I learned something important this past weekend: never underestimate the power of a pink wig.
Three of my closest friends and I went out of town for the weekend to San Antonio. Packing the car and driving to Hill Country provided such a profound thrill for me for many reasons: the opportunity to get out of the house and see some different surroundings, aside from connecting more with my friends.
It’s amazing how on road trips, passing through cities and seeing long stretches of land makes one feel somewhat insignificant. It’s a reminder that there are things at work greater than oneself, because everyone is living day to day, experiencing the same traumas and triumphs as the next person.
It’s also a reminder that I’m not stuck here in this space, physically and figuratively.
I have a pink wig on loan from a friend and I decided it would accompany me to San Antonio. The plan was that we’d dress up and go out to eat for a belated birthday dinner for one of my friends on the Riverwalk.
Setting out on the streets of downtown, we were dressed in our cocktail hour finest.
San Antonio is already a colorful city with its profound Mexican heritage. However, little did I realize how much attention a pink wig would garner.
Interestingly, I rarely saw a scowl or weird look. For the most part, people would smile at me. In the instance of passing a double decker bus on the way back to the car, multiple people called out, “I like your hair!”
My favorite moment, however, would be the man surrounded by friends who said loudly: “Hey! She has pink hair!” That had the four of us in stitches.
In a small way, wearing the wig prevents me from feeling like a cancer patient. It stands out, but in a different way from when I wear a head wrap. I feel a bit like a comic book character with it, but I sincerely love the escapism of it.
Snapping back to this past Monday’s reality, I had my third PET scan. This was the one intended to determine the next route of treatments. I was slightly less anxious about these results than the previous scan, but wishing, hoping, and praying that the Deathstar would indeed be destroyed.
Even as I lay in the PET scan machine, I visualized the mass crumbling. My preoccupation with these thoughts made me want to bust out of the tube fighting. I tried my hardest not to squirm as my muscles began to twitch. I squeezed my eyes shut and envisioned my ultimate zen moment: paddling a canoe on a serene lake at sunrise. Imagining the precise and steady dips of the paddle made me less aware of my tickly skin.
On Wednesday, I called the doctor to follow up and find out the results of my PET scan.
Let me begin by saying that the results weren’t quite what I expected.
The scan was inconclusive and appeared to indicate little change from the previous scan. Of course, my mind began to reel at this point. What does this all mean?
My doctor requested a conversation in person with my family and I the next day, to discuss the results and what to do going forth.
Come today’s follow up appointment, it became apparent that the main concern is that the PET scan does not show a decrease in activity. The doctor said a surgical biopsy would be required to take a sample of the mass so that we could conclusively determine its identity. It’s possible it’s just scar tissue; it’s possible it is still cancerous.
If it’s just scar tissue, I will continue with 2 more sessions of chemotherapy. If it’s still cancerous, I will have 1 or 2 rounds of aggressive chemotherapy that will require a hospital stay and monitoring before extracting stem cells from my blood or bone marrow. In the conversation about the process of a stem cell transplant, the doctor brought up that I would need another port with multiple “lines” on the right side of my chest. Anxiety began the “la la la la la la, blah, blah, blah” thoughts in my head at that point. I’d rather cross that bridge if or when I come to it.
I was sent over to another part of Denton to visit with a cardiothoracic surgeon who could complete the biopsy. After examining the results of my 3 PET scans and calling my oncologist for more information, he decided that he needed a CT scan to help him in the surgical process.
Thus, I await a CT scan tomorrow or after the weekend. I have a biopsy scheduled on Wednesday next week, with a hospital stay of a few days for recovery.
There is a small victory that my chemo tomorrow has been postponed as we await the procedure and results.
To bastardize a quote from the movie Juno: I already have cancer, what other shenanigans can I get into?
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Hot flashes for heat waves
The blistering hot days of Texas summer are in full swing and, in the afternoon, I stay inside wondering why the government doesn’t legally require siestas.
The persistent heat, with its requirement of minimal clothing and risk of sunburns, makes me all too aware that my body is mottled with the shadow dots of injections, blood tests, biopsies, and anemia-induced bruises. These are the days when I notice that my skin is so fair, that blue veins just appear in the weirdest of places. The small coincidence is that these veins do not appear on my arms where the blood tests occur. I recall telling the technician at the oncology center that I have a lot of veins in my feet. She just laughed and said: “I don’t want your feet!”
My face and neck are rouged from hot flashes just like a pre-menopausal woman. A glisten of sweat appears on my forehead and if my mother is near me, she asks: “You had another one, didn’t you?”
I suppose I could look at it like a welcome change to the “could-be-an-extra-in-a-post-apocalyptic-zombie-flick” look that comes with chemo-induced anemia.
Though people have been very nice to tell me that I don’t look sick.
Thank goodness for makeup?
Also associated with these hot flashes, my sleeping pattern is seemingly derived more so from hysteria than comfort, though it might be a combination of the two.
