Chemo #2

My mom had come back to visit for the last week.  We really didn't do much other than hang out and get the house picked up for my next down period.  We had some great times just being together and being with Camden.  He is starting to say so many more syllables and can say most animal sounds on command--even a rooster!  He amazes me every day and reminds me of what I have to fight for.  

I woke up on the day of chemo in tears again.  I hate this crap.  I don't know how to put it.  I just feel like its torture and I wish I didn't have to go through this.  Sam went to work because my mom was with me this time.  But in true chemo day fashion I fell in his arms and cried.  My hair started to really come out on Wednesday and my emotions were high.  I have said from the very beginning that chemo would break me and it has.  I cry so much out of frustration and anger.  

I showered and watched the clumps fall down the drain and I cried in the water pouring over my head.  I feel so vain having these feelings, but throughout this process I want to be honest and upfront.  

My mom and I had to leave very early to get to chemo by 7:30.  I had my blood drawn and then had to meet with the nurse practioner since Dr. T is on vacation.  Today was my first surviorship appointment.  Apparently, there is a national program for cancer patients to get them through the stages of survivorship.  I'm still fighting the battle, but I have survived the diagnoses.  This appointment is a check on where I am doing emtionally.  Well . . . if you read the first few paragraphs you might guess, I'm pretty down.  

I met with the wonderful Sara, NP.  Fresh out of school and a sponk for the fight against cancer.  I think she and I could be friends outside of this crappy diagnoses, but we tried to stay on task--hard for me, I talk a lot.  I was asked a series of questions on a computer terminal that then printed out my areas for concern that we would talk about. 

We started off the visit with how my last treatment went and basically found out it went about as bad as possible.  I should have called, but I hate to be that patient.  We talked about how things should go better this time and what threshold I should have for myself and how much I should allow myself to tolerate. 

Then on to the survivorship portion--cue  the tissue full box of Kleenex.  Sara asked one simple question:  How are you feeling about all of this? 

You know, I don't know if anyone has truly asked me that yet, or if it was anyone I felt that I could let me guard down to.  I felt like I could be honest and my first response was "I don't want to die." 

The past couple weeks since starting treatment this all become so real for me.  I'm the strong one, I'm the comforting one, I'm the one who gave the eulogy without tears at my brother's funeral, I'm the one sending donations and prayer; so why me?  Why do I have to be on this side of things? 

I don't want to die.  I have worked so hard in my life for what I've become.  I've gone from a 5 year plan to a 2 day plan because I don't know how I will be feeling.  It's awful.  I'm scared, I'm sad, and I'm angry. 

My areas of concern from the questionaire were fatigue and body image.  Man, I sound vain.  I went from working a fast paced full time job, going to school, taking care of a toddler and husband to sitting in a chair taking 2 naps a day.  Taking a shower is utterly exhausting and going to Target requires an internal pep talk.  Body image--oy, where to even scratch the surface.  I was a gymnast and a dancer growing up--you look pretty for those things and you strive for perfection.  You have beautiful make up and hair and your outfits are always sparkly.  Ok, so I've lost the sparkle in place of scrubs and sneakers, but I still pride myself on my looks.  I'm still working (ok, let's be honest, talking about working on) on my post partum body and now I have to go through losing one of the outmost sercurity blankets, my hair.  I've known since surgery this would happen, but catching clumps of hair in the shower is so hard on your self image.

Sara and I talked about groups and meetings that I could go to to meet women who are also going through what I'm going through.  I'm still skeptical because I don't want to sit with a bunch of post menopausal woman talking about cancer.  No offense, older ladies, but it's just not the same.  When you are 50 you have lived a good portion of your life the way you wanted, I've only just begun to figure out what I want my life to entale. 

After our hour long discussion and lot of tears from me and my mom we went and got seated in the infusion room for treatment.  I lost 4 pounds so I got in trouble.  If I lose too much weight they have to scale back my treatment and therefore the cancer isn't getting attacked as hard as it should be.
 

 

I think my favorite part is the heated blanket.  I need one of those blanket warmers at my house.  Things went mostly as planned, but apparently my veins suck and they had a hard time getting my IV in and to stay where it needed to be. 

 

 

Four sticks later and my IV was finally in--and the nurses had scheduling set me up to get a port.  I really didn't want to have to get a port, but they aren't really giving me an option.  Pretty much how I feel about a lot of things, so I will just roll with it. 

 

The treatment took a lot longer than the last time because of all of the IV problems.  We were finally done about 1:00 and of course I found someone to talk to.  She is an older woman who is about 10 weeks ahead of me in treatment.  She was wearing a gorgeous wig and gave me a few tips.  My mom finally pulled me out of there because I tend to make friends too easily.  At least the place is comforting. 

 

I didn't make the same mistake of going for Mexican, but a burger sounded good and I've been craving dilly bars so we drove through the DQ on the way home before I took a nap.  I'm half way done with the red devil (adiamycin and cytoxan).   I just have to keep reminding myself that I can do this.