Last January, when I first met with Dr. Fisher (who you all know by now is my amazing oncologist) I asked him about whether I could/should work during my chemotherapy program. His response was that while he would prefer that I didn't work, he recognized that some people who were addicted to work (and surprisingly he felt that I fell into this group) needed to continue working as they were going through treatment. So he told me that he would allow me to work, but he said we would have to revisit this decision as my treatment progressed.
Following the harrowing experience of Round 7, we revisited the topic. I am now in the final few months of treatment which are considered to be the most difficult due to the cumulative effects of the chemo. So I decided to accept the sage advice of my doctor and take a break. This was not an easy decision, but I feel that it is the right decision for me and my family.
Therefore, during the next few months I'll be focused on healing and a few other things that I've had on my "to do" list for quite some time. I've already created a list of over 50 things that I would like to accomplish and I’m well on my way! I also have time now to do things for my family that I haven’t been able to (or really wanted to, so much) while I was working. For example—cooking dinner. I've been told by my eastern medicine folks that I can no longer rely on processed foods. So I am going to have to figure out how to prepare healthy meals for my family and there’s no time like the present! So, with my thanks, I've decided to suspend the meals program. A HUGE thank you to Bridget and Heidi for coordinating this over the last several months and to everyone who so graciously fed my family!
One last thought on the subject of healing - I am continually amazed by the number of prayers that are being said for me – from the Basilica to the Western Wall in Jerusalem. I just found out that our dear friend Linda who was in Jerusalem within the last couple of weeks placed a prayer in my name in the Western Wall – the most significant site in the world for the Jewish people. It is a tradition to slip pieces of paper with prayers on them in the crevices of the Wall. The Western Wall is a living testimony to the strength and resilience of the Jewish nation. It is that strength and resiliency that I hope to capture as I move forward. What a powerful gift that Linda gave me in my fight and what an appropriate way to begin my next 3 months of healing.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
No More Drips!
I don’t want to be alarmist, but I almost died during chemo 10 days ago.
I went into Stanford at about 10 am on Friday, May 2nd and for the initial 2 hours, I was given anti-nausea drugs and drugs to relax me (and help me forget about the chemo experience). At around noon, they started to administer the chemo drip.
About 20 minutes after beginning, my hands started itching like crazy and I began to have trouble swallowing. I was pretty mellow thanks to the earlier drugs and didn’t think much about it. Then, my face started feeling funny and I began to have trouble breathing. It finally occurred to me that I should probably call the nurse (I was in a private room and Pat had gone to grab lunch).
Next thing I know all hell broke loose. Nurses were rushing around me, the chemo drip was abruptly turned off, oxygen was placed over my nose and someone was giving me an injection of Benadryl and steroids into my port.
Apparently, my face was very swollen and my lips had turned blue. I was having a very serious allergic reaction and headed for anaphylactic shock.
Now I know why they said they would administer my chemo regimen for 16 treatments or until I had problems with the therapy!
I asked when I could come back to try this chemo treatment again. Their response was that I wasn’t going to be doing the chemo drip anymore since I could die if they tried again.
I thought they were being overly dramatic, but Dr. Fisher later told me the same thing. So – instead of the drip, I now will take 7 chemo pills per day for 7 days and then take a week off to allow my body to heal from the chemo. I will continue this routine for the next three months if my body can handle it.
To be honest, although a huge part of me is relieved never to see the infusion center again (it is such a depressing place), I am a little worried about not hitting this cancer with everything that is out there. Dr. Fisher said that he was not concerned, since the first 3-4 months really are the most important. As I mentioned in a previous update, there is actually a study in Italy that will likely change the chemo protocol from 6 months to 3 months because it will prove that there is no difference in the outcome.
I have heard from cancer survivors that one of the scariest moments is when you go off of chemo, because then it’s just “you” who is fighting off any recurrence of cancer. To a certain degree, I am experiencing the same fear, since I have one less drug that’s taking on my cancer. I’ve decided that I just have to let go of the fear and place my faith in Dr. Fisher and his marvelous team at Stanford (as well as my magnificent acupuncturist).
