More sloth than human

A few days after my annual mammogram on September 15, 2010, I received a phone call from my health care provider, asking me to come back in for a look-see.

I was staying at my Uncle's house on Dabob Bay, spending a lovely weekend alone, doing little besides picking huckleberries and having family come by to visit. 

Family visiting

My uncle built his beautiful house, and it includes a unique elevated walkway out to a picnic table high above the ground, in amongst the fir trees and magnolias.

I took a photo of myself to send to my husband. This is what I looked like the day I received the "it's probably nothing" phone call.

Now, about 31 weeks later, this is what I look like.

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Since I've been on chemo, I've had no problems with my arthritis. I asked my Oncologist about this, and he said that chemo does help arthritis during treatment, but it comes back with a vengeance once chemo's over.

Great.

I have become quite the sloth during treatment. 

This is the most out of shape I've been my entire adult life, and the most I've ever weighed.

I've signed up for a nine-week pilates/yoga class the last week of my chemo treatments. I'm thinking that if I ease into exercise, I won't be discouraged.

Prior to diagnosis, I was a bicycle commuter, riding my bike as often as possible to work and back to home. I'd meet up with one of my best friends who also works downtown, and pedal home with her. She and her husband live about a mile south of our house. It was quality time with her, and I've missed both the pedaling and her.

I'm relatively sure I wouldn't be able to jump back on my bicycle once chemo stops, and begin bicycle commuting again.

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On Monday I conducted inspections at all the light rail stations. I was looking for things that needed fixing. It took all day, and by the end of the day I was exhausted and my feet were hurting something fierce. Different medical professionals I've spoken with about my feet say different things; Yes, it is a side effect, or no, it's not a side effect.

I got home on Monday and was in bed at 7:30. Normally I read for a while before going to sleep, but that night I didn't have the strength to read.

I am curious to see how long it takes for my energy to come back. I can tell I'm not as resilient as when I was younger. I'm not as apt to force myself to do all it takes to get in shape.

I'm middle-aged.

Sigh.

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I've been thinking about modern medicine, which has twice now allowed me to live longer. The first time was when my appendix burst and it took so long to be properly diagnosed that my insides were gangrenous. The second time was this breast cancer.

There were other times I came close to death, but these were due to accidents or my own stupidity.

Natural selection would have ripped me out of the gene pool at 40, and if I somehow survived that massive infection, cancer would have taken my out in my 50s.

I find this sobering.

One of the strangest changes about this illness is that I don't fear death as much, and I'm no longer sure there's a God-like being out there.

I don't fear death as much because I've been sick enough that I now know how easy it would be to slip away and not even notice I'd died. I experienced this first with the appendicitis and its related peritonitis.

And the cancer treatment-related illness I've experienced has mainly been extreme fatigue and feeling sick. All I can do is lay on the couch or in bed and my symptoms make me so lethargic that I don't care about anything - even dying.

And the unsuredness about God? I need to think about that some more before I can articulate it.

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Tina Koyama sent me a comb, to ensure I'm prepared for my hair growing back. 

My hair has started to grow in, but it's taking its sweet time. There's more on the sides than there is on top. I can't yet tell what color it will be. Sometimes it look very light, sometimes I see lots of the brown I had back on September 15.

I am more tired of being bald than I can express.

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Today I had my eighth chemo treatment. Four more to go. Then I get three weeks off before I start radiation therapy.

I saw the Advanced Registered Nurse Practitioner, not my Oncologist. I showed her the odd red skin around my chest port. Since I have a cold, she listened to my lungs. I had the discharge paperwork from my Nursigator and asked her to explain some of the terms, such as Nottingham Grade II of III, grade: Intermediate, Hyperplasia in benign ducts, and Pathologic stage: pT1c, cN2a, pMX. Since my head's full of snot and Nyquil, I nodded my head and pretended to understand her responses.

Having a cold while on chemo and while having hot flashes is adding illness to insult. I can only assume that once again I've offended one or another of my household gods.

I wasn't scheduled to have a blood draw, but since I have a cold, they decided to bring in the leeches. This slowed everything down. Then the pharmacy threw a wrench in the works and it was an hour before the chemo arrived at my bedside.

My bed was next to an older woman's who was getting a blood transfusion. This is something they do when a patient's white blood cell count is extremely low. I asked where she was in her chemo treatment and she said they didn't yet know. Good god. That would be torture to me, not knowing when the end is.

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With some frequency, people tell me they're not regularly reading this blog. They state it as a confession or an apology.


Certainly the egoist in me cares how many people read the blog, but the cancer patient doesn't care. I am doing it for me. It keeps me sane. Plus, I want a record of the experience, because I know I won't remember everything. I can easily imagine not looking at this blog for a long time after treatment ends. I won't want to be reminded of my cancer.