I am dismayed this morning to read the news of Lance Armstrong's loss of his Tour de France medals. His personal statement was emphatic and compelling. For me, someone who has little interest in sports in general, the most important point he made was regarding his work with his cancer Foundation, Livestrong.
Aside from the bitter battle between Armstrong and the USADA, his real life's work stands for itself. Sure, winning seven Tour de France medals is a real accomplishment. But the highest and most important accomplishment is Armstrong's support of me. And people like me. Who have cancer.
I have spent hours on Livestrong.org in the past months absorbing information and searching for hope. Even my doctor refers to Livestrong.org. She uses it as a resource herself, once referring to it when advising me on how much L-Glutimine to take. She went with what the web site recommended. It is a highly reputable organization and site.
For me, the question becomes why the USADA would pursue their vendetta against Armstrong knowing that - if they prevailed - they would have a heavy hand in destroying the reputation of a man who has helped millions in their battle against cancer. Isn't that far more important than who wins a silly bicycle race?
I don't mean to underestimate what it takes to win the Tour de France. Seven times. I know it's not just a silly bicycle race. But comparatively, it's nothing. It's meaningless. It is indeed just a silly race when held up against the big C.
Doesn't service to others around the world fighting for their very lives mean more than seven Tour de France medals?? If you don't think so, walk in my shoes for a day. Spend a long sleepless night being me. You'll quickly change your mind.
So the USADA got their man. Great. Does that make the world a better place? Nah. What a waste. Imagine if Armstrong and the USADA had donated all the money they spent on this matter to cancer research. Millions of dollars wasted on an argument that no one was going to truly win.
Livestrong lives on.
8/24/12
8/23/12
Life after chemo
I don't know why in the world I thought life would start again immediately after chemo ended. Life after chemo doesn't start until the side effects end. So says I. Until then, chemo still rules my life.
It was three weeks yesterday since my last infusion. I felt good last week, but perhaps that was an emotional boost from knowing chemo was done. I started going to the wellness center to swim. Planned to do a yoga class there, too. I felt good. Optimistic.
I felt compelled to LIVE my life. Was suddenly weary of being at home, of dealing with the ins and outs of sucky cancer. Had a strong urge to walk on a beach, sit by the pool and read, have the sun on my face. To eat shrimp. To live.
Maybe I expected too much, but the crash occurred this week. I'm tired this week. The neuropathy will not go away. My feet have swollen to the point they are shiny and I can't get my shoes on. My vision is blurry. I'm teary. Mostly, I'm just freakin' tired.
No one told me about this. Oh, I knew the side effects would linger. Sometimes they linger for a long time. But I didn't expect to still be so impacted by the poison. I expected to feel a little better every day. I was thrilled I wasn't walking toward another smack down, better known as my next chemo infusion.
The problem here is that while I received excellent care from my oncologist, no one instructed me on what life would be like post-chemo. I almost forgot that I've been through two surgeries, two lesser procedures (traumatic nonetheless), and seven rounds of heavy duty chemo. All in the last six months. All while working full time, parenting my college-age son, and managing my household and my cocker spaniel. I've had a lot of support in that time, but the primary responsibility was still all mine.
Who do I think I am? Superwoman? I wasn't Superwoman BEFORE cancer. I just muddled through life as best I could, sometimes not very well and other times stunningly successful. Like every other woman on the planet.
What the heck makes me think I should be Superwoman NOW?
It was three weeks yesterday since my last infusion. I felt good last week, but perhaps that was an emotional boost from knowing chemo was done. I started going to the wellness center to swim. Planned to do a yoga class there, too. I felt good. Optimistic.
I felt compelled to LIVE my life. Was suddenly weary of being at home, of dealing with the ins and outs of sucky cancer. Had a strong urge to walk on a beach, sit by the pool and read, have the sun on my face. To eat shrimp. To live.
Maybe I expected too much, but the crash occurred this week. I'm tired this week. The neuropathy will not go away. My feet have swollen to the point they are shiny and I can't get my shoes on. My vision is blurry. I'm teary. Mostly, I'm just freakin' tired.
No one told me about this. Oh, I knew the side effects would linger. Sometimes they linger for a long time. But I didn't expect to still be so impacted by the poison. I expected to feel a little better every day. I was thrilled I wasn't walking toward another smack down, better known as my next chemo infusion.
