...Lace Up Your Gloves...

And now I have a bit of a respite.

We saw Dr. Cavalcant today - he asked how I was doing. I like to tell him that all is well, and today, for the most part, I felt good. But I told him that I felt like I was fighting harder. I couldn't help but to tear up. My white counts were down, for the first time since I started this back on August 1. Not way down, mind you (2.7) but down enough that he was still going to give me chemo, then have me come in for three days of Neupogen shots to boost the white blood cells. He said I'd been tolerating this so well - that this will just be a precaution, and that he'd lower the dosage a bit. The dosage has been at 65 mg/week. I've read that normal dosage is 60-100 mg/every 3 weeks. I think I was hoping he'd say that since my counts were down and since I hadn't skipped a week since the beginning, even though the original protoccol was 3 weeks on, one week off, that I could skip this week and it would be ok. I knew in my heart the one treatment wouldn't be the difference between whether or not the cancer would disappear, but as usual, I nodded, and smiled and said ok. Until he walked out of the room. Then the tears came, in disappointment, because I knew in my heart I was ready for a break, and already a couple of treatments ahead. I was torn, not knowing if I was giving up if I took the chemo, or giving up if I didn't. I didn't know if skipping the one, and letting my body heal, without having to mess with the Neupogen was best.

We went into the waiting room again, waiting to be called to the chemo suite. I went to the desk and told the receptionist that I had a question for Dr. C before I was given the infusion. And sat back down to wait.

We were called back, and as I wrestled with my choices, knowing he'd always told me that it's unusual for someone to not take a break, I knew I needed one. And that this last treatment wasn't going to make the difference in my wellness. And that maybe, just maybe, the healing of my mind would help towards the healing of my body. Debbie, the chemo nurse came over with the heating pad and I told her I had a question for Dr. C - I started to explain, and the tears came. Sue was there too - sweet Sue who gave me the first infusion of this all. They've never seen me cry back there. Never seen me break. Today, I broke a little. Sue said, "You've been such a trooper the whole time. You've never taken a week off. It's ok." Dalene, wonderful Dalene came over and said, "You need to let your mind heal, too, or your body won't be able to." Debbie, after making sure that they could use the Taxotere for someone else, talked to Dr. C who said it was ok. I cried, again, and asked Greg if I did the right thing. With tears in his eyes, he told me it was the best decision I had made in the past 21 weeks. That I took care of myself instead of pushing and pushing and pushing. And that the one treatment was not going to make a difference. So, it took two sticks. And I took the Benadryl. And I took the Herceptin. And I went on my way. For the next four weeks.

I don't know what's going to happen after that. I think it will all depend upon what they find in there at the time of surgery. I get the impression I'll need some type of extra treatments afterwards, although Dr. C has said that he wants to see the results of the surgery before recommending further protoccol. Maybe just maintenance. Maybe more chemo. Maybe simply Herceptin every three weeks. That is the great unknown at this point.

Right now, I know that I don't have to go back there until after the first of the year. And that the next few weeks will probably do me some good. I know that maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to hike a little in the canyon. And maybe my veins will get a rest. Maybe my eyes will start to go back to normal. Maybe the weight will start to slowly come off. Maybe I'll laugh a little more again.

So, I walked. But I crossed the first finish line. I have so much work to do, but for now, it's ok.
On Sunday we head up to the Grand Canyon, and I'll wake up on Christmas morning feeling better and stronger than if I had taken the infusion today.

I'm still a little tired, but I've still got this. One way or another.

Today is the last treatment, for a while. At least a month. I've been keeping on keeping on.Working,walking,doing, being...

Last night before I fell asleep, I cried. It's been happening too frequently lately, and I just realized I was scared. Scared of the unknown, scared of what they will find when they go in for surgery, scared that I’m not done with the treatments, scared that each tiny cough or ache or bloat (that DAMNED bloat) means something other than an annoying side effect, scared that I will never get my body or my looks back, and scared that if I get hit by a car tomorrow, I’ll go out like THIS…

What a mess.

"Hey pal,I'm not going to let you go through life scared all the time..."

And then I was reminded that I can’t be scared all my life. I know that I knew that, but for some reason I've been letting it get to me emotionally lately. And the thing is, I can’t let this win. I can't let it take over because whether or not it may affect every aspect of my life right now, it's such a small part of who I am.

Yeah, her. Remember her? The person that stood atop Mt.Whitney on August 10. The person that people did news stories about because she could be an inspiration to others.The person that walked 60 miles after over three months of weekly chemo. The person that continues to go to work each day and walk with her dogs each morning, and tell her husband how much she loves him every night. Her. The person that got lost in the fog the last couple of weeks from time to time. Remember her? The one that wakes up in the middle of the night and seeing that she still has hours before the alarm goes off, lets out an audible "YAY!" before snuggling back in. The one that lays in bed listening to Vince Guaraldi's Charlie Brown Christmas on Sunday morning, dancing and smiling. The one that's going to kick the shit out of anything that dares invade her body and dampen her spirit.

I can’t continue to read until I can’t read anymore about the stories and the ‘might be situations’. I can’t lose my focus on the fact that SOMETHING has been working - whatver the heck that means - and even with all the little annoyances that seem insurmountable at times, at the end of the day, I still feel pretty damn good. At least I do today.

I sniffled a few times, dried my tears and said, "I'll feel better tomorrow."

And I went to bed determined to feel better emotionally today. And I do. And I will. And I will continue to.

Before that, I softly whispered, "I made it." I know I have so much more more work ahead of me, and I know I have so many unknowns to deal with, but I can see that 13 mile mark, finally. I’ve GOT this. And I'm not (really) ashamed to say that I'm ready for a break.
But I've GOT this.
I’m still going to win, you know.

But you already knew that…

Yes, it seems I have become the one-stick wonder in the chemo suite these past few weeks. Thank god for small favors. It's a good thing, as the chemo nurses don't run in terror when I walk into the room these days. One more treatment behind me, and one more to go before the BREAK.

Twenty weeks. Twenty freakin' weeks of Taxotere.

All I have to say to that is "oy vey iz mir". Either that, or WTF? In capital letters, of course.

But, I'm here. And I'm thriving. Or at least, moving along at the speed of whatever is acceptable at the time. I know it will be a little while before I return to my true self again, but at least I'm on the path. Then again, maybe I've always been on the path and just got a little lost at a couple of bends in the road.

It was a rough week, or a least, a rough few days thrown in there over the past week. The treatments and the side effects have really beat up on me physically and emotionally at times. I probably said that already though. The upside of it all is that if it's doing this to the healthy parts, imagine what it's doing to the cancerous ones.

I guess it's back to Yoshimi...

Those evil-natured robots
they're programmed to destroy us
she's gotta be strong to fight them
so she's taking lots of vitamins

'Cause she knows that it'd be tragic
if those evil robots win
I know she can beat them

Oh Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots defeat me
Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots eat me

We were walking this morning, and I forgot what I asked, but Greg said to me, "This is ridiculous, this cancer." It really is. It's simply ridiculous. It's absurd that I have to deal with it, it's absurd that he has to deal with it, and perhaps you had to be there to appreciate the comment in context, but it simply is ridiculous. It's hard to deal with, it's hard to watch, it's hard to comprehend at times.

What I need to remember, even in the times that I feel a little beat up, is what I will NOT let this damn disease take from me. I won't let it take love, or life, or hope. It may temporarily take my looks, and my body, but I'll get them back, and I'll be even better than before. I won't let it take my friends, or my family, or my dreams. I won't let it take my strength, at least my mental strength, and once I'm through these treatments, my physical strength will be even better than it was before. I think I'm determined to come back with a vengeance. And I can't ever let it take my courage.

In the words of Jimmy V:

Cancer can take away all my physical abilities. It cannot touch my mind, it cannot touch my heart and it cannot touch my soul. And those three things are going to carry on forever.

Snippets of randomness flit through my mind on a daily basis. I'm not sure if they can be attributed to chemo brain or just the fact that I have always been a little random with my thought processes. The phrase "the incredible lightness of being" has been stuck in my head, and upon Googling it (I find myself amused that "to Google" is an action, and a proper one at that) I realized I was actually thinking of the Unbearable Lightness of Being, which in and of itself would be a bit more apropos, if I was actually feeling "lightness of being". Unbearable seems to fit the bill at times, but I digress. I noticed, however, that Amazon says that those who bought the previously mentioned book also liked One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I read that book years ago when it was given to me by a friend back in Boston. Jen Clark. I lent it to a friend of a friend of a friend here in Phoenix about 5 years ago and never saw hair nor hide of it again. That's my randomness of the day.

