No Last Dance for Me

Update for Chemo 6.

Immediately after our appointment, the doctor sent me to the chemo room—the one where all the patients go, lounging in recliners having a merry old time hooked up to IV bags delivering the toxic juices.

I notice two newer women I’d seen at my fifth session; now both are bald. One is wearing a cute short blond wig. She’s visibly lost weight. The other is sporting a brightly colored, flowered bandana around her head. That’s a sure sign her blond hair of three weeks ago is gone. She still overfills the chair.

A third patient, an elderly lady with a slight Southern accent, is there again with her hand-holding husband. She’s having a hard time breathing and is wheeled to the main hospital for some tests. I never find out if she’s okay.

The doctor told me the administering nurses in the chemo room would do a dance for me as it’s my last scheduled treatment.

The 4-1/2 hour session was without fanfare, no dancing, no applause, no confetti tumbling down, no cake or presents, or bouquet of flowers. When I asked about the dance, the nurses laughed; like that ain’t gonna happen. One said, let the doctor do the dancing. I didn’t waltz out of there. Instead I was left with a gnawing worry.

It may very well have been the last treatment, but blood tests, CAT-scans and regular doctor visits are still on the agenda. And then of course healing and hair returning, and getting this port surgically removed. That will no doubt brighten the “Scarlet Letter A” already stitched in my skin.

But now creeps in a new situation: the fear of the beast returning. Is there a single cancer cell in Darwinian fashion immune to the killing toxins, lurking in some corner of a DNA molecule going undetected, laughing evil-ly at the attempts of modern medical science, waiting, just waiting to do its weird dividing dance and spread?

I am the survival of the fittest, a lucky one who caught early a curable cancer. Or have I? It is a fear that I suspect most cancer survivors live with. You just have to move on, go on, and keep in tune with the bodily warning signs that signaled something was off in the first place.

I feel a sort of kinship with other cancer patients and survivors. Like Corvette owners who join clubs. Or cat fanciers (sometimes you can see the fur meshed on their clothing). Or motorcycle riders (they nod or raise an arm to passing bikers on the road). Once the hair grows back, and the funky wigs, scarves, and caps are put away, how will we recognize one another, unless I join some cancer society group? No thanks. I haven’t so far. I had enough friend and family support to say I was lucky again not to need that.

But I’ve gotten spoiled by a husband who vacuums for me, a daughter who washes the kitchen floor every other week. And another daughter who shovels the drive and walkways.

I’ve gained strength already. I’m back to doing all the cooking and laundry duties, the grocery shopping, and general housework, easing back to routines. And in a couple of weeks as this last treatment fades from memory, and the residual nausea, nerve-ending tingling, insomnia and other side effects diminish, I’ll be back to full schedule at work.

Yes, I’ll be ready to join society without the nagging of the disease interfering with my life. The doctor said, in three weeks I’ll be able to eat from the common fruit bowl, enjoy raw vegetables and sushi bars, and double dip at all the parties again.

But as “normal” life returns with doctor visits and tests interspersed at expanding intervals, maybe I’ll see a woman outside of the oncologist’s office, in public, with a funky wig on, or a cap that reveals a too-bare neckline and typical sideburns missing. The kerchief will show no bulk of hair below or wisps sticking out. She won’t have eyelashes or eyebrows. Maybe she’ll have one of those pink-ribbon pins on her clothing. I’ll smile and nod to her like a fellow motorcycle rider even if she doesn’t get the message, even if she doesn’t understand that we travel a similar road. It will be my reminder to keep guard, keep watch if ever I have to return to the chemo lounge chairs where it’s sure no dance club.

The Clods One Meets

There's that look , a sort of sad, eye brows drawn together "Aww" of a nonverbal expression. Shall I call it pity? A sudden remembrance of "oh yeah, she's got cancer" look on the face? Others say with one glance, "she's diseased, maybe contagious, I can't deal with this"....but those are rare or harder to read.

And then some open their mouths with stupidity sprinkling out like a spit in the eye. And no matter if I try and dab the sputum away, the sting lingers, and amuses me. It's those awkward times when people don't know how to deal with a bald woman.

Now I don't parade my scalp to the world, but the caps or gypsy scarves are giveaways. The wig is much more acceptable, a real fooler for those folks who don't know me. This winter, sometimes the soft knit hat is just more comfortable to face the world hugging my head. I call my assortment of caps my head sweaters; they keep me warm.

I accompanied my husband to his ski club meeting last night, and in the course of 30 minutes got the gamut of glances from pity to scorn, to some heart-felt smiles. I take this in like an outsider; it's not me, it's this cancer side effect, this hairless alien that walks amongst us that people react to.

