chemo brain...

...is not just in my head.

Finding the right word eludes me. Being consistently coherent is an unrealistic goal. My short term memory is more or less non-existent.

My brain has slowed right down.

I have lost about a hundred consecutive Scrabble games (I play online at www.pixiepit.co.uk/scrabble, a site worth visiting for its amusement value).

I really hope the damage isn't permanent.

worth a pound of cure

I am in a much better mood today, as my energy begins to return. It's also good to get a bit of respite from the rain; there is something very pleasant about sitting outside with the laptop, even under a cloudy sky (see what I mean about the post chemo euphoria? Sitting in my damp backyard - really need to clean up after the dogs - is the best thing I've ever done).

I have cancer prevention on the brain today. A friend sent me two very interesting links: http://www.bcam.qc.ca and www.stopcancer.org.

A couple of months ago, when the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation first aired, "Chasing the Cancer Answer" (on Marketplace: http://www.cbc.ca/consumers/market/files/health/cancer/index.html), I wasn't ready to watch. I think I am moving into a place where the questions raised by journalist and recent cancer patient Wendy Mesley are going to be ones with which I will also be grappling.

Expect to hear lots more from me about this in the coming months.

what i need

It turns out that sometimes what I need to do is exactly the opposite of what I think I need.

Today, the only thing I wanted to do (and felt I could do) was stay in bed with a pillow covering my head, such was my fatigue and the blackness of my mood. I told my spouse this morning that I was "unfit for human consumption." (I meant to say, "unfit for human company," but my brain is in a chemo induced muddle. However, the statement I did make is pretty accurate, given the toxicity of my chemotherapy regimen.)

I had definitely been fighting a losing battle with the funk I have described in previous posts. I felt so overwhelmed by anxiety and despair last night and this morning, that 'just two more to go' had been wiped out by 'I can't do two more.'

I'm not sure why these first days when I start to improve physically are so much harder than the trough of the first few days after treatment. I know that impatience to feel better has something to do with it. Also, I feel pretty stoned during much of the trough period (this is a good thing) so it is hard to muster up the energy to feel sorry for myself.

Then, when I regain a degree of physical energy, I am so happy to be out in the world that it becomes pretty easy to keep the dark thoughts at bay.

During these in between days, though, it is a struggle not to dwell on the hard parts and the scary questions. How will I get through this? What if the cancer comes back? Why me?

Busy mind. Idle body. Bad combination.

And so my instinct this morning was to go up into the attic, never to emerge. Instead, I called a friend, had a vent and a laugh at the outrageousness of the world. I feel infinitely better.

It would seem that, sometimes, I just need to get out of my own head.

On another note, the results of a study released today provide further evidence that women who over-express the protein HER2 (also called HER2/neu) benefit from more agressive drug treatments (the lovely Red Devil, described in a previous post), while (and a whole host of other factors need to be taken into consideration) women who are HER2 negative may not. As someone who is HER2 positive, I found this oddly satisfying. I think it would have pissed me off (especially today) to find out near the end of treatment that I might have done as well on an easier regimen.

You can get more info on the study at http://www.sunnybrook.ca/news .

another list

I need to make a (somewhat random) list of things I know about myself that have nothing to do with breast cancer:

1. I am the mother of the two most beautiful, sweetest, smartest boys to ever walk the face of the earth.
2. I am happily married to a real cutie (who will be both mortified and chuffed at being called a 'cutie' in public. What the heck, he's extra cute when he's embarassed). We have been together 15 years and we still make each other laugh.
3. I am crazy about dogs. I have two biggish beasties with sweet dispositions, who get me out in the world when I don't feel like going and who are the loveliest of companions.
4. I have put up for many years with a neurotic, malevolent tabby cat to whom I am unreasonably attached.
5. I knit. My knowledge and interest greatly outstrip my ability but I love it.
6. Before the cancer, I had become a runner (albeit a very slow one) and I will be one again. Like knitting, I find it meditative and good for the soul (not to mention what it does for my legs). Also like knitting, running doesn't come naturally. It tickles me that two of the things I love best to do are things which do not come easily. That was a big hurdle to overcome and I'm glad I did it.
7. The first sign that I am starting to lose control over a fast-paced life: I lose things. It usually starts with my keys.
8. I have a somewhat addictive personality. When I get into something, it can become an obsession.
9. I am not someone who should own a Blackberry (see above).
10. I love good coffee (black), good chocolate (dark) and good wine (usually red, but not always).
11. I love working in the labour movement and have a strong commitment to social justice. My spouse shares these values and I am proud to see my children absorbing them.
12. I have surrounded myself with a community of chosen family. Never have I been more grateful for this than in the last several months.

fighting the funk

Starting to resurface from the most recent round of chemo (no anti-nauseants today). Fighting the funk that seems inevitably to descend when I reach this place (basically, well enough to feel sorry for myself but not to do much else).

