To Have and Have Not

I was told by the RN who was at Monday's biopsy that the results would be known in three-to-four days. She said she'd call with the results.

I stayed home from work on Tuesday. I was feeling battered and bruised. I slept a lot of the day away.

Tuesday evening I got an email from someone I'd never communicated with before at my health care provider that said "The pathology result from your breast biopsy came back showing 'Benign fibrocystic changes associated with microcalcifications'. This is benign. Good news."

No shit it's good news!!!

On Wednesday I received an email from my oncologist. He wrote "I know you already heard but great news breast biopsy is benigh. Since there was calcifications within the benigh tissue, we have good evidence that these calcifications are not tumor associated."

Yeah. What he said.

On Thursday, I got a phone call from the RN, telling me pretty much the same thing all over again.

Funny, I didn't get multiple emails and phone calls when they told me I had cancer. Perhaps they don't get the opportunity to share good news often enough, so they all want in on it.

*****

Today I've been thinking about the verb "to have", as in "I have cancer" or "I had cancer". I've decided that isn't the right verb to use with this disease. It implies congenial possession, like "I had good friends over for dinner" or "I have the urge to dance until dawn" or "I have an itch I can't scratch."

Plus, I don't believe that "I" had cancer. My body did, but not me.

Perhaps, a better way to express "having" this disease is:

• My body is/was cancerous, or
• My breast is enduring/endured cancer, or
• My body is experiencing/has experienced cancer, or
• My breast is/was occupied by cancer.

I'm giving away free tissue samples; at least that's what it feels like

The stereoscopic needle core biopsy wasn't as bad as I expected. Certainly, it wasn't as bad as last time. Perhaps it was more tolerable because of the meds, perhaps because of the extra lidocaine given up front, perhaps because I knew what to expect, perhaps because they had a "best of" Chopin CD playing.

It was lengthy, but not painful. I'm now familiar with the stinging shot of lidocaine. I didn't feel it when the MD put the needle core in to get samples. I heard, but didn't feel the samples taken.

What a relief.

They mopped me up (the MD said there wasn't much blood and the RN said there was), put bandages on my, stuck a big-ass bag of ice in my bra over the wound, and sent me home.

I came home, ate some lunch, and napped for four hours.

Prior to the procedure I asked what would happen if it was negative and this spot keeps showing up on my mammograms. Surely they're not going to want to do a biopsy each time it comes up. She said that unless it changes, they note that it's calcification that's already been biopsied.

I should have the results in three to four days. If it's positive, they'll schedule a visit with a surgeon when they call.

Oh, good. I was worried that my worries were over.

I'm pro-choice and I'm choosing...

One year ago, I was recovering from a "generous lumpectomy" and removal of 17 lymph nodes from under my arm. And the week after Thanksgiving, I started chemotherapy.

A few weeks ago I had a mammogram. It was the first since I was diagnosed with and treated for breast cancer.

I was nervous about getting the results. I contacted my oncologist and asked him to call me with them, thinking he'd contact me sooner than the usual method. I was not thinking that the results would be anything other than negative. I wanted that happy news as soon as possible.

Regardless, I got a voice mail on my cell phone from mammography, asking me to call back. I did, and whoever answered the phone stumbled around, saying, "The mammogram on your right breast was normal...  let me read through this...  on your left breast....  hmmm...  there appears to be something that they want to take a closer look at...."

She was killing me. She was fumbling around. She was not following through on the information delivery method I thought I'd orchestrated.

She got the RN who'd left the message for me to call me back, and she was much better. No nonsense. "There appears to be an area of calcification near the surgery site."

I know what that means. I learned all about calcification last year. It means it could be early cancer and the only way to find out is by doing a biopsy.

A few days later, the spouse and I saw my oncologist. He said he thinks it's scar tissue, and that I had choices in how to proceed. I could have a biopsy, I could have an MRI or I could wait six months and have another mammogram.

I asked him what he would do. He said "I think for you, rather than worrying about it, you may want to have an ultrasound-guided biopsy." He showed us the mammogram images, and sure enough, there was a little solid white dot. He said an MRI wouldn't do much more than confirm that there was something there.

I thought about waiting six months and having another mammogram. I thought about how surprised I was last year to learn that not only did I have breast cancer, but it had spread to my lymph nodes. I thought that if that little dot is cancer, I didn't want to give the little shit the opportunity to spread, so I told my oncologist I wanted to do a biopsy.

I chose.

He wrote the orders for the procedure.

