Thursday, May 29, 2014

Nor-mal


As cancer patients, we find ourselves holding our breaths very often.  The days and hours waiting for news are filled with anxiety and tons of emotions that range from panic to fear.  We hold our breath and wait to hear that white blood cell counts are "NORMAL".  We hold our breath and wait to hear that MRI's are "NORMAL" and we hold our breath and wait to hear that PET Scans are "NORMAL".  All we want is "NORMAL" even though our definition of "NORMAL" has been forever altered by a cancer diagnosis.

Thankfully, even in my altered mental state, I was not stupid enough to hold my breath waiting for the results of my PET Scan, because I most certainly would have passed out by now.  But, I finally got the call.  The call that I tried not to think about too much this week, because in my heart, I knew what the results were going to be.  Call it women's intuition.  Call it being smart enough to listen to what my body is telling me.  Or just call it being positive.

I knew when I saw the call come up on my phone, they weren't calling to remind me that I have an appointment tomorrow.  They were calling to tell me that the results of my PET Scan were "COMPLETELY NORMAL!".  I was just about rendered speechless, and could barely speak to the women through my tears.  Suddenly, everything came into focus.  It no longer matters that I'm retaining 20 pounds of water and my ankles look like they belong on an elephant.  It doesn't matter that all of my fingernails are falling off.  And it doesn't matter that my head is covered only in light blonde peach fuzz.  I'm just gonna put on a pair of long pants, paint my fingernails and put my wig on and celebrate this news.

I am cancer free!



Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Making The Tough Calls

When I was diagnosed, everything was pretty much laid out for me by the surgeon, I didn't feel like I had massive decisions to make.  There really weren't any choices.  I either started chemotherapy, or breast cancer would take my life.  It was one or the other, we didn't really even toss the idea of not having chemo around, it was never even a topic of conversation.  I remember the intense dissatisfaction over not having any choices, not having any kind of control over what was going to happen to my body, to my life.  In retrospect, I suppose with everything that I had to do to prepare for treatment, that I didn't have to make a bunch of choices.  I probably wasn't in any kind of condition to make them anyway.

Just like that, the next year of my life would be mapped out on a piece of breast cancer pink (are you kidding me?) paper, a piece of paper with not 2, but 4 nipples.  (Was this some kind of sign?  An omen of what was to come?  Should I worry that I will awake for reconstructive surgery with 4 nipples?  Heck, I was worried about having none, 4 sounds worse.)  It disturbed me just a little bit that the surgeon didn't even have to think about it, she just started writing and drawing little arrows around the 4 nipples. How many times a day does she get to draw on the pink paper?

The pink paper would be posted to the refrigerator by my husband later that day where it would continue to hang for the course of my treatment.  He told me that he wanted me to cross the steps off as I went so that I could feel like I was making progress.  (I need to mark a bunch of steps off right now... oops!)  Progress is very important when your life is at stake.  I remember wondering at the time if we would get sick of looking at that pink paper hanging on our beautiful stainless steel refrigerator, the constant reminder that someone in the house had something wrong with her breasts.

And so the pink paper/4 nipple plan began, tests, labs, and more tests would start the ball rolling.  .... And she's off....  Oncologists, Radiation Oncologists (how does someone who doesn't even have a PCP end up with 2 oncologists in a matter of days?), MRI's, Echo's, PET scans....  Port surgery.  Start chemo.  Finish chemo.  Back to the surgeon to schedule surgery.

...Radiation.  And there is where the snag comes in.  I do feel like I have a choice.  I am not 100% sold that radiation therapy should be in my future.  I have serious doubts and concerns about radiation.  Doubts and concerns that I raised to my oncologist a few months ago in the midst of chemo.  She told me that we could discuss it once I was done with the chemo.  Well, I'm done, and there is going to be a big discussion in her office on Friday when I go for my stand-alone Herceptin treatment.

I have put on my medical cap, and read through all kinds of studies debating the merits of radiation therapy in a case like mine, and I've got to say, I'm struggling big time.  (I know I swore off internet reading back in February, but I have to be armed and dangerous, I have to be educated in order to make the best decision.)

