One Year Later

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It’s hard for me to believe this, but today marks one year since I last had chemo.

I know that’s kind of a weird anniversary to mark, but it signaled the end of the hardest part of my treatment, and a turning point in my treatment plan.

I was originally scheduled to receive four rounds of two drugs, Adriamycin (doxorubicin) and Cytoxan (cyclophosphamide), followed by 12 rounds of Taxol. The AC regimen was tough. But I made it through.

Taxol was supposed to be a walk in the park compared to the cocktail of these two powerful drugs (Adriamycin is nicknamed “The Red Devil” both for its crimson hue and how it makes you feel). But I ended up being the special case that can’t tolerate the medication, and I became very ill. After two terrifying, uncomfortable weeks of fevers, headaches and MRIs, my still-depleted white blood cell count made it clear that the chemo was behind all my troubles.

At that point, my doctor decided to discontinue chemo and proceed with surgery because he feared continuing with the drug would damage my bone marrow. So, I missed the last 11 doses of Taxol. While I sometimes wonder if that will come back to haunt me in the future, I can’t say I was too upset about getting an early reprieve from chemo.

So, how am I today, one year after completing that part of treatment? Pretty good, all things considered.

Physically, I feel great. It’s funny because most of the actual feeling bad from having cancer came from the treatment, not the disease itself. Once I finished treatment, most of that unpleasantness (fever, headache, nausea, fatigue) went away. I’m still dealing with the side effects of menopause–which technically started with chemo and kicked into high gear after my oophorectomy–but that stuff is pretty manageable.

My hair is still a work in progress. A year ago I was completely bald, save about half a dozen little whispies that never fell out (my brave soldiers!). This was my hair about a week ago:

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As you can see, it’s still pretty curly. Although, I think the curl is starting to phase out a bit (the hair coming in at the roots seems straighter). I actually even had a real haircut last week, as the back was getting a bit long and unruly (I basically had a curly mullet).

I also lost a toenail due to chemo (a lovely side effect of Taxol), and that has almost completely grown back in.

Chemo can also cause lingering cognitive issues (chemo brain). While I certainly have my moments of fogginess, I’m not sure they can be chalked up to chemo.

Last week at my checkup, my blood work showed my white blood cell count slightly down. My oncologist said this was normal in someone who’s had chemo, though, so I guess the lingering effects of the drug can still mess with my immunity, too.

So, where am I with treatment now? I am essentially done, save the adjuvant therapy I’ll be on for the next decade. That’s a pill I take every day called Tamoxifen. Since my cancer is estrogen-receptive (estrogen basically feeds it), Tamoxifen works to block estrogen from feeding cells and causing them to become cancerous. Some people have a lot of difficulty with this drug, but thankfully I’ve handled it pretty well thus far.

At this point, I’m mostly just dealing with all the emotional aftermath and figuring out how to move forward in my life. That’s getting better every day, too, and I’ve learned some new coping mechanisms to help me along the way.

Cancer treatment is a long process. I don’t think I fully understood that even at this point a year ago. But standing here now, I’m thankful to have come as far as I have in this past year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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An Ounce of Prevention

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In what has started to feel like a regular occurrence for me, I’m preparing for another surgery this week.

This time, I’m going under the knife for an oophorectomy, which sounds completely made-up but is the medical term for removing the ovaries. My fallopian tubes will be removed, as well.

Because of my BRCA2-positive status, I am at a higher risk of developing ovarian cancer. And ovarian cancers often spread and even sometimes start in the tubes. So, they all have to go.

The procedure will be done laparoscopically, which I’m told makes it much easier. My OB/GYN, who will perform the surgery, assures me it’s a very standard procedure.

I have mixed emotions about it. On the one hand, I’m just ready to get it over with. I’m ready to have one less body part to worry about possibly sprouting cancer.

On the other hand, I’m completely freaked out. Not really about the procedure itself, but more of the what-ifs. My greatest fear is waking up to somber faces telling me they found something abnormal. A tumor. Weird cells. More cancer.

I’m also feeling a bit sad about what this procedure means for me. I was done having children, but once this operation is finished, there is no possible way I could ever change my mind on that. There’s a finality to it that hurts a bit.

On top of that, my doctor warned me that I will pretty much go into menopause immediately after the surgery. I’ve been in a chemo-induced sort-of menopause for months now, so I’m hoping the side effects won’t be too bad. Mentally, this is another one I’m having a bit of a hard time with because I shouldn’t have to be dealing with this now. I’m too young. It’s too soon.

