Two profiles (and straight on) of cancer

Obviously the above photo was taken awhile ago, April perhaps, back when I had enough hair that it tried to strangle me in my sleep. 

The photos below were taken this morning. Dada actually got the light flashing on what I call my "Glade plug-in", my Neulasta patch that pumps an infusion into me to kick my bone marrow into high blood cell production. Technology can be absolutely fascinating. After chemo yesterday, my sweet nurse Jenny attached it to my arm after programming it to go off in 27 hours. It clicks and beeps and stings me once like a bee, which inserts a tiny catheter into my arm that will allow the infusion to proceed once the 27 hours have passed. In other words, I get to take my meds with me and not make another trip back to the oncologist the day after chemo. When my timer is up, it will beep long enough for me to notice that, no, it's not the coffeemaker or the microwave, "oh, wait, that's me, haha!" Then it pumps in my meds, clicks and beeps again when it's done about 45 minutes later, and I can then have it removed and shower or take a bath or go swimming or whatever. I take it back to the doc the next time I go and they recycle it as it counts as a "sharps" and shouldn't be just pitched in the trash. Fascinating! AND I get to look like a lightning bug overnight. How cool is that?

This selfie is from today. Eyeliner, earrings from my Daddee, necklace from my friend Ann, bandanna, good to go. Since I've been wearing bandannas in one form or another since junior high (no joke, some of you remember, and that was way before camp) it hasn't fazed a lot of you to see me in them. You probably have to work to remember that my real head doesn't have one attached, hehe! The shirt, from my friend Julie, is accurate. My friend Rachel took me to chemo yesterday and we were talking about what takeaway lesson(s) might be part of this whole experience. I knew right away and said that one of them, "is to show me how loved I am." Some of you are probably shaking your heads, thinking, "this girl has lost her brain cells to chemo brain for sure." Truly though, if I were to make a list of everyone who has stepped into this mess with me, you'd be amazed. I feel like I could change the sayings, "there's an app for that" or "I've got a guy for that" to "I've got a friend for that." God has blessed me incredibly. My friend Cammie used to say that she felt like she was God's favorite little child, but I think she must have scootched over for me to be beside her under that heading, because in spite of my disappearing eyebrows and eyelashes and Immodium with me everywhere I go, I am being loved on in ways I can't even imagine. I know there are some of you I may never even meet who are praying for me and that just blows me away. Thank you! 

And whoever sent me the box of Scripture flips with no note, it got here safe and sound yesterday, and delighted me. If nobody claims it, I'm going to declare it mailed directly from Heaven from my friend Jan who kicked off a moms' Bible study years ago where I made some of my very best girlfriends. She is the one who taught us to get index cards and work our way through the Bible, claiming God's promises and writing them down and keeping them with us to use them in real life. I have more than one set in various purses and Bible study bags, haha. So thank you, friend!

And thank you to all of you once again who are beside me on this journey no matter how far away you may be physically. We are touched each time by your love. And YOU are loved right back!

Chemo yesterday went very smoothly despite me having to pee four times while I was there, haha. I think that's a record so far. I may have already mentioned my Gramps used to say, "I gotta go so bad my false teeth are floating..." Still cracks me up. I inherited my love of plaid (and wearing more than one plaid pattern at once) from him, as well. He still makes me laugh though he's been gone for 15 years now. He reported for guardian angel duty 10 days before Carrie was born, and I can't tell you how many times I've heard him laughing over these ridiculous children we have...

Here are the numbers from yesterday, so if you're not interested, you may be excused. White blood cells were at 10.26, Hemoglobin still a little down but in the normal range right at 10.0 (I think 12 is a magic number- my nurse friends will be happy to set me straight in the comments), and platelets were 157, which I think is also down from last time but they said no worries. Rachel and I laughed over the graphs, which don't make any sense to me anyway, but especially over the oh-my-goodness-I-don't-have-any-white-blood-cells! 

And once again, a shameless plug for the comedy "What's Up, Doc?" starring Barbra Steisand, Madeleine Kahn, Liam Dunn, and a host of others, here are the meds I'm taking this morning. My brother is already reciting from memory, "see this little yellow pill, Bailiff?" "Yes, Judge. What's it for?" "To remind me to take the little blue pill." "Uh, what's that one for, Judge?" "I dunno. They're afraid to tell me."

