I have a lot to say about the first week of chemotherapy and believe me, I will.
I'll share what I've learned, what I've endured and few humorous moments along the way.
I might even reflect on the interesting changes - physically & emotionally - that are already beginning to take place.
But not right now. Tonight, I'm tired.
I only stopped by, because I missed you - and I have a favor.
Do you have any old Scrabble Tiles you're no longer using?
Seriously.
I've got a craft project I'm itching to do (chemo side-effect I'm sure) and I need a lot of Scrabble Tiles - the wooden kind. You've so been generous already and I hate to ask for this favor, but if you have an old box of Scrabble just taking up space on your shelf, maybe I could help you for a change and take if off you hands.
Got Tiles? Get in Touch.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Update: One Down, Fifty-One to Go
Wednesday? Feels like Tuesday - I think.
Only one week into official treatment for cure and I've already lost a day. Probably shouldn't complain too much; I'm going to lose a lot more over the coming months.
Any who, just wanted to give you a short update on the fascinating world of modern, western medicine as it applies to me.
In a nutshell, Mr. Bon & I arrived at 10:00am sharp Monday for first injections of chemotherapy treatment. Upon arrival, learned that the scheduler had mistakenly scheduled me for unneeded lab-work. We're not needed until 10:3o doctor's appointment to review and chat about upcoming events.
11:00am sharp, the doctor herself comes to the well-appointed lobby to invite us in for consultation. Just as we're entering the exam room - reception calls doctor away for urgent phone call.
More waiting. 11:something, doc comes in tells us many things we've already heard - most of which we understand and can almost recapitulate - and writes out a few more prescriptions that will help to counteract what ever shit is about to rain down on me. Call me a coward, but I began to worry when she mentioned the yeast infection that will surely inhabit my mouth by week's end.
Close to noon, we're sent upstairs to drop off the additional prescriptions (did I mention she'd already sent up orders for 3 others) and then to check-in at treatment center.
Checked in, sat down in another nice lobby and commenced waiting. Nothing like waiting for the unknown and watching others in various stages of their treatment enter the lobby and commence their wait for what they courageously already know what is about to come down.
One look at my full head of hair, told all that I was a newby. Some gave me a sympathetic, heartwarming smile. No one was in much of a mood to chat. I choose to believe that this was due to the drizzly Seattle weather we were experiencing.
Finally, a very kind nurse came to get us. I believe this was around 1:00pm. She showed us to our room - this time we chose a private room with no windows. Next time, we'll take the windows and curtains in lieu of actual walls.
Nurse Jeanne, sat us down & made me comfy with warm blankets and began to explain everything once again. Today's treatment, she reminded us was a 3-med infusion, and because it was the first treatment, all would be on a slow load drip to watch for unacceptable reactions.
Two of the meds have heavy duty side effects, so she loaded me up with a large menu of coping meds: Benadryl, Zofran, Pepcid; you'll have to ask Mr. Bon for the rest of the list because after she gave me the drugs and my sack lunch (next time I'll bring my own - though the apple and cookie were tasty) and I plugged in the movie, I was out like the light.
Sometime around 5, Nurse Jeanne informed us we still had another two hours of infusion time.
What could we say? Obviously, nothing was bothering me and Mr. Bon was engrossed in Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. Better to go with the process than add to the stress. As if we had a choice.
By 8pm we were back home - getting much needed hugs from the kids and throwing together left overs from the super-fun family barbecue the day before.
Oddly enough, though there was a giant clock in the room staring at us the whole day, time really didn't stand still. In fact, the day seemed to slip right by.
Maybe that's where I lost that day.
Only one week into official treatment for cure and I've already lost a day. Probably shouldn't complain too much; I'm going to lose a lot more over the coming months.
Any who, just wanted to give you a short update on the fascinating world of modern, western medicine as it applies to me.
In a nutshell, Mr. Bon & I arrived at 10:00am sharp Monday for first injections of chemotherapy treatment. Upon arrival, learned that the scheduler had mistakenly scheduled me for unneeded lab-work. We're not needed until 10:3o doctor's appointment to review and chat about upcoming events.
11:00am sharp, the doctor herself comes to the well-appointed lobby to invite us in for consultation. Just as we're entering the exam room - reception calls doctor away for urgent phone call.
