Laying at the bottom of the staircase this morning, sprawled out on my back, I thought about the conversation I had with my Mom earlier this week. I wonder how this journey will change me.
I sat in traffic for two hours this morning trying to get to work for a 9:00 meeting. There were three accidents on the toll road, so I did not arrive at my office until 9:15 and was rushing to get to the conference room to meet with my boss and VP. I took my pre-chemotherapy medication (uppers) this morning, so I was sweating and shaking, in addition to my heightened anxiety. As I was rushing down the stairs with my laptop, BlackBerry, frappuccino and notebook, my right heel slipped into the cuff of my left pant leg and I found myself tumbling in slow motion. I fell down the flight of stairs and my frappuccino bottle smashed into the concrete floor. My left shoulder and head hit on impact. (Yes, my left side is where I had the hockey puck-sized tumor removed and my port placed under my skin into my artery.) There was a man in the stairwell above me who was cleaning. He ran down to see what had happened. He was staring at me, not out of concern, but in another way that I didn't like. I realized that my wig had fallen off and was laying against the wall. There I was completely vulnerable and this man who didn't know my story was looking at me in disgust ... like I was a total freak. He finally managed to ask if I was okay. I said yes and to leave me alone, please.
I laid back down looking up at the stacked rows of stairs above me. I was choking back tears and contemplating telling this stranger (who stayed there staring at me for what seemed like an eternity) my story, not because he cared, but because I felt that I needed to defend myself. I said "screw him" in my mind and realized that I had nothing to defend. I already see the changes that my Mom told me would happen. I have been so conflicted and confused for the last couple years about life in general. What do I want and deserve? What is the right path for me? The clarity is just around the corner ... I can feel it now more than ever. My mother told me that this experience would make me stronger and perhaps make me into that woman that I longed to be. A woman who knew what she deserved out of life and refused to settle. A woman who had crawled through the trenches of life, lived to tell about it, thus loved unconditionally and whole-heartedly and lived every day to the fullest. I believe I already had those qualities, although they needed some dusting off. This experience is an opportunity to be shoved in the right direction, the path of becoming the woman I have always wanted to be and had the ability to become.
I picked myself up off the ground, dusted off my black slacks, said "have a good one" with a smile to the ignorant man in the stairwell, scooped up my wig and shook it off and carried it down the hall to the bathroom as my heels clicked loudly along the marble floor. I stood up as tall as I possibly could and smiled. Yes, I, Jennifer Kwiatek walked down the hallway bald in my office building and didn't care. I have no reason to be embarrassed or ashamed of what is happening to me. I never asked for this. And with that, I can say that my Mom was right in her theory. I am becoming a better, more vibrant woman and I have to admit that I wish I could have met her sooner. I really like her!
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
4/15/2008: Anxiety Returns
My heart is racing out of my chest. I am dizzy, nauseous and have broken out in a cold sweat. Oh God, I think I may not be able to make it to the bathroom before I get sick.
The anxiety of having chemo again this Friday is more than I can bear. Apparently feeling this way is normal according to my sisters in cancer who are going through treatment as well. The nightmares, insomnia, night sweats, lack of appetite and nausea all set in Sunday. I hadn't experienced nausea this bad until now. I am completely drained from the anxiety. I obviously try to keep my worries to a minimum with positive thinking, wine and yoga (ahem, and Milano cookies), but there is no way to ignore how horrible chemo makes you feel. You just don't understand it unless you have experienced it. It is like nothing else in this world and the word horrible doesn't even come close to describing it. I dread it each time it creeps closer and closer, but there is no escaping it. I just continue to suck it up and move through the motions despite the fact that each time they place the thick needle into my port (and I tell my Daddy to please look away) I am choking back the tears. I am embarrassed, annoyed, frustrated and just so ready to take back my life. I am starting to forget what it felt like to not be on medication all the time and to actually have a day where I feel amazing. I just want to be normal again ... and soon. I constantly imagine myself during treatment and testing somewhere else laying on a beach, warm and feeling vibrant once again. I long for that day more than you can imagine.
Despite the negatives, I have to remember how lucky I am that my MRI came back as well as it did. This means they don't have to prolong treatment or switch my regimen. Lord knows I can only handle so much. I knew in my heart that treatment was working, but to have that confirmation was exactly what I needed. I cannot believe that this Friday is round four of chemo. (I will be 2/3 of the way done.) Time has flown by so fast, especially between the last round and this one.
