I wrote this title in response to a post I wrote about a year ago, "Is this it?" - meaning I'm done, that's that. But as I typed it, I realized it also meant, this is life, this is what we have, take advantage, do it, live it.
People who have gone through cancer treatment have different feelings about calling themselves survivors. After going through the leukemia treatment, I proudly wore the badge of survivor. I wrote it on my Team in Training jersey for multiple events. What didn't kill me made me stronger, right? I still felt this way after going through the MPNST as well. But after going through yet another cancer diagnosis, my feelings about the term survivor began to waiver. I felt that every time I called myself survivor I got kicked in the face. How could I be so proud of surviving cancer when overcoming one would just lead to another one? What did it really mean to be a survivor?
Sometime during my course of Renewing Life classes, I started thinking about the idea about quality of life rather than quantity of life. That my focus shouldn't be so much on each cancer and survival, but about living my life to the fullest, thriving through - and beyond - cancer. I started calling myself a cancer thriver.
I had a follow-up appointment with my oncologist a couple weeks ago. As mentioned previously, it was all good news, but sometimes good news can be scary in its own way. You have this big void in front of you, with some scans every once in a while, but you just have to trust that your body is healed, that there are no scary cells growing inside you any more. I think this was especially scary this time, because I'm not just concerned about the most recent cancer, but about the cancer before that, and about any new cancers that could be lurking. I read a book about preventing and treating cancer naturally, and I started taking all the supplements that it recommended: IP6/inositol, vitamin D, lycopene, vitamin C, maitake mushroom, green tea, turmeric...it got to be a lot of pills and a lot of expense, but I was afraid not to take any of these supplements - what if it was these pills that were keeping cancer at bay? But I can't bankrupt myself with supplements. I can't have scans every week, can't have constant PET scans to look for new cancers; I just have to trust my body. My doctor and I went over a plan for going forward, and I think she understood this concern about the big void. It had already been a few months since my last appointment, but, as much of a pain it is to have constant appointments, it's kind of reassuring. You've got people checking on you, taking care of you.
At some point I just have to trust my body. Treat it well. Live healthy, and just as importantly, live well. I've said before that none of us know how long we have. I've made changes in my life for the good, relieving underlying stress, changing my diet, my lifestyle. I don't always do a very good job, especially these last few weeks as I've been on the road almost every day. But I refuse to be hard on myself for that - I don't need that. It's still a big step forward.
So, even though or maybe because - I've dealt with one more cancer since a year ago, when I posted "Is this it?," I feel more positive. It's still scary, but I'm getting more comfortable with the void. And, cancer survivor, cancer thriver, cancer ass kicker - I'll answer to them all.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Sunday, October 14, 2012
20 Miles
This morning I ran 20 miles. This is the longest run of my training; next week I'll run a half marathon (13.1 miles), then the following week my longest run will be eight miles. Then it's the big day, three weeks from today! Interestingly, my longest run coincided with my being in the St. Paul Pioneer Press (http://www.twincities.com/health/ci_21751936/turning-point-st-paul-woman-ready-run-new).
An old hip injury started bothering me last week, and that continued to be my biggest problem today. I was definitely tired (and I have to run 6.2 miles more than this on November 4th! /: ). But overall, I was very happy with how I did, especially considering that all my runs this last week SUCKED. There was the hip pain, plus Tuesday at my oncology appointment I had a flu shot and a pertussis booster, which made me tired and achy. Whatever it was, today it seemed to be gone.
Of course, a big part of that was likely due to Jeanne and Nancy, members of my running club that ran with me. Both were running shorter distances, but Jeanne organized it so that one of them was always running with me (oh, if I only had that in New York! Wait, I'll be running with 46,999 of my closest friends...). I assured them that I can do some of the miles on my own, but, truthfully, it's really nice to have someone to talk to (or, this morning, it was more like listen to). Plus it makes you accountable when you say you're going to meet someone at Calhoun at 6am. (:
Jeanne and I started out in the dark with our headlamps, running along Cedar and then through Wirth Park. Getting up early enough to start running at 6 was quite painful, but I really enjoyed running at this time of day. It started getting light out as we neared our turnaround point at four miles, and the bird activity really picked up (lots and lots of robins, but I also heard the feeble song of young White-throated Sparrows, and a Pileated Woodpecker flew over our heads). Right after we turned around we saw a frog in the middle of the road, who I think was too cold to move, so we rescued him and carried him out of harm's way. Eight miles saw us back at Calhoun, where we met up with a skeleton crew from the running club (the small turnout was not a surprise, this being the week after Twin Cities Marathon plus a number of our crew were running the Pike Island Open). Next we headed out on the Greenway, and at the first water stop (11 miles), Jeanne and Nancy traded places. We got to see the construction on the Sabo Bridge, and eventually made our way to the river. At this point, mileage was just under 14 so I ran a little extra on the river road.
As we made our return toward Lake Calhoun, I really started noting those miles ticking away on my watch: 17, 18, 19...19.53...we came off the path and started heading toward the parking lot and I started choking up. Oh boy. We made it back to our cars and the rest of the running club at 20.17 miles, and I lost it. I got big hugs from all five of these friends, wiped my eyes, and then was ready to eat!
I've been really surprised to my emotional response to finishing some of these runs. Last week I got choked up when I finished the Twin Cities 10-Mile, and that's a lot shorter distance than my recent long runs. It's not that I don't readily cry (just give me a sappy commercial, or a good love story - I seem to especially find the tear jerkers when I'm on airplanes), I guess I just didn't realize what a big deal this was, to be training and running a marathon so soon after all this cancer crap. I think it also just means that I'm doing this - no matter how long it takes, how un-pretty it will be, I'm going to cross that finish line in Central Park. Kathleen and Ramona, be prepared - you may have a blubbering mess to deal with in New York!
An old hip injury started bothering me last week, and that continued to be my biggest problem today. I was definitely tired (and I have to run 6.2 miles more than this on November 4th! /: ). But overall, I was very happy with how I did, especially considering that all my runs this last week SUCKED. There was the hip pain, plus Tuesday at my oncology appointment I had a flu shot and a pertussis booster, which made me tired and achy. Whatever it was, today it seemed to be gone.
