Embracing Baldness!

I LOVE being bald. Yes, I know, pretty weird thing for someone blessed with a thick mass of untameable curls that she used to hate but grew to love, but honestly I really like this new look. And I’ll tell you something – having no hair makes getting up and out of the house a breeze. I actually take quicker showers than my husband!

Peter, godblesshim, having become an instant parent to four teenagers some years ago, came up with a bizarre rule called The Two Minute Shower. His attempts to turn the entire household into TTMS followers met with dismal failure. My three girls would simply give him The Look as they trailed steam and wet towels. My son, who should have been more receptive to the concept being of the same species as Peter, just grunted and tried to wrestle him to the ground. As the wife, I paid no attention to P’s quaint little quirks. But these days I’m not only a convert to TTMS, I'm its best practitioner. With no hair to wash and condition or legs to shave, two minutes is longer than I need.

After I’d shaved my head and become a regular in the infusion room at Norwalk Hospital, I discovered that walking around au naturel was not the norm at all. In fact, I was the only one without a wig or scarf! Mind you, I’d started off wearing hats and scarves, mainly to keep my head warm but also because I didn’t want to make on-lookers uncomfortable. But there came a day when keeping my head warm was the last thing I wanted, and I didn’t give a hoot what anyone thought.

My step-daughter Rony (she's in the middle in the photo)was visiting from Australia and I decided to take her to Stew Leonard’s, a funky local supermarket. It was the middle of the afternoon and the temperature was hovering around 105°. Remember Robin Williams in Good Morning, Vietnam? It’s hot! Damn hot. Real hot! As we set off across the parking lot I realized I’d left my Panama hat in the car. Ooof! We were nearly at the air-conditioning. Did I want to go back for the hat? No way.

Now that I think back to my pre-cancer days, I don’t remember seeing a lot of bald women walking around – and I’m the sort that notices that sort of thing. So I was absolutely gob-smacked that no-one stared at me in Stew’s. Actually, not quite true. Little kids stared open-mouthed, then tugged at their mothers, but nobody pointed or said anything out loud. Quite amazing. After that, I ditched the hats altogether except as sun protection. Incredibly liberating.

Fat Feet: Episode 2

I knew exactly what was going to happen when I turned up at the hospital the following week for my chemo. “How are your feet?” Dr. Z trumpeted from the far end of the corridor. “Not too bad, thanks, actually they’re much better this week,” I said, pointing out that we looked like twins with our bald heads and matching aqua-colored tops.

One thing I have to say about Dr. Z, which can’t be said of all men -- he’s remarkably observant. He spotted right away that I wasn’t being 100% truthful. He grabbed the phone. “You’re getting an ultrasound. We need to rule out blood clots in your legs.” I took a deep breath. “And if your legs are clear, I want ultrasounds of your pelvis,” he said, informing radiology that a crazy woman that ‘tawked’ funny was coming up immediately.

Of course there were no blood clots in either leg. Nor were there any blood clots in my pelvis or in any part of my reproductive system (retired). By the time I got back downstairs, Dr. Z had the results. “Everything is clean,” he said, scribbling furiously in my chart, which was starting to look like half an encyclopedia.

The problem with having cancer in one part of your body is that it might have spread to other areas -- and Dr. Z was determined to track down any errant cancer cells before they got into trouble. Obviously, this was a good thing, especially since all the new tests showed that I was the healthiest person on the planet, but all these exams and trips to different departments took up a huge amount of time. I tell you, having cancer is a full-time job.

Dr. Z didn’t know what to make of my feet. The swelling had begun soon after I started the Taxol part of my chemo, so we decided to keep an eye on them. Thank goodness it was summer – the only footwear that I could get on were flip-flops!

Just Call me Sausage Toes

All sorts of weird and not particularly wonderful things happen to your body when you have chemo. Like the fact that I’m putting on a pound a week despite having given up wine and chocolate. I started off as a trim lightweight rower (that's about a 130lbs to you non-rowers) -- and at this rate I'm going to look like a heffalump by the time I finish. And the worst of it is, I had all my winter pants taken in last year, and I'm darned if I'm paying to have them all let out again!

I was slightly freaked out when I woke up one morning to find that my fingers and toes were all peeling. The fingers weren’t too bad, but my feet were a total fright. They looked as if I’d spent several years wearing the same woolly socks and hiking boots with no access to a pumice stone. I dug out an old rectangular plastic bin from the basement, filled it with warm sudsy water and stuck it under my desk so that my feet could have a good soak, and gave myself a pedicure. It didn't help all that much.

But the worst was a couple of weeks later when my feet and ankles swelled up so much that my skin actually hurt. I was at the hospital getting yet another of those darned shots to boost my white blood cells so I swung by Dr. Z’s office to show him this new development. “Hey, baldy, wassup?” he greeted me in his usual cheery fashion, rubbing my head for good luck. “Just look at my feet,” I yelped. “They look like a pair of over-stuffed burritos with five sausages stuck on the ends.

”

We stood in the corridor and peered down. Michelle, the lovely nurse practitioner, and Mary Heery, the Smilow Breast Cancer patient navigator, joined us. (That's Mary in the photo with me - and the little square thing on my chest is my port!) The four of us huddled into a rugby scrum and stared at the offending objects. Dr. Z had the answer right away. “Go and get your blood drawn and come right back.” "What's my blood got to do with swollen feet?" I shot back. "I need to check your chemistry to see what's going on," he replied, ducking into an exam room before I could say anything else.

I should have known better and kept quiet….. sigh!....it was going to be another long afternoon. I sat and waited for a finger stick then headed back to the waiting room to sit and wait again - and chat with the other patients. After a while you get to know everyone.

“Oy, sausage toes, get over here!” No mistaking Dr. Z’s dulcet tones. Everyone in the room stared at me. Mary burst out laughing. I gathered my belongings with some semblance of dignity, smiled at the collected company, and shuffled off on my burritos. The Q & A session in the exam proceeded as normal with the odds stacked against me and ended with instructions for further medical tests. “I don’t want an ultrasound. Let’s see if it goes away,” I said, tapping my sausages in frustration at not having kept my big mouth shut. “You are so-u impossible,” said Dr. Z, trying to round out his ‘O’s like a Brit. “I want to make sure you don’t have any blood clots in your legs.”

Well, I didn’t want any blood clots in my legs either, but I didn't want to spend the rest of the day up in radiology so we reached a compromise. I’d eliminate all salt from my diet to see if that helped. I hobbled off before Dr. Z could change his mind. “But if you’ve still got fat feet next time I see you, you’re having an ultrasound!” he hollered at my retreating back.

Read All About It! Cancer Patient Lands New Job

I know, I know...... I should have written. There are some wonderful people in far-flung places who've been worrying about me because it's been so quiet here in blog-land, so apologies for dropping out of sight. All is well, I'm plugging along with the chemo -- it's a bit of a bore, to be quite frank about it, but the light at the end of the tunnel is getting brighter which means I'm close to the end. Wait!... I mean end of the chemo! Gosh, hope you didn't think I meant one of those other tunnels with a light at the end! I'm nowhere near that particular road just yet, thank you very much. Heaps and heaps of things to do first.

The truth is that something rather interesting happened just as I was about to start chemo. Those of you who've been following along since the beginning will remember my huge Feel Good blanket, knitted and stitched with love and care by my rowing buddies. A photo of my knitter friends with the blanket was posted on Maritime Rowing's Facebook page, where said photo was spotted by an eagle-eyed chap called Tom Renner, sports reporter for a brand new on-line community news publication. Ace sleuth that he is, Tom tracked me down, and next thing you know he's written an article on me and the blanket. Here's a link to the article in TheDailyNorwalk. In return, I sent him the link to my blog.

A couple of days later, I heard from Tom again. He loved the blog and wanted to know if he could publish it in TheDailyNorwalk. "Of course, the more women (and men) that read it the better," I told him. How wonderful to get my story out there to a wider audience. I was thrilled.

