Day 499: Fight Like a Girl

Wow; writing that blog title was strange. Today is the 500th day of knowing I had cancer; I started writing this blog the day after my diagnosis. I guess the one thing that can be said about cancer is that it's often a slow-moving beast, even when you have a fast-growing, aggressive type like mine. Cancer was growing in me for an estimated three to five years, and there I was, nurturing other human beings in and from my body, using my body to the best of my ability, living life. Other diseases can do you in a lot quicker, I suppose. I'm thinking about this because we went to see Contagion last night, a movie I swore I wouldn't go see, because of the mass death of children, focus on disease and treatment, and the fact that if I'm going to pay $60 for a movie since I need to pay the babysitter it had better be the best damn movie of my life.

But we ended up there anyway last night, since it was too cold to go to see a high school football game, our dorky date of choice for a Friday night. Can I just give a shout out to high school football games? When you're actually in high school, maybe it doesn't seem so great (actually, it did, when I was there), but this is one of those things that is just stopped in time and is still fundamentally awesome, even if you don't know a soul on the field. It's still $3 for a hotdog dinner, it's still beautiful in the fall and you don't even have to talk to your date because you're watching the game, and there's a band and halftime entertainment and just the people watching alone, especially all of the insufferable posturing of teenage boys, is worth the price of admission. We went last weekend and we could've walked the few miles to the game, but we were testing out our new 13 year old next door neighbor babysitter so we didn't leave early enough. We had a blast. As another aside, here's a shout out to the neighbor kids too. I'm in the office looking down into my yard and there's the 11 year old neighbor who is the quarterback on his little football team yelling things like "go straight down the middle Augie!" and patiently watching as my two year old son and five year old daughter run around like fools having the time of their lives. And it was his idea no less! I love it.

So the 11 year old's 13 year old sister watched the kids and we got a quick beer and then went to see a show. I was so prepared to hate it and be supremely disturbed. Granted, it's rough at the beginning, but it's so clinical and everything happens so fast that you don't even have a chance to feel sad about any of the individuals. There's actually one scene that's funny. But damn, they title the scenes just like this blog, in number of days, and by Day 100 or so, millions of people are dead. And though it's not at all related, since obviously cancer isn't contagious, I have to give the movie credit for making me think about things a little differently.

I remember very clearly when I reached 100 days. I was so deep into chemo, and it was a week or so before my 35th birthday. I don't mean this as any kind of slight to people who have cancer and don't do chemo for whatever reason, but sometimes I feel like if I hadn't had to do chemo, cancer would've been just a blip in my life. My way of thinking about cancer is directly linked to my experience with chemo. Yes, the fear was there, the grief and disbelief, that was all there pre-chemo. The surgery was shocking for so many reasons, especially since I had to do it again. Not knowing my BRCA status, my stage, yes it was all a nightmare. Radiation was no walk in the park. But I knew the moment I was diagnosed that I would need to do extensive chemo, and damn. Chemo--it did things to me I didn't know were possible to have happen to a living person. I know that sounds dramatic, but for this woman whose body rejects most drugs, it's the truth.

And yet. How much better it must have been for me than for people who tried the first chemotherapies as human experiments 30, 40 years ago. This was back when no one knew if chemo could be effective, when the doses were extreme and the protocol was to do it for an entire year regardless of your stage or type of cancer. I kept thinking about this as I was watching this film full of great actors, some of them pretending to be doctors or scientists searching for a vaccine for this disease that killed people almost before they even knew they were sick. This thing moved so fast, you hardly had a prayer. I loved the juxtaposition of the conspiracy theorists in the movie, who are convinced that the government is in bed with the pharmaceutical companies; some believe the disease is made up, others believe the purported cures are fake. And everyone here knows how I railed against chemo, how close I was to quitting, and how I questioned whether or not I was trading an early stage cancer for some kind of unknown lethal side effects, other cancers or heart disease down the line, etc. I was definitely a chemo-hater. I still am. I'm still glad I didn't take the side effect drugs, that I did acupuncture instead.

But I'm also glad I did chemo. Now that I know what I know, I can see that I came back to myself after all of that. I feel just as young, fit and healthy as I ever did. What does this mean? My chemo nurse told me at one point that the chemo was affecting me so severely that I at least should take heart and know it was working. Now I look at it like this: My body took that. What a punishment, what a beating. And now here I am, almost like it never happened. Score! When one character in the movie last night was talking about how no one knows what the side effects will be of the vaccine, I thought, no one gives a shit. You would take it anyway given the carnage. You would rail against the vaccine, and against chemo, and you would do it anyway, because you would have some evidence that it worked for some people before you. How brave those people must have been in the face of all those unknowns! How glad I am for them, so that I could have this one chance to fight this triple negative beast.

Ah, triple negative. The status of my cancer that makes me wish the internet didn't exist. I found some blog today, written by an MD who specializes in breast cancer, which stated that the test that they do to determine hormone receptive status for breast cancer is wrong 10-20% of the time. It is only wrong in one direction, apparently: some significant minority of women who are deemed to have estrogen negative cancer are actually estrogen positive, and yet they are denied the drugs like tamoxifen that could save their lives because they are never re-tested.

Boy, did I not need to read that. On the one hand, I am so grateful I don't have to take any more drugs, so glad that I don't have to have artificially-induced menopause anymore. But it makes you think. What if that is the reason that recurrence is so much higher for triple negative women, that the mortality rate is higher? Is it because they're not triple negative at all, they were just denied the right treatment?

It could make me angry, it could make me paranoid, it could at least make me ask for another test. And yet, I mostly just think, well, in reality, they are doing their best. Don't get me wrong. There is a lot of B.S. in the medical industry in this country, a lot of politics and way too much money wrapped up in it. There is a lot of sexism, a lot of infantilizing of grown women, there's a lot of shit, that's for sure. But most of the time, I think individual doctors and nurses are doing their best, knowing that they know nothing, even when they act like know-it-alls.

Contagion brought me to this thoughtful place, but I have to admit that the reason I get to be contemplative about chemo is that I'm not in the middle of it anymore. Back at day 100 I just thought oh please God, not again. Don't do that to me again. I couldn't get reflective about it when it was knocking me on my ass. But who was I talking to? I was the one who handed my damn arm over every two weeks. I was the one who kept going back.

I don't know what precipitated the desire to write this blog, but for the need to acknowledge that I actually think science is cool, and that it has aided my life in some very real ways. I also think it's important that science is no science--there's a lot of guesswork, a lot of mistakes, and maybe those of us who need to rely on it at some point in our lives just need to accept that.

When I dabbled with being an animal rights activist in high school (that didn't last long--I'm way too people-focused, and everyone knows I'm no pet person), I just couldn't get behind the whole no-testing-medicine on animals debate. I was taking Depakote twice a day, after all, the drug that poisoned my liver and that simultaneously allowed me to live a normal, seizure-free, life. Even after all the testing that had been done before me, that drug was toxic as hell (I don't understand why drugs like Depakote are prescribed so widely today, for all kinds of conditions, when they have such potentially devastating consequences). Of course it couldn't have been tested on humans first. It's hard to admit that, but it's true. Animals died, people suffered in the early stages of prescription, but, for me, it was worth it. It worked for me, amazingly, and I blended into the world fairly effortlessly. Wouldn't you want that for yourself, for your children? You could say otherwise, until you're confronted with some other reality, and then you're willing to try anything.

Well, almost anything. I wasn't willing to enter a clinical trial and try Avastin, which had no expected benefit for someone with my type and stage of cancer, but had unbelievably disturbing potential side effects. (In a controversial decision, the $100k a year drug was taken off the FDA's approved list for breast cancer treatment very soon after I started chemo). But no one would argue that chemo isn't toxic, especially adriamicin and cytoxan. Taxol's not much better. If something can destroy the nerves in your body, obliterate your ovaries and rot your fingernails right out of their beds, it's no joke. But if it can kill your cancer too? Well, it's debatable for some, but as I sit here feeling entirely like a healthy and happy 36 year old woman, it sure seems worth it.

I never thought I would say that. While I was in it, it was so horrible. Life is like that though--as they say, this too shall pass. The hope is that you will be there to look back on it, that the experience will pass on, not you. So far that's happened to me. I never thought I would say that I hope I am truly triple negative either, but I do hope the test was right. If it was, I can say that I did everything I could do (except for the fact that I've been eating too much good food recently, and I swore I would avoid fatty things, but now that I can eat without vomiting or having hot flashes I am just loving it. 118 pounds here I come!). If somehow the test was wrong, well shit, it's not good for me to be getting these periods now is it? But at some point you have to stop second-guessing and just accept it. We're all doing our best with the information available to us at the time. You can't get lost in the possibilities.

