“Recovery” and The Cankle

A recovering, self-sufficient, and enthusiastic Amy standing in front of Kid Rock's tour bus (which was inexplicably parked in downtown Cville)

I’ve been in official recovery mode for over a month now. And I have to admit that the past month has been the hardest emotionally, not because I’m feeling worse, but because I wanted to feel 100% better right away, and recovery is not instant. It is slow. Excrutiatingly slow. And I am easily frustrated.

But what’s more emotionally striking is how certain things will never go back to normal. My life will never go back to the way it was before everything started, and in a way, I don’t think I’d want it to. I’d be an idiot to not find wisdom or motivation from this experience. I feel like a post-ring-toss Frodo; I can’t go back to the Shire, which is kind of sad, but at the same time, I can look forward to spending a lot of time with the elves, which is awesome…(I know the LOTR fans get me).

I’m more aware now of the consequences of my decisions: for example, I would never consider using a tanning bed or forgoing sunscreen at the beach again, whereas before, I was totally into the bronzed, Future Wrinkles of America look. Exercise and good nutrition are more important to me than ever (still easier said than done), and all that cancer-prevention advice is suddenly meaningful – and I see it everywhere. It was so easy for my brain to tune it out before…like ignoring a semi on the highway until it’s riding your tail (and then running you over).

I’m also physically changed. There are the obvious changes like hair loss/hair gain, some lingering acne, and the officially-closed-for-business baby factory (which I’m really not that upset about…no labor pains? Check!). Then there are the weird little changes that may or may not be temporary: my eyelashes went curly and my left leg will occasionally swell, giving me one glorious cankle (see sidebar for definition).

The best change, though, is my motivation. After I studied abroad in college, I returned home feeling like I was capable of accomplishing any goal. I feel the same way now – if I can survive life in another country and cancer, then I sure as hell can learn to cook/live abroad/write a book! Only now, I feel more urgency in accomplishing those goals. I’ve tasted the sour grapes of a finite existence, and I don’t want to leave a legacy of ideas with no action. My only problem now is that I want to do everything all at the same time…

People who know me well may agree that my life has been slightly dramatic for the past few years. I’ve decided to live this next year drama-free, but that does not mean it will be boring…Strunk’s honor!

All Done! Kind of…

Yesterday was my last session of internal radiation, which means no more cancer treatments! Now all I have to do is gain back 15 pounds…

My last brachy was mostly a time of celebration. I blasted Daft Punk’s “One More Time” while being wheeled between departments and for each person treating me. I wore my “Crazy Sexy Cancer Goddess” t-shirt and Princess confetti pin (the latter compliments of my Aunt Jackie and Uncle Ed), which mom arranged on top of my hospital gown and blankets so everyone could see.

Everything seemed to go a lot faster. And when we were done, there were hugs and high-fives all around. Mom cried a little, and I practically danced out of the hospital.

Here are videos that I took during the last two brachy sessions. The first is a demonstration of the inflatable hospital gown, and the second is me playing with my iPhone after two Percocets (please note the extremely slurred speech). Enjoy!

Week 6 1/2: Swine Flu!

Ok, so I have no proof whatsoever, but I’ve convinced myself that I am stricken with Swine Flu. How do you know if you have Swine Flu? Click here.

But seriously, last week, my mom and I went to CVS to fill a prescription. I was feeling pretty sick and out of it at the time, but a woman with a baby was monopolizing the pharmacy window, so I eventually wandered off to browse the aisles. When we were finally able to leave, my mom mentioned that she was glad I hadn’t stood around waiting with her for very long because, as it turns out, that baby had Swine Flu.

I blame Swine Flu Baby for all my current problems, namely, the flu-like symptoms that sent me to the ER last night. When I got there, they gave me my very own medical face mask. How exciting! The nurse also gave me some Tylenol, which broke the fever and made me feel a lot better. After about five hours of sitting in the ER watching “I Survived a Japanese Game Show,” we found out that UVA doesn’t test for Swine Flu unless you are an admitted patient. So they told me to avoid old people, babies, and the immunocompromised for the next while and sent me home with a prescription for Tamiflu. If only someone had told Swine Flu Baby’s mom the same thing…because obviously, the best place for avoiding old, young, and sick people is a pharmacy.

