Cancerversary-Year 3

Here we are again! I'm so very thankful that this past year gave me no reason to update the blog. It was truly another beautiful year filled with so many great memories.

This past year I started a new cancer therapy. I switched from Tamoxifen to Exemestane. Recently, results of a study were published that showed that for premenopausal women whose cancer warranted chemotherapy, the disease free survival is better if those women are put into menopause either surgically or chemically, and then given an Aromatase inhibitor instead of tamoxifen. Since I was already in chemical menopause thanks to the Zoladex shot I was getting monthly, I decided to go for it. I started the exemestane in May and the adjustment was hard to say the least. My muscles and joints were very painful, my hair was falling out, and I had a short(er) fuse than normal. I almost quit. My oncologist said I had her blessing to quit and go back to Tamoxifen. But I kept going and I'm pleased that I have seemed to adjust and pretty much feel back to the (new) normal.

In October I got my oncologists blessing to have my ovaries removed and then discussed that surgery with my OBGYN. We scheduled it for January 22nd and my mind was absolutely blown that an invasive surgery like that where they remove my ovaries and Fallopian tubes, was so crazy quick. I went back at 7:20 am and at 8:00 am my doc was telling Eric I was in recovery. I looked at the clock at 8:30 am! I underestimated the recovery but turned a big corner 1 week after my surgery and now I'm feeling almost 100% again. I've returned to my workouts which was my biggest concern and my strength is almost what it was prior to surgery. Praise God, my ovaries and tubes were also free of cancer!

So that's the latest in my cancer story and I can't believe it has been 3 years.  This is a peak time for cancer to recur so there's constantly that voice in my head reminding me that my current "cancer free" life could change at any time. I'm just getting better at silencing it. Trying to keep my mind and body as healthy as possible has made me feel more in control of a situation that I know I can't control. But today I feel good and strong and healthy and that's all any of us can ask for, right?

Thank you again for all your prayers, well wishes, good vibes, and hope for my health. I feel it, and need it. Lets not talk again until next year, ok? ;-)

Cancerversary-Year 2

It has now been 2 years since I picked up the phone and was told that "unfortunately" my biopsy was positive for cancer. I can remember the paralyzing fear, the literally paralyzing fear that wouldn't let me dial the phone to call my mom, or the number of the breast surgeon that the anonymous radiologist on the phone had given me. I remember sitting on the couch screaming, asking why, texting friends, crying with my mom and Eric and Eric's family. It was so ugly. What was uglier was the sheer terror that the following morning brought, and every morning in the weeks after. Every night I'd fall into bed, so exhausted with emotion, fear, and uncertainty to even give another minute of thought to cancer, and then every morning with a fresh mind, it all returned.

Last year as the 1 year anniversary of my diagnosis approached, my mental state deteriorated. I had just gone back to work and was thrust back into "normal" life when everything was anything but normal. I sat in doctor's offices with stares from other drug reps and confused looks from doctors who thought I looked familiar but couldn't place me, and if they could, asked what happened to my long blonde hair. Consumed with the fear of cancer recurrence, I was in a constant state of anxiety and was constantly numbing myself with Ativan. On my one year cancerversary, I sat in the car in front of one of my favorite restaurants where we were going to celebrate Valentine's day, and had a complete breakdown. My husband expressed his frustration that I was unable to move on from cancer, I expressed that I was so much more fucked up now than the day I was diagnosed. Cancer had broken me.

The Monday after my 1 year cancerversary, I attended a support group for newly diagnosed breast cancer patients. This was a meeting I'd attended regularly through treatment and I always gained comfort  and strength from being around women who understood and enjoyed sharing stories and commiserating. But at this meeting, I broke down and cried which was out of character for me to do in front of others. And it felt like a turning point.

With the anniversary behind me, things began to change. Spring came. With warmer weather, aches and pains that worried me so much began to subside. I was able to run outside again which was cathartic. My hair started to look more like a normal hair style. I became a Younique presenter and it was so enjoyable and took my mind off of cancer. Instead of spending my time reading horror stories on online cancer forums, I was promoting this makeup that I loved and making money in addition to working my pharmaceutical job. That was going better too and I felt back in the swing of things, although my heart was no longer in it. Then on April 30th, we had a mandatory conference call where they told us that a "significant" layoff was coming in the next few months and they were offering a "hand raising option" where you could volunteer to be laid off with a severance package. It took all of 3 seconds to know what I was going to do.

In June, I had my breast reconstruction where they swapped out the tissue expanders with silicone implants. I also got the call that they accepted my request for separation and as of the end of June, I was a stay-at-home mom. It was undoubtedly the best decision I could have made, as shortly after I was laid off, Eric started an assignment in Indiana and was gone for 7 weeks straight. Juggling a full time job and being a single mom would have been added stress that didn't fit into my new healthier lifestyle. Fall brought the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk that I was on the committee of, and it was such a pleasure to see a year of planning come together to raise $828,000. I was also asked to be the 2015 co-chair of the event and I'm honored to play an even bigger roll this year in helping raise money for the American Cancer Society and a cause that's so important to me.

I couldn't be happier to say that today, on my 2nd cancerversary, I am so much better off than I was last year and the year before. Mentally, I'm feeling more optimistic and hopeful. Physically, my body is stronger and I'm more fit than I've been in a long time. I am loving life and so thankful for the blessings I've received in the last year. Don't get me wrong, cancer still can make me cry in the shower like it did this morning, but the sadness doesn't last long.

Hopefully there won't be any reason to update this blog until my 3rd cancerversary. Until then....thank you for all of your prayers :-)

Cancerversary-Year 1

I should have known that the anniversary of a traumatic event would make me crazy. It was like that for the 1 year anniversary of my Dad's death. In the days leading up to it, I relived every moment. Luckily, on the actual day of his death I was comforted by many signs and his visit in a dream to let me know that he was fine and still with me. I only hope that today I can find half of that peace.

A year ago my life changed, and it will never be the same. Lately I have been consumed with negative thoughts, anxiety, panic, and hopelessness. I have been reliving each moment..the feel of that rock hard lump in my normally smooth breast, the cold sweat and difficulty breathing I had while telling my Mom and Eric (who was away for work) over the phone what I had found, the doctors appointments, the tests, the concerned looks on the faces of the doctors and techs, and the fake smiles I put on for everyone, the beginning of my permanent state of preoccupation.

Thanks to social media, I've "met" or read about a lot of young breast cancer girls. I need this, I need them, I need to know I'm not the only one. However, what this means is that I will inevitabily see some people recur, and I may see some people die. Some will have a better prognosis than me from the beginning and these stories will rock my core. And maybe I will be one of them, I can't yet be sure, I can only pray that I'm not, that they're not, and that we all make it. Lately I've been going to very dark places and feeling like its only a matter of time before the cancer returns. Every ache I have, which are plenty, sends me into a turmoil. The 1 year anniversary enhances this fear-if my cancer is most likely to return in the first 2 years, then will this be the year? I can't help thinking that when you're diagnosed with cancer you are handed one of two sentences. A death sentence....or a life sentence filled with the fear and anxiety that it will return.

This post makes me sick, I hate to be this negative. Especially after a period of strength and hopefulness over the holidays that made me feel like cancer was truly behind me and I had won. I hope it's just the date thats terrorizing me and that after this I can move on with a sense of calm.

I am praying with everything I have that I am updating this blog on this date for the next 40 years. And I hope that I'm able to turn February 15th into a celebration of life and I'll look back on these early dark days as times I can barely recall. I'm just not there yet.

However....

