I went to have another blood test to see if I could get my chemo today. Just before the nurse took my blood, my friend asked me what my gut instincts told me. I said, “The white blood cell count will be just under the threshold, but the doctor will give me an injection and let me have my chemo anyway.” The threshold number is 3. The result said 3.6. My instincts were wrong. But then the nurse realized she’d made a mistake and took another reading. It was 2.6 – just under the threshold, as I’d predicted. The doctor gave me an injection and let me have my chemo. Exactly as I’d predicted.
I’d like to pat myself on the back now for all the times my instincts were right, even though the doctors were telling me otherwise. From the very beginning of this whole cancer experience, when I was massaging the lump in my breast because my gynecologist said it was a clogged milk duct, I kept thinking something was amiss. Cancer didn’t even enter my mind, but I thought it was definitely something other than a clogged milk duct. Lucky for me I pursued it. Unlucky for me, we didn’t find out in time to give me a chance of cure.
And since last December, when I had sharp pains throughout my chest and tenderness around the skin cancer area, I thought there was something wrong. I just didn’t have the medical knowledge to connect the dots. Since I started this new round of chemo three weeks ago, the tenderness on the skin has decreased considerably. So that wasn’t a figment of my imagination either. That was cancer. And the sharp pains – also gone. That wasn’t just damaged nerves from radiation. That was cancer. My instincts were right.
And when we got the results of my MRI last month, my instincts said cancer. My doctor said no, Tony said no, my friends said no. They were all being positive, bless them. I was being realistic and my instincts told me it was cancer. I was right. But I really wish I were wrong.
I’ve talked to so many women now who had mammograms and clinical exams and were told they were clear for cancer but later found out that the scans and doctors were wrong. In many of these cases, the women had a gut feeling that there was something wrong, despite the doctors and scans saying everything was okay. I’m a very scientific person. I believe in facts and evidence. But my instincts have been right so many times when they disagreed with doctors and scans, that I’m now a big believer in gut instinct.
So for all the women who are reading this Blog, here’s my advice:
Nobody knows your body better than you do. Your doctor probably sees you once a year, and you’re just one of hundreds, thousands of patients she sees in a year. Trust your gut instincts. Get second, third opinions. We’re not talking about buying a new house or interviewing for a new job here. We’re talking about your life.
Two years ago, if I’d ignored my gynecologist and sought a second opinion and had a breast ultrasound, chances are extremely high that they would have found my cancer in the early stages and I’d be looking at a 100% chance of cure instead of 24 months of life left.
I hate preaching, but if I find out that any woman I know is diagnosed with late stage breast cancer, I will consider it a personal failure on my part. So nevermind you. Do it for me. Get screened regularly and trust your instincts.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Chemo #3 Cancelled
When we were kids, my brother used to joke that I was so dumb, I’d stay up all night to study for a blood test, then still fail the test. Well, I failed my blood test today – my white blood cell count was too low so I couldn’t have my chemo. Instead, I got an injection to boost my blood count. I promptly went out and had a protein lunch – lamb chops AND steak. I’m drinking a protein shake now and having steak again for dinner.
I need to go back to the doctor tomorrow for another blood test, so I plan to have eggs for breakfast. This is more fun than studying for an Algebra exam. All I need to do for this test is eat lots of protein. Of course, I might die of heart disease with all this red meat I’m eating. My body might not know how to digest it all, after a year and a half of a vegetarian diet. If I’d studied harder for Algebra as a kid, I might actually be able to work out the math of how much protein I need for the blood test versus risk of heart disease.
I’m trying not to think of the harm all this red meat might be doing to me. I cut all animal products out of my diet after my diagnosis because I’d read enough to convince me that they did more harm than good. I’ve felt better and stronger after I changed to this new diet and cut out all meat, egg, dairy, alcohol, caffeine, and sugar. Unfortunately, my favorite foods are all of the above. Cruel coincidence.
I had a hunch I would fail the test. I’ve been feeling weak and tired. Not the kind of tired you can sleep off, but down-to-the-bones tired. Hard to explain, but people say there’s no tired like chemo-tired so I guess this is it.