On one hand, I don't want to do anything that is going to make it easy for the cancer to come back or spread to other parts of my body.  I really want it all gone- which is why I have chosen to have the double mastectomy.  There is going to be nothing left.  On the other hand, radiation can actually cause secondary cancers.  So, aren't I contradicting myself with this choice?  I'm also very concerned about my bones, I tend to take after my father's side of the family, and the bones aren't good to begin with.  What is radiation going to do to my bones?

I do not want to die of breast cancer, or any other cancer for that matter.  But, I also do not want to spend the rest of my life battling side effects from radiation therapy.  I have a feeling that already I am going to be dealing with some bizarre side effects from the chemotherapy cocktail that I just completed.  (Note to self, probably should quit calling it a cocktail.  When have I ever had a "cocktail" that made my hair fall out and my finger nails turn black... seriously?)  I do not wish to live in a bubble in a constant state of panic over what I can and cannot do, that's not living.  I feel like my body has been through enough, and I strongly believe that there are healthier, less invasive options for killing off cancer cells... although, I must say, I think that I have made my body such a hostile environment for cancer cells, that I doubt that there are any of them still hanging around, they're probably long gone.

Wish me luck, I have a feeling that this isn't going to be an easy choice to make, and I'm not entirely sure how receptive to these feelings my oncologist is going to be.  Hopefully, I have a clean PET to back up my argument.




Friday, May 23, 2014

You're Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile....

Today was  PET Scan Friday. (My 1st PET Scan since completing 6 rounds of chemo.)

Yesterday, was Echo Cardiogram Thursday.


I  always make a point of reporting with a smile, and have always done my to make the best out of  pretty much everything my team of highly talented (and have I mentioned, FEMALE) physicians has decided to do to me!  The past 2 days have been no different.  Most of the medical professionals that I come across can tell some pretty horrible stories about difficult, ornery, and just plain rude patients.  I don't want to be one of those people- I like being a "club" member, but I don't want to be a part of that club.

The technologist that performed my echo yesterday said that she will always remember me because even the 1st time she met me, as I faced a 9CM tumor and chemotherapy, I was smiling.   She told me that she has been rooting for me, and was very anxious to see how things were going for me.  When I shared my news, she did a little woo-hoo and a very cute little dance (If that is not a ringing endorsement for smiling and being nice to people, I don't know what is!). I am of the opinion that if my health care providers are going to remember me, I want it to be because I was sweet, smiling and determined to kick cancer's ass- not because I have a horrible attitude and can't be grateful for anything.  After all, these people are contributing to my care, which is in turn saving my life, and heck, the more I get to know them, the more I genuinely like em!

I shared the waiting room with several people today as I waited to be injected with the "Incredible Hulk" dye.  One of them really made an impression and it was not a good one.  I'm not sure why she was there, I have no idea what was wrong with her, what I do know is, I wanted to smack the bad attitude right out of her. The rudeness started in the lobby.  Apparently, the amount of time that she was being required to wait, just wasn't acceptable, and she made sure that everyone in the waiting room knew that she was unhappy. (Well, hells bells- everyone here is waiting... what do you think you are?  The Queen of Orlando?) In the 15 minutes that I was unlucky enough to be in the room with her, I heard complaints about everything imaginable.  The room was too cold, there weren't enough chairs, the chairs were uncomfortable, the wait was too long... and on and on she went.  I couldn't wait to get away from her, and neither could her boyfriend who yanked her out of the room and told her in a very loud voice (why didn't they just stay in the room if he was going to scream?  Everyone in the room would have joined in a standing ovation) that he was sick of her bad attitude.  As I walked from the room for my PET scan, I couldn't help but toss her a huge, toothy smile, I fought back the intense desire to tell her to have a blessed day.  I heard her grunt and let out a huge sigh.  She probably wanted to choke me, but I just couldn't help it.  I really feel bad for the radiologist that was going to have to deal with her.

I have no idea what the results of this scan will be.  I do know that they have to be better than what they were in January, and I pray that they are clear, but either way, I know that I have made progress.  I'm not anxious over the reading of this scan.  I just have a feeling... and the last time I had a feeling, I was right.  This is gonna be a good one.

