Ironic that you all know I survived cancer but I feel I have to title this blog post is I'm Still Alive. This blog has been my life line for the last 18 months. You all have been dedicated readers and staunch supporters. Then, as soon as I'm well, I abandon you.
My apologies.
I don't have an excuse. I'm too busy living? I'm so over the blog? I don't care if you check everyday to see if there's an update? No, none of those are true. I don't really have an answer. I feel maybe I'm just not compelled to keep stringing you all along. I'm well. I don't have cancer anymore. I'm not bald anymore. I'm not sick anymore. Why would a well person have a blog??
The first problem with the thought of discontinuing the blog is .... I still have so much to say. (Shocker!) I have blog posts swimming in my mind. Did you know I paid an extra $500 for a private room at Sloan Kettering. And the only private room available was the Obese Patient Room. Hysterical - wait until you see the pictures of the toilet bowl. I have "Cancer Clothes" which I will continue to wear proudly despite being cancer-free. I ran (walked) the Relay for Life - this Survivors' Lap was real for me as an actual survivor. So much to tell ... funny pictures to share. This story is not over.
Hang in with me. Life (sleeping late, getting my nails done, going to the pool) gets in the way of blogging. But I promise, there are laughs and tears yet to share. Thank you for coming on this journey with me. You don't know how much it has meant to me.
xoxo
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Sunday, June 9, 2013
A Cancer Friend
Cancer doesn't kill people, it brings people together at the worst time of their lives. Agnes taught me that.
Several friends told me about a woman named Andrea who is sick. She plays tennis so you know she's good peeps! But she's ill and having surgery in New York next week. Please lift her up in your prayers. I spoke to her on the phone the other day and it was so weird to be on the other side of the conversation. I had called several cancer survivors when I was first diagnosed and of course leaned on all the wonderful women in the Chemo Lounge. My heart is broken that Andrea and her family have to go through the pain and trauma of cancer but I know she'll prevail after I received this e-mail from her. (Andrea, I hope you don't mind me sharing. All my Blog Buddies are full of love and support, I promise!)
Andrea,
You already have the strength and courage I have. Your e-mail congratulated me on being cancer free and you wrote, "I will get there too!" That's it - that's all you have to do right now. That's your job for the time being and you WILL get there.
I was so happy to talk to you. Isn't it crazy how many people know someone going through something. I felt like this was simply the worst and no one else had it so bad - that was my reality. But, sadly, every person I talked with had a terrible story of someone they knew too. I couldn't even be special with cancer, damn it! But it made me realize every family has something - this is your something and it sucks. However, you will fight like hell until you are well. And I will be praying you along the whole way.
Ok, so my three things when I go to bed are:
1) As I close my eyelids, I pretend they are like the red velvet curtains at a play house. As I close my eyes it's like the curtain falling at the end of a show. The play is over - this day is over. And whether it was good or bad, it is done and the only place you have to go is forward. But first you have to go to sleep and recharge for whatever the next day holds. I say, "Dear Lord, thank you for this day but it's over now and I want to put it behind me and be calm and sleep well. It's curtain call." (This is from my best friend's mother, Mrs. Rannazzisi, a deeply spiritual woman whose one son is a priest.)
2) Then as I lay in my bed next to my husband and with my dogs at our feet, I say, "Dear Lord, please blanket us in your white light where all good things lie." This is a calming image for me - that in the darkness of my bedroom God's light is still there and all over me. (This is actually what the Long Island Medium Theresa Caputo says before she "reads" a person. I'm from LI and I believe she has a deeply spiritual gift and it was a nice image for me.)
3) Last, I say, "Dear Lord, I trust in you. Please hold me in the palm of your hands." (I'm crying as I write this.) What could be more supportive than thinking you are small and God is big and able to literally cradle your sleeping body in his hands? I've always been really moved by the song On Eagle's Wings at church. One verse says:
And He will raise you up on eagles' wings
Bear you on the breath of dawn
Make you to shine like the sun
And hold you in the palm of His hand.
This is often a funeral song. (When I wrote my will on Legal Zoom.com when I got sick :-) I asked for this to be played at my funeral. That will happen - just when I'm 85, not 33!) God can do anything, including cure you, and in the meantime he will hold you up. (This one is from my mom. She is deeply religious and always reminds me how strong and capable God is even if I'm not.)
By the time I said these three things, I was able to remind myself that God's will be done and I believed that His will was that I should live and have a family and love and laugh and feel the sun on my face. So that's what I plan to do from now on. I am cancer-free and it's a miracle. At first I didn't think I deserved a miracle, but He thought otherwise. I will spend the rest of my long, cancer-free life telling other people this story.
I can't wait until you tell your story of triumph! I'm so proud of you for fighting for your life! You will be well rewarded.
Love, ~Meredith
Several friends told me about a woman named Andrea who is sick. She plays tennis so you know she's good peeps! But she's ill and having surgery in New York next week. Please lift her up in your prayers. I spoke to her on the phone the other day and it was so weird to be on the other side of the conversation. I had called several cancer survivors when I was first diagnosed and of course leaned on all the wonderful women in the Chemo Lounge. My heart is broken that Andrea and her family have to go through the pain and trauma of cancer but I know she'll prevail after I received this e-mail from her. (Andrea, I hope you don't mind me sharing. All my Blog Buddies are full of love and support, I promise!)
Hi Meredith-
Thanks so much for calling me last week. You are truly an inspiration and I want your strength and courage as I face the weeks and months ahead! I really appreciate your advice and would love to hear again the 3 things that you pray for. I can’t wait to read the book Gift of the Red Bird. You have given me such hope and encouragement!
Congrats on being cancer free!!! I will get there too!
Andrea
We had talked about what I prayed at night to be calm. This is what I e-mailed her. As I typed, it occurred to me how important this is to me and that I've never shared it. For all those who have supported me through this trial, I thought you might like to know how you've all helped influence me and get me through.
Andrea,
You already have the strength and courage I have. Your e-mail congratulated me on being cancer free and you wrote, "I will get there too!" That's it - that's all you have to do right now. That's your job for the time being and you WILL get there.
I was so happy to talk to you. Isn't it crazy how many people know someone going through something. I felt like this was simply the worst and no one else had it so bad - that was my reality. But, sadly, every person I talked with had a terrible story of someone they knew too. I couldn't even be special with cancer, damn it! But it made me realize every family has something - this is your something and it sucks. However, you will fight like hell until you are well. And I will be praying you along the whole way.
Ok, so my three things when I go to bed are:
1) As I close my eyelids, I pretend they are like the red velvet curtains at a play house. As I close my eyes it's like the curtain falling at the end of a show. The play is over - this day is over. And whether it was good or bad, it is done and the only place you have to go is forward. But first you have to go to sleep and recharge for whatever the next day holds. I say, "Dear Lord, thank you for this day but it's over now and I want to put it behind me and be calm and sleep well. It's curtain call." (This is from my best friend's mother, Mrs. Rannazzisi, a deeply spiritual woman whose one son is a priest.)
2) Then as I lay in my bed next to my husband and with my dogs at our feet, I say, "Dear Lord, please blanket us in your white light where all good things lie." This is a calming image for me - that in the darkness of my bedroom God's light is still there and all over me. (This is actually what the Long Island Medium Theresa Caputo says before she "reads" a person. I'm from LI and I believe she has a deeply spiritual gift and it was a nice image for me.)
3) Last, I say, "Dear Lord, I trust in you. Please hold me in the palm of your hands." (I'm crying as I write this.) What could be more supportive than thinking you are small and God is big and able to literally cradle your sleeping body in his hands? I've always been really moved by the song On Eagle's Wings at church. One verse says:
And He will raise you up on eagles' wings
Bear you on the breath of dawn
Make you to shine like the sun
And hold you in the palm of His hand.
This is often a funeral song. (When I wrote my will on Legal Zoom.com when I got sick :-) I asked for this to be played at my funeral. That will happen - just when I'm 85, not 33!) God can do anything, including cure you, and in the meantime he will hold you up. (This one is from my mom. She is deeply religious and always reminds me how strong and capable God is even if I'm not.)
By the time I said these three things, I was able to remind myself that God's will be done and I believed that His will was that I should live and have a family and love and laugh and feel the sun on my face. So that's what I plan to do from now on. I am cancer-free and it's a miracle. At first I didn't think I deserved a miracle, but He thought otherwise. I will spend the rest of my long, cancer-free life telling other people this story.
I can't wait until you tell your story of triumph! I'm so proud of you for fighting for your life! You will be well rewarded.
Love, ~Meredith
Thursday, June 6, 2013
The Ovaries Are ON!
It just keeps getting better.
No more than .... eh, five minutes after I found out I was cancer-free, I called the Lancaster Fertility Center. I might have been jumping the gun a little bit but if I can't have my own babies, might as well find out sooner than later.
It was two weeks ago that we met with Dr. Sobel. He's kind and cute. Makes me feel like there is a little hope. That's when he drew my blood to see if my ovaries were - as I said it - "dead" or if they might still work. It turns out - much to everyone's surprise - my ovaries are functioning perfectly fine. If I still had a uterus I'd be getting my period. (Right now, that's still the only upside of a 32 year old having a hysterectomy - I will no longer be funding the Tampax empire.) The hormones needed to keep the ovaries producing eggs are there and doing their job. Amazing! I was amazed and so was Dr. Sobel!
The concern is two fold, 1) the amount of chemo I had, and 2) the type of chemo, specifically the Cisplatin. That's because Cisplatin is an alkaline based chemo, apparently bad for ovaries. All I understand of that is they make batteries out of alkaline, don't they? So I guess I can understand that pouring battery acid on an ovary would be a bad thing. That fucking Cisplatin - that's the drug that gave me the terrible reaction, remember? I legitimately thought I was going to die and Kristin had to save me! That drug is the worst - in more ways than one. However, the Cisplatin didn't win this time. Oh no, my ovaries are A-OK. So take that, Chemo!
The next issue is follicles. I know this is way more than most of you need to know, but I'm going to give you the gritty details anyway. After the good news about the ovaries, now we need to see if there are any follicles on them that would release eggs. Back to an ultrasound - the unfortunate procedure I've only had twice, which twice showed cancer instead of baby. This time, at least, I wasn't expecting to see a fetus - there ain't no room for that in the Cul-de-sac! But when he starts moving that wand around and the grey on the screen gets, well, more grey, I think I see an ovary. Obviously I have no idea what I am talking about because said grey spot isn't an ovary. It's a follicle! A follicle so big even I could make it out on the mish mosh of the screen! That ovary had 2 follicles. So instantly we knew the follicles were a go! Alleluia!
I'm thinking of the process like this: there are at least 10 hurdles between Chris and I ... and having a child that is biologically our own. We could get tripped up on any one of them and it's over. Adoption City, here we come. But so far, we cleared the first two hurdles! Incredible! See ... I told you to have hope and here it is!
