200 Days

It seems like such a long time, and such a short time too. 200 days is way too long to have focused so much on cancer, and yet in terms of other things, such as the way the kids are growing up, it really does still fly by no matter what else you're doing. I should be officially done with the active part of my cancer treatment at Day 218. I will be doing the follow-ups for years, and I will still very much be a cancer patient, as I am now. Yesterday I was panicking because the pain in my spine is back. No matter that it went away for a month, that it's not there right now, that my son weighs 26 pounds and I pick him up a lot more or that I've been doing a new exercise routine. I'm in the new club now. Back pain? Bone cancer! That part is really hard. I'm just trying to ignore it now, assuming that I'm overreacting.

But I'm not really. Cancer crops up years later, where you least expect it, right when you think it's all behind you. I'm not going to focus on that now, because I am much more pissed off about the effects of chemo than of cancer itself today. Let me just shout out that I HATE menopause. I hate everything about it and how unfair it is that I have it at age 35. My hot flashes are a little better but still ridiculous. I'm figuring out how to deal with the changes in my sex life and libido, and even though I know I have a healthier sex life than many healthy people, no matter what anyone says I really HATE that part too. And boy do I hate my hair and my lack of eyebrows. I tried to figure out how to draw on eyebrows yesterday, because while my hair is coming in, my eyebrows seem to be thinning more if anything. I don't know if you can see it in this picture--do the eyebrows look bizarre? I've been bald for more than five months and I'm just now trying out the eyebrow makeup and I have no idea what I'm doing. I feel like I looked a hundred times better when I was bald as a cueball, with eyebrows. My hair is much longer than when I buzzed it off, but it's so fine and soft that it just sticks straight up and is not even thinking about lying flat on my head. Ugh.

I think my chemo-hating mood is exacerbated by the fact that I'm just starting to feel some radiation fatigue. I was told it would hit me right at day 20, and I had my 21st treatment today--2/3 done! This morning I'm just feeling exhausted, even though I did get some sleep. Don't get me wrong, I'm still planning on walking about three miles to my pilates session, but it might take me a minute. It also might storm, which would ruin my plan. It's been in the 60s here, warm enough to wear a skirt and short sleeves, as you see in the picture here. The temperature is supposed to drop 30 degrees today though. Ah, Chicago.

Anyway, my skin is doing remarkably well according to all the doctors and nurses, but it was irritated enough under my breast that I stopped wearing a bra a few days ago. I don't really need one anymore anyway, since I've lost weight even there, so I'll give my chest a break I guess. Aquaphor is still working for me, so I've just invested in a lot of camisoles and tank tops that will get thrown away when this is all said and done. No one tells you about these types of issues when you start treatment. Hopefully no one who reads this will ever need this information, but if you do, remember this: The cream will ruin your clothes, for good. Don't find out the hard way, as I did.

I keep hoping that with all the press around breast cancer, that things will get better or that there will be less mystery around the process of cancer. And yet I don't see any evidence of that. My acupuncturist, who had breast cancer 10 years ago, was talking about how she chastised her doctor when she had her lumpectomy because the whole process--the wire, the marking, the procedures you have before the surgery that they don't tell you about, how they leave you sitting in a wheelchair by yourself in the basement crying before they get you for surgery--was so terrible. I sent her a link to my lumpectomy blog as our experiences sounded so similar. I was glad to not be the only person to be pissed off about the whole thing, but also really sad. In ten years, nothing has changed, and no one seems to be listening.

Many people with other types of cancer might be pretty annoyed with what I'm saying. Breast cancer makes all the headlines, gets all the walks and the hope and all. Other cancers are often ignored or pushed to the side. But the hype doesn't seem to have changed much about the experience of having breast cancer itself, down to the stubborn refusal of the medical community to change its practices. Why will I be getting mammograms several times a year for the next several years when it has been proven that mammography is ineffective for young women, especially for women under 45? Why not ultrasound? When I think back to my initial denial--my one day of denial--on May 3 when I was in for the ultrasound that was supposed to show my clogged milk duct and instead showed two perfectly detectable round masses, and a third one in shadow--it was as clear as day. I didn't know it then, even though they were talking over my head about it, but my cancer was glaring in its obviousness: See this one here, at 2:30? And this one at 3? (They look at the breast like a clock, and your tumors get names for the time, but they don't tell you they're tumors right then. I wonder what they compare testicles to?) The mammogram that followed was almost pointless. I can still see that ultrasound picture as if it just happened five minutes ago, though at that time I had no idea what it would mean for me, for my life, for this 200 days.

I'm tired of writing now and need to get to pilates, so I'll end by saying that I hope that I will be able to look back on this 200 days someday. I don't mean to say that I hope I look back on it and laugh, or that I look back and realize that my life changed for the better or I felt the love or anything. I just want to be able to look back, to still be here to do that. That would be enough.

Day 191

It's been almost 200 days; I guess it's fair to say I'm still plugging along. I've finished 14 radiation treatments, and my skin looks no different than before, at least not to me. I know it's early, but the nurses seem to think it won't be too bad for me if I keep following the instructions. All that means is that I need to slather myself with aquaphor two or three times a day, all over the left side of my chest. This is obviously not a difficult thing to do, but let me tell you, I have already ruined a lot of clothes. That stuff is a nightmare of goopiness, and it doesn't come off in the wash. On the other hand, I didn't even have to buy any at the store--we have several containers at home, since that's what we've always used for the kids' diaper rashes.

I can't decide if cancer treatment is meant to infantilize you or make you feel old. Right now, it's a strange mixture of both for me. Diaper cream, baby chick head, loss of most of my other hair. Menopause, exhaustion. Some people treat me like I'm a fragile little thing, others like I'm two steps from death's door. Luckily, I've found that many people are capable of treating me normally, even if it becomes obvious that it takes some effort for them to do so.

I've been trying to go out in the world a bit more, since I spend so much time by myself at home. I thought I would be bored at home, since the only time I've ever had off of work since the age of 12 or so was during my two maternity leaves. It's impossible to be bored with a newborn in my opinion, especially when you're nursing. You turn around and the day is over, and you haven't even changed out of your pjs. Since I'm still sending the kids to daycare most days, I thought I would have all this time. What the hell happened? I cook all the time now, do laundry, run errands, and generally act more like a regular housewife than a cancer patient. I have been prioritizing some me stuff--I've started doing a pilates class once a week and will be doing personal pilates training with a friend once a week as well. I lift weights at home, and I still take my walks--we've had an extraordinary fall here, 70 degrees this week, and I've made sure to spend some time outside. These pictures are from Thursday, when we went to Lincoln Park zoo on a ridiculously gorgeous Veteran's day.