Of course, a big part of that was likely due to Jeanne and Nancy, members of my running club that ran with me. Both were running shorter distances, but Jeanne organized it so that one of them was always running with me (oh, if I only had that in New York! Wait, I'll be running with 46,999 of my closest friends...). I assured them that I can do some of the miles on my own, but, truthfully, it's really nice to have someone to talk to (or, this morning, it was more like listen to). Plus it makes you accountable when you say you're going to meet someone at Calhoun at 6am. (:
Jeanne and I started out in the dark with our headlamps, running along Cedar and then through Wirth Park. Getting up early enough to start running at 6 was quite painful, but I really enjoyed running at this time of day. It started getting light out as we neared our turnaround point at four miles, and the bird activity really picked up (lots and lots of robins, but I also heard the feeble song of young White-throated Sparrows, and a Pileated Woodpecker flew over our heads). Right after we turned around we saw a frog in the middle of the road, who I think was too cold to move, so we rescued him and carried him out of harm's way. Eight miles saw us back at Calhoun, where we met up with a skeleton crew from the running club (the small turnout was not a surprise, this being the week after Twin Cities Marathon plus a number of our crew were running the Pike Island Open). Next we headed out on the Greenway, and at the first water stop (11 miles), Jeanne and Nancy traded places. We got to see the construction on the Sabo Bridge, and eventually made our way to the river. At this point, mileage was just under 14 so I ran a little extra on the river road.
As we made our return toward Lake Calhoun, I really started noting those miles ticking away on my watch: 17, 18, 19...19.53...we came off the path and started heading toward the parking lot and I started choking up. Oh boy. We made it back to our cars and the rest of the running club at 20.17 miles, and I lost it. I got big hugs from all five of these friends, wiped my eyes, and then was ready to eat!
I've been really surprised to my emotional response to finishing some of these runs. Last week I got choked up when I finished the Twin Cities 10-Mile, and that's a lot shorter distance than my recent long runs. It's not that I don't readily cry (just give me a sappy commercial, or a good love story - I seem to especially find the tear jerkers when I'm on airplanes), I guess I just didn't realize what a big deal this was, to be training and running a marathon so soon after all this cancer crap. I think it also just means that I'm doing this - no matter how long it takes, how un-pretty it will be, I'm going to cross that finish line in Central Park. Kathleen and Ramona, be prepared - you may have a blubbering mess to deal with in New York!
Saturday, October 13, 2012
New York
My last marathon was Twin Cities 2006. I'd run roughly one a year for the previous five years, and I knew I was ready for a break. My heart just hadn't been in this one. In June 2008 I was watching Grandma's Marathon, and decided I was ready again. I decided on Austin, Texas, in February 2009. But I live in Minnesota and I don't really like the cold. After some cold weather runs - and some cold weather where I didn't run /: - I decided to switch to the half. But it was still the first time I'd ever done anything that even resembled training through a winter in years, and I was happy with my time in Austin. I followed that up with another half, Grandma's, while training for my first triathlon, and then broke my arms.
By early 2010 I was ready to try again. My best two pals and I decided we wanted to run the New York Marathon. I'd gone to watch my cousin's wife run it in 2008, and seemed like an amazing experience: all five boroughs, lots and lots of crowd support, and lots of lots of runners. I knew it was a lottery to get in, but how competitive the lottery, we'd find out. None of us got in that first year. Ramona and I decided to run the Miami Marathon in January 2011, but an even crueler winter ('"snowmageddon") put the kabosh on those plans. In addition, I was feeling fatigued enough that I went to the doctor, where I found out I was vitamin D deficient. My training - and performance in Miami - were fairly lackluster. It was shortly after I got home from Florida that I first noticed the lump in my arm.
Before I did anything about that, though, we all tried for New York again. This time Kathleen got in. Last November, after my four surgeries and radiation, we traveled to New York to watch her run the marathon. But just days before we left, I had found the lump in my breast. I'd seen a doctor and had an MRI. And I got the news that I needed a biopsy my last morning in New York. You know the rest of that story (assuming you've read all my other posts).
New York is a HUGE marathon - 47,000 runners. It's so big that start times are spaced out over four (I think) hours and runners are routed on different streets for the first few miles. Even so, getting in is really tough. When we first started trying to get in, in 2010, there was a policy that if you didn't get in for three years straight, you'd have guaranteed entry the fourth year. Last year, they decided to get rid of that policy, because if they continued to give everyone guaranteed entry at four years, they wouldn't be able to let anyone in through the lottery! We were the last group they were allowing guaranteed entry at four years.
So, early this year, while going through chemo, I decided I would try for a third year. I felt that if I didn't try this year (and, I assumed, once again be denied, and then receive guaranteed entry for 2013), I would never run this marathon. And in late April, I found out that I got in. What timing! My friend Ramona didn't get in and was hoping I would defer to 2013 and run it with her. But the marathon is $255, and I would have to pay it twice if I deferred. But more importantly, I started thinking about training again, that it would be good for me. Due to the crowds, it's not a fast race - perfect! Time limit? 23 hours, according to my run club coach - again, perfect! So I decided I would do it.
Training for a marathon when you have no base, training while undergoing radiation is not ideal. What's been even more challenging has been trying to train while on a crazy travel schedule. There are times when I feel I have no business running a marathon right now, when I'm so slow and out of shape. I wasn't particularly fast before, but there's definitely a part of my ego that's not happy about coming in with the back of the pack. But then I remind myself to be proud that I've made it this far - that I'm running at all. I think my oncologist was thrilled the other day to know that I'm doing this. Where would I be in my recovery - physical, mental, emotional - without this goal?
By early 2010 I was ready to try again. My best two pals and I decided we wanted to run the New York Marathon. I'd gone to watch my cousin's wife run it in 2008, and seemed like an amazing experience: all five boroughs, lots and lots of crowd support, and lots of lots of runners. I knew it was a lottery to get in, but how competitive the lottery, we'd find out. None of us got in that first year. Ramona and I decided to run the Miami Marathon in January 2011, but an even crueler winter ('"snowmageddon") put the kabosh on those plans. In addition, I was feeling fatigued enough that I went to the doctor, where I found out I was vitamin D deficient. My training - and performance in Miami - were fairly lackluster. It was shortly after I got home from Florida that I first noticed the lump in my arm.
Before I did anything about that, though, we all tried for New York again. This time Kathleen got in. Last November, after my four surgeries and radiation, we traveled to New York to watch her run the marathon. But just days before we left, I had found the lump in my breast. I'd seen a doctor and had an MRI. And I got the news that I needed a biopsy my last morning in New York. You know the rest of that story (assuming you've read all my other posts).
