Chemo 2, Blood 2

We have been told that the way you react to the first chemo is a reliable indicator of how you’ll react to subsequent treatments. We were also told that, for a woman, the way you experienced morning sickness is a reliable metric for how chemo will affect you. Sure enough, this turned out to be the case. Mary Rose had her second chemo on Thursday, February 28. The anti-nausea drug they administered before the treatment and the one she has at home kept any overt nausea at bay. A few days of mild queasiness, some fatigue, some sensitivity to smell, and by the following Tuesday she was very much herself. Between time in the office and working remotely from home she is still putting in full time hours. The life of our household continues very much as usual. Welcome to the new normal.

Her hair in its current, very cute, pixie iteration is still pretty much intact. Thinning, falling out by the day, but at the moment it just looks short and saucy and still fairly even overall. I on the other hand took the plunge last Sunday, and with the help of my good friend (and licensed cosmetologist) James Herrera, in a gesture of solidarity with my dear wife, shaved my head. You’ll notice that there is no picture of the aftermath included here. Vanity will not allow. Besides, my mother is very upset by the notion of her youngest, her baby, being bald. Intimations of what we can only imagine. So, the bottom line is Mary Rose looks very cute and saucy and I look like a soccer hooligan. Fair enough. The least I can do.

We have begun to settle in to the treatment schedule. We calculate the date of the last chemo, the interim before surgery, surgery itself, the six weeks of radiation to follow. We can look ahead to the completion of treatment sometime around the beginning of August. We just can’t change it, compress it, alter it in any way. It’s a curious thing, being locked into it like that, no room for maneuver. Like being in a tunnel. You can see the point of light ahead, you’re grateful for it, but you just can’t get there fast enough.

By the time blood work rolls around again, one week after chemo, she is very much on the upswing as far as energy, appetite and activity. Her white count was 2.6; like before, where they expected it to be and poised to rebound. And so we start another “good week”, the second half of the two-week chemo cycle; days so close to normal you can almost allow yourself to ignore the intruder. I served the girls breakfast in bed this morning (a new Saturday ritual) before they drove off for their busy day of dance class, library and sundry errands. We have a micro-date this afternoon while Oona goes to a splash party, my naked pate and the wig of her choice on the town!

Before the last chemo Mary Rose was examined by the oncologist, Dr Niegowska, who said she could feel that the tumor had started to soften and shrink, clearly responding to the drugs. Encouraging news, confirming what we have believed since treatment began. Every day there is less cancer than the day before. Every day we move forward. Every day is its own little victory, and a blessing.

(posted by James on 3.8.08)

What’s That On Your Head?

(Recommended listening to go with this post: Wig by the B-52’s. Obscure, but worth the search. I found it on YouTube with a very saucy video attached to it. You have been warned.)

The loss of hair is imminent, so this week has been all about the wig. Mary Rose began the process of preparing for hair loss a couple of weeks ago by letting Oona cut her hair to a chin-length bob (her stylist evened things out later.) She felt good about giving Oona a measure of control over the transition to come, and Oona of course thought it was simply a blast.

Mary Rose looked fantastic with this cut, as you can see, and she’s been feeling pretty good as well. So much so that we have both felt a bit of a disconnect when thinking about the hair loss. She looks and feels so much like her usual self that it seems almost odd to suffer such a dramatic side effect. But from what we’ve been told, sometime right after treatment 2 is when the hair is going to go, so wig shopping we went.

Rather than just waiting for her hair to fall out as is or going to the other extreme of preemptively shaving her head, the salon staff recommended that she cut her hair very short as a final step; less to fall out when it does and she still avoids the discomfort of shaving. So we go from Bob to Pixie:

And of course, she is stunning once again. This cut we consider a preview; months from now, before the year is out and her hair is growing back again we will see this look return.

