Shelli Armstrong's Blog, page 3
February 25, 2015
Cue Overture
I'm done!I am exactly one week and a day from my very last chemotherapy treatment. Which means. . . people don't really know how to talk to me anymore.
It's not their fault. I don't know what to talk about, either. (My favorite topic of being single is, of course, still on the table. But I'll try to let this be the only reminder in today's blog post.) So things are awkward. You can ask, "How are you?" because that is a standard question we ask everyone, but now that I'm actually starting to feel fine and good, and I know that I get to keep feeling fine and good, no one knows what to say. Except, "You're done!" And I say, "I know!" And then we laugh gaily and look out the corner of our eyes and have the requisite conversation about growing my hair back.
I thought I dreaded losing my hair. But actually, I'm dreading the process of growing it out much, much more. My scalp already resembles something like this:
It's not attractive. No really. It's not.
I'm going to stop you right there.
Stop it.
Stahp.
Don't even try.
There is literally nothing you can say--ENH! I said stop--to make me feel better about this. The baby bird phase is a painful process that cannot be helped if I ever want to have hair again. (I am tempted everyday to shave it.) And it is horrendous. There are probably no less than fifteen different stages that I'm dreading, but none so much as these first, oh, six months. Because it takes a ridiculously long time for hair to grow back. (Don't believe me? Google it.)
I can hear you trying again. Just don't. Leave it alone.
Aside from that, I'm done. People want to congratulate me, and commend my fight well fought, and all sorts of things and I also need to put a stop to that.
I think there's been some misconceptions about this whole "cancer" thing. I mean, people were like, really worried. And the more I think about it all, the more I'm just annoyed with how inconvenient this whole thing has been! (Does that make me sound like an ungrateful wretch?)
I had a tumor on my ovary. It was cancer--a granulosa cell tumor. They removed the tumor. I shouldn't have had anymore cancer. Stupid Abner (the tumor) had at some point ruptured and so just to make sure they made me do the chemo.
That was often the hardest part.
I would read blogs from other survivors, others who were going through something similar, and the difference was, they were seeing it from a perspective that the chemotherapy was saving their lives. And I was seeing it from the perspective that I felt icky, and hadn't left my bed in three days--just as a precaution. So when I say I'm cured--and I am, probably*--it's not a miracle** and it's not something to really celebrate. Because, honestly, I was probably cured the minute they removed stupid Abner and the stupid ovary.
But! As a precaution, I did it. And probably deep down, I'm glad I did it. Better to go through the precaution and now be able to set it aside and forget about it, than always be wondering "what if"***. See, I said it, so that you don't have to!
I'm cured! And cancer free! And this is all a whole lot to celebrate. And even though a lot of people use times like these to develop relationships with their family members and praise their Higher Being and all sorts of super amazing existential stuff, I thought a lot about how much I hated it. I hated being inconvenienced. I hated feeling sick. I hated the pity and that there is absolutely no right thing to say or do. I hate looking like an alien. And I hate that I can't just snap back like a rubber band back into normal life or normal looks. My muscles are all but atrophied from months of barely doing anything. I gained weight. GAINED WEIGHT ON CHEMO! What kind of stupid bull crap is that? Much to my mom's disappointment, I refuse to take anything from this experience.
However, what a fool and ungrateful wretch I would actually be, if I just didn't say: Thank you. Again. Because even though there is no right thing to say, the fact that you said something meant a lot. I felt very loved. I know that there were prayers offered, and allowances given, and I was on the receiving end of meals, gifts, company. . . the list goes on and on and on. I'm looking at my hospital account balance, and amazed that I'm not crippled financially. And it is because of my friends and family--and even their friends and family--and to say that I'm not blessed would be a true falsehood. So fine, I'll give credit where credit is due. . . I guess.
Oh! So what's next? Lots of follow up appointments over the next few years. They can't test my blood work, because it won't be reliable. The markers they are looking for are produced my normal-working ovaries, and since I still have one, it won't really tell us anything. They'll do an occasional ultrasound and keep an eye on said ovaries and lady parts. None of this will affect my fertility.
biting tongue to keep earlier promise
Life goes on. I'm going to have to actually figure out what I'm doing at my "new" job, and delve into, "this, my 30th year. . ."
. . .
. . .
Shudder.
_________________
*This from the same doctor who said it was never cancer to begin with, and that there's such a thing as "good chemo" and other equally silly things. . .
**The miracle is that it all always could have been worse, and it wasn't. I am incredibly lucky and blessed.
***Full disclosure forces me to say that from what I know about granulosa cell tumors, return rates are high, even if 20 years later. Hopefully if there's a next one, it won't rupture and I'll be done with all my lady parts and they can all go the way of Abner and the problem-ovary. So there will always be an element of "what if", but hopefully, I won't have to think about that for another 20-30 years.
It's not their fault. I don't know what to talk about, either. (My favorite topic of being single is, of course, still on the table. But I'll try to let this be the only reminder in today's blog post.) So things are awkward. You can ask, "How are you?" because that is a standard question we ask everyone, but now that I'm actually starting to feel fine and good, and I know that I get to keep feeling fine and good, no one knows what to say. Except, "You're done!" And I say, "I know!" And then we laugh gaily and look out the corner of our eyes and have the requisite conversation about growing my hair back.
I thought I dreaded losing my hair. But actually, I'm dreading the process of growing it out much, much more. My scalp already resembles something like this:
It's not attractive. No really. It's not.
I'm going to stop you right there.
Stop it.
Stahp.
Don't even try.
There is literally nothing you can say--ENH! I said stop--to make me feel better about this. The baby bird phase is a painful process that cannot be helped if I ever want to have hair again. (I am tempted everyday to shave it.) And it is horrendous. There are probably no less than fifteen different stages that I'm dreading, but none so much as these first, oh, six months. Because it takes a ridiculously long time for hair to grow back. (Don't believe me? Google it.)
I can hear you trying again. Just don't. Leave it alone.
Aside from that, I'm done. People want to congratulate me, and commend my fight well fought, and all sorts of things and I also need to put a stop to that.
I think there's been some misconceptions about this whole "cancer" thing. I mean, people were like, really worried. And the more I think about it all, the more I'm just annoyed with how inconvenient this whole thing has been! (Does that make me sound like an ungrateful wretch?)
I had a tumor on my ovary. It was cancer--a granulosa cell tumor. They removed the tumor. I shouldn't have had anymore cancer. Stupid Abner (the tumor) had at some point ruptured and so just to make sure they made me do the chemo.
That was often the hardest part.
I would read blogs from other survivors, others who were going through something similar, and the difference was, they were seeing it from a perspective that the chemotherapy was saving their lives. And I was seeing it from the perspective that I felt icky, and hadn't left my bed in three days--just as a precaution. So when I say I'm cured--and I am, probably*--it's not a miracle** and it's not something to really celebrate. Because, honestly, I was probably cured the minute they removed stupid Abner and the stupid ovary.
But! As a precaution, I did it. And probably deep down, I'm glad I did it. Better to go through the precaution and now be able to set it aside and forget about it, than always be wondering "what if"***. See, I said it, so that you don't have to!