Way back at the beginning of my cancer diagnosis, I got a call from the mother of my best friend from high school (my friend sent me this shirt that I'm wearing in the pics, and another Fuck cancer one, which isn't my style, but now that I'm out of treatment I think this one is cute). She had had breast cancer herself. We talked for a bit and she said one of the most human things anyone said to me at that time: "I know you'll do your best, Katy." Not, I know you'll beat this, I know you're a fighter, I know you'll live, I know you'll kick cancer's ass. Just, I know you'll do your best. That's the only thing you can do, and I do think I have done it. Maybe they'll know better by the time Lenny's grown. Maybe fewer women will get breast cancer at that point. Maybe I'll even be around to find out for myself! And if not? I did my best.

Maybe that's what it means to fight like a girl. Don't expect to win, don't get cocky about it, don't shove your victories in anyone's face, don't think you got there on your own, and don't thump your scarred-up chest too early. Fight like a girl, and see what you can learn from the game. Just do your best.

Day 108:Birthday Blog

Well today was my 35th birthday. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of your good wishes. Birthdays are bittersweet occasions when you're going through something like this. There's so much to be thankful for and yet so much to be fearful of--so much I'd rather not miss. At one point 35 seemed so old. Now it seems almost ridiculously young. I compare my 35 birthdays with the few my kids have had and just hope I'm still around when they're this age. How likely is that? Who knows. I guess none of us knows the answer to that question.

All in all, we had a wonderful weekend. A childhood friend flew out from Seattle to help after my last chemo session and we had a great visit in addition to all of the help that we definitely needed. On Thursday I went out to a karaoke bar--one day after chemo--and though I didn't sing, I also didn't need to put any makeup on my face since I had such a nice chemo flush going on. Is that an a advantage? Hopefully I didn't look too bizarre, though I seem to have stopped worrying about that at some point. I had a lot of fun and actually made it out past 10, which is good for me even on non-chemo standards.

Another friend from high school was visiting from England, and we hadn't seen each other in 4 years. Children have been born since then, people have lost their hair, and yet things don't seem that different. It's strange how easy it is to talk to people who knew you when you were a kid. Anyway, today, Gabe and I went out to dinner, and I ate too much and it made me sick. Lots of people called and sent emails, I opened some presents, my daughter made me cards, I wore a paper crown. As far as birthdays go, it was a good one for sure.

The week itself hasn't been so great. This last a/c chemo did not go silently into the proverbial good night. I felt nauseous during the infusion, for the first time. It didn't get better from there. I was completely out of it on Wednesday, fairly useless on Thursday, though not as nauseous as in the past. It took two tries with the IV and I have a huge bruise on my arm from that. I was very weak yesterday, but a little better today. Every morning and sometimes during the day I have to physically pry my right eye open due to the extreme dryness and lack of tear ducts making it stick shut. I have some blisters on my feet that seem to be related to chemo. I feel very sad--surprisingly so--about being in menopause. It does seem to have happened to me, though I have avoided hot flashes so far. Women talk about how great it would be to not get their periods, but at 35, it's just kind of depressing. No more fertility--that's a lot to give up, especially when I'm supposedly free of cancer! It could come back, but it's just the thought of how old this chemo has made my body, even if only in the short term.

In this 35th year, I'd like to look forward to a new phase of life rather than look back on an old one. A new, cancer-free life, where my kids don't suddenly have behavior problems that have come out of nowhere, leaving us clueless as to how to deal with them. A new life where we could decide that this is our complete family, on our terms. A life where my body comes back to me, and I can do all kinds of things again: sweat, cry, bleed every month, stand up without getting dizzy, open my eyes, eat and drink at the same time, sleep normally, take care of things the way I used to do.

This has been a lost summer and will to some extent be a lost year. And yet the year has happened all the same. I turned 35, and it's possible that if I hadn't found that stupid "clogged duct" and followed it so aggressively back in April, I wouldn't have ever turned anything more than that. Odds are in my favor to have lots more birthdays, right? That's what we're telling ourselves over here.

So here's to another 35.

Day 103:Pontificating Blog

One hundred days have come and gone, and I am sitting here pondering my self-inflicted mandate to write a pre-chemo blog that actually doesn’t have a lot to do with my cancer treatment. I get very reflective in these few pre-chemo days when I feel normal. But there’s a slight Flowers for Algernon effect wherein I feel good and have the knowledge of how that will be taken from me in short order. I would love to just run away and keep this healthy feeling. Right now, I can eat, drive, work a normal schedule, go to the gym (three times in a week! But do you know how hard it is to do a chest press or reverse fly after two breast surgeries?), sleep, play with the kids. Ironically, it’s during these feel-good times that my immunity is in the toilet. It starts to go back up right before chemo, so I have this tiny window where I feel like being out and about, and I can do it without worrying too much. And then, hello A/C! I can’t believe I will be done with it tomorrow. I’m starting to wish I had chosen cytoxan/taxotere, even though I would be really paranoid about the permanent hair loss. At least I would be done in four treatments. I will just be to the halfway point tomorrow after 4 a/cs. Ugh.

So what random things have I been thinking about? I’ve been contemplating this issue of cancer as identity. There is so much controversy around the term “cancer survivor.” Some people hate it, because they feel that it is overly dramatic and that it defines them. For others, it’s an important way to bring some acknowledgment and respect to what they’ve gone through. For me, I’m fine with it, but I’m equally fine with being considered a cancer patient or whatever is the term du jour. The name isn’t important to me. I had cancer no matter what you call it. And, literally, I have survived it, so far. I live with the understanding that in two or ten years I might not be a cancer survivor anymore, so sure, go ahead and call me one now. At some point I might be one of those people who valiantly “battled” the disease and lost. As an aside, that whole battle metaphor bugs me a lot more than the term survivor. Who am I battling? Katy’s bad cells? Can’t we just sign a treaty instead?

I guess it’s never been clear to me why the terms people use for such things can so easily offend. People say they don’t want to be defined by cancer. That’s one of the main reasons women wear wigs, and one of the reasons I thought I would want to wear one in public. And that is totally legitimate. Who needs pity, or overcompensated niceties, or awkward encounters, or any of the other reactions I’ve received when people look at me and see not only a bald woman but a woman with cancer? Well, the thing is, if people find out you have cancer, they will in part define you that way. That’s the truth. But how is that different than anything else?

I know I still talk a lot about hair in this blog, even though I don’t have any. It’s not because I’m hung up on it but rather because that’s the public manifestation of this disease, the one that brings the most reaction because it’s the most tangible. I’ve brought that on myself by not doing anything to hide my baldness, and I realize that. Some of the reactions have been incredibly meaningful, such as one that you see here. Gabe’s aunt buzzed her hair off in honor of me. Wow! I didn’t know what to say. I think I actually said, you didn’t have to do that, and I hope you don’t hate it! I was very touched. It had sure grown some by the time we took this photo.

Anyway, recently, I’ve had this hair epiphany, wherein I’ve learned that for me, being bald and having long red hair are almost the same thing in the way that those traits affect my interactions with people. For me, it's still hard, because I really did love my hair, and I still reach up sometimes to put it back, expecting it to be there. But baldness and red-hairness have some things in common. Why? Because both are different, noticeable, unique. People notice, and stare, and ask me weird questions, and, amazingly, I get compliments from strangers. In one of my very first blogs, if not the first one, I questioned how I could go from being the girl with long red hair to being the girl with the small bald head. But that’s exactly what has happened.

People have a way of defining us by what we look like, or by other physical aspects of ourselves, regardless of the circumstances. It’s unfortunate, but true. Again, how is that so different with cancer than anything else in life? When I was pregnant, I was just that—the big pregnant lady in the gym, at the conference, wherever. Pregnant ladies always lose a little of their own identities to the person sticking out of their bellies like a beach ball. When I was in a wheelchair, that’s what people saw--I was “handicapped.” When I had seizures, I was an epileptic. I know that that term is not acceptable any more, much the same as handicapped is not acceptable. Too defining, I guess. The terms have changed, but I don't think people have changed that much. There just might be more of an understanding that I should have been seen as a person with a disability, or a person with epilepsy, as long as I was a person first.