As far as I can remember, the only other test I’ve ever failed in my life was in elementary school – 5th Grade History. I had to take the test paper home and have it signed by a parent. I was so scared, I thought about running away from home. When I realized I didn’t have a bag to put my clothes and toothbrush in, I decided I couldn’t run away, so I showed the test to my father. He asked, “Did you fail because you didn’t study or because you didn’t know anything?” I think I just stood there and cried. He promised me he wouldn’t tell my mom if I studied harder next time. I wonder if he really kept his promise or if that was just a child psychology ploy.
I’ve eaten more red meat in the last two days than I’ve eaten all year. I’ve been “studying” really hard. I don’t ever want to see another steak, so I really hope I pass this blood test tomorrow. Wow, what a new world I’m living in – hoping for my bone marrow to make some more white blood cells so I can have some toxic chemicals injected into my blood. And THAT’s supposed to SAVE me!
I need to go back to the doctor tomorrow for another blood test, so I plan to have eggs for breakfast. This is more fun than studying for an Algebra exam. All I need to do for this test is eat lots of protein. Of course, I might die of heart disease with all this red meat I’m eating. My body might not know how to digest it all, after a year and a half of a vegetarian diet. If I’d studied harder for Algebra as a kid, I might actually be able to work out the math of how much protein I need for the blood test versus risk of heart disease.
I’m trying not to think of the harm all this red meat might be doing to me. I cut all animal products out of my diet after my diagnosis because I’d read enough to convince me that they did more harm than good. I’ve felt better and stronger after I changed to this new diet and cut out all meat, egg, dairy, alcohol, caffeine, and sugar. Unfortunately, my favorite foods are all of the above. Cruel coincidence.
I had a hunch I would fail the test. I’ve been feeling weak and tired. Not the kind of tired you can sleep off, but down-to-the-bones tired. Hard to explain, but people say there’s no tired like chemo-tired so I guess this is it.
As far as I can remember, the only other test I’ve ever failed in my life was in elementary school – 5th Grade History. I had to take the test paper home and have it signed by a parent. I was so scared, I thought about running away from home. When I realized I didn’t have a bag to put my clothes and toothbrush in, I decided I couldn’t run away, so I showed the test to my father. He asked, “Did you fail because you didn’t study or because you didn’t know anything?” I think I just stood there and cried. He promised me he wouldn’t tell my mom if I studied harder next time. I wonder if he really kept his promise or if that was just a child psychology ploy.
I’ve eaten more red meat in the last two days than I’ve eaten all year. I’ve been “studying” really hard. I don’t ever want to see another steak, so I really hope I pass this blood test tomorrow. Wow, what a new world I’m living in – hoping for my bone marrow to make some more white blood cells so I can have some toxic chemicals injected into my blood. And THAT’s supposed to SAVE me!
Monday, September 3, 2007
Envy
Many cancer patients envy healthy people -- people with normal lives and life expectancies. I don’t reach that high. I often envy other people's ailments. I walk by a cardiologist's office on my way to Chemo Club and wish I had a heart problem instead, or walk by a guy with a broken leg and think how nice it would be to have a simple broken leg.
There’s security in knowing there’s a solution to a problem, no matter how tricky or difficult the solution might be. Blocked arteries? Unblock them. Shattered leg bone? Get the surgeons to put it back together. Of course, there are probably some conditions that have lingering side effects – aches, delicate heart, and so on. But nothing like these microscopic killers that can linger in your body indefinitely and pop up months, years, even decades later.
There’s no solution, no cure for cancer yet. All this fighting is like beating back an enemy, knowing that even though you win battle after battle after battle, you can never turn around and go home to safety because you can still be ambushed on the way home or there could be another wave of enemies just over the next hill. You’ll just never know and never feel safe.
On the other hand, maybe humans can live off the success of one battle at a time. For the past several days, I haven’t felt any more of the stabbing pains in my chest or the dull ache in my right lung. I think this chemo’s working. And my doctor touched my collarbone and said it felt “less full” and she could feel a tiny lump there instead of a whole bloated fullness. That’s good. That’s one battle down.
There’s also security in knowing your enemy. I had all sorts of other minor side effects that the doctor told me were from the chemo. Once I learned where the pain was coming from, I felt much better. I think the pain even subsided, since we’d identified the source and I knew it wasn’t cancer growing, but the chemo working.
