I began chemo-therapy in May of 2016. Those are words I never imagined that I’d need to write, especially before the age of thirty. In fact, they feel surreal to this day.
I met my oncologist shortly after recovering from my colon resection. An intense, but kind, woman I instantly knew that I was in good hands. She walked me through what my treatment would look like. I would have twelve rounds of the chemo drug known as 5FU, and these rounds would occur every other week. On Wednesdays, I would come in for my 5 hour, “in-clinic”, intravenous chemo drug drip; then, I would be sent home with a little black fanny pack that held more chemo. I would be attached to this fanny pack by a catheter of sorts, and drugs would drip through my system for the next 48 hours. On Fridays, I would come in and have the catheter removed.
Before my treatment could begin, I had to have a port placed in my chest just above my right breast. This port is what would connect to the IV’s and the catheter, allowing the chemo to feed into the large vein of the superior vena cava. The port procedure was quick and simple, but did result in an angry red scar striking across my breast, still vivid to this day. While I am forever grateful for the treatment that I received, my own vanity struggles with the infiltration of such a scar.
Prior to my first chemo treatment, I had been told I’d likely feel a bit unwell following the treatment. This “unwell” feeling would potentially get progressively worse with each round of chemo. I could be nauseous, fatigued, and it was possible I’d develop a sensitivity to touching, or eating, anything cold.
On a Wednesday morning in late May, I went for my first session. I entered the cold, but naturally lit, infusion area and took my place amongst other patients receiving their own chemotherapy treatment. I was easily the youngest one in the room. A quick sting and the IV was placed, beginning the chemo drip. For the next 5 hours, I talked with my boyfriend (who had accompanied me to this treatment), graded papers and napped. I kept waiting for the unwell feelings to set in, but they never did. I left that first treatment feeling relatively well, my chemo-fanny pack bouncing against my hip as I made my way to our car and back home.
The next morning, I awoke to extreme nausea and proceeded to vomit up everything in my stomach. I was unable to hold anything down for the remainder of the day, not even water. I had planned to work that Thursday and Friday, but had to call in sick. I couldn’t pull myself away from the couch, much less into my classroom of 35 third graders.
I didn’t feel much better on Friday, and being dehydrated from a lack of fluids was making matters worse. Eventually 3PM rolled around and I was back to the clinic to have the catheter removed and the fanny pack placed to the side. I was hooked up to another IV to provide my body with much needed fluids and was informed that we could try a different drug for nausea at the next session.
While the nausea drugs shared with me did provide some relief, I always had a difficult time holding down food and water during my treatments, and the days immediately following. The nausea would typically subside around 3 days post chemo. Every Friday following a treatment, I was in need of fluids. I ended up losing 10 lbs, on my already slight frame, during that time. My skin developed a pallid color, likely due to a lack of proper nutrients and the poison that was circulating through me. While I never felt sick from my actual cancer, I certainly did from the chemo.
Fatigue was another symptom that plagued me. All I wanted to do was sleep, or lie around. This is unlike me, and I didn’t like that I wasn’t able to be my usual, active self. As warned, cold sensitivity developed in my fingers and in my mouth. When undergoing, and directly following chemo, I couldn’t drink or eat anything cold without experiencing a tingling sensation on my tongue and the inside of my cheeks. My hands also would tingle when pulling something from the freezer or if touching a cold glass. I learned that this symptom was called neuropathy, which is a form of nerve damage from the chemo. It is common and usually subsides when the treatment is complete.
Many know of hair loss as a common side effect of cancer treatments. Luckily, my own hair loss wasn’t significant. I lost clumps in the shower for a while, and would find knots of it on my pillow in the morning. Despite the fact that I only suffered a mild thinning of hair, seeing it shed so dramatically did bring me to tears a time or two. It was a reminder of my illness, and the toxins charging through my system – toxins that simultaneously were to bring about the demise of my cancer cells. A reminder that everything was far from “normal” in my world.
I went into my treatment very fit. Prior to my diagnosis, I had been doing regular strength workouts and running a few times a week. I managed to stay fairly fit throughout my treatments as well. I wasn’t able to workout during the 48 hours that chemo was pouring into my body, or in the few days that would follow, but usually by day 5 post chemo I felt well enough to begin exercising again. I would run, just a couple of gentle miles at a time, or do some light weight lifting. I attended an occasional spin or yoga class with friends. Mostly, I hiked. I lived right next to a mountain and hiking became a source of therapy for me. It provided me with a sense of normalcy and a connection to nature, both of which I needed during that time.
