My Long Overdue Post-Chemo Post

Hair has been growing. Energy levels are back to normal. Life goes on!

Nearly six months have passed since my final chemo treatment. Wow! Time has flown.

I've been meaning to post updates about life post-cancer. Because, it's a bit weird. My oncologist informed me that it was natural to have anxiety as a cancer survivor, and yeah there are days when the possibility of a relapse scares me and I wonder about my future. Ultimately, I can't worry about it, because the future isn't written yet. Gotta keep living!

I still need check-ups every three months to make sure everything is hunky dory, both in terms of watching out for long-lasting chemo side effects (of which I have none so far) and potential relapse (also none so far). Luckily for me, Hodgkin's lymphoma has a low relapse rate and most HL patients are cured with first-line chemotherapy. All of the statistics are in my favor. Hurrah!

As for other updates...

First, the sad news: back in November, my oncologist told me she would be relocating. I'm happy for her, moving on with her career and all. Sad for me. I could not have asked for a better oncologist to help me through the tumultuous journey. I was able to see her one last time before she moved in December.

The good news, also back in November my port was explanted!

I'm grateful the device made receiving medications easier, however I am super glad it is gone. If I had kept it in, I would have had to revisit the infusion center once a month to get it flushed to keep the catheter clean and clear. Considering how accessing it each time made me nauseous—with or without chemo—because of my reaction to the saline and/or heparin, removing it was the best. It also signified an end to my cancer adventure.

On Friday, November 21, my Aunt Debbie accompanied me to the hospital. We arrived at 6:55am and left around 10:30am. The procedure itself lasted just over an hour.

Pre-procedure

I have learned to be more vocal about my needs and desires, so prior to the procedure I had a few questions/requests:

1) Can I be more conscious than sedated during the procedure, like last time during the implant? 
Answer: Yes! Woohoo!

2A) Can I keep the port? 
Answer: No, because it is a biohazard. =(

2B) Can I take a picture with the port? 
Answer: YES! (see below)

3) Can anything be done about the nasty little scar* from when the port was first implanted?
Answer: The doc wasn't sure. Usually they make a second incision or something. He said he would take it into consideration and see what he could do.

*Side note: Funny story. Sooort of. When the port was implanted, there was a little mix-up about when it would be okay to remove the surgical glue. The take-home instructions claimed it would fall off on its own within seven days. On day eight, the glue was still stuck in place so I removed it, which apparently was too soon (the nurse practitioner later told me fourteen days was the ideal wait length; um...that would have been nice to include in the instructions). When I removed the glue it was obvious the incision had not quite healed and I had to return to the interventional radiology department so the nurse practitioner could tape it with surgical strips. This technique was not very effective and the scar healed weird. Every time I looked at it, it reminded me of a slug.

Source

Returning to my explant procedure story, as requested I was mostly awake, although the nurse increased my sedative at one point because she said she noticed I was wincing. All in all, I remember about half of the procedure: the set up, an x-ray, a blue drape, the prep, the stinging lidocaine injection...

A different doctor performed the explant, not the doc I met during pre-op. New doc and I had a great chat during the procedure. Unfortunately, I don't remember most of it. Apparently she gave me a lot of great life advice. Guess I'll have to fill in the gaps with my imagination!

Bonus: She removed the scar tissue as requested! Yay! The new scar is longer and just as wide as the old scar, but it looks a lot cleaner and less slug-like. I'm satisfied with it.

Post-procedure
Me + Port

Yellow bruise a few days later.
The bottom line is the new scar.
The top line was more bruising.

Those are all the updates I have for now. I hope more will be forthcoming, but I make no guarantees.

Cheerio!

My Gratitude

Thank you to everyone who helped me through this journey!

Thank you to the UC Davis medical staff and everyone who was a part of my diagnosis and especially my healing process.

Thank you to local businesses for donating art supplies, and for occasional discounts (this is by far from a regular occurrence, but when it happened it was a mini miracle!)

Thank you strangers for offering kind words and complimented my baldness, and for survivors sharing their stories with me.

Thank you friends and relatives for visiting me, sending gifts and cards and texts and emails, chatting and commiserating with me, "liking" my Facebook posts, and leaving words of encouragement through Facebook and blog post comments.

The biggest THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU goes to my family for taking me to every doctor and chemo appointment, crying with me, putting up with my shenanigans, running errands, babysitting me on chemo weekends, and supporting me emotionally, mentally, physically, and financially.

I honestly could not have gotten through this without everyone's love and support!

Hugs!

My Dark Moments

Tire swinging would not be complete without its dark moments. Except the monkey isn't swinging because she's fallen off and landed in a pit.

I once cried so hard that I made myself nauseous and almost didn't make it to the bathroom to throw up. I've also huddled up in a fetal position next to my coffee table because I had no energy to pull myself up to the sofa. I've cried in my kitchen, in my bedroom corner, in my sister and mother's arms.

With all of the side effects and everything else, depression happens. And life keeps going on. And that gets depressing because what the hell do you do when your finances spiral down the toilet, but you're too exhausted to work, and as grateful you are that your family is helping, you also mourn the lost aspects of your autonomy, and some days no matter how much you wish everything would just go away and life would be a bucket of rainbows you know that's just not possible. At least not right now. Not for a while.

When I was in the ER back in May, my nurse shared her mom's philosophy with me (her mom was a cancer survivor): 

It's okay to cry. You have to cry. Having a pity party once in a while does not mean you are weak. It means you are recharging. It means release. Getting stuck in pity mode for too long is not good; the party has to end sometime. However, neither is it good to pretend to be happy 100% of the time.

The darkness is temporary. It always passes.

Treasure the good days. Because they happen, too.

So climb back on that tire, little monkey, and keep swinging!

My Fifth Chemo Costume: A Tarantino Tribute

Prior to leaving to my fifth chemo infusion, in near tears and while embracing my sister Christine I aksed her, "Wanna skip out and get massages instead?"

I hit a psychological block this time around. The weeks after my fourth chemo treatment were rough. Nausea lasted longer than usual. Days passed with a lot more sleeping, napping, and aching. Which is expected. Fatigue is another major side effect of chemo. The added aches are a side effect from a drug I inject myself with every two weeks to keep my white blood cell count up. Not only did I have to increase my anti-nausea meds, I also had to go one step stronger for my pain meds. A double dose of extra strength acetaminophen no longer met my needs.

On Tuesday, in preparation for Thursday's chemo, I had my routine blood tests to make sure my blood counts are decent. Two small vials. Should be no big deal. Except my stomach was churning. Maybe it was because I had a very busy morning (oncologist appointment, delivering art activity kits, costume hunting), or because I had a leftover fast food sandwich for lunch, or because for the past week I have been dreading my fifth chemo. After I left the clinic I, uh, well...highlight at your own risk: fast food became upsy-daisy food. I upchucked while I was driving home. Luckily I caught most of the regurgitated contents in a bath towel I keep in my car. And I hadn't even had chemo yet!!!

I am allowed a space of apprehension. I am allowed to cry. I am allowed to say, "I don't want to do this anymore." I could quit if I wanted to, call my oncologist and cancel all future appointments. That is an option.

However, like one of my favorite characters from one of my favorite movies, no matter how bad a situation may get, I will not quit.

Here's to you, Kiddo!

Wiggle your big toe.

Hard part's over. Now let's get these other chemos cycling.