Once I understood the severity of what happened, I was very upset and concerned. I didn’t realize that I was in any real danger taking the chemo drip—I should have had a clue since the oncology nurses are extremely careful when handling the chemo drugs. This experience has been another reminder of my mortality. But with the information available to me today, I continue to have faith that I’m battling this from every angle and that later this summer I will move into an entirely new, cancer-free world!
I went into Stanford at about 10 am on Friday, May 2nd and for the initial 2 hours, I was given anti-nausea drugs and drugs to relax me (and help me forget about the chemo experience). At around noon, they started to administer the chemo drip.
About 20 minutes after beginning, my hands started itching like crazy and I began to have trouble swallowing. I was pretty mellow thanks to the earlier drugs and didn’t think much about it. Then, my face started feeling funny and I began to have trouble breathing. It finally occurred to me that I should probably call the nurse (I was in a private room and Pat had gone to grab lunch).
Next thing I know all hell broke loose. Nurses were rushing around me, the chemo drip was abruptly turned off, oxygen was placed over my nose and someone was giving me an injection of Benadryl and steroids into my port.
Apparently, my face was very swollen and my lips had turned blue. I was having a very serious allergic reaction and headed for anaphylactic shock.
Now I know why they said they would administer my chemo regimen for 16 treatments or until I had problems with the therapy!
I asked when I could come back to try this chemo treatment again. Their response was that I wasn’t going to be doing the chemo drip anymore since I could die if they tried again.
I thought they were being overly dramatic, but Dr. Fisher later told me the same thing. So – instead of the drip, I now will take 7 chemo pills per day for 7 days and then take a week off to allow my body to heal from the chemo. I will continue this routine for the next three months if my body can handle it.
To be honest, although a huge part of me is relieved never to see the infusion center again (it is such a depressing place), I am a little worried about not hitting this cancer with everything that is out there. Dr. Fisher said that he was not concerned, since the first 3-4 months really are the most important. As I mentioned in a previous update, there is actually a study in Italy that will likely change the chemo protocol from 6 months to 3 months because it will prove that there is no difference in the outcome.
I have heard from cancer survivors that one of the scariest moments is when you go off of chemo, because then it’s just “you” who is fighting off any recurrence of cancer. To a certain degree, I am experiencing the same fear, since I have one less drug that’s taking on my cancer. I’ve decided that I just have to let go of the fear and place my faith in Dr. Fisher and his marvelous team at Stanford (as well as my magnificent acupuncturist).
Once I understood the severity of what happened, I was very upset and concerned. I didn’t realize that I was in any real danger taking the chemo drip—I should have had a clue since the oncology nurses are extremely careful when handling the chemo drugs. This experience has been another reminder of my mortality. But with the information available to me today, I continue to have faith that I’m battling this from every angle and that later this summer I will move into an entirely new, cancer-free world!
Friday, May 2, 2008
"Fun" with Eve
This week’s blog entry is brought to you by my neighbor and friend, Liz Becker-Bransfield who went with me yesterday to see my doctor at Stanford. One quick update – we are at the half-way point of my treatment and things are going pretty well according to my Doctor. I am just happy that we are half-over. I am off to Round 7 of my chemo this morning so keep me in your thoughts as I get through the next few days of recovery. Now on to Liz…
Hi Liz Becker-Bransfield here. I live just to the right of Eve and Pat with my husband Jay and our two kids – one of which is the same age as the twins.
Yesterday I did something that I’ve done before for friends with cancer - I offered Eve a ride to her doctor’s visit in what we refer to in our family as “the fun car”. You see, when my husband was in sales 8 years ago, he won a Porsche Boxster. I know, I know – tough living, but we have kept it for emergency get-aways and times like these, despite us now having two kids and it only having two seats.
While making the hour drive down 880, it struck me as ironic that we were out in the “fun car” on a mission that for Eve and all of us is really “not so fun” and I knew it was true when we arrived at the center where Eve started to exclaim, “I really hate this place. I REALLY hate this place” amongst other comments like, “You’ve gotta see this place, it has a concierge, free massages for patients and their care-givers, a café, library.” Then again, “Look how beautiful it is. I hate this place – especially up there,” she pointed. “ That’s where they do the chemo. I hope to never see this place again.”
