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!
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
The Zap doctor was very nice...
And even though she spoke only a little English, she explained everything very well and was quite accommodating to my need to be "on a jet plane" on June 29th. When she wasn't confident of the words she spoke to Matthew, but unlike any other doctor so far in this clinic, she addressed me alone...what a refreshing change to be treated like a person rather than a dependent of my bilingual husband!
So speaking of dates, here's what I know so far:
Monday May 3rd - last chemo treatment (lets hope forever)
Tuesday May 11th - Simulation run of the radiation treatment where I'll get outfitted with a plastic shield, get my "tattoos" for landmarking the machine and find out what the treatments will entail. This will be about an hour long appointment and I will have the radiologist there to answer my questions. Already she's told me that I'll have magic marker all over my chest and that I'll not be able to soap/scrub them off as they'll be needed for the next week's series of treatments
Monday May 17th - first treatment of radiation
Friday June 25th - last treatment of radiation. There are two holidays in these 5 weeks so with this in mind, I'll have to have one or two days of two treatments to get all 25 sessions in within this timeline. The worst side effects are skin burns and fatigue...I shouldn't experience much else but it will depend on the sensitivity of my skin, she said.
Speaking of forever, I just found out something. With people that have had a second diagnosis of carcinoma or a recurrence of their original, they can have chemo again, but will never be given radiation a second time. Once I get my zaps, that is it...they won't give them again...each of us have only a limited allowance of radiation I guess.
So overall, today is good news. Provided that my chemo does not get delayed and all this needs to be modified, I am going to be going home to Canada with the boys and Matthew so that we'll have our maximum time visiting friends and family. So you've had fair warning: get the hot tubs filled, the barbecue stoked, the camping gear dusted off and put a few imported beers in the cooler: we're coming and we're bringing chocolate!
Oh, and Miss Icelandic Volcano with the unpronounceable name: don't you dare think of erupting at the end of June....you will be hearing me from this side of the Atlantic screaming and yelling if you were to delay us even a few hours--so just pack it in and go to sleep!
Monday May 3rd - last chemo treatment (lets hope forever)
Tuesday May 11th - Simulation run of the radiation treatment where I'll get outfitted with a plastic shield, get my "tattoos" for landmarking the machine and find out what the treatments will entail. This will be about an hour long appointment and I will have the radiologist there to answer my questions. Already she's told me that I'll have magic marker all over my chest and that I'll not be able to soap/scrub them off as they'll be needed for the next week's series of treatments
Monday May 17th - first treatment of radiation
Friday June 25th - last treatment of radiation. There are two holidays in these 5 weeks so with this in mind, I'll have to have one or two days of two treatments to get all 25 sessions in within this timeline. The worst side effects are skin burns and fatigue...I shouldn't experience much else but it will depend on the sensitivity of my skin, she said.
Speaking of forever, I just found out something. With people that have had a second diagnosis of carcinoma or a recurrence of their original, they can have chemo again, but will never be given radiation a second time. Once I get my zaps, that is it...they won't give them again...each of us have only a limited allowance of radiation I guess.
So overall, today is good news. Provided that my chemo does not get delayed and all this needs to be modified, I am going to be going home to Canada with the boys and Matthew so that we'll have our maximum time visiting friends and family. So you've had fair warning: get the hot tubs filled, the barbecue stoked, the camping gear dusted off and put a few imported beers in the cooler: we're coming and we're bringing chocolate!
Oh, and Miss Icelandic Volcano with the unpronounceable name: don't you dare think of erupting at the end of June....you will be hearing me from this side of the Atlantic screaming and yelling if you were to delay us even a few hours--so just pack it in and go to sleep!
Thursday, 15 April 2010
"roid rage" and body aches
Today's not a good day. Nor was yesterday, really. Yesterday morning, I was experiencing quite a bit of agitation, and Matthew called it my "roid rage". I was cranky, snappy, restless, and had an explosive temper with plenty of tears. Not a nice person. That thankfully is gone, but I think now that the cortico-steroids have done their job, the real side effects are becoming evident today. I'm achy from my neck tendons down to my ankles. Long muscles feel over-stretched and joints feel stiff, though they don't look swollen. This is I guess what Taxotere is really like. Matthew and the boys are all coughing or with the sniffles, so I'm finding myself spending lots of time on my own so that I don't get turfed in hospital like last round with an infection (bacterial or viral). A friend is coming by today and we'll try to get out to a book store for some quiet entertainment, should I have enough ibuprofen in me by then to manage that type of activity.