Today I will not be recieving a call that I have cancer. That right there makes it 100 times better than last year. Instead, I will enjoy my wonderful husband who flew home from Germany to be with me and my gorgeous sweet daughter, I will go for a run, I will eat ice cream cake, I will have photos taken of my family (and I will do this every year from now on), and I will have a lovely date night with my husband. This year will be better than last. Next year will be better than this year. And so on and so on...hopefully for the next 40.

Transitioning

I realize that I'm terrible at blogging. The good news is, blogging less means nothing exciting is going on and I am totally fine with that. Forever.

We left off with the end of radiation. It's been a month and a half now and that ugly radiation burn is fading to what looks like a permanent tan. I've continued going every three weeks to get my Herceptin infusions. I'm very optimistic about this drug and what it can do for me but I can't wait for the day that I don't have to go to the infusion room and sit there like I did during chemotherapy.

The newest development in my treatment plan is that I have started to get shots in my stomach of a drug called Zoladex which shuts down my ovaries and puts my hormone levels equal to that of a woman in menopause. The reason I started this is because while chemo does induce menopause, my ovaries "woke back up". This means that chemotherapy did not permanently harm my ovaries and if a cure were to be found, I could try to have another baby. The bad news is that with ovarian function comes an increase of estrogen which fueled my cancer. Yes, I have been taking Tamoxifen which should block the estrogen receptors on cancer cells from getting estrogen but I still wasn't comfortable with having that much circulating estrogen in my system. So I went to my oncologist and requested that I have ovarian suppression started, which she agreed to. There is currently a study going on called the SOFT trial. It looks at Tamoxifen alone, Tamoxifen and ovarian suppression, or an Aromatase Inhibitor and ovarian suppression and is trying to figure out which arm is the most successful at reducing recurrence. The data was supposed to be presented at the end of 2013 but the study has had fewer recurrences across the board than anticipated so the verdict is still out. This is fantastic news that seems to be pointing to more successful chemotherapy treatments. So if the data ends up coming out that ovarian suppression is no better than Tamoxifen alone, I can always stop getting the shots. In the meantime, hopefully it won't hurt. So far the only side effects I have are hot flashes galore. I'm having one as I type. If I even think of having one, it happens. It's ok though, I will hot flash all day long if it means that any remaining cancer cells (which hopefully don't exist) are shriveling up and dying of thirst.

In December I had a very uplifting appointment with my oncologist. When I met with her in December I told her about my commitment to exercise and diet to try to reduce my recurrence risk as much as I can. I asked her if there was any specific food she would recommend I eat or not eat, any specific supplements I should take or not take. She recommended that I completely cut out red meat or keep it to once a week, which is not a problem for me as I rarely eat it. She then said "And I would recommend not spending too much time worrying that the cancer will return. All of the time, patients do better than expected. We will power studies to show a high recurrence rate and it just doesn't happen." She then went on to say that  my microscopic lymph node involvement is not very different from being lymph node negative and she felt optimistic about that. This was great to hear and really helped change my outlook and reduce some fear. Obviously recurrence is always possible, even in people with small tumors and negative lymph nodes, but there are plenty of people out there with poor prognostic factors who never recur. Everyday I'm trying to live without fear and have that hopeful optimism that I had before my cancer diagnosis.

I am back to work now and it has been a challenge to return to normal life. I have missed a lot of developments over the 10 months I've been on leave, so I've been training from home for the past few weeks. To be honest, I'm very nervous to get back out in front of customers. I feel like a new hire, unsure of myself and rusty. I'm also afraid to see everyone in the doctors offices who know what happened and will ask questions and those who don't know what happened, and will wonder why I have such a ridiculous hair style.  I obviously have no problem talking about my story, but I just know I'll be reliving it frequently and probably get some looks of pity as well, and that is something I do have a problem with.

In hair news, it's certainly growing but it's certainly unruly. Tomorrow I have my first hair appointment with Morgan since she buzzed my hair in May. I am hoping she is able to do something to make it look like a more professional, more intentional hair style. Without taking too much off since I obviously want it to grow. Poor girl has her work cut out for her!

I'll post a picture of the finished product tomorrow. Who are we kidding, no I won't, I'm a terrible blogger.

A Baby Story

In the minutes and days after Harper's birth, I told anyone who would listen that she was going to be an only child. My water broke late on a Tuesday night and she was born early on a Thursday morning. The time in between those events was painful and the act of pushing her out of my body lasted a grueling 2 hours. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. Even as they wheeled me out to the car with my perfect new baby in the car seat carrier, they asked "will we see you back here in a few years?" "Hell no!!" was my answer.

In typical fashion of my life, Harper's birth was anything but ordinary. I was induced right at 40 weeks, as they had discovered that my amniotic fluid was low and my blood pressure high. I was not at all effaced or dilated and it appeared that Harper was content to stay put. I went into Harrisburg Hospital in the evening of Tuesday, December 13th. There they administered a gel to my cervix to ripen it. They assured me that this probably would not work and that I would need to come back in the morning for more gel, followed by Pitocin to induce labor. Eric and I left and went to Jo Jo's pizza for what we would soon find out would be our last meal as a family unit of two.

I went to bed and woke up at 11:45 to a gush of fluid when I turned over. My water had broke. I remember being so excited that I got to experience water breaking like I always saw in the movies since many women do not have their water break spontaneously. We left for the hospital around 3 am and settled in for an unproductive 10 hours of no progression in my labor. Finally at 1pm they started the Pitocin and by 5pm I was in agony and chanting in tongues. I knew there was a way out--the celebrated epidural.  The thing is, I took a birthing class and they teach you how to power through this pain without medicine. My back labor was terrible though, surely I was 8 cm now and gave it my best effort. The nurse checks my progress. 1 cm. It had been 5 hours of Pitocin on full blast and I was only 1 cm? And here I was, ready to ask for the drugs at 1 cm dilated. I was weak!

I go through with the epidural and it only works on half of me. I have no idea why but half of my back still feels every contraction. I suffer more and then somehow I manage to drift off. I wake up to the tell tale feeling of needing to push and the nurse checks me. I'm 10 centimeters. It's close to 1 am and show time. The nurse tells me to start pushing and I say wait a minute, where is the midwife? She tells me we push until right before the baby is ready to come out, and then my midwife will come in and deliver the baby. This horrifies me but I start pushing. And pushing. And pushing. For 2 hours I do the most physically demanding thing I've ever done and I feel like I'm going to throw up with every push. Finally the nurse comments on how much hair the baby has and says she's going to get the midwife leaving Eric and I alone in the room. I'm so afraid this baby is going to come out without a medical professional in the room. The nurse returns with my midwife, an awesome woman who delivered most of our friend's babies and 4 babies earlier in her shift. She sits down on the edge of the bed and says "let's have a baby!" I continue pushing, aware of everything since my epidural is only half doing its job. I'm in the zone and then I hear "Get a doctor, I need a doctor!" I'm jolted out of my baby birthing trance and filled with fear, what was wrong with my baby? Again she says "Somebody get a doctor, I'm going to pass out." My eyes fly open and there I see, on the edge of the bed, my midwife slumped over unconscious. What the hell did I have going on down there that made her pass out?! The nurse hits a button and every nurse on the floor comes running! They wave smelling salts under her nose and she comes to. They put her in a wheel chair but she insists she's ok, that she can deliver this baby. They tell her no and take her to the emergency room. The nurses turn to me and tell me to relax and not push while I scream at them to get a doctor in the room. They assure me that a doctor will be here soon. I apologize and tell them that I'm sorry, but I can't not push. A contraction comes and so does my perfect, drama queen daughter, on to the edge of the bed, with no one to catch her.

