Scanning my Canadian national newspaper produced an article that I couldn't ignore. Leslie Beck of Toronto has found evidence that stage one breast cancer survivors (particularly estrogen negative tumor growing patients like myself) who are post menopausal and have a BMI over 25 (oops--I knew there was a reason to get back to Weight Watchers) are at greater risk of a reoccurance of their tumor if they regularly consume moderate amounts of alcohol (defined as more than 1 drinks a day and 4 a week). Here are some excerpts, and the full Globe & Mail article can be read here:
"A study reported in the Journal of Clinical Oncology has linked moderate drinking with a greater risk of breast cancer recurrence, particularly among older women and those who are overweight.
Moderate drinking was associated with poorer breast health for the entire study group, but the bulk of the risk fell upon postmenopausal and obese women. It is possible that these women may be more susceptible to the detrimental effects of alcohol.
In the study, researchers followed 1,897 women treated for early stage breast cancer. After seven years, 293 women had their cancer return and 273 died as a result of breast cancer or other causes.
...regular drinkers – three to four alcoholic beverages a week – were 35 per cent more likely to have a recurrence than non-drinkers. Regular drinkers also had a 51 per cent greater chance of dying from the disease."
She goes on to make modest and practical suggestions, such as curb alcohol consumption, increase activity levels and reduce one's BMI. Generally, I guess that means stop being a partying slug and start looking after myself--groan!
Wednesday, 15 September 2010
Thursday, 9 September 2010
first of many follow up appointments--success!
Today is the first day after my first follow up medical appointment. Treatments are done, the "cancer" is gone (or so we all hope--no guarantees in life, remember) and now I'm having to be a medical pincushion since I'm high risk list for the next five years. Yesterday I had my first of many follow up appointments which went surprisingly well, if it weren't for traffic, construction and weather...nothing new for any Belgian commuter, really.
So yesterday I met with the radiologist. He wanted to ensure the swelling at the zap site was not excessive (yes there's swelling and some fibrosis--tightness and stiffness of the pectoral muscle) but that I am healing well. I asked him about the numbness in my hands and the pain I've been having in my legs (as if I've sat on my hands and they've "fallen asleep" and the calves have run marathons the day before) and he assured me that these pains are a result of the Taxotere...not carpal tunnel syndrome, since the effect is equal in both sides. He said that the hands and calves are recovering from the nerve damage of the chemotherapy and that it might take as long as six months to improve. I guess I'll just have to be patient, but it does make typing, picking up chalk and small objects (pins, thread) almost impossible.
That reminds me...I've been remiss in telling you that I'm back to work. Its been very rewarding so far, in that everyone is very concerned with my well being and are eager to know how I fared so far with a busy visiting summer and inquiring how I'm doing, knowing that my students are young (10 year old) kids and will be very busy/energetic. For the most part, its been great. I only have to say that I need a breather and the principal or the school nurse will step into my class and continue on with what I've started. My team is terrific too, since they know I can't do all the organizing and coordinating that I did in the past, so they're picking up the slack. It has been a very smooth re-integration back into my professional life. I tire easily, have had a few "spells" of defeat/dizziness/exhaustion/negativity but these pass quickly when I realize I've got such a great group of colleagues to help me through these rougher patches. Today alone, I must have received 10 hugs and well-wishes--people who knew I was away for medical tests yesterday and were glad to hear things went well.
So the next set of tests aren't for another six weeks, and then the real biggies aren't until the middle of November. That's when I'll have a complete blood chemistry work-up, the mammogram, scintography with radioactive isotope injection, the echocardiogram for all internal organs and a lovely (not!) thorough examination in all things feminine, since they're keen to rule out metastasis to the ovaries and cervix...Negative results will be a nice pre-Christmas present, don't you think?
