Um...drugs are bad.

Well, I have had my exchange surgery and the new "girls" are in place and looking good. My sweet plastic surgeon put nice silicone implants where air mattress plastic once was. I won't have nipples, but I will have some kickass tattoos over my mastectomy scars. The tattoos are still being researched. Maybe I'll just have kickass mastectomy scars on perfect round mounds. I finally, finally feel happy and healthy.  I feel like this breast cancer drama is behind me! I just have one more thing to get off my chest (and yes, that is literally, I'm afraid).

I have had a double mastectomy, chemo, radiation and several surgeries. The last course of my treatment involves a hormone suppressing drug, Tamoxifen. I took said drug from September until March. As you may or may not recall, the cancer found in my boob was fed by estrogen. Tamoxifen stops estrogen. As it turns out, it also stops Anna. I told people (my husband, my mom, my oncologist) that I stopped taking it recently to prep for my implant surgery. Not true, really. I stopped because I was going crazy. I was bloated and gaining weight and felt achy all the darn time. I stopped because I was paranoid and my bones hurt and my joints hurt and I was googling all the ways that cancer can come back. Guess what? As soon as I stopped, I got myself back. Granted it took a couple of months. Right around my exchange new boob surgery to be exact (May 15th), but I got myself back, the one I remember, the Anna that wasn't scared or bloated or tired or sick. So what's a girl to do?

I refilled that damn Tamoxifen prescription. Isn't that what a person does that exhausts all possibilities to live her life? Yet I haven't swallowed a pill yet. I put this out there because I am conflicted. I have a feeling that I'll start swallowing the pills again. Maybe, however, someone has been at this crossroads before me. Maybe someone has some insight. I have read the research. It doesn't help. I don't want advice from doctors, believe it or not. I want advice from someone that has walked this path.

I must quote Huey Lewis here..."I want a new drug, one that won't make me sick." Do I swallow the pill and risk my quality of life OR do I not swallow the pill and risk my quantity of life? A true dilemma as I want both quantity and quality.

Why? That is the question.

The million dollar question is why? Why me? Why at 38 years old? The inner scientist in me needs to know. If something caused my cancer that I can't control, then so be it. If something caused my cancer that I can control, I want to know.

In an effort to answer the question, I agreed to a genetic test. I just got the results. My report reads, "The personal history of cancer made the patient (me) a candidate for genetic testing for hereditary breast and ovarian cancer syndrome (caused by mutations in the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes). This testing showed NO MUTATION DETECTED by comprehensive gene sequencing of BRAC1 and BRAC2. Thus, the cancer diagnosis was most likely NOT related to a mutation in one of the genes."

This is good news for my relatives. I celebrate this news and rejoice. My mom, aunts, cousins, and future granddaughters probably don't have the genetic mutations in the breast cancer genes either. Yay! Fantastic. It means I and my kin are no more at risk for ovarian cancer than any other average woman...which is 2% in her lifetime. It means my relatives probably won't follow in my footsteps and get breast cancer.

While this is great news, I still feel unsettled. The bottom line is that if my cancer wasn't in the genes then non-hereditary factors caused my breast cancer. Hmmm. What? Birth control pills? Did I not breastfeed long enough? I should have exercised more. I ate too much meat/ junk food/ milk/soy. I drank too much wine. I worry too much and the stress caused it. The big question is do I now make radical changes in my life to keep these environmental factors from causing my cancer to resurface again? Probably. I mean I do intend to eat better, exercise more, drink less, but hell, we all intend to do these things with or without the cancer history. The thing is though that I should probably just concentrate on living right now. I should probably not blame my pre-cancer self for anything. I am letting that pizza-eating, wine-drinking, gave-her-kids-a-bottle woman off the hook. I can guarantee that I made bad choices. I can guarantee that I coulda/shoulda/woulda done things better, but no matter how much soul-searching I do, the fact remains that one day, I will die. There aren't choices that are going to prevent that.

However, I am not dying today! Today, I am going to do some yoga and I'm not going to stress about it. I just wanted to blog the news for my family. One thing I have relished through this process is information. I have scoured the internet for other people's stories and it is only fair that I provide mine. If we keep communicating, we can not only learn more about the causes and effects of breast cancer, we can overcome it. That way, even though we all will someday die, we won't have to die from breast cancer. We can use that damn pink ribbon for another cause.

Hurry up and wait.

Hi, cancer blog. It has been a while. What have I been up to, you ask? Well, healing. I had the surgery. I am done with the chemotherapy, all 16 treatments. I am done with the radiation, all 25 treatments. I am done with the cancer center. I am now busy forgetting about cancer. I don't want to talk about cancer really. I don't want to write about it. I want this entire year in my rear view.

Now, I am in the waiting place...the most frustrating place ever.

For one, I am waiting for my skin to heal so I can schedule my boob implant surgery and nipple reconstruction. (Right now, I have Barbie boobs, little round mounds with no nipple. I still have the expanders in...not the permanent boobs yet.)