I am in a completely different state of mind today than what I was back in January,  as I sit here attempting to rid myself of my water retaining ankles and legs and the exhaustion that is being brought on by carrying around all of this water. (I swear I'm retaining so much water that I could fill a small hot tub should someone decide to tip me over and pour me out!  I feel like a little tea pot... )  I am sure that my chemo worked, I'm no longer frightened by the prospect of starting chemo, and I'm starting down the road to recovery from the chemo.  Mentally, I am in a very good place, I feel positive, I feel strong, and I feel like I've really got this.  I'm focused and I'm determined with little distraction.

The wait for that 1st PET to come back was terrible.  Once you've been told you have cancer, it's very easy for your mind to wander all over the map and get a little carried away, and you will inadvertently find yourself speculating on where else in your body the cancer might have gone.  Every little twitch, every little ache.  Oh my gosh, it's in my bones.  Oh shit,  it's in my ovaries.  Holy Fuck, with this headache, I'm sure it's in my brain!   So, as you can imagine, I was relieved to get the results back and find out that it was only where I had originally thought it was.  I know that I will have many more PET scans, and I know that every time I go for a PET Scan I will be anxious as I wait for the results to come back.  I'm nothing if not a realist, and I know that there is a chance that once of these days, I won't have a clear PET.  But, I refuse to be defined by this possibility, instead I will carry on with my life making sure that if that day does present itself, that I have no regrets about the way that I lived during my cancer remission.

Today, I have no expectations other than a clear report- while my brain is a little wonky, I don't think it's because cancer has invaded it.  And just because my bones are a little achy does not mean that cancer has made a home there...  I am completely devoid of horrible thoughts (other than the ones that I'm having about the water retention... have I mentioned that I'm retaining water and it's driving me bonkers?).  All I can think is, the chemo & I  kicked my cancer's ass.... Now I just have to wait and see how much ass it kicked!










Wednesday, May 21, 2014

My Handbag Has Been Taken Over By Sticky Notes...


Exactly when is that moment that you realize you have a problem?  Is it the moment when you reach into your handbag to get the list of things you are supposed to be buying at the grocery store, and instead of pulling out just one little note, you pull out your hand and there are 5 attached?  Or is it the moment when you try without success to figure out which note actually corresponds to that trip to the grocery store?

Exactly when do you start thinking to yourself, "This is ridiculous?"  Is it the moment when your husband says to you, "I know I told you that..." and you scan your brain unsuccessfully to try to figure out what it was he told you, all the while knowing damn well that you just had that conversation 15 minutes prior.

Do you start to wonder if you're loosing your mind when you see that 98% of your desk is covered in notes, and you can't figure out what goes with what, or what day you were supposed to be doing these tasks?  Do you start to think that Alzheimers might be a possibility when you pick up the phone, make a phone call, then search frantically to find the note that corresponds to the phone call you just made while trying to figure out who you called?

If it weren't for several (rather comical) discussions with previous chemo survivors, I would seriously be thinking of checking myself into some kind of nut ward to have my head checked.  But, the scary part of all of this is, I'm told it's completely normal- I am also assured that it is temporary!  I've always been pretty sharp.  I was the queen of multi-tasking.  I could have 2 phone conversations at the same time, all while sending a fax, writing something down and working on a text message all at the same time.  And I could do all of this while petting the dog-  so you can imagine how frightening all of this was to me.

I had so much worthless information in my brain it was ridiculous.  (Maybe that's the problem, maybe my "brain" cabinet imploded!  I knew it was no good to pay such close attention to everything.)  I have always had a photographic memory- at any given point in time, I could locate pretty much any object in the house or in the stores.  And it wasn't just with my stuff, I could tell my husband where all of his stuff was too.  I could remember customer names, and usually what they had purchased.  (Scary, hugh?)  My brain was a fine tuned machine that rarely let me down- unless I was extremely exhausted, and then it didn't quit entirely, it just ran a little slow- kind of like molasses.

