Confession, Monday-Monday, Rebellion, Gratitude

Confession

So, you know how I’ve been infusing some humor into this process? And you know how a lot of you have been telling me I’m amazing? Today I am not feeling clever enough to live up to the bar I’ve set where comedy is concerned, AND I need to debunk the myth that I’m amazing.

For the vast majority of the last two days I’ve been sleeping. And for the vast majority of the two days prior to that I cried. And for the vast majority of the time I've known I had canser, I've been terribly impatient with my children.

I’ve decided a 10 day wait between advancements in my canser plot is about three days too long. I’m optimistic and energetic (feeding on the energy that comes to me through this blog and the comments to it) for about a week and then depression and fear seep and spread, perhaps like my canser itself.

BUT advancement to the plot there has been, so let’s get to that and call this confession complete.

Monday-Monday
In the morning I had a photoshoot with Jodi Meier. She is the truest photographer I have ever encountered. Her direction is plentiful and right on target. And when she gets the "money shot," she really celebrates! She asked me all the right questions before we got started so she could know what mood to lend to the picture stories---like a true artiste!

I haven’t received all the pictures yet, and I can hardly wait! But she did send me this one, which she says should go on the cover of an oncology pamphlet. Glamour, Vogue, Oncology Pamphlet, whatever it takes, right?

The entire experience with Jodi was empowering, awkward, fun and sad, all mixed into one. I’ll share a few more photos when I have them.

After the shoot, Jodi sent me this message:
   
            “ . . . you inspired me today. I don't write a lot of poetry--I have to

be in the place to do it. So, today I was in the space. Thank you 

for such an amazing opportunity.”

And then she shared this poem with me, which I have no words for. I’ll let it speak for itself.

ROAR

Listen…

Can you hear this woman’s roar?

This woman’s roar—even and level—tells caregivers, “My life means more than my body.  Fix what is broken and save me for those I so fiercely love.”

This woman’s roar bellows to the universe, “This will not bend me nor break me.  This will not make me unworthy.”

This woman’s roar whispers to her God in the deep reaches of her heart, “Help me live this plan.  And if I cannot be whole, fill the space of my loss with thy healing spirit and my iron will.”

This woman’s roar—not always loud—is exquisitely clear.  This is a roar of fierce zeal, and a roar of contrite spirit, and a roar of courageous heart.  It will prevail.  She will prevail.

Can you hear this woman’s roar?

Listen…

After the photoshoot, Dave and I rushed up to Paradise to see Dr. Mazj, who can really only be described as lovely. He has a policy of not making his patients wait. We walked in and were seen immediately, first by Joe and Lori (nurses), then by Dr. Mazj, with virtually no wait time. He had reviewed my case, spoken to the surgeon, spoken to the radiologist, and reassured me that he would be in consultation with them so that on Thursday the 7th we will have a complete treatment plan laid out.

He outlined a potential plan that includes four cycles of two chemo drugs three weeks apart, followed by four cycles two weeks apart of a different chemo drug combined with Herceptin (the drug that targets Her-2 receptors). Then I would have surgery, and continue the Herceptin for one year.

He also ordered a PET/CT for me, for which we will have to await authorization. It could take 3 days or 4 weeks. Here’s hoping for the 3 day version. If authorization doesn’t come soon, Dr. Mazj explained that we can get the same information by doing both a CAT scan and a bone scan. So it looks likely that one of those will be my next step.

Dr. Mazj taught us that there is a difference between clinical staging and definitive staging. Many people have asked me what stage my cancer is in, and I couldn't answer because I had been told that staging can’t be determined until after surgery. But clinical staging involves a sort of rubric that describes the various attributes of cancer, and we can make a very educated guess as to which description I fit into. Tomorrow we will learn whether nodes are involved (more about that below), and that is a determining factor, but it looks likely at this point that I am in stage 2 - ish.

Not very long after my appointment with Dr. Mazj I got this text from Nicole, my powerhouse canser buddy who recommended him to me.

I am so lucky to have Nicole on my team!

Speaking of team members, however, I have some bad news about my becoming a patient of Dr Mazj. He prefers that I do my infusions up at Feather River in Paradise so that he can closely monitor my reactions to the medications and so forth. A drive to Paradise every two or three weeks is no big deal, and so I’m fine with that. But it turns out that because there will be a 4-6 month period when I’m under his care and not under the care of doctors associated with Enloe, I will lose (for that period) the services of Barbara, my nurse navigator who has been such a constant and thorough advocate for me from day one. Dr. Mazj says the oncologists at Enloe’s infusion center would give the same standard of care he would, and that he understands if I don’t want to lose Barbara. I wish all this official business could just be tossed aside in the name of patient preference, but alas, no. This is a decision Dave and I will have to make soon. It’s a toughie.


