Dentists, Chocolate Pianos, and Check Ups

Let me tell you, once you have cancer it affects every other aspect of your life. And I mean everything. For example, I went to the dentist last week because I hadn't been in about two years. Of course, I had to spend about 3 hours filling out paper work that included all kinds of questions ranging from "Have you ever had cancer?" to "Do you like your smile?" Because I have had radiation to my jaw area, the dentist was very stern when she explained to me that I need to take very good care of my teeth. I am young and these teeth have to last me a long time. You see, basically the radiation zapped my saliva glands and since saliva cleans out your mouth, my mouth can't protect itself against cavities like most mouths. After the lecture on dental hygiene, she used several high tech instruments that made weird, space-age noises to determine who knows what about my teeth. Between spouting off numbers and other meaningless words, she commented to me, "You have deep grooves in your teeth." I felt like we were playing out a scene from Little Red Riding Hood and I was inclined to reply, "The better to chew you with!" Sadly, her hands stuffed in my mouth left me only to shrug my shoulders. After her examination she broke the bad news. I have three stinking stupid dumb cavities that are going to cost me an arm and a leg to get filled. I go back this week to begin this costly dental work.

Over the weekend I sure didn't help my cavity situation any with all of the chocolate I ate. You see, it was my birthday. And this year, of all years, I was quite happy to be celebrating. Birthdays take on a whole new meaning when you've had cancer and feel like you have been granted, blessed, with another year. Shane and I celebrated by staying at the largest JW Marriott hotel in the world which just happens to be in downtown Indy. It was a wonderful stay-cation in a beautiful hotel. They even knew it was my birthday and delivered a chocolate piano filled with berries and truffles. It was so cute and miniature (I love miniature things!) and oh-so-delicious.

After a wonderful weekend, I started this week off with a radiation check up. Because of my old daily routine where I would just walk back to the radiation room, I figured I knew what to do and bypassed the registration ladies. But when I arrived at the receptionist's desk and told her I was there for my appointment, she looked at me quizzically and asked if I had registered out front. I guess three weeks of daily radiation gets ya nothin around these parts. So I went back out to the front like a normal patient and registered. They must have quickly passed along the information that I was just waltzing around like I owned the place because they slapped an ID bracelet on my wrist and told me to have a seat in the waiting room. After waiting for about 20 minutes in the exam room, the doctor finally came in and asked me the usual questions. Even though he didn't seem to notice that my voice still has a Sharon Stone quality to it, all in all he said everything is a-okay. So I am starting of this week celebrating 24 years and being cancer free!

Scalpel? Scalpel.

On Friday, November 18, I went in to have my port removed. As much as the original idea of having a port gave me the heebie jeebies, I had gotten used to having a weird lumpy object protruding from my chest. Don't get me wrong though, I was certainly looking forward to finally being done with all things cancer related.

The procedure was very simple. The lady that scheduled my appointment assured me that I would not need anything more than local anesthesia and that I could return to work later in the afternoon as long as I wasn't doing anything too strenuous. When I informed her that I work at a gym, she began to get a little hesitant about allowing me to return to work, but then agreed on the stipulation that I couldn't do any heavy lifting or bending over to tie my shoe. Weird thing to stipulate, but I agreed in order to save using one of my precious vacation days.

After checking in, I was called back to the pre-operation area to change. Since this procedure was going to be so quick, they told me I only needed to undress from the waist up. It was a little weird being in a hospital gown and jeans, I must say. But I still got the perks of pre-operation as they brought me a blanket that had been in a warmer. Ohhh, it was nice. I think I need to invest in a blanket warmer. When it was time for my surgery, Dr. McDreamy, I mean, Dr. Isch came in to explain the procedure. He is the doctor that put my port in and is basically Hottie Mc-Hotterson. Shane, if you are reading this, please don't get mad. You know you think is a very attractive person too. And he is just so nice, it is hard not to want surgery every other week.

They wheeled me into a small room (i.e. a closet that they converted into a room for simple surgeries such as this) and got everything situated for the doctor to come in and do his thing. They numbed the area and from then on out it was exactly like you see on TV. The doctor said, "Scalpel." And as the surgical assistance passed the scalpel right over my face, she replied with, "Scalpel." It was bizarre to hear my skin ripping and tearing along with the juices slurping around, but feel no pain. And this was all happening just inches from my face. As they began to near completion, they asked if I would like to see it. Of course I would!! It wasn't too exciting as I had seen one before they put it in my body, but it was still kind of cool.

After he stitched me up, it was time to wheel me back out to the pre-operation area. As the surgical assistant opened the door and began pulling my bed through the doorway, I noticed he was having a bit of trouble keeping the door open. Since I was fully awake and functional, I thought I could help him out by simply reaching over and holding the door as he scooted my bed through. But as I did, he quickly and firmly said, "Please keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times." Once I began laughing, he said, "If you leave this place with anything other than your port removed, I am going to be in big trouble." Even though I was sure my immune system was stronger than door germs, I quietly obeyed and let the door hit my bed and practically knock me off as he wheeled me out.

But I made it out alive and after a few days of pain, I am back to my original B.C. (before cancer) state. Stay tuned for a belated Thanksgiving post.

Your Blood Pressure Must Be High

A week has passed since my last radiation treatment and while the side effects are subsiding, they are still noticeable. The most noticeable of which is my voice. Those little radioactive particles zapped my vocal cords. You should hear me try to talk. The sounds of my voice have been likened to a 90 year old man, a habitual smoker, and a stoma patient. Seeing as I like to talk and in fact my job requires me to speak with people on a fairly frequent basis, the last week has been interesting. People usually do one of two things when they hear me for the first time. They either empathetically ask if I am sick or just subtly take a few steps back to be polite, yet ensure that they don't catch whatever it is that is making me sound like this.

The other effect people have been mentioning is my red face. Because radiation is kind of like a bad sunburn (except way worse), the treated area becomes red/pink after awhile. My chest didn't get too red, but my face turned blazing red. I practically look like a tomato and people have been drawing their own conclusions as to why.

"Your face is red, did you just get done working out?"

"You look tan, did you go somewhere warm?"

And my favorite assumption of them all - "Your face is red, your blood pressure must be high."

I am so happy to be done with radiation. At first, the only toll it took was on our gas tank with the daily trips to the cancer center, but after a few weeks the radiation effects were worse than the chemo effects. The horrendous mouth sores and swollen throat were enough to make a girl that can only eat mashed potatoes quite miserable. I've been telling people that I would take chemo over radiation any day. But to be honest with you, I would much rather never have either one again.

Rough Week

Last weekend my mouth went from dry to painfully sore. All of a sudden my saliva glands started working over time and I developed terrible white sores in my mouth. After doing some research online, I thought it might be thrush. Since I had been saliva-less for the past two weeks, I thought it would make sense that some bacteria may have taken root in my oral cavity. As the soreness and symptoms increased Sunday night, I decided it would be a good idea to alert my doctor. So Monday morning I arrived at my appointment early and requested to see the doctor. He told me it wasn't thrush, just a side effect from the radiation. There was nothing he could do other than give me pain medication. I left his office very frustrated and upset. The pain was one thing, but to top it off, I couldn't eat because of it. How was I supposed to go through another week and a half of this pain?

After seriously weighing the pros and cons of quitting radiation treatment early, I decided that it is not in my character to quit anything and that I would continue the treatment. Needless to say, this week has been close to torturous with my inability to consume anything other than milk and mashed potatoes and the sores in my mouth still raging.