I started my hormone therapy and am waiting to see if my body tolerates my new medication okay. I am a month in and so far so good. I have hot flashes every night and I break out in an itchy rash whenever I actually try to exercise. I am perpetually bitchy, but other than that, I am tolerating this estrogen-robbing Tamoxifen okay. I'm going to keep swallowing the pill every day. Estrogen causes my cancer to grow, and this medication keeps my estrogen low.

I am waiting to start a clinical trial. I soon will be adding either Metformin or a placebo to my list of meds. The medical peeps think insulin and estrogen and breast cancer could all somehow be related, and I have volunteered to be a guinea pig. Honestly, I only agreed to it because the only real side effect mentioned for Metformin is weight loss and well, that is one side effect I wouldn't mind. Knowing my luck, I'll get stuck in the control group with the placebo.

I am waiting to see if cancer stays away. Now my life turns into a series of diagnostic tests and screens to see if the cancer comes back. This fact, this waiting place, frustrates me the most.

So what have I been up to? Healing...and waiting...and trying to forget...and living.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I start radiation therapy today. I am not scared or anything. I have met my radio team twice now already- once to get positioned and another to get chest scanned and tattooed. I have four little freckle tattoos now to help them line up the beam. Not sure how I can turn those into something artistic later. Guess they will just be another souvenir of this awesome fun time. You know, because those crazy scars down my chest just aren’t enough. Honestly, I almost cried last Friday when I walked into the cancer center. I am just so sick of that place. I hate the stupid smiley greeter guy. I hate the receptionist people who keep asking for my $40. I hate the art work on the walls. I know that none of this is fair. This is the place that is saving my life. These are the kindest, sweetest people in the world. At least the radiation stuff is downstairs. The chemo stuff is upstairs and I hate that scene even more. And for all you folks that work there and may read this, don’t take it personally. I detest lots of places for no good reason. For example, I really hate the dentist office and Jiffy Lube and Chuckie Cheese.

So my vanity is really getting the best of me. I look in the mirror an insane amount of times during the day. I am constantly taking photos of the top of my head with my phone and then deleting them after I look at them. I am willing my hair to grow stronger and faster all the time. Right now, I have a small patch of fuzz. Is it dirty blond fuzz or gray/brown fuzz? I am afraid to ask. I return to work next week, and I am already feeling self-conscious. This post chemo thing takes the first day of school anxiety to an entirely new level. Do I continue to wear wigs? Do I face my students with my G. I. Jane hairdo, keeping in mind that I don’t have Demi Moore’s bone structure or slim frame? Do I draw on eyebrows even though it is obvious and ridiculous? I bet you are thinking who cares. You will tell me I am beautiful no matter what, and you will be right, but I still feel like a thirteen year old at a pool party whose body is uncontrollably changing and not necessarily for the better.

To top off my fuzzy hair that grows a micron a day, I also seem to be gaining weight. Great, right? No, people. I lost some weight courtesy of the red devil, but I want that weight to stay lost. Between the steroids and early menopause, my body is in survival, fat-storage mode. No matter how much I walk and swim and pretend I am a beach volleyball Olympian, and no matter how much I DON’T eat, the scales keep going up. Really, universe? This does not help with the body image issues afore mentioned.

All-in-all, though, I am getting my groove back. My energy levels are up. I am very excited about returning to work. I have done lots of back-to-school shopping for me and the kids. I actually skipped in Staples. I am so damn excited. I am excited for a new academic year, a new set of boobs, a new not-tired cancer free Anna. I am sad for my pets that have spent the last year napping with me in my queen bed nest for hours on end. I think Buddy, my loyal and cuddly Australian Shepherd, will miss snuggling with me and watching hours of bad reality television. Don’t worry, sweet animals. I hear radiation makes you tired so you and I will still have our daily naps. Only this semester, mommy (ß me) will get out of bed and actually cook her family dinner. Well, some of the time.

Let me call the wambulance.

Here is the truth. I feel pretty crappy. I constantly have a headache and my arms and legs hurt and I feel blah and tired and moody and well, you get the picture. My bathroom habits have not been normal since this junk began. (Too much info...I know.) I toss and turn at night. Always too hot. Sick of trying to sleep on my back. Sick of wearing hats and scarves and wigs. Sick of this cancer game, in general. The steroids they give me have me growing facial hair (ironic, I know) and eating entire tubs of ice cream. I am counting the days to normal.

And guess what? Thursday is the day. It is my last day of chemotherapy. Please, dear Lord, let it be my last day of chemo ever. Last few times I met my oncologist, I have reminded her of this impending milestone. She doesn't seem as excited. I am expecting balloons and confetti to drop from the ceiling on Thursday. I am expecting people to sing or at least a certificate of completion. I have a feeling none of these things will happen. Don't care. Celebration on Thursday even if it is just a double scoop from Dairy Queen afterwards.

