Category Archives: Treatment

Menopause vs. ovulation

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Fertility, Treatment by

You may or may not know (though I do chat about it often) that I had taken Zoladex (goserelin) during my chemotherapy. What does Zoladex do? It shuts down your ovaries. Why was I taking it? In hopes that it might protect my ovaries and eggs while they were pumping in stuff to kill fast growing cells. What was the result? Bye bye period.

A potential risk of chemotherapy is the loss of fertility. Yes, ok, fair enough. So I asked the doctor: how will I know if I’m fertile? To which the doctor replied: You will get your period.

I’m not in the mood to freak out, but about two and a half months have passed since the Zoladex should have ‘worn off’. But for some women menstration doesn’t kick-in for months, so this delay is still in the range of normal.

Either it will come back eventually, or if chemotherapy killed my fertility, it will never come back at all.

Anyhow, so this has left me clinging to any and all signs of possible ovulation/PMS/period. Signs of ovulation/PMS/period:

Mood swings – I’m awesome one second and weeping the next. . . Similar to chemotherapy, actually.

I get randy –  like a week or two before my period a whole new kinda woman emerges (studies have shown that when women are ovulating they wear more revealing clothing. Interesting – we are programmed to project ourselves (and to notice others) when most fertile. Isn’t that fascinating? Next time you’re in a public place, look at the women around you guess who is ovulating.)

Cramps and bloating – the less fun side-effect of fertility and menstruation. Thank goodness for hot water bottles.

Food cravings!  And just this past moment I was nearly ACHING for dark chocolate. As this craving surged through me, I thought – hey, hold on, does this mean I’m ovulating? But then I was hit by a hot flash, so it’s quite possible I am not ovulating. Can a person ovulate and hot flash at the same time? Maybe . . .  isn’t that part of menopause? Not everyone turns off their ovaries with the pop of a pill.

Anyhow, why am I sharing this? Because it’s interesting and I’m in the mood to chat. But now it’s time to stop, because Zsolt’s abstract is waiting and I’m yet to look it over.

Final word: CHOCOLATE!!!

Radiotherapy is OVER

Posted in Bumpboobs, Radiotherapy Treatment, Treatment by

It’s past nine pm here in Southampton, so I’ll keep this post short. In fact, I could let the entire thing slide, except that it’s not right and I’m willing to bet my grandmother is waiting for an update.

Today was the LAST day of radiotherapy. And on top of that, the last day of treatment.

Mastectomy: check.

Chemotherapy: check.

Radiotherapy: check.

CHECK.

It’s incredible. Incredible. Today I lay on the radiotherapy table and stared at the ceiling as the normal procedures went on around me. The nurses were ‘ant’ing and ‘ent’ing, shifting me here and tweaking me there, and I kept thinking ‘this is it – today it’s over’. That’s when the music (did I ever mention they play music during radiotherapy? They play music. It’s a pleasent distraction) . . . when the music switched and the entire treatment room swirled into a vortex of time travel. UB40s Red Red Wine began to play as the nurses left me alone for the radiation, and while the machine clunked and buzzed, I disappeared into a memory of my first dance.

For some reason I had thought it’d be a good idea to wear a knitted, long-sleeved sweater to a dance. A purple, knitted, long sleeve sweater. With a hair band to boot. The girls would all dance in a circle, and the guys would huddle in the corner, and whenever a slow song played people would group up in whispers till one by one it was revealed that so-and-so wanted to dance with her, and so-and-so wanted to dance with him. A kid named Steve asked me to dance, and I flat out refused. Why? Two reasons. ONE: I was wearing a knitted long sleeved sweater to a dance, and was thus sweaty, and therefore smelly. Man! I stank. And these were the early days of puberty, so I hadn’t mastered the whole ‘put on deodorant regularly’ thing.  And TWO: I was head over heels for the boy down my street and wanted my first ever slow dance to be with him.

Which goes to show, it’s good to push for what you want – because at the next dance (where I wore no sweater, but tons of deodorant) I had my very first slow dance with the boy down the street. Red red wine wasn’t playing… it was boys to men’s I Swear, but Red Red Wine played at that first dance and it is so burned into my memory that just the mention takes me back in time.  The entire thing reminds me of being giddy, and uncertain, and just so incredibly excited.

Life’s bag of experience suits me now, but I get why it’s fun to be a kid. Anyhow, that’s what I listened to on the radiotherapy table, and that’s what I thought of as the very last bit of radiation was shot into my chest.

And then it was done. Over. The nurses gave me some parting paperwork, I walked out to the waiting room to collect my husband, and we went home. Easy Peasy. This evening Zsolt and I went out for a date (dinner and dessert) to celebrate the end of treatment. That was good. This is good. Everything is good. Tomorrow I’ll have my hair trimmed to equal lengths, and very soon Zsolt will submit his thesis.

