Author: wendi

eternally hopeful and optimistic cancer survivor who believes in the power of dance, bike rides, loud music, community, large doses of laughter, and tasty snacks.

first infusion down

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first chemo!
first chemo!

First day of chemo began with early morning surgery to place the porta cath. We arrived at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. met by our friend “donut Jenn” who made sure the staff had a box full of Top Pot Donuts. We had little time to digest the fullness of the day (or any donuts, doggonit) before the preparations for surgery began- updating records, taking vitals, giving me my fabulous surgical outfit to change into (complete with cozy socks), and then it was off to surgery at 7:30 a.m. promptly. I was out of surgery and into recovery by 8:30 a.m., and we were off to meet the oncologist, have bloodwork done, and then to the treatment center where I would have my first chemo infusion.

The Swedish Cancer Clinic has a nice treatment center where they offer beverages hot or cold, brown bag lunches, cookies, custard, etc., but what I was craving was a pomegranate Jamba Juice. Reen rushed to get us our juice when my Herceptin infusion began, and was back with hot soup and juice before I knew it. We sat for six hours in a lovely corner where we looked out on the veranda complete with japanese maples, bamboo, and grasses for us to admire. I truly didn’t spend much time admiring anything, however, as I slept a good portion of my infusion (except for the insane reaction I had to the Benadryl, after which I got a horribly inappropriate case of the giggles and a desire to wiggle my body….then I fell asleep again).

I’ve been told that the first infusion is one of the easiest, and that I may experience increased fatigue, muscle ache, and some nausea with the infusions to come. Although I’m not looking forward to the next several months of chemo, I feel as prepared as I can be. Today my shoulder aches from the surgery, but I feel quite good. My plan is to get my hair cut to a shorter, funkier style, because I’ve been told I could have just a bit more time with locks on my head if my hair isn’t long. I know it’s putting off the inevitable, but I want to avoid looking like a cancer patient as long as I can. When I do shave my head, I know I have some wonderful scarves and hats to wear thanks to friends who’ve donated them. I also know that I will make it through this journey with a few more scars that will add to my personal roadmap (and the mosaic of my life).

beautiful shards

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What to expect tomorrow…dreadfully early morning for surgical placement of the port followed by recovery, meeting with the oncologist, and then my very first chemo infusion. I know it won’t be nearly as bad as I envision, and that there won’t be a skull and crossbones on the bag that holds the chemo drugs, but I can’t help but feel resistant. Who came up with the idea of infusing chemicals into people that are meant to create free radicals that seek and destroy cells? It goes against what I know about health- but, then again, getting a cancer diagnosis tends to make one re-think everything they may have thought they “knew” about health.

This week we went to hear Terry Tempest-Williams speak and read from her new book Finding Beauty in a Broken World. I resonate with the idea that creativity can spark healing, and that finding a way to re-build something beautiful from that which has been broken is not only possible, but necessary in order to find meaning. My experience since receiving the diagnosis of cancer has been filled with ripping apart and loss, and yet there have been incredible moments in which I have found fragments that I intend to save for an incredible life mosaic when I need it down the road. Really, in the large context of this insane world, my little cancer experience is nothing. Losing little pieces of myself only create room for shiny new fragments of soul to shine through. Who knows- maybe chemo will be a blessing in the mosaic of my life.

countdown to chemo

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I start chemo next Friday. Not looking forward to it. I’ll be getting an infusion of 3 drugs every week- Taxotere, Paraplatin, and Herceptin. This Tuesday I meet with the naturopath at the cancer clinic and then I will have my first echo cardiogram (don’t know the spelling of that one) to test the strength of my heart because of the effects of the Herceptin. The oncologist warned me that I will likely experience nerve damage due to the chemo which I may or may not recover from, but the common side effect is numbness and tingling in the fingers and toes (and my nails will be funky, too). Since that meeting, I’ve been less than enjoyable to be around (just ask Reen), but I’m also coming to terms with what the next several months may look like.

This week I’ve received beautiful knit hats from the knitting group at work, and I’ve been imagining the gorgeous fabrics that I could wear on my head. I know that part of this process will be about re-imaging how I can make this a journey of discovery. I will hopefully only have to go through this once in my life, and I want it to be a powerful representation of my strength and courage. The past week, I’ve felt less than courageous, and I’ve been resistant to what lies ahead. Although I have been told that I am “an inspiration”, I feel more like a fraud, and I want to change that. I want to inspire myself and to seek ways in which I can draw from this experience in order to empower my future. I want to explore the ways in which even the dreaded chemo regimen can create fullness in my life. Mostly, I want this journey to be one in which I prove to myself, more than anyone else, that I can be powerful, graceful, and fierce.

what not to say…

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I begin chemotherapy in just over a week, and I’m petrified. I’m scared about the toxic nature of the drugs, the medications I’ll have to take as a result, and the numerous side effects that I’ll likely experience. My strong conviction in holistic healthcare fights against the need to pump chemicals into my body in order to eradicate any possible cancer, and yet my fear of the unknown and the insistent suggestions of my Western medicine physicians point me toward this mode of treatment. The closer I get to the date of the port placement and my first chemo infusion, the more I resent this cancer and all that it means in my life….and yet I maintain an optimistic view that this is one of the most life-altering and profound things that could have happened to me; I am in control of how I make meaning out of this (many thanks to my studies in existential psychology).

Despite the strong face I’ve had pre and post surgery, I am ashamed to be as obsessed as I am about the vain fear of losing my hair. The reality is that I will likely be bald within the next month, and my hair will not have a chance to grow back for several months. I adore the fact that people believe that I will be “beautiful bald”, but I honestly do not believe that I will be capable of controlling my resentment and irritation if one more person suggests that “it will grow back”. My hair will be gone for a good season, if not two, and I will not have the option to “grow it back” right away. I will have the option to bare my head (which I don’t know if I have the boldness to do), wear a wig (which is very rarely not obvious), or to wear beanies, hats and scarves. I will choose the final option, but I doubt that I will come to terms with it. Please, please, please- if I whine about my impending baldness, just assure me that it sucks or don’t say anything at all. I’m not looking for compliments or reassurance of my ability to grow hair sans chemo. I’m just complaining about the fact that I will have side effects and that I can’t control this aspect of the cancer journey.

pathology and belonging

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The pathology report….drum roll, please….all clear. All 9 nodes negative. After leaving 3 messages for the surgeon this week, she finally called to read the report that was sitting in her inbox since Monday. Frustrating, to say the least, but also a great relief. The size and nature of the tumor (HER2, ER/PR positive) make this cancer more aggressive, but because it’s not in the lymph nodes, it’s treatable.

With the actual tumor gone, I’m not quite sure how to describe my situation, especially given my difficulty with holding the idea of dis-ease in my body. I continue to recognize that I am not this cancer; that this experience is my journey and that the scars across my chest are my own reminder of where I’ve been. But does that mean I can now join the ranks of those women who carry the bold title of “survivor”, or do I have to wait until my head is free of my wiry hair and I have had chemicals pumped into my bloodstream? I feel lost in this period between surgery and chemo which feels like an in-between place in which I am empty of belonging, and free to pretend that I am merely healing from surgery. I suppose it helps that I feel fierce and fabulous, and that my flexibility is returning in recognizable daily ways. It also helps that I continue to receive strong embraces from people unafraid to hold my new frame and calls and emails as reminders that I am not alone as I traverse a new, foreign terrain.