Trials and Tribulations

Like Rosanna Danna used to say, "it's always somethin'." Gilda Radner suffered from ovarian cancer just like me, although she had so much trouble getting diagnosed, she was practically beyond help when it finally happened. Gilda's Place is in her honor and I would like to go to one of them eventually.
Right now I am waiting...my four phase CT scan of my kidneys took place on Friday and my appointment with the doc isn't until tomorrow to read the results. I have been trying to stay calm, not to worry (one of my Mom's favorite sayings) easy to say but hard to do. I go from "oh, its just the iodine going through that they see." to "I have tumors in my kidneys and I only have 5 months to live." Where do I get the 5 months from? Drama queen.
So, trying to stay in the moment, decided to blog it out. The next thing to think about is....
France! I am dreaming about a trip to Marseilles with my masseuse, Zabeth, who is going "home" in July and has invited me to come along. That sounds infinitely better that talking about a CT scan. Let's dream together! Au revoir!

Getting fit after chemo

Well, I finally feel like walking and exercising again. Even though I'm on a short leash with my doctor as I am still in the clinical trial, I still feel really well and want to get back into shape. I haven't gone back to the gym yet, but am trying to walk more and eat better. During chemo I ate whatever sounded good on the days I wasn't nauseated. Now I need to tweak my diet a little to include greens and proteins and put the mashed potatoes and gravy back on the back shelf. Hooray!
My hair is growing back and it's either blonde or white! I have about a quarter inch sticking straight up. It is enough to keep my head a little warmer at night, but still pretty scary looking so I usually wear a cap. Tommy has been helping me with transfer tatoos on the back of my neck below my caps. The nurses and staff at the doc's office never know what to expect from me. I keep them smiling and its good for all of us. I look forward to the summer months and my energy returning so I can be with my grandsons and Ella more. Carpe Diem!

Surreality

I found a new descriptive word. Is it because of the tenth anniversary of Amber's death on June 10th that I have this skewed take on life? Or could it be the next step I am about to take in the clinical trial I'm in for ovarian cancer? Or maybe it is the visit to the high school where I gave 3 scholarships in honor of Amber's life as a dancer and lover of education. Or was it walking on the campus with a scarf on my bald head as Amber did and got stares from her peers and a sneering comment, "nice bandana!" from a clueless girl passing by?
Clearly I have issues at this time of my life and probably shouldn't write when I feel this way, but I have to, because that's what I do to deal with it.

Last chemo is a wrap

I'm grateful to have finished the 6th cycle of chemotherapy today. I didn't have to miss one cycle, held my own with the big boys, carboplatin and taxol. I didn't do it alone. I had my patient daughter, Bridgett, with me for every single one. Even after her own pregnancy ended up in a c-section, she made it to my April 28th cycle, Ella Amberley only 1 week old, came along. Her amazing dedication and love for me and seeing to my every need, made this experience tolerable. And to be able to come home to my husband after these treatments, when I couldn't even think about food to sustain me, he would console me and run through the list of possibilities one more time until he came up with the perfect one.
Even though I will continue with the clinical trial, at least the worst is over, I hope.

I'm still a Mother

Everything I was BC (before cancer) is the same as it is now. Since I'm still doing chemotherapy, with one treatment left this month, technically I'm in a holding mode for diagnosis. The last CT scans showed nothing "suspicious" a cop-out way for radiologists to be safe when writing their reports. The way I see it, I either have it or I don't and I prefer to believe the latter. Just say that I'm not suspicious of the suspicious. The severity of side effects and the number of odd differences in my physical self can attest to the fact that the drugs have shaken up those crappy cells determined to eat away at my good cells. I'm confident I am receiving the immunotherapy (mystery clinical trial experimental drug, Avastin) and it is vacuuming up those deceased cancer boogers and I am blowing them out of my nose. Interesting theory, eh? I will have a news conference on my findings and opinions when I have the time to talk to my committee that lives in my brain and keeps me awake some nights until I scribble them down haphazardly on a bedside notepad in the dark.

Meanwhile, I will enjoy the next week and a half I have before I go in for my last treatment and that includes being honored for the chance to do the best job ever: being a Mother.

Chemo 101

So, here I am. I've gone through the surgery, staples are gone that looked like a zipper on a pair of jeans. I'm left with a line and dots on each side, sort of a strange tattoo leading from my belly button down to my pp's (private parts.) I have a few smaller places where the laparoscopy was done. Oh, and a neat little saucer shaped port on my right side of my chest just above my bra line (I made sure my surgeon saw where to put it by wearing my fav bra into surgery, which mystified all the nurses.) I am healed, so to speak, and onto chemotherapy where every 3 wks I sit in a recliner and watch the drip of drugs ministered through the port that will help me tolerate the 2 chemo drugs that will follow. This is my protocol which is defined as correct procedure, but in this case its the combination of drugs specifically designed for "my" type of cancer, ovarian. For some reason, I feel a need to run and hide the morning before this all begins, but I don't and now I've done this 5 times with 1 to go in May. I watch the people in adjoining rooms and get scared. Will that be me someday? They are so sick, ematiated, pale, bald, a cold stare on their faces. I can't relate. Maybe I'm a fool to be so silly, but I just have to find some humor to hide the stark reality of this terrible disease. I am constantly reminded of how I have it so much better than most of these people I meet here. Some are unable to continue chemo for health reasons, they wish they could be having the nausea, constipation, diahrea, hives, anemia, and all the side effects I go through every 3 wks. I am humbled. Yet I want people to know this is not a piece of cake. I must be honest, explain not complain, because there are lots of us going through this and trying to stay "normal." Because our lives have been turned upside down, our families lives have been as well, our friends want to help and some do and some don't and some just forget you exist. But, its part of the nature of the beast, the boogey man, the devil disguised as rogue cells attacking the good ones. I didn't chose to have this happen, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. But, it is what it is and it's happening to me. So there.

After surgery, chemotherapy

So, I'm on a path I know so well as a caregiver, not a survivor. My experience is on the side of the hospital bed, not in it. But, hey...I'm not calling the shots. The Universe sees fit that my life needs a new wrinkle. At 58, I'm still learning how I am NOT in control. However, I refuse to go down without a fight. I'm pissed! This is such a nuisance. I was just getting the hang of being a senior and enjoying those fabulous discounts.
Once I recuperate from the surgery where they took out a bunch of stuff (and I still didn't loose any weight) the name of this game is wait. Wait for 3wks until UCSF checks out my biopsy. They find traces of cancer cells in my abdomen and pelvis. The visit with my oncologist is not a happy one. I'm still peeved, but now a bit scared. He really puts it into perspective. Dr. Palchak says this is "serious" and I believe him. I try not to sink, my Bridgett's eyes are so big and full of tears. My Tommy is clearing his throat and quiet.