But where do the days go? They've been much more efficient at radiation, so I don't even have time to read the paper there. In fact, I figured out that the woman before me is always late, so I get there extra early, before her, and they take me back right away. She sees me on the way out sometimes and asks me incredulously if I'm already finished. How is it possible to be late to something every single day? I don't get it. This cancer treatment, it's your job. You have control over nothing so you might as well show up and get it done.

So I've been reading cookbooks for the most part and I've been fattening up a bit as a result. Gabe is probably happy about this, but not me. I'm a little obsessed with staying in the best shape that I can, since I'm convinced that I would be much closer to death's door if I'd weighed a little more and never found that cancer. But it's still hard to resist my own brownies, or my breaded tilapia or homemade meatballs or any of the other things I didn't have the energy to make or the desire to eat for so many months. Since I have failed to do so personally--and I will, I promise--I did want to take this opportunity to sincerely thank everyone who cooked for us during my four months of chemo. That was such a huge help, especially during the three months when I was working. I don't really know the best way to thank people, since I hope I will never have to pay anyone back in the same way. So until I figure out something better, just know that we greatly appreciated your generosity. Gabe still gets choked up every time we talk about it.

In addition to eating and exercising, I've been taking advantage of this spa Wednesday that the local hospital offers to cancer patients. It's called Faye's Light, and is funded by a special grant. It's really a cool program. I have received a few free massages, a free manicure, and I tried reiki for the first time for free. That wasn't for me, but the massages have been great. I have a few pedicures scheduled as well as a few more manicures and massages. Apparently the woman who started this foundation remembered how much her mother appreciated her doing her nails when she was in cancer treatment. Most of the time, when you have cancer, you are experiencing what we tell our kids is "bad touch." People poking and prodding you, sticking needles in you, poisoning you. What's especially sad is that for a lot of people, that's the only touch they get. I see some of these people at radiation. They are old, and they chat up the nurses because I think they have no one else to talk to, no other human contact. At the spa, I've never seen a man waiting for a treatment. I think that's really too bad--free massage is good for everyone, especially people who have gone through all the crap we have!

So I can add that to the list of things to be grateful for, even though I don't feel any pressure to develop such a list. I have had a lot of affection and love for someone going through cancer. Unfortunately, a cancer diagnosis can take that from you. But I am in a loving marriage and my kids still like me, even though Augie is often more likely to whack me than hug me, because he is just crazy. And I have recovered fairly well from chemo, except for these hot flashes which are driving me to distraction. I need to find something that works on them--acupuncture does nothing, and there's not a whole hell of a lot I can take. It is a really miserable situation and yet--it's the only thing I can see as lasting from chemo, outside of my strange looking hair. And don't get me wrong, it's a big thing, this killing of my ovaries. They didn't deserve to die, you know? What the hell did they do to anyone? But if I didn't have terrible hot flashes, I think I could deal with menopause, though it does make me sad.

I don't get sad that often, but sometimes things hit me. Yesterday I was thinking about this couple whose wedding we attended years ago. They came to our wedding as well; we were friends, and I worked with the woman. She had a teenage daughter who was her whole world. Now she is gone, and so is her husband. He was young and healthy and died relatively quickly from stomach cancer. She died very unexpectedly a short time later, of natural causes, though I think she was maybe 37 at the time and there was nothing obviously wrong with her at all. I think her daughter is in college now, and I know she would be so proud. I was crying quite a bit thinking about this yesterday. Crying to think that neither of them is here anymore, crying because her daughter had so much loss, crying to think about how much has changed in just six short years, for how much in life is unforeseen, but also crying for selfish reasons, because I know she would have wanted to see her daughter graduate high school and I really want that too. Crying also because it made me angry to think about all the folks who talk about being positive, having faith, fighting. They both had all of that. Cancer just took him so quickly, and made him suffer so much; it also was so so hard on her. No young person could ever see that coming.

I wonder sometimes if that's what's in store for me, that suffering and death, but I also wonder what kind of justice it is if it's not. What makes me different? Why do some people get lucky? There's just no good answer. I hope that when this treatment is over, it's really over. I hope I can be like Gabe one day and say that I "had cancer." But these next three years will be harrowing. It's not until then that I can stop holding my breath, being a triple negative, with a high chance of recurrence or God forbid metastisis in those years. Can I just speed up time and get to that magical three year point? If I could, I guess I wouldn't, because I would miss out on a lot with my kids.

The other day I met another cancer survivor, right after pilates class. She asked me if I was going through cancer treatment. It's so interesting that only other people who have gone through it will just straight up ask you when they see the evidence on your head. We got into a long conversation. She was diagnosed at 40, 6 years ago, so I told her she should be good. Triple negative, BRCA positive, double mastectomy and ovaries removed. At one point she said, I have had everything taken from me that made me who I thought I was, and now I feel like I really know who I am. She said that at the same time, cancer has made her insecure, and she hates that, though it's good to be here to admit to it. I wondered if insecure is the right word. You can't be too insecure if you're out in public talking about your breast implants and how you think they look fake. You can't be too insecure if you point to another bald woman's head and say, yeah, I only wore my wig once. You aren't too insecure if you give this total stranger your number and tell her to call you. Haunted, maybe, still waiting for the other shoe to drop, but not insecure.

So I think I will call her. This is the second time in my adult life that a woman, a total stranger, has given me her number. The other time was years ago on the El, when a woman I talked to on the morning commute gave me her number and told me to call her if I ever wanted to go shopping or go to lunch. Maybe six years later, when I was pregnant with Lenny, I stood up in that woman's wedding. Having cancer makes me wonder why this doesn't happen more often. Why do we have so many walls up, especially we women? What is there to lose? It's as if we only learned how to reach out to strangers if they are good looking men. And then we learn that doesn't work out too well, so we don't do it at all. I think this is going to be my new year's resolution. All those friendly people in the gym at work, at water aerobics, on the train? You'd better watch out. You might be hearing from me. In the meantime, if you already have my number, feel free to give me a call. I'm in more of a talking mood these days. To some extent, cancer encourages you to focus on what is really important and let the rest go, though it is hard to do that on a day to day basis. On that note, nice work, Northwestern!