Swine Flu Baby has also delayed my last treatment, which may be a blessing and a curse; a blessing because I have time to rest between this past Tuesday’s brachy and the next and a curse because I was anxious to be done.

Speaking of Brachy

On Tuesday, we completed the fourth of five scheduled brachytherapies. At this point, I’m an old pro, and if something doesn’t go according to plan, I KNOW. My dad accompanied me this time, and unfortunately, he’s not as familiar with how things go on brachy days. So when the nurse in PACU told me that family members were not allowed, I freaked. And by freaked, I mean I started bawling. The nurse also said she didn’t know where I was supposed to go next. I attempted to tell her though sobs, but she either wasn’t listening or didn’t care. I didn’t have my glasses, so I couldn’t see the nurses I’d had before that knew the procedure. I felt so helpless. I also didn’t have my music! It’s not a brachy party without the music…

At the same time, my poor dad was being shuffled around the hospital, first to the third floor, only to find out he wasn’t supposed to be on the third floor, and then off to another waiting room. Thankfully, the page helping him out couldn’t find the intended waiting room, and dad caught sight of me, a frizzy, bawling mess, being wheeled to radiology. Finally reunited with my family, glasses, and music, I felt a million times better. And when I found out they would be omitting the barium contrast enema (shudder) for my last two brachys, I was elated.

The rest of the procedure went off without a hitch, and my dad and I split a very yummy pizza at Mellow Mushroom afterward.

Recovery

My final dose of chemo was last Monday. My final session of external radiation was last Thursday. So now all that’s left is recovery (other than that last, lingering brachy). Of course, I was hoping that I would already feel like old Amy again, but in reality, the doctors tell me it could take up to a month to really start feeling normal again. I will try to be patient.

Week 5: The End is Near!

It’s hard to believe that I only have one more week of daily treatment. It makes me realize how grateful I am that the course of treatment for cervical cancer is really short compared to that of other cancers, and that my particular cancer was so treatable and small. Six weeks of treatment is not fun, but for some people, months or even years of treatment is needed. I don’t know how they manage, and it makes me want to not ever complain about my experience, but I know I’ll have moments of weakness and complain anyway.

More Holistic Treatments!

This past week, I went to see a therapist who specializes in guided imagery and hypnotherapy. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to any of that during the hour-long appointment; we were too busy talking about how much of an idiot I’ve been for the past few years. Seriously.

She pretty much gave me a psych eval, complete with a synopsis of “what went wrong in your childhood.” (Not much, actually). As with any therapist I’ve ever encountered (which is not that many, geez), she was pretty obsessed with the Tourette’s thing and how that has obviously affected every aspect of my life. She even asked if I’ve ever had “manic” episodes. Of all the things I’ve been accused of in my life, manic is not one. Well, now it is.

After spending 45 minutes talking about bad things that have happened in my life, I spent the last 15 minutes trying to explain that, apart from having cancer, I feel like I’m in a really good place in my life right now. I’m happy, relatively healthy, and 100% not manic. I don’t know if she believed me.

She assured me that next week, we would actually do some of the holistic stuff.

So this week, I have a full schedule of holistic treatments: accupuncture, guided imagery and hypnosis, and a meeting with another holistic treatment guru who is going to explain menopause to me. Woo!

Other funnies

I’ve hit gold. There are websites for young people with cancer, and these websites have t-shirts! And buttons! Ahh! And they say funny things like “Stupid Cervical Cancer” and “Crazy Sexy Cancer Goddess” (I’ve already ordered that one).  And they also have top ten lists. Here are two that I thought were pretty funny:

Top Ten Reasons to Date a Cancer Chick

Top Ten Ways to Disrupt the Waiting Room

And I will enter week 6 on a high note…

Week 4: Weak Sauce!

