Bombshell

I received an email yesterday inviting me to participate in a discussion on HuffPost Live with Suzanne Somers regarding her new book, Bombshell. I was eager to accept, but unfortunately, didn't receive the email in time and missed my chance.

In case you don't know about her, Somers' books live on the controversial fringe of medicine. She touts a mixture of medical truths and dangerous myths, suggesting that if we just eat right, take the right supplements, and use the right cleaning products in our homes, cancer, and indeed aging itself, can be overcome or better yet, completely avoided. 

When I was diagnosed with cancer, friends confessed to me that they were scared not only because they cared for and worried about me, but also because they regarded me as a model of healthy living. Nobody wants to think that you could do everything "right" and still get cancer. It is by far more preferable, indeed downright seductive, to believe that we have some control when it comes to avoiding the spectre of disease. 

Rationally, it does make sense to treat our bodies well. It puts us in the best possible position to bounce back if disaster strikes. But the flip side of the reassurance of the illusion of control is the cruelty of blame. The truth is, disaster can strike anyone, at any time. Even if you're very very good. And sometimes bouncing back is not possible.  Even if you fight very hard.

I'm suspicious of pills. I cure my headaches with a good cry, or a big glass of water and a nap. And if that fails, I suffer and complain and annoy everyone around me unti the pain subsides. As I'm sure you can imagine, chemotherapy terrified me. I regarded cancer drugs as crude poisons, a carpet bombing approach with my body as a battlefield. I wanted to nurture my body's natural immunities. I wanted a friendlier, more nuanced approach, and I plowed into research. I was excited by what I read about the power of every day foods and spices. Green tea. Curcumin. Black pepper. Mustard greens. I found Somers' message to be very hopeful and attractive. But the deeper I dug the more disappointed I became.

There may be something in green tea and black pepper and curcumin that can cure cancer, but the research simply isn't there. Nor is it there for many of the "designer supplements" Suzanne Somers espouses, let alone the miracle cures you'll happen upon on Googling alternative therapies. I read one about melting tumors in a single day by alternating seven-minute hot and cold showers directed on the tumor site) and crazy diets (one that sticks in my memory involved a lot of cottage cheese). It isn't to say that all that is "alternative" is bad, or that the science is always absent. It's just that rigorous study is expensive, and drug companies don't put money into something that can't one day turn a profit. You can't patent "eat more vegetables." And besides all that, you can't ethically withhold a drug that has proven results in favor of experimentally trying something that does not.

Here's where it gets dangerous. Somers had breast cancer. She had a lumpectomy and radiation but refused chemotherapy, and she claims that chemotherapy "rarely works." Perhaps that is true for her particular cancer. For many women with cancer confined to the breast, chemotherapy isn't even recommended in the first place, the benefit is marginal at best. I don't know the details of her diagnosis but I do know that mine was more advanced. It was in my lymph nodes. It was all over my right breast. It was the most aggressive of its type. Chemotherapy was emphatically recommended. But even so, if a hundred women with my same profile and exact diagnosis refused chemo, a few would have survived without recurrence. Why? I'm sure every one of them would have an answer. Prayer. Meditation. Broccoli. Luck. And every one of them would be convinced of their cure. But it would be dangerous to evangelize to others about their approach. Without peer-reviewed, double-blind, rigorous study, it's downright irresponsible.

Pushing for research, and a health care system not driven by profit, however, is another story entirely. 

Mastectomy and Beyond

Some wisdom in here (I hope) about apologizing, chocolate in the evening, and harboring refugees. More of my videos here.

I spent some time on the phone recently talking to a friend of a friend about her upcoming mastectomy. She was struggling with whether or not to have reconstruction. I was struggling to be a supportive listener rather than an evangelist for my one-boob life. But the truth is, if you're faced with this horrendous choice, I highly recommend skipping the reconstruction.

Yes, I am often hyper-vigilant to the reactions of strangers, and yes, sometimes it gets to be too much and I have to cry it out before I can resume my carefree unselfconscious day. And, to be fair, my life does not include board meetings or students or clients I meet with face-to-face, not right now anyway. And I have a supportive husband who thinks a missing breast does not impede my sexiness.

But I am so glad there is no foreign thing under my skin. I am pleased that I haven't gotten around to purchasing a prosthetic or any special bras to hold one. I am surprised and also pleased that there are moments where I find myself, like a tear-streaked child with a big bandage on a wounded knee, feeling proud of my scar. I'm proud of my ability to keep living and loving as fiercely as ever, that I can be an example that cancer and mastectomy and other life disasters don't take away the ability to find humor and pleasure in life. And I am relieved to look back over this paragraph recalling that, at the outset, I did not know it would be this way.