I'm cured! And cancer free! And this is all a whole lot to celebrate. And even though a lot of people use times like these to develop relationships with their family members and praise their Higher Being and all sorts of super amazing existential stuff, I thought a lot about how much I hated it. I hated being inconvenienced. I hated feeling sick. I hated the pity and that there is absolutely no right thing to say or do. I hate looking like an alien. And I hate that I can't just snap back like a rubber band back into normal life or normal looks. My muscles are all but atrophied from months of barely doing anything. I gained weight. GAINED WEIGHT ON CHEMO! What kind of stupid bull crap is that? Much to my mom's disappointment, I refuse to take anything from this experience.
However, what a fool and ungrateful wretch I would actually be, if I just didn't say: Thank you. Again. Because even though there is no right thing to say, the fact that you said something meant a lot. I felt very loved. I know that there were prayers offered, and allowances given, and I was on the receiving end of meals, gifts, company. . . the list goes on and on and on. I'm looking at my hospital account balance, and amazed that I'm not crippled financially. And it is because of my friends and family--and even their friends and family--and to say that I'm not blessed would be a true falsehood. So fine, I'll give credit where credit is due. . . I guess.
Oh! So what's next? Lots of follow up appointments over the next few years. They can't test my blood work, because it won't be reliable. The markers they are looking for are produced my normal-working ovaries, and since I still have one, it won't really tell us anything. They'll do an occasional ultrasound and keep an eye on said ovaries and lady parts. None of this will affect my fertility.
biting tongue to keep earlier promise
Life goes on. I'm going to have to actually figure out what I'm doing at my "new" job, and delve into, "this, my 30th year. . ."
. . .
. . .
Shudder.
_________________
*This from the same doctor who said it was never cancer to begin with, and that there's such a thing as "good chemo" and other equally silly things. . .
**The miracle is that it all always could have been worse, and it wasn't. I am incredibly lucky and blessed.
***Full disclosure forces me to say that from what I know about granulosa cell tumors, return rates are high, even if 20 years later. Hopefully if there's a next one, it won't rupture and I'll be done with all my lady parts and they can all go the way of Abner and the problem-ovary. So there will always be an element of "what if", but hopefully, I won't have to think about that for another 20-30 years.
February 23, 2015
Cancer Perks
I have officially completed all six rounds of my chemotherapy. This was such a non-event that even my chemo-therapist didn't make it to my appointment. And as such, the day pretty much passed as the five before (minus any reactions) with the addition of some cakes and sveets from some sweet coworkers, and the presence of my sister. They did sing me a song too, I guess.
After, I walked out of the building and was done and I didn't feel any different than I had any other time. Though, mostly, that's because the treatment is by far not the worst part of chemo. I may have finished pumping poisons in my veins, but I hadn't even begun the chemo sickness that comes after the fact.
Thus far, everything is running per course. I went in for chemo. I felt fine after. I felt fine the next day--well enough to go to work. (Amy and I went to the YL farm and explored different aspects of it for a project I'm working on. It was a grand time.) The following day I get sick and continue to be some kind of sick for the next 4-7 days.
The cancer binder guarantees a few things with side effects: hair loss, nausea, tiredness, "chemo brain", metallic taste, mouth sores, stomach problems (if it's not the chemo, it's the medicine for the chemo) etc. etc. etc. and all of it is a load of crap, and it is all varying degrees of horrible.
Comparatively, I have fared well. I need people to understand that I realize how very lucky and blessed I am for how this whole thing has played out. It certainly could have been worse. Usually within a single week, I was feeling much better and able to go about my activities as if I weren't a body pumped with poisons. And if I felt a bit cruddy, or tired, well, that was just to be expected. (I am currently sitting at my office, feeling cruddy, but otherwise alive. . . )
BUT! Let's talk about cancer "perks" now.
There are no perks of cancer.
For the record: I don't think you can consider employment that has been patient, understanding, and overall supportive a cancer perk. Though, it is certainly a perk to my life. Likewise, all my friends and family and vasts amount of support are a testament to how blessed I am and how amazing the people around me are. Not a perk of cancer.
We all joke about the cancer card, but I will tell you now, that there isn't one. The cop pulling you over because they ran your plates and your insurance information isn't up to date yet, doesn't care a whit that you are bald and pathetic looking. No one really knows how to take care of you, because taking care of a normally fully-functional adult is a weird thing. I didn't need someone to mop my brow. I needed someone to help me keep my house clean (Thanks, Mom!!) but was often too embarrassed to let the few who offered actually into my house to see the wreck it was. I have spent so much time in my bed over the last several months that my muscles have all but atrophied, and yet, I still have to work up a semblance of courage to get my alien-looking mug out the door. But! Try to pull a "call in ugly" move or something, and your friends are not going to stand for it. No respect for the cancer patient, I tell you!
You don't get free things. You don't get genies and wishes. You get a few stares (though, not nearly as many as you were expecting) and invasive questions from strangers. And you answer a lot of the same questions over and over and over again. No one lets you stand in front of them at the grocery store, and they will still cut you off in traffic, and you have to park with everyone else.
There are some well-meaning "perks" that people like to remind you of. "Think of the cute hats and scarves!" or "At least you are saving time on your hair!" or "At least there are fake brows and lashes!" There are so many well-meaning consolations and people trying to give you positives to take to bed at night, that they don't realize that for someone who doesn't wear hats and scarves in the first place is not going to be consoled by it. And for what it's worth, the amount of time you save on doing your hair, you are instead focused on trying--TRYING--LIKE, HOW DO I EMPHASIZE FURTHER THE AMOUNT OF TRYING IT TAKES--to get your eyebrows to look even just slightly normal. Do you know how hard it is to draw on eyebrows? And how easy it is for them to smudge? Or have you put on fake eyelashes? There are people who are PAID to do this, for a reason. (And fake will never be yours. So unless you were intending on paying for it anyway, it will never be enough.)
There are some people who look at the existential side of going through cancer. And maybe there, there are some that benefit from discovering the meaing of their lives. They find their will to live--or to live well. They find their purpose. In the end, they find an empathy that they can then share with others who will experience the same thing. Even if that is the case, it certainly isn't for me. I was never battling cancer. I just never got past the sheer inconvenience of the whole thing. The exorbitant cost. The amount of time I was missing from work. The exhaustion. The reactions. The utter toll on my body. My knowledge gleaned from my experience has resulted in no reaction differing from the one I would have uttered before: It sucks.
I guess now, I can just say that it sucks with a whole lot more empathy packed behind it. Perk.
February 9, 2015
Dating Fireside
Guys, yesterday was the best day I've had in a very long time and it is because I found the thing that fuels my hate fire. The dark evil that only makes me stronger. I found it, and it is glorious. And it is:
Bad dating advice.
I went to a dating fireside last night, and while my companions were mildly optimistic that this "expert" on dating would give us some nuggets of wisdom, I knew that it was going to be delightfully bad. And it was!
We sat on the very back row and easily were the youngest people in attendance (and me, in my 30th year*) and honestly, within three minutes knew that we probably wouldn't get much out of the whole thing. I will say, there were some nuggets of useful information, but mostly, it was just stuff that we have heard for years--which obviously isn't working for us--and things that are common sense.
We live texted all these nuggets in a group text, and I think it was a brilliant idea, because, I think we picked up on some things that were actually useful--or mock-worthy.
