And breathe, just breathe

February 2, 2010 at 7:10 pm (Treatments)
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Monday was my last chemo. As I mentioned in one of my last posts, I’m a bit ambivalent, a lot scared with an iota of relief thrown in for good measure.

To honor the event, I decided that I would video document some of a chemo day. I am not a videographer and some of the footage is of half my head, but I kept that part in for the dialogue…ah well, a new career to work on when I’m done with procedures. There is a part where you may get squeamish (getting my port accessed). It features a shot or two of my doctors and chemo friends, and many shots of me in my bandana with barely any makeup on. You cannot hide the bloated Taxotere and Dexamethasone (steroid) face and chin with no hair. For those of you who have been so kind to tell me how good I look, this is not one of those days.

So, here goes. Watch if you’d like (it’s 10 minutes long)…it’s shows some of the treatment and the laughs and, what it looks like to be in an infusion suite…which is really just part of the life of a cancer patient.

16 Comments

It’s called Karma, baby and it goes around

February 1, 2010 at 11:35 pm (Family & Friends)
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I have been blessed with quite a support system, so much of one that people often comment on it. I received another email message today commenting on my “amazing support system.” And, I do. I have been blessed with amazing friends: friendships that have been cultivated over decades and some that are just a few months old. And yet, when I look at my support system, one of the things I notice is that a good many of these people are not people that I know very well, but people who know my children. My children are the ones with the amazing support system. And this brings me such comfort.

I find myself drawn ever tighter into a network of intricate bonds of support that I am both humbled and amazed by. Most times, I don’t feel worthy of the generosity that we have been shown. I feel like I haven’t been a generous person, and maybe that is why I strive to give back in this way. In sharing my journey with you, warts and all, I feel like I am giving of myself…even if it is through words and not currently of deeds.

One of the most surprising of bonds happened this week. As some of you may have noticed, to the left of my writing there is a section down the page called Blog Roll. Here I list a smattering of blogs that I personally follow, most of them non-cancer related.

A few weeks (maybe 6-8) ago, I had written a post about my wig, and being curious I typed “wig” into the search engine for wordpress, which is the host site for my blog. Up came a few blogs, and one caught my eye immediately, The Carcinista. The blog is written in a funny, snarky, irreverent way by a 2 1/2 time ovarian cancer survivor. I loved the tone, the cadence and the storytelling of her blog. I loved the spirit I heard in her writing, and the honesty that she brought to difficult, emotionally draining subjects. I dropped a few comments, and we became fans of each others blogs. And, by all rational assumptions, it should have ended there.

But, Karma has an interesting way of doing her thing. After my last post, a friend from my Gymboree days dropped me a note by Facebook. She had two high school friends that were currently dealing with their own battles with cancer, and maybe I would like to connect with them. She didn’t say what kind of cancer they had, and she didn’t say how she would put us in touch, but that was quickly answered by this email that she forwarded to me (I put in all the asterisks so as to protect personal information that The Carcinista and KLB might not want you to have):

Kick Ass Cancer Girls !!Sunday, January 31, 2010 10:29 AM
From: This sender is DomainKeys verified “KLB” View contact details
To: “Eileen”
Subject: Eileen….My friend S****’s information….Please connect ! I think you two would have a lot to talk about……

i’d be happy to speak with your friend. if she’s not ready to chat she can hit up my blog (www.carcinista.com) but feel free to give her my email address (s**********@***.com) and you could also send her to planetcancer.com or i2y.com (i’m too young for this/stupidcancer) for more young-cancer-survivor fun. i’m sorry to hear she’s out there, but happy to band together with like-minded ass-kickers. thanks for thinking of me!

she doesn’t by any chance blog as “my name is not cancer girl”, does she?

s

It took me a minute to wrap my head around it, how could KLB have known The Carcinista from high school, and still be in touch, and all the other tenuous circumstances that made it so that we were actually “meeting?”  The line from Casablanca still keeps reverberating in my head “Of all gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”  It’s not quite a gin joint (and I’d prefer Hangar One Vodka over gin anyway), but a random cancer blog on the internet…that’s pretty remarkable.

