...Lace Up Your Gloves...

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.

A few years ago I made the decision to remove certain toxins from my life on my path to becoming healthy. Mentally, physically, emotionally. After years of neglecting the person I should have been paying more attention to, myself, I found myself struck with the stark realization that there were changes I needed to make, and the sooner the better. I somehow found the courage and strength to make the changes I needed to and take the first steps towards that glowing light of hope at the end of the tunnel that represented where I was headed. Since then, I've never questioned whether the choices I made were right as once my eyes were wide open, I couldn't help but wonder what had caused me to be stagnant in blindness for so long.

And now I have the knowledge that I can, and have, run 13 miles (or more). And now I know that I can hike to 14,497 without being affected by altitude sickness. And now I know that I can face one of my greatest fears, of the cancer returning, and feel confident in the fact that I'm going to beat this again, rather than spending my time wondering when it will take me.

I know what it's like to love and be loved without pretense and conditions. I know what it's like to have a healthy relationship and feel safe and protected. I know what it's like to receive news like we got and be able to wrap our arms around one another and let our tears intermingle as we allow ourselves to feel afraid for just a moment, all the while knowing that the fear will give way to strength and hope. I know what friendship is and how it feels to let people into my life and allow myself to trust. I know that there is a higher power up there, whatever form it may take for different people with different belief systems, that would not give me more than I can handle. I know.

I was talking to Alyson who recently broke the news to some mutual friends, people that I don't really talk to anymore for various reasons. I suppose I've always been wary of people trying to get back into my life now that they've "heard the news" because most of the time it's really more for them, than for me. I've come to the realization that in those types of occurences, the best thing someone could do is say a prayer and let it go.

Yet, every now and then the vapor of toxins appear in the distance which only re-confirm my confidence in where I am today. Today, I get to choose. I may not get to choose who hears what information, and I may not get to choose what they turn it into. I suppose this is part of the entry from the other day about living. People who have no idea will come to their own conclusions, and truly, who gives a shit. They want to write me off and give me a limited prognosis, go ahead. Just don't bother me with it. I get to choose who is allowed into my life and how much air-time I give to the rest of it, and I choose to let it end here.

At first when sensing toxins in the environment, I was thinking, I’d much rather live in my happy bubble than have to be dealing with this. Until I realized... holy crap. That the ‘happy bubble’ is actually my LIFE, rather than something I’m finding as a refuge in my mind. My bubble of my safe haven with the husband I wake up with every single day and friends and family and love and support and laughter and life and outdoors and the Booville Sluggers and minimal stress. Kinda cool, I think.

Because I know that even though there may be a handful of (dumb) hairs in the sink in the morning, that I still have a full head of hair. I also know that it may not be that way forever. So what. Can you believe that? Vain hair-head me, is saying SO freakin' what??? So I'm bald for a while. So I paint my head with Bengals stripes on any given Sunday. So the only person I truly care about how I appear to will still find me beautiful. So the chemo is working and it's a sign of life. So the hair grows back and I get to wrestle with it again.

Because I know how I feel on a daily basis and that I can still run, hike, walk, and go to the gym as before. Doesn't quite jive with prognosis negative now does it?

Because I know that I laugh more than I cry, exponentially.

Because Barb sent me a porcelain Wings of Hope butterfly ornament for no reason, with a picture <-- that said on the back , "Keep Thriving."

Because of the "believe" necklace hanging around my neck and because of the dozens of people who love me and who believe.

Because of the people who know my strength rather than selling me short and don't have a doubt in the world that this is merely an interruption.

Because if there is such a thing as a soulmate, I believe I've found one.
Most of all, because you just can't fake smiles like this.

Or at least that's what Dr. C told us yesterday. Week four, and even though it was a short treatment (Herceptin-only) day, it somehow stretched into the longest ever.

It started with a good run in the morning. Good, if you call 95 degree weather at 5:30 a.m. and 600% humidity "good". Then again, finishing a run, feeling strong, and not having to stop after 2 1/2 miles and use the bathroom because my body has just woken up and decides it just doesn't want to wait anymore, that's pretty damn good. Even if I do have to wring out my clothes when I get into the house. From the sweat, of course.

