in translation

The cancer centre has implemented something new. When patients check in for treatment, we're asked to fill out a questionnaire related to our well-being (it has some acronym but I can't remember it). We're given the option of filling it in on a central computer but I'm really squeamish about germy public terminals. I always ask to fill the thing in manually (furthering my feeling that I am more of a Luddite than some of my seniors).

Filling out the form involves reading statements such as "I am in pain" and then circling a number between 1 (no pain) and 7 (excruciating pain - or something like that). Most of my numbers were very low except for the ones about my emotional well being and sleep habits. My answers resulted in the following conversation with the well-meaning nurse who checked me in for treatment:

Nurse: 

"You're depressed. Why?"

Me: 

"I'm just a little blue. Five years of doing this is a long time." (Translation: "I'm pissed off and fed up and I have survivors' guilt.") 

"I'm seeing someone at the psychosocial oncology centre." (Translation: "I don't want to talk about it with you, in front of the all the strangers in the room"). 

"The crisis is over and now it's all hitting me." (Translation: "I think I have PTSD. Did I mention that I'm pissed off and fed up?")

Next time, I'm stuffing the damn form into the bottom of my purse.

what if nothing changes?

Today is a treatment day.

For the first time ever, I will have Herceptin on its own (if you don't count the Demerol and Gravol I get to keep the shakes and fevers at bay).

Some people have almost no side effects with Herceptin. Some feel like they have the flu.

Will the fact that my body has such a strong response to Herceptin mean that I feel more of its side effects?

The break from chemotherapy is meant to help me heal and rebuild - physically and emotionally.

The break from chemo is also a risk.

Here's hoping it all works out for the best.

well, hello there

Yikes!

It's been a while, hasn't it?

I seem to have lost my blogging mojo. I remember a while back when Average Jane wrote that her blogging had been derailed (my word, not hers) by Twitter and Facebook. I get that now.

Whenever I have a quick observation or a link to share, I can gratify myself instantly with Twitter (I'm lauriek, by the way). And while each tweet does go to Facebook and the sidebar of Not Just About Cancer (on the right - see it there?), it hasn't done much for my blogging.

I don't want to give up the blog though, so I'll try and re-commit to posting regularly (how's that for hedging my bets?).

On the cancer front, there is a little news. I loved having a break in April. That month also brought another clean CT scan. My oncologist continues to be happy with how things are going (or not going, really).

We talked a bit more with about the weirdness of being in ongoing treatment (with side effects that are cumulative, both physically and emotionally). He talked frankly (one of the things that I love about him) about how, in my case, he really has no idea what to do.

We don't know what would happen if I were to take a longer break from treatment or stop it altogether.

"You're a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma," he said, quoting Churchill.

He said that, theoretically, we could start our own clinical trial, where half the women stop treatment for three months and half continue as I've been doing.

"But then what do you say to the women in the first group, if the cancer comes back? 'Oops?' 'Im sorry?' " (I'm convinced that the man lies awake at night wondering about these things. His compassion is another thing I love about him).

He has a way of putting things into perspective for me.

I had planned on asking for another break in six months but he surprised me by suggesting I take a break in August (hooray!)

He also said that, some time in the future, he's not sure exactly when, he's going to feel ready for me to take a longer break. Meanwhile, I'll have fewer appointments with him and, unless I'm worried about something, I can call them in (another hooray!).

I am very pleased about all of this but I admit to also feeling a little blue. I'm still dealing with some of the "grey area" fallout. It's really hard to articulate (and I feel guilty for even complaining. Guilt would be a good subject for a whole other post).

Life is a funny thing. And it's really hard to plan even five years ahead, because you never know what's going to happen. I'm trying right now to return my focus to living in the moment, accepting what is and reminding myself to notice the good things.

really random news

1. According to an article in the Globe andMail, women and men respond very differently when they are on the recieving end of an apology:

“Women who are starved of an apology for rude or hurtful behaviour suffer an increase in blood pressure which can raise the risk of a heart attack or stroke, a study found,” The Daily Telegraph reports. “But those who hear a well-timed ‘sorry’ calm down more quickly, with their blood pressure returning to normal 20 per cent faster, the research showed. Conversely, a man’s blood pressure takes 20 per cent longer to recover after an apology – suggesting men become more worked up after hearing an admission of guilt.”

2. My sister sent me an article from the CBC web site this morning, about a colossal cookbook typo with the subject line "Oops." I've made some pretty big errors by not proofreading properly but this tops it all.