Tom was back in my email in-box again the next day. "Are you free to have lunch with Jane Bryant Quinn tomorrow?" he wanted to know. Well, I knew who Jane Bryant Quinn was having read her personal finance column in Newsweek, but why on earth did she want to have lunch with me? I had a bit of a panic when I thought she might want to interview me on the state of my personal finances. But that was a no-brainer -- if she wanted to talk to me about my money, then I'd steer her to the doctors and hospitals who've taken it all.

I did some sleuthing of my own and discovered that Jane is the Editorial Director of TheDailyNorwalk.com so now I was even more curious. I set off armed with a list of future blog posts and an open mind. Jane is an incredibly smart and charming woman, plus her birthday is the same day as my favorite aunt's, so we had a great conversation and solved the problems of the world. Tom valiantly tried to follow an Acquarian and a Gemini as they jumped from one topic to another, but the upshot of this meeting was that I WAS OFFERED A NEW JOB!! As a writer, no less!

All right, now you have to follow this. My world has been turned inside out by the whole breast cancer problem, I'm just about to start 20 weeks of chemo, which is supposed to knock you from here into tomorrow, and I get hired to write the Home & Garden magazine section of a new publication!! This was fantastic! I was thrilled!! I love writing!!! Talk about lemons and lemonade....

SO -- I think the moral of this story is that if, in the face of adversity, you keep your wits about you and make sure to keep smiling, good things will happen. Here I am, a cancer warrior engaged in a fierce battle with an unseen foe, I've got a brand new job and I'm loving it. Life sure is a funny old thing!

Fun with hats!

For the first time in my life, I'm having an absolute blast wearing hats. They can look so positively glamorous!
But it wasn't always so. I'd always rather liked hats but my hair, which when I had it was impossibly curly, tended to make hats bounce right off. Plus, if there's one thing which I loathe with a passion, it's hat hair. Here's why.
In England, where I grew up, school children all wear uniforms, which is great because you can roll out of bed and put on your uniform, and off you go to school. No need to spend hours on the phone with your best friend figuring out what to wear the next day, or trying on outfits late into the night, which is how my three daughters spent most of their high school evenings.
Back in those days, an essential part of the school uniform was The Hat. We had a winter hat, which was a sort of navy blue felt thing with a hatband in our school colors, and we had a summer hat, which was a straw boater that looked like this and was unbelievably heavy.
My school had all sorts of impossible rules and regulations, including the color of your underwear and the thickness of your stockings, which we all bent whenever we could, but the rule governing the wearing of The Hat was the one we feared most.There was no such thing as a school bus in those days -- when the bell rang, we left school and walked: some took the city buses, others, like me, walked over a mile to the train station. I don't think anyone's mother drove to school to pick up her daughter. The minute you left the school grounds, you'd better have that hat on your head or you were dead meat.
We girls weren't the only ones walking -- the teachers were also heading home as well as the prefects, girls who were seniors and whose job it was to police the younger girls. So the roads were positively crawling with spies, and being spotted, and reported, for the serious breach of No Hat in Public, led to instant detention at school the next day.
One of the other hard-and-fast rules was absolutely no eating in public. "Very unlady-like," according to our headmistress. But we were starving teenagers and the London streets are thick with sweet shops, so we used to duck in for a packet of potato chips and a 1/4 lb of chocolate malteasers, stuff them into our blazer pocket and hope no-one had spotted us.
A group of us was in the sweet shop next to the train station one day, stocking up on munchies for the train ride, and I'd taken off my boater, sitting it on top of my book bag while I decided what to have. Suddenly there was a tremendous crash. Horrors!! A bottle of lemonade was stuck head first through the middle of my boater. We all froze. How the heck was I ever going to explain this?
Luckily my dad had the sort of glue you need to repair a boater with a hole through its top and I think I ended up concocting some complicated story that involved one or both of my brothers, so on that occasion I escaped punishment!Sorry, this has rambled on from the hat hair issue, but the point is that for all those school years I was positively tortured by those blasted hats, especially the boater which left me with a most extraordinary hair-do -- flat on the top and square on the sides. Really, really unflattering.
But now, my friends, I have turned into a total hat maven. I'm enjoying it while I can -- and that may not be for very long -- because I've suddenly got a layer of baby fluff growing back on my head! WooHoo!!

So what exactly is chemo?

In the life I lived before I became a cancer patient, I never gave any thought to what chemotherapy actually was. I'm the sort of person who's fascinated by all sorts of weird and wonderful things -- but finding out about chemotherapy just wasn't on my To-Do List. I thought it was a bunch of pills.
Well, let me enlighten you. Chemotherapy is nothing as simple as a bunch of pills -- it's a life-style and takes up huge chunks of time and leads to all sorts of worrying and fussing. I'll walk you through some of the highlights of my chemo experiences to date.
Once I'd finished with all the scanning and testing that the charming Dr. Z had signed me up for, I was given the green light for chemo. I was to report on Monday morning, every two weeks. On arrival you get a number on a blue card and go to the blood draw room for a finger stick. (Linda Madaffari and Edward Montoya are two of the fantastic phlebotomists at Norwalk Hospital) Your blood is sent off to check for white and red counts, which show whether you're in good enough shape to take the chemo. Then you're weighed, vitals taken and the good Dr. Z comes to poke and prod you, ask endless questions, all to make sure you're not sick in any way at all. If everything is A-OK, then you go and bag a chair in the infusion room, wait a while so that the nurses can custom mix your drugs according to Dr. Z's recipe, and finally you get hooked up. Getting the drugs doesn't hurt at all, which is one positive thing. The whole process from arrival to departure takes about four hours. You spend the rest of the day feeling a bit foggy.
The day after your infusion, you have to get a shot in the arm, so back you go to the hospital, get a number on a yellow card from the ladies at the desk and wait until the nurses spot you. The shot is something called Neulasta and it gives your white blood cells a boost -- and makes you feel achey as if you have the flu. Wonderful.
The reason for all the pre-chemo testing is that if there's any infection at all, you get a big F on your report card and are sent home with a prescription for antibiotics. Standing orders are that if your temperature is over 100.5° you must head straight to the ER. The chemo drugs are so toxic that they destroy both the bad cancer cells as well as other perfectly good cells that are just minding their own business. It's heavy artillery that knocks out everything within range. Nothing subtle about it. I hope that one of these days they'll develop fine-tuned drugs that can zoom in on their target more accurately, but for now this is what we have.
So the day I blew my nose and saw a version of Benjamin Moore's Grasshopper (a lovely shade that looks fantastic in my mudroom and really picks up the color of the slate on the floor) on my Kleenex, I knew I was in for it. I sent Dr. Z a text. "I think I've got a cold". Two minutes later he's on the phone. "What's going on? You need to come in. I'll see you in half an hour." The man is relentless. Back to the hospital. Another finger stick. More waiting. Another chance to get weighed, poked and prodded. Another half a day lost. I went home feeling ghastly, and spent three anxious days sleeping, taking my temperature and antibiotics, knocking back Tylenol like it was going out of fashion and drinking honey and lemon.
After eight weeks, I was done with the first set of chemo drugs and I'd survived. Phew!

Eyelash Batting Plans Laid to Rest

It's a good thing I didn't bother to invest in an assortment of fake eyelashes because I bumped into my friend, Gina, this morning and she gave me some astonishing news that put an instant kibosh on any plans I'd had for batting sexy new lashes at Dr Z. next time I saw him.
Our conversation went something like this:
F: Guess what! My eyelashes have all fallen out and I'm going to get some fakies!!
G: But without eyelashes, they've got nothing to stick to.
F: Don't they stick to your eyelids?
G: No, they rest on your eyelashes.
Gina is an absolute wizard with make-up, while I consider myself a third-class citizen at best in that department. After all, my entire arsenal consists of a Lancome mascara, a freebie eyeshadow I got when I bought the mascara, an eyeliner my daughter threw out, a bronzer my girls gave me for Christmas 3 years ago and the new eyebrow pencil, so my repertoire is very straightforward. Wait, I forgot. I own a couple of lipsticks, though one just melted when I left it in the car.
I decided to give Gina my full attention. I should also mention that she teaches a class for people with cancer called Look Good, Feel Better, so if she doesn't know what she's talking about, no-one does! First she gave me a great tip for making lines on my eyelids with a dark grey eyeshadow which will look as if you've got eyelashes. Hmmm! my one eyeshadow is half beige and half brown. I'll give it a shot with the brown one. Next I should draw some little "c" shapes with the brow pencil, very lightly, and that will look like eyebrows. I think I can handle that. I promised Gina I'd give it a try.
I decided it might make sense to sign up for the make-up class at the Smilow Breast Cancer Center and see if I could pick up some other tips. Who knows, when I have my new lashes, brows and hair (please not the facial hair!!!) in a few months, maybe I'll have turned into a make-up wiz too.

