A Little Cranberry Never Hurt Anyone

So my Mom came up Thursday night; she took me to chemo for the first time Friday.  Actually, this was the first time my mother has seen me in person since my diagnosis.  Mom winters in Florida - snowbird that she is - and just got back a little over a week ago.

My first chemo day, back on March 4, she sent me a long prayer via text.  As in "Dear Lord, ....." - honestly, I was pretty impressed with the sheer length of it given my Mom's old-school phone.  No flip out keyboard action even. 

I sent my Mom a picture when I first got my hair short ... the magenta mohawk caused some initial confusion:

I thought my mother knew me better than to think I'd revisit the early 80's in THAT way. *shudder*

Every few days, I'd get another, "How r u feeling?" type text and a request that I type out what the doctor said for her.  Seriously, Mom has the texting thing down. 

My third chemo appointment brought another prayer text but just a tad shorter than the first:

Quite the sense of humor, eh? Oh, is it cold up there in Michigan while you wait for poison to go into your veins, young one? Well, I'm praying for you by the pool. Actually, though, it was meant in no such way.  She was just stating the facts.  It didn't stop me from laughing and calling her out on it though. 

So Mom headed up Thursday night for her first chemotherapy experience.  One of my biggest worries was her in-person reaction to my bald head. 

Actually, perhaps I'm not alone in this fear.  Yes, I'm going through a tough year.  My surgeries and treatment have not been fun.  But - as I've told you all before - I'm lucky, extremely lucky, that my cancer was caught early.  My tumor was relatively small, there's no indication that any got out into my lymph nodes, and I'm stage 1.  If you're in the same boat with me, perhaps you will recognize this scenario: 

You see a friend or acquaintance for the first time in a few months or more, for the first time since your cancer diagnosis and treatment began.  They may or may not know about it yet.  Regardless, they see you and you get that look.  That look that says, "Oh, that's right. Oh, dear.  Oh, you have the cancer. Oh, you're dying, aren't you? You could be dying, couldn't you? Oh dear. I pity you. Oh, but look how brave you're being. You be brave, little one.  You be brave."

That look ... although it comes from a place of caring ... that look just sucks, good people.  That look makes me feel like I need to comfort YOU because of MY disease.  Comfort that person, instead of being able to receive comfort.  I hope I'm explaining this well.  I truly don't mean to come across as offensive or unappreciative.  I guess I'm wanting to share this so that when you come across that person who is going through or about to go through a serious medical fight, you can provide optimism instead of pity.  Tell them that you're sorry that they are going through this - yes - but also tell them that you'll be there for whatever they need and that you KNOW that they will make it through.  Sometimes, honestly, simply saying ... "Well .... THIS sucks!" is a beautiful thing.  Providing you don't have the above-mentioned look on your face.

Things can suck, truly suck, yet not be fatal.  I hoped not to see that look on my mother's face.  And bless her, I didn't.  She did fine.  We had dinner at Panera, picked up muffins for the morning, and grabbed some excellent dessert at Spoonlickers. 

I did don my extra special leggings and Princess Leia wig for Chemo #4 and Mom took it all in stride.  In fact, she demanded a picture. 

So Leia is going through a phase perhaps.

This was the last of my AC chemotherapy. Yay!!! In my best Sméagol voice, "we HATES the nasty AC, precious, yes we do!"  No more red drug for me.  No more peeing red for a couple days (seriously).  Everything went smoothly.  Dr. V. told me my blood counts are still good, and we talked about starting Taxol on April 29th.  The hope is that I will feel better - most do apparently - on Taxol than AC.  Although I'll be getting it every Friday instead of every other Friday.  I'm a bit concerned about that and how long the bad days will last, how many good days I'll have before heading back in for another round.  We'll see.

What was the title of this post? 

Oh right .... this was also my last Neulasta shot. Yay! YAY!! I'm thankful for the higher white blood cell count, for sure, but DAMN, I'm glad to leave the bone aches behind.  My aches are mostly in my skull and sternum.  But given the lower dose of Taxol I'll be taking each week, I'll no longer need to get the Neulasta shot the day after.  I was so happy to have my last AC treatment behind me that I nearly forgot to even get the last shot.

