This Is Great! Life Is Good!

Anyone who knows my friend, Lori, knows these are her two favourite phrases.  I met Lori when we were 19 years old.  Although we met in one town and then ended up living in the same community, we only reconnected a few years ago.  Who knew we would come full circle and become such great friends?  It's been an incredible reconnection that has blossomed into a lifelong, very meaningful, friendship.  And I'm forever grateful to know her and have her as such an important part of my journey through life.

Unfortunately, we have the "cancer experience" in common.  She has beaten Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma which required a tumour to be extracted from her face.  That required 15 consecutive days of radiation therapy, which by her description, was gruelling.  She relayed it more as an opportunity to spend 15 days with friends and family.  She has been able to provide a lot of comfort and hope to me and always reminds me to look at all the positive numbers and results and says, "Don't worry about that," when it comes to the scary stuff.  "We'll just deal with it a day at a time."  Words to live by.  I can get ten pieces of negative news and one piece of good news and she'll say, "This is great!"  She always sees the upside to each situation.  Since I'm an optimist with a half-full glass (preferably of Shiraz), it's not hard to persuade me to think the same way.

Lori decided to contact the local newspaper to share with the community my diagnosis of breast cancer.  Since it was October, and therefore breast cancer awareness month, the paper jumped at the opportunity.  We were interviewed and photographed and asked to keep the reporter updated on my progress.  Lori repeatedly exclaimed, "We're famous!  This is great!"  After we walked the 5K CIBC Run for the Cure, the update was submitted and published as well.  We raised a lot of money and hopefully some awareness for breast cancer.  Lori's co-workers, Patty and Jacquie, were also on the walk and now there is a display of sorts about my journey posted at their workplace for all to see.

As a show of support, and to avoid baldness at all costs, Lori has dyed the underneath half of her hair pink.  It looks awesome!  It's hard to put into words how uplifting Lori's spirit has been for me.  Her generosity is humbling and I look very forward to her daily phone calls, "Hello, my friend."  We always laugh out loud and she makes me see that life is indeed good even through the most difficult and darkest of times.  Lori shoots from the hip, says it like it is and is fiercely loyal and honest about everything.  She is true to all her friends and adores her family.

So whatever lays ahead, "my friend", we will walk (or next year run) it together, side-by-side, through thick and thin.  Because after all, our relationship is great and my life with you in it is good!

Lori and me for newspaper - "We're Famous!"

Lori on Team K3 for CIBC Run for the Cure

Me with Lori and her new pink hair!

From Running to Walking

They say everything happens for a reason but we just don't always know what that reason is.  Some say it's fate, some say it's coincidence, others say it's up to God and that we don't know our path, that He lays it out ahead of us and we are just going to have to be patient.  Patience has never been one of my strong points so I just keep putting one foot in front of the other and taking this path one day at a time.

Recently, I spent 15 months paying off a huge debt load.  At the time, I found it very difficult and frustrating to have to couch-surf and give up everything to just focus on getting that done.  It was like I was driven to put that behind me and move on.  Looking back, of course, it all makes sense because if I still had that debt on top of being unemployed during treatment, I would be in pretty dire straits.  It also confirmed what I already knew - I have very supportive friends and family, who allowed me to share their homes to get this task done.

And over the past couple of years in order to stay positive and strong, I have worked my body out like never before and become pretty strong and healthy "for a woman my age".  Always love that compliment.  Good thing I did that because that will allow me to fight harder and have a better chance of a positive outcome from treatments.  Learning through the experience of others and how they've lost their appetite and, therefore, quite a bit of weight during chemotherapy, I've put on 30 pounds since being diagnosed three months ago.  It's a proactive move on my part.  I have to say I'm not happy to feel blobby and out of shape.  I look at it as a challenge for Nadine, Erin and Holly to whip me back into shape when the time comes.

 
I went from riding my bike, running, hiking, fitness classes and Grouse Grinding to walking.  Since my mastectomy, I have had to stop all activities that could cause further and possibly permanent damage to my left arm.  That even seems to include typing and sweeping.  It also feels strange to my chest to ride a bike and stretch in that direction.  So walking it is.  During my chemo treatments, I am to walk every day to help the blood flow and, therefore, distribute the chemicals throughout my body efficiently.  Even on the days when I'll want to lay on the couch, I'm to force myself to get up and get moving.
 
I'm not really complaining, though, because I know I'm lucky to be able to walk and that someday I will be able to workout again and get back into my usual activities.  At least that's the plan.  One day at a time.  I have to learn to be at peace with my path and, above all, continue to be patient about everything.  Like I said, that's not one of my strong points.  Walk anyone?