I’m fighting a series of battles in a much larger war, but this is just a metaphor for me. What about people who live in real war zones? I bet they’d envy me having something as simple as cancer.
There’s security in knowing there’s a solution to a problem, no matter how tricky or difficult the solution might be. Blocked arteries? Unblock them. Shattered leg bone? Get the surgeons to put it back together. Of course, there are probably some conditions that have lingering side effects – aches, delicate heart, and so on. But nothing like these microscopic killers that can linger in your body indefinitely and pop up months, years, even decades later.
There’s no solution, no cure for cancer yet. All this fighting is like beating back an enemy, knowing that even though you win battle after battle after battle, you can never turn around and go home to safety because you can still be ambushed on the way home or there could be another wave of enemies just over the next hill. You’ll just never know and never feel safe.
On the other hand, maybe humans can live off the success of one battle at a time. For the past several days, I haven’t felt any more of the stabbing pains in my chest or the dull ache in my right lung. I think this chemo’s working. And my doctor touched my collarbone and said it felt “less full” and she could feel a tiny lump there instead of a whole bloated fullness. That’s good. That’s one battle down.
There’s also security in knowing your enemy. I had all sorts of other minor side effects that the doctor told me were from the chemo. Once I learned where the pain was coming from, I felt much better. I think the pain even subsided, since we’d identified the source and I knew it wasn’t cancer growing, but the chemo working.
I’m fighting a series of battles in a much larger war, but this is just a metaphor for me. What about people who live in real war zones? I bet they’d envy me having something as simple as cancer.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Questions On People’s Minds
It must be hard for people to know what to say when I tell them my cancer has come back. Their first impulse is to offer encouragement, say that I beat it before so I’ll beat it again. They also show sympathy and sadness that this is happening to me and my family all over again.
If I were a friend of mine, here’s what I’d be wondering: How bad is it? Are you going to die? How long do the doctors give you? Like a journalist, I’d want to know the facts of the case, and that would help me deal with the emotional and mental aspects of what I was dealing with.
But it’s pretty tactless to ask such questions. So maybe I should just answer them here now and get the ugly facts out of the way.
How bad is it? Pretty bad. I was initially diagnosed at Stage IV (or IIIC, depending on the staging system we go by), so I didn’t have much of a chance to start with. Now that the cancer has spread to the lungs and all over the chest less than a year after treatment, we know that the chemotherapy wasn’t that effective and that this cancer is extremely fast-moving and aggressive. At the rate it’s going, we can expect it to spread to other major organs and the bones within a year.
Am I going to die? Yes, earlier than I thought I would. Worse case scenario is that this cancer will just run rampant and I’ll die within a year. Much better scenario is that the various chemo drugs we haven’t tried yet will keep me going for several more years, maybe even more.
How long do the doctors give me? My doctor hasn’t told me how long I can expect to live and I haven’t asked her. But the average woman treated for metastatic breast cancer lives for 24 months.
That was information. Facts without me in them. Here are more complete answers.
How bad is it? Not so bad. It’s not in the brain, liver, or bones yet. Yes, the cancer will probably get there, but it’s not there now. Chemo might be able to keep the tumors in my chest under control. I’m going to look into a new procedure called Radio Frequency Ablation that might be able to zap the tumors in my lungs that can’t be cut out with surgery. Maybe RFA can also zap the tumors throughout my chest. In other words, we have more tools and weapons to fight with.
Am I going to die? Yes, earlier than I thought I would, but maybe later than the average woman with metastatic breast cancer. I’m not much of a gambler, but I’d put money on me beating the average for sure, and maybe beating the odds completely. I think it’s completely possible that by some freak of nature or miracle of medicine, I’ll live another ten or twenty years.
How long do the doctors give me? My doctor’s giving me the benefit of the doubt, saying that I can be in the “one percent” that makes it. The average woman in my situation lasts 24 months. But so far, I haven’t been this average woman. I haven’t had the average side effects, chemo response rate, surgery recovery rate, or attitude. I haven’t come upon the depression that cancer patients are supposed to go through. I haven’t cried much more since my diagnosis. I just saw a program about people living with cancer and they talked about depression and crying a lot. These didn’t apply to me. And while most women bemoan the loss of their breasts and hair, I didn’t much care. I was even looking forward to being bald again this second time around. So maybe I’m just not the average cancer patient, and those average survival rates don’t apply to me.
