They start in the morning but come infrequently until the afternoon. By evening, they plague me in waves, starting up my chest, overwhelming me with heat until I am literally dripping sweat.
I almost took my clothes off at my son's birthday party two nights ago (thus ensuring years of therapy in his future).
I am experiencing what some call "faux menopause." The chemo has shut down my ovaries, my periods have stopped and I am experiencing some spectacular hot flashes.
The night of my son's birthday (when, in my defence, I was under some stress), I also became convinced that my spouse was not being adequately sympathetic, that he just didn't get it, that in fact he was not being nearly supportive enough. And I told him so. Then I remembered that there are other menopausal symptoms. My poor spouse.
I have two friends who claim that they're respective partners have offered to go out in the middle of the night, in the thick of snowstorms to replace empty menopause-related prescriptions, such is the spousal fear of menopausal mood swings. My friends are both lovely women (and two of my heroes), yet they insist that this is true. Perhaps their spouses would like to form a support group with mine.
I know this is not the worst part of chemo just insult to injury, really.
To my menopausal readers: My respect for you for being able to function in the world while you go through this has increased immeasurably. If you are feeling less than sympathetic towards me consider this: If, as my doctor suggested yesterday, my menstrual cycle is likely to resume in a year or so, I get to go through menopause twice.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
my big boy
My beautiful firstborn son turned eight years old today. I can't believe it.
He cracks jokes like a teenager but sleeps with a bedful of softoys (all dogs, he is his mother's son).
He hates school yet loves to learn and remembers everything that he takes in.
He can be infuriatingly rude and then behave with heart-melting empathy (he called me from the office of his school the day after my surgery. He needed to check that the nurse was coming and that there was someone there to take care of me).
He is very sensitive but also the funniest person I know.
He has inherited the 'sleep gene' that plagues his father's family. Often awake beyond exhaustion late at night, and impossible to wake in the morning, even when we let his little brother jump on him (Santa, who must not like this child's parents very much, brought S. an alarm clock that sounds like a rooster crowing. While his parents curse, my boy sleeps soundly through the racket).
He is too smart for his own good.
We share a love of coffee shops, surfing the internet and fine bath products.
I love him very, very much and I could not be more proud of him.
Tuesday, May 9, 2006
i buy myself presents
It's true. Prior to each round of chemo, I have bought myself a present.
Now, I know that this is a really frivolous thing to do. I know that buying stuff won't buy me happiness. I also know that I am damn lucky to be able to afford such frivolity (thanks to public health care and a very good job with great benefits). But it really does make it easier to face the awfulness of chemo.
For the first round, I bought an ipod (this was a big ticket item but, in theory, the whole family "shares" it).
For the second round I bought a teapot. I ordered it online. As a replacement for one I had bought in London. I am pleased to say that it survived the flight over and arrived from England in one piece.
I bought two beautiful hats prior to round three, from a local craft fair. They are both fine examples of millinery. Why two? Because I couldn't decide between them (please don't judge me). When I wore the black one (with a big green and red flower) to pick up my older son, he said, "You can't even tell that you're bald."
I have chemo this Thursday. On Monday I bought the most beautiful pair of red sandals (I will try and post pictures, once I can get the technical details sorted). I had this idea in my head of a pair of very comfortable sandals for my longer walks but with a bit of an edge. I found the perfect pair at the first place I looked (at Glebe Trotters on Bank Street in Ottawa. Go see them. The guys who run the place are really nice and know their way around a shoe). They are bright red. I wore them yesterday and two people stopped me on the street to ask where I had bought them. Joy.
On another note entirely, it is now much easier to post comments on this blog. After complaining for days about the fact that would-be commenters (commentators?) were being foiled by all the hoops they had to jump through, I decided to write a note to Blogger and complain. Before doing so, I thought I should double check with the help function. Doh! (as my older son and Homer Simpson would say). I had set things up so that only registered users could comment.
I have changed my settings so that anyone who wishes to do so can now offer their two cents. Let me know if it works.
Now, I know that this is a really frivolous thing to do. I know that buying stuff won't buy me happiness. I also know that I am damn lucky to be able to afford such frivolity (thanks to public health care and a very good job with great benefits). But it really does make it easier to face the awfulness of chemo.
For the first round, I bought an ipod (this was a big ticket item but, in theory, the whole family "shares" it).
For the second round I bought a teapot. I ordered it online. As a replacement for one I had bought in London. I am pleased to say that it survived the flight over and arrived from England in one piece.