New York is a HUGE marathon - 47,000 runners. It's so big that start times are spaced out over four (I think) hours and runners are routed on different streets for the first few miles. Even so, getting in is really tough. When we first started trying to get in, in 2010, there was a policy that if you didn't get in for three years straight, you'd have guaranteed entry the fourth year. Last year, they decided to get rid of that policy, because if they continued to give everyone guaranteed entry at four years, they wouldn't be able to let anyone in through the lottery! We were the last group they were allowing guaranteed entry at four years.
So, early this year, while going through chemo, I decided I would try for a third year. I felt that if I didn't try this year (and, I assumed, once again be denied, and then receive guaranteed entry for 2013), I would never run this marathon. And in late April, I found out that I got in. What timing! My friend Ramona didn't get in and was hoping I would defer to 2013 and run it with her. But the marathon is $255, and I would have to pay it twice if I deferred. But more importantly, I started thinking about training again, that it would be good for me. Due to the crowds, it's not a fast race - perfect! Time limit? 23 hours, according to my run club coach - again, perfect! So I decided I would do it.
Training for a marathon when you have no base, training while undergoing radiation is not ideal. What's been even more challenging has been trying to train while on a crazy travel schedule. There are times when I feel I have no business running a marathon right now, when I'm so slow and out of shape. I wasn't particularly fast before, but there's definitely a part of my ego that's not happy about coming in with the back of the pack. But then I remind myself to be proud that I've made it this far - that I'm running at all. I think my oncologist was thrilled the other day to know that I'm doing this. Where would I be in my recovery - physical, mental, emotional - without this goal?
I'm back!!
Left you all with quite a cliffhanger there...sorry about that. To catch you up as briefly as possible, I got the best possible news after surgery: complete pathological response, or in English, they looked through all the cells that were removed and they didn't find a single cancer cell. This was the great thing about doing chemo prior to surgery - confidence that the chemo did it's job.
But I wasn't done yet. I was still supposed to do radiation. I pushed back a bit - do I really need it if we know there weren't any cancer cells left? I know the studies are all about lumpectomy plus radiation, that if you don't want radiation you have a mastectomy, but these studies are of everyone, including patients who had surgery prior to chemo and couldn't monitor whether or not the tumor was gone, and definitely not just of patients like me, where we knew the cancer cells were gone. What convinced me to do the radiation was the fact that precancerous cells had been in the pathology. This is to be expected, as chemo doesn't kill precancerous cells, but if you find someone with precancerous cells only you would treat them with a lumpectomy plus radiation.
So I started radiation in late April. I had about the same number of sessions I had for the arm, I think it was 32 or 34 (it's actually kind of nice I don't remember (: ). I took a leave of absence again, since I couldn't travel. I think I took eight weeks, a little extra at the end for recovering. You'd think with eight weeks of not working I'd get some blog writing done, but I just wasn't very interested at the time. I felt pretty good throughout, maybe just a little bit fatigued, so that's not why. Perhaps I was distancing myself from everything, I don't know.
The best thing I did while on leave was take part in a program at Pathways called Renewing Life. It really was perfect timing, as usually I couldn't participate in a series like this (and this one was nine weeks!), due to my work travel. This was just an amazing experience. Everyone in my class was dealing with a life threatening or chronic illness (although you don't have to be to take part in this class if you're interested), and the insights brought each week's session were just so great. The premise of the program is using your crisis as an opportunity for personal growth and renewal. I gained a lot of insight about my self and my life. I might share some of them, but let's get through the update first!
My last day of radiation was June 13th. In July I had an MRI of my arm, and chest CT. Of course, just like my first chest CT, it suggested something weird with my liver. So I had an MRI, and - false alarm! Nothing abnormal! Oh, and the arm and lung scans were all good too.
I haven't had any further imaging or the breast cancer - this will be either an MRI or a mammogram every six months (so, actually, the same as I was doing before, but just at opposite times of the year rather than at the same time). I saw my oncologist this week, and we talked a lot about what will happen going forward. She's planning to talk to the orthopedic surgeon about my arm, and set up a plan for regular scans. Even though I didn't have any scans to learn about, it was a good visit. I could really see that my oncologist was excited that I'm doing so well, especially the fact that I'm training for a marathon. What's that, you say, marathon? Yes, the New York Marathon, to be exact. And I think that means it's time for a new post!
But I wasn't done yet. I was still supposed to do radiation. I pushed back a bit - do I really need it if we know there weren't any cancer cells left? I know the studies are all about lumpectomy plus radiation, that if you don't want radiation you have a mastectomy, but these studies are of everyone, including patients who had surgery prior to chemo and couldn't monitor whether or not the tumor was gone, and definitely not just of patients like me, where we knew the cancer cells were gone. What convinced me to do the radiation was the fact that precancerous cells had been in the pathology. This is to be expected, as chemo doesn't kill precancerous cells, but if you find someone with precancerous cells only you would treat them with a lumpectomy plus radiation.
So I started radiation in late April. I had about the same number of sessions I had for the arm, I think it was 32 or 34 (it's actually kind of nice I don't remember (: ). I took a leave of absence again, since I couldn't travel. I think I took eight weeks, a little extra at the end for recovering. You'd think with eight weeks of not working I'd get some blog writing done, but I just wasn't very interested at the time. I felt pretty good throughout, maybe just a little bit fatigued, so that's not why. Perhaps I was distancing myself from everything, I don't know.
The best thing I did while on leave was take part in a program at Pathways called Renewing Life. It really was perfect timing, as usually I couldn't participate in a series like this (and this one was nine weeks!), due to my work travel. This was just an amazing experience. Everyone in my class was dealing with a life threatening or chronic illness (although you don't have to be to take part in this class if you're interested), and the insights brought each week's session were just so great. The premise of the program is using your crisis as an opportunity for personal growth and renewal. I gained a lot of insight about my self and my life. I might share some of them, but let's get through the update first!
My last day of radiation was June 13th. In July I had an MRI of my arm, and chest CT. Of course, just like my first chest CT, it suggested something weird with my liver. So I had an MRI, and - false alarm! Nothing abnormal! Oh, and the arm and lung scans were all good too.
I haven't had any further imaging or the breast cancer - this will be either an MRI or a mammogram every six months (so, actually, the same as I was doing before, but just at opposite times of the year rather than at the same time). I saw my oncologist this week, and we talked a lot about what will happen going forward. She's planning to talk to the orthopedic surgeon about my arm, and set up a plan for regular scans. Even though I didn't have any scans to learn about, it was a good visit. I could really see that my oncologist was excited that I'm doing so well, especially the fact that I'm training for a marathon. What's that, you say, marathon? Yes, the New York Marathon, to be exact. And I think that means it's time for a new post!