To address this, I think it's time to make a list of things for which I feel grateful (not the big picture stuff but why, right, now, today isn't so bad):

1. Sleep. I got much more of it this round.
2. My doctors and nurses really ask about my side effects from chemo and seem eager to find the best ways to get through this. This has helped a lot (for example, no weird twitching this time).
3. I had just enough of my friend B.'s healing soup to get through the last few days. It was the only thing I wanted to eat this round.
4. While my dear old dog has a terrible sore on her leg, I have a vet who will come to my house to take care of her.
5. My house is clean, thanks to my mother, and I will not have to spend the whole time the vet is here feeling embarassed.
6. I only have two more rounds of chemo to go.
7. I am able to blog.

As I think of others throughout the day, I will update.

I forgot to add the following anecdote to my list of "strange happenings":

During a chemo session a round or two ago, I chatted a bit with the woman whose husband was in the bed beside mine. He has lung cancer and is taking part in a clinical trial involving infusing the patient with chlorophyll. The substance in the iv bag was definitely a very bright green.

A couple of hours later, when the couple got up to leave, I noticed that the man was now green. He had not taken on a greenish tinge. He was green.

hot flashes

They start in the morning but come infrequently until the afternoon. By evening, they plague me in waves, starting up my chest, overwhelming me with heat until I am literally dripping sweat.

I almost took my clothes off at my son's birthday party two nights ago (thus ensuring years of therapy in his future).

I am experiencing what some call "faux menopause." The chemo has shut down my ovaries, my periods have stopped and I am experiencing some spectacular hot flashes.

The night of my son's birthday (when, in my defence, I was under some stress), I also became convinced that my spouse was not being adequately sympathetic, that he just didn't get it, that in fact he was not being nearly supportive enough. And I told him so. Then I remembered that there are other menopausal symptoms. My poor spouse.

I have two friends who claim that they're respective partners have offered to go out in the middle of the night, in the thick of snowstorms to replace empty menopause-related prescriptions, such is the spousal fear of menopausal mood swings. My friends are both lovely women (and two of my heroes), yet they insist that this is true. Perhaps their spouses would like to form a support group with mine.

I know this is not the worst part of chemo just insult to injury, really.

To my menopausal readers: My respect for you for being able to function in the world while you go through this has increased immeasurably. If you are feeling less than sympathetic towards me consider this: If, as my doctor suggested yesterday, my menstrual cycle is likely to resume in a year or so, I get to go through menopause twice.

my big boy

My beautiful firstborn son turned eight years old today. I can't believe it.

He cracks jokes like a teenager but sleeps with a bedful of softoys (all dogs, he is his mother's son).

He hates school yet loves to learn and remembers everything that he takes in.

He can be infuriatingly rude and then behave with heart-melting empathy (he called me from the office of his school the day after my surgery. He needed to check that the nurse was coming and that there was someone there to take care of me).

He is very sensitive but also the funniest person I know.

He has inherited the 'sleep gene' that plagues his father's family. Often awake beyond exhaustion late at night, and impossible to wake in the morning, even when we let his little brother jump on him (Santa, who must not like this child's parents very much, brought S. an alarm clock that sounds like a rooster crowing. While his parents curse, my boy sleeps soundly through the racket).

He is too smart for his own good.

We share a love of coffee shops, surfing the internet and fine bath products.

I love him very, very much and I could not be more proud of him.

i buy myself presents

It's true. Prior to each round of chemo, I have bought myself a present.

Now, I know that this is a really frivolous thing to do. I know that buying stuff won't buy me happiness. I also know that I am damn lucky to be able to afford such frivolity (thanks to public health care and a very good job with great benefits). But it really does make it easier to face the awfulness of chemo.

For the first round, I bought an ipod (this was a big ticket item but, in theory, the whole family "shares" it).