Randomness, it seems, is potentially better than the alternative commentary that might be found here...

I remember when we ran my first half marathon. We had just crossed over the Mill Avenue bridge and I saw the 12 mile marker. I think it might have been the farthest I had run at that point, or at least pretty close to it. I let out a triumphant yell at that point. Greg was a bit in front of me, and turned around suddenly to see if I had fallen down or something. With an enormous smile on my face, I told him that no, I just realized how far I had come, and that I knew I could finish. And I ran on. I remember getting so tired after that point. It was almost as if I started to celebrate too soon, and still had more that I knew I needed to dig deep and find. I remember him telling me, " I only need 10 more minutes from you, then we're done. It won't even TAKE 10 minutes. You have got this..." I ran on, and although I remember that from 13 miles to 13.1 miles seemed momentarily endless (although if that's not an oxymoron, I'm not sure what is...) the finish line was finally in sight. Just before we crossed the sensors, he reached over and grabbed my hand. Triumphant, we finished together, and as I looked up at the clock, even though I knew that my actual chip time was even faster than the number I saw above me, I still saw that I had beat my goal by more than 5 minutes. Mission accomplished, over and above my expectations...

I can see the 12 mile marker ahead of me. Or, at least, I think I can. It still seems a bit far, particularly lately. Except this time the distance from, 12 miles to 13.1 equals two more weeks of treatments. I have to remember this. I need to lace up the gloves tighter, dig deeper than I think I can, take the deepest breath I can muster, smile through it all, and make it through to the morning of December 19. That will be my 13 mile mark. Treatment will be the last 1/10 mile. Then I can exhale. For a little while, at least.

I couldn't stop the tears, while writing the paragraph above about the half marathon, and I can't for the life of me realize why it's become so hard when I'm so close to the end. At least the end of this chapter. I so look forward to the break from treatments, and although I know there is a slim possibility that once January 10 has passed and the surgery is done, and all the offending ovaries and masses are once and for all out of my system, I won't need to have more chemo. However, it's such a slim chance that while it's in the back of my mind, I can't count on that being reality - if it happens, I'll be pleasantly surprised (read: ridiculously ecstatic). For now, the break is the finish line. The final peak, for now. I just need to get there...

So, ok. I'm approaching the 12 mile marker. Maybe I'm not quite ready for the triumphant yell. Maybe I don't quite realize at times, how far I've really come. Maybe the dark circles around my eyes and the alien I see in the mirror tends to cloud my vision. Maybe I need to remember that I have a very incredible husband who has sat with me through every week of treatment, who has continued to treat me like a person instead of a patient, and who has managed to look past the alien life form I see in the mirror and still see his beautiful wife somewhere in there up to this point, even though lately I don't even know how or if it's possible to see past this mess. Maybe I need to remember that six months is a small period of time in the big picture. And maybe I just need to suck it up even when I feel ugly and tired and fat and so ready for my life back that I can taste it.

Between now and then, I need to find as much laughter and love as I can, wherever I can. I need to focus on the fact that these treatments are working and that I'm one step closer to being re-acquainted with my elusive friend Ned (No Evidence of Disease). I need to remember that I'm alive and I'm strong and I'm able to get up every morning and walk a 10k. And that the poisons they are pumping into me, although they have really taken a toll on my physical and emotional self, will enable me to live as I am supposed to live for many years after this one. I may need a little extra push at times, and I don't always know how to ask for that. I think it comes with the territory of being stubborn and wanting to be self-sufficient. I'm supposed to be superwoman, don't you know? It's times like those that I have to remember my promise to myself and those that love me that I will not try and do this alone, this time. Even when it gets lonely.

"...only 10 more minutes from you, then we're done...You have got this..."

I could spend about an hour rattling off the side effects that this damn drug (or combination of drugs) has afflicted me with. I could list the ones that they list on the websites - the common ones and the uncommon ones and whether or not I have experienced them and to what degree. I could list the ones they tell you about on the message boards that they don't tell you on the websites, and whether or not I have experienced them and to what degree. I could list the ones that I never read about, but seem to experience anyhow - but who knows to what degree. I could even list the ones that I probably haven't even TOLD anyone about, because at a certain point, it becomes either too much information, or falls into the "who really cares" category.

Sure, I could do that. It might even be morbidly fascinating.

Here's the thing.

I could make a list, check it twice, wrap it around the living room, puree it and feed it to the dogs, and the bottom line is that the immediate result is still the same. It's tedious. It's exhausting. It's frustrating. It seems endless. At times, it's just plain awful.

At the end of the day? It's a beautiful miracle of modern technology compared to the alternative.

We heard about an exhibit that a photographer had done, called the Beautiful Faces of Cancer. It's a great concept, and indeed, there are beautiful faces. However, while last time I went through this, cancer had a smell, this time it has a face. Come to think of it, it's actually the smell and the face of chemo...

Losing my hair was pretty bad. It had grown, it was long, I liked it, and I liked how it looked on me. Then it started to fall out. Traumatic, certainly. I still struggle with what the heck to put on my head on any given day if I have to go out into the world, and while I've made my peace with not wearing the wig to work, I still struggle if I have to go outside the office. If only I could hibernate for the next 7 weeks. But, that isn't going to happen.

The thing is, the more time passed, I realized it wasn't my hair as much as my face. This cancer has really taken a toll on my face. People say I have such a great head shape, and a nice face for baldness (isn't that ridiculous, to begin with?) but the thing is, I look in the mirror on a daily basis and most of the time don't even recognize the person looking back at me. Indeed, cancer has a face.

Sometimes I stare at that face, and at each of its parts separately. I see glassy eyes, sometimes red, constantly filling with Taxotere-induced tears that run down my face throughout the day. The whites aren't white anymore most of the time, and if I lean in closely, I can see the muscles twitching. I see the darkening around those eyes, particularly when I get out of the shower, for some reason. Maybe it's the hot water that brings out the pigmentation, but the dark rings are immense. I can't remember what color my eyelid used to be, and the darkness sweeps around to the corner of my eye and over the front of my cheek, creating the appearance of bags under my eyes, even when they are not swollen. That's not to say the bags aren't there anyhow...

There's the left eye, with it's one eyelash on the bottom and half a lid of lashes on the top - and the right eye, with nearly a full lid of lashes on the top and the ones on the bottom rapidly thinning. And the nose. The nose in and of itself isn't bad, but the tearing causes it to run, and the running causes it to become dry around the nostrils, and the running and the dryness causes nosebleeds on occasion when I blow too hard... non-discriminate of time or place of course. If you look closely you can often see a bit of dried blood around at least one nostril. Or perhaps I'm spending too much time looking up my nose in the rear view mirror when I drive. My mouth has held up reasonably well, save for the slight cracking of one side, potentially due to the cold. It's starting to darken a bit at the corners of my bottom lip, but I have a feeling that is only perceptible to me. One can only hope.

All I can do is stare sometimes, in amazement, at this strange face staring back at me. I can't look away from the eyes sometimes, as I search for what is behind the face I see in the mirror. And the ritual begins. The concealer, dotted below the eye, above the eye, on the eyelid, at the corners - carefully blended in so that the dark circles slowly start to fade. The packed powder, applied over the concealer, under the eyes in particular, carefully blended in so that the darkness fades to a shadow. Eyeliner, carefully applied to first the bottom lid, then the top. Mascara, only on the top lashes now as there aren't enough on the bottom any longer. Blush, and more blush, on the cheeks, and in an attempt to find the shadow of a cheekbone. Then more, to ensure I still look as though I have color in my face in the right places. A bit of eye shadow, darker on the outsides, and lighter towards the center - hopefully it will bring out my eyes - or maybe it will conceal them entirely. All of a sudden it's a different face looking back at me. I see the layers of spackle and paint, and the cracks in the powder. I notice the slight smudge in the eyeliner and know that there are no eyelashes there that will conceal the fact that it will never perfectly follow the line of the eye. I know I look a bit more human, but as someone who is used to wearing very little makeup I still have no idea who this person is in the mirror. And sometimes the tears in my eyes aren't from the Taxotere. But I can say they are, can't I?

This is the face of cancer. This is the face of chemo.
It's not beautiful at all...

