Tag Archives: chemotherapy

Just say yes to research studies

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in Cancer and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , ,

I will participate in any research study thrown at me. I feel like it’s my duty to give back in any way I can. I think about all the people who’ve participated before me in these studies and in doing so have made my navigation through cancer easier. I will pay it forward.

The first research study I was involved with was about using visualization to help control nausea in people receiving chemo. It was very much like meditation. I was given an mp3 player with a recorded visualization excercise that I would listen to once a day for three weeks – if I wanted to. I also filled out a few forms describing the daily level of nausea I had and what I did to counter it or prevent it.

The visualization study was very loose. It was based on suggestibility. They suggested I listen to the recording at least once and that was it, but it was made abundantly clear that it was just that – a suggestion. I could listen to the recording one time or every day, or do my own version of meditation, I could try ginger tea, or take the prescribed meds. I like that this study was about the power of suggestion: it planted a seed in your mind and they monitored what happened even when the subjects forget about it.

I’m involved with another study now. This one is inspired by the effects of led lights on improved hair growth in male pattern baldness. The researchers are now studying women with breast cancer who’ve lost their hair to chemo to see if it will have the same results.

This time I get a helmet with hundreds of tiny red led lights that I wear on my head every other day for 25 minutes. It’s really quite a sight, Amelia is calling me Elroy Jetson.

P1000813

One bad chemo left. Will I get radiation?

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in chemotherapy, Radiation and tagged with , , , , , , , ,

RadioactiveSymbolTime sure does fly when you’re not having much fun. I can’t believe that I only have one bad chemo treatment left, February 10. It’s going to be the end of a chapter in the Cancer Book for me.

But my story doesn’t end there, that’s for sure. Everything has changed and my post-chemo life will begin to show itself. I will still have nine more months of Herceptin, a targeted chemotherapy, but it will be nothing compared to how six rounds of Carboplatin and Taxotere have wreaked complete havoc on my body.

I’m meeting with a Radiation Oncologist next week, and I have to admit I am hesitant to get radiation. I just got my ass kicked from chemo; I’m not too willing to rush into radiation. The kitchen sink seems to get thrown at cancer, but in some cases there’s not enough information out there to tell us what really works and what doesn’t.

I had two positive lymph nodes which is a gray area for radiation. Long-term radiation studies have focused on people with four positive nodes or more. I’ve also done a lot of research on radiation therapy and found out that, yes, radiation can kick your ass in, too. It can fatigue you, burn your skin, change the texture of your skin, cause skin pigment changes, increase your risk of lymphedema (swelling), cause a secondary cancer, increase risk of heart and lung damage (especially if it’s on the left side, which mine would be), and you can only treat an area once time in your lifetime.

I feel like my left side is already severely compromised. I can’t feel most of it, and there is a lot of scar tissue that has been changing and evolving since the mastectomy. I am still getting to know this part of my body again. At my check up this week my breast surgeon told me the actual scar tissue on my chest is the size of a dinner plate, because that’s what was left gaping open when the breast tissue was removed before the skin was pulled together. So what looks like a ten-inch line scar is actually a ten-inches in diameter round area of scar tissue. That’s huge, and it’s still healing.

So far each doctor has deferred to the next. The Breast Diagnostic Doctor: Whatever the surgeon days, do. The Breast Surgeon: Whatever the oncologist says, do. The Oncologist: Whatever the radiation oncologist says, do. I don’t know, my gut says don’t. And who knows, maybe the Radiation Oncologist will see no need to treat it.

All I know is that if radiation is recommended, it is going to be a hard sell. Since the Herceptin is supposed to be a nail in this cancer’s coffin, I’m going to need to see some serious data showing that the benefits of radiation will outweigh the side effects.

 

 

 

This is the chemo diet

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in chemotherapy and tagged with , , , , ,

Chemo has killed most of my tastebuds, literally. They’re all but gone. A few sense a hint of salt, a couple increase sour by 1000%, and the rest pick up every bitter flavor known to humans. My mouth feels coated, and for lack of a better word, hairy. The tip of my tongue is numb, like it was burned sipping a scorching hot cup of coffee.