The End Game is still a little wishy washy. I don't quite know where we go from here. There are some very specific biologic questions we have to ask the doctor at Sloan Kettering and the fertility clinic needs to ask a geneticist. We'll try to get some answers and go from there. For now, hope reigns supreme.
No more than .... eh, five minutes after I found out I was cancer-free, I called the Lancaster Fertility Center. I might have been jumping the gun a little bit but if I can't have my own babies, might as well find out sooner than later.
It was two weeks ago that we met with Dr. Sobel. He's kind and cute. Makes me feel like there is a little hope. That's when he drew my blood to see if my ovaries were - as I said it - "dead" or if they might still work. It turns out - much to everyone's surprise - my ovaries are functioning perfectly fine. If I still had a uterus I'd be getting my period. (Right now, that's still the only upside of a 32 year old having a hysterectomy - I will no longer be funding the Tampax empire.) The hormones needed to keep the ovaries producing eggs are there and doing their job. Amazing! I was amazed and so was Dr. Sobel!
The concern is two fold, 1) the amount of chemo I had, and 2) the type of chemo, specifically the Cisplatin. That's because Cisplatin is an alkaline based chemo, apparently bad for ovaries. All I understand of that is they make batteries out of alkaline, don't they? So I guess I can understand that pouring battery acid on an ovary would be a bad thing. That fucking Cisplatin - that's the drug that gave me the terrible reaction, remember? I legitimately thought I was going to die and Kristin had to save me! That drug is the worst - in more ways than one. However, the Cisplatin didn't win this time. Oh no, my ovaries are A-OK. So take that, Chemo!
The next issue is follicles. I know this is way more than most of you need to know, but I'm going to give you the gritty details anyway. After the good news about the ovaries, now we need to see if there are any follicles on them that would release eggs. Back to an ultrasound - the unfortunate procedure I've only had twice, which twice showed cancer instead of baby. This time, at least, I wasn't expecting to see a fetus - there ain't no room for that in the Cul-de-sac! But when he starts moving that wand around and the grey on the screen gets, well, more grey, I think I see an ovary. Obviously I have no idea what I am talking about because said grey spot isn't an ovary. It's a follicle! A follicle so big even I could make it out on the mish mosh of the screen! That ovary had 2 follicles. So instantly we knew the follicles were a go! Alleluia!
I'm thinking of the process like this: there are at least 10 hurdles between Chris and I ... and having a child that is biologically our own. We could get tripped up on any one of them and it's over. Adoption City, here we come. But so far, we cleared the first two hurdles! Incredible! See ... I told you to have hope and here it is!
The End Game is still a little wishy washy. I don't quite know where we go from here. There are some very specific biologic questions we have to ask the doctor at Sloan Kettering and the fertility clinic needs to ask a geneticist. We'll try to get some answers and go from there. For now, hope reigns supreme.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Do you think the Cosmo is mad at me?
I call this blog "Cosmos and Chemo." Friends have been showering me with fun Cosmopolitan related gifts:
The latest - these Cosmo sunglasses from Maureen down at the beach! Hysterical, right? She got the other girls wine glasses but picked Cosmo ones especially for me! Our biggest problem is what kind of tan lines will get on our faces if we where these in the sun. So funny!
So do you think is bad karma that I had MARGARITAS when I found out I was probably cancer free??
Obviously it's not bad because it's all been going so well. I'm still on Cloud 9. I don't think the prospect of *not* having cancer has really set in yet. It's almost hard to switch your mindset so quickly from being a cancer patient to being a regular person again. I feel like I was in that "fight of my life" mode for so long, I'm almost a little lost right now. I don't know how to identify myself: former cancer patient? person who is well but not yet totally back to normal? girl doesn't give a fuck about much because she's just so happy to be alive? or just simply Meredith? I'm still Meredith, but struggling with the rest of it a bit.
I think going back to work will help bring me around. So much of my identity is wrapped around being Meredith Jorgensen the reporter. I'm hoping resuming that role will help. Plus, I like the routine of work. I need to get up at the same time, see some people other than the two furry creatures who live in my house, have an intelligent conversation, and hopefully affect some change in the Susquehanna Valley ... then come home, put my feet up and have a Cosmo OR a Margarita - or hell, have both! I'm planning to be back at work at the end of August, after a Cancer-Free Party, a vacation with my supportive husband and an All Clear from the Sloan Kettering Doctor after my 3 month CAT Scan in August. I went from having one plan (get cancer-free) to a whole lotta plans (living, living and living it up) really fast.
I can't wait to get started ... no matter what drink I'm drinking!
The latest - these Cosmo sunglasses from Maureen down at the beach! Hysterical, right? She got the other girls wine glasses but picked Cosmo ones especially for me! Our biggest problem is what kind of tan lines will get on our faces if we where these in the sun. So funny!
So do you think is bad karma that I had MARGARITAS when I found out I was probably cancer free??
I think going back to work will help bring me around. So much of my identity is wrapped around being Meredith Jorgensen the reporter. I'm hoping resuming that role will help. Plus, I like the routine of work. I need to get up at the same time, see some people other than the two furry creatures who live in my house, have an intelligent conversation, and hopefully affect some change in the Susquehanna Valley ... then come home, put my feet up and have a Cosmo OR a Margarita - or hell, have both! I'm planning to be back at work at the end of August, after a Cancer-Free Party, a vacation with my supportive husband and an All Clear from the Sloan Kettering Doctor after my 3 month CAT Scan in August. I went from having one plan (get cancer-free) to a whole lotta plans (living, living and living it up) really fast.
I can't wait to get started ... no matter what drink I'm drinking!
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
One More Request??
I'm sorry I've been a little MIA on the blog. I've been too busy celebrating. Here's an update and one more request:
So am I reeeeaaaaalllllyyy cured? I'm not 100% sure. But I don't think I will ever been 100% sure. I think that's the black cloud that all cancer survivors live under. However, no black cloud is going to keep me from celebrating. I've gotten so many serious hugs - like long, hard, meaningful hugs. Most times I love it, other times friends squeeze just a little too hard post-chest surgery. But let's be honest - compared to chemo - a hard hug is nothing!
After the hcg drop, I did eventually talk to an actual oncologist. The doctor from Sloan Kettering, Dr. Aghajanian, said she was so happy about my dramatic hcg drop too. Now the question was chemo or no chemo. She called while I was shopping so I took my cell phone to the most quiet aisle and crossed my fingers. I knew Dr. Aghajanian would eventually describe how my next few months would go - with drugs or no drugs. She said, "You could go either way. It's 50/50..." (ugh) "But after all the chemo you've had, I don't think more chemo will help." (YES!) "Let's watch your hcg, come back for the three month CAT Scan and if it all looks good, we'll consider you cured." (You got it! I can certainly do that!)
I'm so relieved. The prospect of more chemo would have been daunting. My hair is growing in, it's summertime, and with a <2.0 hcg it would have sucked to go back to the drugs. So for now, it's all about getting stronger and healthier again.
My feet are still numb. I hope the nerve endings regenerate. It hurts to stand for a long time and my poor tootsies are always cold. But again, without cancer, who gives a shit about cold feet?!? Not me. It's all bonus ... I'm just happy to be alive.
But there is one other bonus I would be so blessed to have - a genetically Mer and Chris baby. If we are meant to have our own actual child carried by someone else, I would be forever grateful. If it's not meant to be, I will adjust. I'm just happy to be here. But this could be a big week.
Chris and I went to see a Fertility Specialist last week. While you might think I have a this all planned out already, ie: surrogate, IVF, adoption, gestational surrogate, domestic or internation baby - I don't have anything planned. Mainly because I couldn't plan. Chris and I were careful not to have too many conversations about things we weren't ready for yet. Chris kept saying, "Let's just get you well first, then we'll worry about that." So now it's time to worry about that.
Because I really know nothing, I had a lot of questions for this fertility doctor. Three of four Oncologists said my ovaries are probably dead. Ugh. This is terrible. I hear them saying this, I just don't want it to be true. But too much chemo is too much chemo. It might be too much poison for any eggs. However, it turns out this is not just a opinion thing. There is a blood test that will tell us if my ovaries are still working. A simple blood test that picks up two necessary hormones. I had that test last week and the results should come back this week. Could I be selfish enough to ask for even more prayers that my ovaries are ok?? I am trying to prepare myself for a big, fat no. I will be devastated (counseling, here I come) but in my gut I still feel like there is some hope.
Even the readings at church on Sunday seemed to be pointing in the right direction:
Romans 5:3-5; We also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope. Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us.
So I'm saying my prayers and keeping my fingers crossed. I know it might be asking a lot, but it would make me as happy as hearing "Pucker Up Buttercup." Can I get two miracles in one month? I hope so.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
"Pucker Up, Buttercup!"
I've known for a full day. I think I just feel a little nervous to put it in writing.
I THINK I'M CANCER-FREE!!
Can you believe it?!!??! I mean, can you even fricken believe it????? I can't. But here's what I do know for sure.
I had surgery last Tuesday. There are so many funny surgery stories that I will save those laughs for later. The Sloan Kettering doctor called and asked me to get my blood drawn on Tuesday. My dear friend, Jeannette agreed to take me to the lab because I can't drive yet and then we would go to lunch. After I fill five tubes of blood we call Kristin at the cancer office. I told her I got my blood drawn and that it would be about a hour before we got the results. I asked her to call us when she got the numbers.
Kristin asked how I was feeling post-surgery and wanted to know what we should expect with the numbers. I had thought about this too. The last beta hCG was 49.1 on Monday, April 29th, right before the surgery. I explained to Kristin that no one told me what to expect. Maybe it would drop a little bit, maybe in half to 25, a beta hCG of 10 or even 5 would be amazing! But I told Kristin if she called back and said my hCG was less than 2, I would kiss her ... on the lips! She laughed and said her husband John would certainly pay to see that.
With the important stuff out of the way, Jeannette and I got in the car and talked about how to occupy the hour before the big reveal. I suggested lunch at a cute spot on Orange Street that Mary Beth Filling had taken me too. She suggested the James Street Cafe. Then, while moving her car from reverse back to park, she said, "Wait, do either of those places serve wine?" No. They didn't. Good call on Jeannette's part. Before we pulled out of the parking spot, we came up with a solution. Why stop at wine? We were just blocks away from El Serrano. Margaritas!!
For a moment (and a brief moment it was) I thought, I'm on Percocet. I can't drink. But reeeeaaaallllly, I'm sure you can. I thought I would try mixing prescription drugs and booze while were were sipping Margaritas and chowing down on quesadillas.
Wepull the door at El Serrano and it was locked. We couldn't imagine that it was closed!! Then the 5 foot 3 Jeannette stands on her tippy toes and pushes her face against the glass of the door and can see people walking toward us. We think they are staff people here to let us in. It turns out, they were people leaving lunch. So we scammed our way into the Peruvian compound and find a server. We ask if they're still serving lunch. He says they stopped serving at 2pm. I asked him, "What time is it now?" He says 2:02. Jeannette and I put on our best puppy dog eyes and say, "Pleeeeaaaassseeee!" I even showed him the bandaid on the crook of my arm and explain I just got blood work after chest surgery and that I had cancer and we just want margaritas. We laid it on pretty thick. Before we knew it, he was bringing us menus.