I bought two beautiful hats prior to round three, from a local craft fair. They are both fine examples of millinery. Why two? Because I couldn't decide between them (please don't judge me). When I wore the black one (with a big green and red flower) to pick up my older son, he said, "You can't even tell that you're bald."
I have chemo this Thursday. On Monday I bought the most beautiful pair of red sandals (I will try and post pictures, once I can get the technical details sorted). I had this idea in my head of a pair of very comfortable sandals for my longer walks but with a bit of an edge. I found the perfect pair at the first place I looked (at Glebe Trotters on Bank Street in Ottawa. Go see them. The guys who run the place are really nice and know their way around a shoe). They are bright red. I wore them yesterday and two people stopped me on the street to ask where I had bought them. Joy.
On another note entirely, it is now much easier to post comments on this blog. After complaining for days about the fact that would-be commenters (commentators?) were being foiled by all the hoops they had to jump through, I decided to write a note to Blogger and complain. Before doing so, I thought I should double check with the help function. Doh! (as my older son and Homer Simpson would say). I had set things up so that only registered users could comment.
I have changed my settings so that anyone who wishes to do so can now offer their two cents. Let me know if it works.
Monday, May 8, 2006
why i blog
I am not an exhibitionist. I thought twice and three times before some of my more personal posts, especially before discussing my mastectomy.
Writing for me has always been therapeutic but that doesn't explain why I chose to expose myself so publicly.
I am doing this, in part, as way to keep friends and loved ones updated, as well as to help them better understand how I'm feeling and what this experience is like.
I am doing this because some apects of cancer treatment are so bizarre that they must be shared.
I am doing this because our culture sometimes treats breast cancer like some kind of terrible secret, which in turn makes having cancer seem slightly shameful. Talking openly about my cancer makes people feel less awkward around me, which is much, much easier for me. I have always believed in acknowledging the elephant at the table and while I respect the decision of others to keep their cancer a secret, it's really not the right choice for me. I guess I was pretty much an open book anyway (to mix my metaphors liberally) and don't see why cancer should change that.
I am also writing because people like Margaret Wente (a columnist with the Globe and Mail, one of Canada's "national" newspapers) really piss me off. In a recent column Ms. Wente scoffed at the idea of a cancer epidemic, talked about the cancer bandwagon and said that, of course there is more breast cancer now because there are more older people. She also dismissed the idea of environmental factors and the need for research into prevention.
I want Ms. Wente and others to know that I'm here, 38 years old, with no breast cancer in my family and very few of the risk factors associated with the disease. I really felt that my lump and subsequent diagnosis with stage 2b breast cancer came from out of nowhere. I didn't chose to hop onto this particular bandwagon, nor did the many other women in my circle (including several diagnosed before the age of 40). I don't know if I would use the word 'epidemic' but I do know that our numbers are growing and feel very strongly that 'why' of this must be further explored.
Finally, I am writing because, after my diagnosis, I found a dearth of stories about younger women with breast cancer and I thought that if I appreciate others' stories, then someone might like to read mine.
That's why I blog.
Writing for me has always been therapeutic but that doesn't explain why I chose to expose myself so publicly.
I am doing this, in part, as way to keep friends and loved ones updated, as well as to help them better understand how I'm feeling and what this experience is like.
I am doing this because some apects of cancer treatment are so bizarre that they must be shared.
I am doing this because our culture sometimes treats breast cancer like some kind of terrible secret, which in turn makes having cancer seem slightly shameful. Talking openly about my cancer makes people feel less awkward around me, which is much, much easier for me. I have always believed in acknowledging the elephant at the table and while I respect the decision of others to keep their cancer a secret, it's really not the right choice for me. I guess I was pretty much an open book anyway (to mix my metaphors liberally) and don't see why cancer should change that.
I am also writing because people like Margaret Wente (a columnist with the Globe and Mail, one of Canada's "national" newspapers) really piss me off. In a recent column Ms. Wente scoffed at the idea of a cancer epidemic, talked about the cancer bandwagon and said that, of course there is more breast cancer now because there are more older people. She also dismissed the idea of environmental factors and the need for research into prevention.
I want Ms. Wente and others to know that I'm here, 38 years old, with no breast cancer in my family and very few of the risk factors associated with the disease. I really felt that my lump and subsequent diagnosis with stage 2b breast cancer came from out of nowhere. I didn't chose to hop onto this particular bandwagon, nor did the many other women in my circle (including several diagnosed before the age of 40). I don't know if I would use the word 'epidemic' but I do know that our numbers are growing and feel very strongly that 'why' of this must be further explored.
