Sven's Eviction Notice

Dear Sven,

I realize that this might come as a shock to you, but I think it is time that we ended our relationship.  Although it seems I have spent a great deal of time with you I still don’t seem to know very much about you.  You are constantly hanging around, but you have yet to tell me why you find my company attractive.  Even though I try to open effective means of communication I get shut down every time I try to find out what bothers you.  Not only do you lack communication skills, but you are incredibly clingy.  I consider your parasitic behavior and continuous mooching quite annoying.  You are constantly getting in the way of my accomplishments.  I can’t even give someone a hug without you providing some jealous and painful reminder that you are there!  

Aside from your possessive behavior, you do not seem to like me very much either.  I get the feeling that you are only using me.  You often intentionally cause me pain in order to promote your own personal growth.  Quite frankly, even though we seem quite attached to the outside world, I feel we have different ideas about how this relationship should commence.  After extensive therapy sessions my counselors and I have decided that it is time that we went our separate ways.  You are too needy and self-promoting for us to continue our relationship as it is currently and I do not think that we can live together amicably in the future.  In order to preserve my sanity and good health you are to move out or be forcibly removed by Friday May 4^th, 2012.  Please consider this your one and only notice.  Also, I would greatly appreciate it if you did not leave any of your personal belongings behind.  

Amicably yours,

Michaela R. Romano  

Damn Bananas!

Throughout my journey with breast cancer I have encountered several surprises. I often feel like I am one of those old cartoon characters. You know the ones, those poor souls who are just walking along and then suddenly fall flat on their backs after having stepped on a banana peel. Well, this week has not been any different. The past couple of weeks have been kind of strange for me. I have been a bit stressed because even though the Taxol has fewer side effects than my previous chemotherapy drug, Sven wasn’t shrinking. About two weeks ago Sven start to throb and I could swear that he was growing. I talked to my doctors and they checked him out last week and found that he may have grown only a tiny bit, but that they could not be sure if Sven had actually grown or not until this week. It turns out that Sven has started to grow again and I am not responding to this treatment. Woops, another banana! Everything is okay though because we know for a fact that I respond to one form of treatment. Although I wanted to avoid meeting with the devil again, I may have to. Who knows, there are several different types of chemotherapy drugs for me to try. Aside from this reassuring knowledge, I will also be having surgery in the next week or so. I have an appointment with the surgeon on Monday and I will go from there. I certainly was not expecting this anytime soon, but it is a relief to know that Sven is getting kicked out. Although I like to share, Sven and I seem to have very diverse interests.

Due to the fact that I am not responding to my most recent chemotherapy drug, I may not be able to have immediate reconstruction. I was going to have to wait a year for reconstruction to be complete in the first place, but now I will have to wait even longer. This means that I have to deal with that whole patience thing again. This is certainly one side effect nobody warned me about. It would have been nice to at least get a pre-recorded message, “During your cancer journey you will experience tests of patience, please be patient with us while we continue to stab you with needles and information. Thank you for holding your life. We appreciate your patience while you wait.” This also means that, because I am going to China in August, I will probably be completely without any kind of breast until next summer. That is okay because there are all sorts of different types of prosthesis out there for women who have had mastectomies. I am certain I will find one that suits me just fine (breast shopping anyone?). Also, I will most likely have to have multiple surgeries instead of just two. No one ever said that this was easy, but I have to say that I am pretty damn sick of procedures. I guess my patience is running out. Am I allowed to ask for a refill? All jokes aside, saying goodbye to Sven right now also means saying goodbye to my breast a lot sooner than I had expected. Yes, I knew this was coming, but I also thought I had a bit more time to get used to the idea. Perhaps it is better this way? Maybe it is better in the same way that ripping a band aid off quickly is better than peeling it away slowly. Either way it’s a shocker and I have to admit that I am a little bit scared.

Though I may be scared, I am still an optimist (Yes, you can still be an optimist and not have patience.). Not responding to treatment has been one of my biggest fears and now that it has happened I find that I am less upset about than I thought I would be (albeit clearly a little bit on the bitter side…). Having the surgery means Sven is moving out! It also means that my treatment will be more specialized as the doctors will be able to analyze Sven and know more about him and what treatment to continue with. Yay for informed chemotherapy! I have to wonder what “informed chemotherapy” looks like. I like to imagine a handsome man with dark hair and glasses who knows a lot about what is going on in the great, wide world of cancer. Aside from good looking chemotherapy, the prospects for my future look good and I will still be done with my treatment in time to leave for China. All in all it is not so bad. I cannot wait to be done with this and start to move forward again. I hope that everything goes well in the next few months and that I do not have to deal with cancer again in this lifetime. However, if I do then I will just keep jogging along and hope that I don’t step on any more bananas.