Yesterday Greg walked into the bathroom as all this was going on, fresh out of the shower, and I just looked at him in wonder. The tears (not Taxo-tears) started to well up in my eyes as I realized that somehow, I have no idea how, but somehow he has been able to look past that face and still see what is there, and what will be there again. I am so grateful for that. I'm not sure I'll ever understand how he manages to look past it, but I suppose the important thing I know is that somehow, he does. The thing is, I know he wishes I could look past it, too. Even more powerful than the face of cancer, is the face of love.

Then, this morning, I saw a photo of myself. It was taken at the closing ceremonies of the 3-Day, and I know I had seen it before, but for some reason this morning, it just struck me. I got the tiniest glimpse of what he sees when he looks past the face in the mirror, I think. I can't let myself for a second forget that this is the face of cancer, too. All of a sudden, it doesn't look quite so bad to me... (Thank God for sunglasses.) she's actually still kind of cute.

Seven more weeks. Tomorrow I'll be 3/4 of the way to the finish line. Just a hair closer to getting my face back... (A hair. How ridiculous to say. Hair.)

We met with Dr. Magrina back at the Mayo Clinic yesterday and surgery is scheduled for January 18 to remove whatever the hell is in there causing me angst and a growing waistline. Based upon the lab reports, he was in agreement that he didn't think it was cancerous, but that whatever it was, it needed to come out, along with my ovaries. The thing is, this will kick me right into menopause, and there isn't a doctor in the world that will prescribe me estrogen. I suppose I'll just have to wait it out, pray I don't have severe mood swings, and plan to stick my head in the freezer when necessary. Although I'm a bit nervous about this, as I am with any surgery, we really, REALLY like Dr. Magrina, and he'll be doing a very minimally invasive, laproscopic, robot-assisted procedure. Pretty cool, huh?

The end is nearly in sight...

spots on the liver, that is...
Well, there's one tiny spot left, but according to the PET/CT report, it's about 11mm and shows NO hypermetabolic activity, and wasn't even significant enough to mention in the body of the report. In other words...

THE SHIT IS UNDER CONTROL!!!!

That's right, under control, the doctor says. Praise the Lord and pass the wine...

He came into the room, and immediately said, "It's good news!" Good news. We love good news. Good news makes the twitching and the tearing and the wigging and the stomaching and the atrocious fingernailing and the bloating (well, maybe not the bloating) worthwhile. AND, those mystery masses in the abdominal region? You know, the ones that felt like they were shrinking, but then I didn't think they were shrinking? Well, they didn't shrink much at all, but this means that they are most likely NOT even cancerous!! If the chemo shrunk/eliminated the liver spots, then if these alien objects were cancerous, the chemo would have shrunk them as well. No shrinkage most likely = not cancerous. We both cried, but finally, tears of elation. Again, thank the Lord and pass the wine...

Someone up there is listening...

So, yeah. This is good. This is hugely good. Dr. C is an aggressive oncologist, so he wants me to finish out the course of chemo, which is fine. Eight more weeks I can handle (ugh, gag, when is it OVER) and then I can go out into the world and be healthy and hairy all over again. And hope and pray that it doesn't come back. At least not for a long while...

I'll be going back to the Mayo Clinic - Dr. C wants to get those things out of the abdominal region. Hell, I don't need them in there, they're not doing me any good. The miracle cysts that could have saved my life... what a concept. I go back to see Dr. Magrina on November 26, and discuss the next steps with him from that point on. My guess is that I'll probably have surgery of some type, hopefully laproscopic and non-invasive, sometime in January. I'm actually looking forward to getting those alien beings out of there.

I feel like I just bought some more time... I feel like I did something right... I feel like I owe so much to all those people who hoped and prayed and believed and knew that an outcome other than this just wasn't up for discussion (right Liz?). It never was. I feel like I couldn't have done it without the love and support and never-wavering friendship and companionship of the person I was fortunate enough to marry. And his incredible family who has wrapped their arms around me and treated me like one of their own. And mine, of course. I could thank people forever, and it wouldn't even scratch the surface of the love of friends and family and the kindness of strangers I have received. I can just hope that they know that they made a difference. Because I know they have made a difference.

I suppose I'm on the victory lap now... and I'm looking forward to the hustle and bustle of the holidays and all the festivities and distractions that will make the time simply fly by. I'm looking forward to waking up in Greg's arms on December 24 and bundling up and walking out into the cold for the third year and gazing out over the South Rim. Knowing that the world out there is so much bigger than I am and that I am so fortunate to be present in this space and time to enjoy it all and that I am fortunate enough to have taken the steps to ensure that whatever time I have on this earth, I'm going to make the most of it. And that I'll have known what it's like to live. To really live. And to love. Really, really love.

This is what it's all about.

Now, it's time to find a cure.

I was talking to a very close friend today about this blog, and the fact that I find myself censoring sometimes what I put out there for public consumption. I guess I have to remember that I'm writing this for me, first and foremost, but knowing that people read, do I really have to mention the part about the bloating or the atrocious fingernails or the weird dryness on my left hand? It's not that I don't want to write the fears and all that lovely drivel, but all those fears really are interspersed with hope.

She asked me, "Is that part forced, or is the hope really that strong? I mean, it's not just a show for the readers, the people looking in?"

Is the hope forced? ABSOLUTELY NOT. Even at home when there's just me and Greg and the dogs and the fuzzy old head. Sure, the people looking in want to see it the hope, but do I think I'm going to die? The answer is still, no. Eventually, yeah, but not tomorrow, or anytime in the near future. And maybe not even from this.

The thing is, the hope, the belief - it has to be real. If I give up hope inside, what's left?

I know it may sound like a crock sometimes, all this hope. However, the truth is, I've worked really damn hard to get to where I am and I'm just not giving it up without a fight. Is there more that I really fucking hate that I don't post for the outside looking in? Especially now? The raw stuff about being sick and tired of this and terrified what that scan will show? Of course it exists. Are there disagreements in my life sometimes, and do we let fears reflect on life and become misdirected? Sure they do. The thing is, at the end of the day, with the bald head and the tears and the puffiness and the uncertainty, is there still all that love and hope? Hell, yes.

She was hoping that was my answer...
She was hoping that I was going to say that I REALLY feel it and not that I'm trying to be strong for everyone else.

Sometimes, I am. But overall, I REALLY feel it. Thing is? Sometimes I try to be strong for myself because if I feel it, I can be it. Or some shit like that. Not to trivialize it, but it works.

But yeah, lately sometimes I'm weaker and it makes me frustrated. Because I don't WANT to be weaker, even for a little while. I struggled through a hike on Sunday that I used to zip through. I pushed a little, but i did it. Slowwwwwwwwwwwly. What I (in)conveniently forgot is that some of that had to do with the 3-Day as well as the treatment and the fact that even though I felt and did fantastic, it just may well have taken my body longer to recover because of the nearly 4 months of treatment. Is part of me embarassed to hike with other people because I know they'll see me slowing when they used to call me "Jiffy Jen"? Unfortunately, yeah. It doesn't mean that I won't, but it also doesn't mean that fact doesn't enter my mind. I also know that the truth is that even if I gained a couple of pounds (Horror. Seriously.) in the past few weeks potentially due to the steroids in the pre-meds, it doesn't for a second mean that the chemo has stopped working.

I know I sound super-positive and all at times. The thing is, I also know I have a choice and part of that choice is being terrified not to be positive because I'm scared of negative energy. Which, in reality, is a good direction to head, with regards to (ir)rational fears.

More honesty? I'm really incredibly friggin' fortunate despite it all. My day-to-day existence and parts of the 3-Day helped me reinforce that in some ways. It wasn't until after that weekend that I didn't put my hair on for work on some days. And went to Nello's in just a baseball cap. Sometimes most days I'd prefer to walk around bald or at least, in just a ball cap.

Again, ever thankful for weekends. Red Sox caps. Silly dogs that lay with their head on my stomach while I have the cold glasses on my eyes. That incredible guy next to me every step of the way. And all those people who love me. And BELIEVE.

Now, time to go home and eat my beautiful salad with my beautiful husband. Maybe I'll even have a half a glass of (Dynamite!) wine. Just one...

I haven't mentioned it, have I? The burping.

Oh. My. God, the burping.

And, of course, the constant heartburn.