Week four was certainly a week of milestones: I entered the supermodel club (under 100 lbs and still breathing!), had my first hot flash, saw the new Harry Potter movie, started losing hair (no, not the hair on my head) and officially decided that cancer sucks a big one. Not that I ever thought it was ALL fun and games, but weeks 1-3 were kind of a cake walk compared to now.

But Strunks never say die!!!!

So I decided to investigate the holistic services the UVA Cancer Center offers: healing massage, accupuncture, guided imagery and hypno-therapy, music therapy, and much much more! My mom and I had been planning to investigate these services even before I started treatment, but you know what they say, time flies when you’re “having fun”, so we never really got around to it. As of week four, though, I decided to make time. I grabbed another brochure from the Radiation Oncology check-in desk and called the number at the top as soon as I got home. The woman who answered was extremely helpful. Before I hung up, I was scheduled for a massage. She also explained the accupuncture referral system and promised to put coupons (for free sessions!) in the mail for me right away, then she transferred me to another woman who scheduled me for guided imagery and hypno-therapy. Unfortunately, the music therapist takes the summer off. Even so, I claim SUCCESS.

The accupuncture coupons came two days later. I called the number for the first coupon, a place called China Med. Apparently, everyone there is on vacation, so I called the number on the next coupon, which was for an individual accupuncturist. He was able to see me that same day! More SUCCESS.

So off I went to my very first accupuncture session. My sister was up for the day to take care of me, and she insisted on staying to drive me to the late-afternoon appointment (what a good sister). After driving around a bit, we found the office tucked into a brick strip mall; one of about five identical little complexes surrounding a giant parking lot. I went in expecting to be overwhelmed by patchouli and incense, but the office was much like the building itself. Nondescript. Except for a shelf of herbal medications and a table loaded with brochures and business cards for holistic services, it could have been any kind of office. It kind of reminded me of my eye doctor’s office, and I was a little dissapointed. Where was the hippy shwag? The zen music? The aromatherapy that burns my eyes? 

The accupuncturist himself also looked kind of like my eye doctor. He wore the same kind of button-up shirt my dad wears to work. He was clean cut. He even wore shoes…no birkenstocks??? Again, I ask, where is the hippy shwag? 

It was only when we actually got to the accupucture stuff that I saw a little bit come out. He mentioned energies and my chi. Finally, I started to feel better. Then he stuck about fifteen needles into my body: two in each wrist, four in one leg, five in the other, and one in each ear. I’m so used to being accosted with huge IV needles, that I barely even felt these tiny suckers go in, and then didn’t feel anything at all once they were in place. Then, he turned on an infa-red lamp to warm me up, and finally, he turned on the zen music to help me relax. I then had 25 minutes to soak in the goodness of hippy healing.

My body felt pretty relaxed, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how un-zen the office was. And how un-hippy the accupuncturist was. And I realized that I am a holistic-healing snob. I need the ambiance and “healer” to match the treatment. I feel like I would be equally weirded out if my oncologist smelled of the wacky tabacky and had dreadlocks. Is that so wrong?

I would say that the treatment itself was kind of nice. I might try out the other place to see if they have more ambiance, but I’ll definitely keep going. Like I said, this is no longer a cake walk, and I need all the extra feel-good help I can get (that doesn’t require a prescription – trust me, I’ve already tried that route). Maybe next time I’ll bring my own incense.

Next up: guided imagery and hypno-therapy!

Oh yeah, and LESS THAN TWO WEEKS LEFT of daily treatment

Week 3: My Achy Brachytherapy

Week three is done, which means I am officially at the mid point of the chemo/external radiation therapy. WOO! And I STILL have all my hair. I think it’s here to stay, so visions of a melon-headed Amy will have to remain in your wildest fantasies for now.

New Treatment, New Friends

On Thursday, I had my first round of internal radiation (Brachytherapy). This is where they place high-dose radiation directly on the tumor. BURN, TUMOR BURN!

The day started at 5:30am in the Surgical Family Waiting Room at Chateau UVA. Mama and my friend Rebekah (who is a rock star and used a week’s worth of vacation to drive from Atlanta, chauffeur me, entertain me, and wait on me hand-and-foot) came along for the fun. The waiting room was quiet, and only a few other families were scattered about when the fresh-out-of-high-school hospital page called for “Struck.”

