Part Fourteen: I Did It!

            Waking up feeling close to normal this morning, I decide to do it:  leave the house after three and a half days at home. 

            But first, there is a bold new action to take:  downing my regular morning medications with breakfast instead of spreading them out throughout the day to spare my stomach.  That feels daring.

            It feels so good to drive my car, so I thank God all along the way.  The streets are rather deserted at 9:30 am this morning of July 4^th.  I pull into the CVS pharmacy drive-through to find it does not open till ten.  No problem.  The more important stop is Food Pyramid.

            A front parking space opens up as I enter the lot, and I somewhat slowly and shakily walk on in the store.  I can tell my energy is limited, so I head straight for the produce and find the surprise bonanza:  Washington sweet cherries on sale, fresh blueberries, and ripe peaches.  The zucchini looks anemic compared to the three I ate yesterday, so I head to the health food section.  Jackpot!  $2 off stickers on some $2.49 single-size yogurt items.  Two Noosa strawberry and rhubarb yogurts and four coconut milk plain yogurts total $3.00 instead of $15.  I pick up some organic lemonade made with fruit juices and a couple loaves of sesame seed Ezekiel sprouted grains bread.    And then I am suddenly and completely done. 

            So I put off CVS until another day and drive home.  

Part Thirteen: A Whole New World

            Why should a line from a Disney tune present itself as I ponder a title for part thirteen of my cancer journey?  My “whole new world” is quite different than Ariel’s in The Little Mermaid, but it is whole and it is new to me.

            Let’s start with chemo.  At OCSRI, the chemo room is a huge space divided up into cubicles, each one with a reclining chair for the patient, a chair for the friend or family member, bench space, and the requisite medical equipment. Wednesday was busy, but maybe all the days are busy there.  The sheer number of people being treated for cancer at this single clinic in Tulsa is a shocker to me.  Yet the clinic is a cheery and hopeful place because of the wonderful people staffing it with such professionalism, kindness, and compassion. 

            I received many comments and compliments on the prayer quilt Barb made for me.  It was nice to drape it over the warmed blanket on my lap.  There was a lot of preparation to be done before I got hooked up, but before the first drip started, my daughter was true to her word.  She invited the nurse to pray with us.  Nurse, daughter, and patient held hands as daughter prayed.  It was a special moment. 

            By the time we left four hours later, I had received two different anti-nausea drips, my first chemo med (nicknamed “The Red Devil”) and the second chemo med which had no nickname. 

            Then came Thursday, time for the muga heart scan, which normally is administered before one’s first chemo treatment, but scheduling had not allowed the proper sequence.  It was a breeze, and my heart passed with flying colors.  After that, Mona and I headed up to the chemo room to have the Neulasta automatic pump attached to my tummy.  In exactly 27 hours it would deliver the immune-boosting dose of medicine to keep my white blood cell count from dropping too low.

And it did, right on time Friday afternoon.  Because of the pump and because I was tired, I stayed in my pajamas all day to rest, drink, and eat nutritious mini-meals.  It felt really good to shower and get dressed this morning (Saturday) even though I don’t feel really good.

            Admittedly, today and tomorrow has me nervous.  The 72-hour anti-nausea coverage from Wednesday wears off this afternoon.  I am hoping beyond hope that I will not even need to use the two medications I have on hand for nausea, but very glad I have them ready.  I’m being careful to keep drinking lots of fluids and pay close attention to how I’m feeling.  Eating small snacks instead of full meals is easy.  In fact, it is about time for another snack.    I’m pretty tired from this forty minutes of writing, so adios for now.  You’ll get the slightly edited version of this rough draft later today.  I’m going to enjoy some frozen fruit and Greek yogurt and maybe, just maybe, drink a little coffee to ward off a caffeine withdrawal headache.  Like I said, it’s a whole new world.

            

Part Twelve: Full Speed Ahead

Part Twelve:  Full Speed Ahead

            Waiting, with Holy Spirit peace surrounding and filling the time, is more serene than anxious.  For two months I have been waiting for the next doctor’s appointment, the next test, the next set of results.  Suddenly time gets ramped up:  I’m at the starting gate, and I’m not ready.  Chemo begins today.

            My port hurts.  Rather, the port site hurts.  It is closer to my neck than I had imagined.  When I move my neck, turn my head, or even chew, stabbing pain results.  Last night I blocked myself into bed with pillows.  The port is on the right, so I slept on my left—fortunately, that is my preferred sleeping position.  Memory foam pillow under my head, body pillow tucked between my knees, bed pillow elevating my right arm those few inches above my side to minimize the port pain. 

