Taking the Scenic Route

So you're asking for... Results?, part 2, or "No, THIS is the amazing news!"

One of the things that happened last week was that a few of the sunflowers started opening their flower faces to the world.

I noticed the first last Friday evening when I was up finding quiet in the cabin. It was peeking at me from the swath down below the garden, a bright splash of perfect color against the dark of the trees, the sunset brilliance of the sky.

By Saturday the first sunflower from the driveway swath was opening.

Isn't it nice when the universe knows when to give you celebratory flowers?  The farm and the flowers seemed to know that we're heading into celebration time.

Here's what happened last week that called for flowers:

On Wednesday late afternoon I got a call from Dr. Chui.  "This is an amazing set of scans!"  I love how he always gets straight to it!  He was calling with the PET & CT scan results, but he also had the mammogram and ultrasound results with him as well.

CT scans, or CAT scans, work like big x-ray machines: they show soft tissue, bones, and when you add an iv with "contrast" you can also get information about what is going on with certain organs as the contrast passes through the system.  The CT scan shows masses that don't belong, but it won't necessarily tell you exactly what the mass is if you don't already know.

I had just a CT scan midway through chemo, at the end of may, and that was a scan that showed that masses in my lungs and lymph nodes where getting smaller or had disappeared, and that the masses in my liver were the same or slightly smaller, but at least not getting any larger.

The PET part of the scan is really much more interesting.  This is the scan where you drink a glucose/radioactive drink then sit doing nothing (napping!) in a dark room for an hour before you go in to get scanned. Here's how I said it in the post of March 21st:

"The idea is that all the cells in our bodies need sugar (glucose) for energy, but some cells, like cancer cells who are overachievers and overeaters use a lot more of the glucose--so spiking the glucose with the radioactive stuff means that then they can scan my body for the radioactivity and see which locations have been eating the most glucose.  In a resting state the cancer is going to gobble the most."

So this is the same scan I had back in March that showed us the cancer active in lungs and liver as well as chest.  This is the scan that me and Dr. Chui are both so excited to get a look at now that we're done with chemo.  We want to know how metabolically active the cancer is now.  Whatever lights up on the PET part of the scan is still gobbling sugars, is still hungry cancer.

Ready...Set... Drumroll....

So, when Chui calls on Wednesday to say I have "an amazing set of scans" he means....

NOTHING LIGHTS UP ON THE PET SCAN.

NOTHING.  Not a fucking thing.  Not a single goddamn** spot lights up.  The CT portion still shows some masses in the liver, and a little in the lungs.  But Chui's pretty certain that what is still there is just the dead mass of the tumors left behind: scar tissue.

Fuck cancer.  Bring on the sunflowers.

Surgery is now planned for August 4th.

Yeah, that's what I said, bring on those sunflowers!

 

**PS, yes I am sorry for cussing.  I have a nasty cussing habit, and it is lazy of me, but just this once, understand that it is used, and intentionally used in print, because you can't see how big the grins are, how pleased as punch I am.  Just like the cuss words this disease is mean and revolting and unnecessary.  And nyah nyah, I still win!  Thank you everybody for your sunflower seeds and support!

So you're asking for... Results?

I was thinking of titling this entry: "How to Make a Miracle in Six Easy Steps."

But then the next sentence would have to be "Step 1: Get Cancer."

So I guess we'll skip talking about step 1, because honestly that's a total bummer.  And while the week has been good overall, it hasn't been easy either, so let's avoid the big bummers shall we?

Instead, I'll just change the subject abruptly.  I want to show you a picture of my new hat.  Stacey gave it to me last weekend to celebrate the final chemo treatment.  Yes, I did wear it out in public, in fact I wore it to see Dr. Chui.

Okay, now back to the real point of writing: what's the news?  Results and miracles please?

Yes, I had chemo treatment #6 last Monday.  And all went well.  On Monday Dr. Chui was more excited about my upcoming scans than I was.  And I was pretty excited about having good results.  But Chui was positively confident about good news, was certain that things would be amazing.

I spent the night Monday night in Portland, just down the hill from OHSU at my Grandma Betty's condo.  She made me a nice dinner and I went to bed early in the silence and peace of her place.  It was honestly amazing to experience for an evening how quiet someone's home can be if there are not three children running around intent on squabbling and airing grievances to every adult present.