More waiting. 11:something, doc comes in tells us many things we've already heard - most of which we understand and can almost recapitulate - and writes out a few more prescriptions that will help to counteract what ever shit is about to rain down on me. Call me a coward, but I began to worry when she mentioned the yeast infection that will surely inhabit my mouth by week's end.
Close to noon, we're sent upstairs to drop off the additional prescriptions (did I mention she'd already sent up orders for 3 others) and then to check-in at treatment center.
Checked in, sat down in another nice lobby and commenced waiting. Nothing like waiting for the unknown and watching others in various stages of their treatment enter the lobby and commence their wait for what they courageously already know what is about to come down.
One look at my full head of hair, told all that I was a newby. Some gave me a sympathetic, heartwarming smile. No one was in much of a mood to chat. I choose to believe that this was due to the drizzly Seattle weather we were experiencing.
Finally, a very kind nurse came to get us. I believe this was around 1:00pm. She showed us to our room - this time we chose a private room with no windows. Next time, we'll take the windows and curtains in lieu of actual walls.
Nurse Jeanne, sat us down & made me comfy with warm blankets and began to explain everything once again. Today's treatment, she reminded us was a 3-med infusion, and because it was the first treatment, all would be on a slow load drip to watch for unacceptable reactions.
Two of the meds have heavy duty side effects, so she loaded me up with a large menu of coping meds: Benadryl, Zofran, Pepcid; you'll have to ask Mr. Bon for the rest of the list because after she gave me the drugs and my sack lunch (next time I'll bring my own - though the apple and cookie were tasty) and I plugged in the movie, I was out like the light.
Sometime around 5, Nurse Jeanne informed us we still had another two hours of infusion time.
What could we say? Obviously, nothing was bothering me and Mr. Bon was engrossed in Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. Better to go with the process than add to the stress. As if we had a choice.
By 8pm we were back home - getting much needed hugs from the kids and throwing together left overs from the super-fun family barbecue the day before.
Oddly enough, though there was a giant clock in the room staring at us the whole day, time really didn't stand still. In fact, the day seemed to slip right by.
Maybe that's where I lost that day.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Countdown: T-minus 12 hours
Actually, my internal countdown to the commencement of chemotherapy treatment has been going on for a full week.
I've kept it internal - I hope.
Mr. Bon and the kids, might say otherwise when considering my frequent mood swings and compulsions to pack our calendar with good living and of course, lots of house cleaning. Hmmm, wonder why my eldest is spending so much time at the neighbors?
With twelve hours to go, I think it's time to bring a bit of it out into the open. If you are like me - a bit of a voyeur - I'm sure you'd like a peak into what it might be like to be "walking the plank." Ah don't deny it - I know you're out there - I know I'm not the only one watching those reality shows.
Metaphorically speaking, I've use the analogy to space travel to convey the feeling that tomorrow morning when Mr. Bon and I walk into that treatment center, we are entering territory completely unknown. Life will be different. Not just for the next few months - but from here on out.
I didn't have chemo when I last danced with cancer twenty years ago, but I can tell you that experience was life changing. As will (and already is) this experience.
Anyhow, back to my connection with space travel. I imagine when the astronauts leave their training facility to board the van that carries them to the space shuttle that will propel them the hell off this fine planet, their minds are filled with many conflicted thoughts:
Utter pride at the efforts accomplishments that have brought them to this doubtless apex. Utter fear - "dear lord, don't let this be another "Challenger." Sadness - I'm sure they miss their families at the fact that their families can't witness first hand the magic they'll experience. Excitement at finally fulfilling their lifelong dream of going into space.
I'm not going to lie, receiving chemo therapy is not a life long dream.
But, on one hand I am at complete and utter peace with our decision to go forward with it and - truly - excited to begin. Half of my brain has been consumed with it since April 14th; it's time to stop wondering and get the show on the road - 'er launch this rocket.
On the other hand ... long pause, real long pause ... I am scared.
I ask you, what can be fun about drugs that take 6 hours to administer?
Some people report very little in the way of discomfort, while others report just the opposite effects from chemo drugs. I so hope to dwell in the former.
And that's the root of my fear: I'm not good with the unknown.
Notice my modest lifestyle? Not a real risk taker here. It's why I'll never bungee jump, take a peyote trip or sky dive. Certain results too unknown. Too scary in my book.
