My Life's All About Hospitals and Drugs

Today I'm posting from my shiny new Dell laptop!
It's the first time I've been able to get my head around using it properly.
I have to say, it's rather nice. It has a bigger, much clearer screen than my old laptop, so that's ideal now.
I'm also happy to report that I'm almost back to my normal typing speed (which has never been wonderful, to be honest!).

Yesterday was a very long day at the hospital.
I had my regular Herceptin treatment, along with my first Zometa infusion.
Appointment was 1:30pm, and I'd finally got a cannula in (after only 3 attempts. Not bad for me) at 4pm, and didn't get home until just gone 8.

I got home to find my appointment for my whole brain radiation planning session, on 20th November, which says it could take "a considerable length of time". Oh goody!
I don't really know what to expect for that. They also invited me to take a 'full tour of the radiotherapy department', next week, but I think I'll pass on that one!

Have to say, I felt pretty rough earlier today. I don't know if it was zometa side-effects, or just everything else. But I feel a bit brighter this afternoon (well enough to use my new laptop, anyway!).
I must admit I was a bit naughty today though. I'm only on 2mg steroids (dexamethasone) per day now, but I hate them. My face is getting more puffy by the day (if I press my forehead, it stays squidged in, because of the fluid), they make me bloaty, make my brain even more fuzzy, and my mouth taste horrible. So I decided I'd try to go without, this morning.
Didn't last long though. After I'd felt rough and very spaced out for a while, I relented, through fear I might have a funny turn if I didn't take them.

Yesterdays Oncology Appointment

I saw my oncologist yesterday, who said I'll still be having herceptin as planned, this Thursday, along with zometa (a drug to help with the bone mets).
The pathology report on the brain tumour shows that it's consistent with secondaries, which is what I expected. They say they have no reason to think otherwise, so it'll be treated as such.

Whole brain radiation should start in 1-2 weeks, every day for 2 weeks, so there's something else to look forward to! I'll loose my hair again, and it may or may not grow back.

I was hoping to be able to stop taking the steroids for a while, until WBR started, but they want to keep me on them until afterwards. They make me hungry all the time, make my mouth feel horrible, and are making my face swell. I really don't like taking them at all.

I also have to have a liver scan asap, so we can see what's happening there. Then they can decide if I have to start more chemo straight away, or whether it can wait a while.

I had a shower this morning, rather than a bath, for the first time since the op.
I haven't been stable enough to stand in the shower up til now, so it was really nice, and I feel like I've acheived something today.

My neck's sore and a bit swollen still, but not overly so. They did say I'd have a very stiff neck, because they'd had to pull apart the muscles, to get where they needed to be. But it really hasn't been bad at all. I'm quite surprised (but glad) at how little pain I've had from it, so far.

Here are a couple of photos, for your viewing pleasure!

All stapled up, a few days after surgery

On Saturday, after having the staples removed on Friday

Brief Update

It'll be two weeks tomorrow since I had someone poking around in my brain. It's still a very odd thought, and one I don't think I've quite got the grasp of yet. Everything happened so quickly, I haven't had time to take in what's happened.

It's almost a year since I found out the cancer had spread beyond where it originated, and to my liver.
22nd November 2006, was the day I found out I had 'incurable' metastatic cancer. I didn't expect then, that less than a year later, it would be in my brain and my bones too. I hoped I'd have more time.

I've since learned that according to those "damned lies and statistics" that I should be dead by now. After a diagnosis of liver mets, I should have had 6-12 months to live.
I'm not sure how I feel about knowing all these time frames now. According to the numbers, the liver mets are still more likely to get to me, before the brain mets do.

I've also learned in the past couple of weeks, that of the people who're taking herceptin for breast cancer, around 50% will go on to develop brain mets. That's a pretty high number.

Any diagnosis of cancer is scary.
Diagnosis od secondary, incurable cancer is incredibly scary. My world came crashing down when I found out about the liver secondaries.
It didn't seem quite so bad when I found out about the bone secondaries. But I knew that didn't really change my prognosis.
But finding out it's in my brain seems to have taken it to a whole knew incomprehensible level.

I have no idea how to feel about it. No idea what to say to other people about it. No idea how to make my family and friends feel any better about it now.
Chances are that in a years time, my parents will have no daughter, and my friends will be a friend down.