I've been popping Pepcid regularly, or a generic version of Pepcid, that has for the most part kept the heartburn in check. Until it comes on. And then, it comes on. Blargh. Anyhow, we ran into an MD friend of ours the other night, and he remarked that I was not my usual boisterous self. Half-jokingly I said to him, "heartburn." Seems that was a fortuitous comment because he recommended I take Prilosec daily and that would be much more effective. I took it on Friday night. This weekend I ate pizza, sushi, jalapenos, baked ziti, and wine. Not all at once, mind you. Gross. However, all of the above were ingested between Friday night and Sunday night. Today? NO HEARTBURN! The little things that make a difference...

Still, there's the burping.

One thing to realize is that I could always hold my own and burp with the best of them. Not that this is necessarily something to be proud of, but yeah, I could always burp. Now? Homer Simpson has competition. I have no idea what the hell it is about the chemo, but the burps that come out of my body, particularly after something carbonated... let's just say I've knocked a picture or two off the wall. I think I scared the dog once.

Actual conversation from this afternoon after seeing a commercial for Prilosec:

"Huh. I wonder if I remembered to take the pill this morning."
"Oh boy, you'd better get up and take it RIGHT now. You just had some of that baked ziti for lunch."
"I didn't have THAT much ziti, just a small cup."
"Hon, you just have to LOOK at the ziti before the burping will start..."

Think Prilosec might use me in their next ad campaign??

Work. I made my list this morning of things that need to get done this week. Or in the weeks after. Or things that need attention here at work. It's sitting there next to me, in green ink, with the cap of the green pen not yet replaced. I don't know why I tend to do that, and then I find myself surprised when the pen doesn't work anymore. Fine. Capped. Ready for the next encounter. I should start checking things off said list - truth be told, I could probably get through most of it by the end of the day. Thing is, it's Veteran's Day, which means most of my client-type-people have the day off. Seems to me that I should take some time for myself, too.

So here it is.

I didn't want to come here this morning. I got ready, painted up the face, put on my whatever it is that is on my head, and took a look in the mirror. Ugh. I know the ugh is mostly only to me. Still, ugh. Greg said he could bring in the set of tires and fill them up with the exhales I had apparently been letting out this morning. He knows what I'm sighing about, yet he tells me that all he sees is his beautiful wife. The fortunate part about all that is that even when I look in the mirror and see the six eyelashes on the bottom of my left eye, the dark shadows that I have tried so hard to conceal on the sides of my eyes, and the face that looks back at me from the mirror that doesn't accurately reflect how I feel inside... somehow despite all that, the fortunate part about all that is that somehow, he means it. Somehow, this man is able to look past the six eyelashes and the fuzzy hair, the dripping eyes, the dark circles, the bloat, and still see what is beneath that, and what will be again. I'm pretty lucky, huh.

The 3-Day came and went. Wow. Once again, what an incredible event. I walked every mile of the 60, and then some, if you count the camp, and the pit stops, and the pee breaks...ohhhh... the pee breaks, and of course, the walk back across the street from the camp to the Circle K for the much-deserved beer to smuggle back into camp. I wore no hair, of course - who the hell wears hair to walk 60 miles, for breast cancer no less. Hair would have just been ridiculous. If's funny though, aside from the fact that my eyes were just NOT cooperating with me, there were times that I forgot (can you believe that?) that I was different. Then again, maybe I wasn't so different after all. On the first night we got to camp, Greg I were walking somewhere - I think over to the Circle K. One of the crew members came running up to me - I forgot what she had said about having to give me what she handed me, but she gave me a huge hug and handed me a pin with a pink ribbon and an angel attached to a bookmark-sized card with some words of encouragement. We started walking to the camp exit and I turned to Greg and said, "How did she know???" "Um, sweetie? The hairdo might have given it away..." We were telling Larry this story sometime later that night and he laughed, so surprised at someone that is seemingly so self-conscious on a regular basis could ask that question. Ironic, isn't it? I realized this weekend one of the reasons that there was such a contrast between how I felt out there on the walk, and how I feel in day-to-day life with regards to my appearance. Out there, my fuzzy old head was a badge of courage. It represented strength to the people around me, the people that were all there for the same reason - to eradicate the disease that caused the treatments that gave me the bald head - and there I was, walking along side them, fuzzy head and all. (Walking up the stairs to left - notice fuzzy old head) Strength. Here, in the rest of the world, the baldness signifies illness. It's really an interesting dichotomy. There's that word again...

It was an amazing event - tears and smiles and laughter and hope and life and promise and love and family. It's incredible to me having Greg walk alongside me on this thing - I experienced that for the first time last year - because he's so proud and so supportive and just makes it all worthwhile. This year, it was pretty amazing having Larry and Jan there, too. I feel so blessed, having been welcomed as a part of that family. And then of course, there was Barb and Renee. We met them last year on the 3-Day, kept in contact with them, and walked with them the entire weekend. Strange how life works sometimes - I think perhaps they were just two people we were supposed to cross paths with. As limited an amount of time in the big picture that we've spent with them, it feels like we've known them for far, far longer. The banter and flow of conversation is hard to describe, but it just is. Barb is a survivor - her story is actually so similar to my first diagnosis - except she's got about 18 years on me. I always feel sort of like a stranger in a strange land in the sea of pink, on breast cancer events, or wearing the survivor "stripes". The shyness tends to kick in, and I often find myself trying not to be the center of attention. Which, I've learned, is pretty hard with my husband/publicist Greg around! He's helped give me the confidence though - and share my journey with others. Even though the shyness exists, I have fought through it in the chance that I can make a difference. Barb, she's the opposite. She wears her war badges proudly, and pinks it up with pride. The thing is, being around her at times rubs off on me, and somehow, I don't feel quite as reluctant to pink it up. Maybe there's strength in numbers. Maybe because I can stay half in her shadow. Whatever the case, it's a fantastic energy.

I was part of the survivor's circle at the closing ceremonies this year. They had asked Barb, and she asked them to have me take her place, because she felt I deserved it more. I'm not certain there's even a grain of truth in that statement, but I carried a flag that read "BELIEF" into the closing ceremonies. With no hat on. My own personal badge of courage, just for that moment. Greg had told me earlier, "imagine how much strength you will give to so many people, up there like that" and when the time came, it seemed like the only choice that made sense. In I walked with eight other survivors, and I could see in many of their faces the hesitancy that I know is written all over my face. The "what the HELL am I doing here and what the EFF am I supposed to do with my hands" nervous smile. But not Barb. There she was, on the front line of the group of the rest of the survivors, blowing me kisses with her pink boa wrapped around her neck. Yet, we were talking that weekend, and I thought I saw a glimmer of something pass over her face for a second - perhaps the realization that our stories were so similar, yet here I was, fighting again. It passed as quickly as it appeared though. Perhaps even the proudest and most full of life among us experience the fleeting fear.

Oh man, I didn't even scratch the surface of the rest of the stuff. Those trivial items like scans, and side effects, and bloat - you know, the good stuff. Scan results on Wednesday. Now everyone knows as much as I do.

I suppose I should do some work before leaving for lunch...

Ever thankful for sunglasses, Red Sox caps, and oh yeah, that guy next to me...----->

Good news, they say, comes in threes. I'm not sure if that's exactly true, but we have three good things today.

1. The veins cooperated. Thank God. Or Buddah. Or whomever is listening. My brother told me that when he was in China for business last week he asked a Buddhist monk to pray for me, and made a donation to the Breast Cancer Awareness display set up at a coffee shop there. I've always been a fan of eastern religion and the Buddhist beliefs. One stick today and we were outta there! Well, after about 1/2 hour of waiting and 2 hours of infusing... small details.

2. The doctor had ordered another CA-125 test, as well as about 3 other tumor marker tests with my bloodwork this week. The CA-125 was down to 236 from last month's 465 and the initial 536 back in July. Something's working damnit...Oh, wait. I probably shouldn't have damned anything...

By the way, the other tests were normal...

3. We're finally feeling mostly better after spending the majority of our San Francisco leg of the vacation in bed at the hotel with aches, pains, chills, fever, no appetite in a city with amazing food, and general malaise. Nice, right? After two days, three trips to Walgreen's, a Red Sox World Series win (which of course, made things MUCH more bearable), and finally, a bowl of steaming hot Thai soup from the King of Thai Noodle House on Monday night, we were back amongst the living. Just in time for our flight on Tuesday. We still had fun though. I guess even sickness with good company isn't so bad after all. However, we're definately in better shape to bear one day of work and then walk 60 miles, starting Friday morning.

Simply a day in the life, right?

