10 Days for 10 Years ... Day 5

Chemo day…
I know you probably think that I’d be dreading this day, but really, when you’re told you have cancer all you want is for it to be out.
“Get it out!”
“Get it out!”
“Get it out!”
It’s a never ending chant, running loops, over and over again in your head.  It’s like a bee has landed on you.  You can feel it crawling up your neck; humming in your ears.  Fingers of fear seize your sanity and make you crazy. 
Same when you’re told you have cancer.
“GET IT OUT!”
At the same time, the way you “get it out” is just as frightening.
They were accessing my port.
You know I googled it.
Asked other people if they knew how it felt.
I have a bit of a vivid imagination so you can only imagine the crazy ideas that went through my mind.
The other thing… would I feel the chemo?  Would I know instantly that I was poisoning my body?
Today I took my seat in the lazy-boy chemo room.
“This is Kim.” Dr. Chawla said as he showed me to my seat.  “I think you two will get along nicely.” Kim had a magnetic smile that lit her eyes up with enthusiasm and she was bald.
“Just breathe.”  She said as I sat down.
“What does accessing your port feel like?”  Rushed out of my mouth.
“That’s what you’re worried about?”  She smiled and patted my hand that had a cat like death grip on the arm of the chair. “It feels like a shot.  You’ll feel a cool rush from the saline wash and then nothing.”
She was right.
Past the first prick of the needle and the cool rush, I didn’t feel anything.
No body seizing in revolt.
No immediate vomiting.
I sat and watched Oprah with Kim and my mom.
Chemo wasn’t so bad…
After six hours in the chemo chair they changed my bag, taught me how to change the batteries and gave me an emergency number if I had any problems. 
I walked out of the door with a confident no-problem swagger for my first night…
I was doin’ chemo!
That night the constant swish, swoosh, pause; swish, swoosh, pause … VOMIT… kept me and Mark up all night. 
The swish, swoosh, pause was the chemo pump and, well the vomit… That was me.
Yeah, I was doin’ chemo alright.
The next morning I crawled back into Dr. Chawla’s chemo chair.
“First night’s always the roughest.” Kim said. “It gets easier.”  The chemo nurse pulled back the giant plastic bandage from Kim’s chest, unplugged the needle from Kim’s port-a-catheter and told her to be back tomorrow for a count check. 
I was still on Round 1, Day 1 of a 7 day cycle.
“Hang in there.  It’s like climbing a mountain, don’t look at the top; focus on the step in front of you and you’ll be at the end in no time.”  She smiled and grabbed her bag.  “I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

By the end of the seventh day, I had vomiting down to an art form.  I could tell when I was going to hurl.  A strong metallic taste would start at the back of my jaw, like I was sucking on a 9 volt battery.  I had a couple seconds to prepare and then …. WHALAH I would let loose.
The swish, swoosh of my pump had been muffled by sticking the pump and the pack under my pillow.  We made the hour and half commute from Huntington Beach to Santa Monica with me usually asleep holding a gallon zip lock bag for, well … my master pieces of hurl.
My almost waist length hair was still there, all though it felt like each individual strand was being pulled out by the root. I was weak, exhausted but I had made it through the first round.  Nowhere near the top of the mountain, but not at the bottom either.
“Come back in two days,” the chemo nurse said.  “We’ll check your counts and hope they’re good enough to start again.”
“Great.”  That was my sarcasm leaking through.  “What happens if they aren’t?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” The chemo nurse ripped off the bandage and sent me home. 
Sadly, I was still puking and my counts were plummeting....  

I loved this dance routine.
I didn't have breast cancer, but at some point, cancer is cancer.

The fight and courage of both really speaks to me.
Many focus on the woman in this piece. 
Watch the man. 
I think this is EXACTLY how Mark was feeling.

Anyway, I thought it would be perfect for today's post.
 Hope you enjoy.

10 Days for 10 Years ... Day 4

Day 4

So a quick re-cap:

Contemplated divorce, found a bump.

Had a have-it-removed-or-I-won’t-be-home phone call from my husband

Had the bump removed, told it was cancer and met with Dr. Ego.

Had my surgery to install my port-a-catheter, by the way it felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. Who knew something so tiny could put so much pressure on your body. I had to sleep sitting up for the first week.  Do you remember the scene from THE MUMMY RETURNS when the scarab beetle invades that hairy guy’s body?  It looked like lumps moving around?  Imagine that lump minus the hair sitting just over your heart.  It was my constant reminder that my body wasn’t mine anymore.  

