I’ve been binge watching “Parenthood” for several days now. It mostly makes me laugh with relatable situations with crazy family and kids being assholes. The usual. But the last few episodes got a little too relatable. One of the fucking characters goes and gets damn breast cancer. Like, what the shit. So suddenly my mind numbing binge watching become s a freaking trial of emotional strength because I can not escape the topic. What the shit. It is October after all so everything is pink and “feel your tatas”.

I hit the 3 year mark since my diagnosis this September and it’s been 2.25 years since any treatment. Yet here I am getting all emotional watching some fictional character on some stupid TV show go through some fake treatment. And I hate that it makes me this way. I hate that it makes me remember my own bullshit. I hate that there are so many scenes that I can’t stop myself from saying, out loud, “That’s not how it is. That’s wrong.” There was one episode where the character’s mother-in-law comes to help her around the house and it reminds me of all my family and friends that wanted (and most did) come over to help and it made me just as frustrated as it was making this character, because when you’re sick you want to do what you can yourself. To try and be as “normal” as possible. Thinking of that time makes me feel bad because I was shitty to people back then. I was shitty to people who just wanted to help but, I was angry and wanted things to just go back to normal and they were anything but normal. I’m pretty sure my husband only survived because he’s quiet and waited for me to ask for help rather than just do things for me. Well, with the exception of offering to go get me cheeseburgers or go to the store to get me pie.

It just sucks. I don’t want to be emotional about it. I don’t want to have to get emo over some bullshit TV show episode or song. I don’t want to remember this bullshit and feel bad because I look bad and feel selfish. I didn’t worry about anyone else around me’s feelings. I didn’t have the fortitude to give a shit about how my bullshit toxic tits were screwing up life for everyone around me. I want to distance my self from it. For it to be my past that I sometimes forget even happened. Even as I sit here and watch more episodes about bullshit breast cancer and type this, my stupid husband must feel my emo rising and has continued to crack jokes about the cat and some song and anything other than the bullshit on the TV.  Yet, here I sit, drinking wine, still watching this TV bullshit, feeling all emo but, tying to ignore the stupid emotions rising, trying to not feel shitty about some cancer bullshit that pretty much will always be bullshit, my bullshit.

Three years ago, I walked into my doctors office for a follow up visit to make sure I had gotten in to see a breast surgeon specialist to have a bump looked at. He was my primary care physician and all I expected was a 5 to 10 minute chat asking how the appointment was, if I had gotten a mammogram and what else had been discussed. 10 minutes later I walked out with the words, “The initial biopsy results are back. It’s cancer.” Those are literally the only two sentences I remember. I don’t even remember walking out to my car or driving home. My next memory was laying in bed, still fully clothed texting the Sailor, “Biopsy’s back. I have cancer,” then staring at the wall from beneath a down comforter. He immediately text back, “I’m on my way home.” It was August at the Ocean Front in Virginia Beach and I don’t remember why I pulled the down comforter up over me from the foot of the bed. I don’t remember being hot or cold. I remember laying there staring at the wall, numb. I remember the Sailor coming into our bedroom silently taking off his clunky boots and just crawling into bed, full uniform still on, squeezing me to him and laying silently. I don’t remember much else from that day or even that weekend for that matter. August 31st will always stick in my mind as the day cancer changed my life.

Details of what followed for the next 2 years are clear in my mind as if it was just yesterday. The weeks of Kyle running up to the Pub in the middle of my shift to meet me in my car, parked on the street, to stick me in the gut with fertility hormones laughing like idiots at the thought of what it looked like from a passersby. Chemo teaching where a nurse went over ever detail of what my treatment would entail and all the possible side effects and issues. Kyle and I staring dumbfounded at the novella of printouts listing things like, “Loss of hair, loss of nails, mania, vomiting, weight loss, weight gain, neuropathy, bone pain, muscle pain, disorientation, bulging eyes, loss of taste….” Every surgery, every blood draw, every round of chemo; I could recount every detail of each one like it’s happening right now.