Tuesday morning, early, I went off to start my day of scans.  PET/CT at 7:30am, MRI at 11:00am, Mammogram at 2:00, Ultrasound at 2:30.  Nuelasta shot at 4:00pm.  Bob would meet me for the shot and drive me home.

And it was a good day. Nausea doesn't usually set in too bad for me until the Wednesday after treatments, and Tuesdays I am still taking the last doses of the steroid meds that go with chemo, so I am buoyed against fatigue.  And let's be totally honest: the idea of having a whole day alone and to myself is an amazing treat for me now.  I am rarely ever alone or independent these days, and haven't been since this journey started some five months ago.  Even spending the whole day going from appointment to appointment, drinking down vile radioactive liquids, or holding myself totally motionless for nearly 40 minutes inside a clanking machine... to do so under my own power and with my own self to keep company... yes, a luxury.

There were little moments of bliss throughout the day, points where I forgot for just awhile all about the cancer or what was going on.  In the morning I sat for a bit in this amazing light filled atrium, just marveling at the sunlight streaming in and all the people streaming by.  Except for scrubs and the relative lack of luggage I might have been in some sleek metropolitan airport: everyone so full of purpose, so much movement.  Later, after a lunch in the busy cafeteria, I went outside and walked through the Farmer's Market, looking at all the young med students sprawled in the sun on the lawns.  Then finally I had yet another break in the early afternoon, where I sat outside on one of the patios near the top of the tram, listening to my ipod, dozing in the sun.  Blessed quiet time, alone amongst all the people, anonymous amongst the hospital bustle.

So I have to admit that I really sailed through the day of tests.  I was NOT nervous, or hesitant: if anything I felt expectantly... triumphant.  I felt a kind of giddy certainty that might come from knowing you are about to reveal to someone the perfect gift.

Coming full circle that afternoon I was back at the OHSU Breast Center for the mammogram and breast ultrasound.  These were the tests that my breast surgeon was going to need to figure out surgery.  These would be the scans that would give us a true "after" to the very first "befores".  Mammogram done first, and yes, as I posted on facebook: not a damn sign of the tumor was left on the scan--even I could see that when I got my peek at it before being sent off to the ultrasound room.

As the ultrasound technician did her work, I was laying there thinking about the last ultrasound way back at the beginning, that Friday at the end of February.  I was thinking about how anxious I had been back then, and how certain I was now.  I was thinking about the whole scenic route I've been taking these last five months.

The technician finished her work quickly and went to get the radiologist.  In another poetic "full circle" moment he turned out to be the same doctor I had back in February, the one who had initially checked my first scans and ordered the biopsy, telling me to "prepare myself and my family" for it to be cancer.  I had a chance to thank him for that warning this time.  And sincerely, I do thank him for his warning, because that warning was what first planted the seed within me to share this story, blow by horrible blow, with all of you.  This blog started when he was honest with me.  I am honest with you because he was honest with me.

And so he was the one who now got to tell me that there was nothing to be found on the ultrasound or mammogram.  Nothing.  No mass, no tumor, just that cute little breast cancer ribbon-shaped metallic marker that had been left back at the tumor site when the biopsy had been done.

In a ferociously good mood I skipped over to the tram station and then sailed down the hill through the sky to meet my husband and go get my magical $5700 white blood cell boosting shot of Nuelasta. 

Yeah, I felt like I was finally going to get to show you all what happens when you make a miracle.

And yeah, there's still more amazing results to share with you.

Treatment today, and a huge week!

Sixth and presumably final chemo treatment is today!  I am on my way there in just minutes: I am thrilled and excited! Tuesday I will have massive testing all day: whole body PET/CT, MRI, mammogram and ultrasound. Thursday we meet with the surgeons to get the plan for an August 18th surgery. Think and pray: clean and clear, clean and clear....

I know I can do facebook posts now from my phone, so if time allows I'll update there if I can during the day.

Hugs!  Erin

I am a Lucky Girl.

First, I want to thank the Bunco Mamas for a good evening tonight: laughter and good conversation with you is the best prize, though let us not forget that tonight for once I rolled an amazing FOUR buncos!  How lucky am I, eh?  Mostly lucky we actually played, instead of just chatting all night as we clearly wanted to do, because if we hadn't played I never would have gotten the four buncos to remind me how lucky I am....

So I am lucky tonight: and you all, Bunco Mamas and blog-readers alike, need to know that I am very aware that the bunco rolls are the least of it. 