On Friday, I was prepared to tackle the 15th treatment, but after waiting for 30 minutes, a radiation therapist came out and informed us that the machine was down. Weird. I didn't think a machine that important to so many people was allowed to take a day off. So now I have three treatments left. Monday.Tuesday.Wednesday. I can do this. Pain and hunger are both relative, right?

Not My Idea of Fun

Well, I have 10 zaps down, 7 to go. And while this isn't as bad as chemo, it certainly isn't what I would consider fun. My mouth is still dry and because of the lack of saliva, my tongue has swollen to the size of mango. While a swollen tongue may not seem like a big deal, it causes problems. Because of its vast size, it gets caught between my teeth at night and I now have terrible wounds that make eating a literal pain. Not to mention, the swollen tongue leads me to talk like a drunk three year old with a lisp. Also, my throat is extremely inflamed (which the doctor said would happen) and every time I swallow, it feels like I am taking down a huge marble. With the fat, wounded tongue and sore throat, eating is nearly impossible. Even the softest foods make it feel like I am attempting to swallow a baseball.

Last Friday I tried to explain all of this peril to a useless nurse practitioner. For some reason, my radiation doctor was gone, so I had to meet with a lady that tried to tell me my dry mouth could not possibly be from the radiation this early on in the game. She rationalized the dry mouth by saying, "Well, it is pretty dry in this hospital..." Lady! I spend at most 30 minutes a day in here, my mouth isn't a desert just because of the lack of moisture in here! She also pulled out her flu shot soap box and explained to me for 29 minutes why I needed to get one. After I pulled out my D.A.R.E. skills and kept repeating, "No. No. NO," she finally came down off of her soap box. Then she relayed to me how important it was that even though radiation isn't like chemo, it is still taking a toll on my body. She emphasized that I just need to take it easy and if I don't feel like going out and doing things, that maybe I just need to "prop my feet up and watch the birds at the bird feeder." I don't "watch the birds" because I have a job and friends and I sure don't own a bird feeder, Lady!

On Monday, I met with yet another useless individual, the dietician. She commented on my position as a health fitness specialist and yet, she still proceeded to tell me basic things that Joe Schmoe off the street could tell anyone. Item by item, she went down the list of good protein sources. Honestly, I don't know how some of these people are employed. I could do half the jobs in that cancer center without any training.

I met with my real radiation doctor on Wednesday and he didn't have many helpful things to tell me either. He said that he believed me that my mouth was dry, but he wasn't going to take the blame for it. Listen, Pal. You and everyone else around here need to get over yourselves and stop saying that it was "just a coincidence" that my mouth became void of moisture upon the start of radiation. I am telling you, my mouth is dry and you need to do something about it!! After telling me he wasn't sure how long my dry mouth would persist and giving me a prescription for throat numbing medicine, he sent me on my way.

All in all, these radiation people are not as nice as my chemo nurses. They don't believe me and they don't offer anything helpful. So I will keep plugging along, eating tiny bites of soft foods, happy that my cancer is gone.

Zip Zap

Yesterday, I experienced my first radiation treatment. I rushed from work to the cancer center and barely had a chance to sit in the waiting room before they called me back. I laid on the table for a few minutes while they got my markings all lined up. Since these people seem to be so secretive about what they are doing, I just watched the machines rotating around me and listened to the various beeps, clicks, and honks that sounded at different points. I was under the impression that they were just taking some x-rays to make sure everything was properly lined up. Ready to ask them what or if the radiation would feel like, I was surprised when they came in the room and unhooked the blue mask. "What? It's over?" I asked. "Yep, all done. See you tomorrow," and they ushered me out the door.

Today was not quite as fast. Somebody must have had a blue mask panic because I didn't get called back for my zapping until 30 minutes after my scheduled appointment time. This time I paid closer attention to the beeps and honks and deduced that when the long honk is sounding, I am receiving radiation. I get zapped from the front for 10 seconds and then the machine moves and zaps me from the back for another 10 seconds. Twenty seconds total seems like an awfully short amount of time for which to waste my break. I kind of want to opt out of the rest of radiation as it is such a hassle, but Shane won't let me.

My radiation oncologist said it would be awhile before I noticed side effects, but I noticed the first effect yesterday afternoon. I think the zapper killed one of my saliva glands (which the doctor said may be a possibility). Since yesterday afternoon I have had such a dry, cottony mouth. I keep drinking water, but that only makes me have a full bladder and still leaves my mouth dry. And after today's treatment, my jaw is very sore and tender to the touch. It even hurts to open my mouth very wide. Maybe my coworkers will appreciate the upcoming silence for the next three weeks. I, however, am already counting down the days until the zip zap process is over.

She Thinks She is Funny

Friday afternoon I went in for my "dry run" to prep for radiation tomorrow. The dry run is basically an assimilation of what daily radiation will be like without the actual delivery of radioactive particles to my body. The radiation therapists use the dry run to take some x-rays and get my body lined up with the images on the screen in order to cut down on prep time when it is time for the actual zapping.

When I entered the radiation section of the cancer center, I was immediately greeted by a radiation therapist that took me back to the waiting area. I changed into a hospital gown-like top and headed to the radiation room. As we turned the corner I was greeted by not one, but two more radiation therapists. With a total of three radiation therapists, I began to wonder if someone had warned them of the PET scan incident, or maybe they just caught wind of my mischievous ways. Either way, I was slightly surprised at the number of people that this operation would require so I exclaimed, "Wow, a whole entourage!" Expecting at least a smile or small chuckle, I looked back only to find three stoic faces staring back at me. Their only response was a dry, "You will always have at least two radiation therapists for your treatments."

As we entered the room, my eyes took in the futuristic machine that will deliver the radiation. They had me lay down on the table and instructed me that I would need to expose the top part of my chest. Since I barely knew these people, and two of them were males, I simply pulled the straps of my sports bra down over my shoulders. The female therapist looked at me and said I would need to just pull the bra all the way down. Holding up a tiny cloth, she said she would keep me covered. Okay, but that doesn't help shield me from the guy behind me that is practically breathing down my neck. So I began the awkward maneuvering to get my chest completely bare while still doing my best to maintain modesty in front of these humorless strangers. Once I was sufficiently naked from the waist up, they put the blue mask on me. I am becoming more and more aware that many medical practices should be considered hazing. After securing the blue mask to the table, they were very worried at how loose it was fitting; I was enjoying the roomy comfort. After calling in another person, they got it tightened down and said, "There we go, much better." Barely able to move my lips, I jokingly muttered, "Much.Worse." They didn't find that funny and just left the room without responding.

I lied on the table for a few minutes, then the female therapist came in and moved my elbow by half an inch. I lied there for a few more minutes, then she came back and pushed my shoulders down on the table. Then I lied there for a few more minutes and she came back and pulled the sheet that was underneath me, so by that point I was practically hanging off the table. Once I was finally adjusted correctly, they took some pictures with an x-ray and some other fancy machine. At least I think that is what they were doing. The whole time they were all very silent and secretive about what they were doing.