Yesterday while out walking Millie, I ran into a man I know who went through a grueling chemotherapy for throat cancer three years ago, only to begin competing in the arguably equally grueling sport of cyclocross during his subsequent radiation. During my own chemo, I wanted to speak to him, to be reassured that I would one day feel alive again, but I was too tired and too shy to make it happen. Yesterday he told me he had heard I wanted to talk with him and had dropped by my house one day during that period, but apparently no one was home. I was touched to hear this, to be reminded that we don't always know all the good moves people are making in our direction.

"I see they took your breast," he said to me yesterday, or something close to that. It's rare for someone to initiate a frank and direct conversation with me about my mastectomy outside of a doctor's office or a counseling session, especially someone of the male persuasion, so this caught me off guard, though in a good, bracing way, like a gust of November wind after hours in front of the fire. I shrugged and smiled and so did he. "Whaddaya gonna do?" I said, and we both laughed. When we said goodbye he hugged me, hard, without hesitation. And I walked away smiling.

Hair and Other Post Traumatic Traumas

This morning.

The time of baldness is a blur now, a long, sustained surreal blur in which I became ultra-focused on hats, scarves, and bandanas, and lost the habit of reaching for shampoo in the shower. I still forget to wash my new hair on a regular basis.

I suppose I'm in denial about this new hair.

When it first started coming in, so white, I was amused. It felt like I was wearing the remnant of a daring Halloween costume, hard core biker punk-rock roller derby chick, or Susan Powter in the height of her "Stop the Insanity!" kick. I liked it. (psst - don't know that reference? Feast your eyes here.) But then, as more and more hair came in, darker but still absolutely gray, I saw a pixie-faced prematurely old woman in the mirror. It felt like someone had stolen years of my life, not to mention my eyebrows.

People, especially gray-haired women, though not prematurely so, could not stop laughing with delight over how much they liked my new hair. Of course I appreciated their compliments, but I had a harder and harder time listening to them, thanking them, answering their questions about whether I would keep it short like this or grow it back (they hoped I'd keep it short). I wasn't exactly sure why these conversations were so hard on me until it all came out during a counseling session in a spew of angry tears. Having spent the winter sick and miserable and scared and fighting for my life, I felt like I was betraying my own self, dishonoring the truth of my full experience by passing the spring and now summer in such superficial conversation.

To be fair, it could be that every one of those women who commented on my cancer-makeover first inquired as to how I was doing. Many times I recall saying, "Right now? I'm doing okay," which I assume sounded to them like "I don't want to talk about the past." The almost inevitable response came back, "Well you look great." to which I, of course, said, "Thank you." And then, if we both stood there another second, they reiterated, or rephrased ("You really do look great" or "I really do like your hair like that. Are you going to keep it that way?") and we were off to the races.

All this would be fine if only I could figure out how to not give off that I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it vibe so that once in a while, I could feel supported rather than drained by these well-meaning interactions. The trick is that sometimes these conversations take place in the grocery store aisle when I've got just twenty minutes to fill the cart and get to my next appointment, or in moment when actually, I don't want to think about cancer. But also, I've learned from experience that many people don't want to or are not capable of listening to the hard core reality, won't know what to do or say if I tell them, "Well, the truth is, I feel like I have post-traumatic stress. I feel like I just came off the battlefield. And, by the way, I'm still in treatment every day and I'm still scared out of my mind when I think about it, and yesterday my beloved neighbor told me she just found out she has breast cancer too, and suddenly I can't stop eating." In fact, I imagine some of these innocent inquirers would shuffle nervously and respond like this: "Well you look great."

But maybe one or two would say nothing and just hug me while I weep.

Here's a hint: If you want to be a friend to someone going through cancer or even pregnancy or any other body-changing mortality-awareness-inducing life-altering physical experience, sure you can tell them they look great. But don't leave it at that. Assume that the reticence you may perceive as lack of interest in talking about the hard stuff is probably more of a self-protective knee-jerk expectation that you really don't want to hear. Figure out a way to acknowledge or inquire about the depth of experience beyond the surface. Whether or not your friend has the grace and presence to acknowledge it in the moment, whether or not he or she walks through that open door, they will appreciate your efforts. I promise you.

Can I get a witness?

