Not 3 days after I find out my hormones are back to normal, Laura visits. For real. Who knew a 35 year old would be so excited about getting her period?? It doesn't mean I can have another baby because chemo affects the viability of eggs, but at least it's a start. I've never been a believer in PMS (controversial, I know, but there are entire societies of women who exhibit no signs of it and my opinion is that it's cultural, but I digress) but have heard that acupuncture is good for any symptoms so I take the opportunity to schedule an appointment with Jacob Traners (name changed to protect me from a defamation lawsuit even though it's all true!), the acupuncturist who does massage that Dr. McAndrew recommended. The tightness on my left side bothers me 24 hours a day so I'm curious to see if whatever he does makes a difference.
Jacob Traners' office is small but quaint. I hear the cliche sounds of a water feature trickling away in the background. I sit down to wait but before my bottom hits the seat a man in his 40s enters the waiting room and introduces himself. "Come in," he says as he points me towards another door. The trickling water sounds continue in the private room and some chimes softly clang away. I want to laugh but don't. Jacob, or Traners, as he calls himself for some strange reason, sits down next to me with a clipboard in his hand. He looks up. "Wow," he says. I smile but am totally creeped out. I'm not sure if it's "wow, you're so young, or wow you're cute," or what. But it's creepy. He tells me that his wife had breast cancer and that his 8 year old daughter knows terms that most children don't. I nod my head in agreement. A few days ago, Boris was putting Miles down for his nap and left his room with a perplexed look on his face and a chuckle. "What happened?" I asked. "Miles just stuffed 2 monos (his monkey loveys) up his shirt then yanked them out saying 'I have cancer, take these away,'" he said. I wasn't sure if I should laugh or cry.
I lay down on the table and he begins to massage my feet and legs. He explains that even though he's going to primarily work on breaking up the scar tissue in my left breast, it's important to do some work on the entire body. Sounds good to me. Only sadly, it's not. It's clumsy and untrained and when he massages my neck I have to tell him he's ripping my hair out. Who fucks up a neck and foot massage? The massage to my breast is pretty excruciating but tolerable. He repeatedly asks if he's hurting me or if anything is too firm but I remind him that I've had chemo and a double mastectomy. I'm basically super woman. He comments that expanders are the last modern form of medieval torture and I couldn't agree more.
When he's finished, it's hard to even tell whether my left side has better range of motion or feels better at all. He asks me what part felt best. "None of it felt good," I respond. He looks a little surprised so I continue "I wasn't expecting it to feel good." He tells me that I should come once a week until my exchange surgery and that I should come post surgery as soon as the area can be touched. I want to feel less tightness and certainly want to prevent my implants from hardening once they're in, but I never want to see Jacob, excuse me, Traners, again.
He calls me a few times after my session to ask how I'm feeling and whether I experienced any pain as a result of the massage. I don't call him back. I do however tell Ashely (my trainer) about his weirdness. "Lay down and give me your boob," she says. She starts massaging. "Is this what he did?" she asks? It is. Traners finally sends an email checking up on me and at the end of it he writes "when asking if there was any part of the session that you enjoyed and you answered that no part of the work felt good. I was touched by that." Um, what? Creepy. Thank goodness I can have Ashley take over a few times a week. The other people at the gym give us some pretty interesting looks, but whatever. It seems to relieve the tightness slightly.
A few days later I have a routine appointment with Dr. Botnick. I show him how the left breast has risen up and is much tighter and firmer than the right. As usual, he's friendly but flippant. "It's not that hard," he says. I'm sure he's felt worse but it's in my body and to me, it feels really fucking hard. And it just hurts all the time and I'm constantly try to stretch out the left side of my body because it feels so tight. "I'm afraid it's just going to get worse once I have my implants in," I tell him. As usual he tells me it will all be fine and that I'm beautiful and that the goal is to be alive. So true, except if I'm going to be alive I'd like to not be in pain all the time. Plus, I want cute boobs. Too much to ask for? Dr. Botnick says that there's no evidence that massaging the breast does anything to prevent contracture. There is apparently a drug that thins the blood and might help prevent scar tissue from building up. No guarantees of course and I don't really want to be on drugs (especially ones that might not do anything for me).
So for now, I'll just have to wait and see what my body does to the implants once they're in. Just a few more weeks of the modern medieval torture that I've been living with for the past 6 months. And hopefully this is my last surgery until my c-section with baby girl (still working on convincing Boris that we should have her)!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Just Say Node
It's Hanukkah which makes the Atkins diet I have to eat the day before my scans even more annoying. It's hard enough having to avoid all carbohydrates, starchy vegetables and beans, but to have to avoid latkes sucks. Granted, latkes really aren't part of the anti-cancer diet, but still. My second round of PET/CT scans are scheduled for 8:30 in the morning. This time I'm prepared. I've told Miles that I'm going to have some tests in the morning and the doctor will give me strong medicine that's not healthy to be around so I will have to stay away all day. He asks a lot of questions and wants to know what "radioactive" means. Oy.
I wake up in the morning and can't eat breakfast, which I hate. I always eat breakfast. I'm hungry but the faster I get the scans over with the sooner I can eat and see my kids. I spend as much time as I can with both boys and then get into my car. I wait for 20 minutes in Tower's waiting room before Jose comes to take my blood and start my i.v. This time there's no pain as he inserts the needle into the crook of my arm. My glucose levels look good so I'm lead down the hall to the imaging wing. The heavy lead doors close behind me and I sit and wait some more. It's finally my turn.
The nurse asks me what flavor glucose drink I'd like. I didn't drink it last time because of my nausea (and I'm assuming the fear that it would make it even worse because it's disgusting ). I ask her what flavor is least offensive. "Orange," she replies. Orange it is. We sit down at a small table outside of the imaging room. She opens a refrigerator and takes out a metal box that says "danger" on it. Inside is a vile of neon fluid. I was so nauseous during my last scans that I must have had my eyes closed the entire time. Otherwise, I surely would have noticed and internally commented on the fact that I'm about to be injected with a substance so dangerous it has to be housed in lead and clearly marked as such. The nurse slowly pushes the neon fluid into my i.v. Then she shows me to the room where I'm to sit as motionless as possible for the next hour. She reminds me not to talk on the phone or text but does hand me the remote control. I never watch television during the day and I have no idea what I'm watching. I'm freezing (a side effect of low blood sugar) and she continues to layer warm blankets on me. After about 40 minutes the nurse comes back in with my orange drink. I have to chug down 1.5 bottles. It's fucking vile but I plug my nose and drink as fast as I can. Then she tells me "to empty my bladder" and come in to the imaging room.
