These last several weeks since completing my
first cycle of chemotherapy have been nothing like I imagined they would be. From the moment I inhaled my
first breath of fresh air after exiting the hospital to the smell of autumn air today, I can officially
say that I tolerated the 3-day regimen very well. Some noteworthy positives: normal
appetite, no fevers, no nausea or need for anti-nausea meds, normal energy, regular
exercise, hearing intact, site of port healed well, drank plenty of water (not
wine) and overall maintained a healthy disposition. My blood counts, which I
get tested weekly, were initially lower than my baseline, as was to be
expected, but have risen week-by-week. I think having one cycle that I
tolerated well under my belt takes a great deal of anxiety off my plate as I
prepare for Cycle 2. Cycle 2, which will also be administered as an inpatient,
begins tomorrow and ends Wednesday. The fact that I’ve had minimal side effects
should not, however, imply that everything in my world is rainbows and unicorns.
I am, after all, going through brain cancer treatment for the second time in my
30s and I do not want to discount the fact that this continues to be a very hard
and trying process on many levels.
Two difficult, yet tangible issues that I currently
grapple with are my port and hair loss. Though both are temporary, neither is
much fun. Having a foreign object protrude from under my skin has taken some
getting used to. The site of my port surgery has required time to heal, it’s sensitive
to the touch, and I am always wary of its presence when using my right arm or
laying on my right side. On the upside, when I’m receiving chemotherapy as an
impatient, it allows both of my arms and hands to be free without the
inconvenience and discomfort of an IV. Ideally, I could have the port magically
implanted during my hospital stay and have it removed for the days I’m home.
Too bad that technology isn’t yet in place. Perhaps an idea for a future
invention of Dr. Dean or Alex Kelly?
Regarding hair loss, there are no big surprises
here. I am experiencing exactly what was expected in terms of timeframe
post-chemo. I’ve lost most of my hair, and I’m only days away from being bald. I
am not of the frame of mind to shave my head; I prefer to let my hair fall out
gradually. Having gone through hair loss once before as a young woman and mom, I
believe this is a tough cosmetic side effect of cancer treatment. I’ve heard of
women embracing their baldness, but not me. After two brain surgeries, I have a
pretty nasty scar running up the back of my head, which mostly I work to keep hidden. I do not celebrate being bald, it does not empower me, it actually
pains me because it’s the only physical sign I ever see in my reflection that
makes me appear sick, even if I don’t feel sick. Fortunately, my hair loss is not
confusing or scary to Alex and Dean as I’ve done a good job of explaining
what’s going on…it’s almost like they don’t even notice. Surely wigs, scarves
and hats do their best to cover what’s missing, but they are not replacements
for what I’m missing. That said, my internal voice of reason repeatedly reminds
me that this external change is not a big deal in the grand scheme of things
and that my hair will eventually grow back. Another hard to ignore environmental
reminder are the bare branches whose leaves will eventually grow back: tis’ the
season for hats, scarves…and wig wearing.
What lies ahead…
On November 30, Erin and I will head back to
Duke University for an updated MRI and a visit with my neuro-oncologist. At
that point my doc with determine whether we continue with two additional cycles
or bring chemotherapy to a halt. Should I move forward with a third cycle, it
will likely begin the second week in December, with the fourth cycle landing
sometime in January.
I’d like to send a special squeeze and thank you
to my sister, Nicola, who recently visited Fort Collins. She came for a week to
spend time with my boys and me while Erin was at work. I’m lucky. Nicola and I
have always had a close sibling relationship. She understands every corner of my
cancer “box,” despite the fact that I’m the only one that fits inside. She’s
always been there for me, and she always keeps her heart close to mine.
Love,
Sareana
