I got through my first round of adjuvant chemo none worse for the wear. Fearing the worst, the side effects were quite manageable. My surgical incision has healed nicely and I've been able to resume some physical activities such as taking longer walks with my kids. The chemo may have a cumulative effect with each subsequent treatment, but the best preparation is knowledge and management now that I know what to expect.
The next task at hand is to better manage my emotional health. Stress, grief, worry affect us all and can contribute to disease as much as a poor diet or genetic factors. My belief is that my cure has either already happened or is imminent, so now I can focus on healing my inner self. I've been reading several cancer survivor memoirs that have galvanized me into taking a whole approach to getting well. I've changed my diet, my exercise habits, but I still need to get to a place where stress and worry can't hound me. I'm sure there are those out there who don't understand why I can't be more positive-thinking, why I've been so sensitive and fragile emotionally even as I emerged into recovery.
For those of you who are wondering, who don't already know, I've been battling the dual evils of cancer and divorce. For six years, I've mostly hidden the fact that I've been married to an incorrigible alcoholic. It took the onset of my disease to realize the nature of his disease. Up until now, only those closest to me understand why there has been no mention of my husband on this blog, why there are no pictures of him, why he is persona non grata in my cancer experience. Some of you have been able to read between the lines. For others, the news is stunning. This entire journey would have been a completely different experience if I had been sustained by a reliable and supportive partner throughout. But that wasn't the case.
Even during during treatment, even as I try to move on, he is there at every turn making my life a living hell. Now you understand why I've been fighting so hard to get better-- so I can protect my kids from a life with an alcoholic. I've received amazing support from my own family and friends. There are others who have reacted to his drinking and the subsequent destruction of our family as a seeming matter of indifference to them. They even deny there is a problem and have sat drinking and commiserating with him-- enabling the alcoholic. These negative persons stood by, helpless they claim, even as they witnessed alcohol and emotional abuse in our house or knew about his transgressions. They did nothing to stop it or to help me, and I had to finally confess to my family and friends the extent of this dirty secret, immediately on the heels of announcing my cancer diagnosis.
Why say something now? Because in order to heal fully, body and mind, I need light and resonance in my life instead of dark, secret corners. In the memoir I'm reading, "Anti-Cancer, A New Way of Life", it is mentioned that the Chinese symbol for 'crisis' are the combined characters of 'danger' and 'opportunity'. That is where I see myself in my journey. At this point, I must pull myself and my children out of danger so that we may have the opportunity to always be safe and enjoy a better life than we've had up until now. My prognosis is excellent, and surviving both cancer and divorce will help me to emerge not only as a better person, but as the best mother I can be for my children so that they will always learn how to turn a dangerous crisis into opportunity.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Another Round of Chemo
Day 4 of treatment and I'm overcome by nausea. Wednesday was Day 1 and I dragged myself to the infusion room at Overlake to get hooked up to a chemo pump for my first round of FOLFOX (which contains 5FU, Leucovorin, and Oxaliplatin). After almost 4 months since the end of my last chemo treatment, I found that everyone remembered my name and even asked about the twins. The oncology nurses explain that they remember me because I am the young mother with twin boys and cancer. As I settle myself into the infusion chair and have the inch-long needle inserted into my portacath, I scan the crowded room and see many faces, all over 50 years of age, all tired and seemingly resigned to their disease. But like me, I know that they are fighting fiercely even beneath the facade of fatigue. I settle in with several magazines, a knit blanket and a cup of Earl Grey tea to pass the time during the 3 hour infusion of chemo.
As the poison spread through me, so did the dread. I remembered all the terrible side effects and symptoms from just 4 short months ago and did not relish the thought of reliving them. But this time there wouldn't be radiation to contend with as well, so no third degree burns on top of the fatigue and nausea. I got up twice to use the bathroom because there were so many liquids coursing through my body, so I dragged my IV stand with me back and forth, unplugging and replugging the stand every time I got up. As I passed the other infusion chairs, I saw patients reading, scanning laptops, sleeping, talking with relatives who sat with them the entire time. Every single chair was filled; there was so much cancer in this room alone.
