And, hey, I was in the newspaper again last weekend!
http://www.twincities.com/turningpoint/ci_22901426/40-year-old-cancer-survivor-prepares-special-marathon
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Hey everyone - if you're still out there - wondering where I've been? What's been going on? Do I have hair yet? Why I haven't been writing? Well, for the most part, no news has been good news. I've just been busy, and truthfully, sometimes I just don't want to write about having cancer or anything even remotely related.
I actually have written a couple new blog posts, but on a new site. I've signed up for a new adventure, the Million Dollar Marathon, and I have a blog on that website. Go to http://coasttocoastforcancer.org/cyndi/ if you're interested.
Just to give you some information first, the Million Dollar Marathon is a 40 day, 4000 mile event that will take place this summer. 160 cancer survivors, caregivers, and advocates will run a relay of marathons from the Pacific Coast in Ocean Shores, Washington, to the Atlantic Coast in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, starting on June 21st. I'm not sure where I'll run yet, so that means I'm not really sure when I'll run. Along the way, we'll have big celebrations and cancer advocacy events in Ocean Shores, Denver, Des Moines, Washington DC, and Rehoboth Beach.
Winter is ever so slowly relaxing its grip on Minnesota, and my training is off to a good start. So is my fundraising. If you want to know more about that fundraising thing, go to http://www.crowdrise.com/RunCyndiRun. I've pledged to raise $7500 to benefit Above & Beyond Cancer, a great charity whose aim is to elevate the lives of those touched by cancer. In 2013, the organization is focused on reducing new cancer cases and cancer recurrence through programs that emphasis diet and vigorous physical exercise. The Million Dollar Marathon is also working to raise funds for cancer research and programs that support cancer survivors and their families.
I'd love it if you would support me in any way you can. Donations are key, but if you can't donate, how about spreading the word? Know a business what might like to support me? Want to help me with my training? And there's always...donations! :)
http://coasttocoastforcancer.org/cyndi/
http://www.crowdrise.com/RunCyndiRun
I actually have written a couple new blog posts, but on a new site. I've signed up for a new adventure, the Million Dollar Marathon, and I have a blog on that website. Go to http://coasttocoastforcancer.org/cyndi/ if you're interested.
Just to give you some information first, the Million Dollar Marathon is a 40 day, 4000 mile event that will take place this summer. 160 cancer survivors, caregivers, and advocates will run a relay of marathons from the Pacific Coast in Ocean Shores, Washington, to the Atlantic Coast in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, starting on June 21st. I'm not sure where I'll run yet, so that means I'm not really sure when I'll run. Along the way, we'll have big celebrations and cancer advocacy events in Ocean Shores, Denver, Des Moines, Washington DC, and Rehoboth Beach.
Winter is ever so slowly relaxing its grip on Minnesota, and my training is off to a good start. So is my fundraising. If you want to know more about that fundraising thing, go to http://www.crowdrise.com/RunCyndiRun. I've pledged to raise $7500 to benefit Above & Beyond Cancer, a great charity whose aim is to elevate the lives of those touched by cancer. In 2013, the organization is focused on reducing new cancer cases and cancer recurrence through programs that emphasis diet and vigorous physical exercise. The Million Dollar Marathon is also working to raise funds for cancer research and programs that support cancer survivors and their families.
I'd love it if you would support me in any way you can. Donations are key, but if you can't donate, how about spreading the word? Know a business what might like to support me? Want to help me with my training? And there's always...donations! :)
http://coasttocoastforcancer.org/cyndi/
http://www.crowdrise.com/RunCyndiRun
Saturday, October 20, 2012
This is it!
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.
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.
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.
Friday, December 30, 2011
The Hair
When I lost my hair at age 17, I got a wig. There wasn't much available at the wig shop for a teenager, so I ended up with a big, curly, reddish wig my sister and I dubbed "Dottie," for the singer Dottie West. I wore the wig all the time - even in summer marching band and, after for some reason I had to get a new wig (no fun name this time), cross country.
