Last time I updated, we'd found out that Eugene was a jerk (which we actually already knew)--but we found out he was an intelligent jerk that had figured out a way to survive and grow in spite of the treatment that was previously killing him. We were looking at starting a new treatment regimen/drug cocktail, and hoping for the best. Which is what you do when you have cancer, because if you don't then you begin your descent into an endless spiral of depression and despair--not a place I want to go.
Well--go figure...smart little Eugene wasn't thwarted by the new cocktail, and we've since found out that he's managed to grow even more! I know--bastard. So we did the crying in the doctor's office thing again where I repeatedly assure the oncologist that I'm okay while simultaneously suppressing the urge to scream as loud as I can. Because I'm not sad--I'm angry. Angry that this little asshole of an invader keeps trying to change my plans and affect my life in ways that I'm not okay with. The little middle eastern oncologist guy continues to look at me with the really annoying stare of pity--which I hate--and starts talking through our options. I don't want "options"...I want "solutions", and I want them now. Unfortunately, that's not on the agenda. Oh, there are clinical trials, we can't do radiation, there are some random chemotherapy regimens that we could try at reduced dosages...we can call and see what MD Anderson has available (this is the perfect time to mention that we asked him to do that two months ago), or there's this thing called cryoablation that we can try.
Cryoablation--sounds kinda sci-fi-ish and exciting, right? Apparently some doctor had come and given a seminar to the oncology department about this procedure where he inserts probes and uses directed therapy to freeze away portions of whatever the target structure happens to be--in this case it would be Eugene. It wasn't a guaranteed deal, and it's not technically an approved treatment for my condition, but it sounds like a good idea and we decided it was worth a shot. So the good doctor made some calls, and after a nice little romp with the medical records department (more on that later), I had a call from the other doctor (we'll call him Mr. Freeze) to schedule a consultation as we were walking out of the clinic--quick turnaround...this was promising. We got the appointment set up, and I felt like progress had been made. It still wasn't a sure thing, but I was exceedingly optimistic. It won't be curative, and it won't completely get rid of Eugene, but it'll cut him down to size and buy us some time to get to Houston and start treatment at MDA.
Before I go on with my tales of meeting Mr. Freeze, just a quick note regarding the individuals in charge of medical records--you all suck. And you're mean. Maybe not all medical records departments are like this, but these ladies were seriously mean and not helpful in the least--until I started crying and Chris got really mad. At that point, the first lady decided that she was actually capable of doing her job...then we had to go back up to radiology to get copies of all my scans put onto a disc--a task that is apparently far more challenging than I previously understood. It was taking forever, so I went back up to check on the progress and found the lady that was supposed to be doing it stuffing her face with fried egg rolls as she dropped food on my chart. Thanks...big help. Eventually we got everything we needed and left that place for what we hope will be the last time.
While I was coordinating things with Mr. Freeze's office, I also got a call from the folks at MD Anderson! Turns out my doctor had finally done what he told us he would do two months previous, and actually called them to have my case transferred over. So we're currently in the MDA system and on the verge of scheduling my first appointment with the doctors in Houston. Oh, Texas--how I cannot wait to return to thee...
So it's been a busy couple of weeks--movers came last week and took all but the essentials, which are currently en route to the homeland. Our lease was up on the house we were living in this morning, so I'm officially homeless for the next 9 days--fortunately we have a guesthouse here at the lab that I can stay in free of charge. I had my appointment with Mr. Freeze this morning, and he agreed to do the procedure...this Thursday (yay!). I'm still working on wrapping up all the loose ends in Athens, preparing for my grown up job, arranging things for our move back to Texas, and trying to make sure everything is in order for this conference I have to go to next weekend. No big deal.
Fortunately I have an incredible support system--here in Athens and back home--and I have all of my Facebook friends to keep me entertained and keep my spirits up in the meantime. We're still staying positive, keeping the faith, and focusing on moving forward at whatever rate we can. A rougher road means a more rewarding destination, right? That's what I'm telling myself. We'll see what Mr. Freeze can do, and then we'll be on our way to TX!
As always, thank you all for reading, for caring, and for your unending support and prayers!
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
My one year "chemo-versary"
I've been meaning to update for quite a while (anyone noticing a trend here?), but as usual, intentions don't always equal actions.
Thanks to our good friend, social media, I've been notified that tomorrow will be the official one year anniversary of my introduction to my good friend, chemotherapy. And since I'm currently sitting through one of the most frustratingly irrelevant presentations on air flow ratios and ventilation fan wattage, I thought that I'd take advantage of the opportunity to update you all on what's been going on over the past few months.
So, last you all heard, Eugene was about the size of one of those big gumballs, we were proceeding with another round of chemotherapy, and going to meet with the surgeon about the potential for cutting him out of my life (Eugene, not the surgeon--I like the surgeon). Well our meeting with the surgeon was pretty disappointing, despite the fact that we already knew what he was telling us--for some reason actually hearing the words "there's nothing else we can do right now" always stings a little more than just having the notion boxed up in that tiny back corner of my brain that I've reserved for all of the negative thoughts associated with Eugene. So we had a rough couple of days following that meeting, decided it was far from the end of the world, and continued on with the chemo as we had been for the previous four months.
All in all, chemo hasn't been so terrible. We somewhat accepted it as a "new normal"--because doesn't everyone have to routinely be willingly poisoned--with the thought that "it's still working and we've gotta do what we've gotta do". I've been able to continue on with school/work aside from the days I have to miss for treatment and the occasional weekend being spent sleeping until the early afternoon to compensate for my ol' buddy Chemotherapy Fatigue. Honestly, I sometimes think that the people in my daily life suffer just as much, if not more than I do, simply due to the fact that I become a little tough to deal with when I'm tired--and I'm tired a lot. So Chris catches a bit of a hard time on the regular, but he handles it like the kickass companion that he is, and just smiles while helping me focus on all of the positives that we have to be thankful for right now. My guys/gals at work/school are incredible and provide an endless supply of support, encouragement, and understanding. I don't think a single day goes by where someone doesn't ask me how I'm doing or if there's anything I need. But they don't treat me like I'm sick--and that is one of the things that I'm eternally grateful for. The only other issue that has been persistently troubling--and yes, I realize that this may sound uncharacteristically (at least I hope) superficial of me--has been the constant, gradual loss of my hair. I'm pretty sure I mentioned it before, but Alex chopped it off back in October after the nurses told me that I was going to lose it with chemo...and then it didn't fall out--at least until recently. Now don't get me wrong--pretty much everyone has told me that they LOVE my short hair, and I think my Aunt Penny went so far as to tell me that I should never grow it back out. And I realize that "it's only hair", but I think the deeper issue is that it's a part of the battle...and at the moment, it's become a battle that I'm losing--literally and figuratively. It started pretty slow--I woke up Christmas Eve morning to a small collection of short hairs on my pillowcase, and it's come in waves since. Usually following each treatment I would notice a little more hair coming out in the shower for a few days and it would taper off. But in the last few weeks, it's been constant--I'm like a dog shedding its winter coat. Chris still says it looks great, and he wouldn't care if it all fell out...but I would. I'm trying to look at it like my sweet sister said, "you may lose this battle, but it's about winning the war." Of course she's right--and I'll admit I don't say that often...to anyone--but it still serves as a daily reminder of this roller coaster ride.
