OK, I’ve officially done it. Somehow I’ve become a crazy OSU fan. I’ve been living in this city for 13 years now, and I have resisted the temptation for most of that time. Sure, I’ve followed the football team—it’s hard not to, living here. And of course I follow the women’s basketball team, and more recently the volleyball team. I have “followed” the men’s basketball team, but generally I’ve been a fair-weather fan. But now I’ve started thinking about OSU and their sports more frequently—MUCH more frequently. I feel the need to get some OSU stuff to wear (I currently only own a hat and a t-shirt). I’ve printed up schedules (OK, just the women’s basketball schedule). I’m thinking about what part of my house I can paint scarlet and gray (maybe the garage?). And I’d like to get a block O flag.
Maybe it was going to the OSU/MI game (thanks, Tammie). Maybe it was the decision to go to the national championship game in Arizona (again, thanks Tammie). Maybe it’s just all the pressure this city puts on you to be an OSU fan. In any case, I can resist no more. I have forgotten my roots (GO BOILERS!) and jumped on a band-wagon that’s so big I can’t see the other side. And right now, the wagon is moving so swiftly that I know it’s not safe to jump off. So I will ride it for awhile. Of course, I ask all of you out there reading this to pay attention—if you see me on an average day with block O’s painted on my face, feel free to knock me on the head. I may have done it, but I don’t want to be that fan they put on camera…
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Dance a Little Jig
I now have days wherein I feel like I could do a little dance. I don't usually do it--I'm generally not in places where breaking into dance would be appropriate. It is, however, a sign of things. Deep in the midst of treatment, I wondered if my good days were as good as it was ever going to be--even beyond treatment. Being 2 months out from the last poisoning, I now can see that good days now are far much more than the good days 3-4 months ago. Don't get me wrong--life is life. But life these days is a far cry better than back then. I now feel a valid difference between the good days during treatment and good days in general.
I've started to get back into a work out routine. Walking/running on the treadmill is mostly what is on my docket, but hopefully the running will become more prominent. I have even made it out to pick-up Ultimate. It's the sort of thing that I need--the stuff that I love to do. I think my body in general is starting to remember what it was like before. Hopefully it will remember what it was like over a year ago--it has dawned on me that a year ago, that lymph node was already swollen, so Fred was already there. I have to dig deep then, to remember what it was like before September 2005...heck, probably even before that. I'm not sure that my head can really remember that far back, but hopefully my body can.
My thoughts are clearer, my days are more energetic, my motivation is more present. The simple things in life have a little more meaning. And some days those simple things make me want to dance a little jig.
I've started to get back into a work out routine. Walking/running on the treadmill is mostly what is on my docket, but hopefully the running will become more prominent. I have even made it out to pick-up Ultimate. It's the sort of thing that I need--the stuff that I love to do. I think my body in general is starting to remember what it was like before. Hopefully it will remember what it was like over a year ago--it has dawned on me that a year ago, that lymph node was already swollen, so Fred was already there. I have to dig deep then, to remember what it was like before September 2005...heck, probably even before that. I'm not sure that my head can really remember that far back, but hopefully my body can.
My thoughts are clearer, my days are more energetic, my motivation is more present. The simple things in life have a little more meaning. And some days those simple things make me want to dance a little jig.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Drop Dead Fred
I don't know if you remember, but Fred is the name of my tumor. Last weekend, several of my friends walked or ran in a 5K to raise money for cancer research (it wasn't the Race for the Cure). They had shirts made, with the pink breast cancer ribbon on the front, and "Drop Dead Fred" on the back. I like the phrase. I think Fred is dead, but it is still fun to tell him to drop dead.
I went back to the treatment place today. I've started back up--not for chemo, but to finish the years-worth of Herceptin. [warning: medical explanation to come] Herceptin is an antibody. If a person's tumor has the receptor for Her2/Neu, then receiving the antibody Herceptin helps to keep any remaining (if any) tumor cells from growing. The antibody locks on to the receptor, keeping the normal molecule from binding to that receptor. And that keeps the tumor cell from being happy. My tumor was Her2/Neu positive (as well as estrogen and progesterone positive). It's a double edged sword (actually, I'm not sure if that's the correct descriptor, but I'm going to use it)--if the tumor is Her2/Neu positive, it means it's more aggressive. On the other hand, if it has the receptor, it means there is a treatment for it (Herceptin). So YAY, I guess. In any case, research shows that receiving the antibody gives another 50% chance of being cancer-free in 10 years. For example, if the chance of being cancer free is 90% without Herceptin, it's a 95% chance WITH the Herceptin. So why not? The only down side(s)...I have to get the Benadryl before they administer the antibody (to prevent an allergic reaction) and I have to keep the port in until treatment is done (they use the port to administer the antibody).
Whew. So I was back in the treatment center. Saw several old friends, who have progressed in their own treatment. One took a break from chemo (between regimens) to have her implants surgically placed. Another just had the "normal" break and is now getting Herceptin (she and I are now on the same schedule). It's funny--I'm the one furthest from chemo, so I have the most hair regrowth. There were lots of questions about how long it took me to get it to this length. But oh, I've had a couple of hair trimmings since the last chemo (2, I believe). And the eyebrows/eyelashes...well, it took about 6 weeks post-chemo for those to start back. And the arm/hand hair just started coming back last week (about 7 weeks out). And everyone is different. I think I lost less hair in total because I kept it short. But who knows. I guess if I can give the rest of those still in their treatment something to look forward to, that's got to count for something. I remember being there--HA, it was only 3 months ago that I would look towards someone who was getting their hair back.
