Cockamamy Chemo (and meet Geriatric Amy)

Things are getting a little funky around here, so please allow me to get you up to speed.

Self-Portrait After 4 Chemo Treatments

A little more than two weeks ago, I went for my fourth (out of six) chemotherapy treatments. A few days after, my voice started getting a little hoarse. Occasionally, when I had to cough, my cough would get trapped in my throat and I’d become Maggie the sea lion (below), a sound alarming not only to me, but to the person with whom I might be talking at the time. I’d put my hand up in the universal sign of no problem and then in a hoarse voice confirm, “I’m Ok.”

This continued for a week, and then another week…the hoarseness in particular. When I learned that eight kids in Jonas’s kindergarten class had strep throat, I finally called the oncology nurse.

“I’m not really all that worried about it,” I said to her, “but when I learned that (garbled something) kids in my son’s kindergarten class have strep, and I’m having problems with my voice, I thought I should call.”

“What did you say?” she asked. “Something about strep?”

“(Garbled something) in my son’s class have strep,” I tried to say again.

“I’m still not getting it,” she said.

I opened my mouth to attempt to say the word “eight” once more and still, nothing doing. I simply could not say that number between 7 and 9.

“Ok, I can definitely hear you are having voice problems,” she said. After asking me about fevers and other symptoms I did not have, she added, “I don’t really think you have strep. This doesn’t seem like strep.”

When I asked ‘what do you think this is’ and ‘have you seen this before with chemo?’ she replied, perplexed, “Well, No. Not exactly”

So she called my oncologist and called me back. Guess what? The doctor was perplexed too (never a good sign). Together they decided I should go see an ear, nose and throat specialist, which I did two days later.

And here’s where it gets more interesting. The doctor, who was very nice, asked if she could stick a weird looking device with a little camera on the end up my nose to look at my vocal chords. The old Amy would have freaked. You want to stick that up my nose? Are you you f’ing shitting me? But seriously, folks, what’s a device stuck up your nose compared with several breast biopsies, having your whole boob removed and replaced with a bionic implant, and having chemotherapy pumped into your body through a port inserted into an artery in your chest? No biggie in my estimates.

“Sure, go for it,” I said.

And, in the end, it really was no biggie. A little uncomfortable, but quick. She made me say a few things, like “Eeee”…and then she was done.

“Well,” she said. “I have good news and bad news. The good news is, you don’t have the things we typically look for first when someone is having this problem. Cancer or polyps." She paused. "What is happening, however is that your vocal chords are responding like that of an 80-year-old.”

Excuse me? WTF did you say?

She went on to explain something called vocal chord bowing, and she mimicked it using her hands to show me what was going on. “It’s likely caused by the chemo,” she said, “But I’ve never seen it happen in someone your age.”

Excellent.

She suggested speech therapy, and I suggested not right now, with everything else going on.

“Do you think it will go away after chemo?” I asked.

“It probably will,” she said (OK, let’s recall that she had never even seen this before in someone my age, so I wasn’t feeling all that reassured).  “But if not you can do speech therapy then.”

I went home and immediately googled “vocal cord bowing from chemotherapy.” I found almost nothing. So I googled “vocal cord bowing treatment,” and I got this (scroll down to the last entry on the page. Sorry for the graphic photo).

In a nutshell, I now have what is referred to here as “Geriatric Voice.”

Hence: cockamamy chemo.

In addition, my eyes have been tearing like crazy for about a week, so I look like I’m crying all the time (despite using the antihistamine eye drops that my primary care physician recommended – although she seemed somewhat perplexed as well, as was indicated by the statement “Chemo does weird things.”)

And Saturday night I noticed my right ankle was swollen. This immediately made me think of my grandmother Yedda (may she rest in peace) whose most distinctive feature, at least that I can remember, were her very swollen ankles. This, combined with my geriatric voice problem, did not put me at ease.

When I phoned the oncologist on call, he said, “Is it just around the ankle?”

I stretched my legs out in front of me for another look. “Yes, I said. Just the ankle. The calves look the same.”

“Ok,” he said. “If that changes, and if anything else beyond the ankle looks swollen, you should go to the emergency room. Then it could be a blood clot. Good night.”

Alright, no, it didn’t happen exactly like that. But that’s what it felt like, as I was about to go to sleep and how on earth was I supposed to relax if I had to watch my leg for further swelling or else die in my sleep from a blood clot?

