Block Party?

Typically on day 3 post chemo I would not be excited at the prospect of a hundred plus people assembling outside my house for six hours of live music. Actually, that would be typical of any day, chemo or no. But for some reason, I was not as tired as expected yesterday, and I kinda got into the show.

This was the third annual block party hosted by my neighbor, Brian, in large part (I believe) as a showcase for his band Outpost - possibly the happiest band I've ever seen.

The spectacle was enhanced by a handful of falafel and smoothie vendors plus scantily clad hula/fire dancers. Oh, and the aforementioned hundred plus, each of whom seemed to arrive with a 12-pack. By the 9pm curfew, this crowd was loaded. But Brian and the band had the wisdom and courtesy to move the after party to a bar up the street and not his house for which I'm very grateful.

I'm very tired today. The chemicals must have kicked into high gear. So far have read the NYT (good one today), done one load of laundry and made bacon & eggs. That took seven hours. Arguably a typical Sunday.

Bend Memorial!

Yeah, not a glamorous facility but the doctors and nurses were super nice and super fast. I was in and out in three hours total. Their blood analysis machine (take note, Oregon Clinic) took only fifteen minutes to deliver the report showing that all my numbers are "within normal" except I'm a bit anemic ("to be expected.")

Thereafter everything was routine except the surroundings. Their infusion room has the chairs surrounding a central nurses stations. There's very little natural light and not much to look at except the other patients. As usual, I was the youngest person in the room by about 50 years.

The very elderly lady to my left was obviously anxious to have people to talk to. She kept her daughter and the nurses very engaged in her recent calamities (chemo halted because of blood clot on the lung and two-week stay in hospital etc etc.) Because I am a big meany, I became totally absorbed in my book whenever she looked in my direction. The less elderly lady to my right was in chemo for the first time and, I think, her course will last a whole year. Poor thing. She was most interested in how long it took me to learn the art of turban tying (basically trial and error for the last couple of weeks.)

Top tips from Bend:

:: Keeping your mouth cold with popsicles and shaved ice while the Adriamycin is being pushed into your system may decrease the chances of mouth ulcers etc during the cycle. We'll see.
:: Taking two Prilosec per day is a) OK, by Dr Kornfeld, b) the same dosage as one Nexium and c) most importantly, will likely help curb the nightmare acid reflex situation I have on days 6 through 8.

Interesting. Might be worth getting chemo at other clinics to learn their secrets......

I'm feeling OK today (as usual on day two.) Should crash tomorrow just as we head back to PDX.

View from a different couch

This is the fairway of the 10th hole at Glaze Meadow, Black Butte. From my vacation couch I can watch predominantly rubbish golfers smack their balls from left to right, zig zagging their way to the green. I don't really envy them.

I've been using this window of feeling OK before chemo 3 to get in some good walks around the ranch and I'm being macho about drinking wine with our friends though, in truth, its still a bit "burny" and doesn't go down terribly well.

We went to the pool this morning. I wore my green turban to match my green bathing suit. I was about to don the fabulous white, fluffy, cotton hoody that Niki sent me but my discerning husband said I'd look like a pretentious, attention-seeking, aspiring starlet so I abandoned it for something more subdued. To be honest, I think the pretentious, attention-seeking, aspiring starlet (PAAS) look is actually appropriate for the pool complexes of Black Butte. Whatever.

My hair stubble is gradually falling out. It's very scratchy. And when fallen out tends to stick in place on my head like iron filings. My friend Melissa recommended using a sticky lint roller to remove these last vestiges. It works, as does a slightly damp, rough towel of the "stolen from the gym" variety.

Chemo 3 takes place at Bend Memorial on Thursday. Am slightly anxious about this, but since my treatment is standard procedure I don't suppose they'll mess up. Besides, I know the order of proceedings now so I can always keep check on them. I'm sure they'll love that....

I was funny before this, you know

My friend and colleague, Chris, drew my attention to an article in last Monday's New York Times: Having cancer and finding a personality. The author describes her personality change post cancer diagnosis: "When I found out I had breast cancer 12 years ago I became a comedian." I think it is probably true that one's coping skills can manifest themselves in a myriad of unexpected ways (there can't be much that's more stressful than a cancer diagnosis) - but I challenge the assumption that it introduces personality facets that one has never had before.

A couple of people have said to me in reference to this blog: "Cancer has made you funny." Respectfully, I must counter that. To my mind, I was pretty bloody hilarious before all this. And, thanks to my private school/Cambridge education I've always been a good writer. It's just that I've never written a blog before so not many have experienced my well-written hilariousness first hand.

And in case anyone thinks that I'm jesting and joking my way through all this, I think its worth pointing out that I do have moments (often) of misery. Days three through five after infusion, when you're feeling like a shriveled up shadow of your former self - hairless, unable to get up off the couch, battling indigestion and a host of totally gross side effects that I shan't mention here - are really no laughing matter.

