I'm Losing My Hair!

Actually, my hair loss is minimal. Starting a few days ago, several hairs come out when I run my hand through my coif, but I'm told I will not lose all my hair. I was going to pass on a wig and hoped to look as beautiful as this woman.

When my poor neighbor was being treated for breast cancer several years ago, she had half of her hair fall out one night, along with her eyebrows and everything else. On the up side, she didn't have to shave her legs for a while. That part sounds pretty nice, but one cannot pick and choose side effects.

I love my radiation oncologist. He's very funny. He asked me early this week whether I was feeling better. I hemmed and hawed because my left leg was still bothering me, causing me to limp. The next day when we chatted, he reminded me that when we first met, at my initial consultation five or six weeks ago, I could not sit at all because of pain from the tumor. I was amazed, and thoroughly embarrassed, to have forgotten. He also chuckled about how grumpy I was that day but allowed as how I'd turned out to be pretty nice after all. If there is any up side to radiation, besides getting rid of the cancer of course, Dr. V. is it.

The down side of radiation: I'm starting to feel a bit of burning. I have four and a half more weeks of this stuff to look forward to, so that will only get worse. I pray I don't entirely lose my sense of humor. We shall see.

With the Labor Day holiday, I have three instead of two days off from the radiation regimen. I'm thrilled!

Enjoy the long weekend, everyone!

A Slow Day

I started week three of radiation this morning. Radiation without chemo hasn't been too bad. But I'm starting to feel some unpleasant side effects of radiation. Plus I'm plain tired. I will have another week of chemo soon. I'm not looking forward to it, except that every day of treatment gets me closer to the end of this ordeal/blessing. 

A good friend had a stroke late last week. He is doing well and making good progress with therapy, thank goodness. Yet his situation is another reminder of how fragile and unpredictable our time on this Earth is.

I'm disappointed in how lazy I've been with all this free time. I have a sweater for granddaughter Anastasia that has been half done for months. I have an ocean of old family photos to organize. Somehow I cannot get in gear. Instead I am reading ferociously. The book du jour is the latest "Robert Galbraith" (J. K. Rowling) whodunit. A great read; check it out.

Our tomato crop is embarrassingly puny this year. But we are getting some great BLTs, including tonight's dinner. Bon appetit!

Is It Throw Back Thursday Yet?

When my mother moved in in February, she brought with her dozens of photo albums that have been great fun to go through. We divvied the contents up amongst my sisters and me and sent off giant envelopes of pictures to Massachusetts, New Mexico, and Minnesota. Of course, a huge load stayed here and I am beginning to sort them. Nothing like some unexpected down time for organizing old photos.

When we were kids, a highlight of every Christmas was Mom dragging out the Santa Claus picture posterboards stored under her bed. Christmas wasn't Christmas without a visit to Santa at Frederick & Nelson in Seattle, the giant department store where my father did something or other. Every year we stood in line, wrinkled list in our hot little hand, every year we got our photo taken, and each year's photos were added to the posterboard. With four girls in the family, the same coats and dresses inevitably reappeared in the photos. Black and white segued into color sometime in the early 1960s. My introduction to the big red guy in 1952 was not propitious, but he and I were getting along just fine, thank you very much, by 1953.

As you can tell I'm feeling pretty good or I'd be whining instead of feeling nostalgic. A week and a half in—hurrah!

A Lovely Tuesday

I'll be off to my 11 a.m. radiation appointment shortly. Boy am I glad to be rid of the chemo bottle. Whew!! That cocktail throws a punch. I'm not feeling the effects of the radiation yet.

I can't open my mouth quite all the way, which is restricting eating fun. Things taste a little odd and it hurts to use my electric toothbrush. But all in all, my appetite is back.

For fun we are looking at houses to rent in Mendocino for a week in early November for some post-treament R&R. I want to watch seals and shales and not think.

Week One: OMG

I hardly know where to begin to describe the worst week of my life—no more are allowed to
come anywhere close, and that's that. I'll get the TMI out of the way first—epic diarrhea, vomiting, heartburn, chills and low-grade fever, and - big surprise - feeling all around lousy and a half. I lost six pounds in four days, but don't even consider it. Yesterday, I spent two hours at Kaiser instead of the planned 15 minutes as I received hydration and while I waited to see my wonderful oncologist who prescribed an antibiotic for my borderline infection. She kept shaking her head, saying the low white count shouldn't happen until week two. I'm precocious. Who knew?