People say that there will come a point where it will be your past. You will feel detached from it. I can’t imagine that. I can not even fathom waking up eventually and thinking, “This is just part of my history. The past.” Cancer changed me irrevocably. My scars scream, “YOU ARE NOT THE SAME PERSON! YOU ARE DIFFERENT NOW!” every fucking day of my life. Every time I shower or change my clothes, I am accosted with a visual reminder that I am not the same. I will never be the same. On the bad days, when I’m angry and bitter, I try and tell myself that I stared the possibility of death in the face and said, “Fuck you. Not yet.” Maybe that’s dramatic because when I was actually going through the entire process I never once thought, “This could kill me.” Hindsight, though, it feels like it now.

I could have had it so much worse. I send out a silent thank you to the universe regularly that it wasn’t worse. My treatment was the best case scenario in so many ways. I mean, if you HAVE to have triple negative breast cancer, you can only hope to breeze through chemo with minimal sickness and pain. To be able to still walk in and out of your treatments, even on your bad days, on your own volition. To have textbook surgeries with little to no complications. I know it could have been infinitely worse and I really am thankful it wasn’t but, really? Fuck you cancer.

At this point I have started and stopped and restarted this post several times. That first paragraph was written through a blur of tears because that wound is the deepest and hardest to recall. That first moment in a shit ass process, because I refuse, absolutely REFUSE to call it a journey. Fuck that cliche. It’s not a fucking road trip across the country to visit your great aunt in Iowa who smells like moth balls. It’s a shitty, scary, expensive process and that first really pivotal moment, where you go from fear of the unknown, to the mind numbing truth of cancer is a knife that cuts not just to the core but, through you. There are other dates from 2015 and 2016 that I’ll never forget as well (shout out to getting married, what what!) but, August 31st changed the substance of my existence and who I am. It changed what I want out of the rest of this life I have and how I want to live it. 3 years ago on August 31st, I was told I had cancer, and I will never be the same. I will never be detached from it. I will never forget it. It will be a brick in my backpack that I’ll hoist onto my shoulders everyday until my last. I can only try to make that backpack a really cool Patagonia one that gets filled with fluffy puppies of adventure and buttery pancakes of experience to make that brick seem worth the struggle.

Yesterday I had one of many routine follow ups with my Oncologist. I will have these regular appointments for a while; at different intervals for years. Every one feels like I’m playing Russian Roulette. Will this be the time they tell me they need t run more tests? That my blood work shows markers that the cancer is still here or has come back? A sinking feeling always lurks deep in the pit of my stomach every time I sit in the exam room after the nurse leaves from taking my vitals while I wait for the Doctor to come see me. My last few follow ups had been uneventful but yesterday, was different.

My doctor came in and after the usual “How are you feeling?” and “Yes that ache/pain/weirdness is normal,” he began to discuss my tumor that was was evaluated after they took my jubblies off. It still had some live cancer cells; under 1cm but, still there. This meant that not only was my cancer of the aggressive nature but, that it was pretty resilient. The types and doses of chemo that they gave me should have killed the entire tumor based on its size. But it didn’t. Now I had the option to take chemo pills. Pills that are essentially chemo that I’d swallow. A chemical that I would ingest and that then would change its chemical make up to attack any (possibly) remaining cells floating around directly and stop them from growing as well as reducing their size. They would be a precaution. They haven’t found any cancer else where in my body but, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a rouge cell floating out there somewhere that was one of those damn resilient bitches that fended off the chemo secretly.

There was a catch though. Because of the amount of the still living cells found, I was in a grey area. Too small to be a definite yes but, enough that it made my doctor raise an eyebrow. Ultimately, it was my choice. As usual, I didn’t want to make a choice so, I asked my doc “What do you recommend?” and my lovely British Oncologist said, “I think we have one shot to cure this. You’re young. We can lower the percentage of a reoccurrence….”