Day 165: The Last Chemo

There was a time, including last night, when I really thought this day would never come. I have had terrible insomnia due to my hot flashes, but I was so tired last night that I did fall asleep for about 4 hours, and I had these crazy chemo dreams. I showed up six hours late and missed my chance to have chemo. My numbers were horrible and they told me I needed to wait a month. Gabe forgot to drive me and I couldn't get to the hospital. It was like the dreams where you show up naked to give a speech or where you forget to go to your final exam, except much more morbid and with more serious consequences.

Gabe and I went out to Union Pier, MI, on Saturday for our 6 year anniversary and my mom watched the kids overnight. It was a great trip, albeit short, and it did manage to distract me somewhat from chemo thoughts. Not entirely though--it's not as if the hot flashes decided to take a vacation, and of course the owner of the Inn had a story about his wife with metastatic breast cancer (she survived) so it all really does kind of follow you. But I think if I had stayed home all weekend I would have been obsessed with today, and that would not have been a fun way to spend a beautiful few days of my favorite month.

Today I was so nervous on the way to Northwestern that I couldn't talk in the car. I had to see the doctor after my bloodwork was drawn since it was the last chemo and I worried that I would wait forever and not get a room to myself. This actually almost happened. I saw him about a half an hour after my scheduled appointment, a record of timeliness, and I thought about telling him how I felt and just said screw it, asked my questions, got some flip answers and walked out the door. The nurse who always takes me back to the chemo suite pulled us aside as soon as we got to the waiting area and said, I'm so glad you're here! I wanted you to get the room before the next lady but I didn't see you out here.

So we just barely got our room with the lake view (though they built the rooms wrong--you can't see the lake when you're lying in the hospital bed, though your guests can see it). I wore my party shoes--the turquoise and red cowboy boots I bought years ago in Austin, TX. And lo and behold my numbers were excellent--better than the last time. My veins seemed tired and took lots of coaxing but once the nurse (here's a picture of us when I was all done) put the IV in she did it effortlessly and it hardly even hurt. So victory number one: eight rounds of chemo plus one hospital stay that required a 36-hour IV and included one blown vein in my hand--and I never needed a port. At the ER last month, they were shocked that I had no port. But that makes it easier, they said. Yeah, for you. I don't want that crap in my body. Someone gets paid to figure out how to do blood draws and IVs, and I shouldn't need two extra surgeries to spare them the trouble.

I did have allergic reaction #3 this time during the infusion but it was milder. I felt myself getting hot, though in a different way than the hot flashes. Gabe noticed my red face, and so did the nurse, but she just watched me. I said I'd rather avoid more steroids if it didn't seem too bad. She never stopped the taxol and I didn't get more steroids. Victory #2, I guess. We'll see what happens with the flushing, shortness of breath and rash over the next few days--at least now I know to take the zyrtec.

I have been saddened to have some major tingling in the fingers of my right hand this evening. I really thought I would avoid neuropathy since I haven't had any up until this point. I'm hoping it's transient, since it's in the hand where the IV was placed. I'm also hoping my new peach fuzz doesn't fall out. If you click on the close-up picture of me at chemo, you can see my new virgin hair (plus an acupuncture needle in my neck). In a few pictures Gabe and I took over the weekend in Michigan, the hair even looks red, though to me it looks colorless up close--just like Augie's hair as a newborn.

It's an immense understatement to say that I'm ready to put chemo behind me. I can't really believe I don't have to do it again. I had BETTER not have to do it again--having a recurrence or God forbid a "mets" is just too horrifying to imagine. I don't have another mammogram until the end of February, so I have at least that long to know that I'm chemo-free. I see the oncologist and surgeon again on January 4th, for more breast exams and to talk about how I'm healing and any lingering side effects (you're fine! you look great!). I'm relatively impressed with my breast's healing, actually. I have that half-moon scar and the indentation, but considering the size of my breasts and the fact that I had two surgeries, it looks pretty damn good. Now, radiation will make it look like hell for a while, but after that it will be perkier than the other one. The skin will never be the same, but it could have been much worse.

Ah, radiation. I am getting mapped tomorrow. I'm not looking forward to it. I will get another one of those painful radioactive injections that's not supposed to hurt for long--unless you're thin--and I will get a cast made of my breast. I don't need underarm radiation since my lymph nodes weren't involved. But I will get a few tattoos--probably several since I had several tumors. I find this fairly ironic. I am 35 years old. I don't have any tattoos; I don't even have pierced ears. Stupid cancer makes me get tattoos and they won't even be interesting--just black dots on my chest. If I was a normal, more Irish redhead I would have freckles and moles all over my chest and it wouldn't look as obvious, but I'm not and I don't. But more on that tomorrow--I will write about the mapping experience since I feel like it's my duty to explain things to others, since so little has been explained to me. I just wanted to write this last chemo blog tonight.

If I write it, it might be true, right? Can I get a witness? No more chemo! Say it with me! I'm done, so it's all over but the shouting as they say, or but the waiting, to see how this has changed me in the end. Is the menopause permanent? What will my hair look like? Will Gabe change his mind, which right now is set on me staying bald or with extremely short hair because he loves it (this from a guy with a redhead fetish? weird)? Will my heart be ok? Will I have neuropathy? Will my cancer come back or metastisize--will this have done any damn good?

That's the stuff that will never really leave my mind about this experience. I know it could have been worse. There are many things that didn't happen: no port, chemo brain, blood transfusion, extreme weight fluctuation, fatigue that made it impossible for me to function on at least a low level, no major illness or temperature landing me in the hospital (I'm knocking on wood since my WBCs are set to tank in a week due to the lack of neulasta). But so many things did happen, and I can't really say anything positive about chemo. It was really, really, shitty.

Now, I am so grateful for the help we have been receiving in the form of people cooking for us, doing yard work for us, and being our back-ups when crazy things happened and we needed help with the kids. I'm humbled by the people who are reading this blog, some of whom don't even know me that well. But what all that means is that I know cool people, not that breast cancer or chemo is positive. That's where I guess I'm different than the October-awareness bandwagon. You recognize positive things when something bad happens and people pull together, but the thing is, those people were already there. I still wish the bad things hadn't happened--the big one (cancer) and it's attending poison. I would rather see people at a party than have people help take care of me because I can't take care of myself. And of course, some people have pulled away from us, and I understand that too. It's some heavy shit--cancer's not good.

