I'm back!

I’ve been in a frenzy these last few days. In the last few months, David has been taking care of all the “must do” household duties. Everything else in our household has just slipped. A few days ago, I woke up feeling great with fire in my belly to get things done. With prayers from all the major world religions, in addition to lots of good healing thoughts coming my way, I just think, just think, I might be back to my old self again---pain free with the normal energy of a 40 something. I feel very fortunate.

So, I just mailed Emma’s birthday gift thank you notes (her birthday was Nov 7); I watered our almost dead plant; I recycled my junk mail; I returned the pantry to order; and I removed all the clutter from flat surfaces. These are the type of things that are not that important, yet drive me crazy when they are not done. It is actually therapeutic to restore order to my home.

I have a renewed feeling of motivation in my life. Beyond restoring order, I feel energized to fulfill all the “I wish I would haves” in my life that I was forced to contemplate just a few months ago when life seemed so fragile.

Gigi Cancer Quiz

Hello All. After a bit of a blogging break, I am back at the keyboard….
I thought I would only be able to eat smoothies for Christmas because of mouth sores, but I have been spared all the pain in my mouth and throat this treatment round. And thanks to the steroids, I ate my mother’s Christmas dinner with the appetite of a truck driver.



I am now turning over the keyboard to David. As some of you know, David loves games and puzzles. David has made up a special “Gigi Cancer Quiz” for this posting. Enjoy.





1. Which of the following about Gigi's high school years is FALSE?
a. She played clarinet and saxophone in band.
b. She spent part of a summer at a writing camp.
c. She was on the volleyball team.
d. She was prom queen.

2. Gigi needs to go to the ER if her temperature is at least
a. 100.5
b. 101.5
c. 102.5
d. 103.5

3. Which type of dance class has Gigi NOT taken?
a. belly dance
b. flamenco
c. hip hop
d. jazz
e. salsa

4. Chemotherapy was developed
a. by British chemists in Africa.
b. for the last Czar of Russia.
c. from Chinese herbs.
d. from poisonous mustard gas in World War 1.

5. Gigi's
a. grandfather was a philosophy professor in Mexico City.
b. great-uncle was mayor of Mexico City.
c. cousin was Miss Mexico.
d. all of the above.

6. Lymphoma is cancer of the lymph glands. The lymph glands
a. produce lymph.
b. produce white blood cells.
c. trap infectious agents.
d. all of the above.

7. The number of oncologists who advised us, directly or indirectly:
a. 1
b. 2
c. 3
d. 4

8. We were married by a(n)
a. Catholic priest
b. Protestant minister
c. Rabbi
d. Ethical Culture officiant
e. Justice of the Peace

9. The number of different nausea medications Gigi took this treatment round:
a. 0
b. 1
c. 2
d. 3

10. Which of the following is NOT something Emma says often:
a. "I'm as hungry as a hog."
b. "I'm never cold."
c. "Mama's my little cheeky baby."
d. "What can I do now?"
e. "What's on TV?"

Answers: 1b, 2a, 3c, 4d, 5d, 6d, 7d, 8d, 9d, 10e

At the halfway mark

I am happy to report that with the completion of this third treatment, I am at the halfway mark in my therapy. I have three more treatments to go. The oncologist told us that the tumor is going down at an ideal rate. In his words, my body is responding “beautifully.” In addition, he said my blood clot at the end of my port was tiny. The infusion treatment went well. My port worked. Everything went as expected. As usual, because of the drugs, I slept through most of the infusion. Until….


…one of my lazy boy chemo neighbors decided to turn the TV on. Thank goodness I had my “TV B Gone” with me. This remote control was a gift from David and Sally, good friends from Boston. After reading one of my earlier posts about being “thankful nobody requested the TVs to be put on,” David and Sally quickly mobilized into action and sent me a “TV B Gone” so I would be ready just in case. So, when the TV came on, I quickly zapped it off and told my chemo neighbor that I was trying to quietly fight for my life here. Silence was key.

Actually, only part of this story is true. I did get a “TV B Gone” remote from David and Sally (which made me laugh and laugh), but I didn't use it in the infusion room. It seemed a bit surreal to watch TV ads for kool-aid, laundry detergent, and orange juice while life saving chemicals coursed through my veins. As I slipped back into my drug induced sleep, I got confused which fluids were the mundane and which ones were the profound.

Third treatment tomorrow

I go in for my third chemo treatment tomorrow morning. (I have a total of 6 scheduled). I have come to dread these things. My good friend, Shari, will be my chemo sitter this time. They tell me the chemo side effects are cumulative, so each time I will feel worse and worse. I hope my port works even with the blood clot. More later…

My last lecture

Over this past weekend, I submitted the final grades for the graduate class I was teaching this semester. In the middle of the term, I had to leave the class because of my illness. Several of my colleagues at Texas State (Sandy Rao, Bruce Smith and Lori Bergen) jumped in and helped with the remaining lectures and grading. I am truly grateful for their help.

I love teaching this class. It is called Seminar in Advertising and Public Relations Issues. The class meets once a week for 3 hours. And like a graduate seminar should be, the class only had 10 students in it. I teach the class using lecture, cases and student presentations. Each week we discuss a different theme in advertising or public relations. For example, when we discussed Advertising Creativity, I first presented a lecture on historical trends in advertising creativity. Then we discussed a case involving a problem related to an agency’s creative work. Finally, a student gave a presentation on a current issue related to advertising creativity: the popularity of user generated ads. As small graduate seminars go, I felt I really connected with the students.

