Up in smoke

October 18, 2009

The night after my final radiation treatment I was feeling as if I needed to somehow commemorate the event. Jason suggested burning something. It sounded good to me, so I sifted through my cancer “notebook” – a large binder that has held my path reports, scan results, weekly blood counts and a pile of associated paperwork. While I kept most of it (who knows when I’ll need to look back and find out what my white cell counts were the second week of June), I pulled out a handful of cancer-related documentation that I could do without.

Jason headed out to the garage armed with a headlamp and dusted off an old rusty hibachi. We fired it up in the pouring rain out on the front walkway. Among the documents that went up in smoke:

* An article written by a Seattle woman about how to talk to your kids about cancer. The article was informative, but her big smiley face on the front was way too cheery for the subject matter.
* A list of Seattle-area wig shops.
* Scribbled notes from one of a zillion doctor’s visits.
* Information on a cancer support group at Swedish.
* An incomplete spreadsheet documenting doctor visits, procedures and blood draws that we gave up on filling out after a few weeks.
* A brochure for Mary Catherine’s – a shop near the hospital that specializes in post-mastectomy bras and camisoles.
* A catalog of wigs and hair coverings that Jason found stashed under the seat of his car. One particular photo – “before” and “after” pictures of a woman with no hair – had sent me into hysterics shortly after I was diagnosed. I was all too pleased to torch this.

Here we are bidding farewell to cancer!

TWO MORE DAYS!

October 12, 2009

Just two more days of radiation until I can kiss the daily slog up to Swedish Medical Center GOODBYE! Despite the fact that I have made the trip no fewer than 30 times in the past six weeks, I still find myself bolting out of here at 2:05 p.m., having realized only moments before that my appointment time is looming. Luckily I've never been late, and my machine -- the "Precision" (not to be confused with the "Synergy" down the hall) -- seems to be running on time most days.

Here are a few things I'm going to miss:

• Angela, the receptionist at the main entrance to the Swedish Cancer Center building; and T0ny, the security guard. They are possibly two of the friendliest people I have ever met.
  Bria and Sharon – my two favorite radiation therapists (even though I vowed not to get attached to any “cancer people.)
  
• The free parking spaces set aside especially for radiation patients. I feel so privileged when I pull in, toss my parking pass on my dashboard and breeze past all the other unfortunate folks driving around the block looking for street parking.
  
• A forced break in the middle of the day.

And here are some things I am NOT going to miss:

• The seemingly never-ending construction work going on at Virginia Mason just around the corner from Swedish. This hospital was under renovation seven years ago when I was going up to Swedish on a bi-weekly basis for pregnancy complications. I have to believe it’s been going on ever since. Every day is a new traffic configuration around the site.
  
• The annoying panhandler at the Denny/Dexter exit off Highway 99. He won’t let you off the hook until you make eye contact. There’s only so much fiddling with the radio one can do.
  
• The McDonalds on Madison Street that I drive by on my way home every day. Just because I don’t eat there anymore doesn’t mean I don’t WANT TO. ALL. THE. TIME!
  
• Mr. Grumpy, Mr. Nosy and Mr. Know-It-All. These three not-so fine fellows are usually in the waiting room about the same time I am. It’s pretty unusual for anyone in the quiet waiting room to be talking to each other (probably because we’re all in some sort of goofy medical gown), so their conversations/outbursts tend to offend like a fart in church. Mr. Grumpy can barely stand it that his machine is “always” late. Calming words from the receptionist and various medical personnel who are unlucky enough to pass by during one of his tirades can say nothing to appease him. His machine is “always broken,” he always has to sit around “for hours,” and “these people should do something about it.” Mr. Nosy is that overly-friendly guy you try to avoid in social settings, except in the waiting room there’s nowhere to hide. I have seen him assault other patients with the full run-down of his medical condition (prostate cancer) and subsequent treatment (radioactive seed implants), and last Wednesday my luck ran out. He plops down next to me with a “So how you doing, young lady?” and without waiting for an answer, plunges into a detailed description of how his doctor planted “little GPS trackers” in his prostate. TMI, dude. Mr. Know-It-All is actually not a patient but the husband of a woman who comes in for daily radiation treatment. I’ve been able to avoid him so far, but I’ve been privileged to listen in on his enlightening conversations with other patients. As I was coming out of the changing room the other day, I caught the tail end of one: “Yep! And the waiting room upstairs is full of young women going through treatment! And I know exactly what put them there!” Well, what a genius! Care to share? Apparently not, as he switched gears and started yapping about his yacht when he saw me.
  
• Getting home five minutes too late to pick Oliver up at the walking bus stop.

Cancer, it’s been an interesting nine months to say the least, but I’m moving on.

And as usually, I’m running late for my appointment. Gotta go!

Super Friends and Radiation Update

October 8, 2009

Check out Jason’s amazing friends! (Actually, I’m claiming them as my own, now.) These guys participated in the Komen Denver Race for the Cure on Sunday, Oct. 4. Their shirts say it all!!

Back row, from left: Brownell, Damian, Dom, Ian, Brian, Josh and Dave. Front row, from left: Lynna, Mia, Marti and Shevaun

My mind-numbing daily radiation appointments have been moving along without much fanfare. The only exciting thing that’s happened is one of the transformers at Swedish blew up last week, knocking down the servers that run the radiation department computers. Oliver had an early dismissal from school that day, so he came with me to the appointment. We found out the whole department was down when we got there, but we were able to get a personal tour of the radiation room, thanks to my nice radiation therapist Bria and the intern, Trisha. Oliver was quite impressed with the equipment. He’s becoming a regular there – he was a little under the weather yesterday and stayed home from school. He was feeling better by the afternoon, so he came again to the appointment. He got to watch me on the TV screen while I got my treatment, and of course he asked a million questions. One of the therapists called him a “budding radiation oncologist.”

The chest wall where the radiation beam is directed is showing some reaction. A couple weeks ago it started to turn a little red, like a sunburn. Now it is bright red, extremely itchy and starting to blister. The area under my arm is especially chaffed. My radiation oncologist seems disturbingly upbeat about this. Apparently my skin is reacting just as it should! He checked it out this past Tuesday and declared Tuesday, Oct. 13 as my LAST DAY! Apparently, he is known for tacking extra days on to the end of your treatment if your skin isn’t angry-looking enough. Mine seems to be reacting as it should, and he’s promised not to add any days (barring another transformer explosion!)

So that’s that! This whole thing that started with a really crummy day at the doctor’s office January 9 (Katie W. – you were with me – you remember it well!) will be DONE. At some point I’ll have my port-a-cath out (a day surgery) and I’ll have regular check-ups and scans, but the treatment part is over. It’s hard to believe – I thought this day would never come.

I guess there’s one more thing – I am going to get infusions of a drug called Zomeda once every six months for three years (first one is October 27). This drug is supposed to minimize the chance of the cancer coming back in my bones. I’ll have it done in the same place as I had my chemo infusions, although it should only take about 30 minutes.

Enjoying the sun and warm afternoons!