Later, when another RN called to prep me about the ultrasound-guided biopsy procedure, in the middle of our conversation she stopped herself and said "Hold on. The radiologist's recommendation is different from what your oncologist ordered." Apparently the radiologist had ordered a stereoscopic biopsy, a procedure invented in the middle ages and not improved upon since then. She said she'd call me back. When she did, she informed me that I needed the stereoscopic procedure, which involves laying on a cold stainless steel table with a hole in it for my breast to dangle into. Under the table, a mammogram machine and radiologist lay in wait. The torture begins, it goes on and on, and it's so uncomfortable that it should be banned.

But apparently it's the only way they can see and get at such a small little globule of misfortune.

There must be something in my chart that says I'm anxious, because she recommended that I take 1/2 a Lorazepam right before the procedure. She said it would help me tolerate the discomfort.

A year ago, I would have clung to her saying that like Kate Winslet clung to her whatever she was hanging onto in the freezing water at the end of Titanic.

I now know that when medical professionals say "discomfort" or "uncomfortable" it will indeed be everything those words imply.

I had been prescribed Lorazepam when I was getting chemotherapy. Chemo causes nausea, so they'd load me up with steroids to counteract the nausea. The steroids kept me awake, so they gave me the "beddy-by" Lorazepam to counteract the side effects from the medication that was counteracting side effects. As she was recommending this, I told her I still had some left, and wondered to myself, like a junkie, if two pills would be better than 1/2 of one. I want to keep my suffering to a minimum.

Last week I saw my naturopath. She was distressed to hear my news, and gave me some recommendations for supplements. One in particular I found interesting. She said that during a biopsy like the one I'm having, it's possible to drag cancer cells through healthy tissue as they're extracting the thingy that grabs the tissue samples. The supplement she recommended is supposed to stop that from happening. Magical thinking, perhaps, but I'm game.

I told her about the Lorazepam conversation and she said "I'd take two."

That's what I like about her.

Unhunkering up, as opposed to hunkering down

 

If you'd like to start at the beginning of this blog, it's here.)

Last Monday was my last radiation therapy treatment. Since then, I've been trying to be happy about treatment being over. I don't know if it's my innate personality or the degree to which I have been hunkered down this past nine months, but I'm not naturally unhunkering.

I have made efforts to unhunker. On Wednesday, I asked my coworkers who have been especially supportive of me to go out to lunch with me at the Tamarind Tree. I was impressed that 27 responded "yep", including the CEO and my former Director.

I spent most of my time making sure everyone got the meals they ordered, and when I finally sat down to eat, I wasn't very hungry. Typical of me, but how could I have done it differently and had it turn out so nice?

*******

About 30 years ago I had a motorcycle accident. I was merging onto I-5 in Bellingham when a car rear-ended me. I went flying and I thought "Oh, shit!" Then I thought "My last words are going to be 'oh shit!'"

Obviously they weren't my last words, but for the six months following that accident, I was unusually happy. Strictly speaking, I was high because I was alive.

*******

That hasn't happened with cancer. There's been no remission high, so far.

*******

We had family and friends over yesterday to celebrate with us. It was a very nice crowd and they brought some great food. Their assignment was to bring finger food that begins with "C".

One of the funnier finger foods was salsa from my cousin Charlotte. She apparently thinks that since it came from Costco, it began with a "C".

*******

This is my last post. I'm ready to move on, and relearn what life is life without cancer and its treatment.

I'll be taking hormone-blocking pills for a number of years, go in for frequent exams to make sure that the nasty disease hasn't reappeared, and watch impatiently as my hair grows back in.

In my opinion, none of these are blog-worthy.

Thanks for reading,

Rebecca Roush

Ouch

I had my last radiation therapy treatment yesterday. The techs gave me a certificate for "graduating", and being one of their favorite patients. I asked how many get these certificates. "Most" was the answer.

I still feel special.

I want to savor this moment of being done with chemo and radiation, but I'm not sure how to. Perhaps meditating on it. Perhaps putting on my roller skates and skating like a bat our of chemo. Perhaps counseling. I don't know.

My breast and armpit and collar bone are burned. The skin is peeling. It hurts and is scary-looking. "I'm a freak!," I tell my husband. "No, you're not," he says back, "You're my Reb Roush."

That makes me feel better.

******

I'm supposed to start the Tamoxifen today. I'm taking so many prescription drugs and supplements that I'm beginning to understand how people get confused about their meds.

