“That was between blood tests. You kept saying you were freezing, and the waiting room was cold, so I took you out to the car and turned the heater on.”
“Weird to be so cold with a 105 fever.”
“Yes, well, that apparently happens when you get down to your last six white blood cells.”
“Like Seamus.”
“What?”
“That’s what happened to Seamus. He wasn’t shaking, but he was pretty out of it. Shaking would have freaked me out even more.”
“Believe me, I was freaked out. I wasn’t there when it happened to Seamus, but if it was even half as frightening as this was, it was horrible.”
“It was. It definitely was. Thank you for taking care of me.”
“You and this dog—I can’t believe you had the same white blood cell crash. I really could have done without that part.” He was petting Seamus in bed next to me when he said this.
“I know, baby. I know.” I petted Seamus, too. Seamus and I both received Cytoxan chemotherapy, but that wasn’t what had caused his white blood cell crash. I had foolishly assumed it wouldn’t cause mine.
We didn’t notice the flashing red light on our answering machine until the next morning. The neighbors on each side of us had called, complaining of Seamus’s howling at the gate. I told Chris I would at least handle that much. I’d email the neighbors, explain what happened, and ask for their patience and understanding. I wasn’t convinced I’d get it, but I didn’t want Chris to have to deal with angry neighbors, too.
I sent the email and told my neighbors, for the first time, about my cancer. Judy called immediately. She let me know that she too was a breast cancer survivor.
“Please don’t worry about the dog. You have enough to worry about. I’m so sorry we called. We didn’t know,” Judy said.
“Oh, I know. And I’m so sorry he bothered you. We usually don’t leave him alone.”
“You had no choice. Please let us know if there is anything we can do to help. Anything at all. And don’t worry at all about Seamus. You do what you need to do.”
Our neighbor on the other side responded shortly after and, much to my surprised pleasure, offered to watch Seamus for us if we ever needed it. I wouldn’t have been more surprised if she had offered to assume my cancer for me.
• • •
So it occurred to me in an odd, rambling way (which is how things tend to occur to me) that cancer treatments are in many ways all about keeping the wolf at the gate away or at least on the other side of the gate. But this week, as I think we’re all clear on now, has been all about dealing with the side effects of the chemotherapy, which is all about keeping the cancer-wolf on the other side of the gate. There was the white blood cell count crash. That’s mostly under control. I have some energy back, my temperature has returned to normal but still tends to creep up slightly right around the fourth hour after I’ve taken Tylenol, and I’ve still got to avoid being around crowds or sick people. I have three more days of antibiotics. And I’m just not a good sick person. Unless it’s completely obvious I’m sick (see Monday), I tend to forget. So today I forgot the antibiotics and the wolf started licking its chops. I took them with dinner. The antibiotics, not the wolf.
Then there’s the mouth problems. I have no taste buds anymore. Well, I do, but they are mostly programmed to “under the car hood” and “dirt.” Of course, this doesn’t stop me from eating. It just means I eat a little of everything trying to find something that tastes good. Then I try to remind myself that I’m supposed to eat for nutrition, not taste. Then I laugh at myself. Then I berate myself. Also, now my gums and mouth in general are so tender the electric toothbrush is a no-go and I have to use an extra-soft bristle brush. I was already using special toothpaste and mouthwash designed for dry mouth and to increase bacteria fighting. It was recommended by my dental hygienist when I went in for my final cleaning until after chemo (right, that’s another thing you can’t do during chemo). The mouthwash in particular is very soothing. So now I am completely a special needs dental care person. I brush my teeth completely differently than you do. I also take a lot more Tylenol. (And chemo.)
• • •
When I woke Thursday morning, exactly two weeks from the chemo infusion, I hesitated to lift my head from the pillow, suspecting my hair would not come up with me. I’d been told this was when the hair loss would start. In the shower, I washed my hair gently, fearing it would drop out all at once. I combed it out slowly and let it air dry, carefully pulling it back in a low ponytail. So little hair came out that day that I began to think maybe I’d be lucky. Maybe Wednesday’s hair loss was it. But then Dr. Glaspy’s words came back to me: “One hundred percent guaranteed your hair will fall out.”
