Yeehaw! Quick status check:
After last week's "liver pain", I took a few Aleve, and I very quickly returned to 100%. So, Monday morning, I completed the last of my 5 CyberKnife treatments. In case you are wondering, it makes no difference that I waited a few days to complete that last session. It's just as effective. They said it was best that I let my liver "cool down", anyway, just from a comfort perspective. (From now on, whenever you think about my liver, please imagine the song "Hot Stuff" playing along in the background as its soundtrack.)
This technology is so new, I'm only something like the 1200th patient to receive it in Seattle. And for those of you who watch primetime television, you know that Seattle is not exactly some podunk, one-horse outpost of the medical world.
Anyway, for all practical purposes, we can now consider the only known cancer in my body to be dead and blasted to hell, effective immediately.
And with that, I leave for Kauai (sans kids) this afternoon, feeling on top of the world in every way.
I would close this post with "Aloha", but it feels too forced. Kind of like saying "Auf wiedersehen" to close out a blog post about Wagner. Does that make sense? I don't care if it doesn't, because I am now officially "on island time"! (Neil and I actually saw a pale woman at our swanky Maui resort last year wearing a long kelly green teeshirt coverup that read, in large white letters, "I'M ON ISLAND TIME." NO!!!)
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Slight change of plans
80% done.
I don't have the flu. I do have pain in my liver. I think it's my liver. Not horrendous, but I do feel like I've been socked in the gut. They tell me that is sometimes a side effect to CyberKnife. But they want to make sure it's just that and not anything else. They are going to hold off on tomorrow's final treatment to give my body a chance to heal for a few days. It's rescheduled for Monday, assuming I don't feel worse.
I have lots of anecdotes and more information -- and I'd write more, but honestly, I'm too tired, and I just don't feel very well.
I don't have the flu. I do have pain in my liver. I think it's my liver. Not horrendous, but I do feel like I've been socked in the gut. They tell me that is sometimes a side effect to CyberKnife. But they want to make sure it's just that and not anything else. They are going to hold off on tomorrow's final treatment to give my body a chance to heal for a few days. It's rescheduled for Monday, assuming I don't feel worse.
I have lots of anecdotes and more information -- and I'd write more, but honestly, I'm too tired, and I just don't feel very well.
Miracle Cure!
Before my radiation treatment today, I decided to duck into Starbucks for some hot chocolate and chocolate chip banana bread. As the fellow rang me up, he yammered, "SOMEbody likes CHOC-olate..."
I replied, "GUILTY AS CHARGED."
Perhaps wanting to ensure he hadn't offended my feminine sensibilities, he blabbed on, "Naw, naw. It's cool. It's all good. Seriously, chocolate's amazing stuff. Honestly. It fixes ya right up. Cures what ails ya. Y'know?"
I hoisted my cake in brotherhood and managed, "You got THAT right."
The hot chocolate was prepared and handed to me, and I turned to walk out. As I passed my chocaholic friend, he caught my eye and added, loudly, with a big smile: "Now you go ahead and tell me what in your life THAT aint gonna cure!"
Ok, seriously? Did he really just say that to me on this day?
Oh man, this is too good. I paused. Such a nice guy, IMAGINE if I dropped the C-bomb on him right here and now in the middle of Starbucks? I almost started giggling at the painful scene that would follow: The sudden, awkward silence. The redness rising in his cheeks. The anguished backpedaling.
Again I am reminded what a STRANGE arrow I now carry in my quiver. The ultimate trump card. The instant, guaranteed conversation killer.
Of course I would never use it like that. So instead, I grinned and replied, "NOT-A-THING, not a thing. You're right. The whole day's looking up from here!" He winked at me, and I walked out.
I replied, "GUILTY AS CHARGED."
Perhaps wanting to ensure he hadn't offended my feminine sensibilities, he blabbed on, "Naw, naw. It's cool. It's all good. Seriously, chocolate's amazing stuff. Honestly. It fixes ya right up. Cures what ails ya. Y'know?"
I hoisted my cake in brotherhood and managed, "You got THAT right."
The hot chocolate was prepared and handed to me, and I turned to walk out. As I passed my chocaholic friend, he caught my eye and added, loudly, with a big smile: "Now you go ahead and tell me what in your life THAT aint gonna cure!"
Ok, seriously? Did he really just say that to me on this day?