I have finally been able to start exercising daily, which always makes me feel better. The problem is I get back on a schedule right before I am laid out by chemo again. My poor little body just wants some consistency. In due time, right? I know ... I believe it, too. It's time to cradle my head in my hands, take a deep breath, wipe the beads of sweat on my brow and just push through these last three rounds of treatment. If I squint hard enough, I can start to see a glimpse of light at the end of this tunnel. Can you see it too?
The anxiety of having chemo again this Friday is more than I can bear. Apparently feeling this way is normal according to my sisters in cancer who are going through treatment as well. The nightmares, insomnia, night sweats, lack of appetite and nausea all set in Sunday. I hadn't experienced nausea this bad until now. I am completely drained from the anxiety. I obviously try to keep my worries to a minimum with positive thinking, wine and yoga (ahem, and Milano cookies), but there is no way to ignore how horrible chemo makes you feel. You just don't understand it unless you have experienced it. It is like nothing else in this world and the word horrible doesn't even come close to describing it. I dread it each time it creeps closer and closer, but there is no escaping it. I just continue to suck it up and move through the motions despite the fact that each time they place the thick needle into my port (and I tell my Daddy to please look away) I am choking back the tears. I am embarrassed, annoyed, frustrated and just so ready to take back my life. I am starting to forget what it felt like to not be on medication all the time and to actually have a day where I feel amazing. I just want to be normal again ... and soon. I constantly imagine myself during treatment and testing somewhere else laying on a beach, warm and feeling vibrant once again. I long for that day more than you can imagine.
Despite the negatives, I have to remember how lucky I am that my MRI came back as well as it did. This means they don't have to prolong treatment or switch my regimen. Lord knows I can only handle so much. I knew in my heart that treatment was working, but to have that confirmation was exactly what I needed. I cannot believe that this Friday is round four of chemo. (I will be 2/3 of the way done.) Time has flown by so fast, especially between the last round and this one.
I have finally been able to start exercising daily, which always makes me feel better. The problem is I get back on a schedule right before I am laid out by chemo again. My poor little body just wants some consistency. In due time, right? I know ... I believe it, too. It's time to cradle my head in my hands, take a deep breath, wipe the beads of sweat on my brow and just push through these last three rounds of treatment. If I squint hard enough, I can start to see a glimpse of light at the end of this tunnel. Can you see it too?
4/15/2008: Anxiety Returns
My heart is racing out of my chest. I am dizzy, nauseous and have broken out in a cold sweat. Oh God, I think I may not be able to make it to the bathroom before I get sick.
The anxiety of having chemo again this Friday is more than I can bear. Apparently feeling this way is normal according to my sisters in cancer who are going through treatment as well. The nightmares, insomnia, night sweats, lack of appetite and nausea all set in Sunday. I hadn't experienced nausea this bad until now. I am completely drained from the anxiety. I obviously try to keep my worries to a minimum with positive thinking, wine and yoga (ahem, and Milano cookies), but there is no way to ignore how horrible chemo makes you feel. You just don't understand it unless you have experienced it. It is like nothing else in this world and the word horrible doesn't even come close to describing it. I dread it each time it creeps closer and closer, but there is no escaping it. I just continue to suck it up and move through the motions despite the fact that each time they place the thick needle into my port (and I tell my Daddy to please look away) I am choking back the tears. I am embarrassed, annoyed, frustrated and just so ready to take back my life. I am starting to forget what it felt like to not be on medication all the time and to actually have a day where I feel amazing. I just want to be normal again ... and soon. I constantly imagine myself during treatment and testing somewhere else laying on a beach, warm and feeling vibrant once again. I long for that day more than you can imagine.
Despite the negatives, I have to remember how lucky I am that my MRI came back as well as it did. This means they don't have to prolong treatment or switch my regimen. Lord knows I can only handle so much. I knew in my heart that treatment was working, but to have that confirmation was exactly what I needed. I cannot believe that this Friday is round four of chemo. (I will be 2/3 of the way done.) Time has flown by so fast, especially between the last round and this one.