Of course, in truth, I was always that person, regardless of what anyone else said. Maybe being a woman has taught me an important lesson that helps me with these issues. I’ve always said that I think women spend way too much time and energy worrying what men think. After all, I have a masters degree in urban planning, not mind reading. Because, ultimately, who cares what they think? People are welcome to their thoughts, and I sure as hell can’t control what goes on in other people’s minds. Worrying about it won’t change anything. Women get upset if men are having inappropriate thoughts about them, and my response is, how do you know what their thoughts are? The only thing that matters is actions. If they don’t do anything inappropriate, who cares if they’re thinking unspeakable things? That’s their problem. I only care if someone makes it my problem.

I feel the same about all of this cancer identity stuff. Who cares if people see me as cancer first and Katy second? How would I ever know that’s what they’re thinking, and why would it matter if I did? It wouldn’t change the fact that I need to do this cancer bullshit. It’s just not my problem. My problem, or one of them, is having cancer, and having to do chemo. I might get a whole gamut of reactions, mostly to my obvious cancer-sign of baldness, but that doesn’t change the situation. And it wouldn’t change if people didn’t know either. My struggle would be the same, even if people couldn’t see it. That’s why changing the easy to remember “Y Me” breast cancer organization name to “Network of Strength” just makes me laugh first, and second, makes me wonder who thought that women feel strength through breast cancer. Mostly we feel tired. We think, um…”Why me?” That was the perfect name for it!

Why am I in this situation where I am forced, through the fact of my own personality, to see some of this experience in some kind of sociological fashion? Let’s revert back to hair as an example. These days, I receive compliments, and instead of just feeling grateful, which I do, I file my discomfort with them in the back of my mind while I simultaneously think about what these compliments mean about gender, sexuality, identity, etc. Why the discomfort? Anyone who has gone through cancer, especially cancer that required chemo for treatment, knows what I’m talking about. One, the very fact that I receive so many compliments on being bald proves that looks matter in how people treat you, even through cancer, regardless of what people say. Two, it’s hard as hell to receive any compliments when you have cancer. It’s wonderful and makes it easier to go through (so don’t stop giving them!) on the one hand. On the other, every time, I think in the back of my mind, hey, I’m not John Belushi. I never said that I wanted to leave a good looking corpse. Yesterday a guy on the street stopped me while I was wearing the dress in the pic above and said “You’re beautiful! Just beautiful.” And I said thank you and felt embarrassed but I also kind of wanted to cry. This whole cheating death issue is not supposed to happen until you are no longer considered conventionally attractive, and at that moment I was reminded of that. Like Gabe said after the last blog, I’d rather get to be decrepit and old.

So am I a cancer survivor? Sure. Am I a mom, a wife, a worker (for the man, no less), a white person, a member of generation X, a daughter, a size 2, a sister, friend, and a million other things that don’t have that much to do with what goes through my mind on any given occasion? Yes. People see me as those things, and I acknowledge that I am those things. And according to the state of Illinois, I’m still an epileptic, or a person with epilepsy. I still need the state’s permission to renew my driver’s license, and I will for the rest of my life. The state doesn’t care that I have gone half a lifetime without medication. If that fact isn’t defining, than what is? Epilepsy is still a part of me, decades after most, but not all, of the physical effects went away. By that token, this enlarged liver came from somewhere, and it wasn’t from my notoriously excessive drinking. To add another example, that car accident defined me. I mean, most people don’t have arthritis when they’re ten, or remember learning to walk, or keep those looks of revulsion from strangers tucked away in their brains. So what? I’ve still done what I wanted to do with my life. There are so many reasons that people get treated as less than they are, and it affects what they get to do, their opportunities, their happiness. Somehow that hasn't been the case for me. Maybe it's easy for me to say, let people call you whatever they will. Then just keep walking, if you’re able, and go where you need to go. Maybe it's been somehow easier for me to choose my battles and ignore the terminology.

In yesterday’s Tribune there was an editorial about an unspoken “club” of people who have cheated death, who are alive and shouldn’t be. The article was filled with stories of people who had been stabbed, left out at sea (or lake), walked away from accidents, etc. And of course the moral was, you will never be the same after this happens. You will appreciate life more, see it as a gift, and be a better person. Everyone with cancer is supposed to have this epiphany if they get to live. As you all know, I’m not a fan of that assumption. It’s not that I don’t value my life, but I just think the whole notion simplifies matters quite a bit. On the one hand, there is a reason that I think "cancer survivor" is an appropriate term. Let’s not lie. In the developed world, “only” 46% of people who get cancer die from it. Now, many of these people are also older, so there could be complicating factors. In developing countries, 75% of people who get cancer die. So surviving this is actually a big deal. Cancer tries pretty hard to kill you. That’s why it scares the shit out of people. But if you live, you’re not done. You spend the rest of your life wondering if every ache or pain is more cancer. This is fairly universal. At some point, you stop thinking about it every day, or so I’m told. The treatments are often long, and for some people they never end. But life keeps spinning. It doesn’t go back to normal, and yet, it never really stopped being normal.

I mean, I still argue with Gabe. People, including me, can still be petty and cranky. Cab drivers are still insane and I often wonder if I am going to live to get to my treatments when I get a particularly enraged cabbie driving me to Northwestern. Bizarre things still happen. This week, the kids were sick with stomach flu one after the other—of course not at the same time—so I couldn’t see them much. Right before Augie got sick, I bought new rugs to replace the $60 ones I bought when I was 22 and had my first apartment of my own. I figured it was time. Within three hours of putting them down, he had thrown up on one of them. One day a few weeks ago I came home from a walk to hear Lenny’s agonizing screams and cries. Holy shit, what happened? My eye! My eye! Did she poke her eye out? No, not quite, but almost.

With a breadstick.

You know what I’m saying?

More than cancer terminology, I get annoyed at the way cancer is used to exploit our society’s fear of suffering and death. There’s this new show on cable called The Big C, a series about a woman who finds out she has terminal cancer. Of course, she decides to change her life, start telling people what she really thinks, etc. I shouldn’t be so judgmental since I haven’t seen it, but this theme is tiring. You find out you only have a year to live! What would you change? Well shit, if you have cancer, you would probably spend a good portion of that year at the doctor’s office or hospital. You would be scared, and sad. You would try to stay normal, knowing you couldn’t. You would probably not have the opportunity to change your job, move, meet some hot new lover or eat the best food in the world. Hell, you might not be able to work, eat, have sex, or yell at people at all. Again, let’s not lie.

Moreover, why is there so much focus on damaged people, people who didn’t appreciate their lives, finding the truth through cancer? How about a movie or tv show about a person who was happy, and appreciative, and had good perspective…and got cancer anyway? What’s the story line? "Woman who used to get excited about stupid little things finds out she has cancer and still gets excited about stupid little things but in the back of her mind is sad about all the ones she might miss!" No one wants to see that. If anyone is enough of a glutton for punishment to go for that, just read this blog instead.

Perhaps my issue with this life epiphany thing is that cancer didn’t enable me to join the cheatin’ death club. That happened 25 years ago when I got hit by a car walking home from school. I don’t often mention this, but my life flashed before my eyes that day. People say that, but what does that really mean? Well, think about it. How long does it take to hit the sidewalk in a crumpled heap when you’ve been thrown by a sedan? I don’t know, 5 seconds? That’s it. Your life boils down to that. I had fast random memories—walking in a park, learning to play tennis. Even at 9 it seemed mundane, surreal, and impossible. That was my life? That’s IT?! Well, yes. I remember thinking: when I hit the sidewalk, I will be dead. I barely comprehended death and now it was happening to me.

Or not. I weighed 45 pounds at 9 years old and the difference between life-threatening injury, permanent injury, and death, was random and small. The impact of the car broke one hip, the impact of the sidewalk the other. A few inches away, or falling on the same hip, and I would have been paralyzed or would have never walked again. Another few inches and I would have died. The internal injuries I sustained left it touch and go there for a while. But I lived, and I went through all of what that meant. Disbelief, anger, night terrors for a year. I finally had to admit out loud that I was afraid of dying in order to get better and be able to sleep. I had to admit it wasn’t fair, that I was too young to die. I had to realize that death wasn’t an abstraction, but something that could, and ultimately would, happen to me.

So cancer can’t give me what I already have, it can’t teach me a lesson I learned long ago. Every fall is a new life for me, every pile of leaves I couldn’t jump in makes my heart well up. Is that a real term? Heart welling up? Because that’s how it feels. I doubt that I needed to renew my membership in this dubious club. I do know that I’d like to protect my kids from joining it , even by proxy, from getting too close to understanding death, at least for a while.