Hang'n in the Chemo Lounge with the Chemo Kids

Before I started chemotherapy I had a lot of misconceptions about what it would be like to sit and be pumped full of poison. I pictured a gently lit room with pastel walls, a droning television, and zonked out individuals hooked up to bags. Perhaps with a few overworked nurses wandering around and some people hanging out and crying. Fortunately, chemotherapy is nothing like this at all. Hanging out in the Chemo Lounge (as I like to call it) is much easier than you would think. Yes, the walls and chairs are pastel and some of the chemo patients zonk out, but overall chemotherapy is actually quite fun. The television is on, but is not loud and is often not watched. When it is being watched, the program is a source of conversation rather than a means of cutting yourself off from the rest of the room. The nurses are great. They laugh, smile, tease and tell ornery jokes some of which are completely inappropriate in an absolutely wonderful way. Speaking of ornery, the patients are quite mischievous themselves. If anyone outside of the Chemo Lounge heard some of the jokes we make about ourselves or cancer they would probably think that we were all cracked. However, it’s such a relief to laugh! We laugh so much that you would never think that we all suffered from a terrible illness. There is only one other option to laughter and that is to be a grumpy fuss budget and there is no way I am going to spend my valuable time being grumpy and depressed. I have made some amazing friends and met some wonderful people just by sitting in a chair and being poisoned.

Among the Chemo Kids I am, by far, the youngest. Everyone else is at least 15-20 years older than me. I am lucky because everyone else seems to feel the need to take care of me. I don’t mind being the “Chemo Baby” at all. It’s nice to be the spoiled brat for once in my life; although, I try not to be too bratty. It is also nice to feel so cared for. The other chemotherapy patients and the nurses try hard to make this experience as un-scary as possible for me. All of their efforts have certainly paid off because I feel incredibly safe in the Chemo Lounge. Well, except for when I fall asleep as there is a running rumor that your head will get drawn on in you fall asleep… Aside from that, I feel pretty safe. At the same time I feel a deep sense of protectiveness for the other chemotherapy patients. I frequently catch myself watching everyone else to see how they are doing each week. Some weeks, you can tell that energy levels are down or that a person simply isn’t feeling as well as they usually do. Everyone tries their best to let others rest when they need it and we try even harder to cheer up those who are obviously having a hard week. I find that the chocolate in the candy basket is an especially helpful tool when cheering others up. The overwhelming sense of care you get from every single person in the Chemo Lounge is amazing. I never expected this and I am so glad that I found such a wonderful place to get my chemotherapy.

This environment has been especially helpful for any questions or concerns I have had about my chemotherapy medications. My peace of mind is aided by the fact that I am perfectly free to ask the other Chemo Kids questions about their treatments and responses to them. There are times when I think I must be crazy and that there is no way my symptoms make any sense. It doesn’t help that the doctors do not always have an answer as to why my symptoms happen in the first place. However, finding out that the other patients have had similar responses helps me realize that, although I may be crazy, I am certainly not wrong about what I am experiencing. The nurses also consistently participate in our conversations and are a wealth of knowledge. They work very hard to smile and bring laughter into the Chemo Lounge, which makes them easy to approach. The information provided while I am hanging out in the Chemo Lounge was particularly helpful when I started my new chemo drug, Taxol. Many of the patients have been around others on the same drug or have personal experience on the matter. The majority of the patients were more than happy to let me know that Taxol was easier than my previous drug and that most recipients experienced little to no trouble. So far their predictions have been true. I love Taxol. Okay, maybe love is a strong term, but I am very happy with Taxol. I have absolutely no nausea (Thank Goodness!). This alone is enough to make me dance. I still feel very tired and worn out, but that’s not so bad. Seriously, pushing myself to go on a walk or complete an activity helps to make this feeling more manageable. My nails feel weird and are likely to fall off, my eyes feel gritty, I get headaches, hot flashes and my muscles and joints are sore, but at least I can do more than I could before. My only hope is that this trend continues for the next eight weeks and that I don’t get knocked on my ass again! So the actual chemo part of chemotherapy is not so bad. I could even use the word, “fun” as a descriptor. It’s the days following chemotherapy that you have to worry about and even those can be muddled through if you try hard enough.

