"She is hurting me," the breast said of the mammogram technician squishing it between clear plastic plates, trying to get a good picture of the pea sized lump positioned inconveniently close to the rib cage.
"I know, I know," soothed the supportive brain, "but we need some good pictures. You can tough it out, I know you can!"
"Yes, I know that too," replied the breast in its eerily soft, calm, plural voice, "She is just taking so many pictures, and it was already hurting from the the fingertips poking it so much."
"Yeah, I know, I'm sorry," the brain apologized, "It's not always easy to control those fingertips, though."
"We didn't mean to cause you discomfort," the fingertips said, "It is just difficult to not touch something that doesn't belong."
"I know," the breast replied calmly, "But it is not the pain that bothers me so much as the manner in which it hurts."
"Stop," the brain said sternly, "Just stop. Bob's dead."
--------------------------------------------
"Why is she starting on that side?" the breast asked of the ultrasound technician, "The lump is all the way on the other side."
"I don't know," answered the brain, "that doesn't even make any sense."
--------------------------------------------
"She sure is taking a long time with this," the brain said quietly.
"Yes, and I think she might be having a difficult time seeing it," said the breast.
"Are you having a hard time seeing it on the screen?" the mouth vocalized to the technician.
She looked at the eyes and answered, "I'm sorry, I can't answer that question."
"Why does she look like a deer in headlights?" the eyes said nervously.
"And why does she sound so nervous?" the ears demanded.
"It's alright, guys," the brain tried to soothe, "It's just that we put her on the spot. She didn't expect us to ask."
--------------------------------------------
"Alright. I'm going to go speak to the radiologist," the technician said to the eyes, "Wait right here." She stopped at the door and turned around and added, "The doctor might come in, just as a heads up," then left the room.
"What the hell?" said the brain.
"Ooooo.... We didn't like the look in those eyes," the eyes commented.
"Why did she say that?" questioned the ears.
"Shhh... just read the article," the brain said.
--------------------------------------------
"Ok, you're all done sweety," the technician popped her head in the room and announced ten minutes later, "Go ahead and get cleaned up and dressed. I'll be out here when you're done."
"Whew... see, it's fine," the brain said.
"Yeah, sure, fine..." the eyed and ears said simultaneously.
"Stop it!" the brain demanded.
--------------------------------------------
"We told you it felt familiar," the fingertips said to the brain on the way out of the hospital.
"Will you shut the hell up already? Jesus! It's probably just scar tissue," the brain responded angrily, "We don't even have any damn results yet!"
"It hurts the same," the breast chimed in, "And for the same reasons."
"What do you know about 'the same' since surgery? You're too fucked up to know how you feel," the brain insisted.
"You know better than that," the breast said, its eerily soft, plural voice not cracking, "I know you feel it too."
"Yeah, and you know somethin else?" they eyes demanded of the brain, "We don't need some damn results to tell us what the look on that technician's face meant."
"And we don't need em to tell us what that nervousness in her voice meant," the ears insisted.
"Alright... Look," the brain said more calmly, "we're all being a bit irrational here. We're seeing, hearing and feeling things that aren't there just because we're nervous. We all just need to play it cool and settle down. It could be just a cyst!"
The fingertips were angry at this suggestion, though, and yelled at the brain, "God damnit! We told you what we felt. Why won't you listen to us?"
"It is true," the breast added calmly, "it feels the same. I remember."
"Fine. Think what you like. But would you all please do me one favor?" the brain asked, "Could you all please just SHUT THE FUCK UP until we get the results? You're giving me a SERIOUS headache!"
Monday, March 31, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
PET/CT With Oral Contrast
I haven't written here about anything pre-chemotherapy, about the whirlwind of tests, scans, doctors and information that swept me up and spun me around at will in the 16 days between diagnosis and surgery. Those 16 days did not belong to me; I was directed where to go and when to arrive, sometimes with less than a days notice. "What are you doing tomorrow" was a laughable question because, honestly, I could never be sure. It was a fast paced, uncoordinated, back breaking dance that involved a lot of jolts, twists, jumps and dramatic dips.
The imaging scans that I went for included an ultrasound, a mammogram, an MRI and a PET/CT scan.
This last one is the kind that I had on Tuesday as the standard follow-up as well as a diagnostic test. This time, unlike the first time, it was a PET/CT with oral contrast. This is how it went:
I arrived at the PET/CT center behind the Cancer and Blood Disease Center at 10:45am. The nurse brought me to a room right away, asked me a few questions, pricked my finger to check my glucose level and then brought me a HUGE cup full of orange liquid and told me to drink it (barium, perhaps? I forgot to ask). I would have 45 minutes between then and the second cup, so I should take my time. The orange liquid tasted like some kind of powdered citrus flavored kids drink and left a less than desirable taste in my mouth that stuck to my gums. I recommend against this beverage in any normal circumstances.
This was the oral contrast part, and the purpose of the orange stuff was to outline my organs so that they could get a clearer image of my insides when they imposed the CT images over the PET images to create a 3D image of my body.
About 20 minutes later the doctor came in and inserted an IV into my arm. He then went into the RADIOACTIVE MATERIALS room and came back a few minutes later wearing thick, blue protective gloves and carrying a sack of radioactive glucose to be injected directly into my bloodstream. "There's no chance at all that you're pregnant, right?" he asked.
The purpose of this stuff was to infiltrate all of the cells and light up any active cells. Since cancer cells are more active than normal cell, they would light up brighter than other cells. Because all cells use glucose they will all ingest the radioactive glucose and thus allow themselves to be seen. The patient is not allowed to eat six hours prior to the test and is told to only eat a light meal of lean protein, such as eggs, and absolutely NO carbohydrate rich foods the morning of the test if their scan is scheduled for the afternoon.
I saw the images the first time I had the PET/CT scan done and my tumor was definitely the brightest thing in my body, besides my kidneys, which were filtering the the stuff out. The doctor this time said that the radioactive stuff was like "liquid light."
After an hour or so of drinking orange stuff and 40 minutes of letting the radioactive stuff soak into my cells, the doctor brought me into the procedure room. I laid down on the long, thin white table, the doctor put the triangular pillow thing under my knees, I put my arms up over my head, the doctor raised the table to the level of the tube I was to be passed through repeatedly, adjusted my head and then left the room and took cover behind the big, protective glass window of another room.
I was thankful that this room was warm, because the first time I had this scan done was at a different facility, and it was so cold in there that the technician, Todd, put two blankets on me before he left the room. Even then, though, I was still cold by the time I got done.
The table slowly moved into the tube and I could hear the soft swooshing sound of something turning round and round and round inside the plastic shell. A clear glass ring ran around the inside rim of the tube and I could see an off white ring of unknown size with what appeared to be small, flat, black glass rectangular surfaces, possibly lenses of some sort, evenly spaced apart spinning on the inside. I guessed that it was the white thing that was making the noise. The table moved very slowly in and out of the tube, staying completely still for stretches of time while particular parts of my body were scanned for medical data.