And that’s my long ponderous way of saying, that’s why I’ll go back and do my last a/c tomorrow. As I go through this, I am reminded of what I learned a little too early-- that life is always the same. Your kid is in agony, so you take the breadstick away and get her an icepack. You give her a kiss. Then you go in the kitchen where she can’t see you, turn your bald head to her, put your hand over your mouth, and laugh. And why not? In that crucial 5 seconds, that memory might be the one that turns up, out of nowhere. Who needs an epiphany? Life is interesting enough, just as it is.

Day 97

It's interesting for me to read back on old blogs and see what kinds of things I was worried about with chemo. Some of it seems so quaint! Worrying about losing my memory, my sexual function, gaining weight. I have finished three cycles of a/c, and have one to go. Some things have gotten better with time--my nausea and appetite were much better this cycle, and while I got down to 111, I have gained back to about 114 and I think some of my weight issues are due to muscle loss anyway. I have been sleeping ok except for the few nights after chemo, even though I get up several times a night.

But this weakness and fatigue is just knocking me on my ass. It's so hard to hear about what a strong person I am to go through this, because it reminds me that I should be stronger than this. I should be the one who goes through chemo relatively unscathed. I'm the girl with biceps, the one who can do more situps than my skinny husband. I'm the one who was a few weeks away from giving birth, and I was in the gym three times a week, walking an hour every day AND doing water aerobics. I was as big as a house and every time I took a sip of water I could hear myself sloshing from all the fluid I carried around. But I was up and at em a week after Augie was born, feeling great. I was exercising after two surgeries. But now, ever since Sunday, I have been feeling like a shaky little weakling. I've tried to take walks every day because that's supposed to help combat fatigue, but it's so damn hot that I couldn't do it today. I have gone to the gym only sporadically and I'm avoiding the pool due to germs. So I feel like a sloth--my muscles seem to be atrophying on a daily basis, I'm dizzy, and I'm dropping things. It's making me a little crazy.

Today I went to a little local Catholic hospital to check out their radiation department. I had heard good things about the head breast oncologist there, and this place is very close to my house, which is good since you have to go in every day for 6 1/2 weeks. The short story is that I liked it, the doctor seemed good, and I will probably end up doing that once it's time. The longer story is that while I was there they took my vitals and I got a raised eyebrow from the nurse when she took my blood pressure. Um, is your blood pressure always this low? Huh? What is it?

98/60.

Holy shit. No wonder I feel like I'm going to pass out. I frantically called my chemo nurse who said that she thinks I'm probably just dehydrated. I have been drinking a lot of water and gatorade, but it is very dry in our non-central-air-conditioned house, so maybe that's a factor. I'm staying somewhere else tonight, away from my family, so that the stale a/c isn't blowing straight on my head. I had to take the day off, since I can't pretend to be productive. And tomorrow I will go to acupuncture, so maybe that will help. But I can't help but worry that my heart is giving out, due to the adriamycin. I've learned enough to know that I need to ask about the effects of radiation on my heart since my tumors were in the left breast, and a small bit of my heart will be exposed to radiation. I wish someone had told me that when I was making my chemo decision. Just think, I might make it through all this and then have a heart attack when I'm 45!

I know that sounds morbid, but cancer does that to a person. Physical weakness begets emotional weakness, especially when you're young and independent and used to being able to juggle a million things, like me. There is farther to fall when you're at the height of good health and it gets stripped away. So you do things like read the obituaries. I always liked the big stories in the obits, but now I read the little ones. It's not just out of curiosity for the interesting things people do with their lives. I end up thinking things like, well if I died from cancer at 60, that wouldn't be SO bad. Or, wow, I've already lived longer than that person. Or, I wonder if I will have any grandkids? How long will I be married?

Now don't get me wrong. I am not some morbidly depressed person all of a sudden. I have been exercising, as I said, and working, and doing what I can with the kids, and seeing friends and family. I am not a recluse. I actually think this obituary stuff, and the mind wandering to the unthinkable, is a totally normal reaction to having something like cancer--but again, you're not supposed to admit it. When you're having a conversation with your friends about some dumb movie and in the back of your mind you're planning your memorial service, you're never supposed to say that out loud.

To me, that two-track mind is just the mental version of the way that cancer physically represents itself. On the one hand, it's obvious that I have cancer, because, well--I'm bald. And I have scars on my breast and under my arm. Of course, few people see those (except for everyone who is reading this blog). But everything else that's going on--my weight struggle (which is very minor, considering), my blood pressure, weakness, insomnia, nausea and vomiting, hemorrhoids, photosensitivity, lack of sweat and tears, headaches, etc.--no one knows those things are there. That's the part of cancer/chemo that you just experience by yourself. As far as anyone else knows, I could be making these things up. (Apparently, someone has done that. A co-survivor posted a story on facebook about a woman who faked breast cancer, down to shaving her head and eyebrows, to get money out of some local families and charities.)

How about if I give fake-cancer lady just a few days of this "gift" to get a few days of her normal but for whatever reason unfulfilled life? Because outside of cancer, or more accurately chemo, I have a pretty fulfilling life thank you! I would rather not have the attention. I would happily give this whole damn thing back. It is so hard to feel like this when I felt so healthy just a little over a month ago. Chemo just cuts to the quick--I've almost forgotten about the issues that worried me before I started, because now I'm just focused on things like: can I see/focus enough to write this blog? Should I climb the stairs? Why can't I hear? What can I bear to eat?

And finally, how can I be a normal mom? Lenny in particular has really been having issues lately. She's been having meltdowns, trouble sleeping, waking up crying. She's making up symptoms--saying her stomach hurts, or her head hurts, and then forgetting about it. Now she's 4, so she's not like the fake breast cancer lady. But it's frustrating to me. I want to say "you're healthy! it's no fun being sick! stop pretending!" And yet I know she doesn't know why she's doing what she's doing. I know she's scared, and she's always talking about when I had hair. It's hard for me to comprehend how things have changed for her when I'm so focused on the changes I'm dealing with in my body.

So I guess this is just my place to vent about how we're pretty overwhelmed at our house. We're keeping it together, and I know that people have much harder situations than mine--some people do this as single parents, children have cancer, some people have no support. On the other hand this is my blog so I can only really talk about what I'm dealing with, even though I can recognize my comparative advantages.

For example, Augie is not just a handful, he is about 10 handfuls. He's a very happy kid, but he's busy, and rough, and he eats and poops constantly and can't communicate yet, which makes it hard. I will admit that I do a lot more with Lenny than I do with him, and maybe someday he will resent me for it. Lenny is freaking out right now, and I try to talk to her about it, but she just denies that she's worried. Or maybe she doesn't even know she is. I wish she was more oblivious, like some other 4 year olds. She knows exactly what's going on, and yet I don't think she knows how to process it. I am at a loss as to what to tell her, and I'm also at a loss as to how I try to have a regular mom relationship with my 14 month old when I am at risk of dropping him if I pick him up.

So instead of actually figuring it out, we look at pictures. See here? Look how happy you are! Look, daddy loves mommy's bald head. And finally, wait, don't look at that one, that one's for me, but that's what breast cancer looks like. No makeup, no hair, no clothes. And yet--it doesn't look so bad, does it? Like one day I might look back and say, that does look like me, stripped of some of the conventional adornments. This did really happen--it's not some sort of cosmic joke!

Day 92: Random ramblings

So I am officially 3/4 of the way through with a/c. On the one hand, that means I'm almost done with it, but on the other, I have to do it one more time. Ugh. I couldn't sleep well for the last few nights before this treatment. It is so awful to think about putting yourself through that; I try and try to keep it out of my mind, this thing that I'm doing to myself. But then new realizations kick in. Chicago's been so hot this summer, and while I know it's normal to feel dehydrated on chemo, I've been wondering why I get headaches etc. in the heat. I'm not having hot flashes yet, so that's not it. No--I have lost the ability to sweat. Like a newborn baby--no sweat, no tears, no hair. What the hell kind of shit is that?

Chemo yesterday started out a little annoying. I have been lucky to have my own private room with a tv for the last two treatments. This time, there was no room at the inn, and they put me in the communal infusion area with several other women. Gabe and I were joined by a friend from New York, so my nurse found a room for us so we wouldn't be too cramped. And then I got some relatively good news. My numbers--white blood cells, hemoglobin, etc. were all fine and even better than last time. I think that's one of the things that made me most nervous before chemo--if my numbers don't stay up, they will put off my treatment, and my magic day of October 13 will be put off as well. I really, really intend to be done with cancer treatment by Christmas. It's also scary to think that you could feel fine, and go in and find out that there's something going on in your body that's just not right--these numbers are indicative of very important things. It's akin to the original cancer diagnosis--you're walking around feeling fine, and then someone tells you, sorry, not really.