Mastectomy Mumblings

Surgery has never been something I looked forward to. In fact, when I first found out about my cancer I was against the very idea of mastectomy. I guess it was because suddenly everyone was telling me what to do and trying to make “rational” decisions for me. My first reaction of course was to resist in some fashion or another. When everyone starts telling you what to do, how you are going to react, and why you need to do this or that it’s the only reasonable response. I now understand why two-year-olds instantly respond to every question with “no.” This has changed for the most part. People still seem to feel the need to tell me what to do and how to think, but I am much better at thinking clearly and listening to what they have to say. It’s easier now that I’m not in shock and feel like I am being pummeled from all sides. That being said, I would like to point out that this is my body and, ultimately, this is my decision. I do want to keep my left breast as it is. There have been no signs of cancer in my left breast and I see no reason to panic and remove it simply because some cells in my right breast went crazy. I deserve to keep some part of myself. Although this is my decision now, it was not always an option. It seems that the surgery question keeps changing, like many other aspects of my cancer, as my treatment progresses.

Initially, I was told that I would most likely need to have a bilateral mastectomy. Thankfully I do not have the cancer gene so that is no longer necessary. Then, there was discussion of a total mastectomy of my right breast due to the size of the tumor and its location. However, Sven has shrunk considerably and a total mastectomy is no longer necessary (Thank, God!). This also means that I am now moving directly into the next phase of chemotherapy in order to try and reduce Sven to nothing. So surgery has been postponed for another twelve weeks by the end of which Sven will hopefully be nonexistent. This will also make surgery significantly easier for both the surgeon and me. So now, there is also the option of a partial mastectomy or lumpectomy. Lumpectomy is only possible if the tumor shrinks to a certain point or completely disappears. At this point you may be saying, “Hey Sven is almost gone so she can have a lumpectomy.” Which would be right, but there are other things to take into consideration. In a lumpectomy procedure there is the possibility of the surgeon missing cancer cells. If one, single, microscopic cell is left my cancer could and most likely will come back. I am twenty three years old and I honestly do not want to spend the next 40-60 years (not withstanding another serious illness or accident) worrying about my cancer returning. Taking all of this into consideration, I have decided to have a skin and (if the surgeon’s game) nipple preserving mastectomy. This would mean that I could keep my outer breast, but that they would just scoop out the insides and replace that tissue through reconstructive surgery. It is a bit more extreme than a lumpectomy, but the better option of the options I have.

Losing my right breast is a bit hard for me. As I have said before I rather like my breast. Other than the whole turning against me and being cancerous thing, my right breast has served me pretty well. My breasts are not just a part of my body. This part of the process would be a whole lot easier if my cancer were in my stomach, my leg, or some other part of my body that does not help me identify as a woman. My breasts are part of my identity. They are part of how I identify as a woman and therefore, an aspect of my personality, my me—ness. That selfhood is now being taken away from me. Although it is my choice to have the mastectomy, I don’t really see it as a “choice” so much as the only choice. Which is better peace of mind and the elimination of the cancer or losing a piece of myself? In the end the cancer has to go because it is more likely to destroy me. Only, my breast is not just a bit a flesh to me, it’s so much more than that. Womanhood is so often identified with women’s bodies. Not simply how they live in those bodies, but how they act through those bodies. Certain movements, actions, etc. are used to display femininity and provide us with an understanding of woman. Taking away one of the characteristics of my body that allows me to display my femininity is hard for me. Yes, I am having reconstruction, but it will take a full year for the reconstruction to be complete. Even then, I am not sure about how complete I will feel. Although I know that no one will judge me for having a fake breast due to cancer, I still feel “unnatural.” Ultimately I feel a deep sense of loss. I am losing a significant piece of who I am. I realize that losing my right breast is not going to change who I am and that it won’t permanently affect my lifestyle. However, I do feel like less of a woman and I do feel less attractive. No one ever said that cancer is going to make me feel pretty, but that doesn’t keep me from wishing that I did feel prettier and more feminine. I certainly feel stronger. I definitely revel in the body that I have. I am certain that I can do things I never thought I could do before. However, in the end, I still feel like part of me is going away. I know I will adapt, but for now, I will just have to deal with these feelings. Perhaps, I will be able to redefine my definition of femininity through this whole experience. Perhaps, in the future I will be more than a just a woman. Perhaps, in the future I will be able to see beyond that, see myself as a human being. I am positive that the scars will fade, my hair will grow back, and that someday I will be able to put most of this behind me. Nevertheless, part of me will always question what it means to be a woman and whether my body actually qualifies anymore. So yes, I am having a mastectomy, but not a total mastectomy. I take comfort in knowing that I get to keep most of my breast and that reconstruction will be much easier for me because of this. I also will have the peace of mind that comes with knowing my cancer is unlikely to come back. So really, it’s not such a bad thing, it’s just a hard thing. Hopefully, like many other “things” throughout my cancer journey, the hard stuff will get easier too.