When I realized that all I could really taste was bitter, I sampled all the spices in our cupboard: allspice, basil, cardamom, cayenne, cinnamon, black pepper, garlic, cloves, mustard, paprika, sage, thyme, ginger, coriander, fennel, salt. What I learned was that most spices are bitter, really bitter. Sage was the worst (once one of my favorites), and garlic and black pepper were almost as bad. Surprisingly, cinnamon is one of my new faves (it’s really good mixed in with black beans, btw). And salt is my new best friend.

Regarding foods, I now prefer plain and white. It’s very unlike me to want to eat white foods, but during chemo you eat what you need to eat. Malnourishment is a very common issue during chemo. You have to find what foods work for you and stick to them. For me, it’s mashed potatoes, oatmeal, eggs, corn, white gravy, bread, broth, chicken, pasta with butter, yogurt, soft cheese, white beans, white sugar, and for an attempt at a little flavor, caramelized onions.

There is no joy in eating when everything tastes bitter or like nothing at all. Today I drank a Coke and it tasted like mildew to me. I tried to eat a piece of sourdough bread, and it was like I bit into a lemon peel: intense  and revoltingly sour.

This is where mind over matter can help. I keep reminding myself that food tastes good, and I try to override my brain which is screaming at me to stop eating. And it works, to an extent.

I cannot wait for chemo to be over so I can once again enjoy pickles, hot sauce, sausage, squash, stinky cheese, citrus, champagne, or as Amelia says, everything but stew. I love food. Except stew.

Conclusion: Life is pretty damn boring without tastebuds.

 

4th round of chemo

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in chemotherapy, Mastectomy and tagged with , ,

Today was the over-the-hump-day for chemo. I am now more than half way through my treatment. I’m still quite neutropenic, and my liver numbers are through the roof, and will be for the duration. I will try to lay low for the next two months.

I’ve had some discomfort in the area above my mastectomy scar for the past week. It feels like it’s bruised and tender to the touch. Today during my exam, my oncologist found two nodules (lumps) there. Big trigger of emotions for Amelia and I. BIG. We both felt like the bottom dropped out, again. The doctor said they could be cysts, but she was very concerned and said I need an ultrasound as soon as possible. We are trying to process this information. Worry does not help. Assuming does not help. Waiting for answers is torturous.

I’ve always had cystic breasts. When I would get my yearly mammograms I’d get my cysts aspirated as well. And there were LOTS of them, giant “whoppers,” as one breast specialist told me. When a surgeon performs a mastectomy he/she tries to take all the breast tissue. It’s hard to know when to stop cutting, and inevitably some breast tissue could get left behind, especially when they’re dealing with a very large D cup. That’s why it’s possible these lumps could be my typical cysts, even though my breast is gone.

Once again, it’s crappy timing around a holiday weekend, just like my original diagnosis where we had to wait through Labor Day for an MRI. Today is Wednesday, and the ultrasound appointment isn’t until Monday. There’s a really good chance that the lumps will get biopsied to rule out the worst case scenario – that cancer is growing and thriving on my chest wall while I am freakin’ getting chemo. Hell, no!

I just keep telling myself, They’re filled with benign fluid. They are filled with benign fluid.

Can I work while I’m getting chemo?

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in chemotherapy and tagged with , , , , , ,

This week I decided that I needed to push myself a little after my chemotherapy treatment. I know, I know, what the hell was I thinking? But I wanted to get dressed, leave the house, and work, even if only for an hour or two a day. I assumed that because my doses were lowered by 20%, I’d feel 20% better. I was wrong. I still felt like crap, actually more nauseous than ever.

I’m realizing more and more that I am a closet optimist (don’t tell anyone), though it’s not that I necessarily come off as a pessimist to others. I feel like pessimism is based on the past – It will suck now because it sucked before – and I see optimism as blindly relying on the future: Gee, Wally, it’ll be great, won’t it? I consider myself more of a realist. I spend most of my time in the present. I like it here.