3. My friend, O. posted a story to Facebook today, with the headline "Woman with parrot perched on face arrested after throwing inhaler." Note to self: Don't throw an inhaler while a parrot is standing on your face. You will be arrested.

4. I'm still waiting for my CT scan results, which could be why I'm letting myself be distracted by all this silliness.

pictures big and little

I woke up yesterday morning with a sore throat and a headache.

Here we go again. Having a compromised immune system is no picnic. In the last year, I missed my Toronto book launch because of the flu, got H1N1 on the day the vaccine became available, was hit by Norwalk virus when my spouse was away (and found myself crawling along my kitchen floor with a can opener to "make dinner", got pink eye and more little flus and colds than I want to count.

Chemotherapy destroys cancer cells. It also destroys the cells that fight illness. Despite the fact that I try to limit my exposure to germs, wash my hands regularly, get enough sleep and eat well (not to mention the ten doses of Neupogen with which I inject myself after every treatment), I seem to fall prey to almost every little bug that passes my way (and when you have kids, lots of little bugs pass your way).

I am, literally, sick of it (I've also had benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. That had nothing to do with my immune system and was mostly just an annoyance. And when I realized that I did not have a brain tumour, I was actually kind of amused in a "of course this would happen to me at this point in my life" sort of way. Also, my golden, Emma, had a couple of bouts with geriatric vestibular disease, which I think is basically the same thing).

I need a break from chemo and I'm taking the month of April off. On the day when I would normally be at the cancer centre, I will be travelling home on the train from Toronto with D. (we will have been visiting grandparents, hanging out at the Bat Cave at the Royal Ontario Museum and the Harry Potter Exhibit at the Science Centre).

I'm not losing sight of the bigger picture, though. I have a CT scan today (abdominal and thoracic) and I am worrying about it. 

Because I always do. 

I'm fretting about my veins and how many times (and where) they'll have to poke me before they can inject the contrast but I'm also anxious about what the pictures will show.

Hopefully, everything will look normal and healthy, except for the scars that cover my liver. Hopefully, I can add this to my least of clean scans. And, hopefully, I can keep going through this routine, with the same results for years to come.

I haven't started to take the clean scans for granted. I doubt that I ever will.

perspective in grey

On June 30th it will be three years since my first clean scan, after the cancer had spread to my liver.

For almost three years, I have had no evidence of disease (been NED, in cancer lingo).

And yet I remain in treatment.

I am asked frequently why I continue to receive chemotherapy and Herceptin, if there is no sign of cancer in my body. And the truth is that I often ask myself the same question. Certainly, I don't feel like I have cancer. And I do feel that the cumulative effects - both physical and emotional of ongoing treatment are wearing me down.

I am stuck in cancer's grey area.

My oncologist said to me last summer, "For all we know, you could be cured."

We just don't know enough.

Another oncologist I spoke to, hinted that some would take me out of treatment at this point. A third suggested that some doctors might take me off the chemotherapy and leave me on the Herceptin.

But they all agree that we just don't know enough to make any decision based on certainty. There are just too few women in my situation, younger women who have been diagnosed with metastatic breast and responded so well to treatment, to know what to do with us in the long term.

There are more of us every year, though.

In ten years' time, there will almost certainly be more answers.

And when I get too frustrated, I remind myself that if I had been diagnosed ten years earlier, I would almost certainly be dead.

So, for now, I'll take the grey.

soup and the missing muse

I made three soups in January.

Red lentil and carrot from Cooking with Foods That Fight Cancer

Broccoli cheddar from Looneyspoons: Low-fat food made fun!

Jambalaya from Weight Watchers (heavily modified: I substituted white fish for shrimp, used more liquid and had sausage on the side, so folks could choose their level of spiciness. And I didn't use chicken. And I used different spices. This for me, was a wildly adventurous departure).

If I don't run out of time today, I plan on making a pre-chemo Sweet potato and roasted garlic soup from the The Eat-Clean Diet Cookbook: Great-Tasting Recipes That Keep You Lean!
A friend gave this one to me. I recall it being time consuming but delicious..

I have had a post on the tip of my fingers about my current highly ambivalent feelings about my life, identity and treatment but I can't seem to bring myself to write it.

In fact, I can't seem to bring myself to write much these days.

Maybe, later this week, as I recover from chemo.