Vlogs are back! Breast cancer and beyond.

Finally catching up with video editing. This is the first since chemo ended - retail therapy, an amazing dog trick, two parties, bra issues, and a whole lot o' cuteness. Check it out.

Next in line: rearranging furniture, a very rude deer, garden harvest, and, of course, more beautiful Millie. More of my videos here.

Poodles Make Life Better

More of my videos here.

The Spectrum

Peonies from the yard and freesia from my husband (as a congratulations for finishing chemo).

I'm calling this one "summer borscht" - beets, carrots, and onions make a sweet and flavorful base. Bonito flakes add smoky depth. A splash of lemon juice, some mellow miso, a little cracked pepper, and cilantro and basil from the garden round out the goodness. Yum.

There is a woman at the gym who went through breast cancer treatment and has given me some interesting tidbits of advice. She told me, about chemo, "You will completely lose your sense of taste within 48 hours of your first treatment." She went on to talk about how she, as a tea drinker, switched to plain hot water, because, why waste tea? She was also one of the three hundred thousand chorus who told me to use plastic cutlery because metal would become intolerable.

I did not lose my sense of taste within 48 hours. Actually, food didn't even begin to taste funny until my second round, about three weeks into treatment. And I was never interested in plastic cutlery. As for tea, I brought a thermos of herbal tea along to my first chemo treatment . It hit the spot that day but for months thereafter the thought of tea of any kind, even pseudo-tea (hot water in a mug) turned my stomach. The sight of that thermos still makes me queasy.

Funny, because I had no such issues with soup.

I saw that same woman today in the locker room and she told me that for her, radiation was the worst part. She said, "Your skin will get so sore it will bring you to tears."

I know this was my friend J~'s experience. But my friend J~ (another J) said that for her, the worst of it was a little redness toward the end. "You'll be fine," she's said to me on more than one occasion, with a reassuringly dismissive shrug.

One thing I've learned on Planet Cancer is that though there may be some common themes, everyone's experience is their own, unique, and likely unpredictable.

I plan to apply aloe vera gel and calendula cream religiously and hope for the best.

Chemo Retrospective

Anticipation. More of my videos here.

The other day I came across a DVD someone gave me and thought, I should save this to watch with Jim at chemo. And then I remembered: There is no more chemo!

No more weekly weigh-ins, blood draws, killer bee-sting needles. No more poison injected into my veins. No more eyelashes falling out, fingernails lifting away from the nail beds and stinking, no more gradually worsening numbness and tingling in my feet. No more inexplicable exhaustion mid-week. No more terrible taste in my mouth or steroid-induced sleepless nights. No more dry eyes, dry mouth, unsettled stomach, and low low blood counts.

It's hard to believe.

At the same time, I'm worried about radiation, now officially scheduled to begin July 6th.

Some people get through it easily, without noticeable fatigue, with only a little bit of redness and dryness to the skin. For some the fatigue is profound. Some have painful blistering weeping skin, some experience scarring and pain underneath. And I'm just talking about short term issues. The long term issues are much scarier.

For now, I'm doing my best to savor three weeks of relative freedom.

Let's celebrate, shall we, with a little retrospective - a few photos I took with the laptop to document chemo treatments twelve, thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, and the morning after number sixteen.

I'll warn you right now, for those who don't want to see: the morning after sixteen I took another "here are my scars" picture. For those that do want to see, there are two other entries where I post pictures. The first was just days after surgery. The next was shortly before I began chemo. And this one will heretofore be referred to as the one between chemo and radiation.

Without further ado:

At chemo #12.

At chemo #13.

Chemo #14.

Chemo 15.

The morning after my final treatment, chemo 16.

No More Rushing

My latest resolution. More of my videos here.

Shock and Awe

On my second visit to the neurologist last week, she hooked metal loops over my fingers and, with what looked to me like a little cattle prod, shocked my hands and arms repeatedly, maybe thirty times on each arm. The first few shocks caused my entire body to jump, and reduced me to tears. I could feel my nerves aching, vibrating up my arms like over-twanged guitar strings.

It was, to say the least, unpleasant. It did get easier with subsequent shocks but by no means did it become comfortable. I felt like a lab rat, and once that image hit my mind, I was flooded with images of all the indignities I've suffered on this cancer journey, and the tears would not stop coming. (As I write this line, I find myself crying again. My dog, who was just moments ago resting comfortably on the couch downstairs, just trotted upstairs and has begun licking my feet.)