Cancer brought about a profound appreciation for my body and all that it can do. It is easy to take feeling well and strong for granted, and yet those are two things that can be quickly taken from you. I find that the following quote sums up this sentiment beautifully, “When you have your health, you have everything. When you do not have your health, nothing else matters at all” [Augusten Burroughs].
Roughly one month into my treatments, my port became infected. This manifested in a small, red dot at the site of my incision. An infection meant I had to take a break with the chemotherapy. Chemo dramatically affects your immune system, making it extremely difficult for your body to fight an infection. My doctor was confident that the infection would clear quickly with the help of a topical antibiotic. In the meantime, I flew home to be with my family for a week. With it being summer vacation, it made sense to get out of the desert heat as I waited for the green light to resume treatment.
While in Oregon, my port infection grew progressively worse. I went to the ER and was told to keep a bandage over the wound and continue to keep an eye on it. That evening, as I went to change out the bandage and apply more ointment, I nearly fainted from the sight – my port was sticking out of my chest, exposed! After a quick call to my oncologist, I was advised to go in for an immediate port removal the next day.
With one port now removed and the right side of my chest healing from yet another procedure, I needed to have a new port placed – this time on the left side of my chest. This meant a fresh scar to grace my breasts. As a woman, I am sure many can empathize with some of the emotions I was experiencing. In the grand scheme of things, I recognize survival is so much more important than aesthetics, but even still, this was difficult for me.
Fortunately, the new port never experienced any complications. I moved through the remainder of my chemo treatments without any other setbacks.
In August, about halfway through the 12 treatments I was to receive, I returned to work. Prior to my cancer diagnosis, I had accepted a new position teaching first grade with the Paradise Valley School District. I had informed my principal and team of my illness and my desire to continue working throughout the treatments. I received their full support and my colleagues rallied behind me – setting up a meal train and providing help as needed.
During these first three months of the school year, as I was undergoing treatment, I had two women who came in and substituted for me regularly. They were both highly competent and experienced teachers; this made it easier for me to take my needed sick time, confident that my students were in good hands. The teacher who’s room connected to mine would help me with my copies when needed, so that I could nap during my prep and lunch. This was a godsend on the Thursdays and Fridays that I’d teach with my infamous black fanny pack attached to me. I was truly blessed by the community of educators, and the families of my students, that surrounded me at that time.
It was difficult to be away from Oregon and family during that period of my life. Yet, my Mom and Dad were each there for three of my treatments. My Dad took a week off from work to be with me and to help me move (something I ended up needing to do twice that summer). My Mom took me to see a Lumineers concert before a treatment, providing a wonderful distraction. My brother and his (now) wife stayed with me for a weekend and we drove up to Sedona so as to hike amongst the red rocks. I had friends who flew in to be with me, as well as my aunts. I was accompanied by at least one family member or a friend at every treatment.
While I might have been alone in my direct experience, I was never alone in regards to support. It was truly beautiful to be reminded of just how loved and held I am. For me, that was the most special of gifts that cancer brought – a deeper sense of gratitude and recognition for the community we create in our lives.
On November 4, 2016 I had my last treatment. I was presented with a certificate and my team of Oncology nurses celebrated by showering me with confetti and streamers. Five years of clear CT scans and blood work would need to pass before I could be truly considered “in remission”. For now, I was grateful to be done – to be free of the nausea, the fatigue and for the neuropathy to subside. I was ready to regain more of my life back.
When I finished chemo, I vowed to live more fully, to express more gratitude, and to never forget my own strength. This isn’t easy, and I often catch myself taking things for granted or worrying about the mundane. Sometimes this makes me want to cry in frustration, for the life we are living and the people we are loving are precious beyond measure. I can only continue to do my best to remember and come back to this truth again and again. I don’t want for another devastating diagnosis to be what shocks me into a state of wonder and thankfulness.
Our bodies, the health we have today – these are a gift. Celebrate yours as often as you can. The people whom we surround ourselves with – family, friends and significant others – are to be loved deeply, and shown grace whenever possible. We are all doing our best and each life is fragile. Show up for each day – even the days that prove to be more difficult. None of us really know how much time we get, we are all essentially dying in one way or another. So with that, don’t wait until tomorrow to start living.
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