Can't imagine why I'd forget to have someone stick a needle in my stomach.

 I was heading to my favorite Real Food Café when my stepmom reminded me of my Neulasta appointment.  Dammit! Wait ... I can still do this.  I can still get my breakfast and make it to the shot on time.  I told my server my rush and she expedited things nicely.  I ordered quickly, and paid early.  I sipped on my cranberry juice and relaxed, reading while waiting on my omelet.  My server was pleased to bring my breakfast quickly and as she said, "Here you go, you have plenty of time......." she promptly knocked my cranberry juice with my hot breakfast plate and dumped the juice into my lap.

Onto my light gray top.  Yep. 

"Oh NO!  Oh NO!  Oh you were going to be on time and I RUINED IT!!! I RUINED IT!! I'M SO SORRY!!" 

At this point, the almighty perspective of cancer slowly looks over at the scene and smirks.  Honestly.  Cranberry juice?  Who the hell cares about cranberry juice?  Who the hell cares about one light gray cami that can be replaced for $8 at Kohl's (on a sale day obviously but ... aren't they ALL sale days)?  Cancer gives perspective to everything else in my life.

"It's fine.  Don't worry about it.  Seriously .... don't worry about it.  It's no problem." We talked over each other.  Poor dear.  She felt horrible and I really wish she didn't.  It's just not that big of a deal.

It's cranberry juice.  It's red but it's not burn your soul red like .... you know.

A little cranberry never hurt anyone.

 

In the Midst of the Dreaded Weekend, And Feeling Pretty Fine

Three big things happened the past three days: I had my chemotherapy port placed, had my first chemotherapy infusion, and got a first shot of Neulasta (the medication that makes my bone marrow start churning out those white blood cells).  Each offered possible horrors.  Some delivered WAY more than others. 

Let's discuss.

When last I left you, I was literally about to walk out the door to get my port placement at Lemmen-Holton - the one-stop cancer shop.  I had to arrive at 7 a.m. for my 8 a.m. port (oh the times before and since that I've wished that was a wine). 

So once again, for the (I think) 18th time since 2016 began, I stripped to some extent for strangers.  It's also the third time I've had to pee in a cup to prove I'm not pregnant. 

You'd think I'd be having more fun. 

After changing into a hospital gown (no air conditioning in this one), I got another IV in the back of my hand (I'm such a wuss), and met each of the people who would be helping with the placement of my port.  The port sits under my skin and connects to a line that goes up over my clavicle and into one of my major arteries.  This allows for much easier access during chemotherapy and protects me to some extent from the big hitters, i.e., red drugs, that are excellent at killing.  Of course that means that if it were to touch say ... my skin ... it would cause severe burns.  And this is going INTO my body.  Alrighty then. 

It also colors your pee red/orange for a day or so after, so don't freak out about that. 

I was wheeled into the procedure/surgery room and helped myself onto the narrow (always so narrow) surgery table, where there were discussions over the weather while some guy cleaned the area that would be accessed, i.e., my right chest and neck. 

FINALLY, rightie is getting some action!

I was covered with a surgery tarp that had a cut-out of that area, and then the lovely lady handling my sedation created a bit of a window for me to look through, off to the side, since I was on my back with my head looking to the left.  I asked beforehand to make sure that I would not remember what happened.  You might, but you'll be comfortable.  Hmmmm.  Usually people will go to sleep.  Hmmmm.

Folks, I was awake throughout the whole thing.  I had focused on keeping my eyes open because I wanted sedation Sally to know that I was NOT yet sedated.  I heard the doctor say he was going to be giving me the shots to numb the area but I'd heard all of that before and it was usually right after when I'd be just ... out. 

Nope.  I heard that I'd feel some pressure - yep.  Now, I didn't FEEL any pain or anything like that.  I just  hadn't expected to be conscious.  My mind wandered so I was out of it to a certain extent, I suppose.  But soon I was helping myself onto the bed again and being wheeled into recovery.  I asked how much of the sedative I'd been given.  The answer:  On a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being a minimum someone would have before going to sleep on the operating table, I'd been given around 10.  Apparently, I have a high tolerance.  Go figure. [Looking innocent.]