So while there is much to be said about all the crap we endure, there are so many good things.  Thank you Karma for taking care of me, and my family, as we navigate this craziness together with those that support us.

4 Comments

It’s my party

January 29, 2010 at 3:59 pm (Life goes on)
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I’ve been having a big ass pity party for the past few weeks. And, quite frankly, I’ve been letting myself indulge. There are few things in the world as frightening to hear as “it’s metastasized”, and I’ve been doing a lot of crying and a lot of searching: searching for an answer, searching for a reason, searching for a cure, searching for a way around this. So far, the only thing that I’ve found during my searches is that I’m still here to fight another day.

And let me tell you, I don’t feel very much like I’ve got room to fight. My friend L lost her Mom about 18 months ago. She’s often explained it like she’s waiting for her Mom to come back, for this part to be over. I completely understand that. I am waiting for my cancer to be over, for me to be healthy and done with this. Unfortunately, as my doctors have informed me, when you have a bone met, there is no “over”, there is no being cancer-free. I no longer get to live with that hope…at least not now. Maybe we will be able to keep the disease at bay for long enough that a new drug therapy will be available and I will get to live that dream.

So, while I’ve been preparing for my last chemo on Monday, I’m living with a gnawing fear of what happens when we stop pumping my body full of the chemo drugs. Since October, when all of this began, I’ve been excited to finish chemo and have my hair grow back, but now I am scared to death. If my hair is growing back, that means that the medicines are out of my system…the fast growing cells are growing. Are the cancer cells growing too?

People ask me often if I trust my doctors, and I had a grand epiphany this week. I do, I trust my doctors. I know, without a doubt, that they are knowledgeable and conscientious. But, I don’t trust my own body. I have no faith that my cells want to give up this disease. At every turn, my body has held on to and allowed the cancer to return or spread.

I guess you could say that I’m mourning my loss of innocence. There are worse things to mourn, and I do know that. But that doesn’t mean that the tears haven’t flowed, a lot. And it doesn’t mean that I am not constantly scared. But it also doesn’t mean that I’m giving up hope. And it certainly does not mean that I am giving up the fight.

I know that speaking with Dr. A on Monday will bring some answers and, I hope, some sense of peace about what everything means. Until then, if you see me with red, swollen eyes, just know my party continues.

14 Comments

Waiter! Bring Me Water!

January 20, 2010 at 5:35 am (Family & Friends)

The water helped last week immensely.  More than I want to admit, since I feel like I could have avoided the awfulness of round 4 if I had just listened to the advice of others.  I still had the fog, and I still had a few days of sadness, but the intensity of both was far more manageable.

I also had a little more energy this time…which meant that I could get off the couch for a 3 hour period and leave the house.  Since I still didn’t feel comfortable driving, I made SOS calls for help.  One day my Mom and Dad rescued me and we went for a late breakfast:  Waffle House for grits and cheese eggs and raisin toast.  Oh God, did that hit the spot.  Another day, L came and grabbed me and we went to Rising Roll and had egg salad platters. I’ve been eating a lot of eggs since giving up soy…I should probably get my cholesterol checked.

Saturday and Sunday I was up and going, albeit very slowly.  C had the boys most of Saturday morning and then we spent the afternoon at home.  Our long-standing Saturday date night was a perfect few hours out.  We tried Dogwood, hit Target and came home.  I was exhausted, but happy to have had such a nice evening with my hubby.  Sunday was kid-centered and perfect. J’s basketball game ended at 4:30, we were at Sweet Tomatoes by 5 and in the door at 6:15. It was just long enough to stretch my stamina without wiping me out completely.

Monday was Herceptin and a few of us brought in food for the infusion suite staff.  I have 2 friends that I’ve made this round with cancer.  One woman, A, is friendly with many of my friends.  We didn’t know each other prior to our diagnoses, but we received “the call” within a week of each other.  I called A, way back when in October, and we chatted and emailed and met in person.  She’s wonderful and warm and down-to-Earth.  Our chemo protocol (TCH) is the same, and we both go in on Mondays.  It’s been very nice, since  we get to spend some time together each week checking in on our non-cancer lives. With chemo rapidly approaching its end, our treatment paths are going to diverge a little…but there are many more years of friendship there.