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Big Day Tomorrow!
Finally, I really feel like I'm moving forward - the day of surgery is tomorrow!
I'm hoping it will be fairly anti-climactic - it's a short day surgery, with just conscious sedation and not general anesthesia. Hopefully I'll be home by mid-afternoon. It's kind of a goofy arrangement: I show up to surgery at the hospital at 6:30am, after which I'm sent over to the breast clinic in the Masonic Building next door (they're connected - at least I don't have to walk outside in a hospital gown. But still...) where imaging (I'm assuming ultrasound but didn't think to ask) will guide a radiologist who'll place a wire through the (former) tumor site. After this, I'll go back to the hospital and be prepped for surgery. The surgeon will use the wire to help guide him to the correct spot. How he'll know exactly what to take I need to ask before surgery (you'd think I would have thought of this when I met with him and he explained the procedure a couple weeks ago). So anyway, I get to walk around with a wire sticking out of my chest, probably in a hospital gown. You'd think they could have made the logistics a little simpler, considering how many lumpectomies are done at the U of MN!
When I met with the surgeon, I was told that in cases like mine, where the tumor no longer is apparent via imaging, about 40% of cases show no sign of cancer cells after surgery and pathology examination. So keep your fingers crossed for this best case scenario! By the way, I had another breast MRI last week, which continued to show no sign of the tumor. I didn't ask the surgeon about whether those 40% had a negative MRI at the halfway mark in addition to after finishing all their rounds of chemo. (:
A few people have asked me how I'm feeling going into surgery. I'm not nervous. I'm just so ready to get this done and move on! I'm so happy to be beyond chemo and moving into the next phase of treatment. I've still got a long way to go, as I won't finish radiation until early June, but at least I'll be getting my hair back (I hope!).
This will be my sixth surgery in the last year (three arm, one abdominal, one for port placement and lymph node biopsy, then tomorrow lumpectomy and port removal) - think that maybe also contributes to my lack of nerves? Oh, and there are also the two arm surgeries to repair my broken elbow and wrist in 2009 and to remove the plate in 2010...
Other updates, finally seeing a bit of improvement with the lymphedema, but that continues to be my greatest frustration (besides baldness) right now. The lymphedema needs its own blog post, hopefully that will appear soon. A blood clot was discovered in my right common femoral vein (right groin) so I get to give myself lovenox (blood thinner) shots for the next six months. And I found a personal trainer who works with cancer patients, especially those suffering from lymphedema. Hopefully that will also be covered in another blog post soon as well...
Time for dinner - my last meal for a while! I will try to provide on update on my surgery in the next day or two.
I'm hoping it will be fairly anti-climactic - it's a short day surgery, with just conscious sedation and not general anesthesia. Hopefully I'll be home by mid-afternoon. It's kind of a goofy arrangement: I show up to surgery at the hospital at 6:30am, after which I'm sent over to the breast clinic in the Masonic Building next door (they're connected - at least I don't have to walk outside in a hospital gown. But still...) where imaging (I'm assuming ultrasound but didn't think to ask) will guide a radiologist who'll place a wire through the (former) tumor site. After this, I'll go back to the hospital and be prepped for surgery. The surgeon will use the wire to help guide him to the correct spot. How he'll know exactly what to take I need to ask before surgery (you'd think I would have thought of this when I met with him and he explained the procedure a couple weeks ago). So anyway, I get to walk around with a wire sticking out of my chest, probably in a hospital gown. You'd think they could have made the logistics a little simpler, considering how many lumpectomies are done at the U of MN!
When I met with the surgeon, I was told that in cases like mine, where the tumor no longer is apparent via imaging, about 40% of cases show no sign of cancer cells after surgery and pathology examination. So keep your fingers crossed for this best case scenario! By the way, I had another breast MRI last week, which continued to show no sign of the tumor. I didn't ask the surgeon about whether those 40% had a negative MRI at the halfway mark in addition to after finishing all their rounds of chemo. (:
A few people have asked me how I'm feeling going into surgery. I'm not nervous. I'm just so ready to get this done and move on! I'm so happy to be beyond chemo and moving into the next phase of treatment. I've still got a long way to go, as I won't finish radiation until early June, but at least I'll be getting my hair back (I hope!).
This will be my sixth surgery in the last year (three arm, one abdominal, one for port placement and lymph node biopsy, then tomorrow lumpectomy and port removal) - think that maybe also contributes to my lack of nerves? Oh, and there are also the two arm surgeries to repair my broken elbow and wrist in 2009 and to remove the plate in 2010...
Other updates, finally seeing a bit of improvement with the lymphedema, but that continues to be my greatest frustration (besides baldness) right now. The lymphedema needs its own blog post, hopefully that will appear soon. A blood clot was discovered in my right common femoral vein (right groin) so I get to give myself lovenox (blood thinner) shots for the next six months. And I found a personal trainer who works with cancer patients, especially those suffering from lymphedema. Hopefully that will also be covered in another blog post soon as well...
Time for dinner - my last meal for a while! I will try to provide on update on my surgery in the next day or two.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
MRI Update
Got good news about the MRI - NOT sarcoma! Still not really sure what the "bump" is, if it's just so much lymphedema it makes it seem solid, or scar tissue, or what. The MRI report doesn't diagnose but does mention myositis and intramuscular edema. My oncologist is going to check with the radiation oncologist to see if he has any suggestions about overcoming the lymphedema, but in the meantime I'm just to keep working with the lymphedema therapists.
On Thursday I started taking a higher dose of lasix (diuretic) for the edema elsewhere in my body, which worked really well - so well that on Saturday I started getting really light-headed. I was losing so much fluid my blood pressure was getting a bit too low! I talked to an on-call doctor, who suggested weighing myself to help figure out when I need to take a lasix - sounds great unless you're traveling like I've been the past few days. Luckily it hasn't worsened too much since stopping - hopefully now that I'm almost done it will cease to be such an issue.
Sunday morning I had a 6:15 flight to Portland (I guess I booked it looking at the arrival time of 10am). After I arrived, I checked into the hotel then went exploring. I didn't think I'd get very far, I still felt pretty weak. But after two breakfasts I felt better. I wandered the Pearl and Alphabet Districts for much of the afternoon. The weather was nice, there were flowers blooming, birds singing, and Portland was really great!