I wonder if there are other questions my family and friends have that they’d like to ask but feel uncomfortable asking. I’m pretty open and honest about cancer, as I’ve been with my life pre-cancer. So if anyone reading this Blog has questions they want to ask me, I encourage them – click on the “Add a comment” link on this Blog, or just e-mail me. If nothing else, maybe these questions will give me some ideas about what to talk about in my Blog since, after all, this is supposed to be for friends and family.
If I were a friend of mine, here’s what I’d be wondering: How bad is it? Are you going to die? How long do the doctors give you? Like a journalist, I’d want to know the facts of the case, and that would help me deal with the emotional and mental aspects of what I was dealing with.
But it’s pretty tactless to ask such questions. So maybe I should just answer them here now and get the ugly facts out of the way.
How bad is it? Pretty bad. I was initially diagnosed at Stage IV (or IIIC, depending on the staging system we go by), so I didn’t have much of a chance to start with. Now that the cancer has spread to the lungs and all over the chest less than a year after treatment, we know that the chemotherapy wasn’t that effective and that this cancer is extremely fast-moving and aggressive. At the rate it’s going, we can expect it to spread to other major organs and the bones within a year.
Am I going to die? Yes, earlier than I thought I would. Worse case scenario is that this cancer will just run rampant and I’ll die within a year. Much better scenario is that the various chemo drugs we haven’t tried yet will keep me going for several more years, maybe even more.
How long do the doctors give me? My doctor hasn’t told me how long I can expect to live and I haven’t asked her. But the average woman treated for metastatic breast cancer lives for 24 months.
That was information. Facts without me in them. Here are more complete answers.
How bad is it? Not so bad. It’s not in the brain, liver, or bones yet. Yes, the cancer will probably get there, but it’s not there now. Chemo might be able to keep the tumors in my chest under control. I’m going to look into a new procedure called Radio Frequency Ablation that might be able to zap the tumors in my lungs that can’t be cut out with surgery. Maybe RFA can also zap the tumors throughout my chest. In other words, we have more tools and weapons to fight with.
Am I going to die? Yes, earlier than I thought I would, but maybe later than the average woman with metastatic breast cancer. I’m not much of a gambler, but I’d put money on me beating the average for sure, and maybe beating the odds completely. I think it’s completely possible that by some freak of nature or miracle of medicine, I’ll live another ten or twenty years.
How long do the doctors give me? My doctor’s giving me the benefit of the doubt, saying that I can be in the “one percent” that makes it. The average woman in my situation lasts 24 months. But so far, I haven’t been this average woman. I haven’t had the average side effects, chemo response rate, surgery recovery rate, or attitude. I haven’t come upon the depression that cancer patients are supposed to go through. I haven’t cried much more since my diagnosis. I just saw a program about people living with cancer and they talked about depression and crying a lot. These didn’t apply to me. And while most women bemoan the loss of their breasts and hair, I didn’t much care. I was even looking forward to being bald again this second time around. So maybe I’m just not the average cancer patient, and those average survival rates don’t apply to me.
I wonder if there are other questions my family and friends have that they’d like to ask but feel uncomfortable asking. I’m pretty open and honest about cancer, as I’ve been with my life pre-cancer. So if anyone reading this Blog has questions they want to ask me, I encourage them – click on the “Add a comment” link on this Blog, or just e-mail me. If nothing else, maybe these questions will give me some ideas about what to talk about in my Blog since, after all, this is supposed to be for friends and family.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Chemo # 2, Laughing About Death
I had my second dose of Navelbine + Herceptin today. I slept through the drip, about an hour and a half, and woke up feeling a bit groggy again, but not nearly as much as last week. After I left the clinic, I went out for a big lunch with a friend, then went grocery shopping for a few hours and felt fine. I didn’t feel any pain or discomfort until dinnertime, when I felt a dull ache near my right shoulder blade, a few inches in. From what I remember of Biology class, that’s where my right lung is. But I haven’t felt any more sharp, stabbing pains in the chest since the chemo this morning.