Tomorrow is Groundhog Day. And the four year anniversary of my mastectomy.

aware of the irony

Life is funny.

This morning was perfect weather for a bike ride. The sun was out and the temperature climbed to 17C (that's 62.6 in American). It was my first time on the bike in more than a week - since before the plague toppled my family, like a series of dominoes.

It was a fun ride, and I didn't even mind the big hill I have to climb on my way to the hospital. I arrived twenty minutes after I set out, a little sweaty and with my heart pumping. As I locked up and headed into the cancer centre, I noted with pleasure that I hadn't been coughing.

"It feels good to be healthy."

I very nearly said it out loud.

I was suddenly struck by the absurdity of my situation. Here I was, going to get my bloodwork done the day before chemo and thinking about how healthy I am.

Three years ago, at almost exactly this time of year, I learned that my cancer had become metastatic. I don't think I could have imagined this day, when I'd be riding my bike up Smythe Rd. and thinking about how healthy I am.

So, as I was saying at the beginning of this post - life really is pretty funny.

Cross-posted to Mothers With Cancer.

you can't always get it

Mixed results from my appointment with my oncologist yesterday.

First of all, I was late. As I was riding to the hospital, I noticed that it was getting harder and harder to pedal. When it actually became impossible, I got off the bike and checked. My front brake was squeezing the front wheel. Hard. I think I had been riding like this for some time - and tightening every time I braked. I just thought I was tired and out of biking shape. I solved the problem by releasing the front brake entirely (I'm sure that's not the safest thing). This meant that when I hit the big hill before the hospital, I was already wiped out from pedalling with all that friction.

I arrived at the cancer centre twenty minutes late and a hot, red, sweaty mess.

When I finally saw my doc, he easily agreed to a break in July (which is a good thing because I have non-refundable air tickets and a pre-paid hotel for BlogHer). That went so well that I (without making eye contact) asked for August off as well.

The answer was an unequivocal "No."

I didn't argue with him and I listened patiently as he reminded me that I need to think in terms of a chronic illness that we need to keep treating. I can't really take a (longer) break because we need to keep managing the illness.

I told him that I understood. That I know that the treatment I am on is our first line of defence and that the longer I stay on it, the more chance there is for the second, third, fourth and fifth lines of defence to be developed and improved.

He said, "Well, that makes me feel better. When I saw the note in your chart [that I wanted to ask for two months off], I got a little worried."

I reassured him that I am not planning to bail on treatment, I'm just feeling ground down and fed up.

Dr. G. also reminded me that, "Although, it's great that you have remained with no evidence of disease for so long, there is likely cancer somewhere in your body. Statistically, there is something there." But then he added, "But we don't know enough about Herceptin in the long term. Maybe you're cured. We just can't know."

"Cured." Nice word, that.

And I get it. I really do. And I know that while I was incredibly unlucky to end up with metastatic breast cancer (especially in the liver), I have been fabulously, gloriously fortunate to end up in remission. I know so many other wonderful women (Jeanne and Rebecca, for example) who have had to move to regimens that are harder to tolerate.

I can accept the fact that I will be in treatment for the rest of my life, with only very short and very occasional breaks. I can even make the best of it. And I can feel pretty positive most of the time. I think I am also allowed to get pissed off every once in a while.

On another note, my spouse wants you all to know that the Xmas tree in my back yard is "next winter's firewood." It hasn't been chopped, though. Maybe we are going to have a bonfire in my living room.

what if?

"We have all the tools to eliminate mortality from Her2 positive breast cancers in the next 10 years."

-Dr. Eric Winer, Director, Breast Oncology Centre, Dana-Farber Cancer Institute (February 28, 2009, 9th Annual Conference For Young Women Affected By Breast Cancer).

Her2 is a protein. And it fuels cancer cells. Her2+ breast cancers are always very aggressive and, had I been diagnosed before Herceptin was widely available, I am sure that I would not be alive today. Now, a whole host of new drugs are being developed to attack this breast cancer that affects primarily younger women.

Dr. Winer's words are among the most hopeful that I have heard in a long time.

And then today, I heard a story on the CBC about a man who is being forced to choose between taking an oral chemotherapy drug for his brain cancer or feeding his kids. It's heart-breaking.

And, I can't help but wonder, what if, when the Herceptin stops working, neither my government or my insurance company will pay for the next course of treatment? What happens then?