And today I feel like an almost-new person. Thank god for modern medicine. Also the chemo bottle is gone -- hurrah -- until I get a new one in September. Not looking forward to that. But at least now I'm prepared.

Over the last several days, I ignored phone calls from people I love because I just couldn't talk. I was afraid I'd cry, for feeling sorry for myself. Pathetic. You know who you are and I am sorry. I will get back to you as soon as I can.

I've discovered that the end of the day can be particularly difficult. In fact, days have taken on a whole new rhythm. It takes longer to get out of bed and food isn't my friend any more. On a typical beautiful Saturday morning such as this one, I'd be in the garden by now, watering, deadheading, trimming, doing all the things that need doing. Those jobs have been ignored this week but I do hope to get out there for a while, if for no other reason than to see something beside the inside of this house, or Kaiser, or the radiation treatment center. Mom suggested the other day that I lie down, and I realize that after just 5 of 52 days of treatment, I'm already sick of my bed. Fortunately it's very comfy and has comforting Al on the other side.

I am so grateful for both Al and my mother. When Mom moved in in February, we could not have imagined the current situation. She keeps at things, doing laundry, taking care of the dishwasher, setting the table, feeding the cats and dog if Al isn't around, always wanting to do more. Al is Al, always there, always my cheerleader. He did nothing but hold my hand yesterday at Kaiser for over an hour as I lay covered in blankets and yet unable to warm up. Steady as he goes, that's my beloved Al.

No predictions for the date of the next episode. I hope it won't be quite so long and I hope it's a bit more chipper.

Until next time, my love to you all. K

Day One

Well, the fun has begun. My first chemo infusion began this morning. I will be hauling around a baby-bottle-sized bottle of 5-FU until Friday. I'd been given to understand that I would go in every week for chemo. Nope. It's just this week for four days and again starting on September 8 for four days. Radiation is every day, beginning in about an hour.

As we drove off to Kaiser and my date with the infusion center this morning, my mother gave me a card that sums this situation up really well:

We must be willing to let go
of the life we had planned,
so as to have the life
that is waiting for us.
                -E.M. Forster

I'd had no plans for August after retirement. Maybe that's not a bad thing. It allows me to create a new future with few regrets. I can focus on now, on meditating, on staying healthy, and on the circle of love that friends and family have created. I received three "positivity" bracelets today from a good friend that will go with me to radiation, today and every day. Thank you, Diana.

To all of you—xoxoxoxoxo
 

Meditating on Trust

An old friend of mine drove out from the Bay Area yesterday to spend the day with me. We

sat under the trees in our back yard and had a lovely time. Al even brought us lunch. The shade kept moving, so we did what I always do when I'm reading under the trees, "chased the shade," moving our chairs as needed and laughing all the while.

Gaby has been meditating for decades and thought that learning to meditate might be useful for me for the time to come. And how right she is. I've done some meditating over the years, but never very seriously. I learned that meditating with someone is entirely different and very powerful. I hope to find a meditation group in Stockton and join their satsang.

When Gaby and I were meditating, I found myself concentrating on trust, which I feel I need to overcome my fear of what is to come. Even just after our two meditation sessions yesterday, I feel much less fear. The other lesson I came away with is that everything in our life is a blessing. Chemo is a blessing. A radiation treatment is a blessing. I believe it. Thank you, Gaby, thank you.

Chemo poet

On a jauntier note, a week or so ago I sent an email to friends about having the chemo port installed. But my fingers failed me and Autocorrect didn't find anything wrong when I typed "chemo poet." A good friend in Seattle, who just had a cardiac catheter installed, leaped in to act as the rectal cancer/cardiac poet:

There is no modesty in chemo

Which heals the most private parts

And requires us to talk about

Our poop, our pee and farts.

It's the same with cardiac surgeons

You’d think they’d have heart

But their true goal, as you may know

Is to take us all apart.

Fear, Redux

I occasionally have what I call "the terrors." I used the term unexplained in a brief email to a cancer-survivor friend the other day and she knew exactly what I was talking about—the fear of not surviving. I used to think I wasn't afraid of death. Hah. It's more complicated than I realized.

