thanks for all the fish

I was waiting for a technician to give me an injection prior to a bone scan today, when I noticed a sign:

"To all females: Please advise staff if you are pregnant or nursing."

It made me wonder. Why not say 'to all women'? Are they likely to be testing females of a range of species?

The French equivalent was addressed to all "women" (femmes, not femmelles).

Is there something indelicate or offensive about the word 'women'?

Beats me.

At any rate, the bone scan is behind me. I've been sleeping and having SERIOUSLY bizarre dreams today. I thought I'd get a dog essay (and it would have been a good one) in under the NaBloPoMo wire, but frankly I'm just too stoned from the chemo.

Well, I made it. I blogged every day this month. And what a month this turned out to be.

Thanks so much to Fussy for inventing and organizing NaBloPoMo. It really has been fun. And I've discovered some great bloggers.

I may take the a few days off but not too worry - I'll be back.

Time to go dream again.

celebrity

Apparently my reaction to Herceptin yesterday caused quite a bit of excitement at the cancer centre. The side effects I experienced, chills and shakes, followed by fever, are quite normal. It was the intensity of the reaction that set tongues wagging. My oncologist called it "dramatic." I called it flopping around like a fish (and thanks to my friend A., for pointing out in the comments that many fish do, indeed have teeth). It was an unusually intense reaction.

And the fact that I had to go back today was definitely unusual.

During the night, I got the shakes again, although they were much milder than on the previous morning. Then I got the fever. And it just kept climbing. It peaked at 40C (104F). By then, we were on our way back to the cancer centre.

They put me in bed, gave me IV fluids, drew some blood, gave me assorted pills for fever and pain and I dozed on and off for a couple of hours. By the time the blood tests came back and I was released, I felt considerably better.

And the good news? My oncologist and the cancer centre pharmacist think I am reacting so intensely because the Herceptin is working really well. I like that.

The other good news? The side effects of Herceptin usually diminish significantly after the first round. Then, again, I seem to be an unusual cancer patient.

a wild ride

Boy, Herceptin is a trip. One moment I was fine, the next I was flopping around like a fish with chattering teeth (I know that fish don't have teeth. I just mean that I was shaking uncontrollably and my limbs were jerking around). This lasted for several minutes.

It was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life.

They used Demerol to stop the shaking. A lot of Demerol. I was very happy.

Then they told me I was running a fever.

After examining me and deciding there was no sign of an infection that could be causing the fever, the doctor decided that treatment could proceed.

We were at the hospital for eight long hours.

Apparently these are not uncommon side effects of Herceptin and that I am less likely to experience them next time.

That's good news. I liked the Demerol but I really didn't like the convulsing.

metastatic

November 9: I wake up with a stitch on my right side. I figure that I had either pulled a muscle doing abdominal exercises or was coming down with something. I take the day off work.

The week of November 12: The pain has intensified a little and I am plagued by the 'gut-rats' (an expression I coined during my pregnancies to describe the intestinal discomfort I felt). I take a pregnancy test (negative, thank gawd). Towards the end of that week, I call to make an appointment with my family doctor.

November 18: It occurs to me that I might be showing symptoms of Celiac's disease (an auto-immune disease that causes an inability to digest Gluten). My sister has it and it tends to run in families. I groan and cross my fingers. Celiac's would be a pain.

November 19: Returning from a walk with my son, I have an attack of the most intense abdominal pains I have experienced since giving birth. It occurs to me that I might have something more serious than Celiac's with which to contend. I notice for the first time that my waist seems to have disappeared and the area on my right side between my waistband and ribcage is hard and swollen.

November 21: My GP examines me. When she asks me to take a deep breath, I yelp in pain. Obviously distressed, she tells me that my liver is very enlarged. She says, "I'm sorry. I know that's not what you wanted to hear." That's an understatement. In the last few days, I have learned that when breast cancer metastasizes (spreads to areas of the body other than the breast or nearby lymph nodes) it most often goes to the bones, chest, brain, lungs or liver. My GP calls the nurse who works with my medical oncologist and urges them to schedule an ultra-sound as soon as possible. I go from the appointment and then get my hair cut and dyed red in defiance.

