CANCER: Good Days and Bad Days

Back when I was diagnosed with Hodgkin Lymphoma, many a wise doctor said to me that while I undergo chemo, I would experience: "good" days and "bad" days. Now, most of my life I've been a relatively healthy person- and truly, even for a cancer patient, I still consider myself to be relatively healthy. I mean, have you seen some of the people with this disease? They look like shit.

But seriously, going into this I really thought I had a good sense of what the words good, bad and yes, even DAY meant. However, all things related to cancer have given me some insight into the fact that I really am dyslexic and everything I thought I knew means nothing. Why yes, I'll take my slice of humble-pie a la mode.....

So let's chat about good vs. bad days. First off, every time this has been mentioned to me by a member of the medical establishment, I feel like I'm talking to some wise-shaman who just descended from some mountain peak. It's delivered with this hushed, knowing tone- cue long white coat, wrinkled brow, and hands clasped behind their backs. "AH! Grasshopper, you will have GOOD and BAD days...." Now in my feeble mind, I figured- What the Hell? BEFORE I had cancer, I had good and bad days...managed to survive them just fine. In other words, I couldn't figure out just what in the Hell was being implied.

And then it all started.....

Initially a good day included things like- getting out of  bed, taking a decent crap, and feeling hungry. Well, that was just silly of me. I have now reduced my notion of a good day to include things like: being able to tolerate daylight and being able to remember to wipe my butt, post my prized poop session.

Now in my past life, a bad day would include things like: a call from the boy's school principal, registered mail from the IRS and any conversation with an attorney. In other words, child's play......

Well, I have since changed my perspective. I've shared some of the craziness associated with this disease. And, yes most of the time it's pretty damn funny. (Whereas that shit with the IRS is NOT funny- ever, well sometimes it is..) But my bad days have taken on a new nuance. It usually includes me thinking things like: "Dear Lord, I do NOT want to faint in the grocery store aisle" unless I'm someplace like WholeFoods or Nordstrom.  And, double checking that the boys are wearing seat belts should I need to guide the car off the street to allow for said fainting spell.

Yesterday, a bad day- my mom summed it up best when she called my sister and told her: "Hey, I need you to come over here and get your sister. She's really unstable and shaky."

Unstable AND shaky?

But you know what they say: Mother knows best. She was right. Bad days are no longer about the crap that is being "inflicted" upon me- like traffic jams, smelly hippies, and mediocre salsa...My new bad days reality are about my true inability to reliably get myself through the day, intact and whole. Wow!

And here's the thing- cancer is an awesome excuse for this. To be unstable and shaky and NOT have cancer would make me a total dick. And no one would want to be associated with my ass. They'd be like: "Oh, there goes that crazy bitch, Yvette. I really hate her. She's so unstable and shaky."  But to be this way due to my cancer treatment elevates my status to "fighter" or "champion." And in our culure, we rally around people like this. Don't get me wrong- I freakin' despise pity. And whenever anyone dares to give me the "Oh, you have cancer" pity face, I swear that I'll punch them in the face. Really.

My friend Cyrus Habib- a three time cancer survivor and a true bad ass- told me: "Yvette, once you beat this, you'll be untouchable." I replied- "Well, I thought just by being African American-ish, I already had some serious street cred." Ha! But apparently, this will change when I get to add to my title: Cancer SURVIVOR.

In the meantime however, I'm going to relish in my new-found status as fighter, and encourage everyone and anyone who wishes to do so, to please continue to reach out and well, er, touch (?) me...just be sure to wash your hands first, you filthy beasts! I'm immune compromised, after all and can be felled by something as minor as unwashed melon......

CANCER: What I did on my summer vacation

AHHHH!!! The kids got out of school last Friday. And that can mean only one thing: summer is here. For those of you who live in Seattle, you know what heartache we all endure during the month of Juneuary- 60 degrees, sideways rain, polartech- while the rest of the country is running around scantily clad like they're in some kind of Old Navy ad. Well, since I can not bring the proverbial mountain to me, I head to the mountain....

So, last weekend the kids and I began slouching towards my hometown, Dayton, OH. Not especially known for it's tourism industry, it does offer every summer amenity I need including: blue sky, warm weather, crickets, lightning bugs, pools of chlorinated water....oh and my family. Duh!

