ThanksGiving.
Sleeping in. Someone else roasting the turkey. Modern pharmaceuticals. Muscle tone. Indian summer. Indoor plumbing. Unconditional love. Friends. Good friends. Friends who sit with you during chemo. Friends who send cards. Friends who send gifts. Friends who send couture. Shiraz.
Dogs. Cats. Saturday morning pancakes. Cashmere. Down comforters. October. May. The blindness of true love. Coldplay. Homemade pizza. Having enough energy to cook really good food. Christmas. The way my kids smell. Yoga. Naps. Clothes hot from the dryer. Parking in the garage. A clean house. Date night. Toddler giggles. The Bristol Lounge. A capella boys’ choirs. The internet. Diet Coke. Jude Law.
Second chances. Third chances. Seventh chances. Tireless medical researchers. A sense of humor. A great-shaped skull. Discount retailers. Shoe shopping. Walking in the woods. Every day. Netflix. Hot showers. Maho Bay. French fries. Really good wigs. Sunbathing. A good book. Or six. Freshly painted toenails. Comfortable high heels. Hugs.
Family. Family. Family. Family. Family. Gumption. Self-confidence. A good cry. Qualified therapists. A sympathetic ear. Backup. Permission to fail. Not wanting to.
Tomorrow.
Seventh Time’s the Charm (Fingers Crossed)
I can’t believe it. Something worked! The results of last Friday’s CT scan are in, and while anecdotal (I won’t see the report until this Friday), I’m going to take the doctor’s “Your scans look better… good news all around” as a positive thing.
So let’s take stock: no symptoms (other than a mildly puffy left leg); declining fatigue; recovering cardiovascular fitness; renewed interest in culinary pursuits; hair growing in. One might be tempted to forget one has a medical problem.
Which seems to be a habit for me. Even when I’m down in the dumps, if I can just get the dog walked and the kids fed, maybe some grocery shopping done, I really have to remind myself (or step out of the shower and look in the mirror - yowza!) that I’m sick. So now that I’m starting to feel like a fully formed human being, that reminder every three weeks (and you can’t possibly visit The Cancer Factory without knowing you have a problem) might get increasingly annoying.
Rest assured, though, that I’m going. And adding Avastin to the top of my “Thanks” list! Let’s hope the fix keeps working; I could get used to this.
Passing
Aside from the insulative value that having your own hair adds to a winter’s day, it’s an amazing mental hurdle to feeling normal. Last spring, when I was going through chemo, the stuff I was on didn’t make all of my hair fall out; in fact, I only lost about half of my volume (which I can assure you is enough hair for any three other people). To the average observer, all systems were nominal.
This summer, when my hair started falling out in earnest (thanks, Taxol!), I was expecting it. I was even, in a small part of me, looking forward to it – quick showers, no salon appointments, no shaving, cooler summer days. And yet as blase as I can be about some of the stuff that happens with this battle, there’s something so unnerving about being bald. Oh, I know I have a cute head, that my wig is fabulous and I don’t even mind going around in a bandanna. But all of a sudden, the world looks at you differently. You’re a cancer patient, and everyone can tell.
Why does that bother me? I should be proud to represent, a survivor who’s still plugging along through the soccer mom’s routine: walking the dog, going to Target, meeting the school bus. Does it make me uncomfortable to get special dispensation — no, please, go ahead of me in line, I insist — or to accept help to the car with my groceries? Lord knows, there are days I can use it. Is that why I want my wig to look so natural? (Or am I just really vain?)
Do I worry about making other people uncomfortable? I’m more than happy to talk about my illness, diagnosis, symptoms, not only because I hope I can help someone else who may also be sick but because, really, who doesn’t like talking about themselves. Once people know you’re sick, though, they make sure to always ask you how you are, if there’s anything they can do for you, and I think I’m very conscious of that switch — I’m not just your average girl any more. I want people to want to know how I am not because they know I’m sick and are being solicitous of the poor cancer lady, but because that’s what you ask your friends. (And yes, I know that’s ridiculous; I know who my friends are and that they love me. This is not an entirely rational process, kids.)
It’s been so hard to teach myself to accept help from those who offer it, not just because I need the help but because it gives those who offer it a way to have some control over an uncontrollable situation. Offering help is a way to make it better, even if it’s only a casserole. So maybe passing for “normal” is another way I need to let go, be the best baldy I can be. Or maybe I’ll keep fighting to look ”normal” because looking good, for me, has so much to do with feeling good.
Anyway, thanks for the casseroles.