When I was creating my syllabus in August, I cancelled class on October 25 so that the students would have time to attend lectures/talks during our annual Mass Communication Week. I was planning on spending all week at school attending sessions and visiting with colleagues. Little did I anticipate that on the evening of October 25, I would be spending the night at a La Quinta Motel in Dallas. The next day, the liver surgeon at Baylor Medical Center came out of my laparoscopic biopsy procedure and told David that the mass in my liver was cancer.

The following week, I did manage to attend one last lecture. I was in pain and moving very slowly, but I managed to fake good health for a few hours. The class went as planned. I had a wonderful guest speaker (a former grad student of mine who is now a successful public relations professional). Next, students presented and discussed the public relations case. The class closed with a good student presentation on the influence of think tanks and foundations on media content.

During the whole class, I was dreading making my announcement about my illness. I had to tell the students, because I thought this would be my last class. At this point, no one knew about my cancer except close family. Because so few people knew about my illness, it almost seemed like it didn’t exist. As I was sitting in the back of the room watching the students present, I thought how perfectly normal everything seemed. If I didn’t make an announcement, perhaps my cancer might just go away. The more people who knew about my cancer, the more it became real. What if I just never told anyone. Could I get away with that?

At the end of the class, I slowly made my way up the front of the seminar table and began my announcement with a failed attempt at cancer humor. Given that we were discussing public relations, I told the class I was pulling a “Tony Snow” on them. I didn’t get any laughs, only confused looks. I explained that just as the White House Press Secretary had to leave his position because of cancer, I was going to leave the class because I also had cancer. I heard gasps in the room. Confused faces turned to sad faces. As I went on explaining my situation, my voice started to crack. I could see some of the students holding back tears. I just paused and took a breath until I regained my composure.

I told the students that other faculty would probably be taking over the class. I discussed the logistics of the rest of the semester. Everyone was quiet. I wished them good luck with the rest of the semester. Nobody moved. I finally had to just say that the class was over. What I should have done was stand up and hug each of them as they walked out the door. At that moment, institutional titles no longer separated us. I was no longer Dr. Taylor. They were no longer graduate students. We were just people in a room all struggling with a devastating piece of news that had just become reality.



Old Main, home of the Texas State University School of Journalism and Mass Communication.

How is Emma doing?

The next question I am often asked is “How is Emma?” Emma has probably been the hardiest of us all. She clearly sees that I have been sick. We have never mentioned the word “cancer,” but she knows about the “bad spot in my tummy,” my treatments and my port. We once let her peek into the transfusion room (kids under 14 are not allowed into the room). When I am feeling really bad and can’t tuck her into bed, she tucks me into bed. This is really very sweet.

We haven’t seen any noticeable behavioral changes in her as a result of my illness. She continues to be a happy, social little girl. When we tell her that I will be better after my last treatment, she says, “Of course mama will get better!” She likes to sing to herself. She also likes to do song and dance routines in front of the mirror. Everything she puts her hands on has the potential to come alive with a personality and a story line. This morning the red magnets were making friends with the blue magnets. Last night she put all her stuffed animals to bed in sets of two. Each little baby stuffed animal went to sleep in the arms of either their mommy or daddy stuffed animal.

There was only one time that suggested Emma knows exactly what is going on. Before the chemo treatments started when I was hunched over in pain and short of breath, I told Emma I was very sick, but I would get better. As she softly caressed my face, she said I was beautiful and like in the fairy tales, beautiful things are always taken away. I quickly told her this was not true! But I realized why fairy tales, with their tragic storylines have endured through time. They help all of us, especially children, understand the tragedies of life.

Emma often makes “Get Well” cards for me. Here are a few of her pieces. These cards break my heart. I usually cry when she gives them to me. She has learned that crying can mean happy and that I think crying is a very good thing.

Interview with David

In reviewing the previous post, I realized I described WHAT David was doing, but not really HOW he is doing. I figure the best way to answer this question is to ask David directly. The following is the transcript from my interview with David for this blog entry.






GIGI: People always ask me how you have been doing? … So, David, how have you been doing?

DAVID: Doing OK.

GIGI: (laughing) You’ve gotta give me a little more here.

DAVID: Well the beginning was tough. It was shocking. It was very upsetting. And I felt myself “steeling” against it. What I mean is hardening myself against it. And then the news started getting somewhat better, and since then it has only gotten better. So I have been doing OK. You get used to the state of having cancer, your wife having cancer. You adjust to it. Although I wouldn’t have thought I would have adjusted to it already, but I guess I have adjusted. Now that you are feeling well, I am doing OK. It does seem temporary, so I feel this will work. I feel like in a couple of months this will be gone. Maybe in three months it will be gone and we will be back to normal. I feel like we can get through it.

GIGI: What do you think of my bald head?

DAVID: Bald is beautiful. (Gigi laughs.)

GIGI: When did you start losing your hair?

DAVID: In college I remember my mom telling me I was losing my hair and I didn’t believe her. I guess I was in denial for a long while. So I lost my hair mid way through college, perhaps.

GIGI: As a veteran, uh “baldy,” do you have any tips for me?

DAVID: If it’s cold, wear a hat.

GIGI: What about sunscreen?

DAVID: Put sunscreen on.

GIGI: What do you think of my wig?

DAVID: I like it. You look good.

GIGI: Really? Thanks.

GIGI: How has my cancer changed your life?

DAVID: Well it certainly changed. I have to worry about what might happen a little bit. But I have been denying that anything might go wrong. I have had to do more work around the house, caring for Emma and consequently less work at school. Makes you not worry about the small things.

