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".
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
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!!
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!!
Friday, April 23, 2010
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!
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!
Friday, April 16, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, April 12, 2010
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!
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!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
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....
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!
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:
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.
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")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!
- "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.
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.
Friday, April 9, 2010
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!!
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!!
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
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!
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!
We're back on the water....!
As soon as the temperature rises over 40°F, everyone at the boat house gears up to go out on the river. A long winter of weight lifting, low cardio erg (rowing machine) days, threshold erg days, more weight lifting and back to the erg has got boring. Neon green jackets, hats and pogies appear again and by 7am, rowers are in a pack around the coach waiting for boat assignments. It's too cold for singles - the water temperature is still really low and flipping into the water is more likely in a single scull - so it's doubles and quads.
I'd been training regularly all winter, at least five days a week, and was eager to get back in a boat. The regattas were already listed in my calendar, including the Fisa Masters Worlds regatta which would be in Canada this year, and easy for us to get to. Being an international competition, this annual regatta moves around, like the Olympics, so getting to places like Latvia or Austria isn't easy.
My first low point when I learned about the cancer and the length of the treatment, was that I'd miss the rowing season. I couldn't believe it, after all the hard work this winter! I was really, really angry.........and sad. Sometimes, when faced with traumatic events, we cling to the routines in our life that make sense. Rowing at the crack of dawn, chatting to my friends and complaining about the coffee at our local diner was what I did every morning. This cancer thing was going to impact my schedule in a huge way, especially since I'd be able to see everyone out on the river, hear the coaches yelling from their launch, which I watched from my kitchen window.
People think of grief as something you only feel when a loved one dies, but I think we go through the same stages of grieving when something major happens and changes our life as we knew it. When I was 30 I had knee surgery and was told I'd never be able to run or jump again. I remember feeling totally miserable. Life would never be the same. Slowly, I got used to the new knee - and life resumed. I think this breast cancer challenge will be the same. I hope so.
I'd been training regularly all winter, at least five days a week, and was eager to get back in a boat. The regattas were already listed in my calendar, including the Fisa Masters Worlds regatta which would be in Canada this year, and easy for us to get to. Being an international competition, this annual regatta moves around, like the Olympics, so getting to places like Latvia or Austria isn't easy.
My first low point when I learned about the cancer and the length of the treatment, was that I'd miss the rowing season. I couldn't believe it, after all the hard work this winter! I was really, really angry.........and sad. Sometimes, when faced with traumatic events, we cling to the routines in our life that make sense. Rowing at the crack of dawn, chatting to my friends and complaining about the coffee at our local diner was what I did every morning. This cancer thing was going to impact my schedule in a huge way, especially since I'd be able to see everyone out on the river, hear the coaches yelling from their launch, which I watched from my kitchen window.
People think of grief as something you only feel when a loved one dies, but I think we go through the same stages of grieving when something major happens and changes our life as we knew it. When I was 30 I had knee surgery and was told I'd never be able to run or jump again. I remember feeling totally miserable. Life would never be the same. Slowly, I got used to the new knee - and life resumed. I think this breast cancer challenge will be the same. I hope so.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
The elephant...
Years ago I saw a series of photos in a magazine about a dying elephant in the African savanna. It was an old elephant, dying of natural causes, no hunting or horrible ivory harvesting involved. A large number of elephants of all ages, presumably the dying elephant's herd, appeared through the grasses and slowly gathered around it. They took turns going up to it and stroking it with their trunks. One elephant brought it some leaves to eat. Another brought a bunch of grass. A large male tried to mount it. The babies hung back behind their mothers, still part of the group. They tried everything to make it feel better. Eventually the elephant lay on its side and all the others gathered in a circle to keep it company as it died, surrounded by family and friends.
The elephants stayed with their friend throughout the night. The next day, they all slowly slipped away through the brush and grass.
The elephants stayed with their friend throughout the night. The next day, they all slowly slipped away through the brush and grass.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Our health care system could be improved! (understatement!!)
April 4, 2010
When this is all over, I want to change career and help President Obama get this new health care system organized. I'll do it for free!! I consider myself a fairly typical patient with a pretty serious illness. I won't go into health insurance issues because those are just too frustrating, let's just say I'm glad I have insurance, though I wish I didn't have a $500 copay for each and every ambulatory service.
In the last month I have spent hours and hours seeing doctors, getting stuck with needles and IVs, being put to sleep, woken up, prodded and tested. Each visit costs me money in two ways. Firstly I have a massive copay (on top of the massive monthly premium) and secondly, while I'm taking half and full days to have all these tests, I cannot work and, being self-employed, this is something of an issue. The bills are piling up.
Today was a good example of medical inefficiency. This was my gastro day, scoped from both ends to check that the lobular cell brigade hadn't marched south or north. I've had a colonoscopy before and it's not a huge deal. The prep, where you get to drink 2 liters of a foul tasting potion guaranteed to give you the runs, is the worst part. Once you get to the G.I. lab, they stick you with an IV and send you to la-la land, which is really nice. When you wake you up, they give you a cookie and off you wobble, propped up by your designated driver. The rest of the day you're in a fog.