We order and start licking the salt around our margaritas. (Note: prescription narcotics and tequilla go great together!) I put my phone on the table. Fourty-five minutes and two margaritas later, Kristin calls my phone. She says, "Pucker up, Buttercup!" In that moment, I knew. I knew it was less than zero. I knew I didn't have cancer anymore.
Jeannette is hugging me and crying. I'm still on the phone with Kristin thanking her over and over again. She said she was so nervous to look at the number but that it was a mere 1.2 and she was so happy to be the one to deliver the good news. Kristin could hear Jeannette and I were making a racket already, so she told us to have another margarita to celebrate.
I hung up the phone, put my hands over my face and just started to sob. Just sob, like shoulder-shaking sobbing. Jeannette was just holding me and crying too. We said a Thank you prayer to God and she just held me and rocked me back and forth. I will remember that moment forever. Forever.
i've been so blessed by so many wonderful friends during this whole ordeal, but it was more than just a lucky fluke that Jeannette could drive me to my bloodwork. I think God picked her to be with me. And I am so thankful for that.
So we cried and cried. Jeannette said, "Fuck yeah, you're done with cancer!" I smiled at her unabashed vulgarity - very un-Jeannette, but very Meredith! My mouth was rubbing off on her and she thought this would be a great time to use the f-bomb! I couldn't agree more. And I promised her I wouldn't blog that, but it's part of the story. So sorry, Jeannette. You're the mother-fucking best!!
Jeannette encouraged me to call Chris immediately and I did. She texted her husband to share our news too. Chris can't always answer the phone when he is at work. It was like 3:00 now and Chris would be in the middle of seeing patients. It would have been a little anti-climatic to get his voicemail. But my handsome husband, who has always been there for me, picked up. I could barely get the words out. My words were probably like one of those Far Side cartoons about what dogs hear: Blah Blah Blah Molly Blah Blah Blah Treat Blah Blah. The first sentence I eeked out in between sobs was more like Blah Blab Blah 1.2 Blah Blah Cancer-free. Either way, Chris got the message loud and clear. He understood that this trial is probably over. He was laughing and congratulating me and telling me again and again that he loved me. I love him.
So what do you do next?? You order more margaritas!! By now, I've made such a scene in this restaurant we had to talk our way into, the server knows I just found out I'm cancer-free. He buys our third round. This is when we decided we can't drive home ... drunk at 3:30 in the afternoon ... and call a cab. Right after that call we get our fourth margaritas. Katie said it reminds her of the phrase: "One margarita, two margaritas, three margaritas, floor!"
We eventually pour our margaritas into To-Go cups and then pour ourselves into the cab. This big, black cab driver looked a little ticked he was waiting outside the restaurant so long. We got in and explained our midday drunkenness. He smiled, mellowed and gave me a high-five for being cancer free. I rubbed his head and said, soon I'll have a rocking hair cut like you! I think we won him over too!
By four, I was home, making phone calls to my immediate family. Next, I need to nap my margaritas away. And at 6:30, Chris came home. I've never been so happy to see him. He just held me and held me and held me. Hugging me, kissing me, saying he was so happy. I am so happy. We are so happy. We haven't actually spoken to a doctor yet, we're just going by the hCG. But it hasn't been <2.0 in a year and a half. I think we're done.
I will keep you posted on the official-ness of being Cancer-Free.
All that's left to be said now is Thank You. It doesn't seem that two simple words could be enough to convey my gratefulness. But please know, I'm so thankful, for all of you.
xoxo
FUCK YEAH!!!!!
Monday, April 29, 2013
2 Quick Things I Forgot ....
First: That last post sounded a little blue. I want to be clear: I am so excited!! I can't WAIT to go under the knife. It's the last time I'll have cancer. Today is the last day I'll ever have cancer. How could you not be excited!!
Second: My friend Jenn sent this today. Made me smile. It pretty much sums up what we're about to do ...
Second: My friend Jenn sent this today. Made me smile. It pretty much sums up what we're about to do ...
I Have Some Tension
I've been laying down and thinking and thinking and praying and thinking. At some point I get overwhelmed and take a deep breath. And with that exhale I notice my shoulders come down a little bit. So I concentrate on them and I realize I've been holding them up to my ears all day. So I take another breath and they lower a little more. I ask God to make me calm and hold me in the palm of His hand. And that's when I feel more relaxed and at peace. I think it's a sign I'm a little nervous.
But there's really nothing to be nervous about. I have amazing surgeons, the team of Chris and Mom at my side, and an army of prayers at my back. I can't wait to be cancer free.
My surgery is tomorrow, Tuesday, at Sloan Kettering Hospital in Manhattan. We leave tonight for the city. The surgery calls for me to be in the hospital just one night. On Wednesday, I plan on being loaded into the car and driven home in a Percocet haze and then plopped into my bed where I would like to sleep for two more days. They I plan to arise, with a clear head and a clean body, never to have to wrangle with a cancer cell again.
I can feel the prayers and well wishes. I can feel this thickness in the air. I know it's you. It's your thoughts that are keeping me warm and holding me tight. Thank you. Thank you. It's almost over. I can feel it.
xoxo
But there's really nothing to be nervous about. I have amazing surgeons, the team of Chris and Mom at my side, and an army of prayers at my back. I can't wait to be cancer free.
My surgery is tomorrow, Tuesday, at Sloan Kettering Hospital in Manhattan. We leave tonight for the city. The surgery calls for me to be in the hospital just one night. On Wednesday, I plan on being loaded into the car and driven home in a Percocet haze and then plopped into my bed where I would like to sleep for two more days. They I plan to arise, with a clear head and a clean body, never to have to wrangle with a cancer cell again.
I can feel the prayers and well wishes. I can feel this thickness in the air. I know it's you. It's your thoughts that are keeping me warm and holding me tight. Thank you. Thank you. It's almost over. I can feel it.
xoxo
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Can This Chest Surgery Come With A Boob Job?
We've decided. We feel so much better when we've decided. After our Around the World in 80 Days tour of cancer doctors, we're landing in the Center of the World - New York City.
I'm scheduled for chest surgery Tuesday, April 30th at Sloan Kettering. They say "April Showers bring May Flowers." I'm saying "April Surgeries bring May Margaritas!" Actually it was a Cosmo-looking Contrast that helped find the cancer spots in my lungs. I had to drink this liquid before the CAT Scan so the doctors can read the scan more completely. It used to be a thick, chalky liquid, but now it's thinner and more palatable and red! Not as palatable as a Cosmo - but it sure looked like one. If only I had packed one of my 76 martini glasses!
.JPG)
Back to the surgery: it's called a VATS procedure - Video Assisted Thoroscopy. Let's talk about the positives: they don't crack your check open - that's a plus! Three small incisions in my side. You only have to be in the hospital for one night - bonus! God knows I have enough cute PJ's to be in for a month. They give you a pain pump - bingo! When I was in the hospital in 2009 for 14 days they gave me the pain pump full of morphine. I was allowed to push the button every 8 minutes. I was so desperate for the juice I asked the nurses for a digital clock so as soon as the number flipped to the 8th minute I could hit the button. (Drug seeking behavior perhaps?) Looking forward to a reprise of that!
The downsides: it's another surgery - haven't I been cut enough? Wasn't my uterus enough of a sacrifice? Now I have to give up part of my lung. Did I mention I'm being inducted into the Smithtown High School Athletic Hall of Fame next month?? Hysterical, right? They must let everyone in. I mean, I did have 2 school records in Track and Field and was award Athlete of the Year in 1998 (which I had to share with a softball player who is probably a lesbian now). But still, what a silly, fun honor. So the induction ceremony is in a month (at 8:30am - can someone say Mimosa?!?). I told the surgeon I really wanted to be there. He said I could probably still go two weeks post-op. I just think it's ironic, they'll be inducting me for running. After the surgery, I'll be about 60 pounds heavier than high school, bald, stitched up and missing some lung. Not the picture of an elite athlete - that's for sure!
This is a good picture from the Archives though:
The other major downside: I can't play tennis for most of the summer tennis season. I've missed 2 of 4 seasons already due to cancer. I was feeling good enough to hit the ball around on the newly resurfaced Cooke Court. It would have been fun to be competitive this year. Instead, I think I'll just cheer and drink in the stands. I'll probably wear my tennis skirts just for fun!
The final downside: silicone implants are extra. I thought while they had my side open they could just stick some fakies in there. But it turns out the cancer ward won't do that. Bitches. But with 40 extra pounds on, I've been lucky that about 10 of that went to my chest. So word to the wise: don't pay for boobs, just eat non-stop and you'll get them (and a gut and cellulite).
Mommy is flying up to be with me. Thank goodness for Mommies. Chris takes his Boards again next week. Every 10 years you need to re-certify by passing the Boards. So he's been studying like crazy. We have so much big stuff going on all at the same time - if we ever get out of "crisis mode" we'll be bored.
The group at Sloan Kettering does more than 500 of these VATS surgeries a year. They say there is a superb success rate. The doctor feels very confident about the surgery. They'll biopsy the pieces they take out. Cross your fingers there's cancer inside and that these are the spots that keep my hCG up. So by taking them out, I'll be cancer-free. There's always a chance they are just hard dead tissue with no cancer. Then we keep hunting. But there's a chance I could be cancer-free by May 1st. Let's pray for that.
xoxo
I'm scheduled for chest surgery Tuesday, April 30th at Sloan Kettering. They say "April Showers bring May Flowers." I'm saying "April Surgeries bring May Margaritas!" Actually it was a Cosmo-looking Contrast that helped find the cancer spots in my lungs. I had to drink this liquid before the CAT Scan so the doctors can read the scan more completely. It used to be a thick, chalky liquid, but now it's thinner and more palatable and red! Not as palatable as a Cosmo - but it sure looked like one. If only I had packed one of my 76 martini glasses!
.JPG)
Back to the surgery: it's called a VATS procedure - Video Assisted Thoroscopy. Let's talk about the positives: they don't crack your check open - that's a plus! Three small incisions in my side. You only have to be in the hospital for one night - bonus! God knows I have enough cute PJ's to be in for a month. They give you a pain pump - bingo! When I was in the hospital in 2009 for 14 days they gave me the pain pump full of morphine. I was allowed to push the button every 8 minutes. I was so desperate for the juice I asked the nurses for a digital clock so as soon as the number flipped to the 8th minute I could hit the button. (Drug seeking behavior perhaps?) Looking forward to a reprise of that!
