Blood, Sweat, and Tears... August 18, 2014
My friend and former colleague on the Hill used to end phone
conversations with fellow downtrodden members of the minority with “keep the
faith” or “fight the good fight”. I think about that line and the man who
said it nearly every time someone asks how I am doing. I’d like to make
Charlie proud. I’d like to say that I’m fighting the good fight and keeping the faith.
I’d like to say that while I may have lost a couple of battles, I am winning
the war, and the sweet spoils of victory will be mine.
I can’t say any of those things, because they just aren't
true. The truth is I am getting my ass handed to me. I can’t “fake
it ‘til I make it” as my beautiful cousin once advised. All anyone has to
do is look at my face or hear my voice to know the truth.
Blood…
The first cycle (4 treatments) of chemotherapy included a cocktail
of Andryomycin and Cytoxin among other drugs, including anti-nausea meds and
anti-histamines. I thought they were pumping me full of “pre-chemo drugs”
in vain attempt to ward off the brutal side effects, but my inner cynic knows
the truth. They pump me full of anti-nausea drugs and antihistamines so
my body won’t fight the onslaught of the offending cell-killers by ridding
itself of the “medicine”. My medial team is well versed with the body’s
natural reaction, which is to reject any toxins or anything foreign by way of vomiting, diarrhea, etc.
Essentially, the body responds with an allergic reaction to the
onslaught of cell-devouring drugs pumping into my veins.
My belabored point is this, these drugs work so well at killing my
cells, that they kill more good cells, such as red blood cells and white blood
cells, than I am able to live without. As if mouth sores, thrush, early
onset menopause (yes, menopause at 34), and vacillating between extreme constipation and shit-my-pants
diarrhea aren't enough of a carnival ride, a blood transfusion became
necessary on Thursday, July 24th.
My blood levels were so low that I became anemic and nutropenic,
meaning I did not have enough white blood cells to fight any kind of infection
or enough red blood cells, platelets, hemoglobin, etc. to heal from any
injury. Let’s put it this way… I have bruises on my arms from simple
blood tests that were taken over four weeks ago.
Blood of my blood…
Luckily, my Uncle Eamonn and Cousin Shannon were in town from
Atlanta and able to direct donate their blood in my name. Despite
the state of my blood levels, my team decided to move forward with round five
of chemotherapy, which switched to a new drug called Taxol, on Monday, July 21st. Ironically, my uncle and cousin were simultaneously giving blood
that would be pumped into my arm less than 48 hours later. Both during
and after this process, a question began to plague me: are they killing me to
keep me alive or keeping me alive to kill me? I still don't have an answer to that one.
Sweat….
Fighting breast cancer via chemotherapy comes with many side
effects. Some are well known due to their dramatization in film and
television. Hair loss and vomiting are usually the first to spring to
mind. As discussed, in previous posts, the nausea can be controlled with
marijuana and morphine derivatives such as Phenergin.
However, when most people think of hair loss, they are primarily
horrified with the loss of hair on the head, which can be traumatic for some
women and men. The loss of the hair on my head didn't bother me
much. In a way it has been liberating. The weather is too damn hot
for scarves or wigs. Particularly given the fact that one of the
not-so-oft discussed results of chemo is early onset menopause. With the
heat of summer and hot flashes, I choose me, and right now that means
bald.
To be honest, hair loss has it's perks! It's not like male patterned baldness, where I lose the hair on my head, but it starts growing like a weed out my ears, nose and bum! Conversely, I am delighted not to have to shave my underarms, legs, or those annoying long hairs on the knuckles of my big toes, (ladies, you know exactly what I am talking about!?!).
I suppose it’s the same reason I don’t often wear make—up. While it can be fun to get dressed up and accentuate this or that feature for my husband, it is a false portrayal of self and that’s always bothered me.
I have scars on my face, now a pleasant reminder of a carefree
adolescence and far simpler time. Years of summers spent on Lake Havasu and a
lifetime at the beach are evidenced by the beautiful brown sun spots and
freckles dotting my face, shoulders and chest, reminding me of a childhood
filled with water skiing, snow skiing, swimming, surfing, riding bikes, riding
motorcycles, roller skating, playing cops and robbers, and drinking from hoses
with my cousins. The crow’s feet at the eyes and lines bracketing my mouth are a
result of years of laughing and smiling, a gift from God in my opinion. I
cherish each and every “flaw”.
