CANCER: Why the Caged Bird Sings

Radiation started today. One down, sixteen to go.

Interestingly, last week was the first full week in many, many months when I didn't have even one appointment with someone wearing a white coat. And you know what? I didn't miss any of them or that at all. In fact I reveled in my freedom until it all came to a crashing halt this morning.

Now don't get me wrong- I see and YES, even FEEL the light at the end of this stupid tunnel. However, what journey would be complete without some sort of epiphany? Puh-leeze. Even through the Atavan, I can reflect.

Here's what I learned: those radiologist technicians who refer to that crazy thing they put on my face as a "mask" are liars. It would be more honest, and therefore appreciated to call it a cage. Sure, it's white and it went on all warm and spa like. But things changed quickly once that stupid thing hardened. It is so stinking tight that there's no room to open my eyelids. Breathing? Sure, I can do that. But let's say there's oh, an earthquake? There's no shouting for this sister. While caged, I'm reduced to Elephant Man-like drooling and grunting. And personally, this little dose of humilty is probably good for my karma or some shit like that.

Also, I've been on a wonderful month-long dose of steriods. I happen to really like them, as my lungs are nice and pain free. And the weight gain has been pretty minimal- at least according to my pants. But, my face. Now that's another story. I've always had a little head with pointy cheekbones. Those have been softened (read: fatter) thanks to the drugs. My lovely nephew told me he really liked the new "Cupcake Queen" because I look healthier. And, well....when I was fitted three weeks ago for my cage, my face wasn't as well, full. When they slapped that stupid thing on me today, my throat was constricted. Cheek bones were squeezed up in there like a fat kid in Mini Cooper. It was anything but pretty. And, get this, once the treatment was over, and I was freed I had these crazy ass marks like I was sleeping with a collander on my face. You know, twenty years ago that probably wouldn't have been a problem. I would have been able to, oh I don't know, drink some water and POOF! the marks would disappear. Unfortunately middle-aged me and collagen aren't on the best of terms. I mean, seriously! It takes three hours for the sheet marks to erase from my skin on a daily basis. Can you imagine just how long it's gonna take to get these marks out of my skin?

And, what do I do while in my plastic prison? I'll tell you- I don't spend a second of time worrying about my pocked up skin. Nope. I fall asleep. With lovely Atavan on board, I pop off to slumber land and allow myself to think happy thoughts and hallucinate. Nice.

I mean, what else can be done? Feet bound, head and shoulders screwed to a board for 30 minutes. I KNOW why this caged bird sings. Drugs. Plain and simple.

CANCER: DEE-nied

Why do I bother? Really? I trust. I believe. I MAKE PLANS. And every time, shit ends up going sideways.

Earlier this week, my radiation oncologist nurse, Sharon phoned to lay out the radiation schedule. I was to head over to the clinic Thursday (today) for a my "test run" and then begin radiation on Monday 11/19. The end date was December 12. I marked my calendar. I WROTE IN PEN....

When will I ever learn? 

So this morning, while catching my breath from the taxing work of getting my goofy boys ready for school, I got a call from Sharon. She wanted me to come in 30 minutes earlier to meet with Dr. Spiegel. I agreed- I mean, I DID need to get up and shower eventually, right? Now, in my estimation, he was just gonna do that "hrrrmmpph, hrrrmph" thing that doctors do and then send me on my way. I mean Sharon and I had a plan, right? Why change it?

Dr. Spiegel asked me about my stupid lungs. "Yes, they still burn like fire but I'm adjusting nicely." And "The steroids make me grumpy. I'm adjusting nicely...." He then says: "Well you know, I want to give your lungs more time to heal." He then goes on to say, "Let's delay your actual radiation start date to Monday November 26." Damn. I was like- "No, really?" I mean, why? According to Dr. Pappas it doesn't make a bit of difference. And truly, I LOVE the idea of being done with this shit by December 12. Nope. My new end date is Tuesday December 18. URG! Five days before my birthday; three days before my wild children are released from school. I wanted, no needed more DOWN time from all of this. But, just like the entire year, 2012 just keeps on kicking me in the ass. Spiegel even hedged a bit with: "Well, you know we could push this back to December 4 if that sounds better to you." 

Right....

Today, I added even more members to Team Moy. My radiologist team consists of the incredibly positive: Brea, Win and Sarah. Honest. If I could bottle their energy and sell it to all the cancer patients, I would be filthy rich. 

Let's start with Win. Short for Winfred. He's this 6'2" brother with very, very warm hands. How do I know that? Well, he gave me a foot rub. SWEAR TO GOD! 

Brea is his partner in crime. So, so sweet I almost wanted to hit her. Isn't that awful? Let's blame the steroids, shall we?

And Sarah was at lunch.

Win walked me in to the radiation room. And just like all things Swedish Issaquah, no stone was unturned in the design of this suite. It is INCREDIBLE. They did everything in their power to design a place that makes you feel a-ok about getting your head and shoulders screwed down to a table for 20 minutes a stretch. And that's saying A LOT! 