The downsides: it's another surgery - haven't I been cut enough? Wasn't my uterus enough of a sacrifice? Now I have to give up part of my lung. Did I mention I'm being inducted into the Smithtown High School Athletic Hall of Fame next month?? Hysterical, right? They must let everyone in. I mean, I did have 2 school records in Track and Field and was award Athlete of the Year in 1998 (which I had to share with a softball player who is probably a lesbian now). But still, what a silly, fun honor. So the induction ceremony is in a month (at 8:30am - can someone say Mimosa?!?). I told the surgeon I really wanted to be there. He said I could probably still go two weeks post-op. I just think it's ironic, they'll be inducting me for running. After the surgery, I'll be about 60 pounds heavier than high school, bald, stitched up and missing some lung. Not the picture of an elite athlete - that's for sure!
This is a good picture from the Archives though:
The other major downside: I can't play tennis for most of the summer tennis season. I've missed 2 of 4 seasons already due to cancer. I was feeling good enough to hit the ball around on the newly resurfaced Cooke Court. It would have been fun to be competitive this year. Instead, I think I'll just cheer and drink in the stands. I'll probably wear my tennis skirts just for fun!
The final downside: silicone implants are extra. I thought while they had my side open they could just stick some fakies in there. But it turns out the cancer ward won't do that. Bitches. But with 40 extra pounds on, I've been lucky that about 10 of that went to my chest. So word to the wise: don't pay for boobs, just eat non-stop and you'll get them (and a gut and cellulite).
Mommy is flying up to be with me. Thank goodness for Mommies. Chris takes his Boards again next week. Every 10 years you need to re-certify by passing the Boards. So he's been studying like crazy. We have so much big stuff going on all at the same time - if we ever get out of "crisis mode" we'll be bored.
The group at Sloan Kettering does more than 500 of these VATS surgeries a year. They say there is a superb success rate. The doctor feels very confident about the surgery. They'll biopsy the pieces they take out. Cross your fingers there's cancer inside and that these are the spots that keep my hCG up. So by taking them out, I'll be cancer-free. There's always a chance they are just hard dead tissue with no cancer. Then we keep hunting. But there's a chance I could be cancer-free by May 1st. Let's pray for that.
xoxo
Work Worry
I've decided to call my now year-long work stoppage my "sabbatical." I never wanted to be a professor but was always interested in the idea of a sabbatical, when you could take off a semester or even a year and still have a job when you come back. I think professors need to write a book or do a research paper or something during their time off. I hope to make Cosmos and Chemo a best selling book when I'm finally done, so that might justify my time off. Of course, if I do write a hit book, I'll then have to take another "sabbatical" to sell my book. (I really want to sit next to Matt Lauer on the Today Show and flirt with him like Chelsea Handler does whenever she's selling one of her best selling books!)
I've been out of work for more than a year ... it's more like 14 months. I could have birthed one and a half babies in this time. Sadly, I won't be birthing any babies. This is kind of like my maternity leave. It just isn't coming to an end and I don't have a baby at the end.
I'm so anxious to go back to work. I still watch TV and yell at the television when reporters use poor grammar (not on WGAL of course, but the other stations need a few copies of Strunk and White.) Some of my greatest friends at News 8 have moved on and taken other jobs since I've been out. I can't believe I won't share the newsroom with Matt Belanger and Tom Knier again. It will be a different feel when I go back. I'm so afraid one of the new people will ask me who I am and when I started and treat me like a new employee. I'm sure no one will be rude, but I have fights with new employees in my head - "Who am I?? Who the fuck are you?? I'm goddamn Meredith Jorgensen and I've worked here for a decade." (I will leave out the technicality that this year will be my 10th year at News 8, even though I've only actually worked 9 of them.) No, I would never say that anyone, but that's where my anxiety leads me.
I also had a little anxiety when I got this letter in the mail. It's from Hearst - our parent company. It said "Open Immediately." I panicked. I was afraid it was a pink slip. It was a thin letter, I envisioned just one sheet of paper that said, "Thanks but no thanks. You're out."
Imagine my relief when I opened it up and saw this:
Simply a letter fishing for business. Met Life wanting to sell some Life Insurance. If only they knew how sick I was they would never actually want to sell me life insurance - I'm a bad bet. Plus, my brother-in-law, AJ, works for Met Life - if I needed insurance, I'd go to him, not answer a random letter.
Bottom line, it seems I'm on edge. Anxious to get back to work, nervous that people in the newsroom might think I'm milking this cancer thing, worried that I will lose my competitive edge when I get back on the beat, sad that I'm missing my friends and all the fun newsroom banter. But my goals are clear. First, get better, get cancer-free. Then, and only then, jump back in with both feet, so I can tell other people's story instead of boring you all with mine.
I've been out of work for more than a year ... it's more like 14 months. I could have birthed one and a half babies in this time. Sadly, I won't be birthing any babies. This is kind of like my maternity leave. It just isn't coming to an end and I don't have a baby at the end.
I'm so anxious to go back to work. I still watch TV and yell at the television when reporters use poor grammar (not on WGAL of course, but the other stations need a few copies of Strunk and White.) Some of my greatest friends at News 8 have moved on and taken other jobs since I've been out. I can't believe I won't share the newsroom with Matt Belanger and Tom Knier again. It will be a different feel when I go back. I'm so afraid one of the new people will ask me who I am and when I started and treat me like a new employee. I'm sure no one will be rude, but I have fights with new employees in my head - "Who am I?? Who the fuck are you?? I'm goddamn Meredith Jorgensen and I've worked here for a decade." (I will leave out the technicality that this year will be my 10th year at News 8, even though I've only actually worked 9 of them.) No, I would never say that anyone, but that's where my anxiety leads me.
I also had a little anxiety when I got this letter in the mail. It's from Hearst - our parent company. It said "Open Immediately." I panicked. I was afraid it was a pink slip. It was a thin letter, I envisioned just one sheet of paper that said, "Thanks but no thanks. You're out."
Imagine my relief when I opened it up and saw this:
Simply a letter fishing for business. Met Life wanting to sell some Life Insurance. If only they knew how sick I was they would never actually want to sell me life insurance - I'm a bad bet. Plus, my brother-in-law, AJ, works for Met Life - if I needed insurance, I'd go to him, not answer a random letter.
Bottom line, it seems I'm on edge. Anxious to get back to work, nervous that people in the newsroom might think I'm milking this cancer thing, worried that I will lose my competitive edge when I get back on the beat, sad that I'm missing my friends and all the fun newsroom banter. But my goals are clear. First, get better, get cancer-free. Then, and only then, jump back in with both feet, so I can tell other people's story instead of boring you all with mine.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Road Trip Round-Up
Hi. It's me, Meredith. Sorry I've been away ... literally and away from the blog. I think I felt like I needed a little break. I really feel like I need a break from cancer. I think a break from blogging for a bit helped me feel like I had a break from cancer.
Well, the world wind trip of second opinions is over. Now, the challenge is making sense of it all, as each appointment couldn't have been more different than the next.
First, we stopped at Duke. The doctor was two and a half hours late. As the wife of a doctor who sometimes runs late, I'm sympathetic. However, when a medical resident said he might not be able to see us, we kindly reminded him that we drove 7 hours to see him. His partner, a fabulous female doctor, stepped in. She was wonderful, gave us some good perspectives. But two and a half hours later when we finally saw the man we came to see - he was useless. His opening sentence was, "If you see Dr. Goldstein in Boston, why did you bother coming here?"
Part of me felt good that Dr. Goldstein was getting such high marks from the other physician. But the other part of me was pissed that this doc had nothing constructive to say, no insight to offer, no suggestions to look into. He was a waste of time.
Funny story though. I decided to get a little dressed up for this appointment. I wanted the doctor to know that we are upstanding citizens who have their shit together. We're not just a couple of shlubs. So with my cute outfit on, what's the first thing they say? Strip. Here's a hospital gown. All the doctor saw was an oversized smock they call a gown. It's the great equalizer.
.JPG)
Next, we went to Sloan Kettering in New York City. This appointment was entirely different. The doctor's name is Carol Aghajanian. So the first thing you think is how do you say that? It looks like Afghanistan. Is she foreign? No, she's white and blonde and very serious. She doesn't pull any punches and she said it like it is. I was petrified. She called me "critical." She said plenty of people die from this cancer. She recommended surgery immediately and ordered a CAT scan. Plus, when I asked her about my ovaries, she said with the amount of chemo I've had she doubts the eggs are viable for anything. Ouch.
It was overwhelming. I think I knew most of those things deep down, but this is the professional sitting in front of you, looking you straight in the eye, saying it all in black and white. I cried when we left the office.
Dr. Aghajanian knows what she's talking about though. She is the only person to order a chest CAT scan. Goldstein had suggested the PET scan, which came back clear. We left her office and trekked across midtown to get a CAT scan and sure enough, she found cancer. Two nodules in my right lung. Small ones, but still. I was pissed we hadn't found that already. She again recommended chest surgery - go in, cut the spots out and close back up. Several days in the hospital and a morphine pump for pain. Doesn't sound like my idea of a good time. We left New York City with a lot to think about.
But we didn't leave the Big Apple without crossing something off Chris' Bucket List. We ate at the Carnegie Deli!! Hysterical!! The place is packed, there was a line outside, the cram you in, and practically throw the food at you. But the food is so damn good!! The sandwiches are literally the size of your head! And the place is full of pictures of famous people who have come to sample the fare. I was just waiting for them to ask for my picture. :-)
Next stop, Chicago. All three of these appointments are within 9 days of each other. The doctor in Chicago was middle of the road. He was more interested in our plight than Duke. He was kinder and gentler than NY. He too suggested surgery then urged follow-up chemo (ugh). Chris described him well by calling him the "umpire."
Now we are putting all the opinions together. Today, we are heading back to New York to see a Cardio Thoracic Surgeon who could do the chest surgery. It will be interesting to have a consultation with him and see what he has to say about the spots on my lungs.
Thanks for the continued support and prayers. I will try to do a better job of keeping everyone in the loop. This just never seems to end....
Well, the world wind trip of second opinions is over. Now, the challenge is making sense of it all, as each appointment couldn't have been more different than the next.
First, we stopped at Duke. The doctor was two and a half hours late. As the wife of a doctor who sometimes runs late, I'm sympathetic. However, when a medical resident said he might not be able to see us, we kindly reminded him that we drove 7 hours to see him. His partner, a fabulous female doctor, stepped in. She was wonderful, gave us some good perspectives. But two and a half hours later when we finally saw the man we came to see - he was useless. His opening sentence was, "If you see Dr. Goldstein in Boston, why did you bother coming here?"
Part of me felt good that Dr. Goldstein was getting such high marks from the other physician. But the other part of me was pissed that this doc had nothing constructive to say, no insight to offer, no suggestions to look into. He was a waste of time.
Funny story though. I decided to get a little dressed up for this appointment. I wanted the doctor to know that we are upstanding citizens who have their shit together. We're not just a couple of shlubs. So with my cute outfit on, what's the first thing they say? Strip. Here's a hospital gown. All the doctor saw was an oversized smock they call a gown. It's the great equalizer.