There is a mind-over-matter component in dealing with cancer that I didn’t expect to find. Chemo kicks my ass in, make no mistake: I am a bag of poisoned flesh. But I managed to get some serious physical work done this week at the new building simply by telling myself to do it: Eight hours of work the day after chemo, laying subfloor in the kitchen for tile (thanks, steroids), and two hours on each of the following three days putting up sheetrock, repairing plumbing, changing out a light fixture, installing an outdoor spigot, demolishing an old fence, and loading the truck for a dump run. The closet optimism paid off. This doesn’t mean I’ll be building a house (at least not this week), but I can work. I can feel like crap and get something done, just at a slower pace, and that’s ok. Movement is life.

 

 

 

There are no wrong questions with cancer

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in chemotherapy and tagged with , , , ,

My numbers are in a healthier range this week. Just in time to get another whack of chemo. This time they dropped my doses by 20% for both the Taxotere and Carboplatin.  (I have a new tagline for Taxotere: “Taxotere, putting the tax on your liver since 1996.”)

When you are getting chemo, your liver can have an indirect effect on keeping your white blood cells, monocytes and neutrophils at a healthy level. Some of my liver numbers are high (AST, ALT) which means it is taxed and having a hard time breaking down the chemo. It also means that the chemo from three weeks ago is still in my body, hence the low blood cell counts. Lowering the doses should give my liver a chance to rebound.

I’ve said this before, but you need to be an expert in your own cancer. You have to have a doctor’s mind, do your research, learn how to read your pathology reports and blood test results. Ask questions, lots of them. There are no wrong questions. This is not a time to stick your head in the sand. Be the squeaky goddamn wheel if you need to be.

Last week at chemo, the nurse was not going to take blood for a CBC panel. That’s what tells you your neutrophil, monocyte, and white blood cell counts. Since the week before they told me I was neutropenic, I wanted to know where those numbers were. The nurse flat-out said no. This has been the first and only time I felt not listened to and had to argue to get my needs met. I challenged the nurse. She didn’t like it, but she requested the blood work, and guess what? I had zero neutrophils, kind of important to know. So push, fellow cancer sisters and brothers, push.

What does chemo feel like?

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in chemotherapy and tagged with , , ,

I thought I had a pretty good sense of how chemo would feel. I knew it would be worse than the mastectomy surgery, I just didn’t know how much worse. Chemo is like having surgery six times (once every three weeks), and having to recover six times, but each time your recovery takes longer. My body’s response to chemo is not predictable. This is no I have a headache, I take ibuprofen, my headache is gone kind of scenario. Chemo kicks your ass.

Here’s how it starts: The day before chemo I drink about a gallon of water and take steroids twice. Steroids make feel like somebody else is inhabiting my body, a spastic agitated person whose language I don’t understand. I feel possessed. I usually can’t sleep that night.

Day one: Chemo. I drink at least a quart of water before treatment. All medications during chemo go into the port that’s implanted in my chest, so before we leave for Rochester I put a numbing cream on the port site.

First the nurses clean the port by injecting saline into it, then Heparin, an anti-clotting drug. A blood sample is taken and sent to the lab because they need to make sure my body can handle the chemo. A large dose of Benadryl is injected. I immediately get drowsy. I’m talking about it’s-hard-to-hold-my-head-up kind of drowsy. I watch myself slip away and it’s hard to speak or focus. I hate it. I’m at least 50% incapacitated for the duration of the treatment and the rest of the day.

The next injection is steroids. This is the reason I’m not 100% incapacitated, because the steroids counteract the effects of the Benadryl. Then comes a cortisone injection because I had a reaction to the chemo in the past. Then my chemo course of Taxotere, Herceptin and Carboplatin. Each drip takes at least 45 minutes. Some of the meds I can actually taste as they go into my port. They’re nasty, like cleaning fluid or new plastic.

If I’m lucky, I haven’t reacted to anything this week and we drive home. It’s dark by the time we get there.

Day two. I take steroids twice. I am not myself. I’m manic and agitated, but manage to get some work done on the Trumansburg building. My taste is 90% gone. The only things that vaguely register are bitter tastes and peanut butter. Taste won’t come back fully until March. That sucks. Even water tastes bad.

Day three. I have the worst heartburn I’ve ever felt and take Ranitidine which makes it about 70% better. My body temperature goes down two degrees and it’s hard to stay warm. I am incredibly tired and feel like I’m getting the flu combined with a stomach bug: headache, joint pain and diarrhea rule my day. I spend much of the day on the couch.

