Hunh...

A little over a week ago, I was having some neck pain, as if I'd been under a lot of stress and my shoulders were trying to conjoin with my ears. I didn't think much of it, other than to wonder what was going on.

On Saturday, I was sitting in my La-Z-Bum chair, playing Scrabble on my laptop. All the sudden I had an intense chest pain that radiated up both sides of my neck and into my lower jaw. I called the consulting nurse and she told me to get my ass to Urgent Care, which I did, thanks to my husband.

After a few hours, they determined that I had not had a heart attack, and there were no blood clots roaming recklessly around my body.

Then on Monday, in an innocent move at a park, I scraped my knee as bad as I ever did when I was little, and injured my ribs on the side of my body that I'd had cancer, surgery and treatment. The next day my chest hurt like crazy. I called the consulting nurse again and she said I'd probably bruised or cracked my ribs. On Thursday, it hurt so bad I called the consulting nurse again. She advised me to come in and see someone because the injury happened on the same side as the cancer, etc. 

So, I left work and went in. The Nurse Practitioner examined me and had me have a chest x-ray. The x-ray showed no cracks, but did show quite a few staples in my body from the cancer surgery.

I had no idea. I said "Hunh."

Isn't this the kind of thing my surgeon would have indicated were left me? In doing some googling on the topic, apparently it's not unusual to leave clips in after surgery, and it's not unusual for patients to be surprised when they find out later they have surgical clips in their bodies.

The NP told me the staples may have been wrenched during my fall, and that may be what's causing the pain. 

WTF?

Here's a photo of what breast cancer surgery "clips" look like. It's not my x-ray. Mine shows a lot more in a straight line.

The radiologist's report on my x-ray said "There are surgical clips in the left breast and left axilla." "Axilla" sounds like an animal on the Serengeti, something with horns that runs fast.

I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille

Next week Group Health is going to come by the house to film me at home, in the yard, in my studio, riding my bike. 

When I was going through treatment for cancer, I enrolled in a study to research the effects of having access to a "nurse navigator." What this meant was an oncology RN called me once a week to chat about how I was doing, answer questions, assess symptoms, etc. It was a wonderful resource and I was fortunate enough to have a great nurse.

I saw my Oncologist every few weeks, but our relationship wasn't chatty. He was full of information, but wasn't particularly comforting. My nurse navigator gave me great comfort.

So, in the few years since the study, Group Health has decided to make the nurse navigator study a real program, and I was asked if I could be interviewed about my experience, and filmed.

Heck, yeah.

The video producer wants to film me in my studio, making jewelry. So, this morning the spouse and I spent a few hours cleaning the basement because my studio's down there. 

Between cleaning and hot flashes, it's a three-shower day.

Two procedures in one day and my groinicological area feels like Napoleon and his army trampled through

About a month ago I noticed a little spotting. I told my GP, who had me come in for an exam. The hormone-blocking medication I'm on, Tamoxifen, causes the endometrius to thicken, and can potentially cause cancer of the endometrius. So, any sign of blood and they want to get all inside my parts.

She didn't see any blood, but did see signs of genital warts, something I picked up when (as my husband says) I was perky. She thought they were maybe causing the spotting, but wanted me to have a transvaginal ultrasound. Fine. I'd had those before.

I drank a quart of water two hours before the ultrasound. Silly me, I drank it an hour before I got on the bus, not taking into account the other hour of travel and waiting in the reception area. By the time I was taken back to radiology, I was having to dance to keep my bladder in check. And of course, the tech was pressing the ultrasound doo-hicky all over my belly, as if my bladder wasn't about to burst.

They couldn't see the the endometrium too well because of a large and decaying fibroid, so they wanted a biopsy of my endometrium. The head of Group Health's OB/GYN did the biopsy. She was great. The procedure was uncomfortable. I'm pretty sure the extra-large speculum she used was made by the same person who made the Jaws of Life. She dilated my cervix and threaded in some tool that sliced and grabbed bits of tissue.

The lab results showed what they think are "necrotic polyps". What the fuck. What's up with all these things in my uterus that aren't supposed to be there?

They wanted to be sure they were necrotic, which means there's no blood flow, which means they're probably not cancerous or pre-cancerous. To do this, they needed to do another transvaginal ultrasound. I thought it was going to be like the last one. It was not. Yesterday, right before the procedure, I learned that a radiologist was going to inflate the endometrium with saline water, to get a better look at the polyps. Holy crap! Then he said he was going to use a balloon to block the cervix, so the saline water wouldn't leak out during the ultrasound. When I heard "balloon", I thought of this. Actually, it was like fishing line. It was nothing like a balloon. It felt odd. I could feel things moving in parts of me that I ought not. I experienced a little cramping, but nothing like the menstrual cramps I used to have.

The radiologist told me that if he was not successful at seeing around the fibroid to see the polyps, he might have to stop the procedure to drag an OB/GYN into the room. This person, he said, would put a clamp on my cervix and I stopped listening.

When it was over, the radiologist showed me some of the images. He'd point at things and tell me what I was seeing. I'd nod my head and make approving noises, but I didn't know what the hell he was talking about or what he was seeing. 

