Lloyd is dead!!!

A and C and family:  Thank you so much for the beautiful flowers and delicious cupcakes!  You are so thoughtful!  Daughter A was particularly touched that her friend's family sent us something, so that was extra special for us.

A, my new sis:  Thank you so much for the timely turtle bracelet!!  It's soooo adorable!  I'm not taking it off all week.  I love you!

Spouse, Dad, Mom, Mom, Sis, Sis, Unc (the waiting room crew):  Thank you so much for being there with me yesterday.  It truly is special to have a waiting room full of loved ones helping you wait for the procedure to start and ready to hug you when you come out from a procedure.  The doctors and nurses were impressed; I was impressed; and your love helps me to recover!!!

MIL:  Thank you so much for taking care of my daughters yesterday, including the extra mile you went to honor the tooth that fell out yesterday.  Thank you for filling my gaps and leaving none for them!!  Also, thank you for the marvelous healing footrub last night.  You have a gift, dear.  I deeply appreciate that you share it with me. 

We did it.  We blasted Lloyd.  I was so nervous that I forgot to take my phone with me to the procedure room, so I have no pictures despite my intention to take some.  Fortunately, there's not really much to see, and I couldn't have taken pictures during the thing anyway.  I have pictures of the room from my previous radiation treatment 7 years ago, if you're curious.

Here's how it all happened:  First, my sister gave me a picture of my brother and I on our hike from a few years ago, so I had my brother in my pocket the whole time, and a reminder of the fun things I do when I'm not fighting cancer.  Then, a nurse took me back to a big room that was mostly empty except for a long flat table and a big open tube.  The end of the table near the tube had those trusty blue brackets attached to the end, with the back of my mask in the bottom.  I didn't even have to change, I just laid down with my head in the brackets.  With scant time for a deep breath, they were applying the front of the mask and fixing my head into place, stiffly, uncomfortably.  It was happening too quickly and I was getting nervous, so I told them to keep talking to me to keep me abreast of what they were doing (because I couldn't see anymore with the mask on), but I told them that I was going to stop talking so that I could breathe and calm down.  After a pause, the nurse said, "so what do your kids like to do?"  Ha!  I mumbled through the mask, "taekwando. girl scouts. but I don't want to talk."  I felt super rude, but I had to take care of myself, man.  Talking was painful and not helping me to relax.  Plus, I needed to calm my nerves so that I could hold still.  I didn't want Lloyd to be in the wrong position!!

After my head was in the mask (cage is really a better word for it), they put a box over my mask and shot an x-ray to make sure that everything was in the right position.  The x-ray looked great apparently, so they removed the x-ray apparatus and prepared the first radiation apparatus.  The radiation beam is shot through a hole in a tube, and a metal cone is screwed onto the tube to focus the beam as needed for the radiation plan.  You'll be happy to know that there are lots of checks and balances to make sure the right cone is screwed on for the treatment plan.  After the nurse screwed on the cone, she scanned a barcode that made a happy little bleep bleep to confirm that yes, this is the cone for this treatment for this patient.  I liked the bleep bleeps.  Then they all left the room and the first anti-Lloyd blasts began!  And this is the weird part because from what I can tell the beam doesn't move very much, but the bed does.  I felt like I was cruising around a dance floor, jostling this way and that, which was actually pretty uncomfortable because my head was locked into place, so every tiny ridge in the floor tapped the bridge of my nose, my temples, my eyebrows.  I'd love to see how much the bed actually moved, because maybe it wasn't all that much, but I know I moved fully across the room at least once because the decorative pot lights along the walls were blazing through my closed eyelids at one point.  The center of the room was devoid of pot lights, and I had asked for lights out.  So I know I moved around a lot, and this humors me.  My anti-Lloyd waltz!

The anti-Lloyd blasts themselves:  I couldn't see them or feel them, but I could hear them.  Or maybe I could just hear the buzzing of the machine that produced them, I don't know.  But the blasts were accompanied by a light buzzing sound, not inside my head but captured by my ears.  I could hear each of the three blasts, and they seemed to move in an arc around my head, but that's only judging by sound so I have no idea if that actually happened.  Also, I'm pretty sure I was perfectly still during each blast; I think that the movement of the bed was to re-position me between blasts.  These three blasts took only 10 minutes total, then the team came back in and we repeated the cycle:  another x-ray to confirm position for the second blasts, then the second round of 3 blasts.  That was it!  The whole thing took about an hour.

Interestingly, I was REALLY uncomfortable throughout the procedure.  I mean, not like hard-chemo uncomfortable or surgery uncomfortable, so let's keep this in perspective, but it ended up being a lot harder than I thought it was going to be.  The mask actually hurt quite a lot (on the day that we made it, it was uncomfortable but not painful), and the pain was manifesting as pain in Lloyd itself.  It was so weird.  The mask pain was actually caused by pressure against the back of my head by my mask, which was was making my neck stiff on the left side, and this was causing a weird sensation inside my head.  When we weren't actively scanning or zapping or doing anything else that required me to be perfectly still, I took my deep yoga breaths to try and relax my neck, which helped my mental game over the pain but actually increased the physical pain in the back of my head (because I was essentially relaxing my body into a pillow that wasn't there).  It was quite the predicament!  But certainly a short predicament that had to be overcome, and I knew I was actually fine.  I just had to breathe through the discomfort for a few more minutes, then it would be over, and it was! 

