The Best Breast Cancer Ever

I Popped my Boob

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 18:50:00 +0000

In addition to the successful and "normal" scan of my girly parts yesterday, I also received some other good news. I went to Dr. Baum, my plastic surgeon, for a follow-up on the implant exchange surgery from 5 weeks ago. He checked the scars, declared everything normal, and gave me the go-ahead to begin my usual exercise routine again. Time to get back into training for my triathlons!

At 5:30 this morning, I returned to Method 360. Woot woot!! I loved every minute of my daily classes with Trish and Kristin in December through March and couldn't wait to start again. Everyone was excited to see me back, and as I walked in, Trish said, "Just don't pop your boob." Ten minutes later, I popped my boob.

Seriously. I was doing some army crawl on the floor and I thought that my right side was sweating a bit more than it should. I peeked into my shirt and my sports bra was wet right on the front, so I ran to the bathroom. When I lifted up my shirt, I saw my that skin had opened up like an eye. The reddish purple implant was perfectly exposed through the 5 or 6 inch gap. Since I didn't take a picture, I've taken a page out of one of the funniest Mommy blogs I know of and I've drawn you a crappy picture of what I saw.

The oddest thing to note about this picture is that I didn't draw any blood. That's because there wasn't any. I mean, a little pinkish liquid, but probably only a few tissues worth. The implant itself seemed to be a pinkish purple color. (I think it started out clear, but it's been in my body for 5 weeks.)

So I returned to the gym floor, put my sweat towel between my exposed implant and bra (luckily, I hadn't really begun to sweat yet), and quickly realized that maybe Kristin could help since she has had these surgeries, too. The conversation went as follows:

Shari - "Kristin, sorry to interrupt. My stitches are popped wide open." (Lifts shirt.)
Kristin - Looks. Runs away. (I thought she was going to throw up.)
Shari - Calling across the room, "Are you okay?"
Kristin - "I'm calling Dr. Baum."

So Kristin is the hero of the morning! She got the emergency line to wake Dr. Baum. She drove me to his office and waited with me. She even assisted him with the restitching surgery! (He didn't have a nurse and had to keep his hands sterile, so he had her handing him stitches, betadine, and such.) She said it was really interesting to watch, as she got to see him pulling my skin aside, cleaning underneath, etc. She even snapped a stealthy picture of me staring at the ceiling. Go Kristin!

Note that the clock on the wall says it's just about 7:00am. And the odd lump on my shorts is my shirt that I'd whipped off when Dr. Baum showed up.

So, all was done by a few minutes after this picture. We went back to get my car and Trish lovingly scolded me for popping my boob. Then back home to take care of kids and resume normal life. I don't even need painkillers today, but I'm taking it easy just in case. The biggest concern is infection because there was a gaping hole in my body, so I'm on antibiotics.

In retrospect, I'd noticed that the seam on my right breast was getting darker, like dark brown, over the past few days. I thought it was just part of the healing process for radiated skin. Then, this morning, it opened SO easily. Again, it was 10 minutes into my first workout. There was no tearing at all. It just spread apart. I guess I could describe it like a Ziploc bag opening, not a pants seam ripping. I truly believe that the scar was going to open no matter what. The radiated skin hadn't fused together after the surgery, and the little dark area was a hole. If I'd been loading groceries this weekend and lifted my arm to close the trunk, the split may have happened. Maybe starting at 1 inch, not 5, but it was going to happen nonetheless.

Of course this whole thing has changed my perspective on going back to exercising. I still believe that I NEED to keep my body in shape. However, radiated skin doesn't care that there's a triathlon on June 9 and another on August 4. Dr. Baum says "no" to both of them. A week ago, I would have argued, but the shock of seeing my popped boob has me 100% willing to follow doctor's orders. As bummed as I am, exercise will have to wait.

So, how was your morning?

Another Nervous Day

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 19:10:00 +0000


This is a completely unrelated photo showing how my hair looks right now. (Sorry about the totally fake looking smile.) I was getting some sideburns, so I'm using headbands every day to train the hair to stay back. I think I'll call this my Kramer-look.

(Update and correction at the bottom.)

I'm nervous today. As you might predict, every single doctor's appointment these days is met with the fear of what bad news I might receive. Along with the term "cancerversary" on the cancer blogs, you'll also find the term "scanxiety". Everything points to me being fine, but I don't think I'll ever be able to calmly walk into a medical office again.

Tomorrow's doctor's appointment? It's because I did a very normal thing for a 41-year-old woman: I got my period. However, as you may remember, the tamoxifen I take is supposed to prevent the estrogen in my body from doing what it normally does, so I shouldn't be getting a period. And I haven't since starting tamoxifen. But then I did last week. Dr. Google and the many women who post on cancer boards and blogs said that I'm not alone, but I had to be sure.

When I called the oncologist's office, they weren't overly concerned ("It happens sometimes to some women.") but they advised me to call my ob/gyn. Her office has me set up for an endometrial ultrasound tomorrow. Evidently, tamoxifen slightly raises the risk of endometrial cancer. Very slightly: I go from something like 1/1000 odds to 3/1000 odds.* My odds of cancer recurrence without taking tamoxifen is much higher, so it's totally worth the risk. But I think all of my doctors have the same scanxiety that I have. They were surprised that my breast lump was cancer, so they don't want to miss anything at all. That's good, I guess. However, I'm stuck sitting in the very same office (Crouse Imaging Center) where my initial diagnosis was made. Fun times, huh?

Rationally, I know that this is nothing. From this National Cancer Institute link, I have none of the symptoms described. I'm 100% certain what I had was a normal period. (Women friends out there, I'm sure you'll agree that you totally know what your period looks and feels like. This was totally normal. Not at all "bleeding or discharge unrelated to menstruation".) And in case you, too, are freaking out a little, check out the last sentence: "Endometrial cancer is highly curable."

So, by this time tomorrow, I'll have been diagnosed with NOT having endometrial cancer. Then why am I still so nervous?

Update - My ultrasound was totally normal, with the endometrial lining measuring 6mm. (Don't know what that means besides hearing the word "normal" attached to it.) The unfortunate part is that my cycles are probably back, but that's better than the cancer being back. What was I thinking, throwing out my Diva Cup? That'll teach me to listen to the oncologist! Actually, my assumption is that Dr. Kirshner is used to dealing with cancer patients who are older, so he assumed when I'd stopped my period, it would stay that way. My regular gynecologist sees women of all ages on many different medications, so she's less surprised with my body doing whatever it's been doing.

*The math geek in me has to correct this statement. Going from 1/1000 to 3/1000 can actually be described as TRIPLING my chances of endometrial cancer. Fortunately, the increase from 0.1% to 0.3% is the slight increase I was referring to. See how statistics could be used to scare people?

That Supreme Court Gene Thing

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 00:57:00 +0000

I really wish I had a better understanding of what's going on in the Supreme Court tomorrow. I know it matters, and I've figured out a little about it, but if someone wants to debate me on the subject, I don't think I know enough to hold my end of the argument. But I'm guessing that if I didn't have breast cancer myself, I know and understand even less. Therefore, I'm going to blog tonight to sort out the few thoughts I have, and do it as a teacher to anyone who wants to learn with me.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I decided upon a double mastectomy. However, I could have said, "Why don't you just try cutting out that lump in my right breast? See if you can get everything without taking my boobs." At that point, the doctors would have said, "Let's find out whether you have the breast cancer gene. If you do, your body will probably grow cancer again, so your best bet is to go for the double mastectomy."

So my blood would have been drawn, and the sample would be sent to a company called Myriad. Then would check for the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes using some patented technology they have invented to find the genes (I think). Then they'd let my doctors and me know whether I had either of them and decisions about treatment could be made from there.

I opted for the mastectomy without knowing about my genes. However, I did have a blood sample sent in to Myriad this past summer (just another blood draw during my chemo infusions). I wanted to know whether I was carrying a gene that Maggie or Reese or either of my two sisters might have to worry about. Also, those BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes also indicate something about cancer in the female parts. Clearly, my tests came back negative, or I'd know more about this.

Because the insurance through Paul's work has been superb throughout this whole thing (thanks SRC and Excellus), the genetic test was covered. However, I was warned in advance that this is an expensive test to do. Myriad is the only place that does this genetic testing. That's where this whole Supreme Court thing comes in. Does Myriad have the right to patent our genes?

In my opinion, they shouldn't. If Myriad has the patent to locate the BRCA genes, they control the price. I read somewhere that the company makes a huge profit off of this. Also, if they are making money from this without competition, where's their incentive to improve their research and find new things?

That's where my understanding of this stuff ends. I have a few articles (there are many) that you can read here in preparation for what will be in the news tomorrow. (I admit, they're pretty slanted toward my opinion.) Please feel free to post if you have anything to add or if I said something incorrect, and if you want to start that debate with me where I'll be unable to defend myself, go ahead. At least I might learn something.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/14/human-gene-supreme-court_n_3081399.html

http://msmagazine.com/blog/2013/04/13/the-breast-cancer-gene-and-the-control-of-womens-bodies/

http://bcaction.org/take-action/outlaw-human-gene-patents/

That Was Easy

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Sat, 23 Mar 2013 01:27:00 +0000

That implant exchange surgery was a breeze! Though I've been taking it easy this afternoon, I'm amazed by how unaffected I am right now. I can walk around, lift my arms, turn my body side to side, and even gently touch my chest on top of the bandages. I haven't taken a pain pill since over 4 hours ago, and even then, I took only one when the dosage said I could take two.