Oh man, this is too good. I paused. Such a nice guy, IMAGINE if I dropped the C-bomb on him right here and now in the middle of Starbucks? I almost started giggling at the painful scene that would follow: The sudden, awkward silence. The redness rising in his cheeks. The anguished backpedaling.
Again I am reminded what a STRANGE arrow I now carry in my quiver. The ultimate trump card. The instant, guaranteed conversation killer.
Of course I would never use it like that. So instead, I grinned and replied, "NOT-A-THING, not a thing. You're right. The whole day's looking up from here!" He winked at me, and I walked out.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
"We'll leave the light on for you", NEIL.
60% done.
It's been a crazy week in our home. Neil has been sick with a very nasty stomach flu for 3 days, and he barely left his bedroom that entire time. He'd sleep for 10 hours DURING THE DAY. Also, he'd get violently sick at times. Clearly, this bug was not something I wanted for myself. So, in the spirit of our "in sickness and in health" wedding vows... I almost sent him to a HOTEL. That makes me sound like a heartless bitch, yes, but think of it: I didn't want to jeopardize my chances of getting this CyberKnifing completed this week. Not to sound dramatic, but my life kind of depends on it. We've been planning it for months. The procedures, the scans, everything had to be timed perfectly. I worried that a wretched flu could potentially render me incapable of lying completely still on a table every day for over an hour. In the Cyber(Knife)World, you can't exactly get up and run to the bathroom to barf anytime you want.
I called my mom to run the hotel idea by her. I opened the call with, "I think I'm going to ask Neil to leave home." A little context might have helped. Poor mom. Like I'd start divorce proceedings THIS week.
I then asked a doctor friend (WLS) how to avoid getting such a bug, and she suggested this was probably not an airborne illness, so he could stay home, though we should use separate bathrooms.
We decided to quarantine Neil to our bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. He called the room his "pen". He was home from work for 2 days, and I avoided him like the plague. One home, two parallel lives, never intersecting. It was our little trial dysfunctional marriage.
Today, Wednesday, he went back to the office, but I awoke with a sharp stomachache. I started cussing like a sailor. (truck driver?) (dentist?) "IF I CAUGHT THIS FREAKING FLU, I WILL BE SO PISSED OFF!" That's the g-rated version.
Oddly enough, the stomach pain has lasted all day, but it has not led to anything greater. (by "greater", I suppose I mean projectile manifestations of the flu). The stomachache felt very high, just below my ribs. Then I started to wonder, "Wait, am I having LIVER PAIN? I mean, they are quite literally killing part of that organ as we speak. Maybe that smarts a bit?" I wasn't told I'd have any pain, really, only fatigue. And after today's 'Knifing (at the clinic, they call it "therapy", but I still prefer the term "'Knifing"), I definitely felt VERY TIRED. But what's all this moderate (not severe, but annoying) pain? I feel like I got socked in the gut. Is it the beginning of a flu? PLEASE NO! Stay tuned.
ps- My mother-in-law deserves a big ol' pat on the back for being so helpful all week. She even stayed extra long today and picked Betty up from school so I could rest.
It's been a crazy week in our home. Neil has been sick with a very nasty stomach flu for 3 days, and he barely left his bedroom that entire time. He'd sleep for 10 hours DURING THE DAY. Also, he'd get violently sick at times. Clearly, this bug was not something I wanted for myself. So, in the spirit of our "in sickness and in health" wedding vows... I almost sent him to a HOTEL. That makes me sound like a heartless bitch, yes, but think of it: I didn't want to jeopardize my chances of getting this CyberKnifing completed this week. Not to sound dramatic, but my life kind of depends on it. We've been planning it for months. The procedures, the scans, everything had to be timed perfectly. I worried that a wretched flu could potentially render me incapable of lying completely still on a table every day for over an hour. In the Cyber(Knife)World, you can't exactly get up and run to the bathroom to barf anytime you want.
I called my mom to run the hotel idea by her. I opened the call with, "I think I'm going to ask Neil to leave home." A little context might have helped. Poor mom. Like I'd start divorce proceedings THIS week.
I then asked a doctor friend (WLS) how to avoid getting such a bug, and she suggested this was probably not an airborne illness, so he could stay home, though we should use separate bathrooms.