Now this is my first time travelling as a cancer patient. And, I was told to expect a fully cavity search from TSA. I arrived at the airport armed. I had my snarky cancer patient bracelet, short hair cut, and a doctor's note. Turns out all I need to do was undergo a full body scan and a body pat down that reminded me of some of the stuff I had to endure in junior high. Trust me, there was no eye contact.

First day home we headed out to non-other than the Sherwood Forest Pool. It's a private pool that isn't anywhere near a forest. But, swim we did....

Tuesday- Two major events happended. First,  I had my head shaved. Head shaving came about because while talking to my mom, I ran my hand through my "cute" hair cut. And a lap full of hair fell out. Now, look- there are some things I don't mind having a lap full of. This would include things like warm laundry, the squirmy bodies of my freshly bathed children or the occasional stripper. I draw the line, however at snakes, dead animals and my hair. I think it is really good to have standards.

Second, I met my Dayton oncologist, Dr. James Sabiers.He's with the Greater Dayon Cancer Center. Now, before I launch into Dr. S, lemme tell you about this office. Everything that I have come to know and love about Swedish Issaquah- where really, life is better- has been thrown out the window in Dayton. Now don't get me wrong- I'm not about to talk shit about how much Dayton sucks. The first reason is simply because it isn't true. And the second reason is because, well..it isn't true....

The first thing I noticed was that every freakin' person in the joint was at least 60 years old. And, they all had full heads of hair. It got me thinking just what kinda drugs are they giving these folks? Here I am, 43 and bald as hell.....

The second thing was how the infusion room was set up. Instead of my usual nice corner suite, overlooking a prairie, I saw a huge, open room, filled with hospital grade laz-y boys, facing one another.

Third, the blood draw room was also a huge space, no curtains and basically an open call for anyone who needed bloodwork done that day.

I immediately felt exposed and vulnerable. I hated it.

Then I was whisked back to meet my new savior, Dr. Sabiers. Now I don't know if any of you all remember him, but when I first laid eyes on this guy, I immediately thought of none other than Captain Kangaroo. Dr S. has a very gentle voice, a full head of white hair and excellent penmanship. I wanted to curl up right there and have him read me a story. Instead, he launches into the cancer diatribe. Blah, blah, blah....if you're gonna have cancer, this is the one you want...We're gonna treat you with ABVD....be wary of nausea.....blah, blah, blah and so on and so forth....

He then tells me something that positively stopped me in my tracks-He told me that there is some concern about lung scarring from the drugs. It can be fatal. What the Hell? Now don't get me wrong, cancer is some serious business. And I take it very seriously. But, what freakin' Disney movie have I been living in all these months to not even think about the drugs actually being the fatal flaw? Ugh! I was distressed.

So I did what any rational person would do: I emailed my Issaquah oncologist, the good Dr. K. Now, Dr. K reassured me that everything will be ok. He even sent me a little :( emoticon to let me know he was sad that I wasn't enjoying myself....Truly....

Finally, it was Wednesday. I was as ready as one could be, for it was none other than Chemo Wednesday. I rolled up to the chemo office. Picked a lazy-boy and got myself plugged in by none other than the very competent Nurse Patty. Now in Issaquah, there are these major drug protocols including me confirming my name and birthdate prior to the administration of all four chemo drugs. Contrast that to Dayton. Nurse Patty swings by with all of my drugs in a box. They even combined two of my anti-nausea drugs. And there was none of that name checking business. When one drug was done, she would swing by and pop in the next one, and so on and so forth. It was efficient if not a little scary, as I wanted to make sure my name was on that stuff...

Also, while hanging out, we were offered trays of breakfast pasteries. I'm talking bear claws, powdered donuts, apple crisp...you name it. I asked Nurse Patty about this- cuz this shit does NOT happen in Issaquah...they don't even sell soda in that hospital, let alone some damn donut. Nurse Patty kindly chirped back: "oh, a little sugar won't hurt ya." I fell in love and grabbed a bagel loaded with full-fat cream cheese and ate it. Yes, I DID!

When all was finished, they simply pulled the needle out of my port, slapped a band-aid on me and sent me out the door. Yes, it was just that simple.