After about 20 minutes of laying there by myself, I began to think they had either forgotten about me, or gotten tired of my attempts at humor. Just as I was about to go into the early stages of panic, they came in wielding permanent markers. Without my permission, they began drawing on my chest and mask as if I was some sort of children's coloring book. They also put several stickers on my chest and stomach. Once they were finally done and I was unhooked, I looked down at their handy work. "Whoa! What did you guys do to me? Draw a map of Africa on my chest?!" The therapist, Eric, once again did not find me amusing. He just told me I had some marker on my chin that I might want to take care of. Excuse me, you put it there, how about you take care of it, Eric! He brought me a tiny alcohol swab and after I wiped around aimlessly, I asked for a mirror. What does he bring me? A tiny, 1"x1" dental mirror! Now who isn't amusing, Eric?

Wrapping up the appointment, Eric told me to leave the stickers on and try not to wash off the permanent marker. With a smug grin I responded, "Well, I will do my best, but I can't make any promises. I am going to shower." Once again not finding me amusing, he repeated his directions with a much firmer tone of voice. Then he handed me my schedule for the next three weeks. Quickly scanning the times, I noticed that they weren't going to line up with my work schedule very well. As I followed Eric back to the computer to reschedule my times he warned me that they were pretty booked and there wouldn't be much flexibility. After getting only two days changed, Eric suggested that I check back every week as some spots would open up. Knowing what that was code for, I looked at him, nudged his elbow and said, "Some people will die off?" Not finding me humous, Eric shot me a stern look and said, "Rarely. Usually people choose to discontinue treatment or go to hospice." I could still crack his code, and did the whole wink-wink, nudge-nudge bit as I repeated, "...to die." Ignoring me, Eric simply led me to the waiting room, thankful to be getting rid of me and my sense of humor, and handed me off to Shane. Shane gave him an apologetic glance that seemed to imply, "Sorry, she thinks she is funny..." and took me back to work for the afternoon.

Results are in...

And I am cancer free!!! I met with my oncologist today and in his words the PET scan was an A++. No cancer detected. The exact wording from the scan report - "There is no obvious abnormal tracer accumulation currently and this suggests that it is in remission or has resolved." It feels good to say I no longer have cancer. However, it is a bit strange because it isn't over yet. I still have to go through radiation treatment. I guess that will really zip zap any tiny traces of bad cells. Since the PET scan was negative, I will only have 17 treatments. I have a "dry run" tomorrow where they will get everything set up for radiation and then I actually start the zapping on Monday. According to my calculations, my last day of radiation should be November 8th. My next appointment with my oncologist isn't until March - how crazy! After months of seeing the doctor at least every two weeks, it will be a nice break. But first I have to get through 17 daily trips to the cancer center. It is like the sprint to the finish line, the exclamation mark at the end of the sentence.

We are heading home to Iowa tomorrow night for a short visit. It will be beyond great to see family and celebrate the good news.

Panic at the PET Scan

Last Thursday as my alarm went off obscenely early, I was prepared to tackle the PET scan with ease as it was my second one and I was practically a seasoned veteran. Knowing of my lengthy waiting period in a lead, radioactive-proof room, I packed several items to entertain myself. As we entered the cancer center, we took a seat in the waiting lobby and my attention was quickly drawn to the lady at the desk. I noticed she kept asking questions, but I didn't hear anyone answering even though I saw a man sitting in front of her. After observing, I realized the man could not speak. The lady at the desk must have realized this fact as well and raised her voice as if her shouting would help the man speak. For the next 10 minutes I got to observe a hilarious interaction between the shouting lady and the wheezing man. Finally, after it was my turn to register for my appointment, I was taken back to my tiny room to be injected with radioactive sugar. I was prepared to wait a full 90 minutes for the sugar to circulate, but after only 60 minutes, a very kind lady poked her head in and told me we had some prep work to do before my scan. I was so elated at getting out of that tiny room early. Little did I know what was in store.

The lady, we will call her Nicole because that is her name, explained to me that she needed to mold a mask to fit my face. The mask keeps my head and neck motionless. Motionless is essential when scanning and zapping because they need an accurate picture to zap me in the correct places. Nicole dunked a 12"x12" piece of blue, plastic, mesh into warm water and then pulled it over my face. Three sides of the square were secured to the table as she stretched the warm, wet, pliable plastic over my face. Once the mesh had hardened, ta-da! A contoured mold of my face and neck! How cool, right? Or at least I thought so at that brief moment before it turned into the blue mask of panic.

After a few more minutes of waiting, Nicole and the radiation technician retrieved me from my tiny room and took me to the scanning area. I laid down on a hard board as they strapped my arms in and positioned my head/neck on a very hard, uncomfortable neck support that tilted my chin back. The first 20 minutes of the 28 minute scan were bearable. The neck support was very uncomfortable, but I kept telling myself it was almost over. As Nicole and the radiation tech came in the room, I was thankful to be almost done. Nicole explained that now she needed to put the mask over my face and we had about 15 minutes left. 15 minutes!? At this point, the back of my head was going numb and my neck had a literal pain in it.

Now, I would like to preface this next section with the fact that I do not even in the least little bit consider myself claustrophobic. It was a terrible combination of factors that led me to react as anyone would have.

As she put the mask on my face and buckled it to the table, totally disabling me from movement, she exited the room and began the scan. As the table began to move into the scanner tube, I asked if we could take a break for just a second. My neck was hurting so badly, I just needed a minute before we started the next 15 minutes. As I waited for Nicole to come unhook my mask, I began to panic. I was hungry, I was in pain, I was unable to move, and I was alone. Trapped and alone. The tears started to stream. Nicole noticed my panic, unhooked my mask, and let me sit up for a minute. After regaining my composure, we tried again. Not even two minutes had passed before the panic overwhelmed me once again. I tried to tough it out, tell myself that I could do this. But all I could think about was how alone and trapped I was. All I could feel was the blue mask hugging the contours of my face, holding my head down. The tears began to roll and as Nicole and the radiation tech heard me crying they aborted the test once again. I felt like such a failure. I apologized and asked to see Shane. I just needed someone to be there with me. I needed to know that I wasn't alone.

Nicole led me to a small room with a bed and instructed me to rest for about 20 minutes. She also asked if I wanted the doctor to get me anything. I think she was implying that I needed calming medication. After responding that I was okay, she asked, "Are you sure?" I don't think she wanted another panic at the PET scan incident. But I stood my ground and told her I was fine. Twenty minutes of waiting turned into an hour and twenty minutes as they had other people with scheduled scans. I just rested, talked to Shane, and calmed down. I realized that if I could somehow distract myself, I would be fine during the scan. I just needed something to think about other than the fact that I was immobilized, trapped, and alone. Luckily, I had my iPad! Once it was time for me to try again, I played some Colbie Caillat, closed my eyes and imagined I was at the beach and the pressure I felt on my face was simply a towel to shade my eyes from the sun. Music will be my saving grace as I get to encounter the blue mask every day for the next three to four weeks.

Results from the PET scan come in Thursday and radiation starts at the end of this week, probably Thursday as well.

Protect Your Noggin

For months now, I have been riding my bike to work...without a helmet. Not because I was too cool for school, but because I simply didn't own one. I always made sure to take a route that didn't include cars but still I was berated with the "importance of helmets" comments when I would arrive at work. This weekend I was finally near a bike store and am now equipped to ride the streets.

I figured I should probably do my best to protect my life and be thankful for each day considering my circumstances.

The Plan

Monday was my first appointment with the radiation oncologist. It was pretty uneventful, just the usual new patient health history questionnaire where I got to answer awkward questions like, "Do you wear dentures?" Seriously?