When it was all done the doctor came back in and asked if I wanted to see my pictures. I said sure and he showed me the 3D images on his computer in the safe room. I could see my port and the tube leading to my jugular very clearly, and saw the metal clasps and adjusters of my bra on my back and shoulders. I asked him what some spots were on the side of my breast that the lump was found, and he said he didn't know and that he hadn't seen anything too exciting at that point.
Today I went in for my lab post-chemo (which I have gotten every week once a week since I began chemo, more than once a week with the first regiment of chemo) and saw my doctor while I was in the back. She informed me that the PET/CT scan came back clear, but that those scans are not very good at picking stuff up inside the breast and that because the lump she felt was small, I needed additional tests. She wrote me an order for an ultrasound and a mammogram.
On my way out I stopped at the desk and handed Ellen the test orders. She asked which hospital I wanted and then called them. She said that she needed the tests ASAP, and while she was talking to the woman at Citrus Memorial I heard her say, "No, that would absolutely not be suitable," and then while she was on hold she looked up at me, shook her head and said, "April 8th? Yeah right!" I laughed and told her we might as well push it back a couple of weeks. "Who cares?" I said, joking. "I do," Ellen replied firmly. I smiled and felt very lucky to have people like Ellen, Dr. Chiryath and the nurses advocating on my behalf now.
The imaging scans that I went for included an ultrasound, a mammogram, an MRI and a PET/CT scan.
This last one is the kind that I had on Tuesday as the standard follow-up as well as a diagnostic test. This time, unlike the first time, it was a PET/CT with oral contrast. This is how it went:
I arrived at the PET/CT center behind the Cancer and Blood Disease Center at 10:45am. The nurse brought me to a room right away, asked me a few questions, pricked my finger to check my glucose level and then brought me a HUGE cup full of orange liquid and told me to drink it (barium, perhaps? I forgot to ask). I would have 45 minutes between then and the second cup, so I should take my time. The orange liquid tasted like some kind of powdered citrus flavored kids drink and left a less than desirable taste in my mouth that stuck to my gums. I recommend against this beverage in any normal circumstances.
This was the oral contrast part, and the purpose of the orange stuff was to outline my organs so that they could get a clearer image of my insides when they imposed the CT images over the PET images to create a 3D image of my body.
About 20 minutes later the doctor came in and inserted an IV into my arm. He then went into the RADIOACTIVE MATERIALS room and came back a few minutes later wearing thick, blue protective gloves and carrying a sack of radioactive glucose to be injected directly into my bloodstream. "There's no chance at all that you're pregnant, right?" he asked.
The purpose of this stuff was to infiltrate all of the cells and light up any active cells. Since cancer cells are more active than normal cell, they would light up brighter than other cells. Because all cells use glucose they will all ingest the radioactive glucose and thus allow themselves to be seen. The patient is not allowed to eat six hours prior to the test and is told to only eat a light meal of lean protein, such as eggs, and absolutely NO carbohydrate rich foods the morning of the test if their scan is scheduled for the afternoon.
I saw the images the first time I had the PET/CT scan done and my tumor was definitely the brightest thing in my body, besides my kidneys, which were filtering the the stuff out. The doctor this time said that the radioactive stuff was like "liquid light."
After an hour or so of drinking orange stuff and 40 minutes of letting the radioactive stuff soak into my cells, the doctor brought me into the procedure room. I laid down on the long, thin white table, the doctor put the triangular pillow thing under my knees, I put my arms up over my head, the doctor raised the table to the level of the tube I was to be passed through repeatedly, adjusted my head and then left the room and took cover behind the big, protective glass window of another room.
I was thankful that this room was warm, because the first time I had this scan done was at a different facility, and it was so cold in there that the technician, Todd, put two blankets on me before he left the room. Even then, though, I was still cold by the time I got done.
The table slowly moved into the tube and I could hear the soft swooshing sound of something turning round and round and round inside the plastic shell. A clear glass ring ran around the inside rim of the tube and I could see an off white ring of unknown size with what appeared to be small, flat, black glass rectangular surfaces, possibly lenses of some sort, evenly spaced apart spinning on the inside. I guessed that it was the white thing that was making the noise. The table moved very slowly in and out of the tube, staying completely still for stretches of time while particular parts of my body were scanned for medical data.
When it was all done the doctor came back in and asked if I wanted to see my pictures. I said sure and he showed me the 3D images on his computer in the safe room. I could see my port and the tube leading to my jugular very clearly, and saw the metal clasps and adjusters of my bra on my back and shoulders. I asked him what some spots were on the side of my breast that the lump was found, and he said he didn't know and that he hadn't seen anything too exciting at that point.
Today I went in for my lab post-chemo (which I have gotten every week once a week since I began chemo, more than once a week with the first regiment of chemo) and saw my doctor while I was in the back. She informed me that the PET/CT scan came back clear, but that those scans are not very good at picking stuff up inside the breast and that because the lump she felt was small, I needed additional tests. She wrote me an order for an ultrasound and a mammogram.
On my way out I stopped at the desk and handed Ellen the test orders. She asked which hospital I wanted and then called them. She said that she needed the tests ASAP, and while she was talking to the woman at Citrus Memorial I heard her say, "No, that would absolutely not be suitable," and then while she was on hold she looked up at me, shook her head and said, "April 8th? Yeah right!" I laughed and told her we might as well push it back a couple of weeks. "Who cares?" I said, joking. "I do," Ellen replied firmly. I smiled and felt very lucky to have people like Ellen, Dr. Chiryath and the nurses advocating on my behalf now.
The Fallacy of Mind Over Matter
Written 03-23-08
I first noticed an unfortunate indentation in the surgery area on February 22 while my mom and I were at the Jacksonville Hyatt Regency for the Young Survivors Coalition conference. I was disappointed that the side of my breast had sunken in almost five months after surgery, and I was less than pleased with the overall cosmetic appearance of it, but I figured it was better than having cancer and decided to just be done with it.
Over the course of the following couple of weeks I found myself critically assessing the long dimpled area in the mirror, wondering what any future Mr. Joey B's would think of my poor, scarred, misshapen ex-beauty queen breast. I decided that it really wasn't of any immediate importance because, in all honesty, I am not anticipating becoming involved in any such relationships any time in the foreseeable future. So, with apathetic flourish, I gave up on critical self assessments and dissatisfaction.
