It was nice to get a break from cancer Hell yesterday. My Matron-of-Honor, Jen, and I met at Foxwoods Casino for the day and talked and ate and gambled. I even won $300 in Bingo! But instead of heading to a nice, cozy hotel room when we were tired and ready to leave, I had to get in the car and make the three hour drive home at 11:00 PM. I know it would've been easier to stay, but I couldn't. One free day was all I had.
Another doctor would be waiting for me in the morning.
After barely four hours of rest, I stumbled out of bed and stood in the shower trying to wash the exhaustion from my eyes. I can't remember the last time I had a full night's sleep. Either I'm up all night worrying, or I'm jolted into consciousness too early from the panic attacks.
I yawned as I blew my hair dry and made sure Jimmi was awake so we wouldn't be late. It was 8:00 in the morning, and I needed to be at my appointment at Sloan-Kettering in New York City by 10:45. I'm actually only an hour from the city, but between rush hour and normal city traffic, you never know how long it will take. We were in the car by 8:40, and hoped two hours would be enough.
Sex therapist.
I never thought I'd need to see a sex therapist. I don't have a problem. I don't have any complaints. There's nothing wrong. I mean there's nothing wrong yet. But there will be.
We managed to get to the appointment barely five minutes late. Not too bad. But upon announcing myself to the receptionist, I was told to head down to Financial on the third floor because he couldn't sign me in until they saw me.
Are you kidding?
Back down we went. I gave my name and was told to have a seat. Twenty minutes later, I hear, "Ms. Paragano?" I hopped to my feet to meet the face that belonged to the voice. "Ok, you can go to your appointment on the 6th floor now."
What?
"That's it? I was just there and they sent me down here."
"Yeah, I just needed to approve you before you could check in."
Honestly, I was so angry. I was now 30 minutes late for my appointment with Dr. Carter, Sex Guru, just so a woman in the financial department could keep me waiting forever to do absolutely nothing. I didn't even have to fill out paperwork!
For the second time in a half hour, we stepped off the elevator onto the 6th floor. Dr. Carter took us into her office right away. She was a tall, thin woman with long, blonde hair and a gentle face. I liked her immediately. She handed me a questionnaire to fill out at some point before leaving the office, and I quickly glanced at the writing. "In the last month, how satisfied have you been with sexual intercourse?" "Do you have difficulty getting sexually aroused?" "Do you have pain during or after intercourse?" Should be a fun little quiz. I'll save that for later.
"So," Dr. Carter started, "I see you're having a radical hysterectomy, including removal of the ovaries?" I nodded. "And you've already retrieved eggs for the future?" Another nod. "And you'll need chemo and radiation therapy?" A third nod. "That's a lot to deal with in a short time. Anything else?" "Yeah," I said with a forced smile, "We're getting married in less than three months. Great timing, huh?" Her smile turned to sympathy then back to a smile. "So how do you feel about everything that's going on right now? Are you ok?"
I couldn't speak. I just shook my head.
"No, not at all."
"I'm sure. It's not going to be easy. What have you heard about what your sex life will be like after surgery and radiation?" She asked bluntly.
It took me a few minutes to get the words out because my friend, the lump, was strangling my voice. As Dr. Carter waited, she searched her closet for a box of tissues which she promptly found and placed in front of me.
"I've heard it's gonna suck and I'll need to wear a dilator forever and it'll never feel good again." I grabbed a handful of tissues and pressed under my eyes so I could save whatever makeup was left on my lids. She looked a little stunned and a bit puzzled.
"Who told you that? Did you read it online? You know they only put the horror stories online, right? People who have problems want to tell the world, but the ones who don't have any issues have nothing to say."
Jimmi jumped in, "That's what I've been trying to tell her! She doesn't listen to me!"
I wiped my nose. "But Dr. Sidebotham said sex would be just bearable. She said I'd find a happy medium."
"It will be different," Dr. Carter assured me, "but different doesn't have to mean bad. If you take the right steps and use the tools we give you, you can have a very successful sexual relationship."
Tools? What tools?
"The first thing you need to know is the difference between moisturizer and lubrication. You can lubricate all you want during sex, and it will make everything slippery and fun, but unless you moisturize, you're not helping the tissues to stretch. Because you're having your ovaries removed, you won't have the hormones that normally keep the vaginal walls moist. If the walls are dry, they won't stretch and sex will be uncomfortable. We suggest you use a moisturizing suppository at bedtime 3-5 times per week to keep things from getting dry."
Ok. Nighttime routine: Brush teeth. Wash face. Moisturize face. Moisturize hands. Moisturize vagina?? I suppose I can squeeze that in. No pun intended.
"Also, you don't wear the dilator. You use it for about 15 minutes every other night." I think she saw the confusion on my face. "Would you like to see what a dilator looks like? Sometimes it helps and makes it a little less scary."
As Dr. Carter reached back into her closet, I peeked over at Jimmi who looked like he would rather have been anywhere else but in that room. It's not that he wasn't interested in what she had to say, he just attaches a weird stigma to therapists of any kind. He's fine with medical doctors, but psychologists are not his thing.
I looked back at Dr. Carter who was opening a pink and white box to reveal what looked like a medium-sized makeup bag. She unzipped it and pulled out four white cylinders in four different sizes: small, medium, large and OH MY GOD!
Dr. Carter held them up and explained, "When a radical hysterectomy is performed, the top part of your vagina is removed. It's not much, but some women can feel the shortening during intercourse. The main problem occurs after radiation when the tissues really shrink down. The area needs to be stretched in all directions. You'll start with the smallest one, add some lubrication, insert it as far as it will go, then tighten the vaginal muscles around it, then release them. You'll do that a few times until you can push it in a little deeper, then do it again. You can also move it around to stretch the area in all directions. Once you've gotten used to the smallest one, you'll move up a size. Then you'll do the same thing with the next size up, and so on. In time, if you do it every other day, you shouldn't have any discomfort during intercourse."
I looked at the medical dildos she was holding in front of me. I eyed each one, pointed to the OH MY GOD size, glanced at Jimmi, and said with a smirk, "I don't think I'll need that one."
Jimmi's jaw dropped, "You see what I have to deal with?" Dr. Carter laughed with us and joked, "Hey, it's always better to over-stretch!"
Dr. Carter gave me a few more handouts and booklets to go with the pile I have accumulating at home. A few about the surgery, a bunch about radiation, a packet about chemotherapy and random extras from here and there. I wondered when I'd have a free minute to read them all.
"Look, this is not going to be fun. I can empathize with you, but I can't tell you I know what you're going through, because I don't. I'm sure you have more on your plate than you think you can handle. We're all here to help you. Call anyone on your team if you have any questions. We'll get you through it."
She wished us luck and we headed out into the waiting room where I sat and finished the paperwork about all things sexual. I felt a tinge of sadness each time I checked a box the said "Completely Satisfied" because I know that statement will never be true again.
And here I sit in the final countdown. In five days, my life will change forever. I'll have no choice but to live with it. I really hope Jimmi can do the same.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
It's Over. Period.
I got my period today.
Yes, I realize this is not a topic most people would openly want to discuss, nor is it a topic most people would want to read about, but this period is different.
It will be my last period.
Ever.
From the moment a little girl learns about what will happen to her body during puberty, the question instantly arises, "When will I get my first period?" Girls wonder how old they'll be when it happens, if they'll be the first or last of their friends to get it, if it will happen at a totally inopportune moment, what it will feel like, and countless other thoughts that come with the process of growing up. But the one thing each little girl knows for sure.
When I get my period, I'll be a woman.
But then everything changes. The first time might be scary or exciting or embarrassing, but once those feelings inevitably go away, the dread of the monthly bill sets in. It soon becomes: I hope I don't have my period that weekend. Ugh! I just got my period. I can't fit into any of my jeans. I'm so bloated! I have cramps. I can't stop eating! I need sugar...and salt! Why am I crying? I'm so cranky! My skin is a mess! The complaints are endless.
Women wonder why they have to go through this horrendous ritual each month, when men don't have to deal with anything even close. We dream of a way to turn off our period until the time when we actually need it because we want to have a baby. Even the makers of some birth control pills have come up with ways to stop periods all together while on the pill. The point is clear. After the first time or two, women do not want to deal with a period. It's nothing but a pain in the ass!
Then why am I so sad?
Shouldn't I shouting with glee about the fact that I'll never need to worry about cramps and irritability ruining a special occasion? Shouldn't I be thrilled that I won't need to waste room in a suitcase with 500 tampons and pads instead of an extra pair of shoes? Shouldn't I be stoked that I'll never have to worry about having morning sickness or getting stretch marks again?
Maybe I should be. But I'm not.
I'm not ready for this.
Most women start to go through menopause sometime in their mid to late 40s. It starts gradually, and gives your body and mind time to adjust and accept what's going to happen. But not me. Nope. At the ripe old age of 36, my womanhood is being forcefully ripped from my gut and tossed away with a label marked "defective". I don't have the luxury of time to get used to it. There was no warning. One day I was young and healthy, and the next day my body was being taken over by an enemy army looking for a fight to the death.
In one week from today, it'll be over. The enemy army will be removed, along with my precious fighting grounds. There's nothing I can do. There are no choices to be made. If I do nothing, I'll die.
Right now, I'm typing through a fog. My keyboard is wet with saltwater tears and I can't control my trembling lip. Everyone keeps telling me how strong I am, and each time I hear it, I laugh. Strong? You think I'm strong?
I'm not strong.
I've just been thrown into a situation that leaves me no other options. I'm just doing what I'm told. It's not strength, it's submission. It's not a determination, it's obedience.
A period is usually used to mark an end. Today is no different. Today, my period marks the end of my life as a complete woman.
Yes, I realize this is not a topic most people would openly want to discuss, nor is it a topic most people would want to read about, but this period is different.
It will be my last period.
Ever.
From the moment a little girl learns about what will happen to her body during puberty, the question instantly arises, "When will I get my first period?" Girls wonder how old they'll be when it happens, if they'll be the first or last of their friends to get it, if it will happen at a totally inopportune moment, what it will feel like, and countless other thoughts that come with the process of growing up. But the one thing each little girl knows for sure.
When I get my period, I'll be a woman.
But then everything changes. The first time might be scary or exciting or embarrassing, but once those feelings inevitably go away, the dread of the monthly bill sets in. It soon becomes: I hope I don't have my period that weekend. Ugh! I just got my period. I can't fit into any of my jeans. I'm so bloated! I have cramps. I can't stop eating! I need sugar...and salt! Why am I crying? I'm so cranky! My skin is a mess! The complaints are endless.
Women wonder why they have to go through this horrendous ritual each month, when men don't have to deal with anything even close. We dream of a way to turn off our period until the time when we actually need it because we want to have a baby. Even the makers of some birth control pills have come up with ways to stop periods all together while on the pill. The point is clear. After the first time or two, women do not want to deal with a period. It's nothing but a pain in the ass!
Then why am I so sad?
Shouldn't I shouting with glee about the fact that I'll never need to worry about cramps and irritability ruining a special occasion? Shouldn't I be thrilled that I won't need to waste room in a suitcase with 500 tampons and pads instead of an extra pair of shoes? Shouldn't I be stoked that I'll never have to worry about having morning sickness or getting stretch marks again?
Maybe I should be. But I'm not.
I'm not ready for this.
Most women start to go through menopause sometime in their mid to late 40s. It starts gradually, and gives your body and mind time to adjust and accept what's going to happen. But not me. Nope. At the ripe old age of 36, my womanhood is being forcefully ripped from my gut and tossed away with a label marked "defective". I don't have the luxury of time to get used to it. There was no warning. One day I was young and healthy, and the next day my body was being taken over by an enemy army looking for a fight to the death.
In one week from today, it'll be over. The enemy army will be removed, along with my precious fighting grounds. There's nothing I can do. There are no choices to be made. If I do nothing, I'll die.
Right now, I'm typing through a fog. My keyboard is wet with saltwater tears and I can't control my trembling lip. Everyone keeps telling me how strong I am, and each time I hear it, I laugh. Strong? You think I'm strong?
I'm not strong.
I've just been thrown into a situation that leaves me no other options. I'm just doing what I'm told. It's not strength, it's submission. It's not a determination, it's obedience.
A period is usually used to mark an end. Today is no different. Today, my period marks the end of my life as a complete woman.
I'm Radioactive
I went to a wedding with my mom yesterday. My dad wasn't able to be there, so I agreed to go in his place a few months ago. Why not? I love weddings! Besides, I wanted to compare her dress to mine and her flowers to mine and her band to mine, and all the other things future brides like to do.
But that was before.
As I was getting dressed, I was going over the upcoming week's activities in my head. PET scan, chemo consult, sex therapist (because I might not be able to do it anymore), brain MRI. Not really a normal schedule for a bride-to-be. I started to wonder how I would be able to look at a happy, healthy bride walking down the aisle today without losing my mind.
