(still more of the CaringBridge posts--hang in there, I'm almost up to date)
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| Look at all that hair! Photo by E--April 2010 |
Thursday, March 25, 2010 8:18 PM, EDT
It's official--today I started the next phase of my cancer treatment!
I started chemo today. Woo hoo!!!! I've said this to so many people in person, but you know that your world has been turned upside down, when you can't wait to start chemo. Really--I couldn't wait. I wanted it to start--today. I needed it to start--today. We are quite fond of the number 25, and I wanted my chemo treatments to be on Thursdays. I didn't want to lose my Thursday spot :)
So when my appointment went well with the reconstructive nurses this morning, they cleared me for chemo. This afternoon I met with my oncologist and had my first of eight chemo treatments. It all went well and super easy--just an hour today. I had super well trained and educated health professionals (and a lovely room with heated blankets--I love the heated blankets). J was with me to help take in all of the information that they give with you before, during and after treatment.
I feel great now. And, although side effects vary, I should start to feel some form of some side effects tomorrow evening through Saturday/Sunday. Ah, I love the certainty of the uncertainty of the side effects . . .
So as my good "friend" Fran Drescher might say--and maybe she has said--CHEMO SCHMEMO. (I'm sure I'll be singing a different tune in a day or two) but for now--
CHEMO SCHMEMO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
As always, moving forward,
with many thanks for and much love,
Barbara
I started chemo today. Woo hoo!!!! I've said this to so many people in person, but you know that your world has been turned upside down, when you can't wait to start chemo. Really--I couldn't wait. I wanted it to start--today. I needed it to start--today. We are quite fond of the number 25, and I wanted my chemo treatments to be on Thursdays. I didn't want to lose my Thursday spot :)
So when my appointment went well with the reconstructive nurses this morning, they cleared me for chemo. This afternoon I met with my oncologist and had my first of eight chemo treatments. It all went well and super easy--just an hour today. I had super well trained and educated health professionals (and a lovely room with heated blankets--I love the heated blankets). J was with me to help take in all of the information that they give with you before, during and after treatment.
I feel great now. And, although side effects vary, I should start to feel some form of some side effects tomorrow evening through Saturday/Sunday. Ah, I love the certainty of the uncertainty of the side effects . . .
So as my good "friend" Fran Drescher might say--and maybe she has said--CHEMO SCHMEMO. (I'm sure I'll be singing a different tune in a day or two) but for now--
CHEMO SCHMEMO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
As always, moving forward,
with many thanks for and much love,
Barbara
(For the record, Fran Drescher did not have chemotherapy. She was diagnosed with uterine cancer and chemotherapy was not part of her treatment protocol. My fact checker, if I had a fact checker, would have caught that when this entry was originally posted).
Wednesday, March 31, 2010 7:05 PM, EDT
So I lasted until Saturday afternoon with minimal chemo side effects--and then they hit me. Let's just say that I now have full respect for chemotherapy. I'm feeling much much better today--but Saturday afternoon, Sunday and Monday I had a strange combination of exhaustion, nausea, head ache and a general foggy-out of it-weak feeling. Also, I somehow had this crazy expectation that I would start feeling better suddenly--on Monday, I had planned. And, it just didn't work that way. The side effects hit me gradually and are leaving me gradually. J says it would strange if I didn't have any side effects--while I'm sure that's true--I think I could deal with that kind of strange.
I'm feeling close to 100% today--and I should only be feeling better and stronger--until next time. But, there's a lot of time between now and next week. . .
moving forward (with a new found respect for chemotherapy and people who have gone through it),
love,
Barbara
I'm feeling close to 100% today--and I should only be feeling better and stronger--until next time. But, there's a lot of time between now and next week. . .
moving forward (with a new found respect for chemotherapy and people who have gone through it),
love,
Barbara
Tuesday, April 6, 2010 5:21 PM, EDT
I'm happy and relieved to report that I have continued to feel better and very much like myself since last Wednesday. It's reassuring to have come through one round of chemo feeling good on the other side.
I have my second treatment this Thursday.
But, the bigger news is that I expect to start losing my hair this week. I've been told that it should start to fall out anytime from 12-16 days after my first treatment. So, in anticipation of that, I have scheduled my second wig fitting. Instead of waiting and seeing when and how my hair falls out--I'm taking a little control here and having my hair taken off and my wig fit on Saturday. So, if you see me after Saturday, I will have hair (or a hat or a scarf) on--just not my own. I feel like the adults in my life are all expecting this, as I've always known that chemo and hair loss would be part of my treatment plan--but the children in my children's lives are not expecting my new hair. So now is the time that my cancer becomes more obvious and more public. I'm sure that there will be some questions--and I'm sure that every family will answer in ways that feels best to them. But, I thought I'd share what my children know and that might help guide what you choose to share with your children.
My children know that I had breast cancer. I have an amazing surgeon, and I had surgery, and she took the cancer out of my body. Now I need to take medicine every other week to make sure that all of the cancer is completely gone. And, the medicine is great, because it knows exactly how to do its job and get rid of the cancer. But, it will make me lose my hair. So, I'll wear a wig or a hat or a scarf until my hair grows back.
That all sounds so easy, right? Not so much. My hair loss has been particularly and appropriately hard on E--my sweet E of the long and beautiful brown hair. First she is distraught that I will lose my hair and second, she is upset that now everyone will know our cancer news. I think that it's been very safe and comforting for her to go to school everyday and not think or talk about cancer--she had asked that we only tell her teacher. And, I've honored that, but now I feel strongly that my cancer is not a secret--it's really just a part of our lives for now. And, if my children and your children see me around strong and happy and myself but with a wig or hat or scarf on, I feel like it all might be a very little less scary the next time (I hope it's a long time from now) they hear that someone has cancer. I hope.