At the end of three hours, I was released from my temporary confinement to drive myself home. The heavy metals in the chemo already sensed the cold air and caused my fingertips and lips to feel pricked by thousands of little needles. The side effect is called neuropathy because of the nerve damage that the oxaliplatin causes. I quickly tucked my hands into my jacket and pursed my lips to get rid of the uncomfortable sensation. Later, I would learn that even a sip of cold water would constrict my throat and make it feel as if I was swallowing a shard of glass. Running my hands under the faucet or reaching into the fridge intensified the painfully prickly sensation in my fingers. Day 2 and Day 3 passed without too much incident at my sister's condo where I stayed until I return to the hospital to have the continuous pump disconnected. I have 14 days to rest until the next treatment cycle. I have 7 more treatments after this one.
And now, the nausea makes it difficult to enjoy food and water and I am losing weight again. Everything has a metallic aftertaste, sometimes making plain water taste savory. I took the anti-nausea medication the doctor prescribed but found that it literally knocks you out as a means of managing your side effects, so I only take it at night. I tell myself I can do this, that I need to do this. But a part of me can't fully enjoy life right now, as much as I really want to. Certainly happy to be alive at all, yet the quality of life could be better for sure. I am keeping my eyes on the light at the end of the tunnel, but there always seems to be another tunnel. I just want to come out on the other side.
As the poison spread through me, so did the dread. I remembered all the terrible side effects and symptoms from just 4 short months ago and did not relish the thought of reliving them. But this time there wouldn't be radiation to contend with as well, so no third degree burns on top of the fatigue and nausea. I got up twice to use the bathroom because there were so many liquids coursing through my body, so I dragged my IV stand with me back and forth, unplugging and replugging the stand every time I got up. As I passed the other infusion chairs, I saw patients reading, scanning laptops, sleeping, talking with relatives who sat with them the entire time. Every single chair was filled; there was so much cancer in this room alone.
At the end of three hours, I was released from my temporary confinement to drive myself home. The heavy metals in the chemo already sensed the cold air and caused my fingertips and lips to feel pricked by thousands of little needles. The side effect is called neuropathy because of the nerve damage that the oxaliplatin causes. I quickly tucked my hands into my jacket and pursed my lips to get rid of the uncomfortable sensation. Later, I would learn that even a sip of cold water would constrict my throat and make it feel as if I was swallowing a shard of glass. Running my hands under the faucet or reaching into the fridge intensified the painfully prickly sensation in my fingers. Day 2 and Day 3 passed without too much incident at my sister's condo where I stayed until I return to the hospital to have the continuous pump disconnected. I have 14 days to rest until the next treatment cycle. I have 7 more treatments after this one.
And now, the nausea makes it difficult to enjoy food and water and I am losing weight again. Everything has a metallic aftertaste, sometimes making plain water taste savory. I took the anti-nausea medication the doctor prescribed but found that it literally knocks you out as a means of managing your side effects, so I only take it at night. I tell myself I can do this, that I need to do this. But a part of me can't fully enjoy life right now, as much as I really want to. Certainly happy to be alive at all, yet the quality of life could be better for sure. I am keeping my eyes on the light at the end of the tunnel, but there always seems to be another tunnel. I just want to come out on the other side.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Present
I don't know why, but it's always been hard for me to live in the present. I tend to dwell on the past a lot, both good and bad. It's my way of sorting out how the hell I got to where I am. So many bad things have happened in my life that sometimes I wonder if I was just born under a very unlucky star. Come to think of it, my astrological sign is Cancer. Regret is a double-edged sword, and I've been cut both ways. So many choices I wish I could rewind and do over. So many others I wish I had taken a chance on. The hopeful side of me also daydreams of futures that never quite materialize. We all want so desperately for things to work out just right, to get the things we want, to love fully, and to experience complete happiness. They say the present is a gift, and it must be enjoyed accordingly.