I laid out all my morning pills this morning and considered the Tamoxifen. I decided I'd take it when I take my prescription medications, to keep them the pharmacology lumped together.

Cancer-free..... but the medication's problematic

It's Friday, which means I have one more radiation treatment on Monday, and then I'm done.

Hard to believe.

Since this last Monday, I've been getting "boosts", which take a shorter amount of time than the treatments I was getting before.

The hospital made a mold specific to the area of my breast being treated by the boost. This mold will be melted down and recast for someone else, once I'm done with it.

It is placed in the "electron cone" contraption that is attached to the machine that gives the radiation treatment.

The boost is superficial therapy around the surgery scar on my breast. Electrons are the treatment during the boost, and since electrons are superficial, they don't go very far into my tissue.

When I was receiving the "regular" radiation therapy, I was receiving protons, which traveled all the way through my tissue, treating it as it went.

This photo, slyly edited to be discreet, shows the drawing the techs made on my breast with a surgical pen. It's the same outline as the mold, so they line up the machine to match the drawing before they start the machine.

My skin is doing pretty good, but I do have radiation burns. I've been told that the radiation will continue to burn my skin a week or two after the treatment stops.

*******

After radiation treatment today, I headed up to see the Oncologist, where the spouse was waiting. I made a few contributions to the hat basket, where chemo patients can freely take whichever hat they want to cover their bald heads. Each time I do something like dropping off the hats, I feel I've made a firm step away from the rigors of treatment.

Since my cancer was hormone receptive, next week I'll start taking hormone-blocking medication. This will decrease the chances of the cancer coming back.

The Oncologist said I'll take one kind of hormone-blocker (Tamoxifen) for a few years. It prevents estrogen from feeding estrogen-dependent cancer cells. Once they're sure I'm post-menopausal, I'll take "aromatose inhibitors", which sound like something that stops bad smells.

Tamoxifen has side effects, of course. Hot flashes will probably get worse. The Pharmacist told me that I'll probably get "central obesity". Isn't that a great phrase? Apparently the spare tire I've grown since being in treatment will remain or get worse while I'm taking this medication.

Oh, and a few other possible side effects, such as uterine cancer, blood clots, etc. One thing the Oncologist and Pharmacist both said was that it will probably speed up the slow-growing cataracts I was diagnosed with a few years ago.

My period may return. Regardless, if there's any sign of blood coming out of my groinicological area, I'm to immediately see my GP to ensure I don't have Tamoxifen-caused uterine cancer.

Gee-Zuz.

Today's conversations with the Oncologist and Pharmacist reinforced what I've learned while in treatment: Different medical professionals, when speaking on the same topic, will give different and needed information.

Such as, there are some ingestibles that contain estrogen, and so will need to be avoided. Soy products and yams are examples. And something called "black cohosh", which as far as I know I don't take.

My Oncologist said nothing about soy. The Pharmacist told me this important bit.

I guess tonight I'll be eating the tofu that's left in the Norge.

I told my Oncologist that my feet still hurt, and he told me that sometimes when nerves heal (they were damaged by the chemo-induced neuropathy), they may hurt. My finger joints have been aching, and he said that's probably also the nerves healing.

At the end of the appointment, I had to prod him. "So, am I cancer-free?" "Yes!" and he shook my hand.

*******

So, my last radiation treatment is on Monday. A month from now, I return to be seen by the Oncology Radiologist and the Nurse Practitioner. In six months, I have a mammogram, and I continue to have them annually, which isn't any different than I had been doing.

And I start the Tamoxifen on Tuesday.

Both the Nurse Practitioner and the Oncologist spoke of the importance of exercise. I've been riding my bike to work one or two times a week. Next week, when radiation's done, I can return to a regular bicycle commuting schedule. I've missed it.

*******

Between the post-cancer meds and the supplements my Naturopath wants me to take, I practically have a meal's worth of pills in the morning and evening. I will be taking pharmaceutical medications for many years, because of the cancer. I'm not happy about this, but I will behave.

*******

My hair is growing in nicely. It's definitely a pelt. I now look like I have a very short haircut. The hair is soft and when I run my hand across it, the texture indicates it's going to be wavy or curly. I hope so. After a lifetime of very straight hair, I wouldn't mind having some curl, even if it's for a short period of time. It's the least the awful cancer treatment could do, to make up for its nasty visits.

Meanwhile, in post-treatment treatment...

Great.