Or . . . maybe the wig will look so great--the kids will all just think that I finally got my hair colored and not ask about it at all.
As always, moving forward,
with love and tremendous gratitude for the family and friends who continue to support me and my family,
Barbara
I have my second treatment this Thursday.
But, the bigger news is that I expect to start losing my hair this week. I've been told that it should start to fall out anytime from 12-16 days after my first treatment. So, in anticipation of that, I have scheduled my second wig fitting. Instead of waiting and seeing when and how my hair falls out--I'm taking a little control here and having my hair taken off and my wig fit on Saturday. So, if you see me after Saturday, I will have hair (or a hat or a scarf) on--just not my own. I feel like the adults in my life are all expecting this, as I've always known that chemo and hair loss would be part of my treatment plan--but the children in my children's lives are not expecting my new hair. So now is the time that my cancer becomes more obvious and more public. I'm sure that there will be some questions--and I'm sure that every family will answer in ways that feels best to them. But, I thought I'd share what my children know and that might help guide what you choose to share with your children.
My children know that I had breast cancer. I have an amazing surgeon, and I had surgery, and she took the cancer out of my body. Now I need to take medicine every other week to make sure that all of the cancer is completely gone. And, the medicine is great, because it knows exactly how to do its job and get rid of the cancer. But, it will make me lose my hair. So, I'll wear a wig or a hat or a scarf until my hair grows back.
That all sounds so easy, right? Not so much. My hair loss has been particularly and appropriately hard on E--my sweet E of the long and beautiful brown hair. First she is distraught that I will lose my hair and second, she is upset that now everyone will know our cancer news. I think that it's been very safe and comforting for her to go to school everyday and not think or talk about cancer--she had asked that we only tell her teacher. And, I've honored that, but now I feel strongly that my cancer is not a secret--it's really just a part of our lives for now. And, if my children and your children see me around strong and happy and myself but with a wig or hat or scarf on, I feel like it all might be a very little less scary the next time (I hope it's a long time from now) they hear that someone has cancer. I hope.
Or . . . maybe the wig will look so great--the kids will all just think that I finally got my hair colored and not ask about it at all.
As always, moving forward,
with love and tremendous gratitude for the family and friends who continue to support me and my family,
Barbara
Thursday, April 8, 2010 9:07 PM, EDT
I had my second chemo treatment today. Cross it off the list! (Doesn't it seem like I was just having my first treatment?) A good friend (who just happened to do me the tremendous favor of having breast cancer and being treated at Sloan Kettering last year) reminds me that time flies even when you're not having fun--and it's really true. And, sometimes, even most of the time, I am still having fun. Tonight before bed, we all cuddled in bed as J read a chapter of "How to Train Your Dragon" to us. Fun.
So treatment two--it's not really the end of the treatment cycle until the side effects subside, and I feel like myself again. So I'm not there yet. But, today was a great start. First, it couldn't have been a more beautiful day. And, second I was feeling so good I decided to walk to and from the Scarsdale train station. I had many offers from friends for rides, but the weather was great, and I felt good. It was so nice to be able to do something the "before chemo me" would do. And, then, I love the train, I had all of that train time to knit. I met Jay at Grand Central, and we went to the "Sloan Spa" together.
Before my treatments, I always worry that my nurse, Jenny, will not be able to find a good vein for the IV--although she tells me frequently that I have "beautiful veins." She is aware that I can't watch or hear about any part of the IV insertion (I pass out)--so today, as I reclined in my chair and watched an episode of 30 Rock on my new iPod iTouch (a generous gift from very dear friends), Jenny did her thing and put the IV in without any trouble. I love that Jenny. One hour later, I was done and Jay and I were in a cab to Grand Central. Now I'll wait and see what and when my side effects will be this time.
On Tuesday night I (in addition to worrying about my veins), I started worrying that my hair wasn't falling out. I had thought so much about exactly when and how to go for my "second wig fitting," and my hair still wasn't falling out. I thought it would be ironic and weird to show up with my wig and with my own fully intact hair. But, as if on cue, and just as friends and my oncologist said, on days 12-13 my hair is slowly and gently failing out--one, two strands at a time. It's not at all what I thought. Not scary or freaky--even to E and A. It's actually fairy like. I have a lot of hair, and it's just gently "releasing" (I think the oncologists (or the wig guy) used that word for hair loss). Now if I were writing a screen play and if Tim Burton were directing it (stay with me here, I'm on many anti-side effect drugs tonight), I imagine this surreal scene would have me in New York City with shiny brown and gray hair strands floating and following me around--I definitely had hair flying out the cab window and floating around me in Grand Central today and for sure on the walk home. I'm not in denial here (although I do sometimes think of this whole cancer thing as completely surreal--and also sometimes as a screenplay), it is just such a gift that the hair loss is gentle and slow--for now. And honestly, it is good that it has started. It's all a sign that the chemo is working, and I really am ready for the wig--that I have lovingly named "Twiggy."
Shocker--E hates the name. A and E prefer "Pig the Wig." Not an option.
My wig, my name.
as always, moving forward,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara
So treatment two--it's not really the end of the treatment cycle until the side effects subside, and I feel like myself again. So I'm not there yet. But, today was a great start. First, it couldn't have been a more beautiful day. And, second I was feeling so good I decided to walk to and from the Scarsdale train station. I had many offers from friends for rides, but the weather was great, and I felt good. It was so nice to be able to do something the "before chemo me" would do. And, then, I love the train, I had all of that train time to knit. I met Jay at Grand Central, and we went to the "Sloan Spa" together.