.JPG)
Next, we went to Sloan Kettering in New York City. This appointment was entirely different. The doctor's name is Carol Aghajanian. So the first thing you think is how do you say that? It looks like Afghanistan. Is she foreign? No, she's white and blonde and very serious. She doesn't pull any punches and she said it like it is. I was petrified. She called me "critical." She said plenty of people die from this cancer. She recommended surgery immediately and ordered a CAT scan. Plus, when I asked her about my ovaries, she said with the amount of chemo I've had she doubts the eggs are viable for anything. Ouch.
It was overwhelming. I think I knew most of those things deep down, but this is the professional sitting in front of you, looking you straight in the eye, saying it all in black and white. I cried when we left the office.
Dr. Aghajanian knows what she's talking about though. She is the only person to order a chest CAT scan. Goldstein had suggested the PET scan, which came back clear. We left her office and trekked across midtown to get a CAT scan and sure enough, she found cancer. Two nodules in my right lung. Small ones, but still. I was pissed we hadn't found that already. She again recommended chest surgery - go in, cut the spots out and close back up. Several days in the hospital and a morphine pump for pain. Doesn't sound like my idea of a good time. We left New York City with a lot to think about.
But we didn't leave the Big Apple without crossing something off Chris' Bucket List. We ate at the Carnegie Deli!! Hysterical!! The place is packed, there was a line outside, the cram you in, and practically throw the food at you. But the food is so damn good!! The sandwiches are literally the size of your head! And the place is full of pictures of famous people who have come to sample the fare. I was just waiting for them to ask for my picture. :-)
Next stop, Chicago. All three of these appointments are within 9 days of each other. The doctor in Chicago was middle of the road. He was more interested in our plight than Duke. He was kinder and gentler than NY. He too suggested surgery then urged follow-up chemo (ugh). Chris described him well by calling him the "umpire."
Now we are putting all the opinions together. Today, we are heading back to New York to see a Cardio Thoracic Surgeon who could do the chest surgery. It will be interesting to have a consultation with him and see what he has to say about the spots on my lungs.
Thanks for the continued support and prayers. I will try to do a better job of keeping everyone in the loop. This just never seems to end....
Thursday, March 21, 2013
On A Chemo Cut-Off ... for now
I'm on a break. Like a Ross and Rachel break. The kind where you eventually go back.
There are some common questions associated with a break: why? for how long? what are you doing in the meantime?
Here are the answers: I'm not quite sure, it's out of my medical paygrade: I don't know, several weeks to maybe 2 or 3 months; drinking and getting out of the house as much as possible.
There is talk of giving my bone marrow a break. That will help all my blood levels increase to normal. Robin Roberts from Good Morning America had breast cancer first, then a bone marrow transplant because of all the chemo they gave her. I don't really want to have to do bone marrow after this cancer. So a bone marrow break sounded good.
There is talk of letting the cancer grow until the number is in the hundreds - then re-scanning again to see if we can see it. My numbers the last three weeks were 6, 26, 43. So it's going up - it was always going to go up without chemo. But it's not shooting up, so I guess this is the "wait and see" part.
There is more than talk ... there is significant action toward getting a 3rd, 4th and 5th opinion. It will be a world wind tour for two weeks around Easter. A stop at Duke Medical Center in NC, a swing-by NYC to go to Sloan Kettering, then a quick jaunt to Chicago for Northwestern's Gestational Trophoblastic Disease expert.
If nothing else, it's nice to get out of town. And Chris is coming with me, which is difficult for his work but they've been so helpful and supportive. Chris is my favorite. No matter where we go or what they say, I can do it if he's standing next to me and holding my hand.
In the meantime, I feel like I'm in a little funk. I've been dreading blogging - I feel sad I'm still stringing this shit along. Like enough is a enough. For me and for you poor souls who still read this. I'm blue during the day, but happier when Chris gets home. And now we both crack open a cold beer together. At least that is fun. "So good when it touches the lips." Gotta keep focusing on the positive.
There are some common questions associated with a break: why? for how long? what are you doing in the meantime?
Here are the answers: I'm not quite sure, it's out of my medical paygrade: I don't know, several weeks to maybe 2 or 3 months; drinking and getting out of the house as much as possible.
There is talk of giving my bone marrow a break. That will help all my blood levels increase to normal. Robin Roberts from Good Morning America had breast cancer first, then a bone marrow transplant because of all the chemo they gave her. I don't really want to have to do bone marrow after this cancer. So a bone marrow break sounded good.
There is talk of letting the cancer grow until the number is in the hundreds - then re-scanning again to see if we can see it. My numbers the last three weeks were 6, 26, 43. So it's going up - it was always going to go up without chemo. But it's not shooting up, so I guess this is the "wait and see" part.
There is more than talk ... there is significant action toward getting a 3rd, 4th and 5th opinion. It will be a world wind tour for two weeks around Easter. A stop at Duke Medical Center in NC, a swing-by NYC to go to Sloan Kettering, then a quick jaunt to Chicago for Northwestern's Gestational Trophoblastic Disease expert.
If nothing else, it's nice to get out of town. And Chris is coming with me, which is difficult for his work but they've been so helpful and supportive. Chris is my favorite. No matter where we go or what they say, I can do it if he's standing next to me and holding my hand.
In the meantime, I feel like I'm in a little funk. I've been dreading blogging - I feel sad I'm still stringing this shit along. Like enough is a enough. For me and for you poor souls who still read this. I'm blue during the day, but happier when Chris gets home. And now we both crack open a cold beer together. At least that is fun. "So good when it touches the lips." Gotta keep focusing on the positive.
My TV Update
It's been about 8 months since I did my stories for News 8. Chris and I had our reservations at first, but sharing our journey ended up being such a great experience.
Well, it sounded like people were asking about me. A bit. Poor Brian Roche said not a day would go by when someone in town, someone he interviewed, someone would ask how I was doing. It must get old saying, "Yeah, she's good. Hanging in there. Hope she'll be back soon." Ronda says the newsroom gets phone calls. Like really?!? Who is picking up the phone to call the station? It's a little crazy, but also really, really kind.
I thought it was time to do a quick update, so the viewers know I'm still alive. Andy shot it for me. He always takes such good care of me. I think it turned out well. I think I look heavy and I make weird faces, but it's genuine. So if that's how I look when I talk normally - then I guess you guys have all seen my funny faces before.
I'm not on facebook anymore, but my sister Ashley (who stalks her news people in Florida AND our news people in Lancaster) said it was posted on fb. She said a lot of people "liked" me - which makes me feel good. But then she read some of the really encouraging notes that people wrote and I cried. Thank goodness for the kindness of other people. It keeps me going.
http://www.wgal.com/news/News-8-s-Meredith-Jorgensen-shares-update-on-her-battle-with-cancer/-/9360790/19305376/-/gthr1k/-/index.html
Well, it sounded like people were asking about me. A bit. Poor Brian Roche said not a day would go by when someone in town, someone he interviewed, someone would ask how I was doing. It must get old saying, "Yeah, she's good. Hanging in there. Hope she'll be back soon." Ronda says the newsroom gets phone calls. Like really?!? Who is picking up the phone to call the station? It's a little crazy, but also really, really kind.
I thought it was time to do a quick update, so the viewers know I'm still alive. Andy shot it for me. He always takes such good care of me. I think it turned out well. I think I look heavy and I make weird faces, but it's genuine. So if that's how I look when I talk normally - then I guess you guys have all seen my funny faces before.
I'm not on facebook anymore, but my sister Ashley (who stalks her news people in Florida AND our news people in Lancaster) said it was posted on fb. She said a lot of people "liked" me - which makes me feel good. But then she read some of the really encouraging notes that people wrote and I cried. Thank goodness for the kindness of other people. It keeps me going.
http://www.wgal.com/news/News-8-s-Meredith-Jorgensen-shares-update-on-her-battle-with-cancer/-/9360790/19305376/-/gthr1k/-/index.html
Friday, March 15, 2013
Isn't Cancer Enough? Skunks too?!?
This story dates back three weeks now ... but the odor of skunk still lingers at Casa Cooke ... and the pictures are too funny not to share.
We've had a dog for 8 years now. We live in the woods. In all that time, K-9 and skunk have never tussled ... until now. Molly (the Terrorist) Maguire Cooke and Pepe Le Pew had it out - big time!
VS.
It didn't take long for us to figure out we'd been hit. And I mean WE - this might have "happened" to Molly, but we've all been suffering for it! It was 8:30 at night and we hear Miss Molly barrelling up the stairs. The dogs have a doggie door downstairs where they come and go as they please. Well, this night, Molly wanted inside in a bad way. On the way up the stairs, she's stumbling and making a racket. Plus, she's sneezing like crazy. Skunk in the nose. She was sneezing skunk spray out of her nostrils, all over my walls. Molly quickly reached the top of the stairs and Chris and I still didn't understand what her malfunction was.
That's when Molly ran into the den and promptly wiped her face on the Oriental rug, back and forth on either side of her snout, as if she had an itch she couldn't scratch. Instead, she was trying to abate the skunk spray all over her face. Then she ran to the second Oriental rug and did the same thing. Rub, rub, rub. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, Chris is in his chair. We're watching this whole spectacle with wide eyes. Then we look at each other, ready to laugh at Molly's bizarre behavior when it hits us - the smell. More than hit my nostrils, it hit my eyes. Burned my eyes and my lungs. But I was surprised at how much my eyes hurt (my eyeballs!!). Instantly we knew we were hit. Chris reacted with lightening speed, turning on his heel, opening the sliding glass door and ushering Molly outside onto the porch. Thank God. The 13 seconds she spent in the house would cost us $500 in carpet cleaning fees. I can't imagine what would have happened if she lingered inside any longer.
We've had a dog for 8 years now. We live in the woods. In all that time, K-9 and skunk have never tussled ... until now. Molly (the Terrorist) Maguire Cooke and Pepe Le Pew had it out - big time!
VS.
It didn't take long for us to figure out we'd been hit. And I mean WE - this might have "happened" to Molly, but we've all been suffering for it! It was 8:30 at night and we hear Miss Molly barrelling up the stairs. The dogs have a doggie door downstairs where they come and go as they please. Well, this night, Molly wanted inside in a bad way. On the way up the stairs, she's stumbling and making a racket. Plus, she's sneezing like crazy. Skunk in the nose. She was sneezing skunk spray out of her nostrils, all over my walls. Molly quickly reached the top of the stairs and Chris and I still didn't understand what her malfunction was.