The second woman, D, is a newer friend.  She showed up in the infusion suite 3 weeks ago, although that was her second time back.  D has non-Hodgkins lymphoma (see, I’m non-partisan;  I have friends from all over the ribbon spectrum) and was originally diagnosed middle of last year, while pregnant with her daughter.   The baby is a month old (healthy and beautiful) and so now they can start using the heavy-duty drugs which were off-limits while D was pregnant.  Let me tell you what, I bow down to D for her beautiful, sunny outlook and her fierce determination.  She shines warmth and positivity the likes of which I’ve never seen.

Anyway, D decided last week that she wanted to throw a party in the infusion suite.  A and I offered to help with the party and we divided up the menu:  D brought bagels and spreads, A brought in fruit and I brought in cookies/desserts.  It didn’t quite come together as a party, but the nurses and other staff certainly were well-fed and, I hope, felt appreciated.

So, round 5 is done.  Round 6 is on the horizon and with that, attention starts focusing on the next round of treatments.  I have a meeting on Thursday with Dr. S to discuss surgery and get that scheduled.  I will also find out what her thoughts are on this spot on my sternum, and if there is anything that can be done through surgery.  I imagine that Dr. B will be called in as well, so a surgery date will probably be coordinated between all docs during office hours on Thursday and Friday, and I’ll find out the surgery date on Monday.  

Once surgery is set, I’ll have a pre-op with Dr. B to discuss how the reconstruction process will work. At that time, I’ll find out if the expanders will be place with the first surgery or if he’ll wait until after radiation ends. It will be interesting to see how my expected schedule meets with reality.

That’s been life around these parts since last week. Nothing exciting, but much better than last round…and one week closer to the end of chemo.

4 Comments

Tryin’ To Reason With Hurricane Season

January 14, 2010 at 9:19 am (Life goes on)

I’m feeling a little woozy today…the fuzziness is definitely settling in.  I’m so glad that it’s hitting later in the week than it did with the last round.  I hope that the gallon of water that I’ve been drinking each day helps it flush a little sooner too…what a nice surprise that would be.

Thank you for the lovely notes and emails and comments here.  I am glad that what I’m trying to get across is finding it’s way to you all.

I’ll probably be a little scarce over the next few days, but I’ll post once I can get a simple sentence together again.

5 Comments

All I have to do is look around and see where my friends may be

January 13, 2010 at 5:09 am (Family & Friends)
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I know that I have spoken of the various communities that I belong to around here and how amazing and supportive they have been throughout this entire ordeal. Most of these communities are local, they are a network of friends, old and new, that I have had from high school up through meeting them at the boys’ school this year. But there is one community of friends that I need to tell you about, because they call me out and don’t let me hide.

I have a group of friends, we call ourselves Hussies, but to my family and friends in my local, everyday life, I call them my “online girls.” I met these girls through an online fertility site about 7 years ago. As you can probably tell by my approach to my cancer, I like answers, and I like taking control. So, when C and I decided to have a 3rd child, I went into hyperdrive and decided that since I was over 35, I was going to track my temps and body fluids so that I could get fertility drugs the minute we hit the 6th month mark of trying to conceive. I found a website that was setup to track these ovulation-indicators and spent 10 minutes a day inputting my temps and body cues to determine when I may be my most fertile (sorry Dad, I know you’re reading).

To help support us while we were waiting for our positive pregnancy tests, there were these message boards for us girls to support each other in our journeys to parenthood, for the first time or the 3+ time. Somehow, I began following a group of women who were going through struggles with infertility. Since I didn’t fit the group criteria (for Pete’s sake, I was pregnant with baby #3!), I started “lurking”, and following their discussions without saying anything. I learned so much from them, and their willingness to be open about their medical procedures, drugs, insensitive comments from people already living the dream that escaped them. I learned from them, long ago, that sometimes, no matter what you want of your body, it will fail you.

