in movies without thinking that on some level they apply to you differently? I suppose these things are highly personality driven. I do not imagine that I will be seized by worry very often if all goes according to plan. But I know I’ll have my moments.

One of my problems is that I have never been one to let myself off the hook. So if I stop thinking about it for very long my mind will admonish, “Emily, stop focusing on how long it will take for your eyebrows to grow back or [insert other trivial beauty crap] and remember that you were diagnosed with cancer in January of 2012.” At which point I may have to tell my mind to shut the fuck up. Because once in a while I really would like to be… completely… off duty. Killing it passively.

 

Deflated

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There is some required reading prior to delving into this post, people. I know. You feel like you’re back in school. Sorry if that gives you nightmares. But here’s the deal: If you have not read Boob Retrospective or if you read it ages ago and it is not fresh in your mind, you should read it now so that you know what I am talking about.

I had a shitty morning. I was minding my own business, cooking up some scrambled eggs for my five-year-old, when the phone rang. It was my radiation oncologist. I answered and she thought I was my husband. I guess my voice was a bit deep because I hadn’t been up that long. I figured she was about to tell me that all systems were go for my radiation starting on Monday after getting the scan results from last Friday.

But no.

What she told me, rather, was that they were going to have to take some of the saline OUT of my expanders before beginning radiation because otherwise it would cause me to get some radiation to the left breast. (They don’t want to deliver any radiation where it isn’t needed for obvious reasons and if heaven forbid you should ever need any to that area in the future you have problems if it has already been irradiated).

Because I was in front of my children I held it together and finished cooking the breakfast. But then I went into my room and had a good cry. I mean for fuck’s sake. Here I am, finally a sunny day in London, and no more every other Thursday chemo to contend with, and now this Thursday I get to visit the plastic surgeon so he can make my boobs… smaller. By 4 centimetres. Talk about reverse progress.

I can assure you this is not going to look good. I don’t mind so much about the flatness, but it will get all wrinkly, particularly at the top and on the sides where the expanders don’t have much fluid in them. And I get to go through the next six weeks in London and then enjoy my beach vacation like that. Really good for a girl’s self-image. It’s a lucky thing I haven’t gone swimsuit shopping yet. That’s sure to be a barrel of laughs. “Um, yeah, do you have anything that will work with… this?”

The day after the deflation I must have yet another radiation planning scan and then the whole delays my treatment by two days. “But I already bought plane tickets for the US and we were leaving the day after my treatment ended.” I said. My radiation oncologist said that we could double up on two days provided the treatments are at least six hours apart. And that I could get reinflated “right away.” But naturally I won’t be here to get reinflated. I will be in the United States on my bloody vacation, won’t I. Wearing a potato sack.

I really shouldn’t complain, seeing as I have my scalp and mole biopsies to look forward to next Tuesday. That and I found this weird little lumpy thingie on my right arm yesterday and believe you me, once you find a little lump on your body that ends up being a tumour, you do NOT like to find any little lumpy thingies anywhere else. At all.

I am sure (and I am assured via telephone) that this is nothing. However, I don’t like it.

My plastic surgeon was in surgery all day today so I have not been able to speak to him about my impending deflation. I am certain he is no less unhappy than I am about having to undo his slow, steady expansion. Alas. Sucker punched again.

Well, screw all of that. I was meeting my glamorous Parisian friend, Marie, for lunch today at a little place called Cocomaya. So I went for a brisk half hour walk in the neighbourhood, it then being too late for me to get to the gym and back before lunch. Then I put on my lowest cut shirt, showing off my fresh cleavage tattoo. I figure I might as well display what I’ve got before it’s stolen away from me on Thursday morning.

And I went out and had a very nice time with my friend. After lunch I walked through Hyde Park to Harrods to see about the big sale that’s on. I really need to go horseback riding in Hyde Park one day soon. I haven’t been horseback riding in ages.

Of course Harrods was mobbed with (mostly irritating) people. Including one red-faced old bag who yelled at the nice man behind the loose tea counter as he was assisting me “what are you the only one working behind this counter now?” “Yes, madam.” “What the others are all on tea break are they?” “Yes, madam.” “Bloody hell!” I thought she might reach across the counter to strangle him. I suppose this would have been an opportune moment for me to whip off my headscarf and say “is it all right with you, madam, if the nice man finishes helping a cancer patient who is about to have her boobs taken away (again)?” But I am sure she wouldn’t have given a shit (especially since she was probably drunk) so I completely ignored her and just slowed down my order a bit.