Update on my phone

I know you're all dying to know whether my cell phone recovered from its bath with the salad, so here's a brief update.
The hairdryer, neglected under the sink since I shaved my head, sprang eagerly into action and blasted the phone with heat. Every now and then I tried to shake more water out of the keypad. As soon as the phone got too hot to hold, I'd let it sit, open, for a while before doing it again.
After the third or fourth blasting with the hairdryer, I put the battery back in and crossed my fingers and toes. Hooray!! The phone turned on! To be honest, my expectations were a big zero, so this was brilliant. Never mind that the screen had an odd line down the middle so you couldn't read anything -- it was working! I took the phone down to the pantry and tucked it into a box of brown Basmati rice for the night.
The next morning I brushed off the rice and turned it on. Amazingly, the screen was back to normal. I made a call. Yes! It worked! I set off on some errands and soon discovered that things were still not quite right. Water was beading up on the screen again. The phone vibrated. Incoming call, but why wasn't it ringing? I tried changing the setting. Nothing. Darn.... guess it only works on vibrate.
I figured if I could get the rest of the moisture out of the phone, maybe the sound would come back, so I left it on the dashboard to sweat it out. All that accomplished was to overheat the battery, so the whole thing kept shutting down. Keeping the phone warm seemed the best way to dry it out completely, so I kept it in my pocket for the rest of the day and this evening, exactly 24 hours after the bath, the phone rang!!
And that's the story of how I nursed my phone back to a full recovery. Guess it just wasn't my time for a new Droid!

There's a Cell Phone in My Salad

I’ve got a fantastic excuse for all those irritating things that cause hiccups in my daily path – it’s called chemo brain! The wonderful Dr. Z (see above) warned me about this during our first consultation. “You’ll be tired, you’ll lose all your hair, you might get numbness in your extremities, you’ll get sores in your mouth, you could sunburned more easily, you’ll get chemo brain, you’ll……” “HANG ON!” I interrupted. You have to shout to get a word in edge-wise with Dr Z. He’s from Brooklyn and talks as if he’s addressing the top row of the bleachers in a large football stadium. “What the heck is “chemo brain”? I asked, hoping it wasn’t terminal.

Turns out that when you’re on chemo, at least breast cancer chemo, your memory can get a bit iffy. This was not the best news to give a middle-aged woman whose memory is already a shadow of its former iron-clad self. “Don’t worry – it usually comes back,” he continued. Now Dr. Z might have thought this was reassuring, but usually was not what I’d hoped to hear.

There didn’t seem much point worrying about something beyond my control, so looking to put a positive spin on the situation I announced to my husband that the next time I called him Toby (the dog) or Barnaby (the cat), he was to understand that my brain was clouded and it was all the chemo’s fault. He looked at me over the top of his reading glasses and rolled his eyes. What is it with men? Just because he can remember everything that’s happened since this morning …..

I quickly got into the swing of blaming everything on “chemo brain”, though to be honest I don’t think my memory is any worse than it was. But you’ve got to admit – it’s a great excuse. And it is, of course, the reason that I left my cell phone in the bottom of the salad spinner and thus, finally, joined my daughters’ Sopping Wet Cell Phone Club.

I know it sounds funny, but I’m really annoyed with myself. How stupid …… “oooh, no, poor thing, don’t you know she has chemo brain. She can’t think straight!” Well, what happened was this. I was talking to my mother as I went off to my vegetable garden to pick lettuce for dinner. Having hung up, I cursed my pocket-less skirt – and tried tucking the phone into my bra. That didn’t work because every time I bent over to pick something the phone fell out, so when it finally landed in the salad spinner, I left it there. Seemed a good temporary solution. I wandered off to the front flower beds to add some nasturtium flowers and leaves to the mix, and to check on the tomatoes. I picked two early ripe ones. Had a chat with a neighbor. Gave my nephew, Lucas, directions for his run. Did some weeding. Went inside and had a chat with my brother, Andrew, visiting from Jamaica, while I ran water over the salad, giving it a good swish.

The phone bobbed to the surface. NO!!! Dead as a dodo. I charged upstairs to the bathroom to get the hairdryer, took out the battery, water dripping from the microphone and out of the keypad. I’d recently coached Emma on how to dry her wet phone with a hairdryer, and she’s back in business, but I don’t think her phone had actually been submerged like mine.

Being the sort of person that tends to have a Plan B up their sleeve, I’m thinking that if I can’t get my dear little phone back in action, maybe it’s a sign that I should upgrade to something a bit fancier. I wonder if the nice people at Verizon give discounts on a Droid to people with chemo brain?

Oh no.....my eyelashes are vanishing!

My eyelashes are falling out and there aren't enough words to express how irritating I'm finding this. And I don't mean the annoyance of trying to fish them out of my eyes!

As you all know, I prepared for losing my unruly mop by hacking it off. I prepared for the loss of body hair by throwing away my old razor. I bought an eyebrow pencil and practiced drawing fake brows for when my eyebrows went. I was, quite frankly, delighted at the thought of losing the mustache I had acquired as part of that bizarre aging process that women go through after menopause.

The fact is, dear friends, that things have simply not gone according to plan. My head is still covered with spiky bristles, though the top is finally getting smoother and quite shiny. To be honest, I wish the bristles would all fall out because they aren't very comfortable, especially at night when they dig they into my head as I lie on the pillow. And wouldn't you know it, my husband complains that I'm too prickly to hug! Excuse ME!! That's what it feels like when you don't shave, buddy!

My eyebrows are thicker than ever and I should probably get the tweezers onto them -- and I really need to borrow my daughter's razor. The mustache shows no signs of getting lost, despite my best efforts to ignore it BUT my eyelashes, for chrissakes, which I had really thought would stay put, are thinning out and I don't like it. Not one bit!!

Anyway, there's not much I can do about it, so now that I've had my little rant, I'll just shut up about it and pray to all the mascara gods that they help me grow them back! Ah, but wait a minute -- here's a new thought! I should run down to CVS and check out the fake eyelash section. It's got to be easier to get them to stick without real eyelashes getting in the way, right?!

Rowing my boat....

I am truly blessed to have an amazing number of friends. So many people have been unbelievably kind to me and my family over the past few months as I've traveled along my path with cancer, telephoning, emailing, dropping by to say hello and just being there for me. It's been just wonderful. I am quite convinced that the positive energy flowing my way is helping me keep focused on the task at hand -- beating the cancer and getting well.

One thing is funny, though. People who haven't seen me in a while are always slightly taken aback when they see me. "Fenella!! You look amazing!!! How are you feeling?" The first time someone greeted me this way, I was a bit puzzled. Not sure if I agreed with the "you look amazing" part, though it was very flattering, but the reaction certainly called for some serious brow creasing activity.

After tossing the problem back and forth in the old brain, I think I have it figured out. Cancer is a very scary label to stick on someone. Most of us, myself included prior to February of this year when I was diagnosed, tend to think of people with cancer as pale, gaunt, diseased -- your basic unhealthy person. Like someone with the flu, but ten times worse. I mean, if you have a life-threatening disease, which kills umpteen people every year all over the world, you're bound to look awful, right?