Cockamamy doctor.

Eventually I did fall asleep, with my right foot raised on a pillow. (I’m happy to report that the swelling did go down and I'm still alive).

And this Thursday, I have my next round of cockamamy chemo. What awaits me after #5, I wonder? Cockamamy hair growing out my ears? Or something worse? Right now I still feel pretty lucky. While annoying, the problems I’m having right now are manageable. Losing voice? Talk less. So don’t take it personally if you call and I don’t call you back. Try text or e-mail.

As you can tell, I’m enjoying using using this cockamamy word. As a kid, I used to hear the term thrown around by my Jewish relatives a lot (including my parents), but somehow I’d made it to 44-going-on-80 without ever using it in a sentence before—written or spoken. I actually had no idea how to spell it when it first returned to my consciousness, and my initial attempts at searching brought me to this:

Which has virtually nothing to do with the word that I can tell, but I do like the song.

And no, it has not escaped me that the word breaks downs into: “cock-am-amy.” Although I have nothing to really add to that.

It’s actually a fun word to say. Experiment with it tonight. Throw it into your conversation with your kids, like this:

“Enough of that cockamamy poop talk!”  or “Enough smelling your brother’s cockamamy butt!”

Or with your spouse:

“Will you please put the cockamamy toilet seat down?” (unless of course you are a man in which case you want to demand that the cockamamy toilet seat be up)

Or with your pet:

“Did you poop on the cockamamy floor again?!”

I guarantee you’ll enjoy using it and those around you will look at you like, “WTF are you talking about?”

Let me know how it goes (via text or e-mail, please).

The Cancer Conversation, or Awkwardness Abounds, or Alliteration for the sake of Alliteration

Here's a true, awkward story: 

Pretty early after my diagnosis, when I first started this blog, I ran into a friend, not someone I know very well but someone who I like very much, at school pick up. I'll call this friend "S". When S and I saw each other, we hugged. I did not recall who initiated the hug. In fact, I didn't even remember the hug. S did. That evening, she sent me a message on Facebook:

This may sound strange, but I wanted to apologize if I was awkward in our interaction yesterday. So, you know when you've had a night of drinking and the next day you proceed to have flashbacks of the night before that make you think, "Really? Did I do that?" Well, when I think back to your interaction, I have this image of me hugging you. Now, let me preface this by saying, I have nothing against hugs. Hugs are great. Hugs with friends you don't see often and are just getting to know...super awkward, and frankly, uncomfortable. (It ranks up there with strangers who touch a woman's pregnant belly.) So sorry about that---

Let me reiterate: I did not even remember this hug. So I wrote back:

I didn't notice anything at all. What did you do? Did we hug? I don't remember. We didn't make out or anything right? Did you have gas? What happened? I hope you haven't been torturing yourself about this for the past 24 hours.

A couple of days later, I ran into S with her husband, who confirmed, that yes, she tortured herself worrying about our hug for about 24 hours. Maybe she would have done so even if I didn't have cancer. Although if I didn't have cancer, she probably wouldn't have hugged me. 
Of course, it's not always the other person who initiates the awkwardness. When I was first diagnosed, I struggled with who to tell vs. not to tell. I would find myself on the school playground, talking about mundane things with people while debating in my head whether or not to blurt out "I have breast cancer. That's really all I want to talk about right now so can we stop talking about your kids swim lessons?" Of course I never did that. Well, one time I guess I did. I blurted it out to an acquaintance. We were at the kindergarten open house night in November and she asked the simple-yet-not-so-simple question for me any more, How Are You? so I guess I gave her an update.
"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry." She pointed out the purple ribbon pin on her coat. "I have a friend with pancreatic cancer." And so I said I was sorry to her. I can't recall how much I actually talked about the breast cancer, but I didn't think it was much. Truth is, I didn't even really remember the interaction until earlier this week, when our boys had a playdate for the first time. We were talking at her kitchen table and I began a story with, "I don't know if you know I'm going through treatment for breast cancer..." and she reminded me of that evening when I told her. 
"I think you were still in shock," she said.
Uh huh. Shock. What does a person act like when they're in shock? A quick Google search tells me "person may be anxious and excited." I imagined her coming home that evening and telling her husband about the anxious and excited mom who started going on about her breast cancer at kindergarten open house.  