So, this ditzy, diziness was all new to me.  And I fought the good fight- in the beginning.  Then things started getting rather hairy and chaotic.  (Making 2 trips in one day to the grocery store, no matter how close it is, is just ludicrous and completely unacceptable- as is walking up to the "office" in our home and having no idea why I was there!).  I had to do something...  And so the endless stream of post it notes began, and now at any given point, I usually have at least 1 if not 2, attached to me in some crazy way... Note to self, stuffing them in pockets is bad, especially when you forget to write yourself a note to take the the note out of your pocket before washing the pants.

I will survive this post-it note era...  I am told that exercising and challenging my brain is a great way to clear the fog.  Writing this blog is one form of reconditioning, as are the crossword puzzles that challenge me on a daily basis.  I can also say that  I'm thankful for the work that my husband thought it best to move into our home when the cancer business started.  Not only do I enjoy doing it, but it's important for me hang onto something familiar from my old life. And it keeps my brain active, and challenged.  But, I will say this, it was a lot easier to do that job with my pre-chemo brain.

Friday, May 16, 2014

My Future Is So Bright... Once Again!

When I was told I had cancer on January 3, after talking with my surgeon and the oncologist, I was assured that I was going to be cancer free by the time my bum hit the operating table.  I believed them, and I proceeded with this knowledge in my mind.  My surgeon told my husband and I as we left her office, "You're in good hands, we've got this!".  I carried those words with me in my head for days, it became almost like a song, a song without music.   As I went from doctor to doctor, test to test, I just told myself, "It's all going to be okay!  Your doctors have got this!"  My husband told me at least a 100 times, "You're going to be fine!", and I believed him too.  It was what kept me going even through all that was happening.  Knowing that I was going to one day be cancer free, gave me the strength and the courage to plow through it all, even the things that made me weak in the knees.

Then in mid-January just days before I was scheduled to have my port placed, all of the balance started to shift.  Suddenly, the little blips that appeared on my mammogram, PET scan, and MRI on the right side of my body that we thought were nothing, became extremely important.  It was something that couldn't wait, I needed to report immediately for another biopsy- and this time on the lymph nodes under my right arm.   How could this be happening?  How many times could one person go through a cancer diagnosis?  A million questions raced through my mind, most importantly being what is this going to change?  And why all of a sudden we were concerned with the little "shit blips" on all of my imaging reports.  I really didn't understand, but what choice did I have but to subject myself to more testing?

The first "emergency" biopsy came on January 13th, my husbands birthday.  I was so upset, not only to be doing another biopsy this late in the game, but by the fact that I was doing it on his birthday.  It was supposed to be a day of celebration, and we were supposed to be having some fun, something that we both desperately needed at this point.  I was not supposed to be sitting in a waiting room (next to a funny looking little man wearing red pants and carrying what I will only say was an amazingly beautiful handbag).  A million thoughts raced through my mind as I once again found myself laying partially naked on a table in a dark room with 2 strange women looking at my bared chest.  I couldn't help but wonder, "How many people are going to look at my boobs before this all over?".  I can tell you, that once you've undergone something like this, modesty goes right out the window.  You know longer care who sees your breasts, and you no longer hesitate when they ask you to remove your top.  Actually, if they don't ask to see your breasts, you start to wonder what the heck is going on.

2 days later, I was soaking in the bath tub, praying that I would wake up from my cancer nightmare when the phone rang.  I don't remember exactly what time it was, but it was pretty early in the morning.  I don't live in a world where early morning (or late night) calls are good news.  As I looked at the caller ID and realized it was the surgeons office, I didn't get a warm and fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I just about got sick, and I contemplated not even picking up the phone.  Part of me just didn't want to know what they were calling for way before the day had really even started.  Realist that I am, I knew that even if I didn't pick up the news would still be there, and I might as well face the music, no matter how ominous it was.

"Can you be here in 30 minutes?  Doctor wants to run more tests, immediately."   Well, as much as I would love to do that, I live an hour away, and I'm in the bath-tub,  (and the Bat-Mobile is in the shop) so I would need a little bit more time than that.  Although, being that I'm already naked, it would save some time getting undressed on the other end... but what if I were to get pulled over on the way there?  No, I had better get dressed.  (And I wonder why everyone in the surgeon's office is always so happy to see me?  I'm sure they don't have conversations like this one with patients every day!)