Now we all know that Eve can talk. But this run-on hate talk I figured was no good for her so I just nodded and tried to smile and make silly comments about how nice and airy it was, how the colors seemed so soothing. Meanwhile, I hoped I’d never see this place again, either, and I sent up a little prayer for all of us.
We first stopped in the Lab where Eve always begins with getting her blood drawn so that while she waits, her blood work can be prepared for Dr. Fisher, her renowned oncologist (can you say “Patrick Swayze”) . That took 20 minutes. 20 minutes of looking across the waiting room to an older man and his about-my-age daughter. He in slippers and a full breathing mask with emasculating hot pink filter covers on each side; unable to talk without sounding like a Spanish Darth Vader. She straightens his velour sweat-jacket like a nervous tic. They hold hands and nod a lot at each other. Got it. No fun.
After Eve gave blood, she came out with a nice bandage on the right arm, we went to “the Best Walgreens in the World” as she called it. Just off the lobby, Eve says it is the best because it has ALL of her cancer treatment meds that often the pharmacies at home don’t have in stock. Getting her meds here saves her lots of “no-fun” trips around town shopping for chemicals. Perhaps if I loan her the Boxster for these drug-store dos-e-dos, it would be “more fun”. Not sure.
Then off to the Clinic Area – labeled by Clinic A, Clinic B, C, D, E F. “No G for Grossman,” I quip as we enter the hallway, “Are you going to B for Bukowski?” I got a little courtesy laugh on that one. We checked in and waited another 30 minutes. This time I tried to talk about a new project I am working on with a writer friend in LA that will really make fun of some folks. I did characters, a little physical humor and basically tried to keep up the light chit-chat while we waited. The others in the room did not seem very amused. Tough crowd, I thought. Perhaps the gentleman sitting off to the side had other things on his mind, like whatever was under the six-inch bandage on his face that was probably not fun, or funny, in any way.
We were ushered finally into the examination room and had a nice attendant take Eve’s BP and temp. Initially he said she had a slight fever, and this started Eve worrying asking about if that would mean that she could not get Chemo tomorrow. After a few questions, he realized that she really was at normal and we all breathed a sign of relief. “This is SO fun” she said to me with a little drip of sarcasm after he left. (pun intended)
Then 10 minutes of note review and question list-making. Then Dr. McMullen came in and introduced herself as the “Stanford Fellow on Dr. Fisher’s team” What a strange use of the word “fellow” we both considered later. With all the education that it must take to be one of those, we were convinced that Dr. McMullen, as nice and as caring as she was, probably was not the “Fun sort of Fellow” we usually encountered when someone said “fellow.”
Dr. McMullen asked all the right questions as part of her role as the Warm Up Act to the Star (Dr. Fisher). I started taking notes (this is the REAL job of the person who goes to these appointments with Eve. AND it should be noted that Saint BARB brought her own loose leaf last time – trumping me who just showed up with a pen!). For the next 10 minutes, Dr. McMullen and Eve talked about some really fun things. How Eve’s port was healing, the neuropathy that she experienced last time after Round 6 of chemo, pain in her feet and hands, dealing with constipation (sorry Eve), enquiries about possible diarrhea (no, for the record), weight fluctuations, sleeping patterns, work stress, plans for the next months of treatment and Eve’s worries about increasing fatigue and the long term effects of the treatment. I wrote as fast as I could, not letting any of the “not-so-fun” feelings I was having get in the way. Eve was brave, prepared, and well-spoken. I was proud to have a friend like her.
After Dr. McMullen stepped away, we waited again. I tried to work on my laptop. Eve checked messages. After a few minutes, Eve looked up and quietly said that she would give anything not to be there, dealing with cancer because this was anything but fun. She wanted to be back at the office, getting ready to present some big report that night that she knew she couldn’t, and being the “old Eve” that did not worry so much all the time. Just like being with my children in a hospital, I wanted so much to make this “owie” go away. I knew that I couldn’t. I just gave her a big hug.