Dr. Winer also noted that 30-40% of all women with breast cancer metastases will eventually have the cancer spread to the brain. He told us that Herceptin doesn't pass through the brain and suggested that all women with metastatic her2 positive breast cancers have brain scans done every 6 to 12 months. Guess what I am going to be talking to my oncologist about during my next appointment? (Although, vinorelbine, the chemo drug I'm taking is sometimes used to treat brain mets. That's reassuring).

I hope this is making at least a little bit of sense. I have a raging head cold and am feeling pretty muddled. My spouse was laughing at me this evening, reminding me that I am always very stoic about the big things (like, say, having a liver the size of a watermelon) but a garden variety head cold turns me into a whimpering puddle of goo.

I guess I am reminded that, generally speaking, I am very healthy these days. And that, in itself, is very hopeful.

This brings me to my second favourite quote from the conference:

"The best predictor of doing well is doing well."

-Dr. Winer.

Cross-posted to Mothers With Cancer.

words to live by in 2009

We spent New Year's Eve with a family we have known for a long time. It was low- key and great fun. We set up a projector and a screen and watched Mamma Mia (I LOVED it!) and The Blues Brothers (which I am embarrassed to say I had never seen). We turned it all off at just before midnight to do the countdown, wish each other 'Happy New Year' and break out the champagne. It was just exactly what I wanted to be doing.

Someone asked about New Year's Resolutions. I wasn't really paying attention until my friends' son, R., looked me right in the eyes and said, "What about you, Laurie?"

Without thinking, I answered,

"Treat my body as well as I've been treating my mind."

It was a revelation.

As some of you may have noticed, my updates on my Resolutions for 2008 kind of fell by the wayside after a few months. I still think that making SMART (specific, measurable, attainable, realistic and timely) goals makes a lot of sense (whether you set them at New Year's or not). And in some areas I did extremely well (I have already written about how proud I am of the writing I did this year) and in others...not so much (I didn't as much as re-organize one closet under the "getting organized" category).

I was the most uneven when it came to taking care of my health, especially as I became absorbed in other pursuits.

For a while, I was running but then I injured myself. I kept walking but at a pretty leisurely pace and spent a fair bit of time standing around in the dog park. By the end of the year, I had abandoned yoga, stretching of any kind and even token attempts at strengthening my abs.

I started cooking more regularly (I am very proud of this) but stopped ensuring that I ate enough vegetables.

I indulged way too much in the things that aren't good for me (hello sugar, fat and wine) and stopped doing the little things to enhance my diet (no more flax seed, berries or green tea).

It is time to start taking care of this precious body again. And while I am fortunate to have remained in remission for more than a year, it's time to do what I can to bolster my health.

The mind and the body can't really be separated. If I treat myself well physically, then my mind and soul will thrive.

My SMART goals for January when it comes to my health:

1-Walk VIGOROUSLY for an average of one hour, five times per week. I've been working hard at this and was surprised to realize how much fitness I've lost. And walking in the snow at a good clip? Every bit as good a workout as running.

2-Eat seven servings of fruit and veggies a day. This is so hard. But I'm working on it.

3-Cook dinner at least once a week. Missed last week but made an elaborate, time-consuming vegetarian meal last night that was basically a flop. It still counts, though.

I'll keep you posted as to how it goes.

What are you doing to improve your health in 2009?

shifting prioirities

I have a new post up at MyBreastCancerNetwork.Com. It will also be my last for a while:

I am very grateful for the opportunities I have had here at MyBreastCancerNetwork.Com to further extend my reach, to share my stories and reassure so many women that a diagnosis of metastasis is not without hope. For so many of us, metastatic breast cancer is treated like a chronic illness, one that must be managed but through which we can live active, healthy lives.

However, as I have written before, when metastatic breast cancer is well managed, the stories one tells can start to be repetitive and even boring (Another clean scan! No new signs of cancer! Today, I felt like a normal person!). And while I vigorously embrace the lack of drama in this part of my life, I also find myself lacking in inspiration.

As I have said often to friends in the last few weeks, blogging about my life with metastasis means to be constantly tapping the same vein. I am feeling a bit drained (I also just finished the final edits on my book, “I’m Not Done Yet,” which is being published by Women’s Press and due out in the spring of 2009, and that has no doubt contributed to my ‘cancer fatigue’).

It’s time to spend more time writing about other parts of my life (my blog is called Not Just About Cancer for a reason) and even to play at making stuff up, along with other creative pursuits. I have a puppy that needs training. And I need to spend more time on the activities that nurture my body, as well as my mind.