Meanwhile I had been scouring the internet for information regarding young women with breast cancer for a research project I am doing for my Social Constructions of Reality course. Through my searches I have stumbled upon many personal stories and memoirs of young women breast cancer survivors who found out that, in the end, they would not survive. One of these stories was from a woman living with metastatic disease, which, as I have mentioned before, is when the breast cancer travels to other organs, the bones, blood or soft tissues. In this woman's story, she found a lump in the area of her breast that the lumpectomy was preformed. Her doctor brushed it off as scar tissue and told her not to worry about it. Well, she worried about it anyway and found out later on that not only did she have a new tumor in the same area, but that the breast cancer had metastasized to her liver and bones.
Naturally these kinds of stories play on the mind of someone going through the same ordeal that these diseased, dying and dead women had, and one night while I lay in bed unable to sleep, as I have many nights as a side effect of chemotherapy premeds, I decided that rather than take Tylenol PM or count sheep, I ought to give myself a breast exam. My left breast, the whole, pristine, unscathed one, felt the same as it always has; no lumps, no scars, no tender areas. The other side, however, is different. As a lingering side effect of breast surgery and lymph node removal, I have had pain and tenderness in my right arm, underarm, side and breast due to nerve damage and irritation. I have been aware of an increase in this pain which I attributed partly to the Taxol, which has caused nerve damage in my arms, legs, hands and feet, leading me to believe that the increase in pain on my right side is not a big deal. But as my paranoid finger tips roved the altered landscape of my right breast, they stumbled upon a little hard spot.
"What is this?" my brain asked my fingertips.
"Feels like a pea," the fingertips responded.
"What is a pea doing in there?" the brain demanded.
"Don't know, but we can't move it," they told the brain.
"Perhaps it's just scar tissue," the brain rationalized.
"Perhaps," answered the fingertips, "but this consistency sure does feel familiar, and we've never felt scar tissue before."
"But we're still on chemotherapy," the brain retorted, "and couldn't possibly be growing any new cancer already. We haven't even read any stories about that kind of thing happening. You fingertips are too paranoid."
"Sure thing, boss," the fingertips conceded. But the fingertips couldn't stop touching the area, no matter how many times the rational brain insisted that it was nothing.
I mean, seriously, I was still on chemo!
But even so, it is the case that under circumstances such as cancer, the rational mind has been known to become irrational. For example, a recurring headache for a week is no longer a question of whats in the air, it is a question of whether or not the cancer has spread to the brain. And when blood starts coming out every every time you blow your nose, it goes from questioning what's up with your sinuses to wondering how long you have to live before the cancer takes over your brain and kills you.
Thus the rational mind becoming irrational and then trying to rationalize away it's paranoia has a tendency to work itself up into quite the tizzy. Knowing that this has been the case before, my mind decided to play it cool and not worry about the whole thing; my mind decided to be calm about it and wait until the next time I went to the chemo center to bring it up to anyone, and my mind felt validated when I mentioned it to the nurse who asked me the standard pre-chemo questions and she responded, "It's probably just scar tissue, but we'll have the doctor take a look at it." My mind was glad that it didn't get all silly and irrational and go calling the doctor first thing in the morning after I had found it.
That is, until the doctor took a look at it.
The doctor said that we needed to have it scanned right away, that she didn't like the way the skin was dimpling. She wanted an ultrasound done ASAP. She wanted to know when I found it and why I didn't call her immediately. Any new lumps, she said, needed to be brought to her attention right away.
And so on my last day of chemotherapy, on the day that I have been looking forward to since I woke up on October 5th, 2007 and was told that I would be needing chemotherapy because, yes, it was in my lymph nodes, I found myself feeling lost, empty, drained, disappointed and frightened. How would I do this all again? What would it mean? Would it mean that I can't beat it? Would it mean that it was stronger than the strongest drugs they have to combat this kind of thing? Was I going to die from cancer? How could I die from cancer?
I was in a strange mood for the rest of the day, and that night I applied for life insurance policies. I thought that at least I would be able to leave something for my family, help them, give them something; but the next morning an insurance agent called and informed me that I wouldn't be able to get a life insurance policy for three to five years after my last cancer treatment, and that if I got insurance between the third and fifth years that it would be very expensive.
I felt helpless, crushed and sad. I wondered how far I would be willing to go to get rid of it and what exactly "fighting till the bitter end" would entail. Would I be required to sacrifice quality of life to live an extra couple of days? Would I be able to do all of the things I wanted to do until I died? How would we deal with a blow like this? I'm already such a financial drain on my parents, and my money is almost all gone.
How would I tell my family? How could I possibly tell them?
These thoughts, along with thousands of other, similar thoughts swirled in torrents around my mind, through my night and day and in between.
We celebrated Carrie's 22nd birthday on Saturday on a Suncruz Casino boat. She did fantastically on the slot machines, and we all had a wonderful time. For those few hours I didn't think about it, didn't worry about it, didn't wonder and fret. I just laughed, played and had fun. But when we were home again and I was driving off in my car, it was all I could think about.
It is Easter Sunday now. I am scheduled for a PET/CT scan on Tuesday at 11am. Cancer patients are supposed to get one of those after they finish chemotherapy anyway to see if the cancer is all gone. I'm not sure when the doctor will call me with the results, but it feels like I can't know soon enough. I haven't told anyone about the lump or how concerned the doctor seemed because I don't want anyone else to go through this slow, mind controlling, obsessive torture. We have been through a lot, my family and I, and I know that watching me go through this has been nearly as difficult as going through it, so I thought I should spare them and do all of the extra worrying myself.
I first noticed an unfortunate indentation in the surgery area on February 22 while my mom and I were at the Jacksonville Hyatt Regency for the Young Survivors Coalition conference. I was disappointed that the side of my breast had sunken in almost five months after surgery, and I was less than pleased with the overall cosmetic appearance of it, but I figured it was better than having cancer and decided to just be done with it.
Over the course of the following couple of weeks I found myself critically assessing the long dimpled area in the mirror, wondering what any future Mr. Joey B's would think of my poor, scarred, misshapen ex-beauty queen breast. I decided that it really wasn't of any immediate importance because, in all honesty, I am not anticipating becoming involved in any such relationships any time in the foreseeable future. So, with apathetic flourish, I gave up on critical self assessments and dissatisfaction.
Meanwhile I had been scouring the internet for information regarding young women with breast cancer for a research project I am doing for my Social Constructions of Reality course. Through my searches I have stumbled upon many personal stories and memoirs of young women breast cancer survivors who found out that, in the end, they would not survive. One of these stories was from a woman living with metastatic disease, which, as I have mentioned before, is when the breast cancer travels to other organs, the bones, blood or soft tissues. In this woman's story, she found a lump in the area of her breast that the lumpectomy was preformed. Her doctor brushed it off as scar tissue and told her not to worry about it. Well, she worried about it anyway and found out later on that not only did she have a new tumor in the same area, but that the breast cancer had metastasized to her liver and bones.