GIGI: How do you like being interviewed?

DAVID: I don’t care for it much.

GIGI: How is your scrabble game holding up?

DAVID: Pretty good.

GIGI: You have been missing some Monday scrabble game nights.

DAVID: Oh yes, I have only gone once since this whole thing started. But I play on the computer. I will go more while you are feeling better.

GIGI: So, I want to thank you for everything you are doing around the house.

DAVID: Thank you for noticing.

How is David doing?

When I talk to people, one of the questions people always ask is, “How’s David doing?” This is an important question. If you were to ask David directly how he was doing, he would say, “Uh, um, uh, I’m doing OK.” And that would be all you would get. Now if you ask ME, how he is doing, you would get an earful, in this case you’re going to get a screen full.

First, a little background…at our wedding reception in San Francisco in 2000, David’s brother, Daniel, gave a very funny toast and made a somewhat vague (or maybe not so vague) reference to David being lazy. I caught the exchange of knowing glances between David’s mother and grandmother. Now seven years into this, I would be in on that exchange of glances.

But things have changed around here. David fixes dinner. David puts the dishes in the dishwasher. He puts the dishes away. He scrubs the pans. He goes shopping. He washes the sheets. When he is done cooking and cleaning, he deals with the medical bills. He gets Emma to bed and off to school. He arranges weekend activities. In between all his chores, he stops by the couch to ask me if he can do anything for me. He has been doing all of this while maintaining regular teaching and research responsibilities at UT.

Before I got sick, David would look up from his book and thank me for everything I did. I would stare blankly back at him and thank him for noticing. Now HE is the one thanking me for just noticing.

I have felt better recently, so now I am jumping in and helping around the house. I was once the caregiver for my sick Dad and Aunt some years back, so I know how burnout can eat at the best intentions.

In addition, David has been like a patient advocate for me. He goes to all my doctor appointments. He helps me remember what the doctor says and asks really good questions. When he is around, I feel safe and cared for.

Here’s to David and all the other caregivers out there who do everything possible for their loved one—whether it is noticed or not.


David and Emma during our trip to Mexico last summer.







Here is a picture from David’s senior year high school yearbook (1983). David is standing next to a cool guy. (Uh, David would be the one with the jacket zippered up to his chin.) If David looks confident here, it is not because he got to stand next to the cool guy. It is because he was the math team Co-Captain.

“The tumor has gone down, but…”

My doctor’s nurse called today with the results of the CT scan I had on Monday. She told me that indeed the tumor has gone down. When she told me the good news, I could hear hesitation in her voice. I was waiting for the “but.” I got what I anticipated when she added, “but they found a blood clot at the end of your port.” The nurse said they could not make the clot go away, rather just prevent it from getting bigger. So, I am on blood thinning medication now. She told me the potential problem is that the port wouldn’t work anymore because of the clot. In addition, the clot could break away and cause worse problems. She said the clot is small and the doctor is not worried about it - just something to monitor. Clotting at the end of ports is common, according to the nurse. This is where trust in your doctor comes in. I have decided to trust and not to worry too much.

This is a picture of a port.

A Cancer Free Day

It seems as if the fatigue has left my body. For the past several days, I have felt amazingly normal. No fatigue, no mouth sores, no nausea. Just normal. Yesterday, I attended a luncheon meeting of the Austin Advertising Fed. I was very interested in hearing the guest speaker talk about a new trend in the business (Connection Planning). I wore my wig. Nobody at the luncheon knew I had cancer. I met some lovely people at my table. One guy was an illustrator from Waco. Another guy was a sales rep for a local film production company. Perhaps I thought these guys were lovelier than they really were because I was having such a great time NOT talking about cancer.

Then I got it in my head that I wanted Emma to have the memory of our entire house smelling like Chanukah. So, I decided to fix latkes. I had no idea what I was doing. As usual when I attempt to do this sort of thing, we had to call David’s mom in New York for emergency cooking backup. My latkes were not sticking together in the pan. By the third batch – “a little more egg and a little more matzo meal” – at least they LOOKED like latkes.

As I was putting Emma to bed last night, she gently touched my arm and said, “Momma, I don’t want to be mean or anything, but your latkes are not as good as the kind Shira’s mom makes.”

“Oh, Emma,” I said. “I am well aware of this.” So, with that, I had a relatively normal day.

It was just a few days ago that I was debilitated on the couch, so I was acutely aware of how different it felt to be pain free and energetic. I need to keep this awareness up. Why is it that we forget how good it feels to be healthy until we don’t have good health?

My Profile

I am amazed that there have been over 100 clicks on the “profile” section of my blog. OK. I admit. I have clicked on my profile a number of times just to see what information I could add to this section. Then I keep going back to see how many more clicks I have in this section. I sort of like not having a profile, of being anonymous in this very public forum. Yet, I assume most of the people who are reading this blog already know who I am. But since there are over 100 clicks on my profile, I will go ahead and write a profile. This is the extended profile version since this blogging service only allows 1200 characters in the official profile section.

Here in the US, if people want to know you are, they ask, “What do you do?” I often ask this myself of others. When people ask me what I do, I am conscious of my response, knowing that much will be inferred by my profession. I actually like finding out about people by asking “Where are you from?” since I believe you can tell a lot about a person by their geographic roots.

I grew up on the eastern plains of Colorado in a small town (Otis) much closer in miles and culture to the Kansas/Nebraska border than to Denver. After undergrad at University of Colorado at Boulder (Marketing) and four years in Portland, Oregon working in academic publishing, I moved to Austin, Texas to attend grad school at the University of Texas (Advertising). Two graduate degrees later, I am still here in Austin.