Friends and family are always asking what they can do to help me right now. All I want is for my loved ones to be present for me. That doesn't mean being with me everyday-- being present means understanding where I am through this experience and showing compassion and empathy in those moments when I am most in need. There have been times when I've been faced with someone's physical presence, but their emotional absence. It's the kind of scenario that begets a greater sense of loneliness and isolation for the person facing cancer. Thinking of this makes me wonder again if I was truly present for my mom during her illness. Was my presence enough or should I have been more present? Even caregivers are susceptible to distractions since cancer is only part-time for them, although it is full-time for the patient. My older blog posts showcased some optimism and even a little cheerfulness-- both of which are in scant supply these days after 6 months of getting physically and emotionally pummeled by all the joylessness that is cancer. But I don't want to be overcome by thoughts of self-pity, which can easily seduce the weary mind. I want very much to enjoy the present, and a lot of that joy comes from being with my sons. Without them, this experience would be even more bleak.
Precisely because of them, I have made the decision to go ahead with the adjuvant chemotherapy. If I wasn't a mother, maybe I would have taken the chance of throwing off the chemo and going on with my life under the assumption that I'm fully cured. The risk would have been mine alone to bear. They say you have a choice, but what kind of choice is it when you have the proverbial gun to your head. But I need the guarantee for their sake. As much as I will really dread walking into that infusion room on Wednesday to get hooked up for another round of chemo, I will do it because hopefully it will put a period at the end of this cancer instead of a question mark. If all goes well, cancer will be something in my past and I will have secured a happier future for myself and my sons. Until then, I will do my best to own the present and live in it to the fullest of my ability.
Friends and family are always asking what they can do to help me right now. All I want is for my loved ones to be present for me. That doesn't mean being with me everyday-- being present means understanding where I am through this experience and showing compassion and empathy in those moments when I am most in need. There have been times when I've been faced with someone's physical presence, but their emotional absence. It's the kind of scenario that begets a greater sense of loneliness and isolation for the person facing cancer. Thinking of this makes me wonder again if I was truly present for my mom during her illness. Was my presence enough or should I have been more present? Even caregivers are susceptible to distractions since cancer is only part-time for them, although it is full-time for the patient. My older blog posts showcased some optimism and even a little cheerfulness-- both of which are in scant supply these days after 6 months of getting physically and emotionally pummeled by all the joylessness that is cancer. But I don't want to be overcome by thoughts of self-pity, which can easily seduce the weary mind. I want very much to enjoy the present, and a lot of that joy comes from being with my sons. Without them, this experience would be even more bleak.
Precisely because of them, I have made the decision to go ahead with the adjuvant chemotherapy. If I wasn't a mother, maybe I would have taken the chance of throwing off the chemo and going on with my life under the assumption that I'm fully cured. The risk would have been mine alone to bear. They say you have a choice, but what kind of choice is it when you have the proverbial gun to your head. But I need the guarantee for their sake. As much as I will really dread walking into that infusion room on Wednesday to get hooked up for another round of chemo, I will do it because hopefully it will put a period at the end of this cancer instead of a question mark. If all goes well, cancer will be something in my past and I will have secured a happier future for myself and my sons. Until then, I will do my best to own the present and live in it to the fullest of my ability.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The Zoo As Life
This past Saturday, my sisters Nina and Diane and I bundled up the twins in their Halloween costumes and played all afternoon at Woodland Park Zoo. It was one of those crisp, lush autumn days that infuse you with life and energy because the sunshine is glorious but you still need a jacket. Spencer wore his monkey suit and Rowan wore his cheetah outfit, which we later learned at the zoo was more of a jaguar instead. I have to say the boys were incredibly adorable in their costumes, and the employees even joked that "some of the animals got loose". For three carefree hours, I walked among the throng of "normal" people and my kids got a day away to be wild and run amok on the zoo grounds. I relished my own freedom to enjoy life again, however briefly, without the cloud of worry and sickness over me as I basked in the sun. The boys are just beginning to understand the importance of being free to run, jump, play and not be confined. I don't know if they understood that concept relative to the animals, but they appreciated it for themselves. We looked in many exhibits, but most of the animals had their backs turned to the crowd as if they were weary of being stared at all day.
