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

THE FOGGY FOG. WITH APOLOGIES TO DORA THE EXPLORER.

A friend of mine suggested I write my next blog about what Chemo does to your sex life. After trying a few times I concluded it would be the shortest blog in history. There is nothing to write about. So we're moving on. Sorry Rinkie. 

I have Chemo Fog. A little studied side effect of Chemo that renders your mind stupid. Dumb as, hmm I had something clever to put in here but I forget. Put it this way: If I had to go out to dinner with Paris Hilton, Jessica Simpson and the whole team at Fox News I would be the stupidest person there.

I've twice walked into my laundry room today and completely forgot why I was in there. So obviously Chemo brain does have some merits. But for the most part it's a bit troublesome. I have long periods where I sit and stare at a wall trying to recall what I was meant to be doing. The wall gives no answers. I stare some more. These walls do not speak. If they did they'd tell me where to find my keys/wallet/bag so that I can go out and drive around aimlessly trying to recall where I'm driving to. 

Names are impossible. I write them down in my phone with a detailed description of the person. Husband: Noel. Tall guy 6.8. Makes me coffee in the morning. We share 2 children and a dog.

But where it gets really hard is when I sit down to help my 7yr old with her homework. I have a theory. America is now actively competing with the cleverer nations of the world because somewhere between: Computers help you learn to Computers have Angry Birds, we've lost our standing as one of the world's top 5 clever kid countries. And now they're piling it on to catch up. Well I can't do most of her homework. No, I'm not smarter than a 5th grader, I'm stoopider than a 2nd grader. Last night's homework she had to identity the following: Triangle, quadrilateral, pentagon, hexagon, heptagon, octagon, nonagon and decagon. I knew triangle and octagon, because of Octomom, but the rest I had to google. I blame Chemo Fog. I'm writing to Obama asking that all moms and dads going through Chemo please be excused from homework for the duration. 

It used to be that I could do the 5-things-at-once mom thing. I'm down to one. I can no longer talk, type, make dinner, chat on Whatsapp and pour myself a whisky at the same time. Multi-tasking is a thing of the past. I know what it's like to be a man. 

ALMOST BALD

Joan Rivers is one of my all-time favorite comedians. She has a documentary called: "A piece of work" which highlights just how much work being funny actually is. She works her ass off at funny. Ok, she gets it surgically worked off, but that would be a joke to her. She writes down every single joke she has ever written on a card and catalogs them in an extensive, alphabetized, wit-filled cabinet. P being her largest section. 

I bring this up because it's hard to be funny or make light of a situation that is gut-wrenchingly painful. You have to work at it. 

My wrecking ball to the heart came last night. I was forced to shave down my hair to a near bald becuase it was falling out everywhere: bed; cushions; towels; tables and food. Campbell's Vegetable and Hair soup is not my favorite flavor. Andy Warhol may have missed the ultimate social commentary there, but I digress. 

Knowing this blog is meant to be light-hearted and uplifting I'm choosing to channel Ms. Rivers. She would take one look at my picture and make some wildly uncomfortable, inappropriate joke like: "She looks like she just got liberated from Auschwitz." Oh come on, it's what you're all thinking. Or: "She looks like Justin Bieber age 50."

I really do look like a cancer victim now. Full victim. Not the tough/hot chick with a number 2. And so, when I look into the mirror I have 2 choices: cry or think of a fabulous Ms. Rivers quote: "Kelly (Pickler) shaved her head to fight breast cancer. Britney shaved her head because the Slurpee machine broke. (Just something to think about.)" 

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE MENSTRUAL PAINTING

Chemo is pretty shitty. But, as Brian suggests, we should always look on the bright side. So here's my list. 

Bad: Your hair falls out. Good: Brazilians are free. 

Bad: You feel so sick you can't get out of bed. Good: The Jodi Arias trial is taking forever. 

Bad: You can't use Tampax. Good: You can make period paintings on your pads for fun. I recreated Starry Starry Night in red yesterday, considering selling it on Ebay. 

Bad: You can't get a pedicure or a manicure. Good: You don't have to deal with your brutally honest pedicurist: "What's wrong? You look sick." "Why you have no hair? No look good." 

Bad: You neglect your husband. Good: He dotes on you. 