At one point tonight Jill gently asked, "Erin, what's with the blog?"  Gently, (thank you, sweetie.)  I know this meant the same thing that several of you have asked me over the weeks: why are you not writing?

Well, let's just get it out of the way: the last month has been really tough, and this last week in particular was pretty much a new level of hell.

The last month was tough energetically and mentally, and I have a couple long blog posts in draft form that explain more about that.  If childcare allows, I'll post the first of those tomorrow.

Last week I am going tell you about right here. Grab a cup of something and pull up a chair....

Last Monday, on the 22nd, I had chemo treatment #5.  Stacey drove me, and we got to see rockstar-oncologist Chui again (he is so happy I didn't name the pig after him!)  He gave me an exam and another rave about my progress, and we started to talk about next steps after treatment #6.  The plan continues to be for surgery after, but that means we will need a bunch more scans and consultations with the surgeons, so we'll be heading into a lot more scheduling activity in late July with the goal for surgery to happen in early to mid August.

After seeing Chui we finally got back onto the "drip-ward" where it turned out all the chairs were full.  So I got a private room, and a hospital bed instead of my usual deluxe leather chair, but probably alright since I was already tired.  I took a nap before they even got the drip going.

All in all, it was fairly uneventful.  Nurse Martha swung in to say hello.  I was tired, and... I had to take an anti-nausea med before we were even done.  I can't exactly remember when I had to take it, Stacey likely will, but I do remember talking about it, talking about whether or not it was an automatic body-response to just being in the building now.

Well, that should have been the foreshadowing moment: camera zooming in for a close up of my hand peeling open the foil pack for the Zofran-- definitely in gritty HD digital, with the florescent overheads and gray overcast portland light washing out detail on the white walls and hospital sheets.  I don't think I would add any ominous music to the soundtrack, just a kind of clear quiet and the noise of the packet opening, so you'd really pay attention: "uh-oh, she's taking the nausea med!  What, already?  She's not even home yet!"

However the meds worked, and by evening I was even hungry.  We had an amazing tuna nicoise salad that had been delivered by Dawn, who was our Monday food-fairy.

Tuesday morning my girlfriend Kasi came to take care of me for a couple hours.  Tuesday afternoon Kristen drove me back into town for my Neulasta shot, and while we had great conversations, I was wiped out by the time we got home. Despite my Zofran and Ativan double up, I was still having a hard time with the nausea.  I was hungry and not hungry, guts just getting more and more knotted up.  And oh lords, I was just so tired.  Even with the nap I took before the trip to Portland.

Now...

Now, you have to remember that summer vacation had started the week before.  Now you have to remember that I have three kids: aged seven, five and three.  Now you have to remember that while my husband "owns his own business," owning here means he IS the business-- if Bob can't work then there is no way to satisfy our clients, pay ourselves, pay our employee, or pay the business health insurance. Now...

Bob, with Stacey and other members of the BRAS team had worked really hard to set plans in place for what we expected would be a hard week for me.  They had planned childcare for every day, they had planned my transportation to and from OHSU, they had planned on the girlfriend "check-ins" each day.  Bob had tried to keep his schedule open as possible, but he had a load of client work, and definite court appearances that had to be kept.

Now, here we go.

Sometime Sunday we found out that our rockstar ex-nanny would be unable to help with childcare as planned on Thursday because her current employer had booked her for work.  Okay, no problem, roll with it: Bob and Stacey come up with a plan B for Thursday's childcare.

Then Wednesday morning my Mom called early: uh-oh, she's coming down with a cold, what do I want her to do?  Umm, not come out here to take care of the kids for the day and risk getting them or me sick?  Okay, no problem, we'll roll with it.  Bob comes up with a plan B for Wednesday's childcare, and we split the day: he does the morning, I do the afternoon.  Despite an acupuncture appointment, which does ease my nausea for several hours, by dinner time the sick feeling comes raging back.  I email Bob and ask him to pick up some broth soup for me on his way home.

Meanwhile, the rest of the family has a great dinner delivered by our Wednesday food-fairy, Monique, who brings a lasagna that ALL the kids eat with gusto.  Eating the lasagna is about the easiest thing going on with the kids that night....

Have I mentioned it's the second week of summer break?