After I wrote this post, I had my spouse proof read it (he proofs almost everything I write before it goes online). He said that it was fine. Except that I mention the puppy and not my spouse or kids.

He said (while laughing at me), "It's like saying, 'I'm retiring to spend more time with my dog.'

I chose not to change that line. In my defense, I have have not been neglecting the needs of my family to write for MyBreastCancerNetwork.Com. I did, however, have to remove the puppy from the dining room table, as I wrote yesterday's post. I clearly need to invest more time in training.

You can read the rest of my "goodbye for now" post here.



An example of the 'other creative pursuits' in which I wish to engage. Taken at the a family Bar Mitzvah this past week end (photo: A. Wayne).

Cross-posted to Mothers With Cancer.

nothing new going on here

Just got my CT results from a very up-beat sounding nurse.

No change.

I have not begun to appreciate how relieved I am.

Updated: I have a new post, The Metastatic Cancer Patient's Guide to the CT Scan in 16 Easy Steps up at MyBreastCancerNetwork.Com.

fixing insomnia

I have been suffering from insomnia of late.

I have no trouble falling asleep but I wake up, at least once, and have trouble falling back asleep.

And then, during the day, I am having real trouble focusing. I have a list of writing I need to get done but the last two hours have been frittered away doing who knows what.

I think that I am doing all the right things to encourage a good night's sleep but I think I'm a little stressed. Perhaps I will sleep better once my latest blook deadline is past (next Monday) and I have another CT under my belt.

Sigh.

Perhaps I should have this guy come over to my house and sing me to sleep?

amazing encounters (part 1)

I met Grover! Sesame Street had a suite at the hotel that was hosting the BlogHer conference. They were promoting their new web site, which my son loves. The real Grover and the real Abby (she came after my Sesame Street time but she's really nice) were present and anyone who signed up could take home a DVD of herself on Sesame Street!

The atmosphere in the room was absolutely giddy. And I lost count of the number of moms who laughed as they insisted, "I'm telling them that I'm doing this for my kids."

Which is exactly why I did it. I swear.

I have to say that I am struck by this photo. Can you tell how happy I was right at that moment? Seriously, meeting Grover turned me into a giggling groupie.

I need to tell you all about two other amazing folks I met when I was in San Francisco. And neither had anything to do with blogging or the conference.

I arrived in SF on Wednesday evening. I didn't have my first meeting (an orientation for BlogHer speakers) until 3pm on Thursday, so I spent the earlier part of that day playing tourist.

On my walk back from North Beach to the hotel, my eye was caught by a store with some funky looking clothes and purses in the window. I am really not much of a shopper but there was something about this place that just spoke to me. Inside, I met Megan the designer, who was working away at her table as I browsed.

I tried on a gorgeous jacket (which looked great on me. The online photo doesn't do it justice. And the in store price was cheaper, too) and decided to justify it as a birthday present to myself (August 4th is not that far away...).

Martha and I chatted away as I browsed. Now, I have no idea how this came up but at some point she mentioned menopause. I told her that I had gone through menopause at 38, due to chemotherapy (not the kind of thing I generally tell a complete stranger).

Then Martha told me that she has had Stage 4 thyroid cancer that she has been living and working with for many years (I not absolutely certain about the thyroid or the number of years. I was just so stunned by this revelation).

I told her that I am Stage 4, too.

We hugged. And we looked at each other, a little in awe.

You wouldn't guess that either of us had cancer. We both look pretty damn healthy. Better than healthy.

I floated out of the store, so buoyed was I from this encounter.

And I will always think of Martha, hope and inspiration when I wear my beautiful jacket.

I'll tell you about another amazing encounter tomorrow.

my little leap of faith

Meet Lucy (she's the furrier one, on the right).

She's a Tibetan Terrier and she has just joined my family.

TTs can live for as long as seventeen years.

How ambitious am I?

We really wanted to get a dog from a shelter or a rescue organization (J-Dog is a rescue and possibly the best dog in the history of dog-dom). But we needed a dog that is healthy, good with kids, other dogs and cats (we almost adopted a wheaten terrier from a rescue group during winter but when the dog met a cat, he tried to eat it. Literally).

And hypoallergenic (D. is mildly allergic to both dogs and cats and we couldn't in good conscious bring another dog into the house who would irritate his allergies).