Last night I had two dreams about the surgery. There was the standard stress dream of not being in the right place, not being able to dial the numbers to call and let them know, etc. Then I dreamed that I was going in not to just have my ovaries removed, but to have gender reassignment surgery to transition me to becoming a man. I’d already had my breasts shaped into the most incredible set of pecs I’ve ever seen, and I was sporting a short brown hairdo. Hoo-boy, chew on that one, Mr. Freud.

While I have no control over the completely bananas world of my dreaming subconscious, I’m trying to keep the pity parties to a minimum. Yes, all of this is incredibly crappy and unfair. But, I’m also really lucky. I have the chance to possibly prevent another bout of cancer, to possibly save my life. For that,  I am truly thankful.

 

 

 

 

 

Adventures in Hair Growing

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I’ve always had a lot of hair.

As a kid, I would suffer through sob-inducing post-bath de-tangling sessions with my mom, her hands nearly cramping from raking a comb through my long, matted hair.

In my 20s, I went to a stylist who called over some of her coworkers to show them exactly how much hair was on my head–circus freak-style. And my poor current stylist would sometimes have to take breaks while coloring, cutting and styling my hair during the waning months of her first pregnancy.

Of course, all that changed with chemo.

But here’s the good news (besides that clean path report): My hair is growing back!

And boy, is it growing back weird.

In Cancerland (that sounds like the world’s worst theme park, doesn’t it?), they call the situation I’ve got going on “chemo curls.” My hair is about an inch long, and in the back especially, it is curly. Really curly. Shirley Temple with a Richard Simmons perm curly.

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This really doesn’t even begin to capture the ringlet action I have going on back there.

Apparently, this is another fun side effect of the chemo. A friend who’s much smarter than me when it comes to matters of science explained that the chemo curls happen because even though it’s been months since I’ve had a treatment, the lingering effects of the drugs remain in my system. That’s kind of crazy to think about. That’s also why after six months to a year, the hair starts growing back as it normally would (in my case, not curly).

In the meantime, I have no clue what to do with this mess on my head. I’ve tried all manner of taming methods–texturizers, headbands, etc. I’ve also played around with the color a bit. For a while, I thought I might like to be a redhead. Then I realized, nope, what I really want is to be blonde again. It’s weird, but even though my blonde comes out of a bottle, it makes me feel more like me.

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Like a sexy Medusa robot

So, I went to the salon a couple weeks ago to get some highlights. I was amazed that the stylist was able to put my short, kinky strands in foils. That is some next-level styling, right there.

The result isn’t exactly where I was before, but a step in the right direction to looking more like the me I see in my mind’s eye.

That’s the thing about this whole losing my hair process–in my mind, it never really happened. When I imagine in my mind’s eye how I look, I look as I always have with long, blonde hair. It is truly jarring sometimes to catch a glimpse of my reflection and see how I really look.

I get lots of compliments on my short hair. A lot of the time, I think people are just being nice because they feel sorry for me having gone through this shit. Sometimes the compliments come from strangers, though, so I think they might be genuine. Regardless, while I appreciate being told I look “cool” or “sassy” or whatever, I can’t really love this hair. While I’m very grateful to have it at all, the current state of my tresses is just a constant reminder that something really bad happened. And something really bad could happen again.

So, I’ll let it keep growing. And hopefully I’ll figure out a way to grow with it.

How It All Began

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When I gave birth, one of the things that was really important to me was to take a few minutes of free time (precious stuff with a newborn) to write down my son’s birth story. I wanted to record how it happened not only for him, but for myself as well, before I forgot it.

When I first started this blog, I was so shell-shocked from my diagnosis and the ensuing whirlwind of doctor’s appointments and treatments that I sort of glossed over the full story of how it all happened. And like that birth story, I want to record how it all went down. Right now I feel like I’ll never forget it, but as I’ve learned, time tends to blur memories and things can get fuzzy enough to disappear completely from your mind.

I also wanted to write this post in the event that some newly-diagnosed person or person with a suspicious lump happens upon this blog in their internet searching (I know I ended up reading a lot of blogs that way). I was hungry for information, but even more so, hungry for the experiences of others. I wanted to hear the good and the bad–I wanted to be prepared either way–but mostly the good, as I was looking for some hope to go along with my cold, hard facts.

