The Day Before

As you might imagine, being pregnant with cancer and the mother of a 1 one year who needs to get into pre-school in West Los Angeles, is insanely hectic. Here's an example of my weekly schedule:

Monday
Acupuncture
Therapy
Toddler Program

Tuesday
Chemo (or blood draw and/or meeting with Dr. McAndrew)

Wednesday
Preschool Tour
Hydration

Thursday
Hydration

Friday
Physical Therapy

Plus, I have monthly appointments with Dr. Ottavi and Dr. Silverman and intermittent appointments with radiologists, plastic surgeons, Dr. Funk, etc.

It's the Monday before round 2 of chemo. I start my day off with acupuncture with Dr. Dao at the Tao of Wellness. He's told me that he will protect my baby, stave off nausea and will help my hair grow back quickly. Not bad, right? I love him. Today was the first day that I ventured out in a scarf sans wig. I figured that Dr. Dao was going to stick needles in my head, so why bother dawning the wig? Dr. Dao compliments my head shape and tells me that his is not so nice. He knows this because in China, all boys are required to keep their heads shaved until high school (since I've watched Miles and his little friends rub their heads together and lick everything in sight, I think China may be on to something with this. I bet they have far fewer lice outbreaks than we do).

I had expected to have a few minutes in between acupuncture and therapy to go home and get something to eat and almost as important, put on my wig. But Dr. Dao was running late and I was starving, and I realized that I was going to have to go out in public, for real, in my scarf. I live in Beverlywood where it feels like 99% of the neighborhood wears some type of head covering and there are many observant women around the city. You'd think I'd feel comfortable wearing a scarf. But you can tell there's hair underneath those women's' head coverings of choice. Me...not so much. I stop at Literati Cafe to get a sandwich. Several people look up from their tables which I would normally think is totally normal, but I'm so self conscious I can't help wondering what they're thinking. Other than being bald, I don't look sick. At least I don't think I do. I don't know. I still have my eyebrows and eyelashes and I've been told I have "good coloring," (whatever that means). Normally I don't care what people think and I don't know why I don't want strangers to know I have cancer, but I care and I don't. I guess I don't like pity and being pregnant with cancer gets some pretty heartbreaking looks. On a side note, I do have acne which makes me want to shoot myself. Seriously. I'd way rather be bald than have bad skin. Just ask my dermatologist who I have kept in business for years as I run to her the few times a year I get a zit. I realize that like my mother, I have good skin, but when a blemish arises, I freak out. I had read that chemo sometimes causes acne. During round 1 of chemo, I asked the nutritionist at Tower whether I was likely to break out from treatments. "I'm just wondering if I'm going to be bald and pregnant and have acne," I asked. A nurse working nearby raised an eyebrow and looked at me. "Had to look up for that one," she said. "Is that what's going to throw you over the edge?" she asked. "Absolutely," I say. And it kindof has.

From there, I go see my new therapist, a two time breast cancer survivor who doesn't seem to even notice I've lost my hair. We discuss how all I can do is my best during this battle. But I tell her that I can do my best and still die and leave behind the most wonderful husband and two small children and then my best is unacceptable. She's the only person who doesn't tell me that death is not an option or that if I'm positive and fight I'll live. She knows that's total bullshit and that I can fight like hell with the most positive attitude ever...and still die. That's what cancer is: The possibility of death no matter what you do. But my job is to learn how to not be afraid of what could happen and learn to live a good life while knowing that life is fragile and uncertain and that sadly, death is a real possibility (and not in the intellectual sense that people like to discuss with me. I hear often that "we're all going to die someday." I usually refrain from telling those people to fuck off, but that's what I'm thinking.)

After therapy I race home, put on my wig, grab Miles, and race to his toddler program. It's over 80 degrees so after lugging Miles up the stairs to the classroom, back down the stairs to the playground and chasing him around, I feel my wig lift up in the back and I spend a good chunk of class worried my wig is going to fall off. Only one mom in my class knows what's going on with me. Trying to make small talk with the other moms who I don't know is often painful. But all I can do is my best...

Then it's back home with Miles for lunch and then I'm off to see Dr. Funk because my left breast is still very swollen and red even though she's drained excess fluid out of it twice. She wants to make sure there's no fluid in my armpit that could be affecting my range of motion. Dr. Funk doesn't see any fluid in my armpit and is surprised at how much trouble I'm having lifting my arm. It's rare...of course. She also doesn't think my breast is infected because I have no pain or fever. She says my breast and skin are angry because of the chemo, which makes sense. I start asking her a ton of questions about radiation and my reconstruction and she spends a long time telling me what she knows but urges me to meet with radiologists now. Normally she doesn't suggest that patients meet with them until they're almost finished with their first cycle of chemo, but since I like to know as much as possible as soon as possible, she thinks it will put me ease. I agree.

I also ask her if my prognosis numbers change given that I'm having a bi-lateral mastectomy and will have my ovaries removed at some point in the next 5 years (meeting with gynecological oncologists is on my very long "to do" list). The answer is sadly no. The 44% of recurrence and 40% of death wouldn't be from a new cancer in my reproductive organs. Instead, it's a recurrence of my current breast cancer that would recur (and potentially kill me) in my liver, brain, bones or spine. And on that happy note, I go home.

I have a pounding headache. I wonder if it's psychosomatic.