My midwife never found out what happened that caused her to pass out, and it had never happened before or since. I don't blame her for anything. Do I wish a doctor had been readily available to take over? Of course. But in the end, Harper was fine, I was fine, and we certainly would never forget that night.

But like all new moms, I somehow forgot the pain of childbirth within a few weeks time, and declared I was having another baby, maybe a few. I loved being a mom, I loved breast feeding, and I had loved pregnancy. I couldn't wait to do it again.

Two weeks ago I went to my first OBGYN appointment since the day I went in there with a lump in my breast. I closed myself in the bathroom and cried because the waiting room made me think of being pregnant with Harper, the signs promoting breast feeding on the wall made me nostalgic for a time when I felt my body was doing what it was made to do. If cancer had never happened, I would have been trying to get pregnant right now or perhaps I would already be pregnant. I might be coming in for my 12 week appointment, eager to hear my baby's heart beat and make guesses at the gender. Instead I sat in the exam room and spoke with my doctor about oopherectomies and hysterectomies and hormone tests to check that the hormones that make me a woman, were suppressed. I was never going to have another baby again and there was a possibility that in due time, every body part that made me able to grow and then nurture a child would be removed.

Growing up, all I wanted was a daughter. I always pictured myself having one child who was a girl but I assumed that it was because that is what my family unit looked like growing up and I couldn't picture what I didn't know. It turns out that our family will be what I always imagined. I can't even begin to think about what my life would be like without Harper and every day I am glad that I didn't find my tumor any earlier if it would have meant not having her. I am more thankful for Harper than I could ever put into words and know that I am beyond blessed with this little person who has such intelligence, personality, and spunk. But I'm still angry that cancer is taking away my ability to make another wonderful child.

My Harpy turns 2 years old in less than 2 weeks and I can't believe how much joy can fit into two years. Here is my miracle and biggest blessing:

Life on the Radiation Table

They really do try to make radiation as pleasant of an experience as it can be. The ceiling of the room is covered in stickers of planets and some of the ceiling panels have been replaced with a blue glowing constellation. The technicians are kind and personable. The whole experience, even as your skin is getting more and more burnt, is nice.

The radiation machine looks like one of those microscopic sea creatures. I had to google it to figure out what specific creature I meant and have decided that it looks like a Water Bear. I try to keep my eyes closed for the majority of the treatment since I have this irrational fear that if I open my eyes, all of the radiation in the room will burn them out of my head. On the occasion that I absolutely must sneak a peak, the face of that radiation water bear is right in my face, and if you look beyond the black tinted window, there are things that look like teeth. They open and close in order to take X-rays, shoot radiation beams, eat my flesh, I don't really know.

A water bear:

See?

I pride myself on knowing a lot about my disease and treatment but radiation is the one area I have not read up on. Frankly because it scares me. We spend our whole lives trying to avoid radiation: don't swim in the water by Three Mile Island, cover your body with metal blankets for dental X-rays, don't put your head in the microwave. After being told to avoid it your whole life, its strange to be strapped down to the table, just laying there and taking it, intentionally.

I'm in my last week of radiation therapy. Each evening my chest is bright red and it fades a little bit by morning. It is starting to get really sore on my side, the area of the lower axilla they are radiating because of the positive lymph node.

But as in all hardships, this too shall soon end. I can't believe I am a few days away from the end of my standard treatment. It's been a long 9 months and at the same time it's flown by. Because I've been blessed to be in the Herceptin arm of a clinical study I will continue to go to the infusion center every 3 weeks until the end of June. I will also keep popping my Tamoxifen each day, running 4 times per week, juicing, drinking the green tea, trying to lose this damn chemo weight, and of course lots of praying.  It comforts me that there are things I can still do after treatment ends to make me feel like I'm continuing to kick cancer's ass.

He Listens

I arrived at the medical center before 8 am for my radiation practice run. Medical students shuffled across the parking lot from the student housing, sharply dressed sales people wheeled cases of samples through the doors, and the female valet parked cars. I couldn't help but think that I should be any one of them instead of myself, preparing for 6 weeks of another potentially harmful treatment that while it may help rid my body of cancer cells, is not without damage to other currently healthy organs. I wore a pink ribbon baseball hat over my short hair and was in the cancer institute, so there was no mistaking my affliction. Many people that passed me said hi, the others stared a beat too long. I knew they were all thinking the same thing, that poor girl, she's so young. For some reason, this doesn't bother me as much as it did while I was going through chemotherapy. Maybe it's because I know that I'm about to reemerge as a new person, a hopefully cancer free person, who once again, looks healthy to the naked eye.

I will spare the details of the radiation simulation because they are boring. It was a bunch of laying, exposed breast pointing at the ceiling, techs calling out numbers, and X-rays being taken. A red marker draws a rather large outline of the radiation field and I am on my way, and told to return tomorrow for treatment # 1.

I went upstairs and found myself following my nose towards the Starbucks, and my heart, towards the chapel. I spent a lot of time in that chapel last summer, on my knees begging for my dad to get well. I wrote my prayer requests in the book specific to that days needs-end the fever, regain kidney function, wean the ventilator. On this day, I read over the prayer requests and felt the pain of every person who put that pen to paper. This time, I added one for myself. Afterwards I entered the worship area and took to my knees in the familiar spot. I asked God to give me strength to get through this next part of the battle with as much ease as He's allowed me so far. I prayed that I would be cancer free for the rest of my life, or at least long enough to meet my grandchild and dance at Harper's wedding. I asked that I be used for a purpose.

I felt moved to open the book of Psalms laying in front of me and read the first thing my eyes focused on. What do you know? The Lord may not have given me any answers yet, but He proved that He was listening. I read:

Jesus answered and said to him "What I am doing you do not understand now, but you will know after this."

Found: Lost Thing

It's easy to say that life has been a nightmare since I was diagnosed on February 15th of this year. But if I really stop and think about it, I find that some of the best moments of my life have happened in the last 8 months since cancer rocked my world. Some of them even happened because of cancer.

A few weeks ago there was a post by the Young Survival Coalition-Northeast Region on Facebook. They were requesting a young survivor to speak to a girl's athletic team at Cumberland Valley High School in Mechancisburg, PA. Was this for real? They needed someone to talk to some female athletes at MY high school? As soon as I read it, I knew it was the soccer team, the same team I played on 16 years ago. I felt chills at how this opportunity felt perfect and like fate.

On Friday night I had my opportunity to speak to the JV and Varsity soccer girls from CV and Carlisle for the kick off of their annual Breast Cancer Awareness Game that benefits the Young Survival Coalition. They briefed me that no detail was off limits and the girls were not afraid to ask questions. I began by telling story from diagnosis through treatment and then opened it up to questions. The questions went on for about 40 minutes. These girls were phenomenal! They asked so many questions, like how do you know what a lump feels like, what foods were good for reducing breast cancer risk, how has my faith changed since diagnosis, when should they start getting screened for breast cancer, and questions about my wigs, my surgery and my reconstruction. I had the time of my life! I took my wig off for them and showed them my fuzzy head and how easy it was to put the wig on, which amazed them. Afterwards, a group of these fabulous girls surrounded me and asked some more questions and they got to meet Harper. I got a couple babysitting offers too! Michelle, who was in charge of the event presented me with a Alex and Ani Young & Strong bracelet that I absolutely adore. I can't believe they were thanking me for being there when it was completely my pleasure and an honor. There was something so energizing and healing in speaking about the last year. In the time that I was up there I got to educate, make jokes, laugh, bare my bald head, and yes, even cry a little. It was therapy that was benefiting not only myself but all those girls. The night couldn't have been more perfect for me and I hope that in some way, I helped those girls and have made enough of an impact so that they do their self exams each month.