I called Kelly, my hairstylist, to arrange for her to shave my head on Friday evening. I got my wig ready—I’d be a redhead soon. All dog owners begin to look like their dogs eventually, right? It was not the wig that won in my blog polling, but it was a respectable second place, and the process helped me determine what I really wanted to do. And what I wanted to do was have a little fun with the situation.
I was tired of the stress of constantly worrying when and if my hair would fall out. I wanted to get it over with. Somehow I felt the sooner I got the hair loss out of the way, the closer I’d be to finishing all of the treatments. I could move on to the recovery stage.
Kelly arrived at 5:15, and Chris made us all margaritas. But Kelly was not anxious to get the shaving over with. She kept asking me if I was sure I was ready.
“Kelly, I have to be ready. Let’s just do it.” I sat down on the chair Chris had brought into our living room on the wood floor. I could see Kelly was fighting back tears. “No crying! This is not supposed to be harder for you than it is for me.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You’re really brave.”
I’d heard “brave” from a lot of people since my diagnosis, but really, what’s the other choice?
While Seamus watched, seated in front of me, staring up, and Chris took photos, Kelly wrapped a cape around me and began cutting. At first she cut six inches of length, and for a brief time I had a bob. Then she cut the sides much shorter, and we laughed at my mullet. The hair in the back went next. I did not look down at the floor; it was easier to look ahead—sometimes at Seamus, sometimes at Chris. It’s only hair. It grows back. It’s a small price to pay for living.
Kelly pulled out men’s hair clippers. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
“It’s a little late to stop now,” I said. There was only about an inch of roughly chopped hair left on my head. “Go ahead.”
“I’m not going to shave it all the way down. It’s too risky that you’d be cut. If I leave a quarter to a half inch, you’ll have less scalp irritation.” She turned on the clippers.
I heard the humming noise of the clippers and felt the tickle of hair falling down my neck, and in only a few moments it was over.
She handed me a mirror.
I was not shocked by my appearance. I had the same face, wore the same clothes, was the same person. I just had a lot less hair. No one would refer to me as “blondie” now. I wondered though, without makeup and colorful clothing, and when all of the hair was gone, how bad would I look?
“You look cute,” Chris said.
“Cute is an overstatement, but thank you.”
“You have a great face. You can totally pull this off.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Kelly said.
“Thanks, you guys. I’m okay. Thanks.”
For the next several days, small hairs dropped everywhere I went. I shed worse than Seamus ever did. Within a week I had only a few wispy baby-like hairs on the top of my head and around my ears. I did not ever get the shiny bald look that many get, but I was certainly bald. After a few more days, the baldness was almost a reli
ef. I was too tired to have to mess with styling hair anyway.
Chapter 21
SIDE EFFECTS
After my day of medical bills and taxes yesterday and then missing out on such a fun event today [Chris and friends in San Diego at a Wine and Food Festival] staying home and working instead (you know, to pay those medical bills), it was hard not to launch into a full-blown pity party. I came close. More than once.
But luckily I had Seamus and he abhors pity parties. If you suffer from depression, get a beagle. Then get some food. You’ll be endlessly amused and laughing in no time. Seamus even convinced me to take him for a walk. (This is when I was explaining to him that I am fat and ugly and now broke; he was sure a walk would cure all of that.)
That’s two days in a row of walking! For me, that’s like a full-blown exercise routine. I’m sure I even worked off the potato chips I ate at some point during the pity party (because come on, what’s a pity party without potato chips?). I’m thinking keeping busy is somewhat key to this positive attitude thing. Just maybe not busy with a bag of chips.