Here's my play-by-play of today: I had a friend pick me up at 6am for my 6:30 arrival time. I went in by myself and took the stairs up to the fifth floor because I could. Almost immediately, I was taken to get myself changed into my gown-that-opens-in-the-back and souvenir non-slip hospital socks. Here's my waiting-for-the-anesthesiologist picture:

After meeting a number of nurses who verified over and over who I was and what I was there for (no accidental nose jobs or vasectomies), Dr. Baum came in and drew all over my chest, presumably to make sure I'll be symmetrical and pretty. I reminded him, "When in doubt, go smaller." By 7:30, I was wheeled into the operating room, transferred onto the table, and fell asleep within seconds of something being injected into my arm.

Unlike after the mastectomy, there was no puking when I woke up around 10:30. Pain was about a 5 on the happy face to agony scale, but I got my Vicodin pill right away. Paul had arrived, and for some reason, I felt compelled to tell him that Maggie's classmate Connor didn't want a party so he got to go to Wonderworks for his 5th birthday. (I think the train of thought came from Paul telling me that school drop-off had gone fine and I knew that there'd be a birthday treat today.) Then the nurse told me to go back to sleep.

I was much more lucid and only about a pain scale 3 when I awoke again a little after noon. The nurse helped me stand up slowly, and since I wasn't dizzy on the way to the bathroom, I deemed myself ready to go home. Unfortunately, Dr. Baum had forgotten that if I wear adhesive against my skin for too long, I get a rash, so the nurses had to call him to re-bandage me with an Ace wrap instead of tape. He took a while because he was in another surgery, but as soon as he was done, I was outta there.

We stopped for a Shamrock Shake at the drive-thru on the way home because I hadn't been allowed to eat anything before surgery and I needed a sugar boost. Then I went up for another nap while Paul went to get Maggie and Reese from their sitters. Woke up and took another pain pill, but I've been fine since. I was downstairs for a normal dinner (not even the soup I'd planned on having), and the evening has felt just like a day that never included a surgery.

If you're waiting for the picture of my boobs, here's all I've got:

There's a faint marker line right down the middle from Dr. Baum's artwork this morning. Also, you can still see the radiation burn on my right side, which may never go away completely. (Mirror picture, so you don't have to reverse sides).

On Tuesday, I go in for my follow-up and Dr. Baum will remove the bandages. Unfortunately, he had to do a C cup (I was hoping for B's) based on the size of the skin and tissue that was there, but that's totally not a complaint. Boobs are boobs, and as long as this doesn't get infected or something, I'm a happy camper.

Thanks for all of the support and positive thoughts today. I'll update again soon, but compared to all of the other stuff from the past year, this was a big piece of cake!

Shari's Hair - A History

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 02:22:00 +0000

The last time you saw my hair, it was just peeking out from my bald skull in those family photos we had done in October. It was blonde and seemed straight. Five months later, my brown curls have returned. Here is a picture of me right now, and please don't ask Paul how many pictures of myself I just took with his cell phone to get an appropriate angle.

It's curly, it's easy, I think it looks good, and it's not much of a change from before chemo, right? Although I could just keep it this way, I think I'm going to try growing my hair back to the length it was in 2011. I want to have made my own choices about my hair. After it's long again, if I want to cut it back off, it'll be because I liked the short hair, not because it was poisoned and fell out.

Yet I have fears - well-grounded fears - about what will happen to my hair next. Again, I'm going to let my pictures do the majority of the talking here, but in general, my curls will continue to grow OUT, rather than down, and my Jew-fro days are just around the corner.

Here we go with a history of my hair. Feel free to laugh at me. I did while scanning these photos, and if you don't almost spit out your milk (ahem, beer) at some of these pictures, you are taking this blog much too seriously. (Short description after each picture.)

This is my original baby-fine hair. Short, straight and blonde, just as you saw a few months ago.

By six months old, my first little mullet-curls were growing.

By two, I had a full head of curls, but still blonde.

At almost-four, the color was darkening.

A little sun-bleached at age six. (I actually included this picture because of my socks and sneakers.)

My Jew-fro was beginning by age seven. But nobody noticed because they were too enamored with my bike.

Mom knew how to tame the friz and the height on fourth grade school picture day. Unfortunately, as you'll soon see, she didn't teach me the trick. Maybe I just stopped letting her spit in my hair. Also, note the dark brown color.

My almost-eleven year old hair is starting to get puffy. I think I was trying to grow it longer at this point. I guess Mom was too busy with the new baby to do my hair anymore.

Ah, twelve years old, braces, and some unmanageable curls.

A fourteen-year-old shot thrown in for its humor value. I truly believe that the popped collar is causing the mullet. I don't think I actually had one.

Age fifteen. I entered high school with a full Jew-fro.

Another one at fifteen, just to prove that this was a daily occurrence.

I even rocked my 'fro for an appearance in the local paper. (For those of you with good eyes, I still remember how disappointed I was that they cut out half of what I'd said and made me look ignorant.)

By sixteen, I'd learned that a barrette on top can work wonders.

The barrette was even used on more formal occasions.

I think around age seventeen, I discovered mousse. I used it to keep the hair down and could occasionally remove the barrette.

Off to the college freshman dorm with my mousse and spiral curls.

The ponytail and bangs look was more common for me during freshman and sophomore year.

This one shows how long I could let it grow, now that I'd discovered the barrette and the mousse tricks.

Oh, but then there were some fun nights with a hairbrush in the college dorm. After seeing my fifteen-year-old pictures, you'll believe me when I said that this did not involve a single spritz of hairspray. It's all me, baby!

Junior year, I cut it all off and went with the mushroom-head style. I then started this whole process over, growing it out through my late 20's and taming my curls with mousse through my 30's. Somehow, the curls kind of calmed down a bit after a decade of length and mousse, but now they're back.

One more college picture for good measure, though:

It's my original bald look, no adriamycin involved!

I can't figure out a closing paragraph for this post. I'll publish this now, sleep on it, and probably edit with a closing tomorrow. Nighty-night!

Silicon Boobs

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 01:12:00 +0000

I've been putting off scheduling my "new boobs" surgery because, frankly, I don't want to have another surgery. I currently have expanders, these hard, lumpy, not-at-all round bags sewn into my chest. They even have the potential to set off a metal detector, as there is a magnetic area on them. My plastic surgeon thinks the left one has leaked its saline, as it's much smaller than the right. Yeah, I noticed that, but given the description I just made, unmatched boobs just don't register on my radar.

I'll take a step back for those of you who may have started reading my blog late. Or for those of you who have not been obsessing over my life and may not remember stuff you read about me a year ago. Last March 16, when I had my double mastectomy, the surgeon cut out all of my natural (ahem, cancer-invaded) breast tissue from both sides. Instead of sewing up a flat chest, the government requires insurance companies to pay for me to get fake replacement boobs. So a plastic surgeon stepped in and put in these slightly saline-filled things called expanders, then sewed me up. In theory, I was to go back to the plastic surgeon every few weeks, he'd take a needle and put some more saline into the expanders, and like a balloon, my boobs would grow to the size they used to be despite not having any original tissue/fat inside. However, I opted not to have any expansions, and was fine with the 360cc's of saline that were in the expanders the day they were put in.

Once the typical woman's chest is the size she wants, she schedules a surgery called an exchange or swap. The plastic surgeon cuts along the same line as before, takes out the expander, and puts in nice round, soft, silicon implants. However, I was busy with chemo within a few weeks after my mastectomy. After that, I wanted to kill more cancer with some radiation for the next few months. Then I just procrastinated calling the plastic surgeon, waiting for the desire to get my new boobs.

It never happened. Yeah, I dislike the expanders, but not as much as I hated recovering from surgery.

But being the good, direction-following person that I am, I gave Dr. Baum a call and met with him a couple weeks ago. The surgery is scheduled for Friday, March 22. It's an out-patient surgery, which means that I'll show up that morning, get put to sleep, cut open, sewn up, and sent home around lunchtime. They say I'll be up and about by the next day, although weak. And that I shouldn't exercise for, GASP!, six weeks afterwards. (All my hard work?!?!)

On the bright side, here's an incomplete list of what this surgery will not be as bad as:
- Mastectomy drains
- A/C Chemo
- Neulasta bone pain
- Taxol neuropathy
- Radiation burns
Since I'm done with all of that and I now have March 22 on my calendar, I'm now counting down the days to getting it over with.

Oh, "How can I help?" you're asking? Liz and Liz have added a few dates to the Meal Train. Also, I'm not sure when I'll get the green light to drive after my surgery, so I may need some carpool help for Bright Beginnings.

After that, I'll just be looking for someone to go shopping with me to help me pick out some shirts that accentuate my new silicon friends.

Getting Old and Getting in Shape

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Tue, 26 Feb 2013 03:34:00 +0000

This post has the potential to rival The Longest Post Ever, but it encompasses about six months of my life as opposed to six hours.

I'll start with something I've wanted to explain to all of my friends who are approximately my age and warily approaching or just past the big four-oh. That birthday, exactly one year ago, didn't bother me at all. It's just a number, I didn't feel any different, and I've never cared about getting "old" or having a bigger age. In fact, I had to be persuaded to have a party for my birthday (which didn't quite turn out the way I'd hoped) and basically, forty is no big deal. However, now that I've finished my fortieth year (actually, my 41st year for you math geeks), I have an announcement: If you can make it through the week of your 40th birthday without being diagnosed with CANCER, you've got nothing to complain about.

Obviously, during my recovery from the mastectomy and while undergoing chemo, I didn't quite feel my age. My body ached, I was tired all the time, and I seemed to be getting any ailment that could possibly exist. Knowing that there'd be a light at the end of the tunnel, I just plowed on through, waiting to be young(ish) again.

