Three men and a bald lady

So it has been five days since my last treatment. I intended to write more frequently when I started this blog, but the truth is you probably don't want to know about the bad days. Hell, I don't want to describe the bad days. It involves lots of stomach issues and headaches and sleeping. What we can do is play a game. Each blog post I'll tell you about the side effect I hate the most that day. Today, it is smells. Bet you thought I'd say hair loss. Nope. More on that later. No, I hate many, many smells...particularly the smell of alcohol which is unfortunate considering when people see me, they immediately rush to their hand sanitizer and/or wine. The other night, Ken came to bed and I started gagging. "What the hell is that smell?", I said. "Have you been drinking whiskey?" No, he commented. He had just had milk. He had brushed his teeth. I snapped at him and told him to brush them again, convinced that he had been drowning his cancer sorrows in a bottle of Jack. Turns out what I was smelling was Listerine. It's a revolting smell, a I-can't-lay-here-next-to-this-stench smell. My poor husband.

I started losing my hair about two days after the second treatment. It was so very disgusting. Hair on my pillow. Hair all over my shirt. I always thought I would let it just fall out on its own, but my hair is so thick and it is just so gross. Plus my head hurt like crazy. All I wanted to do was rub it, yet every time I rubbed my head more hair would come out. So Sunday morning I suggested I just buzz it, and my husband basically raced to get his clippers. You know, men, I think, have this serious power thing concerning hair clippers. They just love them. Even my once long-haired hippy husband has always had good hair clippers. He loves buzzing the kids' hair...a little too much if you ask them. He wasted no time.

So there we were...all four of us (me, Ken, and two big boys) out on our lanai porch instead of at Sunday School buzzing my hair. Took a matter of seconds and I didn't cry. How did everyone react, you ask. Were the kids okay? Uh yes. They are dudes after all.

Ken: Pretty cool. You look like a Star Trek lady. Who is next? Should we all buzz our heads?

Caleb: I don't want to buzz my head. Is that okay, mom?

Levi: Are we going to a restaurant today for lunch? We normally go out to eat on Sunday.

And there you go. The world of hair according to guys. No biggie. Just wear a hat. It is, indeed, very liberating. The only drawback (besides my aesthetics, of course) is that now I have a big neon sign flashing at me, pointing out the sick girl. Every outing from taking the kids to school to going to the grocery store involves looks of sympathy and condolence. I just know the Publix lady is pitying me with my silly hair turban and cart full of Stouffer's lasagna and ice cream bars.

Since my treatment began, I have been tutoring some on campus in our learning center. Yesterday, I went to help a young male student with his math. He said after glancing at my hair turban, "What? Are you going through chemo or something?" Yep, I said. "Well," said dude, "That just sucks." And then without skipping a beat..."Can you help me with this? I just can't seem to be able to figure out this oblique asymptote here." This guy summed up this whole hot mess pretty well. Chemo sucks, but let's get back to living. These rational functions are not going to graph themselves.

Pity Party

Today I am sad. I am so sad. Tomorrow I have to go back to do chemo again and I know the medicine is better these days. I know that I have it so much better than the many, many women that have done this before me. I know I am lucky to have the anti-nausea stuff. I am lucky to have insurance. I am blessed to have this great support system of family and friends, making me laugh and spoiling me. I am lucky to have a great job with freedom to take my time with this tough journey. I am so lucky and yet I cry. I dread tomorrow. My husband and sons dread tomorrow. The dread masks all these blessings surrounding us. I hate cancer so much.

Sympathy for the Red Devil.

It has been a while since an update. What a crazy time, too. I have had x-rays, bone scans, and outpatient surgery to put a port under my skin. I have cut my hair super short and shopped for headwear and it all has been very fast, very emotional, and exhausting. Last Thursday, I had my first chemo infusion and all the reading and conversations in no way prepared me for what it was like. Let's just say that I understand the looks of pity now from breast cancer survivors. I get the hugs and the vague descriptions and all that. It sucks pretty bad.

My mom and Ken went with me. It started with lab work. They drew all this blood from my new easy access port- which is creepy by the way, how I now have this direct line to my major vein where things can be injected and withdraw at record speeds. They checked my blood and then I met with Dr. V who smiled and acted like this was no biggie. She went over the expected side effects one more time. She chatted about her upcoming vacation and always having her cell phone. She joked about Ken and his motorcycle. (They are trained actors, these oncology folks, and thank God for that.)

After that, I went into the infusion room. I was with the "yellow" group. The infusion room is a big room filled with hospital recliners. Each recliner has an iv stand and a television. They are all in a circle and facing one another. There are colored pillows on them. They know how long you have been there based on your color. We "yellows" consisted of me, a couple of older men and a woman. Almost everyone had a buddy. They had heated blankets and drinks and snacks. Just so you know where your donations may go, while I was there, the American Cancer Society made a delivery of chips and such. People try to eat a little while the chemo is going on because you feel sick almost immediately.

They started me with an iv of Benadryl and some steroid. I think they do this to pretty much get you drunk before the evil comes. I felt loopy and light headed almost instantly. My mom can verify because I am pretty sure I was talking sloppy nonsense to her. It took about 45 minutes for this concoction to drip out, then came the "red devil." The "red devil" is Adriamycin and it is super red which freaked me out to begin with. The nurse did an iv push with this- meaning she just plunged two big syringe-fuls of it straight into my port. As soon as it entered my blood, I got super Spidey senses. I smelt every smell in that room- the plastic, the Sprite, the metal- and it all turned my stomach. The good news is that I was drunk, sleepy, and with an incredibly chatty oncology nurse (who distracted me with chatter about my kids.) I love that nurse but I hate that red devil.

After the push, I got an iv drip of the second drug, cytoxan. It took about another 45 minutes to drip out. I am glad it took a while because I felt so out of it the entire time, I was wondering how I was going to be able to walk out of there. Turns out at the end, I felt almost normal again. In fact, afterwards, I felt fine. I had lunch with mom. I met my plastic surgeon. I bought a wedding gift and picked up C from school. It was all fine until that night when the worst case of nausea hit. I took all the medicine. It just sucked...and it continues to suck off and on. My appetite is shot.  Almost everything turns my stomach, and I am so, so, so tired. My head aches. I keep thinking I have a tight ponytail in. I am considering just sleeping through the next five months if I can.

The up side...my mom putting cold rags on my neck, my boys laying beside me on my bed and holding my hand, Ken telling me he loves me every second. When I have a moment of normal, I walk with my family. We went for lunch yesterday and laughed. We went to a wedding and swayed to music. We sit out on our porch regularly and smile at the Florida sunshine. Currently, while I write this, my father in law has the boys on an adventure. It is ironically Spring Break for us- a surreal one.

Until now, I have asked you all to not comment about me being brave, but I tell you, when I walk back into that cancer center on 3/22 to do this crap again, you have my permission to compliment me on my bravery. It will be very hard to do it again...and again, but I will. I believe the science even if it does involve bright red chemistry.