Even though I write a blog now called "I had a boob once," I still struggle sometimes with who to tell. Or with  how much to talk about it vs. not talk about it.  I wonder in my head sometimes as I'm speaking, "Am I talking too much about my cancer?" I imagine the person sitting next to me possibly wanting me to shut up. Of course, I wondered this before I had cancer, too...

I also often notice that when a person starts talking about themselves and their problems, they become uncomfortable and point it out. "Oh enough about me. We should talk about you..." they say. Or here's one: My friend J emailed me shortly after I lost my hair to see how I was doing. She mentioned that her daughter had been throwing up for hours and she felt awkward telling me about how she had held her hair as she vomited.
"Don't worry,"I said, "I'm glad not to have hair if I vomit." And it was the truth.

Look, my motto about all this is: You've got your troubles, I've got mine. Like the song in this award-winning, show-stopping video by Sandy and Harry. Author Jane Roper wrote about this type of awkwardness beautifully on the Huffington Post yesterday.  I also really like this piece about what the authors call the "Ring Theory of Kvetching." It's great advice for choosing what to say- and not to say -to whom during a medical crisis. This article circulated on Facebook a while ago, but I held onto as my own reminder. A good read if you haven't read it already.

There's one more thing I want to address, though. And it's kids. Most kids have no filter, as we know. Some of my more awkward moments have been with children. For a while, I wore only a little wintery type cap on my head when I picked my kids up from school. No adults ever asked me about it. But a little girl did. We were standing inside her house as I was dropping Ethan off for a play date. "Why are you wearing a winter hat inside?" I explained that it keeps my head warm. That I was bald. Then I took it off and showed her. She didn't flinch, although she stared at my head for the rest of the visit.

Even more awkward, after I started wearing my wig regularly, Jonas's friend Sam became obsessed with it. The first time he saw me wearing it at pick up, he shrieked in his five-year-old voice, "Your wig is perfect!" Then a few minutes later, "I love your wig!" I appreciated the compliments, but when this continued a few days later at the playground, I started to get a little uncomfortable. I swear I am not exaggerating when I write that he inserted the word "wig" between everything he said. "Can Jonas come over to play? Wig!" "Can you throw me that tennis (WIG) ball?" Fortunately, his obsession with my fake hair and his tourettes have both dissipated recently.

I think David Rackoff, a wonderfully funny and talented writer who died of cancer at 47, summed it all up best:

“But here’s the point I want to make about the stuff people say.

Unless someone looks you in the eye and hisses, ‘You fucking asshole,

I can’t wait until you die of this,’ people are really trying their

best. Just like being happy and sad, you will find yourself on both

sides of the equation over your lifetime, either saying or hearing the

wrong thing. Let’s all give each other a pass, shall we?"

Let's all give each other a pass, shall we?
Nuf said.

Don't Miss it! A Guest Post by my Friend Kevin (in response to my post yesterday)

Kevin's comment on my blog yesterday was so entertaining I thought I'd share it here, as a guest post. And if you didn't read yesterday's post yet, do that first, as all of this will make a lot more sense. Maybe.
Enjoy.

Well done, Amy. I love the positivity. 

- The Thesaurus is good, but for my money nothing beats The Chicago Manual of Style. That thick brick of grammar rules is a life-saver. 

Not that I've read it, of course (good Lord, the thing weighs like twelve pounds). But then again, neither has anyone else. And, as the person in the office with a writing degree who knows less about grammar than most immigrants but whom others nonetheless turn to with their style questions, its mere presence on my desk allows me to respond confidently to any and all questions. 

Confused by the verb agreement for a compound sentence in which the subject is a parenthetical digression connected with or, nor, or but? Simply add a diphthong to the noun in question. 

Unsure of the proper way to change a prepositional idiom into a past participle? Just invert the dependent clause that comes before it by using a passive direct object. 

Work Colleague (skeptically): 
. . . Really? . . . Because those answers just sound like a bunch of unrelated words loosely strung together. 

Kevin (pointing to his copy of The Chicago Manual of Style): 
Chicago says so. 

Work Colleague (mollified): 
Good enough for me. 

- As for the hot showers: This may be a gender thing. While I don't dislike hot showers, I'm definitely more appreciative of the function rather than the form of that endeavor. 

Hot tubs and jacuzzis, on the other hand, you can keep. How anyone can sit in one of those and not feel like they have just been cast in a low-budget, late-night Cinemax feature is beyond me. 