I know that the stereotype is that women doing chemo are bald and skinny because they're nauseous. However, I found that I was only eating comfort foods: cereal, pasta, breads, and uh, cookies. Add to that the fact that I was taking a steroid to make my body strong enough to handle the taxol, and I actually gained about 10 pounds during chemo.

I'd read many-an-article about how important keeping in shape is in keeping the cancer from coming back. Basically, studies and research have inconsistent findings about the kiwi and broccoli diet or the all organic lifestyle, but it is an absolute that being overweight or obese can increase your chances of recurrence. Though I indulged during the summer of awfulness, I knew it wasn't a permanent thing.

Early in my treatment, I was alerted to a fitness program at the YMCA through the national Livestrong foundation where they help cancer survivors get into shape. Knowing little about it but seeing that it was free, I signed up. After a few phone calls, I was enrolled in a class that would meet twice a week for twelve weeks, give me a personal trainer at each of those sessions, and tailor my exercises to the fact that I've been treated for cancer. Not only that, but the Livestrong program includes a free 3 month family membership, and since my body managed to grow the cool kind of cancer (breast cancer is very vogue these days), there's a grant to extend that family membership for a full year. October 2 was my start date for getting back into shape.

Between the end of chemo and the start of Livestrong, I began taking tamoxifen. Although I've alluded to it in other posts, here's my chance to explain how it has officially made me old. My breast cancer cells were classified as estrogen receptor positive, which is actually a good thing. (Best breast cancer ever, remember?) It means that the cells need estrogen to grow. This drug called tamoxifen can block estrogen from binding to other cells, thus giving any cancer cells that may be left in my body nothing to grow on. Dr. Kirshner, oncologist extraordinaire, actually told me that the tamoxifen does more for me than chemo and radiation combined. Unfortunately, tamoxifen, by cutting off my estrogen, put me into full menopause. But whatever. It was going to happen anyhow, and menopause is better than cancer.

Knowing that I cannot miss a pill or accidentally double-dose ("Uh, did I take my meds? I can't remember. I'll just take one."), I bought one of those days-of-the-week pill boxes. Then I started taking the pills and the hot flashes began. It was the one-two punch of officially getting old.

Back to the weight thing. My first dose of tamoxifen was August 31. Starting then, I was gaining almost a pound a week by eating my normal, pre-cancer diet. I figured out, with the help of Google, why that may have been happening: Post-menopause, metabolism changes, so I was supposed to be eating like a 60-year-old, not a 40-year-old.

But hoping for an easy fix, I mentioned my weight gain to my doctors in November. A blood test for my thyroid was ordered because sometimes underactive thyroid causes weight gain. Results: overactive thyroid. I should have been losing weight. They repeated the blood test and got the same results. I was referred to an endocrinologist, who couldn't fit me in until February, so I was on my own with my weight gain for a while.

I thought that Livestrong, with the twice weekly meetings and my maintenance exercising a couple more times a week, would help out, but I continued to gain weight. In reality, Livestrong wasn't enough. The trainers, Elin and Al, were wonderful and knowledgeable, but the program is focused on strength and balance, and (sorry if I offend anyone) really geared toward older, less athletic people. I was a twice-a-day varsity swimmer through college. I've done a triathlon and numerous 5Ks. Yes, that was years ago, but my athletic body was looking for and needing more. I had to find something hard and go all-out!

In mid-December, up 18 pounds from when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I asked a preschool mom/friend (Kristin) about some Facebook post she made about a Method 360 demo class. She explained that she and a trainer named Trish lead these classes that give you a full body workout (cardio, strength, core). I showed up that Sunday and gasped for breath, dripping with sweat for an hour. Absolutely perfect! The next day, I signed up for a 12-week program and committed to going to classes 6 days a week, sending Kristin and Trish daily food logs, and letting them measure my weight and body-fat every other week.

Those of you who know me well (or probably even those who only kind of know me) will have no doubt that I've gone all-in here. If I tell someone I'll be there 6 days a week, I will. If I have to send a food log, I will include the 3 M&Ms I ate this afternoon, no cheating. If a triathlon in June is mentioned, I'll register. (Actually, I'm now registered for one in June and another in August. Anyone have a bike I can borrow?)

It took me about 3 weeks of the daily workouts, but now I am not gasping for breath. I'm working hard and I'm really feeling fit. I'm down about 10 pounds on the scale (Trish says it's more like 13 pounds of fat gone and 3 pounds of muscle gained), but that's no longer the goal. I just want to stay in shape. Also, keep in mind that I'm not yet even back to my pre-cancer weight, though I'm more fit.

The sucky part is the diet. Paul and I have always agreed that a life without chicken wings is a life not worth living. We've said, "I'd rather die a few years earlier and eat what I want." Though I still agree with our sentiments, I have to refer back to the studies that show obesity can cause cancer to come back. If chicken wings cause me to be overweight, I guess I'll skip them. I'm sure I'll have wings, brownies, and McDonalds on occasion, but my daily diet has to be better than it used to be. For the first few weeks of this diet, I was hungry all day, but now I'm used to it and just accepting it, I guess.

So my endocrinologist appointment finally rolled around a few weeks ago and he did another blood test to check the thyroid. Now I'm actually showing the underactive thyroid that causes weight gain. His explanation is that sometimes our thyroid gland gets inflamed and becomes overactive (which would make sense because my radiation was pretty close to there), and then once the swelling goes down, it becomes underactive. I'm now taking a thyroid medication, another pill added to my days-of-the-week dispenser. We'll recheck the blood in a few months. Maybe thyroid meds will help me lose weight, too? I can wish.

When my parents were alive and I would get updates from my mom about her 60-something and my dad's 70-something friends, it was always about who had what ailments. In this ridiculously verbose post, I've mentioned my meds, menopause, my hot flashes, my oncologist, and my thyroid. I guess 40 is the new 60.

I'll end with a cool discovery I've made that'll help you young women in the future. Hot flashes are really quite uncomfortable. From summer when they started (menopause actually started temporarily with the chemo drugs) until December, I followed the generic hints: wear layers, have a fan nearby, use a cool towel or ice, etc. Literally, the very week I started Method 360, the hot flashes went away completely. Now, keep in mind that this is a very intense, boot-camp-like workout. Livestrong's 90 minutes of weights and stretching did nothing for the hot flashes. But serious exercise really does get rid of hot flashes. Now you know.

Now I'll Cliff's Notes this post:
- Chemo made me gain weight
- Tamoxifen cuts off my estrogen. Good at fighting breast cancer. Causes menopause
- Menopause made me gain more weight
- I started easy workouts with no effect
- Complete diet change and kick-ass workouts have had the desired effect
- I was diagnosed with hypothyroid
- I take pills from a days-of-the-week dispenser
- Triathlons in June and August

Happy 41st Birthday to me!

Cancerversary?

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 02:15:00 +0000

Cancerversary is actually a word that people in the cancer circles use. Ever since I heard it, I've been confused about it because I certainly don't want to celebrate any date involving cancer. Also, there are so many dates: the day I felt a suspicious lump; the day of my bad mammogram after which a doctor told me with 99.9% certainty that I had cancer; the day of the actual biopsy results proving that he was right; having the mastectomy which allegedly removed the cancer; finishing chemo; finishing radiation. Do I acknowledge all of them?

However, as this time of year has approached, February 24, 2012 is the date that resonates the most in my mind. I went into that mammogram thinking it was a three hour pass away from the kids. Quick doctor's appointment, then some grocery shopping sans herding cats through the aisles. I left that appointment having to concentrate on breathing in and out and putting one foot in front of the other.

Whether I will call February 24 my cancerversary remains to be seen. I'm trying to think of a better name. Suckity-suck day? Ninety-nine point nine percent sure day? Eat a brownie sundae day? Let me know if you think of a good name and I'll use it.

If it wasn't for the events of February 24, 2012, though, I wouldn't have started this blog. As you may have noticed, the blogging has tapered off recently. Maybe it's because life is pretty much normal, but there is a bit to tell. Stay tuned over the next few days to hear about how my life has changed since finishing my active cancer treatment.

Breast Cancer and Termites

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Sat, 12 Jan 2013 02:28:00 +0000

I'm such a teacher. I want to make things easy to understand, so I spend time thinking about analogies that make complicated things seem much simpler. For the past few weeks, I've been working on a breast cancer analogy that I really think will work to explain where I am right now and why I'm not comfortable with words like "gone" or "cured".

Imagine that you are sitting on your back porch one day and notice that one of the wooden beams has something that looks like a bug trail running along it. You call the exterminator, and she confirms (yes, she...the one exterminator I've ever had was a woman named Leesa) that you do, in fact, have termites. She does a bit of probing and finds that there is a nest of termites in the wood of the back porch, and there are trails of termites marching around in the beam leading toward your kitchen. You know that termites, left untreated, can destroy a house completely, so it's time for action.

Feeling aggressive, you have your back porch completely removed, as well as that offending beam leading to the rest of the house. While the demolition team is at it, you tell them to go ahead and take off the front porch as well, since termites could show up there someday and you might as well be symmetrical.

Next, you're told that you there could be some termites, either individually or in groups, that walked away from that nest on your back porch and are hiding somewhere in your house. Leesa tells you that she has this termite poison that she can infuse throughout every wall of your entire house. It'll peel the paint and make the house stinky for a while, but it's pretty darn good at killing termites. So you let her come every other week for four months and poison your walls. It's okay. You'll just repaint when it's all done.