I’ve lived in Texas now 17 years (minus several years away in the Bay Area and Boston), but Texas has been a part of my family all my life. My dad was a Texan and a high school science teacher. He grew up in a small town outside of Austin. All of my family attended either UT-Austin or what is now Texas State University. As a kid when we would drive from Colorado down to Austin, my dad would sigh when we hit the Texas state line. “Geege, we’re home. We’re in Texas now.” I would roll my eyes from the back seat of the car and ask him just what WAS it about Texas. He would say, “It’s the roads. Can you see how wide and well maintained they are?” I now know his response was a very Texan thing to say. At the time, I did have to admit, the roads were bigger and better than those we were on in Colorado, Kansas or Oklahoma. Mind you, we weren’t traveling down Interstate 35. We were on Texas 83 down the Texas Panhandle through epic small towns like Shamrock, Childress, and Paducah where you can mark the transition from the Rocky Mountain West into Texas by whether you get hash browns or grits next to your eggs. I am not a Texan, but I “get” Texas.

My mother, Elsa, moved to Austin a month before Emma was born. She lives three minutes from us in the same neighborhood. She is a retired Spanish and French high school teacher, but has been teaching several classes every semester at Austin Community College for over 5 years. She is originally from Mexico City. As a young woman, she lived in Paris and studied at the Sorbonne for 5 years. After almost 50 years in the US, she is quite “Americanized” except for the fact that she is always impeccably dressed in pearls, heals and a suit—vestiges of her class standing she left behind in Mexico.

Several years ago, I left my job as an assistant professor in the Advertising sequence at Texas State University, but I didn’t leave my career. I now balance my professional life in three ways:

1) I am a freelance qualitative consumer researcher. I help companies answer marketing questions by doing things like conducting focus groups, interviewing people, watching people shop, and shopping with people. I then translate the “learnings” (love advertising jargon) from the research into marketing or advertising strategy. This work is familiar for me as I used to work as a consumer researcher (account planner) in an ad agency. In addition, I am the type of person who asks lots of questions when I meet people, so my work is almost a natural extension of what I just normally do.

2) I am also an adjunct faculty member at Texas State. (A little) teaching remains a very creative and rewarding experience.

3) I continue to collaborate on academic projects with colleagues. My area of research is the intersection between media planning (where and when ads are placed) and account planning (understanding the consumer).

I am married to David, a computer science professor at the University of Texas. David is a theoretician. His area is randomness and computation. Don’t ask him to help you with your computer. But do ask him how to extract randomness out of some slightly random numbers. David is originally from Brooklyn. He went to high school in Manhattan and studied in Boston and Berkeley before moving to Austin. We have a very girly, 6 year old daughter named Emma.

For fun, David and I like to eat out and go to movies. We often talk about how we should start dancing again. We spend the rest of the time trying to keep the clutter off the kitchen table, arranging play dates for Emma and kvetching over the state of domestic and international affairs.

On October 26, 2007, at 44 years of age, I was diagnosed with cancer. Specifically, I have stage 3 (there are 4 stages) non-Hodgkin's lymphoma (intermediate grade, large B-cell). I had a large tumor (10 x 18 cm) in my liver and cancer was found throughout my lymphatic system.

CT Scan Today

Last Friday at a doc appointment, my oncologist was very pleased with the way my body is responding to the chemo. He felt around my stomach and reported that the tumor in my liver is now down 30-40%! My doctor was happy. David was happy. I was happy, but all I wanted to do was crawl down on the floor and go to sleep. While my body is doing a great job of killing the cancer cells, I am feeling the effects of chemo. The biggest consistent side effect seems to be fatigue. It is an effort just to move from the bed to the couch as I sleep a good part of the day. Sometimes I feel like I can’t even hold my weight when I stand. It is a fatigue like I have never felt before, almost drug induced (I guess this fatigue IS drug induced). So, while I am getting better in the long run, I feel very weak and tired on a daily basis. Like we told Emma, I would be a little sick before I got completely better.

Today I have a CT scan to see exactly how far the tumor has gone down. I will have the results later this week.

My Cranial Prosthesis

Out of all the various styles and colors of wigs, I picked this synthetic wig from the “Noriko Collection.” The wig is called the "Ryan” and the color is toasted brown. It was made in Thailand. The wig is perky bob that reminds me of a hairstyle that a morning newscaster would wear…so not me. (I just miss my old "no particular style" hair.) I feel like I am wearing a mop on my head when I have the wig on. I look at pictures of me in the wig and I wonder, “Who is this person?” I will wear this wig when I don’t want to be cancer identified. For example, I wore the wig for the first time when I went to Emma’s school yesterday to volunteer in the library. One of Emma’s little friends didn’t recognize me and asked Emma if I was the babysitter. Emma whispered back that I was wearing a wig because my hair had fallen out.

Little known fact: Wigs that are purchased because of chemotherapy are covered in part by some health insurances. In the insurance business, a wig is called a “cranial prosthesis.”




Here I am with my wig on next to my stylist friend, Bonnie. In the world of chemo wigs, Bonnie is well known as the "blue hair lady" that many chemo patients in Austin go to when they need wig help.

Wig Shop Photo Essay

One of the odd, fun things of this hair loss has been the experience of shopping for a wig. When I walked into the shop, I was mesmerized by the rows and rows of female heads with assorted hairstyles. The older heads are made of white Styrofoam with bright red lips. The short grey wigs are on these older heads.



