Round 2: A total disaster.

My second round of chemo started out as it did the previous time. Nothing out of the ordinary. I was given the two immunotherapies without any consequence, followed by the chemo.

And then I started sneezing. And then I started coughing. And then I started throwing up.

That is all I can remember from that day, besides little snippets. I remember chaos, but not much else. I remember there were two or three nurses there, squeezing clear syringes of liquid into my IV. I remember seeing my doctor there, which was odd to me at the time since he is never usually there. I remember someone telling me to stop coughing and to take deep breaths. But all I can think is:

help I can't stop help I can't breathe help help help

My husband tells me that at one point my heart rate shot to 150 (I felt like I was having a heart attack). I was throwing up for almost an hour. They stopped giving me the chemo halfway through, and I was given two doses of ativan in order to sedate me. Apparently I begged them to keep going with the chemo. That sounds like something I would say. I have no recollection of coming home. My memories were stolen from me.

It's been four days. Since I didn't have that extra shot of neulasta, I have no bone pain (thank God). Since I had only a half dose of chemo, the ashy taste is minimal and there aren't any sores in my mouth and throat, at least not yet. In theory, compared to last time, the recovery period seems like it should be easier.

But... I don't know how to explain it. I feel like I'm living in thick, heavy fog. I have lost all sense of time, of space, of me. My head is cloudy, and I can't think or see straight. Waves of exhaustion and minor nausea roll over me and I am overcome with a need to lie down, even if I don't want to sleep. And when I finally manage to pull myself out of bed, my body is sluggish and I can barely lift my feet to walk. The cough is better, thanks to a super-strong syrup laced with codeine, but I've somehow contracted a sinus infection this time around.

But, I mean, it could be worse. It could always be worse.

Everyday my daughter asks me, "Mommy, why do you have cancer?" And the only response I have is, "I don't know. It just happened." What else can I say? There is so much confusion and complication surrounding this whole ordeal. There are times when I wish things were different, that I had an uneventful life, that this cancer had never found me. But there's no use in dwelling on the "what if's." And so I keep moving forward, despite the corporeal protests. I don't have any other choice. I have to remember that although I am losing control over my life, all is not lost.

I'm taking the road less traveled by, and hopefully it makes a difference to someone, somewhere.

(On a side note, my friend's mom passed away this week after an 8-year battle with breast cancer. Her funeral is tomorrow. It hits close to home for obvious reasons. I am angry that such a kind, wonderful spirit is gone and heartbroken for her childrens' loss and scared that I'm next and determined that I won't be next - not now, not ever.)

From the mouth of babes.

FREYA: Here, Mommy, this is for you.
(Gives an envelope with $4.67 inside)
ME: What's this?
FREYA: It's all of my money. You're not allowed to give it back to me or spend it on me.
ME: Thank you honey, but you don't have to give me your money.
FREYA: Well, I want to. You have cancer, and I want you to get better.

My fair lady.

My hair started falling in droves.

So, I decided it was best to just shave it all off.

And then I looked at myself in the mirror - 

I mean, really LOOKED at myself -

And I hated what I saw.

Because it wasn't me.

The "me" I knew had hair. Lots of it.

Beautiful, brown hair.

Straight, silky, smooth, shiny hair.

Disney Princess hair.

I didn't think I looked like a woman.

Because I'm bald now.

And society has told me that "real women" aren't bald.

My head is too small for my body.

My head is weirdly shaped.

I wanted to cover it up.

Hide it so that I wouldn't have to be reminded.

But woolly hats were too itchy.

And scarves made me look like a gypsy or a pirate.

I kept seeing uncomfortable stares.

I didn't think I would ever get used to it.

This new look.

But today I woke up and thought:

It's not so bad, being bald.

Sure, my head is colder than before.

But I've gotten used to the itch.

And I've gotten used to the scarves.

And I've even gotten used to the stares.

I like the way my scalp feels.

I like the way I look.

Because I realized that I haven't really changed at all.

I'm still me, still a woman - with or without hair.

I like the person I see when I look in the mirror.

I've grown accustomed to her face.

Small victories.

The philosopher Seneca once said, "Life is like a play: it's not the length, but the excellence of the acting that matters." And so, I am going to focus not on the length of my particular play, but on how well I act it out. Because, let's face it, I am a drama queen.