For the second round I bought a teapot. I ordered it online. As a replacement for one I had bought in London. I am pleased to say that it survived the flight over and arrived from England in one piece.

I bought two beautiful hats prior to round three, from a local craft fair. They are both fine examples of millinery. Why two? Because I couldn't decide between them (please don't judge me). When I wore the black one (with a big green and red flower) to pick up my older son, he said, "You can't even tell that you're bald."

I have chemo this Thursday. On Monday I bought the most beautiful pair of red sandals (I will try and post pictures, once I can get the technical details sorted). I had this idea in my head of a pair of very comfortable sandals for my longer walks but with a bit of an edge. I found the perfect pair at the first place I looked (at Glebe Trotters on Bank Street in Ottawa. Go see them. The guys who run the place are really nice and know their way around a shoe). They are bright red. I wore them yesterday and two people stopped me on the street to ask where I had bought them. Joy.

On another note entirely, it is now much easier to post comments on this blog. After complaining for days about the fact that would-be commenters (commentators?) were being foiled by all the hoops they had to jump through, I decided to write a note to Blogger and complain. Before doing so, I thought I should double check with the help function. Doh! (as my older son and Homer Simpson would say). I had set things up so that only registered users could comment.

I have changed my settings so that anyone who wishes to do so can now offer their two cents. Let me know if it works.

why i blog

I am not an exhibitionist. I thought twice and three times before some of my more personal posts, especially before discussing my mastectomy.

Writing for me has always been therapeutic but that doesn't explain why I chose to expose myself so publicly.

I am doing this, in part, as way to keep friends and loved ones updated, as well as to help them better understand how I'm feeling and what this experience is like.

I am doing this because some apects of cancer treatment are so bizarre that they must be shared.

I am doing this because our culture sometimes treats breast cancer like some kind of terrible secret, which in turn makes having cancer seem slightly shameful. Talking openly about my cancer makes people feel less awkward around me, which is much, much easier for me. I have always believed in acknowledging the elephant at the table and while I respect the decision of others to keep their cancer a secret, it's really not the right choice for me. I guess I was pretty much an open book anyway (to mix my metaphors liberally) and don't see why cancer should change that.

I am also writing because people like Margaret Wente (a columnist with the Globe and Mail, one of Canada's "national" newspapers) really piss me off. In a recent column Ms. Wente scoffed at the idea of a cancer epidemic, talked about the cancer bandwagon and said that, of course there is more breast cancer now because there are more older people. She also dismissed the idea of environmental factors and the need for research into prevention.

I want Ms. Wente and others to know that I'm here, 38 years old, with no breast cancer in my family and very few of the risk factors associated with the disease. I really felt that my lump and subsequent diagnosis with stage 2b breast cancer came from out of nowhere. I didn't chose to hop onto this particular bandwagon, nor did the many other women in my circle (including several diagnosed before the age of 40). I don't know if I would use the word 'epidemic' but I do know that our numbers are growing and feel very strongly that 'why' of this must be further explored.

Finally, I am writing because, after my diagnosis, I found a dearth of stories about younger women with breast cancer and I thought that if I appreciate others' stories, then someone might like to read mine.

That's why I blog.

strange happenings

I love my work and when I'm feeling well, I miss it. It's hard not too feel some sadness and anger at times that life is going on without me (which of course it must).

However, as my friend C., who has been through this, commented the other day, this is a rare time in my life to be an observer, to really notice and think about life - the positive, the difficult and the truly bizarre.

Listed below is a random list of some of the more absurd things I have observed and experienced in the last several weeks:

1. My insurance company requires a letter from my doctor, including my diagnosis before they will reimburse me for my prosthesis (the prosthethis cost $350 and Medicare pays for $180). "Why is this necessary? Who would buy a prosthetic breast just for fun?" I asked what I thought were rhetorical questions. My spouse replied that it takes all kinds and that you never know what could turn up with a Google search. I don't dare try this.
   
   
2. My anatomy was recently enhanced with a 'portacath', a disk with some tubes attached that are connected directly to a vein that goes to my heart. It was inserted beneath the skin, a couple of inches under my collar bone, on my left side. It makes chemo infinitely easier, as I can now use my arms during the hours I am receiving treatment and no longer experience the burning sensation that I did when chemo was infused into a vein in my arm. Chemo also hardens and shrinks the veins, so the portacath is saving me the trauma of being poked repeatedly as the nurses try to find a vein in my arm. My portacath is a really nifty thing but I do feel that I more closely related to the 'Borg' from Star Trek than I used to be.
   