WRONG!! Most people with cancer look absolutely fine. You would never in a million years know there was anything wrong with them just by looking at them. Obviously, those who've lost their hair, like yours truly, stand out a bit from the crowd, but not all types of chemo lead to hair loss. AND not all cancers are treated with chemo. AND not all people with no hair have cancer. So chances are you see people in the supermarket, at a restaurant or on the train who have cancer and you would never know it.

What's more, people with cancer don't act particularly sick either. Sure, there are days when we're tired or feel a bit battered so we hide away for a while, but for the most part, life carries us along in its normal merry way.

Exercise is an important part of my life, so when I can, I get myself over to Maritime Rowing Club at the crack of dawn and get out on the river. I'm in the third seat back in the quad pictured up top, with my friends Pam, Susan and Peggy. We had a great row, coached by Olga on her launch. Rowing is a fantastic form of exercise. It uses all the muscles in your body, especially your legs which get really nice and toned! In fact, your whole body is whipped into shape -- and the fact of being out on the water doing repetitive movements sends you into a zen-like place, very similar to meditation. It is so very peaceful out there on the river.

Work! Who doesn't do some sort of work? Energized by my morning workout, I head home to walk the dog (more exercise) and then get down to business. I go to see clients, draw up plans for them, go into the city. Same old, same old. Cancer hasn't really changed much of anything, except that going to the doctor and having the darned chemo takes up time that I'd rather use for other things!

Fun stuff!! Getting into the garden is my therapy. Since my garden is still quite new, I've spent many hours cursing the Connecticut rocks that lie just where I want to plant something. I've dug and pickaxed all spring, planting fruit trees, blueberry bushes and even transplanting huge rose bushes from a friend's house. I've lugged bags of manure back from the store, turned my compost pile several times, built raised vegetable beds with my daughter, and planted all manner of crops. My husband and kids think I'm nuts working like a serf in the fields, but I love getting my hands into the soil -- and no-one has yet complained about all the delicious salad we eat from the garden every day. All of this while doing chemo. Plenty of energy until it runs out and then I head to the sofa.

So I guess what I'm trying to convey is that people with cancer are just like everyone else -- doing the best they can to get on with their lives, making the most of every day, smelling the roses and loving life.

Steeling myself.....

I've been steeling myself to write this particular post. Read on and you'll find out why!....

Much as I try to put a positive spin on this chemo lark I've got myself into, the honest to goodness truth is that it sucks. Big time. And if that doesn't give you an insight into how I feel, if someone told me I'd have to do this again, as of today, I really don't think I'd be able to face it.

Of course, once the bad things that afflict us are over, we tend to forget them, and that's one of the truly amazing things about the human mind, the ability to endure an unpleasant experience and then erase it from our data banks. Take child birth. In the delivery room, most mothers (at least those not having a chemically enhanced delivery) swear blind they will never, ever, ever have another child -- but they forget, and soon enough, there they are again, shouting and cursing and -- you get my point.

So what's so awful about the chemo, you ask? Well, I've been trying to understand it myself, so if I take you through the last eight weeks maybe that will help me get a handle on it.

The first treatment was actually a piece of cake. I'd been looking forward to starting because it seemed to me that the sooner I started the quicker I'd be healed, and I was fed up with waiting. All those darn tests and appointments, scopes and what-nots had driven me nuts, and I was glad to get going. I knew what to expect -- tired and icky -- but it only lasted about four days and then I was back to my usual self. Nothing to it!

Two weeks later, I went back for more of the same and it really wasn't too bad. Tired and icky again, just like being pregnant. This time I noticed that certain smells were bothering me and I had a tough time deciding what to eat. The unsettled feeling lasted the whole week but then I bounced back and felt just fine again. Though I wasn't quite as excited about going back to the infusion room to do it again.

After treatment #3 it took ten days to get back to normal. I tried to get things that needed doing done in the morning because by the afternoon I was out cold on the sofa having a nap marathon. My innards were not at all happy with the toxic assault to which they were being subjected, and the only thing that kept things on an even keel was a steady supply of hot water and honey.

I had to summon up all the reserves of my British upbringing to make it to #4. I really, but really, didn't want to go. The thought of feeling awful again and knowing it was going to last longer did not make me happy, however much I tried to remind myself that this was the LAST of the AC treatments.

Why is it that the anticipation of something we don't want to face is always so much worse than the actual event? It reminded me of the time I took my twins to a new pediatrician for their annual physical. Dimity and Emma must have been about six. The lovely young doctor had a fairly sparsely furnished exam room with a wall-mounted sink and an examination table. The two girls sat on the table, swinging their legs, and I sat on the chair. Everyone was happy, this was fun. "Who wants to go first?" she asked. We'd planned ahead (if you don't do that with twins, everything turns into a battle.) Ears, nose, chest -- everything was fine. "Show me your finger" and BAM! -- the dreaded finger stick. Emma let out her specialty train whistle imitation. Dimity, next in line, went white. Faster than you could blink, she'd done a visual recce, jumped off the table, and retreated behind the plumbing under the sink. It took ages to dislodge her. The doctor left in disgust to see another patient.

So with the visual image of my daughter wedged behind a sink, and not wanting to be the wimp who skipped #4, I turned up as commanded by the great Dr. Z, and got myself plugged in. The actual chemo treatment, doesn't really bother you. I always feel a little dizzy, but Val the Vein Nurse says that's the steroids and that passes soon enough.

The cumulative effect of the eight weeks of the AC treatments is really unpleasant. In my case, and I expect others suffer the same symptoms, it's all about the stomach. The chemicals are killing the fast-growing cancer cells, but the science isn't precise enough yet to prevent good cells getting whacked at the same time. Unfortunately, the mucus cells that line the esophagus and stomach are particularly sensitive to the chemo so there is tremendous acidity and burning and a general feeling of malaise. It's difficult to describe. It helps to keep nibbling on things like crackers and ginger cookies, but once you've eaten the burning starts again.

Anyway, I survived #4, put up with the burning esophagus and even managed a long weekend road trip to Canada, so life still continues even when you're on chemo. And I'm happy to report that the memory is starting to fade.

These lovely ladies are the fantastic Val (Solis) the Vein Nurse, often mentioned in this blog, and her cohort, Karen Vail. I guess we could call her Vail the Vein Nurse. Val and Vail! Actually, that's kind of cute! These wonderful women take care of their patients in the infusion room with kindness, efficiency and dignity. Thank you, both, for making it all so much easier to bear.

Introducing...... my mother!

May 26, 2010
Today is my mother's birthday and it struck me as a good time to introduce her to you all -- and to explore that extraordinary relationship that exists between mothers and daughters everywhere.

My mother, nee Vera Bonvicini, was born in Venice, Italy, in 1923 (she would kill me for letting that out -- but she doesn't do computers!!). I have a feeling she was a bit of a rebel, though she conveniently claims to have forgotten her youth so her past is shrouded in mystery! What I do know is that she met my father during World War II when his British regiment was stationed in Venice, having fought its way up the Italian peninsula. Against her parents' wishes, she booked a train to London and set off on her first overseas adventure, aged 23, to marry a man she hardly knew and whose language she didn't speak. That took some guts.

My two brothers and I grew up bilingual, which was perhaps the greatest gift my mother could give us, but it also set us apart from our peers. When we spent our summers in Italy, we were the 'inglesini', the little English kids. When we got back home to London, the pale English kids wanted to know why our skin had gone brown. But the memory that solidified my difference to my schoolmates was the time I threw up my lunch in the pick-up line, and the entire class crowded round to look at the undigested bow-tie pasta on the floor. "What is it?", they all cried. Even the teacher had no idea.

They say the apple never falls far from the tree, so guess what? I was a pretty rebellious teen, left home for university and never went back. During that period my parents divorced, so there wasn't anywhere to go back to anyway, but those were the days, at least in England, when young people shipped out and made their own lives. I think my mother had a tough time with my uber-independence (sorry, can figure out how to do the umlaut..) and we drifted apart. I lived in Italy for a few years and then moved to the USA and letter-writing was never my forte.