Some things are ending, while others are just getting started. There’s so much to look forward to, it’s really a great feeling. Thanks goodness – THANK GOODNESS – treatment is over. What really felt impossible not too long ago is now here, here and real and right now.

Wow. What a relief. What an experience. And here we are, on the other side.

[There’s still a ways to go, but I think the biggest hurdle has been jumped. Now it’s about recovery, change, and prevention. That’s a lot, but it’s an adventure that I look forward to. In the meantime, I’ll keep slathering cream onto my radiotherapy burn and hope it heals within the next few weeks. All I need to do is look at my skin, or my finger nails, or my hair to know that just because treatment is over, doesn’t mean that the fight is done. Plenty left to get done, plenty left to flush away, plenty left to strive toward. But – this is end of treatment, and that is very good thing. A VERY good thing.]

Reoccurrence reassurance

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Treatment by

So I guess the general rule for this blog is that when I say, ‘I’ll write about this tomorrow’, it really means, ‘I’ll write about this in a day or two or three’ because things get busy. Yesterday morning I woke up with the intention of doing three things: Washing the dishes. Making Lunch. Writing  a post about my trip to the hospital.

Two out of three isn’t bad. And here we are today – somehow more dishes have sprung up overnight and lunch will need making again. However, they had their chance yesterday. Today is for the writing.

On Monday I went to my GP and asked her to refer me to the hospital. Apparently this was an unnecessary step – I could have contacted a breast care nurse at the hospital directly, but it was good to catch up with Dr Kind (plus I needed to refill my prescription).

Tuesday morning I had a call from the hospital, “Hello Mrs Brunelle, we’ve got a space for you tomorrow morning. Can you make it?”

Yes.  I could make it. This call came just as I was entering my acupuncturist’s office, but not even she could help me relax after that point. There was something she did with my eyebrows that was divine and always knocks me out, but five minutes later I was thinking about that breast exam and getting wound up again.

[Zsolt is sitting here on the bed as I write this post, eating some yogurt. Every twenty seconds he asks a question: are you a biolife? Are you a chumbawumba? Are you a konyec? But I have no clue what a konyec is, apparently it means ‘the end’.]

Anyhow! It was nerve racking. My body revolted against me later in the day and served up a killer stomach ache, which was subsequently blamed on a leftover Valentine’s day dish of cabbage and pork, but was likely also due to stress.

Wednesday I went to the hospital. They sent me to the clinic that contains all things cancer – this is where the oncologists, surgeons and radiation doctors meet and mingle. Passing us in the waiting area was my surgeon who nodded to Zsolt (I was absorbed by my magazine), and as we were shown into a consultation room my oncologist passed by and waved hello too.

Again the nurse asked me to remove my top and put on the cape. You do not have to put on that terrible cape. Maybe if it takes five minutes to remove your clothing, do what they ask, but so long as you can whip off your shirt – why bother with an ugly, cold, and awkward cape?

Generally we wait about 30 to 45 minutes in those consultation rooms, but this time things were quick. In walked a doctor, a student (baby doctor) and – ugh! – the same breast care nurse who was in the room when I was first given my diagnosis. Panic threatened to set in, but then I thought to myself, ‘why would they bring a baby doctor along if they had bad news?’ which was logical. It turned out they couldn’t have given me bad news, because they literally had no idea why I was there. A file had landed on their desk (with most of the contents missing because my original file was lost) and they knew I was worried about lumps. But that was all.

After retelling my breast cancer story, showing off the tidy scar, and having my breast checked by yet another doctor, I was assured this was probably nothing, ‘but we’ll send you for a scan anyhow.’

The breast care nurse was very generous in telling me that my fear was normal. ‘If you didn’t feel this way, then we’d be worried.’ I suspect that isn’t true, but it was kind of her to say.

And one hour later I had my ultrasound.

Fast, no?

Again they shot cold gel onto my chest. Again some slippery rubbery thing glided around my breast. Again it probed the lumps. ‘I can feel what you mean,’ said the doctor, ‘but everything looks normal.’

Whew. This was a relief. One – I hadn’t imagined the problem. Two – it wasn’t cancer.

Awesome!

And now I can finally enjoy how much better my body feels. Wednesday afternoon I ran up the stairs at work, and only realized half way through that I was RUNNING. My face has regained colour (blood), and my energy is picking up. True, my finger nails are still dying, but significant progress has been made in all areas.

There’s so much to look forward to now; the next six months will be wonderful. Hard in some ways because we’ll leave our home, but amazing in others (travelling, spa-going, resting, hanging with husband, graduation, Zsolt turns THIRTY).  I’m finally free to enjoy, boob bumps and all.

So there you have it! I admire women who get past the fear of reoccurrence. It’s something that I need to learn. But at least until my next scan I have this release. It feels really good, amazingly good, and I’m thankful.