I was very upset about all this, a couple of weeks ago. But now it's like my foggy brain isn't really acknowledging it. I don't feel like I'm feeling it. Which is probably not being helped by not being able to think straight, or concentrate. And not helped by this permanently fuzzy feeling in my head, which is making my life seem less real, somehow. I don't really feel alive anymore.

Tomorrow, I have my oncology appointment, where I'll probably find out when the whole brain radiation should start, and how many sessions I should be having.
There's something to look forward to. Nothing like a bit of brain frying to knock you off your feet again!
I'll lose my hair again, and it may or may not grow back. I know it often doesn't.

I'm still having trouble with my vision, balance, hearing, etc. So typing's a slow process. But I'm grateful that I can at least see well enough to look at screen now.

I still feel much worse than before I had surgery. But still hoping it'll get better, and that I can have some decent quality of life while I'm still here.

And now in my Brain

Just over two weeks ago, I was admitted to hospital for brain scans, after having headaches, and then a few other symptoms.
Last Tuesday, I had brain surgery, to remove a 2cm tumour from my cerebellum.

It's been a very scary couple of weeks, and I can only now just see well enough to use the computer for very short amounts of time.
My balance is all wrong (couldn't walk for a few days after surgery), my vision's wrong, I can't hear properly, and can't think straight, or concentrate.

This time last week, I honestly didn't care if I died. In fact, I hoped for it.
But I didn't die. I'm still here. And while I really don't feel like me at the minute, things seem to be slowly improving.

The "damned lies and statistics" give me around 6-9 months to live now.
Six months will take me to my birthday. I'm hoping for more, but I'm not being unrealistic. I know this cancer's on the war path. I know it'll get me. But not just yet, I hope.

Coping With Chronic Illness

Ladies and gentlemen, may I draw your attention to the following article; Coping Wth Chronic Illness
It is adapted from the book 'After The Diagnosis', by Dr. JoAnn LeMaistre.

I stumbled across it, some time ago, but have only recently got around to reading it.
It's not exclusively about cancer, but about chronic ilness' in general.

It was these couple of paragraphs, right at the beginning, that kept me reading.

The Pollyanna approach is typified by -- and fueled by -- personal stories or
testimonials of complete recovery from extreme illness or disabling conditions.
These stories tug at the heartstrings and catch the fancy of all who read them.
Besides creating false hope by overplaying the likelihood of complete recovery,
these stories consistently underplay the sadness and feelings of worthlessness
that are part of the legacy of any physical or emotional trauma.
Sometimes, it is useful in social situations to present yourself as a Pollyanna. When
meeting new people and situations, it may be an advantage for you to let others
think you have mastered your disease. The anxiety of other people is reduced by
not having to confront illness. The danger is that this Pollyanna image may
create a barrier between you and the people who can offer real help.

Ask anyone with cancer (or anyone with any serious illness, I suppose), and I guarantee that they will completely relate to this 'Pollyanna' approach from others.

Cancer's Back Again

Today brought my oncology appointment. Which brought MRI scan results. Which brought the news that I'd feared. The cancer's now in my bones too.. in my shoulder, and in my pelvis.

I don't know what the treatment plan is yet. It could be another six weeks before I find out. That will be over three months from having the bone scan.
They have to decide whether to do nothing. Whether to give me more chemo. Whether to give me bone strengthening drugs. Whether to give me radiotherapy to help with the pain. Or whether to give me a combination of the above.
Meanwhile, I'm left hanging, and wondering what wonderful voyage around my body, the cancer's taking while I'm waiting.

Not the happiest of bunnys, tonight.

Compromise, Sacrifice, and Resentment

Relationships often require compromise, and sometimes sacrificing the things you'd like, for the good of the relationship. Yes?

But what if one (or both) of the people involved doesn't acknowledge where compromise and sacrifice is needed, and just want to carry on doing their own thing, in their own way, regardless of whether it might be adversley affecting the relationship, or the other person in the relationship?

What if through circumstances beyond control, one person can't 'give' as much as they think they should be giving?
Oh, there creeps in, that pesky little guilt emotion again!

Is it wrong, for the person who can't give as much as they'd like to be able to give, to still want the other person to compromise?

How much compromise and sacrifice can a relationship take, before resentment sets in?