As some of these girls became pregnant, they set-up a sister board for the pregnant ones to share about their new adventures, and there I would sometimes jump out and announce myself as a “Lurker” and post congratulatory messages or offer advice about doctor’s appointments, childbirth, all the stuff that I knew. I had some of the answers and was able to share them with the newly preggo girls, kind of like What to Expect, but hopefully without all the fear mongering.

Somewhere in all of this, maybe about a year or 2 in, one of the girls on the preggo board told me that I had been around long enough and that I should stop lurking. I made the leap to a full on member, but primarily stayed on the preggo board. At the same time, the original website was becoming a little more censored, and our group of 60′ish was worried about being able to stay together. So, we bought our own website and began posting there.

Through the years, our numbers have dwindled. People have fallen out of communication, chosen to leave, been asked to leave. We are all over the world: UK, New Zealand, South Africa, but most of us are US-based. We do not discuss politics or religion on our board…it is a steadfast rule. We have taken trips together, and had girls weekends. Right now I think we’re about 30 strong. I am happy to say that every one of the 30 of us have had at least one child, but some are still struggling as they continue to create the family of their dreams.

As you can imagine, in our little group, we have also faced devastating loss. There have been failed Clomid/IUI/ICIS/AI rounds, many lost babies from miscarriages, and 3 moms lost little boys who were stillborn. Three of our girls lived through the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. One woman’s young, loving husband collapsed and died from an unknown heart defect at 32. Another is helping take care of her sister who recently fell down the stairs and bruised her spine so badly that she needs to relearn how to do most daily activities we take for granted. We have weathered infidelity, job loss, parental death, heart transplants, childhood diseases, and now cancer.

The reason I tell you all this is because we have shared some of life’s greatest struggles, and I would do anything for these ladies. They continue to support me and my family…I cannot hide from them, and they call me out and ask me the tough questions. So, I’m going to share some of the nitty gritty of what I told them this week after I told them about the metastatic spot on my sternum. This is the real deal…my language is shockingly foul, but I’m leaving it uncensored.

Question: I read your blog but for some reason can’t post comments. So know that I’m reading. My main question is how are you doing? Like emotionally. Are you ok? Spill the beans if & when you need to.

I’m glad that you’re reading, and I wonder why you can’t post comments. If there’s anything else, ask here. I’ll answer.

I got the call from the doc on Thursday while home by myself. All I heard was sternum involvement and was off on a huge crying jag for 4 days until I met with her today. It’s always a good thing to have an extra set of ears in the exam room when going over something like this. C asked some questions, but I’m pretty good when I get Dr. A’s ear in a face-to-face. She is a no bullshit kind of broad, and if there was something that I needed to know, she’d give it to me kindly, but directly. So, I feel much better now.

I am not looking forward to any of it. Fuck, I never wanted any of it in the first place. But if it’s a manageable condition, and I get to see my kids grow up, then I am okay. Truly, I can manage most of the sadness by thinking about the future. I don’t spend a whole lot of time dwelling on what’s going on right now. But, if you take away my hope for a long future, I fall the fuck apart. I can’t look at the boys or C without sobbing. I find no solace in the thought of life going on…because all I think about is all that I’ll miss. I do have a few plans in place if I need them (buying enough birthday cards for each of the boys until they’re 40, leaving a video singing (NOT pretty), but I sing them “You are my Sunshine” often and to bring them comfort, etc), but haven’t yet acted on any of them…other than buying a little flip camcorder.

I know that there are no guarantees, but for now, Dr. A is convinced that we’re playing with the same deck I started with in September, so as for now, the tears are dry again, and I’m just trying to survive chemo week without losing my mind. Trying loads of water this round.

Question: Does it ever feel crazy-surreal to say things like “I should have my third pair of tatas by my birthday in October”?

