6 WEEKS AFTER CHEMO. IN PICTURES.

What my port looked like. 

Left with one lone, long eyelash. 

 Cancer = really, really expensive gifts from hubby. 

Elvis. My therapy dog. 

New Boobs. Swollen and bruised but looking good. 

6 weeks after Chemo. I have a fuzzy head.
And kids who can't stop rubbing my head like a genie.  

ONE MILLION DOLLARS AND A LASER SHARK FOR SOME HAIR

3 weeks from last chemo and I still look like Dr Evil's daughter. 

DONE

Apologies. I know I should have updated this blog sooner. As my dear friend Duckie pointed out my readers need a happy ending. You absolutely do. You have been wonderful, supportive, caring readers. You've left me messages of hope, encouragement and strength. I've survived this surfing on waves of positive vibes.

Here's the thing. Chemo has short circuited my cerebrum. This is about the 9th time I'm trying to write this. Words are not flowing freely. I mean "I've survived surfing on waves of positive vibes". Who writes that badly? Turns out I do. Me and aging hippies doing that free writing course in Haight-Ashbury.

My chemo fog is bad. Very, very, very bad. (Insert your own adverbial phrase please 'very' is all I can muster.) Please forgive me if my wit is witless, my sarcasm lost on myself and my sense of irony so literal that, unlike Alanis, it's not ironic, don't you think? Where were we? I have no idea.

I'm done with chemo. I had my last round just under 2 weeks ago. The usual side effects, plus some lovely new ones: My feet are constantly freezing cold, my finger nails look like crinkly potato chips and my skin has gone so thin that my temporary breasts have shifted to almost under my armpits. Attractive right?

But I'm done. So from here on I can focus on recovery and move on. I still have one more operation where they'll replace the afore mentioned underarm boils with Grade-A, Hollywood tittys. I'll also be on Tamoxifen for at least 5 years. Side effects include night sweats, hot flushes and mood swings. So it's essentially menopause. Great. 

I'm moving from cancer victim to cancer survivor. And that, my lovely, loyal readers, is the Happy Ending. I'm riding into the sunset with my bald head slathered in SPF100. Yeeeha.

DONE

I will be updating the blog from time to time to let you know how I'm doing and to post pictures of my slow growing hair.  

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. 

  







    

THE BLACK NIPPLE AND OTHER GRUESOME STORIES

I forget that not everyone who reads this blog knows me personally. I now have readers as far away a Poland. Pretty awesome or should I say dosc niesamowite. I've been asked about my history before Chemo. So here is the not so short and bitter version. A prequel so to speak. 

Cancer Biyatch. 

My journey.

I turned 40 very reluctantly (and somewhat miraculously seeing as I was only 35 the year before) last year in August. At the insistence of my gynie I went for a 40th mammogram. My breasts were squashed, squeezed then screened and a mass was detected in my left boob.

So I went for an Ultrasound. There they found a lovely, oval, smooth lump. The doctor practically pranced into the room saying: "It's a Fibroadenoma don't worry." But of course I worried. I checked about 1000 articles and images on the internet. And indeed, you can clearly see the difference between a Fibroadenoma and a cancerous mass. The cancer has uneven edges, it's no smooth operator. 

Next step was a Core Needle Biopsy Ultrasound because that's what they do when they find any mass.
I wasn't worried until lying on the table, I turned to the screen and saw 2 lumps. Oh shit. And the one looked like all the pictures I had seen of cancer. Double shit. "What's that?" I asked panicked. Nurse: "Oh that's the other lump, we're doing two biopsies you know?" I did not know. No one had told me. I looked up at the nurses and doctors and saw 3 pity smiles. Shit Trifecta. 

My biopsy was on Oct 29th. At 5pm on the 31st, while I was dressing my kids for Halloween, the phone rang. Trick, not treat. A doctor I had never met, in a very happy, matter-of-fact voice told me I have one benign Fibroadenoma mass and one Classic Cancer tumor. Classic cancer? What's that? Does the tumor wear Chanel, pearls and a Hermes Birkin?

The next month and a bit were spent choosing a surgeon to remove the cancer; a plastic surgeon to reconstruct my breasts; an Oncologist to find out what type of cancer I have; setting up a plan, doing an MRI and waiting for results. And waiting for more results. And waiting for other results. 