The day after tomorrow I have to have the port put in. I'll go to the Radiology Dept, which is right next door to the G.I. lab, they'll stick an IV into me, send me to la-la land again, do their thing and there's another day in a fog.
Knowing that these two departments are right next door to each other, I did what I thought was a very clever thing and booked both procedures for the same day, figuring they could knock me out, put in the port, then wheel me next door to scope my innards, all on the same ticket. With more careful planning, I could have had the bone scan and echocardiogram on the same day too. One day in the hospital and it would all be over and done with.
But NO!! Not allowed. "Oh no, dear," said the lady in the bookings department. "Those are two different departments in the hospital." "But they're right next door to each other," I explained. "If I have them together then I only have one copay." I argued and argued. I called Dr Z. who thought I was quite right but this wasn't his call. Bottom line, there was no way to do all this on one day.
Now I've never been to the Mayo Clinic or the other fancy places where people go to have a full body work-up done. I suspect that these de-luxe tune-ups aren't covered by insurance but I'm pretty sure people don't spend more than a couple of days there having a whole slew of procedures, including most of what I've had done. So why couldn't I book procedures back to back? Does it all come down to insurance? No-one seemed to have an answer. The doctors didn't know, the booking people had their instructions, the billing department was just following orders. When the fog lifts, I think I'm going to do some more digging.
I do have some excellent news, though, and that is that all scopes and scans came back CLEAN. So no errant lobular scout cells in the bones or colon or upper G.I. Hallelujah!
When this is all over, I want to change career and help President Obama get this new health care system organized. I'll do it for free!! I consider myself a fairly typical patient with a pretty serious illness. I won't go into health insurance issues because those are just too frustrating, let's just say I'm glad I have insurance, though I wish I didn't have a $500 copay for each and every ambulatory service.
In the last month I have spent hours and hours seeing doctors, getting stuck with needles and IVs, being put to sleep, woken up, prodded and tested. Each visit costs me money in two ways. Firstly I have a massive copay (on top of the massive monthly premium) and secondly, while I'm taking half and full days to have all these tests, I cannot work and, being self-employed, this is something of an issue. The bills are piling up.
Today was a good example of medical inefficiency. This was my gastro day, scoped from both ends to check that the lobular cell brigade hadn't marched south or north. I've had a colonoscopy before and it's not a huge deal. The prep, where you get to drink 2 liters of a foul tasting potion guaranteed to give you the runs, is the worst part. Once you get to the G.I. lab, they stick you with an IV and send you to la-la land, which is really nice. When you wake you up, they give you a cookie and off you wobble, propped up by your designated driver. The rest of the day you're in a fog.
The day after tomorrow I have to have the port put in. I'll go to the Radiology Dept, which is right next door to the G.I. lab, they'll stick an IV into me, send me to la-la land again, do their thing and there's another day in a fog.
Knowing that these two departments are right next door to each other, I did what I thought was a very clever thing and booked both procedures for the same day, figuring they could knock me out, put in the port, then wheel me next door to scope my innards, all on the same ticket. With more careful planning, I could have had the bone scan and echocardiogram on the same day too. One day in the hospital and it would all be over and done with.
But NO!! Not allowed. "Oh no, dear," said the lady in the bookings department. "Those are two different departments in the hospital." "But they're right next door to each other," I explained. "If I have them together then I only have one copay." I argued and argued. I called Dr Z. who thought I was quite right but this wasn't his call. Bottom line, there was no way to do all this on one day.
Now I've never been to the Mayo Clinic or the other fancy places where people go to have a full body work-up done. I suspect that these de-luxe tune-ups aren't covered by insurance but I'm pretty sure people don't spend more than a couple of days there having a whole slew of procedures, including most of what I've had done. So why couldn't I book procedures back to back? Does it all come down to insurance? No-one seemed to have an answer. The doctors didn't know, the booking people had their instructions, the billing department was just following orders. When the fog lifts, I think I'm going to do some more digging.
I do have some excellent news, though, and that is that all scopes and scans came back CLEAN. So no errant lobular scout cells in the bones or colon or upper G.I. Hallelujah!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The appointments and why I was having them
April 1, 2010
I had absolutely no time to dwell on what it meant to be living with cancer. I had appointments to keep to prepare for the battle with the marching lobular cells.
First up was the radiation oncologist, Dr Pathare, who explained everything about my cancer all over again and told me he'd see me after I'd finished the chemotherapy. You might think I was getting tired of hearing and talking about it constantly, but to be honest, I found that it was grounding me. The more I talked, the easier it was to accept that I had cancer. Especially when Dr Z and Dr P were just talking about the treatment of a disease. Cancer = Disease ergo Treatment = Cure. A perfect way of looking at it.
As we get older, it is sad that so many of us have lost friends to various forms of cancer. Two days ago, an Italian friend died after a battle with glioblastoma, a particularly deadly brain cancer for which there is no treatment. Peter's boss died of the same thing a couple of years ago. It's rare: 1 in 12,000. But breast cancer is in a different realm entirely. It's a disease and so can be cured. That is my take on the problem.