We've since completed another round of chemo--four treatments and a follow up scan. This time the results weren't so great. Eugene grew. Not much, but enough to indicate treatment failure. Basically, the little jerk figured out a way to grow in spite of the poison that was getting pumped in every other week. So, another set back, another bad day, some more crying in the doctor's office, and (most importantly) a new plan. As I type this, I'm playing the game called "who screwed up and how do we fix it in time?" trying to figure out who dropped the ball on getting the new drug prescription to the pharmacy, and if/how I'm going to be able to start the new treatment regimen when I'm supposed to. These sorts of things are the ones that people don't think about when they think about people battling cancer--or other diseases, for that matter. In my opinion, it really shouldn't be that difficult--doctor writes prescription, prescription is sent/delivered to pharmacy, pharmacy calls insurance company, insurance company does whatever they do, prescription gets filled, customer/patient gets drugs. Seems simple, right?...WRONG. Apparently, there are a range of pitfalls at every step. Now don't get me wrong--I realize I'm not the only patient the doctor's treating, the insurance company is insuring, or that the pharmacy is serving--but am I wrong in assuming that these people have a job to do, and that they should be capable of doing it? One of my favorite professors cracks me up when he talks about the weatherman and how that's the only profession where they can screw up 75% of the time and still get a paycheck...I'm beginning to think that applies to more than just the weatherman. I mean come on people...we've got enough issues to deal with without having to check up on you at each step of the process to make sure you're doing your friggin' job! Am I right? I, unlike these jokers, spend my days doing my job (quite well, I like to think)--and I'm not employed as a babysitter last time I checked. But I digress...everything will work out eventually.
That's where we stand right now. Starting a new set of drugs with the hope and faith that it will work, and Eugene will be defeated. We're also looking forward to starting the next chapter of our life in spite of Eugene's attempts at thwarting our plans. I've accepted a job that will allow us to move back to Texas, and we'll be transitioning all of my treatment to MD Anderson with high hopes for the future. More details on that to come...
In the meantime, all of the support and encouragement from all of you does not go unnoticed. I know I've become a bit of a failure with regard to thank you notes and whatnot, but every Facebook comment/message, each card/note/email/care package I receive, and every phone call/text message is a bright spot and a reminder that we aren't in this alone. I'm not sure who's orchestrated the letter writing campaign over at TAMU-CVM, but I can't tell you how much I love receiving those postcards on a regular basis. I look forward to checking the mail every day and getting those constant words of encouragement. You all are a blessing that I could not be more grateful for, and I truly believe that I wouldn't be where I am without all of your prayers and continued support.
I'm going to leave it at that for today and try to update on a more frequent basis...the operative word there being "try". Thank you all, as always, for reading. Please feel free to share with friends and spread awareness at every opportunity. Find doctors you trust and are comfortable with, get checked out on a regular basis--early detection is the best prevention (although if you think about that statement, it doesn't make a lot of sense), take care of yourselves and your loved ones, PRIORITIZE YOUR HEALTH, and hopefully we can collectively beat this monster that adversely affects so many lives.
Thanks to our good friend, social media, I've been notified that tomorrow will be the official one year anniversary of my introduction to my good friend, chemotherapy. And since I'm currently sitting through one of the most frustratingly irrelevant presentations on air flow ratios and ventilation fan wattage, I thought that I'd take advantage of the opportunity to update you all on what's been going on over the past few months.
So, last you all heard, Eugene was about the size of one of those big gumballs, we were proceeding with another round of chemotherapy, and going to meet with the surgeon about the potential for cutting him out of my life (Eugene, not the surgeon--I like the surgeon). Well our meeting with the surgeon was pretty disappointing, despite the fact that we already knew what he was telling us--for some reason actually hearing the words "there's nothing else we can do right now" always stings a little more than just having the notion boxed up in that tiny back corner of my brain that I've reserved for all of the negative thoughts associated with Eugene. So we had a rough couple of days following that meeting, decided it was far from the end of the world, and continued on with the chemo as we had been for the previous four months.
All in all, chemo hasn't been so terrible. We somewhat accepted it as a "new normal"--because doesn't everyone have to routinely be willingly poisoned--with the thought that "it's still working and we've gotta do what we've gotta do". I've been able to continue on with school/work aside from the days I have to miss for treatment and the occasional weekend being spent sleeping until the early afternoon to compensate for my ol' buddy Chemotherapy Fatigue. Honestly, I sometimes think that the people in my daily life suffer just as much, if not more than I do, simply due to the fact that I become a little tough to deal with when I'm tired--and I'm tired a lot. So Chris catches a bit of a hard time on the regular, but he handles it like the kickass companion that he is, and just smiles while helping me focus on all of the positives that we have to be thankful for right now. My guys/gals at work/school are incredible and provide an endless supply of support, encouragement, and understanding. I don't think a single day goes by where someone doesn't ask me how I'm doing or if there's anything I need. But they don't treat me like I'm sick--and that is one of the things that I'm eternally grateful for. The only other issue that has been persistently troubling--and yes, I realize that this may sound uncharacteristically (at least I hope) superficial of me--has been the constant, gradual loss of my hair. I'm pretty sure I mentioned it before, but Alex chopped it off back in October after the nurses told me that I was going to lose it with chemo...and then it didn't fall out--at least until recently. Now don't get me wrong--pretty much everyone has told me that they LOVE my short hair, and I think my Aunt Penny went so far as to tell me that I should never grow it back out. And I realize that "it's only hair", but I think the deeper issue is that it's a part of the battle...and at the moment, it's become a battle that I'm losing--literally and figuratively. It started pretty slow--I woke up Christmas Eve morning to a small collection of short hairs on my pillowcase, and it's come in waves since. Usually following each treatment I would notice a little more hair coming out in the shower for a few days and it would taper off. But in the last few weeks, it's been constant--I'm like a dog shedding its winter coat. Chris still says it looks great, and he wouldn't care if it all fell out...but I would. I'm trying to look at it like my sweet sister said, "you may lose this battle, but it's about winning the war." Of course she's right--and I'll admit I don't say that often...to anyone--but it still serves as a daily reminder of this roller coaster ride.
We've since completed another round of chemo--four treatments and a follow up scan. This time the results weren't so great. Eugene grew. Not much, but enough to indicate treatment failure. Basically, the little jerk figured out a way to grow in spite of the poison that was getting pumped in every other week. So, another set back, another bad day, some more crying in the doctor's office, and (most importantly) a new plan. As I type this, I'm playing the game called "who screwed up and how do we fix it in time?" trying to figure out who dropped the ball on getting the new drug prescription to the pharmacy, and if/how I'm going to be able to start the new treatment regimen when I'm supposed to. These sorts of things are the ones that people don't think about when they think about people battling cancer--or other diseases, for that matter. In my opinion, it really shouldn't be that difficult--doctor writes prescription, prescription is sent/delivered to pharmacy, pharmacy calls insurance company, insurance company does whatever they do, prescription gets filled, customer/patient gets drugs. Seems simple, right?...WRONG. Apparently, there are a range of pitfalls at every step. Now don't get me wrong--I realize I'm not the only patient the doctor's treating, the insurance company is insuring, or that the pharmacy is serving--but am I wrong in assuming that these people have a job to do, and that they should be capable of doing it? One of my favorite professors cracks me up when he talks about the weatherman and how that's the only profession where they can screw up 75% of the time and still get a paycheck...I'm beginning to think that applies to more than just the weatherman. I mean come on people...we've got enough issues to deal with without having to check up on you at each step of the process to make sure you're doing your friggin' job! Am I right? I, unlike these jokers, spend my days doing my job (quite well, I like to think)--and I'm not employed as a babysitter last time I checked. But I digress...everything will work out eventually.