There are times when I am definitely on autopilot. The surgery part doesn’t really scare me because I’ve been through it before, and quite frankly, my first surgery was more invasive…so I consider this “easy.” I am a little concerned about radiation since I’ve seen some horrible post-rads skin issues. I just have to remember to put special chemo moisturizing cream on 2 times a day. And I’m bad about that anyway. I think I remember face lotion about once every 3 days. The part where I get really messed up is the fear of the unknown. When I get new news and it shows more disease, I can’t help but thinking that this isn’t really my life. Or how unfair it all is. I’ve wished this away, I’ve wished it on other people who I deem more idiotic (driving behind the Ciroc ad with P Diddy, I was wondering why he didn’t have it). Not some of my nicer thoughts, but my thoughts nonetheless. I’ve thought that the results were wrong. I’ve thought it was all a dream, that a good night’s sleep would clear up, but a good night’s sleep is rare these days.

On the flip side, I also sometimes forget I’ve got cancer at all during that 3rd week of chemo. Typically I feel like myself, and food begins to taste right again. Sunday night I was up watching infomercials at 4 and there was a new product for curly hair. I was so excited to order it, and then got so annoyed that I couldn’t try it, like RIGHT now. So, sometimes it’s all I can think of (like Thurs-Monday) and then there are times when I almost forget.

So, there you have it. Another piece of my life. Another place where I turn to for support and love. To all my Hussies out there, I’ve said it before, but it’s worth repeating. You girls have courageously and generously shared your journeys, and have taught me how to share mine. I love you all.

20 Comments

But this is the life that I was given, so I have to live it to the fullest

January 11, 2010 at 10:25 pm (Cancer 101, Treatments)
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I got a call on Thursday. From Dr. A. Ugh….

I had a PET scan on NYE day. A PET works like this. In cancer, cells begin to grow at a much faster rate. PET works by using a small amount of a radioactive tracer in combination with a sugar molecule. So, I get this shot of radioactive stuff and sit in a room, not doing anything (no reading, moving, talking…nothing to increase my metabolism) so that my body can process this stuff through for an hour and the body can begin to metabolize the sugar. (It’s actually one of the best parts of any test I have to do. I sit in a recliner, in complete silence under warm blankets for an hour). The radioactive tracer emits signals as it travels and eventually collects in the organs targeted for examination. If an area in an organ is cancerous, the signals will be stronger since more glucose will be absorbed in those areas. Normal cells do not have a raised level of metabolism, but cancer cells do. As a baseline, my oncologist said normal cellular metabolic rates are 1-2.

My original tumor was an 11.5 which was quite active and hot. This is now at about a 2.5. Huge, great news! YAY, we know that the therapies are working.

However, we also got some other news too. We found a spot which didn’t show on the original PET scan which is likely a metastasis on my sternum (breastbone). The doctor said that this is not unusual, and that it’s probably not new, but it just didn’t show originally. The chemo and Neulasta (which is a white blood cell stimulant that works in the marrow of the bone that I inject the day after chemo..blah, blah, blah) are making the marrow metabolize a lot more than it was, and so it’s now showing up. Her interpretation is that it’s showing either clearing disease or that it isn’t a metastasis (from now on I’ll call it a met) it’s just high level cell activity from the Neulasta.

This makes it really easy to determine the next course of treatment. I will start taking a new drug by IV with my next and LAST chemo (YAY!) called Zometa. It’s like Fosamax on steroids and will help repair the bone issues if it is a cancer met. Also, there is some indication that Zometa somehow works to strengthen the bones so that it is difficult for future mets to occur in the bone (also a YAY). It’s a short infusion which I will continue to take for 20 minutes every 6 weeks probably for the rest of my life.

I will also definitely be having surgery to remove my reconstruction. This had been up in the air, but with this newest wrinkle, the oncologist is onboard for a complete removal (i.e., I am having a second double mastectomy). Surgery isn’t set, but will likely be before mid-March. Unfortunately, I will not be doing immediate reconstruction. I am a lot freaked out by this. Seeing my body with no breasts at all was the one thing I didn’t want to deal with the first go round. Of course, if I am blessed by 50 more years, what do I care if I run around with no tits for a few months.

After I heal from surgery, I will begin radiation (I’m guessing about 4-6 weeks after surgery, so beginning of May). This is going to happen in at least 2 areas, the breastbone and the original tumor site. I don’t know if there will be any other spots, but wherever they say, I’ll do it. As Dr. A said, she considers the radiation the mop-up process for this kind of chemo protocol. I will probably have 6-7 weeks of radiation, every weekday for about 10 minutes.