Before my treatments, I always worry that my nurse, Jenny, will not be able to find a good vein for the IV--although she tells me frequently that I have "beautiful veins." She is aware that I can't watch or hear about any part of the IV insertion (I pass out)--so today, as I reclined in my chair and watched an episode of 30 Rock on my new iPod iTouch (a generous gift from very dear friends), Jenny did her thing and put the IV in without any trouble. I love that Jenny. One hour later, I was done and Jay and I were in a cab to Grand Central. Now I'll wait and see what and when my side effects will be this time.
On Tuesday night I (in addition to worrying about my veins), I started worrying that my hair wasn't falling out. I had thought so much about exactly when and how to go for my "second wig fitting," and my hair still wasn't falling out. I thought it would be ironic and weird to show up with my wig and with my own fully intact hair. But, as if on cue, and just as friends and my oncologist said, on days 12-13 my hair is slowly and gently failing out--one, two strands at a time. It's not at all what I thought. Not scary or freaky--even to E and A. It's actually fairy like. I have a lot of hair, and it's just gently "releasing" (I think the oncologists (or the wig guy) used that word for hair loss). Now if I were writing a screen play and if Tim Burton were directing it (stay with me here, I'm on many anti-side effect drugs tonight), I imagine this surreal scene would have me in New York City with shiny brown and gray hair strands floating and following me around--I definitely had hair flying out the cab window and floating around me in Grand Central today and for sure on the walk home. I'm not in denial here (although I do sometimes think of this whole cancer thing as completely surreal--and also sometimes as a screenplay), it is just such a gift that the hair loss is gentle and slow--for now. And honestly, it is good that it has started. It's all a sign that the chemo is working, and I really am ready for the wig--that I have lovingly named "Twiggy."
Shocker--E hates the name. A and E prefer "Pig the Wig." Not an option.
My wig, my name.
as always, moving forward,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara
Wednesday, April 14, 2010 9:25 AM, EDT
I'm out of the chemo fog! Consider chemo treatment number two DONE!
Funny thing about this cancer/cancer treatment is that it's full of surprises. The side effects to the second treatment really weren't like the side effects to the first. My oncologist had mentioned that the side effects might start sooner, last longer, or be more intense--not true this time. If anything, they were slightly milder. Surprise!
Another surprise of this whole cancer treatment journey was that going for my second wig fitting (euphemism for having my head shaved and starting to wear my wig full time) this weekend was not traumatic. Hair releasing, second fitting--both such gentle euphemisms.
I had chosen my wig with J, E and A back in January. And, I knew that E was very sad and nervous about me choosing to have my hair removed before it all fell out, and she was very nervous about seeing me in the wig. And, I think Andrew was nervous too--just not as out there about it. And, I was worried about them worrying. But, really, the planning and anticipation were much worse than the actual event. Surprise!
I went back to Bitz-n-Pieces (the wig salon where I bought the wig) with two amazing and funny and supportive friends. And, Edward, my very kind stylist, really let us turn the event into a fun celebration of moving forward in this whole process--the sooner my hair falls out, the sooner it will grow back.
It felt a little like a private party. As Edward talked to me about the wig, the receptionists offered us coffee and cappuccino. As Edward prepared my head, he complimented my head shape and let us interject our own silliness and commentary (How often do you have the opportunity to have your friends and hair stylist go on and on about the shape of your head and the perfect size of your ears? Who knows what your head looks like under all of that hair?) And, I must say, when it was all done, the consensus was I looked a little like Sinead O'Connor circa 1992. Not too bad.
Then, Edward styled the wig, put it on, gave me some maintenance lessons, and we were done and ready to go out to lunch. I know that I say it all the time, but it really felt like moving forward. Fast forward. And, for all of the anticipation and worry, there were no tears. Surprise!
(Or, at least no tears until Edward asked me if he could use my old hair. He said he could put the hair to good use. The idea of my old brown and gray hair being put to good use--that got me. I loved that old brown and gray hair).
So check out my new profile shot--introducing one of my many new (but temporary) looks of 2010!
moving fast forward, with love and gratitude,
Barbara
Funny thing about this cancer/cancer treatment is that it's full of surprises. The side effects to the second treatment really weren't like the side effects to the first. My oncologist had mentioned that the side effects might start sooner, last longer, or be more intense--not true this time. If anything, they were slightly milder. Surprise!
Another surprise of this whole cancer treatment journey was that going for my second wig fitting (euphemism for having my head shaved and starting to wear my wig full time) this weekend was not traumatic. Hair releasing, second fitting--both such gentle euphemisms.
I had chosen my wig with J, E and A back in January. And, I knew that E was very sad and nervous about me choosing to have my hair removed before it all fell out, and she was very nervous about seeing me in the wig. And, I think Andrew was nervous too--just not as out there about it. And, I was worried about them worrying. But, really, the planning and anticipation were much worse than the actual event. Surprise!
I went back to Bitz-n-Pieces (the wig salon where I bought the wig) with two amazing and funny and supportive friends. And, Edward, my very kind stylist, really let us turn the event into a fun celebration of moving forward in this whole process--the sooner my hair falls out, the sooner it will grow back.
It felt a little like a private party. As Edward talked to me about the wig, the receptionists offered us coffee and cappuccino. As Edward prepared my head, he complimented my head shape and let us interject our own silliness and commentary (How often do you have the opportunity to have your friends and hair stylist go on and on about the shape of your head and the perfect size of your ears? Who knows what your head looks like under all of that hair?) And, I must say, when it was all done, the consensus was I looked a little like Sinead O'Connor circa 1992. Not too bad.
Then, Edward styled the wig, put it on, gave me some maintenance lessons, and we were done and ready to go out to lunch. I know that I say it all the time, but it really felt like moving forward. Fast forward. And, for all of the anticipation and worry, there were no tears. Surprise!
(Or, at least no tears until Edward asked me if he could use my old hair. He said he could put the hair to good use. The idea of my old brown and gray hair being put to good use--that got me. I loved that old brown and gray hair).