When I first got up to the podium, I was nervous. I freaking hate speaking in public. I'm a drug rep and I speak to groups of people all the time about my medicines and disease states. Those people, the doctors, are much smarter than me and I hope that I make it through the conversation without them asking me something that I don't know so that I don't lose any credibility. I hope that I make it out of the conversation without screwing up and looking like an idiot. But I couldn't mess this up. It was my story and nobody knows my story better than I do. Nobody knows what my experience with cancer has been like better than me, and I couldn't answer a question about myself incorrectly. The longer I stayed up at the podium, the shaky voice subsided and I felt more comfortable and I never wanted to leave. I realized that this is what I want to do. I want to share my story through social media, speaking engagements, the mentoring of cancer patients, and volunteering and fundraising for the ACS. It is what I'm going to do.

I always wondered what my "thing" was. What was I passionate about? A lot of people I know have a thing that sort of defines them...an obsession over a sport, TV program, musical group, a specific craft they are good at, or even an expert level of knowledge in regards to certain parenting techniques. Sure, I like a lot of things but I never had a fanatical enthusiasm for anything except taking bubble baths, shopping at Pier 1 Imports, and consuming pumpkin flavored food and drink.  I've been searching for my thing for years and maybe it showed up in the form of a thing in my breast that stopped my heart that February morning. Since last Friday night, a flip has been switched inside of me and I feel a level of positivity that I haven't felt since the days before my cancer diagnosis when I felt like I had my whole life ahead of me. I found my thing. And it's more than just a Pumpkin Spice Latte. Thank God.

 Speaking to the Cumberland Valley and Carlisle JV and Varsity girls soccer teams on Friday, October 4th, 2013.

Being introduced on the field with the varsity team for their annual Breast Cancer Awareness Game benefiting the Young Survival Coalition.

Pinktober

I'm not sure what I feel about my favorite month of the year being hijacked by a pink haze that serves as a constant reminder of what I've been through and what will always be a part of me from here on. In the past October was the start of cool and crisp fall weather, that smoky smell in the air, gorgeous scenery, the excitement for my birthday and Halloween, and in recent years, the celebration of our wedding anniversary. Now it takes on a whole new meaning for me, as we are only at day 1 and I am unable to escape the pink.

I'm two and a half weeks out from chemotherapy. I still have 9 months of Herceptin to go, 6 weeks of radiation that has yet to start, and 10 years of Tamoxifen. Breast cancer is still a large chunk of my world, and as much as I hate to say it, but it's still my identity at this time.  Even so, on Saturday night we went to a preseason Hershey Bears hockey game and I was walking along the club level admiring the jerseys behind the glass. Every few jerseys would be one with a pink ribbon on it. And that moment, my moment of being a completely normal person looking at jerseys and not thinking about cancer, was interrupted by the reminder of the pink ribbon. And I thought about how last year I would have remarked at how pretty the pink ribbon jerseys were and this year looking at them, I saw scars, surgical drains, huge syringes of red liquid, a face in the mirror that I don't know, dark nights of despair, and mornings that were worse because it wasn't all a dream. That pretty pink ribbon took me out of my normal life and reminded me, made me aware, of the fact that life will be anything but normal for me for a while. But to someone who hasn't lived through this, or along side of this, it's just a pretty pink ribbon.

I'm not knocking Pinktober at all. I get it. Awareness is a good thing. If everything pink makes you feel your boobies for the first time or for the first time in a long time, then it worked. I like the idea that something I would normally buy, now donates a portion to breast cancer charities and research. I've even been known to, in the past, come home with a brand new pink tennis racket and pink tennis balls because 1.) They were cute and pink, duh and 2.) It went to a good cause. Did I play tennis? No. But I wanted to help end breast cancer! There is plenty of talk of "thinking before you pink" on the internet. I don't want to get into it in this blog, but make sure you know where your donation is going and make sure that it's going to research. Research will be what ends this disease. They've made amazing advances thanks to research. Awareness will not be the end of breast cancer.  Money doesn't need to be spent on awareness.  I'm sure any breast cancer survivor and we are a plenty (remember 1 in 8), will gladly make you aware for free. And I'm pretty sure that by talking to a breast cancer survivor and hearing their story, how they went from a completely normal healthy life to a life terrorized by cancer in the instant that their fingers brushed over that lump, or when the voice on the other end of the phone said something was seen on their annual mammogram...that will stick with you longer than seeing NFL football players wear pink cleats.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, breast cancer awareness already is my mission and I'll do it 12 months out of the year. I will talk to anyone about my story, and I won't leave out the gory details. Anyone who reads this blog or is friends with me on Facebook knows this about me. But believe it or not, there are times, maybe just a few minutes each day, where breast cancer is not on my mind. But this month, I won't be able to escape it and that's still hard. I long for the days when I thought I was healthy, when a pink ribbon was just a pink ribbon, and when I thought breast cancer was an old woman's disease. But now I'm aware and I've become aware in a difficult way. And I'm here to say this:

Chemo Finale in Pictures

I can't find words to describe this day so I'd rather tell it with pictures. It was exciting, full of amazing surprises from amazing people, and very emotional.

The cupcakes I brought for the chemo nurses and my cheering section:

My neighbors surprised me in the biggest way: with a pink ribbon house!! I live in the greatest neighborhood!

Mixed Feelings About Chemo's End

My mind has been pretty messed up lately, but what else is new? Are you sick of hearing about it yet? I don't have a lot of physical symptoms to go on about and my mental and emotional wreckage takes the cake of my worst chemo side effects.

My next chemo, on Friday the 13th, is my last. I'm slightly nervous about the Friday the 13th thing as I've always had rotten ones so hopefully this is the opportunity to turn the day around. Or I can expect bad labs and an anaphylactic reaction, we will see. I'm ridiculously excited to be done. I've ordered 4 dozen cupcakes (funfetti w/white buttercream and pumpkin w/cream cheese icing, both with pink breast cancer ribbons) for the nurses and anyone who wants to come to see me ring the bell. My chemo is at 9:30 so my assumption is that I'll be ringing the bell around 1130 or noon.

I'm scared to end chemo. The ritual of my Fridays is comforting, right down to the smell of the alcohol swabs that clean my port, and the needle stick that I always hold my breathe for. The familiar faces of the nurses I see every week and the welcoming chemo room with the comfy chair or bed, make me feel safe. The drugs they give me before the infusion makes me feel warm and sleepy and the chemotherapy makes me feel like I'm taking action in this fight, using a weapon of mass destruction on circulating cancer cells. I am always happiest on infusion days and it has a lot to do with what I just described. I show up to the big fight on those days.

The days after chemo, I show up to the couch. I show up to the iPad which tells me stories of women with better prognosis than myself who are now stage 4. And then fear and anxiety are the ones who show up, and I cry for the biggest thing I lost this year: the assumption that I would grow to an old woman and live a normal life span, and the innocence that goes along with it. I understand that any of us could get run over by a bus tomorrow, and that if my cancer does come back, what sense is wasting the mean time with worry? I understand that the majority of patients with my stage of cancer and treatment are alive 10 years from now, but what about 20 years from now? And what about the 20% of the women that aren't alive at 10 years? How were they different from me? How can I make sure I'm different from them?

