My sanity is precarious on the days when the rollercoaster is headed downwards. It’s an odd mixture of extreme lucidity and visions. My awareness of particular things has become heightened or enhanced, depending on the day or situation. Is it the chemo? Is it myself coming to terms with my true nature? I haven’t decided yet.
For example, driving home from work early the other day, I was overcome with feeling nauseated, exhausted, and tender all over my body. I had these visions of all my ancestors lining the highways I traveled. There were thousands of them. They didn’t say things and I couldn’t pick any of them out in recognition, but I had the reassuring feeling that they weren’t disappointed in me. It was as if each of them persevered and lived their lives so that they could have more kin, like me.
It was an overwhelmingly loving situation, like a group of celestial blood-related cheerleaders.
And no, I did not crash my car.
Sometimes it feels like I have bonds around my wrists. No matter how elastic and forgiving they feel, they are still there. There are days when I almost forget that I have cancer, just in how I feel and in my attitude. A look in the mirror or at my day planner, and I’m transported back to reality. It’s easy to feel frustrated, much like a kid in the backseat of a car during a road trip.
Are we there yet? Aren’t we friggin’ there yet?
I’ve already envisioned myself breaking out of the bonds and in a way I’m a bit nervous. I’d liken it to coming out of prison, going on parole, and trying to assimilate back into society.
I already get odd looks now because of the way I appear to people. Once I’m fully acclimated, will I have to explain myself? As it is, my personal chronology can be delineated into BC: Before Cancer, and AC: After Cancer. Will cancer be the elephant in my corner?
In attempts to reconcile my apathy during this slump with a more positive outlook, I’ve resorted to wearing a rubber band around my wrist. I found out via Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips by Kris Carr that rubber bands are used in cognitive behavior modification for people grappling with addiction, depression, and other ailments and disorders. The idea is that once a negative thought or need for something negative arises, you snap the rubber band on your wrist so that it triggers a little jolt to your brain with its accompanying pain. It’s important to note that severe pain is not the goal here. The goal is to send an impulse to the brain to self-correct your thoughts and behaviors. It also makes you more cognitively aware of your urges and pulls you back to the present.
Thus far, I’ve noticed that it has helped me in the days when I’m feeling quite down and sorry for myself. I’ve also noticed how little I use it on some days, which makes me feel secure about my own attitudes during this journey. Some days I won’t wear it because I know I won't be self-defeating. However, during the slump days this past week, I found myself snapping at it more than a few times during an hour’s period.
At this point, you might have an image of me sitting in a corner with an elephant snapping away at a rubber band like a mad woman surrounded by celestial beings.
You might not be far from the truth.
However, if there is one thing I’ve learned about cancer is that you just fall in line with its cadence. You just let it make you feel what you need to feel.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Luke, please destroy my Death Star
It’s been over a week since I got my results for my midpoint PET scan.
As you may recall from a previous blog posting, my doctor thought the mass would be gone by now. The truth is that the mass is not gone, but it is half its original size. As my doctor mentioned: this is by no means bad news. It’s still progress and it appears that it has not spread, which is also good news.
The battle plan has changed a bit in light of this news. Rather than just continue with 4 more chemotherapies, I’ll be going forth with 2 more and then have another PET scan.
I have yet to see the photos of a PET scan but have been given the reports in written form, along with verbal descriptions. In order for the scan to work, the body must have a lower level of glucose than normal, hence the 6 hour fast prior to the procedure. Then, radioactive glucose is administered, in my case via an injection. Any tumors and masses seek the glucose and absorb it. After a 45-minute nap in a dark room, you are put in what looks like a tightly closed MRI machine. This is not a joy for the claustrophobic. I’m mildly claustrophobic and the first time in the tube, I had to convince myself that I was in a water tube ride so I didn’t hyperventilate. Staying in there 45 minutes to an hour, while strapped in so you don’t accidentally roll off the “bed,” presents more of an opportunity to nap. The PET scan machine takes incremental pictures of the body, which for me is from my thighs to the base of my skull. In order to interpret the results, the doctors are looking for not only the size of the cancer but also the density of color. The “brighter” it appears, the more activity it contains.
In my case, the cancer has shrunk and is less bright than before. I could almost liken it to a dying star in my chest, which is pretty much the outcome we want.
However, if the PET scan after the 2 chemos still shows activity, a stem cell transplant might be necessary. This would require a trip to MD Anderson in Houston, most likely, and more bone marrow taken in order to harvest my stem cells. Apparently, having a stem cell transplant allows the body to handle more aggressive chemotherapies by administering them back into my body post-chemo to rejuvenate my cells. I forgot that for other cancers, blood transfusions are used, but in the case of leukemia and lymphoma, since they are blood cancers, this is not an option.
In the last weeks, I feel like I have been floating through the days, some of it has been cancer paranoia; some of it is just plain weakness. I can feel my brain not working as well as it once did (chemo fog?). I made this analogy to some of my coworkers: you know how you can open multiple windows on a computer and have them all run at once? Well, my brain can only open and operate one window at a time these days.
