LATEST NEWS: You might remember that I was looking forward to the end of chemo. Well, doctor called on Wednesday night and said he was cancelling my chemo. That was easy! Why now? He emphasized some key points with me.
1. This cancer cannot be cured.
2. This cancer has been beaten down. I have had an excellent clinical response to treatment, my scan is good and my CA-125 marker is as low as ever.
3. Myelodysplasia is bad. You might remember all the delays and house arrests I had during these last cycles. That's because the side effects of chemo are cumulative and pretty much don't go away. My bone marrow is suffering and cannot keep up with the demands for RBCs, WBCs and platelets. Doctor wants to preserve as much function as possible while also giving me options for the future. If my bone marrow is blasted, I will not have the same treatment options in the future. I will need treatment in the future at some point.
4. So, if we stop now when I have good response and good test results, I can restore my health and my life and also maintain future options.
So, Yay! chemo is over for now. I am giddy! So, pardon me while I get busy living. Stay tuned....
Showing posts with label chemo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chemo. Show all posts
Friday, July 12, 2013
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Done, But Not Yet Finished.....
I am done with treatment.
I am not finished, according to my doctor and the plan, but I am just done. I want to be finished. I am bored with the details of treatment, like labwork. I am done, so I forget my labwork each week. The idle chit chat with the lab tech each week is just boring. I am so tired of smiling each week and making up something interesting to talk about. I can usually come up with a good lunch story, as in "I think I will go to lunch today at _________." Maybe I will go to lunch but probably not. I am too wiped out and will probably go home and sit on the couch with the laptop. Like I said, boring.
I am wiped out because I have had so much chemotherapy. This is my third series of treatment. I started again in February because of my first recurrence of ovarian cancer. I am getting the same drugs I used the first time. This is good because that means I have a response to these drugs, I am platinum-sensitive. This is a good thing for my prognosis. This is a bad thing for my body and the side effects of these drugs, paclitaxel and carboplatin. The taxane drug, the paclitaxel, causes neuropathy, numbness and pain in my fingers and toes. The platinum drug, the carboplatin, messes with my blood chemistry and bone marrow. I have constant electrolyte issues that require buckets of anti-diarrhea medicines and infusions. I have constant blood counts issues, low white blood cells, then low platelets, and always anemia from low red blood cells. This affects the activities I am allowed to participate in. I have to avoid other people (germs), knives (I might cut myself), bikes (I might fall and injure myself), fresh fruit (germs), uncooked food (germs), flossing (bleeding)....and the list goes on. It is no longer interesting to me to even explain this. I hear blah, blah, blah when I talk. The topic never changes.
I am tired of being bald in public. I really like when I can wear a big hat and sunglasses and hide. If I cannot hide, I see the looks at my head. I ignore the looks. I walk the other way. I am tired of answering the questions.
I am done with cancer. I want to be able to tell you about the fun things I am doing. I am not doing fun things. I am housebound with low white blood cells this week. I could go out, if I wear a mask. Great, a bald girl wearing a mask. How fun is that?
I am done with cancer, but cancer is not yet done with me. I will keep my appointments and wait impatiently until this series of treatments is finished. I can't wait.
I am not finished, according to my doctor and the plan, but I am just done. I want to be finished. I am bored with the details of treatment, like labwork. I am done, so I forget my labwork each week. The idle chit chat with the lab tech each week is just boring. I am so tired of smiling each week and making up something interesting to talk about. I can usually come up with a good lunch story, as in "I think I will go to lunch today at _________." Maybe I will go to lunch but probably not. I am too wiped out and will probably go home and sit on the couch with the laptop. Like I said, boring.
I am wiped out because I have had so much chemotherapy. This is my third series of treatment. I started again in February because of my first recurrence of ovarian cancer. I am getting the same drugs I used the first time. This is good because that means I have a response to these drugs, I am platinum-sensitive. This is a good thing for my prognosis. This is a bad thing for my body and the side effects of these drugs, paclitaxel and carboplatin. The taxane drug, the paclitaxel, causes neuropathy, numbness and pain in my fingers and toes. The platinum drug, the carboplatin, messes with my blood chemistry and bone marrow. I have constant electrolyte issues that require buckets of anti-diarrhea medicines and infusions. I have constant blood counts issues, low white blood cells, then low platelets, and always anemia from low red blood cells. This affects the activities I am allowed to participate in. I have to avoid other people (germs), knives (I might cut myself), bikes (I might fall and injure myself), fresh fruit (germs), uncooked food (germs), flossing (bleeding)....and the list goes on. It is no longer interesting to me to even explain this. I hear blah, blah, blah when I talk. The topic never changes.
I am tired of being bald in public. I really like when I can wear a big hat and sunglasses and hide. If I cannot hide, I see the looks at my head. I ignore the looks. I walk the other way. I am tired of answering the questions.
I am done with cancer. I want to be able to tell you about the fun things I am doing. I am not doing fun things. I am housebound with low white blood cells this week. I could go out, if I wear a mask. Great, a bald girl wearing a mask. How fun is that?