I waited for him to repeat it. “Struck?”

I walked up, “you mean Strunk?”

“Struck.” He wasn’t budging.

“Um. It’s Strunk.” I wouldn’t be that particular about the pronunciation, but after hearing the patient-mix-up horror story from the other cervical cancer patient, I wanted to be sure they were taking the right person to the right surgery. “Should we check?” I finally suggested, and we walked over to the check-in desk together. Sure enough, they had “Struck” scrawled onto the list of patients. I didn’t see any alternative spellings, so I gave up and followed the guy.

So up we went to my cozy little stretcher, where a fresh pair of mint green hospital socks and a Bear Paws awaited me. Bear Paws is this nifty new technology the hospitals use to keep people warm before surgery. It’s basically an inflatable paper hospital gown that attaches to a hose that pumps in warm air. When I put it on and plug in, I look like the Michelin Man. My mom cracks the same “that’s what you would look like with boobs” joke every time she sees me in one (which is three times now).

After some more confusion about  my name – they called down for the Shuck family – I was finally ready to go. The surgery itself was really short, and I was alert and asking for pain meds as soon as I was awake. Morphine! My lucky day!

Without much delay, I was then off on my merry adventure. A nice older lady wheeled me to the x-ray lab and Mama and Rebekah followed behind while I blasted the Jonas Brothers from my iPhone (which was resting on my chest). I was feeling pretty light from the morphine, but I remember trying to befriend everyone on the elevator by asking if they didn’t mind the Jonas Brothers. I had downloaded three of their songs, along with the entire High School Musical soundtrack to listen to during radiation treatments. After all, you can’t possibly be in a bad mood while listening to that kind of music.

A very nice doctor from radiation oncology joined me in the x-ray lab to help distract me by simply talking to me. And boy did we talk. I can’t for the life of me remember what we talked about, but I know that we talked the ENTIRE time. I also convinced the lab techs to put on some Michael Jackson. This is also about the time they allowed me to take my first percocet. Things are a little blurry, but I remember the techs – all women – danced a little to the music and agreed that it was an excellent idea. I also told the main tech that I would miss her.

And now we were off to the main event! The stretcher ride was much longer this time, and we took a back hallway that reminded me of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. I continued on in hommage of the late MJ by playing more of his greatest hits on my iPhone as we rolled. Another nice lady was chauffeuring me, and we chatted about Mr. Jackson, our hero, the entire way, only stopping long enough for me to try and hit on a cute doctor in the elevator. Keep in mind that I had what I can only imagine as some sort of bionic claw attached to my lower half, my hair is wild, and I’m wearing my 50’s-style horned rimmed glasses. Not surprisingly, the doctor looked a little scared.

My favorite radiation tech, a handsome young devil named Drew, ran a few CT scans for the doctors to review. I was feeling great at this point. No pain, just smiles and Michael Jackson and even talk of Spam hats. I was even enjoying the fact that I wasn’t supposed to move: everyone was sliding me from stretcher to table, back to stretcher, and then wheeling me around. I was the center of attention. The bionic princess for a day!

Finally, I was taken to the treatment room. The doctor introduced me to my own, personal physicist who would be conducting the treatment. The physicist was accompanied by resident, who was young and confused. The nurse asked him to answer the phone for her, effectively getting him out of the room, and then smirked at me. I appreciated that. I don’t feel the need to be everyone’s “my first cervix” memory.

The treatment itself was very quick – only thirteen minutes total. The physicist hooked things to the bionic claw and everyone left the room to monitor me via closed-circuit camera (at least I hope it’s closed circuit). They let me keep my iPhone so I could listen to music. I’d moved on to something more mellow at this point to coincide with my second dose of percocet. Machines in the room whirred and clicked, and the physicist would call timing updates through a speaker. And then it was over. It took longer to unhook and detatch all the various bionic things I’d been lugging around all day. But then that was over, too, and I was ready to go home.