I missed those people, and the staff at the office. It was really good to see them. I was strangely happy to be back to that place, but perhaps it's because I wasn't there to get poisoned. I was there to continue the process to ensure that Fred has dropped dead. Drop dead Fred.
I went back to the treatment place today. I've started back up--not for chemo, but to finish the years-worth of Herceptin. [warning: medical explanation to come] Herceptin is an antibody. If a person's tumor has the receptor for Her2/Neu, then receiving the antibody Herceptin helps to keep any remaining (if any) tumor cells from growing. The antibody locks on to the receptor, keeping the normal molecule from binding to that receptor. And that keeps the tumor cell from being happy. My tumor was Her2/Neu positive (as well as estrogen and progesterone positive). It's a double edged sword (actually, I'm not sure if that's the correct descriptor, but I'm going to use it)--if the tumor is Her2/Neu positive, it means it's more aggressive. On the other hand, if it has the receptor, it means there is a treatment for it (Herceptin). So YAY, I guess. In any case, research shows that receiving the antibody gives another 50% chance of being cancer-free in 10 years. For example, if the chance of being cancer free is 90% without Herceptin, it's a 95% chance WITH the Herceptin. So why not? The only down side(s)...I have to get the Benadryl before they administer the antibody (to prevent an allergic reaction) and I have to keep the port in until treatment is done (they use the port to administer the antibody).
Whew. So I was back in the treatment center. Saw several old friends, who have progressed in their own treatment. One took a break from chemo (between regimens) to have her implants surgically placed. Another just had the "normal" break and is now getting Herceptin (she and I are now on the same schedule). It's funny--I'm the one furthest from chemo, so I have the most hair regrowth. There were lots of questions about how long it took me to get it to this length. But oh, I've had a couple of hair trimmings since the last chemo (2, I believe). And the eyebrows/eyelashes...well, it took about 6 weeks post-chemo for those to start back. And the arm/hand hair just started coming back last week (about 7 weeks out). And everyone is different. I think I lost less hair in total because I kept it short. But who knows. I guess if I can give the rest of those still in their treatment something to look forward to, that's got to count for something. I remember being there--HA, it was only 3 months ago that I would look towards someone who was getting their hair back.
I missed those people, and the staff at the office. It was really good to see them. I was strangely happy to be back to that place, but perhaps it's because I wasn't there to get poisoned. I was there to continue the process to ensure that Fred has dropped dead. Drop dead Fred.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
The Little Engine That Could
I feel a bit like that little engine. I think I can. I feel like I'm getting to a place where my body is ready to move on and try out its new existence. I think I can. I stepped onto an Ultimate field again this past weekend. (when Beth reads this, she's going to kill me) It wasn't for long, and it was under what I consider safe conditions. My incision is healed, but the muscles aren't yet 100%. My team can attest to the fact that I did my arm exercises a bunch. And the swim in the gulf salt water was awesome. I think I can. They warned me not to layout. It didn't consciously cross my mind to do so, but admittedly my head does things sometimes that I cannot control. No, I didn't layout. I threw a coupe of throws, I made a couple of cuts. I did what I could. I think I can. I jogged a little each day. I did not go for a run, but I moved my legs and I stretched my limits a little. It's time--it's time to see what I can do. I think I can.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Signs of Norma(l)
I think I might be getting a sense of what it's like to be normal. I know I've said before that perhaps I needed to redefine normal. But I have sensed normal--the old-fashioned kind of normal. The DeAnna normal. It's not here all of the time, but it shows itself occasionally.
I have a line now, that reaches from armpit to armpit, across my chest. As far as scars/incisions go, it's beautiful. It's not grotesque, it's not raised, red, and ugly. What was gently holding the skin closed is all gone now and my body seems to be healing quite nicely. I'm working on getting the mobility back in my arms and shoulders, but heck, that's true for my entire body. But as far as the arms are concerned, that is getting much better. I can reach across my desk for a pen, I can reach across the coffee table to grab the remote. Throwing my hands in the air above my head is a little rough, so I just need to be careful when I'm watching the Buckeyes...although I suspect that by the Michigan game, I'll be ready.
The leaves have changed color and are falling from their branches. The temperature is chilly for October, but it is beautiful out there. Things are showing signs of normal.
I have a line now, that reaches from armpit to armpit, across my chest. As far as scars/incisions go, it's beautiful. It's not grotesque, it's not raised, red, and ugly. What was gently holding the skin closed is all gone now and my body seems to be healing quite nicely. I'm working on getting the mobility back in my arms and shoulders, but heck, that's true for my entire body. But as far as the arms are concerned, that is getting much better. I can reach across my desk for a pen, I can reach across the coffee table to grab the remote. Throwing my hands in the air above my head is a little rough, so I just need to be careful when I'm watching the Buckeyes...although I suspect that by the Michigan game, I'll be ready.
The leaves have changed color and are falling from their branches. The temperature is chilly for October, but it is beautiful out there. Things are showing signs of normal.
To Have Hair
I now have chin hair, nose hair, and I'm getting my "moustache." Now all I need is hair that will grow off of the top of my ears and I'll be all set.
Maybe getting hair back isn't such a good thing.