After that, she reminds you that although the back porch is gone, there is still that wall where the porch was attached to the house. Her next line of offense is to carefully use a blow torch to do a controlled burn of the wood that's left. That'll get any termites that survived the poison and prevent new ones from growing. After 28 straight days of gradual burning, the wall may always look a little darker, but it's better than termites.

Finally, Leesa advises you that your termites liked eating bread. You must now go for five years without ever having bread in your house, because there might still be that rogue termite somewhere. She cannot actually check every wall and every beam, so you just have to trust that all of these things you've done have actually removed the termites from your house. She tells you to call her if you notice anything odd about your house so she can look more closely, but you're basically on your own now.

Throughout this whole process, you've learned a lot about termites. You found the scary fact that 30% of houses that go through this will eventually have termites again. (This is called metastatic, or stage IV termites.) Unfortunately, the famous termite research foundations are spending more than 95% of their money on looking at porches. Don't you wish they would spend some more time and effort figuring out why, even after all you've done, you might still get termites again? And figuring out how to prevent that?

I hope this analogy is as clear to you as it is when I think about it. Should I give a list of what all of the termite treatments were really called in regards to my cancer treatment, or did you figure it all out?

Quiz on Tuesday.

More Appropriate Pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Fri, 09 Nov 2012 01:47:00 +0000

Now that you've become accustomed to seeing pictures of my topless, scarred, oddly shaped, radiation burned boobs, I'll surprise you with some G rated photos.

A couple weekends ago, we spent some time with Lisa Rossi. She's a photographer in the Syracuse area who came highly recommended, and she totally lived up to our expectations. We met her at her house in Fabius and she made us feel comfortable playing in her field while she followed us around with her camera. Within a couple hours of our session, she had this preview photo up on Facebook.

Just tonight, she alerted me that she's posted more photos on her blog. I know you want to see, right? So click here to check them out. I promise my boobs are covered in every single one.

Real Breast Cancer Awareness

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Wed, 24 Oct 2012 19:48:00 +0000

I've been trying to think of something to say about this October breast cancer "celebration" going on. However, I've decided to let a couple pictures tell a thousand words here.

This is what you see in October 2012:

This is what I see in October 2012:

(And here's the topless version.)

Not too much in common, right?

Tattoos and Cubbyholes

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Thu, 06 Sep 2012 01:25:00 +0000

I'll start today with a little background on the radiation I'll be receiving over the next 6 weeks. Radiation therapy is when a high energy beam from a big machine is directed right at my breast. It will damage all cells in its path, but the healthy cells will grow back and (hopefully) the cancer ones will not. Since the beam is aiming only at my right breast, collarbone, and armpit, I will not feel the effects throughout my whole body like I did with chemo. To summarize what I've heard/read about how I'll feel, it'll be like a bad sunburn in that area which I'll treat with any number of creams until it heals.

In order to prevent the cancer cells from starting to grow, my radiation will be done for 28 straight weekdays. So that's almost 6 weeks where I go to my oncology clinic EVERY DAY, lay in a machine, get my right breast burned, and then walk out and continue my normal life. It sounded crazy and life-altering to me at first, but I've been assured that these appointments are 15 minutes long from the time you walk in the door until you are back at your car. The first time slot of the day is 7:45am and I've grabbed it up for the next 27 days, so my normal day starts at 8:00.

I had an appointment last Friday to set me up for this daily radiating. So I lay on a metal table with one arm up and they mapped out what they'll radiate. It took about 20 minutes of them telling me to hold completely still and "breathe normally" (can anyone breathe normally when they've just been told to do so?) for them to get the exact measurements they needed. Though I'd normally have been asking what they're looking for, I was told not to talk. The end result was me looking like this:

(Remember those drains from the double mastectomy? Those circle scars are where the tubes came out of my body. Also note the lumpy boob and the reason I considered getting the soft silicon put in now.)

The cool part is that dot with a circle. That's a new tattoo I have. It's a little blue dot that they'll use to line up the radiation beam every session, and I have two more of them. Wanna see? (Of course you do.)

My cleavage:

The top of my right breast:

As you can see, I'm a very moley person, so this new ink of mine won't make any difference in my appearance. I asked if they could make stars or hearts, but these are radiation technicians, not artists, so it was a no-go. (Probably a joke they hear frequently, too, as nobody even smiled.)

Now that I'm all inked up, I can go in every day and they'll burn the right place.

At 7:25 this morning, the whole family loaded into two cars and drove out to HOA in E. Syracuse. Paul took the girls to get coffee (him) and donuts (them), and I went into the building at 7:45. Instead of having a nurse come to the waiting room to get me, an intercom called, "Sharon L, come on back." I was told on Friday that I was to change into my gown (top only) myself and then sit in a holding area until someone came to get me. In order that they don't have to wash gowns that are used by the same person for a short period every day, I was given a cubbyhole. I took this picture after putting on my gown, so although you probably can't read that one says "Sharon L" you can look for the cubby with the white t-shirt and khaki shorts.

By the time I was finished snapping the picture, the tech was ready for me, and I walked into a room that had a foot thick metal door with the same radioactive symbol that Homer Simpson's plant has on it. The guy got me set up on that table and left the room. The machine whirred for about 15 seconds, then he reappeared. He put a thick layer of material on top of my breast and I asked what it is for. (I assumed I was allowed to talk since he was back in the radioactive chamber.) He said it simulates skin, so the next time they turned the beam on, the beam was actually going to a shallower level of my breast, thinking that it had already passed through skin when it hit the material. I guess that's a cool, low-tech way to treat different layers of tissue.

Two more 15 second whirrings, then I was done. I got changed and was back outside by 8:00 to send Paul off to work and take Maggie and Reese home. So that'll be the start to every day from now until October 12.

As advised, I put some special cream on the skin today and some Aquaphor this evening, but I really don't feel a thing. I guess it takes a few weeks for the burn to show up, and some people don't get much skin reaction at all. So with the exception of my still bald (but fuzzy) head, lumpy boobs, and some new tattoos, all's back to normal around here.

So Radiation It Is

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Wed, 05 Sep 2012 01:34:00 +0000

No regrets. When I left you a couple weeks ago, I was on my way to talk to Dr. Alpert. Her advice was that doing the surgery first would be no problem at all. She gave all of the reasons that I listed in my Decisions post and could even add more. She said that studies have shown that starting radiation up to 12 weeks after chemo make no difference in the long run.

Despite her medical evidence, I still ended up choosing to deal with cancer first.

The final decision, though made by me, was really made by Paul. On that bad poll, he had voted to do the surgery first. However, seeing me wavering so much, he said the next day, "I think you should do the radiation first. It's the only way you'll never have regrets." And that's so true. If I did the reconstruction first and the cancer ever comes back, I'd blame the decision. Now the worst case is that I have some extra scars or less perfect fake boobs. But if the cancer ever comes back, I'll know I did everything I could right now.

So radiation will start tomorrow morning.

I'll tell you more about the experience of radiation in my next post, but I've been asked a few times since ending chemo on August 3 if I'm "in remission" or "cured" or whatever. The only answer I have is that the doctors believe they got all of the cancer out of me back on March 16 with the double mastectomy. So if we were lucky, I was "cured" then. But the question since then has been whether they really did get all of the cancer or if some of the cancer cells weren't attached to the tumor in my breast. That's why I've been doing all of this other stuff. Chemo, radiation, and hormone pills are just insurance policies in case of some stray cancer cells. So I think "cured" is a confidence thing. When I have been off the daily/weekly treatment roller coaster for long enough and I've had enough blood tests that come out normal, I'll start to feel like maybe they got everything. For now, I still have radiation so we'll keep on fighting the possible cancer cells.

(Though that sounded like a closing sentence, it actually opens up a whole new can of worms. For someone who has been diagnosed with cancer and has had a doctor-made plan to "fix it" since the initial mammogram, the last day of radiation will be a scary one. They'll say, "Congrats! We're done here. Go back to your pre-cancer life now." But I, as a patient, will have to actually do that, knowing that somehow cancer found me, it could come back, and the doctors aren't seeing me every week anymore. Something to look forward to, huh? I'm told they have counseling and support groups for people who have just been "cured" from cancer, and I now understand why.)

Early Poll Results Show...

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 00:45:00 +0000

That it was a bad poll.

After posting that poll about 24 hours ago, this blog had 225 page views and I received 13 votes in the poll (less than 6%), one of them being Paul who was helping me by testing out whether the poll worked. And my Facebook link to the blog post had 0 comments and 0 likes, when they usually are in the double digits.

So now I know that people like us are not so good at making decisions like this. Time to refer back to the doctors.

I did get some good ideas of questions to ask Dr. Alpert tomorrow based on some of your comments. Thank you for being here for me, friends! I'll let you know what she says and the final decision as soon as I make it.

Wanna do a more fun poll now?

Decisions

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Thu, 16 Aug 2012 01:24:00 +0000

Again, I'm in a position where *I* have a decision to make about my treatment. I'm blogging tonight to help sort out my thoughts and ask for input if anyone has some (although I have spent many hours over the past few months consulting Google and still don't have the answers I want).

I'll start with the basics. The standard of care for someone with my breast cancer is to do the double mastectomy to get rid of the tumor first. Then the chemo is done to kill any cancer cells that were not attached to the tumor and may have escaped into my body. We've done that so far, and hopefully it's the most difficult part of my treatment.

Coming up, I'll receive radiation, meaning I will lay in a machine for a few minutes each day for six weeks while radioactive beams are directed towards the exact area where the tumor grew. That is supposed to kill any cells that are lingering in that area.

Finally, for the next five years, I will take a pill (Tamoxifen - a hormone) each day to block the estrogen in my body. That's because my cancer cells were found to really like estrogen, so we'll cut off the food source of any that may decide to grow in the future.