I'm trying to stop blaming myself for getting breast cancer. I've never blamed any of the breast cancer survivors I know in real life, or the women whose stories I've read on the net. So why do I constantly ponder if its the heavy drinking I did in college or the years after, the parabens in all the fancy lotions and makeup I bought, assuming the more expensive, the better for you. Maybe it was because I was young and vain and used a tanning bed years ago. Or was it that chest CT scan I had in 2007? Maybe it's because I'm lazy, and not a good cook, so I nuked a lot of meals. Maybe it's the diet soda, maybe it was my addiction to chocolate. If you look up legit risk factors, I had 3. 1. I'm a woman with breasts, 2. I started menstruating at the early age of 9, and 3. I waited until after 30 to have a baby. I did, however, breast feed my baby which is supposed to reduce risk, maintained a healthy body weight, hardly drank in recent years, and sucked down the green tea. I will never know if I did something to cause this but if I don't blame other women, why do I blame myself?

Another realm of the depression is coming to light: how do I acclimate back into normal life when life will never be normal again.  I can't pretend that this never happened, that I'm not scared of the future, and that I'm anywhere near the person I was 7 months ago. To boot, I don't even physically resemble her anymore so the reminder is in the mirror daily. Those in cancerland speak of a "new normal" but I don't know what that is yet. To me it sounds like a version of life that is somewhat like the way life used to be, with a heavy fog of fear hanging over it.

Last Thursday was a really bad day. I'm not sure why, there was no particular event that set me off, but I spent most of the morning crying. It was just one of those days where the reality of everything that I've been through in the last six months had sunk in a little deeper. I was able to express some of my fears to my husband, which was somewhat therapeutic but I was still pretty despondent. Right before lunch time, Eric came down stairs and said "Put your shoes on, we're going for a walk." We ended up doing jogging and walking intervals. I must be a sad sight to see me when I'm trying to jog, my body is 15 pounds heavier than it used to be, my legs are like cement, and my muscles have wasted from a summer on the couch. I felt like I was going to die, but afterwards I felt much more alive than I had that morning. And I figured out the answer of what I should do in this "new normal": RUN. Run from the cancer. One week after chemo ends, I will be lacing up my shoes and starting a couch to 5K program with the goal of running a 5k, 10k, 1/2 marathon, and eventually a marathon. I've never had a reason to run before now. Until now, I never had something chasing me.

Cry Baby

I've cried four times today so far. I don't know what is wrong with me, besides the obvious. The first time was because I was thinking about Amanda and her wonderful family that came with her to her oncology appointment today and to see her ring the bell because she is no longer doing chemotherapy. She had to end a little prematurely but she is DONE and on to radiation. Anyway, her little girl is so sweet and her parents are really great. It made me think of my Dad. I have had my mom come with me to chemo sessions and she's a great comfort but I found myself imagining how it would be if both of my parents were able to sit here with me. No doubt my dad would bring the comic relief and I miss his presence terribly.

Then I go into my appointment with my oncologist and she does a thorough exam. At the end I show her a soft squishy lump on my left ankle. I've been obsessing over it for the last week. If I turn my leg a certain way and flex it, it really sticks out. But it's soft and I can push it in so it can't be cancer right? I was afraid to ask her. Breast cancer doesn't metastasize to the ankle in many cases, if any, but I was convinced that I was one of the small percentage of people who got a brand NEW cancer while on chemo. This is how my screwed up mind thinks. She said it was right on a blood vessel and she thinks it's a varicose vein. My husband said "so it isn't cancer?" which he already knew and she laughed and said no. Then she sits down and got really serious and said "I am really sorry to say this but..." HOLD UP! WHAT THE F$&@! My heart stops and she continues with "you've really been gaining weight and you're not even on Tamoxifen yet so could you try to scale it back?" This made me go off, not because I was mad at her, she's only stating the obvious and giving me the advice that she should as my doctor. But seriously. I eat whole grain cereal with almond milk for breakfast, a big bowl of kale with nuts and berries for lunch, organic chicken and veggies for dinner. As my mom said "People don't gain weight on what you're eating." We'll except me. My study nurse chimed in that I seem to be very sensitive to steroids and hopefully this will come off after treatment. I committed to a strict diet to lose what I've gained over the course of the next few months before I start Tamoxifen which will apparently make me a huge fatty all over again. This was all very annoying but it didn't make me cry.

While meeting with the oncologist I missed Amanda's end of chemo bell ringing. Amanda has been with me since, literally, the beginning. She was diagnosed days after me and we have done it all together. She had some very serious complications during chemo and her chemo was ended 6 weeks early, a decision that is truly in her best interest. Through it all, she has been the strongest baddest chick ever and I really wanted to be there to celebrate her end of this part of our nightmare journey. But I wasn't and it sucked so again, tears.

Then I had to shed a few tears over the relief that the doc doesn't think my leg lump is cancer. But then I realize, this is how it will always be. Every strange lump, bump, red mark, or ache will be cancer to me. This fear, this feeling that cancer is lurking, ready to chase me down again will always be there. My doctor assures me that this is normal and that as more time passes, I will feel stronger and more confident in my body.

Now it's infusion time and I'm feeling super feisty and Eric and I have a few laughs. I do a little pole dance with my IV pole but he doesn't give me any money. I head to the bathroom for one of my many pee breaks thanks to a big bag of saline. As I sit on the throne, I look up and read the bag that's dripping into my veins. In big words "chemo therapy". I look at myself in the mirror. I have aged but I am still young. Chemo. Therapy. How is this my life? How did this happen? I dissolve into tears as I sit back down in my chair.

Not a minute of this has been easy, even though I've escaped many hard side effects. The emotional toll has been worse than I've ever imagined. And soon I will enter what is the hardest part for many patients, acclimating back to "normal" life. I find that if I make plans, like following a strict diet and starting a running program with the goal to run a 5k, 10k, half marathon and eventually, a marathon, I feel in control, like I'm still fighting the cancer. I know it won't be easy, but easy is so 2011.  I'm  looking forward to my new life, my renewed life, and I hope I adjust to leaving Jenna With Cancer behind and just becoming me again.

Watching Me Like a Hawk

Yesterday morning I got out of bed at 6:30 am in order to attend the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer kick-off breakfast at the Holiday Inn. As I dropped the dogs off at the Canine Clubhouse at 7:30 am, I marveled that there were people out and about this early. Apparently I've completely forgotten what its like to be in the working world during my hiatus, thanks to my wonderful daughter who lets me sleep in until 8.

I got to the hotel, registered, and got in line for food. Then I made my way to the front if the ballroom like I always do since my eyes are pretty bad. I picked a table with an empty seat and friendly faces and it changed the course of my day in that moment. A woman at my table was wearing a pacesetters badge, which is a title I desire for myself. In order to become one, you must raise at least $2,500 through your fundraising. During the kick-off, this woman got up and told her personal story and her history with Making Strides. She revealed that she was diagnosed with breast cancer initially at age 31 and again five years later, this time with a more advanced stage. This was followed with "I am now a 15 year survivor from my first diagnosis, and a 10 year survivor from my second diagnosis." She looked great, the picture of glowing health and a passion for a cause that was realized during her battle with cancer. It occurred to me that this could be me, this WOULD be me. When I hear a negative story or a poor outcome, it stays with me, weighing me down with the thought that I won't be any different. I choose to let Teresa's story lift me up and show me what I can be: someone that not only survives this, but thrives in this and finds a purpose that may not have been unveiled without a cancer diagnosis.