That's where we stand right now. Starting a new set of drugs with the hope and faith that it will work, and Eugene will be defeated. We're also looking forward to starting the next chapter of our life in spite of Eugene's attempts at thwarting our plans. I've accepted a job that will allow us to move back to Texas, and we'll be transitioning all of my treatment to MD Anderson with high hopes for the future. More details on that to come...
In the meantime, all of the support and encouragement from all of you does not go unnoticed. I know I've become a bit of a failure with regard to thank you notes and whatnot, but every Facebook comment/message, each card/note/email/care package I receive, and every phone call/text message is a bright spot and a reminder that we aren't in this alone. I'm not sure who's orchestrated the letter writing campaign over at TAMU-CVM, but I can't tell you how much I love receiving those postcards on a regular basis. I look forward to checking the mail every day and getting those constant words of encouragement. You all are a blessing that I could not be more grateful for, and I truly believe that I wouldn't be where I am without all of your prayers and continued support.
I'm going to leave it at that for today and try to update on a more frequent basis...the operative word there being "try". Thank you all, as always, for reading. Please feel free to share with friends and spread awareness at every opportunity. Find doctors you trust and are comfortable with, get checked out on a regular basis--early detection is the best prevention (although if you think about that statement, it doesn't make a lot of sense), take care of yourselves and your loved ones, PRIORITIZE YOUR HEALTH, and hopefully we can collectively beat this monster that adversely affects so many lives.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
It's Been a While...
So I've realized that it's been over three months since I've written an update, and I apologize to all my faithful and diligent readers (all 5 or so of you, I'm sure). But seriously, a big part of why I'm writing today is to thank you all for your continued prayers and support through this whole process, and to let you know that your prayers and happy thoughts are being heard by someone with a higher power than mine. I should have updated after the scan I had back in November, but the holidays happened--and with the holidays came delicious eating opportunities (a guaranteed distraction) and a lot of cross-country traveling to spend time with family. Then the new semester got started, and my workload exploded--I literally get a new stack of research articles about four inches high to read at the beginning of each week on top of whatever other school type "stuff" that needs to be done. Anyways, I could make excuses for why I haven't written all day long, but what it really comes down to is the fact that I like sleep...like reallllllly like it...and when I have a chance to get it, I take full advantage. Netflix may also play a semi-significant role in this situation, but we don't have to get into that.
Actual update time--I'll go ahead and take it back to November: I finished my last treatment and had a follow up CT scan to get a good photo of ol' Eugene, the results of which we got like the week before Thanksgiving or so. At that point we (my parents made the trip east for the occasion, and Chris was with us of course) were told that Eugene had shrunken by a little over 30%. As you can potentially imagine--and if you can't, don't worry, because I'm about to describe it for you in excruciating detail--that incited a roller coaster of emotions for everyone in the room. I'm pretty sure we all cried, although each of us for a little different reason. I can't speak for the others (although I'm pretty sure they were "happy" crying), but I was angry--like flat out pissed off. I mean, I did everything right. I went to all the crappy chemotherapy treatments, I maintained a positive attitude throughout the whole ordeal, said my prayers each day, ate all my vegetables at dinner, smiled at strangers in the grocery store, did my chores, and cleaned behind my ears--okay, maybe I didn't eat ALL my vegetables...but still. I cooperated, but freaking Eugene was still there--alive and kicking. And the doctor's smiling as he's telling me that I'm going to go through another round of chemo. Meanwhile, I was fighting off the urge to smack him in the mouth and tell him that it was NOT a time for smiling. I didn't WANT to go through chemo anymore. I wanted Eugene gone, and I wanted him gone RIGHT THEN. As all of this was going through my mind, Chris was playing the role of the level headed question asker (because somebody had to be an adult while I was busy being a spoiled brat), and getting my future treatments scheduled. It wasn't until we were waiting in line to check out of the office that I regained perspective. As Chris tried repeatedly to convince me that this was all good news (turns out he was right) while I insisted on just being mad and upset, I happened to look up and around me. That's when I saw the woman there who had obviously received news that she didn't view as having been good--and she was there alone while the people I loved most in the world were right beside me and on the other side of a wall; I saw an elderly couple, the man in a wheelchair--weakened from his therapy and the cancer deteriorating his body--as I stood under my own power with plenty of energy to be angry; I saw another young couple, nearly paralyzed with fear and uncertainty, while I stood knowing my diagnosis/treatment plan and the fact that I had the infinite support of everyone I know. As I was taking this all in, Chris was reminding me that my parents were there, that we were heading home to Texas in a week and going to get to see my family, that the semester was almost over, and Christmas break was near--with another opportunity to see family, that he was going to be there with me each day, no matter what, and that--most importantly--I was going to have the opportunity to eat REAL MEXICAN FOOD AND BARBECUE IN TEXAS...also that Eugene was SMALLER and no new tumors had developed (which, in reality, was a big deal). And then it all sank in. I sent up a little 'thank you' to the man upstairs for giving me the strength to endure, the good humor to put up with it, and the incredible support system to get me through it all--and I decided to suck it up and move on. We got checked out of there, headed north for the first treatment of my new round of chemo, got through with that, had a nice dinner with my parents, and headed home.
From there I took it one day at a time, as best I could. Sometimes advanced planning is required, and the future has to be taken into consideration, but for the most part I try to live in the moment. I savored every moment of the holidays with my family--hugged everyone a little tighter than usual--and left with every intention of seeing them all again soon. Since school has started back up, I've thrown myself into everything I can handle, and done my best to stay on track. It makes things easier to stay busy--the days when I have treatments or scans are always a little tougher, because it forces me to focus on the fact that Eugene is still around instead of distracting myself with writing field reports and reading articles about chicken diseases. But I try to maintain perspective, and remember the fact that it could always be worse. Reality is, I'm in an incredible place in my life with so much to look forward to, I work with awesome people each and every day in an industry that I love, I have an inconceivably amazing support system thanks to all of you and many others, and...I'm kind of a big deal if we're really being honest with ourselves.
That brings us to today: I finished my last round of chemo two weeks ago, and had the follow up scan last Friday. Today we got the results of that scan, and Eugene is still shrinking, although not enough to actually cut him out right now. I went in this morning with a more realistic perspective I think. Not being a pessimist or having a negative attitude, but being practical yet positive. I decided that I was going to take any news of him having gotten smaller as good news and just proceed as necessary, which is what I've done. He's about the size of one of those bigger gumballs you get out of the quarter machines--a little over an inch in diameter--so smaller than a ping pong ball, but still big enough to be a problem. The doctors have decided to proceed with another round of chemo treatments, which entails another two months of treatment every other week (4 total), and we're going to meet with the surgeon just to touch base since we haven't seen him since sometime in like October. I'm having my first of the four treatments right now (all hooked up and the poison is flowing), we'll meet with the surgeon next Friday, and the oncologist again in a month. Until then, I'm going to live my life as normal as possible--save for the occasional bouts of nausea and anxiety that come with the chemo treatments. But at least I can eat what I want without having to worry about my jeans getting too snug :-)
As always, thank you all for reading alllllllll the way to the end. Bless you all for your support, and if you could say a little prayer or two for all my friends and loved ones fighting the ol' cancer monster, all of them would appreciate it just as much as I would. Love and happy thoughts to all!