Hair, and the advantages of cancer treatment

My body is blossoming in hair. All the places that lost hair (which was everywhere) due to chemo are now sprouting like mad. My head is pelted, my groinicological area is pelted, my legs and eyebrows have hair again, etc. And, regretfully, my hag hairs on my chinny-chin-chin are coming back with a vengeance.

I am pondering never cutting or shaving my hair again, to experience the opposite of being so bald.

The hair on my head seems to change every day. Last week, it was clearly white on the sides and dark on top. Now it appears to be an even mix all over, and could be getting wavy.

The only place that isn't as hairy as it was before is the armpit that was operated on. I have a four inch long scar under there and I suspect that surgery removed some hair follicles.

When I see hairs in the bathroom sink at work, I know they're not mine.

*******

I now have six remaining radiation treatments. On Tuesday, they'll begin the "boost", of which I'll get five treatments. Then I'm done with radiation therapy.

I cannot wait to be done. I am more than tired of all this.

*******

It's been six months since I had surgery. Seems like a couple of years ago.

There are residual effects from the surgery, including continued numbness on the underside of my arm, my nipple looks like it's being tugged in from someplace inside my breast, and of course the two big scars.

*******

I've been thinking about the positive side effects of breast cancer treatment.

I've made a list for possible reference:

1. Spare time because of no hair (washing, drying, curling, etc.)
2. No need to shave legs or armpits (but then again, no desire to be seen in public in a skirt or sleeveless dress)
3. No scouting for facial hairs to be plucked because they're not supposed to be there
4. The heating bill goes down in winter (chemo-induced menopause and its associated hot flashes)
5. A socially-sanctioned period of it being okay to recline a lot (a revelation to those of us who have "look busy" bred into them)
6. Getting a seat to oneself on the bus because of how you look
7. No more menstruation (finally!)
8. Post-surgery pain meds
9. Learning about surgery drains
10. Learning what kind of nurse your spouse is....  or isn't
11. Learning to suspend fear

The patients don't scream, but the junkie whores sort their stuff

Last week, when I was sitting in the little waiting room between changing into gowns and heading into the radiation treatment room, I noticed there was a small metal object on the floor, plugged into the wall near the ridiculously small fan.

I went over and looked at it and realized it was a white noise machine. In the opposite corner was a small table-top fountain. So, they had three things running all the time (fan, white noise and fountain) and one of them was probably responsible for my always thinking that somewhere a coffee percolator was percolating. I could hear it, but couldn't smell it.

 

When the tech came to get me for my treatment, I asked her what this object was, and she said it was a white noise machine. "Is it to cover up the sound of patients screaming?" I asked.

She smiled at me as if she understood all my problems and said "No. We have to yell a lot to hear each other over the noise of the machines, and sometimes it's confidential patient information."

Odd. When I'm sitting there waiting, all I hear are the techs talking to each other about social things. They laugh a lot. In fact, they seem like a remarkably happy bunch of people. Their laughter is far louder and far more frequent than regular conversations relating to their job duties. At times, I feel slighted. Don't they know I have cancer??? They shouldn't be happy. They should be serious!

*******

On Friday, after treatment, I had my weekly check-in with the Nurse Practitioner.

She gave the magic sign for me to show her my left breast. Voila! Like Pavlov's dog, I undid my gown and bared my breast. 

She said it looks really good. It should; I slather aloe vera gel on it five or six times a day, since they asked me to apply it two or three times a day.

*******

When I'm at work, every time I need to go to the bathroom I take aloe vera gel with me. I'd prefer to go into the ADA stall, but it's got a large window that has some kind of glazing stuff applied to it. Only light shines through, or so I thought.

Last week, there was a raccoon in a tree by the side of the building. The only way I could see it was to go outside and stand in a specific spot. While I was there, I could see the window into the public women's restroom, where the junkie whores go to conduct their business. There was clearly someone in that ADA stall, and she'd put a bunch of plastic grocery bags up on the window ledge. I could see her vague body shape as she moved things from one bag to another. Probably she was sorting out syringes, pipes, condoms, lighters, objets de smack, etc.

As a result, I've stopped using the ADA stall on my floor. I have to take my shirt and bra off to use the aloe vera gel, and I don't want anyone even seeing my vague and disfigured outline.

So I go into a regular and very small stall, rest the aloe vera gel on the toilet paper dispenser, strip, slap the goo on me, conduct my business, redress and leave.

It's a bit cramped. 

I'd rather be cramped than seen.

When did you shave your head?

On Tuesday I rode a train from Seattle to Tacoma, and rode another one back. I was counting bicycles on the train, for work.