            It was Monday that I saw Dr. Moussa, my medical oncologist, who first explained the chemo schedule to me.  It is an intense schedule, different from what I expected, and the reason for it is that clinical studies have shown it yields the best final result.  The first four infusions (which start today) will be given in two-week intervals through the BARD power port installed yesterday:  anti-nausea meds and immune system support followed by the three-hour drip.  That takes me to August 10.  From thence we go to a weekly schedule of a different drug cocktail for another twelve infusions.  Looks like I’ll be done with chemo, the first leg of this cancer journey, before Thanksgiving.

            I am most afraid of nausea and vomiting.  Besides the medication given through my port, I have two prescriptions to use on an as-needed basis.  Oh, how I hope I will not need them.  I wonder if the fatigue will feel different than the fibro fatigue I am so used to and if the chemo brain will surpass the fibro fog.  One thing is certain:  hair loss occurs around day 21 of treatment. 

            Dana tells me that before every chemo treatment, she plans to pray with me.  I’m glad because I will likely forget.  We will be praying that the medications do their job of attacking and killing the cancer cells with as few side effects as possible. 

            Admittedly, I’ve allowed fear some entrance this week.  The road ahead seems long and impossibly hard.  But when I shift my focus to the One who loves me beyond my comprehension, peace returns.   Paul, in Galatians 6, reminds me that I am not alone in this journey:

Be prepared. You’re up against far more than you can handle on your own.  Take all the help you can get, every weapon God has issued, so that when it’s all over but the shouting you’ll still be on your feet.  Truth, righteousness, peace, faith, and salvation are more than words.  Learn how to apply them.  

Part Eleven: Context is Everything

            It was like living in a construction zone.  Or maybe it was a sword fight using steel pipes.  Besides the jangling of my nerves, my lower back hurt.  My shoulders hurt.  My legs hurt.  New pockets of pain appeared as the clanging and banging continued for a solid hour.  Next time I am going to take pain meds before submitting to an MRI.

            Holly was great company on the way to and from my appointment.  Especially on the drive back, I was grateful to be passenger instead of driver.  I was both rattled and exhausted from the hour on my back in the machine.

            Yet, I am so thankful for modern technology.  Here it is not quite 2 pm, and I have the radiologist’s report from my 9 am MRI.  If my back didn’t hurt so much despite the pain pill I swallowed once I got home, I would jump for joy.  No evidence of metastatic disease! 

            Alternating between the radiology report and Google definitions of terms, I inch my way through medical terminology.  It is clear to see that my back has arthritis issues with the biggest problems at T9-T10, though the rest of the thoracic spine is not in great shape, either.  So fibromyalgia is not the lone culprit of my pain.  Makes sense to me. 

            Funny how context shapes my reaction to results.  Finding out that my discs are degenerating and at least one is bulging is fantastic news.  I’ll take back pain over cancer spreading any day.  

Part Ten: The Time Between

            As I take a break from sorting through more of my mother’s files—and she kept everything—I have to laugh.  The file I just browsed through was labeled “Home Decoration,” and it was vintage Mom:  a collection of old greeting card fronts and cardboard calendar backs.  Yesterday I read through her Christmas letters from 1953 to 2006, keeping a copy of each one but tossing innumerable cards and letters from people I know and people I don’t.  I’ve looked through scraps of paper with grocery lists, phone numbers, home budgeting notes, and to-do lists; Medicare claims, doctor’s office visits, and hospital discharge instructions; bank statements, property information, trip expense ledgers, and receipts; yellowed newspaper clippings, old business cards, and 1970s articles on building dome and earth contact homes. And all that is from the first two of four drawers.

            Thus, the past few days I have been living in a type of time between past and present as I consider what the future may hold for me.  It has been a week since my bone scan and CT scan.  I have rested, reflected, and read, counting it a good sign that I was able to get lost in an absorbing historical novel instead of googling “triple negative breast cancer.”  I’ve spent time with friends, time with my grandchildren, time with my daughter and son-in-law, and time with my son.  (In fact, last night I actually won a Scrabble game played with my son.  The turning point was the word “snooze” placed on a triple word score.)  And thanks to the generous efforts of friends, I sit tonight in a clean house surrounded by a freshly mowed yard.

            In this in-between time, I’ve also had the plumber out to fix the stopped-up kitchen sink and slow flowing bathroom sinks.  That was Friday, just hours before my car decided it was not going to move in reverse any more.  That day’s happy surprise was a prayer quilt made by a dear friend.  Over the weekend, the cancellation of my Whidbey Island vacation plans for July was finalized.  On Monday, the Ford place fixed the transmission, covered by both recall and warranty, at no cost to me.

            Tomorrow morning my daughter takes me to my second MRI of the month—this time to check the T11 vertebra that lit up on last week’s bone scan.  Next week Dana will take me to my appointment with my medical oncologist on Monday afternoon and to my Tuesday morning port placement. 

