Radiation: One down, 16 to go.

Left work today at 4:15 to make my 4:30 appointment. My first of 17 radiation treatments. Everyone's been telling me it will make me tired, my skin might burn afterward, but that it's cake compared to chemo.

They called me back at 5:15-- I'd waited for 45 minutes. Unacceptable for someone trying to juggle these appointments and a work schedule. They assured me it was an atypical day. Let's hope so.

I changed into a hospital gown, put my clothes and purse in a locker. Olga the technician led me back to a large room, beautifully decorated with a mini-rain forest of tropical plants in the corner, teak benches, hardwood flooring. Olga eased me onto the table and bolted my head down with the mask they'd cast last week.

I was in the mask for more than a half hour. I don't think any description could explain how it feels. So foreign. So uncomfortable. And while I was bolted down, two noises filled the room. One, a high-pitched screech, the other, the sound of an old-fashioned pencil sharpener cranking a circle around my body.  I was handling it all pretty well until the last five minutes. I felt like I couldn't take it anymore. I began to move my feet. I started to cry. (I realized the crying was a bad idea; in the mask, there's no wiping of tears, and visibility is reduced to zero.) The minute the table slid away from the big white donut, I moved my arms and Olga rushed to take the mask off. She could see I was uncomfortable and said she has some ideas about how to make tomorrow a little easier on me. 

I walked back to the dressing room, and as I changed out of my hospital gown, I could see the impression lines the mask had made on my face, and I saw my chest was red.

It was a hard few minutes, but it wasn't chemo. And for that, I am thankful.

Workin' it.

This morning I woke up, showered, dressed. Was out the door by 8:15 to head to work. Work. My first day back since late June. Walking from the parking lot to the door, I was as nervous as a high school freshman on the first day of school. Could I keep up like I used to? Would I be lost on what is happening now? It had been four months. What all had I missed?

All those feelings left me as soon as I got to my desk. Lots of hugs and laughing, a pot-luck breakfast, flowers and plants and even a poster for my cube (thanks, Christina!). Such a warm welcome back.

In August I surprised even myself when I broke into a cry while telling Dr. Gaeke how much I missed being at work. Who does that? But when you love what you do and work with such genuinely wonderful people, it's hard to be away. (Even harder to be away while being poisoned within an inch of your life. But hey.)

Thanks to everyone at Cinmar who made today so special for me. It feels great to be back. Looking forward to seeing  you all again tomorrow! 

Cancer is GONE!

Still rocking the male-pattern

baldness look. Thinking of

going as George Costanza

or John McCain for Halloween.

Cancer is GONE! Heard from my radiation oncologist yesterday, and she says I don't have to have my tonsils out. She took my PET scan results to Children's Hospital, where they care for quite a few Hodgkins patients. She reviewed the scans with the doctors and the radiologists there. All clear, she says. All clear!

Feels good to write that. Feels even better to feel good. It's been more than three weeks since my last chemo treatment, and I'm back. My personality has returned. I'm laughing. I'm moving. My appointments are tapering off. Aside from the double-takes I get when I am out in public thanks to my cancer-crying bandana, things feel almost normal. In fact, I'll be back at work on Monday.

I begin my radiation treatments on Wednesday at noon. I'll be taking my lunch break each day to get zapped. Please pray side effects don't knock me out. I'll keep you posted. 

Appointments a-plenty.

It's been a while since my last post. Let's play catch up, shall we?

• Thursday, 9/25: Had my last chemo treatment. Yay!

• Had a week of feeling like crap. Boo. 

• Tuesday, 9/30: Met my radiation oncologist, Dr. Levine. Love her. She's energetic and friendly and smart and adorable. She says I'll need 17 radiation treatments.

• Friday, 10/3: Had a PET scan. The administrator was annoyingly chatty--it was 8 in the morning and I was still tired and he wouldn't shut up with the small talk--and the nurse missed my port the first time she tried to stick me. It was a bad start to my day.

• Friday, 10/3: After my PET scan my arm was hurting and my upper back felt tight, so I called Dr. Gaeke. She asked me to come on in to her office to be checked. I headed back to Middletown--from whence I'd just come. The nurse took my vitals and my heart rate was up to 154. I was tachycartic. Dr. Gaeke said my blood clot was probably freaking my heart out, so she sent me to the ER where I had a chest x-ray, and EKG, and an ultrasound of my arm. I was in the ER for 9 long hours (Mom and Dad kept me good company, though). The ER doctor said he thought a piece of my clot broke off and moved to my lung, but the treatment for that is to take Coumadin, which I'm already on, so they sent me home.