I have finally been able to start exercising daily, which always makes me feel better. The problem is I get back on a schedule right before I am laid out by chemo again. My poor little body just wants some consistency. In due time, right? I know ... I believe it, too. It's time to cradle my head in my hands, take a deep breath, wipe the beads of sweat on my brow and just push through these last three rounds of treatment. If I squint hard enough, I can start to see a glimpse of light at the end of this tunnel. Can you see it too?
The anxiety of having chemo again this Friday is more than I can bear. Apparently feeling this way is normal according to my sisters in cancer who are going through treatment as well. The nightmares, insomnia, night sweats, lack of appetite and nausea all set in Sunday. I hadn't experienced nausea this bad until now. I am completely drained from the anxiety. I obviously try to keep my worries to a minimum with positive thinking, wine and yoga (ahem, and Milano cookies), but there is no way to ignore how horrible chemo makes you feel. You just don't understand it unless you have experienced it. It is like nothing else in this world and the word horrible doesn't even come close to describing it. I dread it each time it creeps closer and closer, but there is no escaping it. I just continue to suck it up and move through the motions despite the fact that each time they place the thick needle into my port (and I tell my Daddy to please look away) I am choking back the tears. I am embarrassed, annoyed, frustrated and just so ready to take back my life. I am starting to forget what it felt like to not be on medication all the time and to actually have a day where I feel amazing. I just want to be normal again ... and soon. I constantly imagine myself during treatment and testing somewhere else laying on a beach, warm and feeling vibrant once again. I long for that day more than you can imagine.
Despite the negatives, I have to remember how lucky I am that my MRI came back as well as it did. This means they don't have to prolong treatment or switch my regimen. Lord knows I can only handle so much. I knew in my heart that treatment was working, but to have that confirmation was exactly what I needed. I cannot believe that this Friday is round four of chemo. (I will be 2/3 of the way done.) Time has flown by so fast, especially between the last round and this one.
I have finally been able to start exercising daily, which always makes me feel better. The problem is I get back on a schedule right before I am laid out by chemo again. My poor little body just wants some consistency. In due time, right? I know ... I believe it, too. It's time to cradle my head in my hands, take a deep breath, wipe the beads of sweat on my brow and just push through these last three rounds of treatment. If I squint hard enough, I can start to see a glimpse of light at the end of this tunnel. Can you see it too?
Saturday, April 12, 2008
4/12/2008: Amazing News
What a crazy week. I had my MRI on Wednesday and it went better than my first one back in January. They had to use a special machine because of my port. A breast MRI is really uncomfortable. You have to lay face down on the MRI table with your boobs poking through these two holes and you have a cushion for your face similar to when you have a massage. The technicians pull at your boobs to make sure they are inside the holes. There is a bar that presses against your sternum as you lay there with your arms extended over your head. Then they move you around the table and the machine makes the most horrible noises that are SO loud. Then they give you an IV that makes you taste metal in your mouth and makes you feel like you just peed yourself. I wasn't on the table correctly so my nurse just grabbed the bed sheet and pulled it. I cracked up. She said, well you are so tiny I will just drag you where I want you. The good thing is, the technicians all are amazing. They said when I get my new boobs to come back and show them off. I love those ladies. Dad and I went to lunch afterwards and when I came back to pick up my pictures they told me they had to redo a couple of shots. Boo!
I had my Herceptin treatment today and it was pretty rough. I was only a couple of minutes into my treatment when my chest started tightening and I couldn't breath. The nurse came in and cut off the medicine, put me on saline and then gave me a shot of Benedryl. Now I am totally exhausted, but at least I can breathe now. They waited about 20 minutes then started the Herceptin again. I asked my nurse to check with my oncologist, Dr. Heyer, about my MRI results. She came back and said, "All of your lymph nodes have shrunk." YAY!
Once my appointment was over I went to MRI of Reston and requested a report of my MRI. I'm sneaky! The report has a lot of biological mumbo jumbo that I don't understand. (So I reviewed it with my friend Andrew who knows all about this stuff.) The report says everything is stable or decreased. The MRI still saw the fluid under my incision and said it had decreased from 48 x 35 mm to 30 x 22mm. One lymph node went from 50 mm to 23 mm and the other 15 mm to 12 mm. The area of tissue diseased inside my left breast went from 16 x 7 mm to 10 x 6 mm. And no new lymphadenopathy is evident! (That basically means there is nothing new.)