In the case of my breast cancer diagnosis, the option not to take the chemo drugs is, in the end, an absolute guarantee of unknown results. Proceeding with the chemo gives me certain results: a cure - most certainly.
I'd rather live the next twelve months in some unknown form of discomfort, than live the next ten or twenty years wondering if somethings festering away inside of me.
It's now about T-minus 11 Hours and I'm a little bit closer to boarding that shuttle. Before I go, I want to begin to try and express my gratitude to all of you. I don't think I can ever convey how nice it is in those moments of utter fear to take a deep breath, lean back and feel soooo much love and support. I never know how much love is out there for me (if you're beginning to feel squeamish - I warned you in the header).
Thank you for making this journey so much easier. Without all of you, I'd be curled up in a puddle somewhere.
I want to start with a shout-out to Mr. Bon. If you ever find yourself in a situation like mine, give Jim Namba a call. He did, with out a doubt missed his calling in life; no one could be a better caregiver than good ole' Mr Bon. He is so caring - very few people know just how caring he is. He's an expert at preventing me from over-doing anything, even worrying. He, without out a second thought, has taken over most of the household chores. He knows just how tuck the comforters around me just right when I'm shivering so badly I can't stop. He keeps my muddled brain in line and reminds me when to take my meds or get to an appointment -or work- on time. He doesn't even seem to mind that my conversation level doesn't go beyond that of a gnat. And still, through all this, he tickles me with his sharp wit and comes up with new jokes about the days current events.
My kids are pretty amazing too. Ahhh the Bonlets. Alex is 17. A fine age for a boy. As such his prime activities in life do not revolve around the family; he's more interested in gaming with his friends, looking for a job and he's even considering a getting a driver's license. While he's not hovering over me every second, I do get a lot of hugs. And when I call his name, he's right there for me. He's got his father's caring ways and also a terrific sense of humor with a big, big smile that would melt the heart of any mom.
Miya. She is my hoverer. At 11, she is about to embark on her own journey - in September she'll be entering middle school. I don't have to tell you all that that entails. She'll be fine. One bit of silver lining to this diagnosis is that I'm on a very much reduced work schedule and am home more and get to spend more time with her. Nice. I can't tell you what a wonderful caregiver she is. She has a knack for balancing being a kid and being a world class nurse. She keeps me hydrated, helps me monitor my med needs, and, I dare you to find a more loving child.
I'm also grateful for the support of my sisters and brother and mother. Not to mention my nieces and nephews, and my in laws. Their gifts have been many and unending. I only hope that if ever needed, I will so gracefully and generously reciprocate.
I am particularly grateful for my job, my excellent bosses and all the people I work with. Ours is a small, (20 employees) locally owned company. Since this diagnosis came down, I have spent more time away from work than at work. My boss has been very clear that the goal is to get cured, no matter what that takes - even a wacky schedule. My position, in the past, has been somewhat pivotal to the the day to day operations of running the company. Jobs descriptions have been altered and sacrifices have been made all so I can embark on this journey worry free.
My boss has also been very clear about the security of my position - amazing.
A word about gifts of food. Family and friends have been amazing. Would you believe that for 3 weeks after my first surgery, we never once had to cook a dinner. Amazing. Happily, we are blessed with foodies in our midst. We've been treated to enchiladas, Greek chicken, paella, homemade mac & cheese, two types of lasagna, chicken marbella with the best-ever oven roasted broccoli, souvlaki, lots of pies - including if you can believe it - a Dahlia Lounge Coconut Cream Pie. I'm not gonna lie - I shamelessly requested that one! I know there is more, but in this late hour I'm forgetting a few.
Cards. Nothing like going out to the mailbox and finding a greeting card mixed in with all the correspondence from the various labs & hospitals. I keep a basket of each of the cards I receive from friends, family co-workers and vendors; when I'm feeling a little down, I look through them and breath in the support. I'd especially like to thank Pam & Jim in Davis for your card. I was so surprised and touched ... thank you for thinking of me - and for reading this blog!
When I was first diagnosed, I was so filled with worry about how we could make this all work out. I wondered how my children and husband would fare, my job security ( I am the only employed one right now - anybody out there hiring top-notch guys), life with one breast, the sure to be astounding costs, the courage needed and so much more.