So check out my new profile shot--introducing one of my many new (but temporary) looks of 2010!
moving fast forward, with love and gratitude,
Barbara
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| Who is that woman? |
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| Wig celebration |
Friday, April 23, 2010 5:58 PM, EDT
Quick update. I had my third chemo treatment yesterday, and I felt great throughout the day. I kept to my routine of walking to and from the train (the weather held out--I wasn't looking forward to what the wig might look like if I got caught in the rain). But then when I got home, I was exhausted. There was a lot of waiting at Sloan yesterday that may have added to my exhaustion or just the cumulative effects of all of this chemo starting to kick in.
I started to worry that my exhaustion that normally hits on Saturday night was hitting Thursday. Thursday to Tuesday exhaustion would mean a whole lot of sitting around watching TV (some good and most very bad--Real Housewives Of New York, anyone?) and knitting (always good) until Tuesday night. But, I slept it off last night and then napped again this morning, and I'm feeling back to my usual waiting-for-side-effects-to-hit self.
So that's the technical part of today's entry. The very personal part of today's post is that I continue to be overwhelmed by the love and support that we continue to receive from our friends and family. Car pools and play dates and meals (and organizing of said car pools and play dates and meals) and family dinners and quick lunches and emails and gifts--and just, in general, so many people staying in touch. Overwhelmed is really not even an adequate word (and since I'm headed into chemo brain fog--I will be unable to access a better word until Tuesday).
And, then there's the laughter. There has been a lot of laughter too. I have learned more of what I already knew; I have many very funny friends. And, apparently a funny daughter as well. Last week, I was coughing, and E said, completely dead pan "hair ball?" A very funny joke given all of the wig talk going on around here. Typically, the jokes are just your general bald, wig, and cancer jokes. But, when we're laughing we're really and truly laughing--which is just plain fun and funny to be laughing when I could so easily be crying. I'm so thankful for the laughter.
I have always tended to be a private and independent person--I just never could have imagined that so many people would not only volunteer, but insist on helping us out as we go through this temporary, but at times, very challenging time. I'm also a planner--and really, there is no way that I ever could have planned on all of the support we have received. It is really something I never could have imagined or planned--but I am truly thankful for every day.
moving forward, and laughing,
with much love and many, many thanks,
Barbara
I started to worry that my exhaustion that normally hits on Saturday night was hitting Thursday. Thursday to Tuesday exhaustion would mean a whole lot of sitting around watching TV (some good and most very bad--Real Housewives Of New York, anyone?) and knitting (always good) until Tuesday night. But, I slept it off last night and then napped again this morning, and I'm feeling back to my usual waiting-for-side-effects-to-hit self.
So that's the technical part of today's entry. The very personal part of today's post is that I continue to be overwhelmed by the love and support that we continue to receive from our friends and family. Car pools and play dates and meals (and organizing of said car pools and play dates and meals) and family dinners and quick lunches and emails and gifts--and just, in general, so many people staying in touch. Overwhelmed is really not even an adequate word (and since I'm headed into chemo brain fog--I will be unable to access a better word until Tuesday).
And, then there's the laughter. There has been a lot of laughter too. I have learned more of what I already knew; I have many very funny friends. And, apparently a funny daughter as well. Last week, I was coughing, and E said, completely dead pan "hair ball?" A very funny joke given all of the wig talk going on around here. Typically, the jokes are just your general bald, wig, and cancer jokes. But, when we're laughing we're really and truly laughing--which is just plain fun and funny to be laughing when I could so easily be crying. I'm so thankful for the laughter.
I have always tended to be a private and independent person--I just never could have imagined that so many people would not only volunteer, but insist on helping us out as we go through this temporary, but at times, very challenging time. I'm also a planner--and really, there is no way that I ever could have planned on all of the support we have received. It is really something I never could have imagined or planned--but I am truly thankful for every day.
moving forward, and laughing,
with much love and many, many thanks,
Barbara
Thursday, April 29, 2010
It's official--chemo fog from treatment number three has lifted. Three of the four first set of treatments down--one to go! (And, then four rounds of another treatment).
On a lighter note, this morning E asked what time the woman who cleans our house would be leaving. I said "Around 3:30--she'll be out of our hair before we get home." And, deadpan, my daughter said, with a preteen twinkle in her eye "but, you don't have any."
That's my girl! And, that's why I'm (we're) still laughing.
moving forward,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara
On a lighter note, this morning E asked what time the woman who cleans our house would be leaving. I said "Around 3:30--she'll be out of our hair before we get home." And, deadpan, my daughter said, with a preteen twinkle in her eye "but, you don't have any."
That's my girl! And, that's why I'm (we're) still laughing.
moving forward,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
So this is what it’s like to be in my head on some days. On Monday night as J and I were watching the news, we heard that Lynn Redgrave died. I said “I wonder of what?” J said nothing—although he knew the answer. Then the news report said “after a long battle with breast cancer.”
I have this thing (obsession) with celebrities and breast cancer. When I was first diagnosed my surgeon told me that I was a good candidate for a lumpectomy--followed by chemotherapy and radiation. I did a little research on all the celebrities I could think of with breast cancer and decided I was Melissa Etheridge’s cancer twin. I was going to have the same course of treatment as Melissa (and if she was okay, I would be okay too).
Every time I thought of a celebrity with breast cancer, I would google her to find out her cancer type and course of treatment. I couldn’t be Sheryl Crow’s cancer twin—she had a lumpectomy followed by radiation. I wasn’t Elizabeth Edward’s cancer twin. Or Christina Applegate’s. Or Suzanne Somers’. Or Cynthia Nixon’s.