The test showed no evidence of nerve damage. But, the doctor said, it might be too soon to tell. She wanted to do the second test, which would be more definitive, involving needles inserted through the skin of my upper arm, all the way into my muscles, approximately six needles in a single arm. While the needles were in, I was to move my arm in prescribed ways.

The goal, in the neurologist's mind, was to determine if I had nerve damage. Though I would love to have that information, the goal, in my mind, was to determine whether or not I was getting my final chemo. So I asked some questions and came to the conclusion that she was expecting either to be telling me go ahead, no worries, or go ahead, with caution. She thought the chances were slim that she'd find damage so severe as to contraindicate chemo. After all, a little nerve damage is one thing, a little cancer is something else entirely. I agreed.

So I told her I'd like to skip any additional poking and prodding, if it's all right with her, and proceed directly to the part where I go ahead with chemo.  She called my oncologist, and the wheels were set in motion again.

I had my final (hopefully the last ever in my life) chemotherapy treatment on Friday. It's hard to believe that it's over.

I have appointments Monday and Tuesday, in preparation for radiation which will begin in three weeks.

And now my dog is barking and whining for me to play with her.

Life goes on.

Sharks

Thank You Steroids. (More of my videos here.)

I went to a fundraiser last night featuring a friend of mine from the pool, Marcy MacDonald, a dedicated swimmer who is about to attempt her eleventh crossing of the English Channel. We watched a documentary about her and others who've attempted this astounding feat, and afterward, Marcy answered questions from the audience. Very cold water, long hours, big boats, waves, oil slicks, salt in your throat, chafing bathing suits... To say the least, it's not easy.

Someone asked about sharks and I turned to the friend on my left,  P~ , and said, "I've been bitten by a shark." Her face registered alarm. She was beginning to compose a question when I went on to say, "It took my whole breast."

P~ laughed and slapped my leg. But was that funny? Can I make jokes about my missing breast? I'm never quite sure.

I was editing video the other day (the one below), and came across a section of footage filmed by J~ of myself in a tank top, chucking balls for the dog. It was the first time in a long while I'd seen my new body in three dimensional motion outside the confines of the mirror. In the same way it jars me when I happen upon a person with a missing arm, I was brought up short by the sight of my own chest. The thought was: I am asking a lot of people to take this in stride. I see that familiar moment of hesitation often, but still, I am amazed at how well people are doing it.

After Mastectomy: My Lopsided Life. More of my videos here.

Gambling

More of my videos here.

In a few minutes I will peel myself away from the computer and get ready to leave for my morning swim. After that, breakfast, a walk with the dog, then back into the car, back on the long road to Hartford to see the neurologist I met with yesterday. This time, she will not be asking kindly questions and having me do fun little tasks like touch my nose, her finger, my nose. This time she'll be hooking up electrodes and shocking the muscles of my forearms with electricity in order to test for nerve damage. And after that, assuming the results are either alarming enough or not definitive, she might want to stick needles into those muscles and take samples of my tissue. All of this to help make a more objective determination as to whether I should go ahead with my last chemo treatment.

"Anyone else," my doctor told me on the phone Monday, "and I would say let's just go ahead with treatment. But you're an athlete and if things get worse this could mean a real impact on your quality of life. Let's see what the neurologist has to say."

So far, the neurologist has not said, but I have become very clear. There's no knowing if the numbness in my feet and problems I'm having in my hands will persist or get worse, and it is unlikely that today's tests will change that.

I never gamble anything I'm unwilling to lose. Given the choice between alive and impaired, the choice is not a difficult one. I want to go ahead with treatment. And I don't need any needles stuck into my muscles to help me decide.

I'm hoping that, between these two doctors and myself, we can come to a consensus without that test.

A Long and Winding Road, Please

Dreams do come true. More of my videos here.

I was supposed to get my final chemotherapy treatment today. No such luck. I'm having weakness in my left hand and wrist, and my feet are increasingly numb. CIPN (Chemotherapy Induced Peripheral Neuropathy) or too much cycling last weekend, or a combination of the two are to blame. Oh well.

What else can I say? I don't know if I'm risking my overall survival in favor of comfortable typing, keeping my fingers together when I swim the crawl, and one-handed bicycle gear shifting. But it's not up to me. I tell the doctor what I'm experiencing as accurately and honestly as I can, and she makes the call. Though I trust myself as the expert on my own body, I trust her more when it comes to this. She's seen what happens to other people, I have not.

I'm supposed to call in to report my symptoms on Monday.

