Fear and Loathing.

There is a line in Hunger Games (the movie) where Peeta says, "If I am going to die, I still want to be me." Or something like that. He is talking about how the games may change him, how he may have to kill people, etc. The quote occurs very early in the movie and it had me crying through the rest of it. Cancer is my own "hunger game." I am fighting so hard, and cancer will change you. It changes you physically. It changes you emotionally. I have lost myself in this fight.

For one, my body ain't mine anymore. Whose "boobs" are these? I have no freaking hair. I told my friend the other day that I was going to ask my doc about all these damn freckles. I am sure chemo is causing a massive freckle outbreak. My friend laughed her butt off. She tells me I have always had freckles. I have?

I have headaches all the time. I am sure the chemo is wreaking havoc on my brain. I can't think of words. My sentences get stuck in my throat. Where was I going with that thought? I tackled my college's math problem of the week a few days again and got stumped. What if this medicine is making me stupid? Who am I without my mind? I feel like I am living "Flowers of Algernon." Remember that book? Does the fact that I remember it make me less stupid? I think it does and am temporarily relieved.

I am tired. So tired. You aren't a good warrior when you are tired. The "me" I want to be isn't lazy. (I am sure like the freckles though that I have always had a little lazy in me.) I can't have this cancer situation turn me into someone else. I guess the truth is I never really thought about "me" before this. I am not talking about Anna the teacher or Anna the mom or Anna from eastern North Carolina...just plain old me. Who is Anna? She isn't her boobs. (I once was! I had a good run with that rack.) I am more than a thinker, more than a feeler.

I remember in a college ancient philosophy class, my professor talked about the concept of a university. What made a university? Was it a group of buildings? We all agreed that it wasn't just a group of buildings. My professor looked right at me in that class and asked me what made me Anna. When I was a little baby in a crib, was that still me? Yes, I replied. Still me. I think of that scene all the time now. This body with my poor excuse for boobs and no hair is still me. This body will change many times before it ends. My mind will go through its own transformations. Still me.

Also recently, I watched another movie- "Rum Diaries" which besides giving me Johnny Depp eye candy, gave me more to contemplate. Mainly, I've been thinking about Hunter S. Thompson. What a weird dude...weird when he was sober, weird when he wasn't. Yet this guy had some essence that certainly made him Hunter S. Thompson. So do I. So do you. I can't help but like crazy old Hunter S. Thompson.

Here is Hunter S. Thompson's suicide note (and don't worry, I am NOT in danger of that. Please.)

"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax -- This won't hurt."

I feel the weird guy's pain. My changes are no fun and boring, too, but I, unlike crazy man, I got hope. I am not out of rum, and if this blog post seems looney-tune and incoherent to you...well, blame it on the chemo.

Friends Forever

The following was written by my true treasure of a friend, a friend that has seen her own troubles and came out the other side. I hope she doesn't mind me sharing it. It made me cry...and then it made me smile.

How Did You Do It?
The question most often asked when someone learns of my past.
This is all I know to tell you my friend- you can.
I didn’t do it for the team,
I didn’t do it for the boys.
I didn’t do it for his memory,
I didn’t do it with His help.
I didn’t do it for myself.
I slowly extended my big toe- it wiggled.
I flexed my foot back and forth.
I rotated my ankle…
Then I put my foot down.
The other one followed, they’re attached you see.
After many of such exercises, I made it to the end of the street…then the month…then the year.
I don’t know why it worked- but I was in motion
Still am.
So are you.
I’ll see you at the end of the street.

Written by CM

Chemo Eve

I think the day before chemo is really almost as bad as the treatment itself. The impending suckiness of the treatment just ruins anything good in the day. It is all I can think about. Chemo Eve gives me an instant case of Tourette's. I cuss like a sailor, taking on the most sour mood. Nobody takes it personally. They count the days left in this cancer prison just like I do. I know I will live through this, yet I wonder what the cost will be to my spirit, my relationships and my family.

Today's top bad side effect of this cancer crap...apathy. As in- frankly, my dear, I just don't... care. This is exceptionally sad in my case, as I have always been proud of my advocacy. The pre-cancer Anna expended so much energy on her kids, her career, her social and political causes. That old Anna would already be researching summer programs for her kids. She would be finishing her dissertation, running for school board, drilling her son on SAT vocabulary and planting her flower garden. I am a shell of that woman these days. On my lowest days, it takes all I have to get out of bed. My kids do their own laundry, make their own meals, answer their own homework questions. I go days without answering emails and texts, grateful for people that care when I so often don't. On those days immediately after treatment, I plead to just be left alone in my dark room. It matters little to me that there is no milk or clean towels. Nothing matters.