Val, the vein nurse, was next. She met me in the infusion room, a cozy place with recliners around the walls and a central station for magazines, food, and nurses. This is where I'll come for my chemo infusions. My veins have always worked just fine, but Val was of the opinion that they were too small for the chemo so I'd have to have a port put in. More on that later. Sounds ghastly!
On to the gastroenterologist to book an endoscopy to check throat and stomach (there's a gene connecting lobular carcinoma with stomach cancer... wouldn't you know it!) and a colonoscopy to check the other end. I hope they've improved the flavor of that disgusting stuff you have to drink.
Bone scans are done in the Nuclear Medicine department. No painful shots in the breast this time, just a quick jab in one of my perfectly good veins, then back later for a mid-afternoon nap in their imaging machine. I tried not to dwell on this particular appointment. This was the scariest because I knew exactly what the bone scan was all about. Dr Z wanted to check there was no cancer in my bones. However hard I tried not to worry, I couldn't.
The next day I had the echocardiogram..... like an ultrasound but of your heart. No big deal. The old ticker sounded just fine. But again, what was the point? Well..... chemo can damage the pumping action of the heart so they wanted to check that it was alright before we started. Fair enough.
The dentist was great, inspected and polished me up, and sent me off with special floride toothpastes to prevent tooth and gum decay. Apparently, chemo accelerates all sorts of processes in the body, such as plaque build-up and gum problems, and while you're having chemo you don't want to be seeing the dentist!
Last stop, second opinion at one of the big name New York City hospitals. It seemed like the right thing to do......second opinions sometimes come up with something different, but not in this case. Dr Vadhat, at Weill Cornell, was charming and explained everything to me once more, running the numbers for survival rates for the various treatment options, and the bottom line was that I need aggressive chemo, followed by radiation.
Wrong, one more stop. Back to Dr Z for a final face-to-face. He scribbled out a fistful of prescriptions to be filled stat and set me up for chemo next week......
I still simply cannot believe that I have cancer! It is just too extraordinary.
I had absolutely no time to dwell on what it meant to be living with cancer. I had appointments to keep to prepare for the battle with the marching lobular cells.
First up was the radiation oncologist, Dr Pathare, who explained everything about my cancer all over again and told me he'd see me after I'd finished the chemotherapy. You might think I was getting tired of hearing and talking about it constantly, but to be honest, I found that it was grounding me. The more I talked, the easier it was to accept that I had cancer. Especially when Dr Z and Dr P were just talking about the treatment of a disease. Cancer = Disease ergo Treatment = Cure. A perfect way of looking at it.
As we get older, it is sad that so many of us have lost friends to various forms of cancer. Two days ago, an Italian friend died after a battle with glioblastoma, a particularly deadly brain cancer for which there is no treatment. Peter's boss died of the same thing a couple of years ago. It's rare: 1 in 12,000. But breast cancer is in a different realm entirely. It's a disease and so can be cured. That is my take on the problem.
Val, the vein nurse, was next. She met me in the infusion room, a cozy place with recliners around the walls and a central station for magazines, food, and nurses. This is where I'll come for my chemo infusions. My veins have always worked just fine, but Val was of the opinion that they were too small for the chemo so I'd have to have a port put in. More on that later. Sounds ghastly!
On to the gastroenterologist to book an endoscopy to check throat and stomach (there's a gene connecting lobular carcinoma with stomach cancer... wouldn't you know it!) and a colonoscopy to check the other end. I hope they've improved the flavor of that disgusting stuff you have to drink.
Bone scans are done in the Nuclear Medicine department. No painful shots in the breast this time, just a quick jab in one of my perfectly good veins, then back later for a mid-afternoon nap in their imaging machine. I tried not to dwell on this particular appointment. This was the scariest because I knew exactly what the bone scan was all about. Dr Z wanted to check there was no cancer in my bones. However hard I tried not to worry, I couldn't.
The next day I had the echocardiogram..... like an ultrasound but of your heart. No big deal. The old ticker sounded just fine. But again, what was the point? Well..... chemo can damage the pumping action of the heart so they wanted to check that it was alright before we started. Fair enough.
The dentist was great, inspected and polished me up, and sent me off with special floride toothpastes to prevent tooth and gum decay. Apparently, chemo accelerates all sorts of processes in the body, such as plaque build-up and gum problems, and while you're having chemo you don't want to be seeing the dentist!
Last stop, second opinion at one of the big name New York City hospitals. It seemed like the right thing to do......second opinions sometimes come up with something different, but not in this case. Dr Vadhat, at Weill Cornell, was charming and explained everything to me once more, running the numbers for survival rates for the various treatment options, and the bottom line was that I need aggressive chemo, followed by radiation.
Wrong, one more stop. Back to Dr Z for a final face-to-face. He scribbled out a fistful of prescriptions to be filled stat and set me up for chemo next week......
I still simply cannot believe that I have cancer! It is just too extraordinary.
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