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February 13, 2007

Do What I Say

I have often said, quite vehemently in fact, that cancer is a random piece of shit with no deeper meaning to be gleaned.  But when I sat across from my dad on Sunday while he told me that he was diagnosed with cancer, I reconsidered.  Maybe I am meant to help him through this.  Or, at least, as a former cancer patient, I have an obligation to help him through this.  But what do I say?  When he says, "They said it's very treatable," do I tell him that "treatable" is hell on earth?  Do I tell him what he is in for, or will that kill his spirit?

(Really.  I want your opinion on that question.)

A few days later I realized that lying on the bathroom floor crying wasn't helping my dad much.  So I went back into my tried and true Cancer Mode.  Emotions Off, Actions On.  Like so many times before, I used my pain as fuel for Getting Things Done.  I called all my doctors and found nominees for The Best Damn Medical Oncologist Ever.  I bought presents.  I made comfort food.  And I wrote some things down that I hoped would be helpful.

Always Get a Second Opinion

Always.  Just, always.  A good doctor is never insulted if you get a second opinion.  If they discourage you from getting one, then you need it more than ever.  Always get a second opinion!!

Know When to Turn Off Your Computer

Information is power.  Information has powers, too: the power to cripple you with anxiety, the power to give false hope, and the power to take all hope away.  Acceptable internet searches: information on and side effects of medications you are or soon will be taking, networking and personal stories, and new treatments only when it is confirmed that you will need to switch.  Ignore any article that contains any of the following: study shows promise for new cancer drug, used for centuries by the Chinese (or "wise men" of any stripe), all natural with no medicine or side effects, miracle, five-year survival rate, or a percent sign anywhere.  Limit your focus when researching.  If you want to know about immunotherapy options, look for that and only that.  Don't get distracted and start clicking on links willy nilly.  Once you veer off your original goal, it is nearly impossible to reign yourself back in, and you can spend literally days on end going down a spiral of increasingly irrational information expeditions.

If you find something you are interested in, write it on a list of things to discuss with your doctor at the next appointment.  Don't research it any more until then.  Ask your doctor a lot of questions so you don't have to hunt for answers yourself.  She is the one with intimate knowledge of your exact case, not Google.

Set a Quality of Life Minimum and Enforce It

I wish I had known this one ahead of time.  Oh, how I wish I had known.  If I could do it over again, I would have set a quality of life minimum for myself at "I am able to get out of bed and take a shower every day."  There were many days I wasn't able to get out of bed and take a shower, and I am a very changed person because of that.  It is different for each person and may evolve over time, but it is paramount.  A life without quality is not a life at all.  If a doctor recommends something that would violate your minimum, refuse.  It is not worth it.  I know this is especially hard in our family, since we have all spent the majority of our lives in hospitals in some capacity, and have great respect for doctors.  But they are not in your body, so you have veto power every time.  I realized my propensity to blindly follow doctors when I voluntarily let one pump arsenic directly into my bloodstream.  Draw the line somewhere.

When in Doubt, Go to the ER

Always err on the side of caution.  They're there all night regardless.

Feel Sorry for Yourself

Don't fight the urge.  If you want to mope around a few times a week, just do it.  And if buying yourself something you don't need seems like it will make you feel a little better, just buy it.  Who gives a shit?  If someone gives you a hard time, play the cancer card and make them feel bad.  Maybe they will buy you something out of guilt.  You are owed this much by the universe.

Get Over Yourself

Your pride is going to take a hit sooner or later, get it over with early.  Accept help.  It will make you and the helper feel good about yourselves.  You will not be able to do all the things you used to - but you are the only person who cares.   No one will mind if you don't work overtime, or full-time, or at all.  They won't be put out if you can't give them a ride or cosign a loan.   People are much more understanding than we give them credit for.  Allow humanity to show you how wonderful it is.  Don't be a stubborn jackass and try to prove to the world that you are still the same, strong super-person.  You're not.  But everyone loves you just the same.

Get a Healthy Dose of Mumbo Jumbo

Do some kind of alternative treatment.   Nothing big, and run it by your doctor first.  Personally, I have a tea for everything.  Immune System tea.  Digestive Health tea.  Sleepy tea.  Energy tea.  Who the hell knows if they work.  But it makes me feel like a contributor to my care, not a passive plaything for trainee phlebotomists.  And there is something to be said for the placebo effect.  If I take my De-Stress tea, I feel less stressed.  Maybe it is the desire to feel less stressed, or just the fact that I am sitting still for ten minutes worrying about burning my tongue instead of more pressing issues.  Or maybe it works, who knows.  Regardless, a routine and a desire to feel better can, many times, help you feel better.

Avoid Chemo at All Costs

If you get a chance to take a targeted therapy, immunotherapy, vaccine, or any normal-tissue-sparing therapy, jump through whatever hoops are necessary to get it.

Did I Mention Always Get a Second Opinion?

February 03, 2007

I Wanted to Write about Chemo Brain, But I Kept Forgetting (And Other Short Stories)

Often, my husband looks at me and asks, "Where are you?"  My usual response is, "Have you seen Gloria Estefan's hair lately?" which is the punchline to a hilarious Ellen Degeneres schtick about daydreaming.

But really, I don't know where I am.   For a long time, I have been in a persistent dreamlike state, usually content to sit and stare.  I rarely talk, except when spoken to, and entire days go by that I couldn't tell you anything about.  And if I could, it would probably be a pretty boring story.  This has probably contributed in large part to my sporadic (putting it lightly) posting on this blog.  I write a few paragraphs on something, and quickly lose interest.

I have always blamed chemo brain for my forgetfulness and short attention span, for things like leaving the water run for hours and spacing out on plans.  But this is a much deeper, more pervasive issue.  Nothing interests me, and nothing really bores me, either.