So Xeloda pills it is. 2 pills, twice a day for 2 weeks on then one week off for 6 months. Six. Fucking. Months. With this precaution comes side effects. Lovely chemo side effects. Well, donkey balls on that. I was officially having a bad day while reading that list in the drug pamphlet. My lovely chemo nurse that I happened upon in the hall on my way out asked how I was. When I told her about the pills she reassured me that they list ALL possible side effects because they have to. Then she proceeded to go over what I could most likely expect; Possible dehydration (so drink a lot of water), maybe a loss of appetite, head aches, joint/muscle/body aches, dry skin, dry scaly hands and feet, red/painful/swollen/numb hands and feet, diarrhea or constipation, dizziness, tiredness, trouble sleeping, mouth and throat sores, upset stomach, stomach aches and possibly vomiting. The usual suspects with most chemo. All that sounds like a long list but, it eliminated quite a bit from the list on the pamphlet. Most importantly, she said I wouldn’t lose the short locks that I have lovingly grown back on my head (it’s very very unlikely because NOTHING is 100% in cancer med land). Bless her heart, she knows that barfing has been my biggest dread throughout all my treatment. So she offered to call me in a new prescription of a quick dissolve version of one of my previous anti-nausea meds. Just in case I was at work when a way of barftasticness swept over me, I could  pop one under my tongue and get the fastest relief.

I’m 24 hours into taking the little buggers and so far, I’ve been fine. A little bit of weirdness, not in my stomach and not quite nausea but… weirdness. At the moment, I’m chalking it up to being nervous about what’s to come. I mean, my joints already hurt like a motherfucker, to the point that if I sit for more than 5 minutes when I stand up and walk like a gimpy robot for a few minutes until the all joint juices get flowing again. How much worse could that get? Complete immobility? I’d welcome a little loss of appetite. I mean, all I do is want to stuff my face. Not having that constant urge to graze would be nice temporarily. My peripheral neuropathy just recently started to wear off so, if that returns, no biggie. Been there, done that. I’ve always had trouble sleeping and subsequently spent most of my waking hours battling tiredness. Check, check. So my biggest concerns lie with the gastrointestinal issues, shitty uncomfortable skin conditions and either shitting my pants or not being able to shit at all.

I was so close to being “done” with treatments. I got confirmation that I didn’t need radiation. SCORE! So all that I still had on my plate was my final surgery which my Plastic Surgeon assured me was way less invasive and painful than the first. Basically, I was getting ready to put this bullshit in my rearview and carry on smartly with life. Getting back to normal. Alas, I have 6 months more of bullshit in the form of oval white pills. Perhaps the coming months won’t bring pain and discomfort like I’m imagining. Here’s to hoping it’s just business as usual just with a new alarmed reminder on my phone every 12 hours reminding to eat my chemo like a good little cancer patient.

You wouldn’t think there were any “pros” really to having cancer. You have to search really deep. Turns out I’ve become a glass half full kind of gal since my mortality has been presented to me on a platter. Now that chemo is 2+ weeks behind me, I’ve had some time to really contemplate the process. So, here’s my pros and cons of chemo.

I’ll start with the cons. They are easier and I can’t wait to bitch about them.