Life is good today.

Symbolically celebrated by my currently wearing the bottom half of today's Wednesday treat.

<---

I should have posted a photo of this mug last week, as this was my wonderful Wednesday treat. Ironically enough, I didn't even notice the writing on the side until putting them away that night. However, what better opportunity to link back to one of my favorite entries.

This morning? A decent night's sleep, 2 miles walked, 2.5 miles run, and ready for week 13 with guns blazing, gloves laced.

It's what I do best, don't you know?

That's all for a bit, though...

I was tired of seeing that other one when I opened this page. It sucked.

So today? I'm kind of sick of this routine. Just for today. I'm tired of hearing about it, talking about it, wondering how many times it will take to find a vein, counting how many ounces of water I drink, wondering whether or not I’ll sleep well, whether or not my tossing and turning will keep Greg and all random dogs up all night, and whether one day I’ll be pretty again. I'm tired of looking in the mirror after I come off the mountain and feeling like I LOOK sick, even though I feel fine. I’m relatively tired of putting on hair in the morning, doing my makeup only to have my eyes drip and have to do it all again, try desperately to make the eye puffiness go away so that I look like some semblance of normal, and being afraid to blow my nose because it tends to bleed when I blow it too hard. I'm also kind of tired of feeling miserably out of shape no matter how active I continue to be.

Most of all, I’m sick of complaining, even though I guess much of the complaining is done internally. Sometimes I just want to take my journey, stuff it in a suitcase, and head off into the sunset.

So there it is. Instead? I vent, I get it out of my system, and forge ahead. It's all I can do, you know... because I won't let it win. Even on days like today.

But I tell you, up close and personal, the hair is growing. I would like, of course, for it to grow a bit faster, but all in time, I suppose. Not too bad for two weeks of growth. It's fuzzy. I've also apparently graduated from the Silvio Dante look to Dewey from Malcolm in the Middle. (Sing it now... "Life is Unfair....") Anyhow, it's growing, it's not shedding, and it's fuzzy. Enough on the hair(less)ness.

Greg wrote a great email about week 12 by the numbers. I wish I had it with me, but not having it at my fingertips, apparently I've been stuck 42 times total, with yesterday's only being 5. It was mentioned to me in passing to think about the possiblity of having a port installed, and let me tell you, I am not for it, at all. I know in the big picture it will be easier than fishing for a vein, but at this point, I'm going to fight it as long as I can. I don't want the surgeries, outpatient or not. I don't want the intrusion it may cause to my exercise regimen which is so important to me. I just don't want it. I'd rather get stuck 5 times a week, ridiculous as that sounds. Anyhow, I think I'm putting the cart before the horse at this point. I have a few more things to try before resorting to that. These veins WILL hold up. They will.

All in all, it was a pretty good day though, and marked week 12, which means halfway home. In the chemo suite they have a tradition of ringing a bell for the conclusion of a course of treatment and transition onto the next phase of a person's journey. We internally rang half a ceremonial bell yesterday. Go ahead, feel free to ring along with us.

We saw a story on The Today Show this morning about Hoda Kotb's experience with breast cancer and her decision to share it with the world. One thing that stood out so vividly to me is her saying that she spoke with a stranger on an airplane and he said to her, "Don't hog your journey."

I have to say, that's one thing I've done differently this time. I know I mentioned it in an earlier post, about being out there for someone to see that it's ok... and I know I mentioned how great I felt that Lisa told me that my experience has made her fears a little less scary, but the more time goes on, the more I realize how important whatever impact I can make really is. The Arizona Republic called yesterday and is going to run a story, as well. Seven years ago? I never would have done this. I never would have put myself out there, scars and all, for the world to see. Somehow along the way, I learned to let people in, and learned how to experience my emotions, and learned how to love and be loved, and learned how to eliminate the negative elements from my life. Recently, I also managed to find the courage to "not hog my journey" and his name is Greg. Thank you, my best friend, my "publicist", my biggest cheerleader, my constant companion, my love. Because of his encouragement fueling my courage, I hope I have helped someone out there breathe a little easier, if only for a moment. How huge is that.

Ok, maybe not. Add to that the fact that typically autographs are worth more once the signer has left this earth, and I'm perfectly content to have my signature worth no more than the paper it's signed on.

However... we did make the news again! Cori from the Ahwatukee Foothills News did a very nice piece on us - except for the fact that we were married in New Mexico, and not in California... maybe she had beachfront property on her mind. In any case - whoot- there it is.

Race for the Cure was this past Sunday. All things considered, it wasn't a bad race. Honestly, I wasn't feeling great. I couldn't get my breathing right, and my leg was really aching for some reason - probably psychosomatic race nerves - and I wasn't feeling nearly as strong as I would have hoped. However, let's get to the "all things considered" part. According to Greg's Garmin, the time was 24:36. Not my favorite, yet a bit faster than last year, and not too shabby when you factor in 11 weeks of chemo. Besides, I've been instructed (and rightfully so) that this is the one day that I can't complain about my time.

Another year of nerves, jitters, dreams, expectations behind us... on to the half-marathon.

P.S. I know I've been remiss at posting photos for the "As the Hair Grows" serial. This week for sure... it's gettin' fuzzy up there.

Well, maybe not tomorrow, but soon enough, it seems. I've decided that I'm going to start a series entitled, "As the Hair Grows" with weekly photos to document the progress. It's growing, I tell you. And strangely enough, it's not coming in patchy either. Granted, in the meanwhile was told, hopefully in jest, that I apparently bear a vague resemblance to Steve Van Zandt when I am wearing a bandana. Truth be told, the Silvio Dante isn't exactly my favorite look, but it's amazing what a little makeup can do, huh? Then again, that's not really the point of this entry now, is it?

So, another treatment behind us, and thank GOD for that. Not my favorite, yesterday's round, as I once again had the privilege of doubling as a human pincushion. Eight. Eight freakin' sticks until they finally found a vein that wanted to cooperate. Apparently I had been stressed out (apparently when someone comes at you repeatedly with a needle that won't get a good blood return, that tends to happen) and my vein valves were closing. Or seizing. Or something. The end result being a smattering of bruises, a few puncture wounds, and the nurses telling me not to drink water for a bit lest I shower the rest of the chemo room with it spurting out my punctures. Pleasant, no? It was waaaaaaay too quiet in there yesterday. I don't like it when it's that quiet, and this time, I wasn't exactly doing much to add to the levity. I guess we can't have every week be the best of all. The good news? It's another day, I'm feeling fine, and will warm up my arm and think more pleasant thoughts next week. Honestly, I think it works better in the morning. Yesterday's appointment was in the afternoon, and there's just too much time in the morning to idle. Not that any of yesterday morning was spent idling. The Ahwatukee Foothills News sent their Health and Education reporter to do a story on us which will appear in the October 17th edition. Don't worry, we'll get lots of copies. I'm pretty sure there will be a link online, too. The fame and (mis)fortune continues...

Thankfully, I slept pretty well last night. I remember waking up around 1 a.m. and dragging myself to the bathroom, eyes barely open. I crawled back in bed and mumbled, "I'm SOOOOOOOOO sleepy...". I guess the glass of wine helped, coupled with the fact that I tend not to sleep well on Tuesday nights. The falling asleep part is usually fairly simple, but I take the dexamethazone pre-meds on Tuesdays and if I happen to wake up in the middle of the night, which I inevitably do, thanks to my Ship of the Desert quest the day before treatment, I'm up for a while.

Anyhow, last night I was only up for a little while - maybe 1/2 an hour, which is quite bearable in the grand scheme of things. However, as my mind wanders, as it tends to do at 2 a.m., I somehow found myself marvelling at the random and unrelated things I had put into my body yesterday. Let's examine the chaos, won't we?

Between the time I woke up and the time I fell asleep, I had taken (or been given) two Tylenol, 5 mg of Aloxi/Decadron, 25 mg of Benadryl, 100 mg of Herceptin, 65 mg of Taxotere, one Pepcid, a multi-vitamin, one calcium, one magnesium, and two Omega-3 fish oil pills. HUH???