I had some time to kill in Tacoma, so browsed through the always-seedy Freighthouse Square. I bought an unusual shirt in a used clothing store, and when I went up to the counter to pay, the cashier asked "When did you shave your head?"

That was a new one.

I told her I didn't, and that I had gone through chemo. She replied "Oh. I see quite a few women who shave their head because they like it."

I told her I would never choose to be bald.

She then asked "Is everything alright, then?"

Wow.

What if I had said "No"? I was tempted to say so, just to see what her reaction would be.

"No, I only have until 6 o'clock, and I want to die in this shirt."

*******

When I go in for radiation treatment each morning at 7:45, I am the first patient of the day. I go into a changing cubbyhole, get out of my shirt and bra, and put on a gown. I then put my clothes and satchel in a locker, lock it, and remove the key.

After treatment, I unlock the locker, remove my stuff, go into the cubbyhole, slather aloe gel on my left breast, chest, armpit and shoulder blade, put on my clothes and hightail it back to work.

The last week, when I've come out of treatment, there's been a man changing for his treatment. I have no idea what his ailment is, but it's clear he's suffering. He grunts with discomfort every time he moves. He struggles with the lockers. I've heard him swear in his frustration.

The little bit that I've observed him makes me consider that maybe I ought not to complain so much about my disease and treatment.

Halfway there..... Where?

If you'd like to start at the beginning of this blog, it's here.)

On Friday, I made the half-way mark in my radiation treatment. 

On Monday, the Radiation Techs took x-rays, to ensure the radiation was zapping me where it ought. They do this each Monday. The Radiation Oncologist examined the x-rays, and ordered more because he saw discrepancies. It took a long time to take the images and I was uncomfortable throughout it. When they were done, they continued their game of tic-tac-toe on my chest with a variety of colored pens. Because I was such a good girl, they also gave me a sticker to put over one of their markings. It's still there, securing this very, very important location.

After treatment I met with the Radiation Oncologist, who told me my skin looked good. It should. I've been slathering it frequently throughout the day with aloe vera gel, as directed by his Nurse Practitioner.

He asked about hot flashes, which have been driving me nuts. He recommended increasing some medication I'm on, to see if it alleviates this annoyance. 

My niece is taking "hot yoga" classes. I told her anywhere I take yoga classes, it's hot. No need to go to a special class.

*******

On Wednesday, I rode my bicycle home. I've done that a few times, now. I am dreadfully out of shape. Before getting home, I stopped up on Phinney Ridge for a torturous yoga/pilates class. I was sweating heavily by the time I got there (there are a few hills), and while changing in the bathroom, remembered that I am now mostly bald. I turned on the cold water in the tap and stuck my head under it. Doing this felt great. It was very nice, extremely handy and there was no fallout from having bad hair.

When I ride my bicycle into work now, it takes me very little time to take a shower, dress and get to my desk. When my hair is longer, I'll have to spend more time on it, prettying it. I'm conscious of the time-saving effects of having no hair:

• No hair? No hair products.
• No hair? No shaving armpits and legs.
• No hair? No plucking eyebrows.
• No hair? No hag hairs on my chinny-chin-chin.
• No hair? No need for mascara.
• No hair? No peri-menopausal moustachios.

Jeez, I look like my Papa.

My eyebrows look kind of cool right now. 

They're each the same length, and short, as if they'd been mowed. Plus, they're growing in all over the place. It's a thatch.

******

So, I'm halfway through radiation therapy. Toward the end of this treatment, I'll see both my Oncologist and my Naturopath. The Oncologist will begin prescribing the hormone therapy that is supposed to decrease the chances of the cancer returning. These hormones have a bevy of potential side effects, and the Naturopath and I will discuss what I can do to offset them. When she and I first talked about these meds, she admitted that if she were in my situation, she would be torn as to whether or not to take them, when weighing the possible side effects against the long-term benefits.

I acknowledge that I'll take these meds, and want to be prepared.

*******

I know I'm getting older. I'll be 52 in July. My hands, feet and knees ache. I don't know if this is because of the cancer treatment, or because of age. Frankly, I don't care. I've watched so many of my aging relatives go from limber to creaky that I know it's my fate, also. If the radiation therapy causes arteriosclerosis 20 years from now, so what? If the hormone therapy makes my bones brittle when I'm 80, so what? My fate is to live long and suffer.

*******

My great-nephew and I are both enjoying this socially-sanctioned time of being relatively hair-less.

That was weird...