   
3. Acupuncture is supposed to help with nausea, so I thought I would try it out. I've been seeing a doctor of traditional Chinese medicine who has considerable experience working with cancer patients. He also has a considerable number of eccentricities. For example, the first time I saw him, he greeted me warmly, then handed me a piece of paper stating that, suspecting that someone was spying on him, he'd had a private security company in and they'd found listening devices all over his clinic (I have no idea if he is delusional or if this is true). Since that day, he asks that all his patients communicate with him in writing only -even while we are being treated. When he does talk, the doctor communicates chiefly in song titles: "You are always on my mind," and "I'll be waiting for you."
   
   
4. At my last appointment, my very cool oncologist suggested that smoking dope would be the best thing to alleviate nausea and other side effects from chemo. My mother-in-law responded by couriering me a pot cookie.
   
   
5. I took part in Look Good Feel Better, a free session put on by the cosmetics industry. The idea is that women in treatment will feel better if they can be shown a few tricks to look more like themselves. And you get lots of free stuff (I love getting free stuff). I thought it would be a lift, a bit of light-hearted fun (and so what if I left wearing more makeup than I usually apply in a month). However, the 'team leader' for my session was a martinet, barking out orders like we were in boot camp ('Apply mascara now!' 'Left hand on left eye! Right hand on right eye!'). I spent the whole session frantically trying to catch up (and giggling madly). When the martinet informed us that it was time for 'a moment of silence to remember the fallen', I stopped laughing. I doubt there was a participant in that room who needed to be reminded of the 'fallen.' Or who hasn't had many moments of silence filled with the fear we might join them.

joy

I am fundamentally a 'glass is half full' sort of person.

It's not that I am always in a good mood (those closest to me would be sure to tell you otherwise). In fact, I have struggled with depression since my teens, and need to work hard at staying healthy. It's just that if there are two ways to look at a situation, I naturally gravitate to the most positive interpretation.

That's why I can say that during these months of chemotherapy, I feel well half the time.

A clear physical and emotional cycle has emerged after three rounds of chemo. The first couple of days afterwards I feel light-headed and queasy. By the week end (every chemo is on Thursday), I go into the 'trough', which lasts for several days. I feel pretty awful during this period but the symptoms are better managed than during the first round. By early the next week, I emerge from the worst but go into an emotional funk (last week I spent several days exhausted and furious at how different my life is right now from what I expected it would be).

Then I turn the corner.

I went for a walk last Saturday, bubbling over with everything that is good with the world. The sunshine. My beautiful children. My dogs. My eyebrows (thinner, but still there).

I seem to get a week and half of feeling better (the effects of chemo are cumulative, so I know that this period could get shorter, but I know it will come), during which time I am positively euphoric.

I love my family. My neighbourhood. I have the best friends in the world. I am getting the best of medical care. I am happy. The fact that I can't find anything in my cluttered mess of my house only bothers me a tiny bit.

Chemotherapy is very hard and I really, really hate it. I am however, very grateful for this opportunity to experience joy, and to be reminded that, really, I have a very good life.

boob in a box

I went to into my room to get dressed yesterday morning and found my new prosthetic breast sitting on top of its box.

My boys had been playing 'Pirate Treasure Hunt' (although I think it was really an excuse for soon-to-be-eight years old S. to look for hidden birthday presents) and I gather the box on my shelf had been too much for two curious boys to resist.

I immediately went to tell my spouse. Should I talk to S. about his find? Did I think it would be more traumatic if I talked to him or should I just let it go? My husband, who had his hands full baking a cake for my three-year-old's birthday, said in so many words that he didn't think it was a big deal and that, while I could talk to him about it, I really didn't need to worry.

So I decided to wait for the right moment. A couple of hours later, I had the following conversation with my older son:

"Did you take something of mine out of that box on my shelf this morning?"

"Yeah. It was a white, squishy thing. What was that?"

"Um. Well...You know when I had my surgery...it left me flat on one side. This is to make me look the same on both sides."

"Cool!"

Pause.

"So it makes you look normal."

"Yeah."

"Cool."

End of conversation. Kids really do take most things in stride.