Here are the things we learned:
FlirtingWhen leaving a conversation with a boy, turn back and look to see if he's still looking at you or if he's moved on. If he's still looking, he's probably interested.Always be a ladyTHE MAGIC ELBOW TOUCHGeneral advice, or excellent quotes"Don't give them your best, if they're not willing to invest.""Passiveness is passionless"I actually really agree with this. She is saying that non-responses, and pulling away from things so that there is a lack of passion. And if we are living our lives with passiveness, then we aren't going to find passion--for anything. Don't start overthinking things until AFTER six weeksI didn't write this down exactly as she said it, but, there is some merit in this advice. A lot of the times, guys accuse girls of jumping the gun and planning the wedding after the second date or some such nonsense. The first six weeks of dating should be low-stress and FUN. If you hit the six week mark, then maybe start analyzing as to whether or not things should continue. Dating should be fun, and she was encouraging of having 4-6 different people that you were dating a month. It's not wrong. With more people on your first and second string, there's less pressure for just one of them to work out. Of course, finding that many people to date at a time is the very definition of easier said than done.Men are sheep -- men want women that other men wantIt's what you AREN'T doing that is keeping you from datingDon't scrutinize emotions--focus on having fun and relieving pressureTreat this year as your last year of being singleTurn boys down with a compliment, tell them they are great and be warm about rejectionYour ImageRevamp your image [constantly]Spend as much money on yourself as you want a man to spend on youThe world has set unfair expectations on women and what is attractive, but we need to strive to meet these ideals, because changing the world is too hard"Feel like a woman, so he will feel like a man!"Get professional photographs taken of yourself and use them for 1) boosting your self-confidence and 2) You OH SO IMPORTANT online dating profile picture5 Ways** to Motivate men:Image and attractionMake guys "feel good"Go where the singles are: online, grocery store, LDS activitiesUnclearUnclear5 Types of Dates that keep things exciting:New and excitingHighly stimulating--dancing, making outFrightening and intimidatingMystery--don't say what you're going to do, just tell them what to wear"I'm putting together fun weekend plans, and want to include you!"The thing is, as we all know, no one thing works for everyone. The reenactments of how we were supposed to flirt and reject and just act, probably work for a valley girl with only a little self-respect, but I honestly don't know anyone who could organically act that way. Yes, I want someone to like me for who I am, and I don't think there is anything wrong with that. We should be our best selves, and constantly striving to be better, but I don't think we have to at the expense of what comes naturally to us.
She was a huge advocate for getting online and doing the online dating scene. And honestly, it feels like that is the only option these days, as our dating culture shrivels and dies. But how depressing! To think that it really has come down to one of the few options for meeting someone new . . .. I wish she had spent more time talking about how to go about being social human beings.
And for fun, Mindy Lahiri, who is my spirit animal:
*I wouldn't have phrased it that way, except I did phrase it that way earlier today and got made fun of. So I'm trying to normalize its use. And also, I have to remind myself that I'm going to be 30 this year, because maybe then it will be something I can easily accept by the time November rolls around.
**She kept throwing out numbers and lists, but then never actually made it through her lists
February 4, 2015
Playing the Game
There are (probably) many people who make it to their 30th year of life having resisted the experience of ever locking down a particular significant other for any length of time. And then there's me, who falls into that category, and has only the subjected ignorance of how it all came to be that way.
If I'm looking over my dating history, I can say with force, that it isn't for lack of trying or from want. (Others might disagree.)
According to my friends, I fall under one of two categories. When it comes to dating "game", I either have ZERO game or I have the WORST game.
We were debating which is the worse predicament; which is why I am humiliating myself by writing up a blog post about it.
The argument is that it is better for me to have no game than it is for me to have the worst, because, there is something endearing about a young, innocent frolicking through life not understanding exactly how to date or entice men. In a sense, there is still hope that one such person could--if not be taught--at least be coached and eventually, there would be a success of some sort. Or someone might just take pity, and scoop up the naive thing and call it a day.
Having the WORST game, though, suggests something much more menacing. It means that there is, not just a level, but a full blown war of self-sabotage. That I might actually know what I am supposed to be doing, but then do the exact opposite to an end of consistent and counteractive results. (This also includes unending, entertaining beratements from friends.)
For instance: let's say that a guy in my ward* begins to show an interest in me by making an effort to say hello every time we are at a church activity together. He is kind and polite, and the handful of conversations we've had show no major red flags or reasons to stop anything from happening.
The person with no game would be genuinely clueless of the efforts said guy is making in hunting her down each Sunday, especially given that she is never on time. She might even think that he was more interested in the girl she often sits with and is seen talking to, even though he hasn't shown a marked preference for either of them. She wouldn't necessarily be encouraging, but she might be slightly flirty and generally comfortable with his presence. Nothing would happen because he would be confused, but happy to continue down a road of friendship.
The girl with the worst game would see that he's sought her out, regardless of whether or not her friend was present, and would even note how he stands close to her and has suggested they go to Stimulus Tuesday ($5 movie night) or read that article she mentioned she found interesting the last time they spoke. She would mention how busy her calendar was, and waste time provoking him by asking about his dating successes and failures, and at the end, would announce that she has a friend to set him up with. All without thinking once about going on a date with him herself.
At least, that is how I see those two scenarios going.
And really, I have been guilty of both. Because I have my own theories. They much more resemble an economics class with lectures on supply and demand and desirability of certain commodities. Since I have never taken an economics class, I will spare us all on me even beginning to explain. I will say this, I do believe I'm more self-aware than for which a lot of people give me credit. Sometimes the guy is just being friendly and really is interested in the girl across the cultural hall and appreciates that you aren't throwing yourself at him.
*There is no guy. This is a purely hypothetical situation.
If I'm looking over my dating history, I can say with force, that it isn't for lack of trying or from want. (Others might disagree.)
According to my friends, I fall under one of two categories. When it comes to dating "game", I either have ZERO game or I have the WORST game.
We were debating which is the worse predicament; which is why I am humiliating myself by writing up a blog post about it.
The argument is that it is better for me to have no game than it is for me to have the worst, because, there is something endearing about a young, innocent frolicking through life not understanding exactly how to date or entice men. In a sense, there is still hope that one such person could--if not be taught--at least be coached and eventually, there would be a success of some sort. Or someone might just take pity, and scoop up the naive thing and call it a day.
Having the WORST game, though, suggests something much more menacing. It means that there is, not just a level, but a full blown war of self-sabotage. That I might actually know what I am supposed to be doing, but then do the exact opposite to an end of consistent and counteractive results. (This also includes unending, entertaining beratements from friends.)
For instance: let's say that a guy in my ward* begins to show an interest in me by making an effort to say hello every time we are at a church activity together. He is kind and polite, and the handful of conversations we've had show no major red flags or reasons to stop anything from happening.
The person with no game would be genuinely clueless of the efforts said guy is making in hunting her down each Sunday, especially given that she is never on time. She might even think that he was more interested in the girl she often sits with and is seen talking to, even though he hasn't shown a marked preference for either of them. She wouldn't necessarily be encouraging, but she might be slightly flirty and generally comfortable with his presence. Nothing would happen because he would be confused, but happy to continue down a road of friendship.
The girl with the worst game would see that he's sought her out, regardless of whether or not her friend was present, and would even note how he stands close to her and has suggested they go to Stimulus Tuesday ($5 movie night) or read that article she mentioned she found interesting the last time they spoke. She would mention how busy her calendar was, and waste time provoking him by asking about his dating successes and failures, and at the end, would announce that she has a friend to set him up with. All without thinking once about going on a date with him herself.