Then I started thinking about the miscellaneous food I had ingested... keep in mind, I can't remember the last time I ate such a random assortment of food in a day. I started with the typical cup of coffee and antioxidant-laden smoothie. Harmless, right? This was followed by about 1/3 of an Oregano's Favorite salad, and about 2/3 of the largest slice of pizza I may have ever seen topped with mushrooms, black olives, and red onions. Not too unusual. Four hours later about a half mini-box of lemonade/wild cherry Nerds had been added to the mix. Then came the cantaloupe and the honeydew melon that I had to sample from the Edible Arrangements from my Larry & Jan. Then about a half dozen veggie spring rolls dipped in honey hot mustard mixed with Sriracha sauce. Then a chocolate covered strawberry. Oh wait, there was the glass of Lake Sonoma Zin. Then some red grapes, a couple pieces of pineapple, and a cantaloupe ball or two. All topped off with a handful of frosted mini wheats. No wonder I needed that Pepcid. It all tasted really good at the time... Hey, whatever works, right? (WTF, is a more likely comment to that discombobulated disaster of items ingested.)

New day, new menu, and Game 1 of the NLCS.
Sounds pretty good to me.

A while back, Greg saw an episode of the Today Show that, if my chemo-brain serves me correctly, featured a couple that had been happily married for 50 years. This feat, as we all know, is unfortunately somewhat of an anomaly these days. He told me that Matt Lauer asked them what their secret was. The wife gestured to the husband who nodded and said, "Yeeessss, Dear." (That was drawn out a bit in tribute of Charlie Bell...King of the Rim, and of the "Yes, Dear.") Ever since then, much to my chagrin at times, Greg has adopted the "Yeesss, Dear". Sometimes appropriate, sometimes not. In any case, when I give him a look or make a comment, his response is typically, "50 years! 50 years! 50 happy years!" Usually gets him off the hook when I think he is using the "Yeesss, Dear" in place of "I'm not really listening to you because I'm really distracted or you've just asked me something ridiculous and you should probably hush-a-snoot (meaning: shhhhhh)." Usually.

I came across this article today, and have to say, it's one of the best things I’ve read on the subject matter. I wish we had stumbled upon this back in July when we were facing the unknown and terrified of what it might bring. Then again, it had just as profound an effect on me now, particularly for those times when any of us lets fear slip in through the cracks.

Based on Steven Jay Gould's essay, The Median Isn't the Message, and the various and sundry statistics we’ve found on my general situation, I figure there’s no reason I shouldn’t live to the ripe old age of 117 – give or take a few.

At the very least, I’m looking forward to 50 happy years…

And the weight of the world feels much lighter on my shoulders today. I think there were just a few things I needed to do to help get some of those emotions out.

We went out last night, and it's the first time I had seen any of our friends since the big shave. Only TZ knew, as far as I understood, and part of me was a little nervous at the reactions of those around me. The eyes always give it away. MJK came in and asked if I had to shave it all. He knew it was a wig, and you know what, that's ok. I joked with him that I had about as much hair as he did... Esther came up and complimented me on my hair a bit later. I told her it was a rental... I think I needed to make wig jokes. Teri complimented me later on my haircut - I had just seen her and Dennis last weekend after I had gotten the real hairs cut, and apparently neither one of them knew that the hair I had on last night slept in a box at night. She was asking if I still had to straighten my hair, and looked at me blankly when I told her "it's a rental". She couldn't believe it when I said it was a wig - apparently even Dennis didn't know. More wig jokes. If I can joke, I can laugh. If I can laugh, it's all ok... I told them it would probably be laying on the table before the night is over. That never actually came to be, but I could have... maybe...
I needed to make wig jokes.

I needed to run this morning. I have to say, I didn't really want to. But I knew I needed to, and by the time we came around the corner on Frye for the last 1/10 of a mile or so to the house, I knew I had needed that run. 8.75 miles later, I knew I had more in me. How about that. I'm still thriving.

This morning, while drinking my coffee, I read something pretty amazing. Lisa had written in an email, "Because of you, I am not afraid anymore of cancer returning. I don't welcome it of course, but I am not so afraid either. You have shown me that their is HOPE for all of us... and God, how great is THAT?"

Wow. That's just friggin' huge.
Me. Doing what I just do. I helped someone be less afraid of an enormous fear. That right there, that's an accomplishment. And, consequently, something I am very proud of. Thank you, Lisa, for sharing that with me. On a daily basis, I have people telling me they are in awe of me, and my gut reaction is to brush it off, because I really feel that I'm not doing anything all that awe inspiring. I'm simply living. With or without cancer. I'm living.

Come to think of it, if my living the way that I am helps someone else open their eyes a little more, and look around and remember not to take things for granted... if me going on about things the way I go helps someone to look at themselves and want to be the person they know they can be, even when nobody is watching... if my getting out and running, bald head and all, helps even one person lace up their shoes and give it a shot, too... I've done something.

Ok, maybe I am pretty amazing. Maybe just for today.

Ok, I suppose this will come full circle here, so be patient. First the good, then the 'meh' then back to the good. I'll get there... really.

Round 10 went off without a hitch. One vein, great bloodwork, Dr. C's observation that the masses were indeed still shrinking, and the Red Sox won Game 1 of the ALDS.

And then, there were there dumb hairs...
It was time. I looked in the mirror and no matter which direction I turned, it didn't look any better. It was just thin. Too thin for its own good, for my own good, and the hairballs in the sink weren't getting any smaller. I told myself that when it was time, it was time.
And, it was time.

Wig in hand, we headed off to see Adam Pink, knowing that with the wig haircut would also come the shave. I sat and looked at my scraggly hair in the mirror, haircut cape wrapped around me, and knew it was time. Adam offered us a beer and staying with the Boston theme, we each chose a Samuel Adams. We toasted farewell to the flight of the dumb hairs, watched them all fall to the floor for the last time, and looked toward the future of it coming back in stronger and thicker, all the while realizing that it was a necessary step in the process to healing. By the time he finished cutting the wig, I was a bit amazed at how good it looked. Well, for the most part. I'm not sure if it's because I know it's a wig, or because the part is to the other side than I had been wearing my hair, but it still looks like a wig to me. Probably only to me, though. Or so I'd like to think.

So, devil be gone. The trusty flat iron and hair dryer went into hibernation for the winter, and I resigned myself to get used to this new, bird-like head. The thing is, it's ok . In the big picture, it's really ok.

But that didn't stop the tears from coming. Even now. The worst part is that the twitching and tearing I mentioned? It's worse. This damn side effect is driving me insane. The tearing is making the eyes puffy. The puffy eyes are making me feel swollen. The swollen feeling is making me feel really freakin' unattractive. So please, send eye drops. And cucumbers. Or whatever the hell will make me look normal again.

Now, here's the challenge with feeling that I don't look normal. It affects the confidence. That, that part is getting to me most of all, because I can feel it. And I hate it. I have been able to go on for the past 10 weeks strong, confident, feeling like I look and feel great - mostly because I do. Now? I feel like I'm looking down all the time because I don't want to meet people's eyes. I don't want them to see my puffy eyes, and the hair that is just a little too big. I think most of all I'm afraid to see the look in people's eyes that betrays their words when they say "wow, you look great", when I know they don't think that at all. Because I don't think that at all. It's ironic - I feel more comfortable when I come home at night and put the hair-hat in its box and walk around with my bird-head. I don't know, it feels more free. Less like a facade. Yet, I'm not sure I'm ready to take off the facade for the rest of the world.

The worst part? Greg says I'm not looking at him as much either. Enter more tears. It's a vicious cycle. The puffy eyes make me look down. I realize I look down. Then I cry. The eyes are more puffy. WTF?? I've gotten 8 weeks more of hair than I thought, I've still got the energy that I had before, I haven't had any nausea, no mouth discomfort. Isn't it ironic that I'm beating the crap out of this life threatening disease and the bullshit thing that has gotten me down is this damn hair and how I look in the mirror?

This too shall pass. I just wish it would pass a bit more quickly. I can see it in the distance, that elusive confidence that I've had all the while. It's there, somewhere, I just need to find it. Meanwhile, I wish the tears (taxotere-induced or real) would just STOP already. It's enough, OK?

Do you think anyone would be alarmed if they walked past my office and my hair was sitting on my desk?

Ok, that made me laugh out loud.

I put the hair on the dog this morning. Both of them.

I should update this more often, it seems - it might not be as taxing on my chemo-fuzzed brain when I try and wrap a week's worth of stuff into a small period of time, seeing as I have the memory of a flea at times. The weekend was good. Fairly uneventful, and full of relaxation, a great run (8.25 miles - longest one in a while!!), some new restaurants, lots of sleep, and some good food and wine.