• Monday, 10/6: Had my first occupational therapy appointment to try to reduce swelling in my arm. Again, the blood clot. I had no idea the clot would be such a pain in the ass. Or arm. Anyway, they measured up and down my arm, measured each finger, around my elbow and shoulder. My left is a total of 10cm larger than my right. They'll massage to stimulate lymph drainage (which the therapist pronounces druh•NAJJ, like it's French or something) and give me special garments to wear to reduce the swelling. Let's hope my wedding rings fit again soon.

• Tuesday, 10/7: Had an early morning appointment with Dr. Schaublin, my neurologist, for the nerve damage my left thigh has incurred because of the chemo. The doc wanted me to get an EMG, a test that uses shocks and muscle-deep needle pokes to determine the extent of the nerve damage. Because I am currently anticoagulated thanks to the Coumadin, he couldn't perform the needle portion of the test. Thank God. But the adorably blond technician wheeled out her cattle prod-esque machine and proceeded to shock the hell out of me. It felt like I had electric collars banded around my leg and was trying out for the Rockettes while standing next to the charged fence. The thing zapped me inches off the table. The doc came in afterward with the results of the test and said everything looked normal, have a nice day. Well, how 'bout that.  The pain has been better since my last round of chemo, so we'll just wait and see if the pain goes away on its own. If not, back to his office for more tests. Ugh.

• Tuesday, 10/7: Left the Dr. Schaublin's office and went across town to Dr. Gaeke's to go over the results from the PET scan. All traces of cancer in my collarbone area and breastbone area are gone (YAY!), but one of my tonsils is suspicious. WHAT?! My right tonsil is twice the size of the other and, according to the scan, it metabolized the radioactive glucose I'd been injected with--something only cancer cells are supposed to do. Dr. Gaeke said I should seen an ENT right away to get an opinion about what to do: tonsils out? More chemo? Radiate?

• Wednesday, 10/8: Went to see Dr. Coors, the ENT who called me back in May to tell me I had Hodgkins. He's one of the best doctors I've ever had. Just love the guy. Anway, he stuck his fingers down my throat (gag), pulled on my tongue, massaged my neck, and said I should probably get my tonsils out just to be safe. HAVEN'T I SUFFERED ENOUGH!? Not like it's a big deal, but ugh. Just one more round of appointments, one more procedure, one more obstacle between present misery and future relief.

• Today, 10/9: Had another occupational therapy appointment. Very relaxing. Like a light massage with emphasis on the armpits. A little strange, but still, relaxing. I'm a fan of the lymph druh•NAJJ.

• Today, 10/9: Left the therapy appointment and headed back to West Chester to get my CT scan in preparation for radiation. Before the scan, the technician had me lie on a table, face up. She pulled a warm, malleable plastic screen from an electric skillet filled with hot water and pressed it to my forehead, nose, chin, cheeks to form the mask they'll use to bolt me to the table each time I go in for radiation. After the plastic cooled and hardened, she pulled the mask from my face and led me back to get the CT scan. The technician put the mask on me and bolted me down for the first time. I couldn't move a millimeter if I wanted to. Not uncomfortable, just constricting, controlling, confining. The technician went on to open my hospital gown and align my body with the lasers emitted from the machine. She and a few assitants marked my arms and chest with Sharpies and covered their marks with special tape. These marks will stay on my body for the duration of my radiation experience. For the next six weeks or so I'll have inch-long blue dashes on each arm, chest, and abdomen, marks they'll use to position me exactly as I was today to reduce the chance of radiation scattering to my teeth, throat, breasts. To reduce the chance of radiation eventually causing cancer in those sites.

WHEW.

I hadn't realized until spelling all this out just how many appointments I've had lately. Before this ordeal I'd go see a doctor for the occasional sore throat, the annual gyno appointment. Now I'm a bona fide professional patient. And more to come. Surgery for the tonsils. Surgery to get my port out. Radiation every day (weekends off) for the next month. Monthly trips to Dr. Gaeke's for the next year to have my blood drawn to monitor my clot. Appointments every three months to keep an eye on possible cancer recurrence. And on. And on. And on. For the rest of my life.