The problem here is that while I received excellent care from my oncologist, no one instructed me on what life would be like post-chemo. I almost forgot that I've been through two surgeries, two lesser procedures (traumatic nonetheless), and seven rounds of heavy duty chemo. All in the last six months. All while working full time, parenting my college-age son, and managing my household and my cocker spaniel. I've had a lot of support in that time, but the primary responsibility was still all mine.
Who do I think I am? Superwoman? I wasn't Superwoman BEFORE cancer. I just muddled through life as best I could, sometimes not very well and other times stunningly successful. Like every other woman on the planet.
What the heck makes me think I should be Superwoman NOW?
8/18/12
A day of firsts
I've had an awesome day.
First, its a Saturday. That means I don't have to work and I can do anything I darn well please all day long. Love that.
For the first time in a very long time, I went swimming this morning. I GOT IN A POOL. And it was great! It was so wonderful tears came to my eyes. I floated, and swam, and hung onto the edge of the pool watching the babies and their parents having a blast on the other side of the pool. Then, in the locker room, a really nice lady struck up a conversation with me. She'd had breast cancer too. We had a wonderful conversation.
Then, I had a nap, adding to my awesome day. Swimming wore me out, so it was a particularly good nap.
Next, I GOT A PEDICURE! My first in a long time. You can't have your nails done when on chemo due to the risk of infection. I've whined the whole time about how awful my feet looked without a pedicure. On my way to the pool this morning, I happened across a day spa that does medical pedicures. That means all the tools are surgically sterilized cutting down on the risk of infection. So I went for it. My toes are now a beautiful shade of sparkly purple.
And just to make a good day even better, one of my bestest friends is coming over for dinner and a movie tonight. I'm sure there will be a bottle of wine (or two) consumed.
On this day at least, I'm enjoying not being sick. Or recovering from a surgery. Or scared to pieces because I have cancer. On THIS day, I'm enjoying life.
I intend to do a lot of that in the coming weeks leading up to the next surgery. Live and enjoy life. For me, that doesn't mean doing crazy things like skydiving. It means doing the simple little things that brought me so much pleasure BEFORE I got sick. Like swimming and pedicures. Normal things.
Who would have thought that NORMAL could be so awesome??
First, its a Saturday. That means I don't have to work and I can do anything I darn well please all day long. Love that.
For the first time in a very long time, I went swimming this morning. I GOT IN A POOL. And it was great! It was so wonderful tears came to my eyes. I floated, and swam, and hung onto the edge of the pool watching the babies and their parents having a blast on the other side of the pool. Then, in the locker room, a really nice lady struck up a conversation with me. She'd had breast cancer too. We had a wonderful conversation.
Then, I had a nap, adding to my awesome day. Swimming wore me out, so it was a particularly good nap.
Next, I GOT A PEDICURE! My first in a long time. You can't have your nails done when on chemo due to the risk of infection. I've whined the whole time about how awful my feet looked without a pedicure. On my way to the pool this morning, I happened across a day spa that does medical pedicures. That means all the tools are surgically sterilized cutting down on the risk of infection. So I went for it. My toes are now a beautiful shade of sparkly purple.
And just to make a good day even better, one of my bestest friends is coming over for dinner and a movie tonight. I'm sure there will be a bottle of wine (or two) consumed.
On this day at least, I'm enjoying not being sick. Or recovering from a surgery. Or scared to pieces because I have cancer. On THIS day, I'm enjoying life.
I intend to do a lot of that in the coming weeks leading up to the next surgery. Live and enjoy life. For me, that doesn't mean doing crazy things like skydiving. It means doing the simple little things that brought me so much pleasure BEFORE I got sick. Like swimming and pedicures. Normal things.
Who would have thought that NORMAL could be so awesome??
8/17/12
Hope vs. Fear
I've often wondered if it's hope or fear that has propelled me through my cancer treatments. Every time someone tells me I'm brave and courageous, I don't really understand why they think that. They must not know me very well. I don't feel brave. And I haven't felt courageous on any level throughout this ordeal.
Unless you count the moments I have walked into a hospital for surgery. I hesitated at the door each time. My hands were shaking and I struggled not to cry. I didn't want to walk through the door. I dreaded and feared what was about to happen to me. The fear of dying from cancer is what made me walk through that door. Not courage.
The same thing happened when I first went to the cancer center after my initial diagnosis. For long minutes, I couldn't get out of the car to go in for my appointment. All I could do was stare at the sign on the building, hyper-focusing on the word CANCER thinking "how did I get here"?