Maybe getting hair back isn't such a good thing.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Freedom from cancer
In theory, I am free of the beast. I haven't gotten the final pathology report on what all was removed during surgery, but based on what the intern said, things look really good. That handy-dandy lymph node that sent up the red flag was shrunken and shriveled and not really an organ of sorts anymore. Other lymph nodes were removed--from both sides--and I'll get the final tally on those later. My chest is now reformed and healing, and the confidence that it brings is amazing. In terms of the adenocarcinoma that I have been fighting, I am now free of the tissue that would otherwise harbor another little tumor that could go undetected. It is of great relief. Whatever else happens from here, I know that I have gone after this with what it would take to give me peace of mind.
On a side note--what they say about hospitals is all true: it is not the place to get rest. It's not so much that every 2 hours they come in to poke and prod, but for the nurse(s), it's their work day, so they are full of conversation. I was just trying to be polite, but in doing so, Linda and I had conversations at 12:30am, 2am, 4am, and at 6am. Then the nursing-world went quiet until almost 9am. I was out of the place by 10:30--so overall, we're talking 14.5 hours total. Not bad. Of course I barely remember a third of it. It's really odd to remember what was going on right before I went out. I was in pre-op, and had just been given a sedative. For the last procedure I had, the sedative didn't knock me out--it only made me loopy. Last I remember on Monday, I was having a conversation with Dr. Rominelli (or something like that), the anesthesiologist. After that, I got nothing until recovery--and after 2 hours in recovery at that. I guess it's best to not recall all things around a surgical procedure, but the control part of me hates that I lost that time with no input. But it's worth it to feel a sense of freedom...
On a side note--what they say about hospitals is all true: it is not the place to get rest. It's not so much that every 2 hours they come in to poke and prod, but for the nurse(s), it's their work day, so they are full of conversation. I was just trying to be polite, but in doing so, Linda and I had conversations at 12:30am, 2am, 4am, and at 6am. Then the nursing-world went quiet until almost 9am. I was out of the place by 10:30--so overall, we're talking 14.5 hours total. Not bad. Of course I barely remember a third of it. It's really odd to remember what was going on right before I went out. I was in pre-op, and had just been given a sedative. For the last procedure I had, the sedative didn't knock me out--it only made me loopy. Last I remember on Monday, I was having a conversation with Dr. Rominelli (or something like that), the anesthesiologist. After that, I got nothing until recovery--and after 2 hours in recovery at that. I guess it's best to not recall all things around a surgical procedure, but the control part of me hates that I lost that time with no input. But it's worth it to feel a sense of freedom...
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Tomorrow
I just noticed that my last post was on Sept. 12th...and it was titled Looking Forward. I've been looking forward a lot since that last treatment. I knew that surgery was out there and that I would find my way to that day. That day is tomorrow. I'm not sure how many know exactly what I'm having done--I will have some lymph nodes removed as well as a bilateral mastectomy. I have trouble "telling" people this, but mostly because I worry about THEIR reaction. I'm really quite comfortable with the decision. It really is a no-brainer.
I am nervous about it--I've never been through such a long procedure and I've never had to spend the night in the hospital. But I can look forward to coming home on Tuesday and getting on with it. I still haven't defined what "it" is, but I suspect it has something to do with the rest of my life. I have definitely hit the point where I'm tired of cancer being the center point of my existence. I am hoping that soon the cancer focus can fade a bit. Sure, I know it will never fade completely away, but a little would be nice. The people around me have been AMAZING. I had no idea. Perhpas I can explain that more soon. Right now I have to think about tomorrow. Tomorrow is the beginning of it.
I am nervous about it--I've never been through such a long procedure and I've never had to spend the night in the hospital. But I can look forward to coming home on Tuesday and getting on with it. I still haven't defined what "it" is, but I suspect it has something to do with the rest of my life. I have definitely hit the point where I'm tired of cancer being the center point of my existence. I am hoping that soon the cancer focus can fade a bit. Sure, I know it will never fade completely away, but a little would be nice. The people around me have been AMAZING. I had no idea. Perhpas I can explain that more soon. Right now I have to think about tomorrow. Tomorrow is the beginning of it.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Looking forward
I have been thinking a lot lately, about the things I'm looking forward to post-chemo. Some of them are obvious, some of them may not be to an "outsider." I was going to write them down, so I thought I should write them down here. They are in no particular order...
Eyebrows are going to grow back.
Eyelashes are going to grow back.
Arm hair is going to grow back.
Head hair is going to grow back.
Fingernails will stop hurting.
Fingers will stop tingling.
Feet will stop tingling.
Water weight will go away.
Bad taste in my mouth will go away.
GI tract will be happier.
Energy level will increase (assuming I get enough sleep).
Nose and ear hair will return (yes, this is an issue not having it).
My brain will (hopefully) start to fully function again.
Some of the things that I'm not necessarily looking forward to...
Leg hair growing back.
Armpit hair growing back.
Hair cut/styling.
I guess that the things I am looking forward to outweigh the things that I could do without. I think overall that's a pretty good score. In the meanwhile, I'm just getting past that last of the "bad days" that happen as a result of chemo. I think I'll be home free after tomorrow...I'm looking forward to that.
Eyebrows are going to grow back.
Eyelashes are going to grow back.
Arm hair is going to grow back.
Head hair is going to grow back.
Fingernails will stop hurting.
Fingers will stop tingling.
Feet will stop tingling.
Water weight will go away.
Bad taste in my mouth will go away.
GI tract will be happier.
Energy level will increase (assuming I get enough sleep).
Nose and ear hair will return (yes, this is an issue not having it).
My brain will (hopefully) start to fully function again.
Some of the things that I'm not necessarily looking forward to...
Leg hair growing back.
Armpit hair growing back.
Hair cut/styling.
