VicoDO or VicoDON'T

Dinner:  lettuce salad with avocado and cucumber with balsamic and olive oil, two pieces of cold pizza, an orange, a glass of milk, a homemade chocolate chip cookie, and water water water.

Activities:  cuddle with Eleanor on the couch, try and fail to play a game with Azalea, watch part of an old-school episode of SNL (hosted by Calista Flockhart with musical guest Ricky Martin, YES), read, discuss books with the lovely Statia, help put jammies on the little nuggets.   

Mood:  I'm told that I am looking and acting better than I was when I got home at 2:30.  That's good.  However, my brain feels fuzzier and my "port" hurts more.  I'm tired, but not sleepy.  I am currently wrestling with whether or not I want to take a vicodin to ease the discomfort, but maybe extra-strength tylenol will suffice?  I'm a tough-it-out sort of girl with few vices:  I took no drugs during childbirth, but I do love a good alcoholic beverage once in awhile, as many of you can attest to (insert favorite hbomb memory here).   

The vicodin awaits, lurking in a white pharmacy bag on the dining room table, preying on my fear of what tomorrow will bring.       

It's alive!

I have a port.  Above my right breast.  I can't wait to show you some day.  It is a quarter-sized, ~1-cm thick plastic do-hicky perched on a rib just under my skin.  In the center is material analgous to artificial cork, and that is where the majority of my chemo-related needle sticks will take place.  You can put stuff in or take stuff out--how versatile!  From it is a long (10 cm?) skinny irrigation-looking tube that goes into my superior vena cava.  The site of the port is moderately sore, but no need for the vicodin yet. 

My life-saving surgeon put in the port, and I totally sobbed uncontrollably when I saw him this morning.  It was ridiculous.  He gave the anethesiologist a knowing look, at which point anxiety drugs were offered.  I declined, explaining that it wasn't the surgery itself that I was upset about, but rather the whole ball of (cancer) wax.  As promised, I pulled myself together and everything went great.  I didn't feel, see, or hear a thing, which is as it should be in my world. 

In the fog of after-surgery I was giving everyone hugs and making playground playdates.  Nice.

He left the needle in the port and I was wheeled right up to oncology.  I had at least three hours of drips, and it all went through my new port.  I still don't have the names memorized, and I'm not going to look them up, but here's a layman's summary of my drips:  30 minutes of anti-nausea, 30 minutes of benadryl + tylenol + dexamethasone (anti-nausea), 60 minutes of chemo 1, 60 minutes of chemo 2, and 30 minutes of chemo 3.  Then my port needle was removed (yowza, that is some FIRM cork in there) and we blustered home in the appropriately dramatic weather.

What to expect:  bone-crushing fatigue for 4-5 days, then hopefully an upswing until I get this treatment again in three weeks.  Lots of other possible side-effects, but I won't belabor those.  We'll just have to see.  

Time to rest and cuddle the ladies.

Poke tally:
left breast  1
left arm  4
right arm 3
superior vena cava 1
"port"  1

A plan for the first quarter

The good news is that my brain, bones, and organs appear to be cancer-free.  The left breast, as suspected, is full of cancer, and so are some neighboring lymph nodes (boo!).  The right breast is questionable (boo again!).  We'll repeat all of the scans before surgical decisions are made.  

I suppose there's no additional bad news other than the cancer itself (which is estrogen receptor negative, progesterone receptor negative, and H-2-new positive [I have no idea how that is really spelled, but that is how I hear it]).  H-2-new positivity is a good thing because there are great drugs against that, apparently.  Unfortunately I was robbed of my time to celebrate the good news by being launched into a lengthy chemotherapy briefing, which was a bit traumatic.  Tomorrow I will have a port put just under my skin on my chest, and that is where my injections will take place.  I don't know about you, but when I heard "port" I thought that there would be this thing in me allowing free passage of fluids and preventing further pokes.  Pop the lid off and we're good to go.  That is not true.  There will be a thing in my chest, under the skin, and it will facilitate the passage of fluids from needle to vein; there will still be a poke.  I think people with a different perspective, such as having frequent pokes related to diabetes, would be thrilled with a port, but I myself am still getting used to the idea.  Call me old-fashioned, but I am already looking forward to the removal of the port.  

