My Cancer Journey (Part 1)
The old saying goes that the only sure things in life are death and taxes. So cancer is not something that I planned for. I was busy with a new store and lots of dreams and ambition to make it successful, We had just been invited to join the Central Coast Quilt Shop Owners Association and were busy coming up with ideas for the 2026 Central Coast Quilt Shop Tour. The came as a blow. Another bump in the road; something to overcome. I saw the surgeon, I saw the radiologist. I got the treatment plan. I got an MRI. I got news that one last test came back positive which was unexpected) and threw everything else out the window. The cancer was invasive.
You (or at least I) think of a tumor as this tidy little egg. It isn’t always. It can be this amorphous shape with little spokes, or arms, sticking out trying to attach onto other things to grow and kill you. So my amorphous tumor and I would need chemotherapy so that the cancer would become the victim and not the reverse. It’s a strange concept; infusing your body with toxins to try to kill what is going to kill you.
So, I got a new treatment plan. I got a microchip placed in the tumor so during the eventual surgery the surgeon can get straight to the point even if the chemotherapy has done it’s job and popped all those little cancer cells. I got a port for the many infusions I will receive over the course of one year. I got yet another doctor and everything was explained and scheduled.
I receive four drugs during my “chemo” infusions which are scheduled every 21 days. Two are the actual chemo drugs, The other two are targeted drugs attach to a protein on cancer which blocks growth signals.
Chemotherapy works on the cellular level where it somehow makes the cancer cell pop which kills it. It somehow targets fast dividing cells which is why I no longer have nose hair and have lost most of the hair on my head. Why is it that I have no nose hair yet I still have hairy legs? The nose hair part was weird because 1. I didn’t expect it, 2. I’m sneezing a lot because everything goes up my nose when I breathe, and 3. My nose thinks it’s a leaky faucet and is always dripping. Other fast dividing cells include skin; including the skin in the mouth which ends up feeling like my mouth is coated in sand.
Chemo also makes you (me) exhausted. It takes days to recover. And have you ever heard of chemo brain? It’s real. My brain is fried. I can’t find words. I can’t remember what I thought of just a second ago. I can’t spell anymore but at least there’s spell check for that. I’m useless. It affects your taste buds. How do you even force yourself to eat when everything tastes bad? Even water tastes slimy to me. There’s nothing positive about chemotherapy except for all those little cancer cells popping and dying.
Moving on, one of the two targeted drugs I get in my hours long session in a comfy chair with back massages and a butt warmer, makes me really, really sick. Of course, I’m one of the lucky few that manages to have adverse reactions to drugs. As an example, the steroids I take before, during, and after the chemo make me sleepy whereas most others get hyper-active. So, this one infusion gives me severe gastrointestinal problems. If I eat or drink, even the tiniest amount, I start with stomach cramps. I won’t tell you where it leads to. You don’t need (or want) to know. So, for a week to a week and a half, I can’t really eat or drink; try as I might. As a result, I’m dehydrated.
Dehydration causes low blood pressure and dizziness. No good for chemo brain either. So, in addition to the hours long chemo infusions in my comfy chair with the butt warmer, I get three to four infusions of fluids spaced out over two weeks. These are only two hour infusions. To amuse myself, I play the New York Times games, look up native plants that I want to grow in my garden, or see if there are any sales on notions. I do the games even though sometimes my brain is so scrambled that I get mad and sad but I figured it’s good to exercise even the most scrambled brains.
There’s also shot the day after the chemo infusion that helps to stimulate white blood cell production. I get it in the arm but I just found out it can also be taken in the stomach. That’s not for me. Anyhow, this stuff works in the bone marrow so for the next few days you (I) get weird sensations and/or pain in your bones. I can actually feel my skeleton inside me. Sometimes I’ll be hyper-aware of the bones in my hands, other times it will be legs; it moves. It’s strange. I don’t like it. I get an allergy drug to take the week of the infusion to lessen the effects of it but it’s still strange.
So, at the beginning of this mis-adventure, I was thinking that I’m strong, healthy and it should be a breeze. Well, I was wrong. I admire everyone who goes through this and especially all those who were guinea pigs in the journey to find these drugs, my own mother included (she was among those in the first Taxol trials over 30 years ago.).
I’m also very lucky. I have wonderful, kind, caring doctors. The infusion nurses at the Ridley-Tree Cancer Center are extraordinary. And I have extremely supportive friends and family who drive me everywhere, put up with my rants, keep me amused, try to feed me, visit me during my time in the comfy chair and keep the store open. Plus, I’ve received so much support from my customers and the sewing community. I treasure it all.
And finally, there’s an end in sight for Phase I of my cancer journey. (In order to cope, I put my fight into phases or rounds; like a boxing match.) I have one last chemo infusion (if everything goes right). I have another MRI scheduled and then surgery in mid-February. Afterwards, I’ll have to have radiation (my Phase II) and continue with the targeted infusions (Phase III). But, if I can keep the weight off, I’ve lost two pants sizes. My hair will all grow back (even the nose hair). The insurance will pay for a trainer to get me strong again. And, I’m really hoping to be back in the store sometime in late February or early March.
I’m looking forward to seeing everyone again very soon.