Then the backpack journalist from 12 News arrived. Promptly at 7:58 a.m. Damn good thing I listened to Greg for once and didn't jack around (too much) with the getting ready. My hair was flat (and still attached), my clothes were ironed, and my jewelery (including my Believe necklace from Aly and Jill) was in place. She stayed for about an hour and a half, interviewed both of us, and got footage of everything from the photos on our wall of trips we have taken and hikes we have hiked, to Nala's grey ass pointing at the camera while she adjusted her position on the couch during Greg's interview, footage of the dogs, the dog footprints after coming back in from the yard, Greg making a smoothie (not much for the audio at that point), and I'm sure some of the Miso-hair dust bunnies on the hardwood floor. Most of that, thankfully, will end up on the editing room floor, and hopefully they'll do a nice job and condense it down to 2 minutes of good stuff. Hopefully I don't look like too much of a dork, and they don't plug the Komen Race for the Cure more than they tell our story. Stay tuned... it should air on September 12.

Treatment was scheduled for 11:15, but included the bi-weekly visit with Dr. C. Which means we went back to the room for weigh, blood pressure, and heart rate around 11:35 and actually saw him closer to noon. Eh, ok. They told us he was running late when we got there.

He asked how I had been feeling, and how the side effects were, and joked "are you sure they are giving you stuff back there?" when we said I had little to no side effects and was pretty much going about business as usual. At that point I asked him if that meant it wasn't working. "It doesn't have to hurt to work," he said. Thank God. Keep bugging him. Apparently he's listening. Dr. C actually said that he was going to up my dosage a bit since he had some wiggle room and mentioned something about having treatments weekly as long as I could handle it, but it being OK if I needed to break for a week for some reason. This part we didn't quite understand at the time since I was coming in weekly anyhow even though the Taxotere was 3 on and 1 off, the Herceptin was still weekly. We soon found out that he had prescribed the Taxotere for that week as well, and assume he meant weekly Taxotere as well. I didn't take it yesterday since I had not taken the pre-meds the day before but when we see him in 3 weeks we can confirm with him if that indeed was what he meant. Meanwhile, from now on I'm up to 60 mg weekly from 50. Hey, whatever works.

So, back to the chemo room, which was pretty painless, except for the additional 30 minute wait in the waiting room and another 15 minutes or so figuring out the meds that were or weren't going to be given. All told, we finally got out of there, ridiculously hungry, around 2 p.m. So much for the quick day....

But wait, the best news! Dr. C did an exam, as he does each time we see him. As he felt the abdominal area he immediately told us that he thought he felt the masses had shrunk and that the bloating was greatly reduced. YA-FREAKIN-HOOO!! Looks like something is working in there! He made sure to let us know that it, of course, was just an opinion and we'd obviously get the concrete results after they stuff me back into a scanning machine (3 months, we're told) but that from his observations, they had decreased in size.

Being that these lump and bumps have been my obsession, and each time I get into bed at night I poke and prod at the general area, I had a feeling that they might have changed, and have noticed that my body seems to be regulating to whatever is going on in there. The bloating has gone down, by my estimation, and even though I've been eating normally, I seem to be back down nearly to my fighting weight (which, incidentally is a few pounds lower than Greg thinks my fighing weight should be). Either way, I'm feeling better about the somewhat disappearing waistline. It may be creeping back in and I don't feel 3 months pregnant anymore (which is a damn good thing because I would make a MISERABLE pregnant person - which is irrelevant).

It is ridiculous to say that it was a nice day yesterday? Who the hell says that chemo day is a nice day? Finally rid of Desert Oncology for the day, we had a much needed lunch at Rock Bottom Brewery, and headed home to find a basket from Larry & Jan of freshwater cucumber scented Bath & Body Works stuff (They spoil me. I don't know why, but they do. At least I won't eat this stuff...). We then proceeded to lay on the couch as I took my now-tradition, post-chemo nap. It's a strange phenomenon, this occurence of me actually allowing my body the time to just hang out and rest, even if I am feeling fine and not feeling like it's a necessity. What a concept. Dinner consisted of nibbling on spring rolls with Sriracha sauce, followed by fresh watermelon and sourdough pretzels. Yes, I know, there's no accounting for my taste buds these days, but it worked, I tell you, it just worked. We headed to bed early and snuggled in and had the opportunity to simply enjoy some time before drifitng off to sleep.

Chemo or no chemo, it was simply one of those days that I know I fell asleep with a big smile on my face. (Good thing, because Tuesday was just kind of "meh".)