I have a large bed with 3 pillows. One pillow is for my head and there is a pillow on either side of me. I tend to roll over and hug one pillow to fall asleep. In the middle of the night, I will have a hot flash that will cause me to want to roll over and hug the other pillow because that side of the bed has the AC-cooled sheets.
At this point, the sweat and newly warm side requires me to roll back to the other side, where I attempt to start the sleeping process again. If I have indeed decided to stay asleep on my right side, I become uncomfortably aware of my port and then I have to maneuver the pillow between my arms and under my chin so that there is less constriction.
Better right?
Wait, there’s more.
Meanwhile, I am simultaneously kicking down the sheets and blankets because the layer of sweat on my body is gluing me to the mattress. At this point, I will flop over to my stomach or back (depending on where I began sleeping) in exasperation to let the overhead fan dry up the excess moisture.
And now I am cold. So, I pull the sheets and blankets back up over my head and begin the pillow rotation insanity all over again.
At some point, I will check my cell phone for the time and typically I’m elated to know that there are only a few more hours of this nonsense until I’m to get up at 4:40 am.
By the time my phone alarm wakes me, I’m not entirely sure I got any sleep at all. However, my cat is all too happy to prompt me out of bed, gently at first, and then firmly. By this, I mean that he tests nerve functioning by biting the closest human extremity to him. I can tell you with confidence, with these daily tests, that I do not have full-blown neuropathy.
I get up, glad that it’s not light out yet, but always surprised when locking the door to the house as I’m leaving for work, that it’s already too warm.
These days, I live vicariously through the air temperatures, my body temperatures, and levels of exposure to sunlight.
Autumn, my favorite season, cannot come soon enough.
The persistent heat, with its requirement of minimal clothing and risk of sunburns, makes me all too aware that my body is mottled with the shadow dots of injections, blood tests, biopsies, and anemia-induced bruises. These are the days when I notice that my skin is so fair, that blue veins just appear in the weirdest of places. The small coincidence is that these veins do not appear on my arms where the blood tests occur. I recall telling the technician at the oncology center that I have a lot of veins in my feet. She just laughed and said: “I don’t want your feet!”
My face and neck are rouged from hot flashes just like a pre-menopausal woman. A glisten of sweat appears on my forehead and if my mother is near me, she asks: “You had another one, didn’t you?”
I suppose I could look at it like a welcome change to the “could-be-an-extra-in-a-post-apocalyptic-zombie-flick” look that comes with chemo-induced anemia.
Though people have been very nice to tell me that I don’t look sick.
Thank goodness for makeup?
Also associated with these hot flashes, my sleeping pattern is seemingly derived more so from hysteria than comfort, though it might be a combination of the two.
I have a large bed with 3 pillows. One pillow is for my head and there is a pillow on either side of me. I tend to roll over and hug one pillow to fall asleep. In the middle of the night, I will have a hot flash that will cause me to want to roll over and hug the other pillow because that side of the bed has the AC-cooled sheets.
At this point, the sweat and newly warm side requires me to roll back to the other side, where I attempt to start the sleeping process again. If I have indeed decided to stay asleep on my right side, I become uncomfortably aware of my port and then I have to maneuver the pillow between my arms and under my chin so that there is less constriction.
Better right?
Wait, there’s more.
Meanwhile, I am simultaneously kicking down the sheets and blankets because the layer of sweat on my body is gluing me to the mattress. At this point, I will flop over to my stomach or back (depending on where I began sleeping) in exasperation to let the overhead fan dry up the excess moisture.
And now I am cold. So, I pull the sheets and blankets back up over my head and begin the pillow rotation insanity all over again.
At some point, I will check my cell phone for the time and typically I’m elated to know that there are only a few more hours of this nonsense until I’m to get up at 4:40 am.
By the time my phone alarm wakes me, I’m not entirely sure I got any sleep at all. However, my cat is all too happy to prompt me out of bed, gently at first, and then firmly. By this, I mean that he tests nerve functioning by biting the closest human extremity to him. I can tell you with confidence, with these daily tests, that I do not have full-blown neuropathy.
I get up, glad that it’s not light out yet, but always surprised when locking the door to the house as I’m leaving for work, that it’s already too warm.
These days, I live vicariously through the air temperatures, my body temperatures, and levels of exposure to sunlight.
Autumn, my favorite season, cannot come soon enough.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Joie de vivre
I miss Paris. I miss France.
I am lucky enough to have been there three times. With each subsequent visit, it reaches farther and farther under my skin. I cannot help but recall different pieces of my travels at the strangest times.
In a fit of delirium this past spring, when it was raining nearly everyday, the wind would rage on outside. There seemed to be so much change and transition in the air.
I was reminded of the seaside at St. Malo. The autumnal sea air so strong when walking near the shore at night, I thought it’d lift me to the ocean.
I looked out to the limitless void of night sky and ocean, humbled by the overwhelming black churning mass. My senses heightened by the cacophony of crashing waves and straining gusts.
Settled into bed, the pressure of the wind buckling the windows facing the ocean seemed to say: let me in, let me in.