After the weird, age inappropriate questions, the doctor came in and got down to business. If my PET scan comes back negative, meaning no cancer, I will undergo only 17 radiation treatments. If my PET scan comes back positive, I will have 22 radiation treatments. I will receive radiation five days a week and it will only be for a few minutes. Most of the time will actually be spent getting my body in the proper position for zapping.

I was curious why I would need to have radiation even if my PET scan came back negative. Why treat cancer that doesn't exist? According to my doctor, research shows that it is better long term if patients receive radiation even if the PET scan does not detect cancer. I took the doctor for his word, but Shane said he was surprised I didn't ask him to cite the research.

Side effects from radiation are cumulative, building up over time. Because the number of treatments is on the low end, the side effects will just be building up when I am finishing. The side effects of radiation are also site specific. With the cancer being in my neck/chest area, the most prominent effect I will notice is an inflammation of my esophagus. But hopefully I will only have to put up with a week or two of painful swallowing, just around the time of the most delicious food of the year, Thanksgiving. Even if it is too painful to eat turkey, I will enjoy some mashed potatoes and have much to be thankful for this year.

Milestones and Fiber Bombs

Thursday was my last chemo treatment! *happy dance happy dance happy dance* I celebrated and thanked the nurses with some delicious mini cupcakes and they were a huge hit!!

When I entered the chemo room for my blood draw, I noticed two new additions to the room that I wish they would have added a bit sooner than my last treatment. On the wall hung two, brand new, flat screens TVs. On my very first chemo treatment I asked one of the nurses why they didn't have any TVs for patients to watch. Her response seemed very logical - the doctors wanted to pay for an all RN and oncology certified nursing staff rather than TVs. But I guess after putting up with my childlike attention span for the past 16 weeks, they finally decided it was worth it to splurge on some entertainment devices.

After my blood draw, I met with my doctor and we discussed the next steps in the treatment plan. Sensing my anxiousness to get this whole thing over with, he moved the schedule up a week. I meet with my next doctor, the radiation oncologist, tomorrow morning and my PET/CT scan is now scheduled for October 6th. I am not quite sure what tomorrow's appointment will entail. More than likely I will meet the new doctor, talk about the next few appointments I need to have, and then be on my merry way.

This transition from chemo to radiation is a huge milestone. While I don't know exactly how I will respond/react to radiation, I am so thankful to be done with the icky chemo feeling. Thankfully, this last treatment has been one of the better ones as far as side effects are concerned. And they key to this good feeling is a lovely little concoction I am calling fiber bombs!! One of the worst things about chemo for me has been the extreme constipation, which leads to a terrible feeling of fullness and all around grossness. But I found this recipe for an "all natural laxative" in a book I got from the cancer center entitled Eating Well Through Cancer. Equal parts prune juice, oat bran, and apple sauce with a squirt of honey for flavor, this powerful mixture is working wonders.

Though I am still trying to grasp everything I am supposed to be learning through this battle called cancer, one of the things on my mind especially today is a sense of selflessness that I am still working on incorporating into my life. Cancer has made it easy to justify my self focus, but after some reflection today, I realize that I am still a part of a larger purpose and cancer does not excuse me from putting others before myself. I will start this new phase of treatment tomorrow with a renewed sense of love and awareness for those around me. Hold me to it. It's go time.

Cookies or Cupcakes?

Or neither? Thursday is my last treatment and some sort of celebration/thank you is in order. I just can't figure out what. Do I send the nurses a singing telegram? Do I go in with a choreographed dance and be the singing telegram? I don't want to disrupt other patients' treatment or offend them since they are all at different stages in their treatment plans. But a celebration is in order. A major stage of my treatment plan will be completed. And the nurses need to be thanked. For 16 weeks they took care of me and had the difficult task of not only putting up with my crazy but also making me sicker to make me better. How hard must it be to administer drugs day after day knowing how sucky they make people feel? But they do it. And they get to see happy stories, but they also have to keep working even after sad stories. These nurses have a hard job and I have appreciated the care they have given me beyond words.

That being said, my mind automatically jumped to something sweet when I thought about how to thank them. The Flying Cupcake is one of my favorite places to visit downtown so what better way to thank them than bring in some deliciousness. Then I paused. Remembered that I am a health fitness specialist. And thought that maybe sweets weren't such a good idea. Sure, I am celebrating/thanking them, but they get that quite often. There are usually goodies of some sort sitting out on the counter. So I thought a fruit bouquet might be a cute and healthy option. Then I saw the prices on those suckers and thought about how I could make one myself. Then I pictured myself with a sharp object trying to cut pretty shapes out of various fruits and decided against the whole fruit bouquet idea.

So now I am at a loss. And this is where you, my avid readers (if there are any of those out there), weigh in. Do I forego all health fitness specialist rules and bring cupcakes to overweight nurses? Or is there a healthier option that is just as thanking?

Boring is Good...

...I guess. But it doesn't make for a very funny blog.

Every two weeks, it is the same routine when I see the doctor. First the nurse gets my weight and I curse the steroids as I watch the numbers rise. Next Shane and I take bets on my blood pressure. I won this week - 109/58.

When the doctor comes in, he and Shane have a buddy-buddy chat about Dale Carnegie while I sit patiently (I have almost mastered this virtue by now) and wonder if my doctor remembers that I am the patient. Once he decides to get down to real business he always asks the same questions and I always give him the same answers.

- How is work? Fine.

- Any problems last treatment? You mean besides the fact that my kidneys are soon going to go on strike from all those drugs you pump into me?

- How is your appetite? Too big. Those steroids send me into a starved raged.

- How are your bowels? Fine

- Any tingling or numbness? You mean besides what I feel from boredom when you ask me the same questions every two weeks?

- Any swelling in your hands, feet, or ankles? Here, I simply hike up my pant legs and let him answer the questions himself.

- Then he feels my neck for lumps, listens to my heart and lungs, and declares, "You're boring. But boring is good in the medical world." And he always leaves me with these final instructions, "Well, Miss, just keep having fun."

Miss?! Are we in the south? Last I knew, I am from Iowa, you are from India, and we are both in Indiana.

But I take his instructions and head to the chemo room.

This round of treatment (the penultimate, might I remind you) the only thing noteworthy happened to Shane. I was enjoying a short snooze only to wake up to the sound of my doctor's hushed voice. "What level are you on?" I heard as I opened my eyes to Shane jumping out of surprise. Referring to the penguin game Shane was playing on my iPad, the doctor pulled out his iPhone and he and Shane began to discuss what levels they've achieved on various, frivolous iPhone games. Then the doctor showed Shane a new game. "Here, practice," the doctor instructed as he walked away leaving his phone in the hands of Shane as he made his way to another patient. Shane just looked at me and shrugged. After practicing a bit, the game lost its luster and so Shane just sat there wondering what to do with the doctor's phone. He wondered - I already had my list of all kinds of fun things we could do with such power. Shane put the kabosh on my mischief though and as the doctor almost left the room without his phone, Shane caught his attention and returned the doctor's phone.

I swear, by the end of this whole deal, Shane and my doctor will have exchanged numbers and be official BFFs.

Recharged!

For the long holiday weekend, Shane and I traveled home to Iowa for his step-brother's wedding. It was some much needed family time. Here is a picture of us at the wedding. And if anyone out there is wondering - yes, that is my real hair. It hasn't fallen out yet, at least not all of it. It has certainly thinned quite a bit, but considering this is how much hair I had just minutes after I was born,

I think I have some hair to spare. I did get it chopped pretty short though to make it more manageable when it does fall out. You should see my white bathroom floor turn into brown hairy carpet after I am done doing my hair in the mornings. Some would call a transformation of that magnitude a miracle. I just call it more vacuuming.