My oncologist REALLY disappointed me the last two visits. When I asked her if I could take a little break between my last chemo and the start of the oral anti-estrogen medication I'll have to take for five years, she said it would depend on my radiation plan. Crazy doctor say what? She never, ever mentioned radiation to me before that moment. I would have preferred she just slap me across the face. I can't even figure out what the hell they will radiate. Under my arm, she says, where the positive lymph node was. Uh, Dr. V, that is where my boob expanders are. You know, the fake boobs that feel like air mattress plastic filled with water. Also, my heart is there. Ahem, do you people know what you are doing? And when, please tell me, am I going to get my *real* fake boobs? The ones that will transform me into the Baywatch beauty that I deserve to be.  Dr. V did not have answers for me. No, I have to meet another doctor, a radiation specialist who went to Harvard. I meet her tomorrow morning at 7:30am. Obviously, going by the appointment time, this new doc and I are not compatible. I'll let you know the final verdict on radiation.

Meanwhile, my bone scan showed no cancer in my bones. My latest CT scan showed no cancer in the brain. I have felt pretty lousy for the last six months so I am pretty sure the chemo took care of any remaining cancer in my lymphatic system. Yay! Radiation or not, I am many steps closer to fine. Thursday, I will have completed sixteen god-awful treatments. Here is me...patting my own back. I am, indeed, strong.

Yoga Mat Island

Ah, summer vacation. Even with this year, with my sleeping excessively and crazy schedule, I still both recognize and appreciate summer vacation. It is a time to relax, a time to be slow, a time to be still even.

I have started this summer with a series of spa appointments. It is my version of alternative medicine. Often while I get my facials and massages, Eastern music plays and my therapist uses lotions and potions that smell of eucalyptus and lavender and for me, this is as close to organic healing as it gets. I am not only comfortable with the human touch; I welcome it as long as it is in that little spa room. Oh sweet spa lady, please charm those toxins out of my body. Hydrate my skin with love and sweet smelling goodness. Even my pedicures and manicures have turned into necessary medical appointments, especially now that my nails have gone all funky with the chemo. I have weird rings on my nails. My oncologist threatens that some nails may just come off the nail bed…to not be alarmed. Oh hell, I think. So I go to my spa and have them painted bright corals and think I’ll appreciate these nails while I have them.

I also started going to a yoga class, too…yoga for relaxation. I have only been to two classes, but I know I am hooked. I love the poses. I love feeling the muscles in my body come to life. I love the slowness, the deliberateness of it. I feel so calm, so in control. When I am done with the class, I have the same feeling as after a massage, only I paid like $10 verses $100 and no one touched me. Well, that isn’t true. The yoga teacher has to touch me often to get my body in the right pose and sometimes there is partner stuff, but I don’t count that. I feel very isolated in yoga but in a good way. I feel like I am on my own little yoga mat island, where my body is a machine and not some defective effed up vessel. I feel so present, and I get to talk to God with my breathe and my consciousness and my spirit…and that bad mojo is just dissipating off of me AND it is dark so even though there is a mirror right in front of me reflecting my bald, uncoordinated self, I can barely see myself and in the low light and my all black outfit, I look strong. Plus, maybe, just maybe, this alternative Eastern medicine thing works, and I am cured!

Being a wanna be hippy myself, I have lots of friends and acquaintances recommend alternative medicine to me. Have I tried acupuncture/herbs/juicing/vegan diet/eating seaweed?...You get the picture. It isn’t that I am against it. I just trust Western conventional medicine as well. I goggled the latest chemo drug they are giving me, Taxol, and guess what? Taxol is a natural product, comes from the tree bark of the Pacific Yew. I think it must be synthetically manufactured by now. There are only so many Pacific Yews out there, after all. The thing is that it doesn’t get more natural than tree bark. So even my Western medicine is pretty alternative. Now who decided to go get tree bark and put it in a solution and inject it into my body twelve times is another story…and why this is seen as a good profitable idea (even though it is) and smoking marijuana is illegal is also weird to me. None the less, tree bark has bought me more time and now chemo doesn’t seem so brutal to me. It is just nature helping nature in a really weird, insane way.

Just like spa visits and yoga and chemo, good old Sunday morning church is also a part of my medicine. I really go almost solely for the Eucharist, truly believing that the little wafer and drop of wine are healing me. I figured I have covered all the bases. Meditation, reflexology, tree bark, and Christ’s body and blood. That should pretty much cover it. And as I lay silent and relaxed on my yoga mat, I hear the voice of the divine. “Be still and know that I am God.” I know, and now is a good moment. It is the best moment. 

OM.

The Watcher

Caleb wrote this for school. He is my son and 10 years old.

THE WATCHER

Hi, I'm the watcher; I watch all that moves and stays.

The most interesting thing I've seen was the battle of disease, it's always the disease verses hope. If anything the most dreadful battle is cancer verses hope. I remember when I first saw them both. I saw cancer first; he was like an invisible man wearing a cowl and tunic. The tunic was all black with smoke trailing around it; the black smoke was the souls he killed. His cowl reached down to a cape that was completely black except for the symbols in the middle, it was a purple ribbon with a circle around it and a cross slashing through it. When I saw him he was choking on an innocent civilian, he was begging for mercy but no one helped.

Then hope came, light came out of the clouds and it came down as a big circle of light and it absorbed cancer. Ever since then hope won most of the time. And I hope that he will absorb all of cancer and there will be no more.

I am the watcher, I watch all, and I have hope.