Don't be alarmed. Today is the heaviest day of meds- cancer treatment does not usually look like this for me. Today is the last of three days a month I take the steroid which helps with the side effects of Taxotere, one of my chemo drugs. The other two are anti-nausea meds to also help. Yesterday, drugs like this were part of my IV cheerleader combo before they begin the chemo drugs, so I didn't need to take them orally also. I take them today and tomorrow and then as needed. Thanks to the meds and your prayers, I have not vomited at all and I am now 2/3 done with chemo! The vitamins I take everyday, along with the allergy med which has links to reducing bone pain from the Neulasta patch when the bone marrow starts cranking out the extra production. It worked like a charm last time and I had no bone pain at all that round. I mentioned that this dose is 10mg and the recommended one was only 5mg so maybe that's why. At any rate, I'm sticking with it. Round #5 will be in three weeks and then round #6 will be in six weeks on our second day of school and then this aspect of life will be done. 

Once my numbers stabilize I will have surgery and yes, I did get my surgical consult moved up an entire month so I feel better about that. I still have questions but did discover yesterday that according to my oncologist most of the reconstruction surgeries are not silicon or saline like I'd imagined but are actually the ones involving the tummy tucks. Who knew? Why does that matter? Well, perhaps I will be less pressured into something I am fairly sure I don't want and can actually be encouraged by the portfolios or photos or whatever will be shown to me at the consult. Again, just going off of what I've heard and thought at this point, I have no real basis personally yet. I'll keep you posted! Thanks again for the prayers- I'm proof that they are working!

Dude, that's MY coffee...

Look carefully above my coffee mug at the new root that crazy plant is sending down. Sometimes I pat coffee grounds into its soil and it must be telling me I haven't done it for awhile, so it's going to try out the liquid form for some variety...

Crying in a hammock is not recommended

Did you know that a hammock, while wonderful for seclusion and relaxation, is not an ideal place to attempt a good cry? Some of you are ahead of me on this one. You're already nodding as though this should be obvious. 

Well, it wasn't to me. I was taking advantage of the seclusion and relaxation when one of the *warning, sarcasm ahead* super side effects of chemo snuck up on me: mood swings. 

I've maintained all along that going through chemo is like being pregnant because it's a total body takeover kind of deal. Today I was doing some reading (until my eyeballs were ready to fall out, actually, but never mind that) and discovered some things I probably should have figured out earlier. This I will blame on yet another side effect: chemo brain. Chemo brain is like pregnant brain where your thinking is fuzzy due to fatigue, side effects of medications, anxiety, etc. Apparently, chemo causes a decrease of female hormones, which, as we all know, does goofy things to otherwise (mostly) rational women and girls. At certain times of each month, when hormones are doing their thing, females can be perfectly fine one moment and then raging over the smallest, most innocent infraction (real or imagined) and then in tears the next instant because they're angry about being angry.

Sounds like my week. 

Aha! Hormones! Who knew?!

I've found myself raging over how many decisions need to be made throughout this medical adventure and yet how many of them are out of my realm of control. I've become incensed at how many other people want to make decisions for me in areas I CAN control. I've been disappointed by the illusion that when you become a grown up you can call the shots. Adulting is full of double edged swords and catch-22s and "haha, no tag backs!"

And I'm tired. 

But am I tired because everyone has been telling me how tired I'll be? Am I tired because everybody reminds me, "it's cumulative"? Or am I tired because of the meds/toxins being pumped into me? Am I tired because I'm a mom? Am I tired because I don't drink enough water or caffeine or I don't get enough protein or not enough sleep or not enough exercise or...?

Some of you are nodding for different reasons now. Some of you are remembering (or living), "oh yes, that sounds like being pregnant or a parent of a newborn. Am I drinking enough? Am I eating enough? Am I eating too much? Do I weigh enough or too much? Is the baby growing enough? Do I have enough fluid? Do I have enough milk? Are they nursing enough? Are they getting enough to eat? Are they growing enough?"