After the program ended, I needed to express my gratitude for her story. My eyes filled with tears as I thanked her, and I could barely keep it together. I'm pretty good at keeping myself composed in front of others, so this was a surprise. We started talking and I was introduced to two other women who were with her, one was the event planner for the American Cancer Society and another was a very active volunteer. I expressed my desire to volunteer my time to them and they invited me out to breakfast to continue our discussion.

We went to a nearby diner and I immediately felt at home with these ladies. The talk of the upcoming events thrilled me and brought me back to the days when my career was event planning. Only these fabulous events raise money that will be used to research a cure for cancer. These events were now the most important events I could ever help plan. It was decided that I will join them as a volunteer for future events. I felt fulfilled.

As we were eating, Teresa looked out the window and said "Wow, look at that bird! Is that an eagle or a hawk?" I looked out and answered that it was a hawk. She said "you really don't see hawks too often, do you?"  "I do, I see them all the time." I answered.

Ever since my dad passed away, there are hawks. If I'm driving in my car and crying or struggling with something, I look up, and there's a hawk. If I'm walking Harper in her stroller and thinking of my dad, I look up, and there's a hawk. It became my thing to say "hi Dad" and it became his thing to show me hawks when I was in need. The day of my breast biopsy, on the way to the procedure, a hawk practically skipped across the hood of my car at a stop light. At that moment I had a feeling that something was about to happen that my dad needed to be there for. I had 3 consults to find the best breast surgeon, but when I walked out of the Hershey Breast Center after my consultation, I looked up in the sky and saw multiple hawks. The first thing I saw after leaving my port placement surgery was a hawk. I took these as signs that he was guiding me on the right path. 

On July 28th, the anniversary of my dad's death, my mom and I went out to lunch after church. We drove separately and parked our cars next to each other. As we walked together towards the building, a large hawk flew right over our heads, very close to us, and perched up on and electrical wire above us. There were no grassy areas around us where this hawk would be stalking his prey, only a concrete parking lot. He was round and gray in color, not the usual brown. This was the first time a hawk actually looked like my dad. And he just sat there, watching us, letting us know he was there.

At the diner, this hawk sat in the grass, adjacent to my spot at the window. Then he flew up to the top of a light structure in the parking lot. It felt so normal, seeing this hawk, after all they are always near. But I realized this wasn't true for everyone when I saw that a man had stopped his vehicle in the middle of the parking lot and was taking pictures of this impressive bird with his cell phone camera. Then my hawk made a big show of flying back past us, turning around, and gliding back over the cars directly outside our window. My new friends were amazed and said what I already knew to be true: my Dad was there to let me know that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

 Hi Dad!

Thank you Marsha, Michelle, and Teresa for a lovely breakfast and your infectious enthusiasm for a wonderful cause that has now become my passion. And thank you for validating that this hawk thing is really happening and I'm not a crazy person.

Not a Rainbow Fart

I mentioned earlier today that I didn't want to update my blog when I was feeling depressed, because I didn't want to bring down the world around me. A friend reminded me that this blog is to document how I feel and I'm not here to entertain people with "rainbow farts and unicorns." I laughed my head off and then I thought yeah, she's right. Maybe this will be therapeutic for me.

For the most part, things have been going well lately. Chemo has been uneventful, which is the best you can hope for. Sure I'm tired, have a few aches and pains, and a bald head, but I feel like I'm living a pretty normal life. My counts have been decent and my infusions have all gone as scheduled which is what I want.

I'll go along feeling OK, feeling optimistic, and then I'll read a story. I have been following a bunch of stories on Facebook in recent months about young people with cancer. One was the infamous Talia, a girl whose story touched the entire country. Another was a local guy, a ultra marathon runner who had stage 4 brain cancer. Another was a guy in one of my online cancer support groups-30 years old, a non-smoker, with stage 4 lung cancer. Those are just a few of the stories. Well lately everyone has lost their battle. These are young people who fought for so long and had thousands of people rallying behind them, yet cancer still took them. I find myself sobbing, my heart broken for the family and children they had to leave, the life they missed out on. When you are healthy, you read these stories and you sympathize with the family members. When you have been diagnosed with cancer you read these stories and you empathize with the dying patient. These people, the ones who have passed, were amazing people, people who changed the world and did great things with their lives, far better people than me. Why would I be spared if they weren't? It's a stupid question, but one that creeps into my mind anyway.  I know that none of these stories were mine, in fact, none of these people even had my kind of cancer. But cancer is cancer and it kills people and I have been reminded of it too often lately.

So that's what has been weighing me down. That said, there is always a story of hope to pick me back up. Recently my husband has been traveling to Indiana for work. He always tries to make it back home to come to my Friday chemo appointments with me. While at the factory he was working at he mentioned going home for chemo and a woman stopped him and asked him what type of cancer his wife had. Here, she too had breast cancer at age 32 and went through chemotherapy. She was now 39 years old and cancer free. These are the stories I cling to. One of my favorites that I have saved on my phone is a woman who was diagnosed when her son was a few months old. She went through extensive treatments and was told that the cancer would probably come back. To this day she is cancer free, and her "baby" is now 32 years old. I have no reason to believe that I won't be telling the same story!

Oh another thing that really burns me up-literally-is chemopause. Chemotherapy puts a woman into menopause, hence the term chemopause. It's actually a really good thing. If my ovaries aren't working, then they aren't producing estrogen aka cancer juice. I want this chemopause, in fact once it's over, I will probably seek out menopause through shots that shut down the ovaries or by getting my ovaries removed. While I think my oncologist thinks that this is extreme at my age, I personally feel that it is essential to beating this disease.  So menopause is something I need to get used to, and it takes a whole lot of getting used to. Hot flashes are no joke! My friend Margo calls them a "personal summer". My least favorite season. I keep the fan on full blast at night so I can kick off the covers, covered in sweat, only to have to bundle up minutes later when it passes. Luckily (or unluckily?) they mostly happen at night, so while I don't ever have a restful sleep, I don't have to worry about being a huge sweaty pig in front of many people.

Speaking of pigs, I am so bummed out about this constant weight gain. I knew this was a threat, that most women gain weight on chemotherapy for breast cancer, but it doesn't make looking at the constantly moving scale any easier. It reminds me so much of when I was pregnant, although I could blame some of the increase on the growing baby and I knew that I could breast feed to lose the weight. Now I don't even have breasts! What the hell?! Is this really my life?

That's something I've said a lot lately. You really do adapt to shitty situations but then all of a sudden, the reality of it all hits you and it's just too much to think on. Cigna informed me yesterday that they have approved me for Long Term Disability. I need to fill out a lot of paperwork and my employer also requires that I file for Social Security if I'm going out on LTD. Social Security? I didn't know I was 70. Excuse me while I have a hot flash. Is this really my life?

Tissue expanders. I am now rocking about 500 cc's of saline in my rock hard chest. I really worry that I'm going to knock the wind out of people when I hug them. It's actually kind of comical, as my new "foobs" are a couple inches higher than my old set. So a bunch of shirts that used to be low cut and cleavage baring, now fully expose a foob. My implant exchange is a year away so I better get used to it. Until then, I dream of soft squishy implants at night, in between hot flashes.

I'll end on a good note. My hair is growing! Everywhere. I actually have to shave my legs on the regular again! That sucks but it's nice to do something normal. The hair on my head increases every day and I'm hopeful that by the end of chemo, I actually look like I have hair, even if it's just the G.I. Jane look. It's strange to me that my hair is growing on chemo (what happened to destroying rapidly dividing cells?) but I heard that this happens often with Taxol so I'll take it!