And then… HE arrived. Dr. Fisher - easy on the eyes and very caring, knowledgeable and warmly funny. Eve and her doctor basically had the same conversation all over again. Eve charmed him twice by asking 1) if the next round of chemo could be rescheduled so that Eve and her family could make the fun annual pilgrimage to the Calaveras County Frog Jumping Jubilee and 2) if Dr. Fisher could arrange a meeting for Eve with Patrick Swayze. I was just amazed to see Eve working the connections as she always does. These were lighter moments and we all laughed. I wondered if laughing meant we were having fun. No, I concluded. It just meant that we were laughing.
And then Dr. Fisher said something that I wrote down word for word. “You are doing great lady. I know this is no fun.” There it was. Finally a diagnosis for her pain, the unbelievable effort of balancing work, her treatment schedule and family and her worry. Eve is officially having “no fun”. Since Eve is Cancer-Free, and the chemo is externally inflicted as a way to stave off the cancer’s return, I think that this last “diagnosis” is the real one to watch. And we must be vigilant.
Eve fights off “no-fun” every day. We must fight with her. She keeps up a light attitude, she laughs at herself and her now more liberal view of non-traditional treatments (ask her about the New Age Expo she attended last weekend). She plays with her girls. We crack jokes. We do outlandish things to make her smile, like making poems out of pipe cleaners. We give her too much wine. We share our vacation houses with her or take her for rides in our “fun cars.” Our acts of friendship are like “no-fun chemotherapy”, but, unlike the “drips” she gets at Stanford, our treatment is organic, buoyant, hopeful, available at any time, and long-lasting. Real feel-good stuff. Almost fun.
I know that I cannot wait until she is finished with chemo, finished with Doctor’s visits, finished with all of this “C-word” stuff. Then the REAL FUN can begin. Get Ready!
Hi Liz Becker-Bransfield here. I live just to the right of Eve and Pat with my husband Jay and our two kids – one of which is the same age as the twins.
Yesterday I did something that I’ve done before for friends with cancer - I offered Eve a ride to her doctor’s visit in what we refer to in our family as “the fun car”. You see, when my husband was in sales 8 years ago, he won a Porsche Boxster. I know, I know – tough living, but we have kept it for emergency get-aways and times like these, despite us now having two kids and it only having two seats.
While making the hour drive down 880, it struck me as ironic that we were out in the “fun car” on a mission that for Eve and all of us is really “not so fun” and I knew it was true when we arrived at the center where Eve started to exclaim, “I really hate this place. I REALLY hate this place” amongst other comments like, “You’ve gotta see this place, it has a concierge, free massages for patients and their care-givers, a café, library.” Then again, “Look how beautiful it is. I hate this place – especially up there,” she pointed. “ That’s where they do the chemo. I hope to never see this place again.”
Now we all know that Eve can talk. But this run-on hate talk I figured was no good for her so I just nodded and tried to smile and make silly comments about how nice and airy it was, how the colors seemed so soothing. Meanwhile, I hoped I’d never see this place again, either, and I sent up a little prayer for all of us.
We first stopped in the Lab where Eve always begins with getting her blood drawn so that while she waits, her blood work can be prepared for Dr. Fisher, her renowned oncologist (can you say “Patrick Swayze”) . That took 20 minutes. 20 minutes of looking across the waiting room to an older man and his about-my-age daughter. He in slippers and a full breathing mask with emasculating hot pink filter covers on each side; unable to talk without sounding like a Spanish Darth Vader. She straightens his velour sweat-jacket like a nervous tic. They hold hands and nod a lot at each other. Got it. No fun.
After Eve gave blood, she came out with a nice bandage on the right arm, we went to “the Best Walgreens in the World” as she called it. Just off the lobby, Eve says it is the best because it has ALL of her cancer treatment meds that often the pharmacies at home don’t have in stock. Getting her meds here saves her lots of “no-fun” trips around town shopping for chemicals. Perhaps if I loan her the Boxster for these drug-store dos-e-dos, it would be “more fun”. Not sure.
Then off to the Clinic Area – labeled by Clinic A, Clinic B, C, D, E F. “No G for Grossman,” I quip as we enter the hallway, “Are you going to B for Bukowski?” I got a little courtesy laugh on that one. We checked in and waited another 30 minutes. This time I tried to talk about a new project I am working on with a writer friend in LA that will really make fun of some folks. I did characters, a little physical humor and basically tried to keep up the light chit-chat while we waited. The others in the room did not seem very amused. Tough crowd, I thought. Perhaps the gentleman sitting off to the side had other things on his mind, like whatever was under the six-inch bandage on his face that was probably not fun, or funny, in any way.