After a nice lunch, Dave and I went to the Breast Care Center for my last appointment of the day. I’ve been there three times now, and never have I seen it so crowded. My appointment was for 2 p.m., but I didn’t get called from the waiting room until well after 3. Dave was able to catch some zzz’s, which looked like this:

Remember MRI face? Well, after his nap, Dave had Waiting Room Face.

Apparently, Dr. Schlund, the one who wrote my MRI report and the one I was scheduled with for biopsy that day, is in high demand. Dr. Mazj and Dr. Schrader both said he was quite gifted. He struck me as very cerebral and very gentle. He also said kind things about Doctors Mazj and Schrader. He said he has worked in the eastern states, in southern California, and all points in between, and he has never seen such a fortunate collection of experts all in one area. It was very high praise, and on the one hand it made me feel blessed to be having canser here in Chico, and on the other hand, it made me wonder if all this talking each other up is just a professional courtesy or doctors' code in order to boost patient confidence and so forth. In any case, they all seem to like each other very much.

Well, Dr. Schlund did his biopsies. Carene the sonographer and Jennifer the nurse were again in attendance, and I did receive my sublingual dose of relaxation, but it didn’t seem to have the same magic as it did last time.

Here I am all perky (well, psychologically at least) before it began to take effect:

And here I am after I endured prodding and poking and pressing that defies relaxation pills:

The smile is because I'm happy it's over.

Here is the place to which my mind had to escape while “pressure” was being applied to stop the bleeding. That's a favorite stretch of beach along the Fort Bragg coast and the bicycles that take us there.

It didn’t work. The escape, I mean. The “pressure” did its job in spades.

Gentlemen, imagine having an anvil pressed onto your ball sac and then remaining under it for 10 minutes. Actually I have no clue if the comparison between men's boys and women's girls is an accurate one. Let's just say it hurt like a sonofamother and leave it at that.

Here is my favorite take on the medical community’s definition of “pressure.”

What we learned from Dr. Schlund is that there might not be node involvement after all. After several avid and thorough looks at my nodes under ultrasound, Dr. Schlund used words like ‘unimpressive’ and ‘not very interesting.’ He even went to the control room to take another look at the MRI and then came back to check again. He ended up saying he would not want to create useless information, which I later learned meant he would not want to biopsy a node that comes back negative for canser when that might not be the case for all of the nodes. He decided to leave the main node (that had been considered suspicious before) alone in favor of full dissection of it at the time of surgery. He did, however, decide to biopsy a node above my collarbone, since that one will not be accessible during surgery.

On the left breast, he found nothing under sonogram to substantiate concerns over the area that spoke up during MRI. But believe me, it was not for lack of searching. He did decide to biopsy a white striation which he called “architectural landscape,” and did it for the purpose of “confirming that it’s benign.”

Rebellion

A titanium clip was added to my collection, and then further mammogram was done to confirm its location. Because I was the last patient in the building, Dave was permitted to accompany me into the mammogram room. But he was not permitted to take the following picture, which I am including only for its rebellion value. 

Me, in my plexiglass prison.

I guess the world is not supposed to see how messed up a notion the mammogram is. We're just supposed to view it with limited knowledge, fear and a sense of obligation. See the angle and placement of that blurred boobage? Tell me that's not messed up! No matter. I'm grateful for the messedup-ness that are life-saving mammograms.

So, I have a very sore left breast and an even sorer right shoulder muscle. But, for the first time, it seems like the news is positive. There might not be node involvement, in which case I would undergo surgery first, and chemo later. No one has mentioned radiation.

Today (Thursday) is the day I will find out definitely about all the big ifs and buts. 



In the comments section below, let's talk about your big but!

Gratitude
Before I sign off, I want to thank all of you who have donated to my friend Cici's Avon Walk. You are amazing and I'm so grateful for your generosity. I have to say that it is awkward for me to be the recipient of so much tribute---poems, charitable donations of time and money, service, generous gifts. I definitely do not feel worthy of it. But I'll take it, if it accompanies and fuels my fight against canser. I'm so thankful to you all---poets, cheerleaders, walkers, donors, pray-ers and laughers. 

Ta-ta for now! (.)(.)