One of my doctors described a cancer diagnosis as potentially "liberating." Other than being able to get out of a couple of social obligations, I don't feel particularly liberated. I feel, in fact, chained to a new master. One that mandates a strict regimen of treatments and drugs that keep me confined to the house for one week of every two. One that doesn't allow me to think about much else than the disease and how to deal with it. It sucks.

But it will be over eventually and I'll be allowed back to my normal life. Hopefully I'll have learned a couple of lessons. Undoubtedly I'll have a greater appreciation for normalcy. And I'm confident I'll be as funny as ever although I may have to keep up the blogging to prove that to others.

Feeling pretty good today. So that gives me six days in the world before going back to the fog. Am off to Black Butte on Sunday so, web access permitting, I may be posting from the road.

On having no hair

My friend Paola shaved it off a couple of days ago when I realized that I was habitually tugging at it, and pulling it out in chunks. It's not bad, actually. See Sigourney, here, whom I like to think I resemble in some way. I practice looking really mean in the mirror - all good prep for my Halloween costume.

The thought of not having a bad hair day for a while is liberating. But I've had to get busy with the head coverings - I think I've finally mastered the turban using long strips of cotton knit fabric courtesy of American Apparel.

The weirdest thing is how cold my head gets at night. One really does lose a lot of heat via the head. I've been sleeping in a cap which is so Wee Willie Winkie (or something.)

Day 7 and I'm still feeling crap. Continued wooziness and fatigue. I'm going to will myself better tomorrow so I at least get one week out in the world before round 3.

A funny thing happened on the way to chemotherapy....

Well, it didn't actually. The journey to, and the process of chemotherapy were relatively incident free. But I spent time collecting the following thoughts and observations:

:: The clinic's blood analysis machine was broken. Again. And I thought this was a state-of-the-art facility? I actually ran into the bloke trying to mend the thing and made the mistake of asking whether he was the IT guy. Apparently (clearly) this business ranks way above software updates and the like. I was firmly put in my place. But it took a boring hour to get my blood results back from some far distant lab. On the upside, my blood counts were all "perfect."

:: Nursing staff very impressed with my reaction to the chemo so far, especially the "no vomiting" part. Yay! I am bullet proof. Well, apart from the whole cancer thing.

:: I had read that one shouldn't get a manicure/pedicure during this process due to the risk of infection which is a bloody disaster for me. I mean, I can live with no hair...but unkempt nails! God forbid! I mentioned this to the nurse practitioner who said that in her 30 years of being in this business she had never heard of such a restriction. Which is funny because I read it in this very clinic's helpful "dos and don'ts" literature. Still not sure how to proceed. Might risk it when my white blood cell count gets back up (10 days or so.)

:: Every time an infusion bag is changed on my drip, and even when the syringes are introduced for the "push," the nurse has to confirm my identity. It takes all my strength not to fire off some zinger or other."Are you Rebecca Armstrong?" "Yes, things haven't changed much in the last 30 minutes" etc etc. I'm pretty sure there's a brilliant Jekyll and Hyde gag somewhere in here given all the chemicals I'm taking on but I'll save that for the last infusion.

:: Emend is saving my life. It's the anti-nausea drug they infuse before the chemo drugs. It was only approved by the Feds for intra-venal infusion in the last three months. THANK YOU FEDS. It is also very expensive. I have to take the same med in oral form on days 2 & 3 following infusion. My co-pay for these 2 pills is $50. I believe the total value of them is $220. Meaning each little life-saver is worth $110. THANK YOU REGENCE BLUECROSS BLUESHIELD.

:: Many chemo survivors have recommended Magic Mouthwash to me to combat the inevitable sores and other mouth distress. It's like a secret among those "in the know." Look it up on Wikipedia for full description including its alleged use in the military for rather gross reasons (not that I would deny our boys and girls on the front line anything.) Anyway, the clinic wrote up a prescription for my use, though I'm not totally excited about it since Novocaine is an ingredient. I'm quite enjoying still being able to taste things.

In general I'm feeling OK. Still nausea/vomit free and not much in the way of indigestion. Still have hair but that situation will likely change this week. It's weird waiting around for it to fall out so I might actually get it shaved off this weekend. Stand by for GI Jane posting.

What this blog needs is some pictures

Here's one: part of my new reality. I wasn't kidding when I mentioned in an earlier post that until this point I hardly ever popped an Advil. I almost have an aversion to meds.

But not any more. No, sir. Meds are my friends. This selection here includes anti-nausea, steroids, pain killers, blood pressure, antacids and anti-anxiety. I'm a big chemistry experiment.

Actually as of yesterday I feel almost normal. I even sucked down a glass of wine last night (OK, several...) without the sensation of quaffing on hydrochloric acid. Just in time for round two (sigh.)