Wednesday 14 September 2016

Sometimes a Gall Stone is Just a Gall Stone

Once a person has been diagnosed with a cancer, any cancer, they live their life in fear of that cancer's return. Or worse, a new cancer that then spawns a new fear of the return of that cancer. I have had the return of my cancer already and believe me, it doesn't feel good. At all. That's because every time cancer returns, it changes your prognosis. You get put in a different category. The category of "maybe it's not under control" and "what will we do about this now". Because doctors really don't like it when your cancer comes back. It means the treatment they thought would cure your disease has not worked. And for the most part, there is no Plan B. So now we treat symptoms as they arise and we look for new cures that might come up as research into this awful disease continues.

Over the Labour Day weekend I had a severe pain in my abdomen that radiated through my left rib cage and around to my back. It was so severe that I couldn't settle down. I stood, paced, sat, lay down, stood up, paced and repeated. I took extra pain meds. Nothing worked. So off to the Emergency Room we went at six o'clock at night. All that went through my mind was, this is it. This is the day I find out that the cancer has overtaken me and it's game over. Every cancer survivor thinks this, I have no doubt. Every little pain, discomfort, pimple, palpitation, cramp, or otherwise, has us thinking that the big "C" has finally done its nasty turn and made us it's bitch.

At the hospital, the doctors and nurses wander around me with faces that say the end is near. I know I'm exaggerating but there really is a look in their eyes when you tell them you have an active cancer going on. It's hard to explain but it's like waiting for the other shoe to drop. They do bloodwork, take X-rays and watch as the colour returns to my face and my lips go from purple spots to pink and healthy (relatively) looking. No heart attack, they said (not that I was even thinking about my heart). No pulmonary embolism, they said. The pain was beginning to subside. Well, it could have been from the intravenous pain meds they gave me. But then they had to transfer me to another hospital for more tests. They decided that it could be a gall stone. WHAT???? Did I hear that right? I had been worrying and fretting over cancer and they declare my anxiety a non-entity. I was happy in a twisted sort of way, even though I had to stay in the hospital for two nights while they made sure my system cleared out the poisons from the passing of that nasty little stone.

No new cancer. Whew. Big whew. Sometimes a gall stone is just a gall stone.

Thursday 9 June 2016

The Recovery Curve

It is nearly two months since my stem cell transplant for multiple myeloma. I'm supposed to be recovering which, according to the doctors, should take roughly three months to regain a fully functional immune system and six months to a year to feel like 'my old self'. So how do I spend my days when the thing I'm supposed to be doing is 'recovering'? Therein lays the crux.

I'm mathematically inclined, as anyone who knows me well will tell you. I think linearly, I like numbers, I'm not half bad at Sudoku, and I can still remember equations that I memorized in high school. So, it's no wonder that I think of my recovery in terms of a dose response curve. It rises sharply then levels out then trails off slightly. Right now I expect I am on the sharply rising beginning of the curve, heading toward a levelling off, meaning that I expect to get a little better every day until I get to a point where I simply can't get any better. My physical limitations, dictated by my disease, will not let my curve rise any longer. It would be a great analogy of a recovery if it were true.

The problem is that I have setbacks on a semi-regular basis. Like today. I've been doing so well, going out with my family, friends, my partner. Getting groceries, making dinner, sweeping the floor. Doing simple tasks that anyone can do in their sleep. Today my pain caught up with me and laid me out in lavender.

I took my pills an hour early, at around 7:30pm because I was starting to feel the pain in my back getting intense. When that happens, I end up tensing up so the muscles around the broken vertebrae get sore too. I was sitting in my comfy chair in the living room and I couldn't get comfortable. So much for my comfy chair. Richard brought me my pills and I took them. They didn't kick in as fast as usual so we went upstairs so he could rub some Voltaren on my back. His warm hand felt good but he couldn't press at all without triggering spasms of pain. I rocked in the bed. I laid down. I sat up. I paced. I rocked. And I laid down again. Then I cried. There was nothing else to do.