Coming out of my illness, I battled with a kind of anxiety every time I walked into a crowd. It's hard to explain the feeling, but it's a lot like feeling exposed and wanting to melt into the scenery in order to avoid any real interaction with strangers. For what seems like a long time, I've been in this cocoon of family, friends, and doctors. Meeting strangers prompted me to two extremes--either appearing aloof and distant as a means of hiding my illness or giving people too much information and not being able to stop myself. On some days, cancer is the big pink elephant in the room and on others it's a thing I hide in my pocket. I'm trying to develop more confidence in public, but it's slow going all the way. Sometimes, I feel like I'm the one behind the glass with people looking in at me. I want to be able to look at out at the world, but sometimes I don't know if that glass wall is protecting me or imprisoning me.
I had my second opinion appointment at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance with Dr. Whiting today. He reviewed my entire medical record and spent almost two hours going over all the details with me, as well as giving me his own recommendation. Evidently, he is in consensus with Dr. Crossland's findings and feels that I should get the adjuvant chemotherapy because the standards of cancer care dictate that a full six months of chemo is the most effective at ensuring that all of the cancer is fully eradicated. Since I had to have neojuvant chemoradiation in order to make the surgical procedure more manageable, it was impossible to accurately stage me prior to surgery.
There's no way of knowing for sure, and therein lies the dilemma regarding this decision. Only 9 lymph nodes were found, but doctors usually like to see 12 to 14 nodes to be more certain that no metastasis has occurred. So, Dr. Whiting said that if I opted for the adjuvant chemo then I would have to endure 4 more months of discomfort in order to be certain that we got it all but I could live a normal span of life without recurrence of the cancer. That's entirely the goal behind the adjuvant chemo.
As much as I wanted to be done, I have to face the reality of my situation and do what I must to ensure that I will be around for my sons. I want as many years with them as I can have, and if the price of those years is only 4 months then that is what I will pay. Even though the odds are in my favor, I can't risk a recurrence because I never want to go through this terrible experience again. In order to preserve my health, I must remain in confinement for a little longer if I choose to undergo additional treatment. Our perfect day at the zoo was a blessing because it gave me a sense of freedom. But a good day at the zoo depends on which side of the glass you find yourself.
Coming out of my illness, I battled with a kind of anxiety every time I walked into a crowd. It's hard to explain the feeling, but it's a lot like feeling exposed and wanting to melt into the scenery in order to avoid any real interaction with strangers. For what seems like a long time, I've been in this cocoon of family, friends, and doctors. Meeting strangers prompted me to two extremes--either appearing aloof and distant as a means of hiding my illness or giving people too much information and not being able to stop myself. On some days, cancer is the big pink elephant in the room and on others it's a thing I hide in my pocket. I'm trying to develop more confidence in public, but it's slow going all the way. Sometimes, I feel like I'm the one behind the glass with people looking in at me. I want to be able to look at out at the world, but sometimes I don't know if that glass wall is protecting me or imprisoning me.
I had my second opinion appointment at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance with Dr. Whiting today. He reviewed my entire medical record and spent almost two hours going over all the details with me, as well as giving me his own recommendation. Evidently, he is in consensus with Dr. Crossland's findings and feels that I should get the adjuvant chemotherapy because the standards of cancer care dictate that a full six months of chemo is the most effective at ensuring that all of the cancer is fully eradicated. Since I had to have neojuvant chemoradiation in order to make the surgical procedure more manageable, it was impossible to accurately stage me prior to surgery.
