HOUSTON: WE HAVE HAIR

I'm one week short of 3 months post Chemo and I can finally see some real hair growth progress. Unfortunately the hair growth is not limited to my head. My leg hairs, nose hairs and down-there-hairs have all begun to grow. It's like spring on my body. I might just sprout some Magnolias under my armpits. I have to admit not shaving, waxing, tweezing, lazering was the best part of Chemo. Now, if scientists could somehow harness the power of Chemo to just to the areas of hair we don't want, they'd find a cure for Cancer.

My wig still sits in my closet, never once worn, all forlorn. I'm not not a wig girl. I wear scarves when in company and go Godiva when I'm not. I'm so sick of these scarves. Nothing says Cancer Victim quite like a head scarf. I'm so weary of being blatantly stared at. I'm tired of that sad look people throw my way, the one that says "Poor you". And then I have to give them a wry, half smile to reassure them I don't mind their invasion, when all I want to do is give them the finger. Children are the worst transgressors. They have no shame. I was once in an elevator on the ground floor with my then 4-yr-old when an obese man stepped in and pushed 18. Floors 1 to 5 I was praying: "Please, please, please, please don't say anything." Floor 5: "Mommy why is that person so fat?". Floor 6: "Mommy why did you pinch me?". Floor 7 to 18 red-faced, please-let-me-disappear silence. To that man, I am deeply sorry. I know what it feels like to look different, to be starred at, pointed at. I know even though it's often children who are just being children, it still hurts like crap. And crushes. And makes you stay home rather than go out anywhere. 

When you are going through Chemo you really don't care. You are in a fight and all that matters is getting through. When you're coming out of the exhaustion and the draining psychological and physical 100 pound dumbbells on your shoulders are lifting, you suddenly care about how you look. So you check your head every day for new hairs, you count your eyelashes and scrutinize your eyebrows. They say a watched head never grows but I'm seeing progress. 

I went back to gym yesterday. Another milestone. I walked for 30 minutes at a snail's granddad's pace and thought I was going to faint. But I did it. And I'll go back today. For those just starting Chemo know this: you will get your life back. It doesn't happen overnight. It doesn't happen 3 months later. But it will happen. At least that's what I keep telling myself. 


For those who read this blog often or have followed it throughout, I have a feeling I might have repeated some of what I've just written. It's like deja write. But my chemo brain is worse than ever.   I was at Target yesterday and found myself staring at baby shampoo for 20 minutes wondering:"Why?". I still don't know. 

HAVING A BAD HAIR DAY.

HAIR UPDATE: 
As you can see there's not much to update. Funny thing is those hairs you see are actually new ones.  My hair is growing back, even through Chemo. But as my oncologist brutally said: "Don't get too excited, they'll also fall out." That's cancer summed up for you. Don't get too excited. 

RECURRENCE RATE OF WORRY: 99.999%

My final Chemo session is next week Thursday. I've never looked forward to nausea, fatigue and pain with so much enthusiasm. I can't wait. One more time in that chair. One..last...time. Final. Done. Hasta la vista Cancer. You won't be baaaack. 

Or at least I hope it won't come back. I wonder if there's a cancer survivor out there who doesn't worry about recurrence? Will I forever question every ache and pain I have? I suspect the answer is yes. For one thing I have a Jewish heritage. All that persecution has made us nervous wrecks. We worry because it's ingrained in our genetic make-up. We are because we Oy. Jews are why webmd.com is so successful; why doctors drive Porsches; why your mother will make the following comment: "I can't believe you have cancer, I've probably got it." Ashkenazi Jews (my tribe) can one up their fellow yids in the "I'm probably dying" stakes. Turns out we may carry a genetic mutation of the BRCA1 and BRCA2 (tumor suppressers on a good day) genes linked to an increased risk of breast and ovarian cancer. I'll cross that desert next year. 