Yes, my back hurt. But my ribs hurt too. They all felt broken. I took another breakthrough pill. Then I paced again. For some unexplainable reason, I wanted my pillow case changed. I became focussed on the fact that the pillowcase smelled stale and the only thing that would make me feel better was a fresh pillowcase. So Richard got one and again for no reason in particular, it felt better to have a clean pillowcase. I sat up, swung my legs over the edge of the bed and started to rock. I breathed deeply. The pain eased. I wanted to shout hurray. Within two minutes, I went from writhing in agony to being able to sit up with no pain. 

Where the heck am I on the curve now?

Monday 16 May 2016

What they don't tell you about cancer.

There are several things they don't tell you about when you get/fight/beat/recover from cancer. For instance, chemotherapy wreaks havoc on your....wait for it....bowels. Yes, you will have diarrhea and constipation, sometimes on alternating days. Just when you think you need an extra stool softener you'll find yourself reaching for the Immodium. There may even be times when you will need Depends, just in case you pee yourself standing up. If your stomach muscles tense up even just a little, that good old sphincter that keeps in the pee will let loose. It's embarassing and can lead to extra loads of laundry. Believe me, you do not want to let your delicates sit for any length of time while still...er....damp. There's always the nausea, which the doctors have piles of medication to curb it with but that's really one of the more obvious side effects. These are the logical aspects of cancer given that chemotherapy does a number on your entire body. But there are a few other side effects that took me by surprise.

For starters, my skin became so sensitive. No matter where you touched me or how gently, the feeling was like a deep tissue massage. You know, the kind where you just want the masseuse to stop before you start crying from the pain. I would get a pedicure (something I felt helped me feel better about myself as well as a way to keep my feet clean and healthy) and when it came time for moisturizer to be rubbed into my calf muscles, I would just about hit the roof. And yet, the dry skin required moisturizer regularly just so it didn't look like my skin was falling off like a snake's. It was more than just the delicate touch that bothered me. My cats would regularly walk up my body and settle into my lap or on my stomach. But after treatment, those little kitty toes felt like I was being jabbed by a pool cue. Or worse, it reminded me of when I was about 6 years old and my grandfather, who was known as a man who didn't much like children, was visiting. Apparently I was talking too much, I tended to do that, and he said children should be seen and not heard while he jabbed his walking cane into my ribs.

My particular cancer affords me a few other side-effects such as a broken back, blood clots and the notion that I will never be cured and will have to live with this nasty disease for the rest of my shortened life. But there is one that really puzzled me.

That one side effect, the one that surprised me most, was when I realized I had cradle cap. That's right folks, cradle cap, like a baby. The thing about losing your hair is that for a while your head is soft and the hair wears off on your pillow slip (a lot of people suggest you get a silk pillow slip to avoid this shedding) but before the hair follicles are healed enough to grow actual hairs, your scalp goes through some changes. Mine developed a few sores, which ended up creating small patches of acute dryness. Now this became larger patches of dryness, which made my head start to snow. Not a full on blizzard, just some flurries now and then. Other cancer patients, having experienced the same issue, came up with home made remedies, rubbing almond oil on your scalp for two hours, soaking your head in peroxide, regular scalp massages to aid in blood flow, etc. The one that made sense to me was rubbing vitamin E cream on my scalp daily so that's what I did. Or what I have started to do. I'll let you know how it goes.

I don't expect that doctors will tell you everything about having cancer, that would take too long. But if you've read this blog you'll know that there is certainly more to it than nausea and piles of medication. You really do start your life over. Like a baby. With new hair, delicate skin, diapers and an inability to predict the consistency of your stool. Oh and the puking, which leads to eating things that are easy on your stomach like yogurt and Arrowroot cookies.

I guess the moral of the story is, when you get/fight/beat/recover from the nastiest disease you will probably ever have the misfortune of having, you will also have many side effects that make you laugh and cry. Having no hair makes me laugh. Cradle cap makes me cry.