Today was a great day. My friend Michelle has come up to see me from Australia. Josie had her first day at school and she had fun. I ran into a funny lady at Chemo Club and had a nice chat with her. I also met another lady who was diagnosed at Stage IV, whom I’d been trying to get together with for a while. Unfortunately, she arrived at Chemo Club just as I was falling asleep so I nodded off on her. Oh well, if anyone will understand, she will.
I ended the day with a nice dinner and a walk by the lake with Tony and Michelle, two of my favorite people in the world. And I felt energetic and strong throughout the day (except for the nodding off during chemo). I felt good about getting chemo. I want to attack those cancer cells full force. In fact, I think the dull ache in my back was the chemo killing the cancer cells. I don’t know if this is what people mean by “visualization”, but I like to imagine those cancer cells running screaming like the guy in the Edvard Munch painting.
The best thing about the day was that I laughed a lot. I made jokes about death and dying. I’m not sure if this is the right thing to do for most people, but it helps me see death as less terrifying.
I have a friend who has an unusual fear of death. All her life, she’s had panic attacks about death. She told me that when she was a little girl, her grandmother died and nobody would talk about it. She asked her mother about it once and her mother freaked out and punished her. So she grew up with this feeling that death was a terrifying thing that could not even be named. Kind of like Voldemort in the Harry Potter books. So all her life, she’s had anxiety attacks about “that-which-shall-not-be-named”.
I once read a story in someone’s Blog about learning about cancer and death. The guy remembered when he was eleven years old and was at a friend’s house. This friend’s mother had been diagnosed with cancer. She was vacuuming the carpet and the guy’s friend ran over the power cord and his mother yelled at him, “Hey! Be careful! When I’m dead, there won’t be enough money to buy a new vacuum cleaner!” The Blogger said this was the first time he’d heard anyone speak about death so casually and it took the heaviness and scariness out of it. And that was in those days when people referred to cancer in a very low whisper as “the C word”. That-which-cannot-be-named. Voldemort.
I think death is one of those things that we fear so much that we try not to think about it, talk about it, and certainly not joke about it. I mean “we” as in most-other-people-in-the-world. But not me. I think we magnify the things we fear if we fear even speaking about them. But if you talk about it, joke about it, and confront it face-to-face, a great deal of the terror and anxiety falls away. Cancer or no cancer, we’re all going to die someday. It’s the one thing absolutely everyone has in common. So why can’t we talk about it and joke about it? If you can’t laugh about cancer and death, what CAN you laugh about?
Of course, all this applies to your OWN death. There was a famous French comedian in the ‘80s who did comedy routines about every taboo topic you could imagine – homosexuality, race, religion, handicapped people – if it was offensive, he’d do jokes about it. But toward the end of his career, he started making jokes about cancer patients and that was when the critics said he’d crossed the line. You can joke about dykes, Arabs, and cripples, but absolutely not about cancer patients. After he died, it was announced he’d died of cancer. So all that time he was offending everyone, he was actually confronting his own fear of cancer and death.
Making jokes about race, religion, and other sensitive topics is a privilege of the person who is a member of the group being offended. Only a Black comedian can joke about or even SAY the word “niggers”. Only a gay man can joke about “faggots”. And only a cancer patient facing death can joke about dying. But we can all laugh at the Black man’s and gay man’s and the dying man’s jokes because they’ve done us a favor and taken some of the fear away for us.
Even young Harry had the right idea. He kept saying Voldemort’s name, to everyone’s horror. Voldemort, Voldemort. Voldemort. Cancer, cancer, cancer. Death, death, death. See? Not so scary.
Today was a great day. My friend Michelle has come up to see me from Australia. Josie had her first day at school and she had fun. I ran into a funny lady at Chemo Club and had a nice chat with her. I also met another lady who was diagnosed at Stage IV, whom I’d been trying to get together with for a while. Unfortunately, she arrived at Chemo Club just as I was falling asleep so I nodded off on her. Oh well, if anyone will understand, she will.