I bought strawberry and mango black teas and this lotus situation that comes in an unremarkable little pod but then opens into a gorgeous flower once you pour boiling water over it. I guess I have to see my own situation this way. I am just in my pod phase. Soon I will bloom again (just please don’t pour boiling water on me).

Following that I bought some fresh cod (you may as well pick up something for din din if you find yourself at Harrods in the late afternoon) and some very fine artisanal chocolates. When I got home I gave each child one chocolate and then I gave myself three. This was met with mild outrage by the seven-year-old but I looked her straight in the eye and said “Mommy had a hard day.” And then I popped that third one into my mouth and savoured it. No guilt whatsoever.

I had my eighth and final chemotherapy treatment two weeks ago this coming Thursday. Every Tuesday night before a Thursday chemo I used to think, I have one more day. One more day to feel normal before they hit me again. This week was going to be a day when I didn’t have to think that. But now I am thinking I have one more day. One more day to look (somewhat) normal before they take my newbs away for about eight weeks, just in time for summer. One more day. One more thing to endure. One more festering turd on the road to killing it.

Of course I’ll be a good sport. I will embrace the flat look. Make it work for me. Conceal the wrinkly bits if they show. Get a padded bra or shove a chick fillet in there to plump things up.

And I will still be me. Because they can’t take that away from me.

 

50 Gray

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No, this is not a post about Fifty Shades of Grey. My sister-in-law gave me that book for my birthday and I haven’t gotten into it yet. But apparently the whole thing is bondage and sex, which she must feel I could use some of at the moment.

Rather, this is about the planning session I attended this morning for my radiotherapy treatments. One “gray,” which was defined in honour of Louis Harold Gray, is the absorption of one joule of energy, in the form of ionising radiation, per kilogram of matter. It just so happens that my prescribed dose is 50 gray, delivered in 25 sessions. It’s bound to be loads more fun than mummy (that’s mommy if you are in America — I am not making a reference to dead ancient Egyptians) porn, delivered in 500 some odd pages. Not.

So I left my house at about 9:10 am and in it FIVE girls (my kids and my good friend’s three kids, because my friend had a doctor’s appointment at that same time and needed childcare), the housekeeper and the nanny.

For once in my life I left enough time to take the tube. And I even brought a book so I would have something to do on the tube. On the platform after exiting at Warren Street I caught site of the very nice woman and fellow survivor I had met while getting my nails done a few weeks ago (remember her from Why I’m Lucky?) and I even remembered her name. Is that proof enough for you that I don’t have chemo brain? I called out, she turned and we ended up walking all the way to the place together. She’d been there, you see. Been there; done that.

The planning session consisted of meeting with a radiographer (or whatever the appropriate term is) for an initial Q&A, during which I always ask about a billion questions and make things take twice as long. I can’t help it. Inquiring minds want to know.

Prior to that I was greeted by two very pleasant, well-mannered ladies who offered me a cappuccino and even took and rinsed out my thermos, which contained a yucky coffee I had brought from home and wanted to discard because I had inadvertently grabbed the housekeeper’s coffee and it had sugar in it. Blech. Taste bud shock. You would never get this service in the US. Would you? Tell me where if I am wrong; I’d love to know.

Then I went into the scan room where the team positioned me on this table with my arms above my head and then drew all over me and placed wires and whatnots on me and took measurements. Laser beams from the ceiling made marks on me so that they could tell if I was properly aligned. Pretty cool, really. There were three or four ladies with one dude in charge of the proceedings.

Here is a thought. The dude was young and good-looking, and there I was disrobed from the waist up, with my weird “newbs” out, and I didn’t even feel the slightest bit self-conscious. All modesty has gone right out the window with this thing. In fact I was making them all crack up. After my oncologist’s radiographer had put ink and wires all over me, she snapped a couple of photos of the area and I said “this isn’t exactly the nude photo shoot I had been dreaming of… but it will have to do.” She also asked me where I was from and when I indicated I had spent a good deal of time in Manhattan having grown up in Connecticut and been most recently from Boston she wanted to know if we really used the word “smock” in New York. “What?” I said. “Smock,” she repeated. I said I had no idea what she was talking about. Then she said that her husband had bumped someone at the airport and the man had called him “a smock.” Ha ha. “Oh yes,” I replied. “I believe the term you are looking for is ‘Schmuck,’ not ‘smock.'” Now if that doesn’t make you laugh you are truly brain-dead. The English. Good grief.

Anyhow then they took all that crap off me and did the CT scan — it was very quick. Following that, one of the radiographers made three small tattoos on my skin with a blueish ink. One in between my “boobs” and one on either side of my body on the rib cage. That helps them line me up with the lasers and make sure that I am positioned correctly for all radiation sessions. Although I wasn’t deliriously happy about being tattooed and having yet another reminder of all this cancer shit, I figured it made sense to let them do their thing so they get it right. Over time I won’t mind these marks much. They are just little blueish freckles.