Then there's the internet. They've got my number. I used to have pop up mommy and Gap ads, now I have cancer ads. It's so hard not to click onto an article titled: "Cancer, what are your chances?" (Not good if you don't take their product)  or "Soy/alcohol/ dairy (whatever is the latest cancer link to be discredited later) linked to breast cancer recurrence." Too much of anything isn't good, even information. 

Then there are people. And you can't avoid those. Well meaning folk who, the second they hear you have or have had cancer, just have to tell you the story of their uncle/aunt/brother's girlfriend's sister who's cancer came back. Like the Cat. 

Having cancer should come with the following disclaimer: Warning being cured from cancer may cause worry, sleepless nights, paranoia and anxiety. Some patients report an overwhelming feeling that cancer is stalking them. If you experience any of these symptoms you are probably completely delusional. 

My grandmother (who passed away from breast cancer in her late 80s) had this to say about life: "It all goes so quickly." And it does. 
Cancer had taken enough of my precious time from me. I can't let it take anymore. When worry and neurosis creep in I'm going to find a way to block them. Like you would an unwanted Facebook friend, you know the one who is always posting pictures of gerbils in tutus. I'm pressing that button in my over-thinking, over-analyzing head. Cancer you are officially de-friended. 

  







    

FALLEN EYEBROWS.

Vanity is a strange beast. Here I am with no hair on my head, pus-oozing sores on my chest, red smudges on my face and a recently developed tremor in my right hand (which makes me the cocktail shaker du jour) and the only thing I care about is my eyebrows.

I'm nothing without my eyebrows. They are perfectly thick, dark, round, clown brows. I do not pluck. My eyebrows are what other woman want. And I say this with truthful conceit. I know it because it was drummed into me by perfect strangers my whole life. And now they're falling off. My physical self-esteem dropping follicle by follicle at a rapid rate. 

And, on top of that, my long eyelashes are going faster than donuts at a Weight Watchers convention. Luckily I have lots. Of eyebrow and eyelashes. So I'm hoping I don't lose them all. My grandmother used to collect her fallen hair and use it for buns. They did that in the old days. War mentality. I am considering collecting mine and supergluing them onto my skin. Trouble is a slip of the hand and I'm Frida Kahlo. 

A quick, unscientific survey on Google (despite my doctors, nurses and mother telling me not to ever Google any of my symptoms for exactly the reasons I'm about to unleash) uncovered some women who were 6 months post Chemo and still eyebrowless. Even worse, I found a group of women whose hair, eyebrows and lashes never grew back. And they all pointed fingers at one of the Chemo drugs I'm using: Taxotere. 

Now I know that getting rid of cancer trumps everything else. But sometimes you're tested. You're really, really tested. I mean what if I just snuck away? Maybe the cancer wouldn't know. I'm told it was a stupid cancer to begin with. A highly aggressive cancer that, by all logic, should have made its way to my lymphs, but was too dumb to figure out how. So maybe if I disguise myself and move it won't find me? And I'll get to keep my eyebrows.

The thing is that I'm a fighter. I've never been the kind of gal to just let things slide. And so, despite the now very real possibility that I'll lose the eyebrows I love, I'm going to carry on with Chemo because I have a list of things I love more: my husband; my kids; my family and my friends. Last night this was cemented in stone for me. The kind the mafia use. We were out at one of our favorite restaurants and there was a group of girls and boys in their prom outfits. They all looked like movie stars. I want to see my girls in their prom outfits. I want to spend ridiculous amounts of money on their dresses, hair and make-up. I want to see the boy who picks up my daughter in a Prius Limo and comes face to face with my 6ft8 giant of a husband laying down the law. The kind the mafia use. 

Ultimately you don't fight cancer not to die, you fight for the memories you deserve to have when you eventually do. 

Eyebrow bald spots and missing lashes. 

