A woman at work was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. I stepped in to see her, and said “Welcome to my club.” She said she didn’t want to be in my club. I told her I understood that and we hugged.
When you find out that you have breast cancer it is amazing how quickly you learn who else in your world has or has had breast cancer. It’s like a Doppler radar picture rippling out throughout your own 6 degrees of separation. While the numbers are alarming and sobering, they are also comforting. There’s a bunch of survivors out there.
And we help each other. I spent an hour on the phone last night with my roommate from the surgery. We compared notes about numb armpits and spent a lot of time laughing as well. Misery does love company after all.
There seems to be an unwritten, but intrinsically understood rule among cancer survivors: they must share. They must pay the story of their survival forward. Who better to pass on the precious flame that is hope? The American Cancer Society understands this very well. In their Cancer Recovery program they partner new “inductees” with survivors who seem to be trained in the exactly perfect time to call.
Here’s the thing though. Cancer is an equal opportunity employer; it has no problem meeting diversity quotas, but it is also careful to give each of its employees a unique experience. So there are no blanket assurances. You can’t say, “There won’t be any nausea at all!” All you can say is “I didn’t have any nausea!” And even knowing that each body handles these treatments in a different way, it is still reassuring and comforting to hear that this person at least had no trouble.
It’s a little like when Harry Potter was in the Tri-wizard Tournament and warned Cedric that one of the trials was going to be dragons. He couldn’t tell Cedric what to do about the dragon--they each had a different kind-- but just knowing about the dragon certainly helped.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
the first 30 drips
The warning labels on the medications known as “chemotherapy” make ‘take with food’ look like small meaningless asides for amateurs.
Of course, they don’t simply hand you the IV package to read over. The doctor and nurse sit with you and explain each point and then hand you paperwork for a little light reading at home. You come away pretty convinced you shouldn’t be anywhere near the stuff, let alone let someone else deliberately poison you with it.
Still, my first chemo went well. The nurses hung out for “the first 30 drips” watching carefully for undue reactions. The most painful thing for me was actually getting the IV put in, a procedure I am normally “very good about” I kept telling everyone, but for some reason hurt like the dickens. Add to that the incredible stomachache I had when I arrived—oddly, the same one I took with me for my surgery (what nerves will do!).
We were given a private room for my first time and trooped in with magazines, snacks and a portable Scrabble game. (Shall I just mention here, that yes, I did whup my sister in Scrabble in a first that probably had to do with the fact that I was pumped up with steroids?)
Then, it is simply waiting. It takes a long time to drip and you are told to drink and pee as much as possible, chew ice chips and eat snacks and a light lunch. We read Christmas magazines. My daughter darted out for Panera. I whupped my sister in Scrabble (oh, already mentioned that didn’t I?).
When we arrived home I was tired, but who isn’t around 3:30? We decided then and there that chemo nights would become movie nights and so off we went to AMC where I stood far from the crowd while the tickets were bought. Not bad.
Fast forward to the 6th day—er night. It is 4:15 and I am wide awake at the computer because I am (ironically?) tired of lying awake. Last night the temperature drop combined with the 6th day caused ripples of spasms in my lower back that had me cringing while I attempted to ignore it all and watch Glee.
I think it is fixin’ to snow.
I also have what I am calling “pink tissue issues”—a condition where it feels like anything on my body that has pink tissue feels sensitive. This is because the drugs kill fast-growing cells and those cells in our pink tissues (aka mouth) are fast-growing.
Just call me, sting-ache-itch and you’ve pretty much covered it.
There are a few soothing remedies, however. One is the knowledge that I just have to do this three more times. The other is the timely delivery of Christmas cookies. And third? Same cure Harry Potter used against dementors—chocolate—seems to work with chemo as well…that’s my theory anyway.
Of course, they don’t simply hand you the IV package to read over. The doctor and nurse sit with you and explain each point and then hand you paperwork for a little light reading at home. You come away pretty convinced you shouldn’t be anywhere near the stuff, let alone let someone else deliberately poison you with it.
Still, my first chemo went well. The nurses hung out for “the first 30 drips” watching carefully for undue reactions. The most painful thing for me was actually getting the IV put in, a procedure I am normally “very good about” I kept telling everyone, but for some reason hurt like the dickens. Add to that the incredible stomachache I had when I arrived—oddly, the same one I took with me for my surgery (what nerves will do!).
We were given a private room for my first time and trooped in with magazines, snacks and a portable Scrabble game. (Shall I just mention here, that yes, I did whup my sister in Scrabble in a first that probably had to do with the fact that I was pumped up with steroids?)
Then, it is simply waiting. It takes a long time to drip and you are told to drink and pee as much as possible, chew ice chips and eat snacks and a light lunch. We read Christmas magazines. My daughter darted out for Panera. I whupped my sister in Scrabble (oh, already mentioned that didn’t I?).
When we arrived home I was tired, but who isn’t around 3:30? We decided then and there that chemo nights would become movie nights and so off we went to AMC where I stood far from the crowd while the tickets were bought. Not bad.
Fast forward to the 6th day—er night. It is 4:15 and I am wide awake at the computer because I am (ironically?) tired of lying awake. Last night the temperature drop combined with the 6th day caused ripples of spasms in my lower back that had me cringing while I attempted to ignore it all and watch Glee.
I think it is fixin’ to snow.
I also have what I am calling “pink tissue issues”—a condition where it feels like anything on my body that has pink tissue feels sensitive. This is because the drugs kill fast-growing cells and those cells in our pink tissues (aka mouth) are fast-growing.
Just call me, sting-ache-itch and you’ve pretty much covered it.
There are a few soothing remedies, however. One is the knowledge that I just have to do this three more times. The other is the timely delivery of Christmas cookies. And third? Same cure Harry Potter used against dementors—chocolate—seems to work with chemo as well…that’s my theory anyway.
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