I had no makeup on so my eyes disappear without liner. Just green beads without lashes save one long single hair on the lower right lid that stubbornly holds its root. I wore head sweater number four the Jessie hat (from a favorite TV show), a velour -like charcoal gray and reversible black cap (with droopy, baggy Hot Topic boy pants could put me in gang apparel chic). So I wore the dark, snug cap and brightened it up with large gold hoop earrings for fun and went to the upstairs pub meeting room to see many long-time ski acquaintances.

There was that clod from the Christmas club ski party who took one glance and got as far away as possible from me (thank heavens....gotta love the power in that). There was the "you poor thing" look with a how are you feeling question; but that was fine and I said so and she's really sweet anyhow. There was the hugger, "glad to see you, you look great," now let's change the subject" which was fine with me too.

And there was the woman who told me she wished her hair would just fall out so she could start again with a new do. Sorry to say but she's blond. I couldn't come up with the right response as I was mildly shocked at the stupid blubbering coming out of her mouth, and any really good comeback wold have just been wasted between her ears. I know she meant well, but somehow that disconnect of brain and thought and the forming of words on the tongue just didn't come about for either of us.

She told me my hair might come back curly. I reminded her that I had naturally curly hair (she must have forgotten). So she corrected herself saying well it might come back straight then, and laughed. I said it will probably be a gray 'Fro but any hair was acceptable to me. And then she changed the subject telling me about her shopping day and how she overdid it and blah, blah, blah. But I soon found diversion and an escape, plus the ski club meeting was underway. Whew!

It reminded me of (sorry, another blond) a co-worker who seeing a silk kerchief covering my head at work one day, said "I wish I could wear scarves." I'm sure she couldn't read my expression right, one of confusion. "Just wear one," I told her. I don't see why having long blond hair should stop her. I can't figure out what she was trying to say, that I was lucky to be bald? Like the other woman, something just vomited out in an effort to try and say something nice, I suppose. And did either of them regurgitate what they said, kicked themselves later for blurting out nonsense? I'll never know.

And what am I trying to say here? Let me think. Yes, think. Take a little time and think before forming the words of whatever it is you really want to say.

Animals are OK, but I'd rather be PET-Negative

I’m PET-negative, and it’s true, I have no pets living in my house. The only non-human animals here are in my freezer. But being PET-negative is a very good thing besides nothing to walk or feed or clean up after.

Here is the latest news on my chemo treatment and progress. (I’m sending this blind copy to several friends and family.)

I saw the doctor yesterday (Jan. 5th) followed by the 5th chemo session. My last and 6th treatment is scheduled for Jan. 26. That’s right, the last one.

The very good news is that the PET-Scan I had last week revealed no cancer visible. Doctor called it PET-negative, and that result after the 4th treatment is a good sign for being cancer-free in the future. Unfortunately, the PET doesn’t show cells at the molecular level, that is why I still have to go through 6 chemo treatments. Originally he wanted me to undergo 8 treatments.

Also, the CAT-scan I had about 2 weeks ago, showed that the tumor I have in the lower abdomen toward the lower back, a mass of enlarged lymph nodes, sort of bundled together, have shrunk from 9.5 cm to 5.6 cm.

After that 6th chemo session, there will be follow up visits every three months sometimes following Cat-scans. The doctor wants to be prudent scheduling CAT-scans (getting bad rap in the news lately because of the high X-ray exposure). But it is a good tool for the looking at the tumor.

The other good news, is all the weight I lost is on again putting me back to my normal 105 pounds. I’m still hairless of course (I even lost nose hair and my eye lashes!) but I don’t look like Gandhi or a 92-pound stick anymore. All the Christmas goodies contributed.

Nurse told me yesterday it might take 6 months before my hair grows back. Yikes! I might have half an inch on top by July, oh my. And the doctor said the tingling fingertips (peripheral neuropathy or nerve damage) may never go away. These are the trade-offs for stopping the disease.

Presently I deal with the side effects and drug regimen to combat nausea, insomnia at night, intestinal woes (but maybe that’s more information than you want to know). I just have to cope with fatigue in the day, metal taste in the mouth, pains in my arms and legs and occasional shooting, jabbing pain on my left side also caused by nerve damage. But these things should go away after therapy is complete.

No one said this was going to be fun. But by the middle of February, by Valentines Day, I should be feeling pretty good again . . . except Paul will be away on a ski trip then. We’ll just have to make up for it and celebrate when he gets home.