Day four. The heartburn is worse, and the Ranitidine is less effective. Most of the day is spent on the couch in pajamas. Body temperature is still low. Flu and stomach bug symptoms are worse. Sharp pains in my joints and organs. I can’t eat.

Day five. Heartburn continues, and the Ranitidine helps a little. I think maybe I’m feeling better and the flu-like symptoms seem to have calmed down. This is the day I have a false sense of feeling good and want to take on a project, but Amelia reigns me in from doing something like using a power tool. My head is in a fog with dizzy bouts throughout the day. Amelia and I go for a walk. I need to nap.

Day six. The heartburn lessens. My flu symptoms are mostly gone, but I can only work four hours before feeling exhausted.

Day seven. I just lost six fucking days. I’m working. All damn day. I don’t care how tired I get.

Round two

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in chemotherapy and tagged with , ,

If there is a war, my enemy is side effects. The cancer is here. Who knows what the future holds for it? It might be gone, it might not. It might end up killing me. There are no reassurances so I’d rather focus my energy on lessening the  side effects, taking care of my mind, and taking care of my body.

Yesterday I had a pretty intense reaction to Taxotere during the chemo infusion. Amelia wrote about it right after it happened. At first I thought I was having a back spasm, but then I realized I was having a reaction to the chemo drugs. It felt like the bottom six inches of my spine were under immense pressure and it was going to explode – like that scene in Alien when the alien bursts out of the guy’s stomach.

I’m not so good at showing pain. I sit with it and don’t react too much vocally. Once again, it’s a time when something is really, really wrong and I get very still and silent (unlike when I accidentally hammer my finger and there’s a lot of yelling, pacing and swearing). You would not know anything was seriously wrong. In fact, Amelia didn’t even grasp the gravity of what was happening. So now I get to add another drug to my cocktail: hydrocortisone. Fortunately, the nurses took immediate action and within five minutes I was back into my Benadryl stupor. But goddamn that was some serious pain.

Clearly I can’t assume anything. What happened last round doesn’t equal what will happen this round or the next four rounds so I will hold my breath the next few days and hope for the best. It’s all I can do.

I can now see my mind and body’s reactions to what is happening throughout this process. From You have cancer to You will need a mastectomy to It’s in your lymph nodes to Chemo is not optional to Your hair will fall out to Hello, side effects, my body wants to squat on the floor with my head in my hands and take the duck and cover position in the corner. My mind wants to destroy everything in the room and throw things out the window. It’s 100% pure instinctual reaction. I know that I can’t get on either one of those trains. I need to see them, acknowledge them, and then watch them go by.

Chemo reaction

Posted by amelia sauter in chemotherapy and tagged with ,

by Amelia

Leah reacted to the Taxotere today. If there’s one thing we’ve learned so far about chemo, it’s that you can’t get through it without side effects. It is hopeless to hope to avoid them all, so brace yourself for the ride.

Leah was zoned out in a Benadryl fog in her chemo chair (think vinyl nursing home recliner) when the back pain hit. In Leah’s words, it felt like her lower spine was about to explode. A flurry of nurses surrounded her immediately. One took her blood pressure, another yanked the curtains shut, someone temporarily stopped the chemo and increased her fluids, and somebody hooked her up to oxygen. The nurse practitioner was in the room in under two minutes. Two minutes after that Leah got a shot of hydrocortisone, and in two more minutes the pain was almost completely gone. The nurses kept an eye on Leah for a while to make sure she was okay before the offending chemo was started again.

Normally this place is weirdly quiet, the silence only interrupted by an occasional nurse shouting to an elderly hard-of-hearing patient “What are you doing for Thanksgiving this year!” Leah’s reaction is definitely the most interesting thing to happen on the chemo unit so far. No one wants to have a chemo emergency, but if it happens, you want a speedy and excited crowd of medical staff in your cubicle with you tending to your needs. Thanks for the excitement, Leah.

leah with chemo

Hair today…

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in chemotherapy and tagged with ,

Only one week of a mohawk, darn it! Last night I had to shave the rest of my head. Too much hair was shedding and I don’t want to leave a DNA trail everywhere I go. When you go from a mohawk to a stubbly head it’s not nearly as fun. It was good to shave it in stages though; it gave me a chance to grieve. I was not a griever or a crier before cancer because I was always looking at the future and thinking about what’s going to happen next. Everyday my hair fell out was like seeing the future, and my future self is hairless.

