MOVING FORWARD

I am happy to let you all know that I am no X-Man. I shall not be dueling Wolverine anytime soon, although a bit of a feel-up and tumble with Mr Hugh Jackman, for art's sake only, would not be a hardship. I had my BRCA1 and 2 sequencing done (the test Angelina Jolie did) and it came back with no mutations detected. One less thing to worry about.

I also had my ovaries scanned and checked. All good there too. The lady did hand me the stick and ask if I wanted to insert it myself. No thanks. That would ruin masterbation for ever. Plus WTF?

My energy levels are up. I'm feeling almost close to almost normal. And now for the hair update...
It's been almost 5 months since stopping chemo and here's the latest.

MAKING LEMONADE OUT OF A BALD HEAD

It's now been exactly 3 months since I stopped chemo. I dyed my hair this morning thinking that if all the white fluff was brown; I would have hair. I forgot that I'm still mostly bald. So dying bald = still bald. 

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. 

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.