Enjoying a climb at Wild Play

Running 10K for Underwear Affair for Cancers Down There in Memory of Scott McEachern

Cycling for ALS and the Sands Family

Me with Nanci showing off our pipes

C'mon Boys, Take Off Your Shirts - Mama Wants a Picture!

TeeTee, her husband, Boy Wonder, Christine, "other Karen", her daughter, Liana, and I all spent the day together.  We met at the pub to take a bus to the Canucks' afternoon game.  I enjoyed a coffee with Bailey's at 11:30 a.m.  Someone did confirm it was five o'clock somewhere.  Just like a school field trip, the bus ride was half the fun.  We laughed and laughed all the way to downtown Vancouver.

The game was great.  A little slow in the first period but then it went into overtime and we won!  During the game, we noticed a group of young men below us who were trying desperately to get on the Jumbotron.  They took off their shirts to expose their bellies painted with the letters spelling out C-A-N-U-C-K-S.  They didn't make the Jumbotron but I thought this would be a great picture for my blog.  TeeTee came as the photographer and I yelled above the crowd noise at them, "C'mon boys, take off your shirts, Mama wants a picture!"  And they did!  They were great sports about it and so that made it blog-worthy.

 
It was so nice to spend a day without doctor's appointments or needles involved.  Laughter is definitely the best medicine.

Boy Wonder, Karen, Christine, Liana and me

Me and The Painted Boys

I Don't Want To Do This Anymore - The Meltdown

I had a CT scan, which is a test to determine what has been seen on my liver.  I was told there was "something" there by my surgeon from the pre-mastectomy ultrasound.  When the oncologist saw this, he decided further investigation was warranted and ordered a CT scan.  The oncologist said there were actually two "things" there, which he was hopeful were "blood vessels or something".  Yes, let's go with that.  Breast cancer and a mastectomy is enough, thank you.  I don't want to start being hacked into pieces so I asked that he get it all figured out before chemo starts.  So that's the plan.

Since I was apparently driving slowly in the rainy conditions, TeeTee and I were a little late for my appointment.  I jumped out and she went to find parking.  I went to the desk, took a number and went to the second waiting room in the CT scan area.  I went looking for TeeTee and she was looking right at me, then around me, then at me again and then turned to leave.  I waved at her and yelled, "TeeTee, it's me."  It's the new 'do (see blog My New 'Do).  Then I was called in to change into the ever-so-flattering gown and pants ensemble.  The nurse came out and asked for "Karen".  I tried to get TeeTee to go, as that's her name, too, but I guess the outfit gave me away as the patient.  Turns out the nurse was a Karen as well.

Being the needle chicken that I am, I didn't look as Nurse Karen inserted a catheter into my arm.  When I came out to the waiting area, TeeTee looked at it with widened eyes and I admitted I hadn't looked.  She told me not to.  That scared me and I started to cry.  I said, "I don't want to do this anymore."  She told me not to cry, that that would make her cry, too, and she didn't want to ruin her make-up.  Okay then, I won't cry.  I just felt sick.  I guess spending the past five days out of six being poked, tested and "taught" were just taking its toll.

Time for the scan.  I lay on a table with my left arm above my head and my right arm straight up in the air.  The technician said she was going to now push the dye into my arm and we had just five minutes to get this right.  I was to hold my breath when instructed and breathe when told to do so.  I could handle that.  Then she said, "You're going to feel like you have to pee, the back of your throat is going to feel warm and so will other body parts."  I think I just held my breath for the whole five minutes.  When that was done, we had to wait two minutes and take a few more pictures.  More holding my breath, more sensation and then we were done.  When the catheter was removed from my arm, it felt like there was a swimming pool-sized hole left behind.  I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

I was pretty traumatized so we decided to go to "The Living Room" at the Cancer Agency where you can choose a wig or a 'do rag.  We had some laughs trying on wigs.  I came home with a blue-flowered 'do rag.  TeeTee always knows how to distract me when I need it most.  Or maybe it was a much-needed distraction for her.  I know her seeing me upset is upsetting for her as well.  The wigs felt so creepy so I'm not sure I'll ever wear one - probably just toques and scarves for me.

 
TeeTee and I went for some Tim's chili and to the grocery store.  Then I came home and had a nap.  All I could think was that tomorrow I get to go to the Canucks' afternoon game with friends and I don't have another doctor's appointment scheduled until November 7th.  Oh, wait, I will get a call to go for port insertion surgery.  Oh, well, for the weekend at least, I can breathe easy.  I still don't want to do this anymore.