At least, that is how I see those two scenarios going.
And really, I have been guilty of both. Because I have my own theories. They much more resemble an economics class with lectures on supply and demand and desirability of certain commodities. Since I have never taken an economics class, I will spare us all on me even beginning to explain. I will say this, I do believe I'm more self-aware than for which a lot of people give me credit. Sometimes the guy is just being friendly and really is interested in the girl across the cultural hall and appreciates that you aren't throwing yourself at him.
*There is no guy. This is a purely hypothetical situation.
February 1, 2015
Callings
In Church, ward members are assigned various jobs within leadership, general running of meetings, and maintenance roles called callings. There was a talk given many years ago (I think by President Hinckley, but I could be wrong) that states that one of the things that every member needs is a calling--or a responsibility within the church. Singles wards don't have to worry about youth organizations or primary, and so there always seems to be a plethora of made up callings in order to meet the needs of the members, in trying to keep everyone active participants.
Which is one of the reasons I haven't heretofore asked for a calling in my ward.
I don't like the made up callings. Like the busy work teachers used to give us in elementary school (or high school, for that matter) just to keep up quiet and working, I resent some of the made up "callings" that help make a YSA ward a YSA ward.
But, it's been some months, and I'm not integrating into the ward as well as I really ought to, and we all know what that means.
I need a calling.
My bishop had told me that he wasn't going to worry about giving me one until the whole surgery, and then cancer, stuff blew over. Which was a nice thought. And I really have enjoyed not having any responsibilities. But, there really is nothing like a calling to get you involved in the ward. (Most the time.) So, about a month ago, I told the bishop that I needed him to start thinking of something for me to do. He seemed surprised. Which, I don't doubt. My attendance to my ward is spotty at best, and often limited to sacrament meeting.
I still haven't received a calling, because, likely, he hasn't been able to track me down in order to extend the offer. But I have a few suggestions as to what I would most like to do in the ward:
Elder's Quorum Teacher - this is in no way a political statement. I just would rather hang out with the guys during this hour than attend Relief Society. I also think it would be an excellent opportunity for the guys in the ward to get to know me. Elder's Quorum Greeter - since the first suggestion is wrought with political and social controversy, using the old made up "greeter" calling might be a better way to go. It would also require me to be to church on time, since EQ/RS meet first.Song Chooser - for any meeting. Nothing sets me off like a list of poorly chosen hymns on my Sabbath day. I don't know why anyone has not put me in charge before now. I will bring back themes and choose new songs, and keep the favorites in rotation. And we will SING ALL THE VERSES. Or, the most applicable verses. (Why do we never sing the sacrament verses during sacrament?)Ward Matchmaker - this might be giving me too much power, but, I would like to just offer up suggestions for relationships I think have a chance . . . and also, the ones that amuse me to no end. Besides, the point of a singles ward is to get people married, right? So this should DEFINITELY be an official calling with stewardship.Shepherd's Crook - Can I please sit on the stand every Sunday with a giant shepherd's crook and control the unruly speakers who are speaking WAY past their time, or about things that are not at all related to the meeting? This is a most important calling during Fast and Testimony meeting. I will give them three chances for me to not roll my eyes, and then they're done. (This would also help with whoever is the song chooser, because then we will get to sing all the lovely verses of the hymns, instead of constantly being ripped off.) See? There are plenty of opportunities for me to serve within this ward. I can't wait to see what the bishop comes up with.
Which is one of the reasons I haven't heretofore asked for a calling in my ward.
I don't like the made up callings. Like the busy work teachers used to give us in elementary school (or high school, for that matter) just to keep up quiet and working, I resent some of the made up "callings" that help make a YSA ward a YSA ward.
But, it's been some months, and I'm not integrating into the ward as well as I really ought to, and we all know what that means.
I need a calling.
My bishop had told me that he wasn't going to worry about giving me one until the whole surgery, and then cancer, stuff blew over. Which was a nice thought. And I really have enjoyed not having any responsibilities. But, there really is nothing like a calling to get you involved in the ward. (Most the time.) So, about a month ago, I told the bishop that I needed him to start thinking of something for me to do. He seemed surprised. Which, I don't doubt. My attendance to my ward is spotty at best, and often limited to sacrament meeting.
I still haven't received a calling, because, likely, he hasn't been able to track me down in order to extend the offer. But I have a few suggestions as to what I would most like to do in the ward:
Elder's Quorum Teacher - this is in no way a political statement. I just would rather hang out with the guys during this hour than attend Relief Society. I also think it would be an excellent opportunity for the guys in the ward to get to know me. Elder's Quorum Greeter - since the first suggestion is wrought with political and social controversy, using the old made up "greeter" calling might be a better way to go. It would also require me to be to church on time, since EQ/RS meet first.Song Chooser - for any meeting. Nothing sets me off like a list of poorly chosen hymns on my Sabbath day. I don't know why anyone has not put me in charge before now. I will bring back themes and choose new songs, and keep the favorites in rotation. And we will SING ALL THE VERSES. Or, the most applicable verses. (Why do we never sing the sacrament verses during sacrament?)Ward Matchmaker - this might be giving me too much power, but, I would like to just offer up suggestions for relationships I think have a chance . . . and also, the ones that amuse me to no end. Besides, the point of a singles ward is to get people married, right? So this should DEFINITELY be an official calling with stewardship.Shepherd's Crook - Can I please sit on the stand every Sunday with a giant shepherd's crook and control the unruly speakers who are speaking WAY past their time, or about things that are not at all related to the meeting? This is a most important calling during Fast and Testimony meeting. I will give them three chances for me to not roll my eyes, and then they're done. (This would also help with whoever is the song chooser, because then we will get to sing all the lovely verses of the hymns, instead of constantly being ripped off.) See? There are plenty of opportunities for me to serve within this ward. I can't wait to see what the bishop comes up with.
January 1, 2015
NYE 2014
Last night's activities included the body exhibit at the Leonardo. Dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant. And attendance at Salt Lake City's EVE party--which was supposedly a VIP event. But I'll get to that in a minute.
The Leonardo was the classy way to begin the evening. And though I prefer Cafe Molisse for Italian cuisine, the restaurant we went to did have a pretty good tortellini with spicy sausage and vodka sauce.
After we finished our meal, I popped down to the restroom before we headed to our next venue and while waiting in line, another woman joined. She took one look at me and with some concern, asked if I was cold. Given that Salt Lake is currently experiencing frigid temperatures, it might make sense to ask, but as she was referring to my freshly shaven scalp, I was thrown off. She ignored the fact that I didn't answer and asked her next question. Was my haircut for me or for someone else? I told her it was for me, and she launched into 1000 personal questions that I felt were not only were invasive, but frankly, none of her business.
I imagine that it's all very much what pregnant women feel like, especially toward the end of their pregnancy, when people feel the need to make inappropriate comments and touch their stomachs and whatnot.
The pitying looks and sympathetic bull crap from strangers are all the more unwelcome, especially because not only was I feeling quite healthy, but confident. Almost as if my baldness were a choice, and not a consequence of having poisons pumped through my body every three weeks.
I left the bathroom in a snit. Nothing irritates me more these days than little cheerleading sessions that I really don't need. Especially from strangers who know nothing of my situation. Really, it's all wasted on me.
