Round Two

I had my second treatment on Friday.

Bleh.

I was required to check in at the oncologist's office at 9:20 a.m. Before I left at, roughly, three p.m. I endured a doctor's visit, one blood draw for labs (which all turned out pretty damn good, considering), and three separate attempts to hook me up to an IV, which would deliver the chemo. First try went bad after an hour, when the needle started banging up against a nerve, which in turn made my left hand and wrist hurt. They tried to back it out, to see if they could pull it away from the nerve but it didn't work. So the nurse then tried to stick me again, on the underside of my left forearm and that didn't work either---and I now have a big bruise to prove it. Finally, she called it quits (standard operating procedure meant to ensure the least amount of embarrassment and feelings of failure on both sides of the needle) and had another nurse come over and install an IV in my right hand instead. Which, of course, hurt as much as the first one, but I wasn't going to complain, simply because I wanted to get the hell out of there. The treatment room is fine and comfortable; my chemo buddies are fun to hang out with and we have nice chats, but there are other things I'd prefer to do with my day, if you get my meaning.

What I find interesting about all of this is that it takes a few days for the worst of the side effects to show up. You'd expect, considering all the toxic drugs that they're pumping into your system via a vein, you'd be sick immediately. Nope. While you don't necessarily feel great for the first two days, you can still function. The real joy shows up on day three and four. Which is where we're at now. Bone pain is my main wonder and worry right now. In my fibia, tibia, femur, hips, pubic bone, wrists---and wonder of wonders---the bottom rib on my right hand side. It's not as bad this time around as it was last because of a wonder drug named---ahem---Claritin. Go freakin' figure how this over the counter antihistamine works better than all the advil in the world, but it does. The only problem with it is that, well, you have to take twice as much as the box recommends you take (which is only intended for allergy use, mind you) to get the relief. Dr. Academic suggested this treatment when I met with him on Friday and I about bopped him on his pointy little academic head for not mentioning it sooner, particularly when he KNEW I was having problems with it last time. He is SUCH an academic, in fact, that on the white board in the examining room, he pulled up a diagram to get to the board, cleared off the board with an eraser and then wrote out the name "Claritin" in red dry erase marker, to emphasize the point. (What can I say? The man's got a flair for the dramatic, teachable moment.) What killed me, however, is that he spelled it wrong. Sigh. Alas, he's a busy man, and can't be expected to keep up with the least little bit of pain experienced by all of his patients going through chemo. Because, as I've learned from chatting with a few of them in the treatment room, he's got a lot of patients going through chemo (he's only in the office two days a week and he schedules them for when he can be there to oversee things, so a goodly portion of the treatment room is filled with his patients) and most of them are A LOT worse off than me. Stage II and Stage III women, who will be battling this disease with everything they've got----and, given the statistics, will most likely lose---while I'm just receiving a "prevention" round. I feel guilty calling the nurse every time I've got questions, lest I be distracting from someone who really needs the time and information the woman can part with. It's sad, but I really think that, partly, Dr. Academic enjoys being able to treat me because he thinks he can cure me. We get along, and he's not afraid to chat with me for extended periods of time and to have a laugh. I'm not so sure he's the same with his other patients.

Alas, I'm just being whiny. I survived it last time. I'll survive it this time around, too. Dr. Academic said I was taking it very, very well and that I should just keep doing what I'm doing to cope. I'll be over the worst of it by Wednesday, when all of the chemicals will have flushed out from my system, and then I'll spend the rest of the week recovering from it. By next Monday I should be as good as new, but it sucks having to wait that long. On the other hand, it's like being able to schedule having the flu. Quite odd.

In the meanwhile, I'm going to list off some interesting, and perhaps amusing, facts that I've garnered over the past few weeks.

• If you ever have to go to an oncologist's office, where they actually treat people with chemo, and you have to go to the bathroom, realize that when you flushed the toilet, you didn't break it simply because it ran for a very long period of time. They have to have toilets that flush loads of water simply because of all the chemicals people expel---otherwise the bowls would be eaten up.
• Every time I have a treatment, I am consistently the youngest person in the room. I sometimes have trouble with the way people look at me, because the majority of people are elderly, and they shake their heads in dismay at me. The general consensus, I've learned, is that I'm too young to be there and they feel sorry for me.