A few hours later, I had my second procedure of the day. This one was to remove and biopsy genital warts. It was the second time I saw Jane Dimer and I think she's the best physician I've ever had. She asked me about the morning's procedure, told me what the report showed, told me what she was going to do, and when she was done, talked about next steps. Her pace was measured and considerate of me. She told me something that no one else has in the 2.5 years since I was diagnosed with cancer; that my immune system remains compromised because of the cancer and its treatment. 

She told me that the ultrasound images from the morning showed that enough saline had been in my uterus to float the polyps, which for some reason was a good sign.

Throughout the past 2.5 years, when I first went back in for a follow-up ultrasound and mammogram because my annual mammogram had indicated something was wrong in my left breast, through yesterday, I've been struck with the information conundrum of being a patient being treated for a deadly disease. I've seen a number of medical professionals, and each one has given me different information. Being under-informed  I often made assumptions based on the information I received, and my assumptions were often wrong.

Why didn't the radiologist in the morning mention that my polyps floated? It seemed to me, when Dr. Dimer told me about it, that it was a big deal. I imagined that when he was reviewing the images with his peers, he might have said "Look! Her polyps floated!", and they all would have clapped their hands in response to this happy news. All I remember him telling me was that it was hard to see what he wanted to see because of the monstrous fibroid I have in my uterus, which has become friendly with an unknown number of polyps that float.

The exam table prior to the procedure

She had me get on the exam table, put my feet in the stirrups and looked for what she wanted to biopsy. It was a little rough. I'm not used to someone trying to stretch parts of my groinological area in order to get a better look at whatever's going on there.

She showed the nurse what she was going after. She then explained to me that she was going to numb the area with two topical agents and then inject the labia and surrounding area with another, stronger numbing agent. She did this, and while she was gentle, it was unnerving, no pun intended. She told me she was going to use a tool that both took samples and cauterized the wound, and that the nurse was going to use a suction device to remove the smoke. That was hard to hear. I did indeed smell burning flesh when she was going at it. The nurse put an adhesive pad on my leg and she said it was the ground for the tool the doctor was using. It was like a big EKG sticky.

It didn't take too long to get the samples. It didn't hurt. Both tools she and the nurse used made noises that distracted me from thinking about what she was doing down there. When they put their tools aside, Dr. Dimer said she was going to stitch me up. I have stitches on my labia. In a normal world, I would never have had cause to write that.

She said she wanted to see me in four weeks, and that they may need to do a more robust biopsy of the polyps. I have no idea what that means and I'm not going to think about it.

The exam table after the procedure

I left the hospital with my husband and my sutured labia. 

In which she learns that cancer is like an annoying friend she can't shake...

I saw my Oncologist a few weeks ago for my regular check-in/check-up. He said I'm doing well enough to come in every six months, instead of every three. It's a kind of graduation.

I talked to him about hot flashes caused by the Tamoxifen. I've been taking Tamoxifen for over two years. Amazing to think I've been having these hot attacks so long. He suggested I change to the post-menopausal hormone-blocking meds. I asked him about side effects, and he said "You're at higher risk for osteoporosis. Let's do a bone density scan."

The scan results show I have osteopenia, the red-headed stepchild of osteoporosis. 

Great.

At what point do symptoms stop being a result of cancer and treatment and start becoming a result of aging?

Cancer sucks

Yesterday I ran into a coworker who I haven't seen for a while. I had heard that her husband had cancer and was stopping treatment. He died a few weeks ago.

As I was talking with her, I thought "This is what a new widow looks like." She looked okay. She was struggling, but she looked okay. She said someone gave her a pin that says "Cancer Sucks", and that truer words were never spoken.

Four months ago a friend and former lover stopped treatment for cancer and died. I'm just now accepting that this larger than life person is gone.

Another coworker's cancer is back. Those of us at work who've been out with our cancer all know about her situation, and the effect of the cancer returning rippled through this small but tight-knit group.

A good and old friend who had cancer 22 years ago called a few days ago to tell me it's back, in her stomach and metastasized to her lungs and liver. She's in the midst of diagnosis and is in shock.

Cancer sucks.

It's a wrap

It's been a while since I last said "Fu-u-u-u-ck" in response to my continuing treatment for cancer, and/or treatment for the treatment for cancer. I said it yesterday, when I saw what my arm looked like "wrapped".

About a month ago, my left arm began to swell, as if someone had inserted an air hose and pumped in about 20 psi.

I went to a physical therapist who pronounced it lymphedema, and had me order a kit of bandages. I am going to have to wear these wraps for a while, until the swelling went down, after which I'll be measured for a permanent sleeve that I'll have to wear as needed.

Tomorrow, the spouse goes with me to learn how to wrap my arm, because I can't do it on my own. It looks like I'll be wearing this hideous thing for a month or two.

Yesterday at work, of course, my coworkers wanted to know what happened.

I was too stunned to do anything other than tell them exactly why I look the way I do, which is too long and dry a story. I need a snappy comeback. Suggestions welcome.

Circumstantially, I also saw my oncologist yesterday. I've been wondering what triggered the lymphedema. Exercise? Massage? He says it was the radiation therapy, which was pointed at my breast and underarm lymph nodes.

Fu-u-u-u-uck.

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.