It made me pause for a minute and think. Ohioans are a tough breed of people. Out in Seattle, where I love it so, we like to think of ourselves as pioneers- what with all the entreprenuers, fancy camping gear, and organic food. However, Ohio really is the heart of it all. This is where the pioneers are born and raised. Sure, we take off for regions near and far. But those who stick around- they're not spending time being impressed with all that fancy living. This is the place where your chemo drugs come in a box and you get served donuts and they slap a band-aid on your port and tell you to get on with your life. For this reminder,  I am truly grateful.

I go back to see Dr. S next week and chemo again on July 5. Summer vacation is shaping up rather nicely, wouldn't you say?

CANCER: My Bush

Well gentle readers, I did it, pulled the trigger, got it over with. I had my hair cut off. I wish I could tell you that I was the ever brave, strong souled sista who was truly prepared for it. But then I would be lying. The way it went down was more like resignation wrapped in sadness. And honestly, I think that's kinda the way cancer works.

Yesterday, after dropping my favorite 5 y.o. off to school, while driving away, I phoned my dearest and most trusted hair advisor, Jia Jones. Now here's what you need to know, Jia has been the only person to cut my hair for the past 12 years. And Jia getis like a hair sherpa. She gets hair- especially mine. Jia is such a good friend that when I was stuck in the hospital for 11 weeks with pregnancy complications, she sure did come to my room, scissors in hand and gave me that perfect: "My ass is in control" haircut. And, when she dies, just like the ancient Egyptians, I will be buried with her. Good thing we're close in age.

Yesterday's conversation with Jia went like this: "Jia, I need you to look at my hair and tell me what to do. I'm a block away." Ever lovingly, she replied: "Come on over." Nope, I didn't give a shit if she had appointments booked till kingdom come. And, honestly in that moment, I would like to think that she didn't either.

Ten minutes later, my long, blonde, curly locks were cut. In mere minutes, I went from that wild haired, slightly frightening nigress to a tame, J.Crew flats, mom-jeans wearing, cute lady. Sigh! With my long, blonde, hair, I saw myself as a sexy, hot, desireable, mysterious, MILF. Now I'm cute. I guess I'm going to need to curse even more than ever to get away from that image.

I texted a photo of my new do to WCDO, Paul. (yes, I was fully dressed...much to his discontent....) He replied: "Oh, it's cute. I thought you were gonna look like Sinead O'Connor." Like that's a bad thing.....

Now, here's the come to Jesus moment I had. I asked myself what in God's name was I thinking? What woman in her right mind is able to rock cancer and still maintain some semblance of hotness? No, see- chemo isn't sexy. It IS radioactive. Now that does make me slightly dangerous, but not the way I want to be. Now I'm like- "Hey, wash your hands after you touch me or you're liable to set off metal detectors."

I am doing my very best to conjure up some bad-ass woman with short hair. The closest I can get to is Joan D'Arc. Now, that was one bad bitch. There are two problems I have though with that image:

1) Thanks to chemo, my boobs are way too big- and she was French. Need I say more?

2) She was burned at the stake. So unsavory.

I did like her wardrobe though. I can really wrap my head around a shapeless frock. Besides, they go perfectly with tame J. Crew flats.

   

CANCER: Slow and Steady Wins

So, yesterday I headed out to my all-time favorite grocery store, Trader Joe's. (What can I say? The cashiers are compassionate...) Confession time: I know this might sound really autistic of me, but I will confess that I have a "thang" for numbers. Prime numbers, looking for patterns, you name it....I'm your girl! That being said, I have come up with what I call the daily ratio. The daily ratio is a calculation that I use to determine my action to nap needs. So, right after chemo, I know my ratio is something like 15 minutes:2 hours. Meaning, for every 15 minutes of activity, I will need two hours of rest. I know...pathetic. But, it's life for me now.

Now yesterday, I figured my daily ratio was something along the lines of 30 minutes:90 minutes. In other words, I needed to pack a whole hell of a lot into my 30 minutes of activity- and I chose to spend it buying eggs, milk, butter- the necessary groceries my ex-husband, Warren "forgot" to pick up on Sunday....No, I am not at all bitter.....Did I mention just how much I HATE relying on people? Can't remember....

Ok, back to the grocery store- Now, I'm zipping (humor me) through the store, right? And I stumble upon this very, very old lady. She's standing right in front of the damn milk. She is moving SLOW as molasses. Bending to look at the milk took her about an hour. Her cart is inconveniently parked in front of the eggs. There's just no getting around this lady.... I kid you not; and my meter is RUNNING!