What I have felt is a lot of fear. I am no stranger to fear. When my husband left years ago, fear set in and I don't believe it ever really left me. Fear of managing on my own. Of parenting on my own. Of making life altering decisions on my own.
In reality, I haven't done so badly. I sold a house, moved to a new city, bought a new house, educated my child, got a new job after a layoff in the midst of the worst recession ever, and learned to navigate the world by myself. Then, I got cancer.
You hear a lot about hope when you have cancer. All the overdone sayings like "Fight like a girl". Maybe I'm missing something, but I haven't really felt much of the fighting spirit the last 6 months. I've done what I needed to do. But not out of a sense of not letting cancer "win".
It's all been out of a sense of FEAR. It's been out of a feeling that if I don't have the surgery, I will die an awful death from cancer. If I don't do the chemo, my cancer will spread to my brain or my spine or my liver, and I'll die a terrible death. It's not that I don't want to die. I just don't want a long painful protracted death. I want to die in my sleep. Don't we all, eh?
I've thought a lot about my son. I don't want him to have to take care of me. A senior in college, he is about to start his life for real. The last thing I want him doing at age 23 is taking care of a dying mother.
Going into the next phase of my treatment, the mastectomy and reconstruction, I am already feeling the dread. Dread of a difficult surgery and recovery. Really....it probably won't be that bad. But somehow I can't seem to replace the fear with hope and courage.
There must be some trick to that....
Unless you count the moments I have walked into a hospital for surgery. I hesitated at the door each time. My hands were shaking and I struggled not to cry. I didn't want to walk through the door. I dreaded and feared what was about to happen to me. The fear of dying from cancer is what made me walk through that door. Not courage.
The same thing happened when I first went to the cancer center after my initial diagnosis. For long minutes, I couldn't get out of the car to go in for my appointment. All I could do was stare at the sign on the building, hyper-focusing on the word CANCER thinking "how did I get here"?
What I have felt is a lot of fear. I am no stranger to fear. When my husband left years ago, fear set in and I don't believe it ever really left me. Fear of managing on my own. Of parenting on my own. Of making life altering decisions on my own.
In reality, I haven't done so badly. I sold a house, moved to a new city, bought a new house, educated my child, got a new job after a layoff in the midst of the worst recession ever, and learned to navigate the world by myself. Then, I got cancer.
You hear a lot about hope when you have cancer. All the overdone sayings like "Fight like a girl". Maybe I'm missing something, but I haven't really felt much of the fighting spirit the last 6 months. I've done what I needed to do. But not out of a sense of not letting cancer "win".
It's all been out of a sense of FEAR. It's been out of a feeling that if I don't have the surgery, I will die an awful death from cancer. If I don't do the chemo, my cancer will spread to my brain or my spine or my liver, and I'll die a terrible death. It's not that I don't want to die. I just don't want a long painful protracted death. I want to die in my sleep. Don't we all, eh?
I've thought a lot about my son. I don't want him to have to take care of me. A senior in college, he is about to start his life for real. The last thing I want him doing at age 23 is taking care of a dying mother.
Going into the next phase of my treatment, the mastectomy and reconstruction, I am already feeling the dread. Dread of a difficult surgery and recovery. Really....it probably won't be that bad. But somehow I can't seem to replace the fear with hope and courage.
There must be some trick to that....
8/12/12
Done with Chemo
So I'm done with the chemo. WooHoo! My docs and I decided this week that I'd had enough. The risk in doing the 8th infusion wasn't worth it in terms of permanent side effects. The neuropathy is front and center right now as we work to minimize and reverse the nerve damage in my hands and feet. I'll be on meds for it for the next 12 months. Why tempt fate with more chemo?
I can't describe what an impact knowing I do not have to do another chemo infusion is having on me emotionally. It's remarkable, but I expect it to be short lived. I still have the mastectomy to deal with.
I've slept better the last two nights knowing this phase of treatment was over than I have in weeks. I am more optimistic about my prognosis and my future. We hit it hard with the chemo. Very hard. And even without the last planned infusion, I'm feeling very confident that we licked any remaining cancer cells. And once the boobs are gone, then my risk of recurrance plummets even more.
I am confident I have done everything possible to prevent ever having to go through this again. Of course, I say that knowing the mastectomy and reconstruction will be a long road, but also knowing it is preventative. We're not lopping off the girls to get rid of existing cancer. It's to give the cancer one less place to hide. It's to give my genetic status the "f*ck you" boot.