I will have some time to heal and then we will be able to begin the reconstruction process. If I do 7 weeks of radiation, I will be able to do the expanders in July, but boys are going to sleepaway, and I think that Chris and I are going to take a vacation while they are gone. So, middle of July will be my target date. With the new mastectomy, the doctors will take the majority of the skin, so I will first have something called an expander placed. This is a balloon-like bag with a port so that the doctor can fill it with saline each week. This will stretch the skin and create space for an implant to be placed once we stretch the skin enough. I figure this will take about 8-12 weeks.

Hopefully, I will have my 3rd set of tas by my birthday in mid-October.

Believe me, I know that I just dumped a whole lot of information. I do my best to educate on the process as well as give you my personal information. I find that the info without education is pointless.

As always, you are free to ask anything, I am here to answer your questions. It makes me a better patient because I learn what questions to ask, if I don’t know the answer already.

5 Comments

I’m tryin’ to tell you people, try to tell you how I feel

January 1, 2010 at 10:07 am (PSA)
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I thought Foghat lyrics would be appropriate on many levels. The first, is obvious, they hit the topic between the eyes. The second is because the name Foghat is pretty much a synonym for chemo-brain…at least in my experience anyway.

I said I would write a post about the fog. I don’t want to do it because I hate living in it, but I think it’s important to try and convey what that experience is like. Consider it my first PSA (public service announcement) for the new year.

Imagine you are at the beach. It is a beautiful, warm, clear summer day. The breeze is warm, the water is crystal clear, and the skies seem to reflect the beauty of the water. You decide that you want to take a dip, so in you wade. The water is perfect, refreshing but not shocking. You walk out until you’re in chest-deep, close your eyes, breathe in that delicious, salt-tinged air and let out a sigh. Then you open your eyes and notice the dorsal fin headed straight to you.

And you try to run, but you’re in the water and you can’t. You panic! Your brain is racing but your body cannot. You can’t escape and you experience the disconnect between your wants and your abilities so clearly. It’s these feelings that are what my experience of chemo brain is like.

So, while this is a physical example of chemo brain, I hope it gets the point across. I feel like my brain is moving through water. I see everything, but I can’t quite grip it. I know what I want to say, but I can’t get the words out. My mind knows where it wants to go, but it wanders and is cloudy. And after a few days of this, I am depressed and sad because I can see the shore, but I just. can’t. get. to. it.

With the advances in medicine, the physical aspects of chemo are relatively benign (haha, I have nothing if not my sense of humor) given the poisons that are being pumped into the body: I am nausea-free 99% of the time; the heartburn is controlled by Prilosec OTC and Tums; the body aches go away with Extra-Strength Tylenol; Unisom allows me to sleep when my mind races; the hair is gone but Lola lives on. I have an amazing support system to help with the kids when I cannot find the energy to get off the couch for that first week.

These mental and emotional issues are the ones that leave me counting the minutes to February 8 (last chemo day plus a week). I feel like a wimp complaining when those before me had to deal with these side effects plus the physical issues. But, I’m writing about my experiences, not theirs.

As of now, I am still debating the use of antidepressants for these last 2 rounds. I don’t know if they will help, only because they’re not intended to clear out the cobwebs. So my thought process is that I’m still going to feel all kinds of loopy, funky, disconnected, but I won’t be upset by it. It’s not going to help with the fog, which is what I really, really want. And, for the 3 days of the upset each round, I don’t know if I want to be on a medicine full-time.

So, there it is. I hope that this helps explain the phenomenon of chemo-brain to those fortunate enough not to have it. And as is said at the end of most televised PSAs:

…The more you know…

9 Comments

She was a showgirl, with yellow feathers in her hair

December 31, 2009 at 9:17 am (Family & Friends)
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Congratulations to Amy for submitting the winning name, Lola. We haven’t gotten used to calling Lola by name, but I’m sure we will. And thank you to everyone for taking your time to come here and post. It was a wonderful diversion and made more special by all of you playing with us.