This time in recovery I had shortbread cookies while I quietly pondered what a weird experience being assimilated into the Borg had been.  Oh, and I took a picture that you can see here.  I have to say, port placement was not a treat. 

Now, if you're reading this about to get your own, don't fear it.  Everyone is different.  And while the first day or so was not pleasant (read: a bit painful), it is now two days later and things are perfectly fine.  One tip: some of your discomfort MIGHT be from how they placed the dressing over it.  Just call into your oncologist's office and a nurse can walk you through pulling just a bit of it down and repositioning it.  It really did help.

Cue Friday.  THE day.  My first chemo infusion. 

I arrived at the infusion center at 8:15 a.m. and waited to get my blood drawn.  They have to check your blood counts to make sure you are able to safely get the infusion.  My name finally gets called:
Kimberly?
                            Two of us get up.
Kimberly M.?
                            Both of us take another step toward her.  [Really?]

I pipe up with my full name.  I lose.  I sit back down.

A few minutes later I lose again when my tech is unable to complete my blood draw 'cause I'm a wuss with needle-phobic veins that will dive for cover any chance they get.  So I left with a pain in my right elbow and another on the tip of my finger where the tech had to prick it, then milk it like a cow to get the necessary blood.

But hey, I got TWO Scooby Doo band-aids, dammit.

Then I waited until I got called back, weighed, and escorted to my pod.  My pod had a recliner, extra chair for a visitor, TV and remote, and a table. Hell, let's move in.  Across the way from me, in another pod, sat Mary, who was getting her first infusion as well.  She was already hooked up and had calmly unplugged her IV station and rolled it over to the bathroom while I was waiting, hunkered down under my Star Wars chemo quilt, to meet my nurse. 

My first impression of my nurse (I'll call her L) is fabulous.  [Thank God. Can you imagine not liking your nurse who will see you through months of chemo horror?]  My blood pressure and temperature were checked.  Then she removed the bandages from my fresh port and prepared to access it.  I had been told this part would be a bit painful and she agreed.  I asked for numbing spray.  She already had it in her pocket ready to go.  The spray is freezing cold.  And then it was done.  She'd already accessed the port and I felt nothing.  Yay, L!!  She checked the return (to make sure my blood was flowing through it fine) and then I ended up getting a couple anti-nausea meds up front (about 20 minutes each) before any of the chemotherapy drugs were introduced.

When it was time for the big guns, another nurse came up with my nurse L to double check that she had the right chemotherapy drugs for me.  She would repeat this process across the way for Mary a bit later (I'm not sure how I'd jumped ahead of Mary by this time but I did).  Then L sat with me while she pushed through the red drug.  Now, I will say that I could feel this one.  It didn't hurt but it didn't feel pleasant either.  I made sure to tell L anything that I noticed since I wanted to make sure it was normal and not the start of some bad reaction.  It absolutely made me feel better knowing that my nurse was literally right in front of me in case anything went wrong.  So, uncomfortable feeling going in yes, but also normal.  This took about 15-20 minutes. 

The second drug took about an hour and she did not have to stick around for that one.  I read, looked online, talked to my stepmom, talked to Mary, went to the bathroom, drank some hot cocoa, and ate some ginger snaps.  All in all - it went pretty well.  When that drug was done, L flushed the port and redressed it for me, and I was on my way.  Now, about half way through the last drug, I noticed that I felt a bit ... drugged/drunk.  Mary concurred.  We both felt it but I was otherwise fine.  I stopped at the pharmacy right in the same office to pick up my numbing cream (which I'll use next time), and my anti-nausea medication.

I was told more than once to take the anti-nausea meds as SOON as I noticed any queasy feeling. 

But first - since I felt fine and since we were downtown - I introduced my stepmom to LaughFest Central.  I'm volunteering this year for LaughFest - a yearly festival that brings multiple comedians to town from across the nation and/or across the street, where they entertain us all while raising money for Gilda's Club, right here in Grand Rapids.  If you live near, please check it out.  The festival runs March 10 - 20, 2016.  I got a t-shirt. And I still felt fine.

