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.

Surgery, waiting

Three days before Christmas last year, I underwent a hysterectomy. Turned out I had a tumor behind my uterus the size of an orange.After having a routine pap done, the nurse practioner suggested I have a uterine ultrasound. That was just the beginning. That same day I got a CA 125 blood test done. The next morning she called me and suggested I see a gynecological oncologist. Wait a minute! I know what that means, let me sit down here and ask a few questions. My head began to spin, I got a little out of breath. The CA125 was elevated, that had happened before about 6 years ago...when I had my ovaries removed along with a benign tumor on one of them. But, what does it mean this time? I had to get some info fast. I called Dr. Dan and he said I needed to get the tumor out. I didn't want to hear that. I wanted to go back to my Christmas planning agenda, shop for my grandsons, anything but have an operation! And, to go to a specialist in Santa Barbara, no way.

This shows how little most people know about things. They were cutting me loose, sending me away. Getting rid of me. Well, think again. I have options, people! So there. I made some more phone calls, and ended up with a complete stranger from Hearst Cancer Center telling me I could have a biopsy done right here. She gave me a doctor's name, Safarik, an OB/Gyn right here in Pismo Beach.

That's how I ended up having surgery about a week later. It all happened so fast. We had Christmas a week early, the boyz love that part. I was home on Christmas Day, recuperating from having my appendix, gall bladder and uterus removed along with a few tumors. 95% the good Doctor said, but wouldn't commit to what the 5% left was. That was to be revealed much later.

One day at a time

When I wrote and published the book This is a Good Day to Live, it was to honor my daughter, Amber, who at 18 was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma. After many years of chemotherapy, including a stem-cell transplant, she died on June 10th, 1999 at the age of 22. At that time, I felt like my own life was over as well.
Fast forward ten years and the sale of over 400 books, and the inception of the Amber Carter Memorial Scholarship set up at the Arroyo Grande High School in 2000. So far giving over $12,000 in scholarships to Dance Company students.