Tomorrow is Chemo No. 7!
Chemo No. 6 went well - I have been really enjoying feeling more "like myself." I have been telling folks that I didn't realize how out of sorts I felt with those first four biweekly treatments until the blanket of yuck was lifted. I still get tuckered out irritatingly easy, and I often can't feel my fingertips - but those are easy side effects.
"Who knows if perhaps you were made ... for just such a time as this?" Esther 4:14
I've gotten all sorts of interesting questions from folks the last few months. The most common one is how I found out that I had cancer in the first place. So I thought I'd answer that here, since we all know the importance of backstory.
The short answer is it was discovered completely by accident, which was both incredibly chilling and a tremendous blessing. I had felt an odd area in my right armpit that seemed weird to me, but when I called it to the Seward doc's attention, she said, "You know, I think that's nothing. You have no history of breast cancer in your family and you are 37 years old. But if it makes you feel better, we can get you scheduled for an ultrasound and mammogram."
So I blew it off - what were the chances? They don't do both ultrasounds and mammograms locally, and it meant a trip to Anchorage. I scheduled an appointment for a couple of months later, when my 5-year-old would be on her Christmas break from school. I am all about easy peasy, after all, and I am not one who relishes long car rides with little kids.
(Yes - I appreciate the irony of that statement; I stopped counting a couple of months ago how often we have made that drive since January.)
My doc didn't order a mammogram for both sides. It turns out that's not how it's usually done, and the techs at Providence Imaging Center asked if they could call Seward and get the OK to do the left and the right. Fine by me, I said. I received a letter a few days later that biopsies in three areas were recommended. I wasn't worried, because I had received a biopsy several years earlier that had turned up nothing.
But lo and behold, I received The Call on Jan. 9 from the Seward doctor. The news was not good - and the cancer was on the side that wasn't even supposed to be scanned. Thankfully, the two biopsies on the right had not turned up anything. This doctor delivered the news really badly, but I suspect that's because she is a new doctor and hasn't had a lot of experience doing these kinds of things. Hopefully, I was good practice ... but then, I never heard from her again to see how I was doing so who knows.
Two days later I saw a surgeon in Anchorage and two days after that I had a lumpectomy. The surgeon was able to get all of the tumor out and it was determined that the cancer had not spread to my lymph nodes. This was awesome news! But since it's triple negative cancer, it also meant I had a 30 percent chance of recurrence without wicked bad chemo, then radiation and/or mastectomy.
Yet I know that God doesn't work in percentages. Either I have a 100 percent chance of getting cancer again or zero. I am confident that whatever it is, there's a purpose in what's happening and what's to come in such a time as this.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Do I miss my hair?
Kate received the "all clear" earlier this week: HOORAY! There have been days this week that I have wanted to keep her home from school so we can cuddle up and read books all day long and share tea parties with her younger sister. But part of the awesomeness of this news is that we are blessed to return to normality instead of scheduling an appointment for another surgery and a first meet with a pediatric oncologist.
(Thank you, Jesus, for sparing my child cancer. Thank you, thank you, thank you.)
Chemo No. 6 is tomorrow in Anchorage. I got my blood drawn this morning to make sure my blood counts are OK, and checked with the oncologist's office this afternoon to make sure I should make the journey. I am always relieved when they tell me that I'm "good to go" ... I hate the idea of having to delay being done with this junk for any reason!
After the blood draw, I stopped for coffee at my favorite espresso drive-through (I live in such a small town that there's only one, but this java joint really is great). I have discovered a neat trick - depending on where I am in my chemo, the taste of coffee can be revolting, tolerated or actually enjoyed.
The sweet drive-through owner asked me, "So: You got anything great you're doing this summer?"
In that instant, I could actually see my entire summer "flash before my eyes" (I always thought this was an expression but it turns out it can real-deal happen). My weekly trips to Anchorage for chemo will end sometime in July. Then I get to make the decision of whether I'll do six weeks of daily radiation or double mastectomy - the docs are making it my choice (both apparently give me the same odds of preventing a recurrence), and I am leaning toward the latter. So that puts me into August, about when my daughter starts first grade and I'll be seeing my younger brother who lives on the East Coast for the first time in five years.