I felt fine until about two minutes after texting my friend Robin that I felt fine - just a bit woozy.  And as soon as that woozy made me question my stomach, I took one of the pills.  Done.  I'd learn the next day that Mary did NOT take the pill as soon as she felt nauseous.  The result did not sound pleasant.

I still felt off when it was bedtime last night and I admit I did not sleep well.  But I did not get sick.  I just felt off.  I was tired but could not sleep.  If I slept, I'd jerk away like I'd been drugged. 
Which, really, I had.

Cue Saturday. Today. The day of the Neulasta shot.  The shot that would help my bone marrow make more white blood cells so that my immunity would not stay too low during chemotherapy.  See, the killer chemo not only kills cancer cells but any other fast-reproducing but short lived cells in your body.  These include things like your white blood cells, your hair follicles (hence my soon to be Sméagol look), and a variety of cells in your digestive tract from your mouth to your ....eh, I don't want to think of a different name for butthole right now. [I'm sure the urban dictionary has many if you're curious.] Higher immunity - yay!  But Neulasta can sometimes cause bone aches since your bones are suddenly being told to mass produce more white blood cells than they're use to doing.  I'm envisioning an angsty teen being prodded into weekend lawn duty.  Angsty teen can cause headaches.  And so can Neulasta - since your skull has loads of bone marrow.  Nope, I didn't know that either.

I waited around, talked with Mary and found out about her need for nausea meds that hit sooner than mine and the result of her waiting a bit too long to take them.  When I got called back, the physician's assistant explained the shot to me and asked if I wanted it in the back of my arm or my belly.  She just needed to squeeze some fat.  I almost laughed.  Let's go for easy fat access, shall we? So now my belly is bandaged.  I had to wait for about 20 minutes to make sure I wasn't allergic to the medication and then we went on our merry way to await bone ache.

The bone ache hasn't hit yet.  I took Claritin yesterday, today, and I'll take it again tomorrow, because for some reason, it is known to help curb the ache.  We'll see. 

I've also been told that tomorrow is often the worst day - or beginning of the worst days - post chemo session.  So, it's another wait and see for me.  I'm planning to work as much as possible during this time.  If my worst days end up being later rather than sooner, I might need to change my chemo days from Fridays to Tuesdays.  It's all a wait and see game right now.

But right now, I'm feeling fine.  Today, after the shot was over, I just felt hungry.  We went to my favorite diner for a late breakfast, went to get groceries, and watched Season 2 of Younger on TV Land.  [Seriously - good show - check it out.]

And I just had grilled cheese for dinner.

Living the dream, people.  Living the dream.

Now to see what the dreaded day three brings - hopefully only unfulfilled warnings about day three.

Dead Hair Walking ...

Just a Quick Tip: If you know that someone is about to lose their hair to chemotherapy, find another subject for your compliment.  I love the thought but, "Your hair looks so good!!" just reminds me of what I'll be without in the near future. 

Yes, I know it will be temporary.

Yes, I've heard it grows back thicker and curly, and smells of rainbows and sunshine. 

Sure, I'm certain bald will make my "eyes pop."  If I get Dr. App's approval next Tuesday, I'll be sheering my hair Wednesday evening in preparation for chemo later that week.  Bye bye perfect length hair and hello Sméagol.

I don't need other compliments.  Just don't tell my "dead hair walking" how good it looks on its way to the gallows for a respite.

--------------------

Current Schedule:

• Monday - Genetics appointment and BACK TO WORK, y'all! 
• Tuesday - Dr. App appointment and hopefully chemotherapy approval then chemo class
• Wednesday - Hair be gone
• Thursday -  Port placement
• Friday - Official start to chemotherapy 
• Saturday - First shot of Neulasta to help jump start my white blood cells and minimize my immunity issues due to chemotherapy. 

And while searching for a link for Neulasta, I happened upon some suggestions from patients to take Claritin when taking the Neulasta shots.  Neulasta will help increase my white blood cell production but it is known to cause some unpleasant, i.e., just knock me out, pain in my bones.  The suggestion is that taking a Claritin a day around the time of the shots will help this pain.  Hmm ... I'll certainly ask Dr. V about that before chemo begins.  And here I was just passing along a minor tip to all of you and I'm leaving with a new tip for myself.