A Quick Two Years

It’s been two years since my cancer was excised from my right boob.  Excised.  I really like that word…sort of brings Linda Blair and her spinning head with green vomit scene to memory.  And THAT my friends is what going through breast cancer treatment is like.  An exorcism.

Two years later, and I am in full on menopause.  I've been tested and it is scientific fact that I’m all dried up.  I think that is exactly what the lab results had printed out.  Hormonal diagnosis:  all dried up. 

My hair is thinning to the point of needing a comb over.  You know how the smart balding men just shave their heads to hide/own the fact that there is an issue?  Brilliant in my opinion and so I've joined the company of Dr. Phil, Gandhi, Telly Savales and Elmer Fudd.  Oh, and let’s not forget Brittney Spears during her freak out moment. 

Memory issues, also known as “Chemo Brain”, are my main concern.  At least it is when I remember that it’s a problem.  There are times when I can’t comprehend a Dr. Seuss book, let alone my boss’s direction.  “Tell me again” is a phrase that I use often, which is sometimes followed by, “again…say it again”.  My least favorite part is when I get the eye roll in response.  I know it’s frustrating to talk to a floating balloon, but sometimes that is what my head is.  Sadly, I have to say, “get used to it” because according to my doctor, it’s a slow process to recover from.  I've got another year of this brain fog.  The chemo kills off the cancer cells, but it also kills off the healthy cells.  Healthy cells that used to make sense of the words Green Eggs and Ham, now just scramble up and leave me thinking, “I should buy eggs.”

I'm also very fat.  I am putting some of this on the chemo brain, because I honestly think that I forget that I need to diet.  I'll be 100% focused and then *poof* a piece of chocolate is in my mouth.  Shit...I'm on a diet...shit...where did these cookies come from?  Oh, who wants birthday cake?  Me!  Shit, no...I don't.  Why don't I?  Sure, cut me a slice.  It's a battle that I have to conquer.  My mother tells me that I'm fat.  I see it in the mirror.  My primary care doctor tells me that my GERD will go away if I lose 20 pounds and the workplace biometric screener lady told me, just yesterday, that I need to lose 4 inches off of my waist.  Okay, okay, okay...I get it.  I'll focus!

Do I smell bacon?

Surely, I’m thankful to just be here free and clear of the BigC and I know that had it been 75 years ago, my sisters in this fight would be thrilled to have a dried up uterus, chrome dome and vague memories of what just happened 10 minutes ago.  

See you back here soon if I can remember my log in information.

Pooper, not a Puker

I have moved my FaceBook notes over to this blog.  Mostly because I wanted the two things to be separate.  FaceBook is a daily thing for me and I somehow have accumulated a friend list that includes folks that maybe don't want to read about the hazards of chemo.  By creating this blog, those that WANT to read the guts and glory words that come from my head may choose to subscribe.

Basically, consider yourself warned.

My third round of chemo has by far been the worse.  I knew that this was going to be, but didn't really understand how it would manifest itself.

Basically, I pooped myself into dehydration.  Shat myself dry.  Yup.

See?  This doesn't belong on a FaceBook timeline.

For whatever medical/physical reason, I don't puke with chemo.  It could be because I'm a gastric bypass patient.  I don't know if that's the reason why, because there are too few of us out there to pay for a study.  Komen does the three day walk to raise money for breast cancer, Avon has a two day walk find a cure, Ford even gets in on the Warrior thing...but nobody cares about the former obese girl that ends up with cancer.  I swear, I'm constantly telling the staff at the clinic that I'm "gastric bypass".  It's almost like turrets for me.

"Kimberly, are you diabetic?"
"No, I'm gastric bypass."

"Kimberly, I'm going to give you a prescription for the pain."
"I'm gastric bypass."

Unless you're a gastric bypass patient, you won't understand any of this.  I swear, you sign up to lose weight and then are tied to a future full of stipulations/modifications/questions.

Okay, so on to pooping and not puking.  I had horrible diarrhea following this treatment.  (we will now refer to diarrhea as the icky-poops...I hate the word diarrhea)  No sooner than I would eat or drink, it would come flying out of my backside.  I had a fever (which I had to call the emergency line about during the big game on Sunday) and spent the night Sunday sitting on the toilet with a thermometer in my mouth and two dogs at my feet.  They really are the best friends during this sort of ordeal.  They find it to be something that they can relate to.

I went in to the clinic to have blood drawn, following the on-call oncologist's directions first thing Monday morning.  I dragged my sore ass in to the clinic...in the rain.  As they took the blood, I started to get hot (fever) and then all sounds were muted.  I looked around and blinked really hard.  Why it is that I thought that blinking would help my hearing, I don't know.  I took a deep breath, took my coat off...which got tangled in my purse strap...which got me sweatier.  After this passed, I thought, "this is probably a good place to share this sort of information".  I made note to tell the nurse if it should happen again.

After I was seen and issued an order for a few tests, a bag of IV fluids and some Zofran, the desk manager came over to me and said, "I need you to give me a urine sample.  The cup is in there."  She pointed to the bathroom.  What a relief that she didn't expect me to give it here in the infusion area.  Then she comes over to me, hands me an envelope, and says, "Have you ever done a fecal test?".

I blink again.  Apparently, blinking seems to be my solution to all things bad.

"Uh, no.  Well, maybe a long time ago, but I'm sure that I mentally blocked all of it.  What do I need to do?"

She pulls out FAR too many pieces to this little kit and tells me something about putting a tissue into the toilet and then using a stick to scrape two different areas.  Three separate times.

I say, and I promise you that this is verbatim, "Okay, but what if the poop is flying out of my ass with the pressure of a fire hose?"

Poor thing.  Now she was blinking.  And shaking her knee a bit.  She thought about it, while twirling one of the scraper sticks, and finally says, "I don't know how to answer that."

End scene.