I lay down on the giant machine as another nurse explains the scans and how they work. She also wants to talk about how great my hair is and how much she loved having short hair. It's long now and I just bite my tongue instead of asking her why she doesn 't chop hers off if she loves it so much. The scans last about 40 minutes. It's uncomfortable lying in the same position for so long but otherwise not so bad. When I'm done I leave a message for Dr. McAndrew asking her to call me as soon as she has any results. Last time I had results the same day. I leave and spend the day avoiding my house and my children. I work, work out and lunch. I'm home by 5 just in time to play with the boys for a few minutes before dinner. I've only been gone most of 1 day but I missed them so much it's crazy. I still haven't heard anything from Dr. McAndrew so I call and leave a second message. I keep my phone by my side while I sit with the boys as they eat. I don't want to freak out that I haven't heard from her but I can't help but wonder whether a bad scan is like cancer. Your doctor makes you come in to hear bad news but would have called if there was nothing to worry about. So I worry most of the night. My appointment to get results is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
The next day, per my new fabulous arrangement with Claudia, Dr. McAndrew's nurse, she calls me when Dr. McAndrew has 1 patient ahead of me. Baron has just woken up from his nap and Miles is still sleeping. I wish I didn't have to leave Baron! I'm listening to NPR as I drive to Tower. A reporter is interviewing a woman who has had what sounds like a zillion different cancers. The piece is apparently about how CT scans increase the risk of cancer. One study states that 1-250 women will get a new cancer as a direct result of a scan. Fucking great. I'll have to add this story to the already lengthy list of questions I have for Dr. McAndrew.
Even though there's only 1 patient ahead of me, I still wait for an hour. Dr. McAndrew does pop her head in briefly to say my scans are clear. Clear! But when she comes in to my room to go through the results in detail it seems that we have different opinions about the meaning of "clear." I think it means clear, as in there's nothing on my scans. Period. She tells me that they're clear even though there's a node on my lung. Huh? A node on my lung? What the fuck? She tells me that she's not worried because the node is located on the outside of my lung in the field of radiation and she often sees scarring from radiation appear this way on scans. No offense - but the last time a doctor told me not to worry because the lump in my breast didn't look like cancer, it was fucking cancer. So I'm not feeling good.
On a happier note, she goes through my blood tests and I'm out of menopause. My hormone levels have returned to normal. Hooray!
And then I unleash the onslaught of questions like I do every time I see her. I had no idea I'd have a fucking node on my lung to ask 9487529 questions about. I ask about the CT scan scandal at Cedars (she quickly corrects me and states that the scandal includes many other hospitals as well and that it most likely is the manufacturer's fault). Regardless, I didn't have the scan at issue. Phew. But she agrees with the cited study on NPR that scans pose a risk for developing new cancers, particularly in young women who are likely to have more scans over their lifetime. And the only way for me to know whether the node on my lung is just scarring from radiation or metastatic disease is to have another scan that may give me a new cancer if I'm alive in several years. What a great position to be in. Her suggestion is that I have a limited scan in 4-6 months without contrast dye to minimize the radiation. If the node is the same size, it's scarring. If it's grown...not so much.
Before I leave, she examines my breasts and comments on how hard and uncomfortable the left one must me (thanks to radiation). She gives me a card for an acupuncturist who also does massage. His wife had breast cancer and complained most about the pain her expanders caused her. He learned to break up scar tissue to relieve some of the pressure and pain and many of Dr. McAndrew's patients swear he's helped them. I'll call in the morning.
I've been at Tower for so long that when I get home the boys are eating dinner. Miles jumps up and hugs me. "I missed you mommy," he says repeatedly. Baron flashes me his amazing smile and tries to climb out of his highchair (one of his new and frightening feats). I want to cry. I don't want metastatic breast cancer of the lungs and death. I put both boys to bed without incident and sit down with Boris who just got home. I start to tell him about my appointment when Miles starts yelling "I need more snuggling, mommy! More snuggling!" I can't resist. I scoop him up in my arms, hold him tight and cry quietly. All I can think about is what if my time with him and Baron is limited? I snuggle with him until he asks to go back into his crib.
I cry most of the night.
I call Dr. McAndrew in the morning and leave her a message. I say something to the effect of "how do I know I'm not going to die and how do I live for the next few months with a node on my lung?" My phone rings around 5:00p.m. It's Dr. McAndrew . I answer the phone and she says "I'm calling to talk you down from the ceiling." We talk for 30 minutes mostly discussing everything we discussed yesterday. She really, truly, honestly isn't worried. I still am but there's really, truly, honestly nothing I can do so I kindof have to get over it. I call Dr. Botnick as well and he's also not worried (although he never seems to be worried about anything).
Over the next few days Boris and I discuss and decide that I'm not going to get re-tested in a few months. What's the point? If the node is metastatic disease, I'm going to die regardless of whether I have a scan or not. If it's not, I'd rather not increase my chances of a new cancer down the road.
I wake up in the morning and can't eat breakfast, which I hate. I always eat breakfast. I'm hungry but the faster I get the scans over with the sooner I can eat and see my kids. I spend as much time as I can with both boys and then get into my car. I wait for 20 minutes in Tower's waiting room before Jose comes to take my blood and start my i.v. This time there's no pain as he inserts the needle into the crook of my arm. My glucose levels look good so I'm lead down the hall to the imaging wing. The heavy lead doors close behind me and I sit and wait some more. It's finally my turn.
The nurse asks me what flavor glucose drink I'd like. I didn't drink it last time because of my nausea (and I'm assuming the fear that it would make it even worse because it's disgusting ). I ask her what flavor is least offensive. "Orange," she replies. Orange it is. We sit down at a small table outside of the imaging room. She opens a refrigerator and takes out a metal box that says "danger" on it. Inside is a vile of neon fluid. I was so nauseous during my last scans that I must have had my eyes closed the entire time. Otherwise, I surely would have noticed and internally commented on the fact that I'm about to be injected with a substance so dangerous it has to be housed in lead and clearly marked as such. The nurse slowly pushes the neon fluid into my i.v. Then she shows me to the room where I'm to sit as motionless as possible for the next hour. She reminds me not to talk on the phone or text but does hand me the remote control. I never watch television during the day and I have no idea what I'm watching. I'm freezing (a side effect of low blood sugar) and she continues to layer warm blankets on me. After about 40 minutes the nurse comes back in with my orange drink. I have to chug down 1.5 bottles. It's fucking vile but I plug my nose and drink as fast as I can. Then she tells me "to empty my bladder" and come in to the imaging room.