But as the chemo nurse said today, you did it--you made it. I know radiation won't be fun, but I figure it can't be as bad as chemo. It's every day and that in and of itself is a pain in the ass, but it should be easier. I need to see how the next few weeks go and I need to not get sick, but I did it, didn't I? I'm here, in one piece, though a strange piece it is. Fuzzy-headed and with half my eyebrows and lashes, scarred and dented, alternately burning hot and freezing, sometimes bloated, with fewer appetites of all kinds than before, muscle-atrophied and tired. But I can think and remember and write and walk and eat and enjoy my family and friends, and I didn't hide in the house like I thought I would. That bald lady, or that lady with the green wig or the do-rag in the hot sun, she was out there. Maybe less than before, maybe slower or by herself more often, but there. I'm very aware that there are a lot of people in my situation who can't say that. I might be one of them someday. But not yet--not yet, not yet.

Day 160

It's interesting how a person can be simultaneously thrilled by something and terrified of it at the same time. I absolutely can't wait for my last chemo. I would do it today if I could. On the other hand, I'm so afraid they will send me away due to bad #s, and I will be crushed. I worry that I will have a more severe allergic reaction or my heart will not react well again, or that other side effects that I have somehow avoided, like neuropathy or dead fingernails, will happen with the last one. I worry about not doing neulasta and that I will get an infection when I have no white blood cells left for a few weeks. And yet, I am ecstatic that I don't have to do that shot again.

It's funny how you can get used to things. My eyebrows are largely gone, as are my eyelashes, but since they're not entirely gone and they're so fair anyway, it doesn't look that weird to me. Maybe I'm just telling myself that. I've also gotten used to being tired, to the point where it doesn't affect me that much. However, sometimes I can't tell if I'm tired due to chemo fatigue or due to the fact that I never sleep because of these damn hot flashes. Seriously, I have two an hour all night long. I often don't fall asleep until 3 am. I end up missing breakfast with the kids almost every day since Gabe lets me sleep and I'm too exhausted to know what time it is. Acupuncture has not been helping with this, much to my dismay. I did it yesterday and it seemed to help for about 12 hours, but that doesn't really cut it. Oh well--I'm going to keep it up anyway. Maybe it's helped with my immune system, which I will need since I won't take the neulasta this time.

The woman who has been doing acupuncture for me is a breast cancer survivor herself. She does the free acupuncture for the hospital that I will be going to for radiation as well. Ironically, she was doing that before she was diagnosed 10 years ago. So she knows all about breast cancer both from her own perspective and from seeing so many other women who have gone through it. Though she didn't have to do chemo, it is so refreshing to not have to explain everything about what I'm going through. When she asked me what type of chemo I'm doing and I said taxol, she said, well that explains the hot flashes. And she offered to do special acupuncture on my spine for bone pain without my asking.

She also referred me to an organization called ROW, Recovery on the Water. I am very intrigued by this. It's basically a bunch of breast cancer survivors who row on the Chicago river. That sounds like my kind of support group--the kind where you exercise and don't have to talk about cancer--if I can find the time to do it once this treatment is over. I mentioned to the acupuncturist that I wondered if it was true that things got worse emotionally once treatment is over--something I've heard many times. She said she sees that happen, but she doesn't think it will happen to me. Why not? Well, you seem to be a realist. You don't strike me as someone who has been in denial. The women who tell everyone they're fine, who are all smiles, they're the ones I worry about later.

That gave me some food for thought. Could it be that hating chemo is good? That crying and being terrified and hating cancer from day one might have helped me? I have no idea. I do know that it would be hard for me to imagine a time that would be harder emotionally than the entire span of May 4-June 25. Sometimes I can't even believe I had that conversation on the phone with the radiologist who told me I had cancer. And everything that happened after that--finding out I was triple negative, that I had three tumors, waiting for the BRCA test, during which time I had no idea if I was going to have to lose both breasts and my ovaries, going through surgery and not knowing until then if my nodes were involved or what stage I was, finding out I would have to do surgery again, not knowing until two days after that if my margins were clear, and therefore not knowing if I would need a mastectomy still, having my chemo put off, not knowing what chemo to choose or what to expect--my god, it was a total nightmare. How did I go to work and get in front of a crowd to speak at my conference? I remember talking to people and thinking, the next time I see you I will be bald. And that terrified me too.

So I can imagine that I will feel somewhat adrift in January, when as a triple negative survivor they tell me, ok you're done, go home and resume your life. This will be somewhat difficult after spending 8 months in treatment for cancer. I will be terrified of every mammogram, especially those first few, since I will be so close to being out of treatment that I will want to just lay down and die if I have to do it again so soon. But will it be harder than what I already did? I just don't see it. It's not like I will suddenly realize that cancer could kill me or that this is really happening. It's not like I will suddenly cry for the first time or stop being brave. I've been crying and scared the whole time.

I'm starting to really appreciate some of the other things that happened to me that helped mentally prepare me for dealing with cancer. The epilepsy, the car accident. Because I know what it's like to have something in the back of your mind all the time that is not in the back of most people's minds. A few months before I was diagnosed I wrote a short essay for the website of CURE, Citizens United for Research in Epilepsy, because I know the founder and I had offered to do something writing-related for them. They have a lot of really heart-wrenching stories on the site, and I worried that mine would seem pretty lame by comparison. Most are not written by people with epilepsy, but rather by their families. In some cases that is because the person in question died, or is too incapacitated by epilepsy to write for themselves. The stories that are written by those personally dealing with epilepsy involve current struggles.

I haven't had a seizure in 20 years and I stopped taking medication when I was 17, so I wrote about my childhood with epilepsy, but also about how it is always there with me. You are never "cured" from epilepsy. It can always come back; when I got pregnant, I was anxious for months each time that the hormonal changes would give me seizures. I worry about my kids having seizures, but also about my ability to take care of them if I have epilepsy again, and that some of these cancer drugs might trigger seizures. I'm the crazy mother who snaps my fingers in front of my daughter's face when she doesn't respond to me, and I yell at her, not because I'm mad, but because I think she's having a seizure instead of just ignoring me. I'm the one who sees my son being aggressive or not forming words and where some people would worry about autism, I worry about that out loud but secretly wonder if he's having seizures at night, which is a big cause of speech and developmental delays.

If you're interested in the story, check out http://www.cureepilepsy.org/home.asp and look for "Katy's Story" on the lefthand column. You should also read the other stories; this is a great organization. Anyway, the grand irony is that at the end of the story I wrote about how I felt like I'd dodged a lot of bullets in my life and I worried that the next one would get me. And then I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer for which there is no treatment except chemo. Is this my bullet? I don't know, but I think I do know how to weave it into whatever is left of my life, because to a smaller extent I've had to do that before.

