Low White Count

Yesterday I went in for my first blood draw since the chemo. In the afternoon, one of the nurses called to let me know that my white cell count and platelet count had gone too low. As a result, I am at a high risk for infection right now and have been asked to avoid going out in public, to not eat raw vegetables, and to take a host of other precautions.

We had planned to go to a parent function for Grace's school tonight, as well as church on Sunday. But these will just not be happening for me.

Today and over the weekend I am going to take it easy and give my body the rest it needs to heal. I am "hard at work"... lying on the couch with my fuzzy blanket and trusty laptop. I can still edit my "Nutrient Management for Organic Small Grains" paper, just not at my desk. Thank goodness for wireless routers, cordless phones, and laptops.

Chemo can be a dangerous dance with the immune system. The medicine targets fast-growing cells. Included in this category are cancer cells, white blood cells, and platelets. It can't distinguish one from the other.

The day after chemo, I went in for a Neulasta shot. This is a drug that stimulates the bone marrow to make extra white blood cells when they dip too low. Apparently, it doesn't kick in until it's needed. So the hope is that it will start to do it's job and my white cell count will start to improve over the next few days. If the numbers don't come up enough, the next round of chemo will just have to wait.

So ... Little Miss Over-achiever Pants is learning to take it easy, let things go, and ask for help. Wish me luck.

Round One Done!

The first round of chemo went reasonably well, and I'm very, very grateful for that simple gift.

On Thursday morning, our deacon came to the house to pray with us before we left. Then Brett and I headed up to the hospital. I wore my super-amazing shoes that I bought the last time we were in Seattle. If these shoes had a name they would be my "Take No Prisoners" shoes. My brother Jeff met us at the hospital. It was a lovely, sunny day.

By about noon, I was hooked up on the first of 5 infusions. They start with saline, then move to 2 powerful anti-nausea drugs. Then Adriamycin, which is red and has to be pushed into my port with a big syringe. (I asked the nurse to cover it with a towel so I didn't have to watch.) The last infusion is Cytoxan. They started that one at half dose to see how I would tolerate it. When everything looked good, they cranked it up to the full dosage.

Sometime during the infusion, I was visited by another woman I had been trying to connect with. R is my age, has 2 little kids ages 1 and 3, and also has breast cancer. She is done with chemo and is now taking Herceptin infusions. It was amazing to connect with another person my age. But sobering to see another young mom affected by this disease. When she did this same chemo, she reacted very, very badly and was in and out of the hospital and had to have home nursing care. Her reaction is rare compared to most, but yet another reminder that I am lucky.

After chemo, we went out and took some photos in a barley field next to the hospital. Bozeman is the only place I know where the hospital is next to an open field. For my east coast relatives, this will only cement the idea that we live in the middle of nowhere. But for me, a field of grain is comforting and beautiful.

Barley also reminds me of our first dance at our wedding, "Fields of Gold," by Sting. Since our 10th anniversary is Sept. 9th (today) it seemed like a good thing to do.



Next, we went to watch Grace' soccer practice. About then, I started to feel "weird" and we came home. My dad and step-mom met us at home and had come with all sorts of good things. The only thing I wanted was a banana-based smoothie. My dad, in his great kindness, had brought all sorts of wonderful fruit and whipped one right up for me in the Vita-Mix. Then Grace and I snuggled in bed together and I drifted off to sleep.




Physically, it has felt like I've had the flu for 5 or 6 days. I've been able to function. I've gone shopping, out to a restaurant for Brett's birthday, and out for walks. On Tuesday I was back at work. Dragging my tail, but working nonetheless.

I felt like such a conqueror after getting myself into that chemo chair. I was so scared of what would happen. Every time I thought of it I would cry. I didn't know how I was going to find the strength to do it.

But I did it. And I did it on my terms. I was calm. I was ready. And I was in control. This alone was a major victory for me.

However, I have to be very careful that I don't overdo it. The emotional high of making it through came to an end about Tuesday. I think the powerful anti-nausea steroid ran it's course as well. My body and my emotions dipped low and I spent much of the day napping and regrouping.

On Monday evening I was feeling good enough that I went for a long walk to the top of Peet's Hill by myself. It was wonderful to get out for some fresh air. My body was achy and tired. But the evening was beautiful. I got to the top of the hill just as the sun was setting over the Tobacco Root mountains. Then a flock of geese came from the east, flying low, and the point flew right over where I was standing. I could hear the "whoosh" of the wingbeats. They came from the exact direction of the hospital, flew over me, and then west over Bozeman towards the sunset and the mountains. I was surprised by their beauty and I could feel my eyes water. I was a part of that moment. I was a part of LIFE.

Love,
Susan

Go Time

This is where the rubber meets the road. Chemo starts tomorrow.

Giving ourselves 2 extra weeks was a good move for us. We hadn't thought through all of our options and weren't ready to take action until we were sure of our direction.

We certainly aren't happy that chemo is the next step, but at least we have made peace with that choice. It boils down to this: At stage 3, there is a 44% chance that surgery alone will cure you. When you add in chemo, radiation, and hormone therapy, that number jumps to 80%. (Let's not think about that other 20% right now, ok?)

The problem is that no one knows which of the three groups you will be in. 1. You may not need chemo at all. 2. Chemo will be the reason you are cured, or 3. Chemo will just buy you time.

I would love to believe that I am in the first group and that if I just drink kale juice smoothies I will be fine. But I could never live with myself if things get worse and I hadn't done chemo. I don't want to ever explain to my family that chemo was just too scary and inconvenient so I couldn't be bothered.

So here I am, staring down the barrel of the most challenging chemo regimen available for breast cancer; dose-dense AC+T. I will go every other Thursday from now until the first part of December. First up are 4 rounds of AC (Adriamycin and Cytoxan), aka "The Red Devil." Yep, it's red. And yep, it burns. The nurses wear thick rubber gloves and something like a hazmat suit to make sure they don't get it on themselves. This is not comforting. At all.

Last week I had an internal port installed. This allows the chemo to inject directly into my chest wall, rather than having to be poked in my arm each time. It really completes the Frankenstein look that I've got going on my chest right now. All I need are 2 bolts for either side of my neck and I'm set.

Today I go for one final check at the cardiologist. Chemo is hard on the heart, and they need to make sure mine is OK before we start.

Next order of business to to pack my chemo bag for tomorrow. The September issue of Vogue will definitely be at my side, as well as my amazing, make-other-girls-jealous-because-he's-so-handsome husband. And some dark chocolate.

Love,
Susan