The World Didn’t Fall Off Its Axis

I know, the title seems to invite death – but it’s the opposite. To read where this title came from, click here: http://breastcancerreaper.blogspot.com/search/label/Introductions

Nine Thursdays ago, Liz had the biopsy that confirmed that she had breast cancer.

I will never forget that day: the blood dripping down the breast; holding Liz’s hand as the dark shadows formed on the ultrasound screen; the needle withdrawing the cells and depositing them in small vials of liquid preservative; the dim light of the procedure room; Liz’s hand squeezing mine; the doctor in gown and mask and goggles; soft words of deep regret…

Everything changed as I walked into the foyer to call my parents; my best friend; my brothers and sister…

Then came the cold rush toward a double mastectomy – nothing would ever be the same again. Nothing COULD ever be the same again.

Outside, it was spring. At work, graduation was weeks away and seniors had to be shepherded; at Liz’s work, kids came down with colds and teachers wondered what was going on for a few brief moments. And then, the surgery was over and we had to wait for the healing until chemotherapy could begin.

Now there are tornadoes everywhere; disasters are being declared; spring has sprung/the grass is ris/there’s no more wondering where the flowers is/they is HERE!

Liz’s breast cancer, for all it knocked our world askew changed nothing else outside of us. The garbage still accumulates, the checkbook still needs balancing and aside from a couple of simple scores we experienced by throwing the “C” word around (speedy delivery of a new washer when Liz shared that we needed it to wash clothing poisoned by chemo leaking out of Liz’s pores – and the scheduler had an aunt who was a breast cancer survivor; and the possibility of Mary using it on an essay for a scholarship for her third year of college).

Our lives are still upside down, but the rest of the world goes on as always.

I’m not sure what I’m learning from that, but I’m going to try and take my lessons from the BEST it has to offer: I need to remain sympathetic to those who suffer disaster, even after it leaves the headlines and falls to the back page; I need to consider those who CANNOT afford chemotherapy; I need to be thankful that we live at the dawn of the second decade of the 21^st Century and not the dawn of the second decade of the 20^th Century.

Our world is upside down; the rest of the planet is not.

Thanks be to God for that!

Image: http://vishal12.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/220px-apollo17worldreversed.jpg?w=220&h=220

6...5…4…3…2…1…0…Lift Off!

Six…On Tuesday we started chemotherapy at the infusion center. From check-in to exit, it took us a bit over six hours. Everyone (including Liz) forgot Liz’s idiosyncratic reaction to Benadry®, so after they plugged the tubes into the port, they gave the small packet of that in order to keep her from an allergic reaction to the medication. Not long after, she went into something called “restless leg syndrome”. It’s something I’ve gotten used to over the past 24 years – when her legs are feeling this way, she has to keep moving them. I got used to the bed, the couch, the car seat, the floor bouncing around as she works off the sensation of crawly thingies on her leg.

This was worse than anything I’ve ever seen. She ended up standing for the entire four hours of chemo delivery. They also gave her something to counteract the Benadry®, but that didn’t start to have any effect until she was nearly done. Then she got loopy and almost fell down on our way out. I walked with her hand in the crook of my elbow until we got to the car. When I let go, she stumbled while I was unlocking the door. Once we were in the car and actually on the way home, she fell fast asleep. (I totally deny that she snored even the tiniest bit!)

Prior to the first chemo infusion, we went through an orientation session where the nurse tried to tell us everything that would happen. It took a long time, it was great, but left us with more information than we could possibly handle. One of the things we remembered best was that after this day, they hinted that she’d feel pretty good and then begin a slide to Friday or so when she’d have to sleep.

Oops. She slept away most of Wednesday and about half of Thursday! Of course, another thing they told us was that “Every person is different!” So…what’s next? What ELSE is going to be different? The dietician said that she HAD to keep up on the calories – so she can eat ice cream, eggs, toast, butter, PB and all KINDS of yummy things! However, we also found out today that Liz isn’t hungry at night – so she’s supposed to compensate and eat more in the morning…

This, my friends, is the NEW NORMAL!

And now – like the countdown for this last flight of the Space Shuttle Endeavor, OUR countdown, Liz’s countdown has begun. Five more left – and then, like Endeavor’s eventual return to Earth, Liz will have a triumphant return to some sort of version of the OLD NORMAL!

Image: http://blogs.orlandosentinel.com/news_space_thewritestuff/files/2010/09/space-shuttle-endeavour-launch-2.jpg

Husbanding a Bigger Middle…

I know, the blog's name seems to invite death – but it’s the opposite. To read where this title came from, click here:http://breastcancerreaper.blogspot.com/search/label/Introductions

With my focus on Liz’ cancer, I’ve not paid much attention to what I’m eating. Well, not exactly. My problem is that I pay too MUCH attention to what I eat and what I don’t do.