We decided to quarantine Neil to our bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. He called the room his "pen". He was home from work for 2 days, and I avoided him like the plague. One home, two parallel lives, never intersecting. It was our little trial dysfunctional marriage.
Today, Wednesday, he went back to the office, but I awoke with a sharp stomachache. I started cussing like a sailor. (truck driver?) (dentist?) "IF I CAUGHT THIS FREAKING FLU, I WILL BE SO PISSED OFF!" That's the g-rated version.
Oddly enough, the stomach pain has lasted all day, but it has not led to anything greater. (by "greater", I suppose I mean projectile manifestations of the flu). The stomachache felt very high, just below my ribs. Then I started to wonder, "Wait, am I having LIVER PAIN? I mean, they are quite literally killing part of that organ as we speak. Maybe that smarts a bit?" I wasn't told I'd have any pain, really, only fatigue. And after today's 'Knifing (at the clinic, they call it "therapy", but I still prefer the term "'Knifing"), I definitely felt VERY TIRED. But what's all this moderate (not severe, but annoying) pain? I feel like I got socked in the gut. Is it the beginning of a flu? PLEASE NO! Stay tuned.
ps- My mother-in-law deserves a big ol' pat on the back for being so helpful all week. She even stayed extra long today and picked Betty up from school so I could rest.
Monday, February 28, 2011
"Meet Lenore"
I'm 20% done.
My first CyberKnife session went as quickly and easily as they had advertised. I arrived at 1:15, and a radiation therapist (not "nurse") led me way back, past the exam rooms, through a thick door marked, "Warning! Heavy radiation!", or some similar suggestion. Despite this admonition, the large room felt rather warm and cozy. And there, in the center, stood this large (10 foot?) white THING that reminded me of a cross between a modernist T-Rex sculpture and one of those Imperial AT-AT walkers from The Empire Strikes Back.
"Meet 'Lenore'."
I examined the CyberKnife machine. It looked powerful, but friendly enough. The radiation therapist continued, "She's quiet. You won't even know she's working."
"'She', eh? It's a girl?"
"Yep--LENORE." (in case I missed that the first time.) I felt like I should react somehow, as you would when meeting an actual person. But all I could muster was the lame, "I guess SOMEBODY around here is a fan of Poe." Neither therapist seemed to catch my reference, which was just as well.
I donned my referee shirt, got on the table, and we started. They attached small red LED-type lights to my white stripes, to help the machine better see my breath rising and falling. For the first 15 minutes, the therapists entered and exited the room frequently, tugging my shoulders a half an inch to this side or that, sliding my waist down a bit, readjusting my blankets and straps. Finally they announced "We got it!", and I was in the exact right position. They told me to hold very still, but if I needed to move just slightly, I should do it when Lenore was moving, not when she was still, shooting out her invisible beams.
They left the room. I lay there, comfortably, my eyeballs rolled back in my head attempting to catch a glimpse of Lenore, who was just behind me, waiting.
Suddenly, she jumped to life, like a raptor stretching out after a long nap, expanding, twisting over to me. She racheted her laser nose around and down to get a glimpse at my torso. Like prey, I lay, watching as she moved over me. She seemed to be studying me, considering me from different angles, stopping every so often to think before twisting and swinging her neck in a different direction, always with an eye on my torso.
I felt nothing. After a bit, I started to feel sleepy. My mind started wandering in the way it does just before I fall asleep. I was remembering my elementary school building, and some of my classmates. A voice jolted me back to reality, "TEN MORE MINUTES, SHELLY, YOU'RE DOING GREAT!"
Lenore continued her elaborate radiation dance, and then, just as noiselessly as she began, she slowly retracted, folding back into her resting position. The lights came on. I was done.
As I walked out of Lenore's lair, I passed the technician at his computer. "Want to see your images?" The screen in front of him reminded me of a surveillance screen, with four different views into my torso, all in x-ray. He tapped the screen, "Those 4 bright spots are your fiducial markers" (gold seeds). He pointed out a few organs, and I was clever enough to recognize my spine all on my own. "See you tomorrow at 1!" he waved.
I exited into the waiting room. Only once have I ever seen anyone else in there. Today, a 50-something mother sat with her 20-something son. I looked at them, and they at me. "I just got 'Knifed", I told them. She looked at me and smiled, "Uh-oh!"