What happens after that? It's yet to be determined.

A friend of mine from high school, a co-inhabitant of Planet Cancer, wrote me last night to tell me she's in the hospital. (She has breast cancer too; we have the same oncologist. I made this video about her.)

She had a seizure on Tuesday. They've found a tumor in her brain. Because of this progression of the disease, she can no longer continue with an experimental drug that seemed to be keeping the cancer in check in other parts of her body. On the bright side, she tells me, she will no longer have to travel several times a week to Boston for treatment.

Next stop: cyber-knife, targeted radiation to the brain. After that? It's yet to be determined.

We spoke on the phone this morning and we're in agreement. It's the not knowing that's the hardest part.

In the meantime, we grieve our losses and enjoy whatever blessings we're offered.

There are no straight roads in life. The twists come when you least expect them. But hopefully the road is long and you can take great pleasure in the winding.

Catching Up

The latest vlogs...

My first yoga class since the mastectomy.

Oncologist update, good food, etcetera... More of my videos here.

One More to Go!

More of my videos here.

I'm supposed to receive my final chemotherapy treatment on Friday. What a long road since I was diagnosed last October. Like a dream, a meandering, colorful, bad but poignant dream, it seems like it both took forever but also passed in an instant. Like a frame around a painting, setting it apart from anything else that might distract the eye, the preciousness of my life feels framed by this experience.

I am determined to find pleasure every day. To give up rushing, cramming one more task into each five minute increment, pushing myself relentlessly forward into the next accomplishment. At the same time, I am also determined to stay conscious of how I am passing my time. Accomplishment feels good when it's in proportion with rest and exercise and pleasant companionship.

For those of you coming up behind me on the cancer treatment path: I remember fearing food would never taste right again, that I would never again feel a joyous bubbling over of healthful energy. I am here to testify that both experiences are possible, even while chemotherapy is still in full-swing. Taxol is not Adriamycin. All chemo is not the same. Trust your own resilience. You will get your life back.

Ragnar Relay

More of my videos here.

Though I feel great in every other way, the neuropathy got a little worse this week - nothing super-uncomfortable, just a little numbness in my toes. But apparently this raises enough of a red flag to possibly postpone chemotherapy again.

The verdict came in late this afternoon: Assuming my white count is better. I'll get chemo tomorrow, again only 80% of the standard dose.

Of the ten Taxol treatments I've received so far, only two were full-dose, one was 88%, and the rest were eighty. Who knows what that means in terms of my future cancer prognosis. All I know is: just two more chemo treatments remain and I'm VERY eager to be done.

Another thing – In the three weeks after chemo ends and before radiation begins, I'm going to do my best to cordon off entire days just for me. A lot of them. No deadlines, no appointments, not even social commitments. I had a surprise day like that Tuesday when chemo was postponed and I was happier and more relaxed than I've felt in a long time. I need more days like that.

Life with Millie (and Breast Cancer)

More of my videos here.

Rolling

The latest... More of my videos here.

Every time I go to the cancer center there is a preliminary routine beginning in the outer waiting area. First, I'm festooned with a lovely plastic wristband with my very own personal barcode. I'm then called to a little room with three chairs to be weighed and to give a blood sample. From there, I go to a second waiting room, and finally, on to the business at hand.

Today's business was a checkup with my oncologist.

This happens every few weeks and the routine is also predictable. Nurses aides come in, two at a time, to take my pulse, temperature, and blood pressure, one working on each side. Jim calls them the pit crew. And then I strip to the waist, put on a scratchy cotton gown and wait wait wait. The doctor comes in, asks some questions, and examines me head to groin. After which I'm allowed to put my clothes on and ask my questions.

Today I was told six things I have not heard before:

1. The risk of recurrence with my type of breast cancer (hormone receptor positive) actually gets WORSE after five years rather than better.

2. "You WILL be taking aromatase inhibitors, there's no doubt about that." This was delivered with bug-eyed emphasis. My doctor had mentioned these drugs before, typically given to HR+ women who are post-menopausal. When she brought it up before, it was a possibility, something to consider, once my five years of Tamoxifen are behind me. Apparently there is no longer a gray area.

3. "It's not like the old days when you'd see those scary pictures of women with their arms blown up huge." I've seen those scary pictures and didn't realize that lymphedema didn't necessarily result in that. She says she mostly sees it in her heavier patients though occasionally in thinner women. "I'm not God," she tells me, "but I don't think you're going to have lymphedema. But if you do have any swelling, you'll call me right away, and we'll manage it."

