Brave and Inspiring

Not today.

Just. Not today.

You will hear the words "brave" and "inspiring" a lot during your treatment. You likely said them yourself when it was a friend or other loved one going through the same fight.

"You're so brave."

      "You inspire me."

                   "You are amazing."

  "You're so strong."

It's all a part of that support I've mentioned before. That immense support that can sometimes seem overwhelming and so unexpected.

You focus on recovering from surgery. You do your best to take care of yourself during chemotherapy. You learn all that you can about radiation. Each day, you take that next step forward.

And, if you're like me, you often don't feel all that strong.

You're more amazed at the time that's gone by than at yourself.

Inspiration? Bah. Brave?

Well, I sometimes feel brave to be seen in public with my cancer-altered body. Does that count?

If you're like me, there will be days when you just can't.
You can't be the brave, strong, amazing warrior that your world expects. You feel incapable of positivity. At this point - my point - you've finished chemotherapy but chemotherapy hasn't finished you.

                                   It just can't quit you.

Many side effects have blissfully gone away and your body is sprouting hair once again and often in places you really wish it wouldn't. Nose bleeds have ended and coughing is lessened. But ... fatigue continues and even worsens. Your toenails have yet to fall off and, what's this? Why are they itching?
What seems a minor inconvenience quickly invades your life.  Itch.

Itch.
                              Itch! Itch! Itchity Itch!

Still managing to ignore it? Well, let's add blisters. Many, watery, itching, burning blisters.

Jesus - Are these the elephant man's toes?

What. Is. Happening!?

Ask your doctor.  Perhaps, like me, you'll find out that it is "just part of the process." 

On that day, my friend, you'll not feel brave, or amazing, or inspiring. You'll feel like hitting something. Hard. Starting with the person who said, "just part of the process."

You'll feel like crying a lot. Except that, well, crying comes with a runny, stuffy nose and you'd rather not.

You might want to talk to someone. To vent. But ... this isn't brave. Or inspiring. You don't want to burden your loved ones when there's nothing they can do and little they can really understand. 

I remember this. I remember seeing this is my friend Robin's eyes but not knowing what it was exactly.  I'd ask how she's doing and she'd smile and say fine. I knew it wasn't fine. But I also didn't know what to say or what I could do for her. Looking back, I wish I would have simply said, "I wish there was something I could do for you."  But I digress.

Hopefully, like me, you've found a support group - whether it is live or online - it's important to have a group of people to whom you can vent. Share worries. Share experiences.  And sometimes they are your best lifeline. A group of people who are going through the same or similar treatment are invaluable. They know what you're going through. If they're not able to give suggestions for coping, they understand completely and sometimes that is the most needed thing in your life. True understanding. Acceptance of your bad days.

The days you say ... not today. There's no bravery, no inspiration.
Just. Not today.

I'd love to end this by saying that tomorrow is another day. That all will be well. That the sun will come out or some shit like that. But I'm waiting for my blistery toes to start driving me insane once again. I'm realizing that the holiday weekend is nearly over and I've neither visited friends or family nor gotten loads of work done. 

I've done ... really nothing.  Actually, wait, I've managed not to draw blood scratching. 

Right now, that's pretty fucking impressive. 

Screw brave and inspiring. 

The New Normal.

I fill the measuring cup - 4 cups of hot water - and then again. I measure out Epson Salts - 1 cup total.  I  carefully remove last nights' bandages from my feet, and lean back as I relax for a 15-20 minute soak.

That's my current new normal. Twice a day.
_______________________________________ 

I've finished #9 or my 12 Taxol treatments or #13 of my total 16 chemotherapy infusions.  A week ago Sunday night, as I got ready for bed, something about my feet caught my notice.  Something looked weird.

Cue all SORTS of squinting, pulling back, never finding the right distance (i.e., I'm old and chemo is further affecting my eyesight); I took OFF my glasses for a closer look.

My first two toes of each foot - my big toe and next - looked off.  It appeared as if each nail was starting to lift OFF of the nail-bed.

I try not to freak OUT.  I try not to fucking freak out at the thought of one more thing changing.  What the bloody hell is THIS now?

I thought that I was mentally prepared for this freak show and the possibility of losing my hair during it.  That's largely a given when you're given the type of chemotherapy used in the treatment of breast cancer. I was NOT prepared for the possibility of losing toenails.

Or fingernails.

Okay ... maybe theoretically, I'd heard of the possibility but the reality of that ending looming over my head in June 2016?  I looked at my feet and thought, "SERIOUSLY?! You've never been more pampered in your fucking life and NOW you're going to decide to chuck it all and fall off?!"

I've been lathering my feet and hands in cream each day and night after the hand and foot syndrome scare post AC treatment and thought I was largely in the clear. 

They said Taxol was SO much easier.