We also needed a dog who would happily come on long walks or runs with me when I am well and take it easier on the weeks I have treatment. After a year of cruising the internet and working the phones (I reached out to rescue groups across Canada and into the US), I reluctantly admitted defeat.

So we chose a dog from a very responsible breeder and a relatively rare breed with few genetic health problems.

And she's really sweet and cute, too.

I am almost as exhausted as right after my kids were born.

And very nearly as blissed out.

And, for the record, if something does happen and I am unable to take care of this sweet puppy (who we are all working very hard to train), T. and the boys will take good care of her. And of J-Dog. And even of our belligerent cat.

Because when this family adopts an animal, it's for life.

i am spectacular

The results are in:

My liver functions are normal. The condition of my liver has improved. There is no evidence at all of metastasis (no sign that I have cancer at all, in fact).

Why am I so surprised by this? I have had a dull ache (sometimes a sharper pain) in the area of my liver for the last couple of weeks. It's exactly where the stitch started last year, the stitch that led to the discovery that my cancer had spread. I have had moments of pure unadulterated terror, when I have thought of what it could mean.

It turns out that the pain, which I had been hoping was in my head (but knew in my heart to be real) is due to scarring. You know how scar tissue is so tight and inflexible? The scars on my liver are causing it to retract, making it sensitive.

My oncologist seemed even happier than he did back in July when I first discovered my tumours had disappeared. "It's all gone!" he crowed.

I was relieved and over-joyed but felt the need to reassure him that I was also being 'realistic' about my prognosis (the longer we can maintain the status quo the better but I do know that one day, this treatment will stop working).

But he surprised me.

He said, "Well, realistic....For some women the results of combining Herceptin and vinorelbine have been spectacular."

Spectacular.

And then he added, "I think you might continue this way for a long, long time."

He concluded by telling my friend T. to take me out for a drink (which she did).

"Go celebrate."

I did have a glass of wine. Now I am going to put my four year old to bed and then collapse out of sheer exhaustion and relief.

And tomorrow? I am going to go back to being spectacular.

I think the November curse may have been broken.

happy, happy, happy

I saw my oncologist today. He examined me and decided that he does not need to see me for two whole months.

This means that my weeks off will be genuinely 'off' from the cancer centre.

Even better, my lymph nodes all seem normal, my chest sounds clear and he couldn't even feel the edge of my liver.

What a difference a year (or even less) can make.

The nurse was commenting on how heavy my cancer centre file is.

I answered, "That's good. As long as it keeps getting heavier, it means that I'm still around."

so this is what it looks like

I had my regular pre-chemo appointment with my oncologist yesterday.

Having had time to get over the wonderful shock of my CT scan results, I had a few questions:

Q-Can my chemo schedule be scaled back now?

A-Yes! (I pause to do a few cartwheels, at least in my head). Instead of a week of Herceptin and vinorelbine, a week of just vino and then one week off, I will have two weeks of treatment and then two weeks off. Is this about as clear as mud? Another way to put it is that instead of being in treatment two-thirds of the time, I'll only be in treatment half the time (although, this exaggerates the impact because I always have treatment on Tuesdays and feel better by the week end).

Q-So, what are we treating now, since there don't appear to be any tumours on my liver?

A-Once you are in Stage IV, you assume that the cancer is systemic and you need to treat it head to toe, with a systemic drug (my oncologist actually said that in this stage, they could give me lethal doses of chemo, followed by a bone marrow transplant, and still find cancer somewhere in my body). If my cancer had been hormone positive, I could have been treated with a pill (like Tamoxifen) but the only treatments available to me are Herceptin and more chemo.

Q-But things are looking much more hopeful than they were last November (asked very tentatively)?

A-An emphatic yes. I should expect however that I will need to change my treatment at some point, when this one stops working. He did make it very clear, though, that he has many other options in his arsenal.

Q-Should we credit the Herceptin for the dramatic improvement in my condition?

A-Vinorelbine and Herceptin have been shown to work remarkably well in combination with each other but yes, Herceptin is a wonderful drug. I am very fortunate that my cancer surfaced after it was approved in Canada for treatment of breast cancer.

Q-Is this what it means to be in remission?

A-Yes, it does.

So there you have it. I'll have a bit of non-chemo time in the next little while and I have a lot more reason for hope.

Not so long ago, daring to hope to attend the BlogHer conference seemed like hubris. Now, I'm working on a couple of big projects and doing a little planning for the future.

It feels good.