I ended the day with a nice dinner and a walk by the lake with Tony and Michelle, two of my favorite people in the world. And I felt energetic and strong throughout the day (except for the nodding off during chemo). I felt good about getting chemo. I want to attack those cancer cells full force. In fact, I think the dull ache in my back was the chemo killing the cancer cells. I don’t know if this is what people mean by “visualization”, but I like to imagine those cancer cells running screaming like the guy in the Edvard Munch painting.
The best thing about the day was that I laughed a lot. I made jokes about death and dying. I’m not sure if this is the right thing to do for most people, but it helps me see death as less terrifying.
I have a friend who has an unusual fear of death. All her life, she’s had panic attacks about death. She told me that when she was a little girl, her grandmother died and nobody would talk about it. She asked her mother about it once and her mother freaked out and punished her. So she grew up with this feeling that death was a terrifying thing that could not even be named. Kind of like Voldemort in the Harry Potter books. So all her life, she’s had anxiety attacks about “that-which-shall-not-be-named”.
I once read a story in someone’s Blog about learning about cancer and death. The guy remembered when he was eleven years old and was at a friend’s house. This friend’s mother had been diagnosed with cancer. She was vacuuming the carpet and the guy’s friend ran over the power cord and his mother yelled at him, “Hey! Be careful! When I’m dead, there won’t be enough money to buy a new vacuum cleaner!” The Blogger said this was the first time he’d heard anyone speak about death so casually and it took the heaviness and scariness out of it. And that was in those days when people referred to cancer in a very low whisper as “the C word”. That-which-cannot-be-named. Voldemort.
I think death is one of those things that we fear so much that we try not to think about it, talk about it, and certainly not joke about it. I mean “we” as in most-other-people-in-the-world. But not me. I think we magnify the things we fear if we fear even speaking about them. But if you talk about it, joke about it, and confront it face-to-face, a great deal of the terror and anxiety falls away. Cancer or no cancer, we’re all going to die someday. It’s the one thing absolutely everyone has in common. So why can’t we talk about it and joke about it? If you can’t laugh about cancer and death, what CAN you laugh about?
Of course, all this applies to your OWN death. There was a famous French comedian in the ‘80s who did comedy routines about every taboo topic you could imagine – homosexuality, race, religion, handicapped people – if it was offensive, he’d do jokes about it. But toward the end of his career, he started making jokes about cancer patients and that was when the critics said he’d crossed the line. You can joke about dykes, Arabs, and cripples, but absolutely not about cancer patients. After he died, it was announced he’d died of cancer. So all that time he was offending everyone, he was actually confronting his own fear of cancer and death.
Making jokes about race, religion, and other sensitive topics is a privilege of the person who is a member of the group being offended. Only a Black comedian can joke about or even SAY the word “niggers”. Only a gay man can joke about “faggots”. And only a cancer patient facing death can joke about dying. But we can all laugh at the Black man’s and gay man’s and the dying man’s jokes because they’ve done us a favor and taken some of the fear away for us.
Even young Harry had the right idea. He kept saying Voldemort’s name, to everyone’s horror. Voldemort, Voldemort. Voldemort. Cancer, cancer, cancer. Death, death, death. See? Not so scary.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
No Room for Mistakes
There are many things that take on added significance when you have cancer. When I lose my temper at my kids, it’s not just a moment that can get lost in a lifetime of moments; it could be the image of mom that remains with my kids after I’m gone.
In the play, “No Exit”, by Sartre, the characters are in Hell, but Hell turns out to be a place where they face their mistakes in life and torture each other about them. One guy died in a moment of cowardice and his torment is that he will forever be remembered as a coward. He is the sum of his actions, not his intentions.
We all assume that the way we live will determine how people will remember us. If we perform many acts of kindness, generosity, and charity throughout our lives, then that’s how people will remember us. We can be mean and nasty and have the intention to do better and be better all the time, but unless we actually BECOME better people, we won’t be remembered as such.
Normally, we have a lifetime to create the person we want to leave behind in people’s memories. And usually, a few mistakes or bad behaviors won’t condemn us as a whole.