Sounds like we're covering all of the bases, right? I am not questioning any of this treatment, so big picture, everything will be done to ensure that I will never have to deal with breast cancer again.

My dilemma right now is the timing. Here's where I have to go back a few months to explain. Right after my mastectomy, I was definitely feeling the discomfort of having my breast tissue removed and these expanders (uncomfortable bags of saline) inserted in their place. Through March and April, I was swollen and the scars and skin were painful. I had a meeting with Dr. Baum, my plastic surgeon, and asked, "When will we take out the expanders and put in the softer silicon implants?" He responded by telling me that he'd optimally like to do that before the skin is radiated. Evidently, radiation will make my skin tough, less pliable, and more prone to infection. Sounded good to me.

I went ahead and asked Dr. Alpert, my radiation oncologist, and she said that it's sometimes done that way and she'd be fine with it. We'd just start radiation a few weeks after the silicon reconstruction, when my skin had healed a bit from that. Cool with me. Everyone was on board.

Then I had 4 months to think about this. During that time, my boobs started to heal. The swelling went down and I've gotten used to the expanders. (Instead of feeling like huge hockey pucks in my chest, they feel more like beanbags.) So I've been thinking, shouldn't I be worrying about cancer first? Shouldn't we be radiating that area where the cancer cells grew, like, right now?!? If I do the radiation first, I'd have to wait quite a while (six months?) for my skin to heal before Dr. Baum could do the silicon surgery, but I've lived with expanders now for 5 months, so I can keep them in. And my boobs might not be as even and pretty if the operation is after radiation, but I don't care about that.

By consulting the internet, it seems that most people (or at least most people who write about their experiences on the internet) have radiation after chemo and then the reconstruction is done later on. But there is not a medical site that I can find that gives the steps one should take and has medical reasons why things are done that way. So I had to wait to talk to a doctor.

Finally, on Monday of this week, I had my post-chemo visit with Dr. Kirshner, my medical oncologist. (Medical oncologists are the ones who decide on your drugs like AC, Taxol, and Tamoxifen, that hormone I mentioned above.) He started with, "You're done with chemo. I'm thinking we'll start radiation right after Labor Day." Quick calculation in my head told me that he was giving about a 5 week break between chemo and radiation. Since my lay-person's goal of right now was not on his schedule, I threw my questions at him. He, like Dr. Alpert, said, "Of course you can go do the reconstruction. A few extra weeks between chemo and radiation won't make a difference."

I started asking him for proof/numbers to reassure me that it truly doesn't make a difference. He said that he's sure there are no studies about the timing of starting radiation when it's just a few weeks. Anything out there would be about starting 6 months down the line or something. I said that if I could bump my survival chances up, even by a percentage point or two, I'd do the radiation first, and he said it really won't make a difference.

One reassuring thing he did say is that we will start the Tamoxifen right after Labor Day, regardless of whether I'm doing radiation then or not. So even if we are not radiating any lingering breast cancer cells, they will not be getting any estrogen, so they can't grow.

So here are the options:

Choice 1 - Get my perky little silicon boobies put in at the beginning of September, take Tamoxifen to make sure cancer cells don't grow, and start radiation when I heal, probably the beginning of October, about 2 months after chemo.

Choice 2 - Radiate my right breast/armpit starting at the beginning of September because we like to fight cancer and because most people do it that way, but not because I have any medical advice to do so. Then have the silicon implants put in sometime next spring.

Of course, I've done a pro/con list:

For doing reconstructive surgery now:
- Will have hormone therapy going
- It'll be easier for Dr. Baum to operate and my recovery may be easier
- I can get everything done in 2012, nothing hanging over our head for 6 months (this is relevant not only for my sanity but because Maggie has been having some emotional/behavior issues that may be related to my being "sick")
- Would only delay the radiation for about 4 weeks

Against doing reconstructive surgery now:
- Would be delaying the "standard of care" by about 4 weeks

One more thing. I have an appointment on Friday afternoon with Dr. Alpert (radiation oncologist) who may have more insight. Yes, she "okayed" the surgery back in March, but now I'll ask what she recommends and why.

Okay, people who are still reading, what do you think? Up until now, the cry has been "Fight the cancer!" Is it time to not fight for a few weeks? Vote in the poll on the right side of my blog.

The Last Chemo

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 14:40:00 +0000

It's August 3, that date I've mentioned once or twice around here. Though you are all so excited for me, I'm not there yet. From my perspective, chemo isn't over until the worst of the side effects have passed, so that'll be next week sometime. Even then, it's not like I get to walk away from this building forever knowing that cancer will never be back.

I'm a party pooper, huh? But let's talk about something a little off topic that is amazingly, life-changingly wonderful: The awesomeness of the health insurance plan provided by Syracuse Research Corporation (Paul's work).

Check out the bill from the double mastectomy's hospital stay:

I giggle just looking at it. Keep in mind that this is just from the hospital. There were similar looking bills from the surgeons for their work that day.

Then, each of these days that I sit in the chemo chair, the drugs going into me and the expertise of the nurses cost literally thousands of dollars. I pay a $10 copay each week, no questions asked. I don't know the exact figures, but I have one example of what we're dealing with. A couple weeks ago we had to do my Neulasta shot at home (thanks to Linda, a neighbor who's a nurse who came over on a Saturday). Here's the prescription we picked up from Wegmans:

That's a $4600+ shot. The 10 day supply does not mean I got ten of them. It was ONE syringe that lasts 10 days in my body. I received 6 of these over the course of my chemo and paid $0.00 for all of them except for this one that we had to bring home.

Thank you Blue Cross/ Blue Sheild Excellus plan!!! (See, three exclamation points there.)

I KNOW that we're among the few lucky ones. Do a quick search for blogs of cancer patients, and many, many of them have had to make lifestyle changes or ask for help from friends and strangers due to insurance plans that are not as comprehensive. I'm not going to turn this into a political debate, so I'll stop there.

Speaking of blogs, if you didn't see on Facebook, some random website called Healthline.com found my blog and decided you are currently reading one of the Top Breast Cancer Blogs of 2012. My theory is that the author Googled "best breast cancer blogs" and the search found my title quite easily. However, I am listed first, so she must have liked it once she got here.

Since I'm speaking of blogs, I know that bloggers like to cross-reference with one another to get more readers. Although that's not the point of me writing (I just like to keep people informed), I've been given shout-out by other bloggers, so I'm going to do a little payback. My friend Chuck writes about things to do in Syracuse at syracusestateofmind.com. Another woman from Maggie's preschool was recently diagnosed with breast cancer, too (unfortunately proving the 1 in 8 theory, being that there are 14 kids in Maggie's class) and she's blogging at stupiddumbbreastcancer.blogspot.com. Finally, I just yesterday I checked out one of the other blogs on that Healthline list and emailed the writer because our diagnoses are very similar. She is adding me to her blogroll, and since I don't know what that is, I'll let you know that she blogs at http://www.darngoodlemonade.com/.

Finally, remember that picture on April 12? I'll leave you with the after photo of me right now. The IV pole isn't hooked up yet because they're running some extensive bloodwork (liver function, pregnancy test (HA!), etc), but that Taxol will be running soon.

Surviving

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Thu, 26 Jul 2012 00:56:00 +0000

I have been thinking about this topic for a couple months now. The "Breast Cancer Survivor" topic. In short, I don't think I'll ever consider myself a breast cancer survivor.

For one, the breast cancer didn't do anything to me. It was there, but it didn't make me feel sick, didn't hurt, didn't change my appearance, didn't make me sad or scared. There it sat, just being there, for an indeterminate amount of time, probably years. My surviving through those years didn't take any effort on my part.

Also, by popular culture definition, a survivor can "outplay, outwit, outlast". Thus, I feel like even when I finish all of this treatment, I just won't know if I've survived cancer's whole game. Yes, the odds will be in my favor, but if one of those cancer cells has survived (outlasted the mastectomy, chemo, radiation, and hormone therapy) and it causes problems in the future (5, 10, or 30 years from now), can I really say that I won here in 2012?

The breast cancer treatment, however, has been my challenge. It has scared me, brought me to the hospital, lain me out in bed, made me nauseous for months, changed my ability to take care of the girls, and has made me look and feel different.

So here's my take: I'm a Breast Cancer Treatment Survivor. Keeping in mind that some of these might be TMI, here is some of what I've survived since February 24.

- A mammogram/ultrasound ending with the doctor saying, "Sit down."
- Navigating the network of different doctors one must consult for breast cancer, including Ob/Gyn, radiologist, general surgeon, plastic surgeon, medical oncologist, and radiation oncologist, each who have their own offices, schedulers, insurance files, and procedures.
- CT scan, bone scan, and numerous blood draws that will continue for the rest of my life.
- A major surgery (bilateral mastectomy), and then a minor one (port) a few weeks later.
- Adriamycin/cytoxan chemotherapy (4X) which caused miserable nausea and fatigue.
- Neulasta (6X), causing extreme bone pain.
- Colds every other week as my white blood cell counts dropped and then rose.
- Hair loss
- Taxol chemotherapy (4, going on 5X) which caused sharp pains and neuropathy.
- My first and second yeast infections. The first one was agonizing because I didn't know what is was and for over a week dismissed it as an uncomfortable side effect of chemo, letting it get worse and worse until I finally got the right treatment.
- Having to call a doctor for a refill on narcotic pain medication, which goes against everything I have ever believed about dealing with pain. "Tough it out, Shari," has changed to "Maybe Vicodin will help." (Don't worry, I didn't take any today and I'm okay.)
- Heartburn worse than anytime during pregnancy or even after 5¢ wing nights in college.
- Hair loss for a second time (Remember that little bit of hair I mentioned in my last post? It is just starting to lose its battle with the Taxol.)
- Weight gain due to steroids I take to prevent an allergic reaction to Taxol. I'd say I'm up about 8 pounds over the past month, mostly in my tummy, without changing my diet at all.
- Finding childcare for two preschoolers during everything. Believe it or not, this final item has been the hardest to survive of everything listed. We've had wonderful friends helping at every turn, but the actual leaving of the children because of breast cancer is a challenge every single time.