See, I’m not an exercise nut. I’m exercise-a-phobic. It’s strange, but my GOOGLE search turns up a name for being afraid of everything EXCEPT fear of exercise. Smartalecks chime in on CHACHA and YahooAnswer to quip that the fear of exercise is laziness. But I’m not so sure – this person isn’t, either:http://exercise.about.com/od/plateausmotivation/a/overcomingfear.htm so I’m going to name it: exercerophobia: fear of exercise; from the Latin from L. exercitium "training, exercise," from exercitare, frequentative of exercere "keep busy, drive on," lit. "remove restraint," fromex- "off" (see ex-) +arcere "keep away, prevent, enclose,"

While that may not seem significant to you, naming something allows me to deal with it. When the breast cancer Liz had received a name: infiltrative ductal carcinoma, I was able to GOOGLE it and read about it. While I don’t consider myself an expert, some of my terror was allayed and I was able to read about treatment, steps to take and what it was.

Madeleine L’Engle, one of my favorite writers both as a kid and as an adult, has this to say about “naming”:

"I Name you Echthroi.

I Name you Meg.
I Name you Calvin.
I Name you Mr. Jenkins.
I Name you Proginoskes.
I fill you with Naming.
Be!
Be, butterfly and behemoth,
be galaxy and grasshopper,
star and sparrow,
you matter,
you are,
be!
Be caterpillar and comet,
Be porcupine and planet,
sea sand and solar system,
sing with us,
dance with us,
rejoice with us,
for the glory of creation,
seagulls and seraphim
angle worms and angel host,
chrysanthemum and cherubim.
(O cherubim.)
Be!
Sing for the glory
of the living and the loving
the flaming of creation
sing with us
dance with us
be with us.
Be!"

- Madeleine L'Engle, A Wind in the Door

Knowing what something IS helps me to face it. To know it, it needs to have a name. Once it has a name, then I can call it out. Breast cancer has a name I can understand and while we haven’t experienced complete victory yet, the enemy we confront has a name and we can do battle.

I’ve been fighting exercerophobia for years without knowing what its name was. Now that it’s REALLY important that I remain healthy, I’ve found its name – and can engage in battle.

Image: http://image.shutterstock.com/display_pic_with_logo/8939/8939,1191395252,1/stock-photo-overweight-man-holding-his-hand-to-his-beer-belly-having-eating-too-much-pizza-5817157.jpg

Bust Drug!

Last week we spoke with the oncologist. What the heck is that and why is it called that?

If you’re like me, you’ve been snowed under the uncounted number of fancy terms: mastectomy, oncology, lumpectomy, pathology, chemotherapy, lymphodema and a zillion others.

Now we come to the big O…Why don’t they call it what this person is: a cancerologist? At least I’d understand that! So what’s an “onco”? What’s a “logist”?

My dictionary says this: “1857, coined in English from Modern Latin onco = ‘tumor’, from the original Greek word, onkos = ‘mass, bulk’ + logy = ‘science or study of’”. So an oncologist is someone who studies tumors, masses and bulks.

So I get that, now. What about the other terms? After spending time internet searching every word I didn’t understand, I thought I had things pretty well under control. Then the oncologist tossed out some really, really weird terms: Taxotere + Adriamycin + Cytoxan and the next day, something called neulasta. These are what I’m coming to think of as “bust drugs” – at least as far as I can tell, they’re used to combat any possible cancer that has found its way from the breast and axillary lymph nodes (there are those fancy terms again!) into the rest of the body. A friend of ours had a scare that the cancer cells had broken free of the breast and caused a brain tumor. That wasn’t the case, but she does have lesions on her bones. So I did a little reading on this page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Breast_cancer_chemotherapy , then I went to GOOGLE and in the main page, typed “define: xxxxx” and hit enter. You should be able to do this for any of the drugs you’re going to run into during your wife’s breast cancer battle. In Liz’ case:

Taxotere: anti-mitotic chemotherapy medication (that is, it interferes with cell division)

Adriamycin: an anthracycline (a kind of substance that messes up cancer cell DNA) antibiotic…and like all anthracyclines, it works by inserting itself into the cancer cell’s DNA so the cells can’t make new cancer cells

Cytoxan: a cyclophosphamide that has been converted into a non-toxic "transport form". This transport form is a “pro-drug”, subsequently actively transported into the cancer cells. Once in the cells, enzymes convert the drug into the active, toxic form that kills the cancer cell

Neulasta: recombinant human granulocyte colony-stimulating factor (GCSF) analog used to stimulate the bone marrow to produce more neutrophils (white blood cells) to fight infection in patients undergoing chemotherapy

OK – I get some of it now! Sorta wish doctors and clinics would speak in plain English, but then, they wouldn’t sound so…doctoral if they did. Anyway, this made me feel better. Hope it helps you, too!

Image: http://archive.thecitizen.com/files/images3/Mike%20and%20Cs%20drug%20bust.jpeg