"You don't have to go," my mom soothed. "Everyone will understand." "No, I'll be ok," I lied. I thought about it for a minute. Even though the bride is my mom's cousin's daughter, I really didn't know her at all. Really, how emotional could I be?
My mom and I trekked into New York City and headed over to Chelsea Piers. Right before the ceremony started, the crowd filed into the ballroom to take our seats. "Let's sit in the back in case you need to leave," my mom thoughtfully suggested.
The groomsmen started the procession.
Shit.
My lip started quivering without my permission and I immediately felt that annoying lump slowly starting to rise up my throat. Then I felt the tingle of tears. I looked up at the ceiling and took a few deep breaths. Ok. I'm ok, I lied to myself again. In came the bridesmaids, and the ring bearer, and the flower girl. Here comes the bride.
Shit again.
More quivering. The lump broke free from its chains and made its way to its usual place in my throat. The faucet behind my eyes started leaking. I was powerless to stop any of it. Does anyone see me? I'm ruining my make-up. Maybe it'll pass as happy tears?
No way.
I was bawling. My shoulders were heaving with each sob. I forced myself to control the audible whimpering that wanted so desperately to escape.
Mom mom saw me.
She quickly handed me a tissue and rubbed my arm. "Ok. It's ok," she whispered. Luckily, the episode only lasted a few minutes. I managed to fight back and lock up the floodgates each time they tried to break during the ceremony. But as hard as it was, yesterday's emotional drainage wouldn't even compare to what I would be up against today.
At 9:30 this morning, Jimmi and I were on our way to Sloan-Kettering, our second home. First stop, PET scan, followed by a short lunch break, then a consultation with the chemo doctor to close the visit. As directed, we arrived at 10:00 for a 10:30 appointment. I filled out the necessary paperwork for the hundredth time, then sat and waited to be called. I handed my engagement ring to Jimmi because jewelry is a no no during these tests. "Don't lose it," I instructed with a grin.
"Ms. Paragano?"
"See ya!" I kissed him goodbye and followed a man named Roger down the hall. We soon left the MRI area and entered a zone with warning signs on every door. "Caution: Radioactive Materials" I read. Finally, we stopped at a door with the same warning sign hanging on it, but this time, we went inside. After checking my height, weight, spelling of my name and date of birth, Roger showed me into a small room consisting of only a chair and a sink. Roger explained that a nurse would be in shortly to start my IV and draw blood, then he or his partner would come back to give me a dose of a radioactive isotope that would dissolve over the next hour before my scan. The isotope has a lot of sugar in it. Since cancer cells metabolize faster than normal cells, sugar will bond to them and light up. That way, the doctors can see if there are any other areas of concern. Roger also needed me to drink more of the nasty contrast dye that I had for the CAT scan a few weeks ago because it makes things easier to see.
"Before I go, I just need to make sure that there's no chance you could be pregnant." Roger looked serious. "Well, I guess there's always a chance, but they're taking my uterus out next week, so does it really matter?" I crudely joked. Roger didn't even hint at a smile. "I need a definitive yes or no before we can perform this test." "Ok. Then no, I'm not pregnant." And he was off.
A few minutes later, the nurse came in. She asked if I preferred that she use one arm over the other. I held out my right arm, "I only have one vein. It's pretty beat up, but look," I held out my left arm, "It's really the only one I've got." After careful consideration, she agreed. She wrapped the tourniquet around my right arm and started tapping on my sad, little vein. "You also have some scar tissue building up in here. It might make it even harder." Awesome. Hooray for me!
She was able to stick me without too much trouble. She drew blood and tested my sugar levels which were at 93. "What's normal?" I asked. "Between 80 and 100 is good." Yippee! Something good!! She left the IV in my arm to wait for my radioactive isotope, and then she disappeared.
Moments later, Roger's partner appeared with a very official looking lead box. He placed it carefully on the table, but didn't open it yet. Wow. This stuff must be pretty dangerous. I feel so safe and warm having them inject it into my body when they won't even carry the syringe without protection.
Roger's partner spoke, "Is there any chance you might be pregnant?" I skipped my joke this time, and went right for the "no". He then explained that I will actually be radioactive for a while after the injection. I would be given a card to carry in case I traveled anywhere today because I might set off terrorist alerts in tunnels or airports. Nice. Also, I shouldn't be around pregnant women, infants or small children for long periods of time for the rest of the day. "What about my own kids? They're 10 and 8." He thought about it. "Don't hug or kiss them, don't let them sit on your lap and don't sit next to them." It'll be fun explaining that to them. Super duper!
Then he slipped on some gloves and opened the lead box. It was like watching an action movie where the terrorist has a nuclear weapon or a chemical containing a deadly virus tucked away in a special case, and then he slowly opens it so the camera can get a glimpse. When the box was opened, all I saw was more lead. This time, it was a lead cylinder surrounded by foam padding. The tech carefully lifted the cylinder out of it's bed and exposed just a small amount of a syringe contained inside. He checked the label and slid it back into its protective holder. Then, he took the entire cylinder with the syringe inside and hooked it to the IV in my arm. Very cautiously, he emptied the contents into my vein, then quickly placed the cylinder back into its cozy cradle and closed and locked the box. "That's it?" I asked. "Yes. Now you need to wait an hour and we'll be back to get you. Be sure to drink the contrast dye while you wait."
Ok. I'm radioactive. I wonder if I'll glow in the dark? Why is it ok to be around adults, but not kids? How can they be so careful not to come into contact with the super dangerous material, but it's safe to shoot it into my body? Why do I have to do this? Why is this happening to me?
The next hour dragged on. I kept busy by texting Jimmi, who was in the waiting room with my mom, who had arrived five minutes after they took me into the room. The magazines sucked and the room was freezing. I tried not the think. I just drank my stupid red concoction from Hell and waited.
Finally it was test time.
I got on the table and was told to lie still. It was becoming routine, at this point. The bed would move every three minutes for a new angle, and in 21 minutes, I'd be done. I didn't look at the tube behind me. It's better when I don't see where I'm headed. Or maybe that's all in my mind.
The bed started to move me back and I closed my eyes. The first 10 minutes were filled with questions. I wondered what I had done to deserve this. I wondered if I'd be able to get married. I wondered how I would feel after my surgery next week. I wondered if the treatments would be as bad as I thought. I wondered what sex would be like once this is all done. Would there even be sex?
Stop!
You're in a tanning bed. Yes, that's what it feels like. A tanning bed in a tanning salon. It sounds the same. It feels the same, minus the heat. Yes, I'll just pretend. I'm gonna be a bronzed beauty when I get out of here! Just relax and it'll be over soon.
"We're done. Hold still and we'll get you out of there."
It worked!
I joined my mom and Jimmi back in the waiting room at 12:15. My next appointment with the chemo doctor wasn't until 1:40, but I figured I'd check if she could take me earlier. As the doors of the elevator opened to take us to the next floor, my eyes fixed on a woman standing in front of me. She was wearing blue, latex gloves and a blue medical mask. He hair was thin and her eyes were deep. My stomach turned.
That will be me. In one month, that will be me.
The receptionist told us we could wait and see if the doctor could take us sooner, or we could go have lunch and come back at my scheduled time. Since I wasn't allowed to eat before my scan, food sounded better than a waiting room, so we headed to Panera.
There were so many babies and kids at Panera! I was scared to go near any of them for fear of hurting them with the radioactive aura surrounding me. What am I gonna do when I see my own kids?
After a quick lunch, we headed back to see Dr. Gorsky. The chemo consult was the one I feared most. Though, I'm not too sure how much worse it could get. I already know I'm gonna be puking and bald. Is there more? Maybe she'll tell me there's no way I can get married. Maybe she'll put an end to all the hope in my heart. I don't want to do this. Why do I have to do this?
I was called in at about 1:50 by a very sweet nurse named Nikki. She weighed me and took my temperature and blood pressure. We talked while she worked and I told her how nervous I was. "You'll be fine!" she assured me. "I'm getting married in three months. Will I still be fine?" She paused to think. "It's ok. You'll get there. You might become bridezilla along the way, but you'll get there." I liked her. A lot.
Nikki brought me to an exam room where Jimmi and my mom joined me. A nurse named Christine walked in to ask me some questions before the doctor arrived. As she turned, I noticed the close to 7 month pregnant bump she was carrying. "Wait! I can't be near you!" I blurted out. "Oh! You had a PET scan? Thank you for telling me!" And she quickly exited the room and found another nurse to take care of me. Wow. She's lucky I said something.
The nurse finished her questions - again with the "are you pregnant?" crap! Really, people, does it matter? Not like I'll be able to carry a baby without a uterus. It's outta there in ONE week! She left the room saying that Dr. Gorsky would be right in. That was at 2:00.
At 2:40, I started getting antsy. I texted around to make arrangements for someone else to get the kids off the bus since I'd never make it in time. Finally, at about 3:00, Dr. Gorsky came in apologizing for keeping us waiting, but she had an emergency to deal with.
She started by saying that she knows I've been over it 1000 times, but she wants to make sure she has the details correct. We went over my diagnosis and everything leading up to it. She asked if we had taken care of fertility preservation and I told her we had 12 frozen embryos. Then she explained that my cancer cells had started to invade my lymphatic system, which is really why I need chemo. "I've heard that before," I said. "But what does it mean?" "It means that your cancer has figured out how to break through barriers and walls of the blood vessels making it easier to go to other organs. This is why we don't know if any cells have gotten out and might be hiding. The chemo is just a precaution to make sure we get all the cells."
A precaution? Pretty brutal treatment for something that might not even be there, don't you think?
I would receive my chemo in conjunction with the radiation. We would wait for the radiation prep to be done, then start everything on the same day. I would be getting a combination of two medicines for my chemo treatment, Cisplatin and Etoposide. There would be a total of 3 or 4 (I can't remember) cycles consisting of three treatments per week every three weeks. The first day of each cycle will be a long one because I'll need my radiation treatment in the morning, then I'll get both chemo medications and IV fluids at the same time. I'll be there for hours. The other two day of the week will be shorter because it will only be one medication, but they'll still want to give me IV fluids and medications to combat the nausea, which I'm sure to feel.
"I hate throwing up. How do we make sure I don't?" I begged. "Well, you'll probably be ok on treatment days because we'll give you the fluids. It's days 4 and 5 of the cycle when you might be sick because you won't be here. If there's a problem, come back and we'll try to mange it. If one drug doesn't work, there's always another one."
Then she went over the other side effects. Fatigue. That will be cumulative. The longer I go, the more tired I'll get. Plus, the radiation will double it. The chemo will cause diarrhea, but so will the radiation. But the ant-nausea drugs will cause constipation. I might have tingling in my fingers and toes, my tastes will change, I might develop hearing loss, we've already mentioned the nausea and vomiting, and then there's the hair loss.
"Might I suggest that you cut your hair short? It's very traumatic for someone with such beautiful, long hair to start to lose it." You mean this entire situation hasn't been traumatic already?
"No. I wont' do it."
"It might be easier for you."
"No. I don't do short hair. Cutting it won't be any better than losing it. I'll wait until it starts to fall out and I'll deal with it then."
"Ok. Whatever you think is best. Do you have any other questions?"
"Yes...Can you please get me to my wedding?"
She paused for a breath. "I can probably get you there, but I don't know what state you'll be in." I tried anything, "Can you stagger the treatments so the start of a new cycle is right after the wedding? That way I'll be at the end of the cycle before when I actually get married, so I might be ok." "Yes, I can try to work with you on that, but your hair will be gone." "And I already ordered a wig." Next detail??
She agreed to try and work it out and suggested I come see her two weeks after my surgery to reevaluate the situation. I thanked her and we left for the day.
When I got home, the kids were here with their dad who came to relieve our babysitter who needed to leave for an exam. I thanked him for coming over and got to work getting the kids ready for an event my dad was throwing tonight.
"Listen, guys," I told them. "I can't really get too close to you today because I had a test and they made me radioactive." Dylan poked his head out from behind the shower curtain. "Will you glow in the dark?" he asked. "No, buddy. Sorry."
We finished dressing up, though I was in no mood, and off we went. We arrived and went up the stairs to a banquet room with a gorgeous view of New York City. The day was crystal clear, and we could see every building in the skyline.
But then it started.
Family members others I hadn't seen in years kept walking up to me with that sympathetic look on their faces. All of them meaning well. All of them offering support. But I didn't want to talk about it. My kids are here. I don't want to cry. I want to talk about something else. Anything else. I smiled and thanked them for their well-wishes and prayers, and I meant it. I appreciate every one of them. I just wanted a night without cancer.