After all the fun was over I had another session with a nurse who talked to me about potential side effects, mainly fatigue and skin effect (burning, blistering and breakdown — the three “B’s”). She indicated that the skin reactions are cumulative. Usually the skin doesn’t react right away. It generally happens after about two plus weeks in. I am hoping that this lovely 10% calendula cream called My Girls Cream (tee hee) that was sent to me by a fellow survivor in the US helps me sail through the treatments without too much burning or skin breakdown. Those photons can be mighty hard on a girl (or a guy for that matter).

Then I was done. Feeling pretty good about the whole morning. Not so long; not so bad.

Until I got home and found out that the five little devils had made two holes in my girls’ bedroom walls. The two five-year-olds barricaded themselves in Charlotte’s room and went at this rather soft part of the wall (I don’t know why it is soft but it is) with a pair of scissors and by the time it was discovered had hammered about a four-inch-high narrow gash in the wall out of which dust, dirt and debris (the three “D’s”) was falling out and staining the carpet (thank God for replaceable carpet tiles).

Meanwhile on the other side of the wall, the big girls had exacerbated a small dent that had already been in Isabel’s wall, which now also had the three D’s coming out of it.

All I could think was WTF. Are you kidding me? My girls are lucky I am too weak to give them a good beating. I told Bill about the episode in an email and of course he thought it was mostly funny. Which I suppose it is, in the long run. But seriously, holes in the wall? I told them if they want to fuck up their own house when they are adults they can do so but until then this behaviour is 100% unacceptable.

Here I thought the hardest part of my day was having radiation planning. But it wasn’t. I guess that is something to be thankful for in itself, no? After lunch, at which no one was allowed to get dessert (duh), we went home and things improved. My girls read and did art projects and ended the evening by putting on bathing suits and 3D glasses, getting beach towels and pretending to sun bathe (it was neither warm nor sunny enough for such) in the garden. And I retaliated by whipping up a killer marinara sauce (no recipe) in which I hid an entire zucchini. My kids hate zucchini. I still haven’t told them they ate it right up. Little blighters. Ha ha.

Work it Out Redux

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I just got back from the gym. Seeing as it is the Monday after my final chemo (which was just last Thursday), I will own up to the fact that I am a wee bit drag-ass. But not terrible.

I still have to set the cardio on the elliptical and the exercise bike to about 60% of what I was able to do pre-surgery in early February. And I have frankly lost track of how much I downwardly adjusted the weight on the other machines. But, I haven’t had to knock them down again after I adjusted everything a few weeks ago so I am at least holding steady. That’s something. I’ll take it.

Sometimes I peek over surreptitiously at the person next to me on the cardio to try to see how many watts they are doing and just how lame I am. Being a cancer patient doesn’t make me that much less hard on myself. Because if you start going down that road of excuses, where does it end?

There is reasonable, and taking it easy and not pushing too much. And then there is just sorry-ass lame excuse making. I don’t ever want to be in the second camp. Do you?

So anyhow I have formulated a plan. It is a loose plan because I will have to play it by ear and see how I feel during radiation a/k/a radiotherapy (doesn’t that make it sound like a pleasant spa treatment involving music?). The plan goes something like this: Now that chemo is over, it is time to start ratcheting things up at the gym, little by little. So that by the time I am ready for my summer vacation, I am looking and feeling fit and strong for the beach. Even if I have to wear a mumu or a full body tent in order to protect my skin. I want muscles under that tent.

After my cardio/weight circuit this morning I moseyed on into the stretching room to see just how much those pecks have atrophied. I did ten push ups, girl-style, on my knees. Normally this would piss me off. But I know that I am not ready for the full deal. And that is okay. Because I will get there again. But I don’t want to bust anything.  No pun intended.

It is a crappy rainy day here. My husband left his raincoat at work over the weekend. Bad timing. And my older daughter decided not to wear her Wellies to school this morning even though it is the textbook day for such attire. Alas.

Are you wondering what to do on this crappy rainy day here in London, or for that matter wherever you are, be it rainy or sunny or hailing or what have you?

I’ll tell you what to do. Get off your ass and get to the gym. I haven’t reminded you in a long time (see Work It Out) and it’s about time I light another fire under that caboose of yours.

I’ll be right behind you, huffing and puffing away, killing it as much I am able to at 80 watts and climbing.

‘Twas the Night Before (Last) Chemo

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Wow. Here I am. And this is it. Last chemo tomorrow morning. I have to say the whole thing has gone so fast it makes my head spin. I’m really not sure what to be thinking right now.