The problem with having a shorter-than-average life span is that you have less time to create the person you want to be. If I’m a wonderful, patient, soft-spoken mother 90% of the time during a lifetime, then that’s how my kids will probably remember me. But if I’m that kind of mother 90% of the time over a MONTH’s time, then chances are, my kids are more likely to remember the 10% when I was impatient, frustrated, and angry at them. The shorter time span gives me less room for mistakes.
I’m thinking about this today because I had one of those Bad Parent Moments that you wish you could rewind and do over again. Josie was whining; Toby was crying; we had guests… I just lost my patience and snapped at Josie, saying I was going to ignore her because she was whinging. Then I just walked away. I wish I had patiently talked to her and offered her a hug, or tried to make her laugh and distract her. That’s the mother I want my kids to remember, not the snappy, impatient, annoyed mother I was today.
I’m trying to create the person I want my kids, family, and friends to remember, and the person I actually want to be. I’ve worked on this since years before cancer hit me. It’s a big project to become the person you want to be. And now I’ve just had my deadline moved up quite a bit so every mistake I make, like the one today, is magnified and sets me back quite a bit.
Now I’m wondering… do other people consider themselves works in progress or do people just carry on living day to day without thinking about how to make themselves into somebody they and their kids will be proud of someday? This isn’t a cancer thing. It’s just made much more significant if you have cancer.
In the play, “No Exit”, by Sartre, the characters are in Hell, but Hell turns out to be a place where they face their mistakes in life and torture each other about them. One guy died in a moment of cowardice and his torment is that he will forever be remembered as a coward. He is the sum of his actions, not his intentions.
We all assume that the way we live will determine how people will remember us. If we perform many acts of kindness, generosity, and charity throughout our lives, then that’s how people will remember us. We can be mean and nasty and have the intention to do better and be better all the time, but unless we actually BECOME better people, we won’t be remembered as such.
Normally, we have a lifetime to create the person we want to leave behind in people’s memories. And usually, a few mistakes or bad behaviors won’t condemn us as a whole.
The problem with having a shorter-than-average life span is that you have less time to create the person you want to be. If I’m a wonderful, patient, soft-spoken mother 90% of the time during a lifetime, then that’s how my kids will probably remember me. But if I’m that kind of mother 90% of the time over a MONTH’s time, then chances are, my kids are more likely to remember the 10% when I was impatient, frustrated, and angry at them. The shorter time span gives me less room for mistakes.
I’m thinking about this today because I had one of those Bad Parent Moments that you wish you could rewind and do over again. Josie was whining; Toby was crying; we had guests… I just lost my patience and snapped at Josie, saying I was going to ignore her because she was whinging. Then I just walked away. I wish I had patiently talked to her and offered her a hug, or tried to make her laugh and distract her. That’s the mother I want my kids to remember, not the snappy, impatient, annoyed mother I was today.
I’m trying to create the person I want my kids, family, and friends to remember, and the person I actually want to be. I’ve worked on this since years before cancer hit me. It’s a big project to become the person you want to be. And now I’ve just had my deadline moved up quite a bit so every mistake I make, like the one today, is magnified and sets me back quite a bit.
Now I’m wondering… do other people consider themselves works in progress or do people just carry on living day to day without thinking about how to make themselves into somebody they and their kids will be proud of someday? This isn’t a cancer thing. It’s just made much more significant if you have cancer.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Cancer in Lungs
I got a second opinion on the scans and the conclusion is that the cancer has spread to my lungs.
The doctors said the right lung wasn’t a question. They thought the PET-CT scan lit up the cancer on the right lung pretty well. The question was whether the lesion in the left lung was also cancer. Given my scans (from March 2006 to August 2007) and the progression of my disease, they concluded that the left lesion was also most likely cancer.
There’s a slim possibility that it’s an infection. If that’s the case, after several more cycles of chemo, we’ll do a scan and have a better guess. If the scan shows the lesions on both lungs are gone, then we can assume the chemo worked and killed the cancer in both lungs, OR we can assume the chemo killed the cancer in the right lung and the infection in the left lung resolved itself. If the lesions on both lungs are still there, we’ll know for sure the left lung was cancer since an infection would’ve resolved itself after a few months… and we’ll know the chemo didn’t work.