If for some reason I would ever lose my hair again, I figured I wouldn't get a wig again. I was no longer a self-conscious teenager, and didn't want to deal with the hassle of a wig. But I'm planning to continue working, and that means traveling to new clinical sites and meeting new people. And I don't really want the first thing people to know about me be cancer patient. It's not that I'm embarassed or unwilling to talk about it, I just don't want to be thought of as sickly, I guess. (Tangent Alert: after my senior year of high school, about six months after my bone marrow transplant (no wig anymore), I went to Washington DC to march in the 4th of July parade with my marching band (we won). The weather was hot and our uniforms were not light. After we finished, people were feeling faint. Everyone would come up to me and ask how I was doing (it really was a lot of people). I was fine. A friend started feeling faint, so I ran over to the chaperone/doctor (did I mention I ran?). As soon as they saw me, everyone started asking me what was wrong, what did I need - I had a hard time insisting it was my friend who needed the help!)
So a couple weeks ago, I bought a wig. I'm not sure how much I'll wear it versus hats, but it's nice to have the option. I also feel it might offer a sense of normalcy.
A few days after round one, I got my hair cut. It's still a few inches long, but a change. Since I was told that I would lose my hair two to three weeks after my first chemo, I asked my brother to bring his electric shaver to our family Christmas. Tuesday my scalp started to hurt a bit, and if I ran my fingers through my hair I felt I had more hair than usual in my hand (I generally shed about as much as my cat). But it wasn't enough for me to be ready for a shave. Wednesday the scalp ache went away and I headed home. Of course, yesterday morning I started losing small clumps of hair in the shower. It was fine the rest of the day since I wasn't touching it. Today, though, I was too nervous to shower and style it - and I figure if I can't style it, it's time for it to go. Plus I want to ski with the ski team tomorrow, and I'm worried about trying to pull a hat on. So I have an appointment with Ramona, Becky, and an electric shaver a 8:00 tomorrow morning.
If for some reason I would ever lose my hair again, I figured I wouldn't get a wig again. I was no longer a self-conscious teenager, and didn't want to deal with the hassle of a wig. But I'm planning to continue working, and that means traveling to new clinical sites and meeting new people. And I don't really want the first thing people to know about me be cancer patient. It's not that I'm embarassed or unwilling to talk about it, I just don't want to be thought of as sickly, I guess. (Tangent Alert: after my senior year of high school, about six months after my bone marrow transplant (no wig anymore), I went to Washington DC to march in the 4th of July parade with my marching band (we won). The weather was hot and our uniforms were not light. After we finished, people were feeling faint. Everyone would come up to me and ask how I was doing (it really was a lot of people). I was fine. A friend started feeling faint, so I ran over to the chaperone/doctor (did I mention I ran?). As soon as they saw me, everyone started asking me what was wrong, what did I need - I had a hard time insisting it was my friend who needed the help!)
So a couple weeks ago, I bought a wig. I'm not sure how much I'll wear it versus hats, but it's nice to have the option. I also feel it might offer a sense of normalcy.
A few days after round one, I got my hair cut. It's still a few inches long, but a change. Since I was told that I would lose my hair two to three weeks after my first chemo, I asked my brother to bring his electric shaver to our family Christmas. Tuesday my scalp started to hurt a bit, and if I ran my fingers through my hair I felt I had more hair than usual in my hand (I generally shed about as much as my cat). But it wasn't enough for me to be ready for a shave. Wednesday the scalp ache went away and I headed home. Of course, yesterday morning I started losing small clumps of hair in the shower. It was fine the rest of the day since I wasn't touching it. Today, though, I was too nervous to shower and style it - and I figure if I can't style it, it's time for it to go. Plus I want to ski with the ski team tomorrow, and I'm worried about trying to pull a hat on. So I have an appointment with Ramona, Becky, and an electric shaver a 8:00 tomorrow morning.