There's no way of knowing for sure, and therein lies the dilemma regarding this decision. Only 9 lymph nodes were found, but doctors usually like to see 12 to 14 nodes to be more certain that no metastasis has occurred. So, Dr. Whiting said that if I opted for the adjuvant chemo then I would have to endure 4 more months of discomfort in order to be certain that we got it all but I could live a normal span of life without recurrence of the cancer. That's entirely the goal behind the adjuvant chemo.
As much as I wanted to be done, I have to face the reality of my situation and do what I must to ensure that I will be around for my sons. I want as many years with them as I can have, and if the price of those years is only 4 months then that is what I will pay. Even though the odds are in my favor, I can't risk a recurrence because I never want to go through this terrible experience again. In order to preserve my health, I must remain in confinement for a little longer if I choose to undergo additional treatment. Our perfect day at the zoo was a blessing because it gave me a sense of freedom. But a good day at the zoo depends on which side of the glass you find yourself.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Fill My Head and Search My Heart.
If only I could keep worry away. The past few days have been spent in wondering how all this will play out. Just when I felt like I could finally accept the good news given to me after surgery, I am faced with a tough decision regarding adjuvant chemotherapy. Despair is the absence of hope and a lack of control over the circumstances. So, I must summon all the hope I can find and regain control over the situation. The final decision is mine after all, and I will seek the best medical counsel so that I can at least make an informed one.
Currently, there are two camps. The first advocates an aggressive approach to curing disease by undergoing an additional 4 months of high-dose chemotherapy. The problem is that this treatment regimen is not being recommended to treat known or proven disease, but as "insurance" against possible, residual disease post-surgery. This involves pumping my body full of what amounts to systemic poison since the FOLFOX4 chemo cocktail to be prescribed is full of heavy metals such as platinum. The toxicity of this chemotherapy will again completely wreck my body and suppress my immune system, making me vulnerable during the dangerous winter months and flu season. Further, I may be undergoing the chemo while totally healthy and free of disease-- there's no way to know for sure since we are talking about possible microscopic metastases only. Also, this would require that I keep the ileostomy bag for that much longer since I can't have the operation to reverse it while undergoing chemotherapy. So instead of having it for only 3 months, I would have to wear the bag for what would amount to almost 6 months. This is the aggressive approach to standard cancer care.
The second camp figures that neojuvant chemoradiation (the two months I already had prior to my operation) and the surgical re-section of my colon have completely cured me based on the clinical pathology report. The surgeon found 9 lymph nodes from the 14cm section he removed and none of them appeared to be involved, which is really good news. Following the surgery to reverse the ileostomy in a few months, I should hopefully be restored to normal function and health to enjoy a quality of life very similar to what I had prior to diagnosis of the disease. Of course this is the most desired outcome, but I really want to make an informed decision that I can live with in every sense of the word. It's a very calculated risk, but any additional chemo that I choose now may not necessarily prevent a new, primary cancer from developing in another section of my colon or elsewhere in my pelvis. So that being the case, I would rather skip the chemo and rely on annual screenings for any new signs of disease. That way, I can enjoy my restored health and be vigilant against any new threats to my health without unnecessarily subjecting my body to another round of high-dose chemo.
I have an appointment with two doctors at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance on Tuesday the 28th. SCCA is affiliated with Fred Hutchison Cancer Research Center, UW Medical Center, and Seattle Children's Hospital. They have been sent my complete medical records from Overlake Hospital and will review them in their entirety before discussing my case and my options. If there is a consensus among the doctors that I need the adjuvant chemo, and that the benefits will greatly outweigh the risks, then I will make the tough decision and do what is necessary. However, if the evidence suggests that the additional chemo will provide only marginal benefit while putting me at risk for continued illness or new disease, then I feel strongly enough about it to reject adjuvant chemo and take my chances-- which are actually in my favor.