I lay down on the giant machine as another nurse explains the scans and how they work. She also wants to talk about how great my hair is and how much she loved having short hair. It's long now and I just bite my tongue instead of asking her why she doesn 't chop hers off if she loves it so much. The scans last about 40 minutes. It's uncomfortable lying in the same position for so long but otherwise not so bad. When I'm done I leave a message for Dr. McAndrew asking her to call me as soon as she has any results. Last time I had results the same day. I leave and spend the day avoiding my house and my children. I work, work out and lunch. I'm home by 5 just in time to play with the boys for a few minutes before dinner. I've only been gone most of 1 day but I missed them so much it's crazy. I still haven't heard anything from Dr. McAndrew so I call and leave a second message. I keep my phone by my side while I sit with the boys as they eat. I don't want to freak out that I haven't heard from her but I can't help but wonder whether a bad scan is like cancer. Your doctor makes you come in to hear bad news but would have called if there was nothing to worry about. So I worry most of the night. My appointment to get results is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
The next day, per my new fabulous arrangement with Claudia, Dr. McAndrew's nurse, she calls me when Dr. McAndrew has 1 patient ahead of me. Baron has just woken up from his nap and Miles is still sleeping. I wish I didn't have to leave Baron! I'm listening to NPR as I drive to Tower. A reporter is interviewing a woman who has had what sounds like a zillion different cancers. The piece is apparently about how CT scans increase the risk of cancer. One study states that 1-250 women will get a new cancer as a direct result of a scan. Fucking great. I'll have to add this story to the already lengthy list of questions I have for Dr. McAndrew.
Even though there's only 1 patient ahead of me, I still wait for an hour. Dr. McAndrew does pop her head in briefly to say my scans are clear. Clear! But when she comes in to my room to go through the results in detail it seems that we have different opinions about the meaning of "clear." I think it means clear, as in there's nothing on my scans. Period. She tells me that they're clear even though there's a node on my lung. Huh? A node on my lung? What the fuck? She tells me that she's not worried because the node is located on the outside of my lung in the field of radiation and she often sees scarring from radiation appear this way on scans. No offense - but the last time a doctor told me not to worry because the lump in my breast didn't look like cancer, it was fucking cancer. So I'm not feeling good.
On a happier note, she goes through my blood tests and I'm out of menopause. My hormone levels have returned to normal. Hooray!
And then I unleash the onslaught of questions like I do every time I see her. I had no idea I'd have a fucking node on my lung to ask 9487529 questions about. I ask about the CT scan scandal at Cedars (she quickly corrects me and states that the scandal includes many other hospitals as well and that it most likely is the manufacturer's fault). Regardless, I didn't have the scan at issue. Phew. But she agrees with the cited study on NPR that scans pose a risk for developing new cancers, particularly in young women who are likely to have more scans over their lifetime. And the only way for me to know whether the node on my lung is just scarring from radiation or metastatic disease is to have another scan that may give me a new cancer if I'm alive in several years. What a great position to be in. Her suggestion is that I have a limited scan in 4-6 months without contrast dye to minimize the radiation. If the node is the same size, it's scarring. If it's grown...not so much.
Before I leave, she examines my breasts and comments on how hard and uncomfortable the left one must me (thanks to radiation). She gives me a card for an acupuncturist who also does massage. His wife had breast cancer and complained most about the pain her expanders caused her. He learned to break up scar tissue to relieve some of the pressure and pain and many of Dr. McAndrew's patients swear he's helped them. I'll call in the morning.
I've been at Tower for so long that when I get home the boys are eating dinner. Miles jumps up and hugs me. "I missed you mommy," he says repeatedly. Baron flashes me his amazing smile and tries to climb out of his highchair (one of his new and frightening feats). I want to cry. I don't want metastatic breast cancer of the lungs and death. I put both boys to bed without incident and sit down with Boris who just got home. I start to tell him about my appointment when Miles starts yelling "I need more snuggling, mommy! More snuggling!" I can't resist. I scoop him up in my arms, hold him tight and cry quietly. All I can think about is what if my time with him and Baron is limited? I snuggle with him until he asks to go back into his crib.
I cry most of the night.
I call Dr. McAndrew in the morning and leave her a message. I say something to the effect of "how do I know I'm not going to die and how do I live for the next few months with a node on my lung?" My phone rings around 5:00p.m. It's Dr. McAndrew . I answer the phone and she says "I'm calling to talk you down from the ceiling." We talk for 30 minutes mostly discussing everything we discussed yesterday. She really, truly, honestly isn't worried. I still am but there's really, truly, honestly nothing I can do so I kindof have to get over it. I call Dr. Botnick as well and he's also not worried (although he never seems to be worried about anything).
Over the next few days Boris and I discuss and decide that I'm not going to get re-tested in a few months. What's the point? If the node is metastatic disease, I'm going to die regardless of whether I have a scan or not. If it's not, I'd rather not increase my chances of a new cancer down the road.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Noisy to Baron
Of late, Miles is obsessed with firefighters. It all started when my aunt bought him a book about firefighters for his birthday. We read the book several times a day for weeks. We still read the book often. And now we dress up like the firefighters and put out "fires" all over the house. Miles runs around with a plastic ax yelling "Mattie (our cat), I'm rescuing you from the fire! The fire is really, really dangerous because it's really, really hot!" Other times he rescues Baron or Boris or me. One night before bed Miles and I read the firefighter book and I ask Miles if he'd like to visit the fire station in the morning. His eyes widen. "I want to go now!" he yells. "The firefighters are sleeping now, Miles," I tell him. "But we can go in the morning when they're awake." "Do they have an ax?" Miles wants to know. I tell him that he can ask the firefighters tomorrow. He has other questions for them like "what color is their bed, what did they eat for dinner, where do they sleep, do they have a fire hydrant, and do they have a kitchen."
I wake up in the morning and discover that Laura may have visited. I won't know for sure until I get my hormone levels tested and this time I'm not getting my hopes up. Miles wakes up yelling "I want to go to the firefighters!" I wait until it's an acceptable hour and call the station. We're free to come. Miles is ecstatic. Firefighter Doug greets us and amazingly spends an hour indulging Miles. He answers every question (including "do you pee on a potty?") and opens every door, drawer and compartment Miles asks about. We also meet a paramedic, watch an ambulance respond to a call and a slew of firefighters stock their truck. Miles is beside himself with excitement. After an hour I convince him that firefighter Doug has to go put out fires and we leave. At lunch with Baron, Miles recounts his morning. He asks me what sounds like "are you noisy to Baron?" I'm not sure what he's talking about so I ask if he's remembering when the ambulance siren turned on and it was really noisy. "No," Miles says and repeats what sounds like "are you noisy to Baron?" "I'm so sorry monkey, but I'm not sure what you're asking me," I say. "Are you giving Baron food from your body?" Miles asks. I'm momentarily stunned that a) he's asking me if I'm nursing Baron, b) he knows what nursing is and c) he can define a word when I don't understand him. "Are you asking me if I'm nursing Baron, Miles?" I ask. He nods. I tell him that I nursed Baron when he was very little. And I tell him that I nursed him when he was a baby. And I tell him that my new boobies don't make milk so I can't nurse Baron anymore and that makes me really sad. "Do you want to nurse me?" he asks. I smile. "I would love to Miles but my new boobies can't make milk. He thinks for a minute and then asks "do you want food from my body?" I smile again and respond "yes, Miles. I would love that." He seems satisfied and goes on eating and telling Baron about his adventures with firefighter Doug and paramedic Trevor.