Finally, I am writing because, after my diagnosis, I found a dearth of stories about younger women with breast cancer and I thought that if I appreciate others' stories, then someone might like to read mine.
That's why I blog.
Saturday, May 6, 2006
strange happenings
I love my work and when I'm feeling well, I miss it. It's hard not too feel some sadness and anger at times that life is going on without me (which of course it must).
However, as my friend C., who has been through this, commented the other day, this is a rare time in my life to be an observer, to really notice and think about life - the positive, the difficult and the truly bizarre.
Listed below is a random list of some of the more absurd things I have observed and experienced in the last several weeks:
However, as my friend C., who has been through this, commented the other day, this is a rare time in my life to be an observer, to really notice and think about life - the positive, the difficult and the truly bizarre.
Listed below is a random list of some of the more absurd things I have observed and experienced in the last several weeks:
- My insurance company requires a letter from my doctor, including my diagnosis before they will reimburse me for my prosthesis (the prosthethis cost $350 and Medicare pays for $180). "Why is this necessary? Who would buy a prosthetic breast just for fun?" I asked what I thought were rhetorical questions. My spouse replied that it takes all kinds and that you never know what could turn up with a Google search. I don't dare try this.
- My anatomy was recently enhanced with a 'portacath', a disk with some tubes attached that are connected directly to a vein that goes to my heart. It was inserted beneath the skin, a couple of inches under my collar bone, on my left side. It makes chemo infinitely easier, as I can now use my arms during the hours I am receiving treatment and no longer experience the burning sensation that I did when chemo was infused into a vein in my arm. Chemo also hardens and shrinks the veins, so the portacath is saving me the trauma of being poked repeatedly as the nurses try to find a vein in my arm. My portacath is a really nifty thing but I do feel that I more closely related to the 'Borg' from Star Trek than I used to be.
- Acupuncture is supposed to help with nausea, so I thought I would try it out. I've been seeing a doctor of traditional Chinese medicine who has considerable experience working with cancer patients. He also has a considerable number of eccentricities. For example, the first time I saw him, he greeted me warmly, then handed me a piece of paper stating that, suspecting that someone was spying on him, he'd had a private security company in and they'd found listening devices all over his clinic (I have no idea if he is delusional or if this is true). Since that day, he asks that all his patients communicate with him in writing only -even while we are being treated. When he does talk, the doctor communicates chiefly in song titles: "You are always on my mind," and "I'll be waiting for you."
- At my last appointment, my very cool oncologist suggested that smoking dope would be the best thing to alleviate nausea and other side effects from chemo. My mother-in-law responded by couriering me a pot cookie.
- I took part in Look Good Feel Better, a free session put on by the cosmetics industry. The idea is that women in treatment will feel better if they can be shown a few tricks to look more like themselves. And you get lots of free stuff (I love getting free stuff). I thought it would be a lift, a bit of light-hearted fun (and so what if I left wearing more makeup than I usually apply in a month). However, the 'team leader' for my session was a martinet, barking out orders like we were in boot camp ('Apply mascara now!' 'Left hand on left eye! Right hand on right eye!'). I spent the whole session frantically trying to catch up (and giggling madly). When the martinet informed us that it was time for 'a moment of silence to remember the fallen', I stopped laughing. I doubt there was a participant in that room who needed to be reminded of the 'fallen.' Or who hasn't had many moments of silence filled with the fear we might join them.
Wednesday, May 3, 2006
joy
I am fundamentally a 'glass is half full' sort of person.
It's not that I am always in a good mood (those closest to me would be sure to tell you otherwise). In fact, I have struggled with depression since my teens, and need to work hard at staying healthy. It's just that if there are two ways to look at a situation, I naturally gravitate to the most positive interpretation.
That's why I can say that during these months of chemotherapy, I feel well half the time.
A clear physical and emotional cycle has emerged after three rounds of chemo. The first couple of days afterwards I feel light-headed and queasy. By the week end (every chemo is on Thursday), I go into the 'trough', which lasts for several days. I feel pretty awful during this period but the symptoms are better managed than during the first round. By early the next week, I emerge from the worst but go into an emotional funk (last week I spent several days exhausted and furious at how different my life is right now from what I expected it would be).
Then I turn the corner.