The newer heads look almost life-like with long swan necks, heavy eye makeup and pouty, red lips. None of the faces on the models have a smile. They all have a distant, vacant look like real models in magazines often do.











I am attracted to these heads yet repulsed and a little scared of them at the same time. The collection of heads seems campy and fun….something that you would find in an art director’s cubicle of an ad agency. Then I start thinking of the scary movies I have seen where real looking dolls come to life. Or I see these heads like disembodied versions of the women from the mid 70’s movie, The Stepford Wives. In any case, I enjoyed taking pictures and choosing my wig from the following collection of styles. ( I am having trouble posting pictures. I could only upload these few pics.)

Not so Great

I have been a little slow on the posts because I have not felt so well in the last couple of days after the second infusion. I hate this blog to be about feeling yucky all the time, but in the spirit of reporting, I guess I need to just state the facts. I am on steroids, which has been a very odd experience. My body desperately wants to sleep, but my mind just won’t shut off. I am exhausted, but I can’t shut down. Today is the last day I need to take steroids. My mouth and throat are also very sore. It hurts to drink water. I gargle with warm salt water, which helps. I don’t have much of an appetite.

I am over my hair loss. I wear a cap every time I go out now. Fortunately, it is cold in Austin now, so I don’t look that odd.

Second Round Down

All of my hair is now sitting in a brown paper grocery bag.

Before I continue my hair saga story, let me just say this. So far, losing my hair has been the worst thing about my cancer treatment. And if having a bald head for several months is as bad as it gets, I am very lucky---lucky indeed.

So, the night before my second treatment, I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about everything: would the nurse be able to access my port; would it hurt when she stuck the needle in my port; would the Rituxan start hurting my throat like it did last time; would I have unusual side effects during the infusion. In addition I was very uncomfortable. I couldn’t rest my head down flat because my hair was all balled up into 3 or 5 matted nests. (My wig stylist friend later told me this is what happens. As the hair starts to come lose from the head, it works its way back up to the scalp and starts balling itself up.)

After only several hours of sleep, I got up in a panic about 8 AM. We needed to be at the doctor’s office at 9 AM to begin the infusion treatment. I looked at myself in the mirror and broke down in tears. I needed help with my hair. I couldn’t get a comb or brush through my hair, much less my fingers. David was desperately asking how he could help me, but there was really only person for the job and that was my mom. At this point, I tapped into that understood agreement between my mother and me -- the fact that we would do anything for each other night or day. I called my mom in tears and told her I was in desperate need for help. I needed her to come over (she lives just minutes away from us) and help me brush my hair out… I mean literally brush it out. I knew that the process of detangling my hair meant that it would all come out. I needed my mom’s help for this. She herself needed to leave by 9:00 AM to teach her class at the local community college, but by 8:20 she showed up at my house ready to help.

I had set up the bathroom with everything we would need: brush, comb, scissors, shaver, paper bag and a chair for me to sit in. When my mom first saw all the bald spots and matted clumps of hair all over my head, she gasped. I just hugged her. We started to cry, but we controlled our emotions because we had to work fast. She started to comb and brush the matted hair out and just as I anticipated, all my hair started coming out. I asked her as she was struggling with my hair if in her wildest dreams she thought she would be ever doing this. She said, “Never, especially for my own daughter.”

By the time she was done, she had filled a paper shopping bag full with my hair. I now look like those men that flip their hair over their heads to cover bald spots. My entire scalp is now like this. I only have loose strands of hair covering my bald head.

The actual infusion process went well. I slept through most of it. I was cold, but there were plenty of blankets to keep me warm. For the first time, I chatted with a fellow infusion patient. This other woman told me that it was her sister who flew in from Oregon that painstakingly and lovingly brushed her hair out. We agreed losing our hair was one of the hardest parts of chemo treatment, but it was easier letting go with the help of a loved one.


Here I am during the second infusion treatment now wearing a head covering. I am borrowing this cap from a friend who bought it in China. The cap makes me happy. It is bright and colorful.

Erev Round Two

This is the eve of my second treatment. I feel different now about chemo. On the eve of my first treatment, I was very, very eager to start chemotherapy. I was in lots of pain due to the large tumor in my liver. I was short of breath and experiencing night sweats. Now, on the eve of my second treatment, I am no longer suffering from the tumor. I have been very tired, I have gotten sick a few times, I am losing my hair, but that is about it. Not too bad.

As I face the next round of treatment, I worry that some of the other side effects of chemo will start catching up with me. I came home from my one-on-one session about the side effects of chemo with a large PowerPoint deck detailing the effects of chemo. Some of the things I might be facing include anemia (low red blood cell count); neutropenia (low white blood cell count); thrombocytopenia (low platelet count); stomatitis (sores in the mouth); peripheral neuropathy (numbness in the hands and feet); and my favorite, chemobrain (mental confusion or decreased mental clarity). Everyone is different. Perhaps I will be spared these other side effects.

David and my mom will be my two chemo sitters again this time. If this time is like the first time, I will be on a steroid high for 5 days. On the 4th day, my bones will hurt because of the Neulasta shot that I will get on Saturday that keeps my white and red blood cell count up. On Wednesday, I will be off of steroids and crash into heavy fatigue that will continue until I go into round three of chemo, which is scheduled for December 21.

Cool!

I have been in denial about my hair loss since my last post. I have not brushed or washed it in several days since this is the way it comes out. I have been keeping it in a hair net so that all my loose hair doesn't keep falling all over the place.