November 22: I have a previously-scheduled appointment with my medical oncologist, although I end up seeing the GP who works with him. It is clear that she, too, is very worried. She orders bloodwork and says that they will get me in for an ultrasound before the end of the week. She does say that other conditions can cause a painful swelling of the liver and that they will test for those things as well. As we are leaving, my spouse and I agree that, "when you are hoping to test positive for hepatitis, life has become very weird."

November 23: The blood test results are in. My liver functions are elevated. Everything else is fine. I am scheduled for an ultrasound later that day.

November 24: I have a late-afternoon appointment with the oncologist. We wait a long time. My knees buckle when the nurse comes for me. I know that I am about to hear bad news. My oncologist enters, grim-faced. He is compassionate but doesn't sugar-coat things. I like him. He tells me that I have more tumours on my liver "than they could count." He tells me that from now on, we will not be talking about curing me but extending my life and making me as comfortable as possible. The first thing I remember saying is, "I have two beautiful children!" and "I'm only 39 years old" - as though these things should exempt me.

My oncologist was wonderful, clear and, as I said before, very compassionate. I finally screwed up the courage to ask, "How long do I have? Weeks....?" "I'm better than that," he replied (I really loved that answer). Then he said, "Years. Not decades."

So I start chemo, along with Herceptin tomorrow. My heart has still not recovered as much as my oncologist would like from the chemo but, as you can tell by the timeline above, my cancer is agressive and fast-moving. We need to act now.

The good news is that the new chemo drug I'll be taking is less hard on the body and less likely to cause nausea and hair loss. I may also be able to avoid taking the steroids that I hated almost as much as the chemo.

I am, all things considered, in fairly good shape emotionally (and not just because I am full of morphine). I have lots going for me and I intend to revel in the good things, especially my wonderful community of family and friends.

Don't get me wrong. I am really, really pissed off. And I'm sure that the real emotional fallout is yet to come. But, for now, I'm OK.

And I intend to keep blogging. My posts of the last few days have been terse, and not just for lack of NaBloPoMo inspiration. I needed to have answers before dropping hints and then I needed some time to absorb. I've missed being able to blog through my feelings and experiences. My blog will have very different content than I would have hoped in the coming months (and my blook a very different ending). But so it goes.

pet therapy

The house is a mess. There is lots going on. But I have a cat and a dog on my bed, both stretched out and very relaxed.

I am calm.

the raven and the sun

This summer, I was out enjoying the sunshine towards the end of a chemo cycle and I stopped in at Magpie jewelry to browse. I spotted some lovely rings, designed and crafted by Native artists from the west coast.

My favourites were silver with the animals of Haida legend in gold. None of the rings fit me but the staff person who showed me the rings said that the artists would do custom work, if I wanted to give some thought to which animal I wanted.

It didn't take long for me to realize that I loved the story of the raven, who put the sun, the moon and the stars back in the sky after the world had gone dark. The imagery, as I viewed the light at the end of my own tunnel, really captured my feelings of hope and joy at the thought of having put cancer treatment behind me.

I put in my order. I had no particular requests of the artist I had chosen (Joe Descoteaux), mentioning only to the clerk at the store that I loved the story of the raven and the sun.

The ring arrived on my birthday (several weeks earlier than I had been told to expect) and it is beautiful. It is also very special. The artist designed my ring with a raven with the sun in his beak, about to return it to the sky. I love it.

Just as the raven is very tricky, so, also is fate. My life is taking some twists and turns that I did not plan for when I ended treatment. My ring, however, still symbolizes hope and joy to me, as well as all the good things that bring light into my life every day.

the raven

I am spent. So, tonight, I am copping out and linking to artist and storyteller Bill Reid's version of how the raven restored light to the world.

Tomorrow's blog will tell you why this story is so meaningful to me.