So, in that spirit, here is my cancer diagnosis story (it’s long–sorry):

I don’t remember the exact day I noticed the lump, but I remember being aware of it around June of 2016. I’d love to say I was one of those conscientious people who did regular self-exams, but that’s not true. I noticed it in part because I was still breast feeding and more aware of my breasts in general, but also because it was pretty prominent–a hard little lump along the outer side near my armpit.

I honestly thought it was some kind of clog associated with breast feeding, or maybe a cyst. I remember thinking it felt different, so I decided to go to my OB-GYN to get it checked out.

I finally got around to doing that the week after July 4th, and the PA who felt me up that day said she thought it was probably nothing, but sent me to the breast center just in case. I was still oddly calm and sure it would just be some kind of benign thing.

At the breast center, they brought me in for an ultrasound. I’d had several ultrasounds before when I was pregnant, and I loved them. Seeing my baby moving around inside my body was one of the most amazing things I’d ever experienced (even if I needed help seeing him sometimes–those ultrasounds aren’t the clearest things!).

This was far less fun. As I laid on my side, the radiologist pressed the ultrasound wand against the side of my breast, pointing to the image on the screen.

“So, here is the lump,” he explained in a very calm, even tone. “Notice how it has jagged edges. And these little white spots here are micro-calcifications.”

I nodded and didn’t say much. I had no clue what any of it meant. Had I done any research beforehand, I probably would have lost my shit right then and there. Jagged edges and micro-calcifications are both signs of cancer.

When he was finished, he told me it looked suspicious, and they wanted to do a mammogram and a biopsy. Amazingly, there was an opening for the biopsy that afternoon, but the nurse told me I had some time before that appointment, so I should go get something to eat.

Oh yeah, food. I’d completely forgotten about lunch. Of course, I had zero appetite, because the impending biopsy completely freaked me out. I stumbled out into the blazing sun and somehow made it to my car. And then I promptly collapsed into a sobbing mess.

I somehow pulled it together enough to drive to a convenience store and buy a Cheerwine (nothing comforts me like my favorite sugary drink), and then I called Rodney, crying, and told him everything.

I dried my tears, finished my soda and staggered in a daze back up to the breast center. The mammogram was first. Being only 37 with no family history of breast cancer, I’d never had one. And I’m here to tell you the rumors are true–they’re no fun.

After that, I was taken to a small examining room for the biopsy. Continuing the theme of the day, this also was zero fun. I laid on my side and got a shot of local anesthesia. It always takes more than one shot for me (so tough!), but once I was sufficiently numb, the radiologist went to work. I could feel the pressure of the needle going into my body, and then the pulling as the device clicked and sucked out bits of tissue from the tumor.

The biopsy was done in a few minutes, and they sent me on my merry way to wait for the results. Of course, it was my luck that this all went down not only on a Friday–meaning I’d have the whole weekend to agonize–but also the Friday before I was to fly to Chicago for a Monday business trip. I spent most of the weekend consulting Dr. Google, who all but confirmed my fears that this was no ordinary benign occurrence.

As you may have read in one of my first posts, I got the news while on a layover in the Atlanta airport. Yeah, that sucked.

I had my first appointment at the cancer center the following week. I’d had some long doctor’s appointments before, but nothing like the four-hour marathon that is the first cancer consultation. On the one hand, it’s nice that they could assemble my team (it never failed to freak me out that I needed a full team to treat me) at one time instead of making me return for half-a-dozen individual appointments. But on the other, such an appointment makes for a pretty grueling morning.

My oncologist was the first doctor to visit with me and Rodney. After introducing himself, he informed me that I had been the subject of a weekly meeting of the area’s breast cancer doctors. Knowing you need a team is one thing; finding out your case was the talk of all the doctors in the area? Absolutely fucking terrifying. I was sure I was about to die.

Turns out, I was of interest because of my age and relative good health. My oncologist went on to tell me my stage (Stage II A) based on the fact that my tumor was around 2.5 cm and had not spread to my lymph nodes (that they could tell). He also told me that it was estrogen- and progesterone-positive (which means those two hormones essentially feed the cancer) and that it was HER2-negative (a protein that can be over-expressed in tumors). The growth rate was at 50%–fairly high, but not “NASCAR speed,” as my oncologist put it.

After telling me all that, he outlined my treatment plan (which changed due to my BRCA2-positive status), and answered the litany of questions Rodney and I had. The rest of the appointment is kind of a blur to me now. I saw my surgeon, the radiation oncologist (whom I never ended up seeing for treatment), nurses, a dietitian, a physical therapist–like I said, it was kind of grueling.