I guess that the things I am looking forward to outweigh the things that I could do without. I think overall that's a pretty good score. In the meanwhile, I'm just getting past that last of the "bad days" that happen as a result of chemo. I think I'll be home free after tomorrow...I'm looking forward to that.
Friday, September 08, 2006
September 8th
This date might always have some significance to me. I don't remember the date that I was first told that I had cancer, but I will remember that September 8th was the last day of chemo. I'm sitting in the treatment room right now--getting ready to fall into a Benedryl-induced sleep. I am happy this is it for awhile. Awhile because I will have to come back every 3 weeks for the antibody treatment (Herceptin). That won't start until after surgery, so that means that I get maybe 2 months of not coming in to this place. Part of me is sad about that--I have come to enjoy interacting with the regulars that I have met here. It's been very therapeutic.
Surgery is next--likely the first week in October. A month off of everything after that. I don't think I've had a month off of everything since grad school. I'm not sure if I'll know what to do with myself.
OK, the Benedryl is kicking in, and I'm having a hard time focusing on the typing...
Surgery is next--likely the first week in October. A month off of everything after that. I don't think I've had a month off of everything since grad school. I'm not sure if I'll know what to do with myself.
OK, the Benedryl is kicking in, and I'm having a hard time focusing on the typing...
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
The end never comes...
The last couple of days have not been what I would call stellar. I haven’t quite decided if I’m just in a bad funk, or if the current treatment drugs are finally catching up to me. Or perhaps I just pushed to far.
I went to an Ultimate tournament this weekend. MOJO, my team, was traveling to compete in the Chesapeake Open. This tournament is held outside of Washington, D.C., in Poolesville, Maryland. It’s becoming a great tournament (it’s only been around a couple of years), and there was really good competition there. I didn’t play any points; I could have in one game on Saturday, but I instead decided to remain in my role on the sideline as sub-caller. I never realized how much energy this takes. I’ve done it before, as a player, and I never realized how intense it can be. Not being able to play has opened my eyes to many new angles about Ultimate—the game, the sideline, the energy. I think I learned a lot about my team after spending the entire weekend on the sideline, and I hope what I learned can help the team in future competition. I will say that it definitely zapped me—in terms of mental and physical energy.
I haven’t felt well the last couple of days—since Sunday, really. I know part of it involves my not being in my normal routine (whatever that is). And being out in the heat for 2 days certainly has an effect. But I am sure most of it is just my body dealing with the last few zaps of Taxol. I have only 2 of them left, but I suspect these will not be the easiest 2. I’m trying to not let it bug me—that I am not going to breeze through until the end. I have had an incredibly easy time compared to most. I see women every week in the treatment room who are there not for an actual treatment, but rather to receive something to help them through the treatment they got a week or 2 before. I haven’t received anything in between, other than the great support from the people around me. I wonder now how I would have done if I had asked for an IV, or some iron, or something else.
The hot flashes I get now are pretty incredible. I can feel them coming on, and in the moments before I break a sweat, they can be pretty uncomfortable. I still don’t really know how long I might have to experience these—whether my body will adjust or if this is just going to be how it’s going to be for awhile. Admittedly I was becoming pretty happy at the idea that in a few short weeks, perhaps my life would return to normal. I guess I’ve been kidding myself that normal means truly normal. And I realize that being a cancer survivor means that from here on out, I will always wonder if something is brewing inside or I’ll wonder what this little lump is. I think I was hoping for normal in terms of not having these crappy days that have no other explanation other than I’ve had a treatment. I might have to redefine normal in the end, because right now I’m not sure what normal will be.
I met a woman from another Ultimate team Saturday—she went through chemo for breast cancer last winter. She has her hair back. She has started reconstruction after a double mastectomy, although the expander on the left side had to be removed. She seemed a little frustrated at the whole process. I think the thing that struck me the most was that 7-8 months post treatment, breast cancer was still completely forefront in her head. If you do the math, that means come May of next spring, I will still exist in a state that still revolves around this situation. September 8th really isn’t the end. Well, it might be an end to something, but it’s not the end overall. I wonder if there ever will be an overall end.
I went to an Ultimate tournament this weekend. MOJO, my team, was traveling to compete in the Chesapeake Open. This tournament is held outside of Washington, D.C., in Poolesville, Maryland. It’s becoming a great tournament (it’s only been around a couple of years), and there was really good competition there. I didn’t play any points; I could have in one game on Saturday, but I instead decided to remain in my role on the sideline as sub-caller. I never realized how much energy this takes. I’ve done it before, as a player, and I never realized how intense it can be. Not being able to play has opened my eyes to many new angles about Ultimate—the game, the sideline, the energy. I think I learned a lot about my team after spending the entire weekend on the sideline, and I hope what I learned can help the team in future competition. I will say that it definitely zapped me—in terms of mental and physical energy.
I haven’t felt well the last couple of days—since Sunday, really. I know part of it involves my not being in my normal routine (whatever that is). And being out in the heat for 2 days certainly has an effect. But I am sure most of it is just my body dealing with the last few zaps of Taxol. I have only 2 of them left, but I suspect these will not be the easiest 2. I’m trying to not let it bug me—that I am not going to breeze through until the end. I have had an incredibly easy time compared to most. I see women every week in the treatment room who are there not for an actual treatment, but rather to receive something to help them through the treatment they got a week or 2 before. I haven’t received anything in between, other than the great support from the people around me. I wonder now how I would have done if I had asked for an IV, or some iron, or something else.