My dad has always been close to a group of priests and sisters in our area who were also at the dinner tonight. I greeted them, and was instantly in the arms of Sister Chelsea who begged me to let her pray over me. I agreed, and she whisked me off to a chair in the hallway, out of the way of the crowd. She put both hands on my head and gave and emotional and heartfelt prayer asking God to take away the devils that are making me sick. When she was done, she told me she knew I would be ok. Then she said something that threw me a bit. "Your daddy told me about you and he cried. I haven't seen him cry. A man who is so strong, and he cried."
I thanked her for the prayer and started back to my table. I ran into my dad along the way. I stopped and gave him a quick hug. He was very busy working the room, so I'm not sure he even noticed, but I needed to hug him.
Daddy, I'm so sorry I made you cry.
But that was before.
As I was getting dressed, I was going over the upcoming week's activities in my head. PET scan, chemo consult, sex therapist (because I might not be able to do it anymore), brain MRI. Not really a normal schedule for a bride-to-be. I started to wonder how I would be able to look at a happy, healthy bride walking down the aisle today without losing my mind.
"You don't have to go," my mom soothed. "Everyone will understand." "No, I'll be ok," I lied. I thought about it for a minute. Even though the bride is my mom's cousin's daughter, I really didn't know her at all. Really, how emotional could I be?
My mom and I trekked into New York City and headed over to Chelsea Piers. Right before the ceremony started, the crowd filed into the ballroom to take our seats. "Let's sit in the back in case you need to leave," my mom thoughtfully suggested.
The groomsmen started the procession.
Shit.
My lip started quivering without my permission and I immediately felt that annoying lump slowly starting to rise up my throat. Then I felt the tingle of tears. I looked up at the ceiling and took a few deep breaths. Ok. I'm ok, I lied to myself again. In came the bridesmaids, and the ring bearer, and the flower girl. Here comes the bride.
Shit again.
More quivering. The lump broke free from its chains and made its way to its usual place in my throat. The faucet behind my eyes started leaking. I was powerless to stop any of it. Does anyone see me? I'm ruining my make-up. Maybe it'll pass as happy tears?
No way.
I was bawling. My shoulders were heaving with each sob. I forced myself to control the audible whimpering that wanted so desperately to escape.
Mom mom saw me.
She quickly handed me a tissue and rubbed my arm. "Ok. It's ok," she whispered. Luckily, the episode only lasted a few minutes. I managed to fight back and lock up the floodgates each time they tried to break during the ceremony. But as hard as it was, yesterday's emotional drainage wouldn't even compare to what I would be up against today.
At 9:30 this morning, Jimmi and I were on our way to Sloan-Kettering, our second home. First stop, PET scan, followed by a short lunch break, then a consultation with the chemo doctor to close the visit. As directed, we arrived at 10:00 for a 10:30 appointment. I filled out the necessary paperwork for the hundredth time, then sat and waited to be called. I handed my engagement ring to Jimmi because jewelry is a no no during these tests. "Don't lose it," I instructed with a grin.
"Ms. Paragano?"
"See ya!" I kissed him goodbye and followed a man named Roger down the hall. We soon left the MRI area and entered a zone with warning signs on every door. "Caution: Radioactive Materials" I read. Finally, we stopped at a door with the same warning sign hanging on it, but this time, we went inside. After checking my height, weight, spelling of my name and date of birth, Roger showed me into a small room consisting of only a chair and a sink. Roger explained that a nurse would be in shortly to start my IV and draw blood, then he or his partner would come back to give me a dose of a radioactive isotope that would dissolve over the next hour before my scan. The isotope has a lot of sugar in it. Since cancer cells metabolize faster than normal cells, sugar will bond to them and light up. That way, the doctors can see if there are any other areas of concern. Roger also needed me to drink more of the nasty contrast dye that I had for the CAT scan a few weeks ago because it makes things easier to see.
"Before I go, I just need to make sure that there's no chance you could be pregnant." Roger looked serious. "Well, I guess there's always a chance, but they're taking my uterus out next week, so does it really matter?" I crudely joked. Roger didn't even hint at a smile. "I need a definitive yes or no before we can perform this test." "Ok. Then no, I'm not pregnant." And he was off.
A few minutes later, the nurse came in. She asked if I preferred that she use one arm over the other. I held out my right arm, "I only have one vein. It's pretty beat up, but look," I held out my left arm, "It's really the only one I've got." After careful consideration, she agreed. She wrapped the tourniquet around my right arm and started tapping on my sad, little vein. "You also have some scar tissue building up in here. It might make it even harder." Awesome. Hooray for me!
She was able to stick me without too much trouble. She drew blood and tested my sugar levels which were at 93. "What's normal?" I asked. "Between 80 and 100 is good." Yippee! Something good!! She left the IV in my arm to wait for my radioactive isotope, and then she disappeared.
Moments later, Roger's partner appeared with a very official looking lead box. He placed it carefully on the table, but didn't open it yet. Wow. This stuff must be pretty dangerous. I feel so safe and warm having them inject it into my body when they won't even carry the syringe without protection.
Roger's partner spoke, "Is there any chance you might be pregnant?" I skipped my joke this time, and went right for the "no". He then explained that I will actually be radioactive for a while after the injection. I would be given a card to carry in case I traveled anywhere today because I might set off terrorist alerts in tunnels or airports. Nice. Also, I shouldn't be around pregnant women, infants or small children for long periods of time for the rest of the day. "What about my own kids? They're 10 and 8." He thought about it. "Don't hug or kiss them, don't let them sit on your lap and don't sit next to them." It'll be fun explaining that to them. Super duper!
Then he slipped on some gloves and opened the lead box. It was like watching an action movie where the terrorist has a nuclear weapon or a chemical containing a deadly virus tucked away in a special case, and then he slowly opens it so the camera can get a glimpse. When the box was opened, all I saw was more lead. This time, it was a lead cylinder surrounded by foam padding. The tech carefully lifted the cylinder out of it's bed and exposed just a small amount of a syringe contained inside. He checked the label and slid it back into its protective holder. Then, he took the entire cylinder with the syringe inside and hooked it to the IV in my arm. Very cautiously, he emptied the contents into my vein, then quickly placed the cylinder back into its cozy cradle and closed and locked the box. "That's it?" I asked. "Yes. Now you need to wait an hour and we'll be back to get you. Be sure to drink the contrast dye while you wait."
Ok. I'm radioactive. I wonder if I'll glow in the dark? Why is it ok to be around adults, but not kids? How can they be so careful not to come into contact with the super dangerous material, but it's safe to shoot it into my body? Why do I have to do this? Why is this happening to me?
The next hour dragged on. I kept busy by texting Jimmi, who was in the waiting room with my mom, who had arrived five minutes after they took me into the room. The magazines sucked and the room was freezing. I tried not the think. I just drank my stupid red concoction from Hell and waited.
Finally it was test time.
I got on the table and was told to lie still. It was becoming routine, at this point. The bed would move every three minutes for a new angle, and in 21 minutes, I'd be done. I didn't look at the tube behind me. It's better when I don't see where I'm headed. Or maybe that's all in my mind.
The bed started to move me back and I closed my eyes. The first 10 minutes were filled with questions. I wondered what I had done to deserve this. I wondered if I'd be able to get married. I wondered how I would feel after my surgery next week. I wondered if the treatments would be as bad as I thought. I wondered what sex would be like once this is all done. Would there even be sex?
Stop!
You're in a tanning bed. Yes, that's what it feels like. A tanning bed in a tanning salon. It sounds the same. It feels the same, minus the heat. Yes, I'll just pretend. I'm gonna be a bronzed beauty when I get out of here! Just relax and it'll be over soon.
"We're done. Hold still and we'll get you out of there."
It worked!
I joined my mom and Jimmi back in the waiting room at 12:15. My next appointment with the chemo doctor wasn't until 1:40, but I figured I'd check if she could take me earlier. As the doors of the elevator opened to take us to the next floor, my eyes fixed on a woman standing in front of me. She was wearing blue, latex gloves and a blue medical mask. He hair was thin and her eyes were deep. My stomach turned.
That will be me. In one month, that will be me.
The receptionist told us we could wait and see if the doctor could take us sooner, or we could go have lunch and come back at my scheduled time. Since I wasn't allowed to eat before my scan, food sounded better than a waiting room, so we headed to Panera.
There were so many babies and kids at Panera! I was scared to go near any of them for fear of hurting them with the radioactive aura surrounding me. What am I gonna do when I see my own kids?
After a quick lunch, we headed back to see Dr. Gorsky. The chemo consult was the one I feared most. Though, I'm not too sure how much worse it could get. I already know I'm gonna be puking and bald. Is there more? Maybe she'll tell me there's no way I can get married. Maybe she'll put an end to all the hope in my heart. I don't want to do this. Why do I have to do this?
I was called in at about 1:50 by a very sweet nurse named Nikki. She weighed me and took my temperature and blood pressure. We talked while she worked and I told her how nervous I was. "You'll be fine!" she assured me. "I'm getting married in three months. Will I still be fine?" She paused to think. "It's ok. You'll get there. You might become bridezilla along the way, but you'll get there." I liked her. A lot.
Nikki brought me to an exam room where Jimmi and my mom joined me. A nurse named Christine walked in to ask me some questions before the doctor arrived. As she turned, I noticed the close to 7 month pregnant bump she was carrying. "Wait! I can't be near you!" I blurted out. "Oh! You had a PET scan? Thank you for telling me!" And she quickly exited the room and found another nurse to take care of me. Wow. She's lucky I said something.
The nurse finished her questions - again with the "are you pregnant?" crap! Really, people, does it matter? Not like I'll be able to carry a baby without a uterus. It's outta there in ONE week! She left the room saying that Dr. Gorsky would be right in. That was at 2:00.
At 2:40, I started getting antsy. I texted around to make arrangements for someone else to get the kids off the bus since I'd never make it in time. Finally, at about 3:00, Dr. Gorsky came in apologizing for keeping us waiting, but she had an emergency to deal with.
She started by saying that she knows I've been over it 1000 times, but she wants to make sure she has the details correct. We went over my diagnosis and everything leading up to it. She asked if we had taken care of fertility preservation and I told her we had 12 frozen embryos. Then she explained that my cancer cells had started to invade my lymphatic system, which is really why I need chemo. "I've heard that before," I said. "But what does it mean?" "It means that your cancer has figured out how to break through barriers and walls of the blood vessels making it easier to go to other organs. This is why we don't know if any cells have gotten out and might be hiding. The chemo is just a precaution to make sure we get all the cells."
A precaution? Pretty brutal treatment for something that might not even be there, don't you think?
I would receive my chemo in conjunction with the radiation. We would wait for the radiation prep to be done, then start everything on the same day. I would be getting a combination of two medicines for my chemo treatment, Cisplatin and Etoposide. There would be a total of 3 or 4 (I can't remember) cycles consisting of three treatments per week every three weeks. The first day of each cycle will be a long one because I'll need my radiation treatment in the morning, then I'll get both chemo medications and IV fluids at the same time. I'll be there for hours. The other two day of the week will be shorter because it will only be one medication, but they'll still want to give me IV fluids and medications to combat the nausea, which I'm sure to feel.
"I hate throwing up. How do we make sure I don't?" I begged. "Well, you'll probably be ok on treatment days because we'll give you the fluids. It's days 4 and 5 of the cycle when you might be sick because you won't be here. If there's a problem, come back and we'll try to mange it. If one drug doesn't work, there's always another one."
Then she went over the other side effects. Fatigue. That will be cumulative. The longer I go, the more tired I'll get. Plus, the radiation will double it. The chemo will cause diarrhea, but so will the radiation. But the ant-nausea drugs will cause constipation. I might have tingling in my fingers and toes, my tastes will change, I might develop hearing loss, we've already mentioned the nausea and vomiting, and then there's the hair loss.
"Might I suggest that you cut your hair short? It's very traumatic for someone with such beautiful, long hair to start to lose it." You mean this entire situation hasn't been traumatic already?
"No. I wont' do it."
"It might be easier for you."
"No. I don't do short hair. Cutting it won't be any better than losing it. I'll wait until it starts to fall out and I'll deal with it then."
"Ok. Whatever you think is best. Do you have any other questions?"
"Yes...Can you please get me to my wedding?"
She paused for a breath. "I can probably get you there, but I don't know what state you'll be in." I tried anything, "Can you stagger the treatments so the start of a new cycle is right after the wedding? That way I'll be at the end of the cycle before when I actually get married, so I might be ok." "Yes, I can try to work with you on that, but your hair will be gone." "And I already ordered a wig." Next detail??
She agreed to try and work it out and suggested I come see her two weeks after my surgery to reevaluate the situation. I thanked her and we left for the day.
When I got home, the kids were here with their dad who came to relieve our babysitter who needed to leave for an exam. I thanked him for coming over and got to work getting the kids ready for an event my dad was throwing tonight.
"Listen, guys," I told them. "I can't really get too close to you today because I had a test and they made me radioactive." Dylan poked his head out from behind the shower curtain. "Will you glow in the dark?" he asked. "No, buddy. Sorry."