Now that I'm a mother of four fabulous kids who are about the age I was when I left home for good, I wonder how much pain I caused my mother by upping and leaving. I would be devastated if my children disappeared from my life. Just the thought makes my toes curl.

As often happens in mother/daughter scenarios, my mother came back into my life when I had my own children. For some reason, the relationship seemed a lot easier. My mother was thrilled to be involved with her grandbabies and she was there for every birth. In 1993, she decided to be an immigrant again, and she moved to the USA so that she could be closer to us all. She's an interesting character, fiercely independent and still fascinated by the world and what is going on around her. For the last 25 years, she has spent her winters in India, undertaking the long journey for the pleasure of walking barefoot along the beaches of Goa with a bunch of total nutters from Italy who meet there every year. I hope I have her energy when I'm her age!!

I'm quite surprised at how well my mother is dealing with my cancer. She looks at my bald head and smiles. "Sei bella come sempre". I remind her of what I looked like when I was a baby!! Here's a shot of me with my dad, aged 4 months. Fewer wrinkles, but I guess I look pretty much the same?

A total mystery

You're probably all sick to death of me rabbiting on about my hair, but something major is bothering me and I need to talk it through.

OK, so recapping what we all know from my previous posts ........ after the second chemo treatment, your hair falls out. From your head as well as from all other body parts. Eyelashes seems to be a question mark, but everything else goes. Hard fact supposedly.

Since this, added to the chemo, is a fairly catastrophic event, most people prepare for it by cutting their hair short, getting wigs, buying fancy hats and scarves, and shaving their head. That's what I did. You can see the result in the photo of me with my son, Sebastian.

So I had my second chemo treatment and waited for the stubble to rub off my head. To be frank, I was really looking forward to it coming out because let me tell you-- there is one major drawback to having a shaved head. The top of your head feels like it's coated in the hook side of a Velcro pad. Every time you put on a T-shirt or sweater, your neck jerks back as the 'hooks' catch in the fabric and it's not that easy prying your clothes off your head. It is really very, very irritating.

You'd also be surprised at how cold your head gets with no hair -- I had no idea it would be so drastic. I even had to wear a beanie in bed on chilly nights, which for some reason made me think of Charles Dickens and the Victorians, when men wore pointed nightcaps and ladies covered their heads in frilly-edged bonnets.

Another bizarre thing kept happening when I was newly shaved -- I kept whacking my head against everything, not something I normally do and I just couldn't figure it. I came to the conclusion that our hair must be like cat's whiskers --if we brush against something with our hair, it sends a signal to the brain, "Watch out! Too close!! Step back!!!". I've learned to compensate, but it was very odd.

So now we come to the conundrum. This morning, I had my FOURTH chemo treatment and my stubble is still there!! Why?! Without getting graphic, I'll share with you that nothing much has happened in the other hair departments either. I don't get it. Dr. Z, Mary at the Smilow Breast Center, the internet and my friends L and S were all quite adamant that I'd lose my hair between treatments two and three.

I keep rubbing my head (feels quite nice if you go with the 'grain') and can feel a couple of slightly smoother spots on top of my head, but I can't see them. However hard you try, it's next to impossible to see the top of your own head, especially if you're wearing progressive lenses. Maybe it's just coming out really slowly? Maybe the chemo isn't working (though Dr. Z says it is)? Or maybe my hair is just so strong that it's refusing to go down without a fight.

That's my mystery. I just don't know.

Backtracking.....to the haircuts!

One of the givens of the type of chemo I'm getting is that after your second dose, BANG! the hair falls out. It's practically the first thing Dr. Z told me. Mary, who runs the Smilow Breast Cancer Center, said the same thing. So did Nikki, the lady who organizes a wig for you (if you want it, which I didn't...... I'm going commando!! WooHoo!!). It tells you on-line. Second treatment, good-bye hair.

So over the space of a month, I had my hair cut three times, by my daughters, none of whom have much experience in the tonsorial department. Francesca, daughter #3, got to go first, deftly wielding the scissors to give my overgrown mop its first trim. Hmm.....not sure about that central part, but well done, darling!

Dimity, one of my twins, who had just rolled out of bed, was up next and she angled and snipped her way to what turned out to be quite a decent haircut. In fact, I got a lot of compliments from people who had no idea that a total novice had been hacking away at my hair!

The reason I wanted it all cut off ahead of time was because I'd had the fear of god instilled in me by all the warnings of the Nuclear Hair Fallout. Much better to be proactive, I figured, and chop it all off. After all, it's one thing to choose to cut your hair and quite another to find in a pile on your pillow or clogging up the shower! I mean -- can you imagine?!

Emma, the other twin, finally got her turn a couple of weeks later, just before the second chemo, and she gave me an interesting spiky look that we all quite liked. One of the things about my hair, apart from the fact that it's totally unruly, is that is unbelievably thick. Also, the scissors seemed to be getting rather blunt, so poor old Emma had a tough time. But I think this looks pretty cool!

Comfort food

Wobbly tummies aren't easy to feed and trying to come up with nourishing food that sits well is turning into a major preoccupation. After my first bout of chemo, I overdosed on chicken soup, so the second time around I tried for a little variety in the comfort food department.

I think most of us have foods we associate with feeling icky, ingrained in us from when we were children. Take the BRAT diet. Pretty much universal: we had it in England and in Italy, and then I came across it here when my kids were little. BRAT, of course, stands for Banana, Rice, Apple Sauce and Toast....... nice bland foods that keep you going when all you really want to do is curl up and die!

Comfort food comes in interesting forms, depending on where you're from. Take Marmite. You've probably never heard of it, but ask any Brit and they'll tell you they were brought up on the stuff and if you were sick, you ate Marmite soldiers. Marmite comes in a black jar with a cheery yellow and red label. You can find it in the supermarkets over here, though I expect sales are limited to ex-pat Brits. Open up the jar and have a sniff......hmmm. Just the thought makes my mouth water. Smells like concentrated bouillon. It's actually all vegetarian, basically concentrated B vitamins, so really, really good for you.


To make Marmite soldiers, you toast and butter a slice of bread and then spread the Marmite VERY thinly. It even says "Spread thinly" on the label. It's pretty salty. Cut the toast into four soldiers and you have a fantastic, nutritious snack that's easy on the tum. Try it, though I warn you, it's an acquired taste. Once you're feeling better, you might try cheese and Marmite sandwiches, a staple of the British sandwich repetoire. Two slices of buttered bread, smear of Marmite on one piece of bread, add a slice of Cheddar or any other hard cheese and enjoy! Pickled onion on the side would be good..... but I'm getting ahead of myself. Pickled onions aren't on my horizon for a while.

Soft boiled eggs are another classic nursery food that's helping me keep my protein intake up. If you want to get creative, you can combine the egg with the Marmite soldiers, that way you don't need to salt the egg!

I must say that these days I find myself standing in front of the open refrigerator, sounding like my kids. "There's nothing to eat in this house!" So yesterday, I was gazing blankly into the fridge when a container of freshly cooked chickpeas and an avocado caught my eye. Oh my..... I whipped up a concoction that I just have to share with you.

1 cup of cooked chickpeas
1 ripe avocado
1 lemon, juiced
1 tsp salt
1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 cup water
Tabasco to taste

Put the whole lot into the blender and whiz until smooth. Add more water or olive oil if you need it. I buy dried chickpeas and cook them in the pressure cooker. You don't need to soak them, just rinse and make sure there are no stones hiding among them. They'll cook in about 30 mins. If you don't have a pressure cooker, soak overnight and boil the next morning. Save some of the cooking water to use in the recipe.

We ate this with chips, then we added some of my home-made wine vinegar and used it as a salad dressing, and finally I have to admit that I polished off what was left with a spoon. Delish!

Time for a grumble

I think I've been a pretty good sport about this cancer gig....... so I think I'm entitled to a bit of a grumble . If I had to put myself into a category, I'd say I'm one of those people who takes pretty good care of themselves. I'm not overly obsessed with my health, just mindful of what needs to be done to keep well.