It’s crazy to me to think that day was almost seven months ago. I’ve had chemo, surgery, several MRIs and more doctor’s appointments than I can count since then. I’ve lost my hair and grown it back (well, it’s in process). And best of all, I’ve had a clean pathology report. I’m still not finished with this journey, but man, I’ve come a long way from the beginning.

 

 

 

 

 

A Change of Plans

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I haven’t updated my treatment status in a while, and that’s mostly because it’s been sort of in flux the past month.

As I mentioned a few posts back, I got really sick right after starting Taxol. This was the drug that was supposed to be “a piece of cake” compared to my first round of chemo with the Adriamycin/Cytoxin cocktail.

Of course, I’d be the special snowflake that proves that wrong.

Three weeks after that first dose, and after finally having my two-week fever and headache subside, I went in for treatment only to find out my white blood cell count was still incredibly low. This is not normal for this drug.

So, my oncologist came in to tell me that I obviously cannot tolerate Taxol (and it was the source of my fever and other problems), and they are very hesitant to continue giving it to me because if it hits my immune system this hard (counts still low three full weeks after treatment), then it could cause damage to my bone marrow.

I already had an appointment with my surgeon scheduled for the following Monday, so my oncologist ordered a rush MRI for that day so the results would be ready for my surgery appointment. So, for the second time that week, I climbed into the ol’ MRI tube, this time to scan my chest (at least they gave me headphones and let me listen to Pandora this time around–’80s pop music helps make the MRI go by a lot faster).

That Monday, my surgeon shared the results. My tumors were pretty much undetectable, and the right side was totally clear. The only thing he noticed was a tiny mass on the left side that he said looked benign. It will get removed during surgery.

That was a week ago, and now we’re just waiting for my immune system to get back on track to schedule my surgery, which could happen as soon as this month or next month. Does that kind of throw a wrench into the holidays? Yes. But, I am happy to get it over with a bit sooner, and I’m even happier to hopefully be done with chemo. (Although, if there is cancer in the pathology report from the tissue they remove during surgery, they may order more chemo.)

I asked my oncologist’s PA what discontinuing chemo (I still had 11 doses of Taxol scheduled) means for my treatment. She told me that Taxol gives me a 3% better chance of the cancer not recurring. While it sucks to lose that, saving my bone marrow is more important at this point. She also told me that the anti-estrogen meds I’ll be on for the next 5-10 years (my cancer is estrogen receptive, which basically means that estrogen feeds it) increase my chances of it not recurring by 50%, so that made me feel a little better.

So, that’s where we are right now. I’m still sort of in limbo as far as when the next steps happen, but I know they’ll come soon. In the meantime, I’m trying to mentally prepare myself for surgery and all that comes with it. Everyone tells me it’s not as bad as chemo, but I just don’t know.

The Sick Blanket

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This blanket has seen better days.

When I was a kid, we had a special blanket in our house that we referred to as the “sick blanket.” Well-worn to a buttery softness, its faded 1960s floral pattern seemed to instantly soothe any invalid wrapped within its calming embrace.

Since I was diagnosed, several people have given me blankets. And while these new blankets are cozy and lovely, when I feel really cruddy I find myself reaching for my own “sick blanket.” A gift from my mother when I went away to college, the faded blue afghan is frayed and a bit ratty, but it’s also incredibly comforting.

I’ve spent a lot of time with the “sick blanket” the past two weeks. I started Taxol on Sept. 28, and two days later I started feeling bad. I was running a fever, which made me feel totally run-down. I took some Tylenol and a nap and waited for it to pass.

Fast-forward two weeks. I’ve been fighting a fever this whole time, which came with a headache, chills and other fun symptoms. I went to the doctor several times and got poked and prodded more than once to do all sorts of tests to determine the source of the fever. After multiple rounds of clean lab work, my doctors were perplexed. They gave me an antibiotic to try, but weren’t sure it would actually do anything since they couldn’t find any sign of infection.

On Monday of this week, I called to let them know it was still going on, and my oncologist decided I should have a brain MRI. Cue the stomach drop. This is not a test you want to have ordered. I immediately lost it, my mind going to all kinds of dark places and scenarios.