I am also beginning to look more the part of a cancer patient: I have dark circles under my eyes and a more sickly pallor. I am trying hard to stay active and eat good things, but there is only so much I can do to prevent these symptoms.
This has presented some challenges between how my soul and body feels. It’s a weird situation because for the days when my body is beyond exhausted, my soul has to convince my body to just rest and fall asleep. For the days when I feel broken beyond depression, my body convinces my soul: really, I’m not doing that badly, so cheer up.
I know for some cancer patients, depending on their situation, they name their cancer. I really hadn’t devoted much creativity and time to creating a cancer alias. I think for some of the days, I just referred to my cancer as the “little monster”. In the face of pop culture creativity, I think I shall refer to my cancer as my Death Star.
It’s entirely appropriate because it’s the bad guy. It is suspended in space, as my cancer is suspended in a space. It’s round and my cancer is roundish. Most importantly, we all know the ending of A New Hope so really it has a more positive connotation.
Now, where is Luke Skywalker when you need him?
As you may recall from a previous blog posting, my doctor thought the mass would be gone by now. The truth is that the mass is not gone, but it is half its original size. As my doctor mentioned: this is by no means bad news. It’s still progress and it appears that it has not spread, which is also good news.
The battle plan has changed a bit in light of this news. Rather than just continue with 4 more chemotherapies, I’ll be going forth with 2 more and then have another PET scan.
I have yet to see the photos of a PET scan but have been given the reports in written form, along with verbal descriptions. In order for the scan to work, the body must have a lower level of glucose than normal, hence the 6 hour fast prior to the procedure. Then, radioactive glucose is administered, in my case via an injection. Any tumors and masses seek the glucose and absorb it. After a 45-minute nap in a dark room, you are put in what looks like a tightly closed MRI machine. This is not a joy for the claustrophobic. I’m mildly claustrophobic and the first time in the tube, I had to convince myself that I was in a water tube ride so I didn’t hyperventilate. Staying in there 45 minutes to an hour, while strapped in so you don’t accidentally roll off the “bed,” presents more of an opportunity to nap. The PET scan machine takes incremental pictures of the body, which for me is from my thighs to the base of my skull. In order to interpret the results, the doctors are looking for not only the size of the cancer but also the density of color. The “brighter” it appears, the more activity it contains.
In my case, the cancer has shrunk and is less bright than before. I could almost liken it to a dying star in my chest, which is pretty much the outcome we want.
However, if the PET scan after the 2 chemos still shows activity, a stem cell transplant might be necessary. This would require a trip to MD Anderson in Houston, most likely, and more bone marrow taken in order to harvest my stem cells. Apparently, having a stem cell transplant allows the body to handle more aggressive chemotherapies by administering them back into my body post-chemo to rejuvenate my cells. I forgot that for other cancers, blood transfusions are used, but in the case of leukemia and lymphoma, since they are blood cancers, this is not an option.
In the last weeks, I feel like I have been floating through the days, some of it has been cancer paranoia; some of it is just plain weakness. I can feel my brain not working as well as it once did (chemo fog?). I made this analogy to some of my coworkers: you know how you can open multiple windows on a computer and have them all run at once? Well, my brain can only open and operate one window at a time these days.
I am also beginning to look more the part of a cancer patient: I have dark circles under my eyes and a more sickly pallor. I am trying hard to stay active and eat good things, but there is only so much I can do to prevent these symptoms.
This has presented some challenges between how my soul and body feels. It’s a weird situation because for the days when my body is beyond exhausted, my soul has to convince my body to just rest and fall asleep. For the days when I feel broken beyond depression, my body convinces my soul: really, I’m not doing that badly, so cheer up.
I know for some cancer patients, depending on their situation, they name their cancer. I really hadn’t devoted much creativity and time to creating a cancer alias. I think for some of the days, I just referred to my cancer as the “little monster”. In the face of pop culture creativity, I think I shall refer to my cancer as my Death Star.
It’s entirely appropriate because it’s the bad guy. It is suspended in space, as my cancer is suspended in a space. It’s round and my cancer is roundish. Most importantly, we all know the ending of A New Hope so really it has a more positive connotation.
Now, where is Luke Skywalker when you need him?
Monday, June 6, 2011
Cancer zen
Chemo creates bouts of uncertainty, but there are times when there is clarity, even in their singular moments.
There are times when I feel like I should be telling people: I’m fine, now save yourself. Somehow I feel like a ghost that has drifted into the background. This is by no means because of how people treat me, it’s just how the cancer makes me feel reflective.
There are days when I don’t feel well and I am motivated to move forward for the pure sake of finding inner peace. I liken it to standing on one foot and trying to stay balanced. Sometimes you have to focus on a spot on a wall just to stay upright. I try to work through the discomfort just to find that spot within my mind.
There are days when it feels like I’m freefalling backwards and I don’t know if the feeling will stop. I don’t know if something will catch my fall or if I’ll just get the breath knocked out of me when I land.