But to the wigs. Practical considerations aside, there is an irresistible element of playing dress up to all this. Which is why, with just a bit of urging from her husband, Mary Rose ended up trying on a wig I call the Bond Villianess:

It works. Admit it. Don’t take my word for it either. A few people who got a sneak preview of this one agreed that if anyone could pull it off, Mary Rose could. Such a wig necessitates major wardrobe modifications, however: leather jumpsuits, thigh-high boots, concealed weapons, etc. A dangerous beauty indeed.

The primary need though is for a practical wig; one that is as close as possible to the hair she leaves behind, that serves her well at work and at home, and that, as she puts it, “makes everybody else comfortable.” And so she settled on this one:

A great choice. So subtle, such a natural fit for her that you’d be hard pressed to tell it’s a wig at all. And so the practical need is satisfied. But our wig adventure does not end here.

Because she wanted to, because insurance will cover it, and because why the hell not, she got another wig. This is the fun wig. The play wig. The wig that gives a big, fabulous middle finger to cancer. The wig that will go on dates. The wig as armor against the indignities of the disease. The wig as metaphor for hope and defiance. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Red Fire:

Take a minute to catch your breath. It took me a few. Stunning, yes?

We took it out for a little test drive this morning, walking from the salon to a little breakfast place across the street, The Bayou Kitchen. She was the picture of glamour in her flowing red locks, her white parka and her big sunglasses. I said to the waitress, “Isn’t my wife smokin’ hot?” and she heartily agreed. On the rack of hot sauces I found this particular bottle that sums up a lot. I will let it speak for itself:

(posted by James on 2.29.08)

Blood Work

The important news first. Mary Rose got carded the other day. Yes, you read that right. She gave the checkout girl every opportunity to take a good look and reconsider, but she insisted. So Mary Rose had to scoot back out to the car and get her license. 47 years old, fighting cancer, just days after her first chemo treatment, and she gets carded. Amazing. The supermarket we usually go to has a longstanding policy that if you look like you might be under 30 you have to show ID to buy alcohol. Mary Rose and I had a long-running contest to see who would be the last one of us to ever get carded. I have long since surrendered.

A fairly normal week since Chemo 1. A bit of low-level quesiness for a few days after, appetite a bit sketchy, but nothing dramatic. She has been up and off to work most days since, working from home for a couple of days as well. We went into the oncolgy clinic at Mercy for her blood work yesterday. This will be the cycle throughout her treatment: chemo one week, blood work the next, then chemo again the following week. The primary purpose of the blood work is to check her white cell count. Chemo kills fast-growing cells, but it does not discriminate. Cancer cells, hair cells, white blood cells–if you’re a fast-growing cell you are under attack. Her white cell count was 2.3 (5-10 is normal); low, but pretty much what they expected and not dangerouly low by any means. So far, so good. The clinic was quiet. One other patient was there for blood work as well, the proprietor of a bookstore that sponsored readings I was involved with in the past. He and Mary Rose shared war stories. I paced the floor, unable to sit, as usual; something in me still unwilling to physically acknowledge that I am really there, that this is really happening.

They expect that her white count will rebound by next week, before chemo 2. No reason to assume otherwise. That’s the pattern for the next few months: she takes a hit, she rebounds, she takes another hit. Meanwhile, life goes on in the new normal. We go wig shopping on Tuesday. I’m sure she will pick something tasteful and fairly similar to the very fetching short style she’s sporting now. I say go bold: spiky blond, bright flowing red, something that shouts, “Fuck you, cancer. I’m fabulous!”

(posted by James, 2.22.08)

Chemo 1

Mary Rose had her first chemotherapy treatment on Wednesday, February 13; 23 days after her initial diagnosis. I am told that it was a quick initiation of treatment from the time the cancer was found. To us, it seemed like an eternity.

The onocolgy clinic at Mercy Hospital is typical, I gather, of such facilities: 10 recliner chairs with an IV apparatus next to each. Small tv’s on extending arms. It’s on the 4th foor of the hospital, in a large room with windows looking east. From there you can see most of downtown Portland, the harbor and the islands in the bay. Pleasant enough as far as such places go I suppose.