I ask Miles how he knows what nursing is and he says "from the book where daddy and Miles make a salad." I think for a minute and realize what he's talking about. Before Baron was born, Boris and I would read a book to Miles about bringing a new baby home. The book has no words, just pictures. In one of the pictures, the mommy is nursing the new baby while the older son and daddy cook. The picture has lots of vegetables, which Miles apparently thinks is salad. I just worship him.
I get up to make a bottle for Baron. I'm so sad I can't nurse him. I am so thankful though that I have amazing women in my life who are fortunate to be nursing their little ones and who provide Baron with enough breast milk for almost all of his bottles.
The next day I have my round 2 appointment with Dr. Karlan. Miles wants to come even though I tell him the doctor doesn't have candy. We're right on time. The doctor isn't. Even though I'm shuffled off to a room right away, I still wait 45 minutes. If Miles wasn't with me I would have gone ballistic. Instead, I read "Green Eggs and Ham"to Miles 42 times. When he's about to go ballistic, I open the door so we can take a walk down the hallway. Dr. Karlan is outside. "We're going to take a walk since we've been waiting 45 minutes and our tolerance has run out," I say. "Has anyone come in to talk to you yet?" she asks. I shake my head no. "Would you like a blue balloon?" she asks Miles. "I want it!" he responds. Dr. Karlan asks one of her attendees to get Miles a balloon. She introduces herself and follows us back into our room. She says she needs some information to update my file. I'm asked the same annoying questions I get asked every time I see a doctor. I don't understand why I have to answer each time, but whatever. I try to be civil so Miles doesn't think I'm a raging bitch. I do however, tell the attendee that I'm a new patient of Dr. Karlan's and don't know how she operates. "Is it normal that she doesn't call with results from ultrasounds? I'm just wondering what to expect," I say. "Oh. You didn't receive your results?" she asks. "Nope," I answer. And continue "I called and asked Dr. Karlan to call me with results, but she never called. Again, just wondering if she doesn't call people back or if I don't get test results or what." She's not sure what to say so she gives some lame explanation about how she's the attendee and can't really answer that.
Dr. Karlan walks in during the explanation and says that my results are normal. "You did have that cyst on your left ovary but it's common during the menstrual cycle." I haven't had my period in over a year and have no idea what cyst she's talking about. I ask her a zillion questions until I'm satisfied that the cyst really is nothing. She wants to draw blood to test my hormone levels to see if they're normal but I refuse and tell her I have scans at Tower in 2 weeks and will have them test me so I only have to suffer through one blood draw. Before she examines me she asks her attendee to blow up the blue balloon for Miles who needs to get out of the examination room asap. The attendee is instantly turned into entertainment for Miles as she starts blowing up a blue balloon (a.k.a. a latex glove) and drawing faces on the fingers. Dr. Karlan examines me and says everything looks good. She apparently sees signs of "estrogenization" which means my ovaries are coming back to life (which explains why most of my menopausal side effects have thankfully subsided).
Miles and I leave as fast as possible. I want to get him to the park asap but he instructs me to park the car in front a construction site across from the hospital. There are several diggers and loaders in action and a parade of dump trucks. We get out of the car to watch. He runs back and forth pointing and shouting "look mom! It's an excavator! Look! It's a loader! Look mom! Do you see it!?" It also must have been trash day for the area because we see 10 garbage trucks drive by. Miles doesn't even know what to do with himself he's so excited. I spend the next 30 minutes watching him have the best time ever.
On the drive home we discuss Thanksgiving. "Will we have a feast?" he asks. Ever since his first meal, Miles is obsessed with food. He'll eat just about anything and seriously has food radar. No matter where he is, if anyone is eating anywhere in the vicinity he races over to them and asks what they are eating usually followed by "can I taste it?" We talk about all the delicious food we'll eat. And I tell him Thanksgiving is a day for us to remember all of the things we have to be thankful for. "I'm thankful for you and Baron and daddy and I'm so thankful that I'm feeling good," I tell him. "What are you thankful for, Miles? What makes you happy?" I ask him. Miles has long think and then carefully responds "food."
I wake up in the morning and discover that Laura may have visited. I won't know for sure until I get my hormone levels tested and this time I'm not getting my hopes up. Miles wakes up yelling "I want to go to the firefighters!" I wait until it's an acceptable hour and call the station. We're free to come. Miles is ecstatic. Firefighter Doug greets us and amazingly spends an hour indulging Miles. He answers every question (including "do you pee on a potty?") and opens every door, drawer and compartment Miles asks about. We also meet a paramedic, watch an ambulance respond to a call and a slew of firefighters stock their truck. Miles is beside himself with excitement. After an hour I convince him that firefighter Doug has to go put out fires and we leave. At lunch with Baron, Miles recounts his morning. He asks me what sounds like "are you noisy to Baron?" I'm not sure what he's talking about so I ask if he's remembering when the ambulance siren turned on and it was really noisy. "No," Miles says and repeats what sounds like "are you noisy to Baron?" "I'm so sorry monkey, but I'm not sure what you're asking me," I say. "Are you giving Baron food from your body?" Miles asks. I'm momentarily stunned that a) he's asking me if I'm nursing Baron, b) he knows what nursing is and c) he can define a word when I don't understand him. "Are you asking me if I'm nursing Baron, Miles?" I ask. He nods. I tell him that I nursed Baron when he was very little. And I tell him that I nursed him when he was a baby. And I tell him that my new boobies don't make milk so I can't nurse Baron anymore and that makes me really sad. "Do you want to nurse me?" he asks. I smile. "I would love to Miles but my new boobies can't make milk. He thinks for a minute and then asks "do you want food from my body?" I smile again and respond "yes, Miles. I would love that." He seems satisfied and goes on eating and telling Baron about his adventures with firefighter Doug and paramedic Trevor.
I ask Miles how he knows what nursing is and he says "from the book where daddy and Miles make a salad." I think for a minute and realize what he's talking about. Before Baron was born, Boris and I would read a book to Miles about bringing a new baby home. The book has no words, just pictures. In one of the pictures, the mommy is nursing the new baby while the older son and daddy cook. The picture has lots of vegetables, which Miles apparently thinks is salad. I just worship him.