I managed to find a rhythm in the fury those nights and fall asleep.
Sometimes dreamless, sometimes not.
The first time I visited France was when I was 16 for only a few days. My dad was working for an English company at the time and we were visiting London. As it turned out, my aunt was going to be in Paris and it seemed a shame to be so close and not to see her and the city. So, we took the Eurostar through the Chunnel. It was so strange to be transported magically to another continent in mere hours. As a frame of reference, the shortest stretch out of the state of Texas for me is to the north, but otherwise it takes at least 4 hours of drive time to be in the larger cities outside of the DFW metroplex.
We had a memorable rainy Thanksgiving eating croque monsiers with Oranginas in a café.
The second time when I was 23, I was in Paris for over a week, spending time with family and also meandering around the city by myself. The third time was this past October when I had the pleasure of touring Normandy, Brittany, and parts of the Loire Valley, aside from Paris, with family.
I just saw the new Woody Allen movie, Midnight in Paris, and this is partially why these memories return.
The movie made me feel a bit nostalgic, like when Owen Wilson exits the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore that I know from memory is just across from Notre Dame because I have been there each visit to Paris.
I am also reading David McCullough’s new book, The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris. It is about Americans going to Paris from the 1830s to the 1930s seeking knowledge and inspiration.
While processing book returns at work on Sunday, I was listening to NPR and they happened to replay an interview with McCullough. He mentioned that he used specific Americans as examples in his books based on how easily he could get access to their journals. The journals are residing stateside in numerous libraries and museums. It seems magical to know that these once-blank books accompanied the travelers across the ocean and returned with them, filled with thoughts, observations, and witticisms. Thus far in my reading, he quotes liberally from these journals.
Perhaps I am feeling a bit of cabin fever because I’m ready to be in a regular routine that does not involve doctors, chemotherapies, and uncertainty about my treatments.
I try my hardest to live for today, but in the back of my mind, I keep thinking: what will happen next? Knowing that there are things at work greater than myself keeps me going.
Imagining far-off places away from here lifts my spirits. These are the places I will envision during my 6th chemo at the end of this week.
The end of the marathon is finally coming into view.
I am lucky enough to have been there three times. With each subsequent visit, it reaches farther and farther under my skin. I cannot help but recall different pieces of my travels at the strangest times.
In a fit of delirium this past spring, when it was raining nearly everyday, the wind would rage on outside. There seemed to be so much change and transition in the air.
I was reminded of the seaside at St. Malo. The autumnal sea air so strong when walking near the shore at night, I thought it’d lift me to the ocean.
I looked out to the limitless void of night sky and ocean, humbled by the overwhelming black churning mass. My senses heightened by the cacophony of crashing waves and straining gusts.
Settled into bed, the pressure of the wind buckling the windows facing the ocean seemed to say: let me in, let me in.
I managed to find a rhythm in the fury those nights and fall asleep.
Sometimes dreamless, sometimes not.
The first time I visited France was when I was 16 for only a few days. My dad was working for an English company at the time and we were visiting London. As it turned out, my aunt was going to be in Paris and it seemed a shame to be so close and not to see her and the city. So, we took the Eurostar through the Chunnel. It was so strange to be transported magically to another continent in mere hours. As a frame of reference, the shortest stretch out of the state of Texas for me is to the north, but otherwise it takes at least 4 hours of drive time to be in the larger cities outside of the DFW metroplex.
We had a memorable rainy Thanksgiving eating croque monsiers with Oranginas in a café.
The second time when I was 23, I was in Paris for over a week, spending time with family and also meandering around the city by myself. The third time was this past October when I had the pleasure of touring Normandy, Brittany, and parts of the Loire Valley, aside from Paris, with family.
I just saw the new Woody Allen movie, Midnight in Paris, and this is partially why these memories return.
The movie made me feel a bit nostalgic, like when Owen Wilson exits the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore that I know from memory is just across from Notre Dame because I have been there each visit to Paris.
I am also reading David McCullough’s new book, The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris. It is about Americans going to Paris from the 1830s to the 1930s seeking knowledge and inspiration.
While processing book returns at work on Sunday, I was listening to NPR and they happened to replay an interview with McCullough. He mentioned that he used specific Americans as examples in his books based on how easily he could get access to their journals. The journals are residing stateside in numerous libraries and museums. It seems magical to know that these once-blank books accompanied the travelers across the ocean and returned with them, filled with thoughts, observations, and witticisms. Thus far in my reading, he quotes liberally from these journals.
Perhaps I am feeling a bit of cabin fever because I’m ready to be in a regular routine that does not involve doctors, chemotherapies, and uncertainty about my treatments.
I try my hardest to live for today, but in the back of my mind, I keep thinking: what will happen next? Knowing that there are things at work greater than myself keeps me going.
Imagining far-off places away from here lifts my spirits. These are the places I will envision during my 6th chemo at the end of this week.
The end of the marathon is finally coming into view.
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