I looked at Chris. His face registered the same alarm I was feeling.
“Doctor, my cancer is triple-negative. It’s not hormone receptive. My protocol does not call for hormone therapy.”
She turned back to my chart for a brief moment. It should have said “TRIPLE NEGATIVE” and “ALLERGIC” in brightly colored letters, but it did not.
“Of course,” she said, much more quietly than she’d been speaking to me.
“You see why I’m concerned you’re not involved in my care?”
After that, she spent twenty minutes examining me and listening to my concerns. I went forward with the chemo that day, and by the time we left, she had come in to see me to suggest I take the antinausea and sedative medication prescription she’d given me to help with my insomnia and given me an herbal remedy to help with the night sweats. She also agreed with my father about the baking soda for the indigestion. I got the impression she’d finally not only listened, but also had gone back and read my entire file. She addressed concerns I’d only mentioned to the nurses previously.
I slept through most of the infusion. It turns out it’s exhausting to sit in a paper vest dodging a stethoscope while cross-examining a fast-talking doctor.
• • •
So this new chemo....it’s Taxol instead of Taxotere. And I was switched to it on Thursday with, oh, about thirty minutes’ warning, during the stethoscope tango I was doing with the good doc. I was surprised to start feeling queasy Friday night and all day yesterday. Of all the side effects chemo brings, that just hadn’t been one of them. I sort of feel like I’ve had my share, so I wasn’t really expecting that one.
But then I went online last night and looked up Taxol. Hmmm....seems that’s a really common side effect of Taxol. More than the others. Gee....wouldn’t that have been nice to know? Perhaps I would have taken the extra antinausea medicine earlier. Oh, and it causes....I’m just going to go with “the opposite digestive problem from the one I’m used to.” Also would have been good to know ahead of time. Like, say, twelve hours ahead of time so I know which of the medications to take to combat the side effects. But you know, chemo is just one of those things you drop by the doctor’s office for on a whim and then head on out. It’s not like you need to prepare or, you know, plan for anything. I’m clearly just a big wimp. In a headscarf. And just about when I learn how to anticipate all these things, I’m going to be through with chemo.
• • •
Dressing to meet Chris’s parents for brunch was easier this time. No one could really judge a chemo patient, and of course my hair would look perfect. All I had to do was decide if I wanted to be a brunette, a blond, or a redhead. I chose blond. While Britney-Bitch might not seem like an appropriate choice for Easter, it had one advantage: Britney was only a headband of hair—nothing covered the top of my head, which meant I could tie—over my head, pirate-style—the beautiful aqua scarf my friend Gary had just sent me. I liked the look; it seemed both cool and stylish. The look was certainly better than me sweating it out underneath the redheaded, more conservative wig I usually wore to work.
Wigs are hot and scratchy, and by Easter, Riverside was already heating up to be over eighty degrees. I wanted to stay cool, to go with my new calm, forgiving outlook. The scarf also matched perfectly with a new blouse I’d bought. I chose off-white linen pants and flat shoes; for weeks my feet had been too swollen and sore for high heels.
Chris’s family arrived at our home, bearing large Easter baskets. Trudi handed one to me.
“For me?”
“You’re part of the family now, you get an Easter basket.”
Chris did not even try to contain his smile, so I knew he too was remembering that it was a missed Easter brunch that had caused his mother to “out” our relationship. And that I had mocked giving Easter baskets to adults. As I opened the gifts in my Easter basket, though, I became an immediate convert. My basket held two designer scarves and gift cards from Nordstrom, Starbucks, and Barnes & Noble. (Later I told Chris that he must have really loved me to have given up, that fateful Easter, the kind of stash his mother put in an Easter basket.) The only candy in my basket was jelly beans and a white chocolate bunny.
“I remembered that you don’t like chocolate, but I hope white chocolate is okay,” she said.
I was impressed and touched. “It’s perfect. My own parents have trouble remembering I don’t like chocolate. That’s amazing you remembered.”
“I have a niece who doesn’t eat chocolate either.”
“Really? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone else who didn’t like chocolate.”
“See, you fit right into our family!”
“Well, thank you. Very much. It’s a perfect basket filled with all of my favorite things.” I gave her a hug. And I am not one who hugs.
We went to brunch at a friend’s restaurant, and the servers were all wearing black aprons adorned with pink ribbons. The warmth and support I was feeling was almost enough to make me forget the queasy feeling in my stomach.
I scanned the menu, looking for something my stomach could tolerate that also stood a chance of overcoming the iron dirt taste in my mouth.
“You should order the ginger ale, Teresa,” Trudi said.
“Ginger ale?”
“The menu says they make it with fresh grated ginger. That’ll settle your stomach.”
“It will?”
“Absolutely. Ginger is great for an upset stomach.”
Throughout brunch, I gulped down three large glasses of ginger ale, which not only helped my stomach, but also tasted fantastic. I wanted to order gallons of it to go. By the end of brunch I was able to eat nearly my entire omelet along with fresh orange slices and melon.
“The girls want to see the Mission Inn. Do you think you’re up to walking over there?” Trudi asked.
Chris turned to me. “I can take them over there if you want to rest.”