Genetically, I had a 75% chance of developing breast and/or ovarian cancer. Turns out, both were issues. At the same time! The ovaries are history, along with all the other girl stuff associated with them. No opportunities for cancer to lurk there. And in a few months, we'll be able to say the same for the boobs.
Maybe I'll live to be a ripe old age in spite of myself!
I can't describe what an impact knowing I do not have to do another chemo infusion is having on me emotionally. It's remarkable, but I expect it to be short lived. I still have the mastectomy to deal with.
I've slept better the last two nights knowing this phase of treatment was over than I have in weeks. I am more optimistic about my prognosis and my future. We hit it hard with the chemo. Very hard. And even without the last planned infusion, I'm feeling very confident that we licked any remaining cancer cells. And once the boobs are gone, then my risk of recurrance plummets even more.
I am confident I have done everything possible to prevent ever having to go through this again. Of course, I say that knowing the mastectomy and reconstruction will be a long road, but also knowing it is preventative. We're not lopping off the girls to get rid of existing cancer. It's to give the cancer one less place to hide. It's to give my genetic status the "f*ck you" boot.
Genetically, I had a 75% chance of developing breast and/or ovarian cancer. Turns out, both were issues. At the same time! The ovaries are history, along with all the other girl stuff associated with them. No opportunities for cancer to lurk there. And in a few months, we'll be able to say the same for the boobs.
Maybe I'll live to be a ripe old age in spite of myself!
8/6/12
Been a while
It's been a while since I've written about my cancer and chemo experiences, about three weeks. Partially because my fingers have been numb from the neuropathy and typing is an odd sensation. Not painful, just weird. But mostly because I haven't known what to say that wasn't a repeat of what's already been said: chemo sucks.
I find that cancer and the related chemo side effects take over my head. On the days I feel good, my gratitude in having a good day is what sticks in my head, which is an upliftingly positive spin on my normal. I had a three week break between chemo infusions this time, and that extra week really made a difference. I could feel my body and my spirit healing.
My last infusion was 6 days ago and I'm still reeling from it. Maybe cause its cumulative. I've kicked the last of the Aridimyciam side effects from the first 4 infusions, thankfully. But the last two infusions of Abraxane have gifted me with a whole other problem. Bone pain. Intense-almost-make-me-cry deep bone pain. It seriously intensified yesterday afternoon and has let up just a little since.
My docs have thrown everything but the kitchen sink at it and they are very responsive when I call to whine. Onconologists don't like their patients to hurt. Distraction helps. Hot water running over my legs help. Heating pad helps. Sleep is a blessing, especially when the steriods allow it.
But I just can't help wondering why in the world all these medical types can't make it stop. It's easy to blame them for my pain. Of course, that isn't fair and it's not their fault. But this sort of discomfort plays heavily on my emotional state and I have high expectations that there must surely be something that can make it go away.
My emotions are already all over the place, I'm told due to the steriods which tend to amplify everything. They are supposed to be helping the bone pain but I'm thinking they're a waste. I don't see any difference taking them, except they cause insomnia and emotional outbursts. Seriously? I'm taking a pill which does nothing but keep me awake and make me cry. Trash. Can.
I find that cancer and the related chemo side effects take over my head. On the days I feel good, my gratitude in having a good day is what sticks in my head, which is an upliftingly positive spin on my normal. I had a three week break between chemo infusions this time, and that extra week really made a difference. I could feel my body and my spirit healing.
My last infusion was 6 days ago and I'm still reeling from it. Maybe cause its cumulative. I've kicked the last of the Aridimyciam side effects from the first 4 infusions, thankfully. But the last two infusions of Abraxane have gifted me with a whole other problem. Bone pain. Intense-almost-make-me-cry deep bone pain. It seriously intensified yesterday afternoon and has let up just a little since.
My docs have thrown everything but the kitchen sink at it and they are very responsive when I call to whine. Onconologists don't like their patients to hurt. Distraction helps. Hot water running over my legs help. Heating pad helps. Sleep is a blessing, especially when the steriods allow it.
But I just can't help wondering why in the world all these medical types can't make it stop. It's easy to blame them for my pain. Of course, that isn't fair and it's not their fault. But this sort of discomfort plays heavily on my emotional state and I have high expectations that there must surely be something that can make it go away.
My emotions are already all over the place, I'm told due to the steriods which tend to amplify everything. They are supposed to be helping the bone pain but I'm thinking they're a waste. I don't see any difference taking them, except they cause insomnia and emotional outbursts. Seriously? I'm taking a pill which does nothing but keep me awake and make me cry. Trash. Can.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)