I walked out of the hospital, stumbling like a drunkard and demanding a sandwich. I called my dad to tell him how it went. Our conversation amounted to that of a late-night drunk dial, with me sloppily recounting events and repeating myself. “I made so many new friends today!”

Mama and Rebekah acquiecsed on the sandwich (I had demanded earlier that they not let me stray from the BRAT diet this week), and I was soon on my couch, happily chowing down on an Ednam from the Market. The drugs really started to seep into every cell at this point. Whenever I closed my eyes, it felt like little firecrackers were popping against the skin on my arms and legs. But I soon nodded off to a deep, morphine sleep.

When I woke up some hours later, it was like the entire day had been one crazy dream: like I’d been to Oz (like the one in The Wiz with MJ) and now I was back in Kansas. And here in Kansas, I realize that Brachytherapy isn’t so terrible. It’s trippy, to be sure, but I can handle that.

Insomnia party!

It’s 4:00am and I’m having an insomnia party.

I had my 4th round of chemo yesterday. My potassium was low from a weekend of fireworks…and I’m not talking about the pretty, patriotic kind. So I kind of crashed mid-day, swathed in a warm blanket on the leather infusion chair, surrounded by my new friends, the nurses and other patients, my mom, and my friend Rebekah (who is visiting for a whole week from Atlanta!), and absolutely covered in acne. I swear it gets worse every week just in time for chemo. Everyone keeps telling me that the worse my acne is, the better I’m responding to the treatment. They are all pleased as punch to see the pizza face. I suppose if it’s going to be really bad one day a week, then Monday, when I’m hidden away from society, is the best day.

Did I mention that it’s 4:00am and I’m wired? WIRED. And really thirsty. I’m on my second Gatorade already, and if you know me really well, you’ll know that I am inexplicably stubborn about drinking fluids.

I was just thinking about how I could never be a nurse. Too much is at stake when a nurse makes a mistake, and I don’t think I could handle the pressure. For example, I had a really nice nursing student prep me for chemo today. First, she puts a warm, wet towel around my arm to get the veins puffy. Then she puts in the IV and takes a few blood samples for lab work. She did absolutely everything by the book, and the needle went in with just the slightest pinch. But she forgot the tape, and in those precious seconds between taping down the “angel wings” connected to the needle and hooking in the blood collection tube, I clotted.

We waited. She released the needle and left in the tiny catheter. She jiggled the catheter. Nothing. I could see the defeat in her face, and I tried to tell her it was okay, that after being poked and prodded in much less convenient areas, I didn’t mind IV’s at all. But she still looked like she wanted to cry.

Apologizing profusely, she took out the catheter, and her supervising nurse put in a new one. No harm. No foul.

I really didn’t mind this little moment of learning, because at UVA, there are a lot of those. It’s a teaching hospital, after all. But there have been times when I’ve lost patience with it. And yesterday was no exception!

I started to get a little cranky right before my epic potassium crash, which was right about the time I finished radiation. Apparently, everyone and their brother at UVA heard about my “rough weekend.” I’ve probably been labeled somewhere as a “difficult patient” (just like on Seinfeld!) because I called the physician-on-call on Sunday to beg for whatever magic cure they have lying around from Motezuma’s Most Heinous Revenge that they were surely hiding from me. There is no cure, the physician told me. His revenge is inevitable and absolute.

Anyway, the gynecologic oncology department was ready for me when I got there. They pulled me into an exam room to go over all my symptoms in private and then got me a prescription to help control Ole Monty. Later, in radiation, they were similarly eager to help. They also pulled me into an exam room. I tried to explain that I already had the prescription, but they insisted I meet with the doctor, who turned out to be resident I’ve never met. And now enters Cranky Amy.

I was told that July is when the “changing of the guard” happens for residents. The ones I know are long gone, and a fresh crop of newbies will creep into my routine. So I wasn’t surprised to see the new gal. But I also wasn’t pleased. And I probably didn’t hide it very well. But can you blame me? This girl, who looks like she’s about my age, is asking me all those personal questions, and she is completely new to my case, but sooo excited to write a real prescription, and she is pretty and doesn’t have a TRACE of acne, and I AM GOING THROUGH MENOPAUSE why would they put this innocent young girl in my warpath to be EATEN ALIVE???

