Tag Archives: chemotherapy

Halloween pumpkin

Posted in Bumpboobs, Fun, Life, Love, Treatment by

Boo!

Zsolt and I have decided to celebrate Halloween. I know that back home ‘deciding’ to celebrate Halloween is as inevitable as deciding to rake the lawn, but here in England it is 100% optional.


It’s been years since I’ve dressed up for a party, and since we’re not going to a party (too many potential germs!) – it may be several more. But there are other ways to get into the Halloween spirit. First and foremost: carve a pumpkin.

Today after work we dropped into the green grocer’s on Portswood and selected a pumpkin. My experience vetoed Zsolt’s desire for a tiny pumpkin because – frankly – it’s really hard to carve a face onto a tiny surface.  Now our pumpkin (about 1 foot tall, and somewhat narrow) is sitting by the door waiting for Sunday. Though by Canadian standards this is a small pumpkin. Back home we would go to the farm where there’d be a moutain of pumpkins – massive pumpkins, big as a man’s torso. We’d buy a few, because why not? But our English pumpkin is perfect for our English apartment.  Plus, it’s Zsolt’s first time; don’t want to overwhelm the man.

Tomorrow is blood. Friday is chemo. Saturday is rest. Sunday is pumpkin. It’ll be all the activity I can handle, made easier by Zsolt deseeding and carving while I sit by and nod, occasionally napping. After we carve the pumpkin (once it’s dark and spooky outside) we’ll watch a Halloween film. Trouble here is that I have zero tolerance for scary. So, as to what Halloween film we’ll watch I’m not sure. Maybe the Rocky Horror Picture show? Although it looks several kinds of crazy. Is there a Halloween film that leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy (instead of jumpy and paranoid)?

Or we could watch Love Actually again, for the thousandth time. 🙂

Anyhow, it’ll be fun. Why not have a bit of fun?

Killing with Chemo

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Treatment by

How are things going? They’re going well.

This past chemo was the easiest session thus far. Why? Well, Zsolt and I have a few theories.

treatment seven

Theory one: Could they have reduced my dose? The doctor had mentioned something two weeks ago about a possible reduction in my dosage. I have mixed feelings on this, but better reduced dosage for one week than to get behind another treatment. Maybe this will give my blood the chance it needs to recover – even if it’s only a slight recovery. Anyhow, that is one theory. Next time we see the doctor we’ll ask if they changed something in the chemo plan.

Theory two: AC is wearing off. My God, AC chemotherapy is difficult. Not impossible – I’d like to stress this, it is not impossible to weather, but yes, it is difficult. A lot of rest is required.

This past treatment I was able to sit up on Friday and watch a little Channel 4od. Yesterday I went for a walk that lasted a good twenty minutes. Today we tidied the flat and did some groceries. I still get those waves of exhaustion and need to take breaks – after Saturday’s walk I crashed onto the bed. BUT just being able to do those things is such a drastic change. Could it be that the previous treatment is finally leaving my body?

Theory Three: Have I finally accepted my situation? Well, actually – will I ever accept my situation is a better question, though last Friday was a good switch in my mind. Thursday I’d gone in for my blood and felt that nervous tension, that same resentment for my situation. Then Friday morning Zsolt talked to me about how much he worries. Poor guy,  he started researching my chemo treatments, which led to him reading about stage 3 breast cancer, which got him onto reoccurrence topics and so on. This is why I avoid combining Google and key words searches for ‘breast cancer’. It’s just fucking depressing. Anyhow, he came to me with these worries and for a change it was my turn to comfort him.

“We’re going to be fine. We are fighting this cancer. We are doing everything we can. We will get through this.”

We are fighting. Chemotherapy is fighting. The idea clicked into my head, and that afternoon before leaving for treatment I didn’t punch out my fear of chemo; instead I punched to kill the fucking-fucking-fucking cancer that may still be in my body. It has no right to be here, and going to chemo is part of killing that cancer. And all throughout my treatment (walking into the ward, sitting in the chair, getting the dopy drug, waiting for the drips) I thought: I am killing this cancer. We are killing every last bit of this cancer.

Best treatment yet.