So yesterday I met with the radiologist. He wanted to ensure the swelling at the zap site was not excessive (yes there's swelling and some fibrosis--tightness and stiffness of the pectoral muscle) but that I am healing well. I asked him about the numbness in my hands and the pain I've been having in my legs (as if I've sat on my hands and they've "fallen asleep" and the calves have run marathons the day before) and he assured me that these pains are a result of the Taxotere...not carpal tunnel syndrome, since the effect is equal in both sides. He said that the hands and calves are recovering from the nerve damage of the chemotherapy and that it might take as long as six months to improve. I guess I'll just have to be patient, but it does make typing, picking up chalk and small objects (pins, thread) almost impossible.
That reminds me...I've been remiss in telling you that I'm back to work. Its been very rewarding so far, in that everyone is very concerned with my well being and are eager to know how I fared so far with a busy visiting summer and inquiring how I'm doing, knowing that my students are young (10 year old) kids and will be very busy/energetic. For the most part, its been great. I only have to say that I need a breather and the principal or the school nurse will step into my class and continue on with what I've started. My team is terrific too, since they know I can't do all the organizing and coordinating that I did in the past, so they're picking up the slack. It has been a very smooth re-integration back into my professional life. I tire easily, have had a few "spells" of defeat/dizziness/exhaustion/negativity but these pass quickly when I realize I've got such a great group of colleagues to help me through these rougher patches. Today alone, I must have received 10 hugs and well-wishes--people who knew I was away for medical tests yesterday and were glad to hear things went well.
So the next set of tests aren't for another six weeks, and then the real biggies aren't until the middle of November. That's when I'll have a complete blood chemistry work-up, the mammogram, scintography with radioactive isotope injection, the echocardiogram for all internal organs and a lovely (not!) thorough examination in all things feminine, since they're keen to rule out metastasis to the ovaries and cervix...Negative results will be a nice pre-Christmas present, don't you think?
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
who knew I'd be able to do this?
This is me! It took me 4 tries to get up on two skis, but I did it and I feel like a million bucks, accomplishing this so soon after finishing my treatments. I was really shaky (ankles and shoulders) so only did a brief circuit of the water out front of my friend's cottage, but I couldn't have asked for a better celebration activity to tell myself that I'm on the road to recovery...physically and mentally--since this is more than I think I would have done last year without the diagnosis!!
Here's a pic of me coming back to the shore. I'm almost in tears, but have an audience cheering me on--my parents and new and old friends--what a feeling. Wow.
Friday, 25 June 2010
Done...now what?
On May 11th, when I started the radiation treatments, I thought it would never be finished, but here I am and I'm so confused. I feel like I'm flying without a parachute, jumping without a net, swinging on a loosened swingset...whatever the metaphor, when I finished the last treatment on Wednesday, I felt like crying. Not because I'm just in one of those crying moods (see last post) but because there was a sense of abandonment: what will I do now that I don't have daily consultations? Who do I call if I ache when I get up--more than usual? How do I get reassurance for any of the mysterious ailments that continue to plague me since finishing chemo and radiation? I'm not being a hypochondriac, I'm just worried that I won't know the symptoms when they're small...and then when they're big, it might be too late...
I know the medical team is still there: if I worry about another lump, bump or lesion -- I can show up without notice and be seen. It's not that...it's this tumor aftermath that I need help with still. Now that the physical treatments are over, who is going to support my mental recovery? I think I still have a lot of learning/reading/reflecting to do...to recover from this crisis not only in body but also in spirit. A tougher row to hoe!
To change the subject, I just wanted to show you what I asked for as a recognition for the end of this ordeal: jewelry. On Wednesday, I asked Matthew for a very special Danish charm bracelet that has carved and shaped glass/metal/semiprecious beads instead of dangling charms. Its brand is called "Pandora" and I've decided that we now can recognize each anniversary and significant date of my cancer survival with a small symbolic charm bead. This is the first I received, and I'm very proud of my first hand decorated pink murano glass bead. It doesn't hurt that birthdays and other anniversaries are also covered from now on too. I think its pretty, don't you?