It turns out that I think Lloyd got the best possible anti-Lloyd treatment.  First of all, at least twice during the procedure I was told that my pictures were lining up perfectly.  Maybe they say that to everyone to give them piece of mind, but I doubt it.  Huzzah to me for being consistently still during my scans!  And huzzah to the mask for keeping my head perfectly in place!  And most importantly, huzzah to Dr. Phys for coming up with such a terrific anti-Lloyd SRS treatment!  He said that he spent over 12 hours coming up with the plan, tweaking it to make it better and better.  He said that originally it was going to be 1.5 hrs with 3 planes (maybe "planes" isn't the right word? I don't know the lingo, and he was telling me this right before the treatment so my mind was mushy with nerves), but then with further tweaking he got it down to just 2 planes and 1 hr.  This is incredible news not just because the treatment was faster, but because it means less collateral damage to my brain.   Essentially, he was able to target all of Lloyd with fewer beams than expected!  The less radiation that went through my healthy brain, the better!  Thrilling!!!  Thank you, Dr. Phys!!

I saw Dr. Rad Onc briefly yesterday, and he said that everything looked terrific.  He said he'll see me in two weeks, but to call before that if I notice anything weird.  I asked him for some hints on what I should look for, and he said difficulty finding words, different headache, any neurological symptoms at all.  But I definitely picked up a no-big-deal vibe from him.  My non-scientific impression from conversing with him is that this all went so well that he's really not expecting anything adverse from me.  I could be reading more into something that isn't there, but I don't routinely get this impression from doctors so I'm hopeful. 

I'm doing my part to prevent adverse reactions:  I slept in until 10; ate oatmeal with raisins, pecans, and coconut on top; went for a walk with the spouse and dog; and am preparing for a nap after this blog post (and a bowl of cabbage soup).  My body feels terrific but I know that I must force myself to rest, because that is what my brain needs!  I do have a slight headache, but it's not different than before treatment.  My brain has got all sorts of problems that can only be solved by rest and time. 
   
Thanks for being here with me! <3

Disoriented

My head, or my heart, or both, have been in increasing turmoil since my appointment with Dr. Medical Oncologist last week.  I think it is because, for arguably the first time in my entire cancer experience, the path forward is conflicted.  My treasured oncologist, Dr. Oncologist, thinks I should keep my breast (and thus my primary cancer, which certain science suggests will control my secondary cancer), while my Her2 expert, Dr. Medical Oncologist, thinks I should remove my breast (and thus remove the potential for future breast cancer, which we have learned I am prone to develop).  Neither oncologist is highly confident in their position.  They both suggested that I get the opinion of a surgeon, so tomorrow I will see Dr. Surgical Oncologist for her opinion.      

I have been barrelling through this cancer treatment on the notion that I will beat this breast cancer.  That is what I do.  I beat breast cancers.  However, the current oncological conflict has greatly reduced my confidence in my ability to fight cancer.  The two paths have transformed into a "damned if I do, damned if I don't" mentality: remove the breast, but feed the lung cancer! Or keep the breast, but develop another breast cancer in a year!  This negativity has been coursing through my veins, soaking my weak and defenseless brain day and night.         

The inner turmoil has been manifested as extra fatigue, distractedness, and unsettled guts.  At my sister's delightful baby shower on Saturday, I found myself thinking well, this could be my last baby shower.  I felt not sadness but bitterness, mostly about having to contend with these thoughts during what should have been an enjoyable family event.  Who needs these thoughts?  Also, any baby shower could be anyone's last baby shower.  Why has my own mortality, after so many months of much weaker days than these, come to the forefront this week? 

Today my children inadvertently kicked me while I'm down, as it were.  They were playing an imaginary game after school today.  One of them was the mom, and the other was the kid, and I wasn't paying that much attention to their play as I worked on the dishes.  All of a sudden one of them said, "...and then the mom died...".  I tuned in fast.  They argued for a bit about whether or not the mom actually needed to die, and one argument included the fact that she had to die in order for one of the players to turn back into a baby.  I was relieved that it was an abstract mom dying abstractly and not a real-ish mom dying of, say, cancer.  In the end the pretend mom did not die, the winning argument being that one of them could simply turn into the baby without the death of any pretend beings, and so I did not interrupt the game for a heart-to-heart on Moms and Death and the role Cancer could play in that.      

Is no corner of this life safe from my cancer life?  My eyes have been watering all month.  I thought it was allergies, but perhaps I have been quietly weeping, watering my soul garden.

