Welcome to my world, chemo

Chemo has a weird way of making you dread it as much as you look forward to getting it over already. Today, I shared my first day of it with my adoring hubby and mom, a faraway brother who was here in spirit (and on a mug he made with a sweet photo of us together), and a dear friend who's wrapping up her treatment right as I hop on the chemo train. I kept myself warm with a chemo prayer shawl hand-knitted by another friend's Uncle Bernie (that was blessed by his parish priest).

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With all the well wishes Team Liz and Team Suzy were channeling toward Group Health Capitol Hill, our infusion room felt WAY more full of love and positive energy than anything that could make me nervous about all the toxins that are now coursing through my veins, having one rager of a party — just trashing the place like a bunch of microscopic frat boys. As my nurse gave me my "red devil" adriamycin and its chemo party co-host cytoxan, I figured I'd take a moment, close my eyes and visualize those drugs as teeny tiny ninjas doing battle throughout my body, wielding their chancer-fighting numchucks fiercely and indiscriminately. But with Suzy and her husband right there with me, Sean and my mom, sharing the same infusion room, we just kept swapping stories and laughing and ... what?! ... I'm all done for the day?! Already?!! Feels like I just got here! So we packed up, I put on the cute-as-a-button hat Suzy gave me (along with some ginger candy), posed for few photos with her (see below), then wished her the best for the end of her last treatment. As I walked away, I could definitely feel something different was going on — hard to put my finger on it. It's sort of like the first blush of a heavy-duty painkiller starting to take effect, or a "buzz" (not like a drunk buzz, like there are a million little jackhammers ever-so-faintly messing with my insides head to toe, or like, "OK ... buckle up, cuz shit's about to slow down.") Hours later, after lunch at a yummy biscuit sandwich joint, tea with my mom (while Sean went to the pharmacy for all my meds — antibiotics, a steroid to prevent an allergic reaction to chemo, anti-nausea meds and an immune system-boosting drug), I was feeling dandy but took it easy in the afternoon, let Mom get dinner on the table as Sean picked up the kids at summer camp — by way of the vet, where he had to grab another batch of antibiotics for our pug Pepper, who's fighting off a relapse of a urinary tract infection, poor girl. I'm over whining, "Again?! Why now?!" about the ill-timed distraction of having a dog with an ailment that makes Sylvia's room stink up the whole place. Learning how to operate a steam-cleaning vacuum wasn't in my game plan for this week, but getting that taken care of made me realize I'm getting some of strength and movement back. Aside from the gentle swim I had last week (owning the slow-poke pace of the slow lane), it was the most exercise I've had in a long time. I've felt no nausea so far and just a hint of fatigue, which I have a hard time distinguishing from my usual can't-keep-up-with-life-and-kids feeling. By dinnertime, Sylvia and Sean noticed I looked a little pale — not unlike after I got a touch of postpartum anemia after Sylvia's birth. If I'm feeling paler and have any other anemia symptoms tomorrow (like dizziness, which I don't quite feel but don't quite not feel either, if that makes sense), I'll check in with my doc and figure out a plan of attack. Here's what I've been told to expect: I'll feel OK on chemo day, not so much the next day, probably worse for a couple/few days after that, then a little better day by day. I hope to ease back into work again early next week. Then by next Thursday, I might feeling "back to normal," able to exercise, etc. My second treatment is in two weeks on September 10. Looking forward to having one of my favorite editors of all time, and a dear friend, Kathy McCarthy, take me to my appointment. Helps to have friends in high places like retirement after an amazing 41-year career in journalism. Then comes September 24, October 7 — at which point I'll switch to eight weekly treatments of taxol. (Less dose-dense, more time-intensive, more effective, so the studies say.) My brother, Frank, who has spent the last 74 days texting me something he loves about his baby sister — a fond memory, some quality about me, some funny or smart or uplifting thing I said or did — sent me a two-part go-get-em text yesterday: "Tomorrow's going to be a horrible day ... " (wait for it ...) "For cancer!" Damn straight it was. I'm glad this second phase of my battle has begun. I'm no fool — I'll weather my share of crappy days in the months ahead. And I'll do it knowing that my doctors and nurses and friends and family are all taking excellent care of me.

T minus less than a week to chemo

Believe it or not, here comes the start of my four-month dance with chemo. I report for duty on Thursday, August 27, with Sean and my sweet mom, who's as glad she gets to be here with me as I'll be to have her. I got my handy dandy chest port inserted under my right collar bone today. This little subcutaneous device will make it easy breezy (or at least easier breezier) to get my intravenous chemo drugs into me. I'll get my first four treatments every two weeks: a cocktail of "red devil" adriamycin and cytoxan, or A/C for short. For the second half of chemo, I'll get a different drug called taxol — most likely once a week for eight weeks. (At one point, my oncologist said I could choose between eight weekly treatments or four biweekly ones, but I later learned that studies show the weekly treatments are more effective.)