Cleaning the Kitchen and Other Subversive Acts

Rules seem to be the main theme of having cancer. Don’t overwork yourself, don’t sleep too much during the day, don’t drink, don’t, don’t, don’t! Most of the time the rules are conflicting. I hear a lot of, “do not push yourself too far, unless you feel up to it,” “Stay away from spicy food unless you can eat it,” and “Avoid human contact, but do not isolate yourself.” However, the main rule-and one that everyone cannot seem to keep driving home- is don’t get sick. Chemotherapy knocks out your immune system so it is really easy to get sick. This results in a number of ridiculous rules mostly concerning the preparation and eating of food. They want me to eat vegetables but they all need to be cooked. Heaven forbid there be lingering bacteria on a pepper or a green bean, or, gasp, what about a little bit of dirt on a potato? I am supposed to peel all fruit with waxy coating before I eat it and avoid fruits that have surfaces that are not easily washed. Preparing food is especially daunting as I am supposed to make sure all surfaces are perfectly clean. How in the world am I supposed to clean everything if I am not supposed to come in contact with most cleaning supplies or the objects that are meant to be cleaned? This is madness. To hell with it, I am going to clean anyway. Not only am I going to clean, but I am going to eat raw vegetables and thoroughly enjoy doing it in a stick-it-to-the-man sort of way. That’s right, eating a salad is now an act of rebellion.

I view most of the things I do as acts of rebellion. It is so easy to give into expectations of exhaustion and sickness. I refuse to let myself give in. I have begun to do things. I am reading more, I sew, I cook and I have become increasingly more involved in my community through volunteering. All of these things I do as rebellion. Just because I am sick does not mean that I can’t. I am so tired of being told that I cannot do things or that I should not be capable of acting on my desires. I CAN do them and I will. So now, every single time I go for a walk or bake cookies or even fold the laundry I do it prove them wrong. Who are they? They are the doubters and the rule makers. I have to say it is quite fun to prove them wrong. I am doing well. In fact, one could say I am the poster child for chemotherapy. I am getting less worn down by my treatments as I become more used to dealing with and responding to them. My white blood cell count is ridiculously high for someone in this stage of chemotherapy and Sven has continued to shrink. He now resembles a large, squashed piece of taffy. Yes I am bald, I feel like have the flu, my skin is dry, and migraines continue to plague me at the most random times, but I refuse to let this get me down. I am a cancer anarchist.

My acts of rebellion alone are not the only things that keep me going. So many people help me to keep up my stubborn nature. I see their help as yet more acts of defiance. Every word of encouragement helps to keep me going. Every kind act and every little bit of compassion I see helps to propel me forward into my treatment with increasing resolve. I have an amazing grandmother who never fails to send me an inspirational card each week and friends that check on me with a regularity that is almost startling. One in particular who always Skypes with me even though I know she has better things to do. I live in a community filled with prayers and reassurance. I am never going to forget how my elementary school principal reached out to hug me in church this last Sunday when I broke down during “On Eagles Wings” (This song was way too much to handle in my current over-emotional state right now. Seriously, look it up!). My family is awesome. My aunts frequently call me, text me, or sit with me on my bad days. I have a wonderful cousin who walks with me regularly to help combat the effects of chemotherapy. There is an aunt living in Vermont who periodically calls to check on me and I have a friend in Texas who never fails to do so either. Every day someone does something surprising and wonderful. I am privy to so many acts of kindness that I cannot even begin to list them all. I am so blessed to be part of these people’s lives. Every time I hear phrases such as, “You can beat this,” “You can do it,” and “You are strong” I feel an overwhelming sense of pride. I am so proud of and thankful to have people around who also refuse to let me listen to the expectations of a cancer patient. These people have kept me sane and are continuing to do so. I am happy to have so many people around to help me stay stubborn. I am grateful to be a part of this rebellion.