We were ushered finally into the examination room and had a nice attendant take Eve’s BP and temp. Initially he said she had a slight fever, and this started Eve worrying asking about if that would mean that she could not get Chemo tomorrow. After a few questions, he realized that she really was at normal and we all breathed a sign of relief. “This is SO fun” she said to me with a little drip of sarcasm after he left. (pun intended)
Then 10 minutes of note review and question list-making. Then Dr. McMullen came in and introduced herself as the “Stanford Fellow on Dr. Fisher’s team” What a strange use of the word “fellow” we both considered later. With all the education that it must take to be one of those, we were convinced that Dr. McMullen, as nice and as caring as she was, probably was not the “Fun sort of Fellow” we usually encountered when someone said “fellow.”
Dr. McMullen asked all the right questions as part of her role as the Warm Up Act to the Star (Dr. Fisher). I started taking notes (this is the REAL job of the person who goes to these appointments with Eve. AND it should be noted that Saint BARB brought her own loose leaf last time – trumping me who just showed up with a pen!). For the next 10 minutes, Dr. McMullen and Eve talked about some really fun things. How Eve’s port was healing, the neuropathy that she experienced last time after Round 6 of chemo, pain in her feet and hands, dealing with constipation (sorry Eve), enquiries about possible diarrhea (no, for the record), weight fluctuations, sleeping patterns, work stress, plans for the next months of treatment and Eve’s worries about increasing fatigue and the long term effects of the treatment. I wrote as fast as I could, not letting any of the “not-so-fun” feelings I was having get in the way. Eve was brave, prepared, and well-spoken. I was proud to have a friend like her.
After Dr. McMullen stepped away, we waited again. I tried to work on my laptop. Eve checked messages. After a few minutes, Eve looked up and quietly said that she would give anything not to be there, dealing with cancer because this was anything but fun. She wanted to be back at the office, getting ready to present some big report that night that she knew she couldn’t, and being the “old Eve” that did not worry so much all the time. Just like being with my children in a hospital, I wanted so much to make this “owie” go away. I knew that I couldn’t. I just gave her a big hug.
And then… HE arrived. Dr. Fisher - easy on the eyes and very caring, knowledgeable and warmly funny. Eve and her doctor basically had the same conversation all over again. Eve charmed him twice by asking 1) if the next round of chemo could be rescheduled so that Eve and her family could make the fun annual pilgrimage to the Calaveras County Frog Jumping Jubilee and 2) if Dr. Fisher could arrange a meeting for Eve with Patrick Swayze. I was just amazed to see Eve working the connections as she always does. These were lighter moments and we all laughed. I wondered if laughing meant we were having fun. No, I concluded. It just meant that we were laughing.
And then Dr. Fisher said something that I wrote down word for word. “You are doing great lady. I know this is no fun.” There it was. Finally a diagnosis for her pain, the unbelievable effort of balancing work, her treatment schedule and family and her worry. Eve is officially having “no fun”. Since Eve is Cancer-Free, and the chemo is externally inflicted as a way to stave off the cancer’s return, I think that this last “diagnosis” is the real one to watch. And we must be vigilant.
Eve fights off “no-fun” every day. We must fight with her. She keeps up a light attitude, she laughs at herself and her now more liberal view of non-traditional treatments (ask her about the New Age Expo she attended last weekend). She plays with her girls. We crack jokes. We do outlandish things to make her smile, like making poems out of pipe cleaners. We give her too much wine. We share our vacation houses with her or take her for rides in our “fun cars.” Our acts of friendship are like “no-fun chemotherapy”, but, unlike the “drips” she gets at Stanford, our treatment is organic, buoyant, hopeful, available at any time, and long-lasting. Real feel-good stuff. Almost fun.
I know that I cannot wait until she is finished with chemo, finished with Doctor’s visits, finished with all of this “C-word” stuff. Then the REAL FUN can begin. Get Ready!
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