But this time all systems were go. It took the nurse a little coaxing of my veins to get the iv in, but then she did it fairly effortlessly. Three down, still no port! Taxol will be harder-it's a much longer infusion. The nurse was scaring me by saying that taxol is more likely to make me lose my eyebrows and eyelashes. I'm lucky (always lucky!) I guess to still have those--I even have some arm and leg hair, and some little bits of hair in other parts of my body. I'm not looking forward to losing it all--I'm not a baby, I'm a woman, damnit!

I've gotten used to the shiny bald head, in a way, and I think one reason it works is that I still have eyebrows. However, I do get rude comments--today I went for a walk and a teenage boy on a bike laughed and pointed at me, shouting "hell no!" Lots of people stare, but I have realized something that surprises me. I don't really care. Chicago is a big city. There are lots of people and things to look at that are more disturbing or interesting than me. If people do look, it is unlikely that I will ever see them again anyway. And oddly, it's not that much different than having people look at me for my red hair. It's also led to other off-hand compliments, like that I have flawless skin (it helps to have no oil in your body), or that I have nice ears. I remember years ago I went on a blind date and I guy told me I had nice ears. That seemed so weird. Now, it's like a daily remark.

Does my relatively easy transition into being a bald woman make me grateful? Hell no. I really wish I still had my hair. But you have to find the tolerable in the intolerable I guess. Like today--I had a little bit of appetite, and I even ate some chicken and a biscuit for dinner and it's still in me. The weekend will be the true test--once the miracle Emend pill is over tomorrow, the nausea might really kick in, along with the weakness and fatigue. But if it's not as bad as last time, and if I don't have that horrible stomach pain or get down to 110 again, I think I'm going to give acupuncture the credit. That, and the cheeseburger and shepherds pie I ate in the few days before chemo, which might have given me enough iron to sustain me. Either way I'm going to do weekly acupuncture to get me through this a/c. It's worth a shot.

On another subject, I have been thinking a lot lately about how or why I am handling this cancer situation in my own way. It brings me to something that happened in the radiation oncologist's office. This doctor looked about 20 years old and was very serious. But since I'm at a big research hospital, he was still trailed by two groupies/residents. One was a woman who asked me lots of questions. The guy just seemed bored, or nervous, or something. It was a little uncomfortable. I had to have a breast exam from my doc and the female resident. Just take off your gown, lift your arms up, lie down, do this, etc. This seems like the 87th breast exam I've had since May 4. I might as well show my boobs to the whole world at this point. As I was getting the second exam, Gabe asked me if I felt like a lab rat. Without hesitating I said, sure, but I've always felt that way.

That explains a lot of it I guess. I have memories of that CT scan at 6 years old, doctors not listening to me, disregarding my feelings. I started to learn this lesson then, about being my own advocate. I've written here about my experiences with epilepsy and being in a wheelchair as a child. One thing that I don't think I've ever written about or even told many people about was something that happened when I had the toxic reaction to my epilepsy medication when I was 8.

My neurologist refused to believe that's what was happening, so he put me through a bunch of guinea pig tests for a week. At one point I was in a big room, separated from other patients by only a curtain. Two women, probably in their fifties, were having the same procedure as me. What was it? A barium enema. You can imagine what that was like--I'm sure, thinking of it now, that they didn't really give me a child's dose. Anyway I could hear these women screaming in agony as they went through this, so I knew what was coming. It was, I think I can say, the most painful thing I've ever gone through. Worse than labor, though not nearly as long. And I didn't say a word. I just cried silently. Worse still, I learned that the procedure that tortured me was totally unnecessary, brought on by the doctor's ego in refusing to admit what the ER doctor figured out in 5 minutes. It was for nothing. So my pissed off nature at chemo in part goes back to that, among other things. We had better not be doing this for nothing.

Those experiences also colored my opinions of doctors as a whole. Even though that neurologist was a man, you will never hear me say that women doctors are better, or that they understand me better. I have had great doctors of both genders, and terrible ones as well. I've had female doctors who thought they could relate to me just for being female, and it's never really worked out. I had a wonderful male pediatrician, and a great female doctor in my teens. My current ob is very eccentric, always calling me sweetheart and punching Gabe in the arm, very gruff. But I have never once talked to a nurse on the phone in the entire time I've had him, through two pregnancies, cancer, etc. He has always listened to me, even to tell me that I'm nuts. He still answered the question, found another specialist, gave me the damn breast ultrasound order, etc.

What I want in a doctor is humanity. I prefer eccentricity actually. Just let me know there's a human being in there, so you can see that I'm human too, and I'm NOT a lab rat. For some people going through cancer, this is all new to them. I do feel like I'm in a somewhat better place, not being blindsided by some of the insanity in the medical field. Of course, I wish I had never learned any of these things when I was so little, but perhaps they have now served their purpose.

In addition to the medical lessons I learned from what I went through as a kid, I also learned how to handle being different in a situation that surprised people: the neurologist who always seemed surprised that I was cute, or bright; the other kids who said things like, I heard epileptics are retarded, to which I responded, but I'm in your class so....; the boys who took me out on dates and tried to act like they would know what to do if I had a seizure; the people who looked at me with such discomfort when I was in my wheelchair because I looked so damn...normal. Gabe said to me the other day--it's so weird that you're bald. I think of cancer patients who are bald as looking sick. And you don't--you're just bald. You look the same.

Do I? It's hard for me to see it. I don't feel like me, physically, and yet I feel like me, emotionally. Spent maybe, but me. Does that make sense? Writing this blog has a lot to do with that. It's funny how they tell you that cancer can change your life, make you re-prioritize, etc. I think the people who say that are on drugs. Every cancer survivor I've talked to has said, I'm still waiting for that moment when I'm wiser, when I can suddenly move to Tahiti and live my dream life, when I become a better person, or when I feel less haunted. Still waiting for that moment when the man (the one holding the gun at your head, who might never pull the trigger but who also never leaves) goes away.

For me, the biggest change has been in making myself write, and then finding out that other people actually read what I write. I've always been horrible at sitting down to write creative stuff. But every once in a while I make myself write a poem, usually as a present for Gabe or Lenny or to remind myself of something big, like having a baby. I have a lot of poems that I know are pretty good, but they're sitting here, unread by anyone but me. No cancer poems though, not yet. For years I thought that business writing took away my ability to write creatively, and while I still find this blog to be ridiculously self-focused and I'm surprised every time I find out someone has read it, it reminds me that cancer has not taken me from me, not yet.

Of course, it has taken parts of me, literally and figuratively. Perhaps the whole really is more than the sum of its parts. For example, looking in the mirror is still a trip. I must not be totally without humor about it though, because on my walk (I was going so fast! I felt the wind on my scalp! and then four blocks from home I hit the wall. I made it, but it wasn't pretty) I started thinking about one of my favorite pictures of Augie. It turns out the picture you see of him above was taken one year ago today exactly. I got this idea in my mind, and I started laughing. Walking along the street, bald, a day after chemo, laughing at myself.

Let's assume that I get to see my kids grow up. I will right? One day we will embarrass Augie in front of his friends by busting out this picture, and I can honestly say, see honey? You really did get your looks from me.

Day 82: Food blog

So once again I think I spoke too soon in the last blog. I said that this chemo round was easier. In a way, it's true--I have been sleeping, so that is a huge improvement. But this time I feel like it hit me like a truck, starting on Saturday. I was so shaky and weak that I was having trouble feeding Augie his lunch. Yesterday I was so tired I fell asleep around 10 am and couldn't get out of bed until after noon, even though I was technically awake.

I haven't been a total recluse. We had a bunch of company on Saturday, including friends whom I haven't seen since months b.c. (before cancer). Kudos to them for not even flinching at my baldness. I went to a kids' birthday party yesterday, and I did wear a wig in order to appease Lenny. I hadn't put one on since last Tuesday, and it felt hot and annoying to me. Today when I walked her to school I just wore a scarf. It's hard to balance the desire to make things easier for my child with the need to make things easier for myself. She wants me to be normal, to look normal, but the thing is, right now I'm not. It can be tiring to pretend. So it's possible that I spent a hell of a lot of money on wigs for nothing, but I need to know that blending in is possible, if I need it, I guess. And I've still got the stubble, so I can rock this edgy look a little while longer and strangers could believe I did it on purpose.