We finished dressing up, though I was in no mood, and off we went. We arrived and went up the stairs to a banquet room with a gorgeous view of New York City. The day was crystal clear, and we could see every building in the skyline.
But then it started.
Family members others I hadn't seen in years kept walking up to me with that sympathetic look on their faces. All of them meaning well. All of them offering support. But I didn't want to talk about it. My kids are here. I don't want to cry. I want to talk about something else. Anything else. I smiled and thanked them for their well-wishes and prayers, and I meant it. I appreciate every one of them. I just wanted a night without cancer.
My dad has always been close to a group of priests and sisters in our area who were also at the dinner tonight. I greeted them, and was instantly in the arms of Sister Chelsea who begged me to let her pray over me. I agreed, and she whisked me off to a chair in the hallway, out of the way of the crowd. She put both hands on my head and gave and emotional and heartfelt prayer asking God to take away the devils that are making me sick. When she was done, she told me she knew I would be ok. Then she said something that threw me a bit. "Your daddy told me about you and he cried. I haven't seen him cry. A man who is so strong, and he cried."
I thanked her for the prayer and started back to my table. I ran into my dad along the way. I stopped and gave him a quick hug. He was very busy working the room, so I'm not sure he even noticed, but I needed to hug him.
Daddy, I'm so sorry I made you cry.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
I Love My Friends
Everyone knows the expression "Ask and you shall receive". This week, my friends proved there is truth to the cliche.
Last Friday night, May 27th, Jimmi and I were having dinner with my friend Andi and her boyfriend, Eli. Somehow, the conversation turned to my bachelorette party, which hadn't been planned yet because the wedding is still three months away. Immediately, my brain went into overdrive and I started panicking. The thoughts were racing through my head trying not to crash into each other as they whizzed in and out of my mind.
"I think I want to have my bachelorette party before I get really sick. I want to do it before my hair falls out."
Andi looked at me and I knew she and I were thinking the same thing. Time. We really didn't have much of it.
"Ok, when were you thinking?" she asked with that I'll do whatever I can for you tone.
I flipped through the calendar in my head. Surgery is on June 14th. This is already the last weekend in May. I have my kids the weekend before the surgery. That only left two options.
"Next weekend. June 3rd or 4th." I suggested, knowing it would be nearly impossible to get a decent group together in time. "Oh, and I don't care what we do, as long as there are naked men," I grinned.
"Ok." And with that, Andi picked up her blackberry and immediately sent an e-mail to all of my bridesmaids and my mom. Within a few minutes, my mom wrote back. She was sure that Jen, my matron of honor, was already working on something, so maybe they should speak.
I wasn't included on any e-mails from that point on, but I knew my friends were hustling. The next night, I got a very cryptic Facebook message from my friend, Angel, who is an expert on all things naughty. Plus, she's worked as a special events planner, so the girl gets the job done! It said, "I'm cutting to the chase because we have a week. How many women we looking at here? Is Saturday better than Friday? You want a hot seat? I don't want to get you one if you're not gonna like it. I'm leaning towards yes, but you've been through a lot, so I wanted to make sure. I just need to know what you want. We can go from there. Hunkomania USA got the best reviews in City Search."
Wow! She's done her homework!
"Yes! I want it all!"
For the next few days, I found out bits and pieces of what was going on. Jen was the one sending the e-mails to get everyone together even though she wasn't going to be able to come down on such short notice from Massachusetts. Andi was in charge of finding a restaurant, and Angel was in charge of the naked men.
Friday, June 3rd seemed to work best for most people. Obviously, not everyone was able to make it because of the timeframe, but it looked like we'd have a pretty decent group of about 10 people.
The day came and it started out rough. It was one of those mornings that I couldn't force myself to get out of bed and face life. I wanted to hide under my covers and hope it would all go away. I called my mom.
Instant hysterics.
I bawled my eyes out while speaking incoherently to my mom as she listened. She did the soothing mom thing, telling me I'm allowed to cry. I have every right. Never once did she say, "Stop crying. You just need to deal with it." She just stayed on the phone and let me vent for as long as I needed. Right away, she offered to come over, but I wouldn't let her.
A text came through. It was my friend, Jean, asking how I was doing. "Not a good day. Can't get out of bed." Her response beeped back immediately, "I'll be right over to give you a hug." No! I wouldn't let her.
My mom and I finally ended the call and another text came though from my friend, Kris, apologizing for not being able to make it later and asking if I was still planning on meeting her for a pedicure. I told her I couldn't because I wasn't having a good day. She told me she'd be right over. No! I wouldn't let her.
I don't want anyone to come over! I don't want to talk about it! I don't want to deal with it!
But I had to get out of bed. I needed to get ready for my party. The party I had asked for. The party my friends went crazy to plan in just a few days. The party I wanted to bail on because I wasn't in the mood to see or talk anyone.
But I couldn't bail.
I got dressed, drove to pick Jean up, and we headed into the city. Traffic was horrendous, but we were only about 20 minutes late, thanks to NY Waterway! Angel and Andi were the only ones at the restaurant when we got there, so we went to our table upstairs and waited for the others.
As soon as we sat down, Angel reached into a bag, and pulled out a box with a large, red ummmm...adult toy in it. She proceeded to open the box, whip out the member (which was complete with a scrotum) and put it on the table. "Very Berry" became our mascot for the night. He was the star of the majority of our photos, and he ended up in the oddest places. We only put him away when the hostess sat a table of 11 year old boys next to us.
"Excuse me!" I stopped the hostess, "I'm not sure it's appropriate to put them next to us." "It's the only table we have for a party that big!" She snapped and walked away.
Ok, I can't be held responsible for what will happen! The rest of our group showed up and food was ordered. Angel, who had requested food immediately when we sat down, left early to head over to Hunk-o-Mania before doors opened at 7:30 so she could get us the best table. She thinks of everything!
We had a great meal and a lot of fun. I almost forgot about the Hell my summer would be...almost.
When we finished, we trudged a few city blocks to the club. Following orders from a text from Angel, we went to the VIP line and gave her name. We were immediately brought in, and I was told to pick a gift from the wall. I looked up at my choices and giggled. There was a veil with a crown of tiny penises, I veil with devil horns, a paper penis headband, a headband with two small penises on long springs that bounced and a bachelorette sash, among other things. I chose the springy penis headband, stuck it on my head, and down the stairs we went.
We were immediately welcomed by some very muscular and very flirty men who brought us to a table right up front where Angel was waiting with the rest of our group who could only make it to the Hunk portion of the evening.
After some more photos with our red mascot, and a quick once over of the eye candy walking around to serve us, the show began.
There were a few other brides-to-be in the audience. We all gave each other the friendly smile and nod, and I couldn't help but think that they're not going through what I'm going through. They're all planning their weddings and having dress fittings. They're all happy and excited. I'm just trying to enjoy my last few weeks with a uterus. My last few weeks with ovaries. My last few weeks with hair. They're looking forward to their honeymoons and the main activity associated with honeymoons. I had to postpone my honeymoon until who knows when, and I don't even know if I'll ever be able to enjoy the main honeymoon activity again.
Why is this happening to me? I want to be like them. Why can't I just have the surgery, or just have the radiation, or just have the chemo? Why do I need to have all three?
STOP!!!!! There are half-naked men walking around! Enjoy it for next two hours!
And I did.
"Suzanne Paragano?" The host called out, "Come on up to the hot seat!"
I didn't hesitate. Up to the stage I went with a real smile on my face. I sat in the chair on stage next to another future Mrs. Someone, and laughed as the host explained that my friends would need to decorate me with dollar bills. The more money the men see, the better the dance will be.
Up came my posse with singles flying. They stuck money in my pockets, hanging out the top of my jeans, in my shoe strap, in my headband, and anywhere else they could. Then they flitted off the stage and I waited.
The lights went down, and out came three "sailors". I'm not usually fond of men in uniform, but it didn't matter since the uniforms didn't stay on too long! They danced for a few minutes and then two of them left the stage, leaving the "captain" to dance for the other bride and me.
It was nuts!
The man picked me up and flipped me around like a rag doll! I was up, I was down, I was spinning. And I was laughing. Laughing uncontrollably. Laughing more than I'd laughed in the last two months combined. And I wasn't thinking. At that moment, while I was being tossed like a salad, I didn't have cancer. I wasn't getting ready for surgery. There were no treatments. I was just a future bride having fun with my friends before I become Mrs. Kane.
I couldn't have asked for a better night.
For the next hour and a half there was nothing but real friends, real laughter and real happiness. I looked at each of my friends, and thought about the ones who wanted to be there, but couldn't. I felt loved. Real love. It's easier to see people for who they really are when faced with a tragedy. I am lucky to say that my friends have proven to me that they will always be there for me. They won't run away when times are tough. They will do whatever they can for me and I don't even need to ask.
When I got home, Jimmi asked me about my night. I gave him the instant replay and showed him pictures and I was still excited and happy. As I spoke, I reached up to scratch an itch on the back of my shoulder and felt something in my shirt. What's this? Did I forget to take a tag off of the shirt? I pulled it out and looked at it. Jimmi gave me a puzzled glance.
My lips curled into a smile. A dollar. It was a a dollar bill that was left from my stage decorations. A dollar that Mr. Muscles must have overlooked. A dollar that reminded me of a night that was put together in record time.
My friends did it all for me. And they did it just because I asked them to.
Last Friday night, May 27th, Jimmi and I were having dinner with my friend Andi and her boyfriend, Eli. Somehow, the conversation turned to my bachelorette party, which hadn't been planned yet because the wedding is still three months away. Immediately, my brain went into overdrive and I started panicking. The thoughts were racing through my head trying not to crash into each other as they whizzed in and out of my mind.
"I think I want to have my bachelorette party before I get really sick. I want to do it before my hair falls out."
Andi looked at me and I knew she and I were thinking the same thing. Time. We really didn't have much of it.
"Ok, when were you thinking?" she asked with that I'll do whatever I can for you tone.
I flipped through the calendar in my head. Surgery is on June 14th. This is already the last weekend in May. I have my kids the weekend before the surgery. That only left two options.
"Next weekend. June 3rd or 4th." I suggested, knowing it would be nearly impossible to get a decent group together in time. "Oh, and I don't care what we do, as long as there are naked men," I grinned.
"Ok." And with that, Andi picked up her blackberry and immediately sent an e-mail to all of my bridesmaids and my mom. Within a few minutes, my mom wrote back. She was sure that Jen, my matron of honor, was already working on something, so maybe they should speak.
I wasn't included on any e-mails from that point on, but I knew my friends were hustling. The next night, I got a very cryptic Facebook message from my friend, Angel, who is an expert on all things naughty. Plus, she's worked as a special events planner, so the girl gets the job done! It said, "I'm cutting to the chase because we have a week. How many women we looking at here? Is Saturday better than Friday? You want a hot seat? I don't want to get you one if you're not gonna like it. I'm leaning towards yes, but you've been through a lot, so I wanted to make sure. I just need to know what you want. We can go from there. Hunkomania USA got the best reviews in City Search."
Wow! She's done her homework!
"Yes! I want it all!"
For the next few days, I found out bits and pieces of what was going on. Jen was the one sending the e-mails to get everyone together even though she wasn't going to be able to come down on such short notice from Massachusetts. Andi was in charge of finding a restaurant, and Angel was in charge of the naked men.
Friday, June 3rd seemed to work best for most people. Obviously, not everyone was able to make it because of the timeframe, but it looked like we'd have a pretty decent group of about 10 people.
The day came and it started out rough. It was one of those mornings that I couldn't force myself to get out of bed and face life. I wanted to hide under my covers and hope it would all go away. I called my mom.
Instant hysterics.
I bawled my eyes out while speaking incoherently to my mom as she listened. She did the soothing mom thing, telling me I'm allowed to cry. I have every right. Never once did she say, "Stop crying. You just need to deal with it." She just stayed on the phone and let me vent for as long as I needed. Right away, she offered to come over, but I wouldn't let her.
A text came through. It was my friend, Jean, asking how I was doing. "Not a good day. Can't get out of bed." Her response beeped back immediately, "I'll be right over to give you a hug." No! I wouldn't let her.
My mom and I finally ended the call and another text came though from my friend, Kris, apologizing for not being able to make it later and asking if I was still planning on meeting her for a pedicure. I told her I couldn't because I wasn't having a good day. She told me she'd be right over. No! I wouldn't let her.
I don't want anyone to come over! I don't want to talk about it! I don't want to deal with it!
But I had to get out of bed. I needed to get ready for my party. The party I had asked for. The party my friends went crazy to plan in just a few days. The party I wanted to bail on because I wasn't in the mood to see or talk anyone.
But I couldn't bail.