I will never forget that day as long as I live.  I am not a person who complains about pain, and I can take a lot, but that was awful.   My right breast, which had pretty much been left out of the excitement up until this point was the subject matter of fascination at this point.  I was laid, stomach down, on a table with my breast through a hole in the table while they attempted to remove calcifications from the center of my breast that had been previously spotted on one of the scans.  These calcifications were so close to my breast bone, and it was nearly impossible for them to get at.  The surgeon tried 3 times, and each time, it hurt worse than the time before.  They took a huge chance letting me out of the room at that point, they had more to do to me, and if I had been able to get my hands on my clothes, I probably would have bolted at that point.

Up until the point where they inserted a needle into my right armpit- I had not sworn once at the doctor or her assistant.  But, when that needle hit my armpit, and started moving, I couldn't hold back another second.  "Shit, that f'ing hurts!"  I knew when I heard laughter from the doctor and her assistant that they weren't laughing at me, but laughing at the fact that it was the 1st derogatory thing to come out of my mouth that they had ever heard!  I think they were honestly shocked.

Once again, I played the waiting game.  I waited to hear what was going on in my body, and how it was going to change things.  I prayed that the blips on the right side were a different kind of breast cancer.  I prayed that there was no cancer in my right breast, or if there was, that it also would be a different kind of cancer.  I got part of my prayer.  There was no cancer in my right breast, but there was definitely cancer in my right lymph nodes, and it was HER2+ cancer, just like the cancer on my left side.  This news rocked my world in a way that I cannot begin to describe.  Suddenly, I went from playing a game where I was going to be cured, to being a metastatic cancer patient.  I had a very hard time swallowing that.  That was not news that I wanted to live with.

I tried really hard for weeks to come to terms with my fate.  The oncologist told me that more than likely I would have to undergo life-long cancer treatment.  I just couldn't comprehend it, and I really couldn't accept it.  I was really terrified at that point.  I contemplated seeking a second opinion, and made a call to the surgeons office asking for some clarification about what was going on.  I just didn't get it.  2 days later I found myself in consultation with the breast surgeon who managed to alleviate the sick feeling in my stomach. Yes, technically, I had metastatic cancer.  No, they did not have any intention of changing my original treatment plan.  No, they were not willing to commit to anything other than "cured" at this point.  Even though it was "technically" metastatic, everywhere that it was, it could be cut out.  We were going to keep the game plan we originally had, and still go for cancer free!  I was told to stop reading all of the clinical information on the internet- it really didn't apply to my case which wasn't so cut-and-dry.   That conversation was a life-changer for me.  I hadn't been able to sleep for weeks, and suddenly, I was back on track again.  I felt like everything was under-control once again.  I left the office that day promising the surgeon and her staff that I would steer clear of self-diagnosis on the internet and proceed as planned.

Yesterday, I sat anxiously in the surgeons office for my 1st screenings since I have undergone chemotherapy.  In my heart, I knew that I had positive results from the chemo- mainly the Perjeta, but I didn't want to get too excited until we had some kind of "medical" evidence.  Oh, please Ultrasound me... I can't wait any more! The warm gooey lotion actually felt good as it hit my left armpit.  "I don't believe this, nothing.  There is nothing there."  And then the right armpit, "Nope, nothing there.  This is freaking incredible!" (I never really have to guess what my surgeon is thinking, that's part of what I love about her!  And I have no doubts in my mind that she loves what she does!)  A tear trickled down my cheek, and I couldn't help but say "Thank God! I have a miracle."

Just for kicks and giggles, she ultrasounded my breast as well, there is nothing there.  Well, nothing there that isn't supposed to be there.  I could have kissed her at this point, but I held back!

We are proceeding as originally planned.  On June 17th, I will have a double mastectomy and bilateral lymph node dissection.  Expanders will be placed where my breasts were to prepare my body for my final reconstruction.

But, in the meantime, I am just so "freaking" happy with my news that I can hardly stand.  I would like to scream from a roof top that I no longer have cancer in my body... but I would have to climb a ladder to get there, and I would probably fall off, so maybe I'll just stand in the driveway!