Growing up in post WWII London, we children were all trotted down to the community clinic for weekly doses of cod liver oil, concentrated O.J. and, to our total mortification, ten minutes standing in our undies under ultraviolet lights, wearing goggles sealed to our eyes with Vaseline. You spent the rest of the day squinting through smeary eyeballs. I suppose this was all good stuff as none of us developed Ricketts, but we dreaded it. And then of course we walked everywhere. Everyone walked. There was a bus, but if you didn't ride the bus, then you'd have sixpence to buy a little bag of pear drops from the sweet shop! A mile to the train, a mile and a half at the other end to school. Lots of unplanned exercise.

My mother, being from Italy, where even during the war there was no shortage of decent food, had a tough time coming to grips with the English diet. She became an expert at ferreting out food she recognized. Olive oil, in tiny bottles, came from the chemist shop. Spaghetti came in two foot lengths wrapped in blue greaseproof paper. If she found it, she'd stock up. When my grandparents visited from Venice, after 26 hours on a train, it was like birthdays, Christmas and Easter rolled into one. Their cases were jammed with salami, prosciutto, olives, grissini, wine vinegar, fragrant cheese - even the stale bread tasted fantastic. We feasted!

My dad had a big vegetable garden, so that's where my brothers and I spent our weekends. We were expected to plant, weed, and harvest our crops. We had apple and plum trees, gooseberry bushes, and vast quantities of greens. My grandmother canned the apples and made pies. We made jam with the strawberries. I was the envy of the school lunch crowd with my salads and roast chicken, while the other girls filled up on fried Spam, gelatinous stews and lumpy custards. Ugh.

So healthy eating and regular exercise have always been part of my lifestyle. Regular medical and dental tune-ups were added in as I got older. I really took very, very good care of myself. Which leads me to last February and my annual date for the mammogram.

The day I walked into the Breast Center I was just about as fit as I could be. Great diet, heavy on vegetables, grass-fed beef, lots of fish, whole grains and plenty of fruit. Tons of exercise...... if you've ever trying rowing you'll know exactly what I mean. Yes, I had a little stress on the side, but the exercise helped neutralize that. So healthwise, I was pretty much a straight A.

Then suddenly, despite my high health grades, they told me I had a serious illness. How could this possibly be? I didn't feel ill at all. It was really difficult. I've always been pretty good at listening to my body for clues. If I'm tired, I slow down. If I crave red meat, I must need iron. If I'm feeling antsy, I need to work out. My body hadn't sent out any signals about this cancer thing. Not that I could remember, anyway. I'd certainly lost a few pounds the previous year, but that seemed to be exercise related. Or maybe not. Interesting thought.....I'll have to ponder that one.

So now that I'm under treatment to make the cancer go away, I've gone from being a perfectly fit and healthy person, to a shadow of myself, feeling pretty ghastly most of the time. The chemo really knocks you down. The best way to describe it is...... you feel pregnant. Vaguely nauseous, very tired, certain smells bother you and your taste buds are screwed up.

It's ironic. Take a fit and healthy person and make them feel awful. Then they'll get better. Quite frankly, this sounds like a bunch of codswallop to me, but, hey, I'm giving it a shot!

I've turned into a Tibetan monk....

Of course, we didn't have the best equipment to shave my head and Peter was a little nervous, but he stepped up to the plate and did a sterling job, first with the scissors and then with the buzzer and finally with an old electric razor we found in the drawer. It took a ages. My hair, what was left of it after the girls had been at it, was really thick. And it was a very strange color!

Of all the women I know, I think there may be only a handful who have not fiddled with the color of their hair. Look at the rows and rows of boxes of hair dye in the drugstores. Count the hair salons on every corner. Like most Anglo-Saxons I started life as a tow head, a color that usually morphs into dirty blond and gets highlighted by the sun in summer. As I got older, it got darker so I joined the highlighting set and became a slave to my colorist. Once you start down the coloring your hair path, you are locked in. No turning natural. Way too scary! But now I had no choice.

It was funny. It'd just been about to book a haircut and color when I found out about my cancer, so knowing I'd lose my hair saved me a bundle! But the really bizarre thing was discovering that my roots, tucked away in my curly hair, were now black! I couldn't believe it. How can hair change from fluffy white to bristly black? Is it genetically programed? If anyone has an answer to that one, I'd love to hear it. And of course, I've got a few months to wonder what color it will be when it grows back! I'm told it comes in curly, so that should be interesting.

I'd had my back to the mirror so it was a bit of shock when I finally saw myself. My first thought was "Yes, I really am a cancer patient". It didn't look like me at all - until I smiled. I took a while to study myself. It's amazing how hair, or lack of it, defines us and our personality. Without my hair, I feel exactly the same as I did before. But how will others react to this new look? Will people recognize me? I look just like a Tibetan monk.

Francesca came home from work and I warned her not to be scared at the way I looked. She hugged me. "You look beautiful, mamma".

Ode to my hair...

April 28, 2010
I've spent an awful lot of time thinking about my hair recently. Like most women, my relationship with my hair has been pretty tense at times. Sometimes you love it, mostly you hate it. We have a constant dialog with it. "Why can't it be thicker/thinner/straighter/curlier/longer/shorter". "Just LOOK at this haircut - now what am I going to do!!" "ARGGH! that's not the color I wanted? You want how much to fix it?!" Hair is never easy.

It took me the better part of thirty years to come to terms with my hair. Things went wrong right from the get-go. My mother, who is from Venice, is convinced that she has Chinese ancestors courtesy of Marco Polo, because her hair is dead straight. This was a great source of dismay to my grandmother (the straight hair bit, not the Chinese ancestors - I don't think she knew about them) so when I was born, bald as a coot, she spent hours studying my scalp hoping for curls. My hair came in in tight knots, like my father's. My mother, brought up on the old system of a 100 brush strokes a day, hadn't the faintest idea of what to do with my tangle, and scissors to snip out knots became her tool of choice.

Being a teenager in the 60s, in the Marianne Faithful days when everyone, but everyone, had dead straight, shiny hair was tough. If you've never heard of Marianne Faithful, try to imagine a time when the only hair 'product' was hairspray in an aerosol can. No gels, no mousses, no conditioners, no relaxers, no flat irons or diffusers - just hairspray. Those of us with curly hair tried everything. We ironed it. We went to bed with scotch tape on our bangs to keep them flat. Tortured ourselves by sleeping in giant rollers. It worked - until you stepped outdoors into the never-ending English drizzle, and the perfect coiffe blew up into a frizzled fluff ball. It was mortifying.

And then came the musical, Hair! What a show. It took London by storm. All we frizzy heads came out of the woodwork, grew our hair and it didn't matter what it looked like, just as long as it was long and messy and parted down the middle. Parents hated it but who cared! Those were the days!!

As the years went by, my hair and I made peace. I grew it long. I cut it short. I came to love it as a reflection of my personality. When I learned that I would need chemo to treat my breast cancer, losing my hair was the first thing that popped to mind. Not in a scary way. More curious than anything. Just wondering if I'd look like I did in my baby pictures. Over the last two weeks I've let my three daughters take turns at cutting my hair. They did a great job and it was an interesting mother/daughter experience. It's good to tuck those away.

As I write, my hair is starting to fall out. Once you've had that second chemo infusion, the hair is done. Peter, my husband, is going to shave it off! Help!!

Radio silence......!

I simply cannot believe it's been a week since my last post. Why does time go by faster the older and slower we get? It makes no sense at all. When I was a kid, time went by with snail-like dullness. Birthdays and Christmases took an eternity to come. School days never seemed to end. And summer holidays....well, sometimes you'd think they would never, ever come. As I get older, I seem to be losing hours from my allotted quota of 24/7. Everything happens in the Fast Forward mode. I've got to find the Pause button.