I felt pretty good when I got up yesterday, but after my meeting I decided to head to a coffee shop to work instead of going back to my hotel. The sky had turned gray and it was cold. I tried two different coffee shops in the Hawthorne neighborhood, but just felt cold and had an achy back. Whether that was from bad coffee shop chairs, the neulasta injection, lingering yuckiness from the hypotension, I'm not sure. I finally gave up and drove around some more, looking for a place to warm up and eat dinner.
I still felt bad when I got back to the hotel, and when I got up this morning it just seemed like an effort to figure out how to get to the airport and check in. I drank a liter of water and a monster juice at the airport, which helped, so maybe I was still just really dehydrated. It just shows how easy it is for me to get out of balance right now.
On Thursday I started taking a higher dose of lasix (diuretic) for the edema elsewhere in my body, which worked really well - so well that on Saturday I started getting really light-headed. I was losing so much fluid my blood pressure was getting a bit too low! I talked to an on-call doctor, who suggested weighing myself to help figure out when I need to take a lasix - sounds great unless you're traveling like I've been the past few days. Luckily it hasn't worsened too much since stopping - hopefully now that I'm almost done it will cease to be such an issue.
Sunday morning I had a 6:15 flight to Portland (I guess I booked it looking at the arrival time of 10am). After I arrived, I checked into the hotel then went exploring. I didn't think I'd get very far, I still felt pretty weak. But after two breakfasts I felt better. I wandered the Pearl and Alphabet Districts for much of the afternoon. The weather was nice, there were flowers blooming, birds singing, and Portland was really great!
I felt pretty good when I got up yesterday, but after my meeting I decided to head to a coffee shop to work instead of going back to my hotel. The sky had turned gray and it was cold. I tried two different coffee shops in the Hawthorne neighborhood, but just felt cold and had an achy back. Whether that was from bad coffee shop chairs, the neulasta injection, lingering yuckiness from the hypotension, I'm not sure. I finally gave up and drove around some more, looking for a place to warm up and eat dinner.
I still felt bad when I got back to the hotel, and when I got up this morning it just seemed like an effort to figure out how to get to the airport and check in. I drank a liter of water and a monster juice at the airport, which helped, so maybe I was still just really dehydrated. It just shows how easy it is for me to get out of balance right now.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Lymphedema
I think I'm moved into a more critical case as far as the lymphedema goes. I haven't gotten much better even after a few weeks of therapy. I spend most of my time with my arm bandaged up, which doesn't help with typing, cooking, washing dishes, showering...you name it.
Yesterday I met with a rep from the Flexitouch company to be measured and start the process to get my own pump. This pump will simulate manual drainage massage that the therapists do, so that I can receive it daily, including when I'm traveling. There are separate pieces that fit over my trunk, chest, shoulder and arm, which connect by tube to a central controller (see http://tactilesystems.com/flexitouch/details.html for a better description and picture). I'm hoping that daily treatment will help get this under control.
Other things I'm trying to do include exercise, including "rebounding" (which in my case is jumping up and down on a $30 jogging trampoline from Fleet Farm), diaphragmatic breathing, all to try to help get the lymph system moving, and an enzyme capsule "Digest Gold" to help break down stuff in my arm. There is also a local doctor who specializes in lymphedema, so I am going to look into making an appointment with her. Lymphedema is often a chronic, life-long problem, so I'm moving on trying to avoid that if at all possible.
Yesterday I met with a rep from the Flexitouch company to be measured and start the process to get my own pump. This pump will simulate manual drainage massage that the therapists do, so that I can receive it daily, including when I'm traveling. There are separate pieces that fit over my trunk, chest, shoulder and arm, which connect by tube to a central controller (see http://tactilesystems.com/flexitouch/details.html for a better description and picture). I'm hoping that daily treatment will help get this under control.
Other things I'm trying to do include exercise, including "rebounding" (which in my case is jumping up and down on a $30 jogging trampoline from Fleet Farm), diaphragmatic breathing, all to try to help get the lymph system moving, and an enzyme capsule "Digest Gold" to help break down stuff in my arm. There is also a local doctor who specializes in lymphedema, so I am going to look into making an appointment with her. Lymphedema is often a chronic, life-long problem, so I'm moving on trying to avoid that if at all possible.
Fourth - and final - chemo!
Just had my fourth and final chemo yesterday! It was fairly uneventful, as far as the infusion went.
Unfortunately, I have a bump in my upper arm, above where I had surgery and radiation for the sarcoma. It appeared around the time of the lymphedema, so I thought it was part of that, but the lymphedema therapists said it was too hard to be lymphedema. I had an ultrasound after chemo yesterday to rule out a blood clot (Kind of funny, I was hoping for a blood clot - unfortunately(?) there wasn't one). I'm scheduled for an MRI today. Worst case is return of the sarcoma. The ultrasound technician said she didn't see anything other than muscle - when I had an ultrasound on the original lump last year, they did see something "different." But could vary by technician, and it's ultrasound which isn't that definitive for things like this which is why I'm having an MRI...so trying not to think too much about it. Yeah, right. So, if you can spare any thoughts and prayers, please send some my way (so weird to ask for this for myself!).
Also, I've developed really bad edema in my legs (from the taxotere?). I took 20mg of lasix last night, that seemed to help. Can't exactly see my ankle bones yet, but my shoes aren't so tight anymore. But all this girly girl wants to wear is sweats, and I worry that if it doesn't go away soon that's all I'll be able to wear.
I'm told that I should start feeling more "normal" in a couple of months (there's the three week cycle from yesterday's chemo, then recovery starts). My birthday is April 24th, and I think my birthday wish is to have enough hair to not have to wear a headcover to my party, and to not have to wear sweatpants.
Unfortunately, I have a bump in my upper arm, above where I had surgery and radiation for the sarcoma. It appeared around the time of the lymphedema, so I thought it was part of that, but the lymphedema therapists said it was too hard to be lymphedema. I had an ultrasound after chemo yesterday to rule out a blood clot (Kind of funny, I was hoping for a blood clot - unfortunately(?) there wasn't one). I'm scheduled for an MRI today. Worst case is return of the sarcoma. The ultrasound technician said she didn't see anything other than muscle - when I had an ultrasound on the original lump last year, they did see something "different." But could vary by technician, and it's ultrasound which isn't that definitive for things like this which is why I'm having an MRI...so trying not to think too much about it. Yeah, right. So, if you can spare any thoughts and prayers, please send some my way (so weird to ask for this for myself!).