The report did say, "More prominent geographic enhancement with some abnormal kinetics in the upper-outer left breast compared with prior study. The remainder of the breast parenchyma in both breasts is generally stable. This area could represent neoplasm." Andrew said not to focus on that or worry. He said technically a neoplasm is a precancerous lesion or tumor ... but just because it wasn't there before doesn't mean anything. He also said maybe a few of my "hot spots" (cancer cells) all grouped together to hide from the chemo ... but neoplasms are generally really small. If this was a huge issue I think my oncologist would have said something to my nurse.
So all in all, amazing news. This means chemotherapy is working and the cancer is being killed. This time next week I will be 2/3 of the way through treatment. YAY!
I had my Herceptin treatment today and it was pretty rough. I was only a couple of minutes into my treatment when my chest started tightening and I couldn't breath. The nurse came in and cut off the medicine, put me on saline and then gave me a shot of Benedryl. Now I am totally exhausted, but at least I can breathe now. They waited about 20 minutes then started the Herceptin again. I asked my nurse to check with my oncologist, Dr. Heyer, about my MRI results. She came back and said, "All of your lymph nodes have shrunk." YAY!
Once my appointment was over I went to MRI of Reston and requested a report of my MRI. I'm sneaky! The report has a lot of biological mumbo jumbo that I don't understand. (So I reviewed it with my friend Andrew who knows all about this stuff.) The report says everything is stable or decreased. The MRI still saw the fluid under my incision and said it had decreased from 48 x 35 mm to 30 x 22mm. One lymph node went from 50 mm to 23 mm and the other 15 mm to 12 mm. The area of tissue diseased inside my left breast went from 16 x 7 mm to 10 x 6 mm. And no new lymphadenopathy is evident! (That basically means there is nothing new.)
The report did say, "More prominent geographic enhancement with some abnormal kinetics in the upper-outer left breast compared with prior study. The remainder of the breast parenchyma in both breasts is generally stable. This area could represent neoplasm." Andrew said not to focus on that or worry. He said technically a neoplasm is a precancerous lesion or tumor ... but just because it wasn't there before doesn't mean anything. He also said maybe a few of my "hot spots" (cancer cells) all grouped together to hide from the chemo ... but neoplasms are generally really small. If this was a huge issue I think my oncologist would have said something to my nurse.
So all in all, amazing news. This means chemotherapy is working and the cancer is being killed. This time next week I will be 2/3 of the way through treatment. YAY!
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
4/8/2008: Think Positive
I have been in a bit of a funk the last few days and I am not a hundred percent sure why. I had a great appointment with my oncologist Dr. Heyer on Friday. This weekend I attended the Cookie Lee Fundraiser in my honor hosted by Shana English, which was so much fun and just an amazing event. Additionally, some old friends and people that I care very deeply for have come back into my life, which I feel so blessed. So, I am perplexed by my own funk. It's hard to explain, but I shall try …
Anyone who knows me will tell you that my greatest fault is that I am not a patient woman. I am finding this process to be very testing. Perhaps I have been challenged with cancer and treatment in order to work on that aspect of my personality. Being halfway through treatment is a great milestone, but occasionally my mind will slip into the negative realm and I think, "Only halfway? That means I have to go through what I have already been through again." Then I quickly snap myself out of that thought process. No glass half empty for me! I have to stay in the right mind frame or this thing will suck me under.
I have always been someone who liked the way I look and my body. I never really have experienced being self conscious of my looks or went through any phase like that. I have always appreciated what God gave me, although there were times I thought bigger boobs would be nice. (I didn't want to go through all this to get them though. Be careful what you wish for.)
I had a "moment" Sunday morning that I have never experienced before. I took a shower and after drying off I stood looking at myself in the mirror. I don't love my body the way I used to and that saddens me. I hate my port more than anything. It looks like a quarter-sized zit on my chest. It just pokes out under my skin and looks disgusting. I hate my scars. I have one that is about two inches under my armpit and one that is about an inch on my chest where they inserted the port. And I guess I will have even more when I have my bilateral mastectomy in June. Makes me sad. Because I am so fatigued with chemotherapy treatments I am unable to be as active as I was before cancer, so I have put on four pounds. (I know … a whopping 103. Geez!) I don't mind the weight … I am more upset by my loss of muscle and not being as tone as I would like. And I am barely hanging on to my eyebrows and eyelashes that continue to thin. I find myself admiring people's hair a lot more than I ever used to. A lady stopped me in the Harris Teeter parking lot last week to ask me where I get my hair done. I said, "Sorry, this is a wig." I swear I will never curse a bad hair day again. Ugh … I am just annoyed!