I went for a walk last Saturday, bubbling over with everything that is good with the world. The sunshine. My beautiful children. My dogs. My eyebrows (thinner, but still there).
I seem to get a week and half of feeling better (the effects of chemo are cumulative, so I know that this period could get shorter, but I know it will come), during which time I am positively euphoric.
I love my family. My neighbourhood. I have the best friends in the world. I am getting the best of medical care. I am happy. The fact that I can't find anything in my cluttered mess of my house only bothers me a tiny bit.
Chemotherapy is very hard and I really, really hate it. I am however, very grateful for this opportunity to experience joy, and to be reminded that, really, I have a very good life.
It's not that I am always in a good mood (those closest to me would be sure to tell you otherwise). In fact, I have struggled with depression since my teens, and need to work hard at staying healthy. It's just that if there are two ways to look at a situation, I naturally gravitate to the most positive interpretation.
That's why I can say that during these months of chemotherapy, I feel well half the time.
A clear physical and emotional cycle has emerged after three rounds of chemo. The first couple of days afterwards I feel light-headed and queasy. By the week end (every chemo is on Thursday), I go into the 'trough', which lasts for several days. I feel pretty awful during this period but the symptoms are better managed than during the first round. By early the next week, I emerge from the worst but go into an emotional funk (last week I spent several days exhausted and furious at how different my life is right now from what I expected it would be).
Then I turn the corner.
I went for a walk last Saturday, bubbling over with everything that is good with the world. The sunshine. My beautiful children. My dogs. My eyebrows (thinner, but still there).
I seem to get a week and half of feeling better (the effects of chemo are cumulative, so I know that this period could get shorter, but I know it will come), during which time I am positively euphoric.
I love my family. My neighbourhood. I have the best friends in the world. I am getting the best of medical care. I am happy. The fact that I can't find anything in my cluttered mess of my house only bothers me a tiny bit.
Chemotherapy is very hard and I really, really hate it. I am however, very grateful for this opportunity to experience joy, and to be reminded that, really, I have a very good life.
Monday, May 1, 2006
boob in a box
I went to into my room to get dressed yesterday morning and found my new prosthetic breast sitting on top of its box.
My boys had been playing 'Pirate Treasure Hunt' (although I think it was really an excuse for soon-to-be-eight years old S. to look for hidden birthday presents) and I gather the box on my shelf had been too much for two curious boys to resist.
I immediately went to tell my spouse. Should I talk to S. about his find? Did I think it would be more traumatic if I talked to him or should I just let it go? My husband, who had his hands full baking a cake for my three-year-old's birthday, said in so many words that he didn't think it was a big deal and that, while I could talk to him about it, I really didn't need to worry.
So I decided to wait for the right moment. A couple of hours later, I had the following conversation with my older son:
"Did you take something of mine out of that box on my shelf this morning?"
"Yeah. It was a white, squishy thing. What was that?"
"Um. Well...You know when I had my surgery...it left me flat on one side. This is to make me look the same on both sides."
"Cool!"
Pause.
"So it makes you look normal."
"Yeah."
"Cool."
End of conversation. Kids really do take most things in stride.
My prosthethis has provided a real lift to the spirits, is comfortable to wear and makes my clothes fit better. It is really bizarre, though, thinking that I will be putting my breast away in its box every night and taking it out again every morning.
My boys had been playing 'Pirate Treasure Hunt' (although I think it was really an excuse for soon-to-be-eight years old S. to look for hidden birthday presents) and I gather the box on my shelf had been too much for two curious boys to resist.
I immediately went to tell my spouse. Should I talk to S. about his find? Did I think it would be more traumatic if I talked to him or should I just let it go? My husband, who had his hands full baking a cake for my three-year-old's birthday, said in so many words that he didn't think it was a big deal and that, while I could talk to him about it, I really didn't need to worry.
So I decided to wait for the right moment. A couple of hours later, I had the following conversation with my older son:
"Did you take something of mine out of that box on my shelf this morning?"
"Yeah. It was a white, squishy thing. What was that?"
"Um. Well...You know when I had my surgery...it left me flat on one side. This is to make me look the same on both sides."
"Cool!"
Pause.
"So it makes you look normal."
"Yeah."
"Cool."
End of conversation. Kids really do take most things in stride.
My prosthethis has provided a real lift to the spirits, is comfortable to wear and makes my clothes fit better. It is really bizarre, though, thinking that I will be putting my breast away in its box every night and taking it out again every morning.
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