Monthly Archives: February 2014

refreshed

Every once in a while, a week comes along, and is just what you need. Last week was that week for me.

I had been planning to travel to Washington D.C. to attend and present my research at a national conference. I was feeling ambivalent; on the one hand, I was going to get to see two of my cousins and their families, as well as a dear friend on the way home, all of whom I love and enjoy. And on the other hand, I was feeling overwhelmed with being back in school, was not feeling confident about speaking about my research after such a long break from the academic world, and I was in a lot of pain. My skin was blistering and raw, and it was hard to concentrate. So, I took it in chunks. First, I told myself I would prepare, but could decide not to go at the last minute if I didn’t feel up to it. Then, I decided I would go, but didn’t have to present if I didn’t feel up to it. Then, I decided I would present, but that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I just bombed the whole presentation. I even warned my advisor about this possibility, as unapologetically as possible.

Turns out, going, and pushing myself (gently) to present, and spending time with my lovely family and friends, was just the thing I needed to rejuvenate myself. My research was well-recieved, and that gave me a bit of a confidence boost to get my act in gear to finish my dissertation. But more than that was the reminder of how much I love the people in my life. The cousins who I saw are sisters, and couldn’t be much more different. What they seem to have in common, though, is this determination to prioritize their families and encourage their kids’ individualities. And it’s working. I saw four very different children, each of who showed love and appreciation for the others, and each of who was unapologetically him or herself. And all of the the parents involved showed love, engagement, concern, and delight in their kids. You can’t ask for much more. Not that I expected to arrive and see a big mess, but I see so much isolation and pain through my studies that it’s always a warm feeling to be around such responsive and supportive families. And of course, they also made me feel loved. The cousin who I stayed with, her husband, and I stayed up late each night, catching up, connecting, and just enjoying each other. Who wouldn’t like that?

Seeing my friend was another love-fest. We are in the same cohort at school, only she is the super driven type who crammed all of her requirements and clinical hours into four years (don’t ask me how, I don’t understand how it’s physically possible), so is on internship in Chicago this year. We talked about our lives, reminisced about school, and waxed nostalgic about how much we love and miss each other. It was pretty sweet.

Finally, coming home to my own sweet family was the capper of the week. Hearing about how their week had gone, catching up on what I had missed, and staying in my pajamas for an entire lazy day after returning made me ready to tackle the rest of the semester in a way that I hope will put me into good shape to finish the program.

And no, it wasn’t all as idyllic as I’ve portrayed. My skin continued to blister and open, making sleep difficult. One of my flights was delayed, and I didn’t have enough time to see many sights in D.C. But presenting with blistering skin ultimately made me feel a little badass, in a way that’s not typical for me. The delayed flight didn’t make me miss much, and not having enough time to see the sights only means I get to go back and see my sweet cousins again.

All in all, a pretty great week.

 

My poor, dying skin

So, I might’ve spoken too soon about how easy radiation is. I mean, no question it’s easier than chemotherapy, but it isn’t quite the breeze I depicted it to be in my last post.

Here’s what’s happening all of a sudden: my skin is dying. I’m not being dramatic here. It’s literally dying. I asked my radiation oncologist why I was getting these gray/blue bruises all over, and he told me that those weren’t bruises, but patches of dead tissue. So. Damn. Disgusting.

Only it doesn’t end there. In the areas that aren’t dying, I have these angry, red welts that can literally bring me to tears in a split second, and look like something gross and communicable. In fact, the nurse has started to apply an antibiotic ointment to them, since the skin is starting to open in places. There are even a few on my neck, which is lovely, since next week I head to Washington D.C. to present my research at a national conference, hoping that everyone isn’t focusing on my diseased-looking skin. And I can’t shower too often, either (you’re welcome, Missoula!), because it hurts too badly, even if the water isn’t hot. Add that to the growing list of reasons why cancer treatment is super gross.

And yes, it’s true that I only have two treatments left. I am trying to take comfort in that, but really, when people try to remind me of that fact, I just keep thinking, “Seriously? They’re going to burn my fried, dying skin two more times? That’s not comforting! That’s torture.” Okay, that was a little dramatic. It isn’t water-boarding-level torture, but it does feel at least mildly mean.

This morning, as I walked into the radiation office, an older man who I see every day commented that today was the first day I didn’t come in smiling. Without a word, I pulled aside my shirt, just enough to show him my skin. He replied by showing me an identical patch. We both nodded silently, taking a little comfort in the shared misery.