Round Two
As I write this, I'm sitting at the University of Minnesota, receiving my next dose of chemotherapy. Things got started at 8, when I showed up (thanks for the ride, Heather!) and had my counts checked. I was a bit nervous that my counts wouldn't be high enough to go ahead, as I'm only at Day 17 and they usually only allow up to two days either side of 21 days. But everything looked good, so I was sent upstairs to begin.
Before chemo started, I was given two anti-nausea drugs, Emend and Aloxi, along with the steroid Decadron. Then I received the taxotere (aka docetaxel). They run this one in more slowly, as people can have allergic reactions to this drug (which is why they give the steroid). Next time they can run it faster, as I haven't had any reactions.
Fast forward eleven hours. Docetaxel and cytoxan were both infused without incident. My friend Alyssa brought lunch (thanks!) and gave me a ride home, where I had an hour before acupuncture. I did start feeling some slight nausea and heartburn at this time, but they went away shortly afterward. Ginger tea may also have helped. (:
This evening, friends Ramona and Becky came over and made dinner (more thanks!). I was a bit tired after chemo, but by now I was wide awake and chatty (and still am - I'm drinking Sleepytime tea to help calm me down). Starting the evening of chemo day, I take a steroid (Decadron) for three days to help minimize reactions to the docetaxel. I also received it IV earlier today. Possible side effects of decadron include fatigue, emotional outbursts, spaciness (my term) and hyperactivity. I think I know which one I got!
On our way out, Alyssa mentioned how they really have the therapy delivery down to an exact process. They really try to make everything as pleasant as possible. The space is very pleasant, TVs are available to everyone, and so are snacks and beverages.
This morning I brought my laptop, all six seasons of Sex and The City (thanks, Pat!), a magazine, and a book. But time really flew, even though I didn't finish until 1:30 - I only watched one and a half episodes, didn't touch my book or the magazine, and didn't do enough blogging. My nurse is also a cross-country ski coach, biked to work today, and shops at a coop - I did talk to her a lot. Maybe too much. At the end, they kind of had to kick me out because I was chatting rather than leaving and they needed my "pod." Did I mention that I had received Decadron IV?
Before chemo started, I was given two anti-nausea drugs, Emend and Aloxi, along with the steroid Decadron. Then I received the taxotere (aka docetaxel). They run this one in more slowly, as people can have allergic reactions to this drug (which is why they give the steroid). Next time they can run it faster, as I haven't had any reactions.
Fast forward eleven hours. Docetaxel and cytoxan were both infused without incident. My friend Alyssa brought lunch (thanks!) and gave me a ride home, where I had an hour before acupuncture. I did start feeling some slight nausea and heartburn at this time, but they went away shortly afterward. Ginger tea may also have helped. (:
This evening, friends Ramona and Becky came over and made dinner (more thanks!). I was a bit tired after chemo, but by now I was wide awake and chatty (and still am - I'm drinking Sleepytime tea to help calm me down). Starting the evening of chemo day, I take a steroid (Decadron) for three days to help minimize reactions to the docetaxel. I also received it IV earlier today. Possible side effects of decadron include fatigue, emotional outbursts, spaciness (my term) and hyperactivity. I think I know which one I got!
On our way out, Alyssa mentioned how they really have the therapy delivery down to an exact process. They really try to make everything as pleasant as possible. The space is very pleasant, TVs are available to everyone, and so are snacks and beverages.
This morning I brought my laptop, all six seasons of Sex and The City (thanks, Pat!), a magazine, and a book. But time really flew, even though I didn't finish until 1:30 - I only watched one and a half episodes, didn't touch my book or the magazine, and didn't do enough blogging. My nurse is also a cross-country ski coach, biked to work today, and shops at a coop - I did talk to her a lot. Maybe too much. At the end, they kind of had to kick me out because I was chatting rather than leaving and they needed my "pod." Did I mention that I had received Decadron IV?