- The police officer letting you slide, though, is something I also wholeheartedly endorse. I had a similar experience when I was sixteen. The only difference was: 

A.) Eight unopened cases of beer that an older friend of ours had just purchased for us to take on an upcoming spring break trip to Myrtle Beach were stacked in the back-seat of my car. 

& 

B.) My two traveling companions were very, very high. 

Fortunately, I was completely sober. Unfortunately, I was sixteen and incredibly stupid. As in get-out-of-the-car-and-approach-the-police-cruiser stupid (I should also mention that it was nighttime). And, if you know anything about law enforcement, you know that people who get out of their car during a traffic stop are typically beaten about the head and shoulders with a nightstick while simultaneously being tasered multiple times in the throat (as, I might add, they should be). 

Amazingly, the officer simply asked me for my license. Even more amazingly (and actually this part begins to fall a bit into the realm of the unbelievable), he did not seem too overly concerned when, after requesting said license, he watched me drop it, reach down to pick it up, come back up without it (wait, what?), and then reach down again to retrieve it. In fact, if I had to hazard a guess as to his feelings at that exact moment, I'd say they probably fell somewhere between baffled sadness (for the future of this once great land) and abject pity. 

That he let me go with just a warning about driving with my headlights off (along with a strong recommendation that I head directly home) was nothing short of miraculous.

- And finally, although it's a small matter, I think it's important to give a bit of context to the cat video link that I forwarded to you. Because, for whatever reason, people who forward cat video links are often unfairly judged by our society. 

Sure, I own a cat (lots of people do). And occasionally I do write and publish cat-themed poetry for Cat Fancy magazine and its Spanish-language sister publication, Gato de Lujo (it's nothing more than a creative outlet). And yes, if you checked, you'd find that I hold a minority share of stock in a company (Time to Shine, Feline) that designs and manufactures tiny bow ties for male cats (that's just a smart business move). 

But that doesn't make me a "cat person." 

. . . If anything, I'm more of a dog person. 

Half Way There...and Full of Gratitude

Today is my 3rd chemo treatment out of six. Yesterday my Triple Positive Personality was overflowing so I thought I'd share some deep thoughts about what I'm thankful for:

The Thesaurus. Is anyone with me on this? I friggin' love the thesaurus. What's better than finding a better word? Or finding the perfect word? Euphoria. Thank you people who write the thesaurus.

Hot Showers. Taking a hot shower is often the best part of my day. It's peaceful. You can't take your Iphone or Laptop in there, so it may be the only time, except for sleep, when you can completely disconnect. And who doesn't love hot water massaging  their back or bald head? Tell me people: Have you ever felt thankful for a hot shower? Next time you're in there, think about it. Now that I'm at risk for lymphadema, I'm not supposed to get in hot tubs/jacuzzis. Not that I was ever a huge fan of hot tubs (sitting with strangers in bathing suits who may be passing gas is not really my thing), but I liked to take an occasional dip whenever visiting a hotel. Now I can't, but I can always luxuriate in a hot shower. Thank you to the person who invented the hot shower.

The Policeman who Stopped me for Speeding Yesterday but didn't Give me a Ticket.
I don't know his name, but Mr. Policeman who stopped me yesterday in front of the Reading YMCA for going 35 MPH in a 20 MPH zone (as he pointed out), thank you. You did not stop smiling in the short time you talked with me and I'm not sure why you let me off so easily as I was going to whip off my wig and play the cancer card but I did not have to because all you said was, "Please slow down and be careful" and then, still smiling, you left. You are a good man.

Being Triple Positive. Yesterday at the Y's Pink Program (an exercise program for people with breast cancer), I met my polar opposite: a woman who is triple negative, and thus much harder to treat. She told me how she finished chemo a month ago. That she's doing well. But she said she can't stop thinking about dying. The other ladies said, "No, you can' think that way. You need to think positive." But I imagine that's harder to do if you are triple negative. I will think positive thoughts for her. Maybe you can, too?

This Video. Sent to me by my friend Kevin (do you ever read his comments on my blog posts? They truly are brilliant). I'm not a cat person, but I love this. Can someone tell me if that dog is a pit bull? And if it is, why doesn't it just kick the shit out of Peaches?

A Whole Lot of Judging Going On

I know. This is supposed to be a blog about breast cancer, not controversy. But I feel the need to write about this.