The kids are all over the map emotionally.  The end of school and everybody home is enough of a routine buster.  But these kids have also got a sick mom at home, and they're getting lots more caregivers, and playdates and tv than normal.  These are good kids, resilient kids who like each other mostly, take care of each other as they can.  But what I am seeing is that when at home they're starting to unravel more often, nerves are frayed.  Tempers are short.  Our normally loud house is now in the missile launchpad decibels range.  Imagine this as the soundtrack of our week.  Rockets red glare.

Imagine also that sometime Wednesday evening after dinner I make a mad dash to the bathroom to have my first chemo vomit.  Dinner comes back up.  And I am frustrated, tearful, strung out.  I have mis-managed the nausea meds, and have now gotten to the point where it is too bad to be managed.  But I also feel like the meds just couldn't keep it in check this time, and maybe it's not my fault, it's just to damn hard.

I am absolutely no help to Bob.

I am trying to put Jack to bed, trying to sing the songs requested by my most emotionally volatile middle child when I have to make my second dash to the bathroom.  While I am in there Jack asks Bob how come I am "still sick" if I had to "spend all day at the doctors getting shots?"

Thursday the revised plan B starts to go sideways first thing in the morning when Emme refuses to go with the boys to Stacey's house.  Bob takes just the boys.  I let Emme watch a video.  Amber comes for "girlfriend check-in" and is a godsend of patience, help and conversation.  Her company helps me feel like I can do it, like I can not just get through the day but also can survive the week.  She also brings an amazing soup.  Midway through Amber's visit Stacey arrives and works further girlfriend magic by convincing Emme to come out with her and the boys for a few more hours.

After Amber leaves I sleep several hours, deeply.

That evening I am still taking anti-nausea meds, but starting to feel a little more under control, like I am finally not aware of the sickness all the time.  Later that evening Bob gets word that our childcare for Friday has had to cancel.

I don't find out about it until Friday morning.

Stacey pinch hits on the child care yet again.  Bob makes it to court & clients.  I manage to make it to the grocery store on my own.  Kristen comes for my girlfriend check in: she jumps right in to be the amazing listener and friend I needed at just that moment, then sends me off for a nap in my cabin while she folds laundry and cleans my kitchen (YOU!!)  Clare takes over from Stacey with the kids for the afternoon.  I sleep even more.

Bob comes home Friday afternoon early, before Clare arrives back with the kids.  The best part of my week comes when we come up with the idea to put our little boat into the creek, just the two of us (no kids!) and enjoy what feels like the first real day of summer.  That evening Patty arrives as our Friday food fairy, and I nearly cry with how perfect her homemade chicken soup is: exactly what I need, completely and entirely.

Saturday I was just slightly more helpful to Bob with the kids.  But the day is a blur, I have no idea what we did that day.  Probably I slept all day.  Whatever happened, I do know that I was able to cease taking the anti-nausea meds.

Sunday morning our friend Thomas appeared early and made us all breakfast.  He listened to me, and I am sure he provided a much needed ear for Bob.  He told us good stories.  Sunday was still hard for me.  I was still easily exhausted: just walking down the driveway left me feeling winded.  Doubly hard mentally because the weather was so gorgeous.

Yesterday morning I was able to get up and get the kids ready for the day on my own.  I took them to April's house.  Emme was thrilled to be at a house with girl toys.  I came home and spent the day at the dining room table: on the phone and paying bills for home and business.  I didn't take a nap all day: my adrenaline got too pumped because I finally straightened out all the various hospital and doctors bills.  I cleaned off my desk.  I even filed some of the stacks of paperwork that have accumulated these last 3 months.  I went to the post office and stopped at Kim's to make hair appointments for the kids.  Yes, I was tired out, but oh what progress.

I went to April's house myself to pick up the kids, proud of myself for having gotten "so much done" and feeling like a proud kindergartner finally able to tie her own shoes: "look at what I did!"  Proud that I managed the heinous bills chores, but even more proud that I was able to drive myself to go get my own kids.

April's calm and easy generosity when I arrived made me so grateful for my good fortune.  I am so thankful for the good luck to have so many stellar girlfriends, and so many supporting families that are backing up the girlfriends who are backing us up.

I am fortunate for your friendship and laughter, but also incredibly lucky to have you there with your serious attention and sympathy when I need to talk about the harder days.  You know I don't mean to make you cry, though I DO often mean to make you laugh.  I am honored that you are present enough with me to be moved by my stories, and I am INCREDIBLY grateful for your listening, because that is what gives me the mirror I need to figure out how to make sense of what I am going through.  A very special thank you to those of you who have gently and persistently asked me "When are you going to update the blog?"