Or at least I hope so--I want to come back, be me again. For a while that will be a mangy-haired, tired, menopausal, radiation-burned, haunted version of myself, but it's what I'm looking forward to as my new years resolution. In the meantime, I can always be someone else. Lenny had asked me to get a green wig to be a witch for Halloween, and I couldn't find one anywhere. I have a long purple one and a witch's hat. But then I came across this "English mod wig" and thought, you know what, that looks dope. I wore it to pick her up from school yesterday and she loved it. The other kids didn't even notice, so I wonder how I can think they would notice me bald. And the teachers loved it too. Do I look mod? Do the mod Brits have electric green hair? Who knows, but when I put that wig on I'm doing it for fun, not to pretend I don't have cancer and that I'm normal. I think the normal came out of the equation a long time ago, perhaps I've never really been normal, so maybe that shouldn't be the goal after all.

Day 156: Starting the New Normal

For the last few days, I've felt almost normal. I even forgot to take my beta blocker yesterday, to no apparent ill effect. I've been taking allergy medicine for the reaction I was having to taxol, including this mysterious rash on my ankles and feet that I was at first convinced was bedbugs. (I thought maybe bedbugs were like mosquitoes and they all just flocked to me, ignoring everyone else, including Gabe, but I'm told that's not the case.) Everything seems to have subsided. So while I'm tired, I am starting to understand what everyone is talking about when they mention the new normal.

Because it isn't like it used to be. We went out last night, and I saw Gabe sing karaoke for the first time in the 7.5 years we've been together. He was careful to pick very cheerful songs, including You make me feel so young. There was a guy at this place celebrating his birthday and he was singing Only the good die young. Gabe loves Billy Joel (not my favorite, I'll admit) so I said, that guy did it first! Gabe noted that it would be a party foul for him to sing that song.

Oh, right. True. We wouldn't have thought of that before all this started. I also ate a lot of pizza, way more than I've been able to eat for a long time, and I said something about eating too much, or worrying about gaining weight. Gabe said he wanted me to weigh 120 pounds again. Why, am I too skinny? Well, what did you weigh before May? Maybe around 119, 120. I guess that even though my weight loss is unrelated to cancer, below 120 is like my BC size. My size-2-ness must remind him that I'm different than I used to be, and "used to be" does not mean the things for us that it means for other couples. You know, some people say, how we used to be, and they mean, when we were dating, before we had kids, when we first met, when we lived in separate apartments, before we slept together, when we were young. For us, it means, before I had cancer, before my body became an enemy on top of all the other things that my body used to be.

Everything is a reminder, even when it seems like everything should be the same. I'm still bald in all the pictures, though my head is fuzzy now with translucent hair, and I need to shave my legs again. My left eyebrow is pretty much toast, but I've learned to use the eyebrow shadow from the cancer shop. Sometimes I stop and wonder why my boob is hurting. Oh, right, those surgeries. The ones that took out the CANCER. I remember when it was just a time of the month problem, which of course I don't have now, having lost my time of the month to chemo.

Sometimes the nerve pain in my arm returns, usually while doing something like driving. (Talk about normal--I drove to Indiana and back today, and had energy and could see normally and everything! and I still hate Indiana drivers!). And I do things like pick up both my kids, carry a bunch of apples or a pumpkin, push a stroller filled with groceries and babies, and I remember: I'm not supposed to do these things.

They used to tell women who had breast cancer that they could never lift more than 15 pounds for the rest of their lives. Even today, I have been told by some doctors to not even lift my purse on the left side. I am supposed to wear gloves to wash dishes, always put sunscreen on the left arm, favor it when exercising. All to avoid lymphedema, a swelling of the arm that could happen at any time when your lymph nodes are removed.

I hear these things and I just think, yeah right. 15 pounds? My son weighs 25. I'm right handed, so of course I pick him up on the left side. I walked Lenny to school yesterday and she fell, skinning her knee, so I had to pick her up and carry her the last block. She weighs 29 pounds. There are lots of dishes in this house. It's October, and the sunscreen has been put away except for the stuff I put on my face and my head. I'm supposed to lift weights and exercise in order to help stop the chance of a recurrence. But what, only on the right side? Just to look extra lopsided, or what?

I do these things anyway, with some measure of caution, since if I am going to live a while, which is fairly possible I suppose, I have to actually live. I've learned that lesson before--reminders are just that. If your liver is enlarged, you remember not to drink a lot. If bright lights hurt your eyes, you remember not to look into them to avoid having seizures. You don't know how to play video games, you don't dance at places with strobes. When it rains, your hips hurt. Your kids come out early because your body knows better than to try to deliver them at term.

So it is with this. People in crowds look at me and I remember I'm bald. That one's on me, I know. I wore my hair and a a hat to an event at Lenny's school the other day. We met a couple there; they have a daughter in Lenny's school and another one at Augie's daycare. I saw the dad the next day at Lenny's school and he didn't recognize me. I said hello, he looked at me strangely and I realized I just had a scarf on my head. Today, we made it apple picking, though we were too late in the season to pick our own apples. At one point an older man came up to me and asked how I was doing. When I said I was fine, I knew what was coming. Are you a survivor? Yes, I am. He started telling me that his wife just lost her hair for the second time, right after she was able to make her first appointment with the hairdresser. He said her lung cancer had metastisized to her brain and she had six tumors. She never complained, they never talked about it much at all. I said well, I sure have complained about chemo. He laughed--I guess it's no fun for her either; she sits in bed a lot eating cheetos because that's all she can tolerate.

There's one picture of cancer. A woman sitting silently in bed eating junk so she won't vomit, not talking to her husband, who clearly needs to talk to someone or he wouldn't be randomly accosting bald women in the apple orchard. And he said she was so disappointed--about her hair, she was so happy to have it back. I thought, she just couldn't tell you that it wasn't disappointment, it was terror, and it wasn't about her hair, it was about those brain tumors. I wanted to say, this is the last thing I need to hear right now, but I knew he needed to tell me, just like the owner of our favorite restaurant told us a long story last weekend about how he understood what I was going through because he had a scare with stomach cancer.

But a scare is not cancer, and your hair is not your brain, and looking and feeling somewhat normal is not the same as how it was back on May 3, back when I was a different Katy that people could relate to more easily. And maybe that's what I need to do--be more like that Katy, less focused on what's happening in this body of mine. Maybe, but maybe not. Perhaps being stoic saves some of those around you from the pain, but it doesn't seem that it helps those who are the very closest to you at all. Because then they need to be stoic too. And I am not married to a stoic man, and my kids aren't stoic either. I'm sure there are a lot of people who would rather not know the things they learn here in this blog, or who would rather see me with a wig on, or who are more likely to want to talk to me in January. In the meantime I think about these reminders, and I feel like I'm almost on the other end of cancer treatment, the part where I try and go about my business, my non-cancer business.