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That's where I lost focus a month ago and stopped writing a post about not having focus.  I have a purse full of notebook pages half full of similar potential discussions.  I try so hard to just concentrate, to just finish something, but I always end up realizing that not only do I have no idea of where this train of thought is going, but I also don't have a particular desire to find out.

But the fact is, I can't just drift through life when this is a life I suffered so much to prolong.  So I will finish something, even if it sucks.  And you will listen, even if it's boring.  And with this decree, I shall clear out my purse and dust the monkey off my back by typing up all my scribbles from the past few months.

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"The House That Cancer Built"

A single tooth is ruining my life.

I don't say that lightly.  Please recall that I am a person that has experienced nerve pain, bone pain, sharp pain, shooting pain, aching pain, burning pain, cramps, arthritis, shingles, a broken arm, and one incidence of internal hemorrhaging.  But a toothache, my god, is there any crueler fate?

I took solace for a brief moment thinking, at least this doesn't have anything to do with cancer, it is just a normal thing that everybody deals with.  But.  After cancer, does anything really happen independently of cancer ever again?  If I didn't have cancer, I wouldn't have had chemo.  If I hadn't had chemo, 60% of my teeth wouldn't have rotted out.  If my teeth hadn't rotted out, I wouldn't have had to have my back tooth extracted.  If I hadn't had my back tooth extracted, a space wouldn't have opened up for my impacted wisdom tooth to move down.  And if one of my wisdom teeth wasn't coming in, I wouldn't want to shoot myself in the head just to relieve the pressure. 

My dentist wouldn't prescribe anything but alternating Tylenol and Advil every two hours, so I did what anyone in my position would do.  I switched to a young, inexperienced dentist and yelled at him until he prescribed me Vicodin.  Thank you, cancer, for teaching me how to browbeat green medical professionals.

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Wadsworth Is Sending Me Emails - Or Is It Emerson I'm Thinking Of?

I am sensing a shift in the mood of my spam emails.  Instead of the usual penile enhancers and pleas from deposed African leaders, I am now receiving approximately 20-25 emails per day where the subject line is simply two words retrieved from some kind of random generator.  At first I deleted them without notice, but now I see that they are almost poetic in their strangeness.  Here are some recent highlights:

milliner bagpipes
corsage favorable
rankle disregard
Boy Scout border
coveralls satisfaction
sinister townhouse
chide craftsman
And my favorite...
witch hunt chaperone

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The One Where You Actually Get Some Information Regarding My Life - And Kudos on Reading All the Way to This Point!

In any group of friends, there are two important couples: the first ones to get married, and the second ones to get married.  The role of the first ones to get married is to blaze through all life's important milestones at a lightning-fast pace, and then use their First-Ones clout to manipulate or otherwise coerce the Second Ones to follow suit.

My husband and I are the Second Ones.  He actually proposed to me after helping the First Ones, hereafter known as the McBabysons, paint their condo.  Now, I know my husband loves me, but I'm equally sure that the proposal was a mix of genuine love, paint fumes, exhaustion from forced manual labor, and transparent "Think how much fun we'll have as a foursome" comments.

The McBabysons, shockingly, just had a baby.  More accurately, they decided they wanted a baby, announced the pregnancy two weeks later, and then came baby 9.0 uneventful months after that.  And really, their daughter is a doll, and I couldn't be happier for them.  But I hung back for a while, partly because I knew they were busy and tired and covered in throw up, so they wouldn't be up for company, and partly because I was a little sour at how easily they conceived (There, I admitted it to you, Internet.  Even though at my most optimistic, I could only be described as "on the fence" about babies, it was jealousy on principle alone.  So sue me.)

Anyway, the time finally came to quit being a baby and go see the McBabysons.  I baked their favorite cake, and we headed up to what we both knew would be a full-on propaganda campaign titled, Why You Guys Should Totally Have a Baby.  Because, as the first ones, that's their job.

And let me tell you, we were not disappointed.  I held the baby for approximately 95% of the visit (I was allowed a potty break... mine, not hers) while I was indoctrinated on How Rewarding Motherhood Is and How Complete a Baby Makes You Feel.  Mr. McBabyson also played the man-to-man angle with Husband, describing the joys of huge boobs, rediscovering naps and toys, and throwing young children in the air. 

And goddammit if it didn't work.  We were brainwashed.  I know it worked on my husband because he opened up a savings account and looked vaguely disappointed while leering at my chest.  I know it worked on me because I called off work and spent the day in bed crying. 

A few days later Mrs. McBabyson called me to apologize "if we put the pressure on too hard."  She explained, "I just figured that with everything your body has been through, you might not have much time."  Now, before you whip out the fangs and start calling her an evil bitchwhore, bear in mind she was just saying "I want you to have everything in life that you want," in the soul-crushingly brutal way only a good girlfriend or your mother can.  Plus, she's right.  My gyn-onc has previously told me that due to "poor hormone regulation, trauma, and scar tissue, I would not wait too terribly long if IVF is something you want to pursue," in the infuriatingly vague way only a physician can. 

That was a year and a half ago.  I don't know what the medical definition of too terribly long is, but I'm guessing it's about half past Move Your Ass. 

So.

I made a consultation with a reproductive endocrinologist to see what we might be up against.

A consultation.

I repeat, only a consultation.

The problem is, they didn't have any openings for Move Your Ass, they could only squeeze me in on the 15th of I Could Have Adopted a Kid by Then.  So now I wait with the pressure building on all sides and my insides, hoping it is not just the propaganda that is making me hope this works*.

* At some indeterminate point as far into the future as my partially shriveled uterus will allow.  Please review comments on this only being a consultation.