Chemo Sobby...wasn't really ready for this rollercoaster

Chemo.  Chemo brain.  Chemo sobby... a.k.a. can't think straight and am a bit of an emotional rollercoaster.  Not my idea of awesome.

Chemotherapy.  Some people have asked "why do you have to go through all that if they already removed the tumor?" Because I have, or had, a rare and aggressive form of breast cancer.  Not the run-of-the-mill kind.  It looks different, it acted different, so it needs to be treated aggressively. Cancer cells are so small that 10% of them can't be seen under imaging, so there could possibly be more yucky cells running around in my bod having a great time, making a plan for a new attack, or some such nonsense.  The specialists at both Seattle Cancer Care Alliance and Western Washington Oncology determined that the "Chemo Cocktail" I should be on would give me the highest survival rate and have the best chance at ridding my body of any lurking cells ready to do more damage.  The plan is this: Four treatments (once every other week) of A/C (Adriamycin & Cytoxan).  These two are the hard core infusions. The drugs that are most toxic and hardest on the body.  Then comes Taxol infusions every week for 12 weeks.  Five months total.  Radiation Therapy after that.  Then a daily pill I will take for probably the rest of my life.

At the inception of this diagnosis, we thought I might be able to just do Radiation Therapy.  I could handle that, no problem.  Every day, for one hour, for 8 weeks, radiation directed at my right lady lump, zapping it of all nastiness.  With that will come fatigue, sunburn like damage, dryness of skin. Radiation Therapy works by using high energy beams to kill cancer cells and destroy their ability to reproduce.  It changes their DNA.  The cancer cells die when they can no longer multiply and the body eliminates them.  It also kills all the healthy cells around the area, therefore the burning side effects.  That is suppose to heal over time though, so praise the Lord for an amazing body that wants to heal itself! So after I'm done with chemo, I'll move onto radiation therapy, and then I'm done.

So, Chemo.  It really is as dumb as you think it is.  It's exhausting, it feels weird.  I feel slightly nauseous 90% of the time, I'm weak, my bones ache, I'm not hungry, I'm emotional, my body looks different, my brain doesn't work right and the pharmacist at Target knows my name and my medications better than I do.  BUT, the skin on my face is glowing, so that's a perk!  Apparently, all the poison that is getting pumped into my body makes my skin radiant.  So weird, but I'll take it.  And my nails are really strong and growing so fast I get to have a manicure every week!

Going into my first infusion was slightly terrifying, not sure what to expect, how it was going to feel. I'm pretty tough, but I'm not crazy about needles and I don't like to be in pain. I woke up early, applied this awesome numbing cream to my port (access device that is implanted under my skin on my left chest wall.  More about how that works later), managed to eat a fried egg and piece of toast with homemade jam (I LOVE homemade jam from friends, just in case you want to surprise me) and headed toward the treatment center.

Every time I walk in there, I feel out of place.  It's not like I'm the only "not-old" person coming to treatment, but I'm rare.  Kind of a perk?  Everyone knows my name.  I don't have to check in.  So, I guess I'm kinda famous.  I like that. (insert big smile here) And they like me too.

Step one: access my port.  The cream I put on earlier in the morning numbs the skin just enough so that when they poke the needle in, I just have to bear down and hold my breath long enough for it to go through and be stabilized.  Once that is in, everything is secured down and tubes are attached for the length of my infusion time...3-4 hours.

Step two: draw blood.  In order to proceed with infusion, my white blood cell count has to be at a certain level.  Low white blood cells can leave the body more open to infection, and if my count is too low, I can't have my chemo infusion that day. which will in turn throw off my treatment plan.  If my red blood cell count is down, I focus on preventing anemia.  This makes me fatigued and short of breath.  I've experienced both of these so far and am doing my best to keep those numbers where they should be.  That means limited exposure to large crowds of people who may be carrying germs, enclosed environments, eating right, staying hydrated and getting a lot of sleep.  Chemotherapy drugs damage your bone marrow, which in turn damages or kills your blood cells.  So keeping the immune system strong is crucial to getting through this process.

Step three: quick visit with Dr. L, my oncologist.  He looks me in the eyes and asks "how ya doin?"
It's our check in point.  What's working, what's not working, what feels weird (everything), what I should expect next, etc..

Step four: check into the treatment room.  It's nice.  Sweet nurses, kind volunteers who refill my water bottle, coffee and snacks (FREE!), beautiful old growth trees outside the big windows, warm blankets.  Then they hook you up and the drugs start to flow.  That part sucks.  First drug, Adriamycin, aka, "red devil."  It's nasty.  The echo cardiogram I had a few weeks ago to stage my heart, was done just because this particular drug can cause heart damage. The nurses have to wear gowns, masks and gloves just to attach the bag to my infusion pump and get the fluid flowing into my body.  It's toxic.  My pee is red the first few times after infusion, which is really freaky and I am told to flush twice to be sure all the chemicals go down the drain.  That's just wrong.  Sometimes this is what gets me.   All of the work I've done over the years at being diligent to eat right, take care of my body, staying away from processed, toxic and unhealthy things that break down my body instead of making me stronger... all that effort, seems wasted.  I know it's not, but I hate that all the good so easily is being taken over by the bad, in an effort to heal me.
Saline flushes in between drugs.  I can taste it.  I can taste any and all metal compounds in everything now.  Even the purest water.