Yesterday I was forced to deal with my hair because I was going out for a doctor's appointment. I started brushing it, but I had to stop because my brush filled completely with hair after only a few strokes. Then I got fistfuls of hair just by running my hands through my hair.

Later in the afternoon, I went to pick up Emma after school. As we were leaving her building, Emma noticed that I was running my hand through my hair and getting clumps of hair. She asked me about this. I have been wondering how I would tell her about my hair loss. I was worried she would be scared or freaked out. I decided this was the best time. I told her casually as I opened the car door that the medicine I was taking was making my hair fall out. She stopped and looked at me and asked, "Are you going to be bald?" I looked back at her blankly and said, "Yes." Her eyes lit up. Emma responded with, "COOL." All of a sudden my hair loss was "cool." In the eyes of a 6-year old, a bald mama was "cool."

I continued to pull strands of hair out as I was driving home. Emma asked, "Can I do that?" Emma thought it would be fun to pull her mama's hair out. So now Emma's treat is to sit and pull clumps of hair out of my head. Sometimes she pulls hair that is not yet loose. At this point I yell, but it feels somewhat nurturing to have my daughter gently pull at my hair. She is helping me to see the inevitable novelty of my loss.

Alopecia

I went to the doctor’s office on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving to attend a Chem 101 review session, I mean a Chemo 101 review session. This medical group does a great job of preparing patients for the side effects of chemo. I have already had one round of chemo, but I just wanted more information. And like many a college review session, I happened to be the only one there. Perhaps the other chemo students went home early for Thanksgiving ; )

So, I basically got a 1-hour private consultation with an oncology pharmacist. The presentation was tailored to me and I got to ask lots of questions. Toward the end of the session came the topic of alopecia. This means hair loss. The pharmacist was surprised that my hair had not fallen out yet. I told her that it seemed like more hair was coming out when I brushed or washed it. She told me it would come out in clumps. Like I would wake up in the morning and my hair would be lying on the pillow in a clump! It was at this point that I wanted to cry.

I think I have been very good about all of this up to this point. I mean we are all familiar with fatigue, loss of appetite, nausea, and flu-like symptoms, but hair loss is something completely foreign. How does it really happen? One moment I am walking around with hair and the next moment I notice clumps of hair on the floor? Will I be completely bald or will I have a few strands left? Does it happen at once or over a series of days? I think not knowing the exact process scares me.

After the review session, I had a little over an hour before I needed to pick up Emma from school. I decided it was time to visit a wig shop. I was planning to shop for a wig with a couple of girlfriends last week, but I cancelled because I was so tired. I wanted to make wig-shopping fun, like shopping for a new pair of shoes. I thought we would all try a few wigs on, put a few Cher style wigs on, take pictures and laugh about it all. It was actually good that my first experience with wigs was by myself.

I walked into the wig shop looking like a deer in the headlights. It looked like a regular hair salon except the walls were lined with shelf after shelf of wigs. I thought I would just walk to the shelf, put a wig on, see how it looked and then move on to the next wig -- self service style. Perhaps that is how it is done in other shops. In this shop, it is all about service.

When the woman (would she be called a stylist?) first saw me standing rather timidly in the middle of the store, she pulled me over to see the wig of another client who was still in the styling chair. This other woman’s wig looked very real. The client looked great and she seemed very happy. I was not sure why the lady in the styling chair needed a wig. Then this woman told me she lost her hair due to an illness (cancer?)

OK. Then it was my turn to sit in the styling chair. I wasn’t quite prepared for this. What happened to “just looking.” The stylist asked why I was shopping for a wig. “It wouldn’t be chemo would it?” she asked. “Oh yes,” I said, “It would be chemo.” I flashed her my port and she understood.

At this point the stylist turned into something between a counselor, bartender and girlfriend. She clearly has had lots of cancer patients sit in that chair, because she knew just what to say.

For the next 30 minutes of so, the stylist managed to make me laugh, to calm me, to educate me, and to sell me on a nice style in my color. When I put the wig on, I wanted to pull the hair back into a barrette like I do my own hair. This is when I learned my first lesson: the wig comes with a certain style. You can’t change the style. No scrunchies or barrettes in the wig. I told her I would be back with my mom and/or girlfriends for a second opinion.

This is hard, I think because getting upset over the loss of hair is so irrational. I mean my hair will grow back! Yet, hair is very personal. It is like a limb. In addition, the loss of hair is so public. While fatigue and nausea is not always associated with cancer, a scarf or hat over a bald head clearly signals cancer. Finally, I think I am upset because losing hair and getting a bald head is, frankly, a bit freakish. It is just not normal. Now every time I lie down, I check to see if I left my hair behind on the pillow.



Here is button I got from the doctor's office. My stylist friend had a button that was a little more blunt and crude that I cannot post.

Yet More Good News

I found out yesterday the results of the bone marrow test and my doctor called this afternoon to confirm: the cancer has NOT gone to the bone marrow! This is very good news. Personally, I thought the cancer had made its way to my bones. I have been warning everyone that I thought the cancer was there. Not that I could feel something in my bones, but by thinking the worst, I was prepared for anything. If indeed the test was positive, I was already prepared. If the test was negative, then I would be pleasantly surprised. Early on we were getting hit with only bad news. I learned to accept the absolute worst scenario as a coping strategy.

My next chemo treatment will be on November 30. I will then have a CT scan on December 10 to evaluate my progress after two rounds of chemo. If my body is not reacting to the chemo after 2 treatments in Austin, then I will need to go to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston for further treatment. If I am not in complete remission after the 4th treatment, then I will need to go to MD Anderson at this point too. I am hoping I will get to stay in Austin and have all of this behind me by February 22, the date of my very last scheduled chemo infusion.