Naturally these kinds of stories play on the mind of someone going through the same ordeal that these diseased, dying and dead women had, and one night while I lay in bed unable to sleep, as I have many nights as a side effect of chemotherapy premeds, I decided that rather than take Tylenol PM or count sheep, I ought to give myself a breast exam. My left breast, the whole, pristine, unscathed one, felt the same as it always has; no lumps, no scars, no tender areas. The other side, however, is different. As a lingering side effect of breast surgery and lymph node removal, I have had pain and tenderness in my right arm, underarm, side and breast due to nerve damage and irritation. I have been aware of an increase in this pain which I attributed partly to the Taxol, which has caused nerve damage in my arms, legs, hands and feet, leading me to believe that the increase in pain on my right side is not a big deal. But as my paranoid finger tips roved the altered landscape of my right breast, they stumbled upon a little hard spot.
"What is this?" my brain asked my fingertips.
"Feels like a pea," the fingertips responded.
"What is a pea doing in there?" the brain demanded.
"Don't know, but we can't move it," they told the brain.
"Perhaps it's just scar tissue," the brain rationalized.
"Perhaps," answered the fingertips, "but this consistency sure does feel familiar, and we've never felt scar tissue before."
"But we're still on chemotherapy," the brain retorted, "and couldn't possibly be growing any new cancer already. We haven't even read any stories about that kind of thing happening. You fingertips are too paranoid."
"Sure thing, boss," the fingertips conceded. But the fingertips couldn't stop touching the area, no matter how many times the rational brain insisted that it was nothing.
I mean, seriously, I was still on chemo!
But even so, it is the case that under circumstances such as cancer, the rational mind has been known to become irrational. For example, a recurring headache for a week is no longer a question of whats in the air, it is a question of whether or not the cancer has spread to the brain. And when blood starts coming out every every time you blow your nose, it goes from questioning what's up with your sinuses to wondering how long you have to live before the cancer takes over your brain and kills you.
Thus the rational mind becoming irrational and then trying to rationalize away it's paranoia has a tendency to work itself up into quite the tizzy. Knowing that this has been the case before, my mind decided to play it cool and not worry about the whole thing; my mind decided to be calm about it and wait until the next time I went to the chemo center to bring it up to anyone, and my mind felt validated when I mentioned it to the nurse who asked me the standard pre-chemo questions and she responded, "It's probably just scar tissue, but we'll have the doctor take a look at it." My mind was glad that it didn't get all silly and irrational and go calling the doctor first thing in the morning after I had found it.
That is, until the doctor took a look at it.
The doctor said that we needed to have it scanned right away, that she didn't like the way the skin was dimpling. She wanted an ultrasound done ASAP. She wanted to know when I found it and why I didn't call her immediately. Any new lumps, she said, needed to be brought to her attention right away.
And so on my last day of chemotherapy, on the day that I have been looking forward to since I woke up on October 5th, 2007 and was told that I would be needing chemotherapy because, yes, it was in my lymph nodes, I found myself feeling lost, empty, drained, disappointed and frightened. How would I do this all again? What would it mean? Would it mean that I can't beat it? Would it mean that it was stronger than the strongest drugs they have to combat this kind of thing? Was I going to die from cancer? How could I die from cancer?
I was in a strange mood for the rest of the day, and that night I applied for life insurance policies. I thought that at least I would be able to leave something for my family, help them, give them something; but the next morning an insurance agent called and informed me that I wouldn't be able to get a life insurance policy for three to five years after my last cancer treatment, and that if I got insurance between the third and fifth years that it would be very expensive.
I felt helpless, crushed and sad. I wondered how far I would be willing to go to get rid of it and what exactly "fighting till the bitter end" would entail. Would I be required to sacrifice quality of life to live an extra couple of days? Would I be able to do all of the things I wanted to do until I died? How would we deal with a blow like this? I'm already such a financial drain on my parents, and my money is almost all gone.
How would I tell my family? How could I possibly tell them?
These thoughts, along with thousands of other, similar thoughts swirled in torrents around my mind, through my night and day and in between.
We celebrated Carrie's 22nd birthday on Saturday on a Suncruz Casino boat. She did fantastically on the slot machines, and we all had a wonderful time. For those few hours I didn't think about it, didn't worry about it, didn't wonder and fret. I just laughed, played and had fun. But when we were home again and I was driving off in my car, it was all I could think about.
It is Easter Sunday now. I am scheduled for a PET/CT scan on Tuesday at 11am. Cancer patients are supposed to get one of those after they finish chemotherapy anyway to see if the cancer is all gone. I'm not sure when the doctor will call me with the results, but it feels like I can't know soon enough. I haven't told anyone about the lump or how concerned the doctor seemed because I don't want anyone else to go through this slow, mind controlling, obsessive torture. We have been through a lot, my family and I, and I know that watching me go through this has been nearly as difficult as going through it, so I thought I should spare them and do all of the extra worrying myself.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Influential Insurance: Killing The Patient
Lately it seems that almost every day I hear about, read about or am told about directly by a breast cancer patient how they beat breast cancer and then, not too long after, it metastasized, which means that it spread to other organs, bones, or the blood or soft tissues. Once this happens it is difficult to control because of its aggressive nature, and the only way to get rid of the cancer is to die. The most frightening part, for me, is that all of these stories are coming from women under 50, most of which are under 40 and a significant portion of which are under 30.
The settings are always random: Monday night's breast cancer defeat story was told to me on the way out to the parking lot from my brother's baseball game by a complete stranger. I was walking with my parents and niece when suddenly a woman said, "You have the same haircut as me." As I turned, she took off her hat, and it was clear from her tired, black rimmed eyes that she was a cancer patient. She told me all about how she'd had it once at 38, gotten rid of it, and then five years later it was in her lungs. She never had insurance and didn't get scans (because they are REALLY expensive) until she had symptoms, at which point it was too late. Upon departing in the parking lot she said to me, "Good luck. I hope yours doesn't come back."
Each time I hear one of these stories I feel a little less certain about the success of my treatments and wonder if I should be doing something different. I have started considering all of these different miracle treatments that everyone and their sister's mother's great aunt has told me about and wondering if I should completely change my lifestyle. Blue green algae, zeolite, methylglyoxal, goji juice, all varieties of berries, ph levels, immune power herbal formula tea... I need a serious transformation in everything, apparently. And I think I should live by the ocean.
One of the most unsettling things I've read so far, though, is about a girl named Kristy Lasch. She was diagnosed in 2000 at 22 just after she had finished her BA degree at UM. She had surgery, went through chemotherapy, and then went on with her life. Everything was fine.