I know the medical team is still there: if I worry about another lump, bump or lesion -- I can show up without notice and be seen. It's not that...it's this tumor aftermath that I need help with still. Now that the physical treatments are over, who is going to support my mental recovery? I think I still have a lot of learning/reading/reflecting to do...to recover from this crisis not only in body but also in spirit. A tougher row to hoe!
To change the subject, I just wanted to show you what I asked for as a recognition for the end of this ordeal: jewelry. On Wednesday, I asked Matthew for a very special Danish charm bracelet that has carved and shaped glass/metal/semiprecious beads instead of dangling charms. Its brand is called "Pandora" and I've decided that we now can recognize each anniversary and significant date of my cancer survival with a small symbolic charm bead. This is the first I received, and I'm very proud of my first hand decorated pink murano glass bead. It doesn't hurt that birthdays and other anniversaries are also covered from now on too. I think its pretty, don't you?
Thursday, 17 June 2010
Passion or Pity?
Today I want to share with you something I experienced. I was in the hospital a little later today because I changed routines for the final six treatments. I'm now no longer getting my zaps from the ancient radiation machine but getting concentrated zaps from a very modern machine configured in a different orientation. As a result, I needed to be there later and I had to wait for a considerable amount of time.
While I was waiting, I saw the little boy again that I have seen a few times since starting at the clinic. I'm not sure his age...anywhere from 5 to 8 I'd guess by his language ability but his height and size were definitely compromised because he too, has received chemo and is getting daily radiation like me. He reminded me of the emaciated African children I see on Unicef commercials, except with head scars. Today, he was in the halls calling out to the nurses and his parents, running in and out of offices and waiting rooms, looking for his hat. I got sucked in to watching him, feeling his agitation for his lost hat, and his parents concern for him since he looked like running was definitely something he wouldn't be able to keep up for long. Ah, success! The hat was found!! It was a blues-brothers "pork pie" style hat in purple and green plaid: 'tres chouette' as one of the nurses put it. Once he found it and put it on his bald and scarred head, the nurses and receptionists cooed and laughed, since he looked so cute and so proud of himself...but just like many a child who has adults laughing at something they've done, he got instantly angry and pitched a fit right there in the hallway of the hospital. I was devastated. I couldn't help it: I burst into tears right along with him.
What's wrong with me?
Were my tears pity for this very sick and fragile child? Maybe compassion for his parents, who still have to parent and discipline this little guy, even though they've got to be going through an incredibly tough time? Were they tears for myself--knowing that I've had a hell of a winter and spring, and witnessing another's vulnerability was just too much? I don't think they were tears of gratitude, that I was glad that wasn't me or my kid--though I certainly am glad my children are healthy and happy. Maybe it is because I too, have anger and wish at times I could publicly scream, cry and thrash at unfairness. Whatever the reason, I'm positive it is emotion from the same place as when I read about any "victim" right now: I just don't have the resiliency to ignore their plight, distance myself or separate their anguish from my own situation. Its as if my emotions are raw nerves and any human suffering elicits a heightened response. Matthew and I have an acquaintance whose three year old son is undergoing intensive treatments for a rare and dangerous childhood cancer...I can't read his "care page" without sobbing before I'm through the first few paragraphs. Its too much for me. I have to turn off the news if there is footage about natural disasters or tragedy. I become an emotional basket case.
So while driving home from the hospital, I had an "ah-ha" moment of sorts...
Is this emotional volatility what some people are experiencing who haven't been emotionally available to support me, my husband and my family these last eight or so months? I wonder. There haven't been many, but certain individuals who I thought would have stepped up to the task virtually disappeared from our lives--no calls, no inquiries as to my progress, and no comments of concern for Matthew or myself. Is it because they too, have raw emotions just lurking under the surface (for whatever reason--previous experiences, fragile souls...not sure) and cannot bear to be provoked into an uncontrollable emotional response? One woman at work (who I don't know very well--she's an office administrator in another division of the school) bursts into tears each time she sees me. I feel personally responsible for her anguish. I think that's why I've decided to be particularly "up" and chipper: keeping a positive attitude most days and through most situations--not just for myself but to assist those like this woman who doesn't know what to say to me or how to treat me when confronted by me and "my plight".