Every time I thought of a celebrity with breast cancer, I would google her to find out her cancer type and course of treatment. I couldn’t be Sheryl Crow’s cancer twin—she had a lumpectomy followed by radiation. I wasn’t Elizabeth Edward’s cancer twin. Or Christina Applegate’s. Or Suzanne Somers’. Or Cynthia Nixon’s.
I liked being Melissa Etheridge’s cancer twin. I remember her singing with Joss Stone at the 2005 Grammys—bald and amazing and strong. I drove around in my car singing (sometimes loudly) along with her song “I Run for Life.” When I found out that I needed a mastectomy, in a strange way, I was a little sad that I wasn’t Melissa’s cancer twin anymore. (Although, if the people from the Grammys come calling, I’m ready for my duet with Joss. . .)
Anyway, I have this thing (obsession) with celebrities who have had a similar course of treatment as mine and celebrities with breast cancer in general. So the Lynn Redgrave news hit me hard—even though we were never cancer twins. The news was sad. The lights were dimmed on Broadway Tuesday night.
But, also on Tuesday night, on Glee—Olivia Newton John had a guest appearance. She was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1992 and had a double mastectomy followed by chemotherapy. Olivia Newton John is not my cancer twin, but on a sad Lynn Redgrave day, it was comforting to see Olivia Newton John looking great, singing in an updated, very funny video of “Physical” with Jane Lynch, and alive. I must say, I was somewhat Glee-ful.
But, also on Tuesday night, on Glee—Olivia Newton John had a guest appearance. She was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1992 and had a double mastectomy followed by chemotherapy. Olivia Newton John is not my cancer twin, but on a sad Lynn Redgrave day, it was comforting to see Olivia Newton John looking great, singing in an updated, very funny video of “Physical” with Jane Lynch, and alive. I must say, I was somewhat Glee-ful.
I go for my fourth chemo treatment tomorrow—the last of the first series of four treatments. And, then there will be four more treatments of another type of chemo—also every other week. Once the side effects of tomorrow’s treatment fade next week—I will be officially halfway done with chemotherapy—much like the many celebrity and many more non-celebrity women who have gone through this before me.
Moving forward, with love and gratitude,
Barbara
Saturday, May 15, 2010 10:41 AM, EDT
It's official--I'm officially done with half of my chemo treatments. I've said before that I don't consider myself done with a treatment until the side effects subside and the "fog" lifts. This time the "fog" took a long, very long, time to lift. Today I am finally feeling like myself. So, four treatments done--cross them off the list! I'm actually done with the whole first set of four treatments. The next four treatments (also every other week) will be a different chemo drug with altogether different side effects.
I somehow thought that at the halfway mark I would be a little more excited and celebratory. J couldn't wait to celebrate--that's my husband, the optimist. He brought home gelato and super dark chocolate Wednesday night for dessert to mark the occasion. But, here's the weird thing. I really didn't and don't feel like celebrating. I know that halfway is a big milestone. But, oy, I can't believe that I'm ONLY halfway done. I feel like I've been sprinting through the first half of all of this. After this last treatment my body and brain reminded me that I'm not running a sprint. This cancer process really is a marathon--like the NYC marathon on an unseasonably hot day. And, somehow, last week, I got stuck in Brooklyn. (Or, actually, stuck on the couch in my den knitting and watching bad (or good, depending on your perspective, TV)).
In my cancer marathon I have friends and family cheering me on the whole way--truly like the NYC marathon. But, when it all comes down to it when the side effects hit--no matter how understanding Jay is (and he really is), or how resilient E and A are, or how smart my doctor is, or how beautiful the Sloan spa is, or how many delicious meals friends deliver to our house or take me out to, when it comes down to it, I am running the side effects on my own. And, after this last treatment, this week the finish line seemed so far away. But, today, as the fog lifts, I finally feel like I'm getting back up and ready to head over the Pulaski Bridge.
(That was a very long marathon metaphor for someone who rarely runs and prefers yoga--but it really did seem to fit how I've been feeling).
But, whether it's a sprint or a marathon, I can't believe it's already the middle of May. And, for the most part, we're all doing things that we usually do in May. Andrew is playing t-ball. Elizabeth is playing soccer. We celebrated Mother's day last week as a foursome in a very low key, but sweet way. I started to cry as I opened my gifts and read the cards from the kids, and Andrew said "those are tears of happiness, right?" E had her Spring Music Concert at school on Monday--she sang in the chorus and played clarinet in the band. And, both E and A are super excited about going back to their summer camps this year.
So, look out Queens, I'm ready to hit mile 14, and start the second half of this marathon.
Moving forward, with love and appreciation,
Barbara
I somehow thought that at the halfway mark I would be a little more excited and celebratory. J couldn't wait to celebrate--that's my husband, the optimist. He brought home gelato and super dark chocolate Wednesday night for dessert to mark the occasion. But, here's the weird thing. I really didn't and don't feel like celebrating. I know that halfway is a big milestone. But, oy, I can't believe that I'm ONLY halfway done. I feel like I've been sprinting through the first half of all of this. After this last treatment my body and brain reminded me that I'm not running a sprint. This cancer process really is a marathon--like the NYC marathon on an unseasonably hot day. And, somehow, last week, I got stuck in Brooklyn. (Or, actually, stuck on the couch in my den knitting and watching bad (or good, depending on your perspective, TV)).
In my cancer marathon I have friends and family cheering me on the whole way--truly like the NYC marathon. But, when it all comes down to it when the side effects hit--no matter how understanding Jay is (and he really is), or how resilient E and A are, or how smart my doctor is, or how beautiful the Sloan spa is, or how many delicious meals friends deliver to our house or take me out to, when it comes down to it, I am running the side effects on my own. And, after this last treatment, this week the finish line seemed so far away. But, today, as the fog lifts, I finally feel like I'm getting back up and ready to head over the Pulaski Bridge.