Anyway, our weekend at home was just what my soul needed. Family, love, and laughter are the best medicine for a heart far from home. Now I am feeling recharged, ready for treatment this week. It's go time!

Chemo Stinks.

Literally. Chemo drugs have their very own scent. Not only do they have their own scent, but they create this taste/smell combo that overwhelms your senses. The smell of the drugs creates this gut wrenching/gag inducing reaction deep inside of me. Even hours before my treatments, I begin to smell the unique scent of chemo. It's as if my brain tells my body what lies ahead and I begin to feel like I have already had chemo even though it is hours away. When this happens I usually attempt to override my brain and remind my body that it hasn't even had any drugs yet, so it should just settle down.

Treatment number six was last Thursday and it was a tough one emotionally. You would think that by number six I would be over it by now, but this is when it is just getting hard. Shane had an business appointment the afternoon of my treatment so he left about half way through the process. After experiencing five other treatments, I was fairly confident that nothing eventful would happen and I could handle being alone. After he left and I sat in my 10'x5' space I tried to keep my thoughts away by staying occupied. But as it was all over and I walked out of the cancer center to drive myself home, I just couldn't stop the thoughts as I wondered why. Why do I have to go through all of this? And more importantly, why do I have to go through it all so far from home, from the ones I love? I'm not sure why it was so difficult for me to walk out of that cancer center alone. I know in my head that I am not alone in this battle, but sometimes my heart has a hard time believing my head.

In other news, I was scheduled to have a progress PET/CT scan this morning. However, because of insurance, I can only have one every 90 days, so we will wait until the end of chemo treatments to do a scan. And the end is oh-so-near, only two treatments left, one more month!!

Sally Redeemed

The eve of yet another chemo treatment has arrived. Number six is tomorrow and at this point I am ready for almost anything that happens in that cancer center. Two weeks ago, for number five, my nurse was the infamous Sally the Drug Pusher. I thought we were in for yet another doozie of a day when she drew my blood. After the nurse draws my blood, the usual routine is to discretely tuck the tubing coming from my port into my bra. Most of the nurses are quite tactful with the process. Sally, however, saved herself a couple of steps and left the syringe attached to the tubing and just shoved the whole kit and caboodle down my shirt. "Uhhh....aren't you going to take that syringe off the tubing?" I asked as I looked down at the excessive medical supplies in my shirt. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I figured she just forgot to remove it. As she answered no, she continued turning my bra into a supply closet by taping the syringe to my chest. Apparently she thought my concern was with the syringe falling out of my shirt. But really, Sally, I am just disconcerted with the fact that you feel you can just stuff whatever supply you may need later down my shirt.

Oh well. I figured it was what it was and I took the blood samples to the lab. I met with my actual doctor rather than his nurse practitioner (no pooping demos this time, darn). He scheduled a PET scan for September 1st to check my progress. I am anxiously thinking good cancer fighting thoughts in hopes that the chemo has made a decent impact on the cancer.

After speaking with the doctor, it was back to Sally for chemo. Once the pre-treatment drugs were completed, I hesitantly asked Sally for ice, giving her my biggest, most charming smile. While she didn't exactly seem happy with my request, she at least didn't act like finding ice was the most strenuous chore. As she pushed the first three drugs, we chatted about various things like the book that I was trying to read, the restaurants participating in a deal called Devour Downtown, and she even told me some funny stories about her nieces and nephews. Overall, she was pleasant to have around. We found a mutual respect for each other. She respected my desire for ice and I respected her quirky ways of going about things. She still gave me more drugs than the other nurses, but not quite as many as the first time. And this time I actually wanted the Emend rather than trying to ward off her adamant drug sales pitch.

On Friday when I went back for my shot (to boost my white blood cells), Sally was the available nurse once again. She took my vitals and asked how the rest of the afternoon went after the chemo. I let her know that I was pretty miserable, that I felt gross for most of afternoon and evening. Sympathy I was expecting, accountability I got. "Do you think it might have had something to do with the donut, cookie, and chicken nuggets you ate during treatment?" she asked. Sheepishly, I looked down and owned up to my mistake. Normally I don't eat during chemo to ensure I don't feel gross, but for some reason I felt invincible and indulged my cravings for sweets and grease and sent Shane to McDonald's.

I like that Sally called me out. I like that Sally does things her own way. You know, I think I even like Sally.

Don't Forget the Emend!

Preparing for my fifth round of chemo tomorrow, I am feeling strong! The night before chemo always brings a bag of mixed emotions because by the time it is ready for another round, I am feeling so good - 100% recovered from the previous treatment and I know that in less than 24 hours I will be knocked down by another wave of drugs. But I know the drugs, while they may feel like they only make me weaker, are actually making me better.

And now I know to carefully watch the nurse's pre-treatment regimen.

After my third chemo treatment, I was unusually tired. I slept all afternoon, evening, and night. It took a full seven days for me to feel "normal" and during those seven days I felt completely wiped of energy. I simply figured that the chemo was catching up to my body and that was what my recovery was going to resemble from here on out. However, after my fourth treatment, I realized that the nurse from round three forgot a very important pre-treatment drug, Emend. Emend is a powerful anti-nausea medicine (the one that Sally the Drug Pusher so adamantly insisted I take). I sheepishly admit that Sally was right, the Emend is a miracle drug. It does make it a little bit difficult for me to sleep, but thus far I have been successful at finding things to keep me occupied at 2:00 am. The nurse for my fourth treatment remembered this wonder drug and my recovery was vastly different. My energy level was that of a normal human (only slightly lower than the usual crazy-Lori energy level). And I felt 100% after about five days.

My family visited this past weekend and we had a great time discovering Indianapolis. Saturday was a very active day starting with a family run/workout followed by a bike ride and ending with rock climbing. After rock climbing and discovering my new respect for it as a sport (especially one that is meant for long-limbed people), I mentally recapped the day. I basically had three workouts and felt great! It was so encouraging to be participating in normal life, I practically forgot that I am fighting this battle called cancer. But after mastering (I use that term very loosely) a sport for which my limbs are approximately 12" too short, cancer ain't got nothin' on me!

Our six person family bike ride that almost ended very poorly when I was allowed behind the wheel and steered the right side of the bike into a brick wall.

How to Poop*

*Reader discretion is advised
Warning: Personal information and graphic description beyond this point, continue at your own risk.

One of the many side effects the doctor warned me about before we started this whole "let's pump lots of drugs into you" process was constipation. But he mentioned this specific side effect in a nonchalant way as if we would simply cross that bridge if and when we got to it. Well, Doc, we have arrived at the bridge.

A few days after my third treatment, the morning my bowels finally decided to move again, I experienced a bloody stool. Slightly alarmed, I began to run through the list of "you should call your doctor if..." Sure enough, this made the list. So before I left for work, I called in and talked to one of my least favorite receptionists at the cancer center. I had to describe my poop and attempt to answer all sorts of questions regarding its shape, size, and color. The receptionist assured me that she would pass the information on to the nurses and someone would call me back. Great, just what I want - a description of my poop floating around the office while the nurses draw straws to determine who has to call me back.