I get up to make a bottle for Baron. I'm so sad I can't nurse him. I am so thankful though that I have amazing women in my life who are fortunate to be nursing their little ones and who provide Baron with enough breast milk for almost all of his bottles.
The next day I have my round 2 appointment with Dr. Karlan. Miles wants to come even though I tell him the doctor doesn't have candy. We're right on time. The doctor isn't. Even though I'm shuffled off to a room right away, I still wait 45 minutes. If Miles wasn't with me I would have gone ballistic. Instead, I read "Green Eggs and Ham"to Miles 42 times. When he's about to go ballistic, I open the door so we can take a walk down the hallway. Dr. Karlan is outside. "We're going to take a walk since we've been waiting 45 minutes and our tolerance has run out," I say. "Has anyone come in to talk to you yet?" she asks. I shake my head no. "Would you like a blue balloon?" she asks Miles. "I want it!" he responds. Dr. Karlan asks one of her attendees to get Miles a balloon. She introduces herself and follows us back into our room. She says she needs some information to update my file. I'm asked the same annoying questions I get asked every time I see a doctor. I don't understand why I have to answer each time, but whatever. I try to be civil so Miles doesn't think I'm a raging bitch. I do however, tell the attendee that I'm a new patient of Dr. Karlan's and don't know how she operates. "Is it normal that she doesn't call with results from ultrasounds? I'm just wondering what to expect," I say. "Oh. You didn't receive your results?" she asks. "Nope," I answer. And continue "I called and asked Dr. Karlan to call me with results, but she never called. Again, just wondering if she doesn't call people back or if I don't get test results or what." She's not sure what to say so she gives some lame explanation about how she's the attendee and can't really answer that.
Dr. Karlan walks in during the explanation and says that my results are normal. "You did have that cyst on your left ovary but it's common during the menstrual cycle." I haven't had my period in over a year and have no idea what cyst she's talking about. I ask her a zillion questions until I'm satisfied that the cyst really is nothing. She wants to draw blood to test my hormone levels to see if they're normal but I refuse and tell her I have scans at Tower in 2 weeks and will have them test me so I only have to suffer through one blood draw. Before she examines me she asks her attendee to blow up the blue balloon for Miles who needs to get out of the examination room asap. The attendee is instantly turned into entertainment for Miles as she starts blowing up a blue balloon (a.k.a. a latex glove) and drawing faces on the fingers. Dr. Karlan examines me and says everything looks good. She apparently sees signs of "estrogenization" which means my ovaries are coming back to life (which explains why most of my menopausal side effects have thankfully subsided).
Miles and I leave as fast as possible. I want to get him to the park asap but he instructs me to park the car in front a construction site across from the hospital. There are several diggers and loaders in action and a parade of dump trucks. We get out of the car to watch. He runs back and forth pointing and shouting "look mom! It's an excavator! Look! It's a loader! Look mom! Do you see it!?" It also must have been trash day for the area because we see 10 garbage trucks drive by. Miles doesn't even know what to do with himself he's so excited. I spend the next 30 minutes watching him have the best time ever.
On the drive home we discuss Thanksgiving. "Will we have a feast?" he asks. Ever since his first meal, Miles is obsessed with food. He'll eat just about anything and seriously has food radar. No matter where he is, if anyone is eating anywhere in the vicinity he races over to them and asks what they are eating usually followed by "can I taste it?" We talk about all the delicious food we'll eat. And I tell him Thanksgiving is a day for us to remember all of the things we have to be thankful for. "I'm thankful for you and Baron and daddy and I'm so thankful that I'm feeling good," I tell him. "What are you thankful for, Miles? What makes you happy?" I ask him. Miles has long think and then carefully responds "food."
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Waiting Game
It's been almost 7 months since I gave birth to Baron. So it's been almost 7 months since a doctor has seen my ovaries. I have an appointment to see Dr. Karlan, an obgyn oncologist and have a transvaginal ultrasound immediately afterwards. I have an early morning appointment so I can get back to the boys as fast as possible. I get to Cedars on time (a feat!) and check in. I sit as far away from other people as possible. I wait. 10 minutes go by then 15 then 20. After 30 minutes I track down one of Dr. Karlan's nurses and ask how much longer I'm going to have to wait. I inform her that I have an ultrasound scheduled in 30 minutes. She thinks I'll make it but still doesn't have an available room for me. I am so fucking over waiting for doctors. I wait for another 15 minutes and then tell the nurse I have to go. Dr. Karlan is in the hallway. She wants to know if I can come back in the afternoon. I want to cry a little I'm so mad. "No I can't come back in the afternoon," I say. "I'll just come back in 6 months," I tell her. "You really shouldn't wait that long. Make an appointment next week. Come at 8:30. It's my first appointment and there shouldn't be a wait. I was putting out fires all morning." As the nurse walks me through the series of hallways that connect the cancer center to the imaging center I tell her that perhaps an hour wasted for her isn't a big deal but since I spent the past year trying not to die and missing time with my babies, it's a really big deal for me. "It's a big deal and I'm so sorry," she says.
Thankfully I only wait 5 minutes before the ultrasound technician comes to get me. She leads me to the changing room and hands me a gown. I change and lay down on the table. The technician asks if I've had an ultrasound before. I have. She asks how old my kids are and I tell her. She wants to know why I'm having one now. "Because I had cancer," I say. "Ovarian cancer?" she asks. "No. Breast cancer. But I'm BRCA1 positive so the doctors monitor my ovaries every 6 months," I tell her. I can see her doing the math in her head. "I was pregnant when I was diagnosed," I say. She nods and smiles nervously. The ultrasound takes about 45 minutes. The technician says that the doctor will have my results within 24 hours. I get up, get dressed and before I leave, I retrace my steps to the cancer center and find Dr. Karlan. I ask if she can see me before I leave. Sadly she can't. I'm super annoyed. My tolerance level for most things b.c. (before cancer) was pretty slim and p.c. (post cancer) it's non-existent. I rush home to the boys.
2 days later I call Dr. Karlan's office to schedule my round 2 appointment. I tell the woman on the phone that I need the first available 8:30 appointment. We set the appointment for the day before Thanksgiving. I also ask her who I need to speak to to get the results from my ultrasound. They should be ready and no one has called me. Rude. She says she'll have Dr. Karlan call me. She doesn't. As I hang up the phone I hear Miles telling his monkey blanket that he has to have an ultrasound. He also tells my parents, Boris and few strangers that "mommy's having an ultrasound." Part of me wonders if no news is good news? Or like with a pap-smear they'll only call me if something is wrong? Or is it like cancer where they only call you if nothing is wrong and make you come in for in person news that you're fucked?
Since my appointment is only a week away, I decide to just wait. What could happen in a few days? Right?