Ironically, on Sunday night, while I was wailing and shaking in St. Al's arms, my sister's dearest friend died of cancer. The universe knows. I wish it would share its secrets.

Fear

Most days, the upcoming cancer treatment has seemed like a big if nasty adventure. Ferris
Beuller's Day off but with chemo and radiation. I'm tough. I'll see it through and come out stronger. A dear friend from high school in Hawaii tells me to be a warrior. Yeah. Bring it on.

But last night, for the first time in two weeks, I felt fear. I was on the Kaiser web site to refill my pain med when I saw a brand new one on the list of medications, ondansetron. I Googled it and saw that it is for nausea and vomiting. I loathe nausea—just like everyone else.

I'm trying to figure out how to not dread treatment. During Al's last chemo, an anti-nausea drug was part of the cocktail, so he was spared. Not that he didn't have other side effects, but at least he didn't have nausea.

I know lots of you have been in my boots. If you have any suggestions for deep breathing, for eating, for anything that might make this easier, I'm all ears. Thank you.

All You Need is Love

Oh my. One has friends and good friends and decades-old, finish-each-others-sentences, can-you-believe-we-did-that-when-we-were-17 friends. And now when I need it the most, it seems that every last one one them is there for me. The outpouring of love and concern and aloha is far beyond anything I could have imagined. I know it's "just" words, but those words bring tears to my eyes. Thank you.

Modesty? Forget That

Yesterday morning I spent 15 minutes lying on my belly with my trousers down as radiation planning was under way. I have my first tattoos—woo hoo! But don't get too excited. They are tiny, freckle-sized things that I gather will serve as guides when I have radiation.

I have commented more than once that I'd much prefer cancer of the elbow. (My apologies to anyone who has had cancer of the elbow and knows far better than I how difficult it is.) I at least wouldn't have to expose my plump, cellulite-y nether regions to the universe for radiation. I know, I know. I am immensely grateful for the wonders of radiation therapy but geez Louise.

Plus I wouldn't be sitting on a tumor the size of a walnut. I remember years ago when I was a mere child of 25 reading Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon Days and thinking it was so funny when Lars Larsson or Sven Svensson or another of Keillor's wonderful characters was on a fishing trip with buddies while sitting on a hemorrhoid the size of a Concord grape. He suffered silently while I chuckled. There's a lesson here, friends. Never laugh at anyone, even a fictional character. It may come back to haunt you.

And it's a wrap for today's musings. I will spend the rest of the day in the yard, reading on my side, and otherwise avoiding sitting on my walnut-sized tumor. Cheers!

I have been a writer all my life but pretty much only at work. When cancer struck two weeks ago, I found words tossing around in my brain as I woke in the morning and from the many naps I am already taking. So I decided to blog.

The title? Damn it, I have things I want to do and a little rectal cancer is not going to get in the way. I will be healed, ASAP.

News from Hell

What I thought was a garden-variety hemorrhoid bothered me for several months before my surgeon suggested doing a biopsy. With that word, the Earth stopped spinning for a second. It is a word everyone dreads but there it was. I am a practical sort and tried to be rational and reasonable about life for the next few days. But when the pathology results came back positive, I confess I wailed for a few minutes.

Life immediately became a whirlwind of bone scan (negative), CT and PET scans (which showed lymph node involvement in the left groin), blood work, etc. A central port for chemo was installed near my right shoulder, and I had initial appointments with the radiological oncologist. Chemo and radiation will begin on August 11 or August 18. Radiation treatment requires more planning and will be the driver for the start date.

Retirement—or Not

Innisfree Garden, Millbrook, NY
June 2014

I awoke this morning, August 1, with the thought that today was to have been the start of retirement. Freedom, midweek days in the garden, visits to granddaughter Jessica and her family in Spokane, leisurely trips—again on weekdays—to museums in San Francisco, more frequent trips to New York to visit Dan and Aimee and wallow in the wonderfulness of NYC and environs. This retirement date had been planned since May. But it was not to be.

Instead, I started disability leave on July 29. The good news is that chemo and radiation will only last 5 or 6 weeks before re-evaluation. Cross your fingers for good news!!