I got dressed, drove to pick Jean up, and we headed into the city. Traffic was horrendous, but we were only about 20 minutes late, thanks to NY Waterway! Angel and Andi were the only ones at the restaurant when we got there, so we went to our table upstairs and waited for the others.
As soon as we sat down, Angel reached into a bag, and pulled out a box with a large, red ummmm...adult toy in it. She proceeded to open the box, whip out the member (which was complete with a scrotum) and put it on the table. "Very Berry" became our mascot for the night. He was the star of the majority of our photos, and he ended up in the oddest places. We only put him away when the hostess sat a table of 11 year old boys next to us.
"Excuse me!" I stopped the hostess, "I'm not sure it's appropriate to put them next to us." "It's the only table we have for a party that big!" She snapped and walked away.
Ok, I can't be held responsible for what will happen! The rest of our group showed up and food was ordered. Angel, who had requested food immediately when we sat down, left early to head over to Hunk-o-Mania before doors opened at 7:30 so she could get us the best table. She thinks of everything!
We had a great meal and a lot of fun. I almost forgot about the Hell my summer would be...almost.
When we finished, we trudged a few city blocks to the club. Following orders from a text from Angel, we went to the VIP line and gave her name. We were immediately brought in, and I was told to pick a gift from the wall. I looked up at my choices and giggled. There was a veil with a crown of tiny penises, I veil with devil horns, a paper penis headband, a headband with two small penises on long springs that bounced and a bachelorette sash, among other things. I chose the springy penis headband, stuck it on my head, and down the stairs we went.
We were immediately welcomed by some very muscular and very flirty men who brought us to a table right up front where Angel was waiting with the rest of our group who could only make it to the Hunk portion of the evening.
After some more photos with our red mascot, and a quick once over of the eye candy walking around to serve us, the show began.
There were a few other brides-to-be in the audience. We all gave each other the friendly smile and nod, and I couldn't help but think that they're not going through what I'm going through. They're all planning their weddings and having dress fittings. They're all happy and excited. I'm just trying to enjoy my last few weeks with a uterus. My last few weeks with ovaries. My last few weeks with hair. They're looking forward to their honeymoons and the main activity associated with honeymoons. I had to postpone my honeymoon until who knows when, and I don't even know if I'll ever be able to enjoy the main honeymoon activity again.
Why is this happening to me? I want to be like them. Why can't I just have the surgery, or just have the radiation, or just have the chemo? Why do I need to have all three?
STOP!!!!! There are half-naked men walking around! Enjoy it for next two hours!
And I did.
"Suzanne Paragano?" The host called out, "Come on up to the hot seat!"
I didn't hesitate. Up to the stage I went with a real smile on my face. I sat in the chair on stage next to another future Mrs. Someone, and laughed as the host explained that my friends would need to decorate me with dollar bills. The more money the men see, the better the dance will be.
Up came my posse with singles flying. They stuck money in my pockets, hanging out the top of my jeans, in my shoe strap, in my headband, and anywhere else they could. Then they flitted off the stage and I waited.
The lights went down, and out came three "sailors". I'm not usually fond of men in uniform, but it didn't matter since the uniforms didn't stay on too long! They danced for a few minutes and then two of them left the stage, leaving the "captain" to dance for the other bride and me.
It was nuts!
The man picked me up and flipped me around like a rag doll! I was up, I was down, I was spinning. And I was laughing. Laughing uncontrollably. Laughing more than I'd laughed in the last two months combined. And I wasn't thinking. At that moment, while I was being tossed like a salad, I didn't have cancer. I wasn't getting ready for surgery. There were no treatments. I was just a future bride having fun with my friends before I become Mrs. Kane.
I couldn't have asked for a better night.
For the next hour and a half there was nothing but real friends, real laughter and real happiness. I looked at each of my friends, and thought about the ones who wanted to be there, but couldn't. I felt loved. Real love. It's easier to see people for who they really are when faced with a tragedy. I am lucky to say that my friends have proven to me that they will always be there for me. They won't run away when times are tough. They will do whatever they can for me and I don't even need to ask.
When I got home, Jimmi asked me about my night. I gave him the instant replay and showed him pictures and I was still excited and happy. As I spoke, I reached up to scratch an itch on the back of my shoulder and felt something in my shirt. What's this? Did I forget to take a tag off of the shirt? I pulled it out and looked at it. Jimmi gave me a puzzled glance.
My lips curled into a smile. A dollar. It was a a dollar bill that was left from my stage decorations. A dollar that Mr. Muscles must have overlooked. A dollar that reminded me of a night that was put together in record time.
My friends did it all for me. And they did it just because I asked them to.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Mixed Emotions
I don't even know where to begin.
Today, my emotions have run from one end of the spectrum to the other and have stopped everywhere in between. I woke up knowing it would be a very long, and mentally draining day, but I had no idea the extent of what it would become.
I brought the kids to the bus stop at 8:30, like I always do. As I sat in my car and watched them wait by the curb, one of my neighbors from the development, Debbie, pulled up along side of me. I only know her in passing, but we do the friendly smile and wave when we see each other. This time was different. She rolled down the window and gave me a sympathetic look. "How are you feeling?" she asked. I was aware that Debbie knew about my health situation because another neighbor, who I'm much more friendly with, told me she had mentioned it to her since Debbie's husband also has cancer.
"I've had better months." I forced a smile.
Debbie put her car in park and came right over to my window. "You know my husband is very sick, too, right?" I nodded while immediately feeling guilty for not asking about him sooner. "What kind does he have again?" I questioned. "Double lung and brain. And it's all up the lymph nodes in his chest too. He just had his second brain surgery. It just keeps spreading and they can't stop it. The man shouldn't even be around anymore, but he keeps fighting."
My stomach sank. Will that be me?
She continued, "You know you're number seven, right?" I gave her a puzzled look. "You're the seventh person in the development of 22 houses with cancer. And that doesn't include the two dogs who have it too."
"What?"
"It's the water," she said with confidence. "We live a mile away from the old dump. They said they cleaned it up, but they didn't. We had well water for the first five years here before they switched to city water a year ago. All the pollutants from the dump were in the water."
The movie Erin Brocovich flashed in my head.
"I've contacted a lawyer and I'm waiting to see what she says we should do."
I couldn't speak until I caught my breath. "Well, I know cervical cancer is caused by HPV and I had that. But I have a really rare form called Small Cell..." Debbie cut me off, "Yeah, Small Cell Carcinoma. That's what Frank has too."
My heart stopped.
I swear if this could've been avoided by people actually doing their jobs, I'm gonna lose my mind. I thought back a few years. They tested the water a couple of times when we still had the well. I remember them doing it. But, wait. Did I ever get the results?
No.
And they tested it again after they switched to city water, because I had to leave it out overnight and put it on the doorstep for them at like 6:00 am so they could collect it. Did I ever get results?
No.
Holy CRAP! What if she's right?
Debbie and I exchanged phone numbers and went on our way. I drove quietly back to my house wondering if there was a way to prove anything. I called my neighbor, Sue, who owns one of the dogs with cancer.
"Did you know there are seven people and five dogs in the development with cancer?" I blurted out without even a hello. "Seven?" she asked, "I thought it was five. Either way, it's a pretty high number."
"Did you ever get the results of your water test?" I probed.
Sue thought for a minute, "Hmmm...I don't think I did."
Not cool. Are they hiding something? Sue offered to go to the town and ask for the results of the tests, but I didn't want them to get suspicious and destroy records before we had legal advice on the matter. "I have to be at Sloan-Kettering all day today," I told her. "Why don't I mention it to them first and see if it really does seem odd?" We agreed on the plan and said our good-byes.
At 10:45 am, Jimmi and I were on our way to meet my mom at Sloan-Kettering for my pre-admission testing and my consultation with the radiation oncologist. I called my brother, Vince (the lawyer), from the car.
"What?" He was floored when I told him about the strange cancer coincidence in my neighborhood. "That sounds really high. You might have something there." I told him I'd ask the doctor and he said he'd check into firms in the area that handle environmental law. "You take care of you. I'll see what I can find on this."
We pulled into the circular driveway at Sloan-Kettering and handed the keys to the valet. My mom was sitting on a bench waiting in the sun. She stood up with a smile as we walked toward her, and we all went inside together.
We were sent to the usual chairs to wait for Lisa, Dr. Leitao's nurse. As soon as we sat down, I saw an e-mail pop up on my phone from my nurse, Jill, at RMA. "PGD Results" said the subject.
"It's the results of the embryo tests!!" I said excitedly. "Let's see how many boys and how many girls we have!"
I opened the e-mail.
"Hi Suzanne, Wanted to let you know that out of the 14 blasts that were frozen, 12 of them are chromosomally normal. I have the breakdown of males and females if you would like."
Oh, HELL, yes!!! I mean, "Yes, I would like those results please."
Tick tock, tick tock. E-mail! Click to open.
"You have six males and six females."
I have a little girl. I have SIX little girls! And six little boys!! Well, I guess they were right that the sperm are usually 50% male and 50% female. So much for the gender selection spinning! It's all good. Six females. I know that will be enough for us to have one baby girl to love.
"Suzanne?" Lisa's voice snapped me back to reality. Jimmi, my mom and I got up like a caravan and followed Lisa to an office. She went over all of the hospital information and what to expect before, during and after surgery.
We were all in an unusually good mood, and even made jokes as we talked about my day before surgery liquid diet, "Vodka doesn't count!" And my catheter, "Can I clip the bag to the bed at night? I'd really hate to wake up and find the cats playing with it." Lisa talked to us for 30 minutes about everything I need to know, and then I remembered to ask her about the high cancer rate in my development. "That's really high," she said with a confused look. "You might want to call someone to check into the water."
Awesome.
After Lisa finished, we were off to meet the anesthesiologist. I made sure to tell him that I needed him to give me something that would keep me from getting nauseous after surgery. He assured me that he would mix up a cocktail that would keep everything down so I wouldn't have a problem. He then went on to tell me, "You're an anesthesiologist's dream." "Awww, thanks! Why's that?" "You're thin, you're young and you're healthy." Yeah, I thought, except for this pesky cancer.
After that meeting, a nurse named Athena corralled us into yet another exam room to take my vitals. Height, weight, blood pressure, EKG and blood tests. Athena and I also laughed and joked. As she was writing in my chart, I started playing with the short stubs of hair hidden in the back of my head and I felt strangely at peace. This is happening. There's nothing I can do about it and I'm going to make the best of it. I love everyone I've met at Sloan-Kettering and I know I'm in good hands.
When Athena was done, we shoved off to the Radiation Oncology department. I was handed a clipboard with paperwork to fill out while I waited. As I wrote, I heard my mom and the woman next to me excitedly talking about the fact that they were both wearing the exact same kind of shoes. I giggled to myself. My mom is awesome.
"Ms. Paragano?"
We got up and followed the man, whose name escapes me, into another exam room. He offered us drinks, which we turned down, and left the room. Soon, the door opened again, and in walked a very flamboyant nurse with a very thick accent. "Hi, I'm Carlos! How are you?"
Oh, please don't think of the movie The Hangover. "Not at the table, Carlos!" Compose yourself, Suzanne!
As Carlos took my vitals, I joked that he could just walk down the hall and copy off of Athena since she'd already done the work. He was so happy and cheerful and, no offense, gay! He made me smile. He left the room a few minutes later, and as soon as he closed the door, Jimmi and I looked at each other and laughed! I said, "Were you thinking of The Hangover?" He said, "No! The butler in The Birdcage! He had the same shoes! 'I don like to wear da choose. Da choose mek me fall down.'" My mom didn't understand either joke, but chuckled along with us.
A few minutes later, the radiation oncologist came in and introduced herself, "Hi, I'm Dr. Sidebotham." She was very nice and incredibly thorough. She explained that I would need a 5 1/2 week course of radiation, along with the chemotherapy because they've found that the treatments work best together for the aggressive cancers.
"How often are the treatments over the 5 1/2 weeks?" I questioned, but I wasn't prepared for the answer. "Five days a week. Monday through Friday."
You're kidding. Oh my God.
"Every day?" She could see the shock on my face. "Yeah, some people don't know that. I guess you didn't."
Ya think??
"On days when you have a chemo treatment, you'll need to come in for radiation very early, at like 7:45 am, and then go up to have your chemo treatment when you're done. That way, we don't have to bring you back down after you have chemo because it's much more difficult."
I felt my previously light and optimistic mood turn darker. The smile was wiped from my face and all I could do was listen. No more jokes. No more peace.
Dr. Sidebotham wanted to order two more tests for me to have before my surgery. A PET scan and an MRI of my brain, just to make sure those sneaky little small cells weren't hiding anywhere the other doctors hadn't looked. And when exactly would I fit in those tests? I have one doctor-free day next week, and it WILL be spent with my matron of honor, Jen, at Foxwoods in Connecticut.