PS: Today I took care of all three of my kids, all day, all by myself.  And then tonight I went to Ali's house for Bunco and got FOUR buncos!

Resolved: Today's Chemo Treatment & the CT Scan Results

My sister Kate is here again from the bay area.  She arrived Saturday evening, and is a blessing with her presence.  She is so fun with the kids (she brought them a slip-n-slide!) and has been eager to help with any necessary farm chores.  Helped me plant sweet potatoes yesterday.

And she took me to my 8:15 am check in for today's treatment.

We got the scan news pretty early.  And it was great!  Bob wasn't there yet so I asked Nurse Sandy if she would have Dr. Chui come see Bob when he arrived, and tell him his interpretation of the results.  As always, Chui pulled no punches, but made things even more dramatic.

The tumor in my breast is basically gone.  It is so gone that the radiologist assumed it was a post lumpectomy scan.  The lymph nodes in my chest and armpits are all "resolved" or back to normal size except for one, which is smaller, but still too big.  In my lungs a diffused "glassine" area of budding cancer cells has disappeared.  There remains only two distinct lumps in my lungs, one of which is smaller, one of which is stable.  In my liver there are four areas they are watching: one they suspect is not metastatic but a fatty deposit, one is smaller than before, two are stable.

The important thing is: nothing new is growing, everything is mostly shrinking, disappearing, or at worst a few stubborn spots are the same size.

Dr Chui's comment to Bob: "I think most of those spots are just scar tissue now: you kill the cancer cells and something stays behind."

All this is just at the halfway point of treatment.  The treatment plan works: as does the acupuncture, the Qigong, the energy work and meditations, and most of all: YOUR support and prayers.  This is how blessings and miracles occur.

I thank you thank you thank you!!

The next nine weeks I expect to be much harder for me physically (and mentally) than anything that has come yet.  With the help of family and Stacey and the BRAS team we are lining up our household help and help for while the kids are out of school.  I am going to need even more down time to recover, more help with basic needs, so I can focus on keeping my body strong and meditating on the shrinkage of those remaining spots.

I really need to avoid exposure to any new cold or flu viruses too.  This last one while mild is still about more than my body can handle... but more thoughts on that for another blog.

What great news, eh??

My new favorite word is "resolved."

I should post some verbatims from the report, the medical-ese is classic.

The chemo treatment went groovy good, pretty easy with the high of the good news, and Kate there to keep me company.  I feel young and strong and lucky while I'm there (ahem: steroids!!).  Afterward we ran by my favorite feed store in Portland for the organic chicken feed for the girls, and then stopped at the tile store to price out the new bathroom tile we'll get tomorrow or Wednesday.

Tomorrow Stacey takes me back in for my white blood cell boosting shot of Nuelasta, and then I get three weeks at home until chemo #5 on June 22nd.

Blessings to all of you!  What a great June it will be!

CT Scan this Friday

So, not a PET scan, just the CT scan (I don't know why,) Friday morning.

This will be the much anticipated scan to see how my body is responding to chemo.

I have a couple fantasies about this scan and the results I hope for.

The first fantasy, which I have since rejected, is that they would send me through and I would be so miraculously clean and clear that they would all be shocked and puzzled and would insist on sending me through again, just because they wouldn't believe I could be so healed after only three rounds of chemo.

But as I said, I've rejected this fantasy, because I came up with a better one.

In this version they send me through and I am so clean and clear that the technicians and my oncologist and all the doctors give each other knowing looks and high fives, but then they say they've seen it before, occasionally, in fact it's been "documented in some scientific findings" as a possible outcome, and then they give me a reprieve and say I don't need to do any more Taxotere, I'm done with chemo, just Herceptin for the rest of the year.

Because here's the deal, I know they wouldn't just let me stop chemo unless there's some data to back that up as a solid move.  And because I am so mentally tired of the side effects of the chemo, I'd happily trade in my planned miracle for a reprieve from the drugs.  Yeah, I'd love to have the chemo just stop.

I'd love to get the feeling and strength back in my fingertips.  I'd love to avoid the three more rounds of nausea and constipation and lack of taste buds and fatigue and worry about white cell counts and fevers.  I'd enjoy it if my hair maybe grew in a little thicker, though I am shamelessly accepting of my baldness (I forget about it often, yes, even in public.)  I'd love to know that I could spend the next ten weeks of summer doing something else, even if it's recovering from a surgery or two.  I would really love to have the strength to truly enjoy the summer with my kids and garden.