(That was a very long marathon metaphor for someone who rarely runs and prefers yoga--but it really did seem to fit how I've been feeling).
But, whether it's a sprint or a marathon, I can't believe it's already the middle of May. And, for the most part, we're all doing things that we usually do in May. Andrew is playing t-ball. Elizabeth is playing soccer. We celebrated Mother's day last week as a foursome in a very low key, but sweet way. I started to cry as I opened my gifts and read the cards from the kids, and Andrew said "those are tears of happiness, right?" E had her Spring Music Concert at school on Monday--she sang in the chorus and played clarinet in the band. And, both E and A are super excited about going back to their summer camps this year.
So, look out Queens, I'm ready to hit mile 14, and start the second half of this marathon.
Moving forward, with love and appreciation,
Barbara
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Last Thursday, I had my fifth chemo treatment of eight. I am now 62.5 percent done with my treatments. And, to me that feels so much better than half done.
Half done, half baked, half assed.
To me, five out of eight treatments completed feels so significant. While I still take nothing for granted, and I fully respect the strength of the drugs that I get--after the three hour infusion I really felt like I had accomplished something great--something incredibly incredible--something like defying gravity. Last week, in anticipation of being 62.5 percent done with chemo, I was singing "Defying Gravity"(from Wicked) in my chemo suite. I'm often singing songs from that show--in the car, in the house, in Whole Foods. So I was singing and somewhat euphoric and a little loopy too (which may have had something to do with the steroids I get before treatments to prevent any allergic reactions) in my cancer suite. In addition to "Defying Gravity," I was also trying to write and sing lyrics to a cancer song set to the tune of Adam Sandler's "Hanukkah Song." Truly, I was writing and singing about cancer in my chemo suite.
And, it goes a little something like this:
"Sheryl Crow, she had ductal cancer in situ--she had a lumpectomy with radiation--
just like Sarah Jessica Parker's friend--Cynthia Nixon.
Melissa Etheridge had a lumpectomy--she needed chemo and radiation.
She's working hard to have pot legalized--as medication.
Forget the new recommendation--to start getting mammograms at 50,
I ignored them--and finding my cancer at forty was--nifty.
(chorus)
So go tell all your friends to get mammograms,
and they should also get sonograms. . .
You get the idea.
So this time, I was euphoric and celebrating and singing and crossing number five off the list way before the side effects hit.
It turns out that like most people, my taxol side effects are general exhaustion and bone pain. Mine lasted for two and a half days.
A year ago, I was getting ready to celebrate my fortieth birthday. Jay and I spent a great night in the city together. And, then we spent a day in the city with E and A, and we saw Wicked. We've been singing songs from the soundtrack since--"defying gravity" all the time. But, last week, 62.5 percent done truly felt like defying some other kind of gravity.
moving forward,
with much love and tremendous gratitude for all of the help that keeps the whole Mitchell family moving forward,
Barbara
Half done, half baked, half assed.
To me, five out of eight treatments completed feels so significant. While I still take nothing for granted, and I fully respect the strength of the drugs that I get--after the three hour infusion I really felt like I had accomplished something great--something incredibly incredible--something like defying gravity. Last week, in anticipation of being 62.5 percent done with chemo, I was singing "Defying Gravity"(from Wicked) in my chemo suite. I'm often singing songs from that show--in the car, in the house, in Whole Foods. So I was singing and somewhat euphoric and a little loopy too (which may have had something to do with the steroids I get before treatments to prevent any allergic reactions) in my cancer suite. In addition to "Defying Gravity," I was also trying to write and sing lyrics to a cancer song set to the tune of Adam Sandler's "Hanukkah Song." Truly, I was writing and singing about cancer in my chemo suite.
And, it goes a little something like this:
"Sheryl Crow, she had ductal cancer in situ--she had a lumpectomy with radiation--
just like Sarah Jessica Parker's friend--Cynthia Nixon.
Melissa Etheridge had a lumpectomy--she needed chemo and radiation.
She's working hard to have pot legalized--as medication.
Forget the new recommendation--to start getting mammograms at 50,
I ignored them--and finding my cancer at forty was--nifty.
(chorus)
So go tell all your friends to get mammograms,
and they should also get sonograms. . .
You get the idea.
So this time, I was euphoric and celebrating and singing and crossing number five off the list way before the side effects hit.
It turns out that like most people, my taxol side effects are general exhaustion and bone pain. Mine lasted for two and a half days.
A year ago, I was getting ready to celebrate my fortieth birthday. Jay and I spent a great night in the city together. And, then we spent a day in the city with E and A, and we saw Wicked. We've been singing songs from the soundtrack since--"defying gravity" all the time. But, last week, 62.5 percent done truly felt like defying some other kind of gravity.
moving forward,
with much love and tremendous gratitude for all of the help that keeps the whole Mitchell family moving forward,
Barbara
Thursday, May 27, 2010
It’s not my typical form to cross any treatment off the list until the side effects have come and gone.
But, this week, call me crazy, call me optimistic, “call me irresponsible, tell me I’m impractical,” I’m feeling good (a little tired, but good and very loaded up on steroids), and I’m crossing today’s treatment—number six of eight—off the list. After this week’s side effects fade—hopefully by Wednesday—I will be 75% done with my chemo treatments.
But, this week, call me crazy, call me optimistic, “call me irresponsible, tell me I’m impractical,” I’m feeling good (a little tired, but good and very loaded up on steroids), and I’m crossing today’s treatment—number six of eight—off the list. After this week’s side effects fade—hopefully by Wednesday—I will be 75% done with my chemo treatments.