I am done with cancer, but cancer is not yet done with me. I will keep my appointments and wait impatiently until this series of treatments is finished. I can't wait.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Fragile
I am fragile tonight. I walk tough and talk tough and usually am tough, but tonight I am fragile. This is the eve of my meeting with my oncologist. The meeting where he reveals to me the results of my CT scan 11 long days ago. I have filled up those days with chores and errands and lunches and day trips. I have new eyeglasses, pretty funky ones I might add. I have clean teeth and gums. I have current insurance policies. I had some fun times these last 11 days. I saw a favorite songwriter perform live. I traveled to a new place for a day. I spent an afternoon walking by the lake, twice. I did all these things to bolster myself. To provide some kind of framework to hang onto. It worked, mostly. There are cracks. I have cracks.
This scan is to reveal the size of my nodule. That's the word they said, nodule. I hear, small. I hope small. I can do small. But what if ...... I can't say it. I thought I had a handle on this. I thought that when I had a recurrence of my ovarian cancer, I would be oh-so-sophisticated about it, so cool and composed. I have done this before, after all. I was pretty tough about my chemo treatments before as well. I would check my go-bag for water, book, tissues, crackers, mints, lip balm. I would dress in comfortable clothes but be sure to wear short sleeves to allow IV access. I took extra care to be oh-so-controlled. I would drive to the hospital, park in my usual area, gather my bags, walk down the stairs, across the street, down the hall, greeting all with a smile and a warm hello. I would make my way to the elevator, push the call button and wait. That's when I just knew that all the eyes in the waiting room behind me were looking at me, they knew I had cancer, they knew I was going to get my chemo upstairs. I would look around, smile and say something friendly to those eyes that weren't really looking at me. The elevator would arrive, the doors would slide open with that swoosh sound, and I would take that big big step inside. The tears would fall then. Always in the elevator. Sometimes other places too, especially towards the end, but always in the elevator.
So tonight I find myself in a figurative elevator, wondering to which floor I will travel. Surgery? Outpatient infusion? I am delicately bonded together by all my activity of these last 11 days. I am preparing for the worst, while hoping for the best. The dread of what my dear oncologist may say to me has my belly in a tight ball of pain. So, please, dear doctor, be gentle with me tomorrow. I am so in control that I might shatter when I hear your words.
This scan is to reveal the size of my nodule. That's the word they said, nodule. I hear, small. I hope small. I can do small. But what if ...... I can't say it. I thought I had a handle on this. I thought that when I had a recurrence of my ovarian cancer, I would be oh-so-sophisticated about it, so cool and composed. I have done this before, after all. I was pretty tough about my chemo treatments before as well. I would check my go-bag for water, book, tissues, crackers, mints, lip balm. I would dress in comfortable clothes but be sure to wear short sleeves to allow IV access. I took extra care to be oh-so-controlled. I would drive to the hospital, park in my usual area, gather my bags, walk down the stairs, across the street, down the hall, greeting all with a smile and a warm hello. I would make my way to the elevator, push the call button and wait. That's when I just knew that all the eyes in the waiting room behind me were looking at me, they knew I had cancer, they knew I was going to get my chemo upstairs. I would look around, smile and say something friendly to those eyes that weren't really looking at me. The elevator would arrive, the doors would slide open with that swoosh sound, and I would take that big big step inside. The tears would fall then. Always in the elevator. Sometimes other places too, especially towards the end, but always in the elevator.
So tonight I find myself in a figurative elevator, wondering to which floor I will travel. Surgery? Outpatient infusion? I am delicately bonded together by all my activity of these last 11 days. I am preparing for the worst, while hoping for the best. The dread of what my dear oncologist may say to me has my belly in a tight ball of pain. So, please, dear doctor, be gentle with me tomorrow. I am so in control that I might shatter when I hear your words.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Security?
I’m still navigating the obstacles that my relatively recent cancer diagnosis thrust up in front of me. I am learning that while my disease may have stolen who I WAS, it is forcing me to figure out who I will BECOME. I am still in chemo and feel oddly secure here. As long as I am actively fighting and treating and under the close eye of my medical team, I feel safe and cozy. I am incubating. My oncologist mentioned that I might be able to go to 3 month checkups soon and I panicked. What will I do all on my own?!?!?
I hear that this is a common reaction. I will have to find a way to resume the responsibility for my own health and safety. I maintain a certain amount of control over my treatment these days. I nourish myself, exercise my body, placate my troubled mind, feed my spirit. I work this stuff around the framework of my weekly appointments. How will I function with the framework missing? If I don't have an appointment, what will get me off the couch? How do I introduce my new self to the world again? I am grateful that I have the time to mull these things over. I am sure that I will learn to navigate this obstacle as well as all the other unforeseen things in my path. I'll just roll with it.
I hear that this is a common reaction. I will have to find a way to resume the responsibility for my own health and safety. I maintain a certain amount of control over my treatment these days. I nourish myself, exercise my body, placate my troubled mind, feed my spirit. I work this stuff around the framework of my weekly appointments. How will I function with the framework missing? If I don't have an appointment, what will get me off the couch? How do I introduce my new self to the world again? I am grateful that I have the time to mull these things over. I am sure that I will learn to navigate this obstacle as well as all the other unforeseen things in my path. I'll just roll with it.
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