I went to another restorative energy session today.  It was really lovely.  I told her about my turmoil.  She had so many snippets of wisdom, most of which were placed somewhere inside of me such that I can't recall them but they are still in there, guiding and supporting me.  One that I still remembered by the time I returned to my car, which is relevant because then I could dictate it to my iPhone and release my feeble brain from the responsibility of remembering, is to trust my center.  When I am feeling centered, do I think I should have a mastectomy or not?  Perhaps I should ask myself this question every day for a few days, listening to my body and detecting any fear in my inner voice.  I don't want the decision to come from a fearful place.  

I take this to be similar to a "gut feeling".  I can usually trust my gut feeling.  Today my gut feeling is to go for the mastectomy.  However, today I am also bitter and unsettled, as discussed above, so perhaps today's not a good day to query my guts.     

She also gave me a metaphor for the two paths forward.  She suggested that the oncologists are recommending that I travel to a National Park.  One oncologist wants me to go to Yosemite, and the other to the Grand Canyon.  It turns out that I haven't been to either park (perfect for the metaphor!), but neither would be the wrong choice (true statement!).  

This is what I need to start thinking about my cancer treatment options.  Neither is the wrong choice. That is so hard for me to say.  If I only had more data I'm sure that one of them would clearly be the wrong choice.  I desperately need more data.  Nope, there I go again, start over.  Neither choice is the wrong choice.  Whatever choice I make is the right choice.  Neither choice is the wrong choice  

I have strength.

I am strength.

I have peace.

I am peace.

And I have the ability to rest.  Let's go rest before tomorrow's data collection.  

The ever-dreaded PET scan

I had a PET scan yesterday, the purpose of which was to see if any cancer is remaining after 6 cycles (18 weeks) of chemotherapy thus far.  I have not yet heard the results of the PET scan.  I could have scheduled a special appointment today for no other purpose than to learn the results.  However, I decided that I'd rather have a break from the clinic/hospital than to have an appointment today.  I'll be there Friday anyway for treatment, so why not wait until then?  We discussed the option of Dr. Oncologist calling me with the results, but both of us dislike the scenario where she is giving me bad news over the phone.  So, I am waiting for Friday, where she will give me the news in person.  Won't that be lovely?  Yes, good news in person on Friday.

You might be wondering, "But Heather, how on earth can you wait until Friday?  You must be on the edge of your seat!"  I assure you I am not.  I had forgotten about it entirely until coworkers asked me about it today.  (Huzzah for going to work and attempting Science!)  Here is a table explaining how it is now possible to forget about PET scan results:

                      Former Fear                                                  Current Comfort  
The breast cancer could come back!                                 Meh.  It already has.
The breast cancer could move somewhere else!               Meh.  It already has.
The results could be odd and demand a biopsy!               Whatevs. I've probably had it biopsied before.

This is how it works when you're the hbomb and you've got cancer.

My friend R was my brave accompanist to the PET scan appointment.  She walked to the coffee shop while I rested in a dark room for one hour, allowing the radioactive glucose to work its way into the most active cells in my body.  During her hour she gave my cancer cells, via the universe, a stern lecture on how they are not allowed in my body.  I think she also scolded my normal cells, telling them that they are not allowed to play practical jokes by pretending to look like cancer on the PET scan.  When R talks, you should listen, so hopefully my cells paid attention to her.  

For my part, during the hour of rest I used an imaginary yellow paintbrush to paint every cell in my body in health.  I started with my lungs, brain, and liver, and then I moved on to all of my bones and organs.  Sometimes my mind would wander, for example when the paintbrush reminded me of my daughters, which reminded me of Eleanor's upcoming birthday, which reminded me that I needed to order her present, which reminded me...and then I'd realize my wandering, stop it, and resume painting.  It seemed a bit disingenuous to be meditating for cellular health at the last minute; not unlike cramming for an exam.  However, I assure you that I have used this health paintbrush in meditations numerous times over the past 3 years, including in the weeks leading up to this PET scan.  Hopefully this last-minute meditation helped to reduce any cells that were considering presenting a false-positive result.        
I apologize for making you wait until Friday for the results!  I sense that many of you harbor the anxiety that I lack.  Do try to push your fears out of your mind and enjoy these lovely summer days.  They really are lovely.

Bone marrow meditation

Here is my bone marrow meditation that I invented last night.  It was rather odd to write and probably equally odd to read, but I thought I’d try to share it.  Perhaps it was inspired by the potential for camping this Memorial Day weekend? Please let me out of here so that I can spend a night at the campground!

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Take three deep, cleansing breaths.

Draw your attention to your feet.

Wiggle your toes.  Flex your feet. 

Draw your attention to the bones in your feet.  Those bones are filled with cells.  Imagine the cells are gray coals.  Inhale deeply, and exhale your breath onto the coals.  Continue breathing on the coals until they get red hot. 

Draw your attention to your legs.  Big, strong bones in your legs.  Breathe on the coals. 

Continue to breathe on the coals in every bone in your body until they are all red hot.  

Imagine this heat nourishing your bone marrow, feeding the cells for many cycles of growth.

    

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