The hot flashes I get now are pretty incredible. I can feel them coming on, and in the moments before I break a sweat, they can be pretty uncomfortable. I still don’t really know how long I might have to experience these—whether my body will adjust or if this is just going to be how it’s going to be for awhile. Admittedly I was becoming pretty happy at the idea that in a few short weeks, perhaps my life would return to normal. I guess I’ve been kidding myself that normal means truly normal. And I realize that being a cancer survivor means that from here on out, I will always wonder if something is brewing inside or I’ll wonder what this little lump is. I think I was hoping for normal in terms of not having these crappy days that have no other explanation other than I’ve had a treatment. I might have to redefine normal in the end, because right now I’m not sure what normal will be.
I met a woman from another Ultimate team Saturday—she went through chemo for breast cancer last winter. She has her hair back. She has started reconstruction after a double mastectomy, although the expander on the left side had to be removed. She seemed a little frustrated at the whole process. I think the thing that struck me the most was that 7-8 months post treatment, breast cancer was still completely forefront in her head. If you do the math, that means come May of next spring, I will still exist in a state that still revolves around this situation. September 8th really isn’t the end. Well, it might be an end to something, but it’s not the end overall. I wonder if there ever will be an overall end.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
The Final Four
I've reached the final four. In some ways I thought this day would never come. Well, I guess it hasn't--it's tomorrow. In any case, there is a part of me that feels like this is just a way of life--something that I always have to do. I'm not sure when I'll lose that feeling, but I would guess that will happen when I quit going in for treatments every Friday afternoon. Wait, that won't completely happen for another year. But I have reached the final four.
I get asked often these days how I'm doing. I guess I've been asked that all along. But now I answer with how many treatments are left. No, I don't say that to complete strangers, but I do say it to those who appear to know what's going on. Sometimes I know those people pretty well, sometimes they are just people that I pass by at work a lot. In any case, I do know what it feels like to be nearing the end. I actually can't really believe that I've been through almost 9 of these weekly ones. I had really thought that by now I'd be so utterly sick of making the trip into the treatment office. But it is therapeutic to be there (see my last post), so perhaps that is what keeps me going. I've made it to the final four.
I get asked often these days how I'm doing. I guess I've been asked that all along. But now I answer with how many treatments are left. No, I don't say that to complete strangers, but I do say it to those who appear to know what's going on. Sometimes I know those people pretty well, sometimes they are just people that I pass by at work a lot. In any case, I do know what it feels like to be nearing the end. I actually can't really believe that I've been through almost 9 of these weekly ones. I had really thought that by now I'd be so utterly sick of making the trip into the treatment office. But it is therapeutic to be there (see my last post), so perhaps that is what keeps me going. I've made it to the final four.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Color me...
OK, it's still not much hair, but it is hair and it is thicker than it used to be. No, it's not the normal color. It seems to be lacking full pigment. With the right lighting, it is definitely a halo.
Friday, August 04, 2006
The second half of the second half
I'm sitting in the treatment room, surrounded by many others that are at different stages of their treatments. I'm finding that not everyone gets exactly the same drugs--I get Tagument, someone else gets Pepsin, someone is getting adriamycin, I got epirubicin. But it's like therapy in here. The group sort of therapy. Everyone is comparing war wounds. What fell out when, what aches and pains everyone has had (and continue to has). A woman just found some "freebie" kits--complete with chap stick, thermometer, and a cold pack. I guess the drug companies know what we need. Perhaps not.
I'm half way through the the second half of the treament. For those of you keeping score, that means 6 more weeks. This is treatment 6 of 12, and the last, if things go accordingly, will be September 8th. I think a big part is in order, yet I'm certainly not done yet. A full year's worth of herceptin--the new antibody that enhances the chemo treatments--is still on the docket. That means that I get to keep the port in until next summer. Well, I guess that still better than having my arm poked over and over again. I don't yet know if the herceptin will come weekly or triweekly, but either way, I get to get poked for a whole year.
It's been 6 weeks of fun. I actually kind of mean that. While I get zapped because of the benadryl, I have been able to keep working, teaching, and doing stuff. This week was a tough one--I have NOT been getting enough sleep. Yesterday and today I have been hurting purely from tiredness. I'll get caught up this weekend. And I'm in the midst of treatment, and the benadryl hasn't completely knocked me out. Yes, I'm completely tired and sleepy, but sleep has not come.
I went to my first Ultimate tournament this past weekend, the first since all of this started. I played 6 easy points. Easy in terms of the importance to the game, and easy in terms of what I did out there. I had a few spurts of energy wherein in I really tried to run, but that didn't last long. It's OK, I don't mind supporting the team in this way. But I am READY to start losing some pounds and getting back into shape. Maybe it can happen before the treatment ends, but if it has to wait, it will wait. I am just looking forward to feeling energy that lasts beyond the occasional.
OK, perhaps I should stop with this current post; the connection here is a wireless signal that I have stolen from somewhere. I only have a short time to be here anyway. Then perhaps I can go home and find the sleep that didn't come to me today. I'm in the second half of the second half. The light at the end of the tunnel may just be there.
I'm half way through the the second half of the treament. For those of you keeping score, that means 6 more weeks. This is treatment 6 of 12, and the last, if things go accordingly, will be September 8th. I think a big part is in order, yet I'm certainly not done yet. A full year's worth of herceptin--the new antibody that enhances the chemo treatments--is still on the docket. That means that I get to keep the port in until next summer. Well, I guess that still better than having my arm poked over and over again. I don't yet know if the herceptin will come weekly or triweekly, but either way, I get to get poked for a whole year.