Over a delightful, though somewhat teary, cup of coffee in those first days, my sister told me and this a direct quote "people will come out of the woodwork." As always, the wise one was right.
That very day, I received my first card in the mail. It was the beginning of so many gifts - so many humble reminders of how lucky I am.
So in these waning hours of feeling normal - I can peer through the cloud cover and can see a few stars (a gift in itself), and am once again reminded of how lucky I am. Though I'm embarking into what is for me (and us) unknown territory - I am at peace. Much like the astronauts, I have so much support, technical and otherwise, that I can safely put my worries aside and focus on my work at hand -healing.
T-minus 10 hours.
I've kept it internal - I hope.
Mr. Bon and the kids, might say otherwise when considering my frequent mood swings and compulsions to pack our calendar with good living and of course, lots of house cleaning. Hmmm, wonder why my eldest is spending so much time at the neighbors?
With twelve hours to go, I think it's time to bring a bit of it out into the open. If you are like me - a bit of a voyeur - I'm sure you'd like a peak into what it might be like to be "walking the plank." Ah don't deny it - I know you're out there - I know I'm not the only one watching those reality shows.
Metaphorically speaking, I've use the analogy to space travel to convey the feeling that tomorrow morning when Mr. Bon and I walk into that treatment center, we are entering territory completely unknown. Life will be different. Not just for the next few months - but from here on out.
I didn't have chemo when I last danced with cancer twenty years ago, but I can tell you that experience was life changing. As will (and already is) this experience.
Anyhow, back to my connection with space travel. I imagine when the astronauts leave their training facility to board the van that carries them to the space shuttle that will propel them the hell off this fine planet, their minds are filled with many conflicted thoughts:
Utter pride at the efforts accomplishments that have brought them to this doubtless apex. Utter fear - "dear lord, don't let this be another "Challenger." Sadness - I'm sure they miss their families at the fact that their families can't witness first hand the magic they'll experience. Excitement at finally fulfilling their lifelong dream of going into space.
I'm not going to lie, receiving chemo therapy is not a life long dream.
But, on one hand I am at complete and utter peace with our decision to go forward with it and - truly - excited to begin. Half of my brain has been consumed with it since April 14th; it's time to stop wondering and get the show on the road - 'er launch this rocket.
On the other hand ... long pause, real long pause ... I am scared.
I ask you, what can be fun about drugs that take 6 hours to administer?
Some people report very little in the way of discomfort, while others report just the opposite effects from chemo drugs. I so hope to dwell in the former.
And that's the root of my fear: I'm not good with the unknown.
Notice my modest lifestyle? Not a real risk taker here. It's why I'll never bungee jump, take a peyote trip or sky dive. Certain results too unknown. Too scary in my book.
In the case of my breast cancer diagnosis, the option not to take the chemo drugs is, in the end, an absolute guarantee of unknown results. Proceeding with the chemo gives me certain results: a cure - most certainly.
I'd rather live the next twelve months in some unknown form of discomfort, than live the next ten or twenty years wondering if somethings festering away inside of me.
It's now about T-minus 11 Hours and I'm a little bit closer to boarding that shuttle. Before I go, I want to begin to try and express my gratitude to all of you. I don't think I can ever convey how nice it is in those moments of utter fear to take a deep breath, lean back and feel soooo much love and support. I never know how much love is out there for me (if you're beginning to feel squeamish - I warned you in the header).
Thank you for making this journey so much easier. Without all of you, I'd be curled up in a puddle somewhere.
I want to start with a shout-out to Mr. Bon. If you ever find yourself in a situation like mine, give Jim Namba a call. He did, with out a doubt missed his calling in life; no one could be a better caregiver than good ole' Mr Bon. He is so caring - very few people know just how caring he is. He's an expert at preventing me from over-doing anything, even worrying. He, without out a second thought, has taken over most of the household chores. He knows just how tuck the comforters around me just right when I'm shivering so badly I can't stop. He keeps my muddled brain in line and reminds me when to take my meds or get to an appointment -or work- on time. He doesn't even seem to mind that my conversation level doesn't go beyond that of a gnat. And still, through all this, he tickles me with his sharp wit and comes up with new jokes about the days current events.