I was heading into the treatment room for radiation. The tech was reminding me that they were going to do films today, as they do each Monday. As a result of being distracted by her conversation, I approached the treatment table from a different direction.

I couldn't figure out how to get on the table. I was backwards/turned around.

I had to go to the other side to get up on it.

My brain couldn't help me figure out how to do this simple different step.

*******

I asked the tech what people say when they describe their radiation therapy/side effect fatigue.

She said some people say it hits them suddenly, and others say it creeps up on them.

I think I might have had the sudden onset this weekend.

Pavlov's breast cancer patient

It is indeed becoming routine to get radiation therapy. When they tell me it's time, I enter this room, where multiple monitors have all kinds of data and information about me. I bark out my birth date, and they let me proceed into the radiation treatment room.

It's the end of the second week of six weeks of radiation. The last few days, when I'm laying down on the table, I close my eyes keep them closed until treatment's done. I've thoroughly explored the room with my eyes, there's no need for me to do that anymore. I am not interested. I just want this over.

*******

I will be done with radiation treatment about a month from now. I've decided to celebrate in two ways. First, many people at work have been a big help to me as I've gone through the whacky world of cancer treatment. I want to take a break from work and have lunch with them. I suspect that they also want to acknowledge my illness and the completion of treatment.

And I'm going to have an informal gathering at my house for friends and family. The challenge for me will be to not run the party, but to sit back and celebrate with those who care for me.

*****

After treatment on Fridays, I'm seen by the Nurse Practitioner. She looks at my breast and today she said she can see my skin changing. When I told her I didn't, she had me stand in front of the mirror. She pointed to where it's changing, and indeed I could see it. The area where I'm received radiation is becoming slightly discolored. 

She said that my nipple will become very tender.

Great.

*******

I was telling some coworkers this past week that I have no embarrassment about showing virtual strangers my breast. I've become accustomed to showing it whenever a medical professional asks if to see it.

I told them that I'm worried that some not-medical-professional will say the magic words one day and without thinking, I'll pull my shirt over/up/off. I'm like Pavlov's dog, showing my breast when the bell rings.

It's not unusual when treatment's done and I'm sitting up while they're retying my gown, for there to be someone standing there I've never seen before. One time it was a young man who was introduced to me as an intern. I wondered what he thought about seeing the odd-looking breast of a 51 year old woman who's bald and fidgety. 

chemotherapy: 1907, from Ger. Chemotherapie, coined by Ger. biochemist Paul Ehrlich (1854-1915)

 Eyebrows are coming in.

Eyelashes, too.

 It's strange, having stubby eyelashes.

The gray hair on the side of my head is growing quickly.

The dark hair on top of my head is not.

Radiation Therapy finally starts

If you'd like to start at the beginning of this blog, it's here.)

Today will mark one week of radiation therapy, and five more to go.

On Monday, I went in for what they call final treatment planning. 

To me, planning means you sit down with a bunch of people to come up with a game plan for moving forward. 

To them, planning means a jillion x-rays, playing tic-tac-toe on my chest with markers and tattoos, coming in and out of the room to shield themselves from what they're giving me, and ultimately reaching a point where they and the Radiation Oncologist are happy with my position and the machine's measurements.

Tic-Tac-Toe

I just do what I'm told.

I had to change into a gown, lay on a stainless steel "bed" that had a sheet on top of it for my added comfort, raise my left hand over my head and remain motionless (except for breathing) for almost an hour. It was hard to do. My arm both hurt and had its circulation cut off. Wisely, they had told me the one thing that made me not complain or move, "If you move, we have to start all over again."

They removed the gown from the left side of my chest to expose my breast. In order to take the numerous x-rays, they taped my right breast out of the x-ray field. It felt like a jog bra on one breast. More than one of the techs made marks on my chest with markers; various x's and o's. These temporarily complimented the three tiny purple permanent tattoos they'd given me.

The x-rays allow them to map exactly where the radiation should be pointed, and they use the x-rays in conjunction with the CT scan they took a few weeks ago.

This x-ray shows where the machine aims to zap any remaining cancer in the lymph nodes under my arm. I have to confess that my rib cage is much more pear-shaped that I like.

Below are the 3d images taken from CT scans, where the Radiation Oncologist has determined the radiation should be directed and to what degree.

The radiation therapy machine moved around the table I was laying on, and opposite it was an x-ray machine that moved at the opposite end of its arm.

This photo shows the radiation machine lurking over me. Under the table is the x-ray component, and they are always equidistant from each other as they rotate around my body blasting me with x-rays or radiation.