However, the weekend was also unfortunately peppered with tons of dumb hairs swan diving into the sink en masse. It was time, I thought, to do something about it. It had just gotten too thin to be as long as it was, and I couldn't stand the sight of it looking scraggly - at least by my estimation. This caused more tears than necessary, even though I found myself pleasantly surprised at times when I looked in the mirror expecting to appear a bit more bedraggled than I apparently look to the outside world. Still, I'm full aware of the fact that the transition from hair to no hair is the hardest part. I just hate the hardest part. The part about cleaning enough hair out of the sink each morning that could make an entire wig after a week. I am truly amazed that I have anything left on this head of mine at all.

Sunday night, I wasn't feeling my best. I'm not sure if it was the combination of the emotional drain of the dumbest of all hairs, the fact that I ate something that didn't quite agree with me, the extra half-beer when I should have stopped at two, or perhaps some kind of strange alien bug. Whatever the case, I tend to get a bit spooked when I don't feel right because I don't know if it's because I just don't feel right, or if it's symptomatic of something else. In either case, I was originally scheduled for Jury Duty on Monday, and although my juror group was excused, I (after much encouragement) took a not-feeling-well/mental health day. And much needed, at that. It helped. Greatly.

Monday consisted of a bit of working from home, a trip to Home Depot for some new flowers and herbs to plant, a stop at the Safeway for Monday Salad makings, a bit of Super Password, some down time with the puppers, and a trip to Gee Wigz. After trying on about 5 hair hats, I finally found one that actually looked remarkably like a haircut I've had in the past. So, I took the plunge and actually bought a doubleyew-eye-gee. By the time we sat down to eat our beautiful Monday Salad, I was amazed at how good everything tasted and how much better I was feeling. PHEWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

Tuesday, I called Adam Pink (my wonderful hairdresser that actually does quite a bit of work for Look Good, Feel Better , and had him take a look at what was there to see what we could do with it at this point. I ended up with a haircut that looks very much like the one above. Think I'll be able to fool the world once I need the doubleyew-eye-gee? Who knows. Really, who cares. (Well, besides ME of course - but I'll continue to pretend that I don't.)

And all of a sudden, Wednesday rolled around again. I put down over three liters of water on Tuesday, and as much as I could possibly handle on Wednesday morning. Apparently something worked, and my overused veins were back in action with only one stick each needed for both Tuesday's blood draw and Wednesday's chemo! The little things that make one happy... Apparently my quest to become the Ship of the Desert was successful (special thanks to my mother-in-law for snapping the most recent photo of me on record).

So, nine treatments down, enough hair on my head to suffice for the meanwhile, a six mile run the day after chemo aided by new Thorlo socks compliments of Larry and Jan. You know, I have to give kudos to them. Each and every Wednesday, I return home to find a gift bag with some weekly treat. They've been so good to me... although come to think of it, I have to wonder about the irony. The first few were food, and the latest ones are active-related... maybe they noticed I put away a bit too much of that See's Candy and homemade ice cream... hmmm. Kidding guys, I know you read this and I can't tell you how much I love everything.

Dichotomy. di·chot·o·my /daɪˈkɒtəmi/ Pronunciation Key - [dahy-kot-uh-mee] –noun, plural -mies.
1. division into two parts, kinds, etc.; subdivision into halves or pairs.
2. division into two mutually exclusive, opposed, or contradictory groups: a dichotomy between thought and action.

That word popped into my head in the middle of the night. I was searching for a particular word when talking to Greg the other day and trying to explain something that I just couldn't verbalize. I think that's what I was looking for. I struggle so much with the dichotomy between living as though we are not dealing with this, and realizing that we actually are. It's as if I wonder at times, "Am I doing this right?" "Am I taking this seriously enough?" But in reality, what on earth does that mean? I think I got spooked when I wasn't feeling well on Sunday, becasue I'm so used to feeling great. In reality, I think we're treating this the best way we can. Hitting it as hard as possible with the modern medicine that is available to us, while managing to maintain a nearly seamless transition to life as we know it with a few minor changes. Add the Tuesday blood draw, add the Wednesday chemo, and aside from that and being a bit more tired at night (which could be attributed to the fact that I'm just old, or perhaps that I've become very much a morning person over the years), all pretty much goes on without missing a beat.

Except for the following fun facts:

• My left eye twitches and my right eye tears. Except when I sneeze, then both eyes twitch.It's very attractive. I'm hoping that the twitch on the left doesn't get any worse and cause people to think I'm winking at them. That just might be embarassing.
• The hairs that fall out in the shower collect in my butt crack. Ridiculous. And most likely too much information, but the truth is, I have no idea why they choose to land there. Thankfully, being aware of this fact helps me mitigate the situation.
• My taste buds seem to be fine. So does my sex drive. So does my energy while on a run the morning after a chemo day. Thank god for small favors.
• Radishes planted from seed really do germinate in three days. I continue to be amazed by this fact.

Thanks Liz, for reminding me that people are waiting to hear what random streams of consciousness I have to share!

Carry on... life is good.

I suppose it's not a bad day, for a Wednesday. Treatment #8 is now behind me which means I'm a third of the way done. A third of the way closer to some end result. It's gone quickly, most of the time. Today, however, seems a little slow.

There were quite a few dumb hairs in the sink today - lots jumping ship these days, it seems. They have been conversing, sticking in groups of three or four at times. I suppose we don't want the jumpers. God, how I hate the hairball that I clean out of the sink each morning, and I'm not too enamored with the strays that I find on my shoulder or on my shirt during the day. All things considered, I am glad that to the outside world I still appear to have a normal head of hair, and that I don't see any thin spots when I do it in the morning, and that it's hung in there much longer than I originally anticipated.

We went to the Baywood office today, as Desert was overbooked. They scheduled me at 8:45 but we were told that the chemo could not be administered until a doctor got into the office. I wonder why on earth they scheduled me at 8:45 if there was nobody there to approve all things necessary. I remember looking at the clock around 9:20. I'm not sure if that's when they started the premeds, or began working on starting my IV. The infusion room was virtually empty at this office, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle and full suite at the Desert office. The nurses were very nice, and all things considered, the treatment went smoothly and quickly, once it finally got going. That, in and of itself was a tribulation.

I guess I didn't hydrate correctly this morning, or perhaps my tiny, rolling, tired veins were just not in the mood today. Six sticks and three blown veins later, they finally got the IV started. On the 4th one, or maybe it was the 5th, the nurse asked me if I just wanted to call it a day. "No f-ing way!" I replied. "I do NOT want to come back tomorrow." Six times a charm. All things considered, I'm glad they finally found one with a good blood return so I was able to put another round behind me.

We got the results back from the CA 125 test today. I'm not sure what I was hoping for. I think that number falls into the "dont' tell anyone your pipe dream" category. It went down to 465 from 536 which apparently results to an approximate 13% decrease. My first reaction, however, was disappointment. I wanted more. I wanted low, low numbers. I wanted a miracle. I realize that the CA 125 is not the end-all for tumor markers, and that there are many discrepancies in the results, to include the fact that a friend of mine who was diagnosed with Stage IIIB a few years back never had a CA 125 over 40. Could you imagine if they only used that to rely on for her? I know it's just a number, and all things considered, decreases are good. Perhaps something in there is working. I just want it to work more, better, faster.

So, I can't say that so far it's my favorite of all Wednesdays, as I don't love doubling as a pincushion, but I suppose that with the greatest of days also comes the middle of the road ones. I can't say, however, that it's my least favorite either.

I'm thankful for the weather cooling down and our run through the desert this morning, and for Super Password, and for sweet dogs. I'm thankful for being able to work from home on Wednesday afternoons and still being able to fulfill my billable goal. I'm thankful for the love and companionship of the wonderful man in the other room who sits patiently with me each week as they search for a vein, watches the life-saving toxins drip through the tubes, makes me laugh when he sings about the dumb hairs in the sink and how we don't want them anyhow, writes Wednesday updates for the people who love us, reassures me when the tears come when I am feeling let down about the test results, treats me like a person instead of a patient, makes me smoothies and pumps me with antioxidants and calcium and magnesium to make sure I stay strong, tells me I'm brave even when I don't feel so brave, runs alongside me in the mornings, and holds me close each night before we fall asleep.

All things considered, even on an average Wednesday, things could be much much worse.

Besides, I have mashed potatoes and sauerkraut to look forward to a little later.

This was plagarized from Greg's weekly Wednesday update, but I couldn't have said it any better myself...