I don’t just lose the hair on my head, I lose ALL of my hair. Important places that we take for granted like nose hair, ear hair, eyebrows and eyelashes. Nose hairs are filters for dirt, viruses, and bacterias. Ear hairs help you hear. Eyebrows move moisture away from your eyes and eyelashes are a protective barrier for your eyes. I’m going to lose it all, including the unmentionable pubes. Ha! I just mentioned them.

Hair falling out isn’t a gentle process. I thought it would just fall out without me noticing too much, but my scalp feels like a pony tail tied too tightly with a scalp sunburn. My hair follicles are inflamed as are the rest of my innards from the chemo.

A few weeks ago we were having lunch with Amelia’s parents and her Mom asked if I’d wear a scarf or a wig. “No way,” I said. “Hats only.” Then Amelia dropped the wig bomb on me. She said, “Why don’t you get a pompadour wig, you know, like an Elvis wig? Your insurance might cover a good one. You’d rock the balls outta that.”

WHAAAAT?! I never thought of that! Wait a second, I might get a wig because it could be FUN?! There was a lot of giggling. “A pompadour,” I said quietly, “a pompadour.”

We shall see….

A conversation with Leah about hair

Posted by amelia sauter in Conversations about cancer and tagged with ,

mohawk

It’s 8:20pm on Wednesday night. Leah’s hair started to fall out this morning. Our friend Rachel is on her way over to shave Leah’s hair into a mohawk, a last hurrah. 

Amelia: What do you feel like your hair says about you?

Leah: I like my hair. I liked both my breasts, too. I don’t consider myself that vain, but what little vanity I have left is going to fall off of my head.

Amelia: What do you feel like you are losing?

Leah:  My identity. I’m becoming amorphous. I’m a blob. That is what it feels like. I’m half of a person without my boob, without my hair. You’d think it would be freeing to shave your head, right? But it’s not a choice. Some chemical is forming me into something I don’t want to be, a toxic wasteland. I feel victimized.

Amelia: Why a mohawk?

Leah: Because it makes a statement:  I don’t give a fuck about what people think a woman should look like. It’s giving the finger to the system that says women are supposed to walk around in skirts, in high heels, in makeup, and have perky tits.

Amelia: What makes you hesitate to get the mohawk tonight?

Leah: Because it’s real. I’m losing my hair.The minute I look like cancer, I am cancer. I’m a billboard. I can’t avoid this. I can’t speed away in my car, or slam a door, or walk away.

Amelia: Do you remember what I told you in the hospital when you went in for your mastectomy, that I was fighting the urge to scoop you up and whisk you out of there? My desire to protect you was that strong and I wanted to get you out of there so badly.

Leah: Yes. I remember.

Amelia: I want to protect you from this, too. I feel the same way about your hair.

Leah: I know. I know. So do I. But there’s nothing we can do. This is happening.

Mohawk

Hair

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in chemotherapy and tagged with ,

So many feelings today. The hair loss has begun. Nothing says cancer like a bald head. It’s another stab from reality: this is really happening. I knew my hair would fall out, but I was still not prepared this morning when I ran my hand through my hair and came away with a handful. I actually laughed for a second, and then the tears came.

How could I possibly prepare for this? It’s incredibly unnatural. It is not a choice. In the past I chose to buzz cut my hair which was empowering. Now I am losing my hair because of a situation that I have no control of and it’s anything but empowering. It’s humiliating. I’m realizing that your identity gets systematically stripped away when you have cancer. I could welcome this on an existential level, but when it’s happening on the physical level, it is damaging to my psyche. I get inspected, poked, prodded, weighed, measured, asked about my bodily functions, lose my breast and now my hair. I had just started adjusting to not having a breast and now I have to navigate another layer of grief and sadness.

Is this the best that we can do? Kill every living cell in the body and hope that it will kill any free range cancer cells floating around? We can send people to the moon and we can’t treat cancer without destroying parts of ourselves?