It is hard to feel sexy and beautiful when you are going through treatment. Obviously, the most important thing is to kill the cancer. The little things that I have started to notice about my physical appearance I am aware that are things that only I notice and no one else really does. The bottom line is I need to keep remembering that all of this is just temporary and in the scheme of things this is only a couple months of my entire life. I will not let it define me or try and suck me under again.
Think positive, think positive, think positive … sometimes even I need to remind myself!
Anyone who knows me will tell you that my greatest fault is that I am not a patient woman. I am finding this process to be very testing. Perhaps I have been challenged with cancer and treatment in order to work on that aspect of my personality. Being halfway through treatment is a great milestone, but occasionally my mind will slip into the negative realm and I think, "Only halfway? That means I have to go through what I have already been through again." Then I quickly snap myself out of that thought process. No glass half empty for me! I have to stay in the right mind frame or this thing will suck me under.
I have always been someone who liked the way I look and my body. I never really have experienced being self conscious of my looks or went through any phase like that. I have always appreciated what God gave me, although there were times I thought bigger boobs would be nice. (I didn't want to go through all this to get them though. Be careful what you wish for.)
I had a "moment" Sunday morning that I have never experienced before. I took a shower and after drying off I stood looking at myself in the mirror. I don't love my body the way I used to and that saddens me. I hate my port more than anything. It looks like a quarter-sized zit on my chest. It just pokes out under my skin and looks disgusting. I hate my scars. I have one that is about two inches under my armpit and one that is about an inch on my chest where they inserted the port. And I guess I will have even more when I have my bilateral mastectomy in June. Makes me sad. Because I am so fatigued with chemotherapy treatments I am unable to be as active as I was before cancer, so I have put on four pounds. (I know … a whopping 103. Geez!) I don't mind the weight … I am more upset by my loss of muscle and not being as tone as I would like. And I am barely hanging on to my eyebrows and eyelashes that continue to thin. I find myself admiring people's hair a lot more than I ever used to. A lady stopped me in the Harris Teeter parking lot last week to ask me where I get my hair done. I said, "Sorry, this is a wig." I swear I will never curse a bad hair day again. Ugh … I am just annoyed!
It is hard to feel sexy and beautiful when you are going through treatment. Obviously, the most important thing is to kill the cancer. The little things that I have started to notice about my physical appearance I am aware that are things that only I notice and no one else really does. The bottom line is I need to keep remembering that all of this is just temporary and in the scheme of things this is only a couple months of my entire life. I will not let it define me or try and suck me under again.
Think positive, think positive, think positive … sometimes even I need to remind myself!
Sunday, April 6, 2008
4/6/2008: The Baby Grape
I was washing my red grapes today and the tears ran down my dry, peeling cheeks … I cannot remember ever appreciating things in my life like I do now, or being this fulfilled and happy.
I had my Herceptin treatment today that I have every Friday. Earlier this week I had some upper respiratory problems, so prior to getting treatment, my nurse Jessi had to get approval from my oncologist, Dr. Heyer, to continue the Herceptin. The nurses checked my oxygen and listened to my chest. Everything was great … even my blood work. I was told the rustling in my chest was most likely allergies and that the show could go on.
Dad and I sat during treatment and shared our favorite recipes as we watched the Cooking Network. Today was a good day and I was just beaming about the meeting I had this morning, my interview with Hannah from the Gannetteer yesterday, dinner with Dan who just returned from Egypt, time spent with Drew and the other events from the week. I know it cannot be easy for my Daddy to watch his little girl go through all this, but he still manages to give me a smile when those beautiful green eyes swell. When he gets to that point he offers me a Frappuccino or Ginger Ale that he always seems to have stashed away for my treatments. That's Daddy's cure for all ... he knows that a Frappuccino is the key to my heart.