Androgyny
It’s amazing how much of a woman’s identity is wrapped up in her hair. Even if it’s terrible hair, it’s still a defining characteristic. Can you imagine trying to describe someone without being able to talk about their hair? “She’s about my height, and she has lips and ears, brown eyes. You know who I’m talking about, right?”
When I’m bald, I could be anyone, any ethnic derivation, any age. First thing in the morning, in my bathroom mirror, I could be a hundred-year-old Chinese man. Late at night, in a dark room, maybe a little Yul Brynner around the eyes. Now that it’s growing in a wee bit, possibly sort of Sinead O’Connor, sans sunglasses. (Although I was hoping for G.I. Jane.)
But of all the things I’ve lost to cancer, I miss my eyelashes the most. Eyebrows can be penciled on; a good wig can fool most people into thinking I have hair. But you just can’t fake eyelashes. Even though dark lines of kohl on top and bottom lids come close, they lack the softness of a fringe of actual hairs. And have you ever tried a full line of artificial lashes? It looks like leggy caterpillars have parked on your eyelids. ::shudder::
The really odd part (I know, like there needs to be another one?) of being hairless is how you look in photographs. Even if your makeup and “hair” are perfect, there’s a shiny reflectiveness to your skin that the flash creates that strikes me as the real tell-tale of a chemo patient. Because your skin has lost all its hair, including the downy little hairs that cover the skin all over your body, especially your face, the naked skin looks greasy and plastic in pictures. No one warned me about that part: no matter how deft your hand at decoy, the picture tells a thousand words about what’s going on inside.
So now that the lashes/peach fuzz/brows are growing back (yea, shaving!), it’s so much easier to look like a girl. Don’t miss my curls yet, as my wig is so fabulous. But it’s such a delight to have lashes again. Keep your eyes peeled for excessive eyelid batting.
Tick, tock.
Thirty-eight.
If’ you’d asked me in 2006 whether I’d turn 38, I wouldn’t have hesitated to say “yes”. If you’d asked me in 2007 whether I’d turn 38, I would have hesitated.
When I was first diagnosed, I was so certain that my cancer was a one-time thing, a fluke, something to be excised, poisoned, and recovered from. Dust my hands off, grow my hair back, return to my regularly scheduled life. But once the first recurrence showed up and we scheduled my scary surgery for October, I was convinced I’d be gone by that Christmas. Started mentally divvying up my couture, regretting that I’d never get to embarrass my boys at their rehearsal dinners, wondering who would let the lonely cat sleep in their bed. So when that round was over, I was totally flummoxed. And we all know how much I loooove uncertainty. How long do I have?
No one on my medical team is willing to even take a stab in the dark at a prognosis. They all say we have lots of tools in my treatment arsenal, and plenty more coming down the pike. (Have I mentioned yet how much I adore being treated at D-F?) Since my lungs are now showing signs of (tiny, glacially-progressing) tumors, I’m starting to get an inkling of the way it’s going to go in a long-term sense. But how long?
These days, when someone’s diagnosed with Stage IIIc like I was, they have a 45% chance of living longer than five years. And with each recurrence, your percentage drops. So I have to admit that while I have never exactly been morbid, I am trying to be realistic. I certainly stopped worrying about the health of my IRA. (See? A little gallows humor never hurt anyone.)
Anyway, here I am at 38. In another 18 months, I’ll be one of the 45%. Since statistics-busting has been my m.o. from the start, I’m happy to keep the trend going. And maybe if I keep kicking ass I’ll come to really regret my adolescent sun-worshipping habits in my fifties and sixties.
It’s About Time…
Some would say that a blog about a cancer journey should start at the beginning. Some might wonder why a blogger would wait to start chronicling the litany of craziness until she’s three and a half years into things. They wouldn’t know me very well, would they? Procrastination is my middle name (well, one of them), and if there’s any excuse that’s valid for putting stuff off, it’s fighting evil cells inside your abdomen. I’m milking it.
So welcome to it. A place for me to vent, share, and offer a little help to others who might be heading down this road. There aren’t many of us like me on this trip, under 40 and healthy (present tumors excepted, of course), trying to raise little kids and keep our families marching forward as functionally as possible while navigating the side effects and treatment schedules and hoping to look cute while wearing someone else’s hair.
If you’re fighting your own battle, let me know how you’re doing. I’d love to hear from you, compare notes, share embarrassing bald stories.
And if you’re reading this otherwise, hi Mom!
I'm a two-and-a-half time ovarian cancer survivor who is not only determined to make it to sixty but also to look damn good while getting there. My two boys, husband, and dog are counting on me to get out of bed every day, so I might as well wear something cute and make each one COUNT. I'd love to hear from you about your odyssey - sharing makes it all easier to take. And laugh at.