Wouldn't you?

So that's my fantasy: don't any of you actual nurses and oncologists burst my bubble on it okay?  That's what I'm going into the scanner thinking about Friday morning.

Fourth chemo treatment happens next Monday, June 1st.

Gots me a cold...

Well, if you think a regular old cold is miserable, try one on chemotherapy.

(I wish that were an opening for a joke, so if you can think of a punchline let me know.)

Friday night late I started thinking I was sneezing and blowing my nose a little more than was just Herceptin (the Herceptin drug I am taking with chemo makes my nose constantly drip).  Saturday morning I woke up with a mind splitting headache, totally stuffed sinuses and total misery.

Most of the misery came from fear.  The fear of some kind of infection hitting while my white counts are low has been my (not so) secret paranoia these last months.  I am not afraid of the cancer, I am afraid of abruptly landing in the hospital from some sidewinder bacterial infection.

With three kids in the house I know viruses are inevitable.  I also know viruses have to be endured and waited out... the trick is hoping my body can effectively fight the virus without succumbing to a secondary bacterial or fungal infection of some kind-- those are what are scary when you are on chemo.  That's what the messaging is from day one in oncology: "you get a fever, you go straight to ER."

But that's the other thing, you don't want to be taking over the counter drugs that are going to mask signs of a fever coming on: so lay off aspirins and acetaminophens and other things that are "fever-reducers".  Unfortunately those are great things when you have a mind-splitting headache from a head cold.

So let's get back to that Saturday morning misery, shall we?  Our great friend Chris Whipps was at the farm for the first time ever, just in from San Francisco for a couple days.  Chris Kenny was also here, and together with Bob these three are a fearsome fun factory.  Kids running wild with silliness and also crankiness because we had let them stay up way too late the might before.  Sun was out blindingly, beautifully, the insane cutting light of spring turning forcefully towards summer.  And I was in a panic, trying to remain composed.

I hate headaches.  They undo me.  It is the only kind of pain I cannot breathe through, I cannot handle for very long without succumbing to self pity and defeatism.  I was already halfway through my first box of tissues by noon, tears streaming down my face, pretty much ready for a trip to the hospital or death, anything to make my head stop hurting, anything to take the extra worry away.  I'd been taking my temperature since the night before, constantly low normal.

Finally I had a brilliant idea: why not actually call an expert for help?  So I called the on-call oncologist at the hospital, and she brilliantly, thankfully, allowed that I could take some Tylenol, but to keep an eye on the temperature situation.

Blessed relief!

Headache gone a few hours later, it became merely a head cold to manage: tissues, rest, extra liquids.  The men were great at entertaining the kids, cooking, entertaining each other.  By late afternoon I was feeling well enough that we even all went out to do some gardening.

And so here I am, Memorial Monday morning, on my third box of tissues already this weekend, thinking that as long as that's not an earache I'm feeling the beginning of, as long as my poor raw nose doesn't get infected, as long as this doesn't turn into swine flu, hey, maybe I'll be fine after all.

:)

Now I'm going back out to that garden again.  And I'm taking my tissues with me.

Today's Sunflower Planting and Farm Work Party

We're a go!

Thanks to the organizing work of Stacey and Bob, our farm work party is a go.

Here's the plan: 1pm we start with a work party, the list is long, the tasks are many, but the helping hands will be plentiful.

The biggest task is digging out my huge and neglected garden.  Walking it with Stacey yesterday made me fairly certain that I must have been getting sick late last summer and fall, because that's when I really gave up on it, just let it go to heck.

At 4pm we'll plant all the sunflower seeds.

I already have 97 packages from those of you who can't be here.

Afterward, we'll potluck!  Maybe bring blankets so we can picnic on the lawn (and please no dishes with nuts of any kind, we have someone coming who is severely allergic!)

I'll let you all know how it goes, and try to get some photos taken.

It is a beautiful sunny day!

Thursday is for "Thankfulness", week 8

Wow. A seriously rough day today.

The most in bed I have been, and the most out of it to date.  Having a lot of trouble with nausea and smells of things setting off nausea.  And just freakin exhausted.  Am having a lot of trouble finding food in the house that adds up to become the small healthy meals I need to sustain me.  Having a harder time asking for the extra help I need to get through these rougher days.

I do expect my energy level will pick up a bit more in the next few days, but then find myself worrying about reports of nasty flu circulating in Luke's school.