My mood was quickly changed, however, when we walked over to the Salt Palace to get our VIP tickets. I turned around and a guy (beer on hand) looked at me and said, "You are really pretty." He ruined it by rubbing my head. But then as I thanked him and turned to walk away continued with, "God bless you," as if to say thank you for existing. Thank you for being the one beautiful thing I've seen all night [through my drunken haze]. Or maybe that's not quite what he meant, but that is how I chose to interpret it, and it perked me right up.
We walked around the Salt Palace and saw what there was to see, tried our hips at hula hooping, and signed our names on the stupid wall thing they had to sign. Then we walked over to the Museum of Art where the VIP party was meant to be. Almost immediately I was met with a girl who loved my hairstyle--or lack of one. And bless her, she really believed that I had done it on my own accord. And she spent a good several minutes telling me just how fierce and sexy I looked. Apparently she had in the past shaved her own hair some four times, and is a photographer and had done a photo shoot of 14 women who all shaved their heads as an art project. It was all very empowering until it came out that chemo was the reason I was minus one head of hair, and while she was encouraging to say that was not even something that had crossed her mind as a reason, she couldn't resist the temptation to tell me how strong I was and promise that I "can beat this!" We remained excellent friends throughout the party.
The party, though. . . Where can I start? It was the most spastic skein of people gathered together to enjoy Utah's local alcohol endeavors and the shoddy dj. From the deputy mayor, classy gays, to a handful of out of place Mormons (of which we were two) and a few Kardashian wannabes, it was hard to tell how the party was going to to turn out. And for the most part, it turned out to be like every church dance I ever attended as a youth. Just replace the punch and cookies with vodka, gin, and other spirits.
We passed the time making fun of the awkward guy who seemed to have come alone and just wanted to dance. He was dressed like a missionary, but the similarities ended there. Then the couple who paid too much money to show up in their Saturday grunge clothes. He was wearing a white track suit (I'd guess that he probably had the pockets cut out of) and she was wearing I'll fitting jeans and a t-shirt. They were. . . Impressive dancers all things considered. The couple who made out on the floor for ten minutes while either videoing themselves, or trying to capture the perfect make out selfie. The old people, including the lady in the shiny, metallic pants and her metallic boa. And the voluptuous lady who we thought had come with a date, but then ended up dancing provocatively with everyone, man or woman, gay or straight.
Unfortunately--or maybe fortunately--as we stood on the edge of the dance floor, making half-hearted efforts to dance, we were approached by "red sweater guy" who had basically been making eyes at us all evening, who invited us to come dance with him and the drunk girls he had previously befriended. They were all rather insistent that we dance, and so we did, under duress.
When we finally made our escape, we realized that we still had too much time before midnight. But we persevered. The dj got worse. His music choices made it impossible for me to even consider more dancing. Besides that, the dancing had died after a strange performance of hula hoop professionals came and performed. It might have been enjoyable to watch one, maybe two, of the performers. But after four or five of them, we were bored and the party really suffered. I went upstairs and watched a couple get married. It was a service they were offering, along with instant annulments in the morning if necessary.
By midnight, we had one phone broken and one phone stolen, our feet hurt, and none of us had found someone to share a kiss with at midnight. We did not pick up our "glass" of free champagne, and the dj missed the stroke of midnight with his poor excuse of a countdown.
All in all, though, I have to admit that I've spent worse New Year's Eves. And there were parts of the evening I enjoyed. It was a recipe that had the potential to be a totally awesome party, but fell flat. I'm pretty sure I could've planned a more "exclusive feeling" VIP party. Because whatever we were at was poorly attended and pretty cheap feeling. (Like, where was the wait staff handing out the hors d'oeuvres and champagne, and the nicely dressed attendees and. . . Does no one watch the movies and know how a fancy party is supposed to work?)
So now 2014 is over. What a crazy year it's been! Somehow, everything is different and yet, it's all the same as every other year. I've no idea what 2015 has in store for me, but, I have plenty of hopes and a few fears, and maybe even some goals. I guess we'll just have to see.
November 26, 2014
Wig Shopping
Last Friday, I shaved my head.
It wasn't nearly as traumatic as I thought it would be. After my breakdowns earlier in the week, my hair continued to fall out in force, and by Friday I was so ready for it to just be gone. I kept reading all these articles on how to preserve your hair as long as possible, but honestly, the effort to not use heat, and to limit the washings, and not brushing it, wasn't going to prolong the inevitable to make it worth all the effort. So I did just the opposite. I bleached it blonde, I brushed it constantly, and by Thursday, when the 3 million out of the 5 million strands of hair (I read that was the average amount of hair on a human head) were falling out in droves, I just went for it and started pulling. Mostly because I had gelled my hair back, and hated it the whole day. So when I got home, I started brushing it out. Then I started pulling it out. And I couldn't stop.
Guys, it was so hideous that I only sent a picture to a few people. Think Gollum. Or the Grand High Witch. It cannot be posted here, or anywhere. I have threatened people with their lives if the picture were to leak.
So, by Friday, I was ready. My friend Ali came over and shaved it, and while the cool breeze on my bald head felt rather nice, I couldn't stand to look in the mirror. I avoided the mirrors for several hours. A part of me didn't want to have another breakdown, especially in front of people, and a part of me just wasn't ready. Ali said that I had a nice shaped head, and both she and Matti said I was rocking it pretty well. But I waited until everyone was gone, and then took off the extensions that Ali had made for me to wear under a hat (seriously, she's the best!) and stood and looked in the mirror. Honestly, it's not that bad.
Honestly, I'm surprised at how easy it was to see my naked scalp. I guess I got it out of my system. Because the last three days, I've been totally fine. I rub my fuzzy head and showers are shorter (sort of) and it's just so low maintenance. And I still have eyelashes and eyebrows that I can play up and still look feminine and pretty, and kind of badass. I sort of like it.
But I like my wig more. Except when it gets itchy, which it does, by the end of the day.
Wig shopping was an adventure. The list we were going off of came in the official Cancer Binder, and it was terribly out of date and not very helpful. There were addresses that were wrong, and while some of the shops were wig shops, others were hair restoration places that required appointments. We went into one such place, and the snooty office manager, Marcus, was absolutely unhelpful. We finally had success at Jean Paree. I tried on a few wigs, and I the one I picked was the one that made me feel the most normal after a month of worrying about my hair, and cutting it short, and then having it fall out, I found a wig that felt like the hair that I had been wearing for the past two years--if just a little blonder--and naturally, it was the most expensive. So I knew it was meant to be.
The FTC stood by and looked like two proud gay moms. Kati was snapping pictures and both were extremely supportive.
I know I say this all the time, but I really do no know how I would be surviving all of this without my incredible friends and family.
Since getting the wig, I have worn it every day. And I like it. Except when it itches. The weather is cooler, so I haven't been too hot, which is good. And I can wear the wig while my hair is still trying to grow out. I feel like this was a really good solution for me.
Now all I have to fear is the loss of my brows and lashes. Ugh.
It wasn't nearly as traumatic as I thought it would be. After my breakdowns earlier in the week, my hair continued to fall out in force, and by Friday I was so ready for it to just be gone. I kept reading all these articles on how to preserve your hair as long as possible, but honestly, the effort to not use heat, and to limit the washings, and not brushing it, wasn't going to prolong the inevitable to make it worth all the effort. So I did just the opposite. I bleached it blonde, I brushed it constantly, and by Thursday, when the 3 million out of the 5 million strands of hair (I read that was the average amount of hair on a human head) were falling out in droves, I just went for it and started pulling. Mostly because I had gelled my hair back, and hated it the whole day. So when I got home, I started brushing it out. Then I started pulling it out. And I couldn't stop.