Cancer is not a choice. It pisses me off that some people out there think, It’s just hair, it’ll grow back. Clearly, these people’s worlds haven’t been turned upside down by one awful word: Cancer. I envy them.

An interview with Leah and Amelia about Leah’s hair loss can be read here. 

The side effects

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in Cancer and tagged with ,

I was really hoping for minimal side effects to chemo, but hope is like playing Russian roulette when you have cancer, and the odds have been stacked high against me these past few weeks.

First, I have to take steroids the day before and the day after chemo. The day of chemo I get them through my port. They made me feel hellish, like I drank a pot of espresso with some speed mixed in. My thoughts raced and I flew off the handle at the littlest thing. Amelia says she hopes I get used to them before she kills me.

Mild nausea set in next. It was tolerable and manageable for two days. But four days out, my stomach felt like it was on fire every time I drank or ate. Then pulsating pains started throughout my body. Then feeling unstable and shaky. Then diarrhea. Then heartburn. Then my eyes start to burn. To top it off I have a serious outcrop of pimples on my face and neck.

Cancer kind of forces you to be hyper aware of your body, and that’s really bad at a time like this because now I get to feel my body being destroyed on a cellular level. The thought that keeps popping in my head is Poison the body to save the body. This is the first course of six; I have five more to go. Chemo has a cumulative effect. Things are going to get much, much worse before they get better, not that I’m exactly sure what worse and better look like. Cancer is beginning to splinter and scatter me. Maybe that means I get to choose what parts of me I pick back up when it’s over.

First chemo treatment

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in Cancer and tagged with , ,

One of the pre-meds I received in IV form was a hefty dose of Benadryl. Saying it made me tired is an understatement. That stuff knocks me out. If it wasn’t for the other nasty chemical cocktails* I was getting afterward, I might enjoy the trip to Lala Land. But Greedy Little Cancer loves to takes up every possible space in life. What an attention seeker. Yup, we see you there, Cancer. No one invited you. You can get out, and take all your nasty offspring with you.

Sitting in a sterilized cubicle for five hours made me feel pretty restless and bored. I brought things to read but the Benadryl made me so loopy it was hard to retain anything. I just read the same sentence over and over. Lucky for me that I love driving games, so out came my iPad and my inner 13-year old. Drugs be dammed, I was going to blast down a digital highway at 150 miles an hour. Hell, yeah. Everything in moderation, though. I will never ever own a Wii or anything like it. Ever. Harmless fun can easily morph into an addictive, mindless obsession that gobbles up hours and hours. I’d always prefer to be physically doing something. But during this time of cancer, I will drive as fast as I can as often as I can within the safety of my iPad. No seatbelt required.

The first treatment takes the longest. Each drug is set up to go in at a slower rate in case of any adverse reaction. I had no reactions at all. The only side effect I’ve had so far is a metallic taste in my mouth. I’m pretty sure this will not go away for the next four months and ginger candies will become my one of my new best friends. I haven’t had any nausea so far, knock on wood.

Port incision and bruise

Port incision and bruise

My port is a triangular ‘power port.’ It is larger than a regular port, and can receive fluid at a higher rate. The heart-shaped bruise in the picture is where the port sits (and bulges) under my skin. Not everyone bruises, but it’s like a blood draw where sometimes you can get a temporary discoloration. The surgeon had me initial the area pre-surgery.

I was quite disturbed to see how large the port incision was. It’s around 20 stitches. Update: I originally thought my mastectomy scar was 30 stitches. We asked the surgeon last week and he said it was more than he could count, and that he lost count after 50. Holy Franken-chest Stitchville.

*The day’s nasty chemicals include: Benadryl, Decadron, Zofran, Pepcid, Taxotere, Carboplatin, Herceptin, Cyanocobalamin, and Heparin.

Depression vs. Cancer

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in Cancer and tagged with , ,

As I sit in my chemo cubicle and seven different chemicals are dripped into my vein, I can’t help but think that depression has got nothing on cancer; at least for me it doesn’t.