Feeling goofy in leopard toque

Me and Tee in wigs - a preview of old age!

My first headscarf

My New 'Do

I kept hearing from other cancer patients who had lost their hair that it's better to have short hair when the inevitable occurs.  I had the mindset that I would keep my longish fake blonde hair as long as possible.  I changed my mind and realized how creepy that could be.  I contacted my lovely friend/hairdresser, Michelle, and told her she could have total power over my hair, could do whatever she wanted, whatever style or colour, since it was going to fall out anyway.  I went from pretending to be blonde to my what-would-be natural hair colour if I weren't so grey - brown!  And super short and sassy.  I was really thinking she might go with hot pink.

She started by cutting off my ponytail.  For some reason, Patty wanted that ponytail.  I'm wondering if she'll sell it on Ebay saying it belonged to a movie star or something.  She assures me it's to glue to a hat.  Kinda sick but each to her own, right?

With ponytail in Ziploc bag, it was time to get to work.  Michelle hacked, chopped, cut, "texturized", washed, conditioned, moussed, tousled, sprayed and dried my new 'do.  Wow, what a difference!

We had fun attempting to take self-photos together.  You can see the results below!  Thanks, Michele, for always taking care of my hair, my heart and making me laugh.  We always seem to laugh, cry and hug.  If you ever change your mind and don't want to do hair anymore (which would devastate an entire community), you could definitely be a counsellor.  You are tender, kind, funny, sweet and wise beyond your years, my friend.  Your next appointment with me will be for a head shaving.  Ready for that?  Deep breath.

 
Now, if I could just stop jumping when I pass a mirror thinking there's a stranger in my place!

Before

Goodbye to a ponytail

More cutting after dye applied

The New 'Do!

Beautiful Michelle and me

The Good, The Bad and The Side Effects

My calendar used to be filled with normal life and now it's filled with medical appointments.  I keep telling the doctors and specialists and I'm healthy, active and don't even take Tylenol but they keep confirming I have cancer.  I have tried to bargain and negotiate with them but the answer is still the same, darn it.

TeeTee and I attended two "teach" classes at the Cancer Clinic.  The first was about port care.  It was agreed I should have a "power port" (hopefully super powers go with) installed into my chest so I don't ruin all the veins in my right arm.  Since my left side is the one where the lymph node extractions occurred, they won't use that arm for treatments.  So being down to one arm and the amount of needles and toxicity of the chemicals to be injected, a port it shall be.  The lovely nurses who explained the surgical procedure to us were surprised at our laughter and candid "OMG" comments throughout the reality of what was going to happen.  "They're putting what where?  How is that getting in there?"  I will apparently be frozen locally and two incisions made under my right collarbone.  Great, two scars on the "good side" to remember that by.  A nickel-sized gadget will be under my skin and the nurses will be able to draw blood, inject dyes for testing if needed and administer my chemotherapy by pricking (aka jabbing) my skin with a needle right into the port.  The entire surface looks like one of those screens in a faucet.  All they have to do is jab it into one of the many holes and we're good to go.  They made it sound so simple.  I asked where the "tube" goes and they said to a main artery.  Awesome.  Can't wait.  By the time we left, the nurses had my blog address and we had taken photos with them.

We went for lunch at White Spot and TeeTee had stir fry vegetables over fries.  I had the traditional stir fry over rice.  She's different that way.

This lesson was followed by the much more depressing "chemo teach" class.  There were about ten of us in the room and everyone looked so solemn and serious, like they were sick or something.  Not us.  TeeTee and I had the giggles throughout.  The first person to speak was talking all about the psychological services they offer patients.  We decided my issues were best left for the likes of Dr. Phil or Jerry Springer.

The next was a male nurse who talked about all the horror that's to come: fever, mouth sores, nail loss, loss of appetite, diarrhea, constipation, nausea, infection, hair loss and fatigue.  I'm totally fine with the last two, but the others, no, thank you, I'll pass.  More negotiation.  Basically, everyone who comes to visit me will need to wash their hands upon entry into my place.  Face masks are unnecessary but will be provided if you wish to wear one.  And yes, they're pink.  When he spoke of one of the side effects and said to basically just follow the Canadian Health Food Guide, I was fine with that.  Then he said "no coffee, no alcohol, no chocolate and no fatty foods".  Oh, I guess I misunderstood then because that is my food guide.