Bad: You neglect your children. Good: You don't have to go to talent night at the school. 

Bad: You can't drink alcohol. Good: You'll be a cheap date when you're done. 

Bad: You can't taste food. Good: Kate Moss said "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels." And this is your chance to see if it's true. 

Bad: People look at you with pity. Good: You can mess with them by coughing in the elevator. 

Bad: Your hair falls out as you type. Good: It gives you something to type about. 

JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN'T SEE THEM, DOESN'T MEAN THEY'RE NOT OUT TO GET YOU

I've always been a bit of a mysophobe. I fear germs. I see them everywhere; like that kid who sees dead people. It's become worse. I no longer go to movie theaters because I know the person behind me is host to Influenzavirus A through C. If I have to use a public bathroom I do it Madonna style. I wash my hands with OCD frequency. 

Having Chemo takes your phobia to a pathological new level. Your immune system is low. You can't fight germs. You can barely insult them. Your little, white blood warriors have met their Waterloo. And so you have to avoid germs like The Plague. Literally. 

The days following my first Chemo infusion I steered clear of all public places. To me restaurants became Bird Flu hubs; Supermarkets were cesspools of Pulmonary Tuberculosis. Even my kids scared the hell out of me. Because let's face it, kids aren't the most hygienic of people. And, even if you could bathe your kids in sanitizer, you know their friends are still having a jolly good nose pick and then playing clapping games with yours. 

Of course you can't put yourself into a plastic bubble. Although, I did buy those face masks you saw on TV during the H1N1 lets-have-fun-with-the-phobic crisis. Sooner or later you have to venture out. Lucky for me there's that Neulasta shot. It actually elevated my white blood count. So now I have more than I need. Way more. There's a partaay in my body and the white blood cells have invited their whole disease-brawling posse. It's like the Jersey Shore in there, a fight a minute. And I'm all for it. I can go out. I can eat food prepared by someone who may or may not be wearing gloves. I can pump gas. I can handle money. Best of all I can kiss my kids and husband good night. 

Unfortunately white blood cells have a short life-cycle. A partying lifestyle will do that to one. So I'm taking advantage of my Superwoman powers while I still have them. And no evil, viral, fungal or bacterial pathogen is going to take that away from me.  

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.  

I'D RATHER BE WATERBOARDED

It's been 5 days since I had my first Chemo infusion. It has not been pretty. Mostly I'm exhausted. I'm really too tired to be typing this. I'm taking long breaks between each sentence for some water and a pep talk from my coach. Then back into the ring, 3 words, Gatorade, rest. 

I have many side effects. But, I shall spare you the long list and cut to the gross bits. Blatant sensationalism I know, but a gal's got to lure her audience in somehow. And, since there is absolutely zero sex happening now, I'm going for blood, violence and pain. 

Eew factor numero uno:

I have blisters in and around my nose. All over. My nose is a dot-to-dot abscess puzzle. Connect them all and you'll have a cankerous, white-headed Miro. If I have to blow my nose, it gets Tarantino bloody. Chemo literally punches you in the face. 

Eew de 2 (Coming soon to a perfume counter near you.) 

My entire neck and chest area is covered in a throbbing, itchy, red rash. It works much as America does. The areas that are blue are calm. But the red spots are unbelievably irritating and menacing. And, they won't go away. I've tried appeasing them by buttering them up with soothing lotion and promising it'll get better this time around. But they don't believe me. They're swollen, angry, demanding all my attention and insisting the other 47% of my body should not share the cream. It's a hard itch to scratch. 

Eew 3 

This one's really for Adam Sandler fans. POOP. If you're not laughing hysterically and making fart noises with your armpit, this Blog has ended for you. Thanks for reading. For the rest of you, and my nephew, I shall continue. I had not pooped in 5 days. Yesterday was my first one. And it was a tiny, pathetic, Cadbury's Whisper of a poop. No, Dr Freud, I am not holding onto my poop like gold. I've long since gotten over those issues. I would simply love a relaxing, free-flowing, zero-pushing guano. Isn't that what everyone wants? 

I'm tiring fast. It's time for a quick nap before my Neulasta (medicine to stimulate healthy, white blood cells and fight infection) starts drilling at my bones with a pneumatic jackhammer. Can't wait to see what next week brings.