In order to add some positivity to this post, I do have to add some things that I have not had to survive, despite many warnings:

- Never had mouth sores.
- Appetite is still fine and don't have any specific food aversions.
- Nails didn't turn black or fall off.
- Still have a few of my eyebrows and all of my arm hair.
- No chemo-brain (as far as I can tell).
- Haven't had to be hospitalized (or even close) due to my compromised immune system.
- I can still do buttons.

Hopefully you are doing some serious knocking on wood with me, since there's still one infusion left.

After August 3, at my last day of chemo treatment, I will have to open some new doors (literally) in the cancer treatment survivor world. I will find out my schedule for surviving my silicon implant surgery, my radiation, and after that my hormone therapy and check-ups every few months. So it seems that for the rest of my life, I will be actively playing at Breast Cancer Treatment Survivor.

The Bald Thing

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Sat, 14 Jul 2012 02:11:00 +0000

Get it? A couple months ago, the title was "The Hair Thing". Now it's "The Bald Thing"? Yeah, I know. I didn't need to explain. But here's the real thing: I want to explain.

When we went to the salon to get my head shaved, I brought a new hat with a scarf to tie around it. It was pretty and stylish and covered every part of my head that would usually have hair (Thanks, Liz R.) I verified with the hair stylist that I'd tied the bow to appropriately cover the back of my neck so that one would assume hair was underneath. I even had a hat on when Paul got home from work and only removed it after the dinner conversation, "What did everyone do today?"

But to be honest, the new hairstyle (or non-hairstyle) is the MOST COMFORTABLE THING EVER! I highly, wholeheartedly recommend the bald thing for everybody on the planet!

Maybe it's just because the falling-out hair was unbearably itchy, but the difference between the 1-inch cut and the 0-inch cut is night and day. It's cool for summer. There's no hat-head when I do want a hat. I don't have to brush it out of my eyes (or brush it at all). Oh, and drying myself after a shower... Think about that for a moment.

So after a few days of being bald inside and making sure a hat was handy near the front and back doors in case of visitors, I ventured out to get the mail au-naturale. Although I was telling myself that I didn't want to be seen, deep down, I think I DID want to be seen. Not only did I want to see the reaction from a neighbor, but I wanted to see my own reaction.

I think the first person to see it was Brian across the street, and I was quick to say, "You get to see my bald look." Without flinching, he asked if it's comfortable. That was the perfect question, as it gave me confidence to explain the benefits.

Then I went through the following stages, each lasting about a week or two:

-Hat or scarf outside but never inside, even when answering the door, because if you're coming to see me, you get to see the real me.
-Outside in our yard bald, but hat or scarf nearby to be quickly put on when people came close.
-Bald all time at home, inside or out. Hat (gave up on the scarf as it got hotter) for visits at other people's houses or public venues.
-Started asking others if they mind me removing my hat because of the heat.
-Screw it. It's really hot and I'm feeling confident enough. Bald all the time.

Interestingly, for my first two bald trips out in public, my last nudge in the bare direction was from Paul. On the way out the door, I asked, "Hat or nothing?" and he non-chalantly replied both times, "Nothing."

Here's the first bald public appearance:

I've been bald all the time since at least the beginning of July. And here's the interesting thing: Not a single person has asked me about it. Not one. No strangers approaching with a, "My mom just finished chemo" supportive smile. No children yelling, "Why is that lady bald?" to an embarassed parent. No "Rock on, Sista'!" from mall shoppers. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Now there were a few fears I had during that month of staying covered that I had to get over before embracing bald. The first fear was about meeting new people to whom it might matter. This one came up when I brought the girls to their first weeks of camp. I didn't want any special treatment or judgement from the counselors, so I was sure to wear hats and scarves during my initial few drop-offs and pick-ups. Once everyone got to know Maggie and Reese separately from being, "The cancer lady's kids", I started coming bald. A few days later, I brought up the cancer conversation with the two lead counselors so they'd know the whole story. Now, I'm hoping it's "Maggie and Reese, the well-behaved, creative, and happy children who are handling their mom's breast cancer extraordinarily well."

I also was wary of dealing with people's sympathy. Some of the neighbors here who have known me since I was born (if you don't know, I live in the house where I grew up) have taken that angle, and I'm not comfortable with it. The two comments that stick are, "You poor dear. I've been praying for you," and "Well, your face looks great!" Both comments are from wonderful ladies who mean nothing but the best, but they just don't fit my scheme of dealing with this cancer. I'm not a poor dear, I'm an "awesome diva" (okay maybe not even that, but I'm a regular mom). And if you want to mention my being bald, just say it or ask about it. Complimenting my face, when it's the same face as I've always had, shows that you're trying too hard not to mention the hair. However, it seems that people of my generation somehow know to avoid the sympathy lines. I had a mall encounter with a mom from preschool start with, "Who is that beautiful bald lady!?" and I've had numerous compliments from other friends about my round head and big smile. I'm sure everyone's sympathetic inside, but somehow don't relay it to me.

Another fear was about children. I actually wouldn''t mind the loud questions to moms, but I didn't want to scare kids into thinking that there is something wrong or that their hair is going to fall out. I even asked Maggie and Reese if it was okay for me to go places without a hat, but they'd seen me bald at home for so long, I don't think they even noticed the steps.

However, I never had any fears about my appearance. To be blunt, Who cares? Remember, I'm fashion clueless and makeup-free in the first place. I wear Walmart t-shirts and 10-year-old Tevas (with socks if it's cold out). The distance from a Great Clips hair trim to a high-end salon head shaving isn't very far.

Another out-and-about picture:

I'll end this post with some unfortunate news. My hair is starting to grow back.

Yay, I Get to Have Chemo!

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 20:49:00 +0000

After last week's low white blood cell cancellation, I willed my body to rebound and it did. I get to have Chemo! YAY?

There's another bit of exciting good (?) news today, but I have to go into teacher-mode to explain a whole lot of stuff before telling the news. If you want to cheat, the skip to the last two paragraphs.

Back in May, I found out that there are two different schedules for Taxol infusions for breast cancer patients. The first one, and the one that I was assigned to, gives Taxol at a low dose every week for 12 straight weeks. However, there's also a treatment that gives a higher dose only 4 times, every other week. When I heard about that option, called dose-dense, I did the math. 4 treatments biweekly would have me done with chemo in EIGHT weeks instead of 12. Seemed like a no-brainer to me.

It seemed like the reason I was put on the 12 week plan was because of a study I'm participating in about Herceptin, but I was randomized into a control group for that. (I'm a statistic in a study, but not receiving Herceptin, and I'll be compared to the women who get Herceptin. All for the good of science.)

So I did the research.

There is one study from 2008 which indicates that doing the 12 week plan decreases your odds of recurrence by a few percentage points. However, the study compared getting dose-dense paclitaxel (scientific name) every three weeks, not two, with my 12 week plan. There isn't a study about the two week plan, and maybe it's every bit as effective as every week, and I could be done in early August. I decided to ask the oncologist.

Dr. Kirshner is so laid back about this cancer treatment thing, and told me a story about breast cancer treatment. He said that back in the 60's and 70's, when they first started the AC treatment for breast cancer, the patients were put on a 2 YEAR plan of chemo. (Can you imagine?!?) Then, someone did a study comparing one year to two years, and found the recurrence rate was not affected by "only" doing year, so that became the standard. Later, someone compared 12 months of AC to 6 months, and the same thing happened. This continued to the point where we are right now, with my 4 treatments of AC. He said, "Nobody's ever done a study comparing 4 treatments to 3, but the standard right now is 4, so that's what you're getting. Who knows if you could've stopped after 3?"

Not an answer you'd expect from a doctor, but interesting nonetheless. So his answer about the Taxol 12 weekly vs. 4 biweekly treatments was, "It's up to you." When I mentioned the study, he said that one study doesn't have all of the answers. The ball was in my court.

Luckily, I had another secret source: My friend Eric from college is a pediatric oncologist in Virgina. I emailed him the whole deal and asked if I should base my treatment upon that one study, or go for the one that is convenient to my life. Eric had a bit to say, but one sentence was the kicker that brought me back to the 12 week plan: "The study developed the “standard arm” (which you randomized to) for a reason." Some group of doctors, somewhere in the country decided that their best bet on treating women with breast cancer was to do the 12 week plan and maybe give Herceptin. I decided that if I went against what a group of doctors were saying and then my cancer comes back someday, I'd totally blame myself.

So twelve weeks it was. All the way through to August 31, and then last week's change to make it September 7.

After the low white blood cell count prevented my treatment last week, the nurses had some ideas of what was going to happen to deal with that problem, but needed to speak to Dr. Kirshner first before giving the definite answer. I called yesterday to find out the verdict and was told that Dr. Kirshner wanted to discuss it with me before my treatment today, so I arrived here an hour early. Lo and behold, Dr. Kirshner says, without hesitance or sugar-coating, "Let's do the dose-dense Taxol with Neulasta shots."