Then he showed us all a video.  TeeTee and I figured this was filmed in about 1920 - at least that's what the décor, hairstyles and clothing told us.  The first woman who spoke had spots all over her face and I was so freaked out by that possibility that I didn't hear what she had to say.  We decided it was just old footage and it was likely simply freckles.  The next had a lisp that was hard to understand and I found myself wondering if that was a side effect.  Then the last was a doctor who had a wandering eye and I was concentrating on being respectful.  I looked at TeeTee, who was taking notes, thank goodness.  I then thought to myself, what if her notes say, "spots, lisp, eyes".  That made me giggle and she must have known exactly what I was thinking and we set each other off.  With each passing frame in the show was more doom and gloom.  On the bottom of each part were words like "mouth sores", "fatigue" and "hair loss", much the way a film would say "six months ago in Shanghai".  It gave me a sinking feeling and when I looked at TeeTee, she'd look away so as not to make eye contact with me, especially when it came to the hair loss.  She still thinks she's not going to shave her head in support.  Silly her.

At the end of that teach class, the nurse gave us a tour of the chemo room.  It's broken into five "pods" each of which contain four reclining leather chairs.  The chairs all face into the centre of the room so you can visit with your fellow patients.  I'm allowed one friend in the room who can stay with me for the two-hour sessions.  Provided are heated blankies, pillows, tea, crackers, whatever you need to make your stay more comfortable.   Apparently Shiraz is not one of the choices.  Will there ever be a better time for alcohol?  There were people reading, knitting and listening to music.  Some had on toques and others were smiling.  It didn't look so bad.  I think I'd rather play the role of supporter now, thanks, to those strangers who didn't have people with them.  We both left there on overload.  TeeTee brought me home and all I could think was how nice everyone is and how horrible this is going to be.  I wonder sometimes if I'm strong enough for this battle.  Maybe I need that counselling number after all.  I wish Oprah hadn't gone off the air.  I could really use a chat with her right about now.

"Chester", the port teach nurses and me

Support Comes in All Ages and Colours

About a year ago, I had the opportunity to house, kid and dog sit for friends while they were away.  Aside from enjoying their beautiful home and adorable chocolate lab, Cariboo (yes, he slept in my bed with me), I had the chance to really get to know their children, Nico and Sam.  We bonded through laughter, food and reality TV shows I'd never heard of.  We also watched the movie, "The Runaways", which has converted Sam into a young Joan Jett.  Joan has nothing on Sam, though.  What a great girl.  She's funny, quirky, loyal and loving.  I've cheered for Sam at soccer and hockey games.  When she scores goals, she really celebrates and says they're for me!  All it took to be Nico's buddy was a very hot-and-spicy curried chicken dish.  Gotta love teenage boys - it's all about the food!

Little did I know what amazing friends this whole family would become.  I've enjoyed time at their lake getaway and Holly has made sure to bring me delicious weekly treats since my diagnosis.  I think she may be trying to get bootcamp business by contributing to my expanding hips.  Craig gives "real" hugs and speaks kind words mixed with witty sarcasm.  Even when they were away at a winery, they thought of me and surprised me with a "Dirty Laundry" pink bra charm on a bracelet.  Uplifting and very appropriate!

When they were all here one day to lift my spirits (and bring more food), Nico was wearing the "I Heart Boobies" plastic bracelets up one arm.  Sam had given me a hot pink one so I knew what they were about.  I assumed he was wearing them because, being a guy in Grade 11, he simply loved boobies but he assured me it was to support me.   I was so moved at that.  He said everybody at his high school knows I have cancer.  It saddened me to think these kids should have to think about something so serious but I guess that's just part of life.

Last week, Holly told me to go to the hair studio across the street to see Nico get his hair buzzed in my honour.  I thought he would shave his head bald but instead he chose a Mohawk down the middle with a cancer ribbon on the right side and my initials on the left side.  Then he had them dye it all pink!  When the hair salon owner realized it was me he was supporting, she got teary with me.  I was hoping his football teammates wouldn't tease him and he assured me they wouldn't.  I told him if I'd had a son I'd want him to be just like him.  He's a stand-up young man.

Young and old, pink or otherwise, the support is coming from everywhere.  And I so appreciate it all.  More than words can ever express.

Nico and me at the lake

Holly, me, Sam and Sam's friend at the lake

Me and Holly

Craig and me

Cariboo

Jacquie, Nico with his new pink 'do, Patty and Lori (Team K3 T-Shirts)

Nico displaying my initials in his hair!