If this is the case, now what do I do with this knowledge about others' possible motivations? Ignore, "write off" these folks and/or forgive, but move on? Embrace and enfold the weak to my breast? A friend in Toronto who is a survivor of testicular cancer said that he's had to selectively choose his support network...proximity and blood were not predictors of compassion, and he had to acknowledge that they weren't bad people for being unavailable, just incapable people who needed time or space from his diagnosis. Personally, I think that's a good mindset...one I'm considering adopting after some more thought and consideration.
So that's dealing with the mental state of others. How about myself?
Other people who have traveled this journey tell me that once the physical healing is finished that there's a completely invisible mental healing that takes months or even years to complete. That once they're over the second, more difficult hurdle, that they can in turn support others in various ways. Am I there yet? Firstly, am I in a place to be generous to others with misfortune and am I strong enough to let others lean on me? No, I don't think so...not yet. Not until I get my "house in order", so to speak. I've done quite a bit of reading about survivors (famous and ordinary) and they each have patterns to their stories. Just a few put it behind them, completely closing that chapter of their lives and move on. Other cancer "victors" seem to go through specific phases of recovery:
I'd like to think that this latter path is my next leg of the journey, but one I've barely begun. Baby steps, Maggie. Baby steps.
While I was waiting, I saw the little boy again that I have seen a few times since starting at the clinic. I'm not sure his age...anywhere from 5 to 8 I'd guess by his language ability but his height and size were definitely compromised because he too, has received chemo and is getting daily radiation like me. He reminded me of the emaciated African children I see on Unicef commercials, except with head scars. Today, he was in the halls calling out to the nurses and his parents, running in and out of offices and waiting rooms, looking for his hat. I got sucked in to watching him, feeling his agitation for his lost hat, and his parents concern for him since he looked like running was definitely something he wouldn't be able to keep up for long. Ah, success! The hat was found!! It was a blues-brothers "pork pie" style hat in purple and green plaid: 'tres chouette' as one of the nurses put it. Once he found it and put it on his bald and scarred head, the nurses and receptionists cooed and laughed, since he looked so cute and so proud of himself...but just like many a child who has adults laughing at something they've done, he got instantly angry and pitched a fit right there in the hallway of the hospital. I was devastated. I couldn't help it: I burst into tears right along with him.
What's wrong with me?
Were my tears pity for this very sick and fragile child? Maybe compassion for his parents, who still have to parent and discipline this little guy, even though they've got to be going through an incredibly tough time? Were they tears for myself--knowing that I've had a hell of a winter and spring, and witnessing another's vulnerability was just too much? I don't think they were tears of gratitude, that I was glad that wasn't me or my kid--though I certainly am glad my children are healthy and happy. Maybe it is because I too, have anger and wish at times I could publicly scream, cry and thrash at unfairness. Whatever the reason, I'm positive it is emotion from the same place as when I read about any "victim" right now: I just don't have the resiliency to ignore their plight, distance myself or separate their anguish from my own situation. Its as if my emotions are raw nerves and any human suffering elicits a heightened response. Matthew and I have an acquaintance whose three year old son is undergoing intensive treatments for a rare and dangerous childhood cancer...I can't read his "care page" without sobbing before I'm through the first few paragraphs. Its too much for me. I have to turn off the news if there is footage about natural disasters or tragedy. I become an emotional basket case.
So while driving home from the hospital, I had an "ah-ha" moment of sorts...