My kids are pretty amazing too. Ahhh the Bonlets. Alex is 17. A fine age for a boy. As such his prime activities in life do not revolve around the family; he's more interested in gaming with his friends, looking for a job and he's even considering a getting a driver's license. While he's not hovering over me every second, I do get a lot of hugs. And when I call his name, he's right there for me. He's got his father's caring ways and also a terrific sense of humor with a big, big smile that would melt the heart of any mom.
Miya. She is my hoverer. At 11, she is about to embark on her own journey - in September she'll be entering middle school. I don't have to tell you all that that entails. She'll be fine. One bit of silver lining to this diagnosis is that I'm on a very much reduced work schedule and am home more and get to spend more time with her. Nice. I can't tell you what a wonderful caregiver she is. She has a knack for balancing being a kid and being a world class nurse. She keeps me hydrated, helps me monitor my med needs, and, I dare you to find a more loving child.
I'm also grateful for the support of my sisters and brother and mother. Not to mention my nieces and nephews, and my in laws. Their gifts have been many and unending. I only hope that if ever needed, I will so gracefully and generously reciprocate.
I am particularly grateful for my job, my excellent bosses and all the people I work with. Ours is a small, (20 employees) locally owned company. Since this diagnosis came down, I have spent more time away from work than at work. My boss has been very clear that the goal is to get cured, no matter what that takes - even a wacky schedule. My position, in the past, has been somewhat pivotal to the the day to day operations of running the company. Jobs descriptions have been altered and sacrifices have been made all so I can embark on this journey worry free.
My boss has also been very clear about the security of my position - amazing.
A word about gifts of food. Family and friends have been amazing. Would you believe that for 3 weeks after my first surgery, we never once had to cook a dinner. Amazing. Happily, we are blessed with foodies in our midst. We've been treated to enchiladas, Greek chicken, paella, homemade mac & cheese, two types of lasagna, chicken marbella with the best-ever oven roasted broccoli, souvlaki, lots of pies - including if you can believe it - a Dahlia Lounge Coconut Cream Pie. I'm not gonna lie - I shamelessly requested that one! I know there is more, but in this late hour I'm forgetting a few.
Cards. Nothing like going out to the mailbox and finding a greeting card mixed in with all the correspondence from the various labs & hospitals. I keep a basket of each of the cards I receive from friends, family co-workers and vendors; when I'm feeling a little down, I look through them and breath in the support. I'd especially like to thank Pam & Jim in Davis for your card. I was so surprised and touched ... thank you for thinking of me - and for reading this blog!
When I was first diagnosed, I was so filled with worry about how we could make this all work out. I wondered how my children and husband would fare, my job security ( I am the only employed one right now - anybody out there hiring top-notch guys), life with one breast, the sure to be astounding costs, the courage needed and so much more.
Over a delightful, though somewhat teary, cup of coffee in those first days, my sister told me and this a direct quote "people will come out of the woodwork." As always, the wise one was right.
That very day, I received my first card in the mail. It was the beginning of so many gifts - so many humble reminders of how lucky I am.
So in these waning hours of feeling normal - I can peer through the cloud cover and can see a few stars (a gift in itself), and am once again reminded of how lucky I am. Though I'm embarking into what is for me (and us) unknown territory - I am at peace. Much like the astronauts, I have so much support, technical and otherwise, that I can safely put my worries aside and focus on my work at hand -healing.
T-minus 10 hours.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Ad Links? Please Advise.
Hey.
Who put those ad-links on my blog?
I know I didn't put them there.
Or did I?
Know how to get rid of them? Please advise by leaving a comment.
Unless of course, I'm getting paid for those links. If that's the case I don't mind them too much. Kind of cute aren't they?
Hmmm... maybe the money can be directly funneled to my good friends at the Swedish Cancer Institute. Or, better yet, The Bon Family's 'Post-Cancer Mega-Vacation' fund.
Seriously, what fine print didn't I read this time? Do advise all you smart bloggers out there.
Who put those ad-links on my blog?
I know I didn't put them there.
Or did I?
Know how to get rid of them? Please advise by leaving a comment.
Unless of course, I'm getting paid for those links. If that's the case I don't mind them too much. Kind of cute aren't they?
Hmmm... maybe the money can be directly funneled to my good friends at the Swedish Cancer Institute. Or, better yet, The Bon Family's 'Post-Cancer Mega-Vacation' fund.
Seriously, what fine print didn't I read this time? Do advise all you smart bloggers out there.
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