“It’s no problem. It’s right across the street, and I’m feeling pretty good. The ginger ale really helps.”
The six of us walked through the vine-covered pergolas to the gorgeous tiled courtyards of the Mission Inn, enjoying the bougainvillea-drenched arches and balconies, the parrots in the large wrought-iron cage at the entrance, and the smell of eucalyptus wafting over from the adjacent spa. I pointed out the custom carpet with the portraits of each of the California missions, and Kati, Courtney, Chris, and I each found the mission we’d made models of in our grade school days, a rite of passage for California schoolchildren. The weather was Southern California perfect—bright blue sky with cotton clouds and exuberant sunshine. We stopped for photos on one of the balconies outside the chapel, with a view of the Spanish courtyard below. Trudi insisted I be in the photo, so Chris took the picture. I didn’t even worry that I’d be “accidentally” pushed over—surely a sign of mental progress on my part. But so was the fact, plain and simple, that I had enjoyed my time with his family.
• • •
I felt fine today. I even worked until after 6:00 p.m. The feet were a little better. Perhaps because I wore sensible flat shoes (still cute; adorable Coach ballet flats) and then followed Doctor Dad’s orders and soaked my feet in cold water and then elevated them for a bit when I got home. Seems to have helped.
That and I’m distracted from my own health issues by the fact that Seamus clearly isn’t feeling well. He was waiting for me at the gate when I got home....all sad and moving slowly (which almost never happens with a beagle). He took a nap with me but was slow to get off the bed and then yelped when he jumped up on the couch with me later. I think he injured something (back possibly), so we’re letting him rest and see what it looks like in the morning. I’ve tried to feel around, and he let me without any more yelping or wincing, so I can’t really figure out what’s hurting him. He’s awfully cuddly/needy though. Currently, he is
sleeping soundly in his own bed, snoring up a marching band’s worth of noise, and I’m hoping that’s a good thing. Poor Chris. Too many patients in the house.
Chapter 23
HAIRY TIMES
We were looking forward to a weekend of debauchery.
My fourth and final chemo infusion went smoothly with only one exception. I forgot my antinausea medication in the morning.
Chris turned the car around. “We’re like parents of a fourth child. With the first one, we did everything perfectly and by the book. Now we’re down to the fourth, and the only rule is ‘no heroin on the good couch.’”
My forgetfulness made us an hour late and hence, in keeping with our tradition, we were once again the last to leave the oncology office. No diploma or “graduation” ceremony for me. And naturally, no sad good-byes with my doctor.
I didn’t care. It was over.
Bring on the partying.
I had three more weeks of possible side effects, and of course there were thirty-three radiation sessions ahead of me, but I would never again be infused with poison. And Chris and I were looking at a long Memorial Day weekend when I’d finally be off restrictions from the hot tub, strawberries, sushi, crowds, and other dangerous things. I was hopeful my taste buds would return to normal by then as well.
Over the next two weeks, in addition to my usual side effects, my feet swelled to where I only had two pairs of shoes I could wear, the bone pain increased and infiltrated my skull, my throat was sore, and the night sweats were ferocious. But I focused on the cookie, which in this case would be a weekend spent in La Jolla, courtesy of a friend who’d offered up her beach house.
One morning, I woke up craving coffee. When I stepped out of bed, gingerly as usual, I put my foot down. There was no searing pain shooting through! I did not stumble! I could go down the stairs without needing to put both feet on each step. And, the most wonderful sign that the side effects were receding, my Starbucks French Roast tasted like…coffee! Heaven!
Immediately, of course, I scanned my head to see if there were signs of hair sprouting, as though it made perfect sense that all the negative effects would clear up simultaneously. I made Chris look, too.
“It’s fuzz, right? There is visible fuzz!”
“More like touchable fuzz, but yes, fuzz. Congratulations, baby. Your bald days are over.”
• • •
Seamus’s x-rays show a little hip dysplasia, but they think he probably injured it and needs to rest. No stairs. No jumping. This is nearly impossible to accomplish because (1) he’s a beagle and (2) our house is multileveled and has stairs pretty much everywhere. He now has anti-inflammatory medicine as well, and judging by the effects of the first one, it makes him feel like he can run up and down stairs....until he can’t. And Seamus hates to be picked up (he hates not being in control actually), so this carrying him up and down the stairs is going to be interesting.
In other news, I officially have “skull stubble”!!! The hair has definitely started its comeback. Not that you could tell, but I can definitely tell. As can Chris. We asked Seamus for his opinion, but he honestly doesn’t care. That’s part of what’s so great about dogs.
• • •
I tied a pink scarf around my fuzzy head. A wig seemed ridiculous at the beach.
The weather was warm, with clear, sunny skies, which I figured was why so many people smiled at us as Chris and I walked the La Jolla beach, holding hands.
Then I noticed the head tilt and the slight squint of their eyes as they looked at me.
“Ah. The sympathy smile. Everyone is thinking I have cancer.”
Chris slid his arm around my waist. “I don’t know about everyone, but yes, it’s fairly obvious you’ve been battling breast cancer. If not the T-shirt or sweatshirt, the scarf would be a clear indicator.”