My prosthethis has provided a real lift to the spirits, is comfortable to wear and makes my clothes fit better. It is really bizarre, though, thinking that I will be putting my breast away in its box every night and taking it out again every morning.

chemotherapy (part 3 - the grim aftermath)

Two down, four to go.

Feeling a little "off" after this morning's chemo but OK.

Anxious, though, because last time I was fine for the first 24 hours and then...became very sick.

I spent the week end curled up in the fetal position, in agony, unable to deal with sound, light, movement (I read an interview with Melissa Ethridge yesterday, in which she described living through the exact same experience after chemo. I'm in good company). On the Saturday afternoon, I had the home care nurse come and give me an injection of an anti-nauseant which helped me keep the oral medicine down.

As for eating, once I could keep food down, chicken soup and soda crackers were the only item on my menu. That's tonight's dinner.

Once the nausea subsided (the following Tuesday), I started to experience the bone pain associated with the injection I get to keep my blood cells up (at $3,000 dollars an injection, which I'll get each round of chemo), an unbelievable case of the jitters and restlessness (like I'd had three pots of coffee injected directly into my bloodstream) and a weird twitch in my hands (couldn't knit or type). Turns out that was a side-effect of the anti-nauseant.

We've tinkered with my drug regimen slightly this round and I'm going to acupuncture tomorrow. Hopefully that will help. This is all so surreal. I still can't quite believe I'm this person with cancer and seven different prescriptions to take at bedtime.

On the other hand, when the fog lifts and the nausea subsides I feel joyous (I have a friend who is going through this at the same time I am and she describes this feeling as euphoria). I feel so damn grateful not to be sick that everything seems wonderful. I have grabbed onto those days and carry them with me because I know they'll come again.

I've been listening to a lot of music lately. The album of choice today is Casino by Blue Rodeo, in particular the tracks "Till I am Myself Again," and "What am I Doing Here?"

Not very subtle, I know.

chemotherapy (part 2)

This is what it was like to get chemotherapy:

1. The Vampires
They're actually three attractive nurses but the women who work in pharmacology were introduced to me as the vampires, and as such I will always think of them. This is where I had blood drawn and ended up performing a duet of Patricia the Stripper (Chris DeBurgh, circa my misspent youth), to which, I was astonished to realize, I remember all the words.

2.The Chemo Room
This is a large room with a nursing station at the centre. At a guess, there are at least thirty of us receiving chemo along the room's perimeter, at any given time.

Before, we begin the infusion, an oncology nurse goes over my extremely complicated post-chemo drug regimen. I have seven different prescriptions to be taken at varying intervals over the next several days.

3.Red Devil
The first chemo drug is nicknamed this way by the oncology nurses because it's bright red, it burns, it's the one that guarantees hair loss and - you excrete bright red after it's infused. The red devil takes 15 minutes to do its work.

4.Icy Fingers
After an hour's break, during which I receive saline, it's time for the Taxotere, famous for the fact that it can make your fingernails turn black and fall out. In an attempt to prevent this, patients are encouraged to spend the hour and fifteen minutes of treatment with their gloved hands in ice (I am reminded of my college Economics prof, "A statistician is someone who has his head in the oven and his feet in a bucket of ice and says, on average, he's comfortable.")

5. The Closer
The last drug is a walk in the park, because I can move my arm, and, thus, read. It takes about half an hour and then, after my "vitals" are taken, I am free to wobble off home. All told, I have been at the hospital for nearly 6 hours.

My spouse has observed how surreal it is that an experience can be simultaneously so intense, yet so unbelievably boring. Thank god we brought music. Greg Brown, Jesse Winchester, Johnny Cash and the incredible Melissa Ethridge got me through it, along with the aforementioned very patient spouse.

chemotherapy

Today I learned that if I throw up on my clothes in the first forty-eight hours after receiving chemotherapy, I am to put them in a plastic bag and bring them to the cancer centre, where they will burn them.

I am not making that up.

Chemotherapy is very scary stuff.

On March 9 and every third Thursday thereafter, I will spend at least three hours in the chemotherapy room, being infused with a toxic cocktail. Then, after a break of a couple of weeks, I will be radiated every Monday to Friday for five weeks.

Being a cancer patient is a full-time job.

I had a fitness test done at the gym at the cancer centre yesterday (every cancer patient gets a free life-time membership). I am in excellent shape, despite my post-surgery inactivity. This made me feel very good.

a boy in the bath

My son D. lives in the moment. I am trying to learn from him.