That's when Molly ran into the den and promptly wiped her face on the Oriental rug, back and forth on either side of her snout, as if she had an itch she couldn't scratch. Instead, she was trying to abate the skunk spray all over her face. Then she ran to the second Oriental rug and did the same thing. Rub, rub, rub. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, Chris is in his chair. We're watching this whole spectacle with wide eyes. Then we look at each other, ready to laugh at Molly's bizarre behavior when it hits us - the smell. More than hit my nostrils, it hit my eyes. Burned my eyes and my lungs. But I was surprised at how much my eyes hurt (my eyeballs!!). Instantly we knew we were hit. Chris reacted with lightening speed, turning on his heel, opening the sliding glass door and ushering Molly outside onto the porch. Thank God. The 13 seconds she spent in the house would cost us $500 in carpet cleaning fees. I can't imagine what would have happened if she lingered inside any longer.
(Side note: I understand it's not politically correct to call Asian people Oriental. I did it once and some concerned adult scolded me and explained, "Only rugs are Oriental. People are Asian." She said I wouldn't want to anger any Asians by misnaming them. I've been sure not to make that mistake since. But this incident got me thinking, it is the same with rugs? What if I called Certified Carpet and said I had two Asian Rugs that I needed to be cleaned? Do you think the carpets would be offended? Would they roll-up in protest of being called Asian, rather than Oriental? I don't know. But I like these rugs and with the skunk incident, they've been through a lot already. So I don't think I'll test my theory. These are the thought I have while I'm in the shower. Weird.)
Anyway ... We'd been skunked. Of course, Barlie wasn't skunked directly, but her fur was definitely guilty by association. Only the girls will know what happened out there in the woods of Cooke Corner. All the people knew was that they stunk to high heavens.
I said we should bring them to the Dog Wash place. Chris looked at his watch, noted it was 8:30 pm and that the Dog Wash placed probably closed in a half hour. He also may or may not have mentioned that he had 3 beers and was too tipsy to drive ... or care that much at that moment. His solution: lock the dogs outside for the night.
I played along with that plan until about midnight. We had been in bed for about an hour. The dogs had been outside for about 4 hours. These are not Outside Dogs. They are Inside, Sleep in Your Bed Dogs. They sometimes camp out over night in an indoor/outdoor kennel when we travel to Blooming Grove. But that's also at the height of summer. Say 70 degree nights. While Chris gently snored, sleeping fine after locking his daughters outside, I quietly hit the Weather Channel App on my I-pad and tried to shield the light of the computer from Chris' eyes. It was 29 degrees. I crept out of bed, tip toed to the back door and let the girls inside. I could tell it was cold because my bare feet were freezing on the flagstone, my ball head was catching a chill and the water bowl I set outside for the dogs had just the thinnest layer of ice on it. I backed into the house, carrying the ice-cold water bowl, closed the laundry room door and cordoned off the dogs in the only space acceptable for them to stay while still "skunked." They weren't thrilled about not having the run of the house, but the laundry room was better than outside or the garage. I slipped back into bed, laid my cold head on the pillow and look over at my husband: still sound asleep. I set my alarm for 5:00am. I would wake up before Chris and let the dogs back outside, making it look like they spent the whole night out there. I took a deep breath and thought, "Geez God. They say You never give anyone more than they can handle. But cancer AND skunks. I really think we're pushing it!"
Promptly at 5, I woke up and sent the girls outside. Chris woke up at 6 and noticed the girls on the front porch and remarked that they had survived the night. Sure, as far as he knows. The best part about this post is Chris will never read it. He doesn't read the blog. He has no idea what I write here. So it's our little secret, okay? ;-)
The next day, AJ graciously drops off a dog cleaning solution. I scrub the girls down with his recipe. I leave them drying outside. They are shivering. When Chris gets home, we take them to the Dog Wash for Bath #2. This is in Kendig Square. There's a new pet shop. Ironically, Chris and I had visited the shop the week before, just to see what they had. At that visit, I had noted the large baths in the back of the store. The clerk said, "It's the Dog Wash. It's only $10." I was like, wow - that's great! Picking up on my enthusiasm, he let me know it was self-serve. Oh, I said, I get it, no wonder it's only $10, you're doing all the scrubbing yourself.
Well that what we did two weeks later. Scrubbed the dogs ourselves. We were a sight for sore eyes. Chris and I in our rubber aprons. The dogs miserable being washed twice in the same day. Customers came through and commented on our plight. We must have looked pathetic. Me, bald, with my apron on, sleeved rolled up, yellow kitchen gloves on, shampooing a miserable creature. Onlookers offered their condolences on our being skunked. Everyone said you should use Tomato Juice. This is also what I had been saying since they got sprayed. But instead we opted for the Nature's Miracle Skunk Deodorizer that the store sold. The only miracle was that I didn't flip out when we got to register and found out the solution was like $22. Tomato juice is like $1.49.
I took these pictures to mark the occasion:
Chris seems kinda into it. Molly's is cursing the skunk.
Most of the stink was concentrated around the ear and head region. Gotta really get in those ears.
Not at all Molly's idea of a fun Friday night.
Barlie put on a good show. Didn't mind the shampoo but really hated the blow dry.
It's been three weeks. We now refer to Molly as Stinkus Face. If you kiss her on the head like this you will still get a whiff.
It's amazing what you do for creatures when you love them. I guess that's why Chris still puts up with me!
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
All Clear
Every single test was negative. Thank you God.
I felt stressed and anxious last week. However, all the emotions were worth it in the end to hear that there is no cancer in my brain. Plus, the imaging showed no cancer at all - which is simply because the little bit I have left is too small to see. I think that's a good thing - better than finding a big old tumor somewhere we weren't expecting. And it just confirms that we are dealing with microscopic cells. We just have to get rid of them.
Mommy was so helpful and reassuring. She laughed when I made jokes, cried with me when I cried. She drove me all over Lancaster even though she didn't know exactly where she was going. She did the laundry, cooked all the meals and (as only mom's can do) kept demanding that I lay down. So I did.
The Spinal Tap itself was fine. I was so worked up I was crying in the procedure room. The young, beautiful girl who was the radiologist's tech was like, "Are you ok?" I said I was nervous and that I hate pain and didn't want it to hurt too much. She reassured me saying she sees so many of these, they barely hurt and I would be fine. I thought - of course that's what you say. What were her other options while I was sobbing on the procedure table? "This test sucks, hurts like a bitch and the guy might fuck it up and paralyze you." That answer wasn't likely.
Still, she was right. It was totally fine. I had to lay on my belly. He numbed my lower back up. They say, "A little pinch then a burn." And it burns alright. But I get stuck by needles so often now, and most injections burn as they push the meds in, that "pinch and burn" is nothing. The funniest part to me was the use of good old gravity to deliver as much spinal fluid as necessary. The table I was laying on actually tips up and has a foot plate on the bottom. So once the needle was in they tipped the table so I was practically standing up. That helps the spinal fluid drain out. Fancy that.
When it was done, I felt stupid for crying. The pretty girl even said to me "That wasn't so bad, right?" I had to agree with her. Bitch. Just kidding. They wheeled me back upstairs and the first thing I said to my Mom was "Piece of cake." She was so relieved.
Now there's this thing called the Spinal Headache. I heard about it from other people. It was supposed to be excruciating. Someone said to me, if you drink a lot of fluids it helps the body replenish the spinal fluid they took out and you can avoid this dreaded headache. So I'm sucking down water, soda, whatever - as much as I can. They also make you lay perfectly flat for two hours after the procedure so your body can heal the hole in your back and keep the spinal fluid from leaking out. I do as the doctor orders.
Thursday night, find. I lay flat the whole rest of the night. Friday, a little achy. Trying to lay mostly flat. Friday night, not good. Bad upper back pain - like shooting pain and a little head throbbing. My mom is feeding me ibuprofen like it's candy. Saturday, I feel like death. Sitting up eating breakfast, I think being stabbed would probably feel better than I felt then. Head is throbbing, my back is still causing shooting pains. This is not right, not norma. Now, my mom is leaving Saturday morning. My husband is seeing all the classic signs of a Spinal Headache. Mom's wheeling her suitcase out to the driver to take her to the airport. Chris is loading me in the car to take me to the hospital.
I needed a Blood Patch. You cannot make this shit up. I live with a physician and stealing Katie's line, "I'm only like 5 or 6 years away from my medical degree at this point," and I have never heard of a Blood Patch. Basically, it's ANOTHER Spinal Tap, then they take your own blood, inject it in your back and it plugs the hole where spinal fluid is leaking out. The first thing I say is, "But my back is not wet. I don't think there's spinal fluid leaking out." Ok, so I'm still a medical school freshman for sure, because they laugh at me and say no - it doesn't actually leak out of your body, is just leaks out of the derma into the other tissue nearby. So I don't know if my gallbladder got some extra spinal fluid this weekend, all I know is it hurt.
The anesthesiologist runs through the risks and glazes over possible loss of the use of your legs as if it was just another side effect they mention during a Cialis commercial (if you have an erection lasting more than 4 hours you should see your doctor - no shit!) So my ears perked up at "loss of the use of your legs" and I stopped her there. She said, yes, one of the risks is a small chance of paralysis with a Blood Patch. But without it, it could take up to two weeks for the Spinal Headache to go away. I was like - ok, my running days are over - paralysis would suck - but this headache will be the death of me anyway - so let's do this. Nothing like weighing the risk/reward ratio while your skull feels like it might split open.
This time I sit up and lean over, curving my back. The doctor performs a spinal tap for the second time in three days, Chris draws blood from my arm, she then shoots it in my back (which hurt like a bitch - like a lot a lot.) And then it was done. Thirty minutes later I felt like a new woman - and I could still feel my legs. I'd say that was a win/win. Plus with all negative test results, what's an extra Spinal Tap or two? I'll do anything to be cancer free.
I felt stressed and anxious last week. However, all the emotions were worth it in the end to hear that there is no cancer in my brain. Plus, the imaging showed no cancer at all - which is simply because the little bit I have left is too small to see. I think that's a good thing - better than finding a big old tumor somewhere we weren't expecting. And it just confirms that we are dealing with microscopic cells. We just have to get rid of them.
Mommy was so helpful and reassuring. She laughed when I made jokes, cried with me when I cried. She drove me all over Lancaster even though she didn't know exactly where she was going. She did the laundry, cooked all the meals and (as only mom's can do) kept demanding that I lay down. So I did.
The Spinal Tap itself was fine. I was so worked up I was crying in the procedure room. The young, beautiful girl who was the radiologist's tech was like, "Are you ok?" I said I was nervous and that I hate pain and didn't want it to hurt too much. She reassured me saying she sees so many of these, they barely hurt and I would be fine. I thought - of course that's what you say. What were her other options while I was sobbing on the procedure table? "This test sucks, hurts like a bitch and the guy might fuck it up and paralyze you." That answer wasn't likely.
Still, she was right. It was totally fine. I had to lay on my belly. He numbed my lower back up. They say, "A little pinch then a burn." And it burns alright. But I get stuck by needles so often now, and most injections burn as they push the meds in, that "pinch and burn" is nothing. The funniest part to me was the use of good old gravity to deliver as much spinal fluid as necessary. The table I was laying on actually tips up and has a foot plate on the bottom. So once the needle was in they tipped the table so I was practically standing up. That helps the spinal fluid drain out. Fancy that.