I had a double mastectomy with tissue expander nipple sparing surgery (I was taking no chances it would come back in my other breast) on January 18th. I was in hospital for a few nights. During that time one of the spared nipples turned black. It looked mummified. So I had a white nipple and a black nipple. I could have been a Stevie Wonder song. Ebony and Ivory, living in perfect harmony. The breast remake. 

Eventually that nipple was removed as it was declared oxygen deprived and dead. So I became a one nipple wonder. 

I hate my tissue expanders. They are hard, turtle-like, saline shells that train your pectoral muscles to handle the eventual weight of your silicone implant, by filling up slowly with saline until they're big enough. They are medieval torture. 

I went home to recover from my op with bloody drains dangling from my fake I-must-I-must-increase-my-bust breasts. Now this is the value of a good man: my husband milked my drains like he was going for gold in a cow milking competition. He did it faithfully everyday, despite his aversion to blood or paper cuts, and he didn't once complain. This was the 'for worse'. 'For better' is coming soon.

The rest of the story is, give or take a painful recovery, more tests, more waiting and some more waiting, in my blog. 





  

SAVING ENERGY

I had my 3rd round of Chemo a week and a bit ago. The side effect that gets to me the most is the utter exhaustion one feels. Pre-cancer I was that twitchy, fidgety person who couldn't sit still for a second. Now all I do is still. I'm still-life with a remote control. TV is about all I can focus on; even reading seems tiring. It's newborn-colic-screaming-baby meets just-run-a-marathon tired. And then some.

Before I started Chemo I remember the nurse telling me to use my energy wisely. She was obviously a Chemo Yoda because she knew. A normal person can throw energy around like it's free. A Chemo patient knows that energy costs you. If you spend it unwisely you won't have any left when you need it. So a trip to Target, for example, may cost you in owie empathy later: "Child, the Neosporin is in the bathroom drawer with the band-aids, fix yourself. Mommy loves you." 

It's my daughter's 8th birthday coming up. We're doing a small tea party. Usually I go full Martha on birthday parties. I make cakes and cookies from organic scratch, I put together elaborate crafts and games. Not this year. This is the year I met Little Debbie. Her pastries and cakes come off a grocery shelf and there's nothing homemade about them. I'm serving up large doses of corn syrup, artificial flavor and red 40 in exchange for kid noise levels. I'm buying whatever is pink and edible from the Kroger Bakery in exchange for "Happy Birthday to you." You do what you gotta do. 

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. 

LUCK OF THE CANCERISH

I've been thinking a lot about luck. My thinking was triggered by one of the woman I've meet on a cancer website. These boards are where we go to get help, advice, support and friendship based on the common denominator that we're all down on our luck. Which is pretty much the understatement of the year. We're black cat crosses as you walk under a ladder onto a crack breaking a mirror in the process bad luck. My comrade in breast cancer commented that, after all she has gone through, luck has to start going her way. I couldn't agree more. We're overdue some pot-o-gold, marshmallow-charms-in-a-cereal-box, 4-leaf-clover luck. 

When I first got diagnosed every one of my doctors, family and friends told me how lucky I am that they found it early. They failed to understand how unlucky I was to get it in the first place. There you are, happily going about your life, when THUMP a piano falls on your head in the shape of a 2.2cm, stage 2, grade 3, invasive tumor. And I'm lucky?? Fuck you all. And I say that in the sweetest possible way. 

I think that people try to see the positive in your situation. Yes you got cancer but it could be worse. You're lucky it wasn't bigger, badder, in the lymphs, in the margins. You Chemobiyach (Not my real name) are the luckiest person alive. But, after pondering this wisely with hand rubbing chin, I've come to the conclusion that it's a backwards way to think. Something crappy still smells like crap no matter how much Febreze you spray around. For me it's obviously the cancer, but this goes for every really horrible situation out there. It is what it is. Bad life luck. Don't let anyone tell you any different. 

And, once you accept that, it's easier to feel that you are indeed due some of the good stuff. Not just due, owed. The universe owes you, and me, a small, green Leprechaun hand-delivered by Fedex. It doesn't have anything monumental, although winning the lotto would make up for the high Oncoytpye score if you're reading this Lady Luck, I'd settle for a day where my toast doesn't burn, the sun shines and my cancer is a distant memory.

PS Happy St. Patrick's Day for the 17th. This blog has nothing to do with the fact that it's around the corner. Lucky coincidence.  

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