Also, I've developed really bad edema in my legs (from the taxotere?). I took 20mg of lasix last night, that seemed to help. Can't exactly see my ankle bones yet, but my shoes aren't so tight anymore. But all this girly girl wants to wear is sweats, and I worry that if it doesn't go away soon that's all I'll be able to wear.
I'm told that I should start feeling more "normal" in a couple of months (there's the three week cycle from yesterday's chemo, then recovery starts). My birthday is April 24th, and I think my birthday wish is to have enough hair to not have to wear a headcover to my party, and to not have to wear sweatpants.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
The Loppet
Today I completed my eighth Team in Training event. It wasn't exactly the event I'd pictured when I signed up for the Team's inaugural cross-country ski event, the City of Lakes Loppet, last September, but I did it.
One reason I signed up for this event was that, as a native Minnesotan who doesn't like winter, for years I've told myself that I should take up more winter recreational activities in order to get out there and enjoy the season. I bought snowshoes a few years ago, but we seldom have enough snow in the Twin Cities to use them (save last year, when I still didn't use them - don't ask me why. Habit? Too busy shoveling and driving extra long commutes after each snowstorm?). So I jumped at the opportunity to learn how to ski, practice regularly, and do it with a great bunch of people. And then we didn't get any snow. And I learned I had breast cancer.
We started "dry land" training in September, then the team moved to Elm Creek, a park with man-made snow in December. I didn't attend these early ski practices due to being overwhelmed, the pneumothorax, the park being 30 miles from my house, an upper respiratory infection complete with fever, and, I distinctly remember one night I didn't go because it was raining.
I finally made it to my first ski practice on January 7th. I had a 100.5 fever, but knew I needed to get out there, and felt it was now or never. I stayed in the practice area, got some instructions, skied back and forth a bit until my body said that's enough, then went inside and gabbed with TNT friend Rachel for another hour (guess I wasn't feeling that bad!) before heading home.
I made it to a few more TNT practices, and a group lesson, before ending up at Wirth Park last weekend. The Loppet was to start at Wirth, so we wanted to ski it before the actual event. I was happy to ski a different venue, especially one closer to home.
Wirth had a 3.5km loop with man-made snow, and those of us with less experience did not ski the whole loop due a big hill. There were plenty of other hills, though, along with a lot of ice, and I gave up after just one loop, three falls, and some lightheadedness (which I attributed to being out of shape until my oncologist reminded me that my hemoglobin is low - it's been hovering around 10). Two friends helped out by walking me and my gear to the car.
Through all this, I was getting a ton of support from the team - notes of encouragement, offers of assistance, you name it. The first time I fell at Wirth, I had to figure out how to get back up (not that easy on skis), and I got offers of help and tips from everyone around me. I thought that the Team helping me get back up on my skis was a good metaphor for my situation at large. (:
That same evening, the Loppet announced that, due to the lack of snow and warm weather, they were changing the course - to entirely within Wirth Park. The Loppet course would be multiple laps of the 3.5km loop mentioned above.
I knew I didn't have the technical skills or fitness level to ski this course, so I was happy to hear from our coaches that Team in Training would switch "our" Loppet to Elm Creek (which had been our Plan B in the event that the Loppet was to be completely cancelled).
What I would do for the actual event was still to be determined, especially after I developed lymphedema in my left arm from the surgeries and radiation. My arm and hand blew up to way beyond their normal size, and my left forearm and hand would cramp up with even the simplest of chores. Just Friday morning, I went to lymphedema therapy. We discussed the option of bandaging my arm, which might interfere with the ski event, but agreed that the most important thing was to get the lymphedema under control. So my arm got wrapped up with multiple rolls of bandage and padding, with the pressure greatest at the hand and lessening all the way up to the armpit, to force the fluid up and out of my hand and arm.
Now my hand and arm were even larger. My fingers were partially wrapped so that, while the therapist had made sure I could still bend my elbow to bring a fork to my mouth, I found I couldn't hold a fork. This morning I borrowed a jacket and mitten that would fit over that big arm (thanks, again, to those awesome teammates), but the ski pole loop would not fit over my hand.
I started out just holding the ski pole, but almost immediately I realized that wasn't going to work since I couldn't grip the pole without pain. I would also find that my hand would slide down the pole so that I'd be gripping it a few inches below the handle (not sure if that's the right word for it, but hopefully you get my idea!). I ended up skiing much of my first lap holding the left pole in my right hand.
I got rid of the left pole after my first lap, and things got much easier. I still fell once or twice, didn't go very fast, and got pooped on the uphills, but I ended up skiing three laps - two of which were accompanied by my good friend Ramona. This equaled about 7km, not quite the distance I'd envisioned at the beginning of the season, but my goal was to just get out there and see what I could do.
After I finished, I stayed and watched the rest of my teammates come in (with some breaks to go inside and warm up by the fire with a warm beverage and a homemade caramel roll). It was just an awesome morning, not just to get out there and do my three laps, but to see everyone else reaching their goals and finishing.
Now that the Loppet is over, I'm sure we'll get some snow. And I'm excited to get out my skis when we do. I may not like winter yet, but I think I can say I like cross-country skiing (at least when it's on an easy course)! (:
One reason I signed up for this event was that, as a native Minnesotan who doesn't like winter, for years I've told myself that I should take up more winter recreational activities in order to get out there and enjoy the season. I bought snowshoes a few years ago, but we seldom have enough snow in the Twin Cities to use them (save last year, when I still didn't use them - don't ask me why. Habit? Too busy shoveling and driving extra long commutes after each snowstorm?). So I jumped at the opportunity to learn how to ski, practice regularly, and do it with a great bunch of people. And then we didn't get any snow. And I learned I had breast cancer.
We started "dry land" training in September, then the team moved to Elm Creek, a park with man-made snow in December. I didn't attend these early ski practices due to being overwhelmed, the pneumothorax, the park being 30 miles from my house, an upper respiratory infection complete with fever, and, I distinctly remember one night I didn't go because it was raining.
I finally made it to my first ski practice on January 7th. I had a 100.5 fever, but knew I needed to get out there, and felt it was now or never. I stayed in the practice area, got some instructions, skied back and forth a bit until my body said that's enough, then went inside and gabbed with TNT friend Rachel for another hour (guess I wasn't feeling that bad!) before heading home.
I made it to a few more TNT practices, and a group lesson, before ending up at Wirth Park last weekend. The Loppet was to start at Wirth, so we wanted to ski it before the actual event. I was happy to ski a different venue, especially one closer to home.
