So here is what I want to tell you. I have cancer. It's a disease and not necessarily a death sentence. Frankly, I'd rather die in my sleep and the doctors tell me that's still an option. In the end, cancer might not be what kills me. But no one gets out alive and that is the irony. As soon as the sperm hits the egg we begin to live and we begin to die. We never know how long we have and life always blindsides us with good and bad stuff. Ya never know.
Understand that I am still me - irreverent, angry at injustice on nearly ever level, profane, pissed that many people DON'T do the right thing (or in my cases the left thing), and, I think, I still have the ability to laugh at myself most of the time. So treat me normal. Don't be afraid to talk to me. Believe me I will talk to you and probably tell you more than you want to know. It's okay to tell me to shut up.
So my uterus went bad and it came out, with associated parts, on April 20, 2015. On April 22 I received the news that there was a malignant tumor inside and that I would be referred to a radiation oncologist. Well, I kinda thought that cancer was the root of my problems so I was not surprised.
My first reaction was to do nothing and just let cancer take me away - like the old Calgon Bath Oil Beads commercial. But my friends won't let me do that. I knew it was a mistake to tell them.
The good news was that the tumor was inside the uterus and had not escaped. Well, okay. I guess this guy is going to tell me, "Oh yeah, it was fully contained so come back in 6 months and well take a another look."
Not. I've been becalmed on a sea of ambiguity for a few weeks, but now I'm seeing the doctors and I believe the wind is picking up and we're charting a course for a bountiful shore and not a desert island. I know there will be storms along the way.
Instead, he said that even though everything came out clean, the tumor contained "serous" cells. That was serious. He thought I'd need chemo and radiation. Well, that sucks I thought. I needed to speak to the medical oncologist who would talk to me about chemo therapy. I've been given lots of printouts on uterine cancer and what to expect and treatment and side affects and I have all my path reports and there's a lot of medical terms and descriptions that I don't understand.
Now I've spoken with her and my cancer education continues. Here's what she recommends. Nine weeks of chemo with Taxol and Carboplatin. That sounds like a lot but it is really an infusion of each drug every three weeks.
The good and the bad about my cancer:
I'm at Stage 1A - this is good because it means the cancer has not progressed far at this time
I'm a Grade 3 - this is bad because of those serous cells meaning that the cancer is aggressive and now that we know its there we have to hit is hard.
Yes, I will feel like crap sometimes. I will probably be crabbier than usual if you can believe that. Yes, I will lose my hair but it will come back and some folks say it will be curly. That would be weird.
Well, after that first nine weeks is over, then I'll get some radiation (I'll find that out today). Then another session of chemo. And then? Well, we'll see.
I am so lucky to have a huge support group from my friends and family. So many offers of help. I might need rides to chemo. Not sure if I need that for radiation. Food? My appetite is still not right from all the drugs I had to take for the surgery. Nothing tastes right and this is likely to continue and probably get worse. House cleaning? I hate housework but seriously, this would be a real chore for anyone to take on - pounds of sand, leaf litter, and pet hair enter this house every day! I'll need to move so walking buddies might be helpful. Cards and letters? Not really necessary - just knowing you all out there on my side is enough.
I'll write about what's going on here so you can keep up - or not.
Oh, about the bald thing. I really don't have a nicely shaped head so I'm not sure if I want to flaunt it all the time. Many people make head coverings but while they hide your head they all scream, "I'm bald from chemo!" I found some cool biker 'do-rags' that have images of fists flipping a bird. I think I might go for one or two of those. People are likely to be so distracted by the design they won't notice I have no hair. :-)
Don't be underinsured and pay attention to what your body tells you. And please treat me normal.
Gail - May 29, 2015
I'm glad you are writing. A lot of people care about you and will want to be on the voyage and support and help when we can. You're already being smart, tough and funny about what you are having to deal with. Keep it up.
ReplyDeleteI guess they lost my last comment. Forgive me if this is a repeat. I wanted to say that in 2010 I was diagnosed with throat cancer and had a 10 hour operation at Shands and six weeks of radiation. I thought my life would end soon. I think I can understand something of how you feel, even though no one in the world really can know. Throughout this whole experience, the best thing I had, even with family around me, was the patients with whom I lived at Hope Lodge during radiation. I lived with them for six weeks after the operation and after the dreadful feeding tubes were removed and I could at least drink something else. Some had cancers much more deadly and had been through or were facing liver, stomach and pancreatic cancers. I was up at all times trying to find someone to talk to sometimes 3 a.m. in the community kitchen, bothering them. Some were disfigured. Others faced what seemed like certain death. No one really could feel what I was going through except some of these people. Not the doctors, not the nurses, not even the family I loved. Maybe it was just me, but with time, I could not figure out how someone could fight this alone. I needed to talk with others who were going through all of this. Friends were also essential. When I got home and was on oxycodone, I needed a place to go and cry and found it at a good friend's house. All of this may seem strange to you, but that is how I went through this. There is no guarantee in life, and I shudder when someone calls himself or herself "a survivor." It is a lifetime fight. I had good doctors and nurses and as one nurse told me about my condition when I was full of self-pity and frightened to death "You are not the first and you won't be the last." Take good care, and keep writing this great blog.
ReplyDelete"We're all different. We all react differently." Everybody wants to know the future and statistics forecast it. Not. Not for individuals, and you are certainly are. Watch the cats; eat chocolate. You go, girl.
ReplyDeleteYou have endured so much already and I hope by now your hair has grown back and you are flipping birds at the GOP EVERY DAY!
ReplyDeleteOur distance has never felt right to me, and I am probably the last person you would want to see at your door, but know that since you have sent me this blog I have read it several times and check it hoping you've given a more recent update. You knock this cancer out. And someday when you are particularly pissed about something, call and yell at me. I would love to hear you at your best again. Stay feisty.
You have endured so much already and I hope by now your hair has grown back and you are flipping birds at the GOP EVERY DAY!
ReplyDeleteOur distance has never felt right to me, and I am probably the last person you would want to see at your door, but know that since you have sent me this blog I have read it several times and check it hoping you've given a more recent update. You knock this cancer out. And someday when you are particularly pissed about something, call and yell at me. I would love to hear you at your best again. Stay feisty.