Giving "Hands-On" a Whole New Meaning

At my mastectomy follow-up appointment, my obviously skilled surgeon assured me everything was healing "normally".  I said since it's my first time losing a breast, I'm not sure what "normal" is but I knew that was good news.  I commented to him that I find it funny that he had me in his hands, naked on the operating table for a couple hours, and now he excuses himself from the exam room while I undress "from the waist up and lay under the sheet".  I said we could probably lose the formalities next time.  He said something about modesty.  He must be referring to his other patients.  My modesty was left on the hospital doorstep.  He went on to tell me this would be "a bit uncomfortable" and proceeded to dig his four fingers into my right armpit and then my left.  He must have forgotten he removed lymph nodes and that that would hurt.  Then he checked my breast for abnormalities and then my surgical site, again, in a rather firm and invasive manner.  He apologized as I winced not so much in pain but from the nauseas feeling that overcame me.  It's numb across the centre where the incision line is from where he severed my nerves.  It's tender around the outside from, well, I guess the surgery itself and it's just overall not a nice feeling.  When he finished, I said in my usual way, in a rather loud voice, "Shouldn't I at least get dinner first?"  We both burst out laughing, he told me to re-dress (in his absence again) and then to join him and TeeTee in his adjoining office for a discussion.  He confirmed what the oncologist had told me and agreed I should get a flu shot, have my dental cleaning taken care of and basically prepare to go to war against my own body.  I love his truthfulness, frankness and honesty but I think he could definitely improve his hands-on techniques!  He asked me to return in the new year when I feel up to it just so he can keep abreast of my situation.  Pun intended.

I'm Sorry - Please Forgive Me - I Love You

I always thought if I stayed silent, the truth would come out.  I always thought those who love me most would find their way back to me in time, and especially now to help me through this challenge.  I always thought if I said I was sorry and promised that I'd do better, everything would be forgiven.  What I didn't count on was that the truth would be so unimportant, that those who love me could forsake me in my darkest hours, that sorry is meaningless and forgiveness impossible.  With every breath I take and every beat of my heart I will not give up.  I don't know how.

I try not to have regrets because to change even one small thing in my past would change everything and not necessarily for the better.  All of our past experiences are what makes us who we are.  We all try to make good choices and not hurt others, but we are all human, have flaws and make mistakes.  I have admitted all of mine to everyone and still it's not enough.  I don't know what will be enough and I'm not sure I'll see the day things are resolved.  That makes me saddest of all because I worry that that will only create regret for others and I don't want that for them.  It's a completely helpless feeling.

Seeing my daily heartache, others have stepped in with the best of intentions, often without my knowledge, to try to help but have been told they somehow actually made it worse.  No matter what I do, I can't seem to fix anything.  If I reach out, I'm told not to.  If I don't, I'm told I should have reached out harder.  No matter how much I hope, wish, pray and wait, nothing has changed for the better.  In fact, I think with time everything has gotten worse and more confusing for everyone.  So I hope everybody involved can please just dig deep, take a deep breath, see the big picture, that time may be running out and just move forward instead of dwelling on the past and not allow what they think they know to be so important.  It doesn't matter anymore.  They will think what they want and believe what they believe but I just wish they'd believe in me and remember all the good things I did for and with them.  I just wish they could move beyond the past before it's too late so we could share the future.  Having them near would mean so much to me and give me the hope, strength and reason I need to fight and to get better.  I need to know it matters to those who matter most to me.

I just wanted to know I tried everything but nothing gets resolved with silence, only through communication.  But if posting this makes things worse, I'm sorry, that was never my intention.  I just wanted to try again because I will never give up.  I don't know how.

Ready, Set, Glow!

After lunch with a lovely woman on Wednesday, dinner with friends on Thursday and another group on Friday night, I underwent a bone scan yesterday.  It was a half-day procedure and in the end I was given a card to show at the border or airport should I be travelling in the next seven days, as I am radioactive and will set off national security alarms.  I almost feel like just driving across the border to see the excitement!  The test began with Lori taking me to the hospital to be injected with radioactive dye.  She assured me everything would be okay.  Knowing I was afraid of needles, she came into the two-by-two office with me while I was injected with the dye.  I held out my right arm, ready for the needle, closed my eyes and asked how the nurse knew I was a typist.  She had said, "Tight fist".  We all laughed and it was over by the end of the clarification.

I was told to go away and return three hours later.  I was directed to drink fluids until I came back to help the dye through my system and get the best possible result.  Good thing this was a morning appointment because water may not have been my "fluid" of choice had it been in the evening.  So I went home and drank a few gallons of water determined to not have to repeat the test.  It was kind of like before an ultrasound when I was late in my pregnancies and was asked to drink buckets of water and then hold it while the technician pushed on my bladder with all her weight, challenging me not to pee.  Well, that's how it felt anyway.  At least this time I was allowed to pee when needed.