  The only consolation I can take from this is that because they're elderly, they avoid the swank recliners that my friend JoAnn and I snag each time, because they can't get out of them. We're younger and we can, however. So, we get the really sweet, plush and comfortable recliners in which we receive our treatments, while the elders stick to the recliners they can maneuver out of with ease. Honestly, our recliners are better than Laz-e-Boys because they have trays on each side on which you can keep within easy reach all the crap you've brought with you to keep yourself busy for the five hours you'll be there.

  If they weren't coated in vinyl, they'd be even better.

• Don't ever sit around and wait for an oncology nurse to call you back. Go on with your day and let it hit voice mail if you have to. Otherwise you could be spending all of what would be a normal, and potentially wonderful, day waiting for them to call.

  In a relatively funny aside, I had a question for the nurse this morning, so I called and left a message and was told that so-and-so would be calling me back because Dr. Academic's designated nurse is on vacation this week. The first words out of his mouth were, "Wow, working for Dr. Academic is a life-altering experience." Honestly, I'm glad for you, buddy, but I was more concerned about the amount of claritin I was taking to deal with the bone pain. Can we try and stay on point here, eh?

• Dr. Academic is turning out to be something of a fascination to me. He's an interesting guy and I find the whole process of how I came to be in his care, as one of the top gynecologic oncologists in the country, interesting. Pure luck of the draw. He is, undoubtedly, something of a hotshot. If you google him, well, loads of very important stuff comes up. Lots of publications. Lots of press releases---that sort of thing. He's a pretty accomplished guy. He's constantly on the lists the local magazines put out that say he's the guy you want if you need this particular kind of doctor. In an odd coincidence, one of my former employees from the Bou now works at his office, albeit for another oncologist, and she's a breast cancer survivor. She told me offhand one day that I couldn't have a better doctor, because hers defers to him. Hers is at Mayo.

  And treated King Hussein of Jordan when he was fighting his cancer.

  Take from that what you will.

  Also, according to the hippie RN neighbor, who knows of him from her hospital, when he was single, Dr. Academic apparently "got around," too.

  Heh. I totally believe it, too.

• I think all the Benadryl they push into me to prevent an allergic reaction while I'm receiving my treatments is actually helping me beat the husband at travel scrabble. Don't ask me why, but because the drugs make me woozy, I don't think I'm concentrating enough and I seem to do better that way. Go figure. Alas, he'll have his advantage back by next time, because they're cutting the amount they give me by half at that point.
• I had "genetic counseling" this past week.

  The trouble with all this ovarian cancer stuff is my age. It's rare for someone my age to have ovarian cancer. It's generally reserved for women over the age of fifty. So, the doctors have generally puzzled about how I might have gotten it and they haven't a clue. They seem to think that I might be positive for a genetic mutation of the BRCA 1 or BRCA2 chromosomes. According to Wikipedia:

  {...}These mutations can be changes in one or a small number of DNA base pairs (the building blocks of DNA). In some cases, large segments of DNA are rearranged. A mutated BRCA1 gene usually makes a protein that does not function properly because it is abnormally short. Researchers believe that the defective BRCA1 protein is unable to help fix mutations that occur in other genes. These defects accumulate and may allow cells to grow and divide uncontrollably to form a tumor.{...}

  So, I had to undergo genetic counseling, which is where a nurse sits you down, takes your family history, explains all of this to you, sets you up for a blood draw and then takes a big sample of blood to ship off to a DNA testing facility that is solely dedicated to testing people for this genetic mutation. If it turns out I'm positive for it, well, that's where the ovarian cancer came from, and that answers that question---because, as of right now, they have NO idea how I got it. Also, this means because there is a breast-ovarian cancer link, I will have a fifty-fifty shot of having breast cancer by the time I'm fifty.

  Good times, no?