When it was done, I felt stupid for crying. The pretty girl even said to me "That wasn't so bad, right?" I had to agree with her. Bitch. Just kidding. They wheeled me back upstairs and the first thing I said to my Mom was "Piece of cake." She was so relieved.
Now there's this thing called the Spinal Headache. I heard about it from other people. It was supposed to be excruciating. Someone said to me, if you drink a lot of fluids it helps the body replenish the spinal fluid they took out and you can avoid this dreaded headache. So I'm sucking down water, soda, whatever - as much as I can. They also make you lay perfectly flat for two hours after the procedure so your body can heal the hole in your back and keep the spinal fluid from leaking out. I do as the doctor orders.
Thursday night, find. I lay flat the whole rest of the night. Friday, a little achy. Trying to lay mostly flat. Friday night, not good. Bad upper back pain - like shooting pain and a little head throbbing. My mom is feeding me ibuprofen like it's candy. Saturday, I feel like death. Sitting up eating breakfast, I think being stabbed would probably feel better than I felt then. Head is throbbing, my back is still causing shooting pains. This is not right, not norma. Now, my mom is leaving Saturday morning. My husband is seeing all the classic signs of a Spinal Headache. Mom's wheeling her suitcase out to the driver to take her to the airport. Chris is loading me in the car to take me to the hospital.
I needed a Blood Patch. You cannot make this shit up. I live with a physician and stealing Katie's line, "I'm only like 5 or 6 years away from my medical degree at this point," and I have never heard of a Blood Patch. Basically, it's ANOTHER Spinal Tap, then they take your own blood, inject it in your back and it plugs the hole where spinal fluid is leaking out. The first thing I say is, "But my back is not wet. I don't think there's spinal fluid leaking out." Ok, so I'm still a medical school freshman for sure, because they laugh at me and say no - it doesn't actually leak out of your body, is just leaks out of the derma into the other tissue nearby. So I don't know if my gallbladder got some extra spinal fluid this weekend, all I know is it hurt.
The anesthesiologist runs through the risks and glazes over possible loss of the use of your legs as if it was just another side effect they mention during a Cialis commercial (if you have an erection lasting more than 4 hours you should see your doctor - no shit!) So my ears perked up at "loss of the use of your legs" and I stopped her there. She said, yes, one of the risks is a small chance of paralysis with a Blood Patch. But without it, it could take up to two weeks for the Spinal Headache to go away. I was like - ok, my running days are over - paralysis would suck - but this headache will be the death of me anyway - so let's do this. Nothing like weighing the risk/reward ratio while your skull feels like it might split open.
This time I sit up and lean over, curving my back. The doctor performs a spinal tap for the second time in three days, Chris draws blood from my arm, she then shoots it in my back (which hurt like a bitch - like a lot a lot.) And then it was done. Thirty minutes later I felt like a new woman - and I could still feel my legs. I'd say that was a win/win. Plus with all negative test results, what's an extra Spinal Tap or two? I'll do anything to be cancer free.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Two Tests Down ... The Big One To Go
This is a big week and I've been a little stressed. Yet as my mother says, "Fearful anticipation is worse than realization." We have great results already. The MRI of the brain was negative - thank goodness. Plus, I also had the PET Scan today - it too showed nothing. I feel very relieved about that. We expected to see nothing, but it always feels good to get the confirmation. I've had both tests before so I knew what to expect - that always helps. Tomorrow is the Spinal Tap - or Lumbar Puncture as the real people call it. I have never had one of these and I'm a little scared. I'm afraid it might hurt and I'm afraid of a potential "spinal headache." I no control over any of these things so I'm just putting it in God's hands. And it will all be over by like 3 o'clock tomorrow. Just have to get to then. I can do that.
The hCG dropped. From 16 last week to 6.8 this week. Why does that happen? What is the rhyme or reason for the increase and decrease? I'm happy it went down, I'm just confused as to why sometimes it goes up and sometimes it goes down.
So many prayers, so many extra masses, so many candles lit. I can't tell you how many people have gone above and beyond for me this week. Thank you. The notes and prayers and love keep me from spinning out of control.
More tomorrow...
The hCG dropped. From 16 last week to 6.8 this week. Why does that happen? What is the rhyme or reason for the increase and decrease? I'm happy it went down, I'm just confused as to why sometimes it goes up and sometimes it goes down.
So many prayers, so many extra masses, so many candles lit. I can't tell you how many people have gone above and beyond for me this week. Thank you. The notes and prayers and love keep me from spinning out of control.
More tomorrow...
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
UGGGGGGHHHHHHH!
I have several funny things to blog about. And now I can't. I have to postpone them. For the shitty stuff. It's okay to let the fun linger. But the important info (read: shitty stuff) must be posted in a timely fashion. Mainly because it means you have to ramp up the prayers. I promise to blog the funny stuff in a few days. For now though, here is the drama.
Beta hCG is now 16.2. Dr. Goldstein calls it "disappointing." He wrote that in an e-mail at 6:42am this morning. You know how e-mail is though. Disappointing. When it's typed out is so less dramatic than if we were in his office and he said something like, "Well, fuck-a-doodle-do. 16.2. Isn't that a bitch?" I'm sure that's what he meant when he typed disappointing.
WHY oh Why oh Why Why why why why does it keep going up and down?? Why? Why why why? And why can't we get it to stop going up and down ... and just get it to go down ... forever? That's the big question, isn't it? Do you know how many people have the answer to that question? None. Maddening. Absolutely maddening. Marsh says, "All to be revealed." It's just that nothing is being revealed today apparently. Maybe tomorrow is the revealing day. I'm not holding my breath, otherwise I'd be blue by now. So just like right foot, left foot - I inhale and exhale and pray for all to be revealed ... someday.
Plan:
Next week:
What else is there to do? Just pray.
Beta hCG is now 16.2. Dr. Goldstein calls it "disappointing." He wrote that in an e-mail at 6:42am this morning. You know how e-mail is though. Disappointing. When it's typed out is so less dramatic than if we were in his office and he said something like, "Well, fuck-a-doodle-do. 16.2. Isn't that a bitch?" I'm sure that's what he meant when he typed disappointing.
WHY oh Why oh Why Why why why why does it keep going up and down?? Why? Why why why? And why can't we get it to stop going up and down ... and just get it to go down ... forever? That's the big question, isn't it? Do you know how many people have the answer to that question? None. Maddening. Absolutely maddening. Marsh says, "All to be revealed." It's just that nothing is being revealed today apparently. Maybe tomorrow is the revealing day. I'm not holding my breath, otherwise I'd be blue by now. So just like right foot, left foot - I inhale and exhale and pray for all to be revealed ... someday.
Plan:
Next week:
- PET scan to see if you can see cancer
- Dr. Evans says she is certain this will show nothing. Cancer is at cellular level. Too small to see on PET.
- MRI of brain
- Because PET scan doesn't include brain. Dr. Evans is sure this also will show nothing, because cancer would be too small to pick up on MRI
- Spinal Tap
- Other than the movie "This is Spinal Tap" I really knew nothing about what this actually does. I did hear it was painful but everyone I spoke with today said, oh it's not that bad. Read: hurts like a motherfucker but you forget that it hurt that much
- During tap they put a needle into your lower spine and remove CSF cells - Cerebral Spinal Fluid. This is brain fluid that also flows along the spinal column, I guess. It would have cancer cells in it, if there's cancer in the brain.
- Dr. Evans is also convinced this will show nothing.
- So why are we doing all these "show nothing" tests?? Because we're switching chemo again. A switch time is always a good time to get some new baseline tests. Just make sure you are crossing your t's and dotting i's before you jump ship to something else.
- New Chemo
- Shocker. This last one didn't even last a month before we figured out it was useless.
- New drugs will give more side effects than the last round, but not as bad as the round before that. Is your head spinning yet? Because mine is - and that's not even one of the side effects.
- It includes two days in the hospital. KILL ME NOW. I like the Chemo Lounge so much. Why can't I just stay in the Chemo Lounge? (Can you hear me really whining as I say that?? Whhhhhyyyyy?)
- It's once every three weeks - that's a bonus. I've always been a chemo every week-er. I asked if I could go back to work a little bit on the two off-weeks. Dr. Evans said absolutely not. This is still "focus on getting rid of cancer" time, not "transitioning back to work time."
What else is there to do? Just pray.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Ash Wednesday ... Again
You know you've had cancer too long when you start celebrating events for the second time around. With Groundhog Day Round 2 out of the way ... the next repeat was Ash Wednesday. Because Ash Wednesday is typically on a Wednesday ;-) I had chemo this year and last year. If you remember, I missed the ashes part of Mass last year and had to beg Father Leo. This year Marcia and I snuck in ashes after bloodwork, before lunch and before chemo. We were so late to Mass we got there just in time for ashes. Then we were running late for lunch, so we ditched out just after Communion. It was definitely an abbreviated service for us. Marsh said God will forgive us. I like myself an Express Mass, so I was thrilled. Next year for Ash Wednesday, I will be cancer free and have a cute, probably still short haircut.
This year for Lent, I'm giving up Cancer.
Last year's ashes.
This year.
3.1 - The Rollercoaster Continues
My emotions are directly related to this damn number. And because it went down to 3.1 this week ... I'm a happy kid!
I was able to get chemo this week. Five hours of drip at the Chemo Lounge is like a dream compared to the hospital. I feel like Marcia and I are light on our feet walking into the lounge. We don't have to be admitted, we don't have to carry overnight bags, we don't have to wait 4 hours to be hooked up to the drugs. We just sit and talk with the other women and hang out with Kristin. It's a good day.
The Boston doctor recommended I go back on birth control. I think I might be one of the only women without a uterus taking the pill. But he's trying to monitor other hormones. Ovulation includes two other hormones with "h" in them. We monitor hCG, but there's also Lh and Fsh. So being on birth control will shut those two down for a while. He just wants to make sure we're not picking up other "h" hormones instead of the hCG.
I'm feeling well. I could sleep forever. But that's the only major side effect right now. It's really a blessing. I had a pretty bad head cold over the weekend. But when I thought about it - other than cancer - I haven't been sick the whole year. So a little head cold was bound to sneak in.
I'm thrilled with this week's numbers and I hope next week's are even lower. Until then ...
I was able to get chemo this week. Five hours of drip at the Chemo Lounge is like a dream compared to the hospital. I feel like Marcia and I are light on our feet walking into the lounge. We don't have to be admitted, we don't have to carry overnight bags, we don't have to wait 4 hours to be hooked up to the drugs. We just sit and talk with the other women and hang out with Kristin. It's a good day.