So I have left the house, and I have continued to take walks and try to get some exercise. But damn. Chemo #2 is kicking my ass. I think a lot of this fatigue for me has to do with my problems eating. I am just never hungry. Food--one of my favorite things in life!--has just lost its appeal. I know I need to eat to maintain strength and build up my immunity, but man, is it hard. My mouth and throat are so dry, I have terrible heartburn, I am definitely constipated this time, I feel nauseous and my stomach hurts. Just a few weeks ago I was that girl who was already thinking about lunch at 9:30 in the morning. I would have dreams about Sunday breakfasts. I loved to bake, right? Now I can't even be on the same floor as my family when they're microwaving lasagna for dinner because the smell makes me want to vomit. If I drink water, I feel so full I want to lie down. It's pathetic.

So food has kind of taken over my life here. What should I eat? When? How can I drink all of this water when that fills me up and then I don't want to eat anything? If I choose to eat rather than drink, how can I avoid being dehydrated? When will this metallic taste in my mouth go away?

Why the hell am I doing chemo again?

My consumption patterns are laughable. Last night all I wanted was some frosted flakes. Now I don't even normally LIKE frosted flakes. Who knows why I wanted that. But I knew that wasn't the best nutrition for me, so what did I eat first? A bowl of fresh spinach. Spinach and frosted flakes for dinner. Why not? I eat pudding and ice cream for calories, but I'm sure that doesn't help the constipation problem.

I will be astounded if anyone actually wants to read this blog, but I'm putting it out there because it's worth saying how fast chemo takes over your body. It hasn't even been three weeks and I feel like a totally different person--a sick person. When I had cancer in my body I could still do everything normally. Now the cancer's out and I'm getting this "just in case" medicine and I can barely sit here to write.

During chemo, there was a little party going on in my room last week. In addition to a social worker (who actually was useful as she brought some age-appropriate activity books for Lenny to explore her feelings about my cancer), two dieticians came to visit me. They were concerned that I'd lost almost 5 pounds in a week and were trying to tell me that my diet was ok (fruit, cereal, hummus, rice, peanut butter) but that I need more calories. Apparently it's bad to lose weight on chemo. Well, maybe once this menopause kicks in I'll start gaining! Hell if I know.

They were less worried about me when they found out I had diarrhea--so that's why you lost weight! Well, what's my excuse now? I was depressed to see myself weighing 112 this morning, after eating breakfast. It's funny--I thought it was great to see how the numbers on the scale went down after Augie was born. Even after I had stopped trying to lose weight, it was kind of fun to see myself down to 118, a weight I hadn't been since a teenager probably. I stayed at that weight for months, including after my diagnosis--except for the first few weeks when I dropped a couple of pounds due to the extreme stress of thinking I would die. I gained it back, and started out chemo at that weight. Skinny, but I felt fine. However, this is too much. I mean, I'm going to be 35 years old! I have two kids! I'm not short! I need to get a little more meat on me somehow, especially now that I'm bald--I really will start looking like a boy. Feel free to disagree with me on that if you've seen me lately, but I'm sure feeling that way. When I was a kid and I went through an extreme tomboy phase, I tried so hard to look like a boy, and it didn't really work. Enter chemo! Sigh.

Plus, even if I look like a boy, I need to get through chemo, right? I need to have some energy and stay out of the hospital. I hate feeling like I can't be a decent mom, a normal wife, a reliable co-worker. I'm afraid I'll drop Augie since I'm so shaky. I can't eat dinner with my family half the time due to my smell-aversions. I'm working from home today because I didn't know if I would make it to the train. Affection between me and Gabe consists of a few kisses and maybe spooning for 10 minutes. It's hard to have prolonged conversations.

And worst of all I've turned into such a complainer! I don't like reading back on this litany of chemo complaints, but it's better than keeping them all in my head I suppose. This is the one time when the words "strength" and "courage" mean anything to me. I'm not alone in feeling that those words are meaningless when you have a cancer diagnosis. You aren't given lots of choices, so your pluck is kind of irrelevant. As I've said before, attitude isn't what saves people, because if it was, a lot of amazing people would still be around who aren't.

However, it never occurred to me what strength and maybe stubbornness are involved in actually going through cancer treatment. If I actually show up for the rest of my a/c treatments, that's courage. Or stupidity, or something. Because it is damn hard to make yourself do that. And then, I will need to start a whole new type of chemo, with a whole host of different side effects, once I'm done. And THEN I'll do radiation. I just keep thinking: 85% chance of no recurrence due to successful surgery. Chemo only brings it up 10%, radiation 4% or something. All together it puts me close to normal, but I have to lose so much normal to get there, that the only way to do it is to just close your mind to the reality of what you're doing to yourself and just go. Because someone told you that was your only option. Because you want to live more badly than you want to live well. And for me, because once 2010 is over, I will have the chance to probably live like a normal person, albeit with fear, and some lingering side effects, and the memory of the things that cancer took from me. It is amazing to me to think about the people who go through this knowing their cancer will not go away, who do this for palliative reasons. That is some strength I don't think I have. If I do, I would really, really, rather never find out.

Day 80

So it's been 80 days. That's not even three months. It feels like a year. The hard thing is when people say that chemo will only last three more months...and that seems like such a long time. By Halloween I will be done with chemo and on to radiation but at this point that's like talking about the next millennium or something.

I have to say that this chemo round was better. Not fun, but better. It didn't start out well. I waited an hour and a half to see the oncologist--usually you just see the nurse. At one point I went outside in my gown, untied, and said "hello!" I think they had forgotten about me. The doctor saw me for literally twenty seconds. He looked at me and said, so you're fine, right? I said well, not really...I didn't sleep for a week. He just looked at me blankly and said, but no major problems, right?

I had no idea what to say to that.

Apparently the only thing that matters to him is that my numbers were fine--white blood cells, etc. I did have one number that was slightly anemic, but they weren't too worried about me. So on to chemo I went. I have to say that even though I was annoyed at everyone's attempts to say I had random things wrong with me, I really, really like this nurse. She put that iv in there like it was nothing. For that alone, I want to keep going to her. No port! Plus, the adriamycin is so toxic that if it gets into your skin, it can necrotize. So you need a good person to push that into you (two huge syringes of red koolaid looking stuff--they push it right into the iv, no drip. another reason to not have a port--imagine having someone push that into your chest!) Also I think she felt really bad for me and for my sleep issue but just didn't know what to do.

I asked for a printout of the meds that went into my iv, and I'm really glad I did that. Before chemo, and on the two days after, I take this emend pill for nausea. $100 a pop! Then there are the two chemo drugs themselves, along with five other drugs in the iv. After chemo, you have to take steroids for a few days. So when I walked into chemo the first time, with a banana and a piece of toast in my system, I walked out with 9 drugs in my body--two of them poison.

Any wonders that I had some issues?

This time, on the printout there was an X by ativan (lorazepam). I asked if they gave that to me, and she said no, since I didn't like it last time. I think that drug was a killer for me. Also, interestingly, they had my "ideal weight" listed on the printout as 126 pounds. They have my height as 5'5". Did they just decide that was an ideal weight for me or what? I haven't weighed that since maybe the winter. So at 113 I was dosed down and I think that made a huge difference as well.

Because I slept. I was nauseous within two hours of chemo and just felt awful. BUT. I slept pretty well Wednesday night. The last few nights have not been so good--three and a half hours a night, maybe. But that was with taking nothing, not even melatonin, and it makes me feel so much more human just to have that much sleep. I apparently just feel these drug effects immediately. Rather than 5-7 days to feel bone pain with the neulasta shot Gabe gave me Thursday, I felt it within 12 hours.

So sleep has gotten better, but other things have become more annoying. On the one hand, I am SO glad I buzzed my hair off. Hair loss is traumatizing not just because of the identity that goes with it and the way it makes your cancer experience so public. It is also just plain disturbing. Remember, you lose ALL your hair on this chemo. Imagine losing hair every time you go to the bathroom. When I scrub my head, little buzzed hairs fall out, and my scalp stings when I lie down on a pillow. I don't know how people do it with a full head of hair. I just really feel like something is WRONG with me. I must really be a sick person now, with hair falling out everywhere. It's awful.

The other really random chemo issue I'm having? When I'm not feeling too nauseous to eat, I still have trouble eating, since my mouth and throat are so dry. I have actually ordered something called artificial saliva. Awesome, huh? It's hard to even swallow water. But the metallic taste in my mouth isn't too bad yet, so if I use plastic-ware, I can still eat some things, especially soft or cold foods.

