...Lace Up Your Gloves...

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…

Hunh. I wonder how it got to be September. Strangely enough it snuck up on me and was disguised in the unseasonably hot weather. Yet, it's September. September means that I'm coming up on my sixth week of treatment. September means that someday in the hopefully not so distant future there is cooler weather on the horizon. September means that somewhere in New England the leaves are going to start to change. September also means that once the month comes to a close, I'll have four more treatments under my belt. Or under my skin, into my veins, into the cells that need to be stopped. Really, nowhere near my belt at all.

It's been a nice, relaxing Labor weekend so far. Yes, I realize the gaffe - it's in honor of Alice who is "Having Labor" today (read: having the Labor Day party/cookout). The best part is that there are still the better part of two beautiful days left. The heat isn't oppressive today, the pool will be welcome, and I get to wear one of my new Victoria's Secret bathing suits today. Funny, I think back to when this was all discovered and we were convinced it was ovarian cancer. A secondary cancer scared the hell out of me, and I can't remember reading anything about ovarian Stage IV that didn't seem like gloom and doom. I remember being so sad, because the new bathing suits that I finally broke down and bought hadn't even arrived in the mail yet, and I was potentially faced with largely invasive surgery that was certain to leave me scarred and feeling not all that comfortable in a bikini at all. We researched all the wrong things, tried to prepare ourselves for what seemed like the inevitable, and then heard that we were all wrong. I think Greg was right. I think the devil we know is definitely better than the devil we didn't. And the devil is losing. And I get to wear my new bikinis and even when I feel a little bloated, I remember how thankful I am that I am able to look down at my body and see a smooth, pretty flat stomach and barely visible scars elsewhere, unnoticeable to most, left over from the first battle with the beast.

My dosage was upped by 10 mg this week. At first, I think I felt a little different, but in hindsight, I'm not certain I really did feel different at all, other than the fact that I anticipated feeling differently. Even the wine tasted pretty good to me this week, even though I'm only good for one glass at a time these days. It's not the worst thing in the world though, and my taste buds have been surprisingly tolerant of everything I have been eating all along. Which reminds me that I probably have a hungry person in the other room that is most likely waiting for me to do something with this mop of hair that is still hanging in there...

You know, I have a such a hard time remembering a life before we were together. Call it chemo brain, call it love, call it finally finding my place in the world. Whatever it is, I know I'm alive.