The Rest of Round One (or "Ode to Versed")
The last couple of weeks have been filled with medical appointments, acupuncture, and Christmas preparation and celebration. I continued to feel good during round one, with my main complaint being the bone pain from the Neulasta injection. The fifth and sixth days after the injection I would get an intense, pulsating pain in my low back. It kept me from sleeping even after taking two Vicodin! But I would rather deal with something like pain than nausea or just the ickiness of feeling unwell. My energy level and appetite have remained high. I know how bad it can be, though, so I'm going to refrain from my usual jokes about how I wish my appetite weren't so good... It's not a guarantee, but the good experience I've had with round one is hopefully a sign that all four rounds should go fairly smoothly.
Thursday the 22nd I had an MRI of my arm. I was almost due, but my arm did light up a bit on the PET scan (likely due to the inflammation) so Dr. O wanted to get it done - and I was ok with that. However, I was concerned about going through another MRI - if you've read previous blog posts you might know that for my arm I'm in the MRI machine a long time, and last time was quite uncomfortable, started hyperventilating, and had to be pulled out of the machine twice. In addition, the pain from the recent pnuemothorax was quite similar to that I felt while lying in the MRI tube (there must be something to this - if I figured it out, maybe I would figure out what's going on with the MRI. Any ideas?), so I was even more concerned about going through another MRI at this time. Also, prior to my PET scan I had taken an Ativan (an anti-anxiety medication), and it didn't seem to make much of a difference - I had the same pain toward the end of that exam as well. As a result of all this, I ended up having IV sedation during the MRI - made even more convenient by having my port.
Totally the way to go. A nurse was near me the whole time. I would raise my index finger if I needed the anti-anxiety med (Versed), another if I needed the pain med (Fentanyl). It didn't take care of all the pain and anxiety, but definitely lessened it. And made the time go much faster! I'm requesting Versed and Fentanyl for every MRI I ever have on my arm again.
I'm not a stranger to versed. A bone marrow test is how the presence or absence of leukemia cells is assessed. Twenty years ago, I had many, many bone marrow tests. The first one or two were done just with xylocaine, a local pain med. Then Demerol was added. That, experience, and increased confidence regarding the results increased the ease of the tests. But then, shortly after my transplant, when I still had a port, I had Versed. Wow, I'm not even sure I knew I had a bone marrow test. I also have received Versed as heading from pre-op to surgery a few (five!) times this year.
Contrary to how all this sounds, I'm not a pill taker. This last year, I needed to be encouraged to take pain meds. I didn't even have Tylenol in my house when the bone pain started (thanks, Pat!). But when it comes to Versed (ok, maybe Demerol too), I'm all over it.
Back to the MRI. Got the results the next day at my appointment with Dr. Blaes, then talked to Dr. O's nurse that evening. No sign of recurrence! My arm is quite swollen - more so than in the October scan - but everything else looked good.
To recap: PET scan, good. Lymph node, no sign of cancer. Arm, looking good. Just have to worry about that pesky, 1.3 cm lone tumor. And we're taking care of that right now (I'm actually sitting receiving round two as I write this).
Thursday the 22nd I had an MRI of my arm. I was almost due, but my arm did light up a bit on the PET scan (likely due to the inflammation) so Dr. O wanted to get it done - and I was ok with that. However, I was concerned about going through another MRI - if you've read previous blog posts you might know that for my arm I'm in the MRI machine a long time, and last time was quite uncomfortable, started hyperventilating, and had to be pulled out of the machine twice. In addition, the pain from the recent pnuemothorax was quite similar to that I felt while lying in the MRI tube (there must be something to this - if I figured it out, maybe I would figure out what's going on with the MRI. Any ideas?), so I was even more concerned about going through another MRI at this time. Also, prior to my PET scan I had taken an Ativan (an anti-anxiety medication), and it didn't seem to make much of a difference - I had the same pain toward the end of that exam as well. As a result of all this, I ended up having IV sedation during the MRI - made even more convenient by having my port.
Totally the way to go. A nurse was near me the whole time. I would raise my index finger if I needed the anti-anxiety med (Versed), another if I needed the pain med (Fentanyl). It didn't take care of all the pain and anxiety, but definitely lessened it. And made the time go much faster! I'm requesting Versed and Fentanyl for every MRI I ever have on my arm again.