D. is 2, or, as he says, "at my next birthday I be three." Tonight he had a bath. This is a small victory in our house. For months now, mere mention of bathing has been enough to make him run screaming from the room.

Tonight, he willingly climbed into the bath, washed himself, played with his toys, his fears forgotten. I had to pull the plug to get him out and even then he didn't notice until the tub was empty, inquiring "Where did the water go?"

After we put his Spiderman pajamas on ("Grammy gave these to me") and brushed his teeth with his SpongeBob toothbrush (the influences of an older brother), he climbed into my lap for a story (poetry, actually, Garbage Delight by Dennis Lee).

I watched his face as he took in the pictures, completely absorbed. He belly-laughed at some of the silly-sounding words. And then he climbed into bed to read to himself.

D. can focus completely on whatever is right in front of him, whether pleasure or irritant.

My older son, S., is a dreamer and a worrier (at 7, he's a child who would lie awake worrying about cancer before he knew his mother had it). He finds it very hard to be in the moment, anticipating the next activity so much that the present goes by unnoticed. I am like that too.

Sometimes it has served me well, helping me to plan and anticipate problems before they arise.

But both S. and I need to learn how to enjoy what is happening right now and not lose sight of that in anticipation of the future.

My children are growing up so quickly. Every age is interesting, challenging and fun. They are so different from each other but both such beautiful, engaging and interesting kids. I need to stop rushing ahead in time so I can enjoy them more, savour each moment with them.

Especially now.

I have my first appointment with the oncologist on Monday, and then an appointment with a radiation oncologist a week after that. This is much sooner than I expected to hear. Good to move ahead but also a little frightening.

I am going to try and enjoy this week end, and every moment, to work very hard at not worrying about what the coming weeks will bring.

moving forward. slowly.

Call it hubris.

One should never post to the internet how easy one's recovery has been from surgery when one does not really know what one is talking about. One definitely should not crow about it.

Within a day or two of my cathartic crying jag, I was on much more solid ground emotionally but finding the fallout from surgery a little harder to handle. There was more pain. A buildup of fluid at the site of the surgery that had to be drained. Twice. Scar tissue has developed under my arm and near my shoulder (my surgeon calls it a "web", looks more like rope, to me) which should go away over time but has greatly impeded mobility in my right arm.

Several people who've had surgery as adults have told me that this kind of back-sliding is normal. I did find it discouraging. Especially as I was trying to work last week, in a context that was particularly stressful (I'll write more on my reasons for this in a future post. Suffice it to say that this was not as insane as it sounds, since I have the best co-workers in the world and that they made sure I took care of myself when I appeared to be forgetting).

I do seem to be on the mend again.

I got my pathologist's report yesterday. My tumour is smaller than I had thought (4cm) and had spread to 4 of the 13 lymph nodes sampled. They also found another kind of cancer (ductal carcinoma in situ) in another part of my breast - but it does look like they got it all (the advantage of mastectomy over lumpectomy). The cancer was graded 3/3, which means that it is very agressive (my surgeon says that is to be expected, given my youth). So...good news and bad news, as they say, but generally speaking, things could be worse. My surgeon stages my cancer at a 2b (with stage 1 being small and with no nodes affected and 4 being cancer that has spread beyond the lymph nodes).

I am now on the waiting list to see an oncologist. Next step - chemotherapy.

I messed with my own head a bit last night by looking up the survival stats for those with my stage of breast cancer. I then re-read a wonderful article by Stephen Jay Gould on cancer statistics, called The Median isn't the Message ( http://cancerguide.org/median_not_msg.html ).

One thing the author writes about is the documented evidence that a positive attitude and belief in one's own survival contribute greatly to battling cancer succesfully.

I should be fine.

the rollercoaster takes a downturn

It was bound to happen. I finally cried last night.

The English language is full of descriptive expressions that I have come to understand viscerally in the last couple of months. Heavy heart. Heartbreaking. Gut-wrenching. Wracked with sobs.

When the dam finally broke, I cried with my whole body, until my chest ached and my throat was raw.

I was crying for how awful this is - being "sick", disfigurement, fear of dying, the prospect of chemotherapy, anger and fear that I can't and won't be there for my children, losing my hair, early menopause, all the horrible side effects of cancer and its treatment, losing myself as a sexual being. And for how it's possible to feel loved and cared for and still be so utterly lonely.