Just What the Doctor Ordered

Last Saturday night David and I attended a dinner/ dance gala celebrating Kerry Baker’s 30th year as a rabbi. My mom and David didn’t think I would have the energy to go out, but I was bound and determined to go. Attending this event to show support for our friends Lynda and Kerry Baker was very important to me. Lynda and Kerry are two of the many wonderful people we have met through our daughter’s daycare center.

It has been cancer, cancer, cancer around here 24/7 for the past 3 weeks or so, and I am actually kind of tired of it. I am finding that the two biggest side effects of chemo so far are fatigue and loss of appetite. But tired or not, I was ready to get out. So, I took off my sweats and house shoes; found my high heels, put on a dress; stuffed my nausea medicine and a lipstick into an evening bag and off we went.

The event was wonderful. It was great to see all the appreciation for Rabbi Baker. I sat most of the evening because I was so tired, but David and I did get to dance just a bit. I was very tired the next day, but getting out and being around friends was just what the doctor ordered.




Here is a picture of David and me almost 10 years ago. At the time of this picture, I was a doctoral student at the University of Texas working on my dissertation and teaching a class. David and I were dating at the time. I was wearing my standard issue black dress.






Here is a picture of us last Saturday night. My completed dissertation is ancient history. David and I are married with a 6-year old girl. Now with all the recent weight loss associated with my illness, I was still able to wear that same standard issue black dress.

Good news!

Yesterday, my mother and I went to see my oncologist for a 1-week follow-up visit. I told the doc that my abdominal pains are all gone; that I can walk upright now without needing to bend over and clutch my stomach; and that I am no longer short of breath. He examined my stomach area. This time I didn’t wince in pain when he touched the right side of my stomach. After listening to me and examining my body, my oncologist announced that it looks like the tumor has gone down 10-20% after one round of chemo! I will have a CAT scan after the second round of chemo to confirm the reduction. My mom and I couldn't stop shaking the doctor's hand. We then hugged and cried after we left the doctor's office. My mom told me she was finally able to sleep last night for the first time in weeks after hearing the good news.

So at the same time that I have this wonderful news, I am now feeling the effects of the chemo. I tire very easily. I often have flu-like symptoms. Because my mouth is very tender, I can only eat very mild food. And yesterday, I got sick twice.

But now I am in such a better place emotionally than I was before the chemo treatment. Now I know my discomfort is actually part of my healing. Before the chemo, I was deteriorating on a daily basis. Everyday the pain, the shortness of breath and the night sweats would get worse. It was so frightening to know that I had something growing inside me that was literally killing me with my every breath. I would never wish this experience on anyone.

My next round of chemo will be on November 30. This time the treatment will be just one day. I remain (oddly) in good spirits. I actually like to throw up because I feel so much better afterwards, plus it feels like I am literally, physically, and cathartically purging the malignancy out of my body.

Veteran's Day Bone Marrow Aspiration

On Monday of this week, I went to a local hospital for a bone marrow aspiration. They basically took a sample of my bone marrow to see if the cancer has gone to my bones. Since all of this started, I have had so many tests and exams, however Monday’s bone marrow aspiration was the most difficult and painful of them all. The procedure was difficult for two reasons:

1. The procedure hurt! I was somewhat sedated, but not enough. I requested more sedation, but I still felt LOTS of pressure. The doctor took a sample from the lower part of my back.

2. I had to wait and wait and wait for my procedure to start. I walked in at 8:30 in the morning. They told me I would be out in about 5 hours. David and I didn’t leave the hospital until 7:30 at night. I first waited in the pre-op area in a gown on a bed for about 4 hours. From my vantage point, I could hear and see the stress of the nurses trying to get all the patients ready for their day surgeries. Since I can’t truly evaluate medical competencies of a hospital or clinic, I evaluate on the care and service aspect that I receive. This pre-op area was clearly understaffed. Then I was transferred to the actual operating room. They got me on my stomach, put oxygen in my nose, prepped my back, put me into a CT machine and then I waited. I waited in this position for about an hour until the doctor arrived. Fortunately I had a nice nurse that stayed and talked to me while I was waiting for the doctor. The nice nurse assured me that this waiting in the operating room never happens. I thought, “Thanks, Good to know.” I kept hearing the staff talking about how busy they were that day. Then I figured it out…it was Veterans Day. Lots of people have the day off. Perhaps everyone decided to have his or her elective surgeries on Monday? Or perhaps people are trying to get their surgeries in before the Thanksgiving holiday? Who knows. I took a pain killer when I got home and went to bed.

On Tuesday, I was still very sore from the procedure and my bones hurt. On Wednesday, I had some energy and I felt good, but I over did it. I was very, very tired last night. I realize I just need listen to my body and accept my slower pace.

Pictures

A note about this blogging process... For someone who is generally more private than public, I feel this blogging seems a bit out of character for me. Yet, at the same time I have a real need to respond to all the inquiries about how I am doing. While I am trying to email everyone back and engage one-on-one, sometimes I just want to just write everything once. The other thing I am finding is that I am getting an emotional benefit from my virtual network of supporters. It is great to hear from everyone. And as always, writing is therapeutic for me. So in this spirit of communication, community, and therapy, I post some images of my life now.


Here I am smiling, wondering if I should be smiling given the circumstances.











Here I am with my very professional, caring oncology nurse, Stacy. If I look a bit tired, it is because I am bit tired. I just had 500 mg of chemotherapy pumped into me. My mom is looking on in the background.