I validated my parking at the reception desk, then left. I wondered, "How will the garage know I've already paid?" so I inspected the ticket. I couldn't believe it. There at the bottom, it said "Toledo Ticket Company, Toledo, Ohio." Home. For some reason, that made me feel happy.
My first CyberKnife session went as quickly and easily as they had advertised. I arrived at 1:15, and a radiation therapist (not "nurse") led me way back, past the exam rooms, through a thick door marked, "Warning! Heavy radiation!", or some similar suggestion. Despite this admonition, the large room felt rather warm and cozy. And there, in the center, stood this large (10 foot?) white THING that reminded me of a cross between a modernist T-Rex sculpture and one of those Imperial AT-AT walkers from The Empire Strikes Back.
"Meet 'Lenore'."
I examined the CyberKnife machine. It looked powerful, but friendly enough. The radiation therapist continued, "She's quiet. You won't even know she's working."
"'She', eh? It's a girl?"
"Yep--LENORE." (in case I missed that the first time.) I felt like I should react somehow, as you would when meeting an actual person. But all I could muster was the lame, "I guess SOMEBODY around here is a fan of Poe." Neither therapist seemed to catch my reference, which was just as well.
I donned my referee shirt, got on the table, and we started. They attached small red LED-type lights to my white stripes, to help the machine better see my breath rising and falling. For the first 15 minutes, the therapists entered and exited the room frequently, tugging my shoulders a half an inch to this side or that, sliding my waist down a bit, readjusting my blankets and straps. Finally they announced "We got it!", and I was in the exact right position. They told me to hold very still, but if I needed to move just slightly, I should do it when Lenore was moving, not when she was still, shooting out her invisible beams.
They left the room. I lay there, comfortably, my eyeballs rolled back in my head attempting to catch a glimpse of Lenore, who was just behind me, waiting.
Suddenly, she jumped to life, like a raptor stretching out after a long nap, expanding, twisting over to me. She racheted her laser nose around and down to get a glimpse at my torso. Like prey, I lay, watching as she moved over me. She seemed to be studying me, considering me from different angles, stopping every so often to think before twisting and swinging her neck in a different direction, always with an eye on my torso.
I felt nothing. After a bit, I started to feel sleepy. My mind started wandering in the way it does just before I fall asleep. I was remembering my elementary school building, and some of my classmates. A voice jolted me back to reality, "TEN MORE MINUTES, SHELLY, YOU'RE DOING GREAT!"
Lenore continued her elaborate radiation dance, and then, just as noiselessly as she began, she slowly retracted, folding back into her resting position. The lights came on. I was done.
As I walked out of Lenore's lair, I passed the technician at his computer. "Want to see your images?" The screen in front of him reminded me of a surveillance screen, with four different views into my torso, all in x-ray. He tapped the screen, "Those 4 bright spots are your fiducial markers" (gold seeds). He pointed out a few organs, and I was clever enough to recognize my spine all on my own. "See you tomorrow at 1!" he waved.
I exited into the waiting room. Only once have I ever seen anyone else in there. Today, a 50-something mother sat with her 20-something son. I looked at them, and they at me. "I just got 'Knifed", I told them. She looked at me and smiled, "Uh-oh!"
I validated my parking at the reception desk, then left. I wondered, "How will the garage know I've already paid?" so I inspected the ticket. I couldn't believe it. There at the bottom, it said "Toledo Ticket Company, Toledo, Ohio." Home. For some reason, that made me feel happy.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
CyberKnife Eve
Kind of like Christmas Eve, but with more radiation.
So the plan is finalized. I have 5 sessions scheduled for this week. I'll be getting zapped for 90 minutes, M-F, beginning manana.
This is a great thing, right? I have a cancerous tumor, and they are about to kill it swiftly and effectively. So why am I feeling this unnamable anxiety? The type of feeling that noiselessly, soundlessly seeps into an otherwise happily unremarkable day, causing things to grey up a bit. Carbon monoxide in my garage.
At this point in my life, when I am feeling this way, I have to sit myself down and have a little talk. Which I did, tonight, over a bag of Skittles, just after the "Look Who Died This Year" -section of the Oscars. I isolated the disparate parts of what I was thinking and feeling, and considered each of them separately, to see if it was THAT thought which was the real problem. In order to figure out how to make myself feel better, I had to first figure out what specifically was scaring me.
Was it fear of being on that table and getting zapped? No. Actually, I need to get this thing done. It's going to make me better. It's a good thing, don't be scared of that, Shelly.