ROUND 2

I had my second round of Chemo last week. It wasn't as bad as before but that's like saying Stalin wasn't as evil as Hitler. Still one has to celebrate the small things. The days following Chemo you do feel like you've gone a few rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson. You're knocked out before the ref counts to 1. But this time I think I got in a small punch of my own. I've bounced back a little quicker and the side effects haven't been all that life-squashing. 

My taste buds seem to be the hardest hit. I simply cannot taste deliciousness or yumminess of any kind. I can taste onion. So that's what I've been eating. Last night I had 3 roasted onions for dinner. My brother tells me onion is good. It  prevents cancer. Smiley face. 

I do have some news. 
When I first started this blog I mentioned that I'd had an Oncotype test. Basically, minus the scientific mumbo jumbo, it tests the chances of your cancer returning and how your cancer will respond to Chemo. When I was first tested my score was low. A mere 10. I chose to do Chemo anyway because my doctors questioned the result. My Oncotype score was retested. And it came back high. 32. Turns out one can have a Sybil of a tumor. A cancer with multiple personality disorder. Luckily she's already on the couch, having therapy with Dr Chemo. 

I'm doing 4 rounds of Chemo. So I am halfway through. Whoop. And nog a pip. I would have celebrated with Champagne and a funny hat but bed, sleep and pain meds seemed a better party. I can sort of make out a hazy light at the end of a long, dark, Annus Horribilis of a tunnel. To those who endure 6 or 8 rounds of this poison. I tip my cancer cap to you all. Respect. 

http://www.breastcancer.org/symptoms/testing/types/oncotype_dx

OFF WITH HER HAIR

Women are obsessed with their hair. I think it's fair to make that a statement and not an assumption. A strong statement. Up there with: The earth is round. Men take their hair semi-seriously, sure, but they know, because they've seen it on their grandfathers, fathers, teachers, coaches, sports heroes and movie heroes that they may lose it. Bruce Willis is why men do not stress their hair.

It's different for woman. We see no bald. We see femininity and hair perpetually linked in a knot of perfectly-coifed updo. When woman on the screen shave their hair it's to come across as androgynous and macho (Sigourney Weaver in Alien; Demi Moore in G.I. Jane) or it's to shed them of every ounce of their femininity and person (a bawling Anne Hathaway in Les Miserables; every hysterical America's Next Top Model girl chosen to receive the buzz chop). Long, flowing, Botticelli locks are THE definitive beauty standard for women. It therefore comes as no surprise to me that some women opt out of Chemo because they fear losing their hair. It's that important to us. 

This brings me to my recent buzz cut. In order to have your wig fitted properly you have to have your hair short enough. Half an inch to be exact. I did it a few days ago. Did I crumble? Did I lay down and die? Oh no not I. Break into massive musical song and dance hair-shearing number. Fade back to blog. I survived. I didn't shed a tear. And when all was said and shorn; I really like my shaved head. I feel tough. I feel cool. I turn up JZ in my Volvo and peace-up sideways to my homegirls in carpool. This mama's got swagger. Whatever that means. 

Of course I'm going to lose the little I have now. It's already started to come out when I towel dry my scalp. Chemo's not letting me off that easy. But when that happens I have a long, flowing, gently-highlighted, thoroughly feminine, JAP wig to don. But that is another blog.  

CHEMO IS NO PICNIC.

I had my first day of Chemo yesterday. I don't know why I expected it to be a walk in the park. I think that I had read up so much that I had myself scheduled for IT to hit on day 3 and gradually reduce by day 10, then I would be fine until the next infusion. I even packed a frikkin picnic basket for the day. Such was the extent of my delusion. I was there from 8.30am and last to leave at 6pm. Halfway through the first lot of Chemo drugs I developed an allergic reaction. Watering, sore, red eyes and elevated heart rate. They had to stop the Chemo, give me antihistamines and even more steroids, wait until I was ok and continue on. I developed a chalk-like taste in my mouth and was not hungry in the slightest. My husband and mom throughly enjoyed the picnic lunch. Once home I went straight to sleep and have felt nauseous, crappy and exhausted ever since. On a better day I'll describe the big social scene Thursdays at the Chemo ward are and how loudly Southern families like to talk about their pie and dogs. But not today. Today Chemo is the clear winner. 