Tracey did part two of the driving and we returned to the hospital.  About halfway there, I realized I was about to explode but we weren't near a washroom when the urge was, well, urgent.  So while she parked the car, I did the "don't pee my pants dance".  I felt like a little girl trying not to pee in my panties.  Or I suppose more like an adult who wished she'd worn a Depends.  After "wiggling" my way through the hospital corridors, I found a washroom and could have sung out loud at the pure relief.

The technician came to get me and directed me to a surface about a foot wide and asked me to lie down on it.  She strapped my arms to the sides of my body and taped my "toes together, heels apart".  I closed my eyes, as the machine came right to the tip of my nose and then made its way down my body slowly, taking 20 minutes to go from head to taped toes.  Then I was told to place my arms over my head while the machine scanned my ribs from the sides.  Test completed, I was dismissed and literally ran to the washroom once more.

I asked if I would glow in the dark and the technician who conducted the scan only laughed.  Not sure what that meant.  Yes?  No?  Will I glow?

All day, I felt strange, a little dizzy but able to function enough to get groceries, supplies and go for lunch with Tracey.  Being my organizational self, I decided to put together an emergency kit, including an easy-to-read thermometer to check for the possibility of a fever, antibiotic ointment in case of cuts to stop infection, baking soda to brush my teeth with while I have mouth sores and rubber gloves to keep my hands safe from cleaners while my fingernails are weakened.  I'm determined to keep them on the ends of my fingers!

I came home, lay down for a nap but couldn't sleep.  After dinner, it was all I could do to stay awake to watch my Canucks win.  I slept for eight straight hours, which I haven't done in years.  I guess being radioactive isn't so bad after all.  I wonder, though, if I kept my neighbours awake wondering where that strange glow was coming from.

Oncology 101

Well, my friends, here we go.  I think I'll say up front thank you in advance for all the meals, rides, grocery shopping, errand-running and hand-holding support you will offer and provide over the next, gulp, six months or so while I undergo some pretty harsh treatments.  They say it takes a village to raise a child - well, now, it's going to take one to save my life.  While I waiver between inconveniencing everyone's lives to help me and knowing I would do it for any one of you, this is one of those times where I just don't have a choice.  The friends I've spoken to about what's to come have already planned to rally the troops and set up an army of support.  I'm so very thankful that you all care so much.  And for the record, I hope I never have to return the favour.

As TeeTee and I got closer to the Cancer Clinic, my stomach knotted up and I truly thought I could lose my breakfast.  Instantly, I was comforted by the welcoming staff who all had compassion in their eyes and kindness in their words.  I commented that there were a lot of sick people, thinking, of course, I'm not one of them.

The first step was to fill out a lot of forms, get weighed (I've managed to gain 30 pounds) and then wait for the doctor.  He went over the forms I'd filled out and just confirmed basically that what my surgeon said was accurate: I have a very aggressive form of breast cancer, I would have to undergo harsh chemotherapy, possibly radiation, and he would do everything he could to save my life.  He confirmed that the lymph system is clear, which is great news.  He also said the ultrasound testing I underwent the day before the mastectomy showed two "issues" on my liver.  Yikes.  He said it could simply be blood vessels or something but they have to investigate further to ensure whatever therapies they administer will be the most effective overall.

Then we moved to a physical examination of my breasts.  The "non-breast" is healing well, he confirmed.  He checked the surgical site, which felt weird because it's numb in places and oh-so-sensitive in others.  He also checked my unshaven, ready-to-braid, left armpit.  There's no feeling under there yet so I'm not allowed to shave in case I cut myself and it causes problems.  Then he felt the "good" breast and underneath my sweaty right armpit.  Of course, I apologized for sweating and he said it just goes with the job.  He took my blood pressure and listened to me breathe.  All of that was good.  I said I was surprisingly relaxed and he said my blood pressure confirmed that was true.

Got re-dressed and ready for "the news".  And what a lot of news it was.  My head was spinning but TeeTee was taking notes and gulping alongside me at what we heard.  To confirm the liver findings, I must undergo a CT scan.  He has also ordered a bone scan to ensure my other organs are all functioning normally and my system can handle the chemo.  We discussed a port being inserted in my chest since the chemicals are so harsh and he agreed that would be the way to go.  That requires surgery.  So I will undergo this testing and having the port inserted (to hopefully avoid nerve and vein damage in my arms and hands) before starting chemo, which is currently scheduled to commence the week of November 7th.  He assured me this extra time will allow for more healing from my mastectomy and that's a positive.