Like many of you, I’ve probably been reading way too many articles and blogs about people’s reactions to the marathon bombings and, in particular, the shelter-in-place, city-wide lockdown on Friday.

And here’s the thing: There’s too much judging going on. I was in Arlington with my family on Friday. Arlington did not have a shelter-in-place in effect; however Arlington is right near Belmont. And Cambridge.  And although sure, I could have taken my children outside to play when they asked to play soccer (which we ended up doing in the living room instead), I didn’t feel safe doing so. The news was unclear; was the second bombing suspect on the road—remember the license plate number that was falsely advertised for a while? Was he wearing a body vest full of explosives like his brother did? Was there a chance he could drive into Arlington, right onto my sleepy little street and blow himself and my whole family up? Highly unlikely, but yes. There was a chance. There’s always a chance, right?

I’m pretty sure all these people who got injured standing near the finish line never thought such a thing could happen to them. They never thought they’d be those people standing in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time. And, speaking from personal experience, I’m also pretty sure that anyone who has ever picked up a ringing telephone only to hear from the young nurse on the other end that their biopsy has come back positive for cancer never thought it would happen to them. But it does. And it can. No one gets outta here alive, anyway.

Fortunately, I don’t walk around every day feeling this way. Worrying that I will get hit by a bus crossing the street or struck by lightning or whatever calamity my worst-case-scenario husband might dream up (although he’s relaxed a bit over the years, thankfully). But if my city is on lockdown and there are men with explosives nearby, I have every right to legitimately feel afraid. Please don’t judge me. And don’t judge my city.

One of the first articles I read that ticked me off was by an official-sounding person from a foreign country who chastised Boston for their overreaction. We are simply giving the terrorists what they want; we are allowing ourselves to be terrorized. I get it. And I’m not writing to argue about this point. But the choices that were made last week and on Friday were made to keep people in this city safe, which in my mind is more important than anything. No?

So basically here’s what I’ve ultimately come to say:

Those of you who feel the need to judge others about what’s already been done and can never be undone, please shut up and move on.

Thanks.

Sincerely,

The Management

 p.s. If you're curious, feeling good and still bald....

Hair Today, Bald Tomorrow (and a photo tribute to my hair)

Yes, the hair is gone. And I have to say that losing my hair was the most emotional part of this whole experience so far. My hair started falling out exactly a week ago, a few hours after I had a wonderful massage by a young woman who upon my request (because who doesn't love a head massage?!) spent some time kneading my scalp and running her fingers through my hair. I shudder to think what her hands may have looked like when she finished.

When I went home and showered, I noticed even more excessive hair strands than usual all around the bath tub. Still, I wasn't sure. But by Saturday, I knew. I began wearing a hat on my head as I could no longer control what my hair looked like and because I thought it might keep the remaining pieces in longer. Although I was feeling freakish ( I don't think I actually looked freakish, but this experience of having your hair take leave of your head after 44 years is quite unsettling), I managed to join my family at the Harlem Globetrotters show and take the boys to a birthday party. By Sunday, I felt simply too freakish to leave the house and completely overwhelmed. Some friends suggested a while back that I watch the TV show Parenthood, so I sought out the episode where the mother who has breast cancer shaves her hair after it starts falling out. I cried along with her through the process. Then I felt empowered along with her when she dolls herself up with a wig, and then again when she decides the wig is not for her and walks around bald.

When the show ended, I went to the bathroom and picked up my husband's electric razor. I managed to shave one tiny patch of hair off. Right in the front. Nice move, Amy. I didn't have the heart to shave the rest, so I put my hat back on. Monday morning, I asked my husband Ben to come home and shave my head after he dropped off the boys off at school. He did, and we made it as far as me standing in the bathtub, Ben holding the razor and telling me he "didn't really feel comfortable doing this." Which I totally get. So, between my discomfort and his, we cancelled the shaving event, and I remained a recluse on Monday, drowning in my sorrow and the hair that was falling everywhere.

I have been fortunate to have many saviors , sometimes knowingly and others unknowingly, rescue me at just right the moment during this process. On Tuesday, my friend Rachel was my savior (she'll cringe at the word if she's reading this. We are typically sarcastic and obnoxious with each other). But seriously. She came over and shaved my head. She had never shaved anyone's head before. She made me laugh throughout, and immediately told me I had a nice shaped head (I was afraid I might discover a more alien-shaped head underneath, not that I'm an alien but sort of like the actress in Parenthood....) as soon as the hair was gone. She took me out to lunch and, before she left and while aware she was running late to pick up her kids from school, she stayed around long enough to buy me my wig. I can not tell you how much her help saved me this week.