I guess I forget sometimes what exactly I'm living with. I mean, there's not more than a few minutes that goes by that I forget, but on a day-to-day, hour-to-hour basis, I sometimes do. I don't *feel* like a cancer patient. I don't *feel* like someone who has gotten some kind of doom and gloom diagnosis. Mainly? I don't feel like anyone in the world has the right to say that I fit into any type of statistic or give me any type of prognosis as to how long this life of mine is going to last. Of course I know that statistics are based on a sampling of people that fall into a certain test study group. I also am well aware of the fact that aspects of my life put me into certain groups that studies have been done on. I'm intelligent, I'm educated, and I've been through this. What I think people don't realize at times is that medicine and technology are a dynamic, living, breathing, growing transformation. That two years can get me 10. That in 10 years, there may be a cure. That 10 years can turn into the 50 I'm looking for. Until then? There's not a chance in hell that I'm going to let someone tell me where I *won't* be, or where I *can't* be, or for that matter, what I *can't* do.

You want know what I can't do, according to what I "should" be doing? I can't hike 22 miles two days after a chemo treatment. I can't handle elevation without getting nauseous. I can't run 5 miles every other day. I can't possibly go to work as usual and keep up the same pace. Oh wait. Most people without cancer can't do that either. But wait...EFF-that. I just did.

One of the first times we were in the oncologist's office this time around, we read an article about the differences between early stage cancer and metastatic cancer patients, and how so many times, there is an enormous rift. Whether it's the fact that the metastatic patients represent the worst fears of the early stage "cured" patients, or that the early stage patients seemingly have it so much easier than the patients who are dealing with mets and multiple rounds of chemo, coupled with the fact that whether people are patients or not, cancer is scary as hell for everyone. I never realized there was such a divide.

The strange thing is, I see it even around me. Some friends are convinced that I beat this once, no problem. Pardon the interruption, I'll beat this again. Others are trying to wrap their thoughts around the fact that they think I now have a measurable timeline here in this world. Cancer is such a personal thing, and I find it fascinating that one person's story can range from incredibly inspiring and uplifing to unbearably painful to follow. Same person. Same story. Different perspectives digesting the same information.

I'm grateful for the ones that believe in me and know that I can beat this. The ones that see me as inspiring, rather than terrifying, because that's how I feel. I wish I could alleviate the fears of others, and perhaps this is my time to shine, to do some good to someone else. I can't really account for the ones that are scared of me, or of what I am going through, because cancer is a highly personal experience whether you are living with it, or just exposed to the reality that it exists. I suppose I just need to let people digest the information they have and the opinions they formulate about my condition or prognosis thereof on their own.

Me? Perhaps I'm the eternal optimist. Perhaps I know that there's a bigger plan for me than cutting this time short. Perhaps I know that if I spent precious time on the 'what if' I'd miss the now, because cancer or no cancer, there's not a single one of us that knows what the next day will bring.

Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it.

IT'S STILL THERE???!!!
It's still there. This is my new obsession. My hair. Actually, it's not all that new, but I seem to be more preoccupied with it these days which I know is directly related to the fact that I read that if it falls out, it will be within 2-3 weeks of the first treatment. This Wednesday marks three weeks since my first Taxotere infusion. The hair? It's still there.

Hair loss usually starts 2–3 weeks after the first dose of Taxotere, although it may occur earlier. Hair may be lost completely or may just thin. You may also have thinning and loss of eyelashes, eyebrows and other body hair. In one clinical study, hair loss was reported in up to 75.8 percent of people who took Taxotere.

Ok... so it it possible that I could be one of the 24.2%??? They also say that nausea and fatigue is common, but I haven't experienced any nausea whatsoever, and aside from being a little more tired at night sometimes, my energy level is pretty much normal. However... does this mean it's not working?

I suppose I could make myself insane if I chose to. I should probably choose not to.

Saturday I woke up certain that I was feeling some changes. I don't know if perhaps I slept on my head funny or something, but I just got this feeling that the hair was starting to go. Of course, after that, each hair that fell out (and I always lose hair daily, even pre-chemo) was a precursor to my thinking that the whole lot was going to blow off as soon as I walked outside and a strong wind blew. That would be a sight, huh? I'm starting to think it was phantom hair loss as it's now Monday and I still have a full head of hair.

You see dat hair? Yup. It's mine. All of it. Honestly, I think I am losing a bit more than usual, but I just don't know if it will all go. Stay tuned for that chapter.