For now, I'm all cancer, all the time. At least in theory. I'm not working anymore. I've started the three week leave I need to take to qualify for short term disability. Once that's over, I might go back to work sporadically, or I might not go back at all until I'm done with radiation. I just don't know--I'm tired. I worked a mostly normal schedule for five months after diagnosis, while trying and often failing to take care of two little kids. For some women, work is a distraction from cancer. For me, I have two little distractions at home, and work--while it helped to feel productive, get out of the house, and take the train and interact with other adults--took me away from them quite a bit. Once my WBCs tanked and then I was in the hospital for my heart, I thought, what the hell am I doing? I need to be home and just get through this. Get it over with, plan some holidays, do some yard work, go to acupuncture without risking my life in cabs every time.

Ah, acupuncture, how I love thee. It hasn't helped much with these hot flashes, but I'll give it some time. And I've had a few massages as well, since taxol does such a horrible number on your bones and joints. The first time I went it was a strange experience. I've had many massages before, and I've had them from this same masseuse several times. This time I was so floored by the feeling of her hands on my back, my toes, my bald head, my tailbone, legs, my neck. I thought, this feels so good! Someone touching me in a healing type of way, without sadness, without fear, when for an hour my body could be a friend again, rather than an enemy. It's interesting how you are touched less with cancer. Fewer hugs from friends, more distance. I'm not the most affectionate person anyway, but again, it's a reminder. And Gabe and I have been torn from each other in some ways--sleeping apart, him taking care of me, me staying somewhere else when people are sick. I told him once that I thought he was much less affectionate since I got cancer (I never say since I've been sick--I don't feel sick. I feel like a person with cancer), or more specifically since I started chemo. It's because I'm bald, right? Because I'm unattractive now. He has convinced me to some extent that this isn't true, that he likes how I look bald and the rest of me looks the same (really? that slight dent in my breast, those scars?) but that he didn't want to bother me, to annoy me, or make me sick if he was sick.

I have never liked to be bothered. That's what's funny about the massages. I always hated back rubs. My mom and brother used to rub each others' backs and I would try it only to feel like I was crawling out of my skin. And boys, or men, would try to rub my back but as everyone knows, only for ulterior reasons and it always seemed to me like a waste of time when you could just get to the point. I like to spoon, until I am sleeping, then I want to be left alone. But I do love a massage, and even more so now, when I am alone so much more of the time. It's like prostitution in a way, isn't it? You don't have to give anything in return, nothing but money.

Maybe I won't be a new-ager after all, not with those types of comparisons. I'm laughing right now, thinking about the time when I went to chemo by myself, and there was a woman there who was sitting on the floor in the waiting room, bowed over like she was praying. Her husband was sitting on the couch with their bags, and a volunteer came over and asked if she was just meditating or if she needed medical assistance. She got up and said, I'm fine, I just don't believe in chairs.

I was hiding my face behind my People at that one, trying not to laugh. But then she was called back for her bloodwork and her husband came with her and I realized what was happening and I felt a pang in my heart instead. This was her first time. If it hadn't been, she wouldn't have brought him back for the blood draw. They came back a few minutes later and she sat on the floor again, head down. I felt for her, and wanted to say something about how it would be ok, but how would that sound coming from me, with all my chemo issues? She looked up at me and I was about to ask her if it was her first chemo (of course it was, she had a full head of hair), but then she looked down. I realize now I was like the guy in the orchard to her. A portent of bad things to come. Bald, by myself, reading trashy magazines, resigned to the routine. So I didn't say a thing. If it helps to believe in the floor, believe in it then. Do what you need to do.

The chemo nurse told me to bring my party shoes on October 18. I've been putting a lot of thought into that actually. There are deep cancer moments, moments of fear and faith and resignation. And there are those moments where I wonder if I should wear heels or cowboy boots, red or purple or brown, if my party shoes should be comfortable or impractical for that last chemo. After all, some people don't believe in chairs, I don't believe in ugly shoes. Until that day, and for many after that when I am doing radiation and everything else, I will continue my massages, and my acupuncture, and my allergy medications. I will keep up with my blog writing, pizza eating, laughing, bitching, lovemaking, sleeping, crying, hot flashing, and whatever else I'm still good at doing. And then, nine days from now, if all goes as planned, will be the last time I will need to go in that room and sit up straight in that chair in the waiting room and go through all the rest of it. I have to tell myself that, that it's almost over, that it won't come back. It goes through my head in a continuous loop. One more, one more, one more. Only one.

Day 152: Taxol #3

Chemo #7 went as scheduled yesterday, though nothing just happens easily with this, it seems. My #s were fine, thanks to the neulasta I guess. This will be the last time I take that--next time we will just let my blood counts tank and hopefully I will not get an infection or fever. Again, I don't know how the lack of neulasta will affect my radiation schedule--we just need to wait and see.

Taxol #3 came with allergic reaction #2. Gabe was with me this time, and he saw me turning red as I got hot; I also got immediately stuffed up. The taxol was turned off and I was given a small amount of steroid; waited the requisite half an hour and started it up again. I seemed to do ok for the rest of the infusion. Yesterday I felt pretty good, and was up all night again due to the steroid.

Incidentally, my hot flashes seemed to be better last night. I had several that woke me up, but they weren't every half an hour. I'm hoping the acupuncture I did on Friday, combined with the free acupuncture I got during chemo (we have never brought a camera to chemo but that would have been a great shot--needles all over me, ivs, tomato face) are going to help with that. I may turn into a new-ager after all.

Today, I felt pretty good in the early part of the morning. But then I started feeling short of breath again, heart pounding, stuffed up, and my face was really flushed. In fact, the left side was much more flushed, and I had a temperature 2 degrees higher on that ear than the other. I emailed the chemo nurse and she agreed I should take some benadryl. I think they finally believe me that I'm having allergic reactions. They even seem concerned about my shortness of breath, though yesterday there was this long discussion about whether I was just having an anxiety attack before when I went to the hospital. Sure, I was pretty anxious about eating those pancakes. It wouldn't have anything to do with the poison in my body. Sigh.

The benadryl helped with the flushing and the stuffiness, but this shortness of breath is scary. I thought it could be neulasta--respiratory distress and fast heart rate are rare complications. But I'm told it's probably the taxol and I should take some zyrtec or claritin. My house has become a depository for over the counter drugs. It is really ridiculous, especially since most of them haven't done a damn thing for me.