 

Here is a picture of what I look like now with absolutely not a trace of make-up on. It is not particularly pretty. Losing the eyebrows and eyelashes isn’t a good look. But I think I may soon do a post on how to glamify when one looks like this. So here it is. At least I have some colour in my cheeks.

I spent my day shopping for an appropriate farewell to chemo (read: final fuck you to any random cancer cells floating around) outfit. I have a couple of contenders and will make the final determination tomorrow morning. But I think I know what I’m going with. One day I have to do a post on hi/lo fashion. You know, high being the expensive stuff and low being the cheaper stuff. I like to mix and match. Good shoes, but cheap t-shirt, and so forth.

Tomorrow we are definitely going for low. British low in honour of the recent Diamond Jubilee celebrating Her Majesty’s sixty years on the throne. I bought everything at Top Shop. If you don’t know what Top Shop is, it’s sort of like the British H&M. If you don’t know what H&M is, you are probably one of my parents or similarly aged relatives. This is okay. You can always Google it.

Maybe I should just go naked and paint my body with a big Union Jack. I mean everything in this place has been “Jubileed.” There was a chick on the tube this afternoon with pink, press-on Union Jack finger nails. But I have to admit I kind of liked them. She only did the thumb and ring fingers, so it was understated tacky. Just my thing. I bet you could get a Union Jack merkin in Soho. If you still don’t know what a merkin is you have to read Vag Toupee immediately.

Back to the white elephant in the room.

So, what is the meaning of last chemo? After tomorrow’s potion wears off, no more poison coursing through my veins, which is good and bad. Good because the side effects will eventually start to wear off and I will start feeling normal again. Bad because then it is up to my body to repair any bad cells. Although I will be on Tamoxifen (endocrine therapy) for five years starting in a couple of weeks, so my body will still have some help fighting this SOB, just in case.

I had chemotherapy because I needed it. So it is good that I did it. But damn, are there things that I will not miss. Let me list some of them for you here, so that I can simultaneously remind myself and share with you what they are:

Thrush (in mouth) going on about four times now, queasiness, taste bud changes, metallic taste in mouth, skin rashes, dry skin, breaking out, bloody nose, runny nose, bloody other places that I won’t go into detail about, pink urine from the red doxorubicin, loss of hair on head, and now, finally, eyebrows and eyelashes (starting to go I’m afraid), night sweats, shingles outbreak on back of head, pain under finger nails, brown spots under finger nails, pain in bones, pain in joints, fatigue, steroids (fast heartbeat, trouble sleeping, “irascible” behaviour according to close relatives), constipation, yucky bitter-tasting anti-nausea meds, being on so many meds generally, skin tenderness (so bad at times it hurt to be touched), discolouration (hyper-pigmentation) of skin, particularly knuckles, old-looking, dry, peeling and wizened hands, and the portacath that is now living under my skin (gross).

Yeah, WHATEVER. Is that all you can throw at me? That shit is child’s play. I went to Paris last weekend for crying out loud. And walked all over creation. And stayed out late. And drank champagne. And ate escargots. So I can handle all of those stupid side effects and other crap if it means I killed it. I bet there isn’t even anything left to kill in there. There probably hasn’t been for weeks now, if there ever was. So there. Take THAT, you microscopic pieces of you-know-what.

Excuse me. Now that that’s done, here are the things that I liked about chemo: the superb and attentive staff at the LOC chemo suite, having visitors during treatments, having reflexology during treatments, cheering up other patients, white leather adjustable Dr. Evil chairs, my chemo outfits and umm, let’s see, oh yeah, NUKING cancer. Chemo may be draconian and there may be new drugs coming out soon that target cancer cells and meanwhile do not harm good cells, but for now this is it and it is effective. So.

Now I have to read a chapter or two of the second book in the Hunger Games series and then get some sleep. Tomorrow is my farewell to chemo party.

Do you think anyone will bring a cupcake with the number eight on it?

Kids Say the Damnedest Things

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Yesterday I had the best day. I accompanied my five-year-old and her grade on a field trip to the American School’s very large park in north London where the kids watered, raked, weeded and played until they were dirtier than dirt. I was the official class chaperone.

The weather held and was terrific. A cool breeze at first and some light haze but that burned off, giving way to a peach of a sunshine and a nice, dry, warm day.

On days like that (when I have something in the morning, or in this case, all day, at the school), I hop on the morning bus with my younger daughter. There’s space, so why not? My daughter was so excited that I was coming she was positively quivering with energy. And couldn’t suppress a smile to end all smiles. Those are some of the best things. That delight and excitement in a young child, especially when it is due to your very presence.