Guys, it was so hideous that I only sent a picture to a few people. Think Gollum. Or the Grand High Witch. It cannot be posted here, or anywhere. I have threatened people with their lives if the picture were to leak.
So, by Friday, I was ready. My friend Ali came over and shaved it, and while the cool breeze on my bald head felt rather nice, I couldn't stand to look in the mirror. I avoided the mirrors for several hours. A part of me didn't want to have another breakdown, especially in front of people, and a part of me just wasn't ready. Ali said that I had a nice shaped head, and both she and Matti said I was rocking it pretty well. But I waited until everyone was gone, and then took off the extensions that Ali had made for me to wear under a hat (seriously, she's the best!) and stood and looked in the mirror. Honestly, it's not that bad.
Honestly, I'm surprised at how easy it was to see my naked scalp. I guess I got it out of my system. Because the last three days, I've been totally fine. I rub my fuzzy head and showers are shorter (sort of) and it's just so low maintenance. And I still have eyelashes and eyebrows that I can play up and still look feminine and pretty, and kind of badass. I sort of like it.
But I like my wig more. Except when it gets itchy, which it does, by the end of the day.
Wig shopping was an adventure. The list we were going off of came in the official Cancer Binder, and it was terribly out of date and not very helpful. There were addresses that were wrong, and while some of the shops were wig shops, others were hair restoration places that required appointments. We went into one such place, and the snooty office manager, Marcus, was absolutely unhelpful. We finally had success at Jean Paree. I tried on a few wigs, and I the one I picked was the one that made me feel the most normal after a month of worrying about my hair, and cutting it short, and then having it fall out, I found a wig that felt like the hair that I had been wearing for the past two years--if just a little blonder--and naturally, it was the most expensive. So I knew it was meant to be.
The FTC stood by and looked like two proud gay moms. Kati was snapping pictures and both were extremely supportive.
I know I say this all the time, but I really do no know how I would be surviving all of this without my incredible friends and family.
Since getting the wig, I have worn it every day. And I like it. Except when it itches. The weather is cooler, so I haven't been too hot, which is good. And I can wear the wig while my hair is still trying to grow out. I feel like this was a really good solution for me.
Now all I have to fear is the loss of my brows and lashes. Ugh.
November 17, 2014
Chemo: Week #2 -- Thoughts on Hope and Hair
Today marks two weeks from my chemo treatment, and starts the countdown for the next one. I was feeling really, really great this past week--I wasn't sick, I wasn't more tired than usual, I didn't have any weird "chemo brain" incidents--everything was going really well until I got up and took a shower yesterday.
I lost a gob of hair in the shower. I'm used to having my fingers filled with hair when I wash it, but that was when I had long, flowy locks and plenty of hair to spare. Now, I've been reminded that my days are numbered. Every strand is a painful reality check of what is to come. I am not ready. I wasn't prepared. They told me that the hair loss started at the second treatment, and I still have a week left! I needed that full week. Needed it.
I had a small breakdown in the shower. I'm having a small breakdown now.
I took a picture of the hair that I lost in just my comb yesterday.
The problem, of course, is more than just losing your hair. Sure, you lose your hair and you're bald, and you're reassured that the hair will grow back. Losing my hair, while traumatic, is not the worst part of the process (I don't think...). I think growing it back, and the many awkward phases you have to go through before you have a normal amount of hair back on your head is going to be much worse.
Another blow to my psyche? The fact that I turn 29 next week on top of it all. Everything that I've looked at, every blog that I've read, every photo I have seen shows a full 13-18 months of regrowth before you have a normal head of hair. By my calculations, that puts me well past my 30th birthday before I can even fathom feeling normal again.
This slays me.
The idea of even going on a date with someone at this point fills me with anxiety because I don't trust myself not to tell said dude that, "Oh, by the way, I'll likely be bald in a week," or to play the cancer card. I have every intention of going on a dating hiatus during this whole process because well, to be honest, my already limited amount of date requests are going to decrease when I'm walking around looking like a cancer patient.
These are the hard realities of life. And of the dating world.
I had a the sharp realization that there is absolutely and definitely no chance--zero, zilch, nada--that I will be married before the time I'm 30. Which in the grand scheme of things, is probably just fine. But in my mind, frankly, it's utterly catastrophic. I mean, to be honest, lowering my chances from maybe 5% to 0% isn't that big of a difference. The 5% being if I were in full health and had my coveted mermaid hair, I might meet someone and fall and love and commit to said person and determine to marry. But there was still a chance. There was still hope.
President Uchtdorf said, "Hope has the power to fill our lives with happiness. Its absence--when this desire of our heart is delayed--can make "the heart sick". And that's sort of where I'm at. I'm feeling heartsick.
I'm looking at the calendar and realizing that I have months of crap, months of recovery, and months of feeling like garbage ahead of me. And my normal, optimistic self is cowering in a corner and not doing much to help me forge ahead--except reminding me, that at least, I feel fine for the moment. At least I am not sick.
I read others' blogs, and have oftentimes read someone saying that losing their hair was a hard, but overall do-able thing, because it was a result of a drug that saved their life. I, on the other hand, am beginning to wonder if going through all of this is even worth it. Perhaps I should take my chances, and transfer my hopes of not losing my hair and my own romantic journey to hoping that there are no cancer cells in my body and that the tumor won't come back.
I lost a gob of hair in the shower. I'm used to having my fingers filled with hair when I wash it, but that was when I had long, flowy locks and plenty of hair to spare. Now, I've been reminded that my days are numbered. Every strand is a painful reality check of what is to come. I am not ready. I wasn't prepared. They told me that the hair loss started at the second treatment, and I still have a week left! I needed that full week. Needed it.
I had a small breakdown in the shower. I'm having a small breakdown now.
I took a picture of the hair that I lost in just my comb yesterday.
The problem, of course, is more than just losing your hair. Sure, you lose your hair and you're bald, and you're reassured that the hair will grow back. Losing my hair, while traumatic, is not the worst part of the process (I don't think...). I think growing it back, and the many awkward phases you have to go through before you have a normal amount of hair back on your head is going to be much worse.
Another blow to my psyche? The fact that I turn 29 next week on top of it all. Everything that I've looked at, every blog that I've read, every photo I have seen shows a full 13-18 months of regrowth before you have a normal head of hair. By my calculations, that puts me well past my 30th birthday before I can even fathom feeling normal again.
This slays me.
The idea of even going on a date with someone at this point fills me with anxiety because I don't trust myself not to tell said dude that, "Oh, by the way, I'll likely be bald in a week," or to play the cancer card. I have every intention of going on a dating hiatus during this whole process because well, to be honest, my already limited amount of date requests are going to decrease when I'm walking around looking like a cancer patient.
These are the hard realities of life. And of the dating world.
I had a the sharp realization that there is absolutely and definitely no chance--zero, zilch, nada--that I will be married before the time I'm 30. Which in the grand scheme of things, is probably just fine. But in my mind, frankly, it's utterly catastrophic. I mean, to be honest, lowering my chances from maybe 5% to 0% isn't that big of a difference. The 5% being if I were in full health and had my coveted mermaid hair, I might meet someone and fall and love and commit to said person and determine to marry. But there was still a chance. There was still hope.