Actual update time--I'll go ahead and take it back to November: I finished my last treatment and had a follow up CT scan to get a good photo of ol' Eugene, the results of which we got like the week before Thanksgiving or so. At that point we (my parents made the trip east for the occasion, and Chris was with us of course) were told that Eugene had shrunken by a little over 30%. As you can potentially imagine--and if you can't, don't worry, because I'm about to describe it for you in excruciating detail--that incited a roller coaster of emotions for everyone in the room. I'm pretty sure we all cried, although each of us for a little different reason. I can't speak for the others (although I'm pretty sure they were "happy" crying), but I was angry--like flat out pissed off. I mean, I did everything right. I went to all the crappy chemotherapy treatments, I maintained a positive attitude throughout the whole ordeal, said my prayers each day, ate all my vegetables at dinner, smiled at strangers in the grocery store, did my chores, and cleaned behind my ears--okay, maybe I didn't eat ALL my vegetables...but still. I cooperated, but freaking Eugene was still there--alive and kicking. And the doctor's smiling as he's telling me that I'm going to go through another round of chemo. Meanwhile, I was fighting off the urge to smack him in the mouth and tell him that it was NOT a time for smiling. I didn't WANT to go through chemo anymore. I wanted Eugene gone, and I wanted him gone RIGHT THEN. As all of this was going through my mind, Chris was playing the role of the level headed question asker (because somebody had to be an adult while I was busy being a spoiled brat), and getting my future treatments scheduled. It wasn't until we were waiting in line to check out of the office that I regained perspective. As Chris tried repeatedly to convince me that this was all good news (turns out he was right) while I insisted on just being mad and upset, I happened to look up and around me. That's when I saw the woman there who had obviously received news that she didn't view as having been good--and she was there alone while the people I loved most in the world were right beside me and on the other side of a wall; I saw an elderly couple, the man in a wheelchair--weakened from his therapy and the cancer deteriorating his body--as I stood under my own power with plenty of energy to be angry; I saw another young couple, nearly paralyzed with fear and uncertainty, while I stood knowing my diagnosis/treatment plan and the fact that I had the infinite support of everyone I know. As I was taking this all in, Chris was reminding me that my parents were there, that we were heading home to Texas in a week and going to get to see my family, that the semester was almost over, and Christmas break was near--with another opportunity to see family, that he was going to be there with me each day, no matter what, and that--most importantly--I was going to have the opportunity to eat REAL MEXICAN FOOD AND BARBECUE IN TEXAS...also that Eugene was SMALLER and no new tumors had developed (which, in reality, was a big deal). And then it all sank in. I sent up a little 'thank you' to the man upstairs for giving me the strength to endure, the good humor to put up with it, and the incredible support system to get me through it all--and I decided to suck it up and move on. We got checked out of there, headed north for the first treatment of my new round of chemo, got through with that, had a nice dinner with my parents, and headed home.
From there I took it one day at a time, as best I could. Sometimes advanced planning is required, and the future has to be taken into consideration, but for the most part I try to live in the moment. I savored every moment of the holidays with my family--hugged everyone a little tighter than usual--and left with every intention of seeing them all again soon. Since school has started back up, I've thrown myself into everything I can handle, and done my best to stay on track. It makes things easier to stay busy--the days when I have treatments or scans are always a little tougher, because it forces me to focus on the fact that Eugene is still around instead of distracting myself with writing field reports and reading articles about chicken diseases. But I try to maintain perspective, and remember the fact that it could always be worse. Reality is, I'm in an incredible place in my life with so much to look forward to, I work with awesome people each and every day in an industry that I love, I have an inconceivably amazing support system thanks to all of you and many others, and...I'm kind of a big deal if we're really being honest with ourselves.
That brings us to today: I finished my last round of chemo two weeks ago, and had the follow up scan last Friday. Today we got the results of that scan, and Eugene is still shrinking, although not enough to actually cut him out right now. I went in this morning with a more realistic perspective I think. Not being a pessimist or having a negative attitude, but being practical yet positive. I decided that I was going to take any news of him having gotten smaller as good news and just proceed as necessary, which is what I've done. He's about the size of one of those bigger gumballs you get out of the quarter machines--a little over an inch in diameter--so smaller than a ping pong ball, but still big enough to be a problem. The doctors have decided to proceed with another round of chemo treatments, which entails another two months of treatment every other week (4 total), and we're going to meet with the surgeon just to touch base since we haven't seen him since sometime in like October. I'm having my first of the four treatments right now (all hooked up and the poison is flowing), we'll meet with the surgeon next Friday, and the oncologist again in a month. Until then, I'm going to live my life as normal as possible--save for the occasional bouts of nausea and anxiety that come with the chemo treatments. But at least I can eat what I want without having to worry about my jeans getting too snug :-)
As always, thank you all for reading alllllllll the way to the end. Bless you all for your support, and if you could say a little prayer or two for all my friends and loved ones fighting the ol' cancer monster, all of them would appreciate it just as much as I would. Love and happy thoughts to all!
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Round 3--(keep) FIGHT(ing)!!!
So it's chemo, Round 3--"ding ding-fight"--today. We had the ever-pleasing opportunity of making the voyage into Atlanta to the main Emory Hospital since I was scheduled (I thought) to meet with my doctor (when I'm just getting infusions and bloodwork, I have the option of getting it done at a much more conveniently located Emory branch hospital--thus the ensuing frustration you're about to hear about). This turned out to be an appointment with his PA--don't get me wrong, PAs are a great resource, and I think they definitely have their place, but unfortunately cancer therapy is not one of those places in my universe. She was a great lady--super nice, relatively knowledgeable, had obviously read up on my case prior to walking in the exam room, and she did a bang-up physical exam; however, when I drive (or ride) an hour and a half to see my oncologist, I want to see my flipping oncologist. RANT OVER.
We made the best of it: after getting my port accessed and getting some blood drawn, we got into the "doctor's" office pretty quickly and went through the usual interrogation/reporting process, good-naturedly harassed the nurse (a sweetly cynical middle-aged black lady with a fiery attitude that I just adore) that had originally told me I was going to lose my hair (since I cut it all off, and it's not even thinning), visited with a social worker (for the record, Uncle Junior, you're better at her job than she is), stopped by the little cafe to get some hot chocolate from one of the prettiest ladies I've ever seen in my life (she told me I was gorgeous too and didn't believe I was here for chemo *blushing ensued*), and then proceeded downstairs to the infusion center waiting area. This area should just be labeled "chaos central" for convenience and accuracy. I've had infusions at a number of different locations, and this one has the highest rate of traffic--by far. That may have something to do with the fact that it's like a major university cancer research center or something--who knows. I think I overheard one of the nurses mention they had seen almost 200 patients in a day for infusions. Now, don't get me wrong--despite the chaos of the waiting area, this infusion center is one of the nicest with regard to convenience/comfort/cleanliness--you even get access to your own flatscreen tv at your little recliner. They don't let you bring more than one person along with you--which may sound mean at first, but consider that I've been in some centers where there would be groups of like 5 to 7 people having lunch and kumbaya time while I was trying to stave off a supremely surly attitude, not toss my cookies (a situation not aided by the smells of random fried foods), and watch some Netflix in peace--so the lack of crowding is much-appreciated. They've got this cool little lady that creeps around with a rad snack cart with all sorts of options to choose from, the nurses are super sweet, they don't let people bring in smelly foods, you have to use headphones if you want to watch your tv, and it's a generally peaceful (as peaceful as being electively poisoned can be) environment, all things considered.
