Category Archives: Chemotherapy

Fertility AMH results

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Fertility, Life, Love by

Today I received a phone call. The phone call. I’d been expected the used car salesman to ring me up and name his offer on our car. This morning we stopped by the lot, and having checked it over he said, “yes we’re interested in your car, but I need to talk with the boss about pricing. Leave your mobile number with me.” Which we happily did, meaning that today I carried my mobile on my person, whereas normally it’s left in my purse in the back office as I work in the library.

But today it was on me. And when it rang, I nipped into the back to answer it away from the students. Good thing for that because twenty seconds later I was in tears.

Results are in. They’re not great. My eggs are quite depleted with .7 pmol/L (or something like that, I’ve only heard the results, not seen the paper detailing the anti mullerian hormone (AMH) test results). The nurse said she was so sorry to deliver bad news, but the consultant thinks my best option for the future would be egg donation. Meaning, not my eggs.

Good on the .7 for hanging in there, even if that basically classifies me as ‘barren’ – it’s better than zero. “You just need one,” said both my husband and mother.

Anyhow – cue the tears, hang up the phone, start the profanity (a kind of medicine not recommended by professionals, but definitely recommended by me). Quiet utterances of ‘fuck’ interspersed with sobs of disappointment. My poor boss opened the door during the phone conversation and saw that look on my face (the ‘ugly cry’ look of uncontrolled emotion), but he handled things very well. After I sucked up my outburst just long enough to fill him in, again rose the tears and he was a great comfort. Poor fellow! It was my last day working with him, and the Avenue has been such a wonderful experience – leaving on a tearful note really does not represent my time within the library. It’s been all laughs and conversation (plus diligent work habits), even during the chemo months the library has been a place of refuge.

But he responded quite well. Didn’t try to fix anything, just let me go home for a private cry.

And then there was my husband. I called him up thinking ‘can’t share this news over the phone, must relate in person’ so just said: “I don’t feel well and need you to pick me up. Like right now, please.” So he came – but not before running around the flat to change his stained t-shirt and throw on some jeans instead of sweat pants. He thought we were going to the hospital! And when he arrived (I had decided to sit on the ground while waiting, which probably increased his worries), he jumped out of the car, and again I broke into a fit of tears –

“I got the results and they say I can’t have children.”

You should have seen his relief! Relief. I wasn’t sick, we didn’t need to go to the hospital. Considering the panic situations that’d been running through his mind, things were okay.

“That’s fine, we’ll be fine.” And he let me cry a little more.

And we will be fine. Today I’m grieving the loss of those eggs. Ever since flipping through Zsolt’s baby album I imagined having my own little big-headed baby, and now – well, we’ll see. Unlike a cancer diagnosis, I am not filled with fear. Sadness, yes, because there has been a loss. This is a loss. But no fear – instead there’s hope. There are options, there are possibilities, there are opportunities. And when we’re ready, we’ll see what can be done.

For now, I’m grieving. For today. Maybe again a little later. But Zsolt and I both feel that things will be okay. We want a family, so we’ll get a family (Hello! We already are a family, but children would be a wonderful gift).

And until then, there will be adventures. Moving to Canada, trips around the world, chasing careers, getting involved, making a difference, enjoying life. With every year – every bloom of the roses – I’m reminded that things are always beginning, always full of opportunity.

In time we’ll grow our family. For now, we’ll grow ourselves.

Look Good Feel Better

Posted in After treatment, Chemotherapy by

It’s funny to be in a room full of women who don’t want to cry. Fact is that all of us in yesterday’s seminar had good reason to burst into tears, but not a single lady let the waterworks  flow.  Was this an act of strength, or a retreat into cowardice? I don’t know. All I know is that never before has makeup application been so emotional. Tear jerking, without the tears.

And that is how it felt to start the LookGoodFeelBetter seminar.  Delayed due to bus scheduling, I arrived five minutes into the session when everyone had already found their seats and were each positioned in front of a placemat and mirror. Some of them wore headscarves, others wigs, some hats and a several, like me, had their hair. The room was thick with that  ‘first day of school’  kind of anxiety and excitement (with glances around the table, quick smiles, and fidgeting fingers).

Part of me wanted to say, ‘Hello my name is Catherine. I had breast cancer, have finished my treatment, and life is getting better.’ But there were no round of introductions. Instead each woman wore a name tag and volunteers (one esthetician for every two or three women) would call us all by our names as though we’d all known each other forever.

“Oh, Mary has the good blush.”

“Doesn’t Catherine look like Mia Farrow?”

“Now watch how Trudy’s eye pop with this mascara”

So despite no introduction, we were all on a first name basis.

I suppose when you only have two hours to guide twelve women in a makeover, there’s no time for crying. Introductions would have led to inevitable tears – Goodness knows I wouldn’t have made it past ‘hello’ without bursting. Even coming through the door was an effort of nerves and determination; I truly admire those who attend during their chemotherapy, it’s more than I could have managed. (But what a difference it made to those women!)