Monday, May 12, 2014

Milestone... Crazy Chemo Done!

This is a very special post for me.  5 months ago, I started the journey down the road to being cancer free.  I was undeniably terrified and apprehensive  about what was going to happen to me, but I was determined to persevere, I was, and still am determined to be cancer free.   I hoped and prayed for the best, I hoped that after 6 treatments that the horrible cancer that had invaded my body, and upset my entire world, would be gone. I prayed that I wouldn't be too sick, that I would tolerate the chemo well, and of course that by some serious miracle, my hair wouldn't fall out... Okay, so 2 our of 3 ain't bad.  6 treatments later, here I am, a little worse for the wear (most definitely bald), and most certainly not feeling like myself, however, I can no longer feel the tumor in my breast, the horrific pain that kept me up most nights, and made me uncomfortable during my waking hours, is gone.  The signs of the cancer invading the skin, are gone!

Friday (05-09-14) was my 1st cancer milestone.  The 1st stage of my cancer treatment COMPLETE!  I'm sure it's hard to imagine, but I couldn't wait to get there on Friday morning.  I couldn't wait to be hooked up to those tubes, I just wanted to be done.

I was so thankful for a good nights sleep on Thursday night- the last 3 treatments I've undergone have been undertaken on -0- hours of sleep (which resulted in water-works in the doctors office prior to my chemo started- a tired baby is a cranky baby!).  It was great to make it through my consultation with the oncologist without bursting into tears over the fact that my ankles were swollen to 4 times their normal size, and the aching suspicion that I have that one of my finger nails may be getting ready to fall off (I've never hoped so much that I am wrong about something!).

As the poison (May I take this opportunity to add how ironic I think it is that "poison" would save my life?) trickled into my veins, I looked around that huge room, full of cancer warriors, the room where I have spent so many hours over the last 5 months.... almost 50.  I couldn't help but get a little nostalgic (I am a nostalgic, sentimental person by nature). There I sat, waiting to be finished with my treatment, surrounded by some of the kindest, caring, funniest, and feistiest people that I have ever met, people that I never would have met had it not been for cancer.  And then it hit me, I am a member of this of brave, feisty,  determined club.   I couldn't help but smile- I am in seriously good company.  CEO's of the worlds largest companies have nothing on a cancer warrior- only a real bad ass can take on cancer- this isn't for the faint of heart or weak of nature.  Believe it or not, over the last 18 weeks, I've had some pretty remarkable moments in the chemo room.  I've made a few friends, I've smiled, I've laughed, I've heard amazing stories, and I've celebrated a few "last chemo's".

Cancer survivors are a very elite group of people.  People of all ages, genders, and nationalities who can say that stared cancer in the eye, and won.  And as I'm finding out, there is a definite kinship for fellow warriors.  I have yet to meet a survivor who wasn't willing to offer words of encouragement, or share a funny story.  When you're in the throes of battle, those words are extremely crucial to survival.  They make you stop and think, "I can definitely do this!" and they make you feel like you're not alone.

There comes a certain peace in being surrounded by the words of others who are in the same place that you are, or who have been there.  I love reading the comments posted on my blog- part of it is knowing that someone is reading my blog, but it's also hearing that someone else is feeling just like I do right at that very point in time- that maybe the crazy chemo induced thoughts that race through my garbled mind on a daily basis aren't so strange.  While each of the cancer warriors are different, we're all alike in a lot of ways.  Most of us have the same thoughts, concerns, and fears, and we all strive for the same thing, to be healthy, and cancer-free.

Have a beautiful day fellow cancer warriors, and know that you've brightened my world....

Saturday, May 3, 2014

The Challenge of Being Follicle-y Challenged

I remember the moment when I was told that I was HER2 +.  It was weeks after my initial "You've Got Cancer" discussion, and I was in the produce aisle of Sam's Club trying to decide if it was worth it to buy a 6 pack of baby cucumbers- would I, or would I not eat them all before they went mushy?  Probably not the ideal location to get more bad news, or really any kind of important news.  I remember asking, so exactly what does that mean in terms of my treatment, and the kind of chemo that I will be getting?   I had to feel for my surgeons assistant (whom I love dearly, not only because she's the most helpful person in the world, but because she's a sweetheart and I always smile after talking to her).  I know she was seriously tired of delivering horrible news to this smiling, bouncy little blonde- I know this because she told me.