Now the waiting room is an entirely different universe--despite being one little doorway apart--it's a whole other experience. And one that I, personally, could live without (and not just because it's the chemo infusion waiting room). The people you meet in there are the types you either love or hate to be around, and they've all got their own redeeming/or not-so-much characteristics. I'm going to do this in the spirit of one of those "The Types of People You Meet in _________" sorts of articles, so here goes:
Type 1--The Know-it-All
This person (in my experience, usually a "she") is generally well-meaning, and looks at me as a "young" patient that obviously doesn't know anything. So she takes it as an opportunity to inform me of all the things that I should be expecting through chemo--entirely negating the fact that every chemo is different for almost every patient, and not taking a breath long enough for me to mention that this isn't my first rodeo. Most of her advice is not all that useful, but sometimes she mentions valuable tidbits of information or at least provides a laugh here and there.
Type 2--The Oversharer
This is the person that wants to tell you everything they've experienced--but in a "TMI" sort of style. By that, I mean it's complete with detailed descriptions of bathroom habits, vomiting routines, and social encounters of all sorts. For example, I don't want/need to know which body parts you enjoy no longer having to shave (although I may be secretly jealous). Coincidentally, I seem to get the urge to pee every time I get around one of these.
Type 3--The TALKER
Now a lot of these types I'm listing may seem like they overlap, but I assure you that they are all they're very own distinct category. This particular individual is looking to share their life story--with everyone--and depending on how long you're sitting in said waiting area, you may feel like you'd be able to accurately compose his/her complete biographical sketch before you get called back for your blood pressure check. All this, despite the fact that you're actually sitting ACROSS the room from them and they aren't even directly addressing you.
Type 4--The Make You Feel Like an Ungrateful Bratty Little Whiner Type
This patient is wheeled into the infusion waiting room in a wheelchair, has lost all of their hair and has skin the color of printer paper, has ankles and feet so swollen they can't wear shoes yet has obviously lost a considerable proportion of their pre-cancer body weight, can barely muster the strength to hold their head up--but they're SMILING and greeting everyone they pass like they're having the greatest day ever. Which prompts you to look down at your (at least in my case) nicely tanned skin, clothes you haven't fit into in years, shoes that you WALKED into the hospital in, and to run your fingers through the hair you still have (although you may not enjoy the fact that you chopped it off prematurely)--all while thanking God for the good fortune that He has bestowed upon you, praying for your fellow cancer warrior, and silently declaring that you're going to suck it up and stop being such a whiny little shit (which you won't--but you tell yourself you need to). This person is an inspiration and you have to restrain the urge to fall into the creeper category by giving them a hug. Which brings me to...
Type 5--The Creeper
This person also means well, but is prone to unprovoked acts of physical contact that make you a little uncomfortable--especially in a pool of potentially immunocompromised individuals. Purell is a wonderful thing--as is the awkward stranger hug avoidance maneuver. In addition to their urges to share their love with hugs, shoulder pats, and extended handshakes, they have a tendency to ask questions that just start to cross the border of being a little too personal. Encounters with Type 5 also justify the sudden urge to urinate.
Type 6--The Fashionista/er
Now don't get me wrong--I don't roll into the hospital like I'm on a midnight Walmart adventure or anything, but some of these ladies and gentlemen make me feel a little self-conscious about my choice of apparel! I had a great conversation today with some sweet ladies about their latest animal-print pant purchases at Chico's and the new line of sweaters out at Jones New York, salivated over another lady's Tory Burch flats, and saw a young (70-ish) man in a VERY stylish paisley-patterned button-down with matching belt, pants, and loafers today. These folks usually have designer bags for their chemo-accessories--please keep in mind, I'm not judging, I'm JEALOUS!--while Chris is lugging my old backpack and I'm dragging my Vera Bradley blanket around like Linus on Peanuts. And although I'm jealous beyond reason, this gives me something to do while I'm getting poisoned--as soon as I can get my computer out and start wishlisting on all the online shopping outlets.
Type 7--That Guy That Makes Me Miss My Uncles and Daddy
He's mad that he's at the hospital instead of sitting in the deer/duck blind or fishing than he is about actually getting chemo, yet he's making inappropriate jokes/flirting shamelessly with the young nurses and I want to be his newest best friend. He's also dressed in either camo or sports team-based regalia, jeans, and boots and usually has his wife trailing after him lecturing him about doing/not doing something while he's complaining relentlessly about all this "new-fangled science-y doctor stuff" they're taking so long to do.
Please, keep in mind that I write this largely for my emotional release, your entertainment, and so that I can keep my family and friends updated on what's going on without being depressing and doctor-y sounding. I write about all of these people in my characteristic, cynical tone, but please know that I deeply respect and admire each and every one of them for having the courage to fight this beast without losing themselves--because I speak from experience when I say that it's a constant struggle to do so, and I would say I've got it easy. Cancer is a real-life monster, and anybody that is faced with the challenge of fighting it is a "300"-esque (you know, that movie about the Spartans where all the dudes distracted me from what was actually going on in the story) warrior in my mind. All of my fellow Cancer Warriors--past and present, near to my heart and true strangers, Stage 1 to Stage 4--are in my prayers and I forever wish them/you all the best in health and happiness, and sincerely ask that you mention them to whomever your higher power of choice may be!
If you made it this far, thank you for reading, thank you for your thoughts/prayers if you happen to be of the practicing sort, and thank you for your unending support. You may or may not know just how much it truly eases the journey. Much love to all--except Eugene, of course. He's off the Christmas list...because I don't plan on him being around then anyways ;-)
We made the best of it: after getting my port accessed and getting some blood drawn, we got into the "doctor's" office pretty quickly and went through the usual interrogation/reporting process, good-naturedly harassed the nurse (a sweetly cynical middle-aged black lady with a fiery attitude that I just adore) that had originally told me I was going to lose my hair (since I cut it all off, and it's not even thinning), visited with a social worker (for the record, Uncle Junior, you're better at her job than she is), stopped by the little cafe to get some hot chocolate from one of the prettiest ladies I've ever seen in my life (she told me I was gorgeous too and didn't believe I was here for chemo *blushing ensued*), and then proceeded downstairs to the infusion center waiting area. This area should just be labeled "chaos central" for convenience and accuracy. I've had infusions at a number of different locations, and this one has the highest rate of traffic--by far. That may have something to do with the fact that it's like a major university cancer research center or something--who knows. I think I overheard one of the nurses mention they had seen almost 200 patients in a day for infusions. Now, don't get me wrong--despite the chaos of the waiting area, this infusion center is one of the nicest with regard to convenience/comfort/cleanliness--you even get access to your own flatscreen tv at your little recliner. They don't let you bring more than one person along with you--which may sound mean at first, but consider that I've been in some centers where there would be groups of like 5 to 7 people having lunch and kumbaya time while I was trying to stave off a supremely surly attitude, not toss my cookies (a situation not aided by the smells of random fried foods), and watch some Netflix in peace--so the lack of crowding is much-appreciated. They've got this cool little lady that creeps around with a rad snack cart with all sorts of options to choose from, the nurses are super sweet, they don't let people bring in smelly foods, you have to use headphones if you want to watch your tv, and it's a generally peaceful (as peaceful as being electively poisoned can be) environment, all things considered.