If the clinical pathology report and staging are correct, then my chances of survival after 5 years is 91%. With the chemo, that number would only improve to 93%. While it's true that such statistics are more significant for someone in their 30s than someone in their 60s, the 2% margin is something I can forgo in order to avoid additional chemo. Unfortunately, cancer is a dark cloud we must all live under. Everyday, I still think of and say a prayer for my friends who have a family member undergoing cancer treatment (Alieke, Steve, Monica, Rebecca, Edith, Joni) and for those who lost a loved one too (Gina, Paul, my cousins). My empathy runs deep and my compassion for their plight is genuine. No one wants to be faced with this decision. There isn't really a "right" choice. So I will continue to do the research, consult with doctors, and discuss it all with my family. The only way I can decide what's right for me is to fill my head and search my heart.
Currently, there are two camps. The first advocates an aggressive approach to curing disease by undergoing an additional 4 months of high-dose chemotherapy. The problem is that this treatment regimen is not being recommended to treat known or proven disease, but as "insurance" against possible, residual disease post-surgery. This involves pumping my body full of what amounts to systemic poison since the FOLFOX4 chemo cocktail to be prescribed is full of heavy metals such as platinum. The toxicity of this chemotherapy will again completely wreck my body and suppress my immune system, making me vulnerable during the dangerous winter months and flu season. Further, I may be undergoing the chemo while totally healthy and free of disease-- there's no way to know for sure since we are talking about possible microscopic metastases only. Also, this would require that I keep the ileostomy bag for that much longer since I can't have the operation to reverse it while undergoing chemotherapy. So instead of having it for only 3 months, I would have to wear the bag for what would amount to almost 6 months. This is the aggressive approach to standard cancer care.
The second camp figures that neojuvant chemoradiation (the two months I already had prior to my operation) and the surgical re-section of my colon have completely cured me based on the clinical pathology report. The surgeon found 9 lymph nodes from the 14cm section he removed and none of them appeared to be involved, which is really good news. Following the surgery to reverse the ileostomy in a few months, I should hopefully be restored to normal function and health to enjoy a quality of life very similar to what I had prior to diagnosis of the disease. Of course this is the most desired outcome, but I really want to make an informed decision that I can live with in every sense of the word. It's a very calculated risk, but any additional chemo that I choose now may not necessarily prevent a new, primary cancer from developing in another section of my colon or elsewhere in my pelvis. So that being the case, I would rather skip the chemo and rely on annual screenings for any new signs of disease. That way, I can enjoy my restored health and be vigilant against any new threats to my health without unnecessarily subjecting my body to another round of high-dose chemo.
I have an appointment with two doctors at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance on Tuesday the 28th. SCCA is affiliated with Fred Hutchison Cancer Research Center, UW Medical Center, and Seattle Children's Hospital. They have been sent my complete medical records from Overlake Hospital and will review them in their entirety before discussing my case and my options. If there is a consensus among the doctors that I need the adjuvant chemo, and that the benefits will greatly outweigh the risks, then I will make the tough decision and do what is necessary. However, if the evidence suggests that the additional chemo will provide only marginal benefit while putting me at risk for continued illness or new disease, then I feel strongly enough about it to reject adjuvant chemo and take my chances-- which are actually in my favor.
If the clinical pathology report and staging are correct, then my chances of survival after 5 years is 91%. With the chemo, that number would only improve to 93%. While it's true that such statistics are more significant for someone in their 30s than someone in their 60s, the 2% margin is something I can forgo in order to avoid additional chemo. Unfortunately, cancer is a dark cloud we must all live under. Everyday, I still think of and say a prayer for my friends who have a family member undergoing cancer treatment (Alieke, Steve, Monica, Rebecca, Edith, Joni) and for those who lost a loved one too (Gina, Paul, my cousins). My empathy runs deep and my compassion for their plight is genuine. No one wants to be faced with this decision. There isn't really a "right" choice. So I will continue to do the research, consult with doctors, and discuss it all with my family. The only way I can decide what's right for me is to fill my head and search my heart.