When I imagined losing my hair several weeks ago, I thought no big deal.  But I was wrong. Maybe it's about the vanity. Partly. But it's more than that. I think it's also about the feeling of losing control. And of saying goodbye and mourning a mane that has been part of you, a partner in everything if you will, your whole life. I have both loved and hated my hair throughout the years. I have spent hours and decades trying to wrestle my thick waves  into straight shiny submission with blow dryers and expensive hair products. Unlike  my feelings about losing my breast, which I wrote about here, this has been really hard. I know it will grow back. I know it may or may not be the same. But I think my hair deserves a loving goodbye tribute like the one I share with you below.

I highly suggest you play this Kenny Rogers song in the background as it will add greatly to your emotional experience. Enjoy.

bald and beautiful babe

The Carol Brady

Samantha from Charlie's Angels

The Dorothy Hamill (I bet you had this too if you're over 40)

Best hair day eva...8th grade. Look at those feathers!

Sleepaway camp. This is my true hair,
and a curious picture. Look closely at the pic behind
Snoopy and Ralph the Dog

Another sleep away picture.
Yesterday was my mom's birthday.
she died from ovarian cancer in 2002.
The day before, on the 9th, was my dad's birthday.
So this is simply a tribute to my awesome parents, who gave me my hair.


That's the end of the retrospective. If you want to see my lovely eighties hair, there's a video here.

Now, for what you've really all been waiting for, the temporary new me.

bald.


And below, with my new wig, which is actually the kind of hair I've always aspired to have. Jonas wore it like a rock star last night. When he dropped it on the floor as though it was his dirty laundry, I screamed "That's my $350 hair! Pick it up!" No doubt that one will make it into Ethan's memoirs.

Crying at The Croods and other Strange Phenomena

So, chemo. Yep, I started. Had my first treatment on March 21st, exactly 13 days ago (but who's counting). If I recall correctly, I was surprisingly calm on that sunny Thursday morning. At least I thought I was...First we met with my oncologist who went over the treatment protocol and the side effects of the drugs and then it was time to begin. 

I was assigned my recliner, which was right across from a bathroom (very convenient as it turned out the fluids they give you make you "gotta go gotta go right now!") and settled in with my  iPhone filled with music and healing meditations and my books, as I was planning to get a lot of reading done during my 3 1/2 hours or so at the hospital. 

A sweet and apparently well-protected nurse (think full smock and rubber gloves) came over with my bags of drugs, three in total, each of which would get administered one at a time. 

 I can do this. I thought. No problem.

She hooked the first bag up and sat down with some papers.

"I'm just going to go over each of the drugs you're going to get today and the potential side effects," she said as the first drug and its potential side effects began entering body.

I listened for a bit and then suddenly felt hot. And dizzy. "I think I'm having a heat flash or something," I said. 

She calmly called for another nurse, and two appeared. The three of them stood around me , watching me with concern. "How do you feel ?" one of them asked.

"A little hot," I said.

"Turn the meds off," she said to the sweet, side-effects-sharing nurse.

 They stood around me for a while, watching me like a hot, helpless specimen under a microscope and occasionally making a joke or glancing at each other.

"How are you feeling now?" The lead nurse asked.

"Better," I said. "At least I'm not hot any more."

She walked over and looked at how much of the medicine had left the bag and entered my body.  Apparently it was minimal.

"I think maybe you're just feeling a little anxious," she said. "Why don't we give you some Ativan."

Gee? You think? Of course I was feeling anxious. I was having my first chemo AND they were sharing the side effects with me as the drugs were entering my bloodstream. 

"Maybe we can also talk about side effects another time?" I suggested. "My doctor already went over them with me anyway."
They agreed. They gave me the Ativan, which combined with the Benadryl basically put me to sleep. So much for the reading. But I learned a good lesson that day. During chemo, Ativan is King.

The AfterEffects

It's said that you can often predict when you are going to feel bad after chemo, and just as predicted, I started to feel crappy two days later. Not only did I feel tired and perhaps a little nauseous from my chemo, but I got my #$%!**# period (damn you mother nature). And a headache that has lasted me until today...good lord. 13 days, a migraine, off and on, the type of headache where you just want to detach your head and leave it on the dresser for the day.