I'm not a stranger to versed. A bone marrow test is how the presence or absence of leukemia cells is assessed. Twenty years ago, I had many, many bone marrow tests. The first one or two were done just with xylocaine, a local pain med. Then Demerol was added. That, experience, and increased confidence regarding the results increased the ease of the tests. But then, shortly after my transplant, when I still had a port, I had Versed. Wow, I'm not even sure I knew I had a bone marrow test. I also have received Versed as heading from pre-op to surgery a few (five!) times this year.
Contrary to how all this sounds, I'm not a pill taker. This last year, I needed to be encouraged to take pain meds. I didn't even have Tylenol in my house when the bone pain started (thanks, Pat!). But when it comes to Versed (ok, maybe Demerol too), I'm all over it.
Back to the MRI. Got the results the next day at my appointment with Dr. Blaes, then talked to Dr. O's nurse that evening. No sign of recurrence! My arm is quite swollen - more so than in the October scan - but everything else looked good.
To recap: PET scan, good. Lymph node, no sign of cancer. Arm, looking good. Just have to worry about that pesky, 1.3 cm lone tumor. And we're taking care of that right now (I'm actually sitting receiving round two as I write this).
Monday, December 19, 2011
Lymph Node Biopsy
I forgot to post a major event - the biopsy of the lymph node revealed no signs of cancer! That plus the PET scan results mean that the cancer has not spread beyond the breast.
I am working to schedule the MRI of my arm. Because the pneumothorax pain is similar to the issues I have during MRIs and the PET scan (it makes it hard to lie still during acupuncture as well), I may be having IV sedation this time...
I am working to schedule the MRI of my arm. Because the pneumothorax pain is similar to the issues I have during MRIs and the PET scan (it makes it hard to lie still during acupuncture as well), I may be having IV sedation this time...
First Week (Almost) Down
Almost one week after my first chemo treatment, I'm feeling pretty good. My biggest issue right now is bone pain from the Neulasta shots that are given to help boost my white blood cell count. Neulasta is generally given 24-72 hours after each chemo infusion, as a subcutaneous shot. It makes its way to the bone marrow, and somehow helps it start producing white blood cells. I got my shot on Thursday, and Friday I started feeling pain in my low back and hips. I was pretty good over the weekend and this morning, but then it started - and intensified - this afternoon and evening. I took tylenol at 6:00, then moved to something stronger at 10. I'm still waiting for the pain reliever to kick in. The pain is weird - any time I make any slight move, I get intense waves of pain coinciding with my heart beat. I think it's better when I walk. Bending over or squatting is bad.
Thursday evening I was feeling pretty good and decided to try a spin class. The pain from the pneumothorax prevented me from being able to bend over the handlebars - I spent the whole class upright like I was riding a unicycle. I guess it's just walking for me for a while yet. I see the surgeon Friday, but I may call his office tomorrow to see what they say about ski practice.
Wednesday I got my hair cut. It looked pretty shocking at first, especially since it got extra curly - I thought I looked like a lamb. It's definitely a lot easier to style! I will post a picture if one can be taken of me where I keep my eyes open! I'm told it will be 2-3 weeks before my hair falls out, last night my scalp started feeling kind of itchy, turns out it could stay itchy until it starts hurting, that's when I know it's time to get out the shaver. I did buy a wig, I initially planned to have it just for work and travel functions, but I think I may end up wearing it more as it may be nice to have the sense of normalcy. I did find a website with some cute hats and headcoverings (headcovers.com) for women experiencing hairloss, and my good friend Ramona has offered to host a "Hat Party" for me. Stay tuned.
Other than the pneumothorax and the bone pain, side effects have been pretty minimal. No nausea, no major fatigue, maybe some heart burn and fluid retention. I think I would rather have the pain than the nausea. Tomorrow I'll have my fourth acupuncture session.
Thursday evening I was feeling pretty good and decided to try a spin class. The pain from the pneumothorax prevented me from being able to bend over the handlebars - I spent the whole class upright like I was riding a unicycle. I guess it's just walking for me for a while yet. I see the surgeon Friday, but I may call his office tomorrow to see what they say about ski practice.