Chemotherapy is Crazy Shit

Chemotherapy is absolutely ridiculous. The second round of chemo went pretty well. They gave me better drugs to cope with the after effects. Having the worst flu ever is still better than my response to the first round. In addition to feeling better I have also started to notice some changes as my body responds to being repeatedly poisoned. The first thing was smells. I’m not talking about simply smelling something. Now I smell things. It would seem that as my sense of taste slowly disappears my body makes up for it by giving me the ability to smell everything. As my cousin pointed out, “It’s like you have a superpower.” To be honest, this is the worst superpower ever. Things that typically smell strong like garlic, mint, and onions are now way too much. Try being in an Italian household and avoiding the smell of garlic. It’s impossible. Other things I used to love are now less than pleasant. I used to enjoy going to the grocery store, but now, going to the grocery store is like preparing for battle. The epic battle of, “Please don’t get too close to me because I can smell you and everything I don’t need to know about you” battle. Seriously, a little bit of perfume is all you need and honestly, smokers, is it really worth me wanting to gag for you to light up? Besides, it gives you cancer anyway… This would not be so bad except for there are a bunch of other strange side effects that keep cropping up. For example, I can no longer tolerate red dye and there is a strange, acrid, chemical smell (that only I can smell) coming from my head. I also can no longer eat anything spicy or acidic. Which is a whole other issue because what I can taste I can’t eat and what I don’t taste I can. If I eat any more starch and carbs I might as well turn into a potato pancake. Food matters aside, there are more pressing things to worry about.

This last weekend my hair started to fall out. To be honest we all knew this was coming. To be even more honest we all knew just how very attached to my hair I was. No matter how much I might talk about being strong and above it all my hair has always been my one vanity. I would like to say that I handled this like a champ. However, on Friday, when it started to fall I was a bit perturbed. Actually I fell apart. It just started to shed, kind of like a cats fur when you have been petting it for awhile. I kept touching my head and the stuff just started to come out. Flash forward to me huddled in the corner of my couch with a blanket and my cat. I am crying while I slowly hold what were once firmly attached hairs in my hands. Clearly an melodramatic response to something I saw coming in the first place, but I’m going to say it was healthy just to make myself feel better. After several hours of this and mindless television watching my parents came home and I tried to pull myself together. That evening I was brought back to the real world by a phone call from a friend of mine who now calls once a week just to check on me. The simple act of talking to someone who cares for five minutes really did me some good and helped me kick myself back into gear. On Saturday evening, fed up with the constant shedding and anticipating the inevitable, I decided to shave the remaining hair off. You try waiting for all your hair to slowly fall out, it’s hard and I, for one, do not have the patience.

Shaving your head seems like a simple matter and not complicated at all. However, if all you have are some scissors and a razor that you had previously only used for leg shaving it can be quite complicated. The whole process took about two hours. First, my mom cut my hair off as close to my scalp as she could. The plan was to then shave off the rest with the razor. Obviously Shick Quattro for Women did not anticipate this particular use for their razor. We went through three blades before we finally came to a rough, but the job is done, stopping place. Man, is my head weird looking. I think I knew that I would not make a pretty bald person, but I now I know that I don’t make a pretty bald person. At last! I have finally achieved the quintessential cancer patient trademark. Not only do I feel like a cancer patient, but I look like one. This does open the playing field for all sorts of fun though. I have enjoyed my new wigs and playing with scarves. I also have this great little, white, lacy sleeping cap that my aunt gave me. So it isn’t that bad. Being bald also comes in handy when the hot flashes come.

Chemo-induced menopause is no joke. I’m sorry, but going through menopause at 23 sucks. Now, not only am I bald and sick, but I am also on a hormone roller coaster of craziness. I am not usually a cranky person, but lately the littlest things have me responding a bit more passionately than before. For example, normally I would be angry about such things as the Susan G. Komen Foundation taking much needed funds from women (if only for three days). On this particular occasion I was seeing murder and having hot flashes the whole time. I also respond to warm and fuzzy things in a way that could only be described as overkill. Picture me watching a public service announcement, crying and stating, “Oh, that just so sweet.” So please bear with me if my reactions to seemingly ordinary things are a bit over the top. In addition to these lovely emotional responses, I now wake up at about 3:30 every morning filled with energy. One problem, there is rarely anything to do at 3:30 in the morning. I have taken to wandering the house, reading and occasionally making breakfast for my family. If anyone has any suggestions for things to do at this time I would love them. Also, I need to include an apology here to every menopausal woman that I have ever made fun of for complaining about hot flashes. Holy Guacamole you were not kidding! I have the sudden urge to strip down in the strangest places simply because I’m so very hot. The sad thing is that I am so pale from the chemotherapy that the hot flashes only serve the purpose of making me look almost normal again.