The doctor explained that because lungs are constantly moving, any lesion would have to be pretty large to show up on the PET scan. If the same lesion were on my shoulder, we’d be able to see it on the PET without a problem. But on the lung, the lesion would have to be much more pronounced for it to show up on the scan. That’s why we could see it fairly well on the CT scans, but it didn’t light up on the PET. Also, I learned that the CT part of a PET-CT scan doesn’t show as much as a dedicated CT (or CAT) scan. The latter is usually done with a contrast to show up the tumor better on the film, much like the radioactive tracer used for the PET.
The scans were reviewed by a radiologist and a radiation oncologist at an entirely different hospital from the one where I’m being treated. I’d already gotten four radiologists and oncologists at my hospital to weigh in their opinions, so I think I’m being pretty thorough. What the doctor told me today just confirms my gut feeling that the cancer is in my lungs. I had thought it, and almost felt it, all along.
For the past few days, I’ve been feeling pain in my chest, neck, and the area next to my right shoulder blade. It’s discomfort more than pain, although every once in a while, I get a sharp, shooting pain that makes me grimace a bit. I don’t mind the pain; what I mind is what the pain represents. Every time I get that stabbing feeling, I worry that it’s the cancer cells having a huge party and multiplying like mad.
I’m so worried about the cancer spread that I want chemo again right away. I’m worried that my blood counts might be too low for chemo on Monday, so I ate meat again tonight – the third time since my first chemo on Monday. That’s more meat than I’ve had in about a year.
I hope I can go ahead with my next chemo session Monday and that I start feeling some response. The pain subsided just after the last chemo session but it’s come back stronger now. So I’m worried that the cancer cells took a beating from the chemo, but have since come fighting back and perhaps have even developed a resistance to the chemo and can do even more damage to me.
The doctors said the right lung wasn’t a question. They thought the PET-CT scan lit up the cancer on the right lung pretty well. The question was whether the lesion in the left lung was also cancer. Given my scans (from March 2006 to August 2007) and the progression of my disease, they concluded that the left lesion was also most likely cancer.
There’s a slim possibility that it’s an infection. If that’s the case, after several more cycles of chemo, we’ll do a scan and have a better guess. If the scan shows the lesions on both lungs are gone, then we can assume the chemo worked and killed the cancer in both lungs, OR we can assume the chemo killed the cancer in the right lung and the infection in the left lung resolved itself. If the lesions on both lungs are still there, we’ll know for sure the left lung was cancer since an infection would’ve resolved itself after a few months… and we’ll know the chemo didn’t work.
The doctor explained that because lungs are constantly moving, any lesion would have to be pretty large to show up on the PET scan. If the same lesion were on my shoulder, we’d be able to see it on the PET without a problem. But on the lung, the lesion would have to be much more pronounced for it to show up on the scan. That’s why we could see it fairly well on the CT scans, but it didn’t light up on the PET. Also, I learned that the CT part of a PET-CT scan doesn’t show as much as a dedicated CT (or CAT) scan. The latter is usually done with a contrast to show up the tumor better on the film, much like the radioactive tracer used for the PET.
The scans were reviewed by a radiologist and a radiation oncologist at an entirely different hospital from the one where I’m being treated. I’d already gotten four radiologists and oncologists at my hospital to weigh in their opinions, so I think I’m being pretty thorough. What the doctor told me today just confirms my gut feeling that the cancer is in my lungs. I had thought it, and almost felt it, all along.
For the past few days, I’ve been feeling pain in my chest, neck, and the area next to my right shoulder blade. It’s discomfort more than pain, although every once in a while, I get a sharp, shooting pain that makes me grimace a bit. I don’t mind the pain; what I mind is what the pain represents. Every time I get that stabbing feeling, I worry that it’s the cancer cells having a huge party and multiplying like mad.
I’m so worried about the cancer spread that I want chemo again right away. I’m worried that my blood counts might be too low for chemo on Monday, so I ate meat again tonight – the third time since my first chemo on Monday. That’s more meat than I’ve had in about a year.
I hope I can go ahead with my next chemo session Monday and that I start feeling some response. The pain subsided just after the last chemo session but it’s come back stronger now. So I’m worried that the cancer cells took a beating from the chemo, but have since come fighting back and perhaps have even developed a resistance to the chemo and can do even more damage to me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