1. Fatigue is the most common side effect. It also is lamer than a bag of one legged ducks. During the first 4 rounds of chemo, I received doxorubicin (Adriamycin) and cyclophosphamide (AC). It’s known not so secretly by some patients as the Red Devil because the Adriamycin is blood red and also because it sucks donkey balls. It’s notorious for making you feel like complete dog shit. I have to say I “lucked out” because it mostly made me feel like I needed to sleep constantly. If I didn’t sleep constantly I felt like I had run a marathon the day before. Walking up the stairs to get to the bathroom or go to bed was exhausting. The last few stairs my legs protested just enough that I felt like I had, in fact, accomplished a significant work out. It was the easiest cardio I have ever done. In the last few weeks of that shit, I may or may not have cried on a few occasions with the dread of having to climb those lame ass stairs. The Sailor may or may not have offered on those occasions to just carry me up. I never accepted. Not because I’m stoic or stubborn but, because our stairs are open on one side and have no rail over halfway up. The Sailor is strong but, I could still just picture both of us taking a tumble. But the offer always heartened me. He was willing to fireman carry my sickly weak ass up a flight of stairs if needed, that was enough.
2. Everyone knows this one. It’s the most recognized side effect. Hair loss. I had cut my medium length tresses into a pixie a month prior to prep for it. They say your hair will start to fall out about 14 days after your first round. That just happened to have been the day of my second round. And nothing happened. Day 15, 16 and 17 came and went as well without any  noted extra shedding. I thought for just a split second that my hair was freaky hulk hair that wouldn’t fall out. Maybe just stop growing for the duration of the treatment. Then Day 18 came. Granted, I was actively watching for any note worthy hair changes so, when I started running my hands through my short locks and coming back with 10 or 20 hairs at a time, I knew that was it. I took a shower that afternoon while the sailor was at work to shampoo my hair one last time. I left a hair ball the size of a 6 week old kitten in the drain of the shower. I text the Sailor and sadly delivered the news that B-Day (bald day) was upon us. He told me not to fret and that we knew it was going to happen eventually. So I tried not to sweat it. He didn’t mention the kitten he had to extract and chuck in the trash before showering. The next morning I woke and the 10-20 hairs were exponentially more. Not wanting to sit idly by and watch my blonde hair slowly die and fall all over the damn house then needing to be cleaned up, I dug out my old Wahl clippers and fucking shaved my head. I texted the Sailor to warn him he was coming up to a shaved dome. I’m guessing he thought back to the kitten/hairball and wasn’t surprised.
3. Headaches. Sudden. Out of nowhere. Sharp. The Sailor got good at seeing the visual cues of one and had ice packs at the ready.
4. One only really hears about puking and diarrhea from chemo. So that was what I was prepared for. FALSE. I didn’t shit normal for 4 months. Constipation is the worst. I’ll take the rhea over not being able to poop anytime.
5. Hemorrhoids. I’ll just leave it at that. It’s bad enough I talked about pooping in the last bullet.
6. The day after treatment I was required to get shot that helped my body to produce white blood cells since the chemo would kill off and suppress anymore getting made along with all the other cells in my body. I was lucky enough to get the option of having a little pod stuck on my hip to administer the shot the next day rather than having to drive back. Fuck that pod and fuck that shot. I know it helped me not get a common cold and having it lay me up in the hospital or kill me but, really fuck it. That shit makes you ache. I thought I had to be growing a few inches every time because it felt like my legs were in the process of stretching. Then I started Taxol and well fuck that too. Fuck that one even harder. The body aches were worst in my sternum but, radiated in my lower back, legs and hips as well. Add the fucking pod into that mix and I wanted dismember my entire body myself.
7. Muscle Aches. Yeah, fuck these too. Fucking Taxol. I swear I thought T was way worse than AC in the ACT treatment. My achey damn bones coved in my achy damn muscles. I found walking around slowly and gingerly or even just standing and swaying helped a bit but then I’d sit down or go to bed and it would be infinitely worse then when I started. For 8 weeks I ate Motrin and stood next to the couch swaying like a weirdo from the bone and muscle aching.
8. Numb and or tingling fingers and toes is called peripheral neuropathy. And it is the pits. No, pits isn’t good enough. It fucking blows flea infested donkey dicks. It started slowly. In my fingertips and a little in the tips of my big toes. Each round it got worse. By the time round 4, my final round, of Taxol came around I constantly felt like all my toes were falling into holes. If I sat for too long, when I stood up, from the balls of my feet to the tips of my toes prickle like I was sitting on my feet for hours cutting off circulation. Luckily my fingers didn’t progress beyond that first stage of slight numbness in the tips. Oh, and it takes 6 months to a year from the last treatment for this to wear off. Yes. Possibly a year of dead feeling sometimes painful toes. Awesome.
9. Speaking of feet, Taxol turned both my big toenails and several of my other toe nails black. And they’re probably going to fall off. Some might hang on and grow out naturally but, my one big toe… It’s going. I’m pretty sure only the cuticle is keeping it in place at this point. It lifts up a couple centimeters when I file it. Like a muppet mouth talking to me while I file it. For a couple of weeks it actually weeped clear fluid. I had to take antibiotics for a week when I’m pretty sure it was infected because the fluid started to look cloudy and yellow. And smell. It could have been gangrene but, my doctor told me that was a bit dramatic and that it’s just an infection from being sweaty in a sneaker at work 3 days in a row then wet from the shower I took to wash the fried fish smell off my person upon coming home. Damp warm places are where bacteria like to live. The Sailor called it my zombie toe. I threatened to touch him with it at night in bed when he wouldn’t go get me juice. He got me juice. The zombie toe had a little bit of power there for a while. I still hate the zombie toe. Thank goodness it’s not summer time so the public has been saved from seeing my toes.
10. Not being allowed to eat raw food doesn’t sound like a big problem. I can handle not having sushi for a few months… Yeah, that’s because I didn’t really think that through. No apples unless you fry them or bake them first. No guacamole. No salsa. No unpasteurized juice (bye bye fresh squeezed or cold pressed juices and Apple cider). No poached eggs or eggs over easy for that matter. And your burger? Well done. Medium Well if you like to live on the edge. And on it? No lettuce, tomato or onion unless you get grilled or fried onions. Are you starting to see how this escallated quickly once I started to try and cook or order off a menu? I never thought I’d say this but, I just wanted a fucking salad towards the end there. Like my body was begging for something green and un-fried or sautéed or steamed for once.
11. You know when you’re talking to someone or writing an email and you can’t think of a word that you know you know and you can feel it right there in your brain just taunting you? That’s fucking what chemo brain is like but it happens several times a day everyday. My life became a series of playing catch phrase and charades throughout the day. Usually with the Sailor. And it continues, though not quite as often thank God. The Sailor has gotten good at the game. A few scenarios between The Sailor and I for your amusement. Scene 1 – Me: In my PJs putting on my Uggs and jacket. Sailor: Where ya going? Me: Out to…. um you know, the thing with the paper I mean envelopes that comes everyday… the guy in the little truck with no door…. Sailor: Are you going out to the mailbox? Me: YES! To get the mail. Scene 2 – Watching a movie. Me: The actors for the adults look a lot like the kid versions of their characters. They had a really good…. Uhhh… Person that like interviews the people, I mean actors, for the jobs in the movie and picks them. Sailor:…. Casting? Me: That doesn’t sound right… but, yeah. Casting. Casting Director! Casting Director! That is what I meant. You were right. Scene 3 – Me:  We need to go to the NEX. The cats need… uh, the stuff they shit in… Sailor: Litter. Me: Yep. Litter. And the stuff they eat. Sailor: Cat food. Me: Yeah, I didn’t forget “cat food”. I was just sticking with the theme of not knowing words to make it seem fun.