Honestly, I don’t have the time or energy to give in to depression right now. For quite a long time I’ve thought that depression is very selfish on my part. Now I clearly see my depression as a choice: I can choose to be depressed or I can choose to not be depressed. Depression is a very grey area. Cancer is not grey; there is no choice involved in getting cancer. The past six weeks have made me stop and ask myself, How could I possibly give in to depression, something that is so vague? Cancer is incredibly real and concrete. I have to give in to the fact that cancer is here, it is real, and it needs to be stopped by any means necessary.

I was defined by trauma and depression, but now cancer is reshaping me inside and out. So, Depression, you can take a hike. You’ve been replaced.

Mind, Matter, Modern Medicine

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in Cancer and tagged with , , ,

Chemotherapy starts Wednesday; the port is implanted today.  My body is essentially going to be poisoned with the bark of a yew tree, a heavy metal, and an antibody. The bark of the yew tree, of course, is the one that fascinates me. Someone figured out that a tree’s bark could aid in the cure of cancer. Science is amazing.

Now is the time I really need to get myself low. Deep breaths. I tend to be a shallow breather if I’m not paying attention. My breath is up high in my chest unless I focus on it and push it down into my belly. That is a practice, learning how to breathe correctly. Sounds easy enough: in through your nose, out through your mouth. But there’s a lot that needs to happen in between and during.

I will be getting into my meditation zone for chemo. I feel myself settling in and preparing for it. I find meditation a very personal thing, one I don’t talk about a lot because it’s so individual, and honestly, it feels a little weird to share. I think a lot of people get stuck on the word “meditation,” on what it means. People have visions of a monk sitting uncomfortably cross-legged for hours, but I see meditation as anything that helps us get out of our heads, a moment when we aren’t thinking and we aren’t reacting, and we’re just observing for two or twenty minutes. For me, meditation is primarily about being still, but I can also get to a pretty low and still place by being outdoors or playing music. It’s possible that virtually everyone does some form of meditation; they just don’t know they’re doing it.

I’m on Cancer Time now

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in Deep thoughts with Leah and tagged with , , ,

Acknowledging that there may be cancer cells floating around inside my body waiting to land, divide, and multiply is hard. I want to ignore it and not think about it but the thought nags at me throughout each day. There’s no way of knowing, no tests that could find such tiny things. Aches and pains that seemed normal before September 3, 2015 now easily turn into a quiet paranoia. I find that when something is really truly wrong, there is a stillness and calm that sets in, a dead quiet in my mind. Not really what I would call peaceful; it’s more like an intense focus on the situation, whether it’s that I drilled my thumb, cut a two-inch gash in my hand, watched Amelia’s face swell after a bee sting, or witnessed someone get hit by a truck. Panic doesn’t work in these situations – a purposeful calm does.

The fact is, I’m two stages closer to the real worst case scenario than I have ever been, and it’s an uncomfortable emotional state to be in. I am not usually a time-focused person, but cancer is now forcing me to think about things in more of a time-critical way. When will I be 100% recovered from surgery? When will I adjust to not having a breast? What will the scar look like in a year? What will chemo be like? When will I recover from chemo? When will I lose my hair? When will my hair grow back? When will a day go by that Amelia and I aren’t consumed by cancer? When will I feel normal again? When can I say I am cancer-free? When will I feel safe?

Chemo schedule

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in chemotherapy and tagged with ,

There are times when you are acutely aware that you are the youngest person in a room. A chemotherapy treatment center is one of them. These are the times when I think, “I’m not supposed to be here.” But here I am, in a room with people decades older than me who also have cancer, and they’re looking at me thinking the same thing, She’s not supposed to be here. It’s what I think, too, when I see someone decades younger than me with cancer. It’s a stupid vicious circle of cancer.

This is the appointment I was dreading: the oncologist. I just keep waiting for someone to say, “You’re all set. Bye!” I don’t want to hear anymore bad news. In fact, I don’t want to hear any news at all. But the oncologist laid out the plan: chemotherapy for 18 weeks (Taxotere & Carboplatin), and Herceptin for a year.