Being outdoors with the pre-K (called K1 at ASL) and their teachers was one of the highlights of my year. I loved observing and getting to know some of the other children in my daughter’s class and the other K1 class and it was wonderful to spend some QT (quality time, come on) with the teachers as well, particularly since the end of the school year is upon us and soon they will be teaching new little persons.

But one of the best parts was experiencing the funny things kids say. They are just so honest and there isn’t a lot of psycho-drama. Around noon I found myself eating lunch in a small group of girls. One girl looked at me (I had on a leopard print scarf — of course I did) and remarked “why are you bald?” I thought it was interesting that she assumed I was bald under the scarf. How did she know there wasn’t hair under there?  I thought about my response. Being careful, because this wasn’t my kid. “Well, I had to take medicine that made my hair fall out,” I responded. “Why would you want to do that?” The kid asked. “Exactly,” I thought.

So excellent. And a very good point.

After the gardening, snacks, lunch, nature walks and play ground time were all over, and after the bus ride back to school, during which my kid almost dozed off, so exhausted was she from the rigours of the day, we re-entered the classroom. I hung out and observed the kids do their thing, including practicing for a big concert that’s happening tomorrow morning. Guess I’ll be back on that school bus real soon…

The teachers put on some special music at the very end of the day and the kids started to dance. I got into it with the class and the teachers and shook my thang. I love to dance and i am not afraid of making an ass of myself in front of little (or big) people. So I did the twist and boogied and shimmied away with them. The kids found this hilarious and were laughing and dancing with me.

That’s when Charlotte announced cheerfully: “my mom can’t shake her boobs anymore.” Oh yeah? Just wait Char, they’ll be bouncing again one day. Not much, but a little. Let me just finish killing it and then we can get to the fun bouncy part of this adventure.

Kids say the damnedest things. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Taste

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You know what’s great? The second chemo drug I am on, Taxol, has not caused me the queasiness, metal mouth, taste bud changes and other annoying shit that the first drugs (AC) caused. Consequently I’ve been eating my way through the month of May. And cooking up a storm. I’ve definitely put on a couple pounds because of it too, which probably isn’t a bad thing.

You might think that cooking is the last thing a chemo patient would want to do. But it’s become one of my favourite activities. Makes me feel rejuvenated. Healthy. In control of what I’m eating and what I’m tasting. ALIVE. It’s, as Martha Stewart would say, a good thing.

I really have to thank my friend, Dee, who gifted me The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen by Rebecca Katz. This is not just a cookbook for people who have, had or are being treated for cancer. It’s something anyone can enjoy if the name doesn’t give you the schkeeves. And if it does would you put-lease just grow up and get over it? Who couldn’t use some good cancer-fighting chow in his kitchen, anyhow?

Tonight I made carrot fennel soup. I bought this ridiculously overpriced American blender (the Blendtek) and I have been using it a lot to justify the price tag. Well, it was my fortieth birthday present to myself, so it didn’t require that much justification. But still. I’ve been having fresh fruit and vegetables delivered every week from an organic farm (no it isn’t Abel & Cole so don’t ask me that) and the fun part is that I never know what’s coming. So when the ingredients arrive, I take a look and figure out what I’m going to make.

The cookbook has had a recipe for me every time. Tonight’s contained olive oil, onion, fennel, carrots, cinnamon, cumin, allspice, red pepper flakes, sea salt, orange zest, fresh orange and lemon juice and vegetable broth. Ooh and a dash of maple syrup. That’s right! There’s nothing bad for you in there (unless you put too much salt or syrup but we don’t do that here).

One of my kids said it was delicious. The other one didn’t rave but at least kept dipping her green beans in it during the meal. I had two bowls. And my husband will be home soon so I better hear spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl in the next thirty minutes. Or I’ll be pissed (in the American sense — I am not on a bender).

I’d like to give some to the crying baby next door, maybe with an extra dose of red pepper flakes for the parents. I swear these people don’t know how to put a child to sleep. Two days with me and the kid would go right to bed. It seriously cries every night and we have been here almost a year. WTF.

This book contains a glossary of ingredients and their cancer-fighting properties. I haven’t vetted the science behind the claims but the recipes are great and easy, the food tastes wonderful and it all makes me feel so… so… so… cancer free. So I think it is working. Helping me kill it but in a very tasty way. Lots more fun than surgery, chemo and radiation combined.

So thank you, Dee, for this wonderful gift that just keeps on giving. I can’t wait until the next farm delivery so I can whip up another winner. And I need to have you over soon so that I can show you what all the fuss is about.