"After finishing her treatment and reconstructive surgery, Kristy's hair grew back and she regained her strength. She decided to accept a position at the University of Miami while pursuing her M.B.A. Kristy planned a big celebration for her 25th birthday with her friends. Life was returning to normal. Kristy became active in the Susan G. Komen Foundation and spoke at the 'Race for the Cure' in October 2003. She continued to have blood work done every 6 months, as covered by her insurance, and the tests continued to come back negative for cancer. Her insurance didn't let her get the scans because her blood tests came back negative. Apparently there are a significant percentage of people for whom cancer does not show up in the blood test and would go undetected without a scan.
In May of 2003, Kristy began experiencing pain in her stomach and back. Doctors reassured her that she was fine because her blood work looked normal. The pain came and went throughout the summer of 2003 and by August, she was sure that further tests should be done. Kristy had a scan done. She was diagnosed with cancer in the bones and the liver, and began an aggressive chemotherapy treatment soon after the diagnosis. "
She died on October 3, 2004 at age 26.
I guess the insurance company's main objective is to make money, and the best way to make money is to insure only healthy people. If people aren't healthy, it's a burden to insure them, so it is best to get them off the policy one way or another.
Good job you sick fucks.
The settings are always random: Monday night's breast cancer defeat story was told to me on the way out to the parking lot from my brother's baseball game by a complete stranger. I was walking with my parents and niece when suddenly a woman said, "You have the same haircut as me." As I turned, she took off her hat, and it was clear from her tired, black rimmed eyes that she was a cancer patient. She told me all about how she'd had it once at 38, gotten rid of it, and then five years later it was in her lungs. She never had insurance and didn't get scans (because they are REALLY expensive) until she had symptoms, at which point it was too late. Upon departing in the parking lot she said to me, "Good luck. I hope yours doesn't come back."
Each time I hear one of these stories I feel a little less certain about the success of my treatments and wonder if I should be doing something different. I have started considering all of these different miracle treatments that everyone and their sister's mother's great aunt has told me about and wondering if I should completely change my lifestyle. Blue green algae, zeolite, methylglyoxal, goji juice, all varieties of berries, ph levels, immune power herbal formula tea... I need a serious transformation in everything, apparently. And I think I should live by the ocean.
One of the most unsettling things I've read so far, though, is about a girl named Kristy Lasch. She was diagnosed in 2000 at 22 just after she had finished her BA degree at UM. She had surgery, went through chemotherapy, and then went on with her life. Everything was fine.
"After finishing her treatment and reconstructive surgery, Kristy's hair grew back and she regained her strength. She decided to accept a position at the University of Miami while pursuing her M.B.A. Kristy planned a big celebration for her 25th birthday with her friends. Life was returning to normal. Kristy became active in the Susan G. Komen Foundation and spoke at the 'Race for the Cure' in October 2003. She continued to have blood work done every 6 months, as covered by her insurance, and the tests continued to come back negative for cancer. Her insurance didn't let her get the scans because her blood tests came back negative. Apparently there are a significant percentage of people for whom cancer does not show up in the blood test and would go undetected without a scan.
In May of 2003, Kristy began experiencing pain in her stomach and back. Doctors reassured her that she was fine because her blood work looked normal. The pain came and went throughout the summer of 2003 and by August, she was sure that further tests should be done. Kristy had a scan done. She was diagnosed with cancer in the bones and the liver, and began an aggressive chemotherapy treatment soon after the diagnosis. "
She died on October 3, 2004 at age 26.
I guess the insurance company's main objective is to make money, and the best way to make money is to insure only healthy people. If people aren't healthy, it's a burden to insure them, so it is best to get them off the policy one way or another.
Good job you sick fucks.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Influential Insurance: The Neutropenic Patient
(Note: before continuing you may want to read this post, which I wrote in a notebook back in December but only recently typed it up and posted it here. It explains "Neupogen," "neutropena," "neutropenic fever," "over productive stage" and "firestorm.")
Taxol, unlike Adriamycin and Cytoxin (AC), has caused my red blood count to be diminished and has left my white blood count at the low end of the "normal" bracket, which is 1.4 - 6.5, but in the bracket nonetheless... that is, until recently.
Before I started chemotherapy, my normal level was 3.6. After I started on the AC treatments it was rarely above 1.3 and had a recorded record low of 0.6. Of course, in one of my over productive stages I had a high of, if I remember correctly, 63.
For the past three weeks my white blood count has been slowly going down, and every week the nurses have commented on the possibility of giving me a Neupogen shot to prevent neutropenia. This week my white blood count was low, outside of the bracket, making me more susceptible to, well, everything.
After they "took me down" (gave me a Heprin flush, removed my tap and taped gauze to my port) I asked if I should be getting a shot because of my blood count, because while I don't particularly care for the way the shot burns and the discomfort and internal firestorms it causes, I would really rather not get neutropenic fever and everything that entails.
HOWEVER, as it turns out, insurance policies have changed! The nurse went and asked my doctor if they should give me a shot who said, to the nurse's surprise, that no, they were just going to hope that my system corrects itself because the insurance companies are now refusing to pay for preventative Neupogen shots and require the following criteria for a patient to get a shot: 1) The patient must have neutropenic fever and 2) the white blood gradient must be below 1.0!!!! (remember, the safe zone/normal bracket is 1.4-6.5)
How can this be a thing? Why do the insurance companies have so much power over health care? I understand the need to control the excessive administration of drugs to patients for financial purposes, but, seriously, crack down on something that is administered excessively, like antibiotics. Antibiotics have been administered to me like candy on several occasions. As a matter of fact, one of my past doctors didn't even seem to be listening to me when I was telling her my symptoms, and, in retrospect, she should have been worried about ovarian cancer or something and have prescribed an ultrasound like the doctor I dumped her for did, NOT antibiotics.
But why prevent doctors from administering preventative medicine to cancer patients? That doesn't even make any sense! And the doctors only have the shots administered a) to patients that need them and b) until the patient's immune system starts functioning on its own again.
My count isn't that bad right now (1.3), but if it were a tenth of a point or two lower, I would be concerned and really pissed off... not that I'm not angry right now, but this is more general anger whereas the other would be more selfish anger.
Basically what I'm trying to say is that insurance companies are evil and have absolutely no concern for the patients. Not that insurance company employees are all selfish, soulless, creeps, but the top dogs and policy makers that make all the money certainly appear to be.
At some point I may venture to take on the big scary monster, but I am going to need to stock up on armor first.
Taxol, unlike Adriamycin and Cytoxin (AC), has caused my red blood count to be diminished and has left my white blood count at the low end of the "normal" bracket, which is 1.4 - 6.5, but in the bracket nonetheless... that is, until recently.
Before I started chemotherapy, my normal level was 3.6. After I started on the AC treatments it was rarely above 1.3 and had a recorded record low of 0.6. Of course, in one of my over productive stages I had a high of, if I remember correctly, 63.