Boobs: intact.

Booby bump biopsied and came back as …. A fibroid.

Right leg… still there.

Everybody up to speed?

Obviously, we didn’t go back to Dr. Ego.

We had a second opinion at City of Hope.  A little more optimistic, but not where we were supposed to be.

We also consulted a fertility doctor to see what we would need to do to save my eggs.  The fertility doctor said we should see what our oncologist had to say… I didn’t take that as a good sign.

My mom was adamant we get to Norris Cancer Center at the University of Southern California.

While we waited for the HMO to approve our request, Mark and I did what any struggling couple facing their mortality would do … we went to Las Vegas.

I wish I could say it was relaxing it was anything but. 

Mark was a full time student getting his Kinesiology degree from Cal State University Long Beach. He was also studying for the PA entrance exam and on top of that he was a 24hr on 24hr off EMT.

Add to that we had just bought our first home, a condo on Pacific Coast Highway in Huntington Beach that faced the ocean. 

Can you say debt?

Because we were in it up to our eyeballs.

On the last night in Vegas, I laid out all of our debt, all of the reasons why he should leave. 

I had a plan to move in with my mom; sell our condo and give Mark the out he needed me to give him. 

He just looked at me and shook his head.  I was ready for him to say, “you’re right, Mind. It’s a good plan. I wish you the best”.

 I had prepared to do this alone. 

What I hadn’t prepared for was his answer.

“You obviously weren’t listening to our vows.  The minister said for richer or poorer, in sickness and health.  We’re just doing two at one time.”  He smiled and folded up all my documentation on why he should leave and pushed it aside. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Mindy.” 

Driving back to California we got the call, the HMO had approved a third opinion and it was with USC, kind of…

September 19^th, 2000

I’m not sure how we got to this Doctor… When my HMO case worker tried to explain it she said, “It’s really a miracle we just contracted with this Doctor.”

We met Dr. Chawla today.

 He’s a kind man with kind eyes.  He came to the waiting room and got me and my family.  I’ve never seen a doctor come and get his own patients.  He took us past the chemo room on the way to his office.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen death cloaked in happiness before.  There was a room full of lazy boy recliners and all these bald people hooked up to IV’s.  It was everything I could do not to turn and run. 

I just smiled back. 

That’s going to be me?

.... Dr. Chawla’s an artist. He writes with a calligraphy pen and talks to himself.  It’s like he’s solving the problem of me in his head.  I think I’m where I’m supposed to be…

Dr. Chawla put down my folder, looked at my slides and finally said, “You know you’re not going to die.”

The room exploded with rebuttals, but Dr. Chawla rolled forward and grabbed my hands. “I have 50 healed cases; you’re not so bad.” 

My eyes welled up with hope and tears and more hope…  I believed him.

“Do you want to have babies?” he asked. 

I shook my head.  The hot tears skidded down my cheeks. 

“You can’t say that to her.”  Mark finally interrupted.

“Yes, I can.  You watch.” 

Dr. Chawla then told us about the tumor board that would dictate the chemo cocktail I would be prescribed.  I would be on a 24 hour chemo cycle, a bag and a pump would come home with me for five to seven days straight.  

“We’re going to take you to the brink of death and bring you back … and then we’re going to do it again. Four hard rounds, then your clean up surgery and the chemo cleanup rounds.   We’ll try to stay away from the chemo that will make you infertile, but even then … no guarantees.”  He said. 

Before we left he brought in a little boy on a skateboard, he was maybe fourteen, he showed me the pump that was in a bag and strapped across his chest like a small purse.  He showed me where the scar where they removed part of his tibia and put in a titanium rod. He showed me the chemo and said, “This is my last round.” 

He was bald and still smiling.

I smiled and prayed one day I could say the same.

“You have your port?” Dr. Chawla finally asked.

“Yeah.” I was still afraid to touch it. Still afraid to even have my clothes lay on it.

“Good, we’ll access it next week.”

I know I giggle snorted here.  The port terrified me and having anyone touch it, let alone access it...  “Access it?” 

“Yes.  This won’t be easy, but if it were easy … everybody would want to do chemo.”  Dr. Chawla stood and pulled me into a big bear hug.