So yes, chemotherapy is ridiculous. It has it rendered me bald, menopausal and given me strange superpowers of smell that I do not want. Aside from these things I now burn to a crisp at the slightest exposure to sunlight and wonder aimlessly in search of things to do at odd hours in the night/morning. Regardless of all of these things it is worth it. It is worth it because it is working. I do not need to tell everyone how scared I was about not responding to chemo. However, there is nothing to worry about because Sven has shrunk!! You really have no idea how exciting it is that my breasts are now relatively the same size and both fit in my bra again. This is good. So good in fact, that I don’t mind being sick for an entire week or going bald or even going through menopause at the age of 23. The fact that Sven is getting zapped and slowly shrinking from my life makes everything that is happening to me wonderful. I never want to contend with this ridiculous twist on mitosis ever again and I hope that after this I won’t. It is this hope, the hope of friends, and the hope that my shrinking tumor gives me that helps keep me going. I am half way through the worst of chemotherapy. Yes, there is still a lot more to come, but everyone keeps telling me that this is the worst part. If the best of the worst is that the worst is working, then I am all for it. Bring it on hot flashes, bring it on.

Laughter, Music, Popsicle Sticks, & Walking With Dad

I don’t think that anyone can ever go into her/his first round of chemotherapy prepared. I tried, Lord knows, I always try to be prepared for everything. On Tuesday, I could hardly eat anything. I ate a super early breakfast/lunch around 9 a.m. This lunch consisted of nothing more than a small piece of chicken and very little pasta from the night before. Needless to say, by the time 1p.m. came around, I was incredibly nervous and still not really hungry. I was immediately taken back to be weighed, talked to by the doctor, and given a brief examination. Much to my surprise I had already lost two pounds since Friday. Not so bad, I thought to myself, it could have been worse. The nurse took me to the blandest office I have ever been inside in my life! Everything was tan and there was this lovely “different kinds of cancer” flip chart sitting on the counter. Possibly five minutes later a nurse practitioner came in. She went over my chemotherapy regime with me one more time as well as the premeds and the medications I would be taking for the next few days to combat the chemotherapy. She then gave me a brief examination to check the status of Sven and handed me a very nice canvas bag with a warm fuzzy polka dot blanket, some gum, lotion, and a word find book inside. I thanked her and was led to the chemotherapy room.

The chemo room was packed with patients when I got inside. Apparently they were short-handed on nurses that day so everyone needed to be patient (literally, the patients needed patience lol). Nevertheless, this place has some of the sweetest and most considerate nurses I have ever met and they are sure to put a smile on your face. I looked around the room, which had many windows and was painted in nice light colors. There was a TV on the wall as well as one or two paintings. Every chemo patient had a lazy-boy-esc chair to sit in next to a rod often with bags hanging from it. The chairs were all a shade of green and had a vinyl-like finish to them. I was by far the youngest patient in the room and waiting awkwardly to be told what to do. A smiling and familiar face instantly greeted me. This woman had been in the waiting room with me the last time I had come to the oncologist. Apparently she was my pre-school teacher when I was just a little girl. She also has cancer now, but you would not know it if you saw her face. She is filled with sunshine and laughter. You could hear her laugh throughout the entire building. She instantly switched to a seat near mine and made sure that I was comfortable and had everything I needed. She truly made that day far less scary than it could be. Needless to say sitting in chemotherapy isn’t so bad. Thanks to my mediport it doesn’t really hurt at all and it is kind of fun to watch the nurses do their thing. There is a lot of joking between patients and nurses and everyone tries to make everyone else feel better. Also, there’s a candy basket! Any place with free candy can’t be all that bad. Slowly, but surely all of the patients filed out. I had gotten in later that day so in the end it was just the woman with all of the laughter and me. It really wasn’t so bad at all. I am so grateful for the upbeat attitudes of everyone in that room. I promised to bring them all cookies next time, two out of three nurses said that oatmeal raisin was their favorite, so I believe I will be fine tuning this recipe before my next chemo appointment.