So its "slow and steady wins the race". The count-down is now at 18 days until my last chemo, then maybe as few as 10 weeks to the end of all treatments...we're just trying to stay focused on the light at the end of the tunnel right now!
So its "slow and steady wins the race". The count-down is now at 18 days until my last chemo, then maybe as few as 10 weeks to the end of all treatments...we're just trying to stay focused on the light at the end of the tunnel right now!
Monday, 12 April 2010
Terry Fox (by Matthew)
I wrote this last night, and sent it in today as a letter to the editor of the Toronto Star.
So tomorrow is the 30th anniversary of Terry Fox beginning his run across Canada, his great challenge to raise awareness of cancer, and to raise money for cancer research.
It's also my wife's fifth chemotherapy session, to make sure that they've completely eliminated her breast cancer.
I was struck forcibly by the collision of days. As a nine year old, I was captivated by Terry's story. My mother, a nurse herself, made sure we were informed, and as a Toronto Star paperboy I had access to all the information about his progress as it unfolded. It's a little difficult to explain today to someone who wasn't there at the time, but Terry woke us all up. Suddenly all of us had cancer, all of us had lost a leg, all of us wanted our loss to mean something. Gradually all of us became a part of Terry's marathon of hope, and we all had something to live for, something to overcome, something to carry us forward...
...and we all grieved when near Thunder Bay, Terry was forced to stop, was forced to concede the battle. We all cried with frustration, sharing his tears. Today, thirty years later, I can't think about his voice breaking, the control he exerted in that last interview, without dissolving into tears myself.
I've been a stoic and solid husband during my wife's battle so far, but when I think of the loss of Terry Fox, a tough little Canadian boy, probably my first hero, it gets a bit difficult for me to keep things together.
I will never forget you, Terry. I thank you for the work you did to make my wife's cancer treatment far more manageable than yours was. You will never be forgotten.
So tomorrow is the 30th anniversary of Terry Fox beginning his run across Canada, his great challenge to raise awareness of cancer, and to raise money for cancer research.
It's also my wife's fifth chemotherapy session, to make sure that they've completely eliminated her breast cancer.
I was struck forcibly by the collision of days. As a nine year old, I was captivated by Terry's story. My mother, a nurse herself, made sure we were informed, and as a Toronto Star paperboy I had access to all the information about his progress as it unfolded. It's a little difficult to explain today to someone who wasn't there at the time, but Terry woke us all up. Suddenly all of us had cancer, all of us had lost a leg, all of us wanted our loss to mean something. Gradually all of us became a part of Terry's marathon of hope, and we all had something to live for, something to overcome, something to carry us forward...
...and we all grieved when near Thunder Bay, Terry was forced to stop, was forced to concede the battle. We all cried with frustration, sharing his tears. Today, thirty years later, I can't think about his voice breaking, the control he exerted in that last interview, without dissolving into tears myself.
I've been a stoic and solid husband during my wife's battle so far, but when I think of the loss of Terry Fox, a tough little Canadian boy, probably my first hero, it gets a bit difficult for me to keep things together.
I will never forget you, Terry. I thank you for the work you did to make my wife's cancer treatment far more manageable than yours was. You will never be forgotten.
Mom's Happy Meal
Today due to the Congee de Paque, Malcolm had to accompany us to Bordet for my bloodwork, consultation and chemotherapy (number five of six, if you haven't been keeping track---almost done!). He was very accommodating and waited patiently whenever we had to either leave to go in an office, clinical room or deal with paperwork. He read his superhero comics or listened to my ipod, keeping himself busy and not too bored. We were running late, so didn't start the actual infusion until almost 16.00 h and his mind must have been on his stomach, because when he saw the IV bag wrapped in aluminum foil (to reduce the likelihood of decomposition by UV) he said, "Hey, Mom, is that your Happy Meal?". That brought a giggle from the nurse and each of us, since nothing could be further from the truth!
We're home now and I'm a bit shaky, but doing okay. I'm not hungry though nor am I nauseous, tired or anxious, so I guess there's positives in everything. Matthew's going to heat up some leftovers and maybe make some curry from last night's lamb roast. That might just spark my appetite!
