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.