This is a picture of the "infusion room" last Saturday morning when I had to go back for a shot and a saline fluid IV. David is standing in the background.

Port and Infusion Room

Well, the other shoe has still not dropped yet. Over the weekend, I continued to feel energized because of the steroids. I have an appetite and like the doctor warned me, it is hard to turn my mind off of night. Seems kind of cruel to let a recently diagnosed cancer patient’s mind run all night long. My middle of the night energy explains that first blog posting at 2:04 AM. I will be on steroids for two more days. They tell me I might start feeling the effects of chemo this week.

Before this cancer business rudely interrupted my life, I was a little vague about the nature of chemotherapy. Did you drink it, swallow it, inject it? Well, now I know chemo medicine is shot directly into your veins through an IV. Some people have the drugs injected into a vein in the arm, but I get my stuff via my “PORT!” A port is a device that allows easy, long term IV access into my aorta rather than going through the pain of all the sticks into my arm. There are two parts: the injection port where they stick the needle into me and the long, thin tube that is threaded underneath my skin into the major artery in my chest.

I had this thing surgically implanted on Wednesday of last week into my upper right part of my body right below my right collarbone. I feel sort of bionic when I hear the nurses talk about “accessing my port.” It took me several days before I could look at it. I can only just can glance at it now. It weirds me out to have an object inside of me. They tell me I might make metal detectors go off at the airport.

Emma didn’t seem particularly moved by seeing this thing in my upper chest, but in my attempt to take away the trauma by sharing, I decided to show the port to one of Emma’s little friends over the weekend. I think I made a mistake. Her little friend looked a little stunned. I felt bad. This port should come out after I am free and clear of the need for more chemo.

So the chemo is infused into my system while I sit in a nice, big, light green leather lazy boy recliner in the “infusion room” along with all the other chemo patients. I sat for about 4 hours each day. I am getting treated a very new facility here in Austin on 38th just across from Central Market. The ‘infusion room” has the atmosphere of a nice upscale coffee house with nice lighting. The room is huge. It looked like the room could hold about 24 patients. Each oncology nurse cares for 4 patients at his/her station. Beside each light green lazy boy recliner, there is a nice upholstered chair for the friend or family “chemo sitter.” Natural light is everywhere because of all the big windows. Someone really thought of everything. Even the florescent lighting in the ceiling is vented to make the artificial light less harsh. And the nice fake hardwood floors just make everything seem less medicinal.

When I first sat down in my lazy boy, I just couldn’t hold back the tears. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. A lady in another lazy boy smiled at me. I felt a little better. Perhaps the communal aspect of the therapy was good. Most people sleep, read, or quietly talk to their chemo sitter. I was thankful nobody requested the TVs to be put on. It was warm and peaceful in the infusion room as we all sat quietly fighting for our lives.

Introduction and First Round Down

I am taking a deep breath, and now slowly letting it out. I do this as I begin the most intense physical and emotional period of my life: my journey back to a healthy, cancer free life. I have wanted to blog for some time. Before this diagnosis of lymphoma hit me, I thought my blog would be about my personal observations regarding media, advertising, political advertising/pr, teaching, research, account planning, the theory/practice of advertising, and my never ending struggle with life/work balance issues as a mom, wife, daughter, teacher, and researcher. There is still a good chance that I will go ahead and write about these other issues, but for now, this blog will focus on my healing process. I don't know how often I will post, but I will try to keep this blog current so that you have the latest on my diagnosis and progress.

So, I write this blog to
1. Keep my friends and family informed of my healing progress.
2. To build a community of support.
3. As a form of therapy-it helps to write.
4. As a record for my 6-year-old daughter, Emma.

____________________________________________

On October 26, 2007, I was diagnosed with cancer. I have a malignant tumor growing in my liver. It is currently about 18 by 10 cm in size. (I don't even have ruler that big to help me visualize the size!) Specifically, I have non-Hodgkin's lymphoma (intermediate grade, large B-cell lymphoma). A PET scan found lymphoma in several parts of my lymphatic system. The oncologist said this was expected given the size of the tumor in my liver. This is an extremely fast moving tumor. Just in the last two weeks, I felt my body deteriorating on a daily basis. The ab pain was getting worse and I got new lymphoma symptoms every couple of days.

I started chemo on Thursday, November 8 of this week (a day after my daughter's 6th birthday). I reported to many that I was feeling great after that first day of chemo. The bad pain in my abnominal area was gone; I was no longer short of breath; I was even "dancing around with Emma." I told the oncologist and his nurse about this the next day. They smiled and said it was the steroids from the day before. On the first day, I was only given a small dose of the chemo treatment and the medicine takes several days to take effect. That's OK. I'll take it, even if Thursday night was only a steroid high.

On Friday, I had the full-blown "R-Chop" treatment. This is an established lymphoma protocol that was approved last year. "R-chop" stands for Rituxan, Cytoxan, Adriamycin, Vincristine, and Prednisone. I know, the letters don't match up to the acronym. Apparently, the names have changed for the drugs, but the acronym remains.

I came home Friday afternoon a bit tired, but still no longer in pain. I was no longer short of breath. I didn't dance with Emma, but I did manage to do all the bedtime rituals that I had to stop doing about 2 weeks ago because I was so wiped out. The oncologist and nurses tell me that I might start feeling symptoms as soon as the steroid effects weaken and the chemo starts kicking in. So, I am just waiting for the other shoe to drop; just waiting to see how my body responds. More later...

- Gigi