Now onto the pros. This is infinitely harder.

1. No hair means my prep time for leaving the house has been cut down by at least 30 or 45 minutes. No blowdrying, curling or straightening. Not to mention not worrying about trims, cuts, highlights and color. It’s a welcome relief for a bit.
2. Speaking of no hair, no shaving. Or waxing. Or tweezing. It’s glorious.
3. Yoga for cancer patients and survivors at the hospital. I actually haven’t gone yet but, I’m positive that I will. Eventually.
4. I have a legitimate excuse to actually live in pajamas. When you’re feeling crumby and fatigued no one expects you to put on jeans or slacks. Flannel PJs or yoga pants and an over sized tee are more than acceptable even when you have company.
5. Its the perfect excuse for a secret introvert to have for when she wants to be alone. Even when in perfect health I rarely am in the mood for the casual hang out. It takes a momentous amount of will power to want to leave my funk hole to adventure out and be social. Or even more to invite someone into my abode to hang. I mean, that means putting things away and cleaning and that’s just all exhausting. I’d prefer to to stay in my flannel PJs on the couch surfing the web and binge watching Downton Abbey eating ice cream covered in chocolate syrup and melted peanut butter. The struggle is real. See my previous post for further details.
6. Soft skin. So since my cells aren’t regenerating like normal, my skin is shedding like a MOFO. So I, hating flaky skin, have been exfoliating and moisturizing like a little mofo to combat it. Results, fucking fantastic looking skin.
7. Speaking of good skin, good bye menstrual cycle. No hormonal zits! No tampons and undie liners. No cramps and  crazy time (aka PMS). I can wear any color or type of underoos I want on any given day without worry of fucking Aunt Flo coming a couple days early to ruin my cute lace top pink and grey leopard print VS cotton undies. It’s glorious.

So there you have it. Now you have an idea on my Chemo “experience”. Mostly sucky. Very sucky actually but, a few silver linings. I mean, you have to try and find the silver linings or an already sucky situation can be unbearable. Like when you want to cry when you see your bald head but, you think, “At least I don’t have to shave my legs or wax my bikini line though…”

And it could have been worse. Much worse. I was reminded of that fact every other Tuesday when I went in for my chemo and would see so many people so far worse off than me. I wouldn’t say that I am lucky but, really all things considering I have been so far.