It's been 6 weeks of fun. I actually kind of mean that. While I get zapped because of the benadryl, I have been able to keep working, teaching, and doing stuff. This week was a tough one--I have NOT been getting enough sleep. Yesterday and today I have been hurting purely from tiredness. I'll get caught up this weekend. And I'm in the midst of treatment, and the benadryl hasn't completely knocked me out. Yes, I'm completely tired and sleepy, but sleep has not come.
I went to my first Ultimate tournament this past weekend, the first since all of this started. I played 6 easy points. Easy in terms of the importance to the game, and easy in terms of what I did out there. I had a few spurts of energy wherein in I really tried to run, but that didn't last long. It's OK, I don't mind supporting the team in this way. But I am READY to start losing some pounds and getting back into shape. Maybe it can happen before the treatment ends, but if it has to wait, it will wait. I am just looking forward to feeling energy that lasts beyond the occasional.
OK, perhaps I should stop with this current post; the connection here is a wireless signal that I have stolen from somewhere. I only have a short time to be here anyway. Then perhaps I can go home and find the sleep that didn't come to me today. I'm in the second half of the second half. The light at the end of the tunnel may just be there.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Coming and going
So it's been awhile since I have posted. It seems that when I haven't blogged you can rest easy that I'm probably doing OK. I seem to find myself doing more lately--which is great. I do tire so easily, and I'm still putting on pounds. The former is because the blood counts have been low, but they are getting better now (YAY Procrit!). The latter is because I do still get steroids at each treatment. With the first round, they'd give me IV steroids and then I'd take them for 3 days after--orally. Now I just get the IV part, but I do get it every week instead of every 3rd week. Yikes, I have 8 more weeks to go, so here's to hoping it's no more than a pound a week. Even at that, I'll have some work to do on the flip side of all of this!!
The new treatment has been interesting. It seems that my hair is coming back. I have few true bald spots on my head now, and I even feel the start of stubble on my legs (drats). I don't think it'll necessarily come in thick, but it is coming in. But what's going...feeling in my fingers and toes, and along with that my hands and feet are very sensitive. Makes it hard to even walk around the house barefoot. Andthe little warning they left out--my distance vision currently sucks. I was driving home from work a week or so ago and realized that I can't read the road signs anymore. Just a big blur. I almost scheduled an appointment to get my eyes checked...good thing I didn't--they say it will come back after. So here's to hoping my vision comes back and the extra weight goes away come September...
The new treatment has been interesting. It seems that my hair is coming back. I have few true bald spots on my head now, and I even feel the start of stubble on my legs (drats). I don't think it'll necessarily come in thick, but it is coming in. But what's going...feeling in my fingers and toes, and along with that my hands and feet are very sensitive. Makes it hard to even walk around the house barefoot. Andthe little warning they left out--my distance vision currently sucks. I was driving home from work a week or so ago and realized that I can't read the road signs anymore. Just a big blur. I almost scheduled an appointment to get my eyes checked...good thing I didn't--they say it will come back after. So here's to hoping my vision comes back and the extra weight goes away come September...
Friday, June 30, 2006
"Me"
This could be a long one…
I had the second of the next 12 treatments today. I already had one this week—on Monday. I have to say (and maybe I did) that it seems to be an easier treatment so far. I’ve progressed with “normal” activity all week. I started a new quarter at Columbus State although that means that I’m done with Wednesday-night softball because of a time conflict. It’s been good to go through a treatment and not have my body and brain fall into a state of disfunction 3 days later. No, disfunction is not a word—the Word editor keeps underlining it. But I’m not changing it. I feel like a lot has gone on, even dating back into the other treatments, but I just haven’t had it in me to blog about it. That’s why I think this one might be long. I just put on some music and am burning some incense, so I’m sort of inspired.
I’m playing in a softball tournament tomorrow—assuming we come up with enough players. The nurses at my treatment today were a little, well, amazed at that prospect. I guess that means they think I’m “strong.” That’s an interesting thought—I’ve gotten a lot of similar comments lately. “You look good” and “You always have a smile on your face,” and “You are handling this SO well.” It’s so very encouraging because so many times I feel weak and defeated. Not defeated in the sense that I cannot beat this thing, but certainly from the perspective that this is NOT the “me” that I want to be forever. Sure, I know that this (hopefully) won’t be the “me” that I am forever. But it is getting hard being IN the moment and seeing into the future.
There are emails from my Ultimate team (MOJO) flying—trying to figure out if we even have a team. I had to respond that I won’t likely be able to play much until at least September, and then at some point I’ll have to have surgery, which will set me back again. I had thought that when I would decide to retire from Ultimate, it would be a conscious commitment to finishing strong. Not Michael Jordan style, but perhaps Charles Barkley style. Decent, still with something to contribute. And I had thought that this year would be that year. After being in Sarasota again last year as a player, I thought I would go through the winter and spring committed to improving my conditioning and being stronger, for one last year. I know I wouldn’t be able to reach the conditioning that I had when I was 28, but hey, why not try. But that didn’t happen, and now I have to tell teammates that I will likely be a sideline fixture. I guess I can try to turn that into a positive—I know my lot in life is becoming a sideline fixture for Ultimate, whether that’s coaching high school, college, or a club team. I guess I just wasn’t quite ready for it to happen like this. Maybe next year I can strive for that in-shape player that I can be. By the time of the 2007 club season, I will be 40. Maybe that’s a good time to finish it out strong. Perhaps that will be more Michael Jordan-like—when he came back from playing baseball. Yeah, that’s it—my cancer is like Michael Jordan’s attempt at baseball. Now I understand what this is all about.