Wirth had a 3.5km loop with man-made snow, and those of us with less experience did not ski the whole loop due a big hill. There were plenty of other hills, though, along with a lot of ice, and I gave up after just one loop, three falls, and some lightheadedness (which I attributed to being out of shape until my oncologist reminded me that my hemoglobin is low - it's been hovering around 10). Two friends helped out by walking me and my gear to the car.
Through all this, I was getting a ton of support from the team - notes of encouragement, offers of assistance, you name it. The first time I fell at Wirth, I had to figure out how to get back up (not that easy on skis), and I got offers of help and tips from everyone around me. I thought that the Team helping me get back up on my skis was a good metaphor for my situation at large. (:
That same evening, the Loppet announced that, due to the lack of snow and warm weather, they were changing the course - to entirely within Wirth Park. The Loppet course would be multiple laps of the 3.5km loop mentioned above.
I knew I didn't have the technical skills or fitness level to ski this course, so I was happy to hear from our coaches that Team in Training would switch "our" Loppet to Elm Creek (which had been our Plan B in the event that the Loppet was to be completely cancelled).
What I would do for the actual event was still to be determined, especially after I developed lymphedema in my left arm from the surgeries and radiation. My arm and hand blew up to way beyond their normal size, and my left forearm and hand would cramp up with even the simplest of chores. Just Friday morning, I went to lymphedema therapy. We discussed the option of bandaging my arm, which might interfere with the ski event, but agreed that the most important thing was to get the lymphedema under control. So my arm got wrapped up with multiple rolls of bandage and padding, with the pressure greatest at the hand and lessening all the way up to the armpit, to force the fluid up and out of my hand and arm.
Now my hand and arm were even larger. My fingers were partially wrapped so that, while the therapist had made sure I could still bend my elbow to bring a fork to my mouth, I found I couldn't hold a fork. This morning I borrowed a jacket and mitten that would fit over that big arm (thanks, again, to those awesome teammates), but the ski pole loop would not fit over my hand.
I started out just holding the ski pole, but almost immediately I realized that wasn't going to work since I couldn't grip the pole without pain. I would also find that my hand would slide down the pole so that I'd be gripping it a few inches below the handle (not sure if that's the right word for it, but hopefully you get my idea!). I ended up skiing much of my first lap holding the left pole in my right hand.
I got rid of the left pole after my first lap, and things got much easier. I still fell once or twice, didn't go very fast, and got pooped on the uphills, but I ended up skiing three laps - two of which were accompanied by my good friend Ramona. This equaled about 7km, not quite the distance I'd envisioned at the beginning of the season, but my goal was to just get out there and see what I could do.
After I finished, I stayed and watched the rest of my teammates come in (with some breaks to go inside and warm up by the fire with a warm beverage and a homemade caramel roll). It was just an awesome morning, not just to get out there and do my three laps, but to see everyone else reaching their goals and finishing.
Now that the Loppet is over, I'm sure we'll get some snow. And I'm excited to get out my skis when we do. I may not like winter yet, but I think I can say I like cross-country skiing (at least when it's on an easy course)! (:
Good News!
This post is horribly overdue. The reasons why may be the subject of a future blog post.
January 20th I received round three of four rounds of chemo. You may recall that I'm doing chemo prior to surgery, and halfway through I was going to have an MRI to assess how the tumor was responding to chemo - that way, if the tumor wasn't shrinking I could receive a different chemo drug combination.
So, a few days prior to receiving round three I had my MRI. On the 20th, I met with my doctor prior to the chemo, to learn that, not only had the tumor responded to chemo by shrinking, it had shrunk to essentially NOTHING! There was no enhancement (taking up of contrast by the tumor's own network of blood vessels, the red flag in the original MRI), no measurable size, just some scarring where the tumor had previously been.
What does this mean as far as treatment goes? No changes - I stay on the same drugs, will still receive four rounds, still have surgery (they'll remove the same amount of tissue that they would have had we done surgery prior to chemo), still have about seven weeks of radiation. But my prognosis is just that much better.
I continue to feel good through the chemo, with my biggest complaint being the bone pain from the neulasta shot. It's been getting a bit tough mentally - even with the excellent news from the MRI, as we turn the corner from winter and I can look forward to spring, I have a lot of treatment ahead of me yet. I'm just ready to be done - ready to put it all behind me, to have weeks without doctor appointments, for my hair to grow back. To be done and go back to normal.
January 20th I received round three of four rounds of chemo. You may recall that I'm doing chemo prior to surgery, and halfway through I was going to have an MRI to assess how the tumor was responding to chemo - that way, if the tumor wasn't shrinking I could receive a different chemo drug combination.
So, a few days prior to receiving round three I had my MRI. On the 20th, I met with my doctor prior to the chemo, to learn that, not only had the tumor responded to chemo by shrinking, it had shrunk to essentially NOTHING! There was no enhancement (taking up of contrast by the tumor's own network of blood vessels, the red flag in the original MRI), no measurable size, just some scarring where the tumor had previously been.
What does this mean as far as treatment goes? No changes - I stay on the same drugs, will still receive four rounds, still have surgery (they'll remove the same amount of tissue that they would have had we done surgery prior to chemo), still have about seven weeks of radiation. But my prognosis is just that much better.
I continue to feel good through the chemo, with my biggest complaint being the bone pain from the neulasta shot. It's been getting a bit tough mentally - even with the excellent news from the MRI, as we turn the corner from winter and I can look forward to spring, I have a lot of treatment ahead of me yet. I'm just ready to be done - ready to put it all behind me, to have weeks without doctor appointments, for my hair to grow back. To be done and go back to normal.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Occupation Full-Time Cancer Paient
In November I was on my phone for over 1000 minutes. Since December 4th, I've been on it for over 1600 minutes. In those minutes I've talked to doctors, updated family and friends, consulted nurses, and talked to volunteers at the American Cancer Society. I've spent time on the internet, researching triple-negative breast cancer, neo-adjuvant chemotherapy, acupuncturists, and more. I've been to multiple appointments, which often last longer than expected. I read about ways to stay healthy during treatment without actually scheduling in the time to make them happen.
This has been one of the hardest adjustments to make. I didn't realize that being a cancer patient - even one with a good prognosis - is a full time job. Add that on to the full-time job that pays me, Christmas preparation, social events, I've been one busy girl. Yesterday it caught up to me.