I may or may not have taken a calming breath before explaining that I already had the prescription and I was SURE that I didn’t need a second [insert my death glare here] but I promised to come right back down if for some reason they changed their minds and didn’t write the prescription. She looked crushed, and I felt like a jerk. Then I went back to infusion and the karma train took over: Ole Monty came back for a visit and then I crashed. And now I don’t sleep.

And the insomnia party continues…something productive will come of this sleeplessness. I already have a few schemes in mind (all secret and all crazy).

Week 2: Pill-popping good times!

Mood

One of the more annoying side effects of radiation treatment to the pelvis in skinny girls is the total and unavoidable destruction of the ovaries. That’s right, folks, I’m 25 and MENOPAUSAL. But like my friend Matt says, this is simply an opportunity for me to fast-track into becoming a full-fledged Cougar (see sidebar for definition).

For the most part, I felt great this week. On Tuesday, I had so much energy that I ran errands, baked cookies, and took a nice long walk in the evening. I’ve noticed that around mid-week, I start to develop insomnia, which makes for less energetic days and more sour moods; but, fun phone calls, emails, and visits from family and friends have helped to keep that in check.

So I guess menopause hasn’t completely taken over…yet.

Treatment

Chemo and radiation both went really well this week, and I’m happy to report that the magic marker on my bum has been replaced with tiny tattoos. I am now free to swim, take baths, and scrub my behind as often as I like.

Lessons Learned

Over the weekend, I learned that it is not necessary to take every medication that I’ve been prescribed. Thus far, I’ve been prescribed five anti-emetics (pills that stave off nausea): Zofran, Dexamethasone, Emend, Compazine, and Phenergan. On top of that, I take Prilosec OTC, Citrucel, an antibiotic and Benedryl for the acne rash, and other tummy-calming pills as needed. That’s a lot of pills.

But I’m not supposed to take these all at once or all the time. I’m supposed to take the Emend twice after chemo (and only twice! PAIN OF DEATH by Anthem). They told me to take the Zofran at the slightest hint of nausea; once the nausea is there, the Zofran is useless. The Dex is a steroid that may or may not be keeping my brain cells alive but is certainly causing some of the insomnia. The Compazine is for WORST CAST SCENARIO nausea. They told me that it can cause hallucinations and night terrors. The Phenergan is just kind of there…I’m not sure when I’m supposed to take that, but having used it in the past, I know it’s very good at making the pain, and all other normal functioning, go away.

So over the weekend, my tummy started to rumble. I was alone. I panicked. I took a Phenergan.

The Phenergan rendered me unconcious for a good four hours. I woke up around 6pm and tried to keep myself as awake as possible so that I would be able to sleep through the night in preparation for chemo the next morning. But I was wired. So I took a Benedryl. And I still didn’t sleep.

The next morning, I was a zombie. I felt like a junky needing a fix…my brain was mush and my hands were shaky. I probably looked like junky, too: pale and pimply and scrawny, stumbling through the hospital with my SPAM hat on.

So here and now, I vow to lay off the hard stuff. At least until I panic again…

Week 1: Hieroglyphics and Heartburn

Mood

I entered the first week of treatment with a lot of anxiety that mostly centered on how would I react to the chemo and radiation. Would the acne rash they warned me about be as horrible as it sounded? Would I get really sick? Would I turn into an annoying, friendless blob of cancer mush?

When I stepped into the bathroom of the infusion center that first day, I saw that someone had gifted the hospital with a wooden cut-out that read “Cancer Sucks.” I immediately felt better. Considering the cancer center’s most popular demographic (of the older, crotchety persuassion), I assumed the facilities would would be equally humorless.

I was wrong about that. But more importantly, I was also wrong to assume that old = crotchety/humorless.

An older woman wearing a turqoise turban to hide her chemo fuzz sat in the chair on the opposite side of the room from me on my first morning of chemo. She talked to everyone on staff like they were old friends and cheerily announced that she had brought cupcakes to share with everyone – she was celebrating her last day of treatment. I ate one of those cupcakes, and it was delicious.

