Not So Easy Peasy

Apparently Day 8 came out from behind the bush swinging a 2x4 right into the middle of my head, back, legs and every bone I have.

Despite a fairly good morning…  Wait.  That’s not so right.  Woke up at 3:00 am and couldn’t go back to sleep.

Despite a nice drive in to the doctors…  Wait.  That’s not right.  It was 6:30 am on the way to Kirkland in rush hour traffic.

Despite my lower blood pressure…  Wait.  That’s not right.  I’m not even telling my numbers (I used to have great numbers, people, so great).

Despite the lidocaned port poke for the blood draw and subsequent pain free flush…  Wait.  That’s not right.  It burned and I announced it.  Luckily.  Apparently you can miss when you aim the needle at the port.  Slid right off the side and that wasn’t bright red blood coming out.

Round Two.  Second poke.  You know, when they put the orange IV thingy in, they have to really shove that bad boy in.  Something about the “run flat” kind of rubber that the needle goes into.  Not painful, but oddly, well, odd.  And you sit there in your unhappy place wondering when it’s going to hurt. 

Which makes your blood pressure go up.

We got the blood draw, ducked the hydration infusion, got good white blood count numbers (1500, yeah!), talked (A LOT) about my back and face rash and my swollen tongue.  That one has us going in circles.  Drink burning hot coffee or tea, suck on a box of cardboard and then go talk at an assembly.  THAT’S what that’s like.  So far only salt water has made it feel better temporarily.  There’s also a mouth wash I can use.  So, another prescription. 

Off to the Granix/Grouchy shot in infusion.  Poke.  Burn.  Can we please be done with these?

Ten minutes to make it to the follow up surgeon.  Port scars and node scars look good.  Range of motion is good (so I wasn’t supposed to do yoga four days after the surgery?  Hmm, well.), but “here’s a physical therapist to see two days a week for six weeks.”

Because I love it when cancer is the center of my life.  /sarcasm

Then off to school knowing that at 4:00 I will be horizontal on the couch.

And I was until 5:50.

When I went into back labor.  Seriously.  Forgot about that from 19 years ago, but it’s exactly what it felt like.  I could NOT get comfortable.  Bone aches, muscle aches.  Which brought on nausea.  And anxiety.  And exhaustion but can’t fall asleep.  And anything else mixed into this chemo reaction cocktail we’ve got going.  Topped with an olive.

I told Jeff at one point that apparently Day 8 is going to be my worst day.  I think it shocked the crap out of us because we both thought I was doing so well and this is handle-able.  Not cake, but not utter misery.  Day 8 proved I’m not in charge.  This cancer you’re-not-in-charge attitude really has GOT to change.  On cancer’s end.  Because.  Well, because I’m the leader…

Somehow, with the advent of sleepytime tea and utter exhaustion, I finally fell asleep thinking if this is Chemo, we can just be done.

I got a good seven hours sleep so we shall see how this day goes.  I know it’s because I got all braggy and was announcing (oddly enough, with glee) that I would be able to make it to work the rest of this week and all next week.  Got 2x4’d in the middle of my back.

I’m sure there’s a prescription for it.  

The New Communion

When you want to do communion, and your immune system is compromised from chemotherapy, and you don't even want to THINK about all the germy hands grabbing crackers and juice, you improvise and bring your own communion to church.

(And you may or may not have yelled at your husband for even THINKING of touching the

communion offerings and throw him his own cracker.)

On that note, tomorrow I'm slated to head back to work - at school - with children - the whole school-full.  Here's my theory:  I've walked into a hospital building four out of six days this week already, two more in the next two days.  There's no germs there? 

Yeah.  That. 

But just like church and the don't-hug-me, fist-bump-me I'm going to be a tad smart about it.

Another day closer to DayDone!

One Moment In Time

Not a Day. Not even an hour.  Just that one moment that I happen to be in right that second. 

THAT’S how we’re doing chemo.  I get texts “how you doing?”  And it changes by the minute so bear with me.

Friday 8:00 am: “Great, just unloaded the dishwasher and started a load of laundry.”

Friday 8:13 am: “Where’s the Zofran, pretty sure I’m gonna hurl.”

Friday 8:19 am: “Where are the Doritos?”

Friday 8:25 am: “I need a nap because my nose is so dry it’s going to start bleeding.”

And I woke up at 5:00 am, People!  It’s like this all the live-long day.

In the moment.  Right this very second, sitting on the couch, awake from an hour nap, Granix shot #2 under the belt (actually in the fat fold of my gut – I knew it was useful for something), drinking tea, you would never know I had chemo five days ago.

This can be hard on other people because one minute I’m spunky, normal and the next I’m limping from bone pain, clutching my stomach and heading for a pill bottle (STOP putting beef/tomato based recipe photos on my facebook feed!).  But it’s the way it’s gonna go and sorry in advance.  I think my pat answer, when people ask me how I’m doing, is my grandpa’s non-committal answer; “I’m doin’.”  Which means I’m great/crappy/sick/tired/here right then, but it might not stay that way.