For the past three weeks my white blood count has been slowly going down, and every week the nurses have commented on the possibility of giving me a Neupogen shot to prevent neutropenia. This week my white blood count was low, outside of the bracket, making me more susceptible to, well, everything.
After they "took me down" (gave me a Heprin flush, removed my tap and taped gauze to my port) I asked if I should be getting a shot because of my blood count, because while I don't particularly care for the way the shot burns and the discomfort and internal firestorms it causes, I would really rather not get neutropenic fever and everything that entails.
HOWEVER, as it turns out, insurance policies have changed! The nurse went and asked my doctor if they should give me a shot who said, to the nurse's surprise, that no, they were just going to hope that my system corrects itself because the insurance companies are now refusing to pay for preventative Neupogen shots and require the following criteria for a patient to get a shot: 1) The patient must have neutropenic fever and 2) the white blood gradient must be below 1.0!!!! (remember, the safe zone/normal bracket is 1.4-6.5)
How can this be a thing? Why do the insurance companies have so much power over health care? I understand the need to control the excessive administration of drugs to patients for financial purposes, but, seriously, crack down on something that is administered excessively, like antibiotics. Antibiotics have been administered to me like candy on several occasions. As a matter of fact, one of my past doctors didn't even seem to be listening to me when I was telling her my symptoms, and, in retrospect, she should have been worried about ovarian cancer or something and have prescribed an ultrasound like the doctor I dumped her for did, NOT antibiotics.
But why prevent doctors from administering preventative medicine to cancer patients? That doesn't even make any sense! And the doctors only have the shots administered a) to patients that need them and b) until the patient's immune system starts functioning on its own again.
My count isn't that bad right now (1.3), but if it were a tenth of a point or two lower, I would be concerned and really pissed off... not that I'm not angry right now, but this is more general anger whereas the other would be more selfish anger.
Basically what I'm trying to say is that insurance companies are evil and have absolutely no concern for the patients. Not that insurance company employees are all selfish, soulless, creeps, but the top dogs and policy makers that make all the money certainly appear to be.
At some point I may venture to take on the big scary monster, but I am going to need to stock up on armor first.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Influential Insurance: Aloxi vs. Zofran
The chemotherapy regiment I have been on since January 4th is Taxol (chemo) with Herceptin (not chemo, although wildly expensive... about $2000/dose every week, which will triple when I start going every three weeks and getting three times as much). With this regiment I get the following premeds in the following order: Zofran (for nausea), Dexamethasone (a steroid), Zantac (for my stomach) and Benadryl (to prevent an allergic reaction to Taxol). They take about two hours to be administered and have varying side effects.
I have been on the Dex since my first Adriamycin and Cytoxin (AC) treatment, where I received the premeds Aloxi (like Zofran, but better) and Dex as well as an Emend pill (hard core nausea preventer at $354/3 pack of pills) which I ingested as soon as they got my blood counts and found out whether my white blood count was high enough to get chemo, and then on the mornings of the second and third day. Dex has a cumulative kind of side effect, it seems, because I have noticed that my anger levels have risen since I've been on Taxol. Or perhaps it's the Taxol. Or perhaps it's the Dex, but I didn't notice when I was on the AC treatment because the Adriamycin more or less wiped out all familiar and healthy feelings and replaced them with weak, nauseated aliens.
Anyway, in case you weren't aware, steroids cause noticeable differences in mood.
The Benadryl makes me sleepy, especially since it is administered in high doses and directly into the blood stream.
I don't think the Zantac causes any side effects, but that's only because the nurses haven't blamed it for causing any of the many that I have.
The Zofran, on the other hand, causes LOTS of side effects, even though they run it very slowly in an attempt to minimize these effects. Despite their attempts, however, Zofran is powerful and still kicks my butt, leaving me with the following annoyances: dizziness, blurred vision, inability to focus, inability to walk in a straight line, jumpy vision, loss of balance, loss of appetite, and, on the following day, the feeling that somehow a succession of queen size mattresses were dropped on me from a distance of at least 15 feet, the force of which caused my body to slowly slice through the concrete to the underlying surface like a spoon through a slightly under ripe tomato.
Now, as I mentioned before, Zofran and Aloxi have the same function, but Aloxi is much better for me. I can feel when my system is saturated with Aloxi, but it does not cause the symptoms that Zofran does, which last beyond the day of treatment. I know that this is not at all in my imagination because last week one of the nurses came to me and said, "I'm going to run your Benadryl a little faster because you're already going to be getting out of here pretty late tonight. Let me know if it bothers you," to which I replied, "Ok. I think I should be fine, though, because the Zofran didn't really bother me much this time. I only got a little bit woozy at the very end, and it went away pretty fast." About twenty minutes later the nurse came back and said, "The reason the Zofran didn't bother you is because we accidentally gave you Aloxi, which is better for you, but your insurance doesn't want to cover it."
At which point I said, "WHAT? My insurance dictates how you guys are allowed to fix my cancer?" And she said yes, that the insurance companies very much dictate what the medical professionals are allowed to do with their patients and what their patients are allowed to have TO CURE THEIR LIFE THREATENING DISEASES. Now, I know that Aloxi isn't going to cure my cancer, it is just going to help make my treatment more tolerable to my system, but instead I have to have Zofran, which is supposed to do the same thing but has all of these other side effects that very much effect my quality of life. I don't mean to sound like I'm whining, but my head is seriously messed up right now and while I am aware that it is mostly the chemotherapy, I am certain that the Zofran is a contributor, and it is extremely irritating to me that the insurance company gets to tell my medical provider what she's allowed to give me.
I have been on the Dex since my first Adriamycin and Cytoxin (AC) treatment, where I received the premeds Aloxi (like Zofran, but better) and Dex as well as an Emend pill (hard core nausea preventer at $354/3 pack of pills) which I ingested as soon as they got my blood counts and found out whether my white blood count was high enough to get chemo, and then on the mornings of the second and third day. Dex has a cumulative kind of side effect, it seems, because I have noticed that my anger levels have risen since I've been on Taxol. Or perhaps it's the Taxol. Or perhaps it's the Dex, but I didn't notice when I was on the AC treatment because the Adriamycin more or less wiped out all familiar and healthy feelings and replaced them with weak, nauseated aliens.
Anyway, in case you weren't aware, steroids cause noticeable differences in mood.
The Benadryl makes me sleepy, especially since it is administered in high doses and directly into the blood stream.
I don't think the Zantac causes any side effects, but that's only because the nurses haven't blamed it for causing any of the many that I have.