I looked down at my attire. He had a point; I was wearing a “Cancer Vixen” T-shirt and the sweatshirt emblazoned with “Beagles for Boobies.” And then, yes, there was the scarf—the waving chemo symbol. “It’s ironic. This is the best I’ve felt since surgery, and now I look sick to everyone.”
“Not to me you don’t.”
In the weeks ahead I chose mostly to wear only scarves, and I’d be frequently surprised by doors being held open, chairs offered up in waiting areas, a free drink, and once, a free banana cream pie, which I shared at my radiation appointment. I began to think of my scarf as having superpowers, and it all began there on Windansea Beach in La Jolla as I celebrated getting my life back.
• • •
The regular blog postings have been interrupted due to the following circumstances:
a.the end of chemo restrictions;
b.the presence of a fresh, clean, refilled hot tub;
c.Chris, and
d.a nicely chilled Four Graces Pinot Blanc.
Enough said.
• • •
My secretary Michelle returned from maternity leave. She brought her infant son, Jayden, with her. We’d agreed she could bring him to work with her for as long as we could make it work. She was efficient and hardworking enough that I knew she’d be able to get as much done in a day with a baby as most people take two days to accomplish. Plus, Jayden was an adorable and content baby. He was very popular with our clients and a nice, happy offset from my “cancer patient” look. He didn’t fuss or cry and judiciously chose to nap for most of the day. He brought another benefit as well.
“He makes me feel better about my hair,” I said.
“I know. He’s just got fuzz. I’m wondering when he’ll start growing real hair,” Michelle said.
“I’m wondering the same thing about me. Is it mean if I challenge him to a hair-growing duel?”
“Not if you let me take pictures.”
She handed Jayden to me and I removed my scarf. Holding babies terrifies me (I mentioned my lack of maternal instinct, didn’t I?). I was thus distracted from the fact that I was now bald in public. A small public of two (one of whom was only an infant), but a public nonetheless. I was too worried about dropping the baby to worry about what a freak I may have looked like.
Michelle took pictures of Jayden and me from the front and the back, with our bald, slightly fuzzy heads together.
“Hey, you both have that red rash thing at the base of your skulls in the back,” she said.
“We do?”
“It’s called a stork bite on babies.”
“Well, I suppose it’s a chemo bite on me. Does it go away? Or does everybody have it and eventually the hair covers it?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
(For the record, I won the hair-growing competition, but Jayden ran away with the “cuteness” category. And the stork bite does go away—on babies and chemo patients.)
• • •
Chris here with another Growin’ It Out For Cancer report, currently entering month four. We’re inching closer (inching....get it?) to the mythical three-inch mark, clearly the longest I have ever worn my hair. Honestly, some days I feel like Richard Marx when I’m brushing back my long, flowing locks after a shower. Other days, I feel like that homeless guy who lives under the overpass. It’s the hair on the back of my neck that’s really getting to me. That and the hair falling down over my ears. Teresa says if I give it another half an inch, I’ll be able to push my hair back behind my ears and slick it back, but I don’t know. I don’t think I’m swarthy or exotic enough to pull off that kind of look. I feel like if I slicked my hair back like that I have to start growing a goatee or a full beard, and to be quite honest, I just can’t do that (not that I don’t want to....I think I’m physically incapable of growing a thick, full beard or goatee. Honest, all the hair on my face is on my neck, and let’s face it, neck beard looks good on no man).
• • •
One
more leg of my cancer odyssey remained. Radiation was to start four weeks after chemotherapy ended. Since these treatments were more frequent than even chemo had been—I’d go every weekday for thirty-three visits—returning to UCLA was not an option. But I was very concerned, given how chemo away from UCLA had gone.
Dr. Karam remained Dr. Good Karma by personally researching and finding an oncology radiation center close to my office. He also researched and interviewed the radiation oncologist herself over the phone. “I think you will like her. She seems very good. Very good credentials,” he said.
“I’m glad you found someone so close. Her office is about two miles from mine.”
“Really? That is perfect then.”
“Yes, it is. Especially since there is a Starbucks nearby.”
“Oh, I know that. I searched for a clinic near a Starbucks.”
“You did?”
“Ha! No, T. I searched for a good physician to continue the excellent care you deserve.”
“Awww. Well, I deserve Starbucks, too.”
“And wine! When are you and Chris coming back to LA? When you finish your treatment, we will celebrate with wine.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“And how is Seamus?”
“He’s doing well. He had his own issues with a little hip dysplasia and inflammation, but he’d healing fine now. Running crazy as always.”
“He was jealous you were getting all the medical attention.”
Dr. Good Karma hadn’t met Seamus yet, but he had him figured out. “Sounds about right.” It was Seamus’s ego that was inflamed.
With Dr. Karam’s help, my radiation treatment plan fell into place quickly and easily. Chris went with me to the initial consultation. When Dr. Hocko entered the exam room smiling and cheerful, she made eye contact with us both and had clearly read the information sent to her by UCLA (who now also had my chemotherapy files). She also commented that she liked Dr. Karam and enjoyed talking with him. I took that as a very good sign of her character.
Dog Lived (and So Will I) Page 28