Radiation (Or, I don’t have cancer)

I realized I have yet to write about radiation. This feels significant, because it is almost over. I only have one more full treatment. After that, they just radiate my left mastectomy scar five times. Then I’m done. With every other part of my treatment, I write and write about every move, getting my worries, concerns, fears off of my chest. But with radiation? It’s barely gotten a mention.

This is a case of No News is Good News. Basically, if some doctor says to you, “You have cancer, but can pick your treatment (assume they all have the best success rate): chemotherapy, surgery, or radiation,” ALWAYS CHOOSE THE RADIATION. (This will never happen, I’m pretty sure. But just in case it does.)

Here’s what happens, every day:

I go into the office. I don’t even check in, because one of the receptionists says, “Good morning, Lauri! I have you all checked in!” (Okay, so they always pronounce it “Lori,” but whatevs.) Then I sit down for a minute max, until one of the techs comes out, and smiles at me as if I’m the bright spot in his/her day. They take me back to the changing rooms, where I take off my shirt, put on a gown, and head back to the radiation room. Here, I’m given a warmed-up blanket, and lie down on a bench with my head comfortably supported. I hold onto bars above my head, and allow the techs to push and pull me into the exact right position. As they are doing this, they ask me about my new puppy, my classes, if I’ve been hiking that week. They tell me about what they did over the weekend, and maybe we discuss Downton Abbey. It’s all very pleasant and congenial. At some point someone says, “88.4,” and someone else says, “.5 to the left.” I’m not sure why, I’ve never been concerned enough to ask. Then they leave the room, and I suppose the machine over me zaps radiation onto the exact dimensions they have specified, making the skin on the upper left quadrant of my torso, in an exact rectangle, a little darker shade of pink. Then it rotates around and zaps my back. I’m sure that’s pink, too, but I can’t see it. Once that’s over, they come in, and make some readjustments, so they can zap me more superficially, I think to protect my heart, but still get my scar, where the cancer cells can hide. I’m not really sure. Then I’m done, and I unwillingly give up my warm blanket. The whole thing lasts about 15 minutes, including the time it takes to change my clothes.

I keep meaning to look up exactly what is going on, so I can explain it better, but here’s the thing: I don’t really feel a need to. This is huge for me. If I am looking something up in as many sources as possible, that means I’m anxious. Maybe I’m not feeling well, maybe I’m afraid I’ll be feeling horribly soon. Maybe I’m afraid for my life. I research to try and comfort myself, arm myself with as much knowledge as I can. But I’m not this time. I’m blissfully ignorant. I’m skating through radiation with very few worries. And in fact, I’ve had it pretty easy. Some people get such bad burns that they blister. Some people get really raw skin. Some people get really fatigued. In the last week or so, I’ve started to get this weird burn/rash thing that feels like a combination of a sunburn that extends down into my muscle, and an itchy rash that feels like it would hurt to scratch, and has random bouts of a stinging sensation. It hurts a little more every day to lift my left arm above my head, because the tissue underneath the skin is pretty swollen and irritated. I also get tired pretty easily, which is poorly timed with the beginning of the semester. But compared to chemotherapy? Or recovery from surgery? I am fully functional. I am not throwing up. I am not highly emotional, or so tired that walking to the living room is a task. In fact, I go hiking pretty frequently, and even tried snowshoeing recently. I feel better than I have in a year and a half, when I started feeling so tired, when I’m convinced my cancer started to grow.

This feeling was validated by my  medical oncologist last week. I went in to talk to her about the anti-hormone therapy I will be starting in a few weeks. My type of cancer responds to estrogen, so for 5-10 years, I will take a pill that will block my estrogen receptors. This will reduce my chance of recurrence to one that is almost equivalent to that of the general public. I asked her when the  clock started for me to be able to say I’m cured. She said that unfortunately, with my type of breast cancer, I can never really say that. Recurrence can happen 20+ years later. BUT, I can say that for now, I have no cancer. My PET scan in the summer showed that the cancer had not spread beyond the lymph nodes. Since then, I’ve had chemotherapy, which took care of all of the cancer, except for the small bit that was found at surgery — and that’s been removed. So there is no reason, no indication, to say anymore that I have cancer. I had cancer. I do not have cancer anymore.

I don’t have cancer. Now it’s not just a feeling. Now it’s a fact. I think I need to repeat it a few more times to let it sink in.