Maybe those bouts of uncertainty?
Today at my oncology center, they were holding a Cancer Survivor’s Day. I received a goodie bag with a t-shirt, some candies, and a Livestrong rubber bracelet. They also provided food and refreshments.
I recall they hung posters and signs in the chemo room and lab advertising the day, but honestly, I had forgotten until the day had arrived. I was merely showing up for a blood test. It was like a real party, complete with people who knew each other and had connected in the past. These were people who were on a first name basis with the doctors and nurses.
I felt so out of place.
While everyone at the oncology center knows me and knows about me, my age differentiates me from many of the patients.
I breeze into the hospital for my appointments, still in my work clothes, walking faster than most of the healthy people in the hallways. If it weren’t for the bare head or head wrap, you probably couldn’t tell that I was a cancer patient at first glance.
Today at the little event, I noticed that I was not just years, but decades, younger than my peers. It’s a contradictory feeling, seeing people older than middle age and elderly battle cancer. There’s a bit of a stigma that cancer happens to the elderly more than other age groups. Perhaps this is true statistically. However, it doesn’t make it any easier to watch someone older than me go through cancer. I’m sure the same could be said for the reverse.
Like the woman sitting next to me at the event today noshing on food. She was probably the first stranger who wanted to know my cancer situation and understood about the treatments. When I was leaving, she held my hand for a moment and said: “you stay strong sweetie.” It felt so odd, someone who is probably a grandmother, saying that to me.
One of the nurse technicians pinned a yellow ribbon on my sweater and gave me a couple of yellow roses.
I left the hospital with the roses in my bag, feeling a bit like a rejected prom date, ever aware and uncertain about my situation.
The thing I didn’t understand about the term “cancer survivor” before having cancer is that it is used even while someone is in treatment. The idea is that the moment you are diagnosed, you are surviving cancer.
A giant portion of the uncertainty is the midpoint PET scan, which has come and gone. I should find out the results later this week. I’m nervous and anxious about the fate of the monster in my lung.
Next week is also yet another chemo. Part of me thinks: didn’t I just do chemo? Maybe the last rounds of treatment will seem faster. In a blink, summer will be over.
Meanwhile, there is more time to work on my cancer zen.
There are times when I feel like I should be telling people: I’m fine, now save yourself. Somehow I feel like a ghost that has drifted into the background. This is by no means because of how people treat me, it’s just how the cancer makes me feel reflective.
There are days when I don’t feel well and I am motivated to move forward for the pure sake of finding inner peace. I liken it to standing on one foot and trying to stay balanced. Sometimes you have to focus on a spot on a wall just to stay upright. I try to work through the discomfort just to find that spot within my mind.
There are days when it feels like I’m freefalling backwards and I don’t know if the feeling will stop. I don’t know if something will catch my fall or if I’ll just get the breath knocked out of me when I land.
Maybe those bouts of uncertainty?
Today at my oncology center, they were holding a Cancer Survivor’s Day. I received a goodie bag with a t-shirt, some candies, and a Livestrong rubber bracelet. They also provided food and refreshments.
I recall they hung posters and signs in the chemo room and lab advertising the day, but honestly, I had forgotten until the day had arrived. I was merely showing up for a blood test. It was like a real party, complete with people who knew each other and had connected in the past. These were people who were on a first name basis with the doctors and nurses.
I felt so out of place.
While everyone at the oncology center knows me and knows about me, my age differentiates me from many of the patients.
I breeze into the hospital for my appointments, still in my work clothes, walking faster than most of the healthy people in the hallways. If it weren’t for the bare head or head wrap, you probably couldn’t tell that I was a cancer patient at first glance.
Today at the little event, I noticed that I was not just years, but decades, younger than my peers. It’s a contradictory feeling, seeing people older than middle age and elderly battle cancer. There’s a bit of a stigma that cancer happens to the elderly more than other age groups. Perhaps this is true statistically. However, it doesn’t make it any easier to watch someone older than me go through cancer. I’m sure the same could be said for the reverse.
Like the woman sitting next to me at the event today noshing on food. She was probably the first stranger who wanted to know my cancer situation and understood about the treatments. When I was leaving, she held my hand for a moment and said: “you stay strong sweetie.” It felt so odd, someone who is probably a grandmother, saying that to me.
One of the nurse technicians pinned a yellow ribbon on my sweater and gave me a couple of yellow roses.
I left the hospital with the roses in my bag, feeling a bit like a rejected prom date, ever aware and uncertain about my situation.
The thing I didn’t understand about the term “cancer survivor” before having cancer is that it is used even while someone is in treatment. The idea is that the moment you are diagnosed, you are surviving cancer.
A giant portion of the uncertainty is the midpoint PET scan, which has come and gone. I should find out the results later this week. I’m nervous and anxious about the fate of the monster in my lung.
Next week is also yet another chemo. Part of me thinks: didn’t I just do chemo? Maybe the last rounds of treatment will seem faster. In a blink, summer will be over.
Meanwhile, there is more time to work on my cancer zen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)