Since I didn't receive a call back before I went to work, I kept my phone in my pocket thinking this is a semi-serious matter and I should answer the call when I get it. Well, as the hours passed and I still had not received the promised phone call, I assumed this whole bloody stool thing must not be that important. My assumptions were confirmed when I picked up a message at 1:00 (four hours after my original call) from the nurse practitioner that literally said, "Um, Hi Lori. I got your message. If you have any questions you can call me back and if it happens again please call. Hope you are feeling better." You're kidding!? That is the advice I get? You hope I feel better?

Since I didn't have questions and didn't feel like talking to that unhelpful nurse again, I decided to just wait until my Thursday appointment with the doctor to further discuss the issue. However, it was just my luck that when I arrived that day the doctor was too busy so my appointment was with that same nurse. When she asked if I'd had any problems this time (she must have forgotten my phone call), I reminded her of the bloody stool issue. That.was.a.bad.idea. Because in an accent I couldn't understand, she began to describe to me the innermost details of how to poop. She first gave the nutrition spiel about getting enough fiber - making sure I'm eating an adequate diet of whole grains and fruit, yadda yadda yadda. Lady, I work in the health and fitness industry. You don't have to remind me that fiber is my second best friend. Her next instructions involved a ten minute toilet limit. She even so kindly demonstrated how to bring your knees to your chest to make the whole process smoother. Then as she proceeded to the hand demonstration of how the rectum works, things began to get a little awkward. As she crudely gestured, I wasn't sure whether to find this absolutely hilarious or completely disgusting. Then I remembered that I have actually dissected a cadaver, rectum and all, so I could handle her hand demos. After she finished her show and tell of the pooping process, I made my way to treatment room for my fourth chemo treatment. Four out of eight done - halfway there with a fresh insight on bowel movements.

Snack Time

Last Thursday I went for my third chemo treatment. All in all it was pretty uneventful. But as I walked out the door from work, the reality of this new routine hit me. I was just doing what was normal now - leaving work early every other week to go get drugs pumped into my system. But this whole process isn't "normal" and shouldn't have to be normal to anyone. So I took a picture to remind myself that even though each treatment may not be as memorable as the first, each one is getting me one more step towards healthy.

About halfway through the pre-treatment drugs, I asked Shane if he would go downstairs to the snack bar and get me something to eat. The nurse that was lucky enough to be tending to my crazies this time offered up the fact that they had some snacks in the back that I could have. She did, however, offer it with the caveat that "they don't always have snacks." Yeah, I know, after the ice incident I am well aware that nothing is a guaranty around this place. After I accepted her offer, she brought me some Kool-Aid and peanut butter crackers. It was a yummy little snack and she even pulled up my medical tray so I could have a place to put it. And peanut butter crackers and a juice box sitting adjacent to syringes, medical tape, and rubber gloves is just what I needed to remind me that all of this is far from normal.

Sally the Drug Pusher

Note: The names in this story have been changed to protect identities and feelings.

Last Wednesday I went in for my second chemo treatment in hopes that my little white blood cells were up to snuff. After claiming my chair in the chemo room, a new-to-me nurse came over to take my blood. After having it analyzed and cleared by the doctor, I was good to go. Those little neutrophils came through!

I explained to my new nurse, Sally (who is about 4 feet tall, overweight, and has a hair thinning issue), that after the last treatment I got terrible mouth sores. Being proactive with my health care, I told her I would like to try chewing ice for a longer period of time. Ice slows the circulation and supposedly helps prevent/decrease the mouth sores. Sally insisted I only needed to chew ice for the first drug. Okay, fine, you know best, Sally. I quietly accepted her insistence. I also let Sally know about the intense nausea after the last treatment. This time, slightly more receptive to my beggings, Sally informed me there was something else she could add to my pre-treatment regimen.

As she started the pre-treatment drugs, Sally explained to me that with the new drug she was adding I would have to take a steroid for a few days to prolong the effect. She then went into more detail about the effect the steroid would have. With her eyes bugged out of her little troll-like head, she said I would be hyped up and may have trouble sleeping. Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sally. Hold that syringe! I began to protest (mostly for Shane's sake). The last thing I (and my poor husband) need is a push even further over the crazy cliff. Taking charge of my healthcare once again, I denied the new drug telling Sally that I could deal with the nausea over the inability to calm down. Sally, however, was not going to hear it. She practically insisted that I take this drug because according to her, feeling no nausea and extra energy was certainly better than feeling less energy and nauseous. I swear she was getting a cut of the sale. After her continued insistence that I at least try it this time so I can make an open decision next time, I felt pressured to comply.

With the drug push over, it was time to begin the actual chemo. Sally went to the back to fetch the drugs and also to get me some ice. As she returned, she made it a point to sigh and declare, "I want you to know, it wasn't easy for me to get this ice." Thinking she was being funny (because ice is not that hard to manufacture, let alone find), I laughed out loud. Irritated she said, "We usually don't keep ice around here. I had to scrounge for this. So I guess what I'm saying is if you want ice, next time you'll have to bring it yourself." Wow, Sally. Your hospitality and graciousness are overwhelming.

Needing to relieve myself of the troll's presence, I told her I needed to use the restroom before she started pushing the chemo. I watched as she unhooked one of my IV bags and wrongly assumed it was okay to head toward the bathroom. As I began to walk away, Sally started shouting at me. "Hey! Wait, wait, wait!" As I turned around, I caught her glare as she told me I had to take my IV pole with me. Okay, fine. I grabbed the pole and began steering it in what I thought was the direction of the restroom only to be bombarded once again with shouting. As my IV pole slowed from careening to only slightly out of control, I looked up and saw every nurse in the room waving me in the opposite direction. I guess the nurses are used to people who are about 40 years my senior and don't move quite as speedily as I do.

After the restroom fiasco, I finally sat down to begin the treatment. As the final drug began to drip dry, Sally came over with not one, not two, but THREE prescriptions for me to get filled and some Tylenol for me to take, bringing my total drug count up to ten for the day. (Can a liver catch a break?) Along with the prescriptions, Sally also brought over a small tackle box from the fridge containing lots of pairs of earrings. Passing over the fact that she brought these from the refrigerator, Sally explained that a a few years ago there was a lady that wanted women to feel beautiful as they went through chemo. She put her creativity to work and made dozens of beautiful earrings so that each female cancer patient could pick a pair to wear. She named her endeavor "Ears to You." So after the ice search, the restroom tirade, and the extra drugs, Sally redeemed herself by helping me pick out the perfect pair of earrings. 'Ears to you, Sally the drug pusher!

2 is less than 12

My second chemo treatment was scheduled for this afternoon. Shane was scheduled to be in St. Louis in preparation for a wedding this weekend. With only one car, we had some thinking to do on how to get him to a different time zone and me 80 blocks north to the cancer center at the same time. We finally decided that he would fly to St. Louis so I could have the car, and then I would drive on Saturday to join him for the wedding.

With the absence of Shane (my husband, my driver, my entertainment, etc...), I prepared to tackle this treatment independently. I rehearsed the driving directions in my head, packed a book, and charged my iPad. All week, I had been mentally practicing sitting still by myself for three hours. Without Shane there to monitor my behavior, I had to take extra care to put on my "normal" act as I prepared to venture out in public alone. After four hours of work this morning, I quickly changed out of my uniform and scarfed down some lunch. The time had arrived. I made it to the cancer center without getting lost and walked in, bag of time passers over my shoulder, ready for treatment.