Now the waiting room is an entirely different universe--despite being one little doorway apart--it's a whole other experience. And one that I, personally, could live without (and not just because it's the chemo infusion waiting room). The people you meet in there are the types you either love or hate to be around, and they've all got their own redeeming/or not-so-much characteristics. I'm going to do this in the spirit of one of those "The Types of People You Meet in _________" sorts of articles, so here goes:
Type 1--The Know-it-All
This person (in my experience, usually a "she") is generally well-meaning, and looks at me as a "young" patient that obviously doesn't know anything. So she takes it as an opportunity to inform me of all the things that I should be expecting through chemo--entirely negating the fact that every chemo is different for almost every patient, and not taking a breath long enough for me to mention that this isn't my first rodeo. Most of her advice is not all that useful, but sometimes she mentions valuable tidbits of information or at least provides a laugh here and there.
Type 2--The Oversharer
This is the person that wants to tell you everything they've experienced--but in a "TMI" sort of style. By that, I mean it's complete with detailed descriptions of bathroom habits, vomiting routines, and social encounters of all sorts. For example, I don't want/need to know which body parts you enjoy no longer having to shave (although I may be secretly jealous). Coincidentally, I seem to get the urge to pee every time I get around one of these.
Type 3--The TALKER
Now a lot of these types I'm listing may seem like they overlap, but I assure you that they are all they're very own distinct category. This particular individual is looking to share their life story--with everyone--and depending on how long you're sitting in said waiting area, you may feel like you'd be able to accurately compose his/her complete biographical sketch before you get called back for your blood pressure check. All this, despite the fact that you're actually sitting ACROSS the room from them and they aren't even directly addressing you.
Type 4--The Make You Feel Like an Ungrateful Bratty Little Whiner Type
This patient is wheeled into the infusion waiting room in a wheelchair, has lost all of their hair and has skin the color of printer paper, has ankles and feet so swollen they can't wear shoes yet has obviously lost a considerable proportion of their pre-cancer body weight, can barely muster the strength to hold their head up--but they're SMILING and greeting everyone they pass like they're having the greatest day ever. Which prompts you to look down at your (at least in my case) nicely tanned skin, clothes you haven't fit into in years, shoes that you WALKED into the hospital in, and to run your fingers through the hair you still have (although you may not enjoy the fact that you chopped it off prematurely)--all while thanking God for the good fortune that He has bestowed upon you, praying for your fellow cancer warrior, and silently declaring that you're going to suck it up and stop being such a whiny little shit (which you won't--but you tell yourself you need to). This person is an inspiration and you have to restrain the urge to fall into the creeper category by giving them a hug. Which brings me to...
Type 5--The Creeper
This person also means well, but is prone to unprovoked acts of physical contact that make you a little uncomfortable--especially in a pool of potentially immunocompromised individuals. Purell is a wonderful thing--as is the awkward stranger hug avoidance maneuver. In addition to their urges to share their love with hugs, shoulder pats, and extended handshakes, they have a tendency to ask questions that just start to cross the border of being a little too personal. Encounters with Type 5 also justify the sudden urge to urinate.
Type 6--The Fashionista/er
Now don't get me wrong--I don't roll into the hospital like I'm on a midnight Walmart adventure or anything, but some of these ladies and gentlemen make me feel a little self-conscious about my choice of apparel! I had a great conversation today with some sweet ladies about their latest animal-print pant purchases at Chico's and the new line of sweaters out at Jones New York, salivated over another lady's Tory Burch flats, and saw a young (70-ish) man in a VERY stylish paisley-patterned button-down with matching belt, pants, and loafers today. These folks usually have designer bags for their chemo-accessories--please keep in mind, I'm not judging, I'm JEALOUS!--while Chris is lugging my old backpack and I'm dragging my Vera Bradley blanket around like Linus on Peanuts. And although I'm jealous beyond reason, this gives me something to do while I'm getting poisoned--as soon as I can get my computer out and start wishlisting on all the online shopping outlets.
Type 7--That Guy That Makes Me Miss My Uncles and Daddy
He's mad that he's at the hospital instead of sitting in the deer/duck blind or fishing than he is about actually getting chemo, yet he's making inappropriate jokes/flirting shamelessly with the young nurses and I want to be his newest best friend. He's also dressed in either camo or sports team-based regalia, jeans, and boots and usually has his wife trailing after him lecturing him about doing/not doing something while he's complaining relentlessly about all this "new-fangled science-y doctor stuff" they're taking so long to do.
Please, keep in mind that I write this largely for my emotional release, your entertainment, and so that I can keep my family and friends updated on what's going on without being depressing and doctor-y sounding. I write about all of these people in my characteristic, cynical tone, but please know that I deeply respect and admire each and every one of them for having the courage to fight this beast without losing themselves--because I speak from experience when I say that it's a constant struggle to do so, and I would say I've got it easy. Cancer is a real-life monster, and anybody that is faced with the challenge of fighting it is a "300"-esque (you know, that movie about the Spartans where all the dudes distracted me from what was actually going on in the story) warrior in my mind. All of my fellow Cancer Warriors--past and present, near to my heart and true strangers, Stage 1 to Stage 4--are in my prayers and I forever wish them/you all the best in health and happiness, and sincerely ask that you mention them to whomever your higher power of choice may be!
If you made it this far, thank you for reading, thank you for your thoughts/prayers if you happen to be of the practicing sort, and thank you for your unending support. You may or may not know just how much it truly eases the journey. Much love to all--except Eugene, of course. He's off the Christmas list...because I don't plan on him being around then anyways ;-)
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Still hanging in there...
So I know you’ve all been waiting anxiously for the latest
update on Eugene’s status—the little bastard isn’t dead yet, but we’re still
working steadily towards it. There were
some questions about how he came to be named Eugene, and I wish I had a more exciting
story to share than “my sister and I were joking about naming the tumor via
text one day—I told her I was leaning towards ‘Carl’, she suggested ‘Eugene’,
and that was it.” Now you all know—and
you’re welcome. That kind of
premeditated brilliance can only be stunningly magnificent.
Since my last update, I went through some pretty dark
days. The Maryland trip turned out to be
quite an adventure, courtesy of my French brother and his special travel
arrangements—we decided to take a little later flight out of Atlanta (and by
“we decided” I mean “they gave our seats away because we didn’t leave for the
airport early enough”). So, TJ, Alex,
and I had some quality airport time and then got to see the Pennsylvania/Delaware/Maryland
countryside on our rental car (a roomy Mazda 2) voyage across the Delmarva
peninsula to Ocean City. It all builds
character in the end—so what if we missed a day of the conference, lost Alex’s
driver’s license somewhere along the way, and had to yell at a bunch of US
Airways associates in the process of getting where we needed to be and back
home again. I ended up spending a
significant portion of the conference in bed because Eugene was being an
asshole and hosting what felt like it was a satellite performance of Riverdance
on my spine and/or kidneys. Many opioids
were consumed, and not much seafood. But
I did still have the opportunity to see lots of friendly faces—the family of
chicken doctors that I love. It was
worth the trip to get all of those hugs and well wishes, and the actual parts
of the conference that I was able to endure were nice as well.