Wednesday I got my hair cut. It looked pretty shocking at first, especially since it got extra curly - I thought I looked like a lamb. It's definitely a lot easier to style! I will post a picture if one can be taken of me where I keep my eyes open! I'm told it will be 2-3 weeks before my hair falls out, last night my scalp started feeling kind of itchy, turns out it could stay itchy until it starts hurting, that's when I know it's time to get out the shaver. I did buy a wig, I initially planned to have it just for work and travel functions, but I think I may end up wearing it more as it may be nice to have the sense of normalcy. I did find a website with some cute hats and headcoverings (headcovers.com) for women experiencing hairloss, and my good friend Ramona has offered to host a "Hat Party" for me. Stay tuned.
Other than the pneumothorax and the bone pain, side effects have been pretty minimal. No nausea, no major fatigue, maybe some heart burn and fluid retention. I think I would rather have the pain than the nausea. Tomorrow I'll have my fourth acupuncture session.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Surgery Update
Surgery went well, they took one lymph node. It was very clear this was the one sentinel node, based on how it took up the dye. I guess you can also use the dye to make a guess about cancer in the lymph node, and everything looked good for me. Of course, pathology is the final assessment - it will take a day or two to get those results.
The incision is small and doesn't hurt - I can't even tell where in my armpit it is. As for the port, that's starting to hurt a bit as the meds wear off.
I had the choice to not go under general anesthesia, so did that. I didn't notice any difference. (;
One of the final things they do prior to discharge is a chest x-ray to check the port placement. And turns out I have a pneumothorax - they punctured my lung with a needle. Which meant I couldn't go home. Off to the 7th floor, where I was admitted for overnight observation.
Picking up where I left off last night. The pneumothorax has not shrunk, and has maybe even gotten a bit bigger. My oxygen saturation is still high (upper 90s as opposed to 100 prior to surgery), but it's not very comfortable when I move around. The armpit incision also started hurting, but that was taken care of with a bit of vicodin.
Pneumothoraxes (pneumothori?) can resolve on their own, or they can insert a tube in your chest to suck out the air. I'm currently waiting for the surgical team to stop by during rounds to see if yesterday's surgeon thinks a tube is required. Also if it will impact chemo, which is scheduled to start at 8:30 this morning.
Already I'm behind on my meds - I was supposed to start a steroid yesterday to help prevent nausea. You take it the day before, the day of, and the day after each chemo infusion. I also haven't eaten anything for about 30 hours, first due to surgery prep, and now in case I need surgery again. My stomach is rumbling as I write.
Hopefully I will get some more news soon.
The incision is small and doesn't hurt - I can't even tell where in my armpit it is. As for the port, that's starting to hurt a bit as the meds wear off.
I had the choice to not go under general anesthesia, so did that. I didn't notice any difference. (;
One of the final things they do prior to discharge is a chest x-ray to check the port placement. And turns out I have a pneumothorax - they punctured my lung with a needle. Which meant I couldn't go home. Off to the 7th floor, where I was admitted for overnight observation.
Picking up where I left off last night. The pneumothorax has not shrunk, and has maybe even gotten a bit bigger. My oxygen saturation is still high (upper 90s as opposed to 100 prior to surgery), but it's not very comfortable when I move around. The armpit incision also started hurting, but that was taken care of with a bit of vicodin.
Pneumothoraxes (pneumothori?) can resolve on their own, or they can insert a tube in your chest to suck out the air. I'm currently waiting for the surgical team to stop by during rounds to see if yesterday's surgeon thinks a tube is required. Also if it will impact chemo, which is scheduled to start at 8:30 this morning.
Already I'm behind on my meds - I was supposed to start a steroid yesterday to help prevent nausea. You take it the day before, the day of, and the day after each chemo infusion. I also haven't eaten anything for about 30 hours, first due to surgery prep, and now in case I need surgery again. My stomach is rumbling as I write.
Hopefully I will get some more news soon.
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