Survivor?

Recently I discovered a column in the New York Times written weekly by a cancer survivor about her experiences and thoughts throughout her treatment. While she writes with such precise insight into the life and thoughts of a cancer patient/survivor, her underlying messages and themes in regards to life are universal. Her most recent article entitled, "Am I a Cancer Survivor?" resonated deeply with me as a former cancer patient. The author describes her inner struggle when called to be in a "survivor" photo because she is not technically considered in remission yet. In her article she explores several meanings of the term "survivor" and eventually accepts that she is in fact a survivor. 


I too relate to her struggle to coin herself with such a valiant title but for different reasons. See, I am considered in remission. In fact, I consider myself cured. The cancer is gone. Blasted into oblivion. Not a trace to be found on my check up scans. But sometimes I don't feel like my battle was worthy of the survivor trophy. Hodgkin's Lymphoma has one of the best cure rates. When I was first diagnosed, people kept saying, "Well, if you're going to have cancer, that is the one to have!" As if that were a consoling sentiment. My doctor's plan of action was very clear cut and I felt confident going into treatment that there was really only one possible outcome at the end of chemo and radiation - cured! 


I wouldn't use the term "fun," but my experience with chemo and radiation were not unbearable. Maybe it is because I am almost a year removed from the treatment process and I have simply blocked all discomfort from memory. Do I want to go through it again? Heck no. But I know that other people experience more pain and suffering than I faced. And it is for that reason that I often feel as if I didn't have to fight hard enough for my survivor title, for my life. Others endure much more to earn their title of "cancer survivor." Does my puny 6 month stint with cancer qualify me for such a brave term? 


Sometimes it is even weird to say that I had cancer. I was lucky enough to continue my normal routine in life that people I interacted with on a daily basis at the time had no idea that every other Thursday afternoon I quietly stepped out of work and took a seat at the cancer center. They had no idea that the following Friday's I would use my break time to return to the cancer to receive the little blast of Neulasta to ensure that my white blood cell count would be high enough for the next treatment. Sometimes I let what others saw, or didn't see for that matter, impact how I view my experience. People around me didn't see me fighting so how can I call myself a "survivor" of the cancer battle?


But then I try to remember the facts. Cancer is still cancer. And I once had cancer. Now I don't. Therefore I have "survived" cancer. No matter the severity of my diagnosis or the size of my battle, I can call myself a survivor and be grateful for the love that grew from cancer and what it taught me about life. 

On the Hunt

Since the last post, Shane and I have moved to Iowa and both started new jobs. I am so excited to be closer to family and back in the homeland. But with moving comes a new adventure in the doctor front. I need to find new ones. How does one even go about finding new doctors? The classifieds? One thing I learned from the whole diagnosis and treatment process last year was how important it is that I take charge of my health care and be confident in decisions I make. 


My new insurance kicks in July 1 which will give me a little over a month before I need another check up scan in August. Currently I am on the hunt for three different types of doctors - 1) Primary Care Physician 2) Oncologist 3) Radiation-Oncologist. Whew. That is about three more than the usual number of doctors I had before cancer. New doctors always means gobs of paper work. And my medical history isn't so simple anymore. Previously I could just check 'no' down the whole line of questions. Now, I will have to mark 'yes' and then explain. Ugh. My hand is cramping just thinking about it. 


In other news, I have discovered the Light the Night walk to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society here in our new town of West Des Moines. By no means happenstance, the walk this year is on the exact day that will mark 1 year from when I had the scan that showed I was all clear. I have created a team called It's Go Time and will post more details later about how to join and/or donate to what I am calling my "celebration." My hope is to have friends, family, and supports join me in this awesome opportunity to celebrate remission. 

6 Month Mark

Well, to say it has been awhile is an understatement. Trust me though, "write blog" has been on my to-do list for quite some time now. I had my 6 month check up a few weeks ago with my regular oncologist. It was a typical visit as there were several moments that involved me wreaking some sort of havoc because my impatience got the best of me. When I arrived, my favorite check-in lady wasn't there. I'm not sure if she moved on in her career or if she was just gone for the day. But luckily, her usual terrible, toad-like replacement wasn't there either. It was someone new altogether.

My first stop was to get my blood drawn. Because I no longer have my port (insert dancing with enthusiasm here), I visited what I refer to as the blood closet. Right off the waiting area, it is literally a very tiny room where the phlebotomist draws patients' blood and analyzes it. At most, the max capacity of the closet is three people. Of all days I have my appointment scheduled, this particular day there is some computer/blood analyzer failure. So not only are there two nurses in the closet, one for drawing blood and one to figure things out, there is also the computer guy, another patient, and myself. As we packed in like sardines, I took a seat in the chair for the nurse to draw my blood. As the nurse began to shuffle around with needles and other sharp instruments, I began to wonder if it was too late to escape to the chemo room and have my old nurses just draw my blood. Alas, she honed in on my arm and hit a vein. After the draw was complete, she instructed me to hold the cotton swab against the draw site. And I did, for what I deemed an appropriate amount of time. While she was still wiggling her way around the closet trying to put my blood in the appropriate analyzer, I simply tossed the cotton swab into the nearby hazardous waste receptacle.

She must have had the nurse's sixth sense, because as soon as I did that, she turned around and scolded me, "Did I tell you to take that off, yet?"

"Uhh, no, but I thought it was done bleeding. I think it will be okay."

"Well, it isn't done bleeding, look!" she said as she pointed to the tiniest drop of blood in the crook of my elbow. As she handed me another cotton swab, she firmly instructed me to hold it on my arm until she said told me otherwise.

After successfully following directions the second time, I made it out of the blood closet back to the waiting room. After my doctor visited with me, checked me over for any unusual lumps, and told me to "keep having tons of fun," I went to visit my nurses.

Seeing them again was wonderful. They were excited to see me healthy. I gave them all a quick update on my life and munched on some of the usual sweet goodies that reside on their desk. As I went to leave, one of my favorite nurses, Sally the drug pusher, came over and gave me a hug and told me she was happy for me. I can only imagine the importance of remembering and savoring success stories in a job where sadness can be so prevalent. The nurses were genuinely happy to see me healthy and their joy reminded me to always be thankful for not only the health I have, but also the path that brought me to where I am today.

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?