The new me is not going to worry about what happens five minutes from now.  I’m just going to ride this good feeling I’ve got going right now. 

And vacuum.  It’s driving me nuts.

Because I might be flat on the couch in ten minutes.

Day 4 After First Chemo - Not A Fan

Yeah, not a fan of this chemo business.  I was doing as great as great could be until the Granix shot this morning.  This is the shot that ups my white blood cells because the chemo was kind enough to knock the tar out of ALL of it. 

Granix side effects are bone pain.  Like, mind numbing flu-like bone pain.  For as long as you get the shots.  Which could be up to ten days PER TREATMENT. 

I took my Claritin AFTER I felt the hip pain.  Not real helpful. 

Day 3 After First Chemo

So far so good.  The bottom hasn’t fallen out as much as I thought it might (all the anti nausea meds will not wear off until Friday morning).  I did wake up at 4:00 am after another great night’s sleep – and then promptly drank some sleepy time tea to get another couple hours.  Should have just gotten up and taken a nap later because I woke up groggy at 8:00.  When it hadn’t wore off after a three hour nap (that I took anyway) and gallons of water, I realized this was the fatigue the comes from the chemo.

In other words the steroid high is over. 

Day After Chemo One

"When is the bottom going to fall out?"

This was the question I asked the oncology nurse who called me at noon today to see how I was doing after my First Chemo Treatment.  She paused before she asked “Did they give you steroids?”

“I dunno but I feel better today and slept better than I have since December 3^rd.”

Pause.  “Well IF it’s going to fall out, it will be in the next 24 hours or so.  Were you given anti nausea meds?”

Me, “So it still might fall out?”

Alien Invasion- The Chemo Port

I had the port o cath inserted on January 17th at the same time as the node biopsy.  Which means it has been five days living with this thing in my chest.  Seriously, it feels like an alien invasion.  

Okay, I got asked this a lot today; what’s it like?

Here’s the answer (besides the snarky "I've been invaded!"). 

Lockdown, Run Around and Sharp Pointy Objects

Let’s see if we can put yesterday in a box (and then ship it far, far away).  Buckle down with some coffee or wine cuz it’s a doozie.

5:00 am wake up.  Did I mention I wasn’t allowed to eat?  Not sure if I left that out or not.

6:00 am leave home

7:20 am Arrive at Tan 340 for my ECHO at 7:45 – It’s not on their schedule.  Nowhere.  I had an ECHO scheduled for Monday at 2:00 in which I was a no show.  No knowledge of this appointment.

7:30 am banging on the door of scheduling in Tan 320

Tomorrow, Tomorrow...

Let's get you overwith...

Tomorrowwwwww.

From the Nurse Navigator who put this whole kit and kabootle together, getting it all done in one miserable day instead of three miserable ones.

Wednesday 1/17/18 Schedule

0745 – check in for ECHO at Tan Building

0845 – Labs, Blood draws for margins (I don't know what I'm saying, but I fake it well, eh?)

0945 – check in at Breast Center

1000 – breast center staff will escort you to Nuclear Med (1^st floor) for sentinel node injection and imaging (golly this sounds fun.  Nope, wanna throw up when they talk about how/where they inject the radioactive dye.  I walk around while this stuff "does it's job".)

1100 – nuclear med staff will escort you Pre-Surgery unit (3^rd floor)

1230 - Surgery - Left sentinel node biopsy and port a cath placement.

Keep in mind that I have to STOP EATING at midnight tonight.  I've already called and begged the surgeon if I can just cheat sometime around 3 am or 5 am or so because the surgery is mid day.

She told me no.  I don't like her.

But I pee blue for 24 hours.  Like it was some sort of consolation prize.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, at this time I'll be medicated,
I love you tomorrow
You're only a day aaaawwwaaayyy...

Prayers Work!

Well, durr, stating the obvious (but you clicked on it 😇 ) .  I got the results this afternoon from the MRI Biopsy which looked at the cancer’s “tail.”

BENIGN.  

I never thought THAT word would have such an impact.  “Free Cheetos”, “Open Bar” yeah; those are words I thought I’d quiver over.  But benign?  My new favorite word.

Something about "fibroidicuoslyetmycopsis".  That's not a word - don't look it up - but it sounded like that to me when the only thing I concentrated on were the words "It’s not cancer, it has no cancer, and it is benign."

Here's why I am so jacked up about this announcement (other than the fact it isn’t cancer).  It means that little shit is still in one spot.  It means the difference between a lumpectomy and mastectomy (I can go for the lumpectomy which is my plan).  It could have meant I only needed Chemo Light which is a lesser dose of Chemo.  The only problem with Chemo Light is one of the targeted drugs probably wouldn’t be used.  I want all that targeted ammo I can get.  So I’m sticking with the TCHP starting January 23^rd.