4. One of my cancerous lymph nodes had a cute, crafty-sounding nickname. It was a "macro-met" or macro-metastasis. In other words, a big one. (Not good, but I knew that already.)

5. "Your white blood count is too low." Actually, this tidbit was delivered by voice mail as I drove home. Apparently the doctor didn't get around to looking at today's blood results until after I'd left. I was supposed to come back for chemo tomorrow, Tuesday. Now it's postponed until Friday. And next week's is postponed until next Friday.

6. When treatment ends, I am to see my oncologist every three months for two years, then every six months "for a long time" thereafter. Some doctors do less after five years, but mine does not. "Not with my younger women anyway," she said, eyes bugging again.

I know, I know, breast cancer is more aggressive in younger women. Five years does not mean free-and-clear for me. I was node-positive. I had a macro-met.

Tamoxifen. Lymphedema. Aromatase inhibitors. Will my vocabulary ever cease this incessant expansion?

Roll with the punches, Amy, roll roll roll.

Fail Vlog

Here it is, the inside scoop on what happened when I went for chemo on Monday. Plus some laughs and cute Millie-tude...

More of my videos here.

Red Flags on Parade

Wild edibles, hummingbird, house cleaning, and a spontaneous dance party... More of my videos here.

Today I was uploading and annotating this latest video on Youtube, watching myself clear my throat mid-sentence. I do that a lot lately, never noticing the habit until seeing it over and over in my videos. It seems there's always just a little bit of fluid stuck in the back of my throat.

Jim says this began after my mastectomy.

Not a big deal, I told him, perhaps a leftover side effect from the anesthesia. It can take a long time to clear the anesthesia drugs from your system.

Or maybe it has something to do with the chemo.

But today a new thought stopped me cold: Could this be cancer? I was frozen for a long instant, as if a heavy weight were crushing my chest.

I've heard that a subtle cough, or a minor ache, persistent but not alarming, can turn out to be the first sign of metastasis.

But then my lungs sucked air and I shook off the fear, got back to the task at hand.

It's probably nothing, I told myself, and I believe it probably is nothing. But, just to be on the safe side, I'll bring it up with my oncologist when I see her on Monday.

I suppose this is part of life on planet cancer, a regular feature of the landscape - where red flags fly over every ache and gripe, and the gravity of the disease you're battling, the preciousness of the life you don't want to give up living just yet, hits you over the head.

I hope I never get used to it.

Chemo Fiasco

Went for chemo today and ended up leaving without it.

More of my videos here.

Back story: Because of some troublesome side effects, my chemo dosage has been reevaluated each week. My nurse has me call her to communicate my symptoms on Sunday night, which she relays to the doctor Monday morning. I arrive at 1pm and never know what I’m going to get until I get there.

This Monday took that last sentence to a new level.

I made a video explaining all that happened, not this one, the Chemo Fiasco video isn't ready yet, but stay tuned, I'll get it up soon.

In the meantime, the Cliff Notes, minus all the emotional drama you'll see in the video: My regular nurse was absent (out sick) and her replacement gave us three different answers when I asked about the dosage, first leading us to believe it had been lowered, then that it was exactly the same as last time, then finally (and accurately) that it was raised. I didn't know what information (or misinformation) my doctor had, and the doctor didn't have time to talk to me directly, suggesting instead that I leave and come back another day when my regular nurse was in.

The nurse was impatient and confused. It became obvious that she was unable to provide the info I needed. I had to choose between going ahead with a raised dose of chemo without understanding the doctor’s rationale or feeling certain that the doctor even knew what I was currently experiencing – or else coming back the next day.

It takes a lot to gear up for chemo day. Emotionally, it’s harder and harder each week even though the chemo experience itself gets easier. Jim had taken the day off to support me this time. This has not been our usual routine, but because I was struggling on my own, we decided to sacrifice a vacation day so he could stay with me this time. On top of that, my car is in the shop, not to mention the fact that the hospital is an hour from home and I had plans on Tuesday. "Come back tomorrow” was not as simple as it sounds and by far not my first choice. But ultimately, it seemed the only viable option.

And it worked out just fine. I got to talk to the doctor directly on Tuesday morning, my good friend N~ drove me to the cancer center at noon and J~ met us there. Chemo went fine, just one needle stick, same dose as last week (I'm still at 80% of the standard dose).

Another day on Planet Cancer, and by far not the worst...