The Boston doctor recommended I go back on birth control. I think I might be one of the only women without a uterus taking the pill. But he's trying to monitor other hormones. Ovulation includes two other hormones with "h" in them. We monitor hCG, but there's also Lh and Fsh. So being on birth control will shut those two down for a while. He just wants to make sure we're not picking up other "h" hormones instead of the hCG.
I'm feeling well. I could sleep forever. But that's the only major side effect right now. It's really a blessing. I had a pretty bad head cold over the weekend. But when I thought about it - other than cancer - I haven't been sick the whole year. So a little head cold was bound to sneak in.
I'm thrilled with this week's numbers and I hope next week's are even lower. Until then ...
Monday, February 18, 2013
A Waste of Weight Watchers
If you think cancer will make you skinny, you're wrong. One could only hope, right? At least there should be some up-side to chemotherapy and being hospitalized. I remember this from the first time I had cancer. I thought I would waste away. I was hoping at least ... like when the girls say in "A Devil Wears Prada" "I'm one stomach flu away from my goal weight!"
This is very distressing to me. I eat constantly. So that might be the problem. But also, I don't move that much. Also an issue. I understand basic weight loss: eat less, move more. It's just that doing that is near impossible right now. I get winded going up a flight of stairs and get hungry when I look at the outside of the refrigerator.
The steroids don't help. Moon face is the term they use. I have moon face, moon ass, moon arms, moon thighs, moon belly, moon back fat. Alas, I hark back to a time when I was thin. Upon meeting me one woman said about me once, "Of course she's skinny, she's 23. Weren't we all skinny when we were 23?" Touche. So I dug up this picture to make myself feel better and let people know I wasn't always a moon ... plus it's fun to show this circa 1996 pic off.
Thin, right? But like weirdly thin. Like "that girl should eat a burger" thin. People used to say my legs went all the way up. I didn't really get what they meant when I was 16, but looking at this picture I get it now. I think I was 16 or 17 in that photo. Oh, those were the days.
Fast forward:
This is actually a terribly embarrassing picture to post. But I said I would share what was real and this is it. I'm glad the flash makes it at least a little harder to see. Mike Everhart reads the blog while he eats breakfast. I don't want him to throw up first thing in the morning. The legs don't go on forever - they just got wider. I took out my belly button ring long ago - it would have been swallowed by the rolls by now. The handles make it easier for Chris to love me, but harder to fit into jeans. I have as much arm flap as a middle school lunch lady serving Sloppy Joe's. The only upside I see is my boobs. I was as flat as a board growing up. But now, add 40 pounds and you get a bonus: boobs!
I joined Weight Watchers just after that first surgery in September in Boston. I just finished "emotional eating" my way through Boston while I rested the week post-op. I thought I at least deserved that. Then I got on the wagon. Weight Watchers has an app (who doesn't now? I want the "Mer App") and it was almost fun to count points (for like 5 seconds.) Then I had the hysterectomy. Do you want to talk about emotional eating? Come sit down next to me and bring some chocolate chip cookies and milk and I'll tell you all about it. You only have one hysterectomy and it's not supposed to be at 32, so I didn't want to waste the opportunity! Mangia Mangia!
I cancelled the Weight Watcher subscription. Much like my Netflix, money was leaving my account each month and nothing was happening on my end. Might as well keep the money for pizza.
I feel very un-pretty. Everyone will say, no, no, you're still pretty. blah, blah, blah. Save it. Don't send a single card that says I'm pretty. I'm just venting. But I have no hair and I weigh more than I ever have in my life. This is what cancer looks like for me. If I looked my prettiest ever during cancer that would be bad, right? So I'm saving my pretty for later. It'll come ... with some hair and some exercise. I will be healthy then too, so that glow of survival will certainly make my skin shine, right? Chris loves me, even like this. I love that I'm still alive. So that's really all that matters.
I got my inspiration for my self portrait from Demi. While she looks SMOKING HOT ... woman be crazy! But damn, crazy looks good, huh?
This is very distressing to me. I eat constantly. So that might be the problem. But also, I don't move that much. Also an issue. I understand basic weight loss: eat less, move more. It's just that doing that is near impossible right now. I get winded going up a flight of stairs and get hungry when I look at the outside of the refrigerator.
The steroids don't help. Moon face is the term they use. I have moon face, moon ass, moon arms, moon thighs, moon belly, moon back fat. Alas, I hark back to a time when I was thin. Upon meeting me one woman said about me once, "Of course she's skinny, she's 23. Weren't we all skinny when we were 23?" Touche. So I dug up this picture to make myself feel better and let people know I wasn't always a moon ... plus it's fun to show this circa 1996 pic off.
Thin, right? But like weirdly thin. Like "that girl should eat a burger" thin. People used to say my legs went all the way up. I didn't really get what they meant when I was 16, but looking at this picture I get it now. I think I was 16 or 17 in that photo. Oh, those were the days.
Fast forward:
This is actually a terribly embarrassing picture to post. But I said I would share what was real and this is it. I'm glad the flash makes it at least a little harder to see. Mike Everhart reads the blog while he eats breakfast. I don't want him to throw up first thing in the morning. The legs don't go on forever - they just got wider. I took out my belly button ring long ago - it would have been swallowed by the rolls by now. The handles make it easier for Chris to love me, but harder to fit into jeans. I have as much arm flap as a middle school lunch lady serving Sloppy Joe's. The only upside I see is my boobs. I was as flat as a board growing up. But now, add 40 pounds and you get a bonus: boobs!
I joined Weight Watchers just after that first surgery in September in Boston. I just finished "emotional eating" my way through Boston while I rested the week post-op. I thought I at least deserved that. Then I got on the wagon. Weight Watchers has an app (who doesn't now? I want the "Mer App") and it was almost fun to count points (for like 5 seconds.) Then I had the hysterectomy. Do you want to talk about emotional eating? Come sit down next to me and bring some chocolate chip cookies and milk and I'll tell you all about it. You only have one hysterectomy and it's not supposed to be at 32, so I didn't want to waste the opportunity! Mangia Mangia!
I cancelled the Weight Watcher subscription. Much like my Netflix, money was leaving my account each month and nothing was happening on my end. Might as well keep the money for pizza.
I feel very un-pretty. Everyone will say, no, no, you're still pretty. blah, blah, blah. Save it. Don't send a single card that says I'm pretty. I'm just venting. But I have no hair and I weigh more than I ever have in my life. This is what cancer looks like for me. If I looked my prettiest ever during cancer that would be bad, right? So I'm saving my pretty for later. It'll come ... with some hair and some exercise. I will be healthy then too, so that glow of survival will certainly make my skin shine, right? Chris loves me, even like this. I love that I'm still alive. So that's really all that matters.
I got my inspiration for my self portrait from Demi. While she looks SMOKING HOT ... woman be crazy! But damn, crazy looks good, huh?
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Nope. I'm mad. And so are my friends ...
So close but yet so far. My number rose from 2.7 to 8.6 - ugh. I am so done with this. I've been planning my future in my head. And then ... back to the drawing board ... still have to figure out how to cure cancer.
All the numbers that were supposed to be high were low. And the one number that's supposed to be low, is up. So no chemo. Like honestly, throw a girl a bone. My platelets were 39. Kristin asked me to get blood re-drawn today to see if the platelets were at least on their way up. If I got a 40, I would be able to get chemo. No go - they were down to 29 today.
Also, the hemoglobin number is a pain in the ass too. That's red blood cells. They should be 12, mine were 5.9 - really low. Today on the re-draw, they were 5.4. Now I need a blood transfusion. That's tomorrow for about 4 - 6 hours. At least I should feel and look better after that. The low red blood cells have left me very short of breath and with throbbing headaches. Plus, I'm a little pale. Nothing some blush can't cure, but it would be nice to have some natural pink in my cheeks. Right now I'm keeping Sephora in business trying to make my ghost face look halfway normal.
My friends, family and neighbors share in my disgust. I sent several people text messages about the low hCG and my frustration. These were some of the responses:
Bastard
That stinks
This is a pain in the blip
WTF!! That sucks!
Shit!
Seriously?
Shit! That's stinks
Ugh indeed!
Shitski!!
Aghhhhhhh (that's me yelling in frustration for u)
Sonovabitch!
You can tell I'm in good company. When I curse, they curse back! When I look at that list of responses it makes me smile. No matter what my numbers are - I have a lot of support!
All the numbers that were supposed to be high were low. And the one number that's supposed to be low, is up. So no chemo. Like honestly, throw a girl a bone. My platelets were 39. Kristin asked me to get blood re-drawn today to see if the platelets were at least on their way up. If I got a 40, I would be able to get chemo. No go - they were down to 29 today.
Also, the hemoglobin number is a pain in the ass too. That's red blood cells. They should be 12, mine were 5.9 - really low. Today on the re-draw, they were 5.4. Now I need a blood transfusion. That's tomorrow for about 4 - 6 hours. At least I should feel and look better after that. The low red blood cells have left me very short of breath and with throbbing headaches. Plus, I'm a little pale. Nothing some blush can't cure, but it would be nice to have some natural pink in my cheeks. Right now I'm keeping Sephora in business trying to make my ghost face look halfway normal.
My friends, family and neighbors share in my disgust. I sent several people text messages about the low hCG and my frustration. These were some of the responses:
Bastard
That stinks
This is a pain in the blip
WTF!! That sucks!
Shit!
Seriously?
Shit! That's stinks
Ugh indeed!
Shitski!!
Aghhhhhhh (that's me yelling in frustration for u)
Sonovabitch!
You can tell I'm in good company. When I curse, they curse back! When I look at that list of responses it makes me smile. No matter what my numbers are - I have a lot of support!
Monday, February 11, 2013
Hit a Strike Against Cancer!
Here's a little catch-up from like two weeks ago:
When in doubt, pick up your fun nephews and find a cool activity. It was a boring weekend day and I had to get out of the house. Lucky, a local cancer organization, You and Me on a Comeback, was holding a Bowl-a-thon! Winning!
Jay, Ben and Alexander are usually up for anything. It was a bonus that Jay wasn't totally weirded out when he realized he wasn't wearing any socks in his cool new Sperry's. He'd have to wear the bowling shoes with naked feet. He did remark though that the man behind the counter did nothing but spritz some fragrant spray in the general area of the shoes and that meant they were "sanitized." No one ended up with Athlete's Foot ... but that might be because you can't call us athletes by the way we bowled!!
It was fun to meet new people from the Cancer organization and see some old friends. Adam Aurand and his wife Kristy came to bowl with us and brought their own little bowling ball, Baby Kylar!! I quickly traded holding a bowling ball for holding the bambino! So cute!!
It was a fun, family outing and supported a good cause. I thought it would be funny if I put spots on my head so it looked like a bowling ball. But I thought Jay would DIE of embarrassment so I held off.
Couldn't contain myself at home though. No one but Chris and the dogs to laugh at me ... and they do that every day any way. I'd say with all my brains, that bowling ball head is at least a 12 pounder!
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