Monday, October 20, 2008
The Serenity Prayer
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Speed Bump On The Road to Recovery
My road to recovery hit another speed bump. I had a follow-up appointment with my oncologist, Dr. Crossland, today. She was forced to discuss a very difficult matter with me-- adjuvant chemo (which means additional chemo after surgery). We went over the success of the surgery and the favorable pathology report again, but she reminded me that I only had two months' worth of chemotherapy and radiation prior to surgery. Standards of cancer treatment dictate that a full six months' worth of chemotherapy is necessary in order to ensure that any potential undetected, microscopic metastasis of the cancer are eradicated as well. The surgeon removed a 14cm section of my colon, along with 9 lymph nodes (none of which were involved), and they had found only 1mm of cancer left in the tissue that was removed. Based on the clinical data, my cancer was staged as T2N0. Which means that the cancer did penetrate into the tissue lining of the colon but not beyond, and there did not appear to be any lymph node involvement. That makes me either a high risk Stage 2 or possible Stage 3. We would all like to hope that I am fully-cured of the cancer, but Dr. Crossland is making sure that I am aware of the residual risk factors.
The dilemma for me is whether I can decide to take 4 more months of systemic poison just in case there might be more cancer, or should I assume that I am fully cured based on the clinical data alone? As accurate as CAT scans are and as good as my medical team is, she said it's possible that a microscopic metastasis might have occurred, which could cause a new cancer growth elsewhere in my colon or in another organ. Chemo drugs are literally poison, and it kills cells and tissue in the body indiscriminately. It does not distinguish between healthy cells or cancerous cells. It kills them both, and it's dosed in such amounts as not to kill the patient first. That is why the skin on my hands and feet were freckled and peeled, why I developed sores on my lips and in my mouth, why I felt nauseated and was constantly fatigued.
If I choose to undergo adjuvant chemo, I may be unnecessarily subjecting my body to 4 more months of poison when I might be perfectly healthy and cancer-free. On the other hand, if I don't do it, then I am taking a calculated risk too. I know the choice may seem obvious, but is it? The heavy metals in the chemo drugs have been known to settle in the body and cause other primary cancers years down the road. If I no longer have cancer now, I might potentially be setting myself up for it again unnecessarily. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. I am working on getting a second opinion from Seattle Cancer Care Alliance as well. I have one month to decide either way. I had very much hoped that this would end with the good news I received in the hospital, but now it seems like it will end with a question mark.....
The dilemma for me is whether I can decide to take 4 more months of systemic poison just in case there might be more cancer, or should I assume that I am fully cured based on the clinical data alone? As accurate as CAT scans are and as good as my medical team is, she said it's possible that a microscopic metastasis might have occurred, which could cause a new cancer growth elsewhere in my colon or in another organ. Chemo drugs are literally poison, and it kills cells and tissue in the body indiscriminately. It does not distinguish between healthy cells or cancerous cells. It kills them both, and it's dosed in such amounts as not to kill the patient first. That is why the skin on my hands and feet were freckled and peeled, why I developed sores on my lips and in my mouth, why I felt nauseated and was constantly fatigued.
If I choose to undergo adjuvant chemo, I may be unnecessarily subjecting my body to 4 more months of poison when I might be perfectly healthy and cancer-free. On the other hand, if I don't do it, then I am taking a calculated risk too. I know the choice may seem obvious, but is it? The heavy metals in the chemo drugs have been known to settle in the body and cause other primary cancers years down the road. If I no longer have cancer now, I might potentially be setting myself up for it again unnecessarily. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. I am working on getting a second opinion from Seattle Cancer Care Alliance as well. I have one month to decide either way. I had very much hoped that this would end with the good news I received in the hospital, but now it seems like it will end with a question mark.....
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