When they were all done with the final treatment planning, they gave me my first treatment. I couldn't feel anything. I did lay there and listen. The machine moved around me, stopping at specific locations and making a noise like a complaining baby Great Blue Heron being throttled.

I was told that the following day's treatment would start with a few x-rays to confirm the measurements they took the day before were accurate. Once that was done, the subsequent treatments would take very little time.

I arrived on Tuesday and asked the friendly reception staff if I could either change the radio station that's always playing in the reception area or turn the damned thing off. The music's annoying and not at all soothing. 

The unfriendly reception staff inserted herself into the conversation and said "No. We can't get any other channel and we're required to have it on." She annoyed me off so much with her aggressiveness that I'm going to plan a passive-aggressive response.

When prompted by the technicians, I started the routine that I assume I'll be able to do in my sleep by the time the six weeks is up.

• Go into changing room
• Take gown out from drawer
• Take shirt and bra off
• Put gown on, tied in back
• Drag satchel and clothes out to lobby
• Remove key from locker
• Open locker and put clothes in
• Lock locker
• Walk a few feet and wait in waiting room
• Text my husband or Facebook or niece or goddaughter
• Follow the tech toward the machine
• Give my birth date so we all know it's me
• Assume the position

They started taking the additional x-rays to compare measurements from the day before. After a few takes, one of the techs who was in the room with me was called back into the room full of monitors and computers and the other technicians. After a few minutes of nothing, another tech came out and said they needed to take some more x-rays because things weren't lining up. She asked if I could wait a bit while they "sneak in" two patients who were waiting, and then they'd be able to give me their full attention for as long as was needed.

Sure, sure. Whatever.

I went back to the waiting room and texted my husband. After a while, the Radiation Oncologist came in and talked to me about the delay, that today's x-rays didn't match those taken the day before, and how important it is to make sure everything's right.

Since I had him to myself, I asked him about a couple of things I'd been told and brooding on. During the first meeting with he and the Nurse Practitioner, I was told that there was no way that the radiation therapy could avoid hitting a small part of my heart and lungs. I wanted to know what this meant, and what the implications were.

He said that the heart itself is very resilient, and if there is an effect there, it will happen to arteries and will only manifest many years after treatment as arteriosclerosis, much the same as the effects of high cholesterol. The chances of this occurring are very slim.

Regarding the lungs, he said that we have more lungs than we need anyway, and that if lungs are affected (again slim chances) , it will manifest as something appearing to be pneumonia, though without the fever. It would be treated with anti-inflammatories.

After a while, I was called back in and they finished the x-rays, gave me my radiation, and sent me on my way.  Before I left, one of the techs reminded me to use the aloe vera multiple times a day, to avoid the inevitable sunburn effect that will manifest in a few weeks. He also confirmed I shouldn't use antiperspirants because the aluminum in them will cause my armpits to explode into sores.

For my third treatment on Wednesday, I arrived a little early. The mean receptionist said with no greeting "We're on hold with the machine back there. Have a seat." After two treatments, I was being "treated" like a nonentity. I'm not going to approach her again, given the chance.

I wandered over to the aquarium and watched this fish, who I could relate to. She'd found her piece of coral and wasn't going to come out unless she had to. The other fish were swimming crazily in circuitous routes within their constrained home, while she stayed safe and mostly hidden. Smart fish.

*******

After work on Wednesday, I rode my bike home for the first time since I started treatment in October of last year. I was nervous and asked my friend Jos to ride with me. She did. We braved all the construction on Dexter by riding on the sidewalk. I made it up both Dexter and Fremont, though in the lowest possible gear. I am horribly out of shape and weigh more than I ever have. But, I made it and look forward to next week's rides.

*******

My eyebrows are growing back. Note the three original remaining eyebrows acting as a placeholder.

Chemo's over, but the fun continues

(If you'd like to start at the beginning of this blog, it's here.)

On Tuesday, I saw my regular doctor. I wanted to talk with her about some post-chemo symptoms that I suspect are a result of the chemo:

• Dry and plugged up nose, and dry mouth.
• Fungal toenail thing, which wasn't complimenting the discolored and cracked appearance of my toenails.

• The surgery site from the removal of the chest port had a stitch working its way out, it looked infected, and had a big lump beneath it.
•  Worst of all, I'm starting to look like Patrick Stewart, with hair growing on the sides of my head and hardly any growing on top.