Thankfully I only wait 5 minutes before the ultrasound technician comes to get me. She leads me to the changing room and hands me a gown. I change and lay down on the table. The technician asks if I've had an ultrasound before. I have. She asks how old my kids are and I tell her. She wants to know why I'm having one now. "Because I had cancer," I say. "Ovarian cancer?" she asks. "No. Breast cancer. But I'm BRCA1 positive so the doctors monitor my ovaries every 6 months," I tell her. I can see her doing the math in her head. "I was pregnant when I was diagnosed," I say. She nods and smiles nervously. The ultrasound takes about 45 minutes. The technician says that the doctor will have my results within 24 hours. I get up, get dressed and before I leave, I retrace my steps to the cancer center and find Dr. Karlan. I ask if she can see me before I leave. Sadly she can't. I'm super annoyed. My tolerance level for most things b.c. (before cancer) was pretty slim and p.c. (post cancer) it's non-existent. I rush home to the boys.
2 days later I call Dr. Karlan's office to schedule my round 2 appointment. I tell the woman on the phone that I need the first available 8:30 appointment. We set the appointment for the day before Thanksgiving. I also ask her who I need to speak to to get the results from my ultrasound. They should be ready and no one has called me. Rude. She says she'll have Dr. Karlan call me. She doesn't. As I hang up the phone I hear Miles telling his monkey blanket that he has to have an ultrasound. He also tells my parents, Boris and few strangers that "mommy's having an ultrasound." Part of me wonders if no news is good news? Or like with a pap-smear they'll only call me if something is wrong? Or is it like cancer where they only call you if nothing is wrong and make you come in for in person news that you're fucked?
Since my appointment is only a week away, I decide to just wait. What could happen in a few days? Right?
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The First Cut is the Deepest
I haven't been to a hair salon in over a year. It's sort of nice given how expensive my haircuts are and how long I inevitably wait for my stylist (which if you know what my hair looked like pre-cancer is weird given that my idea of a good haircut is that I don't know its happened). My hair couldn't look worse the day of my first haircut post-cancer. I went to bed the night before with wet hair sans product. I have crazy bed head and it's kindof an afro. Even though I'm scared to cut one hair on my head, I decide that perhaps a cut will make the grow out a little more attractive. I sit in the waiting area across from a woman with shoulder length luxurious hair. I'm so jealous. I wait. A second woman sits down across from me who looks incredibly familiar. She has a buzz cut that's bleached white. She looks up at me and smiles. I assume that everyone with short hair has had cancer and I almost ask her if she's fresh out of chemo. But thankfully my internal sensor reminds me that some women buzz their hair off on purpose and I just smile back. I wait some more. And some more. After almost an hour of waiting I'm over getting a haircut and remember why I hated having to do it in the first place (at least at my salon). I walk past my stylist who clearly has no idea who I am at first and ask his assistant (yes, he has an assistant) how much longer I have to wait.
I'm ushered to the back where I get my hair washed and my head massaged. Heaven! Finally I sit down at the sylist's station. I wait. And I wait some more. And then I get up and ask another stylist how much fucking longer I'm going to be sitting here. "I've been waiting for an hour," I tell him. My stylist doesn't hurry over but smiles as he approaches. "You're hair is cute," he says. "Have fun with it. Put some bows in it. And headbands." I don't even know how to respond. Me with a bow? I picture a bald baby with a bow taped on her head so people know she's a girl. He starts snipping. He knows I want my hair to get long as soon as humanly possible so the trim takes about 2 minutes. He does thin it out quite a bit since it's so thick. He blows it straight and styles it so that I have tiny bangs.
When I get home I'm greeted by Baron and pick him up. He stares at my forehead and smiles. He smiles at my bangs all afternoon. I'm a little less afro-ish, so that's good. The stylist tells me to stay away until I hate my hair and can't take it anymore. Sometimes I think I feel like that every day, but I know what he means. In the meantime, I try to find products that work for my new do. My old products...not so much. I've found that Boris' hair wax on a stick works best. A little scary that my husband and I now use the same deodorant and hair products, but whatever.
It's certainly better than the alternative.
I'm ushered to the back where I get my hair washed and my head massaged. Heaven! Finally I sit down at the sylist's station. I wait. And I wait some more. And then I get up and ask another stylist how much fucking longer I'm going to be sitting here. "I've been waiting for an hour," I tell him. My stylist doesn't hurry over but smiles as he approaches. "You're hair is cute," he says. "Have fun with it. Put some bows in it. And headbands." I don't even know how to respond. Me with a bow? I picture a bald baby with a bow taped on her head so people know she's a girl. He starts snipping. He knows I want my hair to get long as soon as humanly possible so the trim takes about 2 minutes. He does thin it out quite a bit since it's so thick. He blows it straight and styles it so that I have tiny bangs.
When I get home I'm greeted by Baron and pick him up. He stares at my forehead and smiles. He smiles at my bangs all afternoon. I'm a little less afro-ish, so that's good. The stylist tells me to stay away until I hate my hair and can't take it anymore. Sometimes I think I feel like that every day, but I know what he means. In the meantime, I try to find products that work for my new do. My old products...not so much. I've found that Boris' hair wax on a stick works best. A little scary that my husband and I now use the same deodorant and hair products, but whatever.
It's certainly better than the alternative.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Scaring My Ears
The doctor's appointments are waning. Now that I feel mostly normal, they're more of an annoyance. I have my first follow-up appointment with Dr. Botnick. My left breast, armpit and part of my back are still flaming red and painful. My left breast has definitely risen up slightly. It's not just me being crazy. Dr. Botnick confirms it. He reminds me that natural breasts are not totally even and the difference in mine isn't detectable to the human eye. Except mine, which is really the only eye that matters. I tell him I'm nervous it will only get worse when I get my final implants, but he says it won't. He thinks everything will always be fine though so I make an appointment to see Dr. Slate.
Dr. Slate has moved offices and so I have to wait longer than usual as his staff is learning the necessary procedures at the Breast Center. I had forgotten how annoying it is to be asked a slew of redundant and irrelevant questions about my medical history. But I answer them and then am led to an examination room. Dr. Slate gives me a big hug before opening up my gown. "Does the left one look a lot higher than the right?" I ask him. He pauses and then responds "I just can't get the past the color, so give me a minute." Nice. He agrees that the left breast is "slightly" higher but assures me that he can make them even during my final implant surgery. Sadly though, the fix comes from making the right side higher so I'll look even more fake than I already do. Sigh.
I notice the fakeness most when I'm exercising, which thankfully I've started doing a lot. I bounce on trampolines and run on treadmills and the boobs don't move at all. Very bizarre. I want to wear a t-shirt that says "not by choice," on it so that people don't think I'm like every other plastic L.A. girl out there. I also start working out with the most amazing trainer (Ashley Borden) who is just a goddess. She has me lifting weights and doing push ups and swears that someday soon I'll do a pull up. It feels so good to use my body again, particularly my arms, and start getting back in shape. It's often incredibly uncomfortable thanks to the rock hard expanders I'm still sporting, but it's worth it.