            I am still in the easy, early days of this breast cancer journey, though the time since I discovered the lump—two months ago yesterday—seems like an eternity.  Sometimes I wish so much that I could call my mother and my sister to tell them all about what is happening, but neither one left me a phone line to heaven.  Mostly, I am amazed by the love showering down on me from family and friends.  And always, I am grateful for Jesus. Without him, I would be lost in more ways than one. 

            

Part Nine: Up and Down

            See Your Chart proves to be both bane and blessing.  It is the website on which I can access my medical records from Oklahoma Cancer Specialists and Research Institute (OCSRI, formerly the Tulsa Cancer Institute).  Having the actual reports—labs, pathology, imaging—with their detailed medical lingo is great for an information-seeker such as I.  Truth be told, I like deciphering the reports before hearing the simplified explanation from my doctors. Still, both ways of learning more about my cancer situation lead to ups and downs.

            Gosh, I’m sounding very detached and clinical here.  After yesterday’s bone scan at OCSRI and appointment with Dr. Smith at Breast Surgery of Tulsa, I have been emotionally and physically wiped out.  There was, however, the wonderful reminder and reprieve last night as I read and pondered Psalm 46:1

                        God is our refuge and strength,

                                    an ever-present help in trouble.

And there were also some hours of total exhaustion mixed in with plenty of dread.  Toss in some fine food and fellowship with Mona during yesterday’s hours between appointments in Tulsa, followed by the comforting company of my daughter from 6 to 10:30 am this morning, and you get an idea of how I’m spending my summer vacation.

            I’ve never had anything more than X-rays, mammograms, and ultrasounds, so three scans in one week has been a brand-new experience.  Naturally, every single one required an IV for some sort of contrast solution.  I had a good laugh with the bone scan technician when he asked me the required question: “Is there any chance you could be pregnant, or are you breastfeeding?”  Today, I almost panicked when the CT tech told me I had to drink two big Styrofoam cups of barium solution.  Fortunately, it was not the chalky white stuff about which I’ve heard horror stories.  Instead, it looked like and tasted like slightly dirty water.  But let’s get to the all-important results of the scans.

            Last week’s breast MRI showed the tumor, which is still less than 2 centimeters, but it has a worrisome little spike extending down close to the chest muscle.  The MRI also showed several suspicious lymph nodes.  Yesterday’s whole body bone scan revealed one concerning spot on T11, which may or may not be cancer.  (Thus, I will have a lumbar MRI next week.)  The bone scan also confirmed my theory that I have osteoarthritis—left wrist and both shoulders.  Today’s CT chest scan with contrast shows no sign of metastasis in abdomen or pelvis—hallelujah!  (Incidentally, the report did not include the exclamation “hallelujah!”  But isn’t it amazing that I can access the scan report the same day?)  The scan did show moderate degenerative disc disease at L3-L4, which explains some of the back pain and leg pain I’ve been wondering about lately.

            Summarizing the results here makes me realize that I’ve had good news as well as bad news.  Of course, there is more news to follow next week with the MRI, and even more news to follow within the month from genetic testing.  What does all of this add up to so far?  Chemotherapy first (hopefully to start soon, but I still need the appointment to have the port installed as well as a chemotherapy consultation with Dr. Moussa), followed by breast surgery, and then radiation therapy.  It is going to be a long haul.  I hope that by next summer I will be ready for a relaxing trip to Whidbey Island.

            

Part Eight: Neither Warrior Nor Worrier

            I do not understand why most everyone calls cancer a battle.  I get the idea that I am supposed to pit my will, spend my energy, and struggle on in a fight to win.  Frankly, all of that war talk simply exhausts me.

            Perhaps later in the journey I will feel like I am throwing every punch I can against the enemy, but for now, I’m not.  The idea of constant striving completely contradicts my current experience of a deep, joyful peace.

            The only explanation I have for serenity in the midst of a frightening disease is Jesus.  By nature, I am a worrier, not a warrior.  So worry should be dominating my thoughts and feelings.  Except that it isn’t.  Yes, I have moments of fear, but they always evaporate in the reality of God’s love. 

            I’ll admit that having cancer is no picnic.  Usually after appointments I am worn out.  I need a nap and quiet to restore both physical and emotional energy.  Eventually, I turn to blogging to record not just the day’s experience but also God’s faithfulness.  Every day He lifts my heart in worship and thanksgiving. 

            So why should I rage against cancer when there is no need to?  My Savior is waging the battle for me.  I am just following His reminders to worship, to relax, to receive, to rejoice.  There is enough to do with keeping appointments, improving my diet, and chronicling my journey.  I am savoring time with my family and friends, so thankful for all the blessings showering down on my life.