I learned today that a fellow Ultimate player up in Cleveland is also battling cancer. I don’t know much about her case—it’s the first I’ve heard—but it isn’t sounding great. It seems that she has cancer in many places (the email mentioned back tumors, cancer on her liver, and rapidly dividing cancer in her bone marrow). She’s probably 10 years younger than I. And at this point, they don’t know the origin of the cancer. They can’t do a full course of chemo because of the liver issues, so they are working on helping that so that can boost up the chemo. Drats—it definitely hits me harder when I hear of other’s cancer battles. Not that I wouldn’t expect that to be the case, but when it happens, I am surprised by my reaction. It also hit me when I heard about a coworker’s friend who had brain cancer. He died recently, after knowing (I think) about the cancer for about 1.5 years. He left a wife and 2 young children. From what I’ve read about them (from their website), they are deeply religious and rooted in faith. I think faith is the key—and I don’t necessarily mean that any “faith” needs to be based purely on the Bible or any “god.” But I do think everyone who is battling something—whether an illness, an addiction, or some other affliction—needs to be rooted in some faith, something spiritual. I haven’t quite identified the character of my faith, but I know it’s there. Perhaps that’s why I can be seen with a smile quite frequently (or so I am told). I can’t really explain it—I don’t have an answer as to WHY I am handling my affliction as I am. I just don’t know how to do it any differently.
So yea, it’s hard when I hear about others battling cancer. And I know for anyone who may read this who is dealing with a situation as such—IT IS HARD. It isn’t fair. And it is different for each individual going through it. How I sit in the treatment room and handle having poison dripped into me is different from the 68-year-old across from me. How I handle walking around with nothing covering my practically bald head is different from the 43-year-old mother of 2 who has a wig on. And how those around us handle being around us is unique as well. There are no rules as to how to handle cancer—or other diseases. There are ways to cope, there are ways to get through each day—but there are no rules. And I think that is the hard part. We are creatures of structure, and having rules/guidelines us gives us comfort. Without them, we cannot understand how to feel or know what to do next. But we all do feel, and we all do something next.
I don’t know what I’ll feel tomorrow, but I do know that what I am doing tomorrow will exactly lend itself to what I feel. I, of course, hope I will feel a sense of accomplishment in being out at the softball fields in the sun, in the warm July air. It’s July 1st tomorrow—moving ever so closer to the end of the treatments. And tomorrow I hope that I can forget for awhile that I am not the “me” I was, nor the “me” that I want to be. I’ve battled in my head that I don’t “look” like myself—I have little hair, I have more weight, and I have dark circles on my eyes after treatment. I know that these things needn’t be permanent. I know that the “me” doesn’t really involve what I look like on the outside. Yet I am pained about who I am on the outside. I’ve finally realized that the pain isn’t about how I look—it’s about how I got to looking how I look. And I can only hang on to the idea that in 11 weeks the treatments will be over, and in 4 months I should be through surgery. And THEN I can reach really deep, dig in there and pull out the “me” that I want to get back to. No, that’s not right either; I don’t want to go back (well, sure I do, but I also know that can’t happen). I want to move on from this. I want to move on from dealing with the situation—the realization, the worry, the treatments, the being in need of support. There are so many things about my world right now that aren’t “me,” but I can let this “me” go in a few months. Not forever—I suspect this person will be with me forever, out of necessity. But in terms of the overall package, I can return to being someone that doesn’t worry about dark circles, “soft” parts of the body, and certainly someone that doesn’t worry about cancer every minute of everyday.
I had the second of the next 12 treatments today. I already had one this week—on Monday. I have to say (and maybe I did) that it seems to be an easier treatment so far. I’ve progressed with “normal” activity all week. I started a new quarter at Columbus State although that means that I’m done with Wednesday-night softball because of a time conflict. It’s been good to go through a treatment and not have my body and brain fall into a state of disfunction 3 days later. No, disfunction is not a word—the Word editor keeps underlining it. But I’m not changing it. I feel like a lot has gone on, even dating back into the other treatments, but I just haven’t had it in me to blog about it. That’s why I think this one might be long. I just put on some music and am burning some incense, so I’m sort of inspired.
I’m playing in a softball tournament tomorrow—assuming we come up with enough players. The nurses at my treatment today were a little, well, amazed at that prospect. I guess that means they think I’m “strong.” That’s an interesting thought—I’ve gotten a lot of similar comments lately. “You look good” and “You always have a smile on your face,” and “You are handling this SO well.” It’s so very encouraging because so many times I feel weak and defeated. Not defeated in the sense that I cannot beat this thing, but certainly from the perspective that this is NOT the “me” that I want to be forever. Sure, I know that this (hopefully) won’t be the “me” that I am forever. But it is getting hard being IN the moment and seeing into the future.