In the midst of feeling good, I get a bill from Dr. Phillips' office. When I spoke to his financial coordinator (or whatever the hell she's called), Valerie, after being informed a few weeks prior to surgery that he didn't accept any insurance, Valerie assured me of Dr. Phillips' fee and that I was paying in full prior to surgery so I'm super confused. And pissed. I speak to Valerie who assures me I won't get another bill. Phew. But I do. I'm livid. I go back and forth speaking to Valerie and others in Dr. Phillips' billing department trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. I'm told that there was an error (euphemistically called a "misunderstanding,") and I owe Dr. Phillips a shitload of money. When one woman in the billing office tells me she'll speak to the powers at be and let me know how to proceed, I respond "let me tell you how I will proceed. I am an incredibly sympathetic plaintiff. I'm young, cute, recently bald and pregnant, informed 2 weeks before massive, life changing surgery that my doctor doesn't take insurance, induced by one of his staff members to use him based on his fee and then hit up for money I never knew about or consented to." Silence. And then a message from yet another person in the billing department informing me that my balance is zero. At last!
Good thing that Boris and I are on our way to San Francisco for a fuck cancer celebration weekend. We have planned our weekend around eating at restaurants I've been wanting to try - most of them serving cancer inducing foods. In our very chic hotel room (thank you Debbie) the first thing we see is a big card in the sitting area that says "fuck cancer." I can't believe anyone got the hotel staff to write that. It's a beautiful and touching card, accompanied by champagne, chocolate covered strawberries and a cheese plate (hurray!) from Nitasha and Kulmeet and Rachel, another good friend who lives in San Francisco. Such a great start to the weekend which was wonderful. Boris and I did spend half the trip missing the boys, but we had a great time.
We return to shocking news. One of my pregnant with cancer friends who finished chemo about a year ago has a recurrence. She needs more surgery and possibly more chemo. I want to die for her. And I'm terrified for me, too. Selfish, I know, but I can't help it. I know that triple negative tumors (which she also had) have such a high recurrence rate, but never really think it's coming back. We've all suffered enough. And I know that I'm not her and that just because she has a recurrence doesn't mean that I'm going to, but I'm terrified nonetheless. Just another reminder that I have many, many years to get through before I'm truly done with this shit.
We also happily return to our boys who are so insanely cute and amazing it's mind boggling. My baby Baron is already standing up and trying to walk. What!? He's gifted for sure. He spends a good portion of his day pulling up on anything he can get his hands on (including me) and then swaying back and forth occasionally moving a foot in the process. He smiles and drools and claps with excitement. And I want to write a book called "Amazing Things Miles Says," because he is just...well, amazing. As I'm putting him to bed one night we sit snuggled up on his chair. I kiss his arms and head and he says "don't kiss me, mom (sadly, I'm no longer mommy). I'll kiss you." And he dots my arm and face with tiny kisses. I tell him that I love it when he kisses me and he smiles. I kiss him again and he says "I love you kissing me, mom." I melt. Recently while listening to the radio in the car, he said "change the song, mom. It's scaring my ears."
I wish I could just change the channel when I hear something that scares my ears. Like recurrences and shitty statistics. Instead I listen to the louder and beautiful sounds of my boys and my internal voice that doesn't believe this could ever happen again.
Dr. Slate has moved offices and so I have to wait longer than usual as his staff is learning the necessary procedures at the Breast Center. I had forgotten how annoying it is to be asked a slew of redundant and irrelevant questions about my medical history. But I answer them and then am led to an examination room. Dr. Slate gives me a big hug before opening up my gown. "Does the left one look a lot higher than the right?" I ask him. He pauses and then responds "I just can't get the past the color, so give me a minute." Nice. He agrees that the left breast is "slightly" higher but assures me that he can make them even during my final implant surgery. Sadly though, the fix comes from making the right side higher so I'll look even more fake than I already do. Sigh.
I notice the fakeness most when I'm exercising, which thankfully I've started doing a lot. I bounce on trampolines and run on treadmills and the boobs don't move at all. Very bizarre. I want to wear a t-shirt that says "not by choice," on it so that people don't think I'm like every other plastic L.A. girl out there. I also start working out with the most amazing trainer (Ashley Borden) who is just a goddess. She has me lifting weights and doing push ups and swears that someday soon I'll do a pull up. It feels so good to use my body again, particularly my arms, and start getting back in shape. It's often incredibly uncomfortable thanks to the rock hard expanders I'm still sporting, but it's worth it.
In the midst of feeling good, I get a bill from Dr. Phillips' office. When I spoke to his financial coordinator (or whatever the hell she's called), Valerie, after being informed a few weeks prior to surgery that he didn't accept any insurance, Valerie assured me of Dr. Phillips' fee and that I was paying in full prior to surgery so I'm super confused. And pissed. I speak to Valerie who assures me I won't get another bill. Phew. But I do. I'm livid. I go back and forth speaking to Valerie and others in Dr. Phillips' billing department trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. I'm told that there was an error (euphemistically called a "misunderstanding,") and I owe Dr. Phillips a shitload of money. When one woman in the billing office tells me she'll speak to the powers at be and let me know how to proceed, I respond "let me tell you how I will proceed. I am an incredibly sympathetic plaintiff. I'm young, cute, recently bald and pregnant, informed 2 weeks before massive, life changing surgery that my doctor doesn't take insurance, induced by one of his staff members to use him based on his fee and then hit up for money I never knew about or consented to." Silence. And then a message from yet another person in the billing department informing me that my balance is zero. At last!
Good thing that Boris and I are on our way to San Francisco for a fuck cancer celebration weekend. We have planned our weekend around eating at restaurants I've been wanting to try - most of them serving cancer inducing foods. In our very chic hotel room (thank you Debbie) the first thing we see is a big card in the sitting area that says "fuck cancer." I can't believe anyone got the hotel staff to write that. It's a beautiful and touching card, accompanied by champagne, chocolate covered strawberries and a cheese plate (hurray!) from Nitasha and Kulmeet and Rachel, another good friend who lives in San Francisco. Such a great start to the weekend which was wonderful. Boris and I did spend half the trip missing the boys, but we had a great time.
We return to shocking news. One of my pregnant with cancer friends who finished chemo about a year ago has a recurrence. She needs more surgery and possibly more chemo. I want to die for her. And I'm terrified for me, too. Selfish, I know, but I can't help it. I know that triple negative tumors (which she also had) have such a high recurrence rate, but never really think it's coming back. We've all suffered enough. And I know that I'm not her and that just because she has a recurrence doesn't mean that I'm going to, but I'm terrified nonetheless. Just another reminder that I have many, many years to get through before I'm truly done with this shit.