She explained the details of the PET scan. I would be injected with a dye full of sugar. Cancer cells metabolize faster than normal cells, so sugar is drawn to them. If they see an area of bright light on the screen, they know to be suspicious. "Oh, and you shouldn't be around small children for a few hours after the test, because you will be radioactive."
Cool. I wonder if I'll glow in the dark.
The PET scan doesn't work for the brain, which is why I need a separate MRI for that. Ok, more tests. Fun!
Now, onto the process of radiation. I had no idea how much prep-work was involved. First, a few weeks after surgery, I'll go to the office and they'll make a mold of my body. The mold will be used to make sure I lie in exactly the same position each time I have a treatment. Then, I'll drink a contrast dye so the doctor can clearly see my bowels and try to position the rays to avoid radiating them too much. Also, this is the best part, they'll soak a tampon in dye and insert it where tampons normally go so they can clearly see the vaginal canal. Then they'll run me through the x-ray machine or CT scan (I've lost track) and figure out where the radiation rays will go. Since they need to go in exactly the same place each time, after I'm lined up where they want me, they'll whip out a tattoo gun and give me about five blue, permanent dots to mark the spots. My mom swore she'd disown me if I ever got another tattoo. I wonder if this counts?
Wait, I think I may have combined the first two radiation appointments. Maybe the mold fitting is first and the contrast dye is done after the mold is made? It's all starting to blend. Anyway, after that's all done, I'll come back a few days later for my first treatment. They'll hit the dots with radiation rays and I'll be out in 15 minutes.
Now for the side effects...
Fatigue. "But you really won't know if it's the chemo or the radiation that's causing it. Just know you'll be very tired and you might have to give up a lot of your every day activities. Accept help when it's offered and don't try to do too much."
Diarrhea. "Because there's really no way to avoid the bowels, you probably won't be able to avoid having diarrhea. Plus with the chemo on top of it, you're pretty much guaranteed a few bouts."
Burning sensation in the vagina. "But you won't notice that unless you're sexually active, and you won't be able to have sex for a while anyway." Was that supposed to make me feel better?
Here's my favorite. Shortening and tightening of the vaginal canal. "They're already surgically shortening the canal, but the radiation is meant to shrink tissue. It will shrink in all directions. It will get shorter and tighter. We really suggest you use a dilator when the treatments are over. It should help with any discomfort during sex. Some people have to wear them for a few months, but you might need to do it your whole life."
WHAT?????
I need to wear a medical sex toy so my vagina doesn't close up? Are you kidding me? Wow. We're gonna have a super romantic honeymoon. Oh, there's more? Hang on. "Sex will need to be less spontaneous from now on. You won't really have the estrogen flowing and the vaginal walls will be dry. But you can buy over the counter lubricants to help with that. It just needs to be a little more planned."
Well, I'm speechless now.
Dr. Sidebotham sent Jimmi and my mom out of the room so she could examine me. I needed more information. "So, will I ever enjoy sex again?" I didn't like the pause that followed my question. I liked her response even less, "You'll find a happy medium. You'll learn to make it work."
I can't get married. I can not marry Jimmi knowing our sex life is going to suck right from the beginning. It's not fair. Why is it that every time I think I'm finally getting strong enough to deal with all of this, something else slaps me right back into place?
"I recommend you both go see a sex therapist. They can help you work through this and figure out what might make it bearable."
Bearable, not amazing. Not great. Not even good.
She finished the exam and told me I would be ok. That stupid lump was working it's way back up my throat where it's taken residency over the last few weeks. Every time I try to evict it, it finds a way to move back in. I walked out into the reception area where my mom and Jimmi were waiting. They immediately stood up and met me at the desk.
"I need to make two more appointments." I said to the receptionist.
"Yes, a PET scan and a brain MRI. Hmmmm...let me see when we can fit you in."
"I'll already be here on Monday for my chemo consult. Can we do at least one of them then?"
He set me up for the PET scan on Monday morning and the MRI next Friday. I didn't say much as we walked out except, "I hope you're ok with never having sex again." Jimmi looked at me, "Oh, stop. Is that what she said?" "No," I snapped. "It's just gonna suck."
I tried to readjust my head as we drove home. I needed to get into Mommy mode to pick up the kids, then into Happy mode to go up to Skylands Manor and finalize our wedding day details. My wedding day. It doesn't even seem real anymore. Like an impossible dream I keep trying to catch.
I hugged the boys as they got off the bus and let them know that their babysitter, Amanda, would be over soon so they needed to hurry up and do their homework. I never let on that my entire body was screaming inside. Anger. Frustration. Sadness. I didn't know what I felt.
Amanda arrived and Jimmi and I headed out again. We decided to have dinner at the restaurant where our rehearsal dinner will be held since we had never been there. Amazing choice! The food was excellent and I started to relax a little bit.
When we were done, we headed up to Skylands. It was the first time we had seen it without pouring rain or snow on the ground, and it was more beautiful than I had remembered. We met with Linda, our banquet manager, to go over food selections, times, vendor names and other details. Then I said, "Can we please go outside to where our ceremony will be held? Neither one of us has seen it because the weather has been bad both times we were here."
"Sure!"
We walked outside the back door of the fabulous, stone mansion, built in 1924. Through the stone patio, down the steps, passed the trickling fountain and out onto the luscious grass. We looked out at the area they call Magnolia Lane. It's about the length of a football field, but much greener. I imagined it with all the chairs set up on either side of a rose petal-lined aisle, facing a beautifully, floral decorated arch where Jimmi and I will be standing in exactly three months.
I need to be well enough.
I need to be strong enough.
Three months.
I can do this.
Today, my emotions have run from one end of the spectrum to the other and have stopped everywhere in between. I woke up knowing it would be a very long, and mentally draining day, but I had no idea the extent of what it would become.
I brought the kids to the bus stop at 8:30, like I always do. As I sat in my car and watched them wait by the curb, one of my neighbors from the development, Debbie, pulled up along side of me. I only know her in passing, but we do the friendly smile and wave when we see each other. This time was different. She rolled down the window and gave me a sympathetic look. "How are you feeling?" she asked. I was aware that Debbie knew about my health situation because another neighbor, who I'm much more friendly with, told me she had mentioned it to her since Debbie's husband also has cancer.
"I've had better months." I forced a smile.
Debbie put her car in park and came right over to my window. "You know my husband is very sick, too, right?" I nodded while immediately feeling guilty for not asking about him sooner. "What kind does he have again?" I questioned. "Double lung and brain. And it's all up the lymph nodes in his chest too. He just had his second brain surgery. It just keeps spreading and they can't stop it. The man shouldn't even be around anymore, but he keeps fighting."
My stomach sank. Will that be me?
She continued, "You know you're number seven, right?" I gave her a puzzled look. "You're the seventh person in the development of 22 houses with cancer. And that doesn't include the two dogs who have it too."
"What?"
"It's the water," she said with confidence. "We live a mile away from the old dump. They said they cleaned it up, but they didn't. We had well water for the first five years here before they switched to city water a year ago. All the pollutants from the dump were in the water."
The movie Erin Brocovich flashed in my head.
"I've contacted a lawyer and I'm waiting to see what she says we should do."
I couldn't speak until I caught my breath. "Well, I know cervical cancer is caused by HPV and I had that. But I have a really rare form called Small Cell..." Debbie cut me off, "Yeah, Small Cell Carcinoma. That's what Frank has too."
My heart stopped.
I swear if this could've been avoided by people actually doing their jobs, I'm gonna lose my mind. I thought back a few years. They tested the water a couple of times when we still had the well. I remember them doing it. But, wait. Did I ever get the results?
No.
And they tested it again after they switched to city water, because I had to leave it out overnight and put it on the doorstep for them at like 6:00 am so they could collect it. Did I ever get results?
No.
Holy CRAP! What if she's right?
Debbie and I exchanged phone numbers and went on our way. I drove quietly back to my house wondering if there was a way to prove anything. I called my neighbor, Sue, who owns one of the dogs with cancer.
"Did you know there are seven people and five dogs in the development with cancer?" I blurted out without even a hello. "Seven?" she asked, "I thought it was five. Either way, it's a pretty high number."
"Did you ever get the results of your water test?" I probed.
Sue thought for a minute, "Hmmm...I don't think I did."
Not cool. Are they hiding something? Sue offered to go to the town and ask for the results of the tests, but I didn't want them to get suspicious and destroy records before we had legal advice on the matter. "I have to be at Sloan-Kettering all day today," I told her. "Why don't I mention it to them first and see if it really does seem odd?" We agreed on the plan and said our good-byes.
At 10:45 am, Jimmi and I were on our way to meet my mom at Sloan-Kettering for my pre-admission testing and my consultation with the radiation oncologist. I called my brother, Vince (the lawyer), from the car.
"What?" He was floored when I told him about the strange cancer coincidence in my neighborhood. "That sounds really high. You might have something there." I told him I'd ask the doctor and he said he'd check into firms in the area that handle environmental law. "You take care of you. I'll see what I can find on this."
We pulled into the circular driveway at Sloan-Kettering and handed the keys to the valet. My mom was sitting on a bench waiting in the sun. She stood up with a smile as we walked toward her, and we all went inside together.
We were sent to the usual chairs to wait for Lisa, Dr. Leitao's nurse. As soon as we sat down, I saw an e-mail pop up on my phone from my nurse, Jill, at RMA. "PGD Results" said the subject.
"It's the results of the embryo tests!!" I said excitedly. "Let's see how many boys and how many girls we have!"
I opened the e-mail.
"Hi Suzanne, Wanted to let you know that out of the 14 blasts that were frozen, 12 of them are chromosomally normal. I have the breakdown of males and females if you would like."
Oh, HELL, yes!!! I mean, "Yes, I would like those results please."
Tick tock, tick tock. E-mail! Click to open.
"You have six males and six females."
I have a little girl. I have SIX little girls! And six little boys!! Well, I guess they were right that the sperm are usually 50% male and 50% female. So much for the gender selection spinning! It's all good. Six females. I know that will be enough for us to have one baby girl to love.
"Suzanne?" Lisa's voice snapped me back to reality. Jimmi, my mom and I got up like a caravan and followed Lisa to an office. She went over all of the hospital information and what to expect before, during and after surgery.
We were all in an unusually good mood, and even made jokes as we talked about my day before surgery liquid diet, "Vodka doesn't count!" And my catheter, "Can I clip the bag to the bed at night? I'd really hate to wake up and find the cats playing with it." Lisa talked to us for 30 minutes about everything I need to know, and then I remembered to ask her about the high cancer rate in my development. "That's really high," she said with a confused look. "You might want to call someone to check into the water."
Awesome.
After Lisa finished, we were off to meet the anesthesiologist. I made sure to tell him that I needed him to give me something that would keep me from getting nauseous after surgery. He assured me that he would mix up a cocktail that would keep everything down so I wouldn't have a problem. He then went on to tell me, "You're an anesthesiologist's dream." "Awww, thanks! Why's that?" "You're thin, you're young and you're healthy." Yeah, I thought, except for this pesky cancer.
After that meeting, a nurse named Athena corralled us into yet another exam room to take my vitals. Height, weight, blood pressure, EKG and blood tests. Athena and I also laughed and joked. As she was writing in my chart, I started playing with the short stubs of hair hidden in the back of my head and I felt strangely at peace. This is happening. There's nothing I can do about it and I'm going to make the best of it. I love everyone I've met at Sloan-Kettering and I know I'm in good hands.
When Athena was done, we shoved off to the Radiation Oncology department. I was handed a clipboard with paperwork to fill out while I waited. As I wrote, I heard my mom and the woman next to me excitedly talking about the fact that they were both wearing the exact same kind of shoes. I giggled to myself. My mom is awesome.
"Ms. Paragano?"
We got up and followed the man, whose name escapes me, into another exam room. He offered us drinks, which we turned down, and left the room. Soon, the door opened again, and in walked a very flamboyant nurse with a very thick accent. "Hi, I'm Carlos! How are you?"
Oh, please don't think of the movie The Hangover. "Not at the table, Carlos!" Compose yourself, Suzanne!
As Carlos took my vitals, I joked that he could just walk down the hall and copy off of Athena since she'd already done the work. He was so happy and cheerful and, no offense, gay! He made me smile. He left the room a few minutes later, and as soon as he closed the door, Jimmi and I looked at each other and laughed! I said, "Were you thinking of The Hangover?" He said, "No! The butler in The Birdcage! He had the same shoes! 'I don like to wear da choose. Da choose mek me fall down.'" My mom didn't understand either joke, but chuckled along with us.
A few minutes later, the radiation oncologist came in and introduced herself, "Hi, I'm Dr. Sidebotham." She was very nice and incredibly thorough. She explained that I would need a 5 1/2 week course of radiation, along with the chemotherapy because they've found that the treatments work best together for the aggressive cancers.
"How often are the treatments over the 5 1/2 weeks?" I questioned, but I wasn't prepared for the answer. "Five days a week. Monday through Friday."