They have ambient ceiling lighting with arty stuff embedded in it that changes throughout your procedure. They have music piped in- we listened to Adele, Live in Concert. And I was reassured that if I wasn't completely satisfied with their musical selection I could pick. They really don't mind. And they meant it. So, I'm thinking Beastie Boys, Patsy Cline and perhaps Queen. Why not? 

They swathed me in a coveted warm blanket. Win administered a very competent foot rub (seriously....that is the price of admission in my world. So pathetic, I know...) and told me to sit back and relax while he screwed my face mask to the table. 

Fortunately I had taken an Atavan 20 minutes prior. So, I was as cool as a cucumber. They poked, prodded, adjusted- I heard the word "akimbo" more times in one day than I have in a whole year. And 15 minutes later I was getting unscrewed. All done. 

While the wait continues, I have to say that I think I'm going to nail this radiation thing. Granted, the drugs and decent music take me pretty far on that path. But, I'll take it. 

CANCER: I love it when you call me George Pappas

Look, as much as I want to take full credit for this installment's awesome title, I  can't. Biggie credit goes to my gal, Trinity Alumnae Dignitatae (is that right?), Kelly Quinn. Kelly, you can take the girl outta Bal'more. But you can never, ever take the Bal'more out of the girl. Let's keep it that way....

So last week was a BIG one. I was allowed to became a card-carrying member of the cancer-free, as last Tuesday (election day!) my funky ass port was removed. 

Big love to my dear friend and my love, Patrick Hogan who was my ride and FB updater. He was also the official dude assigned to talk to my mother....God bless that nutty Irish Catholic man who loves denial just as much as my black ass. Sure I wanted to punch his teeth down this throat when he updated my FB status to "ALL FINE" while they were prepping me for the "procedure." Judging from the track marks up and down my right arm, shit was not "all fine." Apparently, as I learned, now that I have had chemotherapy, all of my crappy veins have become even crappier. That's right. Before they used to just roll away-I attributed it to shyness. Now, they just flat out collapse. And here's the thing, I'm right there with them. Let shit collapse, because I too have done the same thing in many, many ways.  Nevertheless, six "pokes", two nurses and one "infusion specialist" later I was on my way to blissful slumber. Thank you Dr. Ray- you cutie pie- for being so thorough. And thank you surgical team for not laughing at whatever drug induced confessional I made while lying on that table. I just KNOW I said something insane- as one member of the all male surgical team was really good looking.....Lord in Heaven...

I was told to expect some bruising the next day. And they weren't lying. After sleeping with my upper body at a 30 degree angle- (like I really measured) I woke up a little stiff and very, very purple in the head and neck area. The kids took one look at me and in complete disgust asked just what in the world happened to me last night. I finally looked in the mirror and understood: Obama won and I was attacked by a coven of vampires. Just another day in paradise. 

By Thursday everything was pretty much back to normal. And that was the day I was kind of dreading: my appointment with the newest addition to Team Moy: Dr. George Pappas- (http://www.swedish.org/Physicians/George-Pappas#axzz2C99QPIyV)  a board certified internal medical, pulmonary medicine, critical care medicine and occupational medicine doctor was on the books. But more importantly, Dr. Pappas was voted "Top Doctor" by Seattle Magazine in 2011 and 2012. And I now know why. 

When he entered the room, I was seriously grouchy and miserable. I was terrified he was going to tell me that my lungs were slowly eroding and that I would have to either ask for a new set from Santa or get my affairs in order. Seriously. Instead, he walked in, dressed in a lovely pin stripe navy suit, extended his hand and said "Hi. I'm George Pappas. How are you feeling today?" I replied: "Well, hi George Pappas. I'm Yvette Moy and I feel both terrified and tired." The conversation then flowed into "So why are you here?" ME: "Because I cannot breathe." And then he said, "you know we need to get some data on you." And at 3:30 PM George Pappas told his staff to give me a chest x-ray and a pulmonary lung function test (which, I swear to GOD is truly humiliating. I don't know how the breathing specialists get through those tests with a straight face. I know I wouldn't. Those machines make you feel like you are practicing your blow job technique- in public- and being JUDGED!) And while they were at it, they wanted me to take a six minute walk while measuring my breathing.

Well, I'm happy to say that I passed the walking test- most I've walked in six months. And the chest x-ray showed improvement. My lung function test with the original, funky lung score of 44 jumped to a whopping 66 in two weeks' time. I commented to George that a 66 was still a D. He replied "Yvette, take the D." Whatever...I'm still rocking the mood altering steroids and he wants to see me again in another two weeks. I'm of the mindset that he will make the coveted Moy holiday card list this year....

Today, I got a little over confident, as two things were on my mind: 1) the four oxygen apparati were scheduled to be picked up from my home and 2) I had not ONE MD appointment this week. 

God, when will I ever learn? 