• • •
I did not wake as early for my second chemo session, but without hair or the ability to enjoy the taste of coffee anymore, I was able to get ready quickly. I wore the Sienna Chablis blond wig, but I put a soft cotton newspaper-boy cap on over it, which I felt made it look less wig-like. I looked and felt fine, I thought. Once again I hugged Seamus for luck and took a picture with him, and then Chris and I loaded up the car with our “picnic” lunch, books, and Seamus, along with all of his required paraphernalia for the day.
We dropped Seamus off at Destiny’s house.
As we parked at the oncology center, I said to Chris, “I think I’ll be okay if you don’t want to stay with me the whole time. I have a feeling I’ll sleep. Now I understand why all the other patients seemed to be sleeping last time.”
“Okay, if that’s the case I might run out and do some errands.”
“You should.”
For the first half hour of my infusion, Chris stayed and chatted with me and with Elizabeth, back again for what we learned was her mother’s last treatment.
“I think I’m going to read, so you can go now if you want,” I said.
“You sure?” Chris said.
“Yeah. This is boring, and you have things to do. If you’re back for us to have lunch that will be fine.”
Once Chris was gone, I leaned back in my chair and opened my book.
Fifteen minutes later Elizabeth said to me, “Do you feel okay?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You’re kind of red.”
“I am?”
The woman in the chair next to me turned and looked. “Yes, you are. You’re very red.”
Just then my face began to sting. Then my hands tingled and quickly numbed. And then I was hot—very hot. A bolt of pain shot through my lower back just as I was ready to ask for help. Instead all that came out of my mouth was a gasp. The nurse across the room raced over.
She flipped the switch on my IV pole and stopped the infusion. “How do you feel?”
“Hot. And my back is killing me. I should have taken the sedative you offered.”
“I’m giving you Benadryl and Decadron intravenously; you should feel better quickly.” She changed out the bags of fluid on my IV pole and turned the pump on again.
In minutes the pain in my back subsided. And, the ladies around me were quick to comment, I’d gone back to normal coloring. The nurse then hooked up a saline solution to flush out my system. Once that finished, the chemo was started again, with a slower drip. I lasted fifteen minutes before the tingling hot flush returned. The nurse had to repeat the intravenous flushing process one more time.
By the time Chris returned for lunch, I was no further along in getting the actual chemo than I had been when he’d left.
“You missed all the excitement.”
“I did? What happened?”
I told him, while Elizabeth added color commentary (mostly red).
“Geez. I shouldn’t have left,” he said.
“It’s okay. You couldn’t have known. And I’m fine now.”
“Have I mentioned how much I hate chemo? I’m not leaving again.”
“Okay, well, settle in then. The nurse says that now they’ll do the infusion much more slowly to avoid any reaction. And next time, they’ll keep my steroid dosage up. So that should be fun.”
Chris dropped heavily into the chair beside me. “I thought it was going to be another white blood cell crash.”
I reached over and held his hand with my free right hand. I had thought the same thing.
Once again, we watched as each of the other patients that day finished treatment and headed home. We said good-bye and good luck to Elizabeth and her mother, who received her “diploma” for completing treatment. The doctors and nurses and we fellow (envious) patients all applauded her as the staff gave her a “graduation” ceremony.
Chris and I were the last to leave, along with our nurse, at nearly six that evening.
“The steroids are working,” I said as soon as Chris and I were in the car. “You know how I know?”
“You have a sudden urge to bat? Or you’re angry and wanting to fight?”
“Pizza. I want pizza.”
“We can do that. I certainly don’t feel like cooking. We’ll get a pizza, get our dog, and get home.”
“Sounds good.”
The next day we’d have to return to the oncology center for a shot that would prevent the white blood cell crash from happening again. The shot itself had a long list of possible side effects, including “severe bone pain” in 30 percent of patients, but that evening we had a quiet time at home before us.
Seamus, however, had other plans. He must have had steroid sympathy the way he howled for the pizza.
AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO!! Pizza! I Love Pizza!! Pizza is my most favorite. AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO!!! Pizza! It’s like toast with sausage!! Pizza!!! Give me fookin’ pizzaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarooooooooooooohhh!!
I handed Seamus my pizza crust. Chris shook his head.
“You can’t imagine how much sympathy I have for this dog right now,” I said.
We only lasted twenty minutes after devouring the pizza before all three of us fell asleep on the couch.
• • •
Turns out this breast cancer club is kind of a woman thing. Yeah, that’s a problem. I have never been good at women’s club things. Never. I may not be a “group” person in general. For example, the thought of a cancer support group, to me, is worse than the disease. And not surprisingly, no one (not even my health care providers) has suggested that I attend one. Okay, well, the oncologist’s office did hand me a calendar of “events” (which has an awful lot of support groups—but none for generally grumpy, sarcastic souls such as me), but the calendar was for January and February and she handed it to me on February 26.
So here I am—breast cancer person, thrust into a world of pink ribbons, cute T-shirts, inspirational talks/signs/poems/books, woman power, and....cliques. Yeah, cliques. Now don’t get me wrong, I love the shirts. But I’m not that big of a fan of pink (fuchsia, sure, but not baby pink). I also tend to find myself uninspired by things that I’m just sure are supposed to inspire me. I want nothing more than to get through this and return to being me, not a better me, just me.
This feeling that I’m a member of a club has been around since early after my diagnosis. And hey, like Trudi said, it’s not a club anyone wants to belong to so that’s no surprise. The feeling that I might be a loser member of the club and not living up to expectations is new-ish. But the fact that there are “cliques” within this club and a sort of “rule book” is only starting to sneak up on me. I’m not sure I’m finding my clique. Maybe because my people don’t go to pink events?
I might now be the equivalent of the goth kids in high school.
• • •
The shot to prevent the white blood cell crash required its own round of side-effect-fighting pill-popping. I was given another cocktail recipe of sorts. It was a “cocktail” of Claritin, Benadryl, and Tylenol, with a Gatorade chaser. Seamus had been given Tagamet and Zantac. Until then, I had no idea there were so many over-the-counter drugs used in combating cancer.
As a result of these new drugs, I didn’t have nearly as much energy as I had on day three of the first round, and I was disappointed with that. I kept searching for the slightest silver lining. (I had gained, not lost, weight.) I napped, I watched TV with Chris for a bit, and then I zonked out. Since I was taking the steroid medication and drinking a lot of fluids, I had to get up and head to the restroom a couple of times a night. When I got out of bed in the middle of the night, my limbs were heavy. I felt like somebody was pushing me back down. It wasn’t painful as much as awkward and frightening, as though cement was hardening in my veins. How was I going to lug all four limbs to the restroom?
I rocked my limbs into something resembling momentum and flung myself down the hallway to the restroom. I took a Tylenol while I was at it and then fell back into bed, thankful I didn’t cause the bed to crash down to the bottom floor. I stayed in bed most of the morning, without energy and weighing six hundred pounds.
For the first time in seventeen years, I didn’t make it to the Walk with the Animals, benefiting the Mary S. Roberts Pet Adoption Center. I asked Chris to go and to take Seamus. I felt like I would at least be represented. Chris emailed me photos from his cell phone, each one showing a familiar person waving or giving me a thumbs-up sign. He made me feel a part of the event even if I couldn’t make it physically. And Seamus received treats and petting from just about everyone there.
The cement in my veins feeling lasted for nearly a week. I recovered from that just in time to deal with my eyelashes and eyebrows falling out. I had assumed that since they did not fall out with my hair, they would be staying. They had other plans. I could make up for my loss of eyelashes with eyeliner or, perhaps, fake eyelashes. But the loss of eyebrows changes a face. I looked sad. I looked sick.
Dog Lived (and So Will I) Page 26