As for the chemo itself, I will undergo two types, each for three sessions, for a total of six sessions, three weeks apart.  The regimen is to go for blood work one day and if my blood count is sufficient, chemo the next day, then feeling crappy for the first week, moderately better the second week and then just as I recover in the third week, the process is repeated until 18 weeks later.  I think my math is right - which would definitely be a first!  If the "team" decides I need radiation, that will follow.  The oncologist felt the surgeon removed so much of my breast and since the lymph nodes were clear, it may not be necessary, but it's up to the wisdom of his "team".

So far, as tough as that all sounded, I was pretty much ready to hear that.  It was the numbers and side effects that hit me harder.  Because of the type of cancer I have, the "wonder" drugs would prove useless.  I will be taking anti-nausea medication because, as I said to the doctor, I don't like vomiting and have only done so twice since the birth of my second child over 17 years ago: once upon waking from my mastectomy and the other in Vegas - oops, that was supposed to stay there.  I told him throwing up is a fear second to needles, hence the anti-nausea pill request and the port.

He said since my grandmother had ovarian cancer, albeit only diagnosed in her final days at the age of 90, it is something to consider for genetic testing.  Another "team" will decide if that's part of my journey.  This would determine if I carry a particular hereditary gene and would be something my girls would have to be alerted to so they could be tested as well.  After meeting so many "early twenties" women at the Run for the Cure who have undergone mastectomies to avoid the cancer developing, that really upset me.  The thought that I could pass this to my beautiful children is the worst part of all of this.  As a mother, I want to protect my children, not make them sick.  I've done a lot over the past few years to protect them, probably to my own detriment, and one day they will understand this.  I'm grateful they have tests that may prevent them from avoiding cancer, but if it means going through what I have gone through and will go through, that makes me very sad.

While my treatments will be gruelling, it's the side effects that have me the most freaked out.  I can handle losing my hair, which will happen two weeks into treatment, the fatigue and the loss of appetite but what has me most concerned are the "gross" possible side effects, such as the mouth sores and change to my fingernails, even the possibility of them falling off.  I may suffer nerve damage to the tips of my fingers, either being permanently numb and tingly or very painful.  I kept trying to bargain with the oncologist, opting for numb and tingly and to please keep my nails.  In some cases, people experience heart muscle damage or leukemia.  Okay, isn't that kind of counterproductive?  Are they just trying to make more work?  The thoughts that were going through my mind were frightening and I'm sure my eyes widened appropriately throughout our lesson in oncology.  I thought it would be unique to put a henna tattoo on my head that read "K3 4EVER" but it's not to be.  Apparently, the dye can absorb into my skin and cause infection.

Speaking of infection, it turns out if I get a fever of 38C, I have to call my care team and they will direct me to the emergency ward of the closest hospital for antibiotic treatment.  Seems my own body produces bacteria that could make me sick.  If left untreated, this can be fatal.  Wow.  So I will need to get a thermometer and test regularly for fever.

The doctor used a white board to list the side effects and write down the "numbers".  If I decline treatment, I have a 46.5% chance the cancer will rear its ugly head elsewhere in my body.  So treatment it is.  Unfortunately, since the most current drugs won't work for my form of cancer, I have a high chance of reoccurrence, according to their scales, of 24%.  The oncologist said, of course, no one gets a zero percent chance, as cancer is what it is and there are no guarantees.  They always hope for about 5%.  He said it's a high number but we'll just fight the best we can.  We definitely don't want it to reappear, as there's not much they can do if that happens.  So kill it hard and kill it big is the plan.

I keep reiterating I'm not really afraid to die, as we all have to go sometime.  I've made it a lot further than others and will be grateful for every day.  I just really don't want to suffer through the next six months to be told it was for nothing.  I don't want that for my family and my friends: to watch me complete the prescribed treatments only to fail.  For someone who doesn't ever get sick (except obviously for breast cancer and Vegas) or take medication, this is going to be a very different way of life.

I know it's going to be hard on all of you but I promise I will do my very best.  Again, I thank all of you who truly love me and who will help me, especially emotionally, to survive this beast called breast cancer.  It will take everyone who loves me to be there in order for me to be successful.  So dig deep, please, and reach out in whatever way you can to help me.  Hopefully, in the end, we will all be celebrating together!  Oh, and I don't look great in hats but I may need some funky toques (no itchy wool please) since it's supposed to be the coldest winter in a century!

So Very Thankful

As I reflect over my life, through its incredible ups and tragically painful downs, through the laughter and the tears, through the dreams and the nightmares, through the happy memories and sad realities, I still refuse to take the "cup is half empty" approach.