I struggled rather considerably on those days that I was
feeling particularly crappy. I had a bit
of a mental block where I was really conflicted—like one side of my brain knew
that I felt like scum, but there was another corner where part of my mind was
resistant to admit it for fear of admitting weakness. Those two parts of my brain were in the midst
of quite the tumultuous debate, and I knew that it was making me into a crazy
person that was less than fun to be around—so I did the only thing I knew to do
at that point—I called my Uncle Junior.
Many of you know my uncle, and know the battles that he, himself, has
won. For those of you that don’t, this
is one of my dad’s younger brothers—a man very near and dear to my heart—who
has been an unwavering source of emotional and spiritual support. It probably helps that he happens to be a
minister of his own church, but I say he’s pretty awesome regardless of all
that. When I spoke to him (also
interpreted as indecipherable blubbering via phone), he assured me that I was
not admitting defeat by admitting that I didn’t feel well. That He is strong when we cannot be, and that
it is up to us to trust in Him for the path to healing and wellness. Once I heard, understood, and accepted that,
I found a new level of peace and was able to move on. That’s not to say that I was walking around
fearlessly—I remained terrified. But it
made things easier to get through. We
survived the trip, and upon our return to the great state of Georgia, chemo
commenced.
Thanks to my Aunt Cyndie, I was the most styling and
profiling chemo patient at Emory that day in my new chemo outfit. We met with the doctor, talked about how
Eugene was getting too big for his britches—outgrowing his blood supply, and
essentially destroying himself before we even started the chemo. We talked about how these were good signs
that meant that he would be taking up the drugs like a crazy kid on Halloween
night. We talked about the little
Riverdance performances that had been taking place regularly and got some
heavier drugs involved—with plans in place to do some nerve killing. I was pretty amped about all of that, and we
headed on down for my first new infusion.
All I remember about that was taking some Benadryl and passing out for a
few hours. I woke up with about 20
minutes left to go, finished it out, and we were outta there. We celebrated with some Pappasito’s
enchiladas for dinner—my first real Tex-Mex experience since we left the
mothership back in June—and it was magical.
Since then, it’s just been a battle with heartburn and having no
appetite.
Fast forward to today, and I still have no desire to eat on
a regular basis—like not even cake and crap.
I just shovel food in because it’s necessary. I’m constantly on what feels like the verge
of exhaustion, and sleep has been somewhat challenging as we’re trying to
change my seizure meds and get the dose right—slowly but surely. I chopped my hair off so that I can donate it
to a good cause, and I’m still getting accustomed to the whole short hair
thing. We’ve officially gotten the pain
under control, and I haven’t had to take any pain meds or keep close confines
with a heating pad in over a week—it’s been pure bliss. I’m working on getting caught back up on
classes and schoolwork—trying to keep my mind occupied with chicken doctoring—and
counting down the days to fall break and Thanksgiving. I need some Texas in my life.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Calling Mr. DeMille...
...Eugene was ready for his closeup yesterday! We headed west, towards Atlanta (and a very nice hospital) for a quick little CT scan (know to many as a "CAT" scan). CT stands for "computed tomography" or "computed axial tomography"--I don't know what any of those words mean. Basically, it's a way to use X-rays to look at the inside of your body in a three-dimensional fashion.
So, first things first, they had to find a reason to stick a needle in me. In this case, it's to inject "contrast" during the scan. The contrast helps them to be able to visualize all of the blood vessels and stuff, and actually turns out to be a pretty good reason for hitting me with a needle. The nurses were really sweet at this hospital and let me use my port instead of having to do an IV catheter in my arm or hand--which is nice for both parties because my veins are a pain in the you-know-what to access. For those that don't know, the port is a device that was surgically implanted before my first set of chemo treatments. It's on the right side of my chest, just below my collar bone, and serves as an access point to one of the big vessels that's close to my heart (just like all of you). To actually access it, they just have to use a special needle and poke through the skin over it and into the little bubble on top to be able to inject various (generally not very cool) substances. When they're done, they simpy pull the needle back out, and I get a cute little band-aid--instead of a giant bruise and a sore hand/arm like with catheters.
After that, I was ready for Eugene to be "ready for his closeup". I'm starting to notice a trend where I'm the one that has to do all the work for Eugene to just hang out and feed off all my suffering--as*hole. Anyways, they took me in this room with a huge machine that looks like a big donut sitting on its side. They told me to pull my pants down to my knees and lay on my back--that would've all been really weird had I not done it about 23542 times in the last six months. Of course the table is not exactly Serta-approved--it's more like an actual table. So I kicked off my flip flops (because I don't care about the rules regarding Labor Day and footwear), pulled my pants down, and did my best penguin walk to the table. I assumed the position on the less than comfy hard plastic table with my arms over my head and some kind of laser pointer alignment aid shooting me in the eye (as I read the little sign beside it that said not to look at it). The nurse hooked up all of the necessary cords and tubes and left me alone in the room with that giant donut machine and a bunch of whirring and buzzing sounds as she told me we would be beginning soon.
For the actual scan, the little table slowly slides in and out of the big donut machine. At various points a creepy, monotone voice instructed me to inhale and hold my breath as I slid through to the beginning position and stopped. At that point, I heard the nurse come back in. I could tell she was messing around with some bags of fluid and whatnot beside me, but was terrified to move and look for fear of messing up the multi-thousand dollar test and having to redo it. She told me that she was starting the contrast and I would soon start to feel warm all over, might taste something metallic in my mouth as though I had a coin in there (what?!?!?!), and it might feel like I was urinating on myself (WHAT?!?!?!?) but I wouldn't be (well thank goodness...I'd be a tad concerned if whatever crap she was pumping into my veins was causing me to pee myself). Before she was finished elaborating on the pseudo-pantspeeing experience, I felt the warmth she had referred to, and was wishing they'd turn up the A/C in that place. She left the room again. They slid me in and out of the machine. Mr. Creepyvoice told me to hold my breath again, and next thing I knew it was over. I got to do the dorky penguin walk back over to my shoes, and was allowed to pull my pants back up (thank goodness I was wearing my "good underwear").
And that was it. Before I knew it, I was passed out in the passenger seat as my driver (aka, Chris) was escorting me back to Athens. So what they ended up doing was taking a whole bunch of pictures in a slice-wise formation--think of the body like a loaf of bread. They'll be able to use those slices and a bunch of fancy computer technology and things I'll never want to understand to recreate a three dimensional image of what's going on inside my body--namely Eugene, in all his glory. They'll use some more fancy computer buttons to measure and evaluate his morphology--shape, size, conformation, relation to other important structures--and then we'll have that analysis to compare to after these next two months' worth of chemo blasts do their job. Sometime around Thanksgiving I'll get to visit the donut machine and Mr. Creepyvoice again, and we'll see that all of our prayers and wishes have been heard and granted!
So, first things first, they had to find a reason to stick a needle in me. In this case, it's to inject "contrast" during the scan. The contrast helps them to be able to visualize all of the blood vessels and stuff, and actually turns out to be a pretty good reason for hitting me with a needle. The nurses were really sweet at this hospital and let me use my port instead of having to do an IV catheter in my arm or hand--which is nice for both parties because my veins are a pain in the you-know-what to access. For those that don't know, the port is a device that was surgically implanted before my first set of chemo treatments. It's on the right side of my chest, just below my collar bone, and serves as an access point to one of the big vessels that's close to my heart (just like all of you). To actually access it, they just have to use a special needle and poke through the skin over it and into the little bubble on top to be able to inject various (generally not very cool) substances. When they're done, they simpy pull the needle back out, and I get a cute little band-aid--instead of a giant bruise and a sore hand/arm like with catheters.