Thanks to my Dad, I have a beautiful smile and a contagious laugh
that can prompt an entire room to laugh with me, sometimes at me. Hey, at
least they’re laughing. Without hair, my eyes, cheek bones and smile are
large and infectious. Why hide and sweat beneath wigs, hats, and scarves?
This is the perspective cancer has granted, and I am grateful.
When you’re suddenly faced with your mortality; health, not looks quickly take
precedent.
However, I must admit I mourn the loss of my
nose, eye lashes, and pubic hair. Yes, go back and read the last line again if you
must.
Imagine for a moment, the loss of an extraordinary amount of
weight in a very short time frame (The Chemo Diet), combined with the loss of all pubic
hair. I stared appalled at the sight after showering one day. What happened to the curvy mother goddess that had just grown two human beings inside a
strong and fertile female body? The answer: gone; from woman to 10 year
old girl in just a few weeks.
As for the nose hair… well, the body’s natural response to the
onslaught of intravenous toxins is to rid itself of the offending chemicals by
any means possible, hence the vomiting and diarrhea. Well, one of the
surprises shouldn't have been a surprise at all. Just like
an allergy to offending pollen and unusual flora or fauna, the
sinuses and eyes weep in vain attempt at ridding itself of the cell-munching toxins.
Well, when you don’t have a single nose hair to act as a
dam of sorts, the watery mucus comes streaming out without provocation, usually at the most inopportune times. This may not
sound like a big deal, but combine the runny nose, blood-shot weepy and crusty eyes, bald head, IV tracks and
bruises on my arms, and skinny frame. You are left with the likes of a junkie that would do Spike Lee and Guy Ritchie proud.
Tears…
It just got real…
Since my diagnosis, I was consumed first with finding the very best
medical team in the country to treat my disease. With that checked off
the to-do list, in large part due to the research and efforts of my Nina, Terri
Gallardo, I quickly became occupied with managing the side effects of chemo, as
well as the added side effects caused from managing the first set of side
effects, abd so on. To say it's been a painful and exhausting journey thus far is akin to comparing a stubbed toe with the loss of a foot.
However, managing side effects has been a difficult and welcome distraction compared
to the direction I now find my mind drifting. With one more chemo
treatment remaining, I can’t help but think about what comes next:
surgery, radiation, Isie’s wedding (-: then more surgery, and possibly more chemo. None of
that would bother me if I hadn't starting reading up on my odds of
recurrence and survival.
Since this process began, I intentionally avoided reading up on
such things. I figured I would find the best damn medical team in
the country and let them worry about the details. However,
the more organizations and foundations that become aware of my condition, the
more disturbing studies I receive and thus, the more fear creeps into my
psyche.
There was no hiding from the potential eventualities of a cancer
diagnosis when my friend and neighbor passed away a few weeks ago.
Ray...
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| "Concert in the Kitchen" |
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| Ray would hold and sway Niamh for hours. One day he handed her back to me and said "I can't get too attached. I won't get too attached.... Never mind, giver her back to me, I'm attached and I love her. I just don't want to leave her." |
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| Ray and his little snow bunny princess Niamh |
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| Ray loving Niamh the night she was born |
Ray lived, laughed, loved, and shared until his very last. I miss him dearly and promise to endevour to fight this disease with as much piss and vinegar, laughter, and love as Ray. For the record, Jimmy asks to see his "DaDa" every day, Graham still can't get used to working in the garage late at night without you banging on the garage door in search of a beer to share, and I don't know if I will ever open a trunk full of groceries and not expect you to come bounding over to help me inside. We love you and miss you everyday. I will see you soon... not too soon though...
Chemo seems to have quieted the Banshee for now. My oncologist
cannot feel a tumor of any size in my left breast, nor can he feel my sentinel nodes in my left underarm. This obviously
points to a more optimistic prognosis, but is by no means a promise of a
permanent cure.
My Banshee’s wail may be silenced, but she is still there trying
to find her voice, while I work my ass off to suppress it, like
a toddler at Mass.
In loving memory to our friend and neighbor Ray.
Tiff