Anyhow, there we are in front of the mirrors feeling emotionally delicate, and we’re handed these large white bags as welcomed points of focus. What’s in the bag? My goodness, what isn’t in the bag! You’ve got full size cleansers, toners, moisturizers, concealers , blushes, powders, brushes, foundation, pencils, lipsticks AND a bottle of perfume. Wow.

Wow.

And then the volunteers launch into the day. Step by step (there are twelve steps all outlined on a handy sheet they provide) we moved through the afternoon with a series of ‘technique explanations’ when the women, in theory, would stop chatting and pay attention to the lesson. Of course, it’s hard to get a group of women with free makeup to stop talking. They don’t even stop talking when receiving chemotherapy, and there’s nothing thrilling about that. So while demonstrations went on, we were charging ahead with opening this product, testing that colour, and sipping our cups of tea.

Now you may think, ‘great opportunity for company X to hook you on their products via charity’, but you’d be totally wrong. Yes, there are great products, but the LGFB ladies don’t advocate any particular brand over the other, and the goodie bags are full of various (randomized) brands donated by a variety of cosmetic companies. It’s a collaborative effort across the industry.

And as we moved along – cleaning milk to toner to moisturizer to concealer  to foundation to loose powder, I watched a substantial change in my mirror. Suddenly my face was glowing (Thank you make up!), and I looked like the young and pretty thing I was twelve months earlier. Then throw on the eye makeup and wowzers, it was so different.

There was this moment with the mascara . . . who knew mascara could be so powerful . . . I was holding up the brush *straight up first, sideways after* for the lump on the end to catch all the wee little bottom lashes, and as I was moving that around, my lashes picked up the black and turned so dark and became so long. I knew they had grown in, but hadn’t realized how much.

Needless to say, I was amazed and again could have started crying like an idiot. It might have been cowardice not to cry – because since when are tears of joy a bad thing? But it’s hard to be the first. . . plus, and most importantly, I’d just applied mascara.  So, come on. Buck up, woman.

However, I’d propose a LGFB follow up session where we all get together for a big cry fest – crying for the losses, crying for the hopes, crying because we’re so pretty in our makeup. Actually, that sounds depressing once written. Okay, how about a LGFB session that lasts 3 hours instead of 2 so that we can get the introduction and tears out of our system?

After the session was over – and it was wonderful. The volunteers are so positive, and the ladies around the table are so transformed – after it was over I packed up my white bag and left, throwing ‘thank you’s and ‘you’re lovely’s over my shoulder. I would have liked to stick around, but wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I remember there was one woman with very short white hair who kept it covered with a hat. But she looked entirely beautiful when she didn’t wear the hat, particularly after the makeup session. I had wanted to mention her good looks, but she was too far down the table and I was too shy to approach her afterwards. Oh well. Hopefully someone else let her know.

Overall it was an event that exceeded my expectations with how easily things moved, how much support was available, and how much LOOT was in the bag. Really quite exciting.

And this morning, after my shower, I’ll crack open that white bag and give it another try. It’s true, to look good is to feel better. After the crazy, ugly, and depressing few months I’ve just navigated, it’s wonderful to feel pretty once again.

This calls for a song:

“I feel pretty, oh so pretty. I feel pretty and witty and gay! And I pity, any girl who isn’t me today.”


Living in a crazy mess

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Finding Home, Life, Treatment by

At the very end of Edible Woman there is a scene where she bakes a cake. Her entire apartment is catastrophic with mess, mould and disarray. Instead of cleaning the place, she buys new ingredients (flour, sugar, salt, etc), a new baking tray, new cake moulds, new measuring cups – new everything, and she bakes her lady cake. And somehow in that mess, once the cake is iced and ready, somehow she finds a little freedom from the madness.

This is how I feel in my apartment. For the past three days I’ve had one slipper missing, so have been walking around the flat with double layer socks on my right foot, and a moccasin slipper on my left. There is a constant pile of dishes across the counter, and the mite protection sheet of my bed (which last week I washed) has been sitting on the sofa waiting for me to strip the mattress – in the meanwhile it’s attracted my handbag, backpack, toque, apron, headphones, sweater, jeans, trackpants, running shoes, jacket, blanket, scarf and shall. The floor needs a good vacuum. The bedroom needs to be tidied . . .  the bathroom is okay, so at least there is that.

Anyhow, it’s a little crazy here. Zsolt in the meanwhile is at his computer totally absorbed into this thesis (because if he wasn’t, I’d never get away with leaving my things everywhere). I’m counting down the hours to his submission because: 1) It’s an incredible achievement and I’m bursting with pride over my brilliant man and 2) I miss having the dishes washed every morning.

Honestly, between Zsolt and I – he is the better housekeeper. Lately we’ve been taking turns. During chemo he did the tidying. During thesis I’d do the tidying . . . but now we’re both managing projects (radiotherapy recover and thesis polishing) at the same time.

Here is a good question: how do people with children manage? I really, really admire all the mothers and fathers who somehow produce a liveable household for their family. I cannot understand how you do it, which makes your results all the more impressive.

So – waiting for that moment of clarity now. Maybe it’ll come in the form of moving boxes, charity shop donations, and the inevitable vacating of this property. Who knows? Hopefully, eventually, I’ll at least find my other slipper.