Keeping with Thanksgiving tradition, I will state what I am very thankful for.  Mine have always the mushiest of things.  I guess some things never change.  I am thankful for all my family and friends.  I used to say I'm thankful for my health but that one's a little iffy this year.  Even with cancer, I'm thankful I didn't have to lose a leg, as I love to walk, run and climb, or an arm, as I love to hug.  My breast has served its true purpose, to nurture new lives.  I am eternally thankful for the support I receive every day to maintain my energy levels and the uplifting words giving me encouragement to continue to fight.  I am thankful my beautiful children are healthy and hope they never have to go down this scary path.  I am grateful to have loved my Gram and my Auntie Ree and the lovely memories I have of my time with them.

I am thankful Ethel cares enough to tell me she's scared for me and will wear her pink hat with a pink veil in support, even in her own home.  I am thankful TeeTee cares enough to get teary about my situation but agrees to laugh with me most of the time instead to cope.  I am thankful Nadine feeds my soul and keeps my "spirit" high.  I am thankful Tracey continues to share her life with me, knowing that once I get over this "lump in the road" (thanks Taylor) we won't have any catching up to do.  I am thankful to Lori for the walks, talks, "hello my friends" and healing stone.  I am thankful for Thalia who I've known since high school and who always makes sure I see enough movies. I am thankful to Holly for making sure my freezer remains full of homemade goodies and for the "dirty laundry".  I am thankful to Audrey who keeps me close.  And for Nanci, who will drive an hour to spend an hour with me and who keeps me "breathing". I have so many friends to thank so to the rest of you, I will simply say thank you for your concern, love, support, laughter and tears.  You all mean the world to me.

 
I am thankful for all the well wishes I'm receiving today in anticipation of the "scary" appointment with the oncologist tomorrow.  Stay tuned...when I know, you will know as well.  And we'll face what will come together.  Forever and always.

Me with Holly

Top Row:  Tracey and Ethel

Bottom Row:  TeeTee, me and Thalia

Lori and me

Nadine, me and Audrey

Ethel, me and Tracey

Me and Nanci

Sleepless Nights to Nippled Treats

It's kind of like just before giving birth.  You're really tired but you just can't sleep in anticipation of what's to come.  Unfortunately, what's to come now isn't nearly as rewarding and sweet as delivering a precious baby girl.

I find lately the smallest decisions stress me out.  Making simple phone calls are difficult.  Choosing what shoes to wear turns into a crisis.  I sweat and heat up like a hot flash but I'm post-menopausal.  At 2:00 a.m., I tried to figure out what it was that was keeping me awake.  It could have been the three two-bite cupcakes I ate watching the 11 o'clock news.  No, that's not unusual these days.  It could have been the excitement of seeing my friends tomorrow for lunch.  No, fortunately, that's not unusual these days either.

 Maybe it was the phone call I got from the Cancer Clinic confirming 'THE" appointment next week.  THAT'S IT!  I kept thinking of all the possibilities.  This is the appointment where I find out what "stage" I'm at, what chemo and radiation therapy I will face, basically all the stuff I'm going to go through. I'm just about six weeks post-mastectomy and healed enough for the next treatment.  TeeTee will be with me at the two-hour appointment, taking notes and holding my hand every step of the way.  We've agreed it's the not knowing that's the hardest part.

At about midnight when I was ready to go to sleep, the crazy thoughts went through my head.  "What ifs" are only natural, I suppose, but I try not to go there too often.  I always think about what the worst possible scenario could be.  Well, of course, I've already got past that because I survived the surgery.  So now what?  I've been told so many different things from different people who have "been there" but they've all assured me every single person's journey is different and specific to each woman.  There are just two things in common it seems: we are all women and we all have breast cancer.

I finally fell asleep and slept for four hours. I decided to just give up trying and got out of bed, grateful to face another day.  I was able to enjoy the lunch with my "breast" friends.  Everyone brought food and it was all delicious!  Madison sent along some home-baked cupcakes, some frosted in pink with sprinkles and the rest with large chocolate chip nipples!  Now, that's what I'm shooting for (see my blog I'm the Queen and this is Latifah).  My friends brought so many bouquets that I could open a flower shop!  We shared food, conversation and love.  It seems the thoughtfulness and generosity of my friends is limitless.

 
I will keep myself busy until "THE" appointment to keep my mind off the reality of the gravity of my situation.  I will continue to put one foot in front of the other and take one day at a time.  No matter what I am told by the oncologist (still choking on that word) I know that I have an army of friends who will be by my side helping me cope with everything.  And for that, I am forever thankful.  Goodnight.  I hope I can sleep.

Me, Nadine, Elanna, Isabel and Adele

My Breast Friends displaying our Nippled Treats!