November 26-December 3, 2010
It's been an interesting week to say the least. I had my head-shaving party, with my unnervingly razor-happy 21-year-old son, Chris, at the helm. Dianne Foye was overseer of operations and moral support. Pete and Mike Foye were in charge of video and still photography operations, and Shannon was bartender and chief cheerleader. (Ziggy the dog and Minnie the cat would periodically pop up to offer loving.) How everyone could accomplish their tasks while drinking Bud Light Lime (that would be the guy in charge of the buzz tool), margaritas, and chardonnay was extraordinary, and perhaps on viewing the end results (posted here), one will determine that their skills were, indeed, performed under questionable circumstances. Chris actually only shaved my head to 1/4 inch so that he could inscribe some fun "-isms" on my scalp. Despite possible rumors to the contrary, my head isn't big because it couldn't fit all the wording I originally requested, so we had to go with acronyms. Chris chose to etch in "4" on one side and "0" on the other to represent my four wins throughout the years over three types of cancer (thyroid [1982], breast [January 2010], and ovarian [current]), all of which are strongly related to one lifelong-monitored genetic disease (colon cancer). And I chose to inscribe LDL for "laugh, dance, live." After his work was done, we all particularly wondered how Chris passed penmanship in first grade. LDL looked a little more like LOL, which Pete interpreted as "lots of luck." In my opinion, that translation isn't ideal but better than the suggestion of "Lshit outta luck." It was a fun party. A ton of laughs. Which was exactly as I wanted it to be. I really was struggling with the whole head-shaving thing, but when the hair started falling out everywhere---and I couldn't tell who was shedding more, me or the dog---I knew it was time. It honestly wasn't nearly as traumatic as I thought it'd be. And there are some positives: Showers are faster, no hairdrying/styling is necessary, my head isn't deformed like a Saturday Night Live conehead, and there are some hats that I do, in fact, look okay in. So, you deal with it. Like there's a choice anyway. The stubbly hair is now falling out fast and furiously; Pete gets to do the final honors tonight, sans the alcohol.
My second round of chemo was yesterday. Frankly, I kind of enjoy my 6-hour days at the "spa." Nancy or Jennifer, the two oncology nurses on duty, bring me oven-warmed blankets, the sun (when there is sun) pours through the two full-windowed walls, sometimes patients' companions will bring in bagels or doughnuts to share, and then there's that first dose of anti-nausea medicine, which makes me feel warm and drowsy; this, along with the radiant sun and the warmed blanket, makes for a very pleasant catnap.
There's lots of camaraderie with other patients if one is feeling social, though some women are too sick or feeble to talk. Others freely share their personal stories, hoping to learn from each other, gain strength in others' wisdom and experiences. It's an interesting club of women, one that doesn't discriminate based on age or race or religion; you never know who you'll meet and what you'll learn. But one thing is certain; membership in this club guarantees immediate bonding.
My round was completed at about 1:45 yesterday afternoon, and just before Dianne and Leanne picked me up, a couple came in for their first consultation/tour of the chemo facility. The woman had so much pain and fear in her face, it broke my heart, and called to mind the day I first walked in that room with Pete: my shock that this was actually happening to me/us; that I needed to be here in this room; learning the harsh realities of chemo (total hair loss, nausea, weakness, energy depletion, lowered immunities, etc.); facing the many unknowns. And all this while I'm still slowly recovering from a difficult ovarian cancer surgery itself (since 9/29), not to mention its unanticipated setbacks. Not that I am an expert in this short time, but what I wanted to tell this woman was that this room is so much more than chemo and hair loss and nausea: It is also laughter, support, kindness, compassion, and (perhaps new-found) appreciation for all that is indeed good in one's life. As I walked by her, the best I could do though was briefly rub her arm.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Old Me Vs. New Me
December 15, 2010
My post-chemo days (12/10-12/12) were pleasantly uneventful. The heavy doses of anti-nausea medicine lived up to their task; it was truly only fatigue that finally got the better of me as the weekend progressed. On Friday I almost felt completely normal; by Saturday, however, the fatigue, bone achiness, and general malaise set in, and I spent most of the day dozing, sleeping sufficiently though that Pete and I were able to make it to friends' Christmas party that evening (a wonderful, albeit brief, night out); Sunday was spent much like Saturday, laid up on the couch recovering from the 2-hour outing the night before. (The Old Me would be mortified to think there'd come a day when I wouldn't be able to go the distance socially; the New Me was just thrilled to make it out of the house.) The frosty weather gave us plenty of incentive to stay indoors, keep a raging fire going in the fireplace, read, and watch endless football, in itself a sure-fire sedative guaranteeing even more sleep. We did manage to carve out time to hunt for the perfect Christmas tree. Zick's Nursery, down the road from us, had some beautiful Fraser firs for $135. ... The search continues.