"Nothing but enjoy Seward," I said brightly. I learned early on in adulthood that sharing reality is not polite small talk. "How about you?"
Then in the afternoon, Belle and I went on a beach picnic with some other mommas and their kids. I wore a cool knit hat that a dear friend made me, but at some point, it got turned cattywompus and a picture of me wearing a seriously crooked hat ended up on Facebook. It made me sigh, and long for my hair. So it was funny timing when Kate ran her sweet little hand over the top of my fuzz-covered head and then down my neck tonight at dinner.
"Your hair used to be 'this' long," she said, touching my shoulders. "I miss your hair."
Bella said she missed my hair, too. They asked me if I missed my hair.
"I do miss my hair," I said. "But I also like being bald because it means the medicine is working that will keep this cancer away."
Boy, I sure hope so. That sounds pretty fantastic indeed.
(Thank you, Jesus, for sparing my child cancer. Thank you, thank you, thank you.)
Chemo No. 6 is tomorrow in Anchorage. I got my blood drawn this morning to make sure my blood counts are OK, and checked with the oncologist's office this afternoon to make sure I should make the journey. I am always relieved when they tell me that I'm "good to go" ... I hate the idea of having to delay being done with this junk for any reason!
After the blood draw, I stopped for coffee at my favorite espresso drive-through (I live in such a small town that there's only one, but this java joint really is great). I have discovered a neat trick - depending on where I am in my chemo, the taste of coffee can be revolting, tolerated or actually enjoyed.
The sweet drive-through owner asked me, "So: You got anything great you're doing this summer?"
In that instant, I could actually see my entire summer "flash before my eyes" (I always thought this was an expression but it turns out it can real-deal happen). My weekly trips to Anchorage for chemo will end sometime in July. Then I get to make the decision of whether I'll do six weeks of daily radiation or double mastectomy - the docs are making it my choice (both apparently give me the same odds of preventing a recurrence), and I am leaning toward the latter. So that puts me into August, about when my daughter starts first grade and I'll be seeing my younger brother who lives on the East Coast for the first time in five years.
"Nothing but enjoy Seward," I said brightly. I learned early on in adulthood that sharing reality is not polite small talk. "How about you?"
Then in the afternoon, Belle and I went on a beach picnic with some other mommas and their kids. I wore a cool knit hat that a dear friend made me, but at some point, it got turned cattywompus and a picture of me wearing a seriously crooked hat ended up on Facebook. It made me sigh, and long for my hair. So it was funny timing when Kate ran her sweet little hand over the top of my fuzz-covered head and then down my neck tonight at dinner.
"Your hair used to be 'this' long," she said, touching my shoulders. "I miss your hair."
Bella said she missed my hair, too. They asked me if I missed my hair.
"I do miss my hair," I said. "But I also like being bald because it means the medicine is working that will keep this cancer away."
Boy, I sure hope so. That sounds pretty fantastic indeed.
Friday, April 13, 2012
The purpose behind the suck
Chemo No 5: complete.
That's not a typo - I skipped over blogging about Chemo No. 4 in its entirety. Not only was it the worst one yet due to the onslaught of new side effects, but we were also going through our darkest days since this started because we learned that Kate could have cancer, too. The initial report is the the mass appears to be benign, but we are still waiting for the final report. I have called the surgeon's office twice and will try again on Monday.
So: Moving right along.
Today I started the first of 12 weekly treatments of Taxol. Most people have been telling me that this one is far easier than the adriamycin and cytoxan I took the first four treatments. And YAY: They appear to be right. But since this was a new type of drug, I was pumped full of an "extra large" dose of Benadryl to help prevent a really bad allergic reaction.
"How often do people have an allergic reaction to Taxol?" I asked Nurse Annie (she is my favorite).
"Oh. Not so often, really. But with the high volume of people we see, it still happens its fair share."