We also happily return to our boys who are so insanely cute and amazing it's mind boggling. My baby Baron is already standing up and trying to walk. What!? He's gifted for sure. He spends a good portion of his day pulling up on anything he can get his hands on (including me) and then swaying back and forth occasionally moving a foot in the process. He smiles and drools and claps with excitement. And I want to write a book called "Amazing Things Miles Says," because he is just...well, amazing. As I'm putting him to bed one night we sit snuggled up on his chair. I kiss his arms and head and he says "don't kiss me, mom (sadly, I'm no longer mommy). I'll kiss you." And he dots my arm and face with tiny kisses. I tell him that I love it when he kisses me and he smiles. I kiss him again and he says "I love you kissing me, mom." I melt. Recently while listening to the radio in the car, he said "change the song, mom. It's scaring my ears."
I wish I could just change the channel when I hear something that scares my ears. Like recurrences and shitty statistics. Instead I listen to the louder and beautiful sounds of my boys and my internal voice that doesn't believe this could ever happen again.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Laura's Not Visiting
Candace Silverman was my best friend in the 7th grade. It didn't take long before we spent tons of time together. So much time that soon we were on the same menstrual cycle. Candace liked to have code words and phrases for everything and so she decided that when we got our periods we should say "Laura's visiting." Random. And no one knew what the hell we were talking about so we thought we were brilliant. Laura's visits were always a nuisance. I was crampy and uncomfortable and am pretty sure I said things like "I can't wait for menopause." And so I find it ironic that now I am ecstatic that Laura may be visiting.
I wake up feeling crampy and am overjoyed when I notice some spotting. I call Dr. McAndrew immediately and ask her how I'll know whether it's my period or not. And I tell Boris that if it is my period, I'm having eggs harvested tomorrow. "Let's just take things one step at a time," he says. Dr. McAndrew tells me the only way to know whether the spotting is actually a period is to have my hormone levels tested (i.e., a blood draw). I sprint to her office and willingly extend my vein to the nurse. "How soon will you have results?" I ask. I'm told that I can call the nurse tomorrow.
Exactly 24 hours later I excitedly call the nurse. My spotting has pretty much stopped, but I'm still happy and confident. Until she reads me my results. The numbers are better than the previous time they were checked, but I'm still menopausal. Fuck. I know it's only been 3 months since my last chemo treatment and most women's periods come back within 6 months to a year, but still. I've already made it through the worst of menopause. Hot flashes every second, bitchiness (more than normal), zero sex drive and just generally feeling like an old woman. But I want Laura to visit. Now.
Just before my next appointment with Dr. McAndrew I start spotting again. It's been 3 weeks since Laura didn't visit. Since my hormone levels were tested so recently the nurse doesn't check them again. After waiting an hour (so annoying!) I tell Dr. McAndrew that I'm spotting again (I also tell her nurse that I can't wait hours each time I come to the office so from now on, I'm going to call her and she'll tell me how late Dr. McAndrew is running and when I should actually come in). Dr. McAndrew says the spotting is a good sign and that hormone levels can change so fast. She says that the spotting may be my ovaries waking up, but to give my body time to heal, rebuild and regain strength. "You're barely 4 months out from chemo," she says. "Many people still suffer from chemo side effects after 4 months." I probably am too (in fact my eyelashes which were finally long and thick recently broke off and are growing back. Again.). We schedule my next round of Zometa and she tells me again that as I'm getting closer to being able to get pregnant with my daughter (she swears my period will come back), I'll stop getting Zometa. She says there shouldn't be any issues with with having Zometa in my system. I hope. And we schedule my next round of scans. Generally, she likes to wait 9-12 months between scans to avoid too much radiation, but when I tell her how terrified of a recurrence I am (who isn't!?), she says that we should schedule my scans in December, which is 9 months from last set of scans.
Baron will be 9 months old then. I don't know where the time has gone. He's already standing up and trying to walk and saying "dadadada." Rude. I just smile at him and say "mamama."
So for now I wait for scans. And a report that they're clear. And I wait and hope that Laura will visit soon.
I wake up feeling crampy and am overjoyed when I notice some spotting. I call Dr. McAndrew immediately and ask her how I'll know whether it's my period or not. And I tell Boris that if it is my period, I'm having eggs harvested tomorrow. "Let's just take things one step at a time," he says. Dr. McAndrew tells me the only way to know whether the spotting is actually a period is to have my hormone levels tested (i.e., a blood draw). I sprint to her office and willingly extend my vein to the nurse. "How soon will you have results?" I ask. I'm told that I can call the nurse tomorrow.
Exactly 24 hours later I excitedly call the nurse. My spotting has pretty much stopped, but I'm still happy and confident. Until she reads me my results. The numbers are better than the previous time they were checked, but I'm still menopausal. Fuck. I know it's only been 3 months since my last chemo treatment and most women's periods come back within 6 months to a year, but still. I've already made it through the worst of menopause. Hot flashes every second, bitchiness (more than normal), zero sex drive and just generally feeling like an old woman. But I want Laura to visit. Now.
Just before my next appointment with Dr. McAndrew I start spotting again. It's been 3 weeks since Laura didn't visit. Since my hormone levels were tested so recently the nurse doesn't check them again. After waiting an hour (so annoying!) I tell Dr. McAndrew that I'm spotting again (I also tell her nurse that I can't wait hours each time I come to the office so from now on, I'm going to call her and she'll tell me how late Dr. McAndrew is running and when I should actually come in). Dr. McAndrew says the spotting is a good sign and that hormone levels can change so fast. She says that the spotting may be my ovaries waking up, but to give my body time to heal, rebuild and regain strength. "You're barely 4 months out from chemo," she says. "Many people still suffer from chemo side effects after 4 months." I probably am too (in fact my eyelashes which were finally long and thick recently broke off and are growing back. Again.). We schedule my next round of Zometa and she tells me again that as I'm getting closer to being able to get pregnant with my daughter (she swears my period will come back), I'll stop getting Zometa. She says there shouldn't be any issues with with having Zometa in my system. I hope. And we schedule my next round of scans. Generally, she likes to wait 9-12 months between scans to avoid too much radiation, but when I tell her how terrified of a recurrence I am (who isn't!?), she says that we should schedule my scans in December, which is 9 months from last set of scans.
Baron will be 9 months old then. I don't know where the time has gone. He's already standing up and trying to walk and saying "dadadada." Rude. I just smile at him and say "mamama."
So for now I wait for scans. And a report that they're clear. And I wait and hope that Laura will visit soon.
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