Some of you are replaying the thoughts in your head: am I good enough? Will I ever be good enough? Is this worth it? Am I worth it? Are they worth it? Am I supposed to be giving 50% and they're supposed to be giving 50% to make 100%? Or am I supposed to be giving 100%? What if they don't? What if I can't? What if...?

I'm sitting here, rubbing my stubbled head in frustration. Darn chemo brain. Can't even think; I sound like a fleet of hamsters on wheels just squeaking along in circles, not making any sense. I am surrounded by information from every source imaginable: the internet, books, friends, yet I still don't have enough information to make the decisions that need to be made.

In short, how does one decide if they want boobs or not? I am wrestling with that a lot lately. How does one make a coherent decision that will last for, God-willing, at least the next 40 years of one's life? For those of you who are new to this game, there are essentially 4 main options for those facing surgical removal of at least one breast (that's me, in case you're curious. Right side's gotta go. Left side is undetermined at this time.) You have your removal without reconstruction which is essentially "going flat" as your first option, reconstruction from your own body (there are multiple areas to choose from such as rear end, abdomen, and back) as your second, or implants of saline (third) or implants of silicon (fourth). Those last two options come with what I'm thinking of as "extended surgery plans" as they may need refilled or readjusted, requiring more surgeries down the line. Each comes with their own set of pros and cons. 

Now try making the decision while on drugs that affect the taste of foods you eat, wreaks havoc on your emotions because your hormones take a nose-dive, while trying to stay positive and not freak out about going into surgery in the first place with the catheters and fasting and breathing tube and the IV and all that jazz. How am I supposed to decide when my brain feels foggy and I can't take the usual comfort from a pint of Ben & Jerry's (not that that's stopped me from eating ice cream, who are we kidding here, but still)? 

To add insult to injury, or the other way around perhaps, I even finally have the swollen ankles that apparently comes with this territory (and pregnancy!)

I suppose I should give myself grace for bursting into tears in the hammock. However, due to my good friend Gravity, when you cry in a hammock the tears will coast down your face and behind your head and soak the back of your neck instead of down the front of your face and into your cleavage (which, yes, I realize that will be different after surgery as well. See? Total body takeover). Your nose will clog up even faster than usual, which I wouldn't have thought possible, and you might even get tears in your ears. As there is no graceful way in or out of a hammock, take your tissues in with you before you start your good cry. Better yet, skip the cry until you can watch a good movie. You're welcome for the Public Service Announcement.

And yet I really am okay. I don't want the tenderhearted among you to fret. I now know that hormones doing their weirded out thing is a contributing factor along with fear of the unknown. Tears won't hurt me. I'm sure I'll feel more on solid ground once I have that surgical consult to go over options with a professional, where I can ask my questions, talk about pictures I've seen, and so on. As usual, there is no convenient neon box lighting up which says, "This is what you should do. Love, God." Not that He doesn't play a part in the decision making, it's just that He's got me no matter what I will eventually pick, which does help with perspective when I get freaked out. 

How can you help? I'm so glad you asked. I realize this surgery can't happen until mid-September and it is only July, but let's get this party started. You can be praying for my surgeon, my team, clarity in my decision making, peace with whatever decision is made, smooth surgery with no complications, that I wouldn't get sick from three school's worth of germs coming home with all three kids while I'm recovering, flexibility as our family adjusts to my recovery time, that I be a good patient and follow orders to not lift and that I can start the stretches and exercises soon after to help with recovery and range of motion, that I will be able to sleep as I heal because I am a stomach sleeper, that in the hardest moments (like when the bandages come off, raw wounds, and there are surgical drains to empty-yikes) that I will remember that it's not going to be like that forever and that while my new normal will be different it will eventually become my new normal. Pick and choose what you like- I gave you lots of starting points. You'll even think of more, because hopefully you do not also have chemo brain!

And mucho thanks to those of you who have already kept me covered. I appreciate every prayer you send on my behalf. I really have been overwhelmed with mail, gifts, meals (goodness, the meals!), the wonderful hugs, the "just checking in"s and the "whaddya need"s. Thank you. Thanks for being in it with me for the long haul. Please keep them coming!


And don't cry in a hammock. Unless it's from laughing too hard, I suppose, but be careful as that has its own risks!