Well alrighty then. She had me sign the standard disclosure and started the Benadryl drip via my port.
What does Benadryl do to you, dear reader? Because this "extra large" dose put me in a bit of coma. It was actually lovely. I have been having difficulty sleeping between the hours of 1 and 4 a.m., and I could feel my body slurping up rest like a smooth chocolate milkshake. It felt divine.
A woman named Sharon moved into the recliner next to mine and began her chemo. I woke up once as she unplugged herself (meaning, the pump's electrical outlet on the floor so she could wheel her IV with her) and left her seat. I marveled at how smoothly she did that, wondering if that revealed someone who has been battling cancer for a good long while. I assumed she was going to the bathroom, and then went back to sleep.
I woke up to the nurses having a conference - my eyes were closed, but I could hear them panicking. It turns out Sharon didn't go the bathroom. Instead, she left the office and took a joyride down the 4th Floor hall to the American Cancer Society office. They apparently have a little shop down there with all sorts of free stuff for us cancer chicks and dudes. Wigs, scarves, quilts, pillows, pins, books.
"You can go down there," Sharon told me later, "and get whatever you want. Go have your husband get you one of these pillows. And a wig. You really should get yourself a wig. And get your kids some stuff, too, if you see something they might like. They're going through this, too."
The three nurses took turns giving Sharon a lecture about how she was never to do that again. She had placed herself in danger - she could have fallen. Or the IV pole pump could have tipped over. Looking at our insurance paperwork, my own treatments for the first four weeks were about $12,000 for the IV drips. So I'm sure the nurses also didn't want several thousand dollars in drugs getting soaked up in the carpet.
However, is it wrong for me to say that I rather admired Sharon? I would not do that kind of joyride myself - I am a huge klutz who is famous for my own Chevy Chase-like falls - but being chained to an IV for several hours is ... numbing. I am a Warp 9 kind of gal. After about 30 minutes, I am ready to be done already, thank you. I am ready to go to the bathroom without having to announce it or get help.
My hubby passed along his "EMBRACE THE SUCK / GOD HAS A PURPOSE" wristband to Sharon today. We got the "embrace" verbiage from a wristband that John was given at a Trooper training several weeks ago. We explained the meaning: We all go through sucky times, but boy, do they equip and teach us in ways that smooth-sailing periods do not.
Our own family has incredible peace knowing that God has a reason and a plan in all things. He tells us in the Bible to embrace these times of suffering because He has a purpose. Think the Apostle Paul. Moses. David. Jonah. Joseph. Peter. The blind man. The lepers. And of course: Jesus. Here are two Bible verses we have had on our hearts these last few months:
Romans 5:3-5
"Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us."
Romans 8:28
"And we now that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."
I'll grant you this, however. Embracing the suck is way easier when it's your own suffering. When it comes to imagining your child losing their hair for chemo treatments, or them getting the "pleasure" of mouth sores, rectal bleeding from hemorrhoids, cuts that won't stop bleeding, hands that crack from dryness, a mouth that feels like it is the Sahara Desert and on and on ... suddenly that purpose feels a lot more remote and far away. But our prayer is that God continues to allow us to experience His daily provision, and we thank Him - deeply - for others' prayers for our family and allowing us to lean on Him so heavily.
That's not a typo - I skipped over blogging about Chemo No. 4 in its entirety. Not only was it the worst one yet due to the onslaught of new side effects, but we were also going through our darkest days since this started because we learned that Kate could have cancer, too. The initial report is the the mass appears to be benign, but we are still waiting for the final report. I have called the surgeon's office twice and will try again on Monday.
So: Moving right along.
Today I started the first of 12 weekly treatments of Taxol. Most people have been telling me that this one is far easier than the adriamycin and cytoxan I took the first four treatments. And YAY: They appear to be right. But since this was a new type of drug, I was pumped full of an "extra large" dose of Benadryl to help prevent a really bad allergic reaction.
"How often do people have an allergic reaction to Taxol?" I asked Nurse Annie (she is my favorite).
"Oh. Not so often, really. But with the high volume of people we see, it still happens its fair share."