Now for the apology for taking so long to get back on here. Last week, without putting any sugar-coating on this, was awful, and it took a lot longer for me to get back on my feet. I’d say that the fog descended on Wednesday and didn’t completely go away until Monday evening. One of these days, I’ll write a post about the fog, but that’s for another time.

After herceptin on Monday, we did sneak away with the kids for a few days. We took the boys to a wonderful bed and breakfast in Asheville, The Bridle Path Inn for the night. Fred and Carol, the owners, were delightful, and we had such a good time being back in that great city. As an added bonus, we had dinner on Monday night at my favorite veggie restaurant, The Laughing Seed. We had let Fred and Carol know that we were vegetarians, so our breakfast was prepared meat-free too. Fred made some delicious applesauce with added cranberries, which I may have to try when I make my pear-applesauce next time. We also had eggs, cinnamon buns, watermelon with dill(!) and pumpkin loaf.

Shortly after breakfast, we left for the Great Wolf Lodge in Charlotte. This is an indoor waterpark which was perfect for the boys to run, play and wear themselves out. I called some good friends who live in Charlotte, and S and the kids were able to join us for dinner on Tuesday night. Thank you for driving out to see us, S. I am so happy we were able to catch up for a bit. By happenstance, we ran into a neighbor, so the boys had a few friends there to run and swim with as well.

We headed home yesterday and that brings us to today, New Years Eve Day. My cousins and their families are headed in from both Savannah and Orlando to celebrate the holiday with us. J’s 10th birthday is on Saturday, so the family will be with us to eat cake and watch my oldest enter the next decade of his life.

And, as is fitting on this last day of December, I wish you all a happy, healthy 2010.

2 Comments

There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you, we stick together and see it through

December 21, 2009 at 9:53 pm (Family & Friends)
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I am sitting in my recliner at chemo and wondering how life happened before the miracles of modern technology and medicine. I’m tired and really should close my eyes to sleep, but I’m down to less than an hour in the chair and it just doesn’t seem worth it.

I did speak to Dr. A about the depression on Saturday/Sunday and she offered 2 options. First, she doesn’t think it’s the anti-emetics, instead she thinks it’s likely the steroids. So, I can either go on an antidepressant all the time (which I really don’t want to do to manage the 2 days a cycle that I’m feeling blue), or we can try to lower the steroid dose. We are going to try that this cycle and see if that makes a difference. Unfortunately, Dr. A did indicate that this is a fairly common issue for people going through chemo. But, with today being cycle 4, that means I’ll have only 2 more rounds left. Two rounds left. So effing excited that today is 2/3 done.

Next, thank you so much for your name suggestions for my wig. I have shortened the list down to 7 names. I will see if I can shorten it even more tonight. Tomorrow I will give the boys the top contenders so that they can pick the winner

Goodness, I’m skipping all over the place today, and while I hate to, I’m going to end on a well-meant admonishment, because it’s my blog, and I can. I really hate how much people are keeping from me. I’m not talking about my doctors, I’m talking about my friends who don’t want to trouble me with things going on in their lives.

Like my friend J who has taken my youngest for more playdates than I care to admit. And who, about 2 weeks after the fact, I found out was in the hospital for 7 days with cellulitis. I don’t know whether it was a week I could have helped out too much or not, but I would have made an effort to take her son for a play date, or at least sent a meal over.

Then, there’s another family who I just found out that the Mom is having some health issues and will be out of town for upto 2 months. And, while there are things that I can’t or wont do, there are certainly things that I can help with: sending a meal or taking their kindergartner for a playdate, or something. People have been so generous with us, I want to give back.

I’m not offering to overextend myself, or do something that isn’t realistic or dangerous to my health. But really, especially on weeks 2 and 3, I feel mostly normal, or at least “new normal.” I would love to help and to do for others. I would love to give back to my friends and the communities that have given us so much.

Please let me decide what I can or shouldn’t do. Include me, and let me feel like I’m part of your community, able to give back. I promise I will be responsible for myself: I am with directing my healthcare, and I will with accepting the agreements that I make. Most of you have asked what you can do to help. There it is. Let me be a part of your lives as you’ve made yourselves part of mine.

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