Fear of the tumor not actually dying? Not really, no. I have faith in this procedure. It's gonna work.
Ok, then, fear of death? Umm...Not really. I actually don't feel like I'm headed that way any time soon. Can't say why, except that I feel so damned strong and healthy. And everything has been going well for me, more or less, since my diagnosis. I keep getting better. (This one minor liver setback being the exception-- but it's just a setback, not a loss.)
Ok, good. So what then? Fear of abandoning loved ones? Nope, not this time. See previous thought. I am ok on that for today. (This is one of my biggest fears, so I always have to consider it).
And I went through the list. Eventually I realized that it's pretty simple. Any fussy new procedure I have to endure just reminds me that I have cancer, and I don't feel like being reminded. That's all it is. It'll be just another experience to file away in my brain's "Cancer" folder, that thick, crappy folder, full of strange, scary, painful, and occasionally poignant and hopeful, experiences. I'd rather be doing something else this week. That's all.
So you'll be happy to know that now I go to bed feeling brave and no longer scared, fully aware that this is an important opportunity for me, a necessary one, something to look forward to, really. I also know that I still hate cancer and would rather be spending my time in other ways. So aside from CyberKnife sessions, I WILL. I plan to make every day remarkable in its own modest way, somehow.
And why do I share this with you all? (Aside from attempting to dazzle you with my complex thought processes and captivating internal monologue?) (And all of this withOUT a phD?! Can I even afford my own billable rate?) I guess just to show you that this experience is a layered one, requiring lots of reflection and analysis at every turn. There's not a lot of "autopilot" in navigating cancer, unfortunately. Always something new to think about. Never a dull moment, I suppose.
So the plan is finalized. I have 5 sessions scheduled for this week. I'll be getting zapped for 90 minutes, M-F, beginning manana.
This is a great thing, right? I have a cancerous tumor, and they are about to kill it swiftly and effectively. So why am I feeling this unnamable anxiety? The type of feeling that noiselessly, soundlessly seeps into an otherwise happily unremarkable day, causing things to grey up a bit. Carbon monoxide in my garage.
At this point in my life, when I am feeling this way, I have to sit myself down and have a little talk. Which I did, tonight, over a bag of Skittles, just after the "Look Who Died This Year" -section of the Oscars. I isolated the disparate parts of what I was thinking and feeling, and considered each of them separately, to see if it was THAT thought which was the real problem. In order to figure out how to make myself feel better, I had to first figure out what specifically was scaring me.
Was it fear of being on that table and getting zapped? No. Actually, I need to get this thing done. It's going to make me better. It's a good thing, don't be scared of that, Shelly.
Fear of the tumor not actually dying? Not really, no. I have faith in this procedure. It's gonna work.
Ok, then, fear of death? Umm...Not really. I actually don't feel like I'm headed that way any time soon. Can't say why, except that I feel so damned strong and healthy. And everything has been going well for me, more or less, since my diagnosis. I keep getting better. (This one minor liver setback being the exception-- but it's just a setback, not a loss.)
Ok, good. So what then? Fear of abandoning loved ones? Nope, not this time. See previous thought. I am ok on that for today. (This is one of my biggest fears, so I always have to consider it).
And I went through the list. Eventually I realized that it's pretty simple. Any fussy new procedure I have to endure just reminds me that I have cancer, and I don't feel like being reminded. That's all it is. It'll be just another experience to file away in my brain's "Cancer" folder, that thick, crappy folder, full of strange, scary, painful, and occasionally poignant and hopeful, experiences. I'd rather be doing something else this week. That's all.
So you'll be happy to know that now I go to bed feeling brave and no longer scared, fully aware that this is an important opportunity for me, a necessary one, something to look forward to, really. I also know that I still hate cancer and would rather be spending my time in other ways. So aside from CyberKnife sessions, I WILL. I plan to make every day remarkable in its own modest way, somehow.
And why do I share this with you all? (Aside from attempting to dazzle you with my complex thought processes and captivating internal monologue?) (And all of this withOUT a phD?! Can I even afford my own billable rate?) I guess just to show you that this experience is a layered one, requiring lots of reflection and analysis at every turn. There's not a lot of "autopilot" in navigating cancer, unfortunately. Always something new to think about. Never a dull moment, I suppose.
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