You're kidding. Oh my God.
"Every day?" She could see the shock on my face. "Yeah, some people don't know that. I guess you didn't."
Ya think??
"On days when you have a chemo treatment, you'll need to come in for radiation very early, at like 7:45 am, and then go up to have your chemo treatment when you're done. That way, we don't have to bring you back down after you have chemo because it's much more difficult."
I felt my previously light and optimistic mood turn darker. The smile was wiped from my face and all I could do was listen. No more jokes. No more peace.
Dr. Sidebotham wanted to order two more tests for me to have before my surgery. A PET scan and an MRI of my brain, just to make sure those sneaky little small cells weren't hiding anywhere the other doctors hadn't looked. And when exactly would I fit in those tests? I have one doctor-free day next week, and it WILL be spent with my matron of honor, Jen, at Foxwoods in Connecticut.
She explained the details of the PET scan. I would be injected with a dye full of sugar. Cancer cells metabolize faster than normal cells, so sugar is drawn to them. If they see an area of bright light on the screen, they know to be suspicious. "Oh, and you shouldn't be around small children for a few hours after the test, because you will be radioactive."
Cool. I wonder if I'll glow in the dark.
The PET scan doesn't work for the brain, which is why I need a separate MRI for that. Ok, more tests. Fun!
Now, onto the process of radiation. I had no idea how much prep-work was involved. First, a few weeks after surgery, I'll go to the office and they'll make a mold of my body. The mold will be used to make sure I lie in exactly the same position each time I have a treatment. Then, I'll drink a contrast dye so the doctor can clearly see my bowels and try to position the rays to avoid radiating them too much. Also, this is the best part, they'll soak a tampon in dye and insert it where tampons normally go so they can clearly see the vaginal canal. Then they'll run me through the x-ray machine or CT scan (I've lost track) and figure out where the radiation rays will go. Since they need to go in exactly the same place each time, after I'm lined up where they want me, they'll whip out a tattoo gun and give me about five blue, permanent dots to mark the spots. My mom swore she'd disown me if I ever got another tattoo. I wonder if this counts?
Wait, I think I may have combined the first two radiation appointments. Maybe the mold fitting is first and the contrast dye is done after the mold is made? It's all starting to blend. Anyway, after that's all done, I'll come back a few days later for my first treatment. They'll hit the dots with radiation rays and I'll be out in 15 minutes.
Now for the side effects...
Fatigue. "But you really won't know if it's the chemo or the radiation that's causing it. Just know you'll be very tired and you might have to give up a lot of your every day activities. Accept help when it's offered and don't try to do too much."
Diarrhea. "Because there's really no way to avoid the bowels, you probably won't be able to avoid having diarrhea. Plus with the chemo on top of it, you're pretty much guaranteed a few bouts."
Burning sensation in the vagina. "But you won't notice that unless you're sexually active, and you won't be able to have sex for a while anyway." Was that supposed to make me feel better?
Here's my favorite. Shortening and tightening of the vaginal canal. "They're already surgically shortening the canal, but the radiation is meant to shrink tissue. It will shrink in all directions. It will get shorter and tighter. We really suggest you use a dilator when the treatments are over. It should help with any discomfort during sex. Some people have to wear them for a few months, but you might need to do it your whole life."
WHAT?????
I need to wear a medical sex toy so my vagina doesn't close up? Are you kidding me? Wow. We're gonna have a super romantic honeymoon. Oh, there's more? Hang on. "Sex will need to be less spontaneous from now on. You won't really have the estrogen flowing and the vaginal walls will be dry. But you can buy over the counter lubricants to help with that. It just needs to be a little more planned."
Well, I'm speechless now.
Dr. Sidebotham sent Jimmi and my mom out of the room so she could examine me. I needed more information. "So, will I ever enjoy sex again?" I didn't like the pause that followed my question. I liked her response even less, "You'll find a happy medium. You'll learn to make it work."
I can't get married. I can not marry Jimmi knowing our sex life is going to suck right from the beginning. It's not fair. Why is it that every time I think I'm finally getting strong enough to deal with all of this, something else slaps me right back into place?
"I recommend you both go see a sex therapist. They can help you work through this and figure out what might make it bearable."
Bearable, not amazing. Not great. Not even good.
She finished the exam and told me I would be ok. That stupid lump was working it's way back up my throat where it's taken residency over the last few weeks. Every time I try to evict it, it finds a way to move back in. I walked out into the reception area where my mom and Jimmi were waiting. They immediately stood up and met me at the desk.
"I need to make two more appointments." I said to the receptionist.
"Yes, a PET scan and a brain MRI. Hmmmm...let me see when we can fit you in."
"I'll already be here on Monday for my chemo consult. Can we do at least one of them then?"
He set me up for the PET scan on Monday morning and the MRI next Friday. I didn't say much as we walked out except, "I hope you're ok with never having sex again." Jimmi looked at me, "Oh, stop. Is that what she said?" "No," I snapped. "It's just gonna suck."
I tried to readjust my head as we drove home. I needed to get into Mommy mode to pick up the kids, then into Happy mode to go up to Skylands Manor and finalize our wedding day details. My wedding day. It doesn't even seem real anymore. Like an impossible dream I keep trying to catch.
I hugged the boys as they got off the bus and let them know that their babysitter, Amanda, would be over soon so they needed to hurry up and do their homework. I never let on that my entire body was screaming inside. Anger. Frustration. Sadness. I didn't know what I felt.
Amanda arrived and Jimmi and I headed out again. We decided to have dinner at the restaurant where our rehearsal dinner will be held since we had never been there. Amazing choice! The food was excellent and I started to relax a little bit.
When we were done, we headed up to Skylands. It was the first time we had seen it without pouring rain or snow on the ground, and it was more beautiful than I had remembered. We met with Linda, our banquet manager, to go over food selections, times, vendor names and other details. Then I said, "Can we please go outside to where our ceremony will be held? Neither one of us has seen it because the weather has been bad both times we were here."
"Sure!"
We walked outside the back door of the fabulous, stone mansion, built in 1924. Through the stone patio, down the steps, passed the trickling fountain and out onto the luscious grass. We looked out at the area they call Magnolia Lane. It's about the length of a football field, but much greener. I imagined it with all the chairs set up on either side of a rose petal-lined aisle, facing a beautifully, floral decorated arch where Jimmi and I will be standing in exactly three months.
I need to be well enough.
I need to be strong enough.
Three months.
I can do this.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The Worst Haircut Ever
I went back to Joseph Paris today to actually place the order for my two hair systems. I decided to give Jimmi the day off and take my mom with me this time, since she wasn't at the first appointment last week.
After a much too eventful car ride, which included one closed road, one misleading street sign and one U-turn, my mom and I pulled into the New York Waterway Ferry parking lot in separate cars at exactly the same time. Fifteen minutes later, we were making our way over the Hudson River on a sunny, but hot and hazy day.
As we exited the building on the New York side, we grabbed the first available cab we saw. Noticing that all of the windows were open, I asked, "Do you have air conditioning?" "Yes, of course. Get in!" Still suspicious, but not looking for an argument, my mom and I jumped in and we were on our way.
It didn't take too long to confirm my original thought, as the sound of the air conditioner was not accompanied by any cool breezes from the vents. "Shouldn't be too bad." My mom said, "It's only a few blocks."
Ha!!
In New York City time, a few blocks in any kind of above-ground vehicle almost always means 30 minutes from start to finish. Today was no exception.
Luckily, we left enough time to travel, and with five minutes to spare before my 12:00 appointment, we hurried out of the little, yellow hot-box and into the building on Madison Avenue marked in large, black numbers "185".
Now for the next obstacle. Being severely claustrophobic, my mom is not a fan of elevators. But climbing nine flights in a sweltering stairway on a 92 degree day is not really the best idea either. So she did it. Without a worry, (or without showing me a worry), she walked with determination into the elevator, and up we went.
Wow. My mom really loves me.
Upon entering Joseph Paris Salon, we were greeted with the same video of bald to beautiful women, but this time, there was a small difference. A child. One of the photos this time was of a little girl - maybe about six or seven years old - who had lost her hair. The next shot showed her happily donning her long, brown wig. It hurt my heart. As much as this sucks for me, a child should never have to deal with serious illnesses. Not ever.
My thoughts were interrupted as Joseph Paris, himself, showed us back into his office. It was the same office as the first time, so no surprises. But today's experience was much different than last week's.
"So, tell me what's going on." Joseph asked with concern as he leaned against the table under the mirror. I immediately noticed that his fly was down, but I forced myself to look away. I grabbed my hair in two handfulls on either side of my head and said, "This is all gonna go away soon."
Joseph had heard it all before from so many others who had come to see him so they could save just a bit of dignity during their poison treatments. But he wasn't jaded. "Ok, we'll take care of that," he said with confidence. He pulled out a box with the synthetic hair system that was put on hold for me last week, then looked at my hair. He opened a small closet next to the mirror that had more hair color samples than I had ever seen, and started digging through them. It was almost amusing watching him pick up some hair, hold it against a color chart, shake his head, and toss it aside. He must've gone through 20 samples before he called in one of the hair system stylists to ask for a color that would match my highlights.
As we waited for the stylist to come back, Joseph said, "So, we're gonna harvest some hair today to make your hairline for the custom piece?" I nodded.
The process seemed simple enough when I read it online. They'll find a spot on my head that will be unnoticeable, and cut a one-inch strip of hair to be used to replicate my own hairline in the custom piece. Because it's actually my hair, it will look much more natural and be almost undetectable. Easy!
Joseph took a large chunk of my hair in the back of my head and stuck a clip in it to keep it out of his way. Just then, the stylist came back in with a color for my highlights. Joseph looked, compared it against my own highlights, shook his head and sent the stylist off again to find a better match.
Back to the hair harvesting.
Joseph took a one-inch strip of my hair, which I couldn't see since he was behind me, and cut.
Oh my GOD!
It was the most awful noise I had ever heard. My beautiful, amazingly long hair was being chopped within an inch of my scalp. But it didn't sound like anything I had ever heard at a salon before. It was like crunchy carrots. And it wasn't one clean cut. It was like a trying to cut a touch piece of fabric with dull scissors so you have to open and close the scissors numerous times just to cut a small piece!
Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
I feel sick. I don't want to do this.
Joseph walked over to the table in front of me with a hand full of my shiny locks. It looked like so much. He proceeded to tape around the top of the harvested hair so none of it would get lost. Then he spoke, "Come over here, baby." And led me to a mirror. It was sweet the way he called me "baby". He was almost fatherly, and definitely showed sincere empathy.
I followed him to the mirror where he handed me a smaller, hand-held mirror. He had me position myself so I could see the back of my head. "You see? You can't tell that I cut anything. No one will know."
Ok, I got through it. It's over now. Wait...it's not?
"I'm just gonna take 3 to 4 samples from your hair so we have enough to make a good hairline."
Holy shit. Will I have any left?
Lift. Clip. Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
The sick feeling came back as I swallowed the lump that was crawling up my throat and blinked away the burning sensation in my eyes. What's the big deal, I thought. It's all gonna be gone soon anyway.
Here he goes again.
Lift. Clip. Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
I watched him take each sample to the table, wrap tape around the top, and line it up next to the one before it. There were a total of three, each holding the amount of hair on a Barbie doll's head, just five times longer. It was so much hair. I need that hair. That's MY hair!
GIVE IT BACK!!!!
Oh no! Here he comes again. He has the scissors. No, not again. No!
"No more." It was all I could manage before the dam broke and the tears started flowing.
I tried not to cry. I tried to be strong. But as I looked at large pieces of me laid out on a table, I just couldn't contain it any longer.
"Ok, we can stop. I don't want to do anything to upset you any more. You're going through enough," Joseph said with care.
My mom got up to console me, and I could see that she was holding back her own set of waterfalls, but she stayed stronger than I could. Joseph brought me to the mirror again to show me that, in fact, each chopped area was safely hidden under the hair that remained in place. I dabbed at my eyes with a tissue, slumped back into the chair and found some courage I didn't know I had.
"Do you need more?" I asked while trying to keep my voice from quivering.
Joseph looked at me with honest eyes. "I can make you a nice hairline with what we have. But I'd really like to have one more cut to make sure I have enough."
"Ok. Do it."
I closed my eyes.
Lift. Clip. Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
It's over.
Just then, the stylist came back in with what looked to be an exact match for my highlights. "Perfect!" Joseph exclaimed. "That's good for the synthetic hair. Now go find a match in human hair for the custom piece." I still find it weird knowing that I'll be wearing someone else's hair.
After the trauma of the cutting, the rest was cake. Joseph took more measurements. Then he took some pictures of the exact way I part and wear my hair. The custom piece will be recreated to the specifics of that photo, from the placement of the highlights to the direction of the hair, to the location of my part. There will even be a skin-toned slab of rubber under the part so when the hair is pushed to either side, it looks like a scalp.