 “Trust me.” He finally whispered.  “You start chemo next week!”

10 Days for 10 Years ... Day 3

Day 3

It’s funny, you’d think that once you've heard the word cancer the impact of the word would lessen each time you had to say … it.  After a marathon of tests, where I had to give my diagnosis of cancer over and over and over again –something I’d YET to do that day without welling up with tears— at a myriad of hospitals, I found myself in the waiting room of yet another doctor.  The only difference was this doctor was the specialist my primary care physician had arranged. He was supposed to be the one who could save my life …

As Mark and I waited in his lobby my mom joined us with a box of candy. 
I love her. 
She’s Italian and if there’s trouble then there’s food. 
The bigger the trouble the sweeter the food. 
A whole box of candy meant …
I was in some big trouble.   
She’d probably been on web MD like I had and figured out if I came through this it would be not a small miracle but a big water to wine, Lazarus from the dead miracle.

The nurse took us back to the doctor’s office where he proceeded to look down at us from behind his high and mighty desk.  He rambled on and on about the nature of my cancer, what famous people have had my cancer (yes, I have shared a disease with a Kennedy) and then he ended his pontification with, “Of course, I need to examine you now.”   
My momma and my husband sat in the doctor’s office with all of his accolades of what a marvelous doctor he was leering at them  and I was ushered down the hall to my first exam room with the first of many nasty exam robes to change into. 

I have since decided you can tell the quality of the doctor by the quality of his exam robes.  Some have the fabric ones that need to be washed after every use. They are usually worn, but soft … comforting. Then there are the doctors who have the exam robes that feel like fabric but ya can toss them after they’re used.  You know like the paper napkins that fool ya into thinking their linen napkins.  Finally, there are the doctors that have the scratchy, one-time-use robes that make you think you’re slipping on the bark of a tree instead of a discreet robe. 
This doctor had the bark robes. 

When he walked in there were no pleasantries.  
“Lay back.” 
I complied.
Now remember where I said my bump was?  Where my leg and my butt met.  Not the most comfortable place to have a doctor probing… I was already nervous from the diagnosis and petrified by the thoughts of chemo and this doctor wasn’t making me feel any more comfortable. 
Once he finished with my leg he said, “I’m going to check to see if there are any metastasis sites.”
“That’s bad, right?” Did I mention I'm a bit sarcastic when nervous ... okay, just over all sarcastic.
No answer just a grunt and shake as he checked my  groin, my arm pits and then my breasts.  He stopped over my right breast.  Sat me up straight. Eyes wide he then ripped my gown open. 
 I’m pretty sure I gasped and tried to pull it back together, I can’t remember.  I was still in shock that he had shredded my bark gown.  Not that I was fond of the bark, but it was covering, me! 
“You have a lump in your breast.”
“Um, yeah… I’ve had fibroids in that breast. It’s probably the same…”
“No.  It’s a metastasis site.  Get dressed and meet back in the office. “  He then walked out of the door leaving it wide open and me sitting on the table with a ripped robe and my maybe metastasized boobies hanging in the wind for the receptionist to take a gander. 

When I got back to his office, my mom was grilling the doctor like nobody’s business.  My husband, an EMT and Physician’s Assistant student, was holding my mom’s hand and also trying to ask the doctor a question. 
“Let’s understand our roles here.”  The doctor said.  “You,” He looked at my mom “are the mother. You act like the mother.”   He then looked at my husband.  “You are the husband and I am the doctor.”   He sat down and looked at me.  “I’m the one who’s going to heal her.” 
No kidding those were his words… “I’m the one who’s going to heal her.”  He then went on to tell me that I would have a port-a-catheter implanted in my chest. It would tie into my heart because the chemo, if we insisted, would be too strong and burn my veins.  He needed a direct line to my heart.  He had consulted with a specialist on the matter. 
When we finally were excused from his office, I knew there was a possibility I would lose my leg like one of the Kennedy boys had ... what I didn’t know was that the good and all mighty doctor had told my husband and mother that I had six months to live. 
Yeah... I'll let that one sink in on ya for a second or two. 
He was certain that the cancer had metastasized and that chemo was futile.  He also recommended to my family that my breast be removed at the same time the catheter was installed and, if they wanted me to live, so should my leg. 
I was scheduled for my surgery in two weeks …