Now for a random mishmash of other updates, in no particular order, as I'm writing through a wee bit of post chest port sedation fog: My recovery from surgery is going fine, aside from a ping pong ball-shaped bulge of fluid that keeps filling up at one end of my mastectomy scar. It's nothing out of the ordinary — just fluid my body's producing as the tissue in around around my ex-breast heals. For two weeks after surgery, I had external drains that were catching all that fluid. By the time the second one came out a week ago, it was still producing quite a bit of fluid. So now my body's just taking its sweet time figuring out how to absorb that stuff itself. I've had to get it drained twice and have two more appointments to get more fluid drained if needed. It hasn't been too painful (except for when it gets so swollen, I can't comfortably sleep. The biggest drag has been that it's robbed me of some work time — annoying and a little dispiriting as I try to bounce back and resume a normal-ish, even if scaled-back work schedule. After meeting with one physical therapist who didn't give me much (or even a little) confidence that we'd work well together, I found another who will be great. I've developed some "chording" or "what they call axillary web syndrome" under my left arm. It's limiting my movement as I recover and may or may not put me at higher risk for lymphedema. Glad to have it on the PT radar, and know that I should keep doing what I'm doing by doing gentle exercises to regain my normal range of motion — a process that'll likely take 6-8 weeks. I went for my first post-surgery swim the other day — after taking way more weeks off than I wanted to because of cancer stuff. I'll have to take another couple weeks off as my chest port incision heals. But after that, I'm hopeful I can get back to my favorite form of exercise, with one of favorite friends. Mary Murray not only swims with me most every Wednesday morning, but came to my rescue (well past her usual bedtime, I'm pretty sure) when an unfortunate confluence of work/life/cancer/parenting stresses reduced me to an almost hyperventilating ball of tears the other night. Mary's stepping up to take on a hugely helpful task for the month of September, when Sean will be trying back to back cases (i.e., high-stress 12-hour days) right as I'm getting used to this whole chemo thing. (Thanks, sucky timing!) She's going to mobilize a crew of local helpers so that our kids can get to school in the morning and get fed, bathed, and tucked in for the night if/when Sean has to work stupid hours and I'm too wiped out to deal with mama duties. So grateful for friends who feel more like family at a time like this. Speaking of mobilization logistics, we've taken playdates off my CaringBridge planner because we realize those are easier to organize closer to game time. If you'd like to be on our list of potential playdate hosts, email Sean at spgillespie@gmail.com with your email address, cell number and the best way to reach you. There are plenty of available slots for meal deliveries, errand runs, farmers market picnics/bedtime help available in September and October — and a new task we've just added that out-of-town folks can do: gift us a meal through Munchery. Lastly ... I send HUGE thanks to the many folks who have sent us gift cards to our neighborhood grocery store, Munchery and other eateries, hosted the kids for playdates and sleepovers, schlepped them to and from summer camp, helped us with yardwork and housework, and so much more. OK, folks. Peace out. Until next time ...

All clear, all clear!!!

Big news, people: The CT and bone scans I got today revealed no evidence of cancer anywhere else in my body! My oncologist had said these were tests to rule out surprises. As comforting as that might sound, right after learning that cancer had turned up in six of my lymph nodes, I was guessing the results would be something along the lines of, "We've found a few spots we need to look at more closely. So let's get you scheduled for another round of biopsies, shall we?" So stinkin' glad I got the all clear instead! PHEW!!!

The next big step is chemo, which is tentatively scheduled to start August 27. I'll know for sure later this week after I meet with a second Group Health oncologist. He trained with my second opinion oncologist at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance (a brilliant guy who is considered one of the best breast cancer docs at SCCA). The two know each other well and it sounds like they're in touch often enough that if anything went sideways during my treatment, they'd be able to connect easily and quickly to discuss my care. My current oncologist knows his stuff, too, and has been patient, compassionate and supportive, but my SCCA doc had a much harder time connecting with him during the couple weeks following my second opinion appointment. If there's any time to shop around a bit, it's now. I'll likely get eight chemo treatments total: one every two weeks for four months. Then comes daily radiation for six weeks. Then comes five years of hormone treatment to starve my cancer of estrogen (i.e., zero-to-sixty early onset menopause ... yippee kai yay!). Oy ... One challenge at a time.