Thank you to everyone who is on this train wreck with me and who is praying over every aspect it encompasses.

And now that I've mentioned Cheetos...  I'm hungry.

That Was Anti Climatic - The MRI Biopsy

I’m still hopped up on Happy Hour so let’s see how THIS goes.  (All my teacher friends just put your red pens away because spelling/grammar/and all that other stuff we teach those kids will not be applied in this session)

I get to MRI biopsy waiting room with Happy Hour (Valium, for those with the same attention span as me) in my purse, awaiting the trip down my throat.  I was told not to take them yet.

Go to the front desk, “Name and Birthdate.”  (I think she said good morning too, but this sounds better)

“Blah Blah, *NotTelling*” (it’s the password into every hospital door and you’re not supposed to tell your password).  “Can I take my pill?”

“Well, let me call them.”  Blah Blah Blah into the phone.  “They will call me when you can take it.  Have a seat.”

Seated.  Three minutes later, back to the front desk, “Did they call?  Now?”

Stink Eye.

Buckin' The Hair Loss Rule

While meeting with the pharmacy oncologist, while mentioning one of the "cocktail" ingredients and their side effects, she asks me if I've thought of the Paxman Cold Cap.  Well, sure I've looked into, you crazy?  Basically it's a freezer for your head you wear during chemo to freeze your hair follicles SO YOUR HAIR DOESN'T FALL OUT!

"Does it work?”  I ask, skeptically.

The "cold" part.  There's fluid in there that freezes.

"Yup," my new best friend says (notably, she was replaced as best friend status by doctor who didn't enter the room with a biopsy needle two hours later, but I still call her friend.  I'm sure she'll go up the ladder rung once I forget about No Needle Doctor and I still have hair on my head in March).

No Needles!!!!

After an incredibly stressful couple days with the upcoming Chemo Teach and Ultrasound/Biopsy(s) on Wednesday, the day FINALLY showed up. With an emotional meltdown on a pretty high level, but I got in the car anyway.

The Chemo Teach at 10:00 went fine. Megen, the oncology pharmacist, who will be making my life miserable with meds, but making the cancer GO AWAY, took two plus hours out of her day to explain how and why she was going to make me nauseous and fatigued, giving me tissues and holding my crying self again and again. Eventually I got over myself and she answered every single question we had and many we didn't know we had. Sounds like this little body that doesn't put so much as red food coloring in it is going to get DOSED.

Appointments For Everyone!

This is just to prove my point about all this testing business and gripe about their strategy. This is the next two weeks of my life:

Wednesday - ultrasound and, most likely because why not, aspiration/biopsy on second mass.

Friday - MRI Biopsy (and valium trip) for the second tumor that was found in previous MRI.

Wednesday - Node surgery and port placement.

Tuesday - Chemo starts (what? we're treating the cancer?) TCH+P in case you feel the burning desire to see all the fun that entails.

Something on my schedule is written for the 30th - not a clue what that one is for. I'm sure it will be fun /sarcasm.

And... They FINALLY did a blood draw to see if the cancer has spread anywhere else. Why do I anticipate a full body scan in the mist of all this?

Just for fun.

I think the fun has been sucked out of me. Please pray for an attitude adjustment for me. I'm getting a little weary of myself.

Changes Are Good - Ditching A Doctor

I'm not one who is good with change.  Keep it the same and I'll be a happy camper.  My box; I like my box.

Until I met the first medical oncologist.

Then I decided to smash my box.

The medical industry is kind of a "we know what's best despite the fact that it's your body.”  I get it.  You carved up cadavers and know all the organs, tissues, veins, blubber, whatnot.  You did lots of math and chemistry stuff.

But you don't know ME.

You know my cancer.  You know what the books say and the research says and previous patient history, but you don't know ME.

"Let's Get You Cured"

“Let’s Get You Cured”

Those were the words of the surgeon we met with on January 2nd.

Scheduled that visit were two more biopsies (can you not just biopsy once, suck the whole tumor out and we call it good?).  There were two additional masses found in the MRI Friday the 15th.  This is the finding where they wanted the MRI Biopsy and I hung up on them (not childish or anything - I did call back).  I figured they were going to operate, why not just get that stuff too (my own medical lingo).

The MRI biopsy FREAKS ME OUT.  Lay on a table, perfectly still while they stab you with a needle in your hanging down, exposed breast.  While being perfectly still.  Thanks but no thanks.

Well, that appointment happens Friday the 12th despite my temper tantrum(s).  Once someone mentioned valium I started to board the ship.  Then they said the results would be the difference between mastectomy and lumpectomy.  Fine, get me a life vest and find the ship keys.

Because they are appointment-happy, I also have a separate ultrasound/aspiration (it's a biopsy, people, no matter what you call it) on Wednesday the 10th.  If the ultrasound shows only cysts, they might not need to aspirate.  Which means they will still aspirate.  Why not?  Keep in mind I have already had this breast ultrasounded, but "we weren't looking for anything in this area?"

People.