For the first couple of hours after chemotherapy I was tired. I mean tired. I felt like someone had laid one of those lead vests that they use in x-ray over my entire body. I should have gone to sleep, but I was told by everyone that I should try to eat something first. Having eaten basically nothing all day but a little bit of pasta, a cookie (worst mistake ever), and some fun sized crunch bars, I thought it would be a good idea to eat something real. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men… I will never, ever fast all day before chemotherapy again. EVER. Next time, I will be sure to eat well in the morning so that after chemo I can go home and sleep before the nausea hits. Dear Lord in Heaven, what in the world was I thinking? I really could not eat much of dinner. About an hour and a half after dinner the nausea hit. The worst thing about this is that I really didn’t have anything in my stomach to be sick with. (I’m really not going to sugar coat this so you might want to skip to the next paragraph if you’re not good with this stuff.) I was in bed when everything started to feel wrong. I immediately recognized my mistake in leaving my nausea pills downstairs in the living room. So began the slowest and hardest walk downstairs of my life. I could hardly see straight. I just kept focusing on my breathing and taking one step at a time. After my first few steps down the stairs, holding onto the sides of the walls, I took my first break. I just sat there, on the steps, for about five minutes breathing and trying to tell myself that it would be okay. I managed to make it into the living room and sit on the chair in front of my medication. My dad asked me if I was okay and I indicated that I wasn’t. It was very hard to figure out what medication I was looking for because I could not read the labels very well. I could not ask dad for help because he did not know which medications were for what (In the future I’m going to type up a list of labels and what they are for, for just such emergencies). At this point the pain came. By pain I mean extreme burning in my upper stomach, lower abdomen, and head. It was intensive heat at these core places in my body and it spread straight through my veins. It was awful. I made it to the bathroom only to dry heave nothingness. I curled up in a little ball on the bathroom floor and just tried to breathe slowly. I took my nausea medicine, but it didn’t seem to be working. I just wanted it to be over. Even though I was hot all over on the inside, I was freezing on the outside. Any attempt at a blanket just made the nausea worse so I just sucked it up and kept shivering. Mom and dad came in to check on me intermittently. Dad at some point brought me some cold apple juice drink for my stomach and an ice pack for my face, which was burning hot. At some point I made the mistake of looking into a mirror and realized that I looked like an albino smurf. I never knew that a person could be so pasty and so blue at the same time. Ugh, this was awful. However, about three or four hours later, this passed and I was able to go upstairs and get some much-needed sleep.

I don’t remember much of Wednesday except that I pretty much lived on Popsicle sticks, a brilliant idea told to me by a friend. They seem to be so perfect for my no longer happy stomach. At around 1 p.m. Dad came home to take me on a walk. The doctors suggested a fifteen-minute walk everyday to combat the chemo. The walk helped some. It was nice to spend some time with my dad. Wednesday continued in a fog of sleep, nausea, and double vision. I played music very quietly in the background because harsh sounds and lights only made things worse. I lived on my anti-nausea medication. However, the music was helpful because it created a great distraction and kept me calm. I think I may need to talk to my doctors because my nausea medication doesn’t appear to be working. Sigh, I’m sure we’ll find something that works out. This was only the first try after all.

Thursday was so much better! My stomach was still a little bit queasy, but I was up and around. I was able to accomplish some tasks I had been meaning to get to and my aunt came to watch over me in the morning and take me to the doctor in the afternoon. Somehow, between surgery on Friday and Chemo on Tuesday I have lost about five pounds. However, I don’t doubt that I will get these pounds back! I managed some toast and a bit of egg for breakfast, a bit of soup and fruit for lunch and almost and entire bowl of macaroni and cheese for dinner. I got to have my Nuelasta shot which essentially helps shoot up my white blood cells and boost my immune system. My dad took me for another walk. This walk was much better and I didn’t need to lean on him the entire time. It really was a pretty good day! I feel better and better as the days go on and I have an entire two weeks to recover in-between rounds of chemotherapy. I think that next time will be better as I have learned the does and don’ts of eating as well as know what to expect. I will also talk to my doctor about some better anti-nausea medication. I have no doubts that the next round will not be as bad as the first. So overall, not so bad. J