I will check in with you soon...we'll see how things are tomorrow and the next day...perhaps I'll budget for the euphoria/mania and plan to paint the ceilings or rearrange furniture in the next few days. Or not.
Sunday, 11 April 2010
More research that makes me think...
The following quote is from the latest research posted on BCO.org: "BARCELONA (MedPage Today) -- A longer duration of breastfeeding may predispose women who develop breast cancer to a more aggressive case, but they're no more likely to develop the disease in the first place, findings from a large Swedish cohort study suggest.
Among women who developed breast cancer after pregnancy, those who breastfed their children for more than six months had a twofold increased risk of grade III (high-grade) cancers and tumors with high levels of the proliferation marker Ki-67."
To read this article for yourself, click here.
So the two and a half years plus two years breastfeeding my two children kicked the cancer (maybe already there) into a more aggressive growing type? In a warped way, I guess that was lucky, since the reason why I found my cancer was because it grew so rapidly.
Thanks midwives, thanks boys.
Among women who developed breast cancer after pregnancy, those who breastfed their children for more than six months had a twofold increased risk of grade III (high-grade) cancers and tumors with high levels of the proliferation marker Ki-67."
To read this article for yourself, click here.
So the two and a half years plus two years breastfeeding my two children kicked the cancer (maybe already there) into a more aggressive growing type? In a warped way, I guess that was lucky, since the reason why I found my cancer was because it grew so rapidly.
Thanks midwives, thanks boys.
Saturday, 3 April 2010
cancer cells crave sugar
A cancer survivor blog I follow pointed to this article, and I thought it interesting enough to also make note of it. Certain cancers (breast being one) gobble 10 times more sugar than other cells, and some treatment success has been gained by limiting the cells' access to sugar. Here's a quote of the abstract:
Researchers at Drexel University College of Medicine have discovered that a certain type of sugar found naturally in the body is elevated in breast cancer cells and is critical for cancer growth and movement. When researchers reduced and normalized the levels of this sugar, they were able to slow the growth of the cancer cells and block invasion. The findings, published in the March 1 issue of Oncogene, represent a potential new therapeutic target for treating aggressive forms of breast cancer.
If you'd like to read more, here's the full article.
No one really knows why they get breast cancer, and I'm not sure if my sweet tooth is the culprit, but its interesting to note that we might have more control than we realize, at least in limiting the spread and recurrence...I just wish this realization hadn't hit me just before the Easter egg gluttony is to begin.
Researchers at Drexel University College of Medicine have discovered that a certain type of sugar found naturally in the body is elevated in breast cancer cells and is critical for cancer growth and movement. When researchers reduced and normalized the levels of this sugar, they were able to slow the growth of the cancer cells and block invasion. The findings, published in the March 1 issue of Oncogene, represent a potential new therapeutic target for treating aggressive forms of breast cancer.
If you'd like to read more, here's the full article.
No one really knows why they get breast cancer, and I'm not sure if my sweet tooth is the culprit, but its interesting to note that we might have more control than we realize, at least in limiting the spread and recurrence...I just wish this realization hadn't hit me just before the Easter egg gluttony is to begin.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
side effects of chemo
Is there any positives about chemo, other than the little monsters floating around in my body will be eliminated? There are are few that I've been thinking about over the last four rounds and so I thought I'd start a list.
So that's it for positives. Now I've got a somewhat longer list of some of the newer negatives.
Some of the newer side effects that I'm experiencing are like no other that I've had so far, and are frankly, darn annoying. First, food tastes terrible. This morning's favorite oatmeal tasted like pencil shavings warmed over. Water tastes like the dead sea in a glass. My very artfully made ham and cheese omelette for lunch today had the taste of nothing. Not even the smoky ham or rich emmental came through...it was as if Matthew swapped the discount/no-name brands for the real thing. I ate spoonful after spoonful of salsa to give it some zing, something I felt it was missing. What's more, my raspberry jello had no "perfume" to it and I could only discern the texture and the "sweetness". This last food experiment has led me to believe that maybe the chemo has burned out my sour and savory taste buds, and perhaps a few of my olfactory receptors as well. For dinner tonight I compensated for this with some generous splashes of tobassco and a healthy grind of black pepper on my chicken noodle soup. It helped and made me consider taking up chili eating as a sport...I could really kick some butt at this rate!