Dr. Heyer came to visit me during my treatment, which was a pleasant surprise. He asked about the respiratory issues and how I was coping with my third round of chemotherapy. We talked and joked for awhile and Dr. Heyer asked how my incision was from where I had the hockey puck-sized lymph node removed mid-January. I told him other than some toughness along the actual incision I felt nothing unusual. He said he wanted to do an exam of the area and my breast after treatment. He said if nothing was there he didn't see a reason to do midway testing. I started pouting and he told me I could talk him into anything. He agreed to an MRI this Wednesday at noon. YAY! This will tell us how well the chemotherapy is working. Keep your fingers and toes crossed for great results.
After my treatment I went back to an examination room and undressed for my exam. Dr. Heyer came in and the first thing he asked me was "How's Dad holding up?" (Are you trying to make me cry, Heyer? Sheesh.) He said, "It must be so hard for your parents. I couldn't imagine my baby going through this. (I was choking back the tears.) Dr. Heyer felt around my incision then looked at me. He said "I don't believe this. Your lymph nodes have completely shrunk and feel normal. I really don't believe you've improved this much already." I just beamed. I could not hide my excitement. He completed the breast exam and said "I am very, VERY pleased." He said in addition to my lymph nodes shrinking, my blood work, weight, side effects … everything has been just extraordinary. Typically, they have to adjust treatment and change regimens with patients, but I have just been a stellar patient. (Again, I think Milano cookies have something to do with it.) He did his usual threatening of taking away my BlackBerry during office visits and I joked back with him to just try. He's an amazing doctor.
I left Daddy with a hug and a kiss, went to the grocery store and came home. Washing my grapes I reflected on the day and how truly blessed I am. I got to the last grape in the bag … it was the baby. I giggled a little remembering growing up when Daddy would go grocery shopping on the weekends and come home and wash the grapes like I do now. He would yell for me to come into the kitchen. He would tell me that he had found a "Jennifer-sized grape" … the baby. He always saved them for me. The tears rolled down my face holding the Jennifer-sized grape in my hand and marveling at how much I love my friends and family and how truly blessed I am. Today was such a good day.
I had my Herceptin treatment today that I have every Friday. Earlier this week I had some upper respiratory problems, so prior to getting treatment, my nurse Jessi had to get approval from my oncologist, Dr. Heyer, to continue the Herceptin. The nurses checked my oxygen and listened to my chest. Everything was great … even my blood work. I was told the rustling in my chest was most likely allergies and that the show could go on.
Dad and I sat during treatment and shared our favorite recipes as we watched the Cooking Network. Today was a good day and I was just beaming about the meeting I had this morning, my interview with Hannah from the Gannetteer yesterday, dinner with Dan who just returned from Egypt, time spent with Drew and the other events from the week. I know it cannot be easy for my Daddy to watch his little girl go through all this, but he still manages to give me a smile when those beautiful green eyes swell. When he gets to that point he offers me a Frappuccino or Ginger Ale that he always seems to have stashed away for my treatments. That's Daddy's cure for all ... he knows that a Frappuccino is the key to my heart.
Dr. Heyer came to visit me during my treatment, which was a pleasant surprise. He asked about the respiratory issues and how I was coping with my third round of chemotherapy. We talked and joked for awhile and Dr. Heyer asked how my incision was from where I had the hockey puck-sized lymph node removed mid-January. I told him other than some toughness along the actual incision I felt nothing unusual. He said he wanted to do an exam of the area and my breast after treatment. He said if nothing was there he didn't see a reason to do midway testing. I started pouting and he told me I could talk him into anything. He agreed to an MRI this Wednesday at noon. YAY! This will tell us how well the chemotherapy is working. Keep your fingers and toes crossed for great results.
After my treatment I went back to an examination room and undressed for my exam. Dr. Heyer came in and the first thing he asked me was "How's Dad holding up?" (Are you trying to make me cry, Heyer? Sheesh.) He said, "It must be so hard for your parents. I couldn't imagine my baby going through this. (I was choking back the tears.) Dr. Heyer felt around my incision then looked at me. He said "I don't believe this. Your lymph nodes have completely shrunk and feel normal. I really don't believe you've improved this much already." I just beamed. I could not hide my excitement. He completed the breast exam and said "I am very, VERY pleased." He said in addition to my lymph nodes shrinking, my blood work, weight, side effects … everything has been just extraordinary. Typically, they have to adjust treatment and change regimens with patients, but I have just been a stellar patient. (Again, I think Milano cookies have something to do with it.) He did his usual threatening of taking away my BlackBerry during office visits and I joked back with him to just try. He's an amazing doctor.