No sooner was I really feeling content then the damn phone rang- and it was the dreaded Swedish Issaquah Cancer Institute. Sigh! My new nurse- Susan was on the other line to schedule my 20 radiation sessions. SUCKY! So, this week I get to do a dry run radiation session. UGH! Dialing up Atavan as I type. And radiation begins officially on Monday and will take place daily until December 12. 

The oxygen DID get picked up though. So, yay? 

And recently I felt well enough to reconnect with some amazing friends I've know for over 30 years. Once they learned of my plight, they swore their allegiance, as only a Seattle transplant who hails from Dayton, Ohio can, to see me through this shitty radiation program. Thank you, Scherief brothers. I am so damn glad to have you back in my life again. Yes, the visual doesn't hurt either....and your shit talking will take me miles on my road to recovery. 

Speaking of thanks, the list is growing. To my colleagues at the UW's Graduate School- THANK YOU- the flowers, the fund raising bake sale, the membership to Delicious Planet, the gift card to QFC....the gifts keep coming. And, you know what? I NEEDED it all- and probably not for the reasons you may think. (Well, we DO need to eat...) However, at minimum, they reminded me that even though I haven't been around, I haven't been forgotten- totally huge in my estimation. And at most, your thoughtfulness and careful consideration reminds me of just how lucky I am to be surrounded by some of the kindest people the planet ever saw fit to produce. 

I am one lucky, lucky lady. 

CANCER: So, this is progress?

Tomorrow is supposed to be a "BIG" day for I am to report at 9:00 AM at the Swedish Surgical Center for a 10:00 AM removal of my "power port" (or as I like to call it, the bottle cap under my skin.) What this means is that I am finished with chemo. Finished, I tell ya.

And yet somehow, I don't see this as progress. I wish I could. Really. And yet I can't. I know...such sour, dour grapes.

I know why. I have reached a point of total weariness. Let me tell you why- every F*CKED up side-effect that happens to like less than .02% of the population has happened to me. Let me count the ways:

1) Lung puncture from said port insertion- check! (Surgeon: "It happens in less than 20% of my cases...)
2) Deep vein thrombosis from said port causing my left boob to swell up like something one would find in a circus freak show-check! (Oncologist: It happens in less than 10% of my cases...)
3) Lung damage from chemo- check! ("I see maybe two or three patients a year in my practice with this problem...")

What the HELL universe?

Aparently there's some "small" risk associated with the port removal. I wait with baited breath to see if my lucky number gets called. Though, I think it's only bruising....And really, with enough narcotic pain relief, I can spin that into some incredible, death defying tale.

Seriously though, if  I hear from one more person in a white coat, that the side effects- while all very real, are also really rare, I think I'll pull out their hair (mine hasn't grown back yet.) I now have a veritable STABLE of medical professionals. It's not enough to have just ONE oncologist. Nope. I now have a radiation oncologist, medical oncologist AND a pulmonoligist. I did get to say good-bye to the blood clot team though. A small victory.....And each one of these paid professionals has been brought on board to assist me with the wacky side effects of curing cancer....

And here's the kicker- I get to start radiation almost two weeks earlier than originally scheduled. In preparation for radation, on Friday I did a test run. I walked in like a lamb to the slaughter. Really. I was told that I was to be fitted with a mask. Now- I've been to a spa. I have had a mask put on my face. And I foolishly figured I would just relax into it. Ha!

Two members of the medically trained staff had me lay down on this really skinny, hard bed at the mouth of a giant CT machine. Then they slapped this warm crap on my face that had the consistency of pizza dough. They smoothed it over my entire face, scalp and shoulders. And then I heard it- 8 very loud bolt-like clicks- bolting my covered head and shoulders to the table. Then I was told "Hey, we're gonna open the top of your gown a little bit to expose the chest area we're going to zap. Are you comfortable?" Seriously? Was I comfortable? In what universe would ANYONE be comfortable under those conditions? And, get this, the mask is so tight on my face, I couldn't talk. Breathe?  sure! Talk? Forget about it. And I wore MAC's Ruby Woo lipstick to the appointment. What a mess....

But wait- there's more.....

They then took my photograph. Not once or twice. Uh, uh....Six or seven times. All the while I'm thinking "What the Hell?" My face is covered in a mask- so that's a saving grace. But, my chest- (and c'mon now, let's be honest, I'm 43 years old and gave birth to two kids- my boobs are the consistency of soup.) is hanging out for the world to see. Dear GOD.

I swore to myself that I would get my hands on as much atavan as the pharmacy will allow. I promise to take it the second I get on I-90. With 20 sessions of radiation I'm staring down, I plan on being as high as a kite the entire month of November and for a good part of December. The wrapping of this year's Christmas gifts will be- um, artistic.....

I'm weary folks. So in preparation for tomorrow's proceedure I did what only a sane woman could do. I got a pedicure and ate cupcakes for lunch. Dinner will be a tub of cream cheese and steak.

Wish me luck.