The Zofran, on the other hand, causes LOTS of side effects, even though they run it very slowly in an attempt to minimize these effects. Despite their attempts, however, Zofran is powerful and still kicks my butt, leaving me with the following annoyances: dizziness, blurred vision, inability to focus, inability to walk in a straight line, jumpy vision, loss of balance, loss of appetite, and, on the following day, the feeling that somehow a succession of queen size mattresses were dropped on me from a distance of at least 15 feet, the force of which caused my body to slowly slice through the concrete to the underlying surface like a spoon through a slightly under ripe tomato.
Now, as I mentioned before, Zofran and Aloxi have the same function, but Aloxi is much better for me. I can feel when my system is saturated with Aloxi, but it does not cause the symptoms that Zofran does, which last beyond the day of treatment. I know that this is not at all in my imagination because last week one of the nurses came to me and said, "I'm going to run your Benadryl a little faster because you're already going to be getting out of here pretty late tonight. Let me know if it bothers you," to which I replied, "Ok. I think I should be fine, though, because the Zofran didn't really bother me much this time. I only got a little bit woozy at the very end, and it went away pretty fast." About twenty minutes later the nurse came back and said, "The reason the Zofran didn't bother you is because we accidentally gave you Aloxi, which is better for you, but your insurance doesn't want to cover it."
At which point I said, "WHAT? My insurance dictates how you guys are allowed to fix my cancer?" And she said yes, that the insurance companies very much dictate what the medical professionals are allowed to do with their patients and what their patients are allowed to have TO CURE THEIR LIFE THREATENING DISEASES. Now, I know that Aloxi isn't going to cure my cancer, it is just going to help make my treatment more tolerable to my system, but instead I have to have Zofran, which is supposed to do the same thing but has all of these other side effects that very much effect my quality of life. I don't mean to sound like I'm whining, but my head is seriously messed up right now and while I am aware that it is mostly the chemotherapy, I am certain that the Zofran is a contributor, and it is extremely irritating to me that the insurance company gets to tell my medical provider what she's allowed to give me.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Comments on the Stages of Re-growing Hair
About a month and a half ago I was in Publix picking up some snack foods for a movie/study session with some classmates. I had forgotten to bring a hat with me, as it was a warm day and I was feeling quite comfortable and didn't think of it. I was standing in the produce section trying to decide between the big bag of carrots and the small bag of carrots when a woman comes up next to me and seems to be similarly contemplating the carrot situation. Suddenly she said, "So did you do it on a dare," and I thought that she must be on the phone with someone... but then she finished her sentence: "or did you just shave it because you felt like it."
Of course at this point I knew that she was talking to me, but I delayed the looking up response by about five seconds because I was uncertain of how to respond. She picked up a bag of carrots and was looking at me when I finally ded look up. I said, "Uh, no... I have cancer and it fell out because of the treatment. It's just starting to grow back."
The woman's face went kind of blank and then quickly regained composure and she began explaining to me that she was asking because her daughter is in the habit of shaving her head randomly as well as coloring her hair blue, purple and pink.
At the time my hair didn't exactly look like it was buzzed; it looked more like it had fallen out and was just starting to debate whether or not it should come back; it was fuzzy, sparse and very, very soft. Really, it looked like more like the fuzz on a rabbit's rump and less like human hair. But I wasn't angry; the woman just seemed to be looking at me from a specific angle that she was familiar with and I wasn't. So I talked to her. We laughed and joked for about 15 minutes and when we departed I hoped that our interaction wasn't one of those incidents that she would look back on in ten years and think, "I can't believe I did that... I'm a terrible person." (Or anything of the sort)
..........................................................................
Recently my hair has started to look more like hair and less like ducklings. I have even discovered that I have a white patch growing in the very front and center of my hair line. I'm hoping that the old age has been concentrated specifically to this area rather than being evenly distributed all around my head, that way I can look cool like Rouge from X-Men rather then like old from Life.
Unfortunately this also makes me look like "rebellious" from "the youth," which is very much frowned upon here in good old Homosassa Florida, where they prefer "inbred" from "the rednecks" over anything representing "not conservative" (which included McCain until he became the Republican presidential candidate).
Anyway, my new hair growth includes most follicles, but not all of them yet, because the chemotherapy is still attacking my being. Because not all of my hair has chosen to come back at this time, I have chosen not to let it grow to any significant length because I prefer not to look like an under-nourished animal.
This apparently has the effect of making me look like a rebellious teenager and therefore gives people the right to stare at me without inhibition and give me disapproving looks.
Today I did not bring a hat with me when I went to Publix and I got lots of these stares and looks, starting in the parking lot and mostly from senior citizens, especially of the female variety. When I had picked out a package of chicken breasts and was walking away from the poultry bin, an older, male Publix employee said to me, "I like your hair cut."
I couldn't help but laugh because it just seemed so random and struck me as funny. I could tell from the confused look on the man's face that this was an inappropriate response, so I tried to wrestle my laughter into submission while spewing out a surprisingly coherent "thank you."
People that I am close to told me while I was bald that I "pull the look of well," (I like to believe that they weren't referring to the cancer look in general) and my mom has told me many times that I look really good with super short hair.
I have heard "It's just like _______ (choose: Sinead O'Connor, J.I. Jane, Natalie Portman)" repeatedly from lots of people and my dad, brother and most of my brother's friends have shaved their heads in tribute. I was simply happy that my head is a good shape and that my ears aren't large.
I like not having much hair and now that I'm mostly used to it I find that when I look at pictures where I have long hair, I am surprised at how strange I look. At some point in the not too distant future the poison will finally drain completely out of me and hair will spill forth from my unpolluted scalp and redecorate this head of mine. I will then be faced with something that was more or less taken away from me on October 5th, 2007 when the surgeon found that the cancer had spread into the lymph nodes, thus making chemotherapy an important part of killing Bob: a choice regarding the aesthetics of my body. Sure, I could have chosen to leave the lump there and remain unscarred, and I did, after all, choose not to have my breast taken off all together, but those were forced choices that I wouldn't have made had I been cancer free, so I don't really count those.
Regarding my new hair, though, I have all kinds of choice, more now than I did pre-cancer, because it is entirely likely that I never would have chosen to cut my hair so short, never mind buzz it, were it not going to fall out in the first place. I used to be in the habit of growing it very long and then putting it in a ponytail and having it cut about chin length and donated to Locks of Love. Now, however, I'm considering keeping it very short... at least for a while.
But those looks, those unapologetic stares and presumptuous opinions you can see forming behind their eyes. I often avoid looking at people these days because sometimes I just don't want to deal with it. Before, when I was bald and my eyelashes and eyebrows were mostly gone and I was pale and sickly and just generally looked like a cancer patient, the looks were different. There were kind eyes and apologetic smiles (for staring, I think) and there was no nastiness. As soon as it started kind of coming back, though, the looks started to change. Slowly at first, and I thought that perhaps it was in my imagination, that I was subconsciously afraid of what people thought (which is not a normal habit of mine). But then people started randomly saying stuff, usually at a Publix store (but never at the same one), and old ladies started giving me bluntly mean looks and people started staring unabashedly and with a tinge of disgust, like I've done something that has torn the moral fiber of our great nation and deserve to be punished by means of rude behavior from the morally superior.