In the beginning, I was sure I would care. I sometimes see these super polished ladies in the cancer center. They have on full makeup, dressed in their best. Their bright red lipstick outlines a super smile. I was going to be *that* woman, and yet, here I sit. I am still in the same yoga pants and fitted tshirt I wore yesterday, an outfit I purchased ironically so I could actually practice yoga and get well. Yesterday, I ate three ice cream sandwiches and a handful of potato chips. This from the girl that was going to juice her way to health. I mostly forgot how to care. Almost.

Right now I am going to find just enough energy to take a shower and put on real clothes. I have a meeting on campus this afternoon. I had originally thought I might try to shop this morning before the meeting. My kids have outgrown most of their dress clothes. Caleb has no good belts or dress shoes. I hear other mothers chatter about new Easter dresses and the like. I want to care about that, too. I want us to have new Easter outfits. Right now, I think I might have it in me to shop... as long as it is an all-in-one store with a cart...maybe Target or Marshalls. I do, however, know what is coming. I know I have chemo tomorrow. I know Sunday that I will be back in my apathy cave. Keep praying for us, folks. Pray that on Sunday, I care enough to get out of bed. Pray that I care enough to make my kids shower and put on new clothes that fit. Oh Chemo Eve...I really hate you.

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.

Chances are.

So yesterday was the big day. I met my oncologist, Dr. V, and got a chemo plan. She began our meeting by entering all my cancer specifics into some computer program. Age: 38....General Health: Good....Estrogen Receptor: Positive...Tumor Grade: 2....Tumor Size: 2.1-3.0cm...Nodes Involved: 1-3. <Insert fake computer sound here.> From this program, out popped my odds. If I do nothing, I have a 41% chance of being alive and cancer-free in 10 years. If I do this chemo and take these crappy hormonal drugs, I have a 79% chance of being alive and cancer-free in 10 years. Okay, I think, I teach statistics. This is easy. I pick treatment.

Despite knowing statistics and weighing these odds, there were a couple of moments yesterday that bothered me. For one, 10 years. Hello? I'd like to live past 48. For another, when you get cancer, you have to fill out a questionnaire a day on your family history. Dr. V saw from my questionnaire yesterday that I had a deceased sibling. She naturally asked how did he die. Car accident, I say. Her reply was "Your poor parents." I'll translate this seemingly cold statement. (I speak fluent doctor now.) What she meant was the probability of having a child die in a car accident at 30 AND having a child diagnosed with cancer at 38 is crazy low. How unfortunate for them. Which shows you looking at numbers means nothing when the house wins. I mean there was a 1 in 10 chance I'd get breast cancer in the first place and well, I lost that hand. (You're welcome, other 9 women. I took one for the team.) Is there such a thing as I have had my fair share of bad luck?

Here is another thing that bothered me. They don't phrase your odds by speaking in probabilities or percentages. Instead, the report says 79 out of 100 women are alive and without cancer in 10 years after combined therapy. So do I celebrate the likelihood that I'll be alive after all this? No, I don't. I think about the 21 other ladies that won't... because when you sit in an oncology waiting room, 100 people translates into a lot of real human faces. Get busy, genius science children, and cure this problem now.

So what will my chemotherapy entail? Well, months of crap. Specifically, I will get 4 treatments of the "bad" stuff (adriamycin and cytoxan). Side effects include nausea, mouth sores, hair loss, weight GAIN (seriously, universe!?) and fatigue. These treatments occur every two weeks, then I get 12 treatments every week of taxel. I don't know how bad that round is. At this time in the meeting, I was still thinking about the weight gain part. So that's 20 weeks. 5 months. March, April, May, June, July. That's my summer...the summer of my discontent. I could be in a clinical trial that would extend my chemo potentially six more months. Still thinking on that.

My treatment is scheduled to begin March 7th, but there are a lot of variables. My plastic surgeon has to give me a green light for anesthesia so a chemo port can be put into my chest. The chemo port surgery has to be scheduled with my favorite breast doc, Dr. D, and she's a popular gal. I need a MUGA scan (no idea...heart thing?). I need an x-ray. I need blood work done. Meanwhile, my boobs are in holding. I'll have to just keep these expanders until all this is over. Three weeks after chemo is done, I can schedule my implants. I want those foobs super bad. All in all, it will be a crap time, but I'll be okay. I shook the Magic 8-Ball and "It is decidedly so."