Today was an easy day. The three-hour treatment in my chemo suite, in the reclining chair, with the heated blankets, and the box lunch was very relaxing and restful. Every time that I go to the Evelyn Lauder Breast Center at MSKCC I am reminded of how incredibly lucky Jay and I are to have such amazing health care. “Call me unpredictable; tell me I’m impractical; these (health care) rainbows I’m inclined to pursue.” You can even call me a socialist, but I truly wish that everyone in my situation had access to such phenomenal health care.
I've said it before, but it’s worth saying again that I am incredibly happy with my doctors at Memorial Sloan Kettering. Here are their names--again (although, I truly hope you never need to call them or refer anyone to them), Alexandra Heerdt is my breast surgeon—and general leader of my team. I often say that I love her as much as I love J (I’m not kidding). I knew when J and I met with her in January that she was the doctor who was going to make me healthy. She honestly “had me at hello.” I haven’t seen her in months, and when we spoke this week (she returned a call of mine from her cell phone on Tuesday night at 5:45 to help me clear up some reconstructive surgery scheduling questions), she casually asked how my knitting was going. My knitting! I think that Alex Heerdt has seen me knit twice in her office. She is an amazing doctor, a wife and a mother of three--and she remembered my knitting--and she also asked about our family vacation in Maine at the end of August. I love her (as much as I love Jay. He knows that I do, and he's okay with it. He likes her a lot too).
And, equally as fabulous, Gabriella D’Andrea is my medical oncologist. These strong, smart, caring women (and mothers) and their nurses have turned me from a complete health pessimist--some (Jay) might say hypochondriac--to an optimist. They have made this entire process completely tolerable. They both independently remind me that we’re all doing everything that we’re doing (surgery, chemo, radiation) so that I live to be 90 years old. Ninety years old!
And, I believe them, I truly in my head and heart believe them, and I’ll take their goal of 90 years old. . . as long as I can look and sound as good as Betty White. Betty White, at 88, hosting Saturday Night Live--that’s what I’m going for. I've been thinking a lot of Betty today as she lost her last "Golden" friend, Rue McClanahan (76, diagnosed with breast cancer in 1997). She died from a stroke (NOT from breast cancer) yesterday. You’d think that I’d take this opportunity to quote or sing the "Golden Girls" theme song—I’m not feeling it tonight--no singing. Instead, I’ll just say, rest in peace “Blanche Devereaux.”
And, I believe them, I truly in my head and heart believe them, and I’ll take their goal of 90 years old. . . as long as I can look and sound as good as Betty White. Betty White, at 88, hosting Saturday Night Live--that’s what I’m going for. I've been thinking a lot of Betty today as she lost her last "Golden" friend, Rue McClanahan (76, diagnosed with breast cancer in 1997). She died from a stroke (NOT from breast cancer) yesterday. You’d think that I’d take this opportunity to quote or sing the "Golden Girls" theme song—I’m not feeling it tonight--no singing. Instead, I’ll just say, rest in peace “Blanche Devereaux.”
Moving forward, with love and gratitude,
Barbara
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Seven down . . . one to go.
I always say that I like to wait until my side effects subside to update CaringBridge, but the funny thing about this treatment is that there was no time for side effects. We have been super busy with so many good things and happy celebrations that I had a hard time letting this treatment get me down.
I realized that so much of feeling good during the times that might not always feel so good is just showing up and being there--for E and for A and for J and for me too. So side effects or not--I put my wig on, swiped on some lip gloss, smiled a big smile and got myself to all of the end of year parties, picnics, soccer games, camp preparations, friend's birthday celebration, and father's day. And, really, the being there was great. I can't imagine having missed any of it.
But, today is an official full day of rest . . . so I can be ready to get E on the bus for sleep away camp on Friday and get A ready for day camp on Monday.
Cancer or no cancer, our family beat goes on . . .
moving forward (87.5% done with chemo),
with much love and gratitude,
Barbara
I always say that I like to wait until my side effects subside to update CaringBridge, but the funny thing about this treatment is that there was no time for side effects. We have been super busy with so many good things and happy celebrations that I had a hard time letting this treatment get me down.
I realized that so much of feeling good during the times that might not always feel so good is just showing up and being there--for E and for A and for J and for me too. So side effects or not--I put my wig on, swiped on some lip gloss, smiled a big smile and got myself to all of the end of year parties, picnics, soccer games, camp preparations, friend's birthday celebration, and father's day. And, really, the being there was great. I can't imagine having missed any of it.
But, today is an official full day of rest . . . so I can be ready to get E on the bus for sleep away camp on Friday and get A ready for day camp on Monday.
Cancer or no cancer, our family beat goes on . . .
moving forward (87.5% done with chemo),
with much love and gratitude,
Barbara
 | |
| Leaving for the Camp W. bus |
 |
| Andrew's first day of camp |
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Side effects notwithstanding, I am officially done with my eight chemotherapy treatments today. 100% done.
I feel like Ann-Margret in the opening scene of "Bye, Bye Birdie," but I'm singing "Bye, Bye Chemo." I feel like Sarah Brightman singing "Time to Say Goodbye." I feel like Patti Smyth singing "Goodbye to You."
But, I didn't feel like that this morning. I've been looking forward to July 1st as a huge milestone day for a long time. But, this morning, it was July 1st, and it felt like just another day in my new life with cancer--when a cancer treatment seems like just another day. My odd new reality.
Sometimes when I have a minute to myself, and I think about it, it all still seems so crazy to me that I had cancer. I had four surgeries; I had eight chemotherapy treatments; I will have reconstructive surgery and I will have radiation treatment. Crazy!
Sometimes it's hard to believe and harder to remember how I got from learning about my diagnosis in December to today. Cancer, really? It sometimes still shocks me that this is my life. I know that I had cancer, and I know that I've done everything I can so far to prevent a recurrence. It's sometimes hard to believe. It just feels like a weird game of my brain catching up to my body.