They said Taxol was a breeze relative to AC. 

There are reasons quick consults don't exist and you won't get a direct answer to your, "How will Taxol affect me," google search.  I've said it before and I'll say it repeatedly:  It's ALL relative.

Some patients never have neuropathy. 
I do. I have a bit of tingling and numbness to my toes and feet.  Not so much with my hands (so far) but I have to keep an eye on it.
 
Some patients lose their eyebrows and eyelashes along with their hair.  So far, mine are holding on despite the bald head.  Actually, portions of my hair keep growing - I'm very soft and fluffy up top right now - but it is sporadic and I'll likely keep shaving it until the Taxol is officially finished.
And THEN I might still lose the eyebrows and eyelashes once that is done; some do.


Some lose their nails AFTER Taxol is finished. Some never have nail problems at all.


Some patients have real issues with their white blood cell counts and therapy is delayed because of it; thankfully, knock on wood, throw salt over my shoulder, I don't.


Some patients have real issues with mouth sores; thankfully, I don't. So far.  I rinse my mouth twice a day with a combination of salt/baking soda/water to stem off such things.  Mmmm ... tasty. But it has worked so far.


Some patients have changes to their vision. I do. I'll need to wait several months after chemotherapy is finished before getting an eye exam so that my vision can return to whatever 40-something mayhem it chooses.  For now, I keep reading glasses nearby.


The list of possible side-effects go on.  Some patients experience many, some few. 
It is amazing what you can put up with when you ... well ... have no choice.  You adapt. 
And you'll get through it.


I have THREE more infusions of Taxol to go.  July 1, July 8, and July 19.  It's so close I can taste it.

Seriously ... kinda metallic and icky (can't wait for THAT side-effect to go away).

Meanwhile, I'll pour my cup of Epson salts into my 8 cups of hot water and soak twice a day. I'll spray my nails with hydrogen peroxide to check for infection. I'll apply Organic Tea Tree Oil (because why not) to my nails and then add some antibiotic ointment if necessary then carefully wrap the four affected toes in bandages to help keep them clean.  The goal now is to avoid infection.


Avoid delay.


Push through and get it done.


That's my new normal on my last day of age 45. 
____________________________


If you're facing a new normal from cancer, from treatment, remember that you can handle more than you think in the beginning. No, really. You can. And you will. Take things one day at a time.  Make a point to focus on little things that make you happy each and every day.  Ask your doctor and nurse question after question until you feel they've answered your concerns. Be your own best advocate. Rest.
Rest.
Seriously. Rest.
Drink lots of water.
Repeat.
You can do this. I really do have no doubt.
How do I know?
Honey ...  because if I can do this, YOU can do this.

A Slightly Wrong Children's Song

You know that feeling when you can't get a melody out of your head?  One's been twirling around my brain since last night ... when I changed the dressing on my Frankenboob wound.

See if you can hear it, too.

***

There's a hole in my boob, dear doctor, dear doctor,
There's a hole in my boob, dear doctor, a hole!

Then fix it, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie,

Then fix it, dear Kimmie, dear  Kimmie, fix it.

With what shall I fix it, dear doctor, dear doctor,
With what shall I fix it, dear doctor, with what?

With wet/dry dressing, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie,

With wet/dry dressing dear Kimmie, use saline solution.

It's not working, dear doctor, dear doctor, dear doctor,
It's not working dear doctor, dear doctor, now what?

Here's some medicine, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie,

Here's some medicine, dear Kimmie, take one a day, start now!

But this medicine can cause nerve pain and extra heartbeats, dear doctor,
But this medicine can hurt tendons, dear doctor, WTF?!

Come and see me, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie,

Come and see me, dear Kimmie, on Monday afternoon next.

But what in the meantime, dear doctor, dear doctor,
But what in the meantime, dear doctor, there's a hole!

Take your medicine, change your dressings, and don't move, dear Kimmie,

Take your medicine, dear Kimmie, and watch a show on Netflix.

There's a hole in my boob, dear people, dear people,
There's a hole in my boob, dear people, a freakin' HOLE!

Oh, and watch out for mood swings, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie,

Watch out for paranoia, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie, watch out.

SERIOUSLY?!

***

This hole is seriously damaging my calm.

Meanwhile, here's a happier version from my childhood.  You know, back when my boobs were tiny and cancer-free:

Oh, Henry.  How you're not smacked over the head is beyond me.  The hole is half-way up the damn bucket, Henry.  It can hold enough to sharpen the stone. 

Logic and children's songs don't always mix. 

Excuse me while I go see if I have any worsening nightmares (another possible side effect).  I'm sure death is listed there as well.  I swear the warnings on medicine are enough to make you fear the medicine more than the disease.

Nope. Not paranoid AT ALL. 

THERE'S A FREAKIN' HOLE.