I talked to my oncologist yesterday and she thinks I might be having a steroid withdrawal headache ( did I mention they give you steroid pills on the morning of chemo?). She says some people are very sensitive to steroids, even a small amount, and need to be weaned off. So now I'm popping a low dose of steroid pills and weaning myself off of them to see if my headache goes away. My friend/husband's cousin who is a breast cancer survivor put it this way: Welcome to the Chemo game. I guess the rules in this game are pretty crazy - trying to connect exactly what is causing what can get confusing and so I'm now changing my profile pic to this (I know, a lot less inspiring than the Buddha but more true to how I'm feeling right now):

As for other side effects so far:

• minimal nausea (I've only taken one pill for nausea, which is pretty damn good). I will say that the feeling is very close to that which I felt in first trimester pregnancy with E. Feeling a little queasy? Eat some carbs or chocolate ice cream. All better. I don't think we have to worry about Amy losing too much weight on her chemo regimen.
• Bad taste in mouth and oversalivating (lovely, yes?). Also had this during pregnancy so there you go.
• A strange mark on my abdomen, slightly itchy, diamond shaped, as though I was kidnapped by aliens and branded.
  
• A tiny bit of neuropathy, in which my hands get red and itchy. I thought it was dry skin at first but now realize it's not and can stop slathering myself in Lubriderm.

Short and Sassy!

And really, that's all that's worthy of mention. So far. But what about my HAIR you ask? The doctor predicted it would fall out around day ten. But I still have it. And it's short. I cut it short in preparation and to make the transition less potentially traumatic (not to mention if all my hair came out I probably wouldn't be able to find my children. Have you seen how thick my hair is??). And I also went to pick out a wig. Say what you will about wigs; some people love 'em. Some hate them. I don't know where I stand, really. But I feel like a need to have one just case. Not sure how my bald self is gonna feel.

 AHHHHHHH! It's Hideous!

I took one picture of myself trying on a blonde wig at the wig store. I only tried it on because I liked the style; not the color. It's simply awful, but I'll share as it will probably make you feel better about yourself.

And, finally, let me address my emotional well being. I'm thinking it might be a bit dicey at the moment. It must be, because I cried during the movie The Croods last Friday. If you haven't seen it or heard of it, here's a brief description:

This prehistoric comedy adventure follows the world's first family as they embark on the journey of a lifetime when the cave that has always shielded them from danger is destroyed. Traveling across a spectacular landscape, the family discovers an incredible new world filled with fantastic creatures -- and their outlook is changed forever.

Crying at a kids movie is OK if it's something like Bambi or Toy Story 3 (if you're a parent and you didn't cry at the end of that movie there is something seriously wrong with  you emotionally. Just sayin'....)

But really..The Croods??  I totally didn't see it coming. We got to the movie late (anyone who knows me knows this never happens) and I had to squeeze into the last two seats in the second last row of the balcony. J sat on my lap and E sat to my right. I could barely even see over J's head and was having a hard time following what was going on so it's not like I felt emotionally invested or anything. But we came to

a scene where the dim-witted father has to toss every member of his family across a great and stormy divide (I think they were jumping to the sun or something- as they were always looking for the "light" all the time and trying to stop hiding in caves) and that's when the waterworks started. 

Was anyone else in the entire theater crying? I wondered. Or was there just something seriously wrong with me? Were my defenses down to due to chemo? Was it my hormones? I casually wiped my eyes with my sleeve. I told my husband that evening about my crying over dinner and he laughed at me. Well, we laughed together.

But then, the next day, I was reading Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart and I had an epiphany. Take a look at these excerpts from her chapter called "It's Never too Late":

"It struck me that if all of this is really a dream (life), I might as well spend it trying to look at what scares me instead of running away."

AND

"Sometimes it seems we have a preference for darkness or speed. We can protest and complain and hold a grudge for a thousand years. But in the midst of bitterness and resentment, we have a glimpse of maitri. We hear a child crying or smell that someone is baking bread. We feel the coolness of the air or see the first crocus of spring. Despite ourselves, we are drawn out by the beauty in our own backyards."

So you see what I'm getting at? The seemingly benign Croods is actually a movie with a powerful Buddhist message. Get out of your caves everyone! Run toward the light! Enjoy your life while you can!

What do you think?

It's either that or I'm becoming emotionally unglued.