My body has been going through the motions of getting myself to Sloan Kettering and handling everything that MSKCC throws at it (thank you, body for getting through the treatments). And, my brain has put blinders on to keep me focused. On my chemo treatment days, I had a set routine. No matter what time my appointments were, I left the house at the same time; I took the same train; I bought the same sandwich for lunch; I asked for the same chemo nurse; and I had my kid(s) go to the same friend's house after school/camp for all eight treatments. The routine is not as much superstitious (or OCD) as comforting. There's something very comforting (and maybe a little OCD) in having all of the little details decided in advance.
So now with both kids happily at camp (it's yet to be determined who is happier, me or them, or maybe I'm so happy that they are so happy) I have a little time to really let my body heal and let my mind start to catch up to everything that's happened in the last six months. I know that catching up will take a long time; a lot has gone on. But, I've got time. Like my breast surgeon said "we're doing all of this so you can live to be 90." Lots and lots of time.
I still have ahead of me what I call my "final one third of cancer treatment." I have an out-patient reconstructive surgery set up for the end of July. And, radiation treatments scheduled for September.
Some days I look in the mirror, and it's hard to believe that the bald person (think Demi Moore in GI Jane) with thinning eyebrows (and yet remarkably good skin--a chemo bonus) looking back at me is really me. Truly, my brain has a lot of catching up to do. And, by the time I've adjusted to just being a person who had cancer and was treated for it, my hair will be back. And, I will look in the mirror and I will look like me again--on the outside.
as always,
moving forward,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara
I feel like Ann-Margret in the opening scene of "Bye, Bye Birdie," but I'm singing "Bye, Bye Chemo." I feel like Sarah Brightman singing "Time to Say Goodbye." I feel like Patti Smyth singing "Goodbye to You."
But, I didn't feel like that this morning. I've been looking forward to July 1st as a huge milestone day for a long time. But, this morning, it was July 1st, and it felt like just another day in my new life with cancer--when a cancer treatment seems like just another day. My odd new reality.
Sometimes when I have a minute to myself, and I think about it, it all still seems so crazy to me that I had cancer. I had four surgeries; I had eight chemotherapy treatments; I will have reconstructive surgery and I will have radiation treatment. Crazy!
Sometimes it's hard to believe and harder to remember how I got from learning about my diagnosis in December to today. Cancer, really? It sometimes still shocks me that this is my life. I know that I had cancer, and I know that I've done everything I can so far to prevent a recurrence. It's sometimes hard to believe. It just feels like a weird game of my brain catching up to my body.
My body has been going through the motions of getting myself to Sloan Kettering and handling everything that MSKCC throws at it (thank you, body for getting through the treatments). And, my brain has put blinders on to keep me focused. On my chemo treatment days, I had a set routine. No matter what time my appointments were, I left the house at the same time; I took the same train; I bought the same sandwich for lunch; I asked for the same chemo nurse; and I had my kid(s) go to the same friend's house after school/camp for all eight treatments. The routine is not as much superstitious (or OCD) as comforting. There's something very comforting (and maybe a little OCD) in having all of the little details decided in advance.
So now with both kids happily at camp (it's yet to be determined who is happier, me or them, or maybe I'm so happy that they are so happy) I have a little time to really let my body heal and let my mind start to catch up to everything that's happened in the last six months. I know that catching up will take a long time; a lot has gone on. But, I've got time. Like my breast surgeon said "we're doing all of this so you can live to be 90." Lots and lots of time.
I still have ahead of me what I call my "final one third of cancer treatment." I have an out-patient reconstructive surgery set up for the end of July. And, radiation treatments scheduled for September.
Some days I look in the mirror, and it's hard to believe that the bald person (think Demi Moore in GI Jane) with thinning eyebrows (and yet remarkably good skin--a chemo bonus) looking back at me is really me. Truly, my brain has a lot of catching up to do. And, by the time I've adjusted to just being a person who had cancer and was treated for it, my hair will be back. And, I will look in the mirror and I will look like me again--on the outside.
as always,
moving forward,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara
Thursday, July 22, 2010 8:10 PM, EDT
I drive an SUV--a red Toyota Highlander with an Obama magnet on the hatch back. But, this week as I drove around doing errands and getting ready for Elizabeth’s visiting day at camp--in my head I felt like I was driving a red mini cooper convertible—with the top down. (Ironically, J and I rented a red convertible on our honeymoon I would NEVER let him put the top down. I was afraid it would ruin my “honeymoon hair” whatever I thought that was). Anyway, in my head this week, I’m driving with the top down--not worrying about my hair (chemotherapy has put that all in perspective) meeting friends for coffee, running errands, getting ready for Elizabeth’s camp visiting day. And, I’m listening to and singing U2’s “Beautiful Day,” “Walk On,” and “One”—over and over and over. I love Melissa Etheridge, and I loved singing “Run for Life.” And, I feel like a part of me will always sing it. But, this week, it feels good to have “Beautiful Day” stuck in my head.
And, really it is a Beautiful Day/week—my chemo side effects are slowly lifting, I am running errands that I was too tired to run last week, I am getting ready to drive to Maine and see my girl on Saturday, I am having lunch with friends (I saw the sheep in the meadow at Stone Barn—that alone made it a beautiful day), I am starting to feel like me again, and here’s the big news—my hair is slowly starting to grow back. Very slowly, very soft, blond (or gray, I say blond) baby hair.
My wigs have been great—the wavy wig, “Twiggy,” the straight wig, “Louise,” and even the baseball cap with hair attached to the back (unnamed) have all served me well. But, get ready, because the day that this baby soft, short hair is ready for the public, the wigs are coming off. Picture Annie Lennox circa 2003. And, the songs I’ll be singing then. . .
moving forward,
with love and gratitude,
Barbara
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