I'll try the zyrtec once the rest of the family is in bed since I don't want to be knocked out yet. We're having quite a time here--Lenny's had stomach flu again and Gabe seems to be catching it. Lenny got sick at a birthday party on Saturday and aside from taking a 3 hour nap on Sunday, was fine until last night. She woke up throwing up, and doesn't remember it happening at all, even though it was pretty violent. Somehow Gabe went to work and my mom helped with Lenny today--I needed to avoid her, and I was also pooped and feeling weird. She seems ok, but this is another reason we need chemo to be over--flu season with two little kids in daycare is no time to be so immunity-compromised. To the ladies who plan to visit me tomorrow, I think it's fine--Lenny seems to feel ok now. If people are still sick, I will obviously not want to subject anyone else to that madness!

Earlier today I posted an article on facebook from the Chicago Tribune about breast cancer awareness month. It's a little harrowing--I won't go through the whole thing, but one of the things about breast cancer awareness that is so troubling is that it doesn't seem to have led to huge gains for people who actually have breast cancer, at least not proportionate to the advertising. And I really am sick of seeing the fried chicken buckets and wine bottles with pink ribbons, when being overweight and consuming alcohol are two top risk factors for breast cancer. Why can't corporations just make a contribution to a cause, regardless of how many of their products consumers buy? I mean, a quarter donated for every bra bought? A dime for every pink garden implement?

It's just hard to have breast cancer in October, when everyone is talking about being proactive and hope and strength and everything, and I'm terrified that my kids will only remember my face from a photograph, and it will be a bald photograph at that. I really liked that part of the article--saying that talking about being proactive is problematic, as that implies that women are somehow in control of whether they have breast cancer or whether they survive it, when in fact, there is very little knowledge about what actually causes breast cancer or who it is going to kill. And the treatment really is a shot in the dark. Stage one, stage 4--same chemo. 35 or 75 years old--same killing of the ovaries, leading to potential ovarian cancer later. Same hair loss!

I was on a website earlier today looking up potential side effects of neulasta and found a string of messages that included advice from one woman who said that her doctor told her to look at chemo as something she "gets to do," as a privilege, and that she thought that helped her through it. I'm glad that works for some people, but I'm just not one of them. It's kind of a terrifying process, especially since the long-term effects are unknown. But I also can't believe I only have one left. In a month, or 5 weeks at least, I will hopefully be through the short term side effects and over that last hump where my WBCs will be low for a while. There will be no rest--straight on to radiation, but can it be true? One more chemo? It seems too good to be true. In the meantime, I will channel whatever positive energy I do have, and everyone else's, to avoid another beautiful weekend in the hospital. It's not going to happen. Apple picking, here we come!!

Day 99: Who is that lady?

Today I had some firsts. Specifically,my first time getting hit on since I've been bald. It actually took me a little while to figure out what was going on. I was in a diner, by myself, and this guy kept moving tables until he was sitting at the one closest to me. Then the attempted come on started. I was a little confused. And then I was flattered, when normally I would have been annoyed. I also got an "I like your style" from one of the cafeteria employees at work today. I guess it's true what they say--to each his own.

As an aside before we get to more firsts, I am also a total convert to acupuncture now. I feel so much better after I go, and each time I tell myself that it might be a coincidence, or the time passed since the infusion. But after 4 attempts, I think it has to just be that it works. So now I need to figure out a way to still get it for free (Northwestern charges $800 for each session!) after my freebies expire at the end of the month. It sounds like insurance might pay for it if I can prove that other pain management didn't work. Why do they assume people do acupuncture just for pain? Oh well, it's worked for that for me, as well as for insomnia and fatigue.

Now on to the picture, my second first of the day. Who is that lady? Doesn't that look like Katy's old hair?

Oh wait. That IS Katy's old hair. And one of Katy's hats. Can you imagine how much Gabe cried when I "tried on" my hair today?

And oddly, I wanted to cry too. Not out of happiness or sentimentality, but because that hair doesn't seem that different than the wigs to me. I'm used to my bald self now. But it is pretty neat to have my hair back, even if it's not attached to my head. Maybe I can jut go easy on myself and be the old Katy for Halloween. That seems better than my other idea, which was to don a catholic school girl uniform and go as Britney Spears. Time for another vote?

Day 74

I'm finding it hard to write a blog today, because apparently I will never be able to top the bald blog. I can't believe the response I got from that! I feel so humbled by all of the nice things people have been saying about me. Once these comments started coming in, I started thinking about how I thought I was pretty good at taking a compliment in the past, because I used to get a lot of them. But then I realized that wasn't really true. In the past, my HAIR was used to receiving compliments--that's probably 99% of what I've been complimented on in my life. There are exceptions--Gabe and other guys I've dated have complimented me on other things, and people in my immediate family have, since my hair is probably not even noticeable to them. Girlfriends have complimented my shoes and stuff like that. But other physical compliments? I really have no idea how to respond, because I have very little experience with it.

So to everyone who has said such nice things about my bald head here, and on facebook, and in personal emails and in person--thank you, thank you. What else can I say?

I am getting used to being bald, to some extent. Looking in the mirror is still strange. I like the feel of the fuzz, but I worry about how shiny and pink my head will be when even that falls out later this week. It was very hard on Friday morning when I came home from a walk and took the bandana off my head and Lenny cried, shouting "I'm tired! I'm tired!" and refusing to look at me. I told her it was ok to think I look weird and to not like how I looked. But I did cry a bit myself about it later. She seems totally used to it by now, as I have been bald at home all the time. Augie seemed confused, but he was equally confused when I was wearing a wig, or a bandana. He was looking for my hair, and not finding it, so all of those alternatives must have been equally weird to him. However, he doesn't seem to care.

Gabe is of the opinion that when my hair grows back I should wear it like this. He really seems to love it. I think he watched too much Star Trek as a child.

Everything that I thought about being bald in public has been true so far. I have been taking walks every day, and I've worn bandanas. I've learned that that is the same as being bald, from a lack of anonymity perspective. People know. They look at you and then try and look away, thinking CANCER. I really don't care what people think, and obviously I'm very public about having cancer. But as women I think we all would like to think we could walk down the street and mind our own business. Sometimes it's hard, mostly because men can be jackasses and they whistle at you or give you a hard time or something. You think, can't I just walk to the train? Leave me alone. When you're pregnant you REALLY hate that stuff. People walk up to you and ask you questions, touch you even. This used to happen to me all the time because of my hair. I hated it, but I was used to it. And there are just times when you don't want to have that cancer conversation, or have people give you that pity look.