Now, part of the disappointment with food might have to do with my discomfort. I've had mouth sores since the weekend, and anything crunchy or chewy makes me feel like I've got serious pizza-burn in my mouth. You know...that feeling the day after you ate pizza that was too hot and the roof of your mouth got seared off? These are somewhat like cankar sores, but they're not affected by sour or spicy foods (thank goodness!) Luckily they're short living, only hanging around for two or three days each so I'm hoping they'll only last until the middle week of each round.
And not to get too whiny, but another new mystery ailment is the tenderness of the pads of my fingers. Typing is a challenge, since I learned on a mechanical keyboard and like to keep proper positioning and whack the keys quite hard...I'm learning to slouch and strike more softly, at least! I know now why the ice packs during the infusion were so important. I wonder how I'd feel if I hadn't worn those arctic freezer gloves: no, on the other hand...let's not go there.
Oh. I forgot one more positive. The swelling of my heart at the notes, calls, tokens and gifts and concern I've been receiving since becoming sick. One such call came yesterday...out of the blue. A colleague and friend from my Ontario Family Studies Leadership days, Patty, called when she heard I was ill. I've not spoken "live" with Patty in close to three years (facebooking excepted) but her voice found a spot deep inside that gave me wonder, joy and hope that this illness can be overcome. When we hung up, I laughed out loud, smiled until my face cracked, then collapsed in tears of gratitude. Thank you Patty for that gift of connection. Another example came today in the mail...another Family Studies friend, Heather who was traveling over her March break saw a "scarf" and thought I'd like it so bought it, bundled it into a Canada Post envelope and sent it to me across the pond...though it's not just any scarf, but a "buff" headwear scarf. Here's a picture of me wearing the "pirate" style, and you can have a look at the neat ways people wear these scarves at www.buff.eu . Thank you again, Heather for being so thoughtful and knowing just the perfect thing to send...your treats have brought bright spots to my days and remind me about the wonderful people who care for me and are on my side to win this marathon.
- my psoriasis is gone. I had a fairly sizable patch at the nape of my neck and the skin there is now as smooth as any other on my head. Also the "itchy ear" that I've lived with for 15 years is no longer itchy...yeah, I know I should have dealt with it earlier, but now I don't have to! The likelihood of why these ailments are gone has to do with the cause of them: they're both auto-immune diseases--the excemea and the psoriasis that now got knocked flat along with my immune system by the chemicals.
- I no longer have a need to wax. Anywhere. 'nuff said.
- The money I'm saving on haircare products, salon visits and hair accessories must be adding up...perhaps I'm able to buy that Vespa afterall!
- The environment is thanking me. With no hair, I'm taking fewer showers, not using high wattage appliances such as hair dryers or curling irons and the Ozone is safe from harm: hairspray just isn't an option right now.
- Weight Watchers must miss me, but I don't miss the 10 or so kilograms of extra adipose I was carrying all last year. Now granted, only about half of that came off after diagnosis, but I'm feeling pleased that at least I fit into my favorite clothes, even if I don't look very presentable in them (or have anywhere to wear them, for that matter).
So that's it for positives. Now I've got a somewhat longer list of some of the newer negatives.
Some of the newer side effects that I'm experiencing are like no other that I've had so far, and are frankly, darn annoying. First, food tastes terrible. This morning's favorite oatmeal tasted like pencil shavings warmed over. Water tastes like the dead sea in a glass. My very artfully made ham and cheese omelette for lunch today had the taste of nothing. Not even the smoky ham or rich emmental came through...it was as if Matthew swapped the discount/no-name brands for the real thing. I ate spoonful after spoonful of salsa to give it some zing, something I felt it was missing. What's more, my raspberry jello had no "perfume" to it and I could only discern the texture and the "sweetness". This last food experiment has led me to believe that maybe the chemo has burned out my sour and savory taste buds, and perhaps a few of my olfactory receptors as well. For dinner tonight I compensated for this with some generous splashes of tobassco and a healthy grind of black pepper on my chicken noodle soup. It helped and made me consider taking up chili eating as a sport...I could really kick some butt at this rate!