Yesterday, I went in for my weekly consult and to get chemo. My lab results showed my white blood cell count was too low, so they wouldn’t give me chemo. And the PA whom I usually see told me that my oncologist now wants to do a PET scan if the MRI results come back clean. Cue more freak-out.

I straight-up asked her if they think I have more cancer, and she said my oncologist has concerns, but this doesn’t necessarily mean there’s anything going on. I also asked her if this could possibly be a result of the Taxol. She said that was a possibility and that my oncologist’s partner had a patient who basically had a fever the entire time she was on Taxol. But, she said they wanted that to be the last box they check off, after they rule out everything else.

Rationally, I know it’s good to do these tests to be sure there’s not something else happening. If there is, we need to know so we can know exactly how to proceed. But I am scared. SO scared. The thought of more cancer showing up on one of these tests sends me into a tailspin. It makes me nauseous to think about it. I hope and pray this is just my body’s reaction to the Taxol, because that’s something I can handle. More cancer is not.

I’m feeling much better today (and have been progressively for the past few days). My fever and headache are mostly gone, and while I’m still wiped out from all of this, I am actually at work today and feeling halfway normal. I’m hoping this is all a good sign.

In the meantime, I wait. I’ll probably spend more time with the “sick blanket” this weekend, too. I’m not feeling as sick, but I still need the comfort.

I Miss My Hair

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Last night, I dreamed I had hair.

I was walking through a hotel lobby, wearing a cute dress and kind of bouncing with a little swagger in my step. And as I walked, I could feel my long hair bouncing along with me. I remember in the dream touching it, surprised, because I couldn’t believe it was actually there.

I miss my hair so much. I know this is a silly, vain thing. I know that in the grand scheme of things, this is such a minor inconvenience. I know that I should just be grateful that my treatments appear to be working, and the side effect of losing my hair is a small price to pay. I acknowledge all of this.

But, I still miss it.

I run my hands over the fuzz that’s left on my head, willing it to grow and multiply. My oncologist told me that it could start growing back while I’m on Taxol, and I’m trying so hard not to get overly excited at that prospect, lest it not actually happen.

I look at other people out in public, envying them and their full heads of hair. I feel like people with beautiful hair are everywhere. And I’m so jealous of them.

I gaze wistfully at my hair products and appliances, seeing them gather dust in my bathroom. I still shampoo my head, which is kind of silly since there’s so little actual hair there, but it feels better to me to at least use a little something.

I got a pretty nice wig, but to be perfectly honest, I hate wearing it. It looks so fake to me (even though it has fooled quite a few people at my job), it gets hot and itchy, and it has a weird smell. I thought wigs would be fun, but I think they’re more fun when you’re not forced to wear them. I much prefer just wearing my beat-up old ballcap that I’ve had since high school.

So, I’m just watching and waiting, hoping to see some growth.

The Last of the Worst

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There’s a light down there, and I’m just a little closer to it.

Today is a big day. I just received the last of the first (and most intense) round of chemo. My oncologist told me today that life will get much better after this. He’s a pretty solid guy, so I’m inclined to believe him.

The first round of my treatment involved two drugs, Adriamycin (doxorubicin) and Cytoxan (cyclophosphamide). If you check out those links, you’ll get a better idea of how I’ve been feeling the past month-and-a-half. Fun stuff. Here’s another fun fact: When my nurse gives me the Adriamycin injection, she has to suit up in what amounts to hazmat gear because it’s dangerous if the drug gets on her clothes or skin. And that’s being injected directly into my jugular via my chemo port. Scary shit, right?

But that’s not the only reason today kind of rocks. During my visit with my doctor, he performed an exam to see if my tumors were still palpable. And guess what? They’re not! I’d actually tried just a couple days ago to feel the one that initially sent me to the doctor and couldn’t find it. There may still be cancer cells in there, but what was a hard, easily noticeable lump is now pretty much nothing! How amazing is that? Eat that, cancer!

Now, I’ll still have to get the bilateral mastectomy because of my BRCA2 status, but knowing these awful drugs have kicked the shit out of my cancer still makes me feel good. It makes me hopeful they’ve zapped anything else that may have spread elsewhere in my body, too.

While I was getting treatment today, the lady sitting in the chair next to me finished her last round of chemo and got to ring the bell. When you finish treatment at my cancer center, there’s a bell everyone gets to ring. This was the first time I ever heard anyone ring it, and man, what a sweet, sweet sound. It brought tears to my eyes, I was so happy for her, and so excited to one day ring that bell myself. That will happen around 13 weeks from now, but when it does, I might break the damn thing, I’m going to ring it so hard.