The first step was my blood draw. I then waited for it to be analyzed so I could meet with the doctor. As the doctor walked in, his first question was, "What did you do with Mr. Dale Carnegie?" First of all, his name is Shane. Second, I didn't do anything with him. After asking about my experience after the first treatment and checking for all possible side effects, he felt my neck (the origination of the cancer). Up until this point, I have not been feeling/sizing up the lumps in my neck, figuring I will just let the chemo do its work and not be preoccupied with whether or not the tumors are shrinking. He mentioned though that the biggest one felt considerably smaller, and after feeling it myself and looking at it in the mirror I can tell that he is right, it is shrinking!

Next he pulled up my lab work on the computer. He had me read the chart as if I was some sort of med student. The first line of the chart was my white blood cell count. Two weeks ago before any treatment it was 12. This week it was 1.9, too low to give chemo. Chemo targets rapidly growing cells such as cancer, hair, and white blood cells. If the white blood cell count gets too low, chemo cannot be given because it will drop the count even lower, putting the person at a high risk of infection. Being the scheduler, planner, and OCD-er that I am, this throws a wrench my very well planned treatment schedule. I have to go back next week to try again, and I also have to add another step to the treatment regimen. The day after my treatments, I have to go back and have a shot that will boost my white blood cell count.

The good news with this delay is that I will be more than feeling okay to drive the five hours to St. Louis for the wedding. Watch out St. Louis, I'm bringing my dancin' shoes 'cause my tumors are shrinkin'!

WOW! I feel good...

"I knew that I would, now I feel good, so good, so good..."

This James Brown song has been my theme song this week. Everywhere I go, every entrance I make, I am imagining this song playing. Unfortunately, only I hear the music and as I dance around like a crazy, I get some weird looks.

One of the biggest unknowns going into chemo was how my body was going to react. Now that a week has passed, I am able to compare days and gauge the reaction. Immediately following the chemo last Friday, I was pretty nauseous. They supposedly pre-treated me with me anti-nausea medicine before they gave me the chemo drugs, but my nausea was too intense to be anti-ed because as I walked to the parking lot, a wave of nausea swept over me. We quickly went to the pharmacy to get the prescription filled for the powerful anti-nausea medicine, Zofran. Zofran is the real deal. One tiny pill of that and I was good to go.

Saturday and Sunday I felt pretty normal. I was a tiny bit tired, but I think part of that was the 10 hour days I worked that week. Monday was probably the "worst" day. And I use "worst" very loosely, because it wasn't that bad. I felt tired and worn out, but that I could handle. It was the mouth sores that made me want to spit every 5 seconds. Monday morning I woke up with what seemed like lots of little cuts inside my mouth. It felt like I had chewed on shards of glass overnight. The sores left my mouth with an acidic/bloody taste. All I desired to do was to keep spitting to get that taste out of my mouth. Sadly, we don't keep spittoons around the gym and it wouldn't have exactly been professional for me to carry a trash can around all day.

Tuesday the sores were on the mend, and I started to feel like I was getting my energy back. Wednesday came and I was back to my normal self, only much hungrier. The doctor claimed that the steroid they gave me on Friday would wear off within 48 hours. I think for me, it was just kicking in. I wanted to eat everything in site. Everything (and I mean everything) sounded absolutely delicious to me. Even the fried chicken that had been sitting under the heat lamp for 16 hours at the grocery store seemed like a good idea. Luckily something (thank you, Shane) brought me to my senses as I had the chicken in hand heading towards the check-out line, and I returned it to its heat lamp home for some other steroid-crazed person to chow down on.

Since Wednesday I have felt absolutely great. It was a sweet relief to be completely appointment free this past week which hasn't happened since April. Now the weekend is here and I am going to kick it James Brown style, feelin' good.

Braver than You Believe

Yesterday was my first chemo treatment and it is a relief to have the first one over with and know what to expect from here on out. Fridays are a slow day around the Cancer Center, not many patients and a limited number of staff. After waiting what I thought was too long for being one of two people in the waiting the room, I was called back for my first port draw. As walked through the door to the treatment room for the first time, the sight of all the other patients receiving chemo struck me. About 10 chairs are separated by half walls, and they each face out into the room. Walking in to the sight of people connected to their chemicals, all much older than me and very sick looking, I did not feel like I belonged there. The nurse took my lab sheet and told me to pick an open chair. As I sat down, the fear of the unknown began to creep up on me. The nurse came over and immediately recognized that it was my first time because I still had hair and my eyes were probably as big as saucers. Very kindly she explained how everything was going to go. She then went to obtain the necessary materials and left me to my own thoughts. As I looked around, the whole experience began to overwhelm me. As the tears started to well up, I told myself I can do this and remembered the quote that sits on my bathroom counter.

"Promise me you'll always remember...You're stronger than you seem, braver than you believe, and smarter than you think." Christopher Robin to Pooh

The nurse returned with the first of many syringes to access my port. She instructed me to take a deep breath and on the count of three she was going to stick a needle into my port. Unsure of what pain level to expect, I asked if it would feel like a normal IV stick or worse. She said it may be a little bit more painful, but since I had applied the numbing cream it might not be bad at all. As I drew in a deep breath and she got to three, all I felt was a slight push on my chest, no needle prick at all and I said, "Wow, that was easy!" She must have read my mind earlier because she replied, "The fear of the unknown is the worst." After she was done with my blood draw she showed me where I would be taking the sample each time and instructed me to have a seat in the waiting room for my appointment with the nurse practitioner. Again, after what seemed like much too long of a wait (I guess I haven't exactly mastered the whole patience thing yet), I was called back. The nurse explained the drugs I was going to be receiving and the potential side effects. After a very thorough explanation in a heavy accent from who knows where, she gave me the information packets, some prescriptions and led me back to the treatment room.

As I took a seat and the nurse came back over, I withdrew the IV tubing from my bra (what a magic trick that was) and she got me hooked back up. The first thing I received was a small bag of a steroid which helped with nausea. In about 15 minutes when it ran dry, the nurse came over and did a push IV of another anti-nausea medicine. With a push IV, instead of letting it hang and drip through the tubing, she accesses the tubing with a syringe and injects it slowly. With the first two preventive drugs done, it was time for the actual chemo. The first three chemo drugs were pushed while the fourth was mixed with the saline. The first drug was the most interesting of all and was a very deep red. That is the one that made me pee orange (imagine the joy when I peed my favorite color!).

When the bag of the final drug was dry an hour later, the nurse returned to prepare for my exit. She brought over more syringes (I think I will take out stock in syringes considering she used 10 just for me) to clean my port and inject a medicine to prevent clotting, which brought my medicines received in one sitting count up to seven. After that was complete, she said, "There you go, you just completed your first chemo treatment." And I thought to myself, "That wasn't bad at all. I can do this, I really can do this."

I returned home to find all kinds of love and support reminding me that I am not alone in this adventure. I had beautiful flowers waiting for me, along with a book, and a card. Also, as I left work that day my coworkers presented me with a very generous gift card to use towards an iPad to help pass the time during chemo. It is a blessing to have so many people fighting for me.

First Day on the Job

Wednesday I had a MUGA test to determine a baseline for my cardiovascular function. Everything went very smoothly minus the small detail that I am pretty sure it was the lady's first day in nuclear imaging. As she called me back she explained every tiny detail of what was going to happen. Usually I appreciate knowing what is coming. I do not, however, need to know what exact chemistry is happening with my blood cells. That was my first clue Linda was new to this - she still remembered all of that. My second clue came as she was putting an IV in and as I felt a little more pain than normal I heard the words, "Oh! There we go! I had the wrong angle." Next time you should keep those thoughts in your head, Linda.