Joseph told me that my hair would probably start to fall out after my second chemo treatment. "As soon as it starts to come out, call me. We'll get you in here, buzz it off, and do the final fitting of your hair system so it's perfect. We don't want you to go one day without hair."
I thanked him and he wished me luck.
My mom and I left the city and drove away in our own, separate cars. As the rain fell on my windshield like tears, I was aware of the fact that I wasn't crying. I don't want to cry anymore. I want to be strong like everyone says I should. I want to be brave. I gazed down at the teal and white cervical cancer awareness bracelet that my friend, Angel, sent me and read the words imprinted on it.
"Fight Like A Girl"
Good idea. I think I will.
After a much too eventful car ride, which included one closed road, one misleading street sign and one U-turn, my mom and I pulled into the New York Waterway Ferry parking lot in separate cars at exactly the same time. Fifteen minutes later, we were making our way over the Hudson River on a sunny, but hot and hazy day.
As we exited the building on the New York side, we grabbed the first available cab we saw. Noticing that all of the windows were open, I asked, "Do you have air conditioning?" "Yes, of course. Get in!" Still suspicious, but not looking for an argument, my mom and I jumped in and we were on our way.
It didn't take too long to confirm my original thought, as the sound of the air conditioner was not accompanied by any cool breezes from the vents. "Shouldn't be too bad." My mom said, "It's only a few blocks."
Ha!!
In New York City time, a few blocks in any kind of above-ground vehicle almost always means 30 minutes from start to finish. Today was no exception.
Luckily, we left enough time to travel, and with five minutes to spare before my 12:00 appointment, we hurried out of the little, yellow hot-box and into the building on Madison Avenue marked in large, black numbers "185".
Now for the next obstacle. Being severely claustrophobic, my mom is not a fan of elevators. But climbing nine flights in a sweltering stairway on a 92 degree day is not really the best idea either. So she did it. Without a worry, (or without showing me a worry), she walked with determination into the elevator, and up we went.
Wow. My mom really loves me.
Upon entering Joseph Paris Salon, we were greeted with the same video of bald to beautiful women, but this time, there was a small difference. A child. One of the photos this time was of a little girl - maybe about six or seven years old - who had lost her hair. The next shot showed her happily donning her long, brown wig. It hurt my heart. As much as this sucks for me, a child should never have to deal with serious illnesses. Not ever.
My thoughts were interrupted as Joseph Paris, himself, showed us back into his office. It was the same office as the first time, so no surprises. But today's experience was much different than last week's.
"So, tell me what's going on." Joseph asked with concern as he leaned against the table under the mirror. I immediately noticed that his fly was down, but I forced myself to look away. I grabbed my hair in two handfulls on either side of my head and said, "This is all gonna go away soon."
Joseph had heard it all before from so many others who had come to see him so they could save just a bit of dignity during their poison treatments. But he wasn't jaded. "Ok, we'll take care of that," he said with confidence. He pulled out a box with the synthetic hair system that was put on hold for me last week, then looked at my hair. He opened a small closet next to the mirror that had more hair color samples than I had ever seen, and started digging through them. It was almost amusing watching him pick up some hair, hold it against a color chart, shake his head, and toss it aside. He must've gone through 20 samples before he called in one of the hair system stylists to ask for a color that would match my highlights.
As we waited for the stylist to come back, Joseph said, "So, we're gonna harvest some hair today to make your hairline for the custom piece?" I nodded.
The process seemed simple enough when I read it online. They'll find a spot on my head that will be unnoticeable, and cut a one-inch strip of hair to be used to replicate my own hairline in the custom piece. Because it's actually my hair, it will look much more natural and be almost undetectable. Easy!
Joseph took a large chunk of my hair in the back of my head and stuck a clip in it to keep it out of his way. Just then, the stylist came back in with a color for my highlights. Joseph looked, compared it against my own highlights, shook his head and sent the stylist off again to find a better match.
Back to the hair harvesting.
Joseph took a one-inch strip of my hair, which I couldn't see since he was behind me, and cut.
Oh my GOD!
It was the most awful noise I had ever heard. My beautiful, amazingly long hair was being chopped within an inch of my scalp. But it didn't sound like anything I had ever heard at a salon before. It was like crunchy carrots. And it wasn't one clean cut. It was like a trying to cut a touch piece of fabric with dull scissors so you have to open and close the scissors numerous times just to cut a small piece!
Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
I feel sick. I don't want to do this.
Joseph walked over to the table in front of me with a hand full of my shiny locks. It looked like so much. He proceeded to tape around the top of the harvested hair so none of it would get lost. Then he spoke, "Come over here, baby." And led me to a mirror. It was sweet the way he called me "baby". He was almost fatherly, and definitely showed sincere empathy.
I followed him to the mirror where he handed me a smaller, hand-held mirror. He had me position myself so I could see the back of my head. "You see? You can't tell that I cut anything. No one will know."
Ok, I got through it. It's over now. Wait...it's not?
"I'm just gonna take 3 to 4 samples from your hair so we have enough to make a good hairline."
Holy shit. Will I have any left?
Lift. Clip. Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
The sick feeling came back as I swallowed the lump that was crawling up my throat and blinked away the burning sensation in my eyes. What's the big deal, I thought. It's all gonna be gone soon anyway.
Here he goes again.
Lift. Clip. Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
I watched him take each sample to the table, wrap tape around the top, and line it up next to the one before it. There were a total of three, each holding the amount of hair on a Barbie doll's head, just five times longer. It was so much hair. I need that hair. That's MY hair!
GIVE IT BACK!!!!
Oh no! Here he comes again. He has the scissors. No, not again. No!
"No more." It was all I could manage before the dam broke and the tears started flowing.
I tried not to cry. I tried to be strong. But as I looked at large pieces of me laid out on a table, I just couldn't contain it any longer.
"Ok, we can stop. I don't want to do anything to upset you any more. You're going through enough," Joseph said with care.
My mom got up to console me, and I could see that she was holding back her own set of waterfalls, but she stayed stronger than I could. Joseph brought me to the mirror again to show me that, in fact, each chopped area was safely hidden under the hair that remained in place. I dabbed at my eyes with a tissue, slumped back into the chair and found some courage I didn't know I had.
"Do you need more?" I asked while trying to keep my voice from quivering.
Joseph looked at me with honest eyes. "I can make you a nice hairline with what we have. But I'd really like to have one more cut to make sure I have enough."
"Ok. Do it."
I closed my eyes.
Lift. Clip. Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
It's over.
Just then, the stylist came back in with what looked to be an exact match for my highlights. "Perfect!" Joseph exclaimed. "That's good for the synthetic hair. Now go find a match in human hair for the custom piece." I still find it weird knowing that I'll be wearing someone else's hair.
After the trauma of the cutting, the rest was cake. Joseph took more measurements. Then he took some pictures of the exact way I part and wear my hair. The custom piece will be recreated to the specifics of that photo, from the placement of the highlights to the direction of the hair, to the location of my part. There will even be a skin-toned slab of rubber under the part so when the hair is pushed to either side, it looks like a scalp.
Joseph told me that my hair would probably start to fall out after my second chemo treatment. "As soon as it starts to come out, call me. We'll get you in here, buzz it off, and do the final fitting of your hair system so it's perfect. We don't want you to go one day without hair."
I thanked him and he wished me luck.
My mom and I left the city and drove away in our own, separate cars. As the rain fell on my windshield like tears, I was aware of the fact that I wasn't crying. I don't want to cry anymore. I want to be strong like everyone says I should. I want to be brave. I gazed down at the teal and white cervical cancer awareness bracelet that my friend, Angel, sent me and read the words imprinted on it.
"Fight Like A Girl"
Good idea. I think I will.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Side Effects
Why did I do that?
I've been so good at staying away from Google so far. My doctor told me not to look up anything about cervical cancer on the internet because each case is different. He didn't want me to drive myself crazy. Don't get me wrong, I've done research on the best doctors and the highest quality wigs, but I haven't dug deep into details of what I'll be facing.
Until tonight.
Just for the Hell of it, I decided to look up the side effects of chemotherapy. Of course, I knew about the hair loss and fatigue. How much worse could it be?
Well, I can't quote exactly what I read because after I burst into hysterics, Jimmi ran over and closed the window on the computer while verbally disciplining me like I was a disobedient a child. "Why did you look? I told you not to do that!"
So, I'll try and remember as much of the terrifying list as I can without sneaking another look, for fear of the wrath of Jimmi!
Anemia
Hair Loss
Changes in mouth and throat
Fatigue
Pain
Trouble with urination
Swelling
Memory loss
Eating changes
Sexual changes (no, not a sex-change)
That's all I can think of at the moment. Probably more than I'll remember after the memory loss sets in. But it wasn't enough for me to read each symptom; I had to click on the descriptions.
I skipped anemia, hair loss, pain and fatigue, figuring they were self-explanatory.
"Changes in mouth and throat"? What? Click! Ok, so, apparently, everything I eat will taste like shit. Oh, sorry, metal. It will taste like metal. But, not to worry! I can eat with plastic utensils, and maybe that'll help. That is, when I feel like eating at all. And when I do eat, chewing might hurt. Swallowing, too. Sounds pleasant. It's all good, though, since under "Eating Changes" I read that I won't have an appetite anyway. Good news! Forcing myself to eat a bunch of small meals per day, instead of three large ones might help. And as long as they're high in fat, and heavily spices, I might even taste them!
Well, at least I'll fit into my wedding dress...
Or not. "Swelling". Click! I may experience swelling in the arms, legs, feet or abdomen. Abdomen? Nope. No can do!! My wedding dress is fitted to every curve of my body. It's not meant for new bumps and bulges. It won't fit! No, I can't have it taken out! It needs the body I have NOW! That's THE dress. I don't want to look for another one!! Yes, I'm bitching like a five year-old, but I think I'm entitled. After all, I've already been cranky and uncomfortable since my egg retrieval. I've been so puffy and sore, that I haven't been able to wear pants in a week! I've been living in sundresses, sweats and jumpers since last Tuesday, and, I'm not gonna lie, I'd kill to wear a pair of skinny jeans right now. My sides hurt from stretching to keep up with the bulge in my abdomen that won't seem to go away. And all I keep thinking is that it's only going to get worse.
"Think positive, Suzanne! Be optimistic!"
Can't right now. It will get worse - and I'm still only talking about the swelling! As soon as the puffiness from the retrieval goes away, It'll be hysterectomy time. If I'm this uncomfortable now, I can't even imagine how bad that will be. Not to mention the fact that I may never have a flat stomach again. Once my ovaries are removed, I might get that menopausal belly that is resistant to all diets and exercise. I'll never wear tight clothes or bikinis again. Wait, what's exercise? I don't remember anymore. I haven't been allowed to go to the gym since I started my IVF cycle to stimulate my eggs three weeks ago. I can start again next week, but I have doctor's appointments every day and a week later, I'll have surgery and be out of commission again for the rest of the summer. I used to go to the gym 3-5 times a week. I'm starting to feel tired, flabby and lethargic. I just want to do 5 miles on the elliptical!!
Happy thoughts! I need a happy thought...Embryos (or blastocysts, as they're called in the freezer)!! 14 of the 16 that were fertilized made it to the five day mark. That means they continued to grow long enough after fertilization to be frozen. So Jimmi and I have 14 possible babies waiting for a future gestational carrier.
But I digress. Where was I?
"Memory loss". Convenient time for me think of that one. I pride myself on having an impeccable memory. I can tell you the details of every important conversation I've ever had. I keep my calendar in my head because, though I do write appointments down, I never look at the book. I never need to. Even if I forget my grocery list at home, I'll generally remember 95% of what was on it. That will come to an end. During chemo treatments, I won't even remember what I ate for breakfast. But I will know it probably tasted like metal.
"Trouble with Urination." Honestly, I feel like a geriatric patient. The catheter is really bad enough, but now the chemo might cause me to have trouble peeing? Wait! I just remembered two more side effects! You'll love these: constipation and diarrhea. I'm sorry, but don't they need to pick one? If I'm constipated, how can I have diarrhea, or vice versa? As far as I can see, my entire bathroom experience will be a total disaster.
And lastly, "Sexual Changes." It says I'm not gonna want to have sex. But, really, even if I did, would anyone actually want to have sex with me? I know I'll be a total catch with my bald head, swollen body and metallic-tasting mouth, but I guess I'll just have to turn all my suiters away. I'll bet Jimmi will be beating them off with a stick!! They'll all be lined up outside the bathroom, waiting for me to finish puking or having diarrhea, or straining to pee. It'll be like a fairy tale! Chemo-rella. That's me! Only I won't be able to try on the glass slipper because my feet will be too swollen.
14 days.
In 14 days, my Hell will begin. In 14 days, I'll start on the path to recovery. I just hope it doesn't kill me first.
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