Now my normal pre-chemo chick would have rolled my eyes way the heck up into the back of my head. I would have tapped my toe. I would have, yes clicked my tongue. I am not proud. Really. But that was then. And this is now.....

Instead, I cleared room in the crowded aisle. I watched her inelegant movements and yes- I cheered her slow ass on. You GO girl! GO!  

And because I was on Capital Hill, I also got cruised by the strangest man with the bushiest eyebrows I have ever witnessed in my entire life. Seriously. And he too was a-kerjillion years old. I think they musta bussed in all the old people that day- or maybe their exes forgot the damn milk too?

Never mind all that. Here's the scoop- my new reality is now centered on pacing myself with area septagenarians. Who knows? I might even get a decent meal outta one of them....Maybe a young cancer-ridden chick is highly prized in their worlds?

CANCER: Sweet Emotion

This past Friday I celebrated "Chemo Friday." This was the second session, thus completing my first round! YAY! Well....more like yay?

I got my ass handed to me. But before I go into that, I must share:

I arrived on time- which is saying a lot for a gal like me....This week's cast included a special guest appearance from Atlanta, little bro- Chris Fields and WCDO, Paul who did a chemo drive by. (The man does have a real job, after all...)

Nurse Debbie clipped into the room. Asked me how I was feeling- response: "Sometimes like Hell. Sometimes fine..." She was cool with that. She then asked about any physical changes. Well, now you all know about my, ahem....chest situation. We shared a laugh over that fun fact, cuz see we're bonding like that....Then I mentioned my slightly swollen left arm. Now, most of you who know me, know for a FACT that I am not an "athletic" person. And, in the past my arms have been compared to oh...knobby tree twigs. So, it's readily apparent when one of my arms undergoes some sort of physical change. Nurse Debbie did that thing that all medically trained professionals do you when some shit is going down....she got quiet. No more giggles....Then she said: "Lemme go grab your doctor." Damn.

Dr. K came in. Now, this dude is seriously walking on clouds out there in Issaquah. He took one look and said: "Well, it doesn't look like a blood clot. But let's order an ultrasound just to be sure." I shoulda bet him dinner......He was wrong. One ultrasound later, turns out I have a tiny little blood clot around my "port." I was able to do chemo as things dripped in just fine. But, my consolation prize was a trip to the anti-coagulation team. My newest team member is Veronica E. Esquibel, Pharm.D. My prize is two new blood thinner drugs, including Coumadin. Apparently I am to hermetically seal myself in bubble wrap for the next six months and avoid all sharp objects.

Poor Veronica....she's nice. And lately I've discovered something about myself- I am not. 

Oh sure, the cancer literature says stuff like: "It is normal to feel a lot of different emotions when undergoing cancer treatment including, depression, sadness, loneliness." Yeah, yeah, yeah....But here's what I feel: I'm that bitchy woman who wants to kick old people- especially the healthy ones. I want to run pedestrians over, simply because they have the energy to actually WALK. And don't even get me started on my homicidal tendencies towards anyone brave enough to eat something sweet in front of me....That's right folks, I got full on rage....rooted in envy. Such an ugly, ugly emotion. But, there it is: front and center in my existence. 

Now, here's the kicker...I have a lot of siblings. For this I am truly blessed and grateful. I know the value of having people in my life I can get stuff from like, kidneys and bone marrow. I don't take it lightly.....However, my little/big brother is a huge pain in my ass. The whole: "She's my sister and I'm worried about her" drives me bat-shit crazy. Not to mention, all of the crappy advice: "Sit down." "Are you sure your kids are ok?" and of course: "How are you feeling?" Makes me want to choke a person.....But when I get to that place, I know it's time to stop, stop, stop and remember to hug, hug, hug. That's right folks- WWYD? Surrender and accept the fact that I can still love someone enough to want to choke and hug them simultaneously. I call it "chug." 

So, you've all been warned: I'm in a chug-state of mind. And, I guess that's what I need as I am staring down round-two, and a month-long stay in my hometown surrounded by more siblings- who will be there, through thick and thin. Sending lots of chugs....

To quote Rocky: "Ding-ding."