After waiting a very short 15 minutes for the first injection to circulate, she injected me again, this time with a little more ease. She then strapped me to the narrowest of beds and began positioning the device that would image my heart. As she began toggling the remote and the device started to move towards my feet I had my third clue that this lady was not only new to the job but she also didn't know her basic directions - up, down, left, right. Finally with the device in place, the test began. It was a very bearable 10 minutes. Half way into the test Linda came close to my head, patted my shoulder and in a voice that one might talk to a 3 year old said, "I'm going to go right down the hall. I'll be right back, honey." Thanks for the update Linda. I was worried.

Overall, it was a smooth appointment, despite it practically being Linda's first day on the job. I was appointment free today which is good because I am gearing up for the biggest appointment yet. Tomorrow I start chemo and will be at the Cancer Center for about four hours, three of which I will be hooked up to an IV not allowing me to go anywhere but the chair in which I will be sitting. Here we go - it's go time.

Tickets to the Gun Show

This week has started off nice and easy in contrast to last week. I was appointment free on Monday and this morning I had a very short appointment with my family physician.

When I called to set this appointment up, the receptionist, with less than acceptable customer service skills, asked why I needed the appointment. Being the anatomy freak that I am, I figured the more specific the better and told her I had lumps in my "inguinal" region. However, I learned I was much too quick to reveal my knowledge of the human body when the receptionist replied, "I don't know where that is." Bummer, I'm going to have to use layman's terms. "It is by your pelvis," I kindly educated her. With growing annoyance in her voice she said, "I am not medical. I don't know what that is!" Are you kidding me? You work in a doctors' office and don't know where your pelvis is? I gave up and told her quite abrasively that it is your CROTCH! "Oh, your groin area," she said as if it all suddenly made sense and set my appointment.

Going into the appointment I was not necessarily excited about the prospect of yet another doctor appointment, but I wasn't wishing I was somewhere else either. You see, I set this appointment myself, and if there is one thing I like, it is to be in control. I was also kind of looking forward to seeing her (my physician) again because I hadn't seen her since the beginning of May when we met the first time and she got this whole ball rollin'. I thought I should say thanks for caring enough to make me get tests done to figure all of this out. Also, she is really nice, and I was willing to pay a $25 co-pay just to see her again.

When I arrived at the clinic, I felt such relief to not be in the Cancer Center for once. The family practice clinic seemed much more inviting and much less heart breaking. After a short wait, a male nurse named Raul called me back to the exam room to get my vitals. As I took a seat in the chair, he gave me a once over and declared, "Oh, that is why you have that body." Excuse me? Looking at my work uniform and name tag he said, "You are a trainer. I was thinking to myself, 'She is very fit.'" I awkwardly laughed and tried to put my ring hand where he could see it as he continued to comment. "Has anyone ever asked you if you have a license for those guns?" Half-flattered and half-about to gag, I said, "No, they haven't actually." On his way out the door he said, "Well, they have now."

Thank you, Raul for noticing my biceps. It's about time someone did.

You'll be transported by cart

Even though this week has been short in the sense that we were coming off of a three day weekend, it was the longest week yet in terms of appointments, tests, and preparing for the upcoming chemo treatments.

Tuesday put my patience to the test as I had a PET/CT scan to determine what stage of lymphoma I have (only stage 2!). After doing some research about PET scans to assure my father that they in fact DID NOT take my dog, Jenny and hover scan her over my body, I was expecting about an hour long appointment. Man, was I surprised when Ted let me back to a room measuring 6'x4' in size, containing one chair and informed me I would have to wait an hour and half by myself for the injection of radioactive sugar to circulate. Um, excuse me, Ted? Obviously you do not know me and my childlike tendencies including the fact that it is very difficult for me to sit ALONE for any period of time, much less an hour and half. But Ted insisted that I sit there and only get up if I have to pee. So I sat. When Ted came back after 90 minutes, I was so relieved to be done waiting. My relief was soon squashed though as we entered the scanning area and he informed me the scan itself would take another 30 minutes. Thirty minutes sounded doable until he started strapping me to the tiny bed! With a strap holding my head in place and a strap immobilizing my arms, I felt as if I were being prepared for the asylum rather than a scan. After a total time of two and half hours including registration, preparation, and scanning, we finally left and I went back to work slightly radioactive.

Wednesday was not too noteworthy other than the fact that I went in for surgery to have a port placed. Ugh. This was the most dreaded appointment thus far. Number one, I was not looking forward to surgery again. Number two, the idea of having a port kind of gives me the heebie jeebies. The surgery went well, no dropped lungs or excessive bleeding, just a bump on my chest where I have a foreign object in my body.

Thursday I met with my oncologist to discuss the results of the PET/CT scan and determine a firm plan of action. I was relieved to hear that the cancer is only in stage 2 and I will only have to undergo 8 chemotherapy treatments over the course of 16 weeks. After I am done with chemo cycles, I will have radiation daily for an unknown amount of time.

Friday started off in the most hilarious way. In order to prepare for chemo and the unlikely, but possible, side effects, baseline testing must be done on my pulmonary and cardiovascular function. After registering for my pulmonary function test, kind Holly informed me that Cindy would be meeting me just around the corner to take me to the testing place. "You'll be transported by cart," were the exact words that came out of her mouth next. What does that mean? What type of cart? Are we talking shopping cart? Ambulance cart? Where are we going? Across campus? Outside? But time did not allow me to ask any of these questions as Cindy pulled up in a golf cart and said "Hop on!" Poor Shane barely managed to make it on before Cindy opened that baby up and we were off. Zooming down the halls of the hospital, acquiring many skeptical glances as to the reason a very able looking 23 year old is riding in a golf cart, I informed Cindy that this all seemed a bit excessive. She said, "Yeah, but I don't have very good walking shoes on and it is kind of a long walk. And most people I am taking to the pulmonary lab have trouble breathing and to get a good test they shouldn't be walking and getting all out of breath." Well, there you have it, the reason I, a 23 year old Health Fitness Specialist, rode in a golf cart down the halls of the hospital.

After lots of different breathing tests, the lady told me that my next test was across the street at the cancer center (even though the day before I specifically asked where the cardio test would be and was informed it would be in the same place as the pulmonary test). When I arrived at registration and told the ladies I was there for a MUGA test, they looked at me like I was slightly crazy. They told me that the MUGA machine is out of order and has been for a while. They were surprised that no one called me. Off they went to investigate. They brought over a third lady that claimed she tried calling me the day before to let me know. According to her, my cell phone didn't have a voicemail (whose cell phone doesn't have a voicemail?). So she left a message at work for me. Oh really? I never received a message. "Did you get to my voicemail? Did it say my name?" I asked her. She looked at me quizzically and said, "No, it said Bubba's BBQ." With my work uniform on, I hold out my name tag and show her that I do not work at Bubba's BBQ. Do I look like I work at Bubba's BBQ? After double checking that the number they have on file for work is correct, the crazy lady admits to possibly dialing the wrong number.

Normal Lori would have been frustrated at the fact that they didn't tell me the right place to go for my test and irate that I wasn't informed of the out of order machine and drove all the way up there for nothing. But I had already enjoyed a hilarious transport in a golf cart that morning and am starting to learn great patience with the whole medical system through this process.