There are emails from my Ultimate team (MOJO) flying—trying to figure out if we even have a team. I had to respond that I won’t likely be able to play much until at least September, and then at some point I’ll have to have surgery, which will set me back again. I had thought that when I would decide to retire from Ultimate, it would be a conscious commitment to finishing strong. Not Michael Jordan style, but perhaps Charles Barkley style. Decent, still with something to contribute. And I had thought that this year would be that year. After being in Sarasota again last year as a player, I thought I would go through the winter and spring committed to improving my conditioning and being stronger, for one last year. I know I wouldn’t be able to reach the conditioning that I had when I was 28, but hey, why not try. But that didn’t happen, and now I have to tell teammates that I will likely be a sideline fixture. I guess I can try to turn that into a positive—I know my lot in life is becoming a sideline fixture for Ultimate, whether that’s coaching high school, college, or a club team. I guess I just wasn’t quite ready for it to happen like this. Maybe next year I can strive for that in-shape player that I can be. By the time of the 2007 club season, I will be 40. Maybe that’s a good time to finish it out strong. Perhaps that will be more Michael Jordan-like—when he came back from playing baseball. Yeah, that’s it—my cancer is like Michael Jordan’s attempt at baseball. Now I understand what this is all about.
I learned today that a fellow Ultimate player up in Cleveland is also battling cancer. I don’t know much about her case—it’s the first I’ve heard—but it isn’t sounding great. It seems that she has cancer in many places (the email mentioned back tumors, cancer on her liver, and rapidly dividing cancer in her bone marrow). She’s probably 10 years younger than I. And at this point, they don’t know the origin of the cancer. They can’t do a full course of chemo because of the liver issues, so they are working on helping that so that can boost up the chemo. Drats—it definitely hits me harder when I hear of other’s cancer battles. Not that I wouldn’t expect that to be the case, but when it happens, I am surprised by my reaction. It also hit me when I heard about a coworker’s friend who had brain cancer. He died recently, after knowing (I think) about the cancer for about 1.5 years. He left a wife and 2 young children. From what I’ve read about them (from their website), they are deeply religious and rooted in faith. I think faith is the key—and I don’t necessarily mean that any “faith” needs to be based purely on the Bible or any “god.” But I do think everyone who is battling something—whether an illness, an addiction, or some other affliction—needs to be rooted in some faith, something spiritual. I haven’t quite identified the character of my faith, but I know it’s there. Perhaps that’s why I can be seen with a smile quite frequently (or so I am told). I can’t really explain it—I don’t have an answer as to WHY I am handling my affliction as I am. I just don’t know how to do it any differently.
So yea, it’s hard when I hear about others battling cancer. And I know for anyone who may read this who is dealing with a situation as such—IT IS HARD. It isn’t fair. And it is different for each individual going through it. How I sit in the treatment room and handle having poison dripped into me is different from the 68-year-old across from me. How I handle walking around with nothing covering my practically bald head is different from the 43-year-old mother of 2 who has a wig on. And how those around us handle being around us is unique as well. There are no rules as to how to handle cancer—or other diseases. There are ways to cope, there are ways to get through each day—but there are no rules. And I think that is the hard part. We are creatures of structure, and having rules/guidelines us gives us comfort. Without them, we cannot understand how to feel or know what to do next. But we all do feel, and we all do something next.
I don’t know what I’ll feel tomorrow, but I do know that what I am doing tomorrow will exactly lend itself to what I feel. I, of course, hope I will feel a sense of accomplishment in being out at the softball fields in the sun, in the warm July air. It’s July 1st tomorrow—moving ever so closer to the end of the treatments. And tomorrow I hope that I can forget for awhile that I am not the “me” I was, nor the “me” that I want to be. I’ve battled in my head that I don’t “look” like myself—I have little hair, I have more weight, and I have dark circles on my eyes after treatment. I know that these things needn’t be permanent. I know that the “me” doesn’t really involve what I look like on the outside. Yet I am pained about who I am on the outside. I’ve finally realized that the pain isn’t about how I look—it’s about how I got to looking how I look. And I can only hang on to the idea that in 11 weeks the treatments will be over, and in 4 months I should be through surgery. And THEN I can reach really deep, dig in there and pull out the “me” that I want to get back to. No, that’s not right either; I don’t want to go back (well, sure I do, but I also know that can’t happen). I want to move on from this. I want to move on from dealing with the situation—the realization, the worry, the treatments, the being in need of support. There are so many things about my world right now that aren’t “me,” but I can let this “me” go in a few months. Not forever—I suspect this person will be with me forever, out of necessity. But in terms of the overall package, I can return to being someone that doesn’t worry about dark circles, “soft” parts of the body, and certainly someone that doesn’t worry about cancer every minute of everyday.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Sleeping through treatment
Maybe they are right, or maybe it's too soon to tell, but the Taxol does seem easier. It wasn't any faster today, but I was told the subsequent treatments will be quicker. The biggest effect that I have felt so far is from Benadryl. They gave me about 100 mL by IV, and it kicked in big time. I felt really bad for Jane (who had accompanied me today--good thing, not sure I could have driven home). I slept almost the entire time I was there. And then I slept a few more hours at home. But on the flip side, I was able to make it down to class with no problems (although I did have problems AT class--the projector wasn't working so I couldn't give my lecture).
I'm a little tired tonight, and that meds have left a bad taste in my mouth (literally). But I am planning on going into work tomorrow and have a "normal" week. Perhaps sometime I'll blog as to what "normal" really means for me these days. I go back for another treatment Friday. I'll see what I'm up for, but the neighborhood is in full swing with Fab Fridays, so I'd like to attend one. It would probably be rude to attend and fall asleep in a lawn chair...
I'm a little tired tonight, and that meds have left a bad taste in my mouth (literally). But I am planning on going into work tomorrow and have a "normal" week. Perhaps sometime I'll blog as to what "normal" really means for me these days. I go back for another treatment Friday. I'll see what I'm up for, but the neighborhood is in full swing with Fab Fridays, so I'd like to attend one. It would probably be rude to attend and fall asleep in a lawn chair...
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