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.

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.

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.

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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