EXIT THROUGH THE PINK RIBBON GIFT STORE

Yesterday my mother and I went on a tour of the Cancer Ward. Our guide was a nurse, dressed in the appropriate nurse tour-guide outfit: scrubs. I must say as far as tours go, I've had worse. She politely pointed out all the major attractions and points of interest. "This is the pharmacy." Aaah yes, never would have guessed had it not been for the big sign across the window that says PHARMACY. "This is the waiting room." Take a picture Mum. "Would you like a glass of water?" Hear that Mum? We get a free glass of water. Only gripe is the plastic glass does not have any pink ribbon promotional branding and thus cannot be used as a gift. 

Then the fun part of the tour ended. We were ushered into a small room for Chemo 101. Basically Chemo 101 is an hour-long, 4D, interactive experience that will scare the shit out of you. You're given page after page, brochure after brochure of really, really, asteroid is hitting in 10 minutes bad news. Firstly she tells you which Chemo drugs you're getting. I'm getting a lovely cocktail of Taxotere and Cytoxan with some Neulasta as garnish because they can't stick a cocktail umbrella into your Chemo port. Nurse Psychopath then explains all the side effects. I will lose my hair, be fatigued, have nausea and vomiting, poor appetite and/or weight gain. I may have swelling, mouth sores, constipation, diarrhea, black poop, red wee, nail fallout, anemia, Chemo fog, infection, bleeding, pain and blood clots. I am to avoid crowded places, spicy food and my weekly pedicure. But you know what I won't have...Cancer. 

Shell-shocked we're taken to the main part of the tour. The actual Chemo ward. "This is where the magic happens" smiles Nurse Gladitsnotme. Okay she didn't really say that, but you could tell she's been dying to. She points out The Chair by Lazy Boy. The IV Pole by Big Medical Business, The Visitor Chair by Chemo Rooms To Go and the Fluffy Sock by unknown artist. Fascinating. 

Our tour ends with Nurse Sunshine bidding us farewell. "Comeback soon y'all." Yes we'll be back. Thursday to be precise. But only because our camera phone dies and we really, truly want a shot of The Fluffy Sock.  

I DIGIS YOUR WIGIS

I have a very dear friend (who has had his own battles with cancer but that's his story) we call Wigis. When he was at school it was 'The thing' to add 'is' to every word. sois youis wouldis talkis likeis thesis. Wig (that's what we call him now) had a lot of hair and his friends would tease him that it looked like a wig. So it became "I digis your wigis." And, as names do, it stuck. One of the first thoughts that popped into my head when I found out I would lose my hair was; "I wonder if I'll digis my wigis?"

I have already decided to shave my head. The slow, chernobyl-like fallout would be too devastating for me to endure. And those head ice-caps sound like medieval, ice-cream headache induced torture. I haven't worked out if I'll have the guts for rock bald ala Robin Roberts, wear one of those cap wrap things that come in every color but attractive, or shall I get myself a wigis. 

I broke the Chemo news to my daughters: age 7 going on 30 and 11 going on: "Please don't embarrass me showing up at school bald, please, please, please." They unanimously decided I should don a day-goo Nicki Minaj wig. As if Chemo wasn't enough, i should look like a clown? I went onto the internet to Google wigs. Turns out there are lots of wigs out there and Beyonce's hair is as real as her Obama inauguration anthem. Browsing through wig after wig I found a few I could wear. I could go long, thick, sexy and look like an anemic, buttless Kardashian. According to numerous websites I can look like any celebrity I choose. Turns out all I have to do to look like a Victoria's Secret super model is don a Heidi Klum wig. If only I'd known this years ago. I can go short, medium, spiked, curly or a style I have always lusted after: dead straight. I have options. I may end up with a wigis I digis.