Is this emotional volatility what some people are experiencing who haven't been emotionally available to support me, my husband and my family these last eight or so months? I wonder. There haven't been many, but certain individuals who I thought would have stepped up to the task virtually disappeared from our lives--no calls, no inquiries as to my progress, and no comments of concern for Matthew or myself. Is it because they too, have raw emotions just lurking under the surface (for whatever reason--previous experiences, fragile souls...not sure) and cannot bear to be provoked into an uncontrollable emotional response? One woman at work (who I don't know very well--she's an office administrator in another division of the school) bursts into tears each time she sees me. I feel personally responsible for her anguish. I think that's why I've decided to be particularly "up" and chipper: keeping a positive attitude most days and through most situations--not just for myself but to assist those like this woman who doesn't know what to say to me or how to treat me when confronted by me and "my plight".
If this is the case, now what do I do with this knowledge about others' possible motivations? Ignore, "write off" these folks and/or forgive, but move on? Embrace and enfold the weak to my breast? A friend in Toronto who is a survivor of testicular cancer said that he's had to selectively choose his support network...proximity and blood were not predictors of compassion, and he had to acknowledge that they weren't bad people for being unavailable, just incapable people who needed time or space from his diagnosis. Personally, I think that's a good mindset...one I'm considering adopting after some more thought and consideration.
So that's dealing with the mental state of others. How about myself?
Other people who have traveled this journey tell me that once the physical healing is finished that there's a completely invisible mental healing that takes months or even years to complete. That once they're over the second, more difficult hurdle, that they can in turn support others in various ways. Am I there yet? Firstly, am I in a place to be generous to others with misfortune and am I strong enough to let others lean on me? No, I don't think so...not yet. Not until I get my "house in order", so to speak. I've done quite a bit of reading about survivors (famous and ordinary) and they each have patterns to their stories. Just a few put it behind them, completely closing that chapter of their lives and move on. Other cancer "victors" seem to go through specific phases of recovery:
- get well,
- get healthier than before the cancer,
- figure out where they're headed, what's important to them,
- present to others their crises and achievements, and,
- share time, energy and money supporting the search for a cure or providing compassion for humanity.
I'd like to think that this latter path is my next leg of the journey, but one I've barely begun. Baby steps, Maggie. Baby steps.
Friday, 4 June 2010
Hopes for Breast Cancer Vaccine--BBC World news article:
American scientists say they have developed a vaccine which has prevented breast cancer from developing in mice.
The researchers - whose findings are published in the journal, Nature Medicine - are now planning to conduct trials of the drug in humans. But they warn that it could be some years before the vaccine is widely available.
The immunologist who led the research says the vaccine targets a protein found in most breast tumours.
Vincent Tuohy, from the Cleveland Clinic Lerner Research Institute, said: "We believe that this vaccine will someday be used to prevent breast cancer in adult women in the same way that vaccines have prevented many childhood diseases.
Unique challenge
"If it works in humans the way it works in mice, this will be monumental. We could eliminate breast cancer."
In the study, genetically cancer-prone mice were vaccinated - half with a vaccine containing á-lactalbumin and half with a vaccine that did not contain the antigen.
None of the mice vaccinated with á-lactalbumin developed breast cancer, while all of the other mice did.
If you'd like to read the rest of the article, click here.
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
I'll have mine sliced and toasted, please
It has been 14 treatments so far...I'm close to half-way through as I have 17 radiation treatments left. The initial consult with the radiologist indicated that I'd only have 25, but the last six are "booster radiation shots" right at the incision scar. As of this week I'm beginning to feel the effects of the radiation, as I've got very itchy skin where they're zapping me so I have begun using a burn cream to lessen the irritation and speed up healing of the skin (feels like a sun burn, but ironically: in an area that has "seldom" seen sunlight, realize!).
I am feeling better every day. Radiation for some is fatiguing, and that's also hit my system, but nothing is as taxing as the chemotherapy was, so I'm so glad to be on the mend compared to what I've felt like recently--a little bit of fatigue sounds like a picnic in relative terms.
In fact, you might have heard that I have been having a bit of celebration now that I'm "all clear" to resume my normal habits (of drinking--that is!). Matthew and I went out and bought a case of pink sparkling wine, a large box of chocolates and some fancy "nibblies" and took it into work one afternoon to honour those there who supported us when things were pretty rough (particularly in January and February this year). It was a lovely party of 30 or so people who were able to drop in and I'm so glad they did. If this journey has taught me anything, it is that I know now who and what's important in my life. There will be extra points at the pearly gates for some compassionate people, if Anyone's keeping track!