I am not feeling depressed or moody, just really tired, feeling like only the kids and quality of my food really matter today.

But I am feeling lucky and privileged by life overall.  It was a sunny day, and I could choose to go back to bed, secure in my house, safe in my warm bed.

My Thankfulness list this week is very immediate: the night wind and dark that was out last night as I stumbled down the hill from my nap in the sacred space cabin to my bed in the house.  Emme's sweet early morning cuddle this morning and her happy song for the day.  The care Gamo and Papa are giving Jack and Emme and Luke on these days when I just can't supervise.  My mom's attention to detail in the cleanup of the cabin. The UPS delivery man, and my mail carrier lady.  Uncle Al's singular help.  My red 1952 GMC pickup truck.  Packages and packages and packages of sunflower seeds.

Chemo "Adjustment #3 (of 6!) on Monday

Think good thoughts!  My appointment is at 8:30am, friend Lori (the one that bought the bookstore! St Helens Book Shop ) is driving me in, and as she is an excellent partner in crime I expect a good day, though again we walk a fine line there in the chemo ward: I am always afraid they will kick me out for being too loud with my girlfriends.

Okay, so the good news I alluded to almost three weeks ago was from chemo treatment #2.

Dateline April 20th: Chemo #2
Before I get my chem drips I get a blood draw taken and get an exam from my oncologist, Dr Chui.

This last time friends Stacey and April were there in the room with me, which was a god-send because the waiting for the doctors is the hardest part for me.  It goes faster to be able to talk.  Plus, it helps to have other sets of ears and witnesses!  The exciting good news part came when Dr Chui came in, after I had already given my 3 week rundown on chemo side effects and concerns to Dr. Bird.  Dr Chui breezes in, I introduce him to the girls and then he says "I already checked in with Dr Bird, and all I want to do is feel it."

I'm like ?? "Okay.  Feel what?"

"That tumor!  The one on your breast!"

Cool!  While the girls turn away and start an awkward conversation together, I start peeling off sweaters and shirt and bra (I am so not shy or modest!) I chatter at Dr Chui: "You are going to be surprised," I say.  I feel smug, like I am giving him a present.  He says "Oh yeah?  Well lets see..."

What I know at this point is that the tumor has dramatically shrunk in these first three weeks after the first round of chemo.  When I had tried to show my sister the acupuncturist where it was a few days earlier I had been startled by having trouble locating it!

Dr Chui puts his fingers in the spot at the top of my breast where the tumor is supposed to be.

"Wow!"  He says.  "Wow!" Pause as he palpates for size and borders, then wonderingly "You know, if I had sent a resident in here to find this they wouldn't have been able to feel this.... I think most of what I am feeling right now is scar tissue."

I am through the roof at this point.  I look up and it looks like Stacey and April are both going to cry.  Stacey says "Bob needs to hear this.  Bob should have been here.  Bob needs to hear this."

We were all stoked, and higher than kites.  What a great way to go into a chemo treatment, hunh?

What it means is that the Herceptin is working, and working amazingly well!  If the biggest mass of cancer cells is so dramatically reduced than I can only hope that all the far-flung outposts located throughout chest and liver and anywhere else are similarly imploding "like the collapsing death star" as Dr. Chui insisted.

So here I am three weeks later, going in for round number three.  This time I go in feeling many more "side effects" from treatment: primarily the annoyance related to hormone fluctuations due to the "menopause symptoms"--the key thing I will be asking more about so I can better understand why it's happening and how long I'll be enduring symptoms (as if there will be an answer!)  I also have some beginning symptoms of some numbness in my fingertips, neuropothy, another known side effect, of the Taxotere I think--which is of some concern since so much of what I love to do is with my hands, and it may be a non-reversible side effect....

But again, with side effects my job is to endure them and mitigate where possible (thank you acupuncture and Brad!)  The real key is to continue to keep on schedule with the treatments so that this medicine can do its work.  Because it is working.

We'll likely be scheduling another PET/CT scan to really check on progress sometime these next couple weeks, before treatment #4.

Keep those good vibes coming my way my loves!  The Doctors may think it's the meds, but I know it's the energy and the prayer, mine and yours, that are making the difference.  On my bad days you are my sustainers--it's your love, friendship, unconditional caring that push me out of the blahs and "poor me"s (Yes, I do have those days too.)

Hugs back at you.

Erin