Second drug, Cytoxan.  As soon the infusion starts with this one, I can feel it.  My nose gets tingly and stuffy and congested.  I've never snorted cocaine before, but I think it might feel like this.  (I'm going to catch crap from my kids for saying that)  Cytoxan makes you dizzy, short of breath and just plain bad.  BUT, when I'm this far, I'm almost done, so that's the perk.
Last, saline flush. And I'm out.

The whole process takes about 4 hours.  I am allowed to have two friends at a time sit with me.   Sometimes I have the entire pod (unit servicing four infusion pumps/people) to myself so I can congregate as many peeps as I want and talk loud and be obnoxious without disturbing anyone....I like that.

Then I go home and sleep.  and wait.  and pray.
Heavenly Father, get me through this.  With grace, with dignity, with as little pain as possible.  Hold my hand as I cry out in what at times feels like a plea for mercy.  I know I will be stronger at the end of this crazy game.  I know I will be a different person when this is all over.  There is so much breakdown that the rebuilding process not only restores, but creates new.  I'll need that.

Lumpectomy...aka "breast preservation!"

One week after preliminary diagnosis, I had my surgery date.  We are all scared about what this means.  For me, for us as a family, for my kids, for what we imagined our life looking like in the next 10 years.  Never before contemplating the words "survival rate." Meeting upon meeting with doctors, genetic counselor, naturopathic physician, surgeon, pathologists...I thought I had a pretty good handle on the big picture.  "This is cancer, this is scary, but I've got it."  I kept repeating that to myself as I would look into my husband's eyes, full of all the knowledge he had whirling around in his brain, so desperately trying to be calm for me, making sure I wasn't scared or afraid.

I was ready for surgery.  We wanted the cancer out as soon as possible and team we had chosen made it happen.  I am constantly impressed and so thankful for all those involved with my care here in Oly. So YAY for that!

September 4th, 6:30am, Providence St. Peter's Hospital.

Step one: nuclear medicine injection to track lymph nodes to see if the cancer cells had reached my lymphatic system.  4 needle pokes later and some imaging and I was back in the waiting room.  So far so good.  During the course of time between now and surgery  (10am), the radioactive material is suppose to track up to the first few sentinel nodes so that the surgeon can remove them for pathology. Pretty amazing. 

We were setup in the OR waiting room, prepped with warm blankets, peek a boo visits from fellow physician friends who were on call and making sure I was being well taken care of.  IV insertion for anesthesia didn't go well at first but in the end I was knocked out, so that was about the most drama pre-surgery brought.

An hour or so later I was back in the OR waiting room, surgery done, coming out of anesthesia with the good news that Dr. K removed the cancerous tumor in full and removed two of my sentinel nodes.  Basically, surgery went as planned with no surprises and everyone involved was pleased.  Hallelujah!!

Groggy and chewing on ice chips, my family peeked in through the curtain with smiles and flowers and tears of the first good news.  My mom and dad, mother in law Polly, Jack, Keegan and Hannah and S&C gave me the first glimpse of light on this long day.  So very thankful to feel their presence. 

Homeward bound and feeling sore from surgery, meds kicking in, I felt relief. The yucky stuff was gone.  Although we would wait a few days for the pathology report from surgery to give us a more thorough answer on the cancer cells and lymph node status, we felt confident that my body was moving a step in the right direction.
So pleased with how smoothly surgery went, I came home and kind of overdid it. Opps. My mom and dad were staying for a dinner beautifully prepared by my daughter and a sweet friend (local chef extraordinaire and famous 2nd grade teacher!). We sat out on the patio, basking in the early September sunshine, munching on goat cheese and crackers, playing with grandpa's puppies....not realizing that the pain meds were keeping me pretty much pain free and euphoric.

I cried a lot that night.  I didn't sleep well that night.  I was so happy that the C-word was out of my body.  But I was scarred.  marked.  wounded.  I know that I'm suppose to believe that "I'm going to be just fine," but every now and again I honestly question that.  My relationship with my Heavenly Father confirms that I am in His hands, but human nature whispers "maybe it will come back..
Even though the tumor was removed, there is the possibility that other cancer cells spread pre-surgery or that they can't be seen on imaging.  Hence the long road ahead of Chemotherapy and Radiation treatment.

And then I meditated on the verse my dad gave me as he walked out the door earlier that evening.  "And I am confidant that He who began a good work in you will continue to perfect it until the day of Jesus Christ." (Philippians 1:6)  I AM in His hands and no matter where this journey takes us, I know that He loves me.  Even if I am scarred.