On the other hand, on the days that I feel good and am most similar to my "normal" self, these stares and looks not only lack the effect of making me feel like I need to justify my hair, but they make me want to keep my hair varying lengths of short, sometimes longish to show off the white, with the express intention of making people gawk openly and make comments. Perhaps I'll start wearing t-shirts that say stuff like, "Young people get breast cancer too. Stop staring and tell your granddaughter to check herself," perhaps with "you morally superior bitch" in very small print at the end of the sentence.
In any case, it is interesting to be me, and I must admit that I very much enjoy it. And the oddities and downsides? Well, they just serve to make it more interesting. After all, variety is the spice of life, right?
Of course at this point I knew that she was talking to me, but I delayed the looking up response by about five seconds because I was uncertain of how to respond. She picked up a bag of carrots and was looking at me when I finally ded look up. I said, "Uh, no... I have cancer and it fell out because of the treatment. It's just starting to grow back."
The woman's face went kind of blank and then quickly regained composure and she began explaining to me that she was asking because her daughter is in the habit of shaving her head randomly as well as coloring her hair blue, purple and pink.
At the time my hair didn't exactly look like it was buzzed; it looked more like it had fallen out and was just starting to debate whether or not it should come back; it was fuzzy, sparse and very, very soft. Really, it looked like more like the fuzz on a rabbit's rump and less like human hair. But I wasn't angry; the woman just seemed to be looking at me from a specific angle that she was familiar with and I wasn't. So I talked to her. We laughed and joked for about 15 minutes and when we departed I hoped that our interaction wasn't one of those incidents that she would look back on in ten years and think, "I can't believe I did that... I'm a terrible person." (Or anything of the sort)
..........................................................................
Recently my hair has started to look more like hair and less like ducklings. I have even discovered that I have a white patch growing in the very front and center of my hair line. I'm hoping that the old age has been concentrated specifically to this area rather than being evenly distributed all around my head, that way I can look cool like Rouge from X-Men rather then like old from Life.
Unfortunately this also makes me look like "rebellious" from "the youth," which is very much frowned upon here in good old Homosassa Florida, where they prefer "inbred" from "the rednecks" over anything representing "not conservative" (which included McCain until he became the Republican presidential candidate).
Anyway, my new hair growth includes most follicles, but not all of them yet, because the chemotherapy is still attacking my being. Because not all of my hair has chosen to come back at this time, I have chosen not to let it grow to any significant length because I prefer not to look like an under-nourished animal.
This apparently has the effect of making me look like a rebellious teenager and therefore gives people the right to stare at me without inhibition and give me disapproving looks.
Today I did not bring a hat with me when I went to Publix and I got lots of these stares and looks, starting in the parking lot and mostly from senior citizens, especially of the female variety. When I had picked out a package of chicken breasts and was walking away from the poultry bin, an older, male Publix employee said to me, "I like your hair cut."
I couldn't help but laugh because it just seemed so random and struck me as funny. I could tell from the confused look on the man's face that this was an inappropriate response, so I tried to wrestle my laughter into submission while spewing out a surprisingly coherent "thank you."
People that I am close to told me while I was bald that I "pull the look of well," (I like to believe that they weren't referring to the cancer look in general) and my mom has told me many times that I look really good with super short hair.
I have heard "It's just like _______ (choose: Sinead O'Connor, J.I. Jane, Natalie Portman)" repeatedly from lots of people and my dad, brother and most of my brother's friends have shaved their heads in tribute. I was simply happy that my head is a good shape and that my ears aren't large.
I like not having much hair and now that I'm mostly used to it I find that when I look at pictures where I have long hair, I am surprised at how strange I look. At some point in the not too distant future the poison will finally drain completely out of me and hair will spill forth from my unpolluted scalp and redecorate this head of mine. I will then be faced with something that was more or less taken away from me on October 5th, 2007 when the surgeon found that the cancer had spread into the lymph nodes, thus making chemotherapy an important part of killing Bob: a choice regarding the aesthetics of my body. Sure, I could have chosen to leave the lump there and remain unscarred, and I did, after all, choose not to have my breast taken off all together, but those were forced choices that I wouldn't have made had I been cancer free, so I don't really count those.
Regarding my new hair, though, I have all kinds of choice, more now than I did pre-cancer, because it is entirely likely that I never would have chosen to cut my hair so short, never mind buzz it, were it not going to fall out in the first place. I used to be in the habit of growing it very long and then putting it in a ponytail and having it cut about chin length and donated to Locks of Love. Now, however, I'm considering keeping it very short... at least for a while.
But those looks, those unapologetic stares and presumptuous opinions you can see forming behind their eyes. I often avoid looking at people these days because sometimes I just don't want to deal with it. Before, when I was bald and my eyelashes and eyebrows were mostly gone and I was pale and sickly and just generally looked like a cancer patient, the looks were different. There were kind eyes and apologetic smiles (for staring, I think) and there was no nastiness. As soon as it started kind of coming back, though, the looks started to change. Slowly at first, and I thought that perhaps it was in my imagination, that I was subconsciously afraid of what people thought (which is not a normal habit of mine). But then people started randomly saying stuff, usually at a Publix store (but never at the same one), and old ladies started giving me bluntly mean looks and people started staring unabashedly and with a tinge of disgust, like I've done something that has torn the moral fiber of our great nation and deserve to be punished by means of rude behavior from the morally superior.
On the other hand, on the days that I feel good and am most similar to my "normal" self, these stares and looks not only lack the effect of making me feel like I need to justify my hair, but they make me want to keep my hair varying lengths of short, sometimes longish to show off the white, with the express intention of making people gawk openly and make comments. Perhaps I'll start wearing t-shirts that say stuff like, "Young people get breast cancer too. Stop staring and tell your granddaughter to check herself," perhaps with "you morally superior bitch" in very small print at the end of the sentence.
In any case, it is interesting to be me, and I must admit that I very much enjoy it. And the oddities and downsides? Well, they just serve to make it more interesting. After all, variety is the spice of life, right?
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Text Messaging
me: "I had ice cream for dinner and now I'm bloated."
Paul: "Haha, sucks to be you"
me: "Nah, it's cool to be me."
Paul: "Yea, you get to do all the fun stuff like tour Britain, grow bonsais, live with monkeys and fight cancer. I want to be you in another life."
Paul: "Haha, sucks to be you"
me: "Nah, it's cool to be me."
Paul: "Yea, you get to do all the fun stuff like tour Britain, grow bonsais, live with monkeys and fight cancer. I want to be you in another life."
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