Anyway, so there's another week vanished in a flash. To be honest, the first couple of days after the chemo were a bit foggy, probably all those darned pills. But all in all, it really wasn't all that bad. I think most people (me included) have the idea, tucked away in those dark corners where we store the unpalatable facts of life..... those things we hope that we, personally, will never have to deal with.... that chemotherapy is in the same league as illegal torture, or at the least akin to invasive dental work with no anesthesia. It was a pleasant surprise to learn otherwise.

The only problem I had was that I lost 3 lbs in a week. I know. That's an obnoxious admission. But my appetite simply took a hike and finding something that tickled my taste buds was a challenge. I finally settled on a steady diet of chicken soup, oatmeal and hot tea with sugar and lemon.

The wonderful Mary, who runs the breast cancer center, had warned me about the food thing. "Make sure you don't just eat one thing, or you'll never eat it again", she said, citing mashed potatoes, which seems to be a favorite for chemo patients. "Don't worry," I assured her, "If there's one thing I don't like it's mashed spuds." But I could see where she was going with this, and I tried really hard not to eat the chicken soup at every meal.

The other main instruction was to drink gallons of water. Toxins from the chemo can build up in the kidneys, so it's important to keep one's plumbing in good working order. I drank and drank. It reminded me of hydrating before a regatta. The more you drink the day before a race, the better your endurance. I quite liked this..... I started to feel that I was in training. Training to win against this invisible and uninvited marauder in my body. I'm pretty sure I'm going to win a medal!

I was pumped!!

April 13, 2010
I learned later, that the reason I was so energetic after my first chemo dose was that I was pumped on steroids!! I certainly felt like the energizer bunny, leading the way through the new vegetable garden in my little backyard, shoveling a blend of sphagnum moss, vermiculite and compost into the raised beds Francesca had built for me. My head was spinning, but I was relentless. The beds had to be prepared. And now!

Emma and I sat down for dinner and I fell on my food -- positively starving! I had seconds!! The dinner, courtesy of one of my MRC rower friends, D, was super-delicious! I figured it would be a good idea to get to bed early, given all the excitement, so I gathered my pharmacopoeia and checked what I had to take. The main side effect of chemo is severe gastric distress, so you have to stock up on an arsenal of pills to keep the stomach under control, at all times!

Dr Z. was absolutely adamant that anyone on chemo has the right to turn into a sissy and take the pills. "This isn't the time to tough it out" he kept repeating. "We don't want you turning into a porcelain princess!" " A what?" Visions of Lladro' angels popped into my head. I hadn't a clue what he was talking about. "You know", he bellowed, "A toilet hugger!"

I'd prepared a cheat sheet to keep all the meds organized and tucked it into a large box with all the bottles. Since no one I know can read the labels even with their glasses on, I'd taken the precaution of labeling everying in large felt-tip lettering. First up: Compazine. I looked it up. "A potent anti-psychotic used to treat schizophrenics and manic depressives." Hang on, chaps, that's not what I've got! Oh wait, also used as an anti-emetic (read: vomiting) for chemotherapy patients. Good grief! This is powerful stuff. I think it was in the drip bags at the hospital. No wonder I was so dizzy. I must have been having a reverse psychotic moment!

So my instructions were simple........ the minute you even suspect you might feel nauseous, take a Compazine. Check! If in 10 minutes you still think you might possibly feel sick, take a Zofran (this second wonder drug gives you a headache and bungs you up - positively marvelous!). Check! If you get a headache, take Tylenol. Check! If you even remotely think you're still ever-so-slightly queasy, take an Ativan, another anti-psychotic used to treat anxiety.

I'll tell you something, just the thought of all these pills rattling around inside me, on top of all the drugs that had been piped into me earlier was making me feeling a little anxious. I set them neatly in a row on the bedside table, in order, and tried to think. It wasn't easy. My head was still swimming and as I lay down I heard my stomach tell me quite clearly that I should take the pills. I obeyed.

Today's the day!!

Monday 12, 2010
I know this sounds like an outrageous thing to say, but I was actually looking forward to starting chemo, just to get going and have the ordeal be over!

So, with Peter off on another business trip to Europe, Emma and I set off for the hospital looking as if we were going on a trip of our own. I had my special bag with the Feel Good Blanket and my FP Designs workbag with the Sunday paper, the Monday paper and my laptop. Emma had her backback and laptop. What was I thinking?! There wasn't a second to even look in my work bag.

First off : finger stick, weigh-in and blood pressure. Next: loooooong wait for a chair in the infusion room which was a busy spot that day. The waiting room faces a lovely outdoor patio (I'm going to offer to spruce up their pots next time I'm there!) and has doors from two corridors and another opening into the infusion room. The place is buzzing, cheerful and not the gloomy space you might think the waiting room to a chemotherapy treatment center might be. My friend Peggy, who is having radiation, came by for a long chat before disappearing off for her treatment, then came back to chat some more.

Francesca, daughter #3, has decided that she's going to mother me through this, which is lovely, and so she came over to check on me. I showed her around and she met all my team and saw that I was in good hands!

FINALLY, a chair became available and I was settled in, reclined, covered in the Feel Good Blanket, much admired by everyone, patients and nurses alike! Val the vein nurse removed the rest of the glue still stuck to my port and got ready to plug me in. "I'm going to count to three and you take a deep breath" Crunch into the port. Easy! I'll get used to it. There was a whole bunch of bags ready to drip in. These days they are determined to prevent chemo patients from suffering from nausea or vomiting, so you get a dose of zantac for the stomach, something to prevent nausea and a steroid. When that had dripped in and made my head spin, Val came back with two syringes of Adriamycin, a bright red liquid, which she shot into my port line, and then a syringe of Cytoxan, which went into my saline bag to drip slowly. The whole thing took about 2 hours.

The recliners all face the nurses station in the center of the room, so you can pretty much see everyone. It is a totally non-threatening place. Some people nap, others chat with friends, eat lunch, talk to each other. It's quite the party place. If you're hungry, there are bagels and cookies. I managed most of the crossword, Emma worked on the marketing plan for her non-profit, Peaks over Poverty, and the time passed quickly. I was unplugged and good to go!

In fact, when we got home, I was so good to go that we worked in the garden for a couple of hours! Did feel really dizzy, though. Let's see what happens later!

The blanket....

After the skin glue fiasco, the niggly headache that had been edging forward since I'd had the port installed, got worse and worse. My ears hurt and I was covered in a rash. I felt awful but since it was Friday morning, my first chemo day, I dutifully showed up to meet Dr Z., who immediately sent me back to Radiology to have the port checked. Nothing wrong with it at all. "You must be allergic to the dressing", they said, parroting back to me what I had just told them. I do wonder about some of these doctors. Common Sense 101 can't be on the curriculum at med school.

One of the downsides of chemo is that it knocks you down. Your white blood count drops so you can't fight infections so easily. If you're even slightly sick, you can't get the chemo. So, yours truly was packed off home with a prescription for antibiotics and told to report back on Monday. Aye, Aye, Sir!

As we went past the cancer center, I spotted by friend S zigzagging furtively down the corridor. It was a bit baffling to see her there, so I hailed her loudly: "What ho, young S, what are you up to?" Apparently she was there on the Q.T., dispatched by the United Rowers of Norwalk, to deliver the most fantastical, amazing gift which was going to wrap me in everyone's love while I was infused with the chemo potion.

Remember those Verizon TV ads where the mafia guy was down at the river bank and something bad was going down? Then the camera panned back and there was a phalanx of Verizon people in wing formation covering the dude's back? That, folks, is how I feel. I'm the point person, on the line, maximum danger zone, persistent bass line setting the tone -- but I have this huge army covering my back. There is NO WAY I can't get out of this ordeal!

The blanket will be my secret weapon, my security blanket. It is a testament to how versatile women can be. Here you have a body of dedicated athletes, muscles and hours of cardio endurance, and they can also knit, sew and crochet. Plus they're artists!! Here's my team with the blanket! How cool is this. It even has a pocket and a bunch of flowers on it and I love all the colors!