It really was bound to happen at some point. And I guess it was good that it did.

Having cancer is really, really hard.

it wasn't that bad

My father-in-law says that, during his cancer treatment, he had to ask his spouse to stop being so nice to him - he was finding it disconcerting. His wife is a lovely woman and they seem to get along just fine, but I do take his point.

If food equals love, I am very loved indeed. My fridge, freezer and cupboards are bulging with wonderful food (both healthy and decadent). Friends have brought me flowers, books and a host of wonderful presents. I have been overwhelmed by this outpouring of support.
And I'm enjoying every minute of it.

I wonder if it will all stop once I tell how this business of having a mastectomy is not that bad after all.

The hardest part was saying goodbye to my spouse in the waiting room. Or rather several goodbyes. Before the nurse made him leave.

From then on, I was very well taken care of by everyone at the hospital - doctors, nurses, orderlies, volunteers. The hospital staff did everything they could to keep me warm and comfortable (heated blankets!). The surgeon came to see me to answer any final questions. He told me that he knew it was going to go well.

The last thing I remember after walking into the OR and climbing up on the table is a brief moment of panic (a nurse was arranging some very scary looking surgical instruments) before the anesthetist started asking about my kids and I relaxed and drifted off.

I woke up in the recovery room. I was thirsty. And hungry. And in pain. Water, crackers and Demerol were administered in short order and I lay there for some hours, oblivious to the passage of time.

My surgeon came in to check on me at some point and delivered the news that the tumour in my breast had not affixed itself to my chest wall (good news in terms of cancer treatment and recovery from surgery, as it meant that Dr. M. did not need to cut into my chest muscles).

By 3:15, eight hours after arriving at the hospital, I was on my way home.

I never thought I'd say this, but I now understand why mastectomies are done as day surgery. I was in my own bed, able to see my kids. I felt safe and, well, 'at home'. I'm sure this contributed to my recovery.

A home care nurse came the night of my surgery (administered another lovely shot of Demerol), the next day and one last time yesterday to change my bandage. Since the first day, I have managed with Tylenol 2s for pain (and I'm no hero when it comes to pain management).

And here's the most surprising part. It doesn't even look that bad. One incision. A neat row of staples that will be removed in a week's time. That's the upside of imagining the worst. When I screwed up the courage to take a peek after surgery, I fully expected to see a bloody stump where my breast used to be. Instead, there was just a single narrow bandage that ran the breadth of my chest. And it's healing well.

Today I even went out for lunch. With a baggy jacket on. No prosthethis until the healing is a little further along.

Right now, the worst I have to contend with is swelling in the area where the lymph nodes were removed and in my upper arm. It can still be painful but even that is getting better with time, elevation and exercise.

My surgeon should call in the next day or two with my pathology report (grade, stage, and the results of tests for hormone receptivity). I assume that I will be meeting an oncologist shortly after that and in a few weeks time, chemotherapy will start. I've already lined up a friend who spent many years bald by choice, to shave my head before chemo does its worst.

When I admitted to struggling with letting people do all these things for me, a friend said, "We are grateful to you. When something like this happens, people feel powerless. Helping makes us feel less powerless." That helped a lot. People are doing for me and for themselves. That makes it easier to accept.

I really believe that if I am doing well, it's because of all the caregivers in my life, at the hospital, at home and in my community. There are moments when this all seems too awful for words. My arm hurts. I'm exhausted. And scared. But it helps immeasurably to know that I am not going through this alone.

This is why I am also grateful to the friend who opened a phone conversation with, "Are you listing to one side?" Her girlfriend was appalled but I couldn't stop laughing. That was a gift, too.

Groundhog Day

Tomorrow is Groundhog Day. Thursday. The day of my surgery.

I'm a little freaked out.

But, I suppose, I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

I have been completely overwhelmed by the love and support people have shown to me since my diagnosis. It has helped more than I have been able to express. If it weren't for my family and my friends (and the compassion of a few complete strangers) I would not be able to face what lies ahead.

I really wish I didn't have cancer (and I still can't quite believe that I do) but it has served to remind me how fortunate I am.

When I've recovered enough to type again, I'll write a little more about what I've been feeling and some big thoughts I've been thinking.

Right now, I need to have one last glass of wine and go turn my room into a proper nest.