But what really set me back over the weekend was not the anticipation of nausea, fatigue, or achiness but rather my newly bald head. Pete gave me the final electric razor shave on Friday; I nixed him using a real razor and shaving cream, figuring that what little remained on my scalp would be barely noticeable when it falls out; I have trust issues when anyone comes at me with a razor blade, particularly my scalp. This "party" wasn't as much fun as the first and a little more disturbing. Sitting at the kitchen table, I briefly glimpsed a fuzzy reflection of the New Me in the sliding glass door, and I didn't like what I saw. And it wasn't merely an issue of vanity. Up until then, I saw my ovarian cancer as less of a personal disease and more as just another of life's hurdles; I'm used to those and can handle them. Up until then, I saw myself as being in control, doing what I had to do to ensure the best health outcome, tackling surgery, working toward healing, essentially just making it through another of life's trouble spots. My bald head, though, spoke otherwise. It physically stripped me. In a very tangible way, it defined me as a cancer patient, something I never really acknowledged deep down inside. And it reminded me that I do have an adversary, that there is a battle going on. I wasn't prepared for the impact, and the image left me feeling a little defeated. Having long appreciated denial as a useful coping strategy under the right circumstances, I now avoid mirrors like the plague (or, more relevantly, like a toddler with a runny nose and sticky fingers) or make sure my head is always covered, even if only with a dish towel. I leave hats at strategic points thoughout house for easy access (and as long as Ziggy the Dog Who Eats Everything doesn't get to them before I do, I'm in good shape). This way I get to fight the fight without allowing the fallout of cancer to suck me into defeatism.
My doctor tells me that my hair should start to grow back in by next March or April. Always encouraging, she also revealed that for many women their hair grows in differently post-chemo. When all is said and done, if God has an ounce of compassion left over, He'll rebirth the New Me as a natural brunette. Not only do I have little tolerance for baldness but I can also do without the graying of Old Me, so clearly evident in the Buzz Cut I photo. Again, denial as a method of coping, in this case in the form of hair coloring, comes in very handy; all these years I had no idea I had so much gray. When the hell did that happen? Short of being reborn as a flawless brunette, however, maybe the New Me can hope for some natural curls.
My post-chemo days (12/10-12/12) were pleasantly uneventful. The heavy doses of anti-nausea medicine lived up to their task; it was truly only fatigue that finally got the better of me as the weekend progressed. On Friday I almost felt completely normal; by Saturday, however, the fatigue, bone achiness, and general malaise set in, and I spent most of the day dozing, sleeping sufficiently though that Pete and I were able to make it to friends' Christmas party that evening (a wonderful, albeit brief, night out); Sunday was spent much like Saturday, laid up on the couch recovering from the 2-hour outing the night before. (The Old Me would be mortified to think there'd come a day when I wouldn't be able to go the distance socially; the New Me was just thrilled to make it out of the house.) The frosty weather gave us plenty of incentive to stay indoors, keep a raging fire going in the fireplace, read, and watch endless football, in itself a sure-fire sedative guaranteeing even more sleep. We did manage to carve out time to hunt for the perfect Christmas tree. Zick's Nursery, down the road from us, had some beautiful Fraser firs for $135. ... The search continues.
But what really set me back over the weekend was not the anticipation of nausea, fatigue, or achiness but rather my newly bald head. Pete gave me the final electric razor shave on Friday; I nixed him using a real razor and shaving cream, figuring that what little remained on my scalp would be barely noticeable when it falls out; I have trust issues when anyone comes at me with a razor blade, particularly my scalp. This "party" wasn't as much fun as the first and a little more disturbing. Sitting at the kitchen table, I briefly glimpsed a fuzzy reflection of the New Me in the sliding glass door, and I didn't like what I saw. And it wasn't merely an issue of vanity. Up until then, I saw my ovarian cancer as less of a personal disease and more as just another of life's hurdles; I'm used to those and can handle them. Up until then, I saw myself as being in control, doing what I had to do to ensure the best health outcome, tackling surgery, working toward healing, essentially just making it through another of life's trouble spots. My bald head, though, spoke otherwise. It physically stripped me. In a very tangible way, it defined me as a cancer patient, something I never really acknowledged deep down inside. And it reminded me that I do have an adversary, that there is a battle going on. I wasn't prepared for the impact, and the image left me feeling a little defeated. Having long appreciated denial as a useful coping strategy under the right circumstances, I now avoid mirrors like the plague (or, more relevantly, like a toddler with a runny nose and sticky fingers) or make sure my head is always covered, even if only with a dish towel. I leave hats at strategic points thoughout house for easy access (and as long as Ziggy the Dog Who Eats Everything doesn't get to them before I do, I'm in good shape). This way I get to fight the fight without allowing the fallout of cancer to suck me into defeatism.
My doctor tells me that my hair should start to grow back in by next March or April. Always encouraging, she also revealed that for many women their hair grows in differently post-chemo. When all is said and done, if God has an ounce of compassion left over, He'll rebirth the New Me as a natural brunette. Not only do I have little tolerance for baldness but I can also do without the graying of Old Me, so clearly evident in the Buzz Cut I photo. Again, denial as a method of coping, in this case in the form of hair coloring, comes in very handy; all these years I had no idea I had so much gray. When the hell did that happen? Short of being reborn as a flawless brunette, however, maybe the New Me can hope for some natural curls.
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