Now, part of the disappointment with food might have to do with my discomfort. I've had mouth sores since the weekend, and anything crunchy or chewy makes me feel like I've got serious pizza-burn in my mouth. You know...that feeling the day after you ate pizza that was too hot and the roof of your mouth got seared off? These are somewhat like cankar sores, but they're not affected by sour or spicy foods (thank goodness!) Luckily they're short living, only hanging around for two or three days each so I'm hoping they'll only last until the middle week of each round.
And not to get too whiny, but another new mystery ailment is the tenderness of the pads of my fingers. Typing is a challenge, since I learned on a mechanical keyboard and like to keep proper positioning and whack the keys quite hard...I'm learning to slouch and strike more softly, at least! I know now why the ice packs during the infusion were so important. I wonder how I'd feel if I hadn't worn those arctic freezer gloves: no, on the other hand...let's not go there.
Oh. I forgot one more positive. The swelling of my heart at the notes, calls, tokens and gifts and concern I've been receiving since becoming sick. One such call came yesterday...out of the blue. A colleague and friend from my Ontario Family Studies Leadership days, Patty, called when she heard I was ill. I've not spoken "live" with Patty in close to three years (facebooking excepted) but her voice found a spot deep inside that gave me wonder, joy and hope that this illness can be overcome. When we hung up, I laughed out loud, smiled until my face cracked, then collapsed in tears of gratitude. Thank you Patty for that gift of connection. Another example came today in the mail...another Family Studies friend, Heather who was traveling over her March break saw a "scarf" and thought I'd like it so bought it, bundled it into a Canada Post envelope and sent it to me across the pond...though it's not just any scarf, but a "buff" headwear scarf. Here's a picture of me wearing the "pirate" style, and you can have a look at the neat ways people wear these scarves at www.buff.eu . Thank you again, Heather for being so thoughtful and knowing just the perfect thing to send...your treats have brought bright spots to my days and remind me about the wonderful people who care for me and are on my side to win this marathon.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
An update from Maggie by telephone
Dictated to el marido this morning:
I am still in the care of Belgium's finest hospital for cancer research and treatment. After a chest x-ray and numerous blood tests they can't find any evidence of bacterial infection, so they are thinking it's a virus that gave me fatigue and a temperature, but have been keeping me in for observation since Thursday night, until tomorrow morning.
It's incredible to consider that for a country so obsessed with food that the meals in a hospital can be so abysmal, so I'm looking forward to being released - we hope - on Monday when I see the staff doctor. Luckily I have a double room to myself so I don't have to struggle with French with a stranger, comparing medical notes, but on the other hand it's extremely lonely, and there's only so much cross-stitch or ipod gaming that I can do. I'm looking forward to getting back to my family... they're coming for a visit this evening, and bringing chicken barbeque from the alimentation generale across the street, for a picnic dinner.
p.s. from Matthew: Here's a picture from Bordet while we were having a trip to the café yesterday, to give Maggie a change from her room. Our friend Dee is going to visit Maggie this afternoon, and Duncan has his friend Fritz over to play for a bit. We've already ordered the barbeque chicken as discussed above, and will be heading into the hospital around 16h for a visit. If anyone wants to call Maggie, her mobile number is +32 (0)475 36 76 97. If you are calling from Canada, that would mean that you dial 011 first, and omit the (0) from the number above; thus it would be 011 32 4 75 36 76 97. Cheers, M.
I am still in the care of Belgium's finest hospital for cancer research and treatment. After a chest x-ray and numerous blood tests they can't find any evidence of bacterial infection, so they are thinking it's a virus that gave me fatigue and a temperature, but have been keeping me in for observation since Thursday night, until tomorrow morning.
It's incredible to consider that for a country so obsessed with food that the meals in a hospital can be so abysmal, so I'm looking forward to being released - we hope - on Monday when I see the staff doctor. Luckily I have a double room to myself so I don't have to struggle with French with a stranger, comparing medical notes, but on the other hand it's extremely lonely, and there's only so much cross-stitch or ipod gaming that I can do. I'm looking forward to getting back to my family... they're coming for a visit this evening, and bringing chicken barbeque from the alimentation generale across the street, for a picnic dinner.
p.s. from Matthew: Here's a picture from Bordet while we were having a trip to the café yesterday, to give Maggie a change from her room. Our friend Dee is going to visit Maggie this afternoon, and Duncan has his friend Fritz over to play for a bit. We've already ordered the barbeque chicken as discussed above, and will be heading into the hospital around 16h for a visit. If anyone wants to call Maggie, her mobile number is +32 (0)475 36 76 97. If you are calling from Canada, that would mean that you dial 011 first, and omit the (0) from the number above; thus it would be 011 32 4 75 36 76 97. Cheers, M.