 

The Thirst is Real

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So, I’ve been pretty lucky thus far in my cancer journey. I’ve felt mostly good. I’ve had some really good days, in fact.

But this past week, things did not go quite so well.

As I was coming off my last treatment, I seemed to have a harder time rebounding. I knew this would happen eventually, as they say the effects are cumulative with chemo.

Around mid-week last week, I had a bout with some digestive issues (I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I spent some quality time in the bathroom). This sort of set the ball rolling for the rest of the week’s problems.

On Thursday, I had an appointment with a plastic surgeon to talk about my reconstruction options. As she went through the choices and told me about the recovery time for each, my heart sank. Intellectually I knew surgery wouldn’t be a walk in the park, but I really had no idea how hard and long that recovery was going to be. No option is a good option, in my mind. And I cannot decide what to do, regarding reconstruction. Part of me wants to say screw it and do nothing, but I don’t know that I’d be satisfied with that, either. I’m just thankful I have several months to figure this out.

During said appointment, I was standing there with the surgeon as she measured my chest. Suddenly, things started getting black and my ears had this weird ringing sensation, almost like I was under water. I knew I was about to faint, so I sat down and then had to take a few minutes to lie down, drink some water and gather myself. It was embarrassing and a little scary.

That afternoon, I had my bi-weekly appointment with the NP to check my immune levels and let her know how I was doing. I told her about the digestive issues and near-fainting, and she said I was probably dehydrated and offered to give me IV fluids. I declined. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Fast-forward to 1 a.m. Saturday morning. I awoke with terrible pain in my kidneys coupled with sciatic nerve pain in my leg (a fun little condition I experience periodically). The kidney pain felt similar to having a UTI or bladder infection that goes untreated too long. It was really bad, and the Tylenol I was taking wouldn’t touch it. Knowing my immune levels were really low at the time from chemo, I feared an infection.

So, I called the triage nurse line that they tell us to use if we have any pain that we can’t manage (among other red flag issues). The nurse couldn’t really diagnose what was going on and told me to come into the ER within 24 hours since the cancer center is closed on weekends.

Unable to handle the pain any longer, my husband took me to the ER around 4 a.m. We were there until around 2 p.m. After blood and urine tests came back clear, along with an MRI (apparently sciatic nerve pain also can be caused by tumors on the spine, so they wanted to rule that out) that showed nothing, there wasn’t a real diagnosis of what was going on. But after IV fluids helped (along with some decent pain meds), I’m pretty sure dehydration was a big factor for the kidney pain. I likely never fully recovered from the digestive episode earlier in the week and my body just had enough.

Of course, I was wiped out from all of that, and had to miss a friend’s party I was really looking forward to that night. I also had a girls’ day planned for the next day with friends and had to beg out of that, too.

I’m feeling better now, but still not 100%. I do have a better sense of the importance of taking care of myself, though, and staying hydrated.

I’m really just hoping this will be a better week. I’m at the point where I’m starting to fatigue of this process. There are some days that I want to just run away and quit. I’m tired of feeling bad. I’m tired of being poked by needles. I’m tired of sleeping horribly. I’m tired of being afraid. I’m just tired of it all.

Toddlers Don’t Care

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Last night was a rough one at my house. And for once, it really didn’t have much to do with cancer.

My son is almost two years old. And, yes, he is in the throes of the “terrible twos.”

Toddler parents–you know what I’m talking about. The screaming. The refusal to sleep. The teething. The utter nonsense.

Last night was a perfect storm. He’s cutting about three teeth right now (two of them molars), he’d napped about 20 minutes total and it was waaaay past bedtime. Yet, instead of going to sleep like everyone else in the house longed to, he had a full-on meltdown the likes of which I haven’t seen in ages. So. Much. Screaming.

In the olden days, I’d soothe him with hugs, a calm voice and most likely, the boob. Of course, those days are long gone. The hugs and calming voice did nothing. It finally took strapping him to my body in a baby carrier (thanks, LILLEbaby!) and walking him around outside in the dark, a technique I hadn’t been forced to use in many months.

These nights are hard. And like everything else, they’re especially hard when I’m tired and a little loopy from chemo. I pray tonight is better. I pray he goes down without a fight (and sometime before 10 p.m.). Because even though I’m tired and a little out of it, toddlers don’t care.