Every component of the treatment is given intraveneously through a mediport she had implanted in her chest a few days earlier. The session begins with some blood being drawn to establish a baseline for white cell, red cell and platelet counts. Then she is given Aloxi, an anti-naseau medication. The two chemotherapy drugs are Cytoxan and Adriamycin. I was a bit taken aback by the delivery method. I had assumed everything would be on a typical IV drip (as it is for many types of chemo). The drugs are actually manually injected by the oncology into the mediport using a very large syringe, almost 2 inches in diameter and 5 inches long. Fascinating and disturbing to watch. A steriod is also injected to, among other things, help the anti-naseau medication. Saline flushes the port at each interval. The whole process took about an hour and a half.

We were told that whatever naseau there might be would hit 6 to 12 hours after the treatment. We waited with some trepidation to see what reaction the night would bring. Another leap in a series of leaps into the unknown. She experienced only the slightest bit of naseau in the night, something comparable to a low-level morning sickness. The next morning she was up and dressed, out the door and off to work like any other day. I watched all this in awe, something I’ve been feeling a lot lately.

The next day we stopped by the clinic briefly for an injection to help keep her white blood cell count up. Something that they say supercharges the bone marrow. Possible side effect: an aching feeling in the bones. She felt very little of that.

Three days on and so far, so good. Energy and appetite holding up fairly well. She splits her work time roughly in half bewteen the office and logging in from home. Life goes on very close to normal at the end of what has been truly one hell of a week. I’ve started calling her Supergirl. We had a fine Valentine’s Day. Roses, chocolate, champagne and the promise of many more Valentine’s to come.

(posted by James, 2.16.08)

Diagnosis

Mary Rose has breast cancer. But not for long.

She was officially diagnosed on Thursday, January 24th, confirming the results of an ultrasound on the 21st and a biopsy on the 23rd. Invasive ductal carcinoma, stage 3.

She first felt something suspicious in her right breast back in March of 2007; not a lump, but more of firmness or thickening in the muscle. An examination and mammogram in the spring turned up nothing. “Go, enjoy life!” were her doctor’s exact words. But the feeling persisted and she was reluctant to simply ascribe it to age, hormones or life change. A mammogram in June and a physical in July revealed nothing, and soon we were caught up in all of the end of year events: back-to-school, wedding, birthday, holidays, etc. By January, what she was feeling seemed a bit more pronounced, and Mary Rose went in for another exam. Again, the results revealed nothing, but she was at last referred (non-urgently) to a specialist, Dr Marta Quijano at the Breast Center of Mercy Hospital here in Portland. Dr Quijano could see a minor distortion on the breast and ordered a mammogram which again showed nothing, so she then ordered the ultrasound. That ultrasound on January 21st showed a mass of at least 3cm. That was the day we first heard those words, those unbelievable words that upend your whole life: “They found something.”

Things moved quickly from that day forward. By that Friday Mary Rose was having surgery to examine the adjacent lymph nodes. The cancer had spread to the sentinel node, and we would later learn that it was found in 8 of 12 nodes removed at the time. The blood work and x-ray taken that day looked good, but the cancer had spread at least that far, and we were still facing that dreadful question, had it spread further?

The next two weeks were all about testing. PET scan, CT scan, bone scan, MRI, EKG, ultrasound. Searching and waiting, searching and waiting, and beginning to spread the news. Living with the fear of the worst case scenario, and yet, between procedures, living in a fairly normal manner; the mind ricocheting between the dreadful and the mundane.

On Monday, February 11th we met with the oncologist, Dr Anna Niegowska. Before she had even sat down she said, “I have good news.” All the test results were good. The cancer had not spread. The sense of relief we felt was something akin to a blessing.

So now we begin the journey of treatment and recovery. The road ahead is rough–chemo, surgery and radiation over about 6 months–but we are confident of the outcome. As we enter this new phase of our life we want to thank all of you who have kept us in your thoughts and prayers. They truly make a difference, and we are very grateful.