The Year Mark

This day last year I noticed my dads oxygen levels were getting lower despite being on the full setting of the ventilator. This day last year was the beginning of the end and he passed two days later. It has been hard not to relive each day spent in the hospital over the last month, especially since I've spent some time in the same hospital for my own cancer treatments.

One thing that has been so strongly apparent to me is that I'm so happy to be where I'm at on this July 26th than where I was last year. That seems strange. My dad is gone now, I got cancer, I'm doing toxic treatments that will hopefully prevent this cancer from returning, although its no guarantee, and in the meantime could cause me secondary cancers, permanent heart damage, etc.Who the hell would want to be here!? Well, there is nothing worse than watching a loved one pass away, and to be able to do nothing about it, to feel completely helpless.  This year, the burden is mine, this cancer-I own it. It's so much easier to feel in control of a situation when the situation is yours to control. I was a different person at this time last year. I was so innocent, so ignorant, my life was so easy up until that point. This year I am hardened, toughened, and my shell is callused. I no longer freak out over the  small things and let them consume me because I know what real pain is and I know what the big things are. I also know that you can live through real pain, survive it, and get stronger. Prior to my father's illness, back in the sunshine and rainbow filled first 32.5 years of my life, I used to pray to God to grant me an easy time here on Earth. Please spare me from losing my loved ones before they are old and grey, please spare me from major illness. "I'm not strong enough to handle things like that, God." I said.  Out loud. On more than one occaission. But my life's path had plans to show me that I was strong. And my situation this year is mine to control, and finally, I know that I am strong enough to to handle the hard things.

I wonder what my dad would think of my situation. If he were here I think he'd be strong, I think he would comfort my mom, and I think he'd bring comic relief. I still think he does those things. I feel comfort right now, sitting in this hospital bed and getting a chemo infusion. Last year at this time I would stand by his bed and talk to him but I didn't know if he heard me. This year, I know he does.

I miss you every single minute of every single day, Dad. This has been the hardest year of my life, and filled with more pain than I could have ever imagined. I've spent the last year trying to make sense of your death. But if I believe that it was so that you could watch over me and guide me, then it makes the pain bearable. The day I see you again in Heaven will be a glorious one, but I hope it's not for at least 40 more years.

Hanging In There

This Friday will be Taxol/Herceptin treatment #4! We are moving right along. I'm a little nervous about my white blood counts. As I mentioned before, when I was on AC treatment, I got the Neulasta shot which boosts my white blood cells to help me fight infection. It worked awesomely. With weekly Taxol they don't give the Neulasta shot because its not as bad on your blood counts as Adriamycin and Cytoxan. Last week before Taxol #3 my WBC was 2.3 and the week before it was 3.2. So it's steadily going down. I'm not sure at what point they postpone chemo but I hope I don't hit it...I just want to get this over with and start getting my life back to normal. Please pray that my blood counts maintain and I am able to do my chemo as scheduled and also that I avoid any infections. Last year at this time, my dad was in the ICU with sepsis and Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome. This was brought on by him being on immune suppressing drugs. Needless to say, I've seen what can happen to immune suppressed people and it terrifies me but I know that my Dad is my guardian angel and keeping me strong!

I have been so blessed to have such strong and amazing women beside me in my fight. During my second chemo treatment I was surprised by two of my survivor girlfriends, Renee and Margo. They showed up looking beautiful and turned my chemo room into a party, complete with all of Renee's wigs from when she went through chemo.  I spent the morning trying on wigs and laughing with my friends who had fought cancer, and made it look like a fool. I am so blessed to have these examples of what strength and cancer ass kicking means. This past week, I was lucky to have my friend Amanda getting her treatment at the same time that I did. Amanda is 30 years old and was diagnosed just days after me. We've gone through everything together in this journey and I'd be lost if I didn't have someone who knew exactly what I was going through because they were going through it too, at the exact same time. When I made myself at home on my chemo bed last week, I looked across the hall and saw two young women talking , one of whom had her back to me. Turns out it was my friend Nichole, another survivor, and one whose advice to me was priceless early in my diagnosis. She was visiting her friend Hope who was from out of town but getting her Herceptin treatment at Hershey. Hope is a beautiful mother of 4 who was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. She has had significant improvement in her cancer from her treatments but was recently diagnosed with a tumor in her brain which I have no doubt will be successfully treated too. We got to chat for a while and she was such a wealth of knowledge, positivity, and no pun intended, hope. Please pray for each of these women that I've mentioned...they have been sn inspiration to me and deserve nothing but health and happiness.

Thank you to everyone who has donated to my Making Strides Against Breast Cancer team!! I hope that a bunch of people will be able to walk with me on October 19th. I'm thinking of having a big fat pink party afterwards :-)

Taxol/Herceptin #1 down!

I'm sitting in Infusion Bed 20, which has a nice view of the gardens and we got to watch the rain. Today is really dragging though. Blood draw was at 11 am-that was delayed, oncologist appointment at 12 noon-that was delayed. Everything looked good to the doc, white count was an astonishing 25! We can definitely say that the Neulasta shot works! It better had for $5000. $5000 for a shot that i had 4 times...$20,000 in shots! I hear it costs more than the chemo drugs. Anyway, I asked the doc if I could eat sushi light of my high count and she said yes. After that appointment Eric and I went to The Hershey Grill over at the Hershey Lodge and I had an awesome coconut chicken salad! I have been shying away from salads because they say to if you are immune compromised. But now that I know that the Neulasta is working overtime, I think it's safe and it was worth it! How can I go a summer without salads, that's insane!

Weekly Taxol doesn't require the Neulasta shot afterwards so I will have to be more careful with my germ exposure now that I won't have anything helping me along. Taxol is supposed to be easier than AC, according to everyone. The things to look for are numbness and pain in fingers and toes. People can have trouble doing buttons, counting change, etc. I need to let them know if I experience any of those things. I may also have bone pain and muscle aches. And don't forget the risk of heart failure! I am praying that these next 12 weeks are uneventful!

There's a woman across the hall who is having a LAST DAY OF CHEMO PARTY!! I'm so excited for her. Everyone is wearing shirts with lime green ribbons so I looked online to see what cancer that was and it says Non-hodgkins lymphoma. I hope she is cancer free now and stays that way! I can't wait to hear the bell ring. Update: totally cried when she rang it.

Nothing new is going on with me.  I'm doing chemo, resting, playing with Harper, and gaining a stupid amount of weight. This is seriously like pregnancy, I'm literally gaining a pound each week. This whole chemo regime is 20 weeks so that could mean 20 pounds. I know that's a trivial complaint but I was really happy with myself after losing the baby weight and its just another reason why cancer is a dumb bitch who had to come here and *temporarily* mess up my life. I say temporarily because I've already let a bitch know that she's only allowed to screw with me in 2013 and after that I've got better things to do. Like growing my hair, living my life, kissing my baby, and doing anything I damn well please and everything I thought I could never do :-)

The Cancer Cut

I just realized I never blogged about my big head shave! When you think chemotherapy, you think bald heads so no doubt, being without hair was one of the first thoughts I had when I heard the words "it came back positive for cancer." And I miss my hair, do I ever miss my hair. It took so long to get it so long, and I always begged Morgan to only trim those split ends, don't take any length. Then I find myself asking her to chop it mid neck before surgery and then comes the day where I invite her over...with her razor. So yes, if I find a long blonde hair in my car, I've been known to cry. If I stumble across (or go looking for) old pictures of myself, the tears form. But living with a hairless head hasn't been as traumatic as expected, shaving if off wasn't the cryfest I thought it would be.