The few times I've seen my GP during treatment for cancer, it's been normalizing. She's not treating me for cancer. Seeing her reminds me that most of my life the medical treatment I receive will be for mundane things, like arthritis, skin tags, farting in public - all the physical joys that are interesting when middle age begins, and a pain in the ass when it becomes obvious they're not just visiting.

She told me that chemo dries out mucous membranes, thus my dry nose and mouth. She gave me stuff for that.

She confirmed I've managed to pick up a toenail fungus, and gave me stuff for that. 

She looked at the surgery site. I told her that I'd been able to pull part of a stitch out, and I had to trim it so it wasn't hanging outside the wound. It probably became infected then. She agreed the lump of scar tissue under my skin is large, and was going to ask the PA who took out the port about it.

And, she told me that if male pattern baldness runs in my family, I've probably inherited it and the hair on top of my head will grow slower than elsewhere.

Great.

I scared the heck out of myself this morning when I Googled "male pattern baldness" and "breast cancer" and "chemo".

The very white hair that first shot out on my head is being joined by darker hair that's a little shorter.

My eyebrows have continued to fall out, though there are signs they're starting to grow back in. There's some kind of activity going on under the skin where the eyebrows were; it looks dark like hairs are about to break through. I have exactly one original eyebrow remaining on the right and three on the left. And, my eyelashes are beginning to peek out into the world again.

My GP also talked about perfumes, and how they irritate sinuses that are already compromised. She said hand sanitizers are one of the worst offenders; they have to have lots of perfume added to not reek of rubbing alcohol.

*******

I am crocheting myself a new hat out of cotton embroidery thread. As the days warm and the hot flashes continue, I don't want to wear anything too insulating on my head when I'm out in public.

*******

On Monday, I go in to Radiation Oncology for my final treatment planning appointment. I'll be getting my third itty-bitty tattoo. If there's time at the end of the treatment planning, they'll give me my first radiation therapy jolt. And, we'll nail down the time each weekday that I'll be going there for the next six weeks.

Road show, pigment of my imagination, the real me, and my three minutes of fame

If you'd like to start at the beginning of this blog, it's here.)

Last week, for the first time in 16 weeks, I had no medical appointments. That doesn't mean I didn't think about them. I've been impatiently waiting for Radiation Oncology to call and arrange my final treatment planning appointment, which will probably be followed immediately by my first radiation treatment and scheduling all my appointments for the six weeks following.

Let's get this show on the road!

An example of "Getting this show on the road"

*******

At least once each day, I go in the bathroom, pull out a lovely hand mirror my brother made for me, turn up the lights, put on my Bartell's 300 reading glasses, and search for any changes to my non-existent eyelashes and the stubble on my head. I've noticed that there's a spot on my head that appears to have a different pigment and feels a little different softer than the surrounding skin.

Pigment-challenged

When I told my husband that I never would have seen this if I hadn't gone bald, he said "Then cancer was worth it!"

Funny man.

*******

My brother and his wife came to visit last week. I showed them my nifty and new little camera and my brother took this photo of me.

When I saw the photo, I was struck with how odd I look. I realized that when I'm in charge of the photography, there's nothing spontaneous about it. I pose, I take the photos, I choose the ones I want to use.

Here's one someone else took, and there's no hiding from how I appear. I've got the Roush double chin, and my fledgling hair growth pattern is remarkably like my father's.

Ugh.

*******

A few weeks ago, the Seattle Channel came by to shoot a segment on our housecleaning company's participation in Cleaning for a Reason. The video's on the Seattle Channel's Web site, and you can watch it below.

Start at the 9:10 mark. If you watch carefully, you'll see the spouse.

Seattle Channel Video can be played in Flash Player 9 and up

*******

As I'm waiting for radiation therapy to start, and as my energy and my old self returns, I've been able to tolerate a small amount of reflection on my feelings about the past few months.

I'm not a passive person, yet I've been struck by how passive I've been about treatment so far. I've had medical professionals give me choices, but they're usually along the lines of "If we don't do this, the chances of the cancer returning is XX%." I was left with very little to consider.

It's as if I've just been along for the ride. I have been thinking about the few

opportunities I've had to modify treatment. I haven't questioned much, because I know so much less than those who are treating me.

I wasn't given the option of time, either. Unlike other illnesses, I wasn't told that I should live with it until it starts to impede my ability to live my normal life, and then have treatment.

My one stab at modifying treatment has been consulting with a Naturopath. Yet that seems less like treatment and more like expensive magical thinking.