Friday chemo went later than planned. I ended up going to acupuncture right afterward. Then, yesterday, after the "hair follies," I went straight to the University for my Neulasta shot. This should be a fifteen minute appointment, but turned into forty minutes due to computer issues and a discussion about how to give me just 3 mLs rather than the standard 6 mLs. My cell phone lost battery power, as I'd lost my car charger (I've lost about six things in the last few weeks). I got home after 2, where I was supposed to cook for my parents, but when I realized I was short one ingredient, that was it. There was no working around it, no running to the store. I was officially overwhelmed. I called it a meltdown at the time, but maybe that's too strong of a word. I was just done. I sent my parents home (actually, they went to a restaurant) and unplugged. I took my first anti-nausea pill (did I mention I also had a bit of nausea for the first time? And heartburn), drank some ginger-peppermint tea, put some relaxing and uplifting essential oils in the diffuser, and chilled. And napped - and drooled. I showed up at my New Year's soiree 90 minutes late, feeling like new.
I'm hoping that now that I'm into round two, don't need to see the surgeon until after chemo, that things will calm down a bit. I think my next appointments will be for the MRI to assess the tumor size prior to round three (which should be about January 20th). Maybe help me to focus on me. I went to a New Year's Day yoga workshop today, and my mind was all over the place. I'm sure the steroid don't help, but I also realized that I have done yoga maybe twice since my cancer journey began last April.
This has been one of the hardest adjustments to make. I didn't realize that being a cancer patient - even one with a good prognosis - is a full time job. Add that on to the full-time job that pays me, Christmas preparation, social events, I've been one busy girl. Yesterday it caught up to me.
Friday chemo went later than planned. I ended up going to acupuncture right afterward. Then, yesterday, after the "hair follies," I went straight to the University for my Neulasta shot. This should be a fifteen minute appointment, but turned into forty minutes due to computer issues and a discussion about how to give me just 3 mLs rather than the standard 6 mLs. My cell phone lost battery power, as I'd lost my car charger (I've lost about six things in the last few weeks). I got home after 2, where I was supposed to cook for my parents, but when I realized I was short one ingredient, that was it. There was no working around it, no running to the store. I was officially overwhelmed. I called it a meltdown at the time, but maybe that's too strong of a word. I was just done. I sent my parents home (actually, they went to a restaurant) and unplugged. I took my first anti-nausea pill (did I mention I also had a bit of nausea for the first time? And heartburn), drank some ginger-peppermint tea, put some relaxing and uplifting essential oils in the diffuser, and chilled. And napped - and drooled. I showed up at my New Year's soiree 90 minutes late, feeling like new.
I'm hoping that now that I'm into round two, don't need to see the surgeon until after chemo, that things will calm down a bit. I think my next appointments will be for the MRI to assess the tumor size prior to round three (which should be about January 20th). Maybe help me to focus on me. I went to a New Year's Day yoga workshop today, and my mind was all over the place. I'm sure the steroid don't help, but I also realized that I have done yoga maybe twice since my cancer journey began last April.
The Hair, Part 2
I got to Ramona's house shortly after 8 yesterday morning. We had the shaver, had charged it overnight, and thought that it would be a quick few runs through my hair, and voila! - GI Jane. Not quite.
User inexperience plus not quite fully charged trimmer resulted in over an hour of shaving and just the back shorn. Needless to say, we didn't make it to ski practice.
Next I headed over to my brother's, where I learned a bit about trimmers and shaving. First, I learned that these trimmers generally need about 18 hours to charge. And they don't work too well if you adjust the "guard" to five or higher (two rules we broke at Ramona's). Even with that knowledge, it still took about another hour for my brother to shave my head.
So now my hair is about a half inch long. It's coming out slowly (am I supposed to help it along? Rub it with a washcloth? Or just watch as hair fills the inside of my hat and the shower's drain guard?). Cold baby that I am, I've mostly kept it covered with hats, but family and friends who have seen this latest look seem to think it looks good. Something about a nice-shaped head. Or maybe just Minnesota nice... A few photos were taken last evening, so if the mood strikes me I may post them for you to see. When I lost my hair for leukemia chemotherapy, I looked back and wished I had more photos to document it. I really don't have any photos of me without wig or hat until I'd had about an inch of new growth. Keep reminding me of that.
Someone commented last night about how brave I'd been while getting my hair chopped off. I guess I'm mostly over that one, although it's sometimes tough to realize this is going to be my life for the next few months. I'd been feeling so good, the start of the hair loss was kind of a reality check.
Yesterday afternoon I started re-arranging my medicine cabinet. Hair detangler, styling gel, texturizer, comb, all out. But as I put them into the closet, I thought, why would I even keep them in here? It could be six months or more before I might use them again. I took a closer look: curling irons, blow dryer, big round styling brush, paddle brush, curl reviver, volumizer....as strange as it may sound, to this girly-girl, saying goodbye - albeit temporarily - to all these products was what almost made the tears come. Even while I look forward to my new low-maintenance look.
User inexperience plus not quite fully charged trimmer resulted in over an hour of shaving and just the back shorn. Needless to say, we didn't make it to ski practice.
Next I headed over to my brother's, where I learned a bit about trimmers and shaving. First, I learned that these trimmers generally need about 18 hours to charge. And they don't work too well if you adjust the "guard" to five or higher (two rules we broke at Ramona's). Even with that knowledge, it still took about another hour for my brother to shave my head.
So now my hair is about a half inch long. It's coming out slowly (am I supposed to help it along? Rub it with a washcloth? Or just watch as hair fills the inside of my hat and the shower's drain guard?). Cold baby that I am, I've mostly kept it covered with hats, but family and friends who have seen this latest look seem to think it looks good. Something about a nice-shaped head. Or maybe just Minnesota nice... A few photos were taken last evening, so if the mood strikes me I may post them for you to see. When I lost my hair for leukemia chemotherapy, I looked back and wished I had more photos to document it. I really don't have any photos of me without wig or hat until I'd had about an inch of new growth. Keep reminding me of that.
Someone commented last night about how brave I'd been while getting my hair chopped off. I guess I'm mostly over that one, although it's sometimes tough to realize this is going to be my life for the next few months. I'd been feeling so good, the start of the hair loss was kind of a reality check.
Yesterday afternoon I started re-arranging my medicine cabinet. Hair detangler, styling gel, texturizer, comb, all out. But as I put them into the closet, I thought, why would I even keep them in here? It could be six months or more before I might use them again. I took a closer look: curling irons, blow dryer, big round styling brush, paddle brush, curl reviver, volumizer....as strange as it may sound, to this girly-girl, saying goodbye - albeit temporarily - to all these products was what almost made the tears come. Even while I look forward to my new low-maintenance look.
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