When I was receiving the chemo dose of taxol at the halfway point, my oncology nurse commented, “You’re at the top of the mountain!” Looking back on that, I can see now that she meant we were at the zenith, so to speak, of my chemotherapy regimen with taxol, and I could begin the countdown to the last one. Which is something to celebrate, even though I still had 6 more weeks to go, and nothing had changed about my situation at that moment.
At the time, I was thinking “Yay! All down hill from here!” Never having climbed to the top of a mountain, I of course knew nothing about what it actually might take to come down off the mountain. I was all about “Yes! We made it to the top!” Little did I consider that coming down the mountain is just as hard and treacherous as climbing up. Perhaps more treacherous, as you are moving in the same direction as gravity coming down, and your chances of falling on your ass increase as a result. Still, I’m no quitter, so I’ll just keep on truckin’ cause I sure do want to get off this freaking mountain. I didn’t want to climb it in the first place, but I got chased up here by that damn tumor, so it was climb or perish and here we are. Now I get to pick my way down, oh-so-carefully, and I already know I will not reach the bottom unscathed. I have quite a collection of bumps, bruises, and boo-boos already, and the big finale still to come.
Just when I learned to take certain things for granted, like putting on or taking off a shirt over my head.
One week out from the port removal procedure, and things seem to be healing just fine. I had a good cry last week after I had it done. I don’t know if it was left over from the sedative they give you, but that whole next day I was a bundle of tears. First I cried because I couldn’t believe the chemo was over. Then I cried because the radiation was done. I cried because for the most part, the heavy stuff is over with, and it’s all recovery from here (which we know is heavy stuff all on its own). I cried over Ken’s procedure, and volunteered to have my own baby making equipment put out of commission. I told him I would do it because I was used to it. He just laughed, of course. And of course he was fine on Friday, and every day afterwards.
This morning he’s picking up the school auction catalogue and taking the kid to school. I’m home looking for socks to wash, which is a treasure hunt/obstacle course, as Ken hides them from me. Not really, but I’m not kidding, it’s like an Easter egg hunt looking for peoples socks in this house. Especially if they’re dirty, and the wearer is out of clean socks.
So I’ve been looking for his dirty socks to wash, as I have no idea how long he’s been running without a clean pair – he doesn’t tell me, he just finds a pair of not-too-dirty socks and wears those. He mentioned he took his shoes off at the doctors office on Friday, and put them right back on again, because his socks were not clean. I felt bad about that, sending him out the door with dirty socks. He works hard, and has been running around like a crazy person for weeks chasing down content for that auction catalogue. The least I could do is keep him in clean socks and underwear, right?
Which is why I’m poking around here this morning, on a mission to find socks. I found a few, and I’m not sure they all match one another, but into the wash they go. He’s got a big day today, and the man deserves clean socks to wear why he goes out to conquer the world.
But now I’m exhausted from hobbling around here, and all of the stooping over, and looking in hampers and under dirty clothes on the floor. And it’s not even 9am.
Port is coming out today!
After 20 weeks of chemo, 6 weeks of radiation, and a few weeks rest break, my beloved little purple port is coming out today.
Tina as you know is a trooper. I have only been the support team.
In order to help us get all aspects of our married life back to normal over the coming months, next week this man goes and gets sniped.
Any kind of pill is candy for cancer and it turns out that her new therapy while blocking estrogen in the breast tissue can act as a fertility enhancer.
So.. after a bit of delay.. I found in Seattle one of the world leaders in pain reduced versions of the procedures like this for the chicken man!
Snip Snip.. Oh boy….
I have written before about my expectations for each phase of this process. You know what I keep saying – once I get past the surgery/A&C/taxol/radiation, the next part will be easy, I say to myself. Ha! As we’ve all learned by now, nothing is easy compared to anything else. Each phase is just different. You’d think I would have learned that lesson by now. But forgetfulness takes charge, and after I’ve completed everything, I found myself feeling like I hadn’t suffered enough to really call myself a survivor. Yeah, I had pain after the surgery. A LOT. But that’s in the past and I forget about it, because I have new things to deal with.
The A/C left me nauseated; the medication to help me with the nausea left me constipated; the drugs I took to protect me from having an allergic reaction to the chemo left me agitated; and the whole mess left me exhausted. Exhausted and bald.
After a three week break, we started the taxol. Ah, the taxol. How I worried about the taxol. Everyone told me that it would be different than the A/C. It had it’s own issues, though most patients have fewer issues with taxol than A/C, or at least the taxol issues were easier to tolerate than the A/C issues. Other breast cancer patients I’d read about on line said differently, that it was actually WORSE for them than the A/C. So for once I wasn’t expecting an easy ride by comparison to my experience to the A/C. But I was terrified about losing my nails.
As I have mentioned before, one chemotherapy agent has proved to be neither easier nor harder to tolerate than the other. Each is simply different. I didn’t lose any MORE hair during taxol, and the hair on my head, which started to grow during my break from A/C when we traveled so much for the sentencing hearing, kept on growing. Still no eyelashes or eyebrows, though, which makes it interesting on the rare occasions when I felt like applying makeup.
Then came radiation. By the third week, I was back on anti-nausea medication. Why would I be nauseas? The radiation oncologist didn’t seem concerned about it, and offered to prescribe an anti nausea medication, which I declined, as I still had PLENTY left from the collection I’d gathered all through my A/C. Every day like clockwork, one hour before we had to leave, I’d be nauseas. Only ONCE did I ignore it and go without the medication. That was the most miserable radiation session of the entire course, and I barely made it through without begging for a break. But that would have started the process over again, and that I was sure I couldn’t get through. I would have blown that radiation session, and it would have been tacked on to the end of my series, and I had a terror of extending my series past 2013. Then by the third or fourth week, I was on twice daily ibuprofen for the inflammation and pain. My skin looked like hell, and I couldn’t wear a bra. Radiation sucks. The aloe and prescribed radiation gel no longer helped, as it dried out my skin more than it soothed, and the calendula cream just burned. Thankfully the nurse working with me gave me a more emollient, gentle ointment (Aquafor, I love you!), which got me through the last weekend.
Now it’s two weeks after the final session, all the grey/black ash that was the top layer of my skin has peeled away, and left a nearly normal-looking layer underneath. It looks good, though it stings like anything. I’m still taking the ibuprofen for inflammation, especially when I do too much. I guess you could say that I can finally accept that radiation is really, truly behind me, though the pain and tight skin remains. I can wear a bra now, sort of, but not all day, and if I push it past 5 hours or so, I feel like I need to take a scissors to the bra to get out of it.
When exactly does this get easier? Yes, I’m elated that I am not being radiated every day, or being infused with chemotherapy agents once a week or so. But seriously, recovery may be the hardest phase I’ve encountered yet. Quite frankly, it’s a bitch. I want to be able to do the things I could do before, like, oh, I don’t know, pick up all the laundry, get it washed, dried, folded AND put away, and NOT be completely done in the next day? As I write this, though, I realize now how far I have come since March 29th. It wasn’t so very long ago that just taking a shower would do me in for the afternoon. Recovery is HARD, maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But now I can really see it – I Am Getting It Done.