But no appointment tomorrow. So I will sleep in, maybe do my nails, go for a walk. Just enjoy  a day without doctors.

Love you all,

Tara

On the horizon.

Hair's almost completely gone.

Except around my temples.

Just weird.

Tomorrow's my last chemo treatment. The last time sitting in that green pleather recliner while vitality drains away. Last of the sleepless nights. Last of the pain-inducing Neulasta shots. Last of the hiccups and heartburn and tortured taste buds. 

It won't be fun, but I can do it. One more, Tara. Just one more.

 

Seven down.

Ahem. I'd like to present my interpretation of chemo on the cancer patient. I call it Rose Gets Injected with a Bunch of Toxic Crap and Turns All Nasty. Please, no comments about my artistic genius. I'm trying to remain humble.

Results of my CT scan are in: Marked improvement, but the damn cells are still there. Almost gone, but still there. So I had chemo today. Boo. And I'll have round number eight, too. And after that, I'll have radiation. Boo again.

I've decided that chemo is a lot like an earthquake. You know how a 5.0 quake has a shaking amplitude 10 times that of a 4.0 (thanks, Wikipedia)? That's how chemo treatments are. Each is 10 times more difficult to endure than the previous round. I can't begin to express how demoralizing it is to walk into a room feeling vibrant and alive and then 6 hours later to walk out sick, drained, yucky. And then to know that that feeling won't just go away, but will soon be met with pain, sleeplessness, exhaustion. I can't truly be feeling much more than I felt after the first or second treatments, but it's the knowing, the becoming more and more familiar with the process that makes it so much worse. 

What's been the hardest on me lately, though, is the loss of my eyelashes. I know it sounds vain, but they did make me feel feminine, pretty, special. They were thick and long and looked great with mascara. Now I'm bald, nearly eyelashless, and obviously cancer striken. The lashes will probably grow back, but it's extra hard for me to look in the mirror now. I can't cover up my eyes with a pretty bandana. Well, I could. But that would just be silly. And dangerous.

Sometimes I feel like a big whiny whiner. People have said in efforts to comfort me, "You know, I knew a girl who had chemo for 4 years straight," or, "Yeah, her drips lasted 96 hours, not just 7." I feel like I can barely take what is coming at me now; it's impossible--and even enraging--to imagine the horror some have to go through. And the children. It's just not fair.

My aunt told me the story this week of how my grandpa responded when Dr. Gaeke came into the hospital room and told him there was nothing more she could do for the non-Hodgkins lymphoma and pancreatic cancer he'd been fighting for 9 years. A jokester 'til the end, he looked at her and said, "So doc, are you telling me I shouldn't renew my hunting license this fall?" He died 6 weeks later, his wife and six children at his bedside, at the age of 66.

That Stand Up to Cancer event was just on TV. I couldn't watch because it's all just too real for me right now. But I did catch their slogan: This is where the end of cancer begins. 

The end of cancer. That sounds so good. If it sounds good to you too, you can donate here.

Fingers crossed.

It's been a while since my last post, mainly because there's not a lot new to report. Last Wednesday I had my blood drawn, Thursday had chemo, Friday my Neulasta shot. Spent the next week dealing with the side effects: hiccups, heartburn, full-body firefly nerve pain, metallic taste buds, intestinal distress, life-sucking fatigue. Thanks to the 7.5 mG of coumadin I'm taking each day my blood is finally thin enough to start breaking up the clot that is still there making my arm sore, causing my veins to create that blue road map across my shoulder.

I am so ready for this to be over.

The good news is I've finished my 6th treatment (that's 3 cycles of ABVD), and I'm at the mark where I get more scans. I have a CT scan on Monday. PrayPrayPray that it's all gone, that there's nothing more in my neck or my chest, that I don't have to see a 7th or 8th treatment. That I don't have to have radiation, that I don't have to put my body at risk for future cancer at the radiated sites. That I can get back to work and stop poisoning myself, that my hair can start growing back, that I can start waking up each day feeling good, feeling like I can accomplish something. 

And about accomplishing something. I've decided that in the next year I will run a marathon. I've been researching how to train for one, and I know I can do it. I can see myself crossing that finish line, cancer free, my worst days behind me. I need to do everything in my power to mold my body into a strong, healthy environment no cancer can beat. Wish me luck—training might be worse than the chemo!

Love you all, 

Tara