...Lace Up Your Gloves...

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…