After that, I was ready for Eugene to be "ready for his closeup". I'm starting to notice a trend where I'm the one that has to do all the work for Eugene to just hang out and feed off all my suffering--as*hole. Anyways, they took me in this room with a huge machine that looks like a big donut sitting on its side. They told me to pull my pants down to my knees and lay on my back--that would've all been really weird had I not done it about 23542 times in the last six months. Of course the table is not exactly Serta-approved--it's more like an actual table. So I kicked off my flip flops (because I don't care about the rules regarding Labor Day and footwear), pulled my pants down, and did my best penguin walk to the table. I assumed the position on the less than comfy hard plastic table with my arms over my head and some kind of laser pointer alignment aid shooting me in the eye (as I read the little sign beside it that said not to look at it). The nurse hooked up all of the necessary cords and tubes and left me alone in the room with that giant donut machine and a bunch of whirring and buzzing sounds as she told me we would be beginning soon.
For the actual scan, the little table slowly slides in and out of the big donut machine. At various points a creepy, monotone voice instructed me to inhale and hold my breath as I slid through to the beginning position and stopped. At that point, I heard the nurse come back in. I could tell she was messing around with some bags of fluid and whatnot beside me, but was terrified to move and look for fear of messing up the multi-thousand dollar test and having to redo it. She told me that she was starting the contrast and I would soon start to feel warm all over, might taste something metallic in my mouth as though I had a coin in there (what?!?!?!), and it might feel like I was urinating on myself (WHAT?!?!?!?) but I wouldn't be (well thank goodness...I'd be a tad concerned if whatever crap she was pumping into my veins was causing me to pee myself). Before she was finished elaborating on the pseudo-pantspeeing experience, I felt the warmth she had referred to, and was wishing they'd turn up the A/C in that place. She left the room again. They slid me in and out of the machine. Mr. Creepyvoice told me to hold my breath again, and next thing I knew it was over. I got to do the dorky penguin walk back over to my shoes, and was allowed to pull my pants back up (thank goodness I was wearing my "good underwear").
And that was it. Before I knew it, I was passed out in the passenger seat as my driver (aka, Chris) was escorting me back to Athens. So what they ended up doing was taking a whole bunch of pictures in a slice-wise formation--think of the body like a loaf of bread. They'll be able to use those slices and a bunch of fancy computer technology and things I'll never want to understand to recreate a three dimensional image of what's going on inside my body--namely Eugene, in all his glory. They'll use some more fancy computer buttons to measure and evaluate his morphology--shape, size, conformation, relation to other important structures--and then we'll have that analysis to compare to after these next two months' worth of chemo blasts do their job. Sometime around Thanksgiving I'll get to visit the donut machine and Mr. Creepyvoice again, and we'll see that all of our prayers and wishes have been heard and granted!
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
'fam-uh-lee
When most people think of the definition of the word "family", they think of it in association with some degree of biological linkage. Mr. Webster himself is of this notion with definitions such as "a group of people of common ancestry" and "a person's children". But the one definition that Mr. Webster lists that I identify best with is "a group of people united by certain convictions or a common affiliation". I like this one best because it does not define what that affiliation must be--there's no requirement for genetic linkage. This is how I was raised.
I'm not one to readily "let people in" my life. Some may say I'm even a bit standoff-ish at times. I'm polite--that was beaten into me from a very early age (gently, of course)--and I'm pretty easy to hold a conversation with, but if I'm really going to let someone in and let all of my barriers down, that means something to me. It means that you are becoming a part of my "family". Now don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those crazy "security nuts"--I think passwords are a waste of my time...I don't care who sees my medical records (honestly, I think all the tree huggers need to be going after whomever came up with that HIPAA thing because they're wasting more paper than the rest of us that aren't recycling the inside of our toilet paper roll thingies)...and I'm pretty quick to voice my opinion (whether I think you want to hear it or not). But a lot of what folks see on the outside is a (highly) sarcastic facade--I'm very apt to use humor and cynicism to avoid "facing the music" in most situations. I don't think that people outside of my inner circle would readily describe me as "touchy-feely" or warm and fuzzy--although that may all change for those of you that are reading this blog now.
Sorry if I'm rambling, but I'm getting to a point, I promise...and that point is that I've quickly found my family growing. We are united by a certain conviction and a common affiliation, and that is the belief that cancer sucks. They also might care about me a little bit, but there's no doubt in my mind that every single one of them/you can agree that cancer really really sucks. Almost everyone has, unfortunately, experienced cancer in some capacity--they have/had it or someone they know/knew had/has it. And in every case there is an emotional connection of some degree. When I'm faced with that kind of emotional connection, my barriers crumble. We immediately become related--bonded by the wound that cancer has created on our hearts. This stands true for my "blood" relatives, with whom I have shared in the loss and the defeat of this bastard. It also stands true for my friends, near and far/old and new, that offer their prayers and support. This includes you, if you're reading this--WELCOME TO THE FAMILY!!!
When you think of cancer, sunshine and rainbows aren't typically at the forefront of the thought process--you've gotta push through the thunderbolts and fire-breathing dragons, and then just after you travel through the lollipop forest, you get a glimpse of that sunshine. That's what you have to look for in the midst of this. And for me, family is the brightest sunshine and the biggest, boldest rainbow that's ever been in the sky. One of the positive effects of having a disease like this one is that it really leads you to evaluate what is truly meaningful in life. For me, that's all of you. This weekend, as I mentioned in my last post, I had the opportunity to travel down to Florida to see my cousin marry his beautiful best friend. Now, aside from my parents, I haven't gotten to see any of my relatives since I left Texas in June--and while you may think "four months, big whoop", please keep in mind that I was accustomed to seeing at least some of these folks every other week or so. My heart was so full at just getting to visit with them during those few hours at the wedding that it was all but heart-breaking to tell them each goodbye.
To counter that crushing feeling, I look to the good things I have to come--I'm going to see them over the holidays after this first chemo battle with Eugene is over and done with, I got to come back to Athens--to continue to partake in the opportunity I've dreamed of for the last eight years, I get to work with some of the smartest and most caring men and women in my field on a daily basis (my sweet, sweet PDRC family <3), I'm attending an awesome conference with a whole group of people that share my passion for the poultry industry this weekend in Ocean City, Maryland and eating awesome seafood and seeing awesome scenery (a lot of awesomeness there), my beautiful little sister and niece are coming to visit me in less than two weeks, we're going to start BTHO Eugene one week from today, one of my best friends is coming to visit in November, I have a loving family and the greatest friends and support system a girl could ask for, and I have the most incredible man in the world to stand by my side or carry me through every single step of all of this. So that's what I'm looking towards. And I will continue to add things to that list--however small and seemingly insignificant they may become. I refuse to become a slave to cancer. It will not win.
Thank you for being a part of my family, and for giving me something to be thankful for. I'd like to ask a small favor--if you're praying (and that's entirely your choice, of course--but if you are) please add my friend Jennie's daddy (Dave Allen) to your prayer list. He, too, is battling this beast and could use all the support that I know you guys are capable of giving. Also, today starts Breast Cancer Awareness month, so "Save the Ta-Tas" and wear some pink in honor of the strong and brave women (and men) that have fought this SOB.
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