In fact, here's a picture of some of those wonderful people: Dawn, Louise and Keri behind me and Cindy, Marcia, Adriana, Seretha, Jon, Emmie, Lily, Paul and Anja in front of me...just a few of the people who got our "thanks" in person.
I am feeling better every day. Radiation for some is fatiguing, and that's also hit my system, but nothing is as taxing as the chemotherapy was, so I'm so glad to be on the mend compared to what I've felt like recently--a little bit of fatigue sounds like a picnic in relative terms.
In fact, you might have heard that I have been having a bit of celebration now that I'm "all clear" to resume my normal habits (of drinking--that is!). Matthew and I went out and bought a case of pink sparkling wine, a large box of chocolates and some fancy "nibblies" and took it into work one afternoon to honour those there who supported us when things were pretty rough (particularly in January and February this year). It was a lovely party of 30 or so people who were able to drop in and I'm so glad they did. If this journey has taught me anything, it is that I know now who and what's important in my life. There will be extra points at the pearly gates for some compassionate people, if Anyone's keeping track!
In fact, here's a picture of some of those wonderful people: Dawn, Louise and Keri behind me and Cindy, Marcia, Adriana, Seretha, Jon, Emmie, Lily, Paul and Anja in front of me...just a few of the people who got our "thanks" in person.
Monday, 17 May 2010
Joke of the Day:
A middle-aged woman seemed sheepish as she visited her gynaecologist.
"Come now," coaxed the doctor, "you've been seeing me for years. There's nothing you can't tell me."
"This one's kind of strange," the woman said.
"Let me be the judge of that," the doctor replied.
"Well," she said, "yesterday I went to the bathroom in the morning and heard a plink-plink-plink in the toilet. When I looked down, the water was full of pennies."
"I see," commented the doctor calmly.
"That afternoon, I went to the bathroom again and, plink-plink-plink, there were 5 cent pieces in the bowl," the woman continued.
"That night," she went on, "I went again, and plink-plink-plink, there were 10 cent pieces. This morning, there were quarters!
"You've got to tell me what's wrong with me!" she implored. "I'm scared out of my wits!"
The gynaecologist put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "There, there, it's nothing to be scared about," he said.
"You're simply going through the change!"
So the joke illustrates one of the less expected side effects of chemo that I'm still dealing with: the (not bad) absence of a monthly visitor, but the (not so nice) presence of hourly hot flashes and night sweats...I think if you plugged me in I could make the meter run backwards there's so much heat in me! If you're not yet there, here's a list of 33 other symptoms, some of which thankfully, I've not experienced, but many women do and I'm not looking forward to those on top of this biggie! The only advantage is that I'm young enough that I might regain my previous fertility status (and temperature modulation ability) once the chemicals are completely out of my system...how long that will take is anyone's guess. I never thought I'd look forward to getting my period!
"Come now," coaxed the doctor, "you've been seeing me for years. There's nothing you can't tell me."
"This one's kind of strange," the woman said.
"Let me be the judge of that," the doctor replied.
"Well," she said, "yesterday I went to the bathroom in the morning and heard a plink-plink-plink in the toilet. When I looked down, the water was full of pennies."
"I see," commented the doctor calmly.
"That afternoon, I went to the bathroom again and, plink-plink-plink, there were 5 cent pieces in the bowl," the woman continued.
"That night," she went on, "I went again, and plink-plink-plink, there were 10 cent pieces. This morning, there were quarters!
"You've got to tell me what's wrong with me!" she implored. "I'm scared out of my wits!"
The gynaecologist put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "There, there, it's nothing to be scared about," he said.
"You're simply going through the change!"