So though I don't feel good--woozy, dizzy, occasionally sick, tired, sensitive to light, etc...it is, again, better than last time. And I'm grateful for something else. I am really glad I didn't do that clinical trial. The drug, avastin, that I would have been offered through that (the one with the scary side effects like bowel perforation, lung fistulas, and strokes) has just been ordered off the market for breast cancer by the FDA. They have decided the drug has no benefit for advanced breast cancer, which is what it was being used for (it was developed for lung cancer I think). Since I don't have advanced breast cancer, or even node-positive cancer, I have no idea why I was offered it in the first place. It is apparently one of the most expensive drugs in the world. The main benefit seems to be to prolong life for some months for advanced cancers, and it was being tested to see if it would halt recurrence. Anyway, boy am I glad I didn't risk some insane side effects for something that would have had no benefit to me and would have been pulled from the market right in the middle of my trial!

One thing I've learned about my experience with chemo is that the Friday after is a good day for me to have some distractions. I'm so used to being home on Fridays with the kids, but I'm not up for taking care of them, so they go to school that day. Lenny had a playdate yesterday instead of school, which was good since I feel guilty about her going to school five days a week. Augie is just too hard to take care of with his insane moving around and 50 poopy diapers a day, so he goes to daycare five days most of the time too. Just a few months ago, he was only going in three days and I was nursing him 5 times a day. How things change. I'm sleeping by myself now, downstairs, to avoid the A/C on my head, and Gabe and I don't have much time together since I am often useless and he is busy around the house. It's really making things different around here. So if anyone's hanging out on a Friday after I have chemo, give me a shout. I'll be too out of it to be exciting, but no need to just get lost in my thoughts!

Day 76

Though there isn't much news to report, I really felt that I needed to write a bit about hair again. I have to say that it is very interesting being a bald woman. Well, I'm not yet really bald--that will be in a few days. It's actually fascinating to me how fast my little buzz has grown in just 5 days. I kind of wish it hadn't, since that just means there's more to fall out over the weekend.

As I said earlier, I have been wearing one of my wigs to take Lenny into school and to pick her up. These kids have no clue that one day my hair is significantly longer than the next. They don't care--but they would if they saw me without a wig, and then Lenny would have to answer some questions, and that's not fair for a 4 year old. She has made it clear that she wants me to wear a wig to her school, and that's fine. She's going through enough. Since they're little, I'm sure her classmates' interest would be fleeting. But of course they would notice--for example, the boy next door just laughed when he saw me, and until that moment I hadn't even really thought about being bald in my back yard. I'm sure he'll get used to it though, since he'll see me all the time. And in that situation his parents could explain it to him, leaving Lenny out of the equation.

At work it's been a different story. I've taken the wig off as soon as I got into my office. So in the hall, the cafeteria, and the gym, I've been bald. And everyone has pretended not to notice. My old boss saw me and said "Gaa!!"Then he kind of looked at me and said, "that doesn't look so bad." A few minutes and several non-sequiters later he said, "that looks kind of good actually." Our admin said "Oh, you poor thing!" One of the economists, who happens to be bald himself, told me that he liked my hairdo. Almost everyone else acted as if they noticed nothing different about me. At the gym yesterday it was the elephant in the room. Who is looking and pretending not to? Um, everyone. After class one guy came up to me and said "Well you look different!" Yeah, I know, I said sheepishly. "Well, it looks nice." Today, a young girl saw me at the gym and said "your hair!" I said, yes, well, it wasn't my first choice. She asked if it was "for something." I said yes--breast cancer. She said she was sorry, how long did I know? We got into the whole conversation. At some point she said "at least you have a beautiful face to go with it. It looks good."

In the general world, it's been a mixed bag. On a walk the other day I was wearing a bandana. A neighbor whom I didn't even know knew my name called out "Hey Katy!" from across the street. I thought, how did he recognize me? Gabe thought by my legs. Then, Gabe and I went out the other night and I did indeed go bald. We ate in the south loop and went to see a movie. When you're hanging out in an area full of art students, a hairdo like mine doesn't attract much attention. It was refreshing to be able to not worry about wearing anything on my head and still blend in. I guess in a city the size of Chicago, you could be edgy, you could have cancer, and there's so many damn people most people have seen one or the other and they just don't care. I got a few looks of curiosity, and a few of appreciation, all from men. This just reiterates what women's magazines tell you. When they ask 50 guys what they like about anything pertaining to women they get 50 different answers. The lesson is if you'e got something, someone out there is bound to like it.

What else did I learn from my first few public days as a bald lady? One, that it helps to have people acknowledge a difference. But then again I knew this already. I remember being in a wheelchair and having several kids come up to me at different points and ask what was wrong with my legs. Adults, on the other hand, would give me weird looks or do that adult thing where you pretend not to notice something, thereby making it more obvious that you notice. I much preferred the kid version. Same with this baldness. It helps when people say the right thing too.

Two, I learned that it helps to look good bald. I feel almost strange about it. I mean, it's not like you get a free pass if bald won't flatter you--you do chemo for breast cancer, and you lose your hair. Everyone going through this should have the prerogative to go bald if it makes their lives easier. Sometimes I can almost feel the relief when people tell me I look good, or that it's not that bad. It's like they would just feel terrible if I didn't, and I subjected them to looking at me anyway by not wearing a scarf or a wig or something. Now don't get me wrong, I greatly appreciate the compliments and it makes it much easier to go through a transition that I still wish had never happened. I wish I needed my hair clips and bands, my shampoo. It's hard to get used to rubbing dove soap on my head and taking three minute showers. And there's this strange pressure to somehow change your whole style when you go bald. There are all of these classes and articles written about the right makeup and jewelry to wear if you're bald due to chemo. I've either worn no makeup or the same, and I don't even have pierced ears, so I can't do the jewelry. But I just find it curious that there's so much attention being paid to lessening the impact. One article said that if you are a bald woman, people will notice you. It's inevitable, so give them something good to notice. Really? When men go bald they're told to just rock it out. It's sexy. So I guess I'm going to take that advice. While I greatly miss my pretty hair and the identity that went along with it, it does in a way seem like just hair now. Once my hair was actually gone, at least down to this stubble, I looked at it in the plastic bag and thought, well, that's some very pretty, very dead stuff right there. Part of me, laid out in a bag.

Well, enough with the hair for now. My exciting news is I slept like a normal Katy last night. I fell asleep on the couch watching tv with no melatonin or anything. I woke up about 4 hours later, went up to bed, actually fell asleep eventually. Let's hope the same is true tonight, before I start chemo again tomorrow and the process starts all over. Sigh.

Sleep and hair have dominated my post-chemo blogs, so I feel like I haven't said much about the other chemo side effects. Does anyone really care about this? Who knows, but here goes. I have a super-nose now. I can smell things I never thought existed, and I'm not sure it's a good thing. I'm never thirsty but I am absolutely parched. It's hard to describe the difference, but it's there. I've lost my balance and I get motion sickness. Moreover, I was told I would never get nauseous after the first few days. I got through a week without vomiting. I've gotten sick twice this past week. When Gabe and I went out the other night we got some Indian food, and I took the advice of all the docs who told me to take advantage of days when I was hungry. So I ate a nice big meal. Now this is 113 pound me, so we're not talking huge quantities of food here. And it was low-fat, vegetarian Indian food. But I felt SO sick during the movie. At home it was no better. In fact I felt so sick I did something I've never done in my life--I sat there until the very act of the dry heaving made me vomit. In a sense, I made myself do it. Bad idea. Will I ever eat Indian food again? Boy does spicy food not taste good on the way back up. My stomach and throat hurt for a day after that.

I told the chemo nurse about my vomiting. She said, get this...that maybe I have a stomach bug. So, immediately upon starting chemo I got some anxiety attacks and the stomach flu? They're not, you know, related to chemo or anything right? I'm just giving up on telling them about my side effects unless they might land me in the ER. The docs also seem annoyed with me that I went to a neurologist and to my GP about my sleep. Well, maybe I wouldn't have done that if you hadn't told me to just go to the social worker to sleep! I have since talked to two other breast cancer survivors who had the same exact sleep issue as me. And I only know about 8 survivors, so that's a pretty big percentage, it seems to me.

I've since learned that it can be pretty common on A/C to have this anorexia/bulimia response. You have very little appetite so you don't eat much. Then, when you do eat, it makes you feel sick and you want to vomit. This is exactly what has happened to me. You all know I love to eat. My weight loss has not been achieved by dieting so much as be exercising and eating less. But now, there are so many foods that just aren't appealing. And I can only eat a little at a time. I just ate too much of that Indian stuff the other night. Not literally--just for my new appetite. And I had to make myself get rid of it. I never thought I would do that in a million years. Of all of the strange things people go through, there are a few I could never relate to. Drug and alcohol addiction are two. Anorexia and bulimia are some others. But of course this type has a totally different cause, due to extreme nausea. Regardless, it's kind of bizarre.