So, port at 6:30 am.  Then chemo round one at 10:30.  Chemotherapy will last 18 weeks, plus the continuation of one of the three drugs for a year.  Three drugs once every three weeks, and one of those three drugs every week.  The every-week drug shouldn't be so hard on me, and in fact won't affect hair loss, but the other two sound rather unpleasant, including swift hair loss.  After the chemo, all tests will be repeated and the extent of surgery will be assessed.  Then radiation, but we didn't even talk about that (or surgery, really) today.  There's no way to know how I personally will be affected by the chemotherapy, but I was told that the fatigue is real and Ian already picked up my anti-nausea medication.  I'm sure that you have many unanswered questions, but that's about the best I can do tonight.         

Poke tally:
left breast  1
left arm  3
right arm 3

The gamma-irradiator

This morning I was injected with technitium, a human-made radioactive element situated between molybdenum and ruthenium on the periodic table.  The technitium is attached to phosporus, and now it will incubate in my system for 3 hours.  Like the PET scan, the idea is that the technitium will concentrate in areas of my bones that are over-active, such as cancerous bone cells. 

I also had the idea to tally my pokes.  This game might get old or depressing, but right now it sounds like fun.  What body part do you think will have had the most needle pokes by the time this is all said and done?

Current tally
Left breast:  1
Left arm:  2
Right arm:  3

Radioactive knockers

A PET scan is no big deal, and although I haven't seen the pictures yet I'm confident that the result is pretty cool.   Here's what went down:  I had to fast for 4 hours before the procedure so that my blood sugar was nice and low.  Then I was injected with radioactive fluorine that is attached to glucose (sugar), at which point it was clear that the purpose of the fast was to decrease the background glucose in my system.  I had to rest for 1 hour while the hot sugar (chemically speaking) meandered around my body.  Cancer cells apparently metabolize sugar 19 times faster than regular cells, so the cancer cells should concentrate the radioactivity.  After said hour I laid on a mini conveyor belt and scooted into a tube.  This tube was stubbier and had a more generous opening than the MRI tube, and apparently its job is to scan for the radioactivity in my body.  After only 15 minutes of scooting, it was all done.  I'm pretty excited to see the images, despite the results.  And as the title of this post indicates, I fully expect at least one knocker to be glowing.

Aunt Jacque was here today, and my sister Hilary and her 6-mo-old baby boy are here tonight.  It's been a fun cousin party.  Hopefully we can keep up the atmosphere tomorrow...it really helps!  I'm pretty dang nervous, but my brother Ryan doesn't know what on earth for because tomorrow doesn't change anything.  I suppose he's right, but it's easier for me if I make tomorrow the target of my dread instead of the nebulous hours of cancer fighting.

Frame of my brain

Above is one frame from my brain MRI movie that was taken last Thursday.  It's weird to me that it still looks like me.  I should have smiled or something.   Pretty sweet stuff. 

Birthday

I have had a wonderful three-day reprieve from my impending medical issues.  I decided to sit in the back seat, so to speak, while others organized the weekend for me.  Ian is my general manager, and my brother is my offensive coordinator (so if you call, he might answer).  Lots of friends and family have stopped by for hugs, which is awesome.  For the record, no you are not bothering me, and yes it helps that you are here/calling/writing/posting.

I was talking to my friend Kendal today about all of the testing and analysis that is going to resume tomorrow.  She was annunciating her incredulity at my cancer and said something to the effect of, any chance they'll take it back?  Maybe say woops, my bad, it's not cancer after all?  Man, I wish that would happen.  I'd be a bit embarrassed for assembling all of you, but I imagine that that would be easier to cure than cancer.

PET scan tomorrow!