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.

A Different Kind of Foxhole

I don’t know if I would be so “brave,” have a grade of “A” or show “great spirits” if my doctor hadn’t said from the start that this is curable . . . unless he says that to all of his patients. It was like getting hit in the head with a soft bat. The shock of “me? Cancer? But it doesn’t run in the family?” put me in a daze I’ve never come out of. I totally by-passed the stages of, what is it, denial, anger, etc. and jumped to acceptance.

I don’t even know if I’ll be a better person for going through this life-threatening situation. I hope so. Already I find myself counting my blessings (and I’m not a religious person, just a deist who celebrates Christmas and Easter because it’s tradition and family fun). I also find myself speaking my mind more than I naturally do (I hope tactfully), and being a little more ho-hum about the smaller headaches in life.

Having a wonderful family and friends are my blessings and strength (and a good insurance policy helps too). So maybe, just maybe, a year from now when my curly mane is back covering my neck, I can say the experience was really worth it. Let’s see if I say, “Gee, I’m glad I had Cancer.”

"A" Grade?

Have you ever read the Scarlet Letter . . . one of those High School teacher assigned books that everyone but I dreaded reading?

The other day before getting in the tub, I noticed my port scars, near my left shoulder. And whaddya know, it’s the color and shape of a red capital “A” . . . unlike Hester, mine is stitched in my skin rather than clothing. I am a marked woman.

But then I thought of my friend Elaine (over 18 months fighting breast cancer with four operations and X-ray treatments on top of Chemo) . . . .how many zodiac symbols, letters, esoteric icons (and tattoos) are decorating her flesh?

We must have done something really wrong by society standards, but then again, not really, if we compare ourselves to Ms. Prynne. Maybe we just ate too many non-organic fruits and vegetables . . . .and then came the punishment for somebody else’s (pesticide and fertilizing) failings.

So what did I do with all my hair?

And now for a Chemo update from yours truly.

Had the 4th session yesterday. Therefore by the 19th when I see family at the annual Christmas gathering, I should be feeling pretty good.

I have a busy several weeks coming up with the treatment. Beside a few blood tests, I am scheduled for a CAT-scan on the 22nd, a PET-scan on the 30th. These should indicate how well the chemo toxins are attacking the cancer cells. Cross fingers that they are doing the
job. I will know the day of my next and 5th chemo on Jan. 5.

My red blood cell count has improved same with the white blood cells (although still low). I have returned to my library circulation job on a very part time basis. They keep me in the back room checking books, answering calls, and other odd jobs that don't require face-to-face with the germy patrons.

Side effects besides no hair growth, is some nerve damage to my finger tips, thin, peeling finger nails, and tingling into my hips and upper outer thighs. The doctor may alter my chemo doses if it gets any worse during this 4th session recovery time . . ...because some of this nerve damage is permanent. Just something to live with, like putting earrings on is a bit of a challenge; my fine motor skills are slightly affected.

Good news seems to be during the later half of recovery time, the 10 days after a chemo, I feel better than I have in months and months . . . .could mean all of this isn't for naught. Oh and my weight is almost back to what it used to be . . . .nearing 105 again. Now I'll have to watch what I eat .. . just in time for Christmas feasting (drats!).

Went to a ski club Christmas party last night. Had to avoid the raw fruits and vegetables, the food that can be easily man-handled without tongs. But having arrived at the party first, I filled my little paper plate before the throngs closed in on the feasting table with their collective germs.

It was good to get out and see people, especially sitting with one writer friend (Donna) and blab most of the evening away.

My only "Old Lady" faux pas was putting a headband over the edge of my wig (the stylish one) and not realizing I'd pushed the wig back a bit, exposing a sure band of baldness. So the top of my head was striped: a layer of dark-hair wig, a band of naked scalp followed by the head band....must have been disconcerting to the few party guests who saw this. My daughter mentioned something to me about the wig being shifted back...I didn't realize just how far back. At least this was at the end of the evening as I was leaving, not a clownish vision for the whole evening.

People kept telling me I looked good...if only they knew how much make up I was wearing (I hardly ever wear makeup, but it was a special outing). One dope at the party approached my husband and said something about, "What did she do with all of her hair?" It wasn't worth a comeback line as, stated earlier, the guy's a dope....we laughed about it on the drive home. There's always one of these guys no matter where you go......comic relief?

Hopes of next Spring when bulbs and hair should pop up

Paul planted nearly 300 bulbs (tulips mostly) around the backyard patio....what a chore. So it should look spectacular next Spring.

I'm doing better, recovering better after the last dose of chemo. I even have energy and put it to good use: dusted the house, first time in about 2 months, including a good polishing to wood furniture. Took the dryer apart for a good lint cleaning.

And even had the enery to do my old step aerobics workout twice this week...again, first time in about 2 months (boy was I sore after the first workout though). I was worried that my muscles were getting atropied.

So I expect the next dose (this Wednesday) I should recover even better....guess I'm getting used to the poison and it's doing what it's supposed to do: kill the tumors and meanie cancer cells.

Still am not used to my vision in the mirror...sort of like Ben Kingsley playing Gandhi....better look than Mussolini. Bald is just not becoming on a woman.