I tested the blanket's healing powers that afternoon by wrapping up in it to try to shift the headache. It lulled me deep into sleep....

Thank goodness for daughters!!

My daughters are amazing creatures, quite ready to rise to any challenge, and far, far braver than I. They have all bungee-jumped, which I think has to be the most absurd invention ever, two off a bridge into a ravine in Costa Rica and one off a crane in Russia. Nuts, all three of them. Two of them have jumped out of a plane. If you're on a hike in the mountains and happen to pass a vertical rock face, they'll all be half way up like a bunch of monkeys before you realize they're no longer on the path with you. They've traveled to distant lands on shoestring budgets, and made it back safely. No fear!

So when I suggested they practice the simple - and safe - art of hair cutting on me, I was surprised when they didn't jump at the chance to give me an interesting hairdo. "Are you sure?" "Suppose I mess up?" "Where do I start". I pointed out that it didn't matter how awful it looked since it was all getting buzzed off soon. I did put my foot down at the suggestion of a mohawk, however.

You don't always lose your hair with chemo but with the sort of drugs I'm getting, mine will be leaving me after the second treatment. Apparently, it starts to thin out and then one day you wake up and it's all on your pillow! So in order to circumvent a grieving process over my hair, the best solution seemed to be to take action ahead of time.

We set up a salon in the kitchen and Francesca went first, shaping the mess my hair had grown into. Dimity had a go next, and gave me a really nice cut which I'll keep for a week. It was lovely having the girls working together to figure out how to create lines and make it even.

So, even though the circumstances in which I let them near my head with a pair of scissors was a little unusual, I'm looking at it as another of life's lessons I've passed onto my girls!

The Beanie Extravaganza

Before I confuse you, dear readers, as is often the case when one comes across my mother and me in person, this is one of her daughters - Emma.

When I stepped off the plane from a two-year stint in Ecuador, the first thing I noticed was my mother's haircut. We had both traded our lanky locks for an identical stylish bob. A year later, we've managed to maintain the same hairdos, which has caused much confusion in public. With our ravishingly trendy spectacles, the resemblance is even more disconcerting:

Delivering Millstone Farm lettuce to the Village Market (kingdom of the "stop-and-chat")
- "Oh Fenella! What boat are you in for the Sunday regatta? Golly I just..."
- Emma turns around.
- Short gasp. "Oh my!"
I suppose we both trot around in gardening clothes sometimes.

Sipping a fine red at Barcelona with a spread of tapas.
- "Emma darling, I had no idea you were already back from..."
- Fenella turns around.
- Short gasp. "Oh my! Well I never..."
Yes, an affection for wine might also course through the Pearson-Bonvicini line.

So you can imagine how disappointed I was to find that I would be losing my third identity (mind you, I have a real twin, Dimity) to the fall-out of chemotherapy. Immediately I volunteered to shave my head. After all, I wasn't brave enough to do it after resigning to my mother's pleas to chop off my dreadlocks, so this was a chance for redemption!

Since I made my offer, I've questioned whether my mother's spirits would be lifted, entertained, or saddened by her daughter's shiny skull, which next to hers is the size of a mung bean (hers being a lima bean of course). So I've deferred and instead joined Francesca and Dimity's hair-cutting, beanie-fitting sisterhood.

Today, Francesca and Dimity wielded my mother's precious hairdressing scissors, which she's used on us for years. No one, except my mother, who won't trust any of her children to return the favor, has paid more than $100 total for hair styling in his or her life. This story is really my mother's, so I'll leave the rest to her with a wee hint: she looks fabulous!

What I'm really getting down to here is a most intriguing question: How can a mother with such glamor and style possibly fall to the bottom of the ranks when it comes to Cancer beanies? Honestly! Who picks a doo-rag with gaudy roses and thorns over the streaking flames! Um, streaking flames!! And classic red bandanas with a mock mullet or tail are completely out! (She's obviously not reading Vogue these days). I won't even get into this white spot-of-a-thing with a little red cuff that sits on top of her head and turns her ears forward so that she looks like a charming little elf.

All I can say is thank god she has good friends who crochet more appropriate colorful threads to compliment her lovely round noggin! The rest are being shipped back to oblivion tomorrow.

Mistake.... the torture continues

April 8, 2010
My first career was in the wine business and I did a lot of serious wine-tasting. I was even half way to becoming a Master of Wine, so I have highly developed olfactory powers.

As soon as I got back home and lay down to recuperate from the morning's excitement in Radiology, my nose started twitching. There was a smell I recognized but was too woozy to place. I dozed for a bit but the smell woke me up and this time I knew instantly what it was. Skin glue!! And I'm highly allergic to it. In fact, I was already starting to itch. Oh, for godsakes!

I rustled up my daughter Emma and we headed back to Radiology, stopping to say hello to Dr Z and all the friendly folks in the breast cancer center. B, the nurse, took a look at my red and itchy chest, tut-tutted to herself and immediately assembled copious amounts of scrubbing alcohol and new dressings. She ripped off my bandages and started scrubbing off the glue. I guess it was the only way to get rid of it.

I don't know what you guys do when you're sitting in the dentist's chair and things get a little ouchy, but a trick I've learned over the years is to channel the pain into my feet and then rotate them. I know, sounds weird, but it helps. Try it! It's less obvious that the white knuckle death grip on the armrests.

So while B. scrubbed away at my fresh wounds, from which all traces of local anesthetic had long vanished, I twirled my feet madly and tried to be brave. After all, my daughter was watching and mothers can't be wimps, right?

Emma and I have an interesting history of psychic connection. The first time was when she broke her collar bone playing soccer as a kid. She was carted off the field to the medical tent while I sprinted round to meet her. She was lying on a stretcher, ashen and sweating. Shock, they said. Something's broken. I held her hand and stroked her forehead. The color slowly started coming back into her face at the same time as I began to feel clammy and dizzy. We swapped places on the stretcher. It was the weirdest thing. I'd taken away her pain.

Today, it worked the other way. Emma held my hand, squeezed tight and then had to sit down, head between her knees. But I felt much better!! Thanks, Em!!

The torture is almost over! Let chemo begin!!

April 8, 2010
Yesterday was a total low point and I'm glad today is another day. For some reason, Val the vein nurse, had deemed my veins too weak and puny to handle the chemo potion (or do I mean poison?). Apparently, the stuff is so toxic that if it leaks out of the vein into surrounding tissue it can cause quite a problem. That sounded nasty. The better option, Val explained, was to have a port installed.

Given that I function on a 'need to know' basis, I hadn't really given this port business too much mind, busy as I was having my bones scanned and innards scoped, blood examined and teeth cleaned, not to mention accumulating a spectacular collection of pills. Plus I knew I was getting that nice twilight medicine again. How unpleasant could this be? To be fair, my friend S had warned me that this wasn't your typical walk in the park and that I'd be sore, so I had the Tylenol ready and felt prepared for one last ordeal before the chemo began.

If I tell you that the GI lab's twilight anesthesia works and the Radiology lab's twilight doesn't, then I've told you the whole story!

First, though, let me explain about the port. It's a contraption about the size and shape of a piece of Toblerone and it sits under the skin on your chest. There's a small tube connected to it that gets tunneled under the skin and up to the neck where it's inserted somehow into a huge vein, the vena cava. The surface of the port immediately under the skin is a membrane and if they need blood they insert a needle and suck it out. If they need to flood you with chemo drugs they insert an IV contraption and the drugs drip into you through the port. Actually, quite clever.

Surprisingly, it's the radiologists that do this procedure, though general surgeons do it too. I think they use ultrasound to locate your veins so that's why you're in the Radiology lab. It's the usual prep routine, strip to the waist, get on the table, little pinch for the IV and then you drift off while they do their thing. Usually you wake up when they've finished and they give you breakfast.

I woke up to tugging and pushing on my chest and feeling as if someone was strangling me. I must have said something - and I hope it was rude! - and I guess they pumped more sleepy medicine. But that was a highly unpleasant experience which I do not care to repeat - ever!