Chemo has changed my body so quickly. But except for this hair, it's all going on inside of me. The girl at the gym today came up to me after our initial conversation and said "I'm sorry, should I not have done that?" I said, hey it's no secret. Yesterday everyone acted like they didn't notice so I appreciate you saying something. And she said "Well, you would never know." I got what she meant. I had told her I found out about my breast cancer on May 4 and that I've had two surgeries since then. She's seen me for two and a half months in the gym, favoring one side, not showing up as often, but there, looking like myself. I'm bald, but other than that you would never know. Unless you live with me, or read this blog, that is.

I was reading an article today in BrainChild about stuttering, and the author said a few things that really hit home. She said, "I don't believe everything happens for a reason. I don't believe every problem is an opportunity, or at least an opportunity worth the price." She also said that when asked if the glass is half full or half empty, she sees it as both. That's all exactly right, at least to me. So, here's to round two. I just need to get through the next several days and I can tell myself I'm half done with the really bad stuff, a quarter of the way done with all of it. Dealing with the actual day to day bullshit of chemo is the half empty part, and getting it over with fills the cup.

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!

Day 69 Redux

Thanks to everyone who is trying to help me through this awful morbid insomnia. I appreciate all of the concern, and I wish that each of you could give me one hour of your sleep--that would be awesome! I was really losing it today. I still feel like a subhuman, but I thought it would be good to update and get out some of my frustration with the medical community. It comes down to this.

No one knows what the hell to do with me.

It's like they think I'm kidding, or lying, about how chemically sensitive I am. When I was dreading chemo in this blog and people would tell me, it might not be that bad, I wasn't trying to be negative. The idea that I will have bizarre side effects is simply the truth for me. This is a big reason why I don't drink, why I've never done drugs, not even smoked pot. I discovered in college that I couldn't take Nyquil because it kept me awake--I had to take Dayquil. Valerian makes me jumpy, I can't sleep after drinking wine. I hallucinate on pain pills, my blood pressure rises from tylenol. They used to tell me I was a trooper as a kid because of the pain I could endure unmedicated. I think even then, I was more afraid of the effects of the drugs than their purported benefit. I still remember crawling into my parents' room when I was 8, unable to walk because of my abdominal pain. Appendicitis, you ask? Nope. Toxic reaction to Depakaine. ER doctor called it, but my neurologist kept me in the hospital a week doing guinea pig tests on me because he didn't believe it. The more meds he gave, the worse my pain was and the more seizures I would have. The meds stopped, I got better. I was "cured." Uh-huh.

It's like I live in opposite land for medicine. Maybe the good metabolism that helps me stay thin also is very efficient at metabolizing medication. Who knows.

No one was calling me back for the longest time today. I called everyone--oncologist, my ob, gp, random nurses, you name it. When I thought I was going to keel over I took a lorazepam--one of the anti-anxiety drugs I was prescribed that I've taken only a few times, and not since last Saturday. This is the drug that knocked me out so much after my first surgery that I fell asleep sitting up eating a cracker. Post-chemo, all it does is make my heart race. I started researching side effects online and realized I NEVER should have taken that drug. People can go through withdrawal after just one dose. Of course this is rare. Of course, that means that probably happened to me, and it might be one reason for my racing heart.

Ambien just made that heart race more. I have tried every kind of relaxation technique, exercise, different foods, bedandryl, herbal tea, you name it. Again, this is not sleeping erratically or getting only a few hours. I would take that. This is NOTHING. I can't tell the difference between day and night. I forgot to shower for two days because I thought it was the same day. And yet somehow I have been working, albeit from home. Anyway, the oncologist's nurse was going to prescribe some other sleeping medicine, and I got totally turned off after looking at the side effect possibilities. Then someone else called me with the following advice: Take no medication at all. Try to meditate. Try acupuncture. Relax.

Oh, ok, I'll go do that! I forgot that I could just relax! Thanks.

So tomorrow I will try acupuncture, but not to help me sleep. It's free, it's something that can appease the docs, and maybe it will help with some other side effects that are physical rather than neurological. I'd be willing to walk on hot coals for sleep, though that's as likely to work as medication or meditation.

These people just don't get it. I have insomnia for one of two reasons: chemo, or the drugs they gave me to counteract the effects of chemo. Perhaps both. These people were trying to talk to me about anxiety, about how we don't realize how stress affects our bodies. Please. I have had breast cancer for two and a half months. I haven't been in denial for one minute. Death? I faced it, I still face it, and everything that goes with it. Loss of fertility, youth, my hair, you all have seen that here. I have dealt with it.

I know what it's like to have anxiety-related insomnia, where you don't sleep well or wake up terrified or can't get back to sleep. That sums up the month of May for me. But I have gone through a lot of bullshit that didn't even bring me down the way it should have--the second surgery, the fact that I had a massive annoying reaction to that surgery, taking steroids for that (21 pills in six days, nightmares, jumpy--STILL COULD SLEEP. compare to 4 total steroid pills post-chemo. I don't think it's the steroids, at least not alone). And none of that kept me awake for a week. That happened the moment I started chemo. Even Gabe admits that while I was miserable in some ways, I was emotionally calm the few days after chemo. It wasn't until the last few days of sleeplessness that I lost all sense of reason.

So I am pretty furious at this idea that I need to talk to a social worker. To do what, talk about breast cancer and how it sucks? At this point, I am having fond memories of breast cancer. Oh, when I only had cancer, and I was still fully functional. Yes it could have killed me, but not as quickly as this chemo might if I end up in the hospital with no immunity (let's hope for no blood transfusion--of course I have the rarest blood type). Breast cancer is not the issue right now. Maybe it will be in six months, but I need to get there first. Chemo is the issue--not my "feelings" about it, but my admittedly "morbid" physical reactions to it.

I don't need to do yoga or talk about my emotions. That might help down the road, or in general with cancer, but right now what I need is to sleep. Any talking I would do would resolve around sleep, not cancer. Once I sleep, then maybe I will see the sun shine again. I am well aware that the lack of sleep is destroying my mood, my sanity, and my perspective. But that is what is happening--it's not the other way around.

There is a reason that sleep deprivation is used as a torture technique. It's one of the reasons Winston gave up Julia. It turns you into a primal being, and it messes with everything in your body. I have started starving at 2 in the morning because my body thinks it's mealtime. When I close my eyes I can feel them moving, like scared skittish animals under my eyelids. I am so tired I don't think when I'm resting. They keep telling me to turn my mind off. No problem! It hasn't been on in days!

After taking the lorazipam today I rested for a while. No sleep, heart seemed to be worse. And then I got up to go to the bathroom. And I fell over. That's when I started researching the side effects. Give it a try--I feel like these drug companies are insane to make some of these things.

My seizure history puts the docs at a loss too. They were telling me they've never seen someone have a chemo-induced seizure. First of all, I'm not worried about that. I'm worried about a sleep-deprivation seizure. If you had a clue about neurology you would know that is a big possibility. Second, there are a lot of things that have happened to me that they have never seen. Never seen someone not sleep at all for days. Never seen someone have toes tingling the day after AC. 95% of people on this chemo will be constipated, they told me. Guess who is having diarrhea? Sorry if that's TMI, but I'm just saying. You will lose your ovarian function, they told me. Today, I got my period.


Gabe and I called the babysitter again today so I could get some middle eastern food and we could talk. I never realized how hard it is to find something on a middle eastern menu that isn't grilled. Anyway, at dinner he asked, I wonder what they say to men who have breast cancer? I think that's a great point. What do you think they said to Richard Roundtree? Hey Shaft, you have issues with your breast cancer? Well, get over it. Go meditate, do some yoga. Take these 5 drugs that we have never tested fully on men with breast cancer. Impotence? Who cares? You're Shaft, right? Maybe they told him to darken the room, put on some mood music and think happy thoughts (I was literally told that today). Do you think?

I'm doubting it. Imagine telling a room full of men diagnosed with prostrate cancer to talk it out, do some pilates. It's like it's still the 19th century and women are just crazy hysterics. But not this lady. If chemo is poison that kills cancer cells, mouth cells, hormonal cells, hair cells, white blood cells, fingernail cells, intestinal cells, and more, why the hell couldn't it cause your brain to forget how to sleep?

Maybe next time they tell me they don't know what to do with me, they have never seen this before, and I should call a social worker, I will tell them to talk to me like I am Richard Roundtree. I bet you've never seen that shit before either. But you're not going to talk to him like he's lost his mind, right? Or you had better watch out.