I left Daddy with a hug and a kiss, went to the grocery store and came home. Washing my grapes I reflected on the day and how truly blessed I am. I got to the last grape in the bag … it was the baby. I giggled a little remembering growing up when Daddy would go grocery shopping on the weekends and come home and wash the grapes like I do now. He would yell for me to come into the kitchen. He would tell me that he had found a "Jennifer-sized grape" … the baby. He always saved them for me. The tears rolled down my face holding the Jennifer-sized grape in my hand and marveling at how much I love my friends and family and how truly blessed I am. Today was such a good day.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
4/1/2008: Side Effects
HAPPY APRIL 1st! A new month means I am just that much closer to being healthy!!!
Well, it appears that I survived round three of chemotherapy and am now halfway to the finish line. Lord knows I did not get there without some stumbling and even some dark times along my path. I am just thrilled to actually get to a milestone. YAY!
This treatment has been different then the first two. The severity of the side effects happened sooner, meaning Sunday instead of Monday, and seem to be leaving my body much quicker. My friend Andrew and I seem to believe that it is because all the cancer is dead, so the medication can leave my body a day early. I know, it might seem crazy, but I have to believe this is all working, right? I swear I have never sweated so much in my entire life. First, my body is exhausted so any physical effort causes me to sweat, like brushing my teeth. Second, I think I am sweating out all the medication. Mixing uppers and downers cannot be good for the body. Poor little body needs a vacation!
I am having the same normal aggravations as I typically do after chemotherapy. My body is moving in slow motion. My fingers don't work well … I have little to no feeling in them. My legs shake horribly when I stand. I have frequent muscle spasms. My senses are heightened, especially my hearing. I do not love my morning doves that perch on my balcony these days. My skin is dry and peeling, my mouth sore and swollen … basically, I look REALLY hot. Haha. I don't even care … I just want this all to be over.
Unfortunately, since my side effects came a day sooner, my family had to experience the chemo trance on Sunday that I can typically hide pretty well from them. My Mom urged me to call the doctor, but I explained that what she was seeing was normal. No words can begin to describe the expression of helplessness my family felt just watching me in my daze. Unless you have been through it, how do you begin to understand it? The life is literally sucked right out of your body and every movement takes excruciating effort and precision. But still I am blessed. I can only imagine this is just a fraction of what someone with a physical disability must face every moment of every day. Tomorrow I shall wake up with a little more mobility and life will resume with more clarity. Today, my body is not cooperating and common noises are painful, but life goes on … as will I.
Well, it appears that I survived round three of chemotherapy and am now halfway to the finish line. Lord knows I did not get there without some stumbling and even some dark times along my path. I am just thrilled to actually get to a milestone. YAY!
This treatment has been different then the first two. The severity of the side effects happened sooner, meaning Sunday instead of Monday, and seem to be leaving my body much quicker. My friend Andrew and I seem to believe that it is because all the cancer is dead, so the medication can leave my body a day early. I know, it might seem crazy, but I have to believe this is all working, right? I swear I have never sweated so much in my entire life. First, my body is exhausted so any physical effort causes me to sweat, like brushing my teeth. Second, I think I am sweating out all the medication. Mixing uppers and downers cannot be good for the body. Poor little body needs a vacation!
I am having the same normal aggravations as I typically do after chemotherapy. My body is moving in slow motion. My fingers don't work well … I have little to no feeling in them. My legs shake horribly when I stand. I have frequent muscle spasms. My senses are heightened, especially my hearing. I do not love my morning doves that perch on my balcony these days. My skin is dry and peeling, my mouth sore and swollen … basically, I look REALLY hot. Haha. I don't even care … I just want this all to be over.
Unfortunately, since my side effects came a day sooner, my family had to experience the chemo trance on Sunday that I can typically hide pretty well from them. My Mom urged me to call the doctor, but I explained that what she was seeing was normal. No words can begin to describe the expression of helplessness my family felt just watching me in my daze. Unless you have been through it, how do you begin to understand it? The life is literally sucked right out of your body and every movement takes excruciating effort and precision. But still I am blessed. I can only imagine this is just a fraction of what someone with a physical disability must face every moment of every day. Tomorrow I shall wake up with a little more mobility and life will resume with more clarity. Today, my body is not cooperating and common noises are painful, but life goes on … as will I.
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