There are medical terms that Jen and I don’t understand, and medical terms that we do understand. “WHOA!” falls into the latter category. “WHOA!” is the exact term that Dr. Cavalcant used today upon examining Jen’s abdominal area, after struggling to find the mass that once loomed larger. While whatever is in there still exists, it clearly has shrunk significantly, and that, in the understatement of the day, is very good news.

So, it's working. Whatever they are pumping into my veins each week is working. Thank GOD. I get my CA 125 (tumor marker) tested next week too, and with any luck it will have dropped from the count of 536 from mid-July. (Wow, I nearly made a huge typo and put 5236. It might have been high, but it wasn't THAT outrageous.) But the abdominal masses are shrinking. I had a feeling they were, seeing as I dilgently poke and prod the offending area each night before I fall asleep, at least once in the middle of the night, and a time or two in the morning before getting out of bed. Obsess much? I suppose I'm entitled.

It's working. The shit actually works.

Dr. C has also decided that I should take weekly doses of the Taxotere instead of 3 weeks on, one off, since I'm tolerating it so well, with the caveat that if I want the off week, I can always have it. So much for the less is more theory in this case. It won't shorten my course of treatment any more, but if whatever is working continues working, the extra boost can't hurt.

It's working... thank god.

Well, here it is!

It's not exactly 15 minutes of fame, but 10% of that isn't too shabby....

Yesterday morning after getting ready for work which includes straightening my hair daily, I walk out into the kitchen where smoothie making is in progress and must have had a troubled expression on my face:
"What's wrong?"
"Can I ask, will you humor me with something this week and maybe (sniff sniff) go to the (sniff sniff) wig store (enter tears) with me?"
"Ohhh... lots falling out today?"
(nodding)
"I don't know (sniff sniff) if that's what I want (sniff sniff) a wig (tear) but I know you'll tell me (sniff sniff) if I look absolutely ridiculous (sniff sniff giggle)."

And then there is my hair drying routine. Since I haven't had the chance to get to the gym often, I've wanted to keep my arms in shape. I've perfected the art of doing bicep, tricep, and shoulder exercises while alternating hands with the hair dryer. This is my hand weight of choice:
Apparently, the Costco-sized bottle weighs about 3.5 lbs. The problem is, I need a bigger bottle of scope now. Suppose I should find out where I put those hand weights...

Then, this morning:

(Me, in the bathroom doing my hair)"Uh oh. Huh. Oh boy."
(Greg, from the office, who can't see me from where he is) "What's the matter?"
"Huh. More dumb ones. I can't tell if it's more or less than yesterday."
"Well, like I told you, we don't want the dumb hairs. WHO NEEDS the dumb hairs anyhow? If they don't know enough to stick around and fight, WE DON'T WANT 'EM! Dumb, I tell you. The dumbest of all hairs. We just want the fighters."
(giggle) "What if I want them all?"
"I tell you, we don't want 'em. (I've now walked into the office) What are you talking about, Aunt Bea? You still have a full head there. (shaking his head) Dumb hairs. Who needs 'em. Anyhow, didn't you just shave your legs this morning?"

Chemo, I can handle. No problem, as long as my sometimes-temperamental veins hold up, right? My latest quest to either float myself or become a human camel has been working beautifully at keeping the Tuesday blood draw and the Wednesday chemo down to one stick apiece. This is quite the accomplishment for one with rolling, tiny veins. Six rounds behind me means I'm a quarter of the way to the finish line. I can do this. Even though there may be some Wednesday in the future that all I want to do is superglue myself to the I-beam in the garage at 1432 Dobson Road and stage a protest because the thought of walking in to Desert Oncology and facing yet ANOTHER treatment is enough to make me want to implode, I know can handle it, even then. Fearlessly, I'll continue to show chemo and cancer that have no idea who they decided to pick a battle with. The Race for the Cure? Year after year it puts the fear of God in me.

I walked my first Race for the Cure in October of 2000. It was 2 months after my first course of chemo treatments had ended, and the first time I went out in public without the security of my bandana on. I remember feeling overwhelmed as I struggled with the concept of who I was, and how I fit in the world of pink around me. I was supposed to embrace this, but in reality, I felt lost. In time, my hair grew back, my strength returned, and by 2004 I had become some semblance of a runner. Still, every year around this time, I start to hear advertisements for the Race, I receive my registration in the mail, and those Race for the Cure jitters begin to kick in. I can handle that too, right? Riiiiiiight.

These aren’t your usual pre-race jitters I’m talking about, these are ridiculous. And I mean absolutely ludicrous and irrational. Let’s face it, even though I’m not setting any records or breaking any tapes, I’ve become an OK runner that usually places somewhat respectably in my age group. My typical morning run is around 6 miles when I’m not training, and I’ve completed six half-marathons in three states since January 2006. And then, there’s the 3.1 mile Race for the Cure.

About a month pre-race, I start to have the dreams. Not your typical dreams, mind you, but dreams that more often than not fall into that category of preposterous. The other night I saw myself walking toward the staging area, late of course, wearing jeans and dress shoes. Men’s leisure suit white patent leather dress shoes that one might see in an ad for sans-a-belt pants. Yes, this is this what was on my feet and by the time I realized what I was wearing, and that I’d have to run in socks, despite that fact that my MP3 player was on my arm, but my earbuds were not attached AND that I had now missed the start of the race... doomed. Last year I think I had followed the signs incorrectly since they had re-routed the race, and it ended up taking me through a hotel corridor, up escalators, and through various ballrooms following signs with pink arrows to point me in the right direction. If any one ever knew about this, they’d revoke my right to purchase Asics, let alone enter an expo and pick up a race packet…

I’m not certain what it is about this particular event that tends to trigger this response within me. I’ve put some thought into it though, particularly over the past couple of years. It may be the fact that it’s one of the days during the year that I need to show my stripes, or wear my pink, as the case may be. It could be that for this day, I’m not just a runner that can blend into the crowd and go unnoticed. Perhaps it’s the fact that even though there are thousands and thousands of people out there, I am one of a select group within the masses. Perhaps I know in my heart that as a runner, I’m not sure I’ve ever finished this race knowing that I put it all out there, and in the process, haven’t managed to break my personal elusive time goal of xx minutes. No, I’m not telling. Runners World recommends that you keep your pie-in-the-sky goal to yourself. The thing is, it’s not unattainable by any stretch of the imagination, and I just haven’t gotten there yet. I also know that the Race for the Cure is a non-competitive event. That time? That’s for me.

Thankfully, over the past couple of years I’ve had Greg to remind me that this event is bigger than me running a race. Me, and the people like me, that’s the reason this event is held to begin with, and just to get out there and run, that’s what it’s really about. So, it’s that time of year again, and at the same time as my half-marathon training starts for January, I prepare myself mentally for another Race for the Cure. This year, I realize it’s even more important than ever, and that the awareness and funds and research that events like this generate are a huge part of the reason I’m able to receive treatments today that weren’t even available when I was first diagnosed seven years ago.

On October 14, I’ll have 11 rounds of chemo behind me. Maybe I’ll still have hair, maybe I won’t (although I’m hoping for the former…). I’ll be able to put another season of irrational dreams behind me and focus my energies on why I run. Maybe, just maybe, someone out there that is going through the same thing that I am will look at me and think, “I can do this, too.” For everyone who is out there and has either faced with breast cancer, will face breast cancer, or loves someone who has had breast cancer. For the people near and far who have reached out and wrapped their arms around me from all corners of the world, some of whom have never met me, and have lifted me up in strength, in prayer, in hope, and in faith. For my friends and family who unwaveringly and wholeheartedly believe in me and told me without hesitating “time to lace up your gloves” because they know I can beat this. My mom participated in her first Race for the Cure in Central Park this past weekend. She sent us an e-mail afterwards that read, “Today I learned the difference between a ‘Thriver’ and a ‘Survivor’.” Thank you for realizing what I’m about…

October 14, I’ll lace up my shoes and participate in another Race for the Cure 5k with Greg, once again, reminding me why I’m there. Somewhere around mile 2.6, the realization kicks in. I’ll look to my right and see the greatest friend, companion, love, running partner and co-survivor I’ve ever met, running alongside me. This year when I cross the finish line, whatever the time says on my stopwatch is what it is. Does the runner in me still want the PR? Well of COURSE. I suppose the difference in this event is that each PR or each step taken is still one step closer to a cure…