Of course the HER 2+ definitely meant something, it meant that I would need a different kind of chemo than what was originally planned, my treatment schedule after surgery would be longer, and (don't they always save the best for last) my hair was going to fall out.  Wait... Hold up!  Not my hair?  All I could focus on, was the hair.  So, in the middle of Sam's Club, I'm sobbing like a baby.  Not only do I have cancer, but now I'm going to be a bald girl too?  Prior to all of this cancer business, I never carried kleenex in my purse- I just wasn't the kind of person who could break down sobbing at the drop of a hat... so much for that!

 Unlike the relationship with my breasts, my hair and I had a very good relationship.  I was blessed with a very full head of super thick hair.  Hair that pretty much did whatever I would ask of it.  Hair that took color and highlights, held curl when I wanted it to, and stayed straight when I demanded straightness from it.  Of course, I had bad hair days, usually when I had failed to make time in my busy schedule to run to the salon for the necessary hair pampering, so I never held that against my hair.  It was the kind of hair that on a day when I was feeling just a tad blah- it would pick me up, flowing effortlessly over my shoulders, bouncy in all the right places.

I had spent years growing my hair in from a super short cut that was a result of a bad decision- I was left with no other option but to chop it all off! (A perm- what was I thinking? It was a disaster of epic proportions- it was huge- I looked like a disco queen).  It took years, and it was rather painful, all of those super awkward stages, the moments when I thought this is ridiculous, I should just go back to my short hair.  But, I hung in there, and I was finally there, and to make it all even better, I had found the perfect stylist.  She understood my hair, and even more importantly understood that my hubby preferred my hair "super blonde".  For the last 2 years, I have been the owner of perfectly highlighted, perfectly cut blonde hair.

And then there was all of this cancer business... Cancer treatments were going to make my beautiful blonde hair fall out.  As a person who likes to take charge, I wanted to take charge of this situation as well.  I knew that loosing my hair was going to be traumatic, and I thought that if I cut it into a shorter cut before it started falling out, that it would somehow be easier on me.

Looking back on the situation, I'm glad I cut it, because the falling out process was ugly and would have been uglier with my long locks.  At least I had a bit of an adjustment period, although I'm not sure there is anything that can prepare a woman for being bald...

I had certain expectations of the hair falling out process, I thought it would go gradually, a hair there, a hair here.  What I did not anticipate was to be standing in the shower and pulling my hand away from my head with a full hand of hair- exactly 14 days after my first chemo treatment.  AAGH, What the hell is going on here?!  My reaction was probably quite comical- after all I knew that I was going to loose my hair, so why did I stand there for 5 minutes looking quizzically at the huge clumps of hair stuck on my fingers?  Why was my mind racing with the thought "What is going on?".

24 hours after my confusing incident in the shower, I marched into Wal-Mart, and marched back out with clippers- I was empowered and taking charge of the situation. There was no way that I was taking this hair loss process lying down...  If chemo wanted to play a game, I'd play right back... I'd whack it all off!  Then what was it going to do- whose follicles are you going to mess with now chemo?  Funny how much better I felt after my head had been shaved.  The process of my hair releasing had actually been painful, and now there was nothing left!

Fast forward 3 months and 5 chemo treatments... I miss my hair.  I miss my hair a lot.  Without my hair, I am reminded every time I look in the mirror that I have cancer.   Thankfully, it is starting to grow back.  I've got a funny little patch of fuzz on top of my head, I look a bit like a mad scientist, but it's hair, it's fuzzy and funny looking, but it's hair.  And you had better bet your last dollar that my hair regrowing ritual is going to be a serious one... I am a woman with a goal... the goal is to have enough hair by the 2nd week of August that I can get hair extensions in time for my 40th birthday.  I want to be cancer free (not hair free) on my 40th birthday...