So the joke illustrates one of the less expected side effects of chemo that I'm still dealing with: the (not bad) absence of a monthly visitor, but the (not so nice) presence of hourly hot flashes and night sweats...I think if you plugged me in I could make the meter run backwards there's so much heat in me! If you're not yet there, here's a list of 33 other symptoms, some of which thankfully, I've not experienced, but many women do and I'm not looking forward to those on top of this biggie! The only advantage is that I'm young enough that I might regain my previous fertility status (and temperature modulation ability) once the chemicals are completely out of my system...how long that will take is anyone's guess. I never thought I'd look forward to getting my period!
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
I'm all marked up: let the tanning proceed!
Today has marked the end of a very difficult weekend: one in which I got sick on Friday with a mid-grade fever (again: just like the last two rounds of taxotere) and then proceeded to get sicker with laryngitis on Saturday once the fever broke. I'm barking like a seal in mating season but without any voice to say "crap this hurts", after each rib breaking session of spasms. I've been in bed most of the weekend and even though the cough and voice status haven't changed, today's been the first day I felt like getting dressed...and good thing too, since today they scheduled the simulation session for the commencement of radiation treatments.
So our day began early. We drove the kids to school (a treat, since we just bought a second hand VW Polo) and then crawled our way downtown in the rush hour traffic to the hospital. I got there just on time, got undressed from the waist up and laid down on the table, only to be racked with a coughing fit that sounded as if I was being turned inside out. The attending radio-oncologist stopped the session and said that they'd have to delay until next week. I started to cry (silently) and whispered that they couldn't delay it, since I've got a booked flight that will just fit all the treatments in if they start when the doctor said they'd start. He went away, consulted with the others and the scheduling software and then said that they could proceed if I got a strong cough suppressant from the pharmacy and came back in 1 hour, and he'd see how my treatments would fit around the machine's availability.
With a very strong codeine in me for calming my cough they were able to continue an hour later. I got marked up with a sharpie, "photographed", positioned and re-photographed, then clear tape went over the marks and I was told to return for my first radiation treatment 1:45 that very afternoon--I was gob-smacked that we start so soon! I didn't argue, you can be assured!
We looked at the time and decided nothing could be better than lunch, so we high-tailed it over to Place Ste. Catherine and found a nice seafood restaurant. The choice of districts was because we also wanted to go to the Chinese grocery stores in that area to stock up on our essential staples (one of the advantages of taking my radiations at Bordet is that everything else is so close to it). We got back just in time with no waiting, since the clinician was ready for me. I again undressed, was laid upon a table (this time with a real machine attached--circa 1984 by the look of it) and from start to finish, including moving the "camera" part of the machine over and across my chest, the entire process took 5 minutes. I'm glad they had a radio playing upbeat music as I'm going to get to know that room really well with another 30 treatments to go: Monday to Friday (holidays excepted) until June 24th!
Here's a picture of the equipment. Its much snazzier, but essentially the same thing as I saw today. I also found a picture from a medical textbook of the markings, but thought better of posting someone else's bare chest for your viewing pleasure. Just imagine lots of x's and o's and the tic-tac-toe board starts at my collarbone and ends at my rib cage--I think it's o's turn next...
So our day began early. We drove the kids to school (a treat, since we just bought a second hand VW Polo) and then crawled our way downtown in the rush hour traffic to the hospital. I got there just on time, got undressed from the waist up and laid down on the table, only to be racked with a coughing fit that sounded as if I was being turned inside out. The attending radio-oncologist stopped the session and said that they'd have to delay until next week. I started to cry (silently) and whispered that they couldn't delay it, since I've got a booked flight that will just fit all the treatments in if they start when the doctor said they'd start. He went away, consulted with the others and the scheduling software and then said that they could proceed if I got a strong cough suppressant from the pharmacy and came back in 1 hour, and he'd see how my treatments would fit around the machine's availability.
With a very strong codeine in me for calming my cough they were able to continue an hour later. I got marked up with a sharpie, "photographed", positioned and re-photographed, then clear tape went over the marks and I was told to return for my first radiation treatment 1:45 that very afternoon--I was gob-smacked that we start so soon! I didn't argue, you can be assured!