Chemo will be administered through a mediport that will be inserted in my chest in surgery. The port is a small disc, about the size of a quarter, and will sit just under my skin. A soft thin catheter tube connects the port to a large vein. Chemotherapy is administered directly into the port. Blood can be drawn through the port as well, which gets done before every appointment. It’ll be in for a year. Things like this fascinate me so I start googling all sorts of things; Who invented it? When did they start using it for chemo? What is it made of? Do they put it anywhere else in the body? Can your body reject it? What are the risks? What does it look like? Any reason to learn something new.

Each doctor I’ve seen always checks in with the same grave question, “Do you know why you’re here?” It’s like when you’re speeding and you get pulled over by a cop, “Do you know why I pulled you over?” Of course you want to act innocent and mystified as if you couldn’t have possibly been speeding, but what comes out is “Yeah, I was speeding.” The doctors want to know that we’re ready, ready for words like cancer, mastectomy, chemotherapy, hair loss. I think I a lot of patients probably go into appointments with false hopes, not grasping the gravity of their diagnosis. A lot of patients simply haven’t asked questions about the details and their doctors have to carefully navigate through some big emotions. I am a reader and a researcher, so when she asked me, “Do you know why you’re here?” I said “Yes, I have cancer, I’m going to get chemo, and all my hair is going to fall out.” She liked my answer; it’s one less thing for her to explain and more time to talk about treatment details. With the basics out of the way, we walked with her into the deep, dark depths of the cancer basement.

Removing a mastectomy drain

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in Mastectomy and tagged with , , ,
Mastectomy drain

Mastectomy incision & drain

Yesterday my second drain was removed. This drain went up into my chest under my skin about 8 inches toward my incision and the center of my chest. I am now drain-free! Damn, it felt great to take a shower after 18 days of sponge baths. It was another first, a shower without a breast: weird, sad, scary.

The amount of my left side that’s 100% numb is very troubling for me. My surgeon told me feeling may never come back. I find that thought difficult to deal with. My tactile self cannot grasp not being able to feel a part of my body. My left arm and side now come with warnings: Do not leave out in sun. Do not take blood pressure or blood from this arm. Do not compress. Do not injure. Do not burn. In other words: be careful. And in case you didn’t know, careful is not my middle name.

I don’t look at what has happened so far and think: My breast was taken away from me. My body betrayed me. I’m battling cancer. I’m constantly reminded that it does not matter what I want right now; what matters is  creating a treatment plan for cancer. My list of wants is getting smaller and smaller as one by one my options fade and disappear. I didn’t want to have to have chemo and I don’t want my arm and side to be numb. I now have to work with an increasingly small and limited set of perimeters.

Wednesday we meet with the oncologist and keep moving forward.

Numbers, numbers, numbers

Posted by Leah Houghtaling in Diagnosis and tagged with , , , , ,

October 2, 2015

It’s not clear that ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS) can develop into invasive ductal carcinoma (IDC). There are a lot of opinions out there.

Doctors think that only a tiny portion of DCIS will at some point involve IDC, maybe 10%-15% according to my surgeon. I am one of those women. There is a lot of research going on, so those percentages will change with every new breakthrough, which is good, because understanding DCIS could very well be a key to something big for breast cancer research. I hope so for all the other women who may be going down a version of my path at some point in their lives. But I’m not a doctor or medical researcher. I’m just one woman trying to understand her own cancer.

The numbers just keep piling up inside my brain. I can usually make sense of things by way of numbers. So I start to think and calculate based on 100 women. These are all ballpark numbers. Like I said, I’m not a doctor or researcher, but I want to try to wrap my brain around it, and this is what I came up with.

100 women
12% – will develop some form of breast cancer. That’s 12 women.
80% – of the 12 women diagnosed with breast cancer will have invasive cancer. That’s 10 women.
10% – of the women with invasive breast cancer will find some cancer in their lymph nodes. That’s 1 woman, named Leah.

One woman in 100. Looks like I am in an elite group. I have hit every goddamn bad statistic so far.

I keep wanting this to stop; at DCIS, at lumpectomy, at mastectomy, at invasive, at lymph node. And it hasn’t. The one thing I’m left with is Can I not have to get chemo, please? Can I just get a break here? We won’t have an answer for at least 2 more weeks. We’re still waiting for pathology reports, I need to have a post-op meeting with my surgeon, then we move on to the oncologist. Cancer is my co-pilot.