So now, on doctor's orders, I'll be getting the treatment that's over sooner! Today is treatment number two already, so two more left! If everything goes well with these, my last infusion will be August 3! (My exclamation points should show my feeling about this.) Yes, I do have to get Neulasta again, but only this week and the next treatment. I don't have to have it the last treatment because they can just let my body heal itself then. And if something recurs in the future, I can blame my body or Dr. Kirsher and not myself! This is the Best Breast Cancer Ever.

I'm Just Gonna Do This

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 15:40:00 +0000

When I write, as much as I like to sound natural and I enjoy using a casual conversation-like tone, I'm really totally anal about my product. I mentally organize my writing in advance (even responses to others on Facebook and when texting), I proofread before posting, and I go back to edit typos in a panic that someone may have actually caught it.

Therefore, I've been completely overwhelmed with the idea of catching up on this blog. The longer I spend mentally planning what to say next time I post, the more stuff I have to say and the more overwhelmed I get.

So here I am to just go ahead and type. My idea is to do sub-headings, but even that may not work.

The End of AC

To those of you on the East Coast, that title has nothing to do with the heat. Remember that Adriamycin/Cytoxan cocktail of chemo drugs I was getting in April and May? It was AWFUL. I mean those last two treatments were HORRIBLE. I was brave throughout, taking advantage when people watched the kids but being Mommy for the majority of the time. But those weeks of unending nausea SUUUUUUUUUCKED!!!!!

After the AC final treatment on May 24, my body took almost two weeks to feel even sort-of normal. Again, if you saw me out and about (picking strawberries, visiting Green Lakes, hosting playdates, etc), I would have smiled and said, "I'm fine. I'm on a little break between treatments right now." But really, I was feeling like I was going to puke on your feet and all I wanted was to be asleep. It was hard to feel like I'd accomplished something by finishing the AC treatment when I was still feeling so yucky.

Not only was I feeling sick, but I was stressed about trying out a new drug, Taxol, for the whole entire summer.

Hoping to Be "Most People"

Luckily, on the weekend before starting Taxol, I finally found that I could brush my teeth without gagging. So going into that first infusion, I'd had about 5 good days. Now, all I could do is hope that Taxol would be easier on me than AC. The doctors and nurses kept saying, "This is so much easier for 'most people'" and "'Most people' don't get as nauseous with Taxol." My problem there was that 'most people' don't get breast cancer at age 40. I'm not 'most people' any more. So I worried that Taxol would knock me out just as badly as AC.

A little background about Taxol. There some ingredient in it that's made from tree bark. We all know about allergies to nuts and tree stuff, so Taxol has a high risk of allergies. I could have been sitting there hooked up to this new IV, and suddenly have a rash, my throat swelling and need emergency drugs to make sure I could breathe. They even prop an "emergency kit" next to the IV pole as they administer the Taxol. Comforting, huh?

The night before each of my Taxol infusions, I have to take steroids to try to strengthen my body against this possible allergic reaction. More specifically, I have to take the steroids 6 and 12 hours before treatment, so I have to set an alarm to wake up and take one of them.

On June 15, there I sat, watching the Taxol go into my port, and not feeling any swelling or itching. Whew. Then I went home, waiting to feel sick. Nope. The IV Benedryl (more anti-allergy just-in-case medicine) made me sleep for a while, but when I woke up, I was fine.

I'm MOST PEOPLE!!!

The process was the same on June 22, and again, no nausea!

Neuropathy

When my Dad was dealing with Parkinson's disease for more than a decade, it seemed logical at first to look for support groups for him. Unfortunately, each time he went to a support group, somebody would complain about a symptom he had yet to experience. The next day, Dad would invariably start to feel that symptom. I attributed this to his pessimistic attitude (anyone who knew him would verify that Dad was a textbook pessimist) and giggled at his nuttiness.

Guess what? I'm a nut, too. One of the main side effects with Taxol (besides that whole dying from an allergic reaction thing) is something called neuropathy. It's a tingling, numb feeling in your fingers and toes that doesn't go away and can last for an indefinite amount of time after you finish treatments.

The week BEFORE starting Taxol, my hands started feeling funny. I can't say it's tingling or numbness, but my best description for it is the feeling you get when you raise your hand in class and have to keep it up for a while. It's just like there's not enough circulation there. I brought it up to the nurses at my first Taxol treatment, and they said it sounds like neuropathy, but I shouldn't be feeling it from the AC drugs. My crazy mind was making up symptoms to go with a drug I hadn't received yet.

The neuropathy has gotten a little worse after two treatments. Now it's like that semi-numb feeling you get when you lean on one hand for a long time while reading a book in bed. Unfortunately, I feel that feeling all day, and shaking my hands to get the circulation going doesn't help. But the routine question they ask me when I mention it is, "Can you still do buttons?", to which the answer is, "Of course." So this neuropathy is nothing to worry about yet.

As with the AC, the Taxol may build up in my system and be harder to take by the 6th or 8th or 11th treatment. But for now, I can live with my crazy mind producing neuropathy, as long as I'm not nauseous.

Seven More Days

Now that I've wrapped my mind around this Taxol actually being easier than AC, I willingly went in to the oncology center last Friday (treatments are now on Friday in order to coincide better with Paul's work schedule). I sat down with my laptop and was eager to check off the third Taxol treatment of twelve. Twenty-five percent, baby!

If only life could be that easy. My white blood cell count was way too low for them to treat me (specifically, the neutrophils were below 1.0 somethings per something). The basic answer to the problem is, "Come back next week and we'll try again."

Being that I still have to get a total twelve of these treatments, my end date is now September 7 instead of August 31. Talk about a psychological blow: I've been calling this 12-week Taxol regimen "the summer". September 7 isn't summer!

Not only that, but because of the white blood cell problem, I'll now have to take something like that awful Neulasta. Remember that potent shot that knocked me on my butt for two days after the AC treatments? Yup, more of that. Now, this is a lower dosage version called Neupogen, where I receive just a little bit for each of 5 days after treatment. We're currently trying to find out if the insurance company will let me do my own shots at home, as opposed to having to drive to the oncology center six days a week (treatment plus five Neupogen shots). But the main thing on my crazy mind is that 'Most People' respond better to Neupogen than Neulasta.

Another week, hoping that I'm 'Most People'.

Nausea

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Sun, 20 May 2012 01:22:00 +0000

Remember that night when you were 21 (okay, 18) and you drank way too many white Russians? Then you loudly professed your undying love to a cute boy in front of all of your friends, proceeded to fall into a number of hedges, and then spent much of the night and the next day hugging the toilet? Or was that just me?

After that night, the words "white Russian" probably made your stomach lurch. The idea of ever eating a perogi again was beyond your capacity. And most likely, walking near the house where the drinking started, and maybe into the cafeteria where the eating took place, took a bit of effort and a few deep breaths.

That is how I'm feeling right now about my chemo. Every other Thursday, they infuse white Russians directly into my body. They give me anti-nausea meds to prevent me from sitting next to the toilet for days afterwards, but my body still knows that it wants to get rid of the stuff at every moment. So every time I even think about chemo, my stomach lurches. I literally start gagging at the sight of the building where I have to go for my appointments. And sadly, everything that reminds me about my chemo and this breast cancer experience in general makes me a bit queasy.

That includes this blog. I have been meaning to write for a while with updates about my complete hair-loss, the drugs I'll be taking (both chemo and anti-nausea), the awesome visit from my sister Kathy, and generally how life is going. However, as I approach the computer, I think, "Yuck. I don't want to think about it. I'll go read or watch the kids or play Words With Friends."

So here's the general update:

Hair-Loss - If you're on Facebook, you've seen my bald head. It's not quite as baby's bottom smooth as it looks in the picture because the shaving took place with clippers (not shaving cream and a razor) so there is stubble in the places where there still would be hair. The stubble is still falling out, so maybe baby's bottom is in the near future. Still have my eyebrows and eyelashes, at least.

Anti-nausea Drugs - Each infusion, we've tried a new drug for my nausea. The first infusion, Atavan made me feel drunk and I didn't like feeling that way around the kids. Second infusion, we gave Compazine a go, but that made me so jittery that I couldn't focus or sleep. This past time, I tried Zofran, which I don't think did anything and I was more nauseous than the other times. For my next infusion, there's something new (I haven't picked it up from the pharmacy yet, so I don't remember the name), and my fingers are crossed that it might work.

Chemo Drugs - The adriamycin/cytoxan infusions that I get 4 times are 75% done. According to Dr. Kirshner and most of the people at the oncology clinic, this has been the heavy-duty part of my chemo. The taxol I'll receive for 12 straight weeks through June, July, and August is easier for most people to handle. It's in a lower dosage because it's done weekly, and I don't have to have the neulasta (that white blood cell increasing but bone-pain inducing medicine) while on taxol. However, Maggie told me that she doesn't want to make any promises. Some people do have a rough time with taxol. As much as I'm trying to just look toward that one more treatment of AC as a milestone I've reached, I am nervous that I'll be one of the unlucky ones on the taxol. Thinking positive isn't as easy as it used to be, but I'm trying.

Kathy's visit - I had the most relaxing week with Kathy here, and I totally needed it. As much as I can get myself up and about to take care of the girls by the fourth day after chemo, it was amazing not to have to. She did all of the Mommy things this week: driving to preschoool, swimming at the YMCA, playing at parks, and riding bikes outside. I got to read and nap, which was such a treat. Thanks, Kath!

Okay, I said more than I thought I would. In general, each AC treatment is more difficult, but I want to soldier on for the sake of the girls. If I physically can get out with them and make their lives normal, I will. We had a little third birthday party for Reese today, the weather's been nice and looks to be all week, and we're going to keep having fun until Thursday...