It was May 17th, that we did it. I just had my second chemo and the hair was falling fast. Morgan came over after treatment, we sat on the deck, and the shaving began. Harper cried at first. I think she thought Morgan was hurting me with the razor. I got to experience some short cuts on the way to buzzed, my favorite being a Mohawk. How many women get to have a Mohawk in their lives? Cross that off the bucket list! I have to admit, I was pumped full of chemo drugs and had a nice big Ativan so that probably helped to make the situation less stressful. But like most big things that have happened since recieving my cancer diagnosis, I somehow view this event in a detached out-of-body-experience sort of way. I have to remove myself a bit from things, in order to not fully understand the magnitude of what's happening.

But here it is! The evolution of my hair! A month in, and bald is getting boring but its nice to whip off a wig, hat, or scarf when it's hot and feel the breeze! Thank you Morgan for doing what was probably one of the most emotionally uncomfortable appointments of your career, but I think we made it a fun, not sad, time!

The evolution of my hair.

How it always has been. I loved having long hair and I was happier as a blonde. This is right before I got it cut short, prior to my mastectomy:

 My new short hair cut! Very easy to handle after surgery. If you are having a bilateral mastectomy and have long hair, I really recommend an easy cut prior to surgery.

Then I decided to switch it up and go dark in the weeks before it fell out:

Then came the big shave...

Adios Red Devil!

On Friday June 14th I completed my final round of Adriamycin and Cytoxan! Round 4 was uneventful like I had hoped it would be. My oncologist and clinical study nurse marveled at how normal my blood work was, like a person who isn't even going through chemo. My oncologist told me that she feels like she isn't doing anything with me because the process has been so easy on me (except for all of my superficial complaints of weight gain, acne, and hair loss which when you're dealing with cancer, don't get much sympathy). After saying this, she shrugged her shoulders and turned to leave and I told her I hope I always make her want to shrug and leave because as a patient I'm a non event. Even though things have been "easy" for me so far,  what really matters is that all of our appointments post treatment for the next 30 years are the easy ones. I'd put up with any hardship right now to sail through the rest of these oncology appointments for the rest of my life.

So I get pats on the back and escorted over to the infusion room by my proud clinical study nurse. I'm settled into my chair and my chemo nurse comes over to review my stats and comments on how high my white blood counts are. About to pat myself on the back again, she said "I never see them this high". So I sneak a peak and turn to Dr. google and yep, they are high, like infection high. But I feel fine! I spend a good amount of time stressing about this when luckily my clinical study nurse returns. I ask her about it and she says "oh yeah, it's high" and I'm all like "what's wrong with me, am I dying???"  And she says "no, it just means that your Neulasta shot is working really well for you." Phew!!! Sometime during the day I sign up for the patient portal where I can view all my blood work results. Super bad idea for a hypochondriac, as now I have some other concerns that I need to bring up next treatment. When will I learn that ignorance is bliss?

The rest of the treatment went smooth and I felt ready to ring that bell to check off such a huge part of my chemo regimen. But alas, you can't ring until you're really done and I have 12 weekly Taxol/Herceptin combos in my future. I did witness a big chemo party across the hall as the lady finished her final infusion. Friends, flowers, happy nurses, bell ringing...will you come to my final chemo party??

75% of the way done with A/C!

Today is three days post my third Adriamycin/Cytoxan chemo! This one seems to be hitting me harder than the first two, but I have still been lucky enough to have no nausea. It really just makes me extremely exhausted and achy, which I think is from the Neulasta shot. 

I've had some rough days lately where I've let the dark thoughts creep in. I think due to the aches and pains that chemo brings, I've started to freak out that I have cancer in my bones and I have stage IV cancer. I never had any scans at my initial diagnosis except for a breast MRI and a chest x-ray and blood work prior to surgery. I never had a bone scan or PET scan to rule out distant metastases. Based on my stage of cancer and the limited lymph node involvement, it isn't common practice to scan unless there are symptoms that warrant them. And I don't want to ask for scans because they subject the body to unnecessary radiation and I don't think I could handle the "scanxiety" of waiting for the results. I just keep telling myself that feeling shitty is from my cancer treatment. It's hard to go from feeling normal while the cancer was in my body, to feeling so ill now that it's out. It's something I can't wrap my mind around yet. I need to keep reminding myself that the medicines are doing what they were created to do, get rid of every last cancer cell, and rejoice in the fact that my blood counts have been good and I have been able to get all of my treatments so far. The Neulasta shot that I get the day after every chemo treatment may cause a lot of bone pain, but it certainly does it's job. I caught a cold from Harper, my little petri dish, during round 2 and it was luckily just a regular cold. If you get a fever of 100.4 or above during chemotherapy it is considered a medical emergency and needs attention right away. I monitored myself through the whole illness and never got a fever, praise God.

So while I've been laying low and not doing anything too exciting, I do have something fun to report! On Memorial Day weekend, my in-laws hosted the 1st Annual River Games for the American Cancer Society. Cancer has touched our family in many ways, and luckily most of the people who have been touched are now survivors! I can't wait to celebrate my survivorship every year for the next 40 years of river games! There was a huge turn out of people and everyone had to pay $10 to play a day of backyard games: ladder golf, bocce ball, bean bags, and washer boards. There was plenty of delicious food and the weather was perfect.

Leading up to the games, I was hesitant to participate. I was so tired and beat down from chemo, being out in the sun didn't appeal to me, and after being laid up so much lately, I didn't know how I could muster up the energy to play a bunch of games I haven't been all that good at in the past. I asked Eric what team I was going to be on and he said I could be on his, but I sensed that he was hoping for a team of backyard game experts who were going to win. Our final team ended up being Eric, Ryan, Deb, and myself. And to my huge surprise, we won the tournament! We were up against so many people who regularly played these games, atheletic, college aged guys, etc. But our little team, the one with the cancer patient on it, won!! And I don't believe anyone was holding back just because I had a scarf on my head. This is something I am so proud of. Like I said, I wasn't even sure I was going to participate. I was going to sit inside, out of the sun, and rest my body. But I got out there and played all day and had a blast. Boy, was I sore for days afterwards but so was Eric so I think it had to do with being old, and not my cancer treatment.

I also just had a very successful Pampered Chef party in my neighborhood to raise money for my friend Nichole's Komen 3 Day Walk that she is doing this October. We raised $220 to go to her cause! My friend Katie is a Stella & Dot stylist and she did an online jewelry party for me, and the response has just blown my mind! The show did over $2200 in sales and raised over $340 towards my Making Strides Against Breast Cancer fundraising! I am SO THANKFUL to everyone who bought great cookware and jewelry in the name of a good cause! I hope you all love your things. This was SO FUN to be a part of and it took my mind off of obsessing about my cancer for a while and put my energy into thinking about fundraising will lead to research which will lead to better treatments and a cure so our kid's don't have to waste their time obsessing about their cancers. 

So while things have been pretty low key here, involving lots of laying around and feeling blah, some really fun things have happened in the last few weeks. I'm looking forward to banging out round 4 of A/C on June 14th! That will be the last time Adriamycin ever cruises through my veins, as there is a lifetime limit to the amount you can have in your system, but more so due to the fact that this cancer won't be back to visit. Next stop is weekly Taxol and Herceptin treatments which is a bit more of a time commitment but is hopefully easier on the side effect front.

 As always, THANK YOU so much for your prayers. We are doing really well, managing life through this bump in the road, and the only thing I ask is for prayers. They make more of a difference than any chemotherapy ever could.