An older gent made his way to the chair next to mine around mid-day. As the nurse was prepping his port (a tube thing they leave inside some people so they don’t have to re-stick them each day with the IV needle), he caught me staring (probably with a horrified look on my face) and jumped at the chance to chat. He grinned and asked “what I was in for.” Unfortunately, we suffered a major communication breakdown: he didn’t seem familiar with the term “cervix,” and neither my mom nor I could understand his thick West Virginia accent.

Treatment

With infusion prepped and ready to go, I headed down to Radiation where I got to share space with a convict and his two prison guards. Just another not-so-subtle reminder of what a communist bastard cancer is – even the prisioners can’t escape it!

Let me explain something about radiation: it is weird. If they didn’t have evidence to prove its efficacy, I would go so far as to call it an unholy ritual devised by sexually repressed mad scientists…white lab coats and crazy hair included! Don’t get me wrong, the staff at the hospital is great. Everyone is professional, and no one has hair that is crazy enough to mention. It’s just the routine of radiation that creeps me out.

This is how it goes: you sign in and sit in a dimly-lit waiting room that’s always a little too cold to be comfortable. The telecom by the door crackles and you hear a voice: “Ms. Strunk, you can come back now.” Now, you walk down an empty hallway to a dressing room where you pick a hospital gown from the neatly-stacked pile and pull it on over your clothes. Then you go to the waiting area outside of the actual radiation room, where you are forced to stare at a wall-sized map of the world and wish you were anywhere but where you are at that moment. I’ve pinpointed a few island chains in the South Pacific to focus on this week.

Then the radiatortechnotrons call you into the dungeon, and there is no turning back. Now you will be forced to lie on a large piece of styrofoam with the stomach cut out. The lights are out. Put your hands over your head and lift your feet so they can tie your ankles together and set them on a wedge. Now the nameless radiatortechnotrons will pull down your pants and draw lines and symbols all over your butt with sharpies. And then they’ll put tape on those lines. “Don’t get those wet!” And now they’ll just take a few x-rays. “Try not to move your head!”

But I have Tourrette’s!

“Almost done!” The machine is huge and revolves around the table with two large arms. There are a lot of noises…things that sound like lasers…like they are zapping mosquitoes. “Ok, now on to the treatment.”

And then you are done. They pull the table away from the monster machine and the lights come on. They untape your ankles. “Be careful getting down. That’s the hardest part!” And it is the hardest part. Your brain has turned to radioactive mush, and it’s hard to keep steady. But you are done and free, and now you can take off the hospital gown and rejoin the land of the living (or go back up to the infusion center, depending on the day).

Aftermath

The first chemo/radiation combo day was long. My mom and I were at Chateau UVA from about 9am to 5pm. Fully medicated and somewhat incoherent, I walked the 1/2 mile (I’ll track the actual mileage soon) back to the parking garage and sat in the car while my mom ran a few errands on the way home.

I didn’t get sick. I didn’t turn into a blob of cancer mush. I did feel tired and cranky, and there were times when the thought of food turned my stomach, but overall, it was manageable. Week one gone and conquered. Only five (or so) more to go!

Whys and What Fors

On Thursday, April 30, 2009 I was diagnosed with cervical adenocarcinoma (cancer).

Since then, I’ve had numerous appointments, one surgery, and many many decisions served upon the delicate little platter that is my life. But sprinkled into this feast of misfortune, I’ve also found a lot of opportunity to laugh. Cancer is not fun, but it can present funny situations and learning opportunities. I’d like to focus my updates on the lighter aspects of diagnosis, treatment, and daily life with the big “C”, if you’ll so indulge me.

I will try to post updates as frequently as possible, but must remind my eager readers that my treatment makes me sleepy, cranky, and sometimes completely worthless. I apologize in advance for any sourpuss attitude I may exude during live interactions (and a special shout-out apology to the Welcome Desk ladies at UVA today who got a mouthfull about “chemo brain” and me needing a parking pass…oops!).