  It gets better. If it turns out that I'm positive, well, then all my siblings have to get tested for it, because there's a fifteen percent chance that my sisters will contract ovarian cancer simply because I've had it and all my brothers have to get tested, too, because there's an increased risk of prostate cancer for them, as well as male breast cancer.

  Are you finally getting the idea of the numbers game we're playing here? Nothing's for sure, but there's an increased risk of this that or the other every time you turn around. And they always have a percentage attached to it. Not like it matters, though, because you get the feeling that if there's any chance of more cancer, no matter how unlikely in reality, they'll jump RIGHT on it.

  The nurse, after hearing what little I knew of my family history, didn't think I'd come back positive for it. We're not Ashkenazi Jews---at least not in the past two generations, we're not, beyond that I have no idea--and that's the group in the general population in which it's most common. She lumped me in the 9% risk group. Dr. Academic, however, laughed when I told him this and then snorted. He seems to think I'll come back positive for it.

  Don't quite know what to think about all of this. For me, right now, it simply means increased surveillance, which is a good thing. Every six months I'll switch off between mammograms and MRI's to see if anything's developed and with the increased screening, if anything arises, they'll be able to catch it quickly. For my siblings, however, I don't know that they'll be too pleased with me. It's one thing for your baby sister to get cancer; it's another thing entirely to find out you might be in a risky group as a result, and that she's the one who tipped you off.

  I hate being the messenger.

• Mr. H was in San Francisco last week. He generally does a lot of shopping when he's out there and he decided to visit one of my favorite stores when he was there. In case you were wondering, well, it's Louis Vuitton on Union Square. They have a huge flagship there and it's just a lot of fun to look at the windows, loaded with every leather good they have available on display. He told me in an email that he'd goggled there for a while, but I didn't think anything of it until yesterday, when we met up for our usual cup of coffee and he got out of the car with a big brown bag attached to his arm. After declaring he wanted to see my big, bad, bald self, I obliged him and then he handed me the bag.

  He bought me a scarf at Louis Vuitton. An honest to God Louis Vuitton scarf is wrapped around my head right now and even though I'm not feeling very glam, it helps having designer head gear on. I know I'm not a slob now, despite the fact I'm wearing an old tee shirt and a pair of shorts. I have at least one piece of designer gear on---and that makes me, ahem, eclectic.

  Heh.

  And it's even the perfect consistency of cotton. Not too thick, it's on the light side of things, it's breathable, with a bit of elastcity in the cotton. It wraps around my head perfectly and it doesn't slip. Fab-u! Love it, love it, love it.

  Anyone else who would like to contribute to the cause of keeping Kathy's head covered, can email me and I'll direct you to the other ones I'd like to have.

  Heh. Like that's going to happen.

  A girl can dream, though, can't she?

• And speaking of headgear, I needed a big straw hat to keep my skin covered while I'm going through the chemo. It makes you very sensitive to the sun, and so while you run around with 45 SPF on, a hat is necessary, too, because if you get sunburned while you're on chemo, it'll take you about four days to heal up from it, because your compromised immune system can't handle it. That's what happened to me, anyways, so the husband went out and bought me a big, floppy, light straw cowboy hat, with shells and assorted beads threaded onto leather strings acting as a hatband. It's very pretty and I get lots of compliments on it.

  The only problem with the hat is that I have to wear a scarf underneath it to keep from looking like I'm a little kid who's put on their Dad's hat. With the scarf, I can keep it in place, but it's floppy. It's not made out of the same stuff of which they make Stetsons, so it has a tendency to flip flop around in the wind. I don't really care about that, it's just that, well, with my bald head and the set of glasses I wear, well---sigh---when I wear the hat, I bear a slight resemblance to Kenny Chesney. The fact that he also wears bandanas to cover up his bald head, under his hat, doesn't help matters any, either.

  Sigh.

Ok, that should be enough for now. Go on and enjoy your day. I'm going to go nap after I switch out loads of laundry.

Posted by Kathy at May 14, 2007 01:14 PM | TrackBack