We looked at the time and decided nothing could be better than lunch, so we high-tailed it over to Place Ste. Catherine and found a nice seafood restaurant. The choice of districts was because we also wanted to go to the Chinese grocery stores in that area to stock up on our essential staples (one of the advantages of taking my radiations at Bordet is that everything else is so close to it). We got back just in time with no waiting, since the clinician was ready for me. I again undressed, was laid upon a table (this time with a real machine attached--circa 1984 by the look of it) and from start to finish, including moving the "camera" part of the machine over and across my chest, the entire process took 5 minutes. I'm glad they had a radio playing upbeat music as I'm going to get to know that room really well with another 30 treatments to go: Monday to Friday (holidays excepted) until June 24th!
Here's a picture of the equipment. Its much snazzier, but essentially the same thing as I saw today. I also found a picture from a medical textbook of the markings, but thought better of posting someone else's bare chest for your viewing pleasure. Just imagine lots of x's and o's and the tic-tac-toe board starts at my collarbone and ends at my rib cage--I think it's o's turn next...
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Ring those bells! Chemo is done!!
My dear friend, Evelyn from Balderson (near Perth, Ontario) told me that when her sister finished her chemo treatments, the clinic had her ring a bell on the ward. It must have been a wonderful moment for her and the other patients to hear that bell, a feeling of hope for others and the start of something new, yet also the end of something both terrible and life-saving as well. I can imagine it was an emotionally charged moment for Evie and her sister to participate in such a ritual.
So yesterday, when I was being extracted from the chemical drip and the electronic pump machine I asked the nurse if there was a tradition or a symbolic gesture for the end of chemo...did they ring a bell, sign a book, or the like? She smiled and said no, that nothing like that ever occurred to her. What a shame! In order that I have some recognition of the momentous occassion, I asked friends and family on Facebook to ring in a bit of cheer on my behalf, and these are some of the responses I got when I posted that chemo was "Done":
Hearing that Judith will be ringing the church bell in the very church where Matthew and I got married really sent my heart soaring...what a wonderful symbol of renewal and change--Judith, you're a special person to know just the right thing to make this a significant event. Thank you.
And another Thank you to you all so much for supporting me from January 14th to now in this very difficult journey--the road is not over, but I think the rough terrain has passed and my health will be improving daily from now on...in time to visit with wonderful people over the summer and in time to get back to work in August for the next school year.
Now my next thing to look forward to is May 24th when I will be 3 weeks past my last chemo and I can celebrate in style: we're going to pull out the champagne, lift a glass to the possibilities of a new chapter in my life and I will toast all of you for your words of encouragement and tokens of support--Santé!
So yesterday, when I was being extracted from the chemical drip and the electronic pump machine I asked the nurse if there was a tradition or a symbolic gesture for the end of chemo...did they ring a bell, sign a book, or the like? She smiled and said no, that nothing like that ever occurred to her. What a shame! In order that I have some recognition of the momentous occassion, I asked friends and family on Facebook to ring in a bit of cheer on my behalf, and these are some of the responses I got when I posted that chemo was "Done":
Hearing that Judith will be ringing the church bell in the very church where Matthew and I got married really sent my heart soaring...what a wonderful symbol of renewal and change--Judith, you're a special person to know just the right thing to make this a significant event. Thank you.
And another Thank you to you all so much for supporting me from January 14th to now in this very difficult journey--the road is not over, but I think the rough terrain has passed and my health will be improving daily from now on...in time to visit with wonderful people over the summer and in time to get back to work in August for the next school year.
Now my next thing to look forward to is May 24th when I will be 3 weeks past my last chemo and I can celebrate in style: we're going to pull out the champagne, lift a glass to the possibilities of a new chapter in my life and I will toast all of you for your words of encouragement and tokens of support--Santé!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
drinks raised to your good health from us all