Wait, I just said the word "Thursday". I feel a little sick.

The Hair Thing

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Sun, 06 May 2012 01:35:00 +0000

I really, really, truly didn't think that losing my hair would bother me. I've never been that much of a fashionable person, totally don't have anywhere to be that my hair would matter, I am the first to explain that it's temporary, and the idea of not having anything to brush and just throwing on a hat appeals to me quite nicely.

However, I've been in quite a funk for the past week. My hair started falling out last weekend and I haven't really felt like posting since. My analysis is that there must be some deep seeded emotional attachment to controlling our appearance. I can still recite to you everything I listed above, but I just don't feel quite right about handfuls of hair coming out and it's kept me from blogging.

But before I go into the hair descriptions, let me back up a bit. The last time I posted was from my second chemo infusion. I was in bed that Thursday and then quite a bit through the weekend, just feeling weak and nauseous. Keeping in mind that I never liked being pregnant (no glowing, smiling, happy baby bump for me), I'd say that the first few days after a chemo treatment are worse than pregnancy but better than the flu. By Monday, I was able to be a Mommy while Paul went to work, although I sat on the couch and relied on Nick Jr. a lot more than the recommended allotment for preschoolers. Tuesday and Wednesday were back to normal routine and again, it was much like the yucky parts of being pregnant, where you're tired and a little queasy but make yourself keep going because what other choice do you have? By Thursday, I was physically back to normal and I'm so glad that my treatments are every other week, not every week.

However, even though I was feeling fine by Thursday and still am, the hair thing really has me in a funk. Okay, maybe it's not just the hair. The idea of having cancer isn't so pleasant, either. But this week has been much more blah for me than any other one since my mastectomy, so I have to think the hair plays into it. So here's the deal.

Last Saturday night, I noticed a few hairs and curiously pinched a little hair on my head. With no effort or pain at all, a group of strands came out. On Sunday morning, my pillow had a bunch of hair, and I could pinch groups of hair from anywhere on my head and have them come out. The books say "clumps" of hair, but I wouldn't call it that. I think it's more like shedding, where if I pinch 50 hairs, 10 of them may stay on my fingers painlessly. I don't have to pull and don't feel them coming out of the scalp. They're just waiting for me to pick them up and take them off.

Seeing all of these 6-8 inch long hairs around made me think of the nightmare of cleaning them up. There are about 100,000 hairs on a human head, and I couldn't imagine that much hair all over the house. So I told the girls to get their scissors and we'd take this into our hands. Ready? Go.

This looks fun, right? They lost interest after about 5 minutes and then went to play while Paul finished the job. Although I didn't have a definite plan at the beginning, we ended up using the clippers to leave about 1 inch of hair all over my head for now.

I know, I know. It looks fine. Still me. I did ponytails for years anyhow. Blah blah. However, it's not done. I have literally hundreds of 1 inch long hairs coming out every day, all over the house and all over Manlius. It's easier to clean up than if I'd left it longer (like a pet shedding now), but this is not the look I get to keep. I was hoping to have a few weeks of this, but look what I found this morning:

Those are bald spots. And I refuse to try to comb-over for long. Paul pointed out that they're on my temples, where hair would recede first on anyone, but I'm used to my thick hair giving no scalp-peeks at all. So, it's time to shave. During the week, I called a local salon that does free head shavings for chemo patients, and they said that when I'm ready, they can work me in within a day or two with a private room and everything. (I don't need the private room, but I do want the girls there to see it so they don't freak out at bald Mommy.) But darn-it, the bald spots showed up on a Saturday. I was in denial all day, and by the time I showed them to Paul and he confirmed that they are there, the salon was closed and they're not open Sundays or Mondays, so I'll have to wait until mid-week for the shave. I may have to do some hats beforehand.

A couple good news things, though. My head really doesn't feel the sensitivity that I'd been warned about, so I won't have to double layer through the summer. Also, once my hair starts growing back, I know that it'll only take a few centimeters of growth and I'll look the same as I do now.

I'll post again after the shave. Hopefully, I can keep myself from falling into one of these funks again for a while, but if anyone deserves a few days of feeling bummed, I guess it's someone dealing with cancer.

Chemo #2

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 19:38:00 +0000

Why is this already feeling so routine to me? I'm in my second row 
chair (moving up in the world), Cytoxan is dripping into me, I'm using 
Paul's iPad, chatting with nurses Maggie and Patty, and judging the 
people around me (her wig looks fake...he complains too much...).

Maggie and Reese are at Arabella's house (girl from preschool) and 
Arabella's mom just texted me a picture of the girls playing on her 
new Rainbow playset. So since I don't have much to say today, I'll just 
show you my reason for doing chemo:

On the Bright Side

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 01:42:00 +0000

The very week that I was being diagnosed with breast cancer, some Facebook friend (I truly don't remember who) posted a status about always finding the bright side of any situation. That's a load of crap. You can't tell me that during that first week, I should have been saying, "At least we caught it" and "I'm glad we have insurance." That first week, I NEEDED to be panicked and angry and grieving, and there is absolutely no reason to go looking for rays of sunshine. They will find their way through the clouds on their own. Really.

I bring this up because this week has had some real bright sides (or at least, a bunch of It-could-be-worses.)

I'll start with this article from the Syracuse paper: SRC to Layoff 35. Yes, that's Paul's company. We found out on Tuesday (the article was on Wednesday) that some people from his division were on the chopping block. Paul assured me that he was 99% sure that he was safe, but there's always that doubt. That would've sucked, right? But this post would have a different title if Paul's instinct was wrong, so he texted me around noon on Thursday that we could breathe again. Since the last layoff at SRC was in 1993, I think we'll be breathing freely for a while.

Also on Tuesday, I was standing around after Maggie's preschool with a group of moms. These are ladies with whom I've done playdates and birthday parties and we've clicked as friends, though we all just met in September. They all told me, point blank, to just put them down on the calendar for anytime I need childcare, ever. (Thanks to Kurri, Julia, Kim, Jen, and Holly, who wasn't there but I know would have said the same thing.) Now, I know that all sounds like pretty normal friend stuff: I watch your kids, you watch mine. But here's the real bright side: If I'd gotten cancer a year ago, I had literally ZERO friends around here like that. (Keep in mind that we'd just moved back here at that time. I'm not really that much of a loser. Or maybe I am and I just found some other losers. Alright, foot out of mouth and back to my story.) I'm so glad that this is happening now.

About that timing thing: It's a good thing the girls aren't older because then they may have had some preconceived ideas about cancer and/or chemo instead of just trusting that Mommy's going to get better. It's a good thing the girls aren't younger because 18 months ago, I was still nursing Reese. If there's a perfect age for a child to be when a Mommy gets breast cancer, I'd say it's 3 or 4. (Bingo!)

Now for just a list of bright sides:
- We're insured. So far, nothing has been questioned at all.
- I'm staying at home. How hard would these gazillion doctor's appointments be to fit in if I had a job?
- Paul has a bunch of vacation time. As irony would have it, Paul said at the beginning of February, "My vacation time is adding up to the point that I'm going to start losing some. We have to figure out how to use it." (We thought a trip to Baltimore/DC was going to be the solution.)
- Maggie and Reese have transitioned seamlessly from having Mommy 24/7/365 to being shuffled from one house to another a couple times a week. I really thought my presence was important, but I'm glad for their sakes to see that it's not.
- That whole Sunday School job thing worked out pretty well, too.
- Anti-nausea drugs exist.
- And a petty one: I had big boobs in the first place. Now I can appreciate my little(r) ones.

Finally, and the biggest one, I live in a time when I can blog and Facebook my whole experience so that support is coming from every person I've ever known. I don't know how I'd stay positive without little check-in emails every day from so many friends. Thank you all!

Back to Normal

noreply@blogger.com (Shari Lindars) — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 01:37:00 +0000

My last two posts were about feeling like crap, so I do need to update.

I'm feeling pretty much normal! I'm doing my regular daily routine of preschool, storytimes, playdates, and way too much Nick Jr. for anyone's good. I still have my hair. I take an anti-nausea pill twice a day and it totally works. So I this may be a short post because there's little to say when everything is just normal.

Monday was a little exhausting, but Tuesday and Wednesday have just been like regular non-mastectomy, non-chemotherapy days. So that's good, right? I may have a little guilt about accepting all of the meals people are providing, because I could have cooked, but I didn't know that in advance. (And I have a feeling that the 12 weeks of chemo every Thursday instead of this bi-weekly recovery cushion thing are going to reassure me that I need all the help I can get.)

I do have one dilemma, though. I've said from the beginning that I have no problems with losing my hair. It's just hair and it'll grow back. But now that it could be any day, I'm a little nervous. Why? Because I don't know how to tie a headscarf. Seriously. I've received gifts of a few hats, but I've read that my scalp will be sensitive and I'll want a scarf underneath. I have a feeling that my scarf knot will be so lumpy that no hat will fit over it. What to do? What to do?

I could Google some videos, but that makes the whole thing a little too real. I may go into the little shoppe at the oncology center and ask, but I'm afraid I'll run into someone like the nutritionist who accidentally says the wrong thing.

Oh, oh! I didn't go into this post with this idea, but it may work. Can one of you do some research and then gently and politely tell me what I need to know?

As a pay-back, I will be posting pictures of the girls cutting my hair someday soon. They are totally excited for the day that we find too much hair in my brush or clumps on my pillow, because their safety scissors are ready!

When Shari's hair grows back, it will be (choose as many as you like):
	Brown
	Blonde
	Grey
	Curly
	Straight
	Frizzy
	It won't grow back

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