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.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, November 19, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, November 16, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, November 12, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
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
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.
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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
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