Friday, 26 March 2010
A little setback
The Husband here again. Maggie's last chemotherapy session was Monday, and as I wrote a couple of days ago, she seemed to suffer no ill effects, until she came off the preventative steroids on Wednesday and suddenly started to feel tired on thursday morning.
Yesterday evening she went to a support group meeting of about fifteen women who either had undergone or were in the course of undergoing cancer treatment, and while that was a positive experience, when she returned home around 22h she was feeling chilled and feverish. With her being immuno-compromised of course we have to be vigilant for any signs of infection, and when her fever rose above 38 degrees just after midnight, I called the hospital, and at their suggestion hustled her into a taxi to the emergency room at the Bordet Institut.
As much as I wanted to come with her I had to stay with Duncan, and get him off to school this morning. Needless to say I didn't sleep much, but dozed through the night, and at 7h30 this morning called the hospital and talked with Maggie. They had already taken blood, and did a chest x-ray (which was clear) and started her on antibiotics immediately. I am waiting for her to call again and update me on what's happening, since we want to know what the blood test says; I have some food ready to take to her, as well as the computer and some movies to pass the time. I hope that she will be out this afternoon, but we will see.
Yesterday evening she went to a support group meeting of about fifteen women who either had undergone or were in the course of undergoing cancer treatment, and while that was a positive experience, when she returned home around 22h she was feeling chilled and feverish. With her being immuno-compromised of course we have to be vigilant for any signs of infection, and when her fever rose above 38 degrees just after midnight, I called the hospital, and at their suggestion hustled her into a taxi to the emergency room at the Bordet Institut.
As much as I wanted to come with her I had to stay with Duncan, and get him off to school this morning. Needless to say I didn't sleep much, but dozed through the night, and at 7h30 this morning called the hospital and talked with Maggie. They had already taken blood, and did a chest x-ray (which was clear) and started her on antibiotics immediately. I am waiting for her to call again and update me on what's happening, since we want to know what the blood test says; I have some food ready to take to her, as well as the computer and some movies to pass the time. I hope that she will be out this afternoon, but we will see.
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Fourth cycle
The Husband reporting for Maggie.
Maggie had her fourth chemotherapy session on Monday, and this time it was a new drug combination: taxoteres, which she will also receive the fifth and sixth sessions. Quite surprisingly she experienced no secondary effects at all: no nauseau, no fatigue, and if anything she was a little more energetic than her usual self. This was a huge relief, as we were very worried about the effects of this new (to us) treatment.
She did have to take some precautions to avoid an allergic reaction, however: carefully timed doses of a steroid were required for the 24 hour period before and two-day period after the treatment. She finished those yesterday, and this morning is feeling her first after-effects like fatigue and body aches, no doubt because of the steroid withdrawal. As well, to protect her nail beds from being attacked by the drugs, she had to wear cold pack mittens on her hands and feet during the one-hour drug administration session to reduce circulation in her extremities and thereby reduce the effects on her nails. So far that seems to have worked, but we're keeping our fingers (and toes) crossed!
Maggie had her fourth chemotherapy session on Monday, and this time it was a new drug combination: taxoteres, which she will also receive the fifth and sixth sessions. Quite surprisingly she experienced no secondary effects at all: no nauseau, no fatigue, and if anything she was a little more energetic than her usual self. This was a huge relief, as we were very worried about the effects of this new (to us) treatment.
She did have to take some precautions to avoid an allergic reaction, however: carefully timed doses of a steroid were required for the 24 hour period before and two-day period after the treatment. She finished those yesterday, and this morning is feeling her first after-effects like fatigue and body aches, no doubt because of the steroid withdrawal. As well, to protect her nail beds from being attacked by the drugs, she had to wear cold pack mittens on her hands and feet during the one-hour drug administration session to reduce circulation in her extremities and thereby reduce the effects on her nails. So far that seems to have worked, but we're keeping our fingers (and toes) crossed!
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