Well alrighty then. She had me sign the standard disclosure and started the Benadryl drip via my port.
What does Benadryl do to you, dear reader? Because this "extra large" dose put me in a bit of coma. It was actually lovely. I have been having difficulty sleeping between the hours of 1 and 4 a.m., and I could feel my body slurping up rest like a smooth chocolate milkshake. It felt divine.
A woman named Sharon moved into the recliner next to mine and began her chemo. I woke up once as she unplugged herself (meaning, the pump's electrical outlet on the floor so she could wheel her IV with her) and left her seat. I marveled at how smoothly she did that, wondering if that revealed someone who has been battling cancer for a good long while. I assumed she was going to the bathroom, and then went back to sleep.
I woke up to the nurses having a conference - my eyes were closed, but I could hear them panicking. It turns out Sharon didn't go the bathroom. Instead, she left the office and took a joyride down the 4th Floor hall to the American Cancer Society office. They apparently have a little shop down there with all sorts of free stuff for us cancer chicks and dudes. Wigs, scarves, quilts, pillows, pins, books.
"You can go down there," Sharon told me later, "and get whatever you want. Go have your husband get you one of these pillows. And a wig. You really should get yourself a wig. And get your kids some stuff, too, if you see something they might like. They're going through this, too."
The three nurses took turns giving Sharon a lecture about how she was never to do that again. She had placed herself in danger - she could have fallen. Or the IV pole pump could have tipped over. Looking at our insurance paperwork, my own treatments for the first four weeks were about $12,000 for the IV drips. So I'm sure the nurses also didn't want several thousand dollars in drugs getting soaked up in the carpet.
However, is it wrong for me to say that I rather admired Sharon? I would not do that kind of joyride myself - I am a huge klutz who is famous for my own Chevy Chase-like falls - but being chained to an IV for several hours is ... numbing. I am a Warp 9 kind of gal. After about 30 minutes, I am ready to be done already, thank you. I am ready to go to the bathroom without having to announce it or get help.
My hubby passed along his "EMBRACE THE SUCK / GOD HAS A PURPOSE" wristband to Sharon today. We got the "embrace" verbiage from a wristband that John was given at a Trooper training several weeks ago. We explained the meaning: We all go through sucky times, but boy, do they equip and teach us in ways that smooth-sailing periods do not.
Our own family has incredible peace knowing that God has a reason and a plan in all things. He tells us in the Bible to embrace these times of suffering because He has a purpose. Think the Apostle Paul. Moses. David. Jonah. Joseph. Peter. The blind man. The lepers. And of course: Jesus. Here are two Bible verses we have had on our hearts these last few months:
Romans 5:3-5
"Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us."
Romans 8:28
"And we now that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."
I'll grant you this, however. Embracing the suck is way easier when it's your own suffering. When it comes to imagining your child losing their hair for chemo treatments, or them getting the "pleasure" of mouth sores, rectal bleeding from hemorrhoids, cuts that won't stop bleeding, hands that crack from dryness, a mouth that feels like it is the Sahara Desert and on and on ... suddenly that purpose feels a lot more remote and far away. But our prayer is that God continues to allow us to experience His daily provision, and we thank Him - deeply - for others' prayers for our family and allowing us to lean on Him so heavily.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Benign is beautiful
Kate went through surgery yesterday and the pediatric surgeon opted to remove the whole mass. Initial test results indicate it's benign (thank you, Lord Jesus!!!) The doc said we will likely be getting the final results on Tuesday.
When we got this news, we were overjoyed - I felt like falling face down on the carpet and thanking God for this Moses style. I looked and John after the surgeon left us alone and said, "This is great - what are you thinking?" His face was unreadable. "I'm still scared," he admitted. We are very excited for Tuesday to get here already.
When we got this news, we were overjoyed - I felt like falling face down on the carpet and thanking God for this Moses style. I looked and John after the surgeon left us alone and said, "This is great - what are you thinking?" His face was unreadable. "I'm still scared," he admitted. We are very excited for Tuesday to get here already.
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