More than anything else, I don't want to feel like a cancer patient. Therefore, I refuse to act like one. Therefore, I will not BE one.

So, I went back to work last week, my first week back since chemo. And you know what? It was awesome. And then there was a weekend of napping off the incredible amount of accumulated exhaustion. And then I went back to work today. And you know what? It was also awesome. Even with the snow and rain and ice and chill. Even with the fact that it's not just any Monday but the day after the Super Bowl and should, technically, be a national holiday. 

Because although I didn't feel quite 100% yet, at least I didn't feel like a cancer patient. Instead, it was almost like I had been sick with a really bad cold and spent the last week recovering from it. And with that, I have decided to only think about the victories, however small.

There was a part of me that feared that I may not be able to return to work, or be able to do my job at the same level of precision to which I am accustomed. But I returned to work, and it was pretty much a success, because I did my job without falling behind or screwing anything up. Victory!

Last week I had a check-up with my oncologist and then today I had follow-up appointment. During the first check-up (last week), it was discovered that the reason why I had such a strong reaction to the neulasta - the excruciating pain and whatnot - was because my white blood cell count was off the charts. On a scale of 5-11, my number was 52. So, with the pain came a flood of white blood cells that basically annihilated the tumors in my body. Victory!

And the proof is there. At the follow-up appointment (today), my doctor did an exam that found no hint of any tumors. Now, on the day of my chemo, there were so many tumors that lumps were starting to grow on my skin. It was, in a word, disgusting. And my lymph nodes were swollen and super painful. And now? Now, everything is gone after just a week. By today, the primary tumor - the mother ship. as it were - is gone. It was like I never had cancer to begin with. 

And the doctor was flummoxed. He said that he has never seen a patient with such a strong response after only the first round of treatment. He said I was a "special case." 

I keep getting told that I'm a "special case." The word "special" has always bothered me. It literally means, "better, greater, or different from the usual." So, it's like, everybody is special and therefore nobody is special because everybody is special. You know? If everyone is different from the usual then how is the usual determined? Well, it makes more sense in my head. Anyway. One other reason why "special" has bothered me is because whenever I hear it associated with my situation, there's always a negative slant to it, complete with pitiful glances and patronizing hugs. 

Also, what if I don't WANT to be special?

Perhaps my situation is unique, and therefore it is considered special. Because how many thirty-year old mothers do you know have stage 4 her2+ breast cancer? But the more I live with this cancer, the more I see that so many others have been there before me. Maybe not EXACTLY like me, but the emotions are comparable, and that's enough. Are those people any less special than me?

But, I digress. The point is, this has been a good week. But with the good comes the bad, which in this case means that my hair is already starting to fall out. All of it. Little by little. Everywhere. Even though I was told I had at least one or two more months. Because everything about my situation is extreme. "Special," if you will. But that's okay, because as we all know, hair grows back. It's just annoying because my scalp burns and itches and I am shedding like a dog. Or molting like a bird.

But I guess I am kind of like a bird. I'm the phoenix, slowly discarding my plumage until I am nothingness. And from the ashes, I will rise again - better, greater, different from the usual. Another victory to claim, when the time comes.

(Told you I was a drama queen.)

Exodus.

I wake up surrounded by hair that is mine, but not mine. Once mine. No longer mine. 

I try not to weep for the loss. My ear itches and, welp, there goes a sideburn. There's no point in brushing it, or even showering. But I do anyway, out of habit. I watch the hair float down like dandelion seeds. They cling to my skin, my clothes, the furniture. They collect in my hand, around my neck, on the floor. I need to get used to these tumbleweeds of hair. And what do I do about my eyebrows? Now I know why people just shave it all off. 

It's just hair. It'll grow back.

It'll grow back.

It'll grow back.

It'll grow back.

I consider each falling strand: Thank you for the last thirty years, when you were strong and smooth and shiny. Thank you for growing quickly so that I could donate fifteen inches of you every other year to people in need. Thank you for being the subject of compliments and for giving me confidence and for making me feel beautiful. Thank you for all of the bad hair days I never had. Until we meet again, I send you off to "a far green country under a swift sunrise." I anxiously await your return.