...Lace Up Your Gloves...

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.