So whatever the reason. Reduced dosage, recovery from AC, acceptance of this method – whatever the reason, it was easier this time. No nausea and less exhaustion. Let’s hope it stays easier.

I can’t promise to always be friends with chemotherapy; it’s a process that is draining and difficult. But for Zsolt and for myself – I will use it as my weapon.

I have to get better. There’s no choice in this matter. I have to get better. 100% must.

So we fight, fight, and keep on fighting. Chemo is my weapon.

Lucky number seven

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Treatment by

And now the calendar pages start flying from the wall. Flip-flip-flip-flip. Just like a movie.

Is it Friday already? Wow. In a  matter of hours I’ll be back in that green easy chair doped out of my head and receiving treatment. Then, in a matter of a few more hours, I’ll be back home in my blue sheets with the pink roses, sleeping it all off.

I asked time to fly. It is flying. Maybe I should have asked time to just fast forward instead so that I don’t need to actually experience all this chemo, but can still reap the benefits.

Ok. No more moaning!  It’s chemo day again! Treatment seven.

Yesterday Zsolt and I went in for my blood and consultation. This week our consultation was with the lead nurse – she’s the curly haired woman who arranged for my picc line. Definitely likeable. There’s a willingness to help that I feel more inclined to tap compared to the doctor team. For instance, my chemotherapy was meant to be at 9.30 am today. Maybe for the seasoned morning person that’s a good time. For me, it’s just . . . just . . . unimaginable. I’ve never been my best during the morning, and for something so BIG it’d simply be a train wreck.

Well, she fixed that problem in a second. Now my chemo is at 1.00 pm today.

And we talked about going home. “Okay, so how are your plans around going home?” Did she remember? Is it detailed in my chart? HOW do all these people know my story? (this blog is not advertised within the hospital for fear of offense)

I told her we still hadn’t decided and that I honestly felt quite torn. From there followed a chat about ideal vs. optimal treatment. She said that paxlitaxol is a very good drug for treating breast cancer, but also relatively new so it may be difficult to find studies that follow success rate in terms of number of treatments. So ideally I’d have all twelve treatments on schedule. That would be ‘best case’ scenario.

But don’t many people stop early? I asked.

Yes. People can stop at nine, ten, eleven treatments depending on their reaction. Apparently the tingling felt in the fingers and toes isn’t temporary – it’s permanent . . .like, lifelong. So, they carefully monitor how much sensation you feel in your fingers, whether you can pick things up, whether you stumble on the stairs, etc. If it’s gets too extreme they stop.

And here she mentioned something called ‘optimal treatment’, which is about 80-85% of treatment on schedule. At this moment, I’m still having optimal treatment despite my fever last week and my bad platlett count a while back. If you have optimal treatment then things are looking good.

But again – with this drug, there aren’t many (or any??) long term studies with hard(er) numbers.

So here is what Zsolt heard from this conversation:

You gotta do all twelve.

Here is what I heard from this conversation:

You only have to do 85%.

What was the real message? Probably this:

Decide for yourself, because I can’t tell you.

Next week I think we’ll make our final decision. The nurse is going to arrange for us to meet with the lead oncologist – the guy to which everyone refers – so we can have a direct conversation. Honestly, I can see now what he is going to say. But I want to have that talk. And next week, after that talk, I will make a decision and stick to it (for goodness freaking sakes already, Catherine!).

Here is a bit of really nice news: My fingers, so far, are fine. I haven’t had any tingling or weird reactions. I hope I don’t ever have that sensation. Every week I paint my fingernails a dark blue/purple. One of the nurses once mentioned that sometimes this helps with the tingling, so I’m hopeful!

Ok, that’s it for now. Yesterday while going to the hospital there was that familiar dread in the pit of my stomach. It sits there and begins to swell as I walk into the clinic. If only they could surgically remove the fear, this would all be fine. And today is also Zolodex day. Anyone care for a giant needle in the belly? Ugh. But it’s for the babies. The future babies.

I think a little meditation is required – so that’s what I’m going to go and do. Breath in, and out, and in, and out. Followed by a little punching and bombing and kicking around my bedroom.

See you on the other side, as always.