President Uchtdorf said, "Hope has the power to fill our lives with happiness. Its absence--when this desire of our heart is delayed--can make "the heart sick". And that's sort of where I'm at. I'm feeling heartsick.
I'm looking at the calendar and realizing that I have months of crap, months of recovery, and months of feeling like garbage ahead of me. And my normal, optimistic self is cowering in a corner and not doing much to help me forge ahead--except reminding me, that at least, I feel fine for the moment. At least I am not sick.
I read others' blogs, and have oftentimes read someone saying that losing their hair was a hard, but overall do-able thing, because it was a result of a drug that saved their life. I, on the other hand, am beginning to wonder if going through all of this is even worth it. Perhaps I should take my chances, and transfer my hopes of not losing my hair and my own romantic journey to hoping that there are no cancer cells in my body and that the tumor won't come back.
November 11, 2014
Chemo: Week #1
I have approximately 18 weeks of chemo to go through, and I've just managed to make it through my first week so now I'm down to 17.
Seventeen weeks doesn't seem like a long time in the grand scheme of things. But then, throughout the 17 weeks, I will celebrate a Thanksgiving, a birthday, Christmas, the New Year. There's a lot that will happen at work. And at church. My reign as president of my institute class will end. (Let's be honest, I'm not doing much with that anyway.)
Seventeen weeks isn't that long of a time, and yet, there is a lot that will happen in the meantime. Things that I'm still living in denial about. Like losing my hair. I keep reminding myself that it is going to happen. I cut off all of my hair in order to "better prepare myself". And yet, there's still a part of me that is hoping that it isn't going to happen. Why? Why am I hoping for the impossible? For the miracle?
I guess I sort of can't help it.
Since last Monday, when I cut off all my hair, I have hated looking in the mirror. I'm sorry. I know that the cut is cute. And I really love the blonde (the pink has already faded and I haven't put more in yet), but I hate it. I hate that I had to do it. I hate what it represents. And I don't feel pretty. I kept my hair short for years, but the last two years, I have really come to love my longer tresses. Now they're gone.
I spent the first few days looking through Instagram for the hashtag #chemohair, and other such things, only to discover that it's going to take eighteen weeks just to have a small covering of hair on my head again.
I felt really good after my treatment and most the day on Tuesday until about 3:00 p.m., when WHAM! my coworker found me crying in my cubicle because I felt so sick. It's not awkward at all to have tears running down your cheeks trying to talk about the design of a brochure. At all. Poor Travis. . .
Wednesday, I stayed home from work because I felt too sick to move, and mostly just slept. However, I discovered that one of the reasons I felt so sick was because I did not have the Dex (one of my anti-nausea pills) in my system like it was meant to! As soon as I started taking my Dex, I felt a lot better. I also have Zofran and Compazine in my arsenal of anti-nausea pills, but they come with their own side effects and so, while I tried to maintain a schedule of taking them for a few days, I found that luckily, I haven't needed them all that often.
Once I got through Wednesday--with the help of my grandma and my dear friend, Marco--I felt well enough to be back at work and went Thursday. Friday I spent the day in the hospital getting my iron infusion with Bethie by my side. It was a long day, made longer by the fact that I was confined to the darn floor once again.
Friday I had a little bout of "chemo brain", where I went upstairs for something and Matti found me sleeping on the couch a little dazed and confused. Of course, that could just be that I'm a total wonk and have less to do with the drugs. Hard to say.
I spent the weekend in the San Francisco Bay area with the FTC, and it was a wonderful trip all things considered. There were a few times where I felt a little sick, or a little tired--or a lot tired--but luckily I went with accommodating friends who were willing to point out when I looked exhausted and never pushed me to do anything. I didn't have to take my pills but a few times. I didn't have to wear my mask (I have an impeccable immune system, and I worry as the treatments continue how that is going to go...). There was one night where I felt absolutely wretched, but that was more to do with the side effects of the pills than the actual chemo, coupled with being too hot, and maybe just a little dehydrated. Overall, it was just a really great trip with two really great friends and very little to do with the cancer.
Today, I'm back to work and feeling nothing but the sweet exhaustion of having gone to bed too late the night before. I'm ready to finish this week and get through week two, so we can get on to week three and so forth. My next chemo treatment is scheduled for the 24th of November, following the surgical placement of a port, which I decided to go ahead and get in an effort to preserve my veins and my sanity in the coming months.
Seventeen weeks doesn't seem like a long time in the grand scheme of things. But then, throughout the 17 weeks, I will celebrate a Thanksgiving, a birthday, Christmas, the New Year. There's a lot that will happen at work. And at church. My reign as president of my institute class will end. (Let's be honest, I'm not doing much with that anyway.)
Seventeen weeks isn't that long of a time, and yet, there is a lot that will happen in the meantime. Things that I'm still living in denial about. Like losing my hair. I keep reminding myself that it is going to happen. I cut off all of my hair in order to "better prepare myself". And yet, there's still a part of me that is hoping that it isn't going to happen. Why? Why am I hoping for the impossible? For the miracle?
I guess I sort of can't help it.
Since last Monday, when I cut off all my hair, I have hated looking in the mirror. I'm sorry. I know that the cut is cute. And I really love the blonde (the pink has already faded and I haven't put more in yet), but I hate it. I hate that I had to do it. I hate what it represents. And I don't feel pretty. I kept my hair short for years, but the last two years, I have really come to love my longer tresses. Now they're gone.
I spent the first few days looking through Instagram for the hashtag #chemohair, and other such things, only to discover that it's going to take eighteen weeks just to have a small covering of hair on my head again.
I felt really good after my treatment and most the day on Tuesday until about 3:00 p.m., when WHAM! my coworker found me crying in my cubicle because I felt so sick. It's not awkward at all to have tears running down your cheeks trying to talk about the design of a brochure. At all. Poor Travis. . .
Wednesday, I stayed home from work because I felt too sick to move, and mostly just slept. However, I discovered that one of the reasons I felt so sick was because I did not have the Dex (one of my anti-nausea pills) in my system like it was meant to! As soon as I started taking my Dex, I felt a lot better. I also have Zofran and Compazine in my arsenal of anti-nausea pills, but they come with their own side effects and so, while I tried to maintain a schedule of taking them for a few days, I found that luckily, I haven't needed them all that often.
Once I got through Wednesday--with the help of my grandma and my dear friend, Marco--I felt well enough to be back at work and went Thursday. Friday I spent the day in the hospital getting my iron infusion with Bethie by my side. It was a long day, made longer by the fact that I was confined to the darn floor once again.
Friday I had a little bout of "chemo brain", where I went upstairs for something and Matti found me sleeping on the couch a little dazed and confused. Of course, that could just be that I'm a total wonk and have less to do with the drugs. Hard to say.
I spent the weekend in the San Francisco Bay area with the FTC, and it was a wonderful trip all things considered. There were a few times where I felt a little sick, or a little tired--or a lot tired--but luckily I went with accommodating friends who were willing to point out when I looked exhausted and never pushed me to do anything. I didn't have to take my pills but a few times. I didn't have to wear my mask (I have an impeccable immune system, and I worry as the treatments continue how that is going to go...). There was one night where I felt absolutely wretched, but that was more to do with the side effects of the pills than the actual chemo, coupled with being too hot, and maybe just a little dehydrated. Overall, it was just a really great trip with two really great friends and very little to do with the cancer.
Today, I'm back to work and feeling nothing but the sweet exhaustion of having gone to bed too late the night before. I'm ready to finish this week and get through week two, so we can get on to week three and so forth. My next chemo treatment is scheduled for the 24th of November, following the surgical placement of a port, which I decided to go ahead and get in an effort to preserve my veins and my sanity in the coming months.
Chemo: Week 1
I have approximately 18 weeks of chemo to go through, and I've just managed to make it through my first week so now I'm down to 17.
Seventeen weeks doesn't seem like a long time in the grand scheme of things. But then, throughout the 17 weeks, I will celebrate a Thanksgiving, a birthday, Christmas, the New Year. There's a lot that will happen at work. And at church. My reign as president of my institute class will end. (Let's be honest, I'm not doing much with that anyway.)
Seventeen weeks isn't that long of a time, and yet, there is a lot that will happen in the meantime. Things that I'm still living in denial about. Like losing my hair. I keep reminding myself that it is going to happen. I cut off all of my hair in order to "better prepare myself". And yet, there's still a part of me that is hoping that it isn't going to happen. Why? Why am I hoping for the impossible? For the miracle?
I guess I sort of can't help it.
Since last Monday, when I cut off all my hair, I have hated looking in the mirror. I'm sorry. I know that the cut is cute. And I really love the blonde (the pink has already faded and I haven't put more in yet), but I hate it. I hate that I had to do it. I hate what it represents. And I don't feel pretty. I kept my hair short for years, but the last two years, I have really come to love my longer tresses. Now they're gone.
I spent the first few days looking through Instagram for the hashtag #chemohair, and other such things, only to discover that it's going to take eighteen weeks just to have a small covering of hair on my head again.
I felt really good after my treatment and most the day on Tuesday until about 3:00 p.m., when WHAM! my coworker found me crying in my cubicle because I felt so sick. It's not awkward at all to have tears running down your cheeks trying to talk about the design of a brochure. At all. Poor Travis. . .
Wednesday, I stayed home from work because I felt too sick to move, and mostly just slept. However, I discovered that one of the reasons I felt so sick was because I did not have the Dex (one of my anti-nausea pills) in my system like it was meant to! As soon as I started taking my Dex, I felt a lot better. I also have Zofran and Compazine in my arsenal of anti-nausea pills, but they come with their own side effects and so, while I tried to maintain a schedule of taking them for a few days, I found that luckily, I haven't needed them all that often.
Once I got through Wednesday--with the help of my grandma and my dear friend, Marco--I felt well enough to be back at work and went Thursday. Friday I spent the day in the hospital getting my iron infusion with Bethie by my side. It was a long day, made longer by the fact that I was confined to the darn floor once again.
Friday I had a little bout of "chemo brain", where I went upstairs for something and Matti found me sleeping on the couch a little dazed and confused. Of course, that could just be that I'm a total wonk and have less to do with the drugs. Hard to say.
I spent the weekend in the San Francisco Bay area with the FTC, and it was a wonderful trip all things considered. There were a few times where I felt a little sick, or a little tired--or a lot tired--but luckily I went with accommodating friends who were willing to point out when I looked exhausted and never pushed me to do anything. I didn't have to take my pills but a few times. I didn't have to wear my mask (I have an impeccable immune system, and I worry as the treatments continue how that is going to go...). There was one night where I felt absolutely wretched, but that was more to do with the side effects of the pills than the actual chemo, coupled with being too hot, and maybe just a little dehydrated. Overall, it was just a really great trip with two really great friends and very little to do with the cancer.
Today, I'm back to work and feeling nothing but the sweet exhaustion of having gone to bed too late the night before. I'm ready to finish this week and get through week two, so we can get on to week three and so forth. My next chemo treatment is scheduled for the 24th of November, following the surgical placement of a port, which I decided to go ahead and get in an effort to preserve my veins and my sanity in the coming months.
Seventeen weeks doesn't seem like a long time in the grand scheme of things. But then, throughout the 17 weeks, I will celebrate a Thanksgiving, a birthday, Christmas, the New Year. There's a lot that will happen at work. And at church. My reign as president of my institute class will end. (Let's be honest, I'm not doing much with that anyway.)
Seventeen weeks isn't that long of a time, and yet, there is a lot that will happen in the meantime. Things that I'm still living in denial about. Like losing my hair. I keep reminding myself that it is going to happen. I cut off all of my hair in order to "better prepare myself". And yet, there's still a part of me that is hoping that it isn't going to happen. Why? Why am I hoping for the impossible? For the miracle?
I guess I sort of can't help it.
Since last Monday, when I cut off all my hair, I have hated looking in the mirror. I'm sorry. I know that the cut is cute. And I really love the blonde (the pink has already faded and I haven't put more in yet), but I hate it. I hate that I had to do it. I hate what it represents. And I don't feel pretty. I kept my hair short for years, but the last two years, I have really come to love my longer tresses. Now they're gone.
I spent the first few days looking through Instagram for the hashtag #chemohair, and other such things, only to discover that it's going to take eighteen weeks just to have a small covering of hair on my head again.
I felt really good after my treatment and most the day on Tuesday until about 3:00 p.m., when WHAM! my coworker found me crying in my cubicle because I felt so sick. It's not awkward at all to have tears running down your cheeks trying to talk about the design of a brochure. At all. Poor Travis. . .
Wednesday, I stayed home from work because I felt too sick to move, and mostly just slept. However, I discovered that one of the reasons I felt so sick was because I did not have the Dex (one of my anti-nausea pills) in my system like it was meant to! As soon as I started taking my Dex, I felt a lot better. I also have Zofran and Compazine in my arsenal of anti-nausea pills, but they come with their own side effects and so, while I tried to maintain a schedule of taking them for a few days, I found that luckily, I haven't needed them all that often.
Once I got through Wednesday--with the help of my grandma and my dear friend, Marco--I felt well enough to be back at work and went Thursday. Friday I spent the day in the hospital getting my iron infusion with Bethie by my side. It was a long day, made longer by the fact that I was confined to the darn floor once again.
Friday I had a little bout of "chemo brain", where I went upstairs for something and Matti found me sleeping on the couch a little dazed and confused. Of course, that could just be that I'm a total wonk and have less to do with the drugs. Hard to say.
I spent the weekend in the San Francisco Bay area with the FTC, and it was a wonderful trip all things considered. There were a few times where I felt a little sick, or a little tired--or a lot tired--but luckily I went with accommodating friends who were willing to point out when I looked exhausted and never pushed me to do anything. I didn't have to take my pills but a few times. I didn't have to wear my mask (I have an impeccable immune system, and I worry as the treatments continue how that is going to go...). There was one night where I felt absolutely wretched, but that was more to do with the side effects of the pills than the actual chemo, coupled with being too hot, and maybe just a little dehydrated. Overall, it was just a really great trip with two really great friends and very little to do with the cancer.
Today, I'm back to work and feeling nothing but the sweet exhaustion of having gone to bed too late the night before. I'm ready to finish this week and get through week two, so we can get on to week three and so forth. My next chemo treatment is scheduled for the 24th of November, following the surgical placement of a port, which I decided to go ahead and get in an effort to preserve my veins and my sanity in the coming months.