So there are some good occasions to wear a wig. I wore a wig to the grocery store yesterday, and when I went out to lunch with a friend on Friday. She said by the time we finished eating she had forgotten I was wearing a wig at all, since it looked natural. She said this after I took it off in the car, and that must have been kind of funny, to see someone take off her hair.

But I will try this bald look too. I'll wear the wig to take Lenny to school, so she doesn't have to deal with other kids' questions. I'll wear it to commute. Then I'll probably take it off in the office and be bald cancer girl at work. People at the fed can handle it. And tonight Gabe and I are going out and he wants me to be bald so he can "show off his hot bald wife." Hmm. We'll see how that goes.

So I'll probably continue to go back and forth on the hair issue and write about it, but I sure got used to it faster than I expected. I was helped along in that process by everyone telling me it looks great. So thanks again!

This sleeping thing I just can't get used to. I did the acupuncture Thursday, which was interesting. I had another of these bizarre experiences while I was waiting where I ran into someone from high school who is a social worker in oncology there. I lived in Oak Park for years in my 20s and never ran into anyone. Now I live in Beverly and go do cancer stuff in Streeterville and I see all these people I knew as a kid. Weird.

After acupuncture, I went to my GP and she checked my thyroid (normal) and prescribed an anti-depressant, trazodone, for sleep. The neurologist/sleep specialist on Wednesday initially told me she thought my sleep issue was anxiety-related (I wanted to leave right then) but after hearing about all my side effect issues, she changed her mind and said she thought I was having "paradoxical" reactions to medication. She gave me some Lunesta samples to try.

I never took the Lunesta or filled the trazodone prescription. I'm scared to take any sleeping pills after what Ambien did to me. And I'm still convinced that I had some withdrawal symptoms from Lorazapaam, even though I took so few of them. But I'm glad I went to the neurologist, because I needed to talk to someone who knew something about epilepsy. She told me that if I had gone that long without sleeping with no seizures, I would probably be fine. She didn't expect me to have any more. That was a huge relief, even if it's just one doctor's opinion. It just didn't help to talk to a cancer doctor about that. Plus, the neurologist knew about all of the different options for sleep--she didn't tell me that there were only three. I think my insomnia is definitely chemo-induced. It might be rare, but I'm not the only one with this problem.

After acupuncture, I came home with these little magnets in my ears and on my wrists. I was supposed to press them throughout the day. I took one of them out of my ear since it was bugging me. I also took melatonin on Thursday night. After writing the bald blog, Gabe and I talked for a while and I didn't even try to go to bed until midnight. I slept on the couch. I realized that due to the fact that we have an old house with radiators, and therefore no central air, that the window a/c blowing directly on my head at night was really bothering me, drying out my extremely dry chemo body even more.

So I did these things, and--I fell asleep. I woke up at 2 am, and thought, shit, I won't be able to go back to bed. I was up for 25 minutes or so, but I didn't move. The next thing I knew, I heard a strange sound. Birds! I actually teared up. It's hard to describe this feeling of gratitude and relief from sleeping less than 4.5 hours. I thought, this means that when I went to sleep, it was night, and now it is morning. That revelation gave me the energy I needed to take an hour long walk at 5:30 AM. The same thing happened Friday night. I thought, hallelujah! I'm saved. I don't know if it was the acupuncture, the melatonin, or just the distance away from chemo and all the other drugs. But I thought if I can get 4 hours of sleep a night, I'll be fine. I have functioned very well on that amount of sleep for large chunks of my life. I'll be able to go to work and everything!

And then there was last night.

I took the melatonin, tried to fall asleep in my actual bed. It didn't work. I went to the couch. I never fell asleep. I was so depressed by that. At 5 AM, I went up to bed. Somehow I fell asleep then for 2.5 hours. I realized that this is why I need to decide about telecommuting on a day to day basis, if I'm allowed. If I have nights like last night, I won't be able to realistically get to work at a regular time. But I could always run downstairs and start working on my laptop. If I sleep from midnight to four, I can go to work and be fine. If I'm not allowed to do this, I will just have to take short term disability. I would rather not do that, but I don't see this insomnia getting fixed anytime soon.

I am dreading chemo this Wednesday. I know it's cumulative, and I can expect it to be worse this time around. More than the sickness I am trying not to think about those days just after with no sleep. So I am holding on to my Lunesta. I will fill the trazodone prescription, and maybe I will save it for a moment of post-chemo desperation. Otherwise, I'm trying to avoid more poison in my body, you know? My body clearly doesn't do what it's "supposed" to do. If it did, I wouldn't have lost weight. I emailed my chemo nurse to tell her I was down to 113. I weighed 117 the day of chemo, and they had my weight at 120 or something. She told me I would need to lose or gain 10 pounds to change my chemo dose. That seemed like bunk to me. As someone who has lost huge amounts of weight post-baby, I know that the difference in my body between 140 and 150 pounds is much less than the difference between 125 and 115. Shouldn't it be about body weight percentage? Anyway she told me that weighing 113 would indeed change my dose. Then she proceeded to say, "Most people don't lose weight on this regimen."

I fail to see the relevance in that statement.

It's funny about acupuncture. Those who know me well know that I'm not a holistic medicine type. I'm not really a spiritual person, and talking to me about my heart's spirit and my energy fields might fall on deaf ears. But I am totally willing to believe that acupuncture works. I mean, if someone decided that filling my body with a poison that is so extreme it kills all kinds of healthy parts of me is good, that it's ok to give me a medicine that I can only take four times in my life (adriamycin) before the risk of it stopping my heart is too great, and that pointing a radioactive gun at my chest 30 times is a good plan, why wouldn't it work to stick some needles in my body and push on some magnets? It's worked for thousands of years, and it doesn't matter to me why. Chemo has been around for what, 30? I'm really glad that Northwestern offers this program that gives cancer patients 6 free "alternative" medical treatments. I'll use it for acupuncture, since that's not covered by insurance.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll sleep "well" a few days a week. Just like everything else with cancer, the good things all become relative. So on my relatively decent 2.5 hours of sleep, I'm signing off to take a family walk. I haven't